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14: Dragonborn Conqueror, Greyholt
🕑 Added 2025-03-04 07:51:00 +0000 UTCI might have overdone the fight scenes in this chapter.
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Harald observed the fort across the river, using his scrying magic to peer into Greyholt’s defenses.
“The outer defenses don’t look that impressive,” Harald muttered.
From his elevated position opposite the bank of the Blue Fork, he had a clear view of Greyholt standing atop its own hill, overseeing the waterway. The fort was clearly designed to control traffic heading to Fairmarket.
“Its true strength lies beyond the wooden palisades,” Jonnel Blackwood remarked, standing beside him.
Harald glanced at him before returning his gaze to the fort. Jonnel was right. Beyond the spiked trenches and watchtowers, the wooden palisades only served as a first line of defense. Within them lay a courtyard that housed the barracks and training yard, but the real power of the stronghold was the stone wall that encircled the inner keep—a structure standing twenty-five feet tall, reinforced with iron-banded gates.
“It’s well garrisoned,” Harald said, his eyes narrowing.
Jonnel frowned. “How well?”
“More than needed,” Harald replied.
Jonnel’s frown deepened. “That’s strange. It’s always been half-garrisoned. If only I could see…”
Harald smirked. “Of course,” he muttered, casting the spell on Jonnel.
Jonnel inhaled sharply, his body tensing as his vision expanded beyond his own senses. “By the gods,” he whispered in awe. “It’s like I’m flying!”
Harald chuckled. “So what do you think?”
Jonnel’s gaze swept over the stronghold, noting the unusual number of Ironborn within. “This is strange… I’ve been to Greyholt before. It’s never been this full of squids.” He hesitated before realization struck. “Unless—”
Harald turned to him, his eyes still glowing faintly from the magic. “Unless?”
Jonnel exhaled slowly. “Unless someone important is there. Perhaps Vikon, Rodrick’s brother.”
Harald’s expression hardened. “Doesn’t matter. The fort will fall.”
Shifting his gaze, Harald looked toward the port near the fort. He focused, his magical sight revealing groups of ragged figures being herded onto boats.
“Shit,” Harald growled. “They’re taking captives to Fairmarket. We need to do this now.”
As he ended the scrying spell, Aerion, Leobald, and the other men gathered around them.
“So what is the plan, Lord Stormcrown?” Harald heard Aerion Whiteflame ask.
Harald turned to face him. “The plan, Ser Aerion, is for you all to launch an attack on the port after I begin my assault on the fort. All attention will be on me, and you will face little or even no resistance when freeing the captives.”
Jonnel frowned. “That is madness. How can you—” He stopped himself mid-sentence, realization dawning in his eyes as he recalled what Harald was capable of.
Aerion glanced at Harald, his expression calmer than Jonnel’s. “Lord Stormcrown, will you be able to—”
“Yes,” Harald said simply, cutting off any doubt.
Leobald, standing slightly apart, raised his voice with conviction. “Greyholt cannot withstand the might of Harald’s godly power!”
A hushed murmur swept through the gathered men. Their eyes widened as they looked upon Harald with awe and reverence. They whispered among themselves, calling him “the blessed one” and “the Herald of the Seven.”
Harald sighed.
Jonnel quickly gathered himself. “Lord Stormcrown, if Vikon Greyjoy is truly there, that would explain why the fort is fully garrisoned. But… I think someone else, someone more important, is there as well. I saw boats in the port flying Hoare colors.”
Aerion’s expression darkened. “Could it be one of the princes or—”
“It does not matter,” Leobald interrupted, his eyes burning with fervor. “Prince, lord, or even the Drowned God himself—it does not matter. Greyholt will fall to Harald today!”
Jonnel looked at Harald. “After this… Fairmarket must be our next destination.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “If news spreads of an attack on Greyholt, Haldon may think my family was involved. He might punish my brother.”
Harald turned to look at Jonnel, considering his words. Before he could respond, Leobald stepped forward.
“Harald will not rest until we are all free, my lord,” the Septon declared, his voice brimming with conviction. “Do not doubt him.”
This fucker, Harald thought. He met Leobald’s gaze. His friend, it seemed, was determined to make him a great liberator of the Riverlands.
Ser Aerion stepped in. “We will prepare for the attack, my lord. But how will we know when to strike?”
Harald smirked. “You’ll know when to begin.”
Without another word, he turned and strode away from the camp, heading toward Greyholt alone.
