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35: Dragonborn Conqueror, Let It Be Known to All pt. 1
🕑 Added 2025-08-14 20:43:50 +0000 UTCTo all Kings and Lords of the Seven Kingdoms, let this be heard across all realms of Westeros,
Let it be known: Harren Hoare and his Ironborn are shattered and defeated, and their reign over the Riverlands is at an end.
From this day forth, the Riverlands shall be known as the Heartlands, the true heart of the Seven Kingdoms, where the Old Gods and the Seven have raised up their champion.
I, Harald Stormcrown, Last Dragonborn and Chosen Herald of the Old Gods and the Seven, am King of the Heartlands by right of conquest and by divine will.
Let those who come in peace find friendship and trade within our borders.
Let those who come in war remember Harrenhal’s fate, and know they will not return.
By my hand and seal,
Harald Stormcrown King of the Heartlands, Chosen Herald of the Old Gods and the Seven, Protector of the Faith, and Last Dragonborn
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The Lion King
Loren Lannister stood gazing out into the Sunset Sea.
This was his favorite place in Casterly Rock, a stone balcony carved into the western face, high above the roaring waves. From here, the sun dipped perfectly into the ocean, the burning disk aligning at just the right spot on the horizon. Gold light spilled across the water, turning it into molten metal.
He looked out over the endless expanse, then down at the parchment in his hand the same missive that had reached every lord and king in Westeros a day ago.
A new king had been crowned.
House Hoare and the ironborn’s rule over the Riverlands had ended, swept away after decades of tyranny. And now the riverlords claimed they had a new king. They had even gone so far as to change the very name of their realm, casting aside centuries of tradition.
The Heartlands, they called it the true heart of Westeros, if their words were to be believed.
Loren scoffed softly at the phrasing, the corner of his mouth curling in wry amusement.
What unsettled him more was the figure at the center of it all, the rebel leader. For months, Loren had dismissed the rumors as nothing more than Riverlander propaganda meant to bolster their rebellion and scare the ironborn. But now… he had to admit he had been wrong.
The “sorcerer” who had rallied the riverlords had not only won the war he had been crowned king. The man calling himself the chosen of the gods was no mere charlatan, if the flood of contradictory and troubling reports was to be believed.
Such a claim was heresy, of course. The septons in both Lannisport and the Rock had already hounded Loren about it, urging him to denounce this “dragonborn” and to stand with the Faith against him.
“My king,” came a voice from behind.
Loren turned to see his justicar, Lord Swyft.
“Yes, Justicar?”
“We should take the Pendric Mountains now, my king,” Swyft said with a confident bow. “The newborn kingdom has no chance against the might of the Rock. Strike while they are still drunk on their victory.”
Loren regarded him for a long moment, then replied quietly, “Did you not hear about this Dragonborn Harald Stormcrown, their new king? They claim he shouted Harrenhal apart with his own voice.”
Swyft snorted. “Bah. Tall tales, my king. My sources say they took Harrenhal by treachery. Rivermen inside rebelled and opened the gates for them. Nothing more than a convenient story to make their peasant-king sound like a god.”
But Loren did not answer immediately. He turned back to the horizon. It did not make sense too many reports all speaking of the same strange and unnatural events. And in Loren Lannister’s experience, when too many people swore to the same impossible story… it was rarely just a story.
Loren turned sharply to his justicar, eyes narrowing.
“Peasant-king? Do you truly think the noble lords of the Riverlands would kneel to a peasant-king?”
Swyft hesitated, already sensing the danger in the tone. “I… I mean, my king, I—”
“No. No, there is something else at play here.” Loren’s voice cut like a blade. “They say Lord Frey used magicks to fend off the entire Iron Fleet with only five Mallister ships that he burned Prince Wex Hoare alive.” He stepped closer, lowering his tone but not the weight behind his words. “And there are other rumors… of this Dragonborn.”
Swyft shifted uncomfortably, his earlier confidence wilting.
“So no Pendric Mountains, then?” he asked at last.
“No, you fool!” Loren snapped, his voice echoing off the stone. “Our prize is in the south the conquest of the northern Reach. To do what my father failed to do. His dream… realized.”
He began to pace, the parchment in his hand crumpling slightly under his grip. “I am certain that Argilac will move against this new Kingdom of the Heartlands. We will watch. If Argilac succeeds, then yes we take the Pendric Mountains, as you so endlessly insist.”
“And if he is defeated?” Swyft asked, catching the slight pause in his king’s speech.
Loren stopped, turning to him with a calculating gleam. “If he is… it means everything they say about this Dragonborn is true. And we must be more wary than ever.”
There was a long silence as the sea winds rattled the iron braziers along the balcony. Then Loren’s expression shifted, the edges of his mouth curling into a smile that was both charming and dangerous.
“Do not send the offer of my sister’s betrothal to Lord Marbrand.”
