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37: Dragonborn Conqueror, Six Months In
🕑 Added 2025-08-30 12:11:04 +0000 UTC“We should’ve been here six months ago,” grumbled Prince Barthogan Stark, his voice heavy with frustration as his black horse trudged through the mire of the Neck.
The youngest son of King Torrhen Stark, Bart did not like the slow, humid drag of the Neck’s bogs. Mud clung to his boots, and the stench of wet earth never left his nose. Beside him rode his uncle, Brandon Snow, his father the king’s bastard brother, son of a woman from the Neck and of Bart’s grandfather, the late King Brandon.
Bart sighed inwardly. Gods, how my family loves the name Brandon. It had become almost a tradition, a superstition, even that there must always be a Brandon Stark alive, lest the line fall. Founder’s name, founder’s blessing, as Grandfather used to say.
“My dear nephew,” Brandon said, drawing Bart’s attention back to the present, “if we had ventured out six months ago, who knows what dangers we might’ve stumbled into? The kingdom was on fire with rebellion.”
“Father wanted me—” Bart began, but Brandon cut him off with a dismissive wave.
“Yes, yes. Torrhen wanted you to leave as soon as possible yes, that’s what he told you. Then he sent word commanding me to keep you here in the Neck until things calmed down. All these strange tales coming out of the south had him… cautious.”
Bart didn’t answer. He looked ahead instead, to the thinning swamps and drier lands that signaled the end of the Neck. By dusk, they would pass into the Riverlands proper. Two more days of riding, and they’d reach the Twins.
No, he reminded himself. Not the Riverlands anymore… the Heartlands.
The new king had declared it so. The old kingdom long oppressed under Ironborn rule was gone, replaced by something reborn. A new crown, a new name.
Kingdom of the Heartlands, Bart thought. Better name than the Riverlands, I’ll admit. If the new king wanted the world to believe a new age had dawned, he succeeded.
But there was more, much more. Rumors still swirled of Harald Stormcrown: a warrior-sorcerer who had torn Harrenhal to rubble with his voice alone, who called himself the herald of all the gods, and who was chosen as king by one of the most quarrelsome lords in Westeros.
“We should pick up the pace,” said Bart, urging his horse forward with a click of his tongue and a flick of the reins.
Brandon Snow sighed beside him. “You truly inherited my father’s impatience,” he muttered, but followed suit, spurring his own steed into a brisker trot.
Their retinue of a dozen sworn men followed in tight formation. The muddy tracks of the Neck began to harden beneath them as the land slowly shifted to drier, flatter ground. With torches lit and little rest granted, the group pushed through the night, taking only brief stops to water the horses and check their bearings.
The moon hung low, silvering the grass and marshes around them as they raced southward. Brandon occasionally murmured a prayer to the Old Gods as they rode beneath the stars, but mostly, they rode in silence.
By the second dawn, their speed had shaved nearly a day off their travel, and as the first light broke across the land, a distant stone structure came into view.
“There it is,” Brandon said, pointing toward the rising form. “The Twins.”
Two stout towers stood on either side of the Green Fork, a long stone bridge straddling the rushing river between them not the most beautiful castle, but undeniably important. Between those towers, House Frey had amassed power and coin, even if little respect.
Upstart Freys, Bart thought. Three hundred years ago, the first of their line had been a hedge knight, a nobody granted this land by some half-witted Storm King who hadn’t cared much for what lay at the far edge of his vast domain. That same Storm King had, according to old tales, even attempted to invade the North once. A foolish man.
But unlike the king who gave them the land, the first Frey had understood its value. He began construction on a bridge, and by the time his grandchildren ruled, House Frey was collecting tolls and wielding influence far beyond their pedigree. Now they were counted among the great houses of the Riverlands.
Heartlands, Bart corrected himself with an inward smirk.
“Well, nephew,” Brandon said, gazing up at the towers, “our journey into the Heartlands begins.” He put a mocking lilt on the word.
Bart frowned. “I doubt we’ll see anything good. Winter is coming, Uncle. I remember Lord Blackwood’s missives to Father; they spoke of a great famine stirring in these lands. I fear these people will suffer far worse than we will. And we are Northerners.”
Brandon gave a solemn nod. “Aye. But we’ll see soon enough. Come. Let’s meet Lord Frey.”
