Illusiveone
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32: Dragonborn Conqueror, Rebellion pt.8
🕑 Added 2025-07-17 12:35:29 +0000 UTC“We can hold out for two more weeks,” Martyn Mallister said, his voice firm but weary. Around him, in his father’s solar that served as their war room, his family was gathered—his father, Lord Jasper, grizzled and fierce; his uncle, Maven, lean and sharp‑eyed; and a half‑dozen cousins, bannermen, and retainers crowding close around a map marked with Ironborn positions.
“Two weeks?” Maven snapped. “We won’t last two days if they breach the harbor gate!”
“They haven’t yet,” Jasper growled. “And they won’t.”
Martyn’s stomach clenched. He knew where this was going.
“You know what we must do, brother,” Maven said.
“You want to charge out?” Jasper spat, throwing down a carved wooden token.
“We hold. Reinforcements will come.”
“From where?” Maven shouted. “No one will come!”
Martyn tried to intervene. “Father. Uncle. Please—”
“We’ve sent word!” Jasper barked. “Stormcrown will not abandon us.”
“Oh yes,” Maven sneered. “The sorcerer. Maybe he’ll fly in on a dragon made of smoke and fart fire over the harbor!”
“Watch your tongue!” Jasper thundered.
Before Martyn could step between them, a young knight rushed into the chamber, his breath ragged. “My lords! They’ve called for you. The Ironborn at the gates. They say… they say you’re to see something.”
They wasted no time. The chamber emptied, and Martyn found himself walking briskly behind his father and uncle. As they passed through the keep’s lower levels, Martyn spotted his wife in the courtyard, helping with the rationing—handing out small parcels of dried meat to the women and children. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment.
Up the battlements they climbed, the sea wind sharp and cold. When they reached the wall‑top, Martyn saw it at last.
Seagard was surrounded.
Ironborn covered the hills and shore like ants, nearly a thousand of them on land. In the harbor, nearly thirty longships bobbed in the tide.
Below the wall, a group of Ironborn had approached with a cart drawn behind them, covered by a dark, sagging cloth. One among them stepped forward.
“Prince Wex demands your surrender, Lord Mallister,” the Ironborn called up.
His father leaned over the crenellation and spat. “Tell your little piss‑prince he’ll get our answer in steel!”
The Ironborn captain’s face didn’t change. “Your rebellion will die with you. Your allies will be crushed, your halls sacked, your people taken as thralls.This Dragonborn you follow he won’t come for you. He is already dead.”
Jasper laughed a hoarse, bitter sound. “You think we fear your soggy little fleet?” he shouted. “You lot couldn’t conquer a fishwife’s kitchen!”
Martyn winced. “Father—”
But Jasper was on a roll now. “You want a message for Wex? Tell him his mother rode my dog and squealed louder than your Drowned God!”
The Ironborn stared, unmoving. Martyn’s eyes narrowed. That cart… why bring a cart to a parley?
“Remove the cloth,” the Ironborn captain said.
The wind howled across the battlements, ruffling the canvas on the cart as every eye fixed upon it. Slowly almost lazily the raiders peeled back the filthy covering. It flopped over the side.
Inside the cart were heads.
Dozens of them men, women, children. Some still wore fragments of clothing. Their expressions frozen in terror, pain, and pleading stared up at the walls of Seagard.
“A gift,” the Ironborn captain said flatly, “from Prince Wex.”
“YOU MONSTERS!” Jasper Mallister bellowed, gripping the battlement so tightly his knuckles turned white.
The Ironborn only shrugged. “The prince sails for Malliston next. When he returns, we’ll have cartfuls more.”
He looked up, eyes like dead stone. “You have two days.” Then he turned, and his men followed him back down the slope toward their lines.
Silence hung over the battlements. Martyn’s chest heaved as he stared at the cart; he could feel his heartbeat in his ears. The image was burned into him—those faces, those eyes.
A shout shattered the hush.
“I’m killing them all!” Maven snarled, drawing his sword.
Jasper stepped between them. “Calm yourself!”
“Calm—?” Maven’s voice cracked. “Those are our people, Jasper! What happened to you, brother? When did you become such a craven old fool?”
Jasper’s face twisted in fury. “You dare draw steel on your lord?!”
“You’re not acting like one now!”
Martyn moved to intervene again—but stopped. He turned back to the siege below, eyes sweeping over the mass of Ironborn, the black sails bobbing in the harbor. They had two days until Wex slaughtered Malliston.
Martyn clenched his fists. “Gods,” he whispered. “Seven above… if you truly walk among us, hear me.”
The stone beneath Martyn’s feet trembled.
