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17: Dragonborn Conqueror, Sparks of a Rebellion pt.2
🕑 Added 2025-03-26 09:31:30 +0000 UTCHarald stood silently in the doorway of the candlelit chamber, arms crossed. Ser Aerion stood to his right, as still and quiet as a statue, while Septa Tanith lingered just behind them, her eyes flicking nervously between the worn stone floor and Harald’s towering form.
At the center of the room, Septon Ryam sat in a carved wooden chair, its once-fine edges worn smooth by time and anxious hands.
“So… you were there,” Ryam said slowly. “At Greyholt?”
Leobald nodded solemnly. “Yes, I was. And all the rumors you’ve heard? They’re true. Every word.”
Ryam leaned forward slightly, the tension in his shoulders betraying his calm tone. “They say it was torn asunder. That the garrison was butchered. That dark magic was used.”
Leobald met his gaze without flinching. “Greyholt burned with justice. The thralls were freed. And the man who did it—the Dragonborn—he made a proclamation. He said he would free the Riverlands because it is his divine mission.”
Ryam’s eyes narrowed. “Divine?” His voice darkened. “You speak of magicks, and you dare call it divine? Gods preserve us, Leobald—have you gone mad? That sounds like the work of a warlock.”
Leobald stepped forward. “No, Ryam. I know what I saw. This man… he is not some dark conjurer from the east. I watched him fight. I watched him heal. He wields power, yes—but it is guided by purpose. A righteous purpose.”
“The Seven would never send a warlock,” Ryam snapped. “To claim such is heresy of the highest order.”
“I saw no warlock,” Leobald replied evenly, “but a warrior—bestowed with divine magicks. A champion of the gods, sent in our darkest hour.”
Ryam leaned back, his expression troubled, the weight of his position pressing down on him. “These are dangerous times,” he said grimly. “Haldon has brought in more soldiers since the revolt, and now, with news of Greyholt… the people teeter on the edge of open rebellion. The wrong spark will set the whole town ablaze.”
“And maybe,” Leobald said gently, “it is a flame we need. Maybe we need to light it. The Dragonborn can help us. He can free Fairmarket.”
Ryam stared at him in disbelief. “You were taught as I was, Leobald. Magic is evil. It is forbidden. It is not for mortal man to wield.”
“Then see for yourself,” Leobald said, turning slightly to gesture toward the man in the doorway. “Ryam. Judge not from fear or dogma, but with your own eyes. For this,” he said, his voice swelling with reverence, “this is the Dragonborn.”
Ryam turned his head slowly, his gaze falling on Harald for the first time.
He stood there, tall and unmoving. He said nothing, made no gesture—just watched.
Septon Ryam’s face paled. Septa Tanith took a step back from where she had been standing, her expression caught between awe and fear.
Harald stepped away from the shadows of the doorway and began walking slowly toward Septon Ryam. The old septon’s eyes widened with every step. He stumbled back slightly, bumping into the chair behind him, his breath catching in his throat.
Leobald raised a calming hand. “Ryam, listen to me. This man… he was living a quiet life, far from everything. But when his friend’s daughter was taken by the Ironborn, he chose not to stand idle. He set out alone to find her, and in doing so, saved Lady Gwen Hickory and her young brother. He avenged the deaths of Lord and Lady Hickory—cut down by Rodrick Greyjoy himself. He took Greyholt, not for personal gain, but to free the thralls and the villagers held captive. Does that sound like evil to you?”
Harald stopped a few paces from the septon, watching him quietly for a moment. Then, he gestured to Ryam’s bandaged arm. “What happened?”
Ryam swallowed. “It… it was during the rising, a moon ago,” he murmured. “I tried to calm the crowd. Some of Haldon’s Ironborn didn’t take kindly to that. They broke it. And now, it will never heal properly. I will bear the pain until my last breath.”
Harald tilted his head. “No. You won’t.”
He extended a hand toward the priest. “May I?”
Ryam hesitated, his eyes flicking toward Leobald.
Leobald smiled gently. “Let him show you, old friend.”
With visible reluctance, Ryam extended his injured arm toward Harald.
