Illusiveone
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7: Dragonborn Conqueror, First Strike pt.1
🕑 Added 2024-12-22 17:11:02 +0000 UTCHarald knelt, his gloved fingers brushing lightly against the ground. The tracks were fresh, pressed into the damp earth. He studied them in silence, his piercing blue eyes scanning the faint impressions left by horses.
Leobald sat astride the spectral steed a few paces back, watching him. “Those tracks… they’re not leading toward Honeytree,” the Septon said, his voice uncertain.
Harald stood slowly, brushing the dirt off his hands. “Is there a village nearby?” he asked, his tone sharp with concern.
Leobald shook his head. “No, there’s nothing for miles—only Honeytree, which is in the opposite direction.”
Harald’s brow furrowed as he looked back at the tracks. “Then we follow anyway. Mount up.”
Leobald nodded. Harald swung himself onto his mount and urged the horse forward.
Breaking the silence, Harald spoke. “You were talking about King Halleck before we stopped.”
Leobald straightened slightly, holding on to Harald. “Ah, yes. Where did I leave off? Ah, Harwyn Hardhand. He defeated Storm King Arrec Durrandon. Many Riverlords flocked to Harwyn’s side, believing he would free them from the Storm Kings’ rule.”
Harald glanced back, his tone dry. “Let me guess. That didn’t turn out the way they hoped.”
Leobald sighed, his voice tinged with sorrow. “Indeed. Harwyn’s rule was… as his name suggests—hard and cruel. There were rebellions, many of them. And with each uprising, more houses were extinguished, their lineages erased. It was a dark time for the Riverlands.”
“Darker than this?” Harald asked, his voice laced with bitter humor.
Leobald ignored the comment and continued. “Halleck became king after Harwyn’s passing. Unlike his father, Halleck sought a different path. Where Harwyn ruled through fear and brute strength, Halleck understood the value of peace and consolidating his father’s conquests. He governed not from the Iron Islands but from Fairmarket.”
“Fairmarket,” Harald echoed, glancing over his shoulder. “Where the Greyjoys now rule from?”
“Yes,” Leobald confirmed. “He ruled from a modest tower, a far cry from the monstrosity that Harren is building near the Gods Eye.”
“Halleck spent his reign mending the wounds Harwyn had inflicted, focusing on recovery rather than expansion. Under his rule, the Riverlands began to flourish again. The lords paid their taxes without rebellion, and the Ironborn respected his leadership because he kept them content with steady tribute and occasional raids far from home,” Leobald continued, his voice calm but tinged with admiration.
“Halleck was no saint,” he admitted, “but he understood that ruling a kingdom as vast and diverse as the Isles and Rivers required more than an iron fist. He ensured that both the Riverlords and the Ironborn saw the benefits of his reign. My grandfather spoke fondly of King Halleck. He believed that, for all his flaws, Halleck understood what it meant to lead.”
“And Harren?” Harald prompted, his voice edged with curiosity.
Leobald’s smile faded. “When Halleck passed, his son inherited a stable kingdom, one on the path to recovery. But Harren… he was nothing like his father. Where Halleck sought stability, Harren craved power. He expanded the kingdom southward, subjugating petty kings around Blackwater Bay—the Darklyns, Hayfords, Stauntons, Stokeworths. He even launched campaigns against the lords of Crackclaw Point, though they never fully submitted.”
Leobald’s tone darkened as he continued. “Harren is vain, greedy, and cruel—much like his grandfather, Harwyn. When he realized he could not expand his kingdom further, he turned his attention inward. Instead of glory through conquest, he sought it through legacy. He began to build his grand castle.”
“Harrenhal,” Harald said, his voice flat.
“Yes, Harrenhal,” Leobald confirmed. “A castle so vast, so grand, it is said that even the old Valyrians would be jealous. But that monstrosity has caused untold misery to these lands, Harald. Maise was taken so she could die building that nightmare.”
Harald’s jaw tightened, his gaze fixed ahead. Note to self, he thought grimly, shout the castle down.
“I’ve not seen it myself,” Leobald admitted. “But I’ve heard—”
“Harald,” Leobald said quickly, spotting something in the distance.
“Yeah, I see it,” Harald replied.
Leobald squinted. In the distance, he saw them: seven riders, their banners barely visible but unmistakable.
