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4: Dragonborn Conqueror, Doom Driven pt.1
🕑 Added 2024-12-16 06:32:11 +0000 UTCAlyxander part 3 Next.
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"You could have left with the wedding party, Septon," Willem said as he stood near the fields, inspecting rows of vegetables.
"Ah, no worries, Willem. I’m in no hurry to get to Willowood," Leobald replied, standing beside him.
Willem chuckled. "Ah, I forgot. Riverwood—your favorite."
Leobald shook his head, smiling faintly. "I have no favorites. You are all equal in the eyes of the Seven."
"Sure, sure, Septon," Willem teased. He straightened, shading his eyes with one hand as he glanced toward the horizon. "Looks like rain’s coming. Hope Maise and the others don’t get caught in it," he said, referring to his daughter and her new husband, who had left for Willowood in the morning.
Leobald looked up as well, studying the dark clouds gathering on the horizon. "I think they’ll be fine. Stop worrying, Willem.She’ll make a fine life there."
Willem sighed. "A father worries."
Leobald was about to reply when the faint sound of hooves reached his ears. He froze, turning his head toward the hills. Willem heard it too, straightening in alarm.
"Is it Lord Hickory’s men?" Leobald muttered, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
Willem shook his head. "Nay, it ain’t time for taxes."
As the sound grew louder, Leobald’s sharp eyes caught movement on the path through the hills—men on horseback, their banners fluttering in the wind. His blood ran cold when he saw the sigil they bore: the kraken of House Greyjoy.
Leobald’s heart sank. "Ironborn," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
Willem turned to him, his face pale. "But… they don’t come here."
Leobald’s voice hardened. "Well, they’re here now."
Without another word, Leobald turned briskly and headed toward the village, his robes swirling around him. Willem followed, hurrying to keep pace. As they entered the village proper, Leobald raised his voice, urgent and commanding.
"Everyone, into your homes! Now! Bolt your doors!" he shouted.
Willem took up the cry, his louder, deeper voice echoing across the village. "Get inside! Don’t ask questions, just go!"
Confusion spread among the villagers. Some hesitated, uncertainty etched on their faces, while others grabbed their children and hurried toward their homes. Leobald’s voice cracked with panic as he repeated his warnings, and he saw fear growing in their eyes. They were not used to such urgency from their normally calm and composed Septon.
The sound of hoofbeats drew closer. As Leobald turned back toward the fields, he saw the Ironborn descending upon the village. The raiders began capturing men and women still working there.
Leobald’s breath caught in his throat. His legs froze as his mind screamed at him to do something, but he was paralyzed by terror.
"Septon! What do we do?" a woman’s trembling voice jolted him back to the present. She clutched his arm, her eyes wide with desperation.
Leobald’s mouth opened, but no words came. Around him, more villagers looked to him for guidance, their faces pleading, voices rising in panic. A few of the men snatched pitchforks and knives, their hands shaking as they tried to defend their families and homes.
Leobald’s gaze darted from the terrified villagers to the chaos in the fields. He saw an Ironborn warrior knock a struggling man to the ground. A young woman’s screams pierced the air as she was dragged away, her mother’s cries for mercy ignored.
It wasn’t long before the raiders rode into the village like a storm unleashed. Men who tried to fight were cut down. Chaos reigned as they dragged screaming men and women into the open. Leobald watched in horror as one woman was torn from her husband’s arms, her cries piercing the sky as she was bound and thrown in among the other captives. Then Leobald himself was seized. He struggled against his captors, his voice trembling with desperation.
"Why are you doing this? Lord Blackwood will have your heads for this!"
One of the Ironborn, a burly man with a jagged scar running down his cheek, stepped forward and struck Leobald across the face with the back of his hand. Pain exploded in his head as blood gushed from his lip and mouth, the taste of iron filling his senses.
"Shut your mouth, Greenlander," the man snarled, shoving Leobald to his knees.
