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20: Dragonborn Conqueror, Dark Dreams
🕑 Added 2025-04-08 19:37:51 +0000 UTCHarald stood beneath the shade of an old tree, arms crossed, watching the training yard.
“Again!” Ser Aerion’s voice cracked like a whip. “Form ranks, you louts, not a gaggle of ducklings! Shields up—blades out!”
A line of hastily armed townsfolk shuffled into formation, breathless and dripping with sweat. Most were farmers, cobblers, fishmongers—common men with an uncommon fire in their hearts now. Aerion strode along the line, his posture sharp as the steel at his hip.
“You think the squids will wait for you to catch your breath?” he barked, slapping a wavering shield with the flat of his sword.
Harald allowed himself a faint smile. Ser Aerion was relentless—but he had to be. The volunteers had come in droves after Fairmarket fell. Leobald and Ryam’s sermons had lit a spark in their hearts, and Harald’s actions had given it form. But zeal alone wouldn’t stop an axe.
He turned his gaze toward the far end of the yard. Blacksmiths toiled beneath soot-stained awnings, hammering out blades and reforging armor stripped from dead Ironborn. Sparks flew like fireflies in the morning sun.
Among the bustle walked a slender boy in a black surcoat—Brynden Blackwood, Jonnel’s younger brother. Twelve years old and recently freed from captivity, yet already carrying himself like a man. Not far from him, two more familiar faces moved through the yard: Marlon Mallister and Edwin Frey, both sons of noble houses and former hostages.
Harald’s gaze lingered on Edwin.
Frey.
The name carried bitter weight in his memories—visions of betrayal and treachery. But that was another time. In the future, no less. The boy before him bore no resemblance to the future Walder Frey. It was said that Edwin’s father, Lord Frey, was the most honorable man in Westeros.
He turned toward the tower of Fairmarket, the seat of his growing rebellion. As he walked, the yard quieted around him. Men paused in their work. Some bowed their heads. Others simply stared, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and reverence.
A few whispered his name: Dragonborn. Herald of the Seven. The names shifted, twisted by rumor and faith alike.
Harald nodded silently as he passed, saying nothing. He didn’t need to. His presence alone seemed enough. After what he’d done two weeks ago, there was little room left for doubt in the hearts of the people.
Many were now prepared to die for him, for the cause Leobald had preached to be holy.
As Harald approached the tower, the sound of hooves drew his gaze eastward. A small company rode through the gates. At their head was Jonnel Blackwood, his dark hair tousled by the wind, and behind him—bound and sullen—rode Prince Aeron Hoare.
As they arrived and stopped, Harald walked up, smirked, and greeted the prince. “Ah, Prince Aeron. Welcome to Fairmarket.”
The prince didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on Harald with cold hatred. Dirt clung to his face, and his clothes—once noble and finely stitched—were now stained with sweat and dust.
“How was the ride?” Harald asked, his voice smooth. “Comfortable, I hope.”
Aeron said nothing.
Jonnel swung off his horse and gave the prince a mocking look. “What happened, my prince?” he asked with biting sarcasm. “You were all talk during the ride. Answer Lord Stormcrown.”
Aeron finally broke his silence. “Lord Haldon,” he said, his voice low. “Did you kill him?”
Harald tilted his head, studying him. “What do you think?”
The prince’s jaw clenched, nostrils flaring.
Harald gestured to the guards. “Take him inside. He’ll be our guest—in the dungeons.”
The prince was dragged off without ceremony.
With that done, Harald turned his attention to the day’s duties. He made his rounds through Fairmarket.
He passed the training yard once more. Ser Aerion’s shouting still rang out across the square as recruits scrambled to obey.
Next, Harald walked toward the former Ironborn barracks, now a half-charred husk in the process of being rebuilt. Masons and carpenters worked diligently, hauling stone, cutting timber, and reforging beams. Harald had ordered the structure repurposed—not for war, but for housing. Fairmarket was filling with displaced families, and space was growing scarce.
“Make sure the roof is reinforced well.”
“Aye, my lord,” the head builder answered, bowing slightly before shouting new orders to his men.
From there, Harald made his way toward the sept. Leobald had insisted he meet with a group of the faithful who had come to pledge themselves from the surrounding villages.
By the time evening fell, he was tired—his mind heavy with what lay ahead.
He returned to the tower just as the sun kissed the horizon.
