Illusiveone
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9: Dragonborn Conqueror, Saving Lady Gwen
🕑 Added 2025-01-02 06:35:08 +0000 UTCRodrick Greyjoy sat up in bed, his head aching from last night.
‘How low the heir of House Greyjoy has been reduced, he thought bitterly, sent to take thralls, of all things.’
The fury inside him flared hotter as he reflected on his exile to this forsaken land. His father had banished him here all because he had taken what he believed was rightfully his—his brother’s Lannister salt wife. She had been meant for him, but his ambitious, grasping brother had stolen her away.
Rodrick sneered, throwing the covers aside and rising from the bed. At least, in this miserable place, he could still have some fun. His eyes flicked to the other side of the bed, noticing that his new salt wife had left early.
A pity; he had half a mind to make her scream again.
He dressed quickly, fastening his sword belt before leaving the chamber, the familiar weight of his blade at his side giving him some solace.
‘Soon, he thought, this exile will end, and I’ll have my revenge on Vikon. Enjoy the Lannister girl brother, I’ll see you dead before long.’
Rodrick strode through the halls of Honeytree Castle, his mood darkening with every step. The stone walls felt suffocating compared to the open expanse of the sea he longed for.
‘The castle was acceptable,’ he thought grudgingly as his boots echoed against the stone floor. Honeytree Castle was a serviceable base, better than the ramshackle tower his father ruled from—one of the reasons he spent most of his time at Greyholt.
Servants moved quickly out of his way, their heads down and eyes averted, fearful of drawing his attention. Their fear was a small balm to his simmering frustration, but even that satisfaction grew tiresome.
When he reached the courtyard, his blood boiled at the sight before him. His men lounged like slothful wretches. Some leaned against barrels, idly sipping from wineskins, while others sprawled on the ground, playing dice and laughing.
Rodrick strode forward, his anger boiling over. “Get off your arses and drill, you lazy scum!” he bellowed, his voice slicing through the air like a whip crack. It echoed across the courtyard, startling the lounging men into action.
They scrambled to obey, their drunken stupor replaced by hurried movements. Swords clattered as they snatched up weapons, and shields banged together as they hastily formed into ragged lines.
Rodrick’s sharp eyes fixed on one of his captains, a burly man with a scarred face. “You,” Rodrick barked, pointing a gloved finger at him. “Take a party east. If we don’t gather enough thralls by week’s end, it’ll be your hide I strip. Understand?”
The captain saluted quickly, his face paling. “Aye, my lord. It’ll be done.”
“Lazy fucks,” Rodrick sneered as the captain moved to gather men. He descended into the courtyard, his heavy boots crunching against the dirt. His gaze swept over his men as they drilled, their movements sloppy but improving under his withering glare.
Yet, even as they obeyed, his dissatisfaction remained. He felt trapped in this castle, far from the freedom of the waves. ‘This isn’t my home,’ he thought bitterly. ‘The sea is where I belong, not rotting on land.’
He longed for the salt spray on his face, the thrill of raiding the western shores, the clash of steel to crush the greenlanders, and to hear the lamentations of their women. Perhaps another Lannister salt wife wasn’t out of reach after all. Or maybe… His thoughts drifted further afield—toward the Dragon Islands in Blackwater Bay. Valyrian women, he mused with a wicked grin, were said to be the most beautiful in the world.
For a moment, his mind wandered, picturing the plunder and glory that awaited him beyond the confines of this dreary castle. But the clang of swords brought him back, his grin fading as he watched his men stumble through their drills.
He sneered. Pathetic.
He took up his own axe and decided to do some sparring. After soundly beating all who faced him, he grew bored.
“Enough,” Rodrick growled, his tone dismissive. The man he faced stumbled back, clutching his arm, but dared not meet his lord’s gaze.
Wiping sweat from his brow, Rodrick turned toward the castle and noticed a familiar figure making her way across the courtyard. His lips curled into a cruel smile. Gwen Hickory—his newest salt wife. Even from a distance, she was a vision of beauty, her long blonde hair cascading in soft waves over her shoulders and her sizable breasts. Yet her face was marred by fresh bruises—marks from all the fun they had the night before.
She seemed to quicken her pace when she caught sight of him, her movements tense, her head held low as though she might escape his notice.
“Stop,” Rodrick called out, his voice commanding.