Around them, the cries of the villagers were slowly snuffed out as the Ironborn finished their grisly work. Leobald, his vision swimming from the blow, blinked back tears of pain and spotted whom he assumed was the leader of the raiders: a sharp-featured man with a patch over one eye.
"When will the prison cart get here?" the leader asked sharply.
One of his men answered, "Captain, the last one we had got full when we captured that group on the way here."
Leobald’s stomach turned as he heard Willem, tied up nearby, let out a scream of anguish. The realization hit him: the Ironborn were talking about Willem’s daughter and her wedding party. Leobald’s heart sank into despair.
The captain’s one good eye narrowed at Willem’s outburst. "Shut him up," he growled.
An Ironborn warrior strode over to Willem and struck him across the face, the blow vicious and unrelenting. When Willem continued to cry out, the man hit him again and again.
"Stop! Please stop!" Leobald begged. But his pleas fell on deaf ears. Willem slumped unconscious, blood dripping from his battered face. The Ironborn stepped back with a sneer.
Thunder rumbled overhead as the gray sky darkened. The captain glanced upward, annoyance flashing across his face. "Great. Rain," he muttered. Then he turned to his men. "We don’t need a prison cart for this lot. We’ll walk them to Honeytree."
Just as the captain finished speaking, a child’s voice rang out. "Father!"
Leobald turned, his heart lurching as he saw a young boy running from one of the homes. It was Willem’s son, moving as fast as his legs could carry him. One of the Ironborn intercepted the child, grabbing him roughly by the throat and lifting him off the ground.
"No!" Leobald shouted, his voice filled with dread. "Let him go! He is but a boy!"
The Ironborn sneered, holding the struggling child aloft. "He looks old enough to be a thrall," the man said cruelly, tightening his grip as the boy kicked and gasped for air.
Leobald fell to his knees, hands clasped tightly as he began to pray, his voice trembling with desperation. "Seven above, hear me! Save us, I beg you…."
"LET HIM GO!" A thunderous voice echoed through the village. Leobald’s head snapped to the right, his eyes widening as he recognized the speaker. Standing there was Harald, his expression furious.
Leobald wanted to scream at his friend to run away, but no sound came out. He was too overwhelmed by everything. Harald stood there in his usual attire—a simple tunic and pants—his shoulder-length hair flowing in the strengthening winds. Thunder bellowed once again, rumbling ominously across the darkened sky.
The Ironborn looked at Harald with a mixture of amusement and disdain.
The captain smirked. "Look here, boys! We have a hero," he jeered, his voice dripping with mockery.
Willem’s son continued to struggle in the Ironborn’s grasp, his arms flailing helplessly. But Harald’s gaze remained fixed on the boy.
The captain’s smirk widened. "Kill this… brave Greenlander," he ordered with a dismissive wave and a chuckle.
Leobald finally found his voice. "Run! Harald, run!" he cried out. But what happened next would change everything Leobald thought he knew of the world.
For a brief moment, Harald looked sad, almost regretful. Then his lips parted, and a single word escaped—something unlike anything Leobald had ever heard.
"Wuld."
In an instant, Harald disappeared, a blur of motion so fast it was impossible to follow. Before anyone could react, he reappeared in front of the Ironborn holding Willem’s son. His hand slammed into the man’s face with the force of a battering ram, sending him hurtling backward. The boy fell to the ground, stunned but unharmed.
The Ironborn crashed to the earth with a wet thud, Harald’s hand still gripping his face. The raider groaned in pain, but his cries were cut short as Harald’s hands ignited with fire.
Flames roared to life, crackling and hissing as Harald pressed his burning palm against the raider’s face. Flesh sizzled, blackening and sloughing away as the man’s screams pierced the air. The acrid stench of burning flesh filled Leobald’s nostrils, making him gag, yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away. The Ironborn’s thrashing grew weaker and weaker until his body fell limp, his face an unrecognizable mass of charred flesh.