“Those are House Hickory’s colors, Harald—men sworn to Lord Hickory,” he said, his voice rising with alarm. “They’re being chased.”
“By Ironborn,” Harald finished grimly, his gaze narrowing as he counted at least ten riders pursuing the group.
Without another word, Harald spurred his horse forward. “Hold on!” he barked over his shoulder.
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.
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Ser Aerion Whiteflame stared into the flickering fire before him, the flames dancing and crackling as if alive. His mother’s voice echoed faintly in his mind, a memory from his boyhood on Dragonstone. She had told him stories of their ancestors, the old dragonlords of Valyria, who could gaze into the future through fire.
When he was young, he had tried—sitting by the hearth, staring into the flames, willing them to reveal some great secret. He was a dragonseed, after all. Bastard though he might be, the blood of the dragon flowed through his veins. But the fire had never spoken to him, and as he grew older, he stopped trying.
His gaze shifted to the young boy sleeping nearby, his small frame wrapped in a threadbare cloak. Robard Hickory—now the new Lord Hickory—slumbered fitfully, his face pale and gaunt. Aerion’s chest tightened at the sight. He had served the boy’s father for ten years, as master-at-arms and head of the household guard. In that time, he had found a sense of purpose he had never known during his years wandering the kingdoms as a hedge knight.
Aerion had been content in Honeytree Castle, imagining a future where he might marry, raise children of his own, and live out his days serving Lord Hickory. But that dream had shattered the day the Greyjoy arrived.
Rodrick Greyjoy had demanded the use of Honeytree Castle as a base for his raids. Lord Hickory had protested, standing tall against the Ironborn scum. For his defiance, he had been struck down. Aerion had never felt so helpless as he watched his lord and lady fall, their blood staining the stone floors of the castle they called home.
The memory burned in his mind. He had fought desperately that day, carving a path through the Ironborn with steel and fury, but it hadn’t been enough. Gwen, the lord’s daughter, had been captured. He had taken young Robard and fled into the night, his men following him into the wilds. They had been on the run ever since.
“Ser.” A quiet voice broke through his thoughts. One of his men stood at the edge of the firelight. “You should get some rest, Ser. I’ll take the next watch.”
Aerion nodded, his expression weary. “Very well.” He stood, his armor clinking softly, and moved to a patch of ground nearby.
He lay down and closed his eyes, but sleep eluded him. The images came unbidden—Lord Hickory falling to his knees, Lady Hickory’s anguished cries, Gwen’s terrified face as she was dragged away by laughing Ironborn. Aerion clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists. He had failed them. He had failed them all.
====
Morning came quickly, the pale light of dawn filtering through the trees. Aerion rose early, his sleep restless and filled with fragmented nightmares. He wasted no time, issuing orders for the camp to be broken down. The six men under his command moved swiftly, packing supplies and saddling horses. Robard, just ten years old, watched wide-eyed as the preparations unfolded around him.
“We’ve stayed hidden for too long. We need to make for Raventree Castle,” Aerion said firmly, addressing his men and the boy.
The men nodded in agreement. They knew the dangers of the journey ahead but also the futility of remaining in hiding.
As Aerion turned to prepare his horse, Robard stepped forward. “We need to go back to our home, Ser Aerion,” the boy said, his voice trembling but his eyes fierce. “We need to save Gwen.”
Aerion paused, his heart twisting at the boy’s plea. “Young lord,” he began carefully, “we must go to Lord Blackwood. Only he has the strength to help us.”
“No!” Robard shouted, his voice cracking. “Gwen… I need to save my sister. She is my duty to protect. Father always said so.” Tears welled in his eyes as he struggled to contain his emotions, his small fists clenched tightly.
Aerion knelt before Robard, pulling the boy into a protective embrace. “We will save your sister, my lord,” he said softly, his voice steady but filled with unspoken anger. The thought of what Rodrick Greyjoy might be doing to Gwen made his blood boil. “I promise you, we will save her.”
The boy nodded against Aerion’s chest, his small frame shaking with quiet sobs. Aerion stood, his resolve hardening. “Mount up,” he called to his men. “We ride.”
The group set out, keeping to the forest paths and avoiding the main roads. The undergrowth was thick, and their progress was slow, but Aerion refused to take unnecessary risks. Soon they emerged from the woods into more exposed plains.
For a time, they rode in silence, Aerion praying to the gods that the Ironborn were far away from here. But it seemed the gods chose to be cruel that day.