====
Harald crossed the Blue Fork using Whirlwind Sprint twice. Once he stepped onto the far bank, where Greyholt loomed overhead, he began his ascent along the winding path toward the fortress.
From the perspective of the Ironborn standing watch in the wooden towers, it must have been a strange sight—a lone warrior in black armor striding forward with a massive battleaxe in hand. Harald could see them now—figures shifting behind crenelated defenses, heads turning, voices rising in alarm. One of the men in a watchtower was the first to react, drawing back the string of his longbow, arrow aimed squarely at the approaching intruder.
Below the palisade, near the gates, Ironborn warriors had gathered, perhaps waiting to begin their patrol. They, too, noticed him now, turning toward the lone figure who dared approach so openly. Confusion flickered across their faces—then suspicion. Hands went to weapons.
Harald took a deep breath. Jonnel’s warning about the repercussions for his family echoed in his mind, but there was no turning back now.
It seemed Leobald would have his way.
Harald’s stance shifted as he drew in power. The air around him trembled with energy as he inhaled deeply.
And then—
“FUS ROH DAH!”
The Shout’s force rippled outward, a storm given form. The ground itself seemed to quake as the power of the Thu’um surged forward.
The Ironborn outside the palisade were the first to be struck, lifted off their feet as if caught in a hurricane’s wrath. Some were flung high into the air, twisting violently before crashing back to the hard-packed dirt. Others were hurled against the palisade with a sickening crunch of breaking bones.
The wooden watchtowers groaned and splintered as the shockwave tore through them. The archer who had aimed at Harald never loosed his arrow—his tower shattered at the base, toppling like a felled tree. The Ironborn within screamed as they tumbled into the courtyard below, vanishing beneath the wreckage.
The palisade itself fared no better. The timbers cracked like thunder, exploding outward in a shower of wooden shards. A gaping breach now replaced what had once been the fortress wall, dust and smoke swirling in the aftermath.
Beyond the smashed wall lay the inner courtyard, and Harald broke into a sprint. The ground trembled beneath his feet as he charged. Then, drawing another deep breath, he released another Shout.
“WULD NAH KEST!”
In an instant, he was gone—a blur of motion too swift for the eye to follow—reappearing inside the fort. Skidding to a halt, he found himself standing before a lone Ironborn warrior who, despite being battered by the blast, had somehow survived.
The man’s eyes widened in sheer terror. He opened his mouth to call for help, but no sound emerged.
“Hi,” Harald said casually.
Then his battleaxe fell.
The massive ebony blade cleaved through the Ironborn’s collarbone, splitting him cleanly from shoulder to hip. Blood spattered the dirt, and for a fleeting moment, the man stood there as though frozen in time, his torso dividing. Then, with a sickeningly wet sound, the two halves collapsed to the ground.
Harald exhaled and raised his gaze.
The courtyard around him was strewn with bodies—some flung lifeless by the Thu’um, others groaning in agony, bones shattered and limbs twisted against the stone walls. Smoke and dust still hung in the air, but beyond it, Harald spotted movement.
Another group of Ironborn, confused and disoriented, poured toward the breach, weapons at the ready. They hadn’t yet grasped what had happened or who they faced.
Harald saw his chance. He had to strike before they could organize.
With a savage grin, he sprinted forward, boots pounding on the stone floor. The first cluster of Ironborn scarcely registered him before he was upon them.
He inhaled and then unleashed a torrent of flame from his mouth.
“YOL TOOR!”
A roaring inferno swallowed the first line of Ironborn instantly. Their screams vanished beneath the roar of the flames. Some tried to flee, others dropped their weapons to claw at melting armor, but none escaped the fire’s ravenous grasp.
Through the wall of fire, Harald charged, his battleaxe scything through any who still lived. His first swing removed a man’s arm at the shoulder, the severed limb still clutching its sword as it sailed away. The next blow split a raider at the waist.
One Ironborn managed to raise his shield, but it made no difference. Harald’s strength tore through wood and metal alike, cleaving the shield in two and taking the man’s head with it. The body stumbled before collapsing onto its burning comrades.
A spear flashed toward Harald’s ribs. He sidestepped, seized the haft, and yanked the attacker forward. A brutal headbutt shattered the man’s nose. Before he could recover, Harald’s axe soared upward, splitting him from groin to chest in a gruesome spray of gore.
In mere seconds, more than fifty Ironborn lay dead—broken, burned, and scattered across the courtyard. Many were reduced to ash by the Fire Breath Shout.
Then Harald heard it:
The pounding of boots.
He looked up and saw them—a new contingent of over fifty Ironborn warriors pouring in through the shattered entrance, weapons raised.