A stunned silence fell over the village. The remaining Ironborn and the villagers alike stood frozen in disbelief, their eyes wide with shock and horror. Even the thunder above seemed to pause, as if the storm itself were taken aback by what it had just witnessed.
Leobald’s mind raced. ‘What in the Seven Hells?’ he thought, his heart pounding in his chest.
Harald straightened, his gaze sweeping over the Ironborn, fury unmistakable in his eyes.
One of the Ironborn broke the silence, roaring as he charged at Harald with an axe raised high. Harald turned toward him, and a single word escaped his lips:
“Zun.”
The raider’s axe flew from his hands as if torn away by an invisible force. Harald caught it mid-air, spinning it with practiced ease before driving the blade into the man’s neck. Blood sprayed, and the Ironborn crumpled to the ground, gurgling as life fled his body.
Another raider lunged at him, swinging a sword toward Harald’s side. Harald ducked beneath the blade, his hand snapping up to grab the man’s wrist. Lightning crackled along Harald’s arm, surging into the raider with a blinding flash. The man convulsed, his screams filling the air as Harald twisted the sword free from his grasp and drove it through his neck, pinning him to the ground.
The remaining Ironborn hesitated, their courage faltering as they stared at the carnage. Their captain barked out orders:
"Attack! Kill the monster! Kill the witch!"
The Ironborn roared as they charged, their war cries echoing through the village. Harald met them head-on, moving like a storm unleashed. He grabbed one raider by the throat and slammed him into the ground. Another swung a mace at his back, but Harald spun with impossible speed, his hand crackling with lightning. The bolt struck the attacker square in the chest, throwing him backward into a house.
Harald picked up a discarded axe and hurled it with deadly precision. The blade embedded itself in the skull of a raider trying to flee. Blood sprayed as the man crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
Leobald could only watch in horror and awe as Harald killed the raiders. This was not the Harald he knew—the quiet, humble man who healed the sick and tilled the earth. This was a warrior, a force of nature, wielding powers and magic his faith had warned him about—sorcery, warlocks, and witches who bent the natural order to their will.
Harald struck down the last of the raiders. Bodies littered the village, smoke rising from the charred remains of those he had burned with magicks. Leobald could see only the captain remained, his face pale with terror as Harald strode toward him. The captain stumbled backward, his weapon forgotten as he fell to his knees.
"Mercy! Please, mercy!" the man begged, his voice cracking with desperation.
As Harald closed the distance, the captain, finding a final ounce of courage, lunged at him with a knife, aiming for his chest. Harald’s lips parted, and a single word escaped:
"Yol."
Flames erupted from Harald’s mouth, a torrent of searing heat that engulfed the captain. The man’s screams were short-lived as the fire consumed him entirely, reducing him to nothing but ash scattered by the wind.
Silence once again filled the air, broken only by the rumbling thunder. It was then, and only then, that Leobald noticed the villagers standing behind him. He had been so consumed by the spectacle before him that he hadn’t realized the growing terror among them. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with fear.
Harald turned toward them, his eyes scanning the crowd. Though his gaze wasn’t threatening, the villagers flinched. One by one, they stepped back, their fear evident. Mothers clutched their children tightly, shielding them.
Whispers spread through the crowd like wildfire.
"Witchcraft…"
"A demon…"
"Sent by the Stranger…"
Leobald’s heart twisted painfully. He didn’t know how to respond. The words burned in his ears: monster, witch, demon. No, he thought. No, it’s wrong. This is Harald. He’s none of those things.
Harald shook his head, his expression one of quiet resignation. Without a word, he turned away from the crowd and began walking toward the woods.
Leobald felt a surge of guilt and sorrow. Summoning his courage, he broke away from the villagers and followed Harald. His steps quickened as he left the fearful crowd behind.
He needed answers.
Comments
Zack
At this point he should start a new faith haha - there is more power in religion than in any form of government