As they rode toward the Twins, Bart slowed his horse in confusion: fields lay before them.
Fields full of golden wheat, barley, and rye stretched out ahead. Everywhere he looked, men and women were laboring cutting stalks, tying sheaves, loading carts. Some children collected spilled grain while older folk worked at threshing stations. Not a field looked abandoned or spoiled.
Bart blinked, then muttered, “What the fuck?”
Brandon Snow laughed heartily beside him. “So much for the famine we were expecting. Gods be good—these people look like they’ll be eating better than half the kingdoms come winter.”
Bart didn’t answer right away. His brow furrowed as they trotted past a smiling woman waving to a young boy hauling a sack of grain. “Yes… yes, I think they will,” he said at last, still stunned. “But how?”
It was late autumn. The harvest should have been long finished. Frost touched the morning air. Yet here was bounty fresh, golden, ripe. Had the Blackwoods lied? What kind of magic could conjure crops like this, so close to winter?
And then the thought struck him cold: Had the tales of King Harald been true after all? The Dragonborn chosen of the gods, they said; wielder of divine power; harbinger of a new age.
If this was proof of that… then was every bizarre tale they had heard true?
As the group approached the bridge of the Twins, guards called from the towers. One, with a thick Riverlander accent, barked, “Halt! Who rides to the Twins?”
Brandon Snow answered with the practiced cadence of a royal envoy. “Brandon Snow, brother to His Grace, King Torhen Stark, and Prince Barthogan Stark, third son of the King in the North. We come under the banners of peace to treat with House Frey.”
There was a moment of silence. Then a more polite voice called back, “Be welcome, your graces.”
With a groan of chains and wood, the gate creaked open. The bridge was cleared, and the escort rode on crossing the span over the Green Fork beneath curious eyes.
Inside the courtyard, the keep was alive with motion. Stablehands rushed to lead horses to shelter. Maids carried baskets of drying herbs and onions. Men unloaded barrels of dried meat and cloth, preparing for the long cold months.
Bart’s ears caught snippets of hushed conversation.
“…king’s potion worked, gods be thanked…”
“…can’t use it again, fool. It was a one-time gift…”
“…miracle, a miracle…”
They dismounted, Bart and Brandon exchanging silent glances.
They had hoped to be greeted by Lord Merrick Frey himself, but instead they were met by two young men.
“I am Forrest Frey,” the elder said with a stiff nod, hand on the pommel of his sword. “Heir to the Twins. This is my brother, Edwin,” he added, gesturing to a leaner, sharp-eyed man in finer silks.
“You are welcome here, Prince Barthogan. Lord Brandon. My lord father is with the king as part of his council.”
That makes sense, Bart thought. Frey was the first to join the rebellion, after all—Frey, Blackwood, and Mallister.
Barthogan inclined his head with formality.
“I thank you, Lord Forrest,” Bart said. “I find myself with many questions.”
He glanced at the full granaries, at the workers stacking baskets of the rich harvest.
“Many questions indeed.”
======
The thousand questions Prince Barthogan Stark carried into the Twins—and the Heartlands—remained unanswered.
It had been a day since they arrived. Though the Freys had received him and Brandon with the courtesy due envoys of Winterfell, they proved evasive in ways that frustrated the prince. They answered only what they must. They praised their king calling him divine, a savior, a worker of miracles but otherwise kept tight-lipped; Lord Forrest told him to his face that the king himself would answer all his questions.
From bits of gossip and guarded conversation, he’d gathered that king Harald Stormcrown had gifted each of the lords in the kingdom with something. A “blessing,” they called it. Others, more plainly, called it magic. It had brought forth harvests from soil already gone fallow. Some even claimed the fields grew twice over, and faster than nature should allow.
Bart stepped outside into the chill morning air, where he found his uncle near the stables.
“Uncle,” Bart said.
Brandon Snow didn’t turn. “Nephew.”
Bart stepped beside him, folding his arms. “What have you learned?”
Brandon sighed through his nose. “Enough…. King Harald gifted his lords some kind of potion. They were told to pour it into the fields. That is what made the soil rich beyond reason. Crops sprouted in half the time, sometimes even less.”
Bart’s eyes widened, thinking of the possibilities. “That… that could—”
“But only once,” Brandon said. “That’s the catch. The potion works once, and only once. The king gave it to stave off the famine after the war. After this, I’m afraid it’s back to non-magical farming.”