Gwen froze mid-step, her body trembling. For a brief moment, she hesitated, but then slowly turned to face him, her eyes downcast.
Rodrick strode toward her. He stopped before her, tilting her chin upward with a rough hand, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Your brother still eludes me,” he said, his tone deceptively calm.
Gwen’s lips tightened, her silence defiant.
Rodrick’s eyes narrowed. “Where would he have gone?” he mused aloud, studying her face for any reaction. “Raventree Hall, perhaps? I assume that’s where they’d run to.”
Gwen remained silent, her gaze burning with defiance.
Rodrick’s anger flared. “Still the fiery one, aren’t you?” he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. He leaned closer, his tone mockingly soft. “Let’s see how long that fire lasts.”
He grabbed her wrist with brutal force, yanking her toward him. Gwen struggled, cursing him under her breath, but Rodrick’s grip was unrelenting. “We still have to finish from last night,” he sneered, dragging her toward the castle doors.
Servants watched helplessly as their lady was hauled away, their gazes filled with horror but their bodies frozen with fear. None dared intervene. Rodrick laughed, his cruel amusement echoing through the courtyard and into the castle halls.
Gwen fought him every step of the way, twisting and pulling against his grip, but her efforts were futile. Her fury exploded. Like a maddened woman, she screamed, her voice raw with rage and defiance. “Let go of me, you bastard!” she spat, twisting against his grip. “You’ll burn in the Seven Hells…”
“I’ll kill you! Do you hear me? I will kill you!” she shrieked, her nails clawing at his arm as she twisted and struggled against his iron grip.
Rodrick only laughed, a deep, cruel sound that echoed through the stone walls. “Kill me?” he mocked, his grin widening as he hauled her closer. “Oh, my little salt wife, you can’t even free yourself from my grip, let alone take my life.”
“I’ll kill you!” Gwen screamed again, her voice hoarse but unrelenting. “One day, I’ll see you dead! I swear it, squid—I’ll end you with my own hands!”
Rodrick dragged her up the stone steps toward the chambers that once belonged to her father—now claimed by him. The defiance in her eyes only fueled his cruelty, his grip tightening as he forced her inside.
“It’s not like I have anything better to do,” Rodrick muttered with a dark chuckle as the heavy door slammed shut behind them.
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There was a new moon tonight, and the darkness was near absolute. The world seemed to disappear into an endless void, the trees mere shadows against an ink-black sky. Every step Harald, Ser Aerion, and the other two knights—Ser Jeoffry and Ser Olyvar—took seemed to echo louder than it should, swallowed by the oppressive night.
The faint glow of Honeytree Castle in the distance was the only point of light, its torches flickering against the walls like tiny beacons in the gloom.
Leobald and young Robard Hickory remained at the small camp they had set up in the woods near the castle. Aerion had told Harald of a secret path into the castle—the very path he, his men, and Robard had used to escape.
As they neared the castle’s shadow, Aerion muttered under his breath, his tone uneasy. “It’s too dark.”
Harald paused. With a simple gesture, he cast a mage light. A pale, ethereal orb sprang to life, hovering just ahead of them and illuminating the surroundings. The faint blue-white glow cast eerie shadows across the trees and over the worn, uneven path.
“Seven Hells,” Olyvar muttered, his voice tinged with awe and unease. Jeoffry, the other knight, stared at the glowing light with wide eyes, his hand trembling as he gripped the hilt of his sword.
Harald glanced back at them, his tone sharp. “Where’s this path?”
Aerion pointed toward a small cluster of trees in the distance. “There, beneath the roots of those trees. There’s a narrow entrance.”
Harald’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the spot. “And if the Ironborn found it? If they sealed it?”
Aerion hesitated, then shrugged grimly. “Then we’re fucked.”
Harald smirked faintly. “Not really. It just means we’ll need a more direct approach.”
They moved forward, the mage light illuminating the rough terrain as they made their way to the grove. The knights walked close together, their nerves evident in every hesitant step.
When they reached the trees, Aerion crouched low and brushed away some leaves and branches, revealing a small, hidden entrance beneath the gnarled roots. The faint smell of damp earth and mildew wafted from the opening.
“There,” Aerion said, gesturing. “It’s narrow, but it’ll take us to the cellar.”
Harald peered into the dark hole, then nodded. “Where do you think they will be keeping the captured villagers?”
