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4: Dragonborn Conqueror(ASOIAFxElder Scrolls), Shouting a Castle Down
🕑 Added 2024-09-11 14:58:51 +0000 UTCRodrick Greyjoy sat up in bed, his head aching from the excesses of the previous night. 'How low the heir of House Greyjoy has been reduced,' he thought bitterly, 'overseeing tax collection from these greenlanders.'
The fury inside him flared hotter as he reflected on his exile to this forsaken land. His father had banished him here, all because he had taken what was rightfully his—his brother's Lannister salt wife. She had been meant for him, but his ambitious, grasping brother had stolen her away.
Rodrick sneered, throwing the covers aside and rising from the bed. At least, in this miserable place, he could still have some fun. His eyes flicked to the other side of the bed, noticing that his salt wife had left early. A pity; he had half a mind to make her scream again.
He dressed quickly, fastening his sword belt before leaving the chamber, the familiar weight of his blade at his side giving him some solace. 'Soon,' he thought, 'this exile will end, and I’ll have my revenge on my brother. He may enjoy the Lannister girl for now, but I’ll see him dead before long.'
Rodrick strode through the castle, his mood darkening as he walked. Blanetree Keep had suffered much damage when he and his men had taken it, and though parts of it had been restored, the scars of its fall were still visible. The outer walls were reinforced with crude stonework, patched in haste, while inside, torn and tattered tapestries hung limply. The courtyard was littered with rubble that had never been fully cleared.
Servants moved quickly out of his way, keeping their heads down, fearful of attracting his attention. He relished their fear but found it tiresome all the same.
When he reached the courtyard, he found his men lounging about, idly drinking and playing dice. Rodrick’s blood boiled at the sight. He strode forward, his voice a whip crack of fury. "Get off your arses and drill, you lazy scum!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the courtyard.
His men jumped at his command, scrambling to obey, hastily grabbing swords and shields as they fell into formation. Rodrick stood there, watching them with cold, calculating eyes. 'This isn’t my home,' he thought bitterly. 'The sea is where I belong, not rotting on land.' He longed for the spray of salt on his face, the thrill of raiding the western shores. Perhaps another Lannister salt wife wasn’t out of reach after all. Or maybe he would set sail to the Dragon Islands in Blackwater Bay—Valyrian women were the most beautiful in the world.
As his thoughts wandered, his eyes caught the familiar figure of Gwen Blanetree approaching. She was a beautiful woman, her long blonde hair cascading down her shoulders, but her beauty had been marred by the bruises on her face, dark and fresh from the last time he had 'taught her a lesson.' Her steps were hesitant, and her eyes were cast downward as she approached.
"Ah, there you are," Rodrick said with a twisted smile, watching her closely as she drew nearer.
Gwen flinched at the sound of his voice, her shoulders tensing. "Who told you to leave before I woke?" Rodrick asked, his tone soft, almost mocking as he stepped closer to her, looming over her smaller frame. His smile widened as he saw her tremble under his gaze. "Well, what do you want?"
"We... we are running out of supplies," Gwen whispered, barely audible, her voice trembling.
Rodrick’s expression darkened. Supplies. His mind quickly turned to the raiders he had sent out a few days ago to plunder a village that had failed to pay its taxes. They should have returned by now. The thought of them failing him stoked his anger even further. And then, like a cold knife in his gut, he remembered Gwen’s crippled brother, Robard Blanetree. The boy had eluded him for too long.
Rodrick turned on Gwen, fury flashing in his eyes. "The men I sent out should’ve been here by now. If I find out something has happened to them—if your cripple of a brother had a hand in it—" He trailed off, his voice rising with each word, venom dripping from his lips.
Gwen trembled visibly, her head bowed, but before Rodrick could finish his threat, a shout rang out across the courtyard, breaking the tense silence.
One of his men rode into the courtyard on horseback, yelling at the top of his lungs, "Riders with Blanetree colors have been spotted!"
Rodrick’s face twisted in anger at first, but then his expression shifted to one of dark amusement as he noticed Gwen’s reaction. Her face had gone pale, her eyes wide with terror. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she visibly trembled in fear.
Rodrick let out a manic laugh, his voice echoing through the courtyard. "Your stupid brother!" he spat, his laughter deepening as he looked at Gwen, who now had tears streaming down her cheeks.
Gwen fell to her knees, pleading in a broken voice. "Please, spare him... he is but a boy," she begged, her words choked with emotion. But Rodrick’s eyes hardened as he strode past her. He shoved her to the ground with a callous push, not bothering to look back.
As he reached the walls, Rodrick’s thoughts turned darker. ‘These greenlanders are fucking idiots,’ he thought to himself, climbing the steps to the battlements. His gaze swept the horizon as he searched for the group of riders the scout had warned him about.
"Prepare ten riders," Rodrick commanded the nearest man. "That’s all we’ll need for this."
His gaze fixed on the figures in the distance—men on horseback at the edge of the horizon. But they weren’t advancing. They just sat there, unmoving, watching the castle. Rodrick narrowed his eyes in confusion. What are they waiting for?
Then something caught his attention. One of the men dismounted and began walking toward the castle, his large battleaxe in hand. He was dressed in black armor, the likes of which Rodrick had never seen before, gleaming darkly in the daylight. The man moved with deliberate calm, like a predator stalking its prey.
Rodrick’s confusion turned to irritation. ‘What’s this fool doing?’ he thought. He looked to his men, and they, too, seemed perplexed by the lone figure advancing toward them.
