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34: Dragonborn Conqueror, King
🕑 Added 2025-08-08 14:54:41 +0000 UTCHarald placed the old Dwemer artifact he had recovered during his travels through the many Dwemer ruins in Skyrim right in the center of Harrenhal’s vast throne room. Only Jonnel Blackwood and the young heirs of Houses Mandrake, Roote, Wayn, and Piper stood with him. They circled the room, curiously awed by its immensity.
“What is it?” Jonnel asked, looking at the object Harald had just placed on the ground.
“You’ll see,” Harald replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Jonnel’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before he nodded silently.
It had been three days since Harrenhal fell. Even though Harald had tried to save as many of the thralls and servants trapped inside, Harren’s slaughter before the siege along with those who died in the assault meant only half had survived. Every Ironborn soldier had been cut down. Only Harren Hoare remained breathing.
“How’s Lord Darry reacting to all this?” Harald asked at last. “He seemed… surprised when he met me.”
Lord Damon Darry had arrived yesterday, answering Harren’s summons, only to find Harrenhal partially destroyed and Harren Hoare in chains.
Jonnel shrugged lightly. “He’s an old friend of my father. They’ve been talking. I’d say he’s taking things better than expected.”
Harald nodded at that but his attention shifted as he saw Leobald entering the hall.
“Give us a moment,” Harald said to Jonnel.
The Blackwood heir nodded and quickly ushered the other heirs out, their murmurs fading beyond the massive doors.
Leobald approached, a faintly satisfied look on his face.
“My friend,” Harald said, “you seem happy.”
Leobald smiled. “And why shouldn’t I be? The Riverlands are free from Ironborn tyranny.”
Harald chuckled. “So, how are things with the lords?”
“Almost all of them are convinced you should be king,” Leobald said. “Tully and Blackwood have convinced them all.”
“That was… easy,” Harald remarked.
Leobald’s smile widened. “I may have had a hand in it. The champion of both the Old Gods and the Seven, ascending to kingship and founding a blessed line just like Houses Durrandon, Lannister, Arryn, and Stark. What more could they want? And truly, how could they refuse you after what they’ve seen you do?”
Harald shook his head faintly. “I don’t want to be king through fear, Leobald.”
“Of course not,” Leobald said smoothly. “I was merely… pointing it out.”
Leobald’s expression shifted slightly as they walked. “The houses of Blackwater Bay have all announced their independence,” he said.
Harald snorted. “And I’m sure they’ll all be swallowed by the Storm King soon enough.”
Leobald nodded. “House Mooton has also declared itself independent.”
Harald glanced over at him, a faint smile on his lips. “Well, good thing we’ll be conquering down in the Blackwater, then.”
He strode from the ruined throne room, Leobald following close behind.
Outside, their horses were waiting. They mounted, and Harald led the way, riding out through the shattered walls and buildings of Harrenhal. The once-mighty fortress was still a scene of chaos scavengers and looters being driven out by soldiers, wagons hauling away the last of the Ironborn arms and spoils.
Harald also noted the weirwood leaves on the ground; it was something that had happened in the last two days: fresh weirwood leaves carried in on strange gusts from the Gods Eye. To some, it was nothing more than an oddity, but Leobald had seized on it, weaving the sight into his growing narrative of a new faith blending the Old Gods and the Seven.
Harald still wasn’t sure where his friend was going with that. It reminded him, oddly, of how Christianity had split from Judaism back in his first life. Religion was a dangerous tool potent, but volatile. When the time came, he and Leobald needed to sit down and talk about what the Septon’s plans were.
He also made a mental note to visit the Gods Eye itself. It was one of the few places in this world where he could feel the thrum of magic, one of the many “nexuses,” as he called them. He needed to see it with his own two eyes.
They rode into the camp to cheers from the army. Harald dismounted, and Edmyn Tully was there to meet him, a wide grin on his face.
“Dragonborn,” Tully said, “Lord Frey and Lord Mallister have been spotted. They’ll be here before evening.”
“Good. That means Harren dies today.”
“More good news we’ve found Harren’s food and drink stores. Tonight, we can truly celebrate,” Tully added.
Several men nearby caught the last part and roared in approval, the cheer rolling through the camp like wildfire.
Harald smiled. “Well, looks like everything is going well. Are the lords behaving? No problems? Considering there’s no king now and the Riverlands’ history, I expected trouble.”
Tully’s lips quirked upward. “Who says the Riverlands don’t have a king?”
Harald raised a brow. “Oh? Have you selected one?”
Tully shook his head with a knowing smile. “Come now, Harald, don’t play the fool with me.”