They still had no idea what they were up against.
Harald broke into a sprint toward the Ironborn.
“AHHHHHH!” His battle cry tore through the battlefield, the power in his voice resonating in the very air and sending shivers down the spines of those who stood against him.
“MUL!”
A surge of power flooded his body. Where his blackened ebony armor had been, ethereal dragon armor now shimmered with a translucent glow, pulsing with might.
Weapons flashed as Ironborn warriors raised their axes and swords, prepared to cut him down.
“ZUN HAAL VIIK!”
A wave of invisible force exploded from Harald’s very soul. Every single weapon—axe, sword, spear, dagger—was ripped from the hands of the fifty charging warriors and hurled through the air before clattering uselessly to the ground. In an instant, their momentum shattered, confusion seized them.
Then Harald moved.
“SU GRAH DUN!”
The full fury of the Elemental Fury Shout enveloped him, turning Harald into a living storm—faster, stronger, unrelenting. His battleaxe became a blur, his movements a whirlwind.
The massacre began.
The first man scarcely had time to react before Harald sliced him in half from shoulder to waist. Blood sprayed in a fine mist, each half of the body collapsing in a separate heap. A second man, weaponless, raised his hands in terror. Harald’s fist smashed through his skull, and the body crumpled like a rag doll.
Three men rushed him in a desperate attempt to overwhelm him by sheer force.
He tore through them like a beast. Grabbing the first by the throat, he squeezed until the man’s windpipe gave way and he thrashed helplessly. With a brutal wrench, Harald ripped the throat out, blood pouring down the Ironborn’s chest. The second, wielding a dagger snatched off the ground, lunged. Harald caught his wrist, twisted, then rammed the dagger into the man’s own eye. He screamed once and fell limp. The third man was already trying to flee.
Lightning crackled in Harald’s hand.
With a flick of his wrist, a blinding arc of Chain Lightning erupted, leaping from one warrior to the next, frying seven men instantly. Their bodies convulsed, armor glowing red-hot, before collapsing in smoking heaps. The stench of charred flesh filled the air.
Another Ironborn, desperate, sprinted at him from the side, spear raised. Harald caught the spear mid-thrust, snapped it in two, and drove the splintered wood into the man’s mouth, impaling him through the back of the skull.
Five warriors closed in, trying to surround him.
Harald leapt, his enhanced speed propelling him like a force of nature. As he came crashing down, he slammed his battleaxe into the ground.
“GAAHHH!”
A shockwave of raw power erupted from the impact, tearing the men apart, ripping limbs from bodies, shattering bones, and sending broken corpses flying in every direction.
From the inner walls above, Ironborn looked on in utter disbelief.
“CLOSE THE GATES! CLOSE THE GATES!” one of them shrieked, voice trembling with sheer terror.
Archers fumbled with their bows, hands shaking as they tried to steady themselves to shoot down the unstoppable figure who had just butchered fifty men in mere moments. Below, the surviving Ironborn were either dead or dying. Those still breathing fell to their knees, begging or desperately crawling away.
Harald stood at the center of the carnage, his black armor drenched in blood, his battleaxe still steaming with the heat of spilled blood. He had not fought like this in years. His Dragon Soul blazed within him, and suddenly, the thought of returning to a life of peace seemed incomprehensible.
Above him, on the stone walls, Ironborn lined the ramparts, faces torn between fury and raw terror. Some threw stones, others loosed arrows—anything to bring down the monstrous force that had just annihilated fifty men.
“KILL HIM!” one warrior screamed.
Projectiles rained down—arrows, bricks, broken weapons launched in blind panic.
Harald stood still. Then, with a deep breath, he whispered:
“Feim…”
His body shimmered, becoming ethereal—a ghostly form untouched by steel or stone. Arrows passed through him harmlessly; rocks bounced off the ground. The Ironborn’s curses and screams faded to the background.
He waited.
Waited for the right moment.
“FUS… ROH… DAH!”
Unrelenting Force tore through the air, striking the very foundation of Greyholt’s inner stone walls. The effect was cataclysmic.
Stone cracked. Wood splintered. Metal groaned and twisted.
The massive iron gate wrenched from its hinges, crumpled like parchment, and was hurled inward, smashing through the courtyard. The walls shook—masonry gave way, sections collapsed, and the warriors atop them shrieked as they plummeted, vanishing in the rain of rubble.
Some cried out as they fell, their armor clanging on the ruins of the gate. Others were lost under collapsing stone, their screams snuffed out in an instant.
