Illusiveone
patreon
18: Dragonborn Conqueror, The Fairmarket Rising pt.1
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 08:25:56 +0000 UTCHaldon POV
Haldon could barely believe what had happened in the last six days.
Greyholt had fallen.
Greyholt—the fort built by Harwyn Hardhand himself, the pride of Ironborn might, named after Harwyn’s favorite wife, Yonna Greyjoy—had fallen. That was what he was told. That was what everyone was talking about.
Merchants arriving in Fairmarket told the same tale again and again. Some warlock—some cursed sorcerer—called “Dragonborn” had used his dark magics to bring down the castle. Greyholt destroyed, they said. The walls torn down by magic. The gates blasted apart with flame and thunder. The garrison slaughtered. No survivors.
The tale had begun to take on a life of its own, each version more absurd than the last—some claiming the Dragonborn flew on a beast of shadow and flame, others saying he shouted whole towers into rubble. And yet, every version ended the same: Greyholt gone, its garrison slaughtered.
His second born had been at Greyholt, sent there just ten days ago to search for his elder brother, Rodrick, who had gone silent weeks ago in the Blackwood Vale. Now both of them were gone. No word. No raven. Nothing.
Haldon didn’t know what to think. Was this the start of a rebellion? Was this person called Dragonborn an elaborate ruse—a trick by his enemies to cloak an uprising in the veil of sorcery and legend?
Maybe it was the Blackwoods. Maybe they had grown bold. Maybe they were angry over the broken truce. He had promised not to take thralls from their lands. Or maybe it was the Mallisters. Those stingy bastards were always up to something, even after their recent rebellion a decade ago.
He paced the length of the hall in long, uneven strides, fingers twitching at his sides. Servants lingered near the edges of the chamber, silent and pale, not daring to speak.
“AHHHH!” Haldon screamed, the frustration boiling over. He hurled his goblet across the room, sending it clattering into a pillar with a dull metallic clang. Wine splashed across the stone like blood.
He staggered forward and sank down onto the edge of his throne, running a shaking hand through his graying hair.
The men he had sent north had not returned. The messages he had dispatched—none answered. And here, in Fairmarket, things felt like they were preparing to boil over again.
In the last three days, the town had gone quiet. Too quiet. The people avoided his soldiers, kept their heads down. But not in fear—in expectation, as if they were waiting for something.
Worse, his spies—men he’d trusted, men who had eyes and ears in every corner of the city—had begun to disappear. They vanished one by one. No bodies. No witnesses. Just silence.
He felt trapped, like the walls of his world were closing in, everything bearing down on him at once. His sons were gone. Greyholt had fallen. Fairmarket was slipping from his grasp.
“AHHHHHH!” he screamed again, slamming his fist into the cold stone of the wall. Pain lanced through his knuckles, but he didn’t stop. He slammed it again. And again.
“Fuck! Fuck!” he snarled, staggering backward, blood dripping from his hand. The pain did little to calm the storm inside him.
He looked down at his fingers, already swelling, already bruising.
“My lord!”
The voice came from the entrance to the hall—Captain Knut, panting as he rushed inside.
Haldon didn’t turn. He stood at the far end of the room, blood dripping from his bruised knuckles, still trembling with barely contained fury.
“My lord,” Knut said again, more cautiously now. “I heard shouting. Are you—are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Haldon snapped, gripping his injured hand tightly against his chest. “I’m fine,” he repeated, though his voice wavered with the strain.
Then his rage flared again. “No. No, I am not fucking fine!”
He spun around, eyes wild, voice cracking with fury. “Where are my sons?!” he roared. “Who the fuck attacked Greyholt? Who the fuck is this Dragonborn?!”
Knut instinctively stepped back, startled by the outburst. “I—I sent more men today, my lord. I’m sure they’ll return soon with—”
“No,” Haldon growled, cutting him off. “No more waiting. I will go there myself. First, I’ll make sure the town is secure.”