The Nord took it gently, his large hand surprisingly careful. He closed his eyes, drawing in a slow breath. A soft, golden light bloomed from his palms, warm and radiant. The chamber was bathed in its glow, dancing across the stone walls and casting away shadows.
Ryam gasped as the pain began to melt away. The bones in his arm shifted and knit; the bruises faded; the inflammation vanished. When Harald finally stepped back and the glow receded, Ryam flexed his fingers, then his wrist, and finally rolled his shoulder in disbelief.
“I… I’m healed…” he whispered. “By the Seven, I… it’s a miracle.”
He looked up at Harald, truly seeing him now—no longer with fear, but with awe.
Behind him, Septa Tanith had fallen to her knees, whispering prayers with trembling hands. Her face shone with wonder.
Ser Aerion leaned casually against the wall, watching with a knowing smile. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he said. “That’s how I felt when he healed me. Like the gods themselves touched you.”
Harald stepped back toward the doorway. “Speak with Leobald,” he said simply to Ryam. “Please give him some of your time.”
Ryam nodded, still gazing at his once-broken arm.
Without another word, Harald turned and walked outside.
Stepping out of the sept, Harald felt the crisp evening air brush against his face. In the courtyard, he spotted children playing, their laughter piercing the otherwise tense stillness of the town. They danced around a cracked fountain, skipping stones and chasing one another in circles. Watching over them stood another septa, much younger than Tanith—Harald guessed she couldn’t be older than her early twenties.
He walked over.
She looked up at him, startled at first, then offered a warm smile, cheeks coloring slightly at the sight of him. “Good eve, ser,” she said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“I did not get your name, my good lady.”
“My name is Rose,” the septa replied.
“Do they come here to play often?” Harald asked, his voice softer than usual as he watched the children.
Her smile faltered. “No,” she said quietly. “Their families were taken. Lord Haldon’s men… They’re being sent to Harrenhal.”
Harald’s jaw tightened slightly. “Oh,” he said, glancing back toward the children.
He reached down and unlatched his aetherial satchel, its leather flap parting soundlessly. Digging through its pocket-dimension space, he pulled out a pair of preserved sweetrolls—still soft, the sugary glaze intact.
The children stopped playing and stared wide-eyed as he knelt, holding the sweetrolls out to them.
“This,” he said with a smile, “is a sweetroll.”
Two of the children stepped forward hesitantly, accepting the rolls with wide-eyed wonder. They took tentative bites, then grinned, eyes lighting up with delight.
“It’s so good!” one of them exclaimed, licking the icing from her fingers.
Rose watched with amazement. “Where did they… how…” she asked, brow furrowed in confusion.
Harald gave her a playful wink. “That’s a secret.”
Before she could respond, Harald’s smile faded. His eyes sharpened as the sound of boots pounding against stone echoed down the narrow street.
He rose to his full height in an instant, every muscle in his body suddenly alert. “Children,” he said firmly, “go inside. Now.”
The children obeyed at once, running back toward the safety of the sept.
Down the path came five men, hurriedly carrying another—bloodied and barely conscious. Panic was etched into their faces.
Rose gasped. “Oh, by the Seven…”
The man in front called out, his voice ragged with urgency, “Septon Ryam! Please—we need help!”
Rose rushed inside to fetch him.
Moments later, the doors of the sept opened again. Ryam emerged with Leobald, Septa Tanith, and Ser Aerion close behind him.
Ryam’s face went pale. “What happened?”
“They got Lommy,” one of the men said breathlessly. “Guards—they almost got us.”
Harald’s eyes snapped toward the street. Sure enough, more guards—Ironborn—were approaching, steel drawn.
“Get him inside,” Harald ordered. “All of you. Now.”
One of the men hesitated. “We’re doomed… they’ll kill us all.”
“Go!” Harald barked.
There was something in his voice—a weight, a command—that made even the doubters obey. Rose, along with the others, made their way inside.
Only Harald remained, standing by the entrance alone, his cloak rustling in the wind as the Ironborn approached. The townsfolk watched nervously from inside the sept.
Eight men arrived. Harald stepped forward, planting himself between the sept and the road.