Aerion straightened. “The dungeons are too small. Perhaps they’re in the servants’ quarters.”
Harald’s gaze locked on Aerion. “When we’re inside, secure the servants’ quarters and look for the captives. I’ll deal with the Ironborn.”
“You’re mad,” Jeoffry hissed, his voice trembling. “Mad, I tell you.”
Harald didn’t respond. His silence was answer enough.
One by one, they crawled into the tunnel. The walls were damp and narrow, the air heavy with the scent of wet stone and decaying roots. Harald’s mage light floated ahead of them, lighting the way.
“The servants will be in their quarters, yes?” Harald asked, hoping they would not be caught in the fight with the Ironborn.
Aerion nodded. “Most likely. They don’t stray far after nightfall.”
“Good,” Harald said.
The tunnel twisted and turned, the rough walls brushing against their armor as they moved. Finally, the passage widened, and a faint light seeped through cracks in the stones ahead.
Aerion slowed and raised a hand, signaling for the group to stop. He gestured toward an entrance. “There. The cellar.”
Harald stepped forward, his battleaxe shifting on his shoulder as he moved to the front. Without a word, he pushed open the creaking wooden door, and they stepped into the castle’s cellar. The air was heavy with the smell of wine and aged wood. Barrels lined the walls, stacked high and pressed tightly together.
Making their way out of the cellar, they stopped at a hallway—one leading to the servants’ quarters and the other leading to the courtyard.
Aerion placed a hand on Harald’s arm, his expression tense. “Find Lady Gwen,” he said, his voice low. “She might be with Greyjoy…” His expression was pained. Harald could see the sorrow in the man’s eyes—he had seen the girl grow up.
Harald nodded. “I’ll find her,” he replied simply, then turned and strode away, leaving the three knights to secure the servants and look for the captive villagers.
The castle was eerily quiet as Harald made his way through the dimly lit corridors. His boots moved silently over the cold floor. His senses were heightened, ready for any sound or movement.
As he approached the courtyard, faint noises began to filter through the silence—voices, laughter, and the clinking of mugs. Harald slowed, pressing himself against the wall as he listened. The sounds grew louder as he neared the source, his hand tightening around the haft of his battleaxe.
Peering into the courtyard, Harald saw a roaring fire at its center, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Around the flames, a group of Ironborn lounged, their armor and weapons haphazardly discarded nearby.
“Where are all the women?” one of them bellowed, his voice slurred with drink.
“Probably hiding away in their beds,” another replied.
“Well, get them here!” the first one shouted. “I need to wet my cock!” The group erupted into raucous laughter.
Harald’s jaw tightened. He stepped out of the shadows, his imposing figure catching the firelight. His presence drew their attention immediately.
“What the fuck?” one of the Ironborn yelled, scrambling to his feet. The others quickly followed, their laughter replaced by confusion and alarm as they reached for their weapons.
“Who the fuck are you?” another demanded, brandishing a sword.
“A brave warrior looks like,” one of them sneered, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his fear.
“Gut him and toss him in the fire!”
The taunts continued, their bravado masking the unease that spread through the group. Harald remained silent, his icy gaze scanning the men as he stepped closer to the fire. He smirked, noticing they were all grouped together. ‘This will be easy,’ he thought as his lips parted and he unleashed the full power of his Thu’um.
“YOL… TOOR… SHUL!”
The words erupted from Harald’s throat, the force of the Shout like a dragon’s roar. A torrent of searing flames surged forth, engulfing the Ironborn in an instant. The firestorm roared across the courtyard, consuming everything in its path.
The Ironborn didn’t even have time to scream. Their bodies were incinerated where they stood, reduced to ash and cinders in mere moments. The intense heat cracked the stone beneath their feet, leaving only the charred remnants.
As the flames subsided, the courtyard was silent once more. Smoke curled into the night sky, and the acrid smell of burnt flesh hung heavy in the air. Nothing remained of the Ironborn but blackened shadows etched into the ground where they had stood.
Harald smirked, his breath steady as he surveyed the devastation. His Shout was slowly regaining its full might.
The castle was alive with movement now. Shouts rang out from the walls, and Ironborn began pouring into the courtyard, drawn by the chaos and destruction Harald had unleashed. Their weapons gleamed in the flickering torchlight as they moved with a mix of confusion and urgency.
