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12: Dragonborn Conqueror, The Spares pt.1
🕑 Added 2025-02-18 07:54:35 +0000 UTC“You heard me, boy. You are not going anywhere.”
Lord Hother Blackwood’s voice still echoed in Jonnel’s mind—sharp and commanding, leaving no room for argument.
“But, Father, that Ironborn scum is skulking around in Hickory lands—our lands. They aren’t supposed to be there!” Jonnel had argued, his fists clenched at his sides.
Hother remained unmoved, his stern gaze fixed on his second son. “I have sent word to Lord Haldon. We cannot act rashly.”
“If you don’t, then I will,” Jonnel shot back, his voice thick with frustration.
“You will do nothing,” Hother snapped, cutting off the conversation.
“Do you hold no value for your brother’s life? Do you wish to see him dead?” his father barked.
Jonnel had stormed out then, barely containing his rage. It was only because of his older brother, Ben, that he had managed to leave Raventree Hall at all. Ben had even arranged for an escort of six men. It wasn’t enough—not nearly enough—but it was something.
Rodrick Greyjoy. Jonnel had met him once—one of the worst human beings he had ever laid eyes on. And now that same monster had been raiding the lands where his Gwen called home. The thought made his stomach churn.
Gwen would be safe. She had to be. Rodrick might have been a cruel bastard, but he wouldn’t dare lay a hand on the Hickorys.
As they rode deeper into Hickory lands, they saw villages that had been burned down, their inhabitants taken. It was clear the Ironborn were capturing thralls. Haldon Greyjoy had turned his back on the agreement he had with Jonnel’s father. Why his father had even believed the word of a squid, Jonnel did not know.
Jonnel was jarred from his thoughts by one of his escorts, who pointed to a plume of black smoke rising in the distance. “My lord, I believe that’s coming from a village. A raid from the Ironborn, me thinks.”
Then another sound reached them—the unmistakable clash of steel and the distant cries of men locked in battle.
Jonnel’s heart pounded in his chest. “Faster!” he commanded, spurring his horse forward.
“My lord!” one of his men called out. “Can we even—”
“These are our people,” Jonnel cut him off sharply. “We ride to help. Damn Haldon, damn Harren—we save our own from the squids!”
The horses galloped harder, the thunder of hooves pounding against the dirt road. As they neared the village, Jonnel caught sight of movement—an Ironborn warrior, alone, sprinting away as if the Stranger himself were at his heels.
Jonnel narrowed his eyes. Why is he running?
Before he could voice the thought, something else caught his attention. A blur of motion—a dark, heavy shape hurtling through the air.
With a sickening crunch, a massive battleaxe embedded itself in the fleeing Ironborn’s back, nearly cleaving him in two. Blood splattered the dirt road as the man collapsed, dead before he even hit the ground.
Jonnel barely had time to process what had just happened before something even more shocking occurred.
The axe—gleaming black with glowing red runes—jerked free from the dead man’s back as if pulled by an invisible force. It lifted into the air, spinning rapidly, and then shot backward toward the village, as though returning to the hand that had thrown it.
Jonnel’s mouth went dry. His men had all reined in their horses, their faces pale with shock.
One of them muttered a prayer under his breath.
Jonnel swallowed hard, his hands gripping the reins tightly. His heart hammered in his chest, his mind struggling to comprehend what he had just witnessed.
“What… the fuck?” he whispered, his eyes wide with disbelief.
“What… was that?” Chett, one of Jonnel’s escorts, stuttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His knuckles were white as he gripped the reins, eyes darting from the dead Ironborn to the direction where the axe had flown.
Jonnel didn’t respond immediately. His mind raced, trying to rationalize what he had just seen. A weapon that moved on its own? What the fuck was going on?
His decision was made quickly.
“Let’s find out,” he said, his voice steady, masking the unease growing in his gut. He spurred his horse forward, urging it into a gallop toward the village.