Swyft blinked. “But my king—”
“If this Dragonborn is truly as dangerous as the tales claim, then it is best that we ally with him. And what better way to bind him than with the golden daughter of Casterly Rock?” Loren’s smile deepened as he turned back toward the glowing horizon. “No one can refuse such an offer… no one.”
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Greenhand’s Heir
“HERESY! HERESY! This is HERESY, my king!”
The High Septon’s voice cracked from the strain, but he pressed on like a man possessed. His white-and-gold robes billowed as he flung his arms toward the vaulted ceiling of the Great Throne Room of Highgarden, as if the Seven themselves might descend in righteous fury.
Edmund Gardener, heir to the Kingdom of the Reach, stood beside his father, trying not to grimace at the theatrics. It had been three years since this High Septon was chosen, and in that short time he had proven himself a zealot—far, far worse than the last one.
Edmund glanced at his father, King Mern IX, and found his eyes were not on the Septon at all.
Following that gaze, Edmund’s stomach tightened with disgust. His father’s eyes lingered not on the holy man’s gesturing hands but on Lady Lara—wife to Edmund’s younger brother, Gawen. The faintest smirk tugged at the king’s lips as he studied her, and Edmund felt the familiar boil of anger rise in his chest.
Does his lechery know no bounds? he thought bitterly. To lust after his own son’s wife…
Forcing his attention back to the High Septon’s tirade, Edmund caught the man’s final words.
“I will call for a holy calling, my king! The entire realm will march into the Riverlands to cleanse this blasphemy—to strike down the false shepherd, this so-called Dragonborn, who dares to crown himself king as well.”
Edmund’s jaw tightened. He prayed his father would not even consider this madness. Loren Lannister was already stirring in the west, plotting his invasion. They could not afford to be distracted by this zealotry.
“No.”
The single word from King Mern cut through the court.
“But, my king—” the High Septon sputtered, his voice pitching higher in protest.
“No,” Mern repeated, lazily waving a hand as if shooing away a bothersome gnat. “The lion plans to ravage my beautiful kingdom… to take its riches…” His eyes flicked once more to Lara, and his voice softened with something almost indecent. “…and, most importantly, its beautiful maidens.”
A murmur rippled through the gathered court, but no one dared speak.
Mern’s tone hardened again. “I will consider dealing with this charlatan who swindled the Riverlords after I bring the lion to heel.”
Edmund let out a slow breath. For once, the Seven be thanked, his father’s focus was where it belonged—at least for now.
The High Septon’s voice thundered again, but this time it carried a note of desperation. His gaze swept the court until it found Lord Manfred Hightower, the Reach’s most pious lord.
“Lord Hightower,” the Septon implored, “you above all must see the danger of this blasphemy! Will you stand with me?”
Manfred’s gray eyes flickered briefly toward the dais… then away. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
The Septon’s face paled. With no pillar of faith to rally behind him, he straightened his back and tried to recover his authority.
“Then hear me, all of you,” he declared, his voice ringing through the vaulted chamber. “This heresy will fester in the Riverlands or the ‘Heartlands,’ as the heretics dare name it until it is purged by fire and steel. I have already excommunicated the architect of this foul creed, the vile Septon Loebald!”
His tone swelled into a righteous roar.
“Let it be known!” he cried, every word a hammer blow. “I proclaim the Leonite Heresy the most sacrilegious affront to the Seven since the days of the Andals’ first landing! Those of true faith who heed the holy calling, who take up arms and purge this sin from the world, shall be welcomed into the gods’ holy halls! This is the will of the Seven, and I am their voice upon this earth!”
A wave of loud cheers erupted from the more fervent members of the court.
Edmund Gardener stood unmoving, his hands clasped behind his back. Seven save me, I have no time for this. The lion is on our doorstep, and we waste breath on this foolishness.
His father raised a hand, dismissing the gathering. As the courtiers began to file out, Mern descended from the dais with uncharacteristic haste heading directly for Lady Lara.
Edmund felt the heat rise in his chest again, the same familiar, choking anger. That is your good-daughter, you scum… my brother’s wife.
His mind whispered treacherous thoughts, visions of wrapping his hands around the old man’s throat until the crown fell from it. He shut his eyes, forcing the image away.
It would be kinslaying.
Unease clung to him as he turned and strode from the hall, unsettled by every thread of rot now winding its way through Highgarden while the lion prepared to pounce on them at any moment.
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The Yellow Toad
“Mother, I have some surprising news from the Riverlands,” Nymor Martell said.
His mother Meria Martell, once the famed beauty of Dorne, now sat sprawled at the head of the table: fat, nearly bald, and blind, yet still eating and drinking as if she were a maiden in her prime. She tore into a fig, juice running down her fingers, and reached for her wine without a second thought.
“The ironborn have been driven out,” Nymor continued, watching her for any sign of interest. “Apparently, a sorcerer who claims to be the chosen of the gods led the rebellion and is now crowned king at least according to the raven we received three days ago.”