The lead guard didn’t even glance at him; he called out instead, “Septon! I know the traitors are in there. Bring them out, or I will burn your heathen temple down!”
“It’s best you leave,” Harald said calmly.
That drew their attention. The leader looked at him with mild curiosity, then scoffed. “And who are you?”
“A brave man, by the looks of it,” another guard jeered.
Harald smirked. He wanted this to be quick and silent.
He raised his right hand.
Lightning burst from his fingers in a sudden flash—bright and blinding. The crackling surge of magical energy chained from one guard to the next in the blink of an eye, and in an instant, all eight men collapsed—jerking and convulsing before falling still in the dirt. Smoke curled from their armor, and the smell of scorched metal and flesh lingered in the air.
From the sept, there was stunned silence.
Harald turned back toward it and called out, “Help me with the bodies.”
Aerion and Leobald rushed out first, followed by the others, all wide-eyed, their expressions caught somewhere between awe and fear.
Working quickly, Harald dragged the bodies to a darker edge near the wall of the sept. With a quick incantation and a shimmer of magic, the corpses shimmered… then vanished from sight.
“They will be invisible for some time,” he said simply. “We’ll bury them tonight or float them downriver. But for now, no one will see them.”
Ryam stood in the doorway, frozen in place. The townsfolk behind him whispered nervously.
Harald walked up to the group. “Where’s your friend? The wounded one. I can heal him.”
“Yes, yes,” said Ryam. “Come with me.”
=====
“So it is you, then,” said the man who had introduced himself as Chett, narrowing his eyes. “The one who calls himself Dragonborn. You sacked Greyholt.”
Harald gave a slow nod.
Six men were gathered around him, along with Ryam, Leobald, and Aerion. These six were the surviving leaders of the failed rising a month ago, which had been crushed by Haldon. They had been hiding ever since, until the guards finally found them.
Chett crossed his arms. “They also say you’ve taken Lord Haldon’s son as your hostage.”
Harald shook his head. “They’re both dead.”
A hush fell over the room. Even the air seemed to still.
“You’re serious,” Beron muttered—the same man Harald had healed just moments earlier.
Leobald stepped forward. “He’s not lying. Harald is here for Haldon—and to free Fairmarket. After that, he’ll go after King Harren himself to free the Riverlands from the Ironborn.”
Beron looked back at Harald. “You called yourself ‘Dragonborn.’ What does that mean?”
Harald paused before answering. “It is a title. It means I was born with the soul of a dragon—a gift from the gods.”
Murmurs spread among the gathered men like fire catching dry leaves. Ryam, who had been silent, looked from Leobald back to Harald.
“I see now,” Ryam said slowly. “I see no darkness in you. I feared sorcery, but what I witnessed today—what I felt—wasn’t evil. Leobald was right. It is holy magic.”
“So… are you sent by the gods, as the septon says?” asked Chett.
Harald nodded.
One by one, the men knelt.
“Then we are yours to command, Dragonborn,” said Chett, bowing his head. “I… we saw what you did to those guards. Such power can only be gifted by the gods.”
Harald glanced at Leobald. Their eyes met, and they shared the faintest smile.
“Rise, my friends,” Harald said. “There is no need to bow. I gave my word—I would drive the Ironborn from these lands. And that is what I will do.”
He took a breath, his voice rising. “This… this is the beginning. What happens in this town will be the spark that lights the fire that will burn the Ironborn out of the Riverlands. But I can’t do it alone. I will need your help.”
Beron stood first. “Then command us, Dragonborn. Tell us what must be done.”
“I need you to prepare the people,” Harald said. “Tell the townsfolk I am coming. Let hope return to Fairmarket. And when the time comes, we strike together. You will rise up once more—and I will be there, in the heart of it. Haldon will fall, and with his fall begins the downfall of the Ironborn… and of Harren Hoare.”
A cheer erupted from the men, echoing through the old sept like the first cry of a long-awaited storm.
The rebellion had begun.
Comments
John
Thus begins the rebellion. Hope establishes his banner the Imperial Dragon soon. Also can’t wait for the reaction from the rest of the kings of Westeros especially the targaryens when they learn he is called Dragonborn