The others followed, some reluctantly. One of his men muttered a quiet prayer to the Old Gods, as if asking for protection from whatever sorcery they had just witnessed.
As they approached the village, Jonnel slowed his horse, taking in the scene before him.
The villagers were gathered in the open square, a stark contrast to the chaos he had expected. They were not cowering or wailing in despair. Instead, their faces showed relief. Some clutched each other, whispering prayers of thanks.
Dead Ironborn lay scattered across the ground, their bodies brutally torn apart—some burned beyond recognition; others cleaved through with what could only be described as terrifying precision. Blood still pooled in the dirt, soaking into the earth.
But Jonnel’s attention wasn’t on the dead. It was fixed on the man standing in the center of it all.
He was an oddity—out of place among the dirt-covered villagers and Ironborn corpses, a warrior clad in dark armor, black as the void. In his hand, gripped effortlessly, was the very axe they had seen fly through the air moments ago.
Jonnel swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword as he finally reined in his horse.
Who was this man? And what in the name of the gods had they just witnessed?
“Lord Jonnel,” a familiar voice called out.
Jonnel turned sharply, recognizing the speaker immediately. “Ser Aerion!” he said, quickly dismounting his horse. His eyes scanned the knight’s bloodstained armor, his mind struggling to make sense of what he was seeing.
Aerion gave him a tired but amused smirk. “One of the squids spurted blood like a fountain.”
The other men around him chuckled at the grim joke, but Jonnel barely heard them. His mind was still reeling from what he had witnessed—the flying axe, the devastation wrought upon the Ironborn.
“Ser… what happened?” Jonnel asked, his voice laced with urgency. “I heard Rodrick Greyjoy was here… and that axe—the flying axe—what in the gods’ names was that?”
A deep voice answered. “The axe is mine.”
Jonnel turned, his breath catching as the black-clad warrior strode toward him. The man lifted his helmet, revealing a strong, handsome face framed by golden hair.
“I heard Aerion call your name. You must be Gwen’s Jonnel, then,” the warrior said, his piercing eyes locking onto him.
Jonnel’s heart pounded. “Gwen—she’s safe?” He turned to Aerion, eyes pleading. “The Hickorys—are they safe? The Ironborn—if you are fighting them, what happened to Rodrick?”
Jonnel’s mind raced, dread creeping into his chest as he searched Aerion’s face for answers.
His heart fell when he saw the sadness in the knight’s expression.
It was the mysterious man who answered. “Lord and Lady Hickory were killed by Rodrick Greyjoy.”
Jonnel sucked in a sharp breath, his fists clenching at his sides.
“Lady Gwen and her brother are safe,” the warrior continued. “I helped retake Honeytree and killed Rodrick myself.”
“Retake… kill Rodrick?” Jonnel repeated in disbelief.
Aerion stepped forward. “Lord Jonnel, let us talk,” he said, motioning away from the gathered soldiers.
The mysterious man simply nodded. “We need to leave soon, Aerion… I will tend to the wounded while you fill Jonnel in on what happened.”
Ser Aerion nodded in agreement before placing a firm hand on Jonnel’s shoulder. “Come,” he said.
Jonnel followed him, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. He had so many questions.
====
“Ser Aerion, what the fuck is going on?” Jonnel demanded.
Aerion let out a long breath. “Rodrick Greyjoy happened, Lord Jonnel,” he said grimly.
Jonnel listened as the knight recounted the horror that had unfolded at Honeytree—how Rodrick had arrived, demanding Lord Hickory’s cooperation in his raids, and how, when the lord refused, the Ironborn butchered him and Lady Hickory.
Aerion spoke of their desperate escape and how he had managed to flee with Robard.
Jonnel cut him off, his heart pounding. “Robard… only Robard? What of Gwen?”
Aerion’s face darkened, his gaze dropping to the ground. “Gwen… Gwen was…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Gods, Jonnel, I failed her.”
