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16: Dragonborn Conqueror, Sparks of a Rebellion pt.1
🕑 Added 2025-03-26 08:37:42 +0000 UTCThey had been traveling for six hours.
Harald, no longer clad in his ebony armor, now wore the humble garb of a traveler—a plain tunic, a weather-worn cloak, and sturdy boots. His armor and weapon were tucked safely away in his Aetherial satchel. They stopped at a village just off the main road. It was a small, sad place—just a handful of cottages scattered around a dry well. The earth was cracked. The fields, though green, were stunted. There was a stillness in the air, the kind that came from quiet despair.
Harald dismounted and looked around, his eyes scanning the villagers.
A woman sat on a crumbling stone step, her body thin and listless, her eyes distant and hollow. A boy—no older than six—tugged at her sleeve, asking something with quiet urgency, but she didn’t move. She didn’t even blink.
To their left, an old man sat beneath a dead tree, sharpening a rusted sickle with a stone, though the motion seemed more habit than purpose. He didn’t look up as they passed.
A young girl with dirt-smeared cheeks held a basket with no bottom, pretending to collect flowers from a patch of dry grass.
Near a crumbling hut, a gaunt dog limped through the dust, ribs stark beneath matted fur, sniffing at scraps that weren’t there.
Harald felt his jaw tighten.
Behind him, Jonnel, Ser Aerion, and the six other men began feeding their horses, their eyes scanning the village with the same unease. Leobald approached from where he had been speaking with a few of the locals. His face was tight, his mouth drawn in a hard line.
“Things have somehow gotten worse,” he muttered.
Harald looked at him. “Yes, I can see that.”
Leobald shook his head. “Haldon always ruled better than the other governors. But now?” He gestured toward the village.
Jonnel had overheard and stepped closer, his expression hard. “Haldon is no better than the rest of them,” he said, voice low. “He may smile while he cuts your throat, but he still cuts it.”
Harald looked around as Jonnel and Leobald talked. He spotted a trio of travelers—merchants near a wagon—speaking in hushed tones. Moving closer, he pretended to inspect a saddlebag on his horse, tilting his head just enough to listen.
“…I swear it, Greyholt’s fallen. Sacked,” one of the merchants whispered urgently.
“Yes, by someone called Dragonborn,” another murmured. “He came with an army and destroyed it. Burned the gate down with magic, they say.”
“Dragonborn?” a third asked, incredulous. “What the fuck is that?”
“I don’t know,” the first man replied, “but my friend Manfred was there, trading. He saw it with his own eyes. Said the man wore armor black as night, wielded a massive axe, and used sorcery to tear the walls apart. Killed every Ironborn in the place.”
Harald hid a smile, his eyes still on the saddlebag, ears taking in every word.
“Before Manfred fled,” the merchant continued, “he swore the man called himself the Dragonborn. Said he was going to free the Riverlands from the Ironborn.”
The group fell into hushed disbelief—some muttering prayers, others shaking their heads. “Madness,” one said.
Behind him, Leobald’s voice broke the quiet with dry amusement. “I still think we should’ve gone with ‘Herald of the Gods.’”
Harald straightened, glancing back over his shoulder with a smirk. “I’m the Dragonborn always has been. No need for other titles.”
Leobald chuckled.
“It worked,” Leobald said. “What happened at Greyholt is spreading faster than wildfire. By now, half of Fairmarket will have heard the tale—of a god-touched warrior claiming he’ll drive out the Ironborn. And most importantly, there’s no mention of the Blackwoods.”
Harald nodded. That was the point. He and Leobald had made sure that the traders who left Greyholt carried the tale of the Dragonborn destroying Greyholt with his magic. Jonnel’s fears of Haldon blaming the Blackwoods ended with that trick, and it also helped them in their future plans to take over Fairmarket.
“Let’s not tarry here. We need to reach Fairmarket by sundown,” said Harald.
Leobald nodded as they both mounted their horses. The weary village faded behind them, hooves pounding against the dirt, kicking up dust and wind. The road stretched long before them. Fairmarket awaited—the place where Harald and Leobald intended to spark a rebellion.