He blinked. Then it trembled again—louder.
“What was that?” Maven asked, lowering his blade.
“I felt it too,” Jasper muttered, stepping back.
A third, heavier tremor followed, then a fourth, like the beat of a monstrous drum. Martyn ran toward the direction the vibrations were coming from and saw them.
Four enormous stone giants charged across the field. Each one stood nine feet tall, eyes glowing, limbs trailing embers and soot. They barreled into the Ironborn camp with the force of a falling mountain.
Men screamed. The giants swung massive stone fists, crushing the Ironborn as though they were made of parchment. Flames licked along their backs and shoulders as they smashed into ship crews near the docks.
Martyn’s eyes widened; he could hardly believe it.
Then came the roar of horns.
Cavalry and footmen surged from the woods with thunderous cries, cutting down the stunned Ironborn in a storm of steel.
“I TOLD YOU!” Jasper screamed, wild with joy. “I FUCKING TOLD YOU HE’D COME!”
Martyn wheeled to see his father, red‑faced with triumph. Jasper drew his sword and raised it high.
“Well, Maven?” he bellowed. “You wanted to charge NOW’S YOUR FUCKING CHANCE!”
The Mallister men cheered wildly.
Martyn didn’t hesitate. He sprinted from the battlements, down the tower stairs three at a time, and out into the courtyard. His wife met his gaze again—this time with a fierce, proud smile.
He grabbed his helm, mounted his horse, and shouted for his men.
The gates of Seagard groaned open.
It was time to break the siege.
=====
Martyn Mallister drove his sword into the Ironborn’s chest, silencing the man’s gurgling cries. The steel slid through flesh and into the earth beneath him. The body spasmed once, then stilled.
It was over.
The entire force that had besieged Seagard had been wiped out. The stone giants had crushed the raiders like dry reeds, and Lord Merrick Frey’s charge had ended the fight almost before his riders reached the fray.
Breathing hard, Martyn pulled his sword free and turned. His uncle Maven was pacing, arguing fiercely with Jasper, while Lord Merrick Frey stood between them, one hand resting on a curious staff crowned with a large crystal.
“Are you mad, Frey?” Maven snapped, his voice ragged from battle. “You want to sail after Wex?”
“You’re the one who said Wex would sack Malliston,” Frey retorted. “Now we have a chance to stop him.”
“Five ships?” Jasper shook his head in disbelief. “Merrick, that’s all we have.”
Lord Frey lifted the staff slightly. “We don’t need numbers. The Dragonborn himself taught me how to use this.”
Martyn stepped closer, brow furrowed. “What is it?”
Frey only grinned, tapping the butt of the staff on the ground. “You’ll see, young Mallister. You’ll see.”
“Fine, Frey know this: if we die, I’ll kill you myself in the Seven Hells,” Jasper growled.
Everything happened so fast after that. Orders were given, and Seagard’s five ships were readied within hours. By dusk the sails were raised, and the small fleet slipped out of the bay.
Martyn stood on the prow of the Sea Eagle, the Mallister flagship, salty wind lashing his face. Jasper spoke in low tones with Lord Frey, while Maven, his sons, and several cousins captained the remaining four vessels.
Ahead, in the dying light of evening, Malliston rose on the horizon.
And surrounding it… the dark sails of Wex Hoare’s fleet.
Thirty ships a blockade cinched around the coastal town like a noose. Martyn’s hand tightened on the rail.
Wex was preparing to burn the town.
Some of the Ironborn vessels had already begun to stir—several pivoting in the water.
“They see us,” Martyn said sharply.
“Well, what is your plan, Frey?” Jasper bellowed, gripping the rail.
“Get us closer,” Merrick Frey replied, calm as ever, striding toward the bow. “Close enough to taste their fear.”
Martyn swallowed hard, torn between dread and awe. Whatever Frey had planned, it had better work; otherwise they were sailing straight into the Drowned God’s halls.
The sea groaned beneath them as the wind billowed the sails. The ships cut toward the enemy fleet.
Then it happened.
Lord Frey halted at the edge of the forecastle, lifting the black staff with both hands. The crystal at its tip began to shimmer first red, then gold, then crackling with jagged streaks of white lightning.
Martyn shielded his eyes as the glow intensified and then…
A roaring explosion of fire and lightning burst from the staff’s tip, screaming through the dusk and striking a ship at the center of Wex’s line. The Ironborn vessel erupted in a blast of shattered wood, flame, and smoke; its mast hurtled skyward like a javelin.
A second blast followed a heartbeat later, smashing into another ship, which detonated in an inferno that flung burning men into the sea.
“Holy mother’s tits,” Martyn heard his father gasp, his voice caught between horror and awe.