Jonnel felt ice seep into his veins. “Is she all right? Is she—?” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.
Aerion swallowed hard. “The Greyjoy was not kind to her, my lord,” he admitted, his voice heavy with regret. “I—she is fine now… all thanks to Harald.”
Jonnel’s head snapped toward him. “Harald?”
Aerion nodded. “Harald was the one who helped us retake the castle. He was the one who avenged Lord and Lady Hickory.”
Jonnel’s mind swirled. “Who is he?” he asked. “A sorcerer? A warlock? His axe—it flew.”
Aerion smirked faintly. “Yes, it did. And he can do much more than that.” His voice grew more serious. “Septon Leobald claims he was sent by the gods to save us from the Ironborn—an answer to our prayers.”
Jonnel turned, his gaze seeking out the black-clad warrior. He found Harald speaking with a group of villagers.
“Do you believe it?” Jonnel asked, his voice quieter now.
Aerion was silent for a moment, watching Harald with the same wariness. Then, he shook his head. “I have no reason not to. Harald is not evil, Jonnel. He’s a good man.”
Before Jonnel could reply, he saw something that made his breath catch.
Golden light radiated from Harald’s hands as he knelt before a wounded villager. The glow illuminated the man’s leg, and within moments, the villager stood, his face filled with shock and joy.
“I can walk!” the man exclaimed. “My leg—he healed my leg!”
The gathered villagers murmured in awe, some dropping to their knees, others whispering prayers.
Jonnel could only stare.
“Honeytree. I need to get to Honeytree,” he said suddenly, turning back to Aerion. “I need to see Gwen. Now.”
====
Jonnel watched Harald closely as they rode toward Honeytree. The so-called Herald of the gods, he thought. Which gods? The Seven? The Old Gods? Or some darker force?
What if Harald wasn’t some divine warrior, but a deceiver—a warlock from Asshai who had ensnared Ser Aerion, Gwen, and the others with foul magic? Or worse, what if he was something beyond mortal comprehension, a creature donning the shape of a man and playing with them like pieces on a cyvasse board?
Jonnel looked away abruptly when Harald turned his head toward him, as if sensing the doubts gnawing at his mind.
To his surprise, Harald slowed his pace, allowing his horse to fall into stride beside Jonnel’s.
Harald’s voice broke the silence. “What will you do when you see her?”
Jonnel blinked, caught off guard. “What?” That was not the question he had expected.
Harald’s gaze remained ahead, his tone steady. “Gwen. She believes you won’t love her anymore after what happened to her.”
Jonnel’s grip on the reins tightened, anger flaring in his chest. “That’s nonsense! I love her. Nothing will change that.”
Harald nodded. “Good.”
Jonnel narrowed his eyes, his thoughts swirling. After a long pause, he finally asked, “Is what they say about you true? Are you the herald of the gods?”
Harald turned to look at him, and to Jonnel’s utter shock, the man laughed—a deep, rich laugh, unrestrained and amused.
Jonnel stiffened, unsure whether to feel insulted or wary.
Harald wiped at his eye, still chuckling. “Harald the Herald. I think Leobald would like that.”
Jonnel’s expression darkened. He didn’t appreciate being mocked. “I’m serious.”
Harald’s smile faded slightly, though amusement still lingered in his eyes. “The only thing you need to know about me is that I am not your enemy. I’m here to save a girl taken by the Ironborn. That’s all.”
Jonnel remained unconvinced. “But Ser Aerion—”
“You can believe whatever you want, Jonnel Blackwood,” Harald interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. “As I said, I’m no threat to your people.”
Jonnel held Harald’s gaze for a long moment, trying to read something—anything—in the man’s face. And though doubt still gnawed at him, deep in his heart, he believed him. He turned his eyes forward, exhaling as the first outlines of Honeytree Castle came into view in the distance.