Inside the keep, chaos raged.
Ironborn in the inner courtyard panicked, while servants and thralls screamed and fled deeper into the stronghold.
Harald paused at the ruined gate, scanning the panicked crowd with glowing green eyes. He had to tread carefully now—thralls and innocents were among them. They did not deserve his wrath.
Harald did not wait long before storming inside.
The first warrior in his path fell instantly, Harald’s axe cleaving through his chest and nearly splitting him in two. The next tried to run, only to be engulfed in flames as Harald hurled a fireball; the explosion consumed him, his screams echoing in the corridor.
A group of three desperately charged, axes raised high.
Harald let them come—and with a flick of his wrist, a bolt of lightning arced forward, striking one in the chest. Electricity coursed through him, his body convulsing violently before collapsing to the ground, smoke curling from his charred armor.
The other two faltered—too slow.
Harald was on them in an instant, his battleaxe carving through one man’s shoulder, splitting him from collarbone to hip. The last man dropped his weapon and begged for mercy.
Harald did not grant it.
A swift, brutal swing sent the Ironborn’s head rolling across the floor, his body collapsing where he stood.
Fleeing deeper into the stronghold, the Ironborn’s war cries twisted into terrified shrieks.
Harald followed, prowling the keep’s halls and hunting down every Ironborn he encountered. Blood and smoke thickened the air, which hung heavy with the stench of death.
A door burst open ahead, four Ironborn stumbling into the corridor, weapons drawn, terror etched across their faces.
“It’s him!” one shouted.
Harald did not slow. With a single fluid motion, he hurled his battleaxe. The spinning blade buried itself into the chest of the lead raider, slamming him into the wall and leaving a gaping, bloody wound.
The three remaining Ironborn charged.
Harald surged forward, his fists a thunderous blur. He ducked under the first swing, driving his armored forearm into the attacker’s ribs with a sickening crunch. As the man doubled over, Harald’s knee snapped into his face, sending him sprawling.
The second raider’s blade whistled toward Harald’s neck, but Harald twisted away, the sword merely scraping his pauldron. He retaliated with a crushing fist to the man’s throat. The raider staggered, choking, before Harald grabbed him by the head and smashed his skull against the stone wall.
The third man turned to flee.
Harald raised his hand, and a bolt of lightning lanced out, striking the Ironborn in the back. The sickening sizzle of flesh and metal filled the hallway as the body spasmed and collapsed into a smoking heap.
Harald retrieved his axe just in time to hear footsteps pounding toward him. Ten more Ironborn warriors emerged from an adjacent hall, axes and swords raised, their expressions raw with desperation.
They charged, their war cries echoing in the narrow corridor.
Harald met them head-on.
The first swung low—Harald caught the axe’s haft, yanking the man forward and slamming his forehead into the raider’s nose. Blood spurted as the Ironborn staggered back, and Harald drove his axe into the man’s chest, cleaving through bone and muscle.
The second and third attacked together. Harald leaned back, their blades slicing only air, then stepped forward to bury his axe in one man’s thigh. The warrior screamed and dropped his weapon. Harald ripped the axe free and drove it into his neck.
The other attacker managed a glancing blow against Harald’s ribs, but the enchanted armor absorbed the strike. Snarling, Harald grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted until bones snapped. The raider howled—until Harald ended him with a gauntleted fist crushing his windpipe.
A fourth man tried to take him from behind, but Harald spun, his axe sweeping in a lethal arc that nearly cleaved the man in two at the waist.
Blood splattered the walls as Harald tore through the remaining Ironborn, their bodies piling in the corridor. The last man, trembling in terror, made one final desperate lunge. Harald sidestepped, seized the raider by the back of his head, and slammed his face into the stone wall—again and again—until nothing remained but bloody pulp.
Harald exhaled sharply, the bloodlust coursing through him. The hallway fell silent but for the faint crackle of residual lightning dancing over his gauntlet. Wiping blood from his helm, he moved forward. Hearing noises from a nearby chamber, he kicked open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.
A group of terrified servants huddled within, eyes wide with fear. Among them, a young woman lay curled in the corner, her breaths fast and shallow. Harald’s gaze locked onto her, his pulse steadying.
“Maise.”
Her head snapped up. Tear-streaked cheeks, red-rimmed eyes—she looked at him in shock.
For a moment, fear flared in her expression. Then Harald removed his helm.
Her breath caught. “Harald…?”
He gave a small nod. “Found you.”