As he entered the tower, he found Edwin Frey, Marlon Mallister, and young Brynden Blackwood waiting near the central chamber.
All three stood at attention as he approached. “Lord Stormcrown,” they greeted in unison.
“Hello, boys,” Harald said with a faint smile.
Edwin stepped forward first, his face bright with news. “My lord, my father rides for Fairmarket. I received his raven just before dusk.”
Marlon chimed in. “Mine will not be far behind.”
Harald nodded. “And Lord Blackwood?” he asked, glancing toward Brynden.
The boy straightened. “He should arrive by morning, I believe.”
It had taken time—many ravens, many desperate letters—but they had managed to convince their families. Lords Frey, Mallister, and Blackwood were on the move.
“I look forward to it,” Harald said. “Now go on, get something to eat and get some rest. You are growing boys.”
The three youths bowed and left him in the hall.
He made his way to the dungeons, wanting to meet the prince once more.
The air grew colder as he descended. Stone walls narrowed, and the scent of mildew and rust thickened. The dungeons were old—rows of cells lined the long hallway, iron bars and heavy chains lit only by flickering torches.
Two other prisoners occupied the gloom: a gaunt-faced man who’d raped a serving girl, and another who’d murdered a merchant in the square. Both kept their heads down as Harald passed—one trembling, the other glaring hatefully, but neither daring to speak.
At the far end stood Prince Aeron Hoare.
He was no longer the proud, silken prince Harald had first seen in Greyholt. Dirt clung to his once-fine clothes, his face unshaven and shadowed. Yet he held himself tall the moment he saw Harald approaching.
“You,” Aeron said, his voice low and tense. “Dragonborn.”
Harald stepped before the cell, arms folded. “Yes. It is I.”
Aeron moved closer to the bars. “So tell me—what is your plan? Do you truly think to rise against my father? Against the might of House Hoare?”
Harald gave a small nod. “That’s the plan, Prince.”
Aeron scoffed. “It’s madness. Even with your sorcery, you cannot win. You may seize a few towns, kill a few captains, but my father holds the strength of two kingdoms. You cannot prevail.”
“We’ll see,” Harald replied calmly.
Aeron’s tone shifted—urgency replacing disdain. “Then don’t fight him. Join me instead.”
Harald raised an eyebrow.
Aeron pressed forward, eyes gleaming with ambition. “My father is a madman. My brothers are even worse. I’m the only one with sense, the only one who can rule the Ironborn and the greenlanders with reason. With you by my side—with your power—we could claim the throne together.”
Harald remained still.
“I will make you a lord,” Aeron promised. “More gold than you can spend. As many women as you desire. All of it. Just get me out of here. Together, we can have everything.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Harald laughed.
It was not cruel, nor mocking—just tired and amused.
Without a word, he turned and began walking away.
“Dragonborn!” Aeron shouted after him, his voice echoing off the stone. “Dragonborn, wait! You have no chance without me! Do you hear me? None!”
Harald didn’t look back. The door to the stairs slammed shut behind him, leaving the prince’s cries to fade into the cold darkness.
As Harald walked to his chamber, he found Jonnel waiting for him by the door.
“Harald,” Jonnel said, stepping forward. “A rider just arrived—my father is near. He’ll be here in a few hours.”
Harald raised an eyebrow. “Earlier than expected.”
Jonnel gave a small nod. “He must have ridden hard.”
“Well,” Harald said with a tired sigh, “I’m going to rest for a while. Come get me when he arrives.”
Jonnel nodded and left. Harald entered his chamber, stripped off his cloak and boots with a grunt, then lowered himself onto the simple bed. The sheets were coarse and the mattress firm.
It had been a long day—long weeks, in truth.
He exhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and let the darkness take him.
====
When he opened his eyes again, he expected to hear Jonnel calling for him and to see the familiar chamber he had been in when he went to sleep.
Instead, he found himself in Fairmarket.
But not as it was.
The sky above was a heavy, oppressive gray, thick with ash. The sun—if it still existed—was gone, leaving only a sullen glow that filtered through the clouds like sickly light through old parchment. The air was dry, but every breath he took felt like smoke in his lungs.
The town was in ruins.
Fairmarket lay broken around him—buildings collapsed, cobbled streets cracked and torn, the marketplace reduced to blackened husks. Fires burned without flame, just tendrils of smoke curling into the sky from embers that never died. There were no birds. No voices. Only silence, so thick it pressed against his skull.