As they rode through the open gates of Honeytree Castle, the cheers of the gathered servants and guards filled the air. The people lined the courtyard, their voices a mixture of relief and triumph.
“The Blessed One!” some called.
“Harald!” others cried.
Yet, amidst all the noise, Jonnel heard nothing but the pounding of his own heart. His gaze swept over the crowd until it landed on Gwen.
She stood near the steps of the keep, her hands clasped tightly before her, her face pale and unreadable. Their eyes met for the briefest moment—then she looked away.
Jonnel dismounted in one swift motion, ignoring the calls of those around him. His feet hit the ground hard as he rushed forward.
“Gwen!”
She flinched at his voice but did not move.
Jonnel closed the distance between them, his arms reaching for her. Gwen stiffened as he pulled her into an embrace, her hands pressing against his chest as if to push him away.
“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Jon, I…”
Jonnel didn’t let her go. He held her close.
“I love you, Gwen.”
She stopped struggling.
“Nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change.”
A sharp breath escaped her lips. Her fingers, once pushing him away, now clutched his tunic. With a choked sob, she melted into his embrace, burying her face in his chest.
Jonnel held her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“I love you,” he whispered again, voice breaking.
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Harald’s POV
Harald stood near the hearth, watching as Leobald and Jonnel Blackwood strode into the great hall of Honeytree Castle. He was glad for Gwen; Jonnel seemed like a good man. Ser Aerion, too, looked happier now. The castle, as well as its lady, seemed filled with life again; according to Aerion, Gwen was back to her old self.
The lands were free of Ironborn, and soon—today, in fact—he would leave for Greyholt.
Leobald had spent much of the past hours speaking with Jonnel, likely filling the young lord’s head with the same notions about Harald being the herald of the gods—or perhaps, more absurdly, the Seven themselves in mortal form. Harald never knew which version Leobald was going with; it seemed to change depending on his mood.
Jonnel approached first, offering a respectful bow, a slight stiffness in his movement. Harald reciprocated with a curt nod.
“Ser Whiteflame,” Harald said, turning his gaze to Aerion. “I leave for Greyholt today.”
Ser Aerion Whiteflame straightened. “I will keep my promise, Lord Stormcrown,” he said firmly. “I will ride with you, along with five of my best men.”
Harald frowned slightly. “Your help is appreciated, but I won’t be needing it.”
Aerion stepped forward, his violet eyes steady. “I want to come,” he said, voice carrying conviction. “I feel this is the beginning of something greater. I wish to fight the squids by your side, my lord.”
Harald was about to reply when Jonnel spoke up.
“Then I will come as well,” Jonnel said firmly. “Along with the men I brought.”
Harald’s gaze flicked toward Leobald, his ‘friend,’ who now wore a self-satisfied expression.
Leobald smiled, hands folded before him. “I have assuaged Lord Jonnel of any worries he might have had about you, Harald.”
Jonnel nodded in agreement. “Lord Stormcrown, Lord Haldon holds my brother hostage, along with the sons of Lord Mallister, Lord Frey, and several other minor noble houses. You’re the only one who can free them.” His voice wavered slightly. “I wish to see my little brother again, my lord.”
Harald stilled. Freeing hostages? Haldon?
How had this gone from rescuing Maise and the other captives to planning a full-scale assault on one of the Ironborn’s main strongholds?
For a fleeting moment, he clung to the naïve hope that, once Greyholt was dealt with, he could return to his homestead—his peace. But this…this was spiraling out of control.
Harald’s gaze darkened as it settled on Leobald. He remembered the septon’s words to him—his plea for help on that rainy day when Harald saved Riverwood from the Ironborn. Leobald had called him their only hope and begged for his aid.
Harald let out a slow breath, then spoke. “We’ll discuss that after Greyholt,” he said, his tone clipped. “We leave in two hours.”
He turned toward Leobald. “Stay. I need to talk to you alone.”
The others nodded and left, leaving Harald and Leobald alone in the dimly lit hall.