Harald reached for his battleaxe, the weapon humming faintly in his grip as if eager for the bloodshed to come. “Time to go to work,” he muttered.
The first Ironborn to reach him barely had time to swing his sword before Harald’s axe cleaved through his chest, splitting him nearly in half. Blood sprayed across the courtyard as the man’s lifeless body crumpled to the ground. Another one charged, roaring as he raised his mace. Harald sidestepped the blow and brought his axe around in a brutal arc, the blade smashing through the man’s helm and crushing his skull.
Ironborn poured into the courtyard from the walls and surrounding buildings, their numbers growing. Harald moved through them like a force of nature, his battleaxe a blur of death. He swung the weapon with devastating strength, severing limbs and spilling entrails. One man tried to strike from behind, but Harald spun, catching him in the stomach with the blunt end of the axe. The Ironborn doubled over in agony before Harald’s blade came down, splitting him from shoulder to hip.
The ground was now slick with blood as Harald advanced, the Ironborn’s numbers thinning. Their bravery vanished, replaced by fear as they realized they were up against something far beyond their understanding.
Harald stepped through the castle’s main doors. Half-dressed Ironborn stumbled from their quarters, weapons in hand, their eyes widening in horror at the sight of the armored giant bearing down on them.
Raising his free hand, Harald conjured lightning along his fingers. He cast chain lightning at the group, and the bolt leaped from one raider to another, electrical arcs ripping through their bodies. Their screams were short-lived as they collapsed in smoking heaps on the stone floor.
Another group of Ironborn rushed him, but Harald’s axe tore through them, the enchanted runes flaring with each strike—some bursting into flames. One man’s sword clattered to the ground as Harald severed his arm at the elbow. Another tried to retreat, but Harald hurled his axe, the spinning blade embedding itself in the man’s back. With a sharp gesture, the weapon flew back to Harald’s hand.
Noticing one Ironborn still alive, Harald grabbed him and pinned him against the wall with a single hand. The man’s face was pale, his lips trembling as he stared into the dark void of Harald’s helm.
“Where is Rodrick?” Harald demanded.
The raider stammered, his words tumbling out in a rush. “T-the lord’s chambers! The keep! Please, I told you—”
Harald didn’t wait for him to finish. He threw him down, raised his axe, and ended the man with a swift, brutal strike. Then he ran toward the lord’s chambers.
When he reached the heavy wooden doors, his steps faltered for the first time as he heard a woman’s screams from inside.
Without hesitation, Harald stepped back and kicked the door with all his might. The wood splintered and cracked, the door flying inward with a deafening crash that echoed through the stone halls.
Inside, the scene made his blood boil. Rodrick Greyjoy was atop Gwen, her body writhing in resistance as she fought him, her cries desperate. The bruises on her face and arms told the story of her torment at Greyjoy’s hands.
The crashing door made Rodrick freeze. He turned sharply to Harald, his expression shifting from surprise to disdain. Gwen seized the moment, shoving Rodrick off her with all her strength. She scrambled to the corner of the bed, clutching a sheet around herself, her wide, tear-filled eyes locking on Harald in shock and disbelief.
Rodrick stood, his body bare save for the trousers he hastily pulled on. His sneer was cruel and condescending. “Who the fuck are you?” he snarled, grabbing a nearby dagger. “Guards! Olren! Grimy! Get in here!” he barked, shouting for the Ironborn he thought were still alive.
Harald’s gaze flicked briefly to Gwen. Her face was bruised and swollen, her lip split, and she trembled as she clutched the sheet tighter around herself.
“Guards!” Rodrick shouted again, his voice edged with desperation. “Olren! I said get in here!”
Harald finally spoke, his voice calm but laced with menace. “They’re all dead.”
Rodrick’s face paled, his bravado faltering. “What—”
“FUS!”
The force of the Shout slammed into Rodrick like a battering ram, lifting him off his feet and sending him hurtling through the air. He crashed into the stone wall with a sickening thud, the impact shaking the chamber as he crumpled to the ground, groaning in pain.
Gwen gasped, her eyes darting between Rodrick and Harald.
Rodrick pushed himself up weakly, coughing and clutching his ribs. “You fucker…” he spat, his voice filled with venom. “Warlock scum…”
Harald stepped closer, his gaze dark.
“Krii.”