Harald chuckled. “If everyone agrees to it, I’ll take up the mantle. But I’ll tell you this, Edmyn the lords will have to accept my way of ruling. I plan to make sure the Riverlands are safe for generations, and that means compromises will have to be made.”
Edmyn’s tone was blunt. “It’s either you, or anarchy. Or worse we’ll be torn apart by Starks, Arryns, Durrandons, Lannisters, and even the Gardeners.”
“Lord Tully is correct. This is quite a precarious situation; if you were not present, the Seven Hells would have broken loose in the Riverlands,” Leobald said.
Harald gave a short nod. “Let’s see what happens.”
A shout rang out from one of the Blackwood soldiers. “Lord Frey and Lord Mallister approaching!”
Tully turned toward the sound. “They’re early.”
Harald, Tully, and the gathered men waited as the two lords rode into camp. Both were grinning like madmen. They dismounted quickly, almost running to Harald.
“You did it you… you actually fucking did it!” Frey laughed, shaking his head in disbelief.
Mallister was still staring past Harald at the shattered silhouette of Harrenhal. “I cannot believe it… You destroyed it. How?”
Harald’s lips curved into a sly smile. “You missed all the fun.”
Mallister shot back, “Because we held the coast for you, Dragonborn.”
“And a damn good job you both did,” Harald said, clapping each on the shoulder. “Good work, my lords. You’ve played a pivotal role in ending this rebellion quickly and without more bloodshed.”
A different voice ragged, bitter cut through the air. “How… how…”
Harald turned to see Aeron Hoare, the former prince, bound and dragged forward by one of Frey’s knights.
Frey smiled. “We brought him, just as you said.”
Harald’s eyes narrowed with cold intent. “Imprison him. I have plans for him.”
Then a slow, dark smile spread across his face. Harald looked to the lords. “Now that you’re here… we can begin.”
======
The entire army had gathered to witness the end of Harren the Black. Not just the lords, knights, and men-at-arms, but smallfolk too, drawn from the nearby villages. Word had spread that the tyrant who had ruled the Riverlands for four decades would die this day, and no one wanted to miss it.
A great raised platform had been built; upon it stood Harald, clad in his full ebony armor, the black metal gleaming faintly in the fading sunlight, his great ebony battleaxe resting in his gauntleted hand. He looked like the champion of the gods he claimed he was.
From the crowd came jeers and curses as Edmyn Tully and Merrick Frey dragged Harren the Black forward. The once-proud king’s face was a ruin, his jaw shattered by Harald’s fist days before, now held together only by a strip of cloth. Rotten fruit, stones, and handfuls of mud and even shit were hurled at him as the crowd roared its hatred.
Off to one side, bound but alive, stood Aeron Hoare. Harald had no plans to kill him… not yet. But he would witness all of this.
Edmyn and Merrick forced Harren to his knees. His eyes glared upward, though there was no power left behind it. Then Harald gave a slow nod, and two pikes were brought forward. Upon them were mounted the heads of Wex and Dagon Hoare Wex’s face charred and half-melted, Dagon’s skin gray and stretched over inhuman features. Harren’s gaze locked on them, and for the first time, a flicker of grief broke through his defiance.
Harald drew in a deep breath and unleashed a Thu’um of his own making:
“Gaan… Lom… Vahlok!”
His voice rolled over the crowd, amplified and carried to every ear as if he stood right beside them. The noise of the gathered thousands faded into silence.
“Your tyrant of the last four decades kneels before you,” Harald began, his voice a deep, resonant boom.
“Look at him, Harren the Black, who thought himself unbreakable. See how far the great king has fallen!”
The crowd jeered again.
“The gods, old and new, sent me here. I was without purpose… until I saw the faithful crushed beneath the heel of these invaders. I swore to drive the Ironborn from the Riverlands, and this day… I have done just that!”
A thunderous cheer erupted, the sound shaking the air like a storm breaking over the camp. Harald let it roll a moment, then raised his hand for silence.
“And now, before I send Harren to the Seven Hells… I will destroy the most cruel, most evil thing the Ironborn ever forced upon this land.”
He turned slowly to face Harrenhal, the monstrous fortress that had loomed over them all, even with most of it destroyed. He made sure Harren was facing it as well. A turquoise-and-gold device appeared in his hand. His thumb pressed down upon it, and power hummed in the air.
Harald drew in a breath once more.
“FUS… RO… DAH!”
The Shout tore from him with earth-shattering force. The outer towers of Harrenhal shivered, cracked, and then the whole colossal structure exploded inward in a maelstrom of stone and dust. Walls that had stood for a century disintegrated into rubble. In moments, the greatest castle in Westeros was gone, reduced to a smoking heap of rocks.