The silence stretched between them as they found themselves alone. The only sound was the crackling of the hearth fire.
Harald sighed, arms crossed over his chest. “I know what you’re doing, Leobald.” His voice was calm but firm. “And I have no intention of doing what you want.”
Leobald didn’t respond, merely tilting his head slightly.
Harald continued, “All this ‘Herald of the Gods’ nonsense… I let you do it because it keeps the people from being afraid of me.” His eyes narrowed. “But I am not here to be their savior.”
Leobald remained silent, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he walked closer to the fire, staring into the flames as though seeking answers in their dance.
Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but certain. “All I tell them, Harald… is what I truly believe.”
Harald’s jaw tightened.
“I believe you were sent here for a reason,” Leobald went on, turning slightly toward him. “I believe you were sent here to save us in our darkest time. I believe it is your destiny.”
The word destiny struck something deep inside Harald—like a blade dragging across an old wound.
His fists clenched at his sides. “I will not be a slave to destiny. Not anymore.”
His voice was low at first, but anger surged through him, boiling over as he took a step closer. “I have walked that path, my friend. And I lost too much because of it.”
Leobald flinched, just slightly—Harald saw the way his eyes widened, the brief flash of fear in them.
Harald immediately exhaled, rubbing a hand across his face. “I… I’m sorry.” His voice was softer now. “I lost a lot of friends because of prophecies and destiny.”
Leobald studied him for a moment, then slowly nodded. “I understand.”
Silence fell once more.
After a long pause, Leobald spoke again.“You are a good man, Harald. And I know you won’t just stand by and let this suffering continue.”
Harald didn’t answer.
Leobald took a breath, glancing back at the fire. “Things are dire now. You have seen it. But when Harren dies, his children will tear the Riverlands apart fighting over his throne. Even more will perish—there will be even more suffering….”
He turned back to Harald, his eyes filled with something between hope and desperation. “But you can stop that, my friend. You can bring us all together. Forge something new.”
Leobald hesitated, then sighed, shaking his head as if pushing the thought away.“I will go prepare for the journey.”
Without another word, he turned and walked out of the hall, leaving Harald alone with his thoughts.
=====
Later…
“Wouldn’t a boat be faster?” Harald asked, adjusting the reins of his spectral steed—which appeared no different from an ordinary black warhorse, thanks to illusion magic.
It was Jonnel who answered, swinging up onto his own mount.“Only a slight difference. But approaching Greyholt by land is safer.”
Harald nodded, accepting the reasoning.
As they prepared to depart, the people of Honeytree Castle gathered to see them off. Men, women, and children watched from the castle walls and the courtyard.
Then, Gwen and Robard stepped forward.
“Stay safe, Lord Harald,” Gwen said, her voice steady but her eyes betraying her concern.
Her younger brother, Robard, nodded seriously.“Come back safe.”
Gwen turned to Harald, placing a hand on his armored forearm.“And please, keep Jonnel safe.”
Behind them, Jonnel rolled his eyes.“Hey, I can take care of myself! I’m the best sword in all the Riverlands, remember?”
Harald smirked, shaking his head in amusement. “I will keep him safe.”
Robard then looked up at Harald, straightening his posture like a soldier. Harald reached out, brushing the boy’s hair with a firm yet gentle hand. “Hold the castle,” Harald told him. “Protect your people.”
The boy puffed out his chest, nodding firmly.“I will, my lord!”
Harald gave one last glance toward Gwen and Robard, then turned to the others.
Jonnel and his six sworn men were mounted and ready.
Ser Aerion Whiteflame sat atop his warhorse alongside five of his best knights.
And, of course, Leobald—clad in his simple septon’s robes, though now bearing a sword at his hip.
Harald mounted and clicked his tongue, spurring his steed forward. The others fell in behind him, a dozen riders setting off at a hard pace through the castle gates, racing toward Greyholt.
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