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They arrived at Fairmarket by sundown. The Trident shimmered under the twilight, and the town stood quiet but tense.
Harald, Jonnel, Ser Aerion, Leobald, and the rest of the company dismounted a good distance from the town. They left their horses tethered in a thicket just off the main road and set up a small, hidden camp. Jonnel stayed behind to avoid being recognized.
Harald, Leobald, and Ser Aerion moved toward the town on foot. Aerion walked several paces ahead, his hand near the hilt of his sword, ever alert. Behind him, Harald and Leobald spoke in hushed tones.
“What are you going to tell this… Septon Ryam?” Harald asked, eyes scanning the darkening horizon.
Leobald adjusted the reins with one hand and gave a short, knowing smile. “What I’ve been telling everyone thus far,” he said. “That you’re the gods’ chosen. That you were sent in answer to our prayers.”
Harald sighed through his nose. “And you think he’ll believe that?”
“He’ll have already heard the rumors of the ‘Dragonborn’ and the fall of Greyholt. Ryam is the only one who can rally the townspeople behind you. With him by our side and Haldon dead, Fairmarket will be yours.”
Harald looked ahead again. “Let’s hope you’re right. If he doesn’t…”
“He will,” Leobald cut in, the conviction in his voice solid as stone. “I’m sure of it.”
They neared the gates of Fairmarket.
Aerion frowned. “There are too many Ironborn. I’ve been here before—this is more than usual. Haldon’s reinforcing the town. Word of Greyholt’s fall must have reached him.”
Leobald stepped forward calmly. “Let me speak.”
As they approached, two guards in rusted mail crossed halberds before them.
“Halt,” one barked. “By order of Lord Haldon, the gates are closed. No one enters after sundown.”
Leobald held up both hands. “Peace, good sers. I am a Septon of the Faith, traveling from Oldtown. These two are my guards. We only seek rest and sanctuary within your walls.”
“The lord’s decree is clear,” the other guard said, eyeing Harald and Aerion with suspicion. “No exceptions.”
Leobald straightened, invoking every ounce of ceremonial weight his robes and title allowed. “Under the decree of the late King Halleck—gods rest his soul—septons are to be granted free travel and shelter throughout the Riverlands. Would your lord break the laws of his own king?”
The guards groaned at the mention of old royal decrees. “Fine, fine,” one muttered. “Enough with your drivel, Septon. Go in.”
They stepped aside, but their eyes lingered on Harald and Aerion. “You two,” one said, pointing. “No trouble. If you’re looking for work, head to the barracks. The captain’s always looking for more sword arms.”
Harald’s brow rose slightly at that. The barracks. Could be useful.
They entered the town.
As they moved deeper into Fairmarket’s narrow streets, Harald couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The usual bustle of a trade town—even at dusk—was absent. People walked quickly, heads down, avoiding eye contact. Merchants closed their stalls in silence. No music played in the taverns. No laughter rang out from windows. It was as if the entire town was holding its breath.
“There’s tension in the air,” Harald murmured, eyes sweeping the buildings and watching the guards with quiet suspicion.
Aerion, walking a step ahead, gave a nod. “Wouldn’t surprise me if Haldon’s taken some of the townsfolk as thralls.”
Leobald scoffed softly. “That would be incredibly foolish. Haldon has always ruled with some sense. If he starts taking people from the town—”
Harald cut in, his voice dry. “You said the same thing about the Blackwood Vale. And yet, he sent men to take thralls there.”
Leobald frowned but had no answer.
Aerion added, “The king must have demanded more this year—more gold, more grain, more bodies.”
“Let’s hope our hostage prince doesn’t wriggle free while we’re here,” said Harald.
Prince Aeron Hoare was the only survivor of the assault on Greyholt and was now their prisoner; he would be very valuable for the rebellion they were planning.
Aerion gave him a sidelong glance, serious. “My men will guard him with their lives. Once the town is ours, we’ll bring him here from greyholt.”
Their boots echoed on the cobblestones as they passed under a stone arch and approached the Sept of Fairmarket—a modest structure at the far end of town.