Martyn couldn’t speak—couldn’t even blink.
Frey did it again. And again.
Ironborn screamed. Sails went up in flames. Some ships split apart entirely; others drifted, crippled and crewless.
At last Frey staggered, lowering the staff.
Martyn turned to him. “What happened?”
“It’s spent,” Frey said hoarsely.
He lifted his gaze with a tight smile. “But the damage is done.”
Martyn followed his eyes and saw that he was right.
The blockade was shattered.
Wex’s fleet, once thirty strong, was in chaos. A third were burning; others drifted with broken oars and torn sails, their hulls cracked open like eggs. What remained was ripe for the taking.
“Ram the prince’s ship!” his father roared, his voice sharp with fury and vengeance. “I want that fucker’s head on a pike!”
The crew answered with thunderous cheers, their oars biting the water with renewed force as the Sea Eagle surged toward its target—Wex Hoare’s flagship, a towering behemoth and one of the largest ships Martyn had ever seen.
Martyn braced himself, gripping the rail as the Sea Eagle slammed into the Ironborn vessel with a crunch of splintering wood and a cascade of seawater. The two hulls locked with an echoing groan. Grappling hooks flew, boarding lines arced through the air.
“Board! Take the deck!” Jasper bellowed.
Martyn was first over the rail, blade drawn. His boots hit iron‑wood planks slick with blood and brine. An Ironborn warrior charged; Martyn drove his sword through the man’s throat in a single, smooth motion.
First blood was his.
Screams and steel rang in his ears as he fought forward, cutting down another raider and kicking the body aside. He moved like a man possessed—ducking under axes, slashing past shields—until he reached the heart of the battle.
And there—there stood Wex Hoare.
A giant of a man, his long black hair matted, his face painted with blood. He wore no helm. His great hammer twice as broad as a man’s torso crashed down onto a Mallister knight, turning armor and flesh into ruin.
“COME THEN!” Wex roared. “DIE FOR YOUR DEAD GODS!”
Martyn lunged.
Their weapons met once then twice but Wex’s strength was overwhelming. He batted Martyn’s sword aside and slammed the flat of his hammer into Martyn’s chest, sending him sprawling with a cry.
Air fled his lungs. Gasping, Martyn watched Wex step forward to finish him—only to be met by Lord Frey and his father charging together.
They fought as one—Frey with twin daggers, his father with his longsword. Wex met them head‑on, roaring as his hammer swept in wide arcs, smashing wood and steel.
Frey ducked one swing—but Jasper was not fast enough.
The hammer struck his father across the ribs, hurling him against the mast with a bone‑cracking thud.
“Father!” Martyn cried, pushing himself up—his sword forgotten.
He rushed in again—but Wex caught him, slamming him to the deck with a backhand. The world spun. Martyn blinked, dazed. His eyes focused just in time to see Wex raise his hammer—aimed directly at him.
“No!” his father shouted, hurling himself forward and shoving Martyn aside just as the hammer came down.
It landed on Jasper’s chest.
The sound was sickening.
“FATHER!” Martyn screamed as Jasper slumped lifeless to the deck.
Wex turned to finish him.
Martyn scrambled back. His hand brushed something—the staff. Frey’s staff. The crystal at its head flickered faintly.
He grabbed it, raised it, pointed it—nothing happened.
Wex grinned. “What’s that supposed to do?” he jeered.
He lifted his hammer, ready to crush Martyn into the deck.
Martyn closed his eyes, the staff still trained on Wex. A strange thrill coursed through his body and the staff erupted in fire.
A column of flame burst from the crystal with a screeching roar, engulfing Wex’s head in searing light. The Ironborn prince screamed, inhuman; flesh melted, hair burned.
Blinded and half‑dead, Wex dropped to his knees, clawing at empty air.
Martyn rose, rage and grief pounding in his veins. Wex’s hammer lay nearby. He seized it.
The weapon was far too heavy, but Martyn lifted it with both hands, muscles screaming. He raised it high.
“For my father,” he said.
He brought the hammer down.
Wex Hoare’s skull shattered; his ruined face collapsed inward as the hammer drove through hos body.
It was over.
The planks were littered with Ironborn dead. Cheers rose from the Mallister men—the battle was won.
Wex Hoare was dead.
But so was Lord Jasper Mallister.
Martyn knelt beside his father’s broken body, chest heaving. He looked out over the water toward the distant horizon.
He prayed his father’s death was not in vain, and that the Dragonborn, even now striking down Harren.
Comments
Illusiveone
Yes...Glad someone caught it
June Soriano
Tftc. Was that Witcher reference I read?