The first word of Marked for Death ripped through the air, a sinister energy latching onto Rodrick. The ironborn’s body convulsed as an unnatural agony coursed through him, his screams echoing off the stone walls. His skin paled, his veins darkening, as if the very life was being drained from him.
Harald lifted his battleaxe with both hands. His gaze bored into Rodrick, who lay trembling on the floor, his screams reduced to hoarse gasps. “Time to die, Greyjoy,” Harald said coldly, his voice echoing in the chamber.
“No,” a trembling voice called out behind him.
Harald paused, turning to see Gwen standing by the bed. The sheet was draped over her bruised body, but her eyes burned with fury. She stepped forward, her voice steady despite the tremble in her words. “I want to do it. I promised him… I promised him I’d be the one to kill him.”
Harald studied her for a moment, his grip loosening on his axe. With a slight nod, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a dagger. He held it out to her, his eyes meeting hers.
Gwen hesitated only briefly before letting the sheet fall from her shoulders. She stepped forward and took the dagger, her grip firm as she turned to Rodrick.
She strode toward the man who had caused her so much suffering. Rodrick’s eyes widened in terror as he realized her intent. He tried to crawl away, sputtering pleas. “No… no, please! I’ll do anything! Mercy, I—”
“Mercy?” Gwen’s voice cracked with raw emotion, her knuckles whitening on the dagger’s hilt. “Mercy is what you never gave my father. My mother. My brother.”
With a cry that was part scream, part sob, she plunged the dagger into his chest. Blood spurted from the wound, staining her hands and arms. Rodrick howled in agony, but she didn’t stop.
“For my father!” she screamed, stabbing again, the blade sinking into his flesh with a sickening squelch. “For my mother!” Another stab. Blood pooled beneath his writhing form. “For my brother!”
The room filled with the wet, rhythmic sound of the blade tearing into flesh, each strike more savage than the last. Rodrick’s struggles grew weaker until his body fell still, his lifeless eyes staring into nothingness.
Still sobbing, Gwen kept plunging the dagger into Rodrick’s corpse, blood splattering her face, chest, and arms, the fury and pain of her loss pouring out with every strike.
Harald stepped forward, gently gripping her wrist to stop her. “It’s done,” he said softly, his voice cutting through the haze of her rage.
Gwen froze, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Slowly, she released the dagger, her blood-soaked hand trembling. Harald knelt, picking up the discarded sheet and wrapping it around her shoulders.
As the adrenaline ebbed, Gwen’s body began to shake. She clung to Harald, burying her face in his chest as the sobs came uncontrollably. “He… he… I had to,” she stammered through her tears. “He… he…”
Harald placed a steady hand on her head, his voice calm and soothing. “I understand. It’s over now. You’re safe. Your brother is safe.”
Gwen pulled back slightly, her tear-streaked face lifting to meet his gaze. Her eyes were filled with shock and hope. “Robard? Where… where is he?”
Harald gave a faint smile. “He’s safe. He’s outside the castle, waiting for you.”
Her lips trembled as fresh tears fell—this time tears of relief. She nodded, clutching the sheet tighter around her, her body still trembling. Harald carefully scooped her into his arms.
Gwen didn’t resist, her head resting against his chest as silent sobs wracked her body. Harald held her close, his armor slick with blood, the scent of death lingering in the air. His steps were steady as he carried her out of the chambers.
Her nightmare was over. But Harald knew that the scars—both seen and unseen—would remain. They always did.
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I think this version of the chapter is better than the last one.
Comments
Zack
It was a great chapter, but damn it is so hard to read about r@pe. Makes my stomach turn every time
Illusiveone
The targ dragons are fucked that is all I'll say. Harald will bring a dragon from tamriel here. Harald will be king after the end of the second arc with the first arc this one ending with the rebllion beginning and the second one being the rebellion.
TyrantGod
So how long till Harald becomes king of River? You should give a new name to his kingdom like Valinor, Avalon, Arcadia, Caladan etc. Harald can take Harrenhall as his capital and begin in unification from there. Will Harald get a dragon too and can he tame a Valyrian dragon? Can’t wait for him to meet the Targs?
Illusiveone
This happens 4 years before the Conquest. The targs are in the planning stages.
TyrantGod
How many years before canon conquest is your fic based? How old is Aegon and are they in the planning stages of the conquest (do they have the table map)?