Near the entrance, two septas were speaking softly with a small group of children. One of the girls, barely older than six, clutched a dirty doll and looked up at the elder septa with wide eyes.
“Can we stay here?” she asked, her voice thin and tired. “Until Mama and Papa come back?”
The older septa knelt and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Yes, little one. You may stay as long as you need.”
The other septa—a younger woman—looked away, troubled by the words. Her gaze drifted toward the gates.
“Septa Tanith,” Leobald called gently as they approached.
The older septa stood, surprise flickering across her lined face. “Septon Leobald? I did not expect you back for another four moons.”
Her eyes shifted to Harald and Aerion. “And these two…?”
Leobald offered a calm smile. “Traveling companions. We have urgent news and need to speak with Septon Ryam at once.”
Tanith gave a curt nod. “Of course. He’s inside. Follow me.”
As she turned, leading them through the tall oaken doors of the sept, Harald cast one last glance at the children huddled on the steps. Their faces were thin, eyes shadowed. One little boy held the hand of his younger sister, staring silently at the strangers.
Septa Tanith led them through the worn archway of the sept. As the heavy doors closed behind them, the soft flicker of candlelight revealed the state of the house of worship. The air was heavy with incense, but it couldn’t mask the musty scent of mildew and old stone.
Harald’s eyes scanned the chamber as they walked deeper. Cracks split the walls like veins. The once-polished marble floor was dulled with age and neglect. Chipped statues of the Seven lined the alcoves—The Father missing his hand, The Warrior’s sword broken in two. Pieces of crumbled masonry lay untouched in corners, and the stained glass windows were dulled with grime.
Leobald looked around, visibly troubled. “What’s going on in the town?” he asked quietly. “It wasn’t like this the last time I passed through.”
Septa Tanith sighed, her voice tired. “Haldon has begun taking men and women from the town. Families torn apart in the night. They’re being sent to the king….”
She paused at a narrow hallway, then turned. “There was an uprising last moon. A few brave souls tried to resist. Lord Haldon sent for more soldiers. Since then, it’s only gotten worse. The men he brought… they are not kind.”
Harald and Leobald shared a glance—brief but telling. This was perfect for their needs.
“Tell me,” Tanith asked. “Is it true? The rumors… is it true that Greyholt has fallen?”
Leobald met her eyes, then nodded solemnly. “Yes. It’s true.”
Her eyes widened. “And the man they speak of… this Dragonborn? The one who they all say is the culprit?”
“I was there, Septa,” Leobald said gently, placing a hand over his heart. “I saw him with my own eyes. He came with fire and storm. He destroyed Greyholt’s gates with a shout—of all things. No Ironborn were safe from his wrath.”
Tanith’s mouth parted, but no words came.
Leobald continued, his voice steady. “He proclaimed that he would free the Riverlands. That he was sent by the gods in answer to our prayers. And I believe him. I saw him fell fifty men with nothing but an axe and his magics. Divine magics, Tanith.”
She stared at him, stunned into silence, a thousand thoughts flickering behind her tired eyes.
“The gods haven’t abandoned us,” Leobald said, softer now. “They sent him. And he will deliver us from Harren’s yoke.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Tanith admitted as they stopped by a small arched doorway.
“This is why I have come to meet with Septon Ryam,” Leobald explained.
Tanith nodded slowly and opened the door to reveal a modest chamber, dimly lit by tall, narrow candles. The scent of old books and dust lingered. At the far end of the room, a rotund, bald man knelt before a worn altar. His robes were simple but stained with sweat and age, his hands clasped tightly, trembling slightly as he whispered fervent prayers.
“O Seven who are one… deliver us,” the old Septon pleaded. “Grant us mercy. Grant us strength. The little peace we held slips further with each passing day. Guide us, lest we fall fully into darkness.”
His voice cracked at the last word, brittle with exhaustion and quiet despair.
Leobald stepped forward, his voice gentle but firm. “Septon Ryam.”
The older man turned sharply, startled from his prayer. His small, watery eyes widened as he took in the trio before him.
“Leobald…?” Ryam blinked in disbelief. “What are you…doing here? I thought—”
Leobald interrupted with calm resolve. “I bring deliverance, old friend.”