“My lord…” Knut hesitated, his voice small, uncertain. He looked nervous, almost pale.
Haldon narrowed his eyes. He saw the hesitation in Knut’s face, the fear in his posture. “What is it?” Haldon demanded, taking a step closer. “Spit it out.”
Knut swallowed hard. “It’s the men, my lord. We’ve just noticed it today. There have… been disappearances.”
“What?” Haldon barked.
“About thirty men, my lord, maybe more. Gone. Most from the wall patrols. Just… gone. Vanished.”
Haldon stared at him, gobsmacked. His breath caught in his throat. Then his expression twisted in rage. With a roar, he lunged forward and drove his fist into Knut’s face. The blow landed hard, sending the captain stumbling back, blood flying from his lip.
But as soon as the punch connected, pain lanced through Haldon’s own hand—the same hand he had used to beat the stone wall earlier.
“FUCK!” he howled, staggering back, clutching his knuckles. The skin was split, the bone beneath surely cracked. He gritted his teeth against the pain.
“Incompetent fucks!” he screamed.
He turned away, storming across the hall toward the tall, narrow window that overlooked the town. He threw it open, gulping in the cold night air like a drowning man gasping for breath.
Everything was falling apart. This wasn’t random. This wasn’t chance. It was rebellion. It had to be.
Maybe the Blackwoods had lied. Maybe the Mallisters were in on it too. Maybe even the fucking Freys. If they were all behind this, he would flay their sons and burn their keeps to ash.
Haldon turned, jaw tight, ready to bark another command—
—but before he could speak, the night lit up.
A deafening blast rocked the air. From the distance, in the direction of the barracks, fire erupted into the sky. The explosion roared like a wild beast, hurling debris and stone high above the town. Flames licked at the heavens. Screams followed—shouts, cries, the unmistakable cacophony of chaos and panic.
The ground trembled beneath his feet.
Haldon froze at the window, eyes wide. From his vantage, he could see it clearly—the barracks, or what was left of it, engulfed in fire and smoke. The roof was gone. The walls blown apart. Soldiers running like ants. Townsfolk screaming in terror.
Shock held him still for a heartbeat. Then fury surged anew.
“Get the men!” he bellowed, rounding on Knut, who was still bleeding from his lip, dazed. “Get every fucking man we have!”
“It’s an attack… a rebellion…”
“My lord—”
“I don’t care anymore! Kill anyone who stands in our way!” Haldon roared. “I don’t care who it is! Burn the whole town if you have to! GO!”
.
.
.
Harald POV – 15 Minutes Ago
Harald looked at the Ironborn barracks before him as he crouched low atop the tiled roof of a neighboring building. He was shrouded in an invisibility spell, veiling him from sight.
Ahead, the barracks loomed—large, imposing, and built like a fortress within the town. It was a squat stone structure, two stories high, with thick timber beams reinforcing its weathered gray walls. The windows were narrow arrow slits, and iron-banded doors barred each entrance. A stone chimney jutted from the center of the sloped, moss-covered roof, billowing smoke into the sky.
The yard around the barracks was enclosed by a palisade of sharpened wooden stakes, and beyond that, a training yard stretched out. Harald watched as two Ironborn guards circled the perimeter lazily, half-alert, unaware they were being observed by the very death that stalked them.
The last three days had been long. Exhausting. But every second had been necessary.
By day, Harald moved among the people of Fairmarket. With Leobald and Ryam at his side, he met with local town leaders of the former revolt and the broken, frightened commonfolk. He told them who he was—the man who had destroyed Greyholt. The Dragonborn.
He had expected skepticism.
What surprised him most was how quickly they believed.
Leobald’s preaching helped. Ryam’s presence lent the claims the weight of the Faith. But it was Harald’s magic that sealed it. Not fire or lightning or his thumm—but healing. He spent his days healing bruised ribs, twisted legs, sick children, maimed workers, and all those who had been injured in the previous rising.