A broken sob escaped her as she threw her arms around him, clutching him tightly. “They… they took him!” she cried, her fingers digging into his armor. “Harald, they took Thom! They… they wanted me here for the prince…”
Her voice broke, her grief giving way to panic. Harald’s eyes hardened.
So Aerion had been right—some prince was indeed here.
Harald gently pulled back, placing both hands on her shoulders. “I’ll find him,” he said, voice firm. “Stay here.”
Maise nodded, tears still glistening in her eyes. Harald released her, then turned and strode out of the chamber, tightening his grip on his axe. He only hoped the others had begun their attack and rescued Thom from the port.
=====
Harald searched the keep thoroughly, stepping over the bodies of fallen Ironborn and passing terrified servants who cowered in the shadows. He found nothing—no captives either.
Perhaps there are pens in the courtyard, he thought as he walked out of the keep. He stopped just before the entrance when the sound of horses and voices reached his ears.
He stayed still, listening.
From the inner courtyard, beyond the ruined iron gate, fifteen riders arrived, their horses’ hooves kicking up dust as they took in the destruction. Three of them stood out, dressed in fine clothes—clearly men of importance.
A sharp, angry voice rang out. “Where are the men who did this? What the fuck is going on?”
Harald peered from the shadows, his grip tightening around his battleaxe as he studied the newcomers.
One of the well-dressed riders, a man with cold blue eyes, replied with measured calm. “I do not know, my friend,” he said. “But we should leave, Vikon.”
Harald’s eyes narrowed. Vikon Greyjoy.
‘Rodrick’s brother.’
Another man, stockier and rougher looking, let out a frustrated growl. “Aye, the prince is right. Look at these walls—what could have possibly smashed them like that? Did these river-fucks find some new weapon? Is this the start of a bloody rebellion?!”
The calmer man—the one Harald now recognized as the prince mentioned by Ser Whiteflame—turned to the agitated speaker. “Calm yourself, Qarl.”
Vikon scanned the ruins. “Where are the men who did this?” he muttered. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, eyes flicking from the corpses to the smoldering rubble.
Sensing the perfect moment to reveal himself, Harald stepped forward, his armor slick with blood, his battleaxe resting lazily on his shoulder.
They all turned toward him, expressions shifting from shock to confusion.
“There is no army,” Harald said, his voice calm and almost amused. “Just me.”
The one called Qarl snarled, gripping his axe haft. “Who the fuck are you?” he barked, glancing at the shattered gate and mangled bodies around them.
Harald shrugged, lifting his battleaxe so that its runes pulsed with power. “You were wondering who did all this,” he said, gesturing at the carnage. His smile was cold, almost taunting. “Here I am.”
Qarl roared in fury, raising his axe. “Kill him!” he screamed, spurring his horse forward.
“Qarl, no!” Vikon shouted.
But it was too late.
Qarl charged, axe swinging. Harald moved like lightning—his own battleaxe came up to meet Qarl’s blow with a deafening clang. Before Qarl could recover, Harald twisted his weapon free and, in one smooth motion, drove the blade into Qarl’s skull. The Ironborn’s body went rigid, a ghastly gurgle slipping from his lips before he collapsed onto the ground, lifeless.
A tense silence fell, then the remaining Ironborn snapped from their shock, yelling in fury as they charged.
Harald raised his free hand, arcs of energy crackling between his fingers.
“ZUN HAAL VIIK!”
A pulse of power tore from his mouth—the Disarm Shout. Axes, swords, spears, maces—all ripped from their owners’ hands and clattered uselessly to the dirt. The Ironborn froze in disbelief, weaponless.
Harald smirked darkly. “Bad luck.”
Lightning erupted from his outstretched hands—a blinding torrent that leapt from one warrior to the next, armor sizzling, flesh charring, limbs twisting at unnatural angles. Men screamed, their bodies jerking violently, smoke billowing from their mouths and eyes as the chain lightning ravaged them. Some died instantly, hearts bursting from the sheer power. Others fell twitching, skin blackened and peeling.
The stench of burnt flesh filled the courtyard.
Then—silence.
Harald lowered his hand, steam rising from his fingertips, his eyes cold and impassive as he surveyed the massacre.
Only Vikon Greyjoy and the prince remained standing. Both stared at Harald with pale faces, trapped between disbelief and terror. Vikon’s jaw hung slack; the prince shook so badly he could scarcely hold the reins.
Harald stepped closer, boots crunching on blood-soaked ground. They flinched. Desperation flickered in Vikon’s eyes as he backed away.