Ah of course it was too good to be true.
“Anything else?”
Brandon turned to him. “Come I will show you.”
They mounted their horses again and set off, riding out of the castle. The land rolled outward, green and gold despite the approaching winter. They passed rows of harvesters still at work: wheat tied in bundles, turnips pulled from the earth. Wagons creaked under the weight of abundance.
Bart kept his silence, though his thoughts ran hot.
If they have any of it left… if we could purchase grain for the North… The idea stuck with him. Could the king be persuaded to trade? Or even share some of this potion for this winter only? Perhaps, used carefully—the North was vast, after all…
After more than an hour, they reached a village nestled in the crook of a low hill and a wide field.
The air smelled of hay and baked bread full of life.
They dismounted and began walking toward the quiet village.
Bart narrowed his eyes. A large crowd was gathered in the village square, packed shoulder to shoulder men, women, even children watching with rapt attention.
“What’s happening there?” he asked.
“A septon no…a priest is giving a sermon,” his uncle replied.
“I spoke with him this morning,” Brandon said, voice low. “He had some… interesting things to say. Come. Listen.”
Bart followed, pushing through the quiet crowd until he could hear the words clearly.
“Gather your ears and hearts, folk of the Heartlands! I speak in the name of all the gods the Old, the New, and those whose names cross the veil from beyond!”
Bart’s brow furrowed. The Old and the New? Together? What is this madness?
“For too long we were told the gods warred against one another. That the weirwoods whispered only to the chosen. That the Seven sat proud upon their heavenly thrones, and that all else was falsehood. But the truth has been revealed…”
The crowd looked enraptured.
“The gods have made a Covenant.”
Bart nearly choked on his own breath. A what?
The septon raised his voice further, carried by the wind.
“The Old Gods, whose roots run deep beneath forests and streams.
The Seven, who sit in their shining heavens.
And the Heavenly Nine whom our king has now revealed to us the guardians of order and creation.
All are bound in a pact to guide us. From that pact was born a Herald, a guide sent to rule us.”
“Harald Stormcrown. King of the Heartlands. The Last Dragonborn.
His voice shakes the world because it is not his voice alone.
It is the Voice of the Covenant made flesh.”
Bart stood frozen, struck dumb. This… this was blasphemy to both faiths. To speak of the Old Gods in the same breath as the Seven was heresy in the North. And to the South, elevating a man above the Seven? Madness.
But the villagers were not angry. They were rapt. Awestruck. Reverent.
“You have seen the signs! Fields once withered now flourish. Our kingdom, starved under iron chains, now drinks deep of plenty. Villages once silent with mourning now sing with life. These are not the works of one man, but the blessings of all gods, channeled through the Chosen Herald.”
The septon spread his arms like wings.
“But what does the Covenant ask of us?
Not only prayers, though prayers are holy.
Not only songs, though songs rise sweet to heaven.
The Covenant calls us to duty:
to guard the weak, to till the soil, to defend the Heartlands from those who would enslave us again;
to live in justice, so the land itself blessed by all gods may answer with bounty!”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the villagers. Some wept. Some clasped hands in devotion. Bart stood still, trying to process it all.
“Hear me, folk of the Heartlands:
No longer shall the Old and the New be set against each other.
No longer shall gods be rivals as men have made them.
The Covenant is unity. The Covenant is strength.
And the Covenant has given us a king.
He is proof that the gods have not abandoned us.
He is proof that they have chosen our Heartlands as their new home.”
Bart turned slowly to his uncle, his lips parted in disbelief.
Brandon Snow simply smiled, shaking his head with quiet amusement. “Well, nephew,” he said, “I told you the sermons were interesting.”
=====
“The Covenant,” Bart muttered under his breath, eyes still fixed on the village square as the crowd began to disperse.
Brandon stood beside him, arms crossed, a ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. “That’s what they’re calling themselves,” he said calmly. “Seems a new faith has sprung up to go with their new kingdom, one that says the Old Gods, the Seven, and these strange Nine… have all come together.”
“That’s blasphemy,” Bart said, half in disbelief, half in anger. “You heard that sermon. That man called their king a vessel of all the gods. That’s heresy for everywhere and everyone. North and South.”
Brandon shrugged. “Aye. But I like what the priest was saying.”