It made him a living miracle in their eyes.
A divine warrior, touched by the gods. A savior sent to free them from Ironborn chains.
As the sun set, he moved through shadow, killing Ironborn one by one—quietly, efficiently. A knife across the throat. A burst of lightning behind closed doors. An incinerate spell in an alley no one would walk until morning. Each fallen guard’s weapons and armor were handed to the growing ranks of townsfolk preparing for the rising—a quiet militia of bakers, smiths, stablehands, and shopkeepers, now armed and watchful.
There had been two hundred Ironborn when he arrived. Fifty were already dead.
He knew they had begun to suspect something was wrong. And tonight, they would know.
The plan for the rising was simple. When the signal was given, Jonnel, Aerion, and their men would storm the quarters where the hostages were held and secure them. Leobald, Ryam, Chett, and the rest of the uprising’s local leaders would lead a march to the central market, drawing all the guards’ attention there.
And Harald? He would be elsewhere. After the signal, he would storm the tower where Haldon Greyjoy was and kill him. Then he would return and support the townsfolk in driving the Ironborn from the town.
It was time for the signal to be given. That was why he was here. Harald looked down once more at the barracks—the soldiers lounging just inside the gates, the faint laughter of men unaware they were living their final moments.
Harald leapt from the rooftop, landing silently on the packed dirt below. His boots barely made a sound—the muffle spell helped with that. The invisibility spell still cloaked him, rendering his form a ghost beneath the moonlight.
The time he had chosen was calculated. It was the hour of the shift change—a perfect window. The barracks courtyard was crowded, Ironborn guards coming and going through the heavy iron-banded doors. Some were stripping off worn armor, others donning it. A few men gathered around a barrel, drinking from cups and making jokes—some planning to visit a brothel.
Harald slipped through the half-open gates and into the heart of the barracks. The courtyard was wide, enclosed by the barracks structure itself on all sides. A small forge glowed in one corner, where a blacksmith worked idly, hammering out dents from a bent sword. Racks of spears and axes lined the walls. More than two dozen Ironborn crowded the space, some leaning against the walls, chatting; others trudged up the stone steps toward the dormitories above. There had to be about a hundred Ironborn here, he was sure.
Harald raised his right hand. A soft glow sparked to life in his palm—faint at first, then pulsing brighter, orange and red laced with threads of golden white. Flames danced between his fingers, heat warping the air around his arm.
The incantation echoed in his mind: Firestorm.
A spell of devastating power—normally wild, uncontained, a ring of flames that scorched indiscriminately. But this version…this one he had shaped. It would be concentrated on this building to prevent the fire from spreading and burning the whole town down. Yesterday, he had embedded containment glyphs around the barracks, and to further ensure safety, he had placed temporary wards on the neighboring buildings.
The flames in his palm surged. The air around him thickened. Heat radiated from his form. Fiery sparks licked up his arm. With a simple flick of his wrist, he unleashed the spell.
The spell hit the side of the barracks with a deafening whoomph, engulfing everything in its path. The spell’s heat turned the night into daylight—a sudden sunrise of roaring fire and shrieking wind. The barracks lit up like a pyre soaked in oil.
Ironborn screamed. Some never had the chance. They were caught mid-step, incinerated in an instant. Others staggered out of the blaze, their bodies aflame, flailing and howling as they tried to escape the magical inferno. Armor melted against flesh. Wood cracked and split. The roof was torn apart by the sheer pressure of the blast, beams flying skyward before crashing down in splinters.
Harald didn’t stay to admire his work. He turned on his heel and ran out of the barracks. From every corner of the town, people would see it. They would know what to do now.
The signal had been given. Harald stopped and glanced back, seeing a half-dozen Ironborn stumble out of the barracks, some still ablaze. He turned and broke into a sprint toward the tower.
He had killed the sons, and now it was time for the father to meet his axe.