She swallowed noisily, then let out a long, unladylike burp. “Why should we care?” she said, her tone dripping with disinterest. “The Riverlands are far from here; they can crown a whore or a mummer, for all I care. Now go and make yourself useful see what those Daynes want.”
Nymor’s jaw tightened, but he inclined his head. “As you wish, Mother.”
He turned and left the hall. The Riverlands might be far, yes, but the name Dragonborn lingered in his mind. This was no ordinary uprising, if the stories were true. Even Dorne could feel the ripples of this change, and Nymor Martell was not a man to ignore ripples that might become waves.
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The Lonely Queen
“Your knights stand ready, my queen. Just say the word, and we will begin the invasion. The Saltpans will be ours within a week,” said Lord Protector Royce, his voice steady but eager.
“Yes, my queen,” Lord Redfort added, nodding firmly. “The time is ripe.”
Queen Sharra Arryn sat upon the weirwood throne of the Eyrie, fingers drumming lightly on the carved armrest. She had listened to their arguments all morning, but her thoughts kept drifting to the raven that had arrived four days ago.
The Hoares were gone—wiped away along with their ironborn. That pleased her. The heathens were no longer squatting on her borders. But their replacement… that was what disturbed her.
The lords of the Riverlands had crowned a new ruler, styling their realm the Kingdom of the Heartlands—and at its head stood a man called Harald Stormcrown, claiming to be the chosen of the Old Gods and the New.
There were stories about him. Strange stories. Of a voice that could destroy entire castles. Of stone giants that walked at his command. Of how he could fight entire armies alone.
And now her lords wanted to invade the lands of this so-called divine king.
“My queen?” Lord Protector Royce called again, drawing her from her thoughts.
Sharra’s eyes turned to Lord Redfort. “You said some of your smallfolk, held captive in Harrenhal, have returned to your lands?”
Redfort nodded. “Aye.”
“And you brought one of them here, did you not? I would speak to him before I make my decision.”
Redfort gave a short bow and gestured to a pair of knights. They strode from the chamber and, before long, returned with a thin, pale man in roughspun clothing. He was made to kneel before her, pressing his forehead to the cold marble floor.
“Rise, my subject,” Sharra said gently. “What is your name?”
The man lifted his head just enough to speak. “Jerrick, my queen.”
“Tell me, Jerrick,” Sharra said, her voice calm. “You were there in Harrenhal. Did you witness what this King Harald could do?”
“Yes, my queen,” Jerrick stammered. “I told Lord Redfort everything.”
Redfort cleared his throat. “My queen… the man’s mind is broken. That is the only explanation for what he told me, and why I did not even bother to bring him to you.”
“Well, then,” Sharra replied, eyes fixed on the thin, pale man before her. “Tell me yourself, Jerrick.”
Jerrick’s hands shook where they clung to his knees. “I… I was hidin’ in the pantries o’ Harrenhal, m’ queen me an’ some others. Weren’t no food left, but ’twas the only place away from the fightin’. Then—” He swallowed hard. “Then the thunder came. Not from the skies, no, but from inside the bloody castle. The walls rattled, the floor kicked like a mule under us. Men screamin’ ironborn an’… oh, gods… oh, gods… Thought the gods ’ad come for me, I did.”
Royce and Redfort exchanged uneasy glances, but Jerrick pressed on, his voice rising with remembered terror.
“When they let us out, I seen ’im the Dragonborn. I was there in the crowd when they dragged Harren the Black out. … He stood there like somethin’ outta them old tales the septons tell by the fire. His voice—” Jerrick’s voice broke, and tears spilled down his cheeks. “He shouted, m’lady… just one shout… an’ the whole o’ Harrenhal biggest castle I’d ever laid eyes on came crashin’ in on itself. Towers, walls… all gone in a blink. Nothin’ but dust an’ stone where it stood for years.”
The chamber was silent save for the man’s sobbing. Royce’s face had gone pale. Even Lord Redfort, who had dismissed the man as broken, looked uneasy now.
Queen Sharra sat straighter on her throne, her eyes unreadable. “Lord Protector,” she said at last, “there will be no invasion. Instead, you will travel to meet with the new king—in my name and in my son’s.”
Royce bowed his head. “And if he is what he claims, my queen?”
Sharra’s gaze did not waver. “If he is indeed a holy and divine figure, and not some sorcerer out of Asshai… then you are to offer him my hand in marriage.”
A ripple of shock went through the hall.
Sharra’s eyes remained on Jerrick, who still shook with fear and for the first time, she felt a flicker of her own.
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The Holy Calling is like a Crusade.
Comments
June Soriano
Thank you for the chapter.
Loveburgers
Honestly argella durrando is also an option and he gets the stormlands that he already shares a border with. It can go anywhere since the heartlands connect with everyone he can just take a wife from anywhere since most kingdoms are his neighbors