Bart turned, stunned. “You? You, Uncle?”
Brandon chuckled. “Now don’t go losing your head. I’m not saying I’m ready to burn the weirwoods or start praying to the Father. But did you hear him? He didn’t denounce the Old Gods. He didn’t call them false or wicked. He said they were part of something greater—something unified.”
Bart scoffed. “All the gods joined together to send them a king?”
Brandon nodded thoughtfully. “That’s what it sounds like. King Harald Stormcrown he’s done something unexpected here, Barthogan. He’s created a faith that binds together a land of divided peoples, and they seem to have accepted it wholeheartedly.”
“But—” Bart began.
“And why wouldn’t they? He freed them from the Ironborn; they say he supposedly brought down Harrenhal with his voice. And”—he pointed back toward the golden fields—“he’s made the land grow rich, when a year ago they had resigned themselves to famine. There are more stories, nephew: talk of building roads, bridges, even a grand castle being built as the king’s new seat near the God’s Eye. Many are leaving, even with winter coming, to help build it. They see it as a holy cause.”
Bart fell quiet; he did not know how to respond.
“We should be on our way, Uncle,” Bart said after some time.
Brandon nodded. “Aye. The king has claimed the lands around the God’s Eye for himself. We can be there in a week.”
“Then we go as fast as we can.”
=====
They left the Twins at first light. Lord Forrest Frey had convinced them to travel by boat. A sleek river barge was lent to them swift and sturdy and they were accompanied by seventy trained men-at-arms in other boats.
Forrest had explained the presence of the seventy men before their departure: King Harald planned to raise an army of a thousand, a Royal Legion, with seasoned fighters drawn from all his vassals. The seventy were the Freys’ share, sent to muster.
Bart spent the journey stewing over unending questions about the man he was about to meet. Just who—or what—was he?
It took a day to reach Crossing Ford. From there, they rode hard with the Frey men toward the God’s Eye.
Soon they neared where Harrenhal should be. Bart expected to see the largest castle in Westeros in ruins; everyone boasted the king had shouted the castle down.
But what they saw stole the breath from both Bart and Brandon.
Harrenhal.
The castle no longer existed. All that remained was a grave of shattered stone. Hundreds of workers toiled, piling rock and hauling rubble. The so-called largest castle in Westeros was completely gone.
“My gods…” Bart muttered, stunned. “It’s true…he truly destroyed it.”
Brandon stared silently for a long while before quoting the bard they’d heard at the Twins. “He shouted, and the walls caved in like eggshells.”
The wind blew through what was left of Harrenhal, whistling like a death wail. Dread slithered down Bart’s spine.
They passed into what the Frey soldiers called by many names Harald’s Rest, King’s Rest, and Herald’s Rest. The name, it seemed, had not yet settled.
As they crested a low hill, the landscape below unfolded. Rows of new settlements were rising stone foundations, timber beams, freshly dug wells all laid out in tidy lines. Wagons rattled by, filled with bricks, lumber, hay, and quarried stone. And at the center of it all, on a broad hill overlooking the glittering waters of the God’s Eye, dozens of workers swarmed over the foundations of a great castle.
“How…?” Bart breathed. “This is a year’s worth of work… how did they do this so fast?”
“Unless he’s got giants laying stone, then—” Brandon Snow’s voice trailed off. He stopped in his tracks, his mouth opening in shock.
Bart followed his uncle’s gaze to the hill and saw what had silenced him.
Giants.
Twelve titanic figures, towering over men and scaffolds alike, moved in rhythm. Their skin was the rough gray of mountain rock, their limbs bound by glowing seams that shimmered like molten gold. They worked in silence, lifting stones the size of wagons and placing them precisely into the growing foundation.
One of them knelt, hands as wide as a cottage, and gently lowered a cut block of white stone while men scrambled like ants beneath it. Another passed great bundles of timber up the hill.
Bart’s jaw dropped. “By the gods…”
Brandon let out a barking laugh. “Giants…fucking stone giants.”
Behind them, the Frey men snorted and chuckled, clearly enjoying the Northerners’ reactions.
Somewhere inside this burgeoning capital was King Harald Stormcrown. Bart wondered how much his life would change after meeting him.
Comments
Tyler Karp
Awesome chapter can’t wait for more
Tyler Karp
Thank you for the chapter