“What… what are you?” he asked, voice trembling.
Harald did not answer.
The prince licked his lips, forcing himself to straighten. “I am Prince Aeron Hoare,” he declared, voice steadier than he felt. “If you kill me, you will face my father’s wrath. You cannot imagine what you’re inviting upon yourself. Do you understand, sorcerer? You will call down the full might of the Ironborn!”
Harald tilted his head, studying him. “Ah, a prince.” His tone was almost amused. “So Aerion was right.”
Vikon, desperate, added quickly, “And I’m the son of Haldon Greyjoy, Lord of Pyke. If you kill me—”
Harald cut him off, a mirthless smirk on his lips. “Rodrick’s brother, yes?”
Vikon stiffened.
Harald exhaled, shaking his head. “You don’t look alike at all.”
“My brother…?” Vikon began, confusion on his face.
The smirk vanished from Harald’s features, replaced by grim determination. “Dead,” he said flatly. “He’s the reason I’m here. The reason for all of this.”
He stepped forward, boots grinding the rubble underfoot. “You could’ve left me alone,” he said quietly. Another step. “I could’ve stayed at peace.”
He paused, turning his head slightly at the distant thunder of hooves. Riders approaching. Harald could only hope it was Jonnel, Aerion, and the others returning after a successful mission at the port.
It was in that moment of distraction—that single heartbeat—that Vikon seized his chance.
With a sudden burst of motion, he lunged forward, dagger glinting in his grasp, aimed for Harald’s throat.
Harald caught his wrist midair.
Vikon gasped, eyes going wide as Harald’s grip tightened like an iron vise. The dagger clattered to the ground. Harald’s expression shifted—not to anger or rage, but to something colder.
Vikon struggled, thrashing like a trapped animal, his free hand clawing at Harald’s wrist in a desperate attempt to break free.
“You… you can’t… I am a…” Vikon gurgled, face twisted in panic.
Harald ignored him.
With one swift motion, he seized Vikon by the throat and lifted him off the ground. The Ironborn heir kicked violently, boots scraping at the air as he clutched at Harald’s wrist. His eyes bulged, veins standing out on his forehead, lips trembling while Harald’s unrelenting strength choked the life from him.
Vikon let out a strangled gasp, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Harald’s gaze never wavered.
He tightened his grip, watching panic melt into horror in Vikon’s fading eyes. The thrashing weakened. The kicking slowed.
Then—nothing.
Vikon’s body went limp, arms dropping lifelessly to his sides. Harald held him there a moment longer, his expression unreadable, heart hammering, bloodlust still coursing through him.
Then, with a quiet exhale, he released his hold. Vikon crashed to the ground in a motionless heap, vacant eyes staring at nothing.
Harald stepped over him, his gaze locking onto Aeron Hoare.
The prince stood frozen, face ghostly pale, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.
Harald advanced.
Aeron flinched, body rigid with fear, as Harald gripped the collar of his tunic, hauling him upright with ease. The prince wobbled, knees close to buckling, but Harald’s iron grasp held him steady.
“Please… I beg…”
“You live,” Harald said simply.
Then, without warning, he drove his fist into Aeron’s temple. The prince went limp, eyes rolling back in his head as he collapsed into unconsciousness. Harald let him drop unceremoniously to the ground.
He stood there a moment, shaking off the last remnants of the battle’s fury. From behind him came the sound of hooves. Harald turned, tightening his grip on his battleaxe until he recognized the riders approaching.
Jonnel led the group, with Ser Aerion, Leobald, and the rest of the men following close behind. Their horses slowed to a halt, and the riders stared in sheer disbelief at the carnage.
Greyholt’s stone walls lay in ruins, shattered like clay under a hammer. Fires flickered, casting dancing shadows across a courtyard slick with blood. Ironborn corpses were strewn everywhere, broken, burned, and dismembered in every horrific way imaginable.
Jonnel and Aerion turned wide-eyed from the devastation to Harald and back again, their faces caught between awe, disbelief, and a hint of fear.
Harald met their gaze. “Were you successful?” he asked, voice steady.
Jonnel blinked as though snapping out of a trance. “Yes… yes, we were,” he answered, voice unsteady, eyes still flicking over the destruction.
“Good,” Harald said simply.
He nudged Aeron’s unconscious form with his boot. “Make sure the prince stays alive. He could be useful.”
Jonnel followed Harald’s gaze, his eyes going wide as he recognized the fallen man at Harald’s feet.
“Prince Aeron?!” he blurted, face pale. “Oh, fuck.”