Harald took a step forward, his boots crunching on shattered stone. He looked around warily.
“Hermaeus?” he called out, his voice small in the hollow vastness of the dead town. But something about this dream—this vision—didn’t feel like Mora’s work. The Daedric Prince of Knowledge had a style. This wasn’t it.
Laughter.
A deep, slow laugh that shook the air itself. It wasn’t booming. It didn’t need to be. It was low, cruel, and knowing. It slid down Harald’s spine like a blade dipped in ice.
His breath caught.
His heart pounded faster.
He could feel something behind him. Not hear it. Not see it.
Feel it.
He turned.
And what he saw made him step back without thinking.
A being stood before him in the shadows.
Massive. Towering.
He could see its silhouette—horns curled like twisted roots from its head, and its eyes glowed red. Chains hung from its massive arms, clanking as it moved.
It breathed—and the air around it grew colder.
“You…” Harald whispered, his voice barely more than breath, his mind struggling to comprehend the thing before him.
“So,” the thing said, its voice like deep stone grinding beneath the earth. “This is what the Mad One was hiding.”
Harald could not speak.
He stood frozen, staring up at the towering horror before him. Recognition clawed its way up from the depths of his memory like a buried nightmare.
No. It couldn’t be.
But it was.
This was worse than Hermaeus Mora. A hundred times worse.
The air around him grew heavy, thick with dread, as the towering figure’s soul-fire eyes bored into him. The world seemed to dim, all light swallowed by the weight of that gaze.
“Did you think you could escape me, Dragonborn?” the voice rumbled, low and cruel. “Your soul was promised to me. And I will have my due.”
Harald opened his mouth to respond, but before he could form a word, chains erupted from the cracked stone beneath him—twisting, writhing like serpents of metal—and clamped around his limbs. They dragged him to his knees, holding him fast, the cold bite of Daedric steel burning against his skin.
“I was cured,” he spat, straining against the chains. “You have no hold on me.”
The figure laughed.
It stepped forward, its full form now exposed to the lightless dream. Its frame shimmered with malevolent power—shoulders broad enough to blot out the ruined skyline, jagged armor slick with blood. Blue flame flickered between its teeth as it smiled.
It looked around at the dreamscape, at the ruined Fairmarket. “Such a soft world,” it mused, its voice reverberating through the broken city. “So easy to corrupt. So eager to kneel. I must thank Hermaeus for leading me here—unknowingly, perhaps, but useful nonetheless.”
Harald’s rage surged. The chains binding him rattled as power pulsed through his veins. With a roar of fury, he shattered them, the sound of breaking steel echoing like thunder.
“You don’t belong here, Bal!” Harald bellowed. His voice shook ash from the ruins.
Molag Bal stepped out of the shadows fully, towering over everything, the dark majesty of his presence eclipsing the world. His chains writhed behind him like the tendrils of a monstrous god.
“And neither do you,” the Prince of Domination replied smoothly, a sneer tugging at his lips. “You did not belong on Nirn, either.”
His grin widened, cruel and wicked.
“I see potential in this world,” he said, raising his clawed hand toward the sky. “Its gods are nothing but fragments—spirits clinging to faded glory.”
The chains around him slithered and coiled, dragging behind him like anchors to another realm.
“I will take this world, Dovahkiin. And when it breaks—when it screams—I will burn your soul at its heart.” His voice dropped to a whisper that felt like a scream. “That will do… until I return for Nirn.”
Harald’s fury flared, and he screamed in defiance.
Molag Bal simply laughed.
And the vision shattered.
Harald woke with a scream, his breath ragged and gasping. Sweat clung to his brow, his body soaked in it. He sat up sharply, heart thundering in his chest like a war drum.
The candle by his bedside flickered wildly, as if disturbed by something that hadn’t yet fully left the room.
His eyes darted around the chamber, searching the shadows, his hand instinctively reaching for the axe that wasn’t at his side.
He wasn’t in the dream anymore.
But the terror lingered.
For the first time since he arrived in this world—for the first time since he faced Alduin atop the Throat of the World—Harald was truly, deeply afraid.
Comments
John
Also I love the fact the Bal is able to tell that your Dragonborn is a SI that is technically not from Nirn.
John
Damn if the Daedric Princes can affect this world I have no doubt the Nine divines can as well. I would assume Akatosh probably the most considering the Dragonborn and him are connected