The crowd gasped, then erupted into cheers so loud it felt as though the ground itself trembled. Harren’s eyes widened as he stared at the ruin of his legacy, the destruction complete.
Harren’s shoulders slumped, the last flicker of defiance gone from his ruined face. His gaze lifted once toward Harald… and then dropped to the ground, as though the weight of all his failures had finally crushed him.
Harald shifted his grip on the ebony battleaxe, the black blade catching the fading sunlight. Without a word, he raised it high over his head. The crowd held its breath.
With a single, brutal stroke, the axe came down. The blow was clean. Harren the Black’s head tumbled from his shoulders, rolling across the dais before coming to rest in the dirt.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then Harald stepped forward, his voice booming over the sea of faces:
“The tyrant is dead!”
Thunderous cheers erupted, a roar of triumph and release that rolled across the camp and into the fields beyond. Men pounded shields, women shouted blessings, and the lords raised their voices. The Riverlands had a new dawn, and it began with the fall of its darkest shadow.
======
The celebration afterward was something to behold.
Harald stood at the center, watching as lords, knights, and even the smallfolk drank, sang, and roared their victory. Casks were cracked open, meat roasted on spits, and the sound of pipes and drums rolled through the night like the heartbeat of a reborn Riverlands.
Leobald stepped up beside him, cup in hand, eyes on the dancing crowd.
“So,” he said, his tone carrying just enough teasing to cut through the revelry, “that was your full power, then?”
Harald smiled. “Gods, no. I could have done it before, but I’m still not at my full strength.” He nodded toward the smoking ruins where Harrenhal had once loomed. “That was all done by a repurposed weapon crafted by the Dwemer of Tamriel. I used it to amplify my Shout. The tonal architecture the dwarves mastered… well, it did the rest, making sure the blast collapsed inward…”
Leobald blinked, chuckled, and shook his head. “I didn’t understand a single thing you just said. But I do understand one thing: I'm a bit terrified that you’re not yet at your full power.”
Harald gave a low laugh. “Good thing I’m not an evil bastard, then.”
Leobald’s grin widened, and he took a sip of wine. “We’re lucky, then. Very lucky.”
Harald noted how every lord had drifted closer, their laughter and conversation dimming as Edmyn Tully raised his hand for silence. The great camp quieted in moments, only the crackle of the bonfires breaking the stillness.
Edmyn stepped forward. “Today,” he began, “we celebrate a new dawn for the Riverlands. A century of Ironborn rule has ended. The chains that bound us have been broken, their cruelty cast down. But this victory is not only an ending, it is a beginning. We must now turn our eyes to the future.”
The lords leaned in, some nodding already.
“The Riverlands,” Edmyn continued, “have seen many dynasties rise and fall: the Mudds, the Justmans, the Teagues. We have not been blessed, as other kingdoms have, with royal lines stretching back thousands of years. Instead, our history has been one of contention and blood, of crowns won and lost in constant war.”
He let his gaze sweep over the gathered nobility.
“But now… now we have hope. I believe one man, chosen by the Old Gods and the New, can end this cycle. One man to lead us into an age of peace that will last not just for decades, but for thousands of years. A man who is truly divine. A man who is proof that the gods have chosen the Riverlands and, in his own words, have chosen these lands as the Heartlands of Westeros.”
A murmur of approval rolled through the crowd, growing into calls of agreement.
“There is only one king who can lead us,” Edmyn declared, his voice ringing like a trumpet. “My lords… HARALD STORMCROWN, KING OF THE RIVERLANDS—” He stopped himself, his tone swelling with something greater. “Nay… KING OF THE HEARTLANDS!”
And then he dropped to one knee.
The sound that followed was greater than Harald’s own Shout. Swords were drawn and lifted high. Some lords Blackwood, Frey, Piper followed Edmyn’s example and knelt. The chants began at once, overlapping and roaring into the night.
“KING OF THE HEARTLANDS!”
“KING OF THE HEARTLANDS!”
“HARALD KING!”
“KING DRAGONBORN!”
“LEAD US!”
“CHOSEN OF THE GODS!”
“KING OF THE HEARTLANDS!”
“KING OF THE HEARTLANDS!”
The air shook with it.
Harald stood, smiling widely, letting his eyes sweep over the sea of men and steel before him. He turned his gaze to Leobald, who met it with a broad grin and tears bright in his eyes.
Now, Harald thought, now the real challenge begins.
.
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Next two chapters: reactions from the other kingdoms.
Comments
Illusiveone
Yes
John
Awesome chapter!!! I can’t wait for the reactions. Also can’t wait for his own castle being built with Magic. Question his banner will be the Skyrim one correct?
Loveburgers
Great chap