One of the men reined his horse sharply, raising a hand. “Ser!” he hissed, his voice urgent. “Look ahead!”
Aerion’s heart sank as he followed the man’s gesture. In the distance, a group of riders appeared. The glint of mail and axes was unmistakable. Ironborn—fifteen, maybe more.
“Fuck,” Aerion cursed under his breath, his hand instinctively gripping the hilt of his sword.
“Back to the woods!” Aerion barked, his voice sharp with urgency.
But it was too late. A shout rose from the Ironborn, and their riders surged forward, axes gleaming in the sunlight. The chase was on.
Aerion spurred his horse onward, Robard clinging tightly to him. The land blurred around them as they rode hard, the Ironborn closing the distance. The sound of hooves thundered through the nearby trees, accompanied by the shrill whistle of arrows.
The first arrow struck one of Aerion’s men square in the back. He toppled from his saddle with a choked cry, his body crashing to the ground. Another arrow found its mark moments later, felling a second man; his horse reared wildly before bolting away.
“Keep riding!” Aerion shouted, his voice raw. “Stay together!”
The remaining men pushed their horses harder, but the Ironborn archers were relentless. A third man fell, an arrow piercing his neck. Blood sprayed in a gruesome arc as his lifeless body slumped sideways, his horse galloping off without a rider.
The fourth man barely had time to react as an arrow struck his horse. The beast stumbled, its legs giving out, sending both horse and rider tumbling violently to the ground. The Ironborn swept over him, axes flashing in the sun.
Aerion’s horse carried him and Robard valiantly, but an arrow struck its flank. The animal let out a pained scream, its legs faltering. Aerion barely had time to brace himself as the horse collapsed, throwing him and Robard to the ground.
“Get behind me!” Aerion shouted, his sword flashing as he rose to his feet. He pulled Robard close, his gaze darting to his two remaining men, who had dismounted and moved to his side.
The Ironborn surrounded them, their grim faces twisted with cruel glee. The leader dismounted—a tall, scarred man with a wicked grin. His axe rested on his shoulder as he eyed Aerion and Robard.
“Hand over the boy,” the leader growled, his voice rough and cold.
Aerion’s first instinct was to refuse, his grip tightening on his sword. But reality bore down on him like a crushing weight. They were outnumbered, outmatched. He would die here. They all would. But Robard… Robard might live.
“Will he be harmed?” Aerion demanded, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.
The leader’s grin widened, revealing yellowed teeth. “Lord Rodrick wants the boy alive and unharmed. He’s to be brought back safely.”
“No!” Robard shouted, clutching at Aerion’s side. “Don’t let them take me! Please, Aerion!”
Aerion knelt, gripping Robard by the shoulders. “It’s the only way, my lord. You must live.”
Tears streamed down Robard’s face as he shook his head, his small fists pounding weakly against Aerion’s chest. “Don’t let them take me! Don’t—”
“Enough talk,” the leader snapped. “Give us the boy.” He motioned for his men to advance, their weapons gleaming as they stepped forward. Robard’s cries filled the air, but the sound was drowned out by a sudden, sickening crunch.
The leader staggered, his eyes wide with shock as blood bubbled from his mouth. A massive, dark axe protruded from his chest, its blade etched with glowing runes. He fell to his knees, gurgling as life fled his body. He collapsed with a heavy thud, the earth beneath him slick with blood.
The Ironborn froze, their expressions twisted with confusion and terror. Aerion and his remaining men stared in stunned silence.
“What in the Seven Hells…?” Aerion muttered.
The axe pulsed with an unnatural light, the runes glowing brighter. Then, to everyone’s shock, it began to move. With a sickening squelch, the weapon dislodged itself from the leader’s body and flew through the air, spinning like a bird of prey.
Aerion’s gaze followed its trajectory, his breath catching as he saw a figure standing in the distance—a man in dark armor, his silhouette backlit by the sun. A Septon stood at his side, his robes unmistakable.
The armored man caught the axe in an outstretched hand with effortless grace. He stood still for a moment, the weapon gleaming in his grip.
Aerion’s heart pounded in his chest as the figure began to walk forward, his steps deliberate, his presence overwhelming.
“What the fuck?” Aerion breathed.
Comments
Illusiveone
He made his own. He was from earth first after all.
John
Did he make his own version of the Leviathan Axe? Or is that it?