"Archers," Rodrick barked, shaking his head, "shoot him down. And prepare to retrieve his armor and that axe. I want them both—they look like Valyrian steel." A cruel smile spread across his face as his men cheered in amusement, eager to claim the spoils.
The archers lined the battlements, their bows drawn. They let loose a volley of arrows, each one aimed at the man who strode toward them with no sign of stopping.
Rodrick followed the arrows with glee as they flew toward the man, but his smile faltered as something impossible happened. The man shimmered, his form becoming translucent, as though he were made of mist. The arrows passed through his body, not striking him at all. It was as if he wasn’t even there—like a ghost or a wraith. His men went deathly silent, their amusement replaced with confusion and fear.
Rodrick felt a cold spike of fear in his gut. "Fire again!" he screamed, his voice betraying his panic. The archers obeyed, another volley of arrows arcing through the air. But once again, the arrows simply passed through the man as if he were nothing but smoke.
The courtyard fell silent. No more orders came. Rodrick could only stare, his mind struggling to comprehend what he had just seen. ‘Was this a dream?’ he thought, his heart pounding in his chest.
The figure continued walking until, suddenly, he stopped, his body returning to its solid form. The black armor gleamed ominously in the sunlight, and for a moment, all was still.
Rodrick’s mind raced. ‘What in the hells is this?’
Before he could fully form the thought, a thunderous roar split the air.
"FUS... ROH... DAH!"
The sound was so powerful it was as if the very sky itself had torn open. Rodrick barely had time to register it before the world around him exploded. The blast hit the castle walls like a battering ram. Stones cracked and shattered, debris flying in all directions. Rodrick was thrown off his feet, the battlements crumbling beneath him as the force of the shout sent him and his men flying.
He hit the ground hard, pain flaring through his body as he lay in the dirt, barely conscious. His ears rang, the world spinning around him as he slowly opened his eyes. The wall was gone—obliterated. His men screamed in terror, some of them trapped beneath the rubble, others running in panic. The sound of their fear was deafening.
Rodrick tried to move, but pain shot through his leg. He glanced down and saw a large stone pinning his leg to the ground. He tugged at it, but it wouldn’t budge. Fear gripped him, colder and more suffocating than anything he had ever felt.
His mind raced, filled with dread as he realized what had just happened. ‘Was that the storm god? Had he come to the mortal realm?’
For the first time in his life, Rodrick Greyjoy knew true terror.
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Harald watched as the walls of Blanetree Keep crumbled beneath the force of his Thu'um. The sheer power of the Unrelenting Force shout had torn through the stone like it was nothing more than parchment. The battlements cracked, the reinforced gate shattered, and the outer walls collapsed in a cloud of dust and rubble. Chunks of stone flew through the air, crashing down around the courtyard. The Ironborn screamed in terror, their voices drowned out by the rumble of falling rock.
Harald had expected more from what Robard had told him about the keep. He had imagined a more formidable fortress. But now, standing amidst its broken walls, he found it unimpressive.
With his battleaxe in hand, Harald took a deep breath and looked around at the destruction. The Ironborn were scrambling in panic, some trying to find weapons, others fleeing from the inevitable. Harald knew their fear well—he had seen it many times in the eyes of his enemies.
"Wuld... Nah... Kest!" Harald shouted.
In an instant, his body became a blur of motion, the Whirlwind Sprint propelling him forward with lightning speed. The air rushed past him as he shot across the moat and the ruined walls, landing deep inside the courtyard in the blink of an eye. He stood still for only a moment as Ironborn soldiers scrambled to gather themselves. He could see the fear in their eyes as they fumbled for their weapons, their hands shaking. Harald, unflinching, raised his hand and cast a bright magelight into the sky. The glowing orb shot up high, signaling Robard and his men to charge. It hung in the air like a second sun, casting a pale glow over the keep.
Without wasting a second, Harald turned his attention back to the Ironborn in the courtyard. He could feel the anticipation of battle building inside him, the familiar heat of adrenaline surging through his veins.
"Su... Grah... Dun!" Harald roared, his voice resonating with raw power.
The Elemental Fury shout took hold of him, and in an instant, his battleaxe moved with blinding speed. He became a whirlwind of destruction, his swings coming so fast that the air around his axe seemed to scream. He cut through the Ironborn with ease, their defenses useless against the ferocity of his attacks. Steel clashed, and blood sprayed in wide arcs as Harald’s axe cleaved through armor and bone like it was nothing.
One Ironborn raised his shield to block Harald’s strike, but before he could react, the axe sliced through it, splintering the wood and cutting the man down in one swift blow. Another came at him from the side, sword raised, but Harald’s speed was too great—he spun around and slashed through the soldier’s side before the man could even finish his swing.
Bodies fell to the ground around him, and the remaining soldiers looked on in horror, unsure of how to deal with this unstoppable force.
At that moment, Robard and his men stormed through the broken walls, charging into the fray through the fallen drawbridge. The sound of swords clashing and the shouts of battle filled the air as they joined Harald, cutting down the remaining Ironborn in the courtyard.
As the others continued to fight, Harald turned his attention toward the keep itself. He moved with purpose, making his way through the debris and toward the keep's entrance. His goal was clear now—he had to secure Robard’s sister, Gwen, and ensure the safety of the innocent servants trapped inside.
The sounds of battle faded behind him as he stepped through the shattered doors of the keep. He entered with deadly focus, moving through the stone corridors like a shadow. The sounds of battle outside were muffled now, replaced by the echo of his boots on the cold stone floor. As he rounded a corner, two Ironborn lunged at him from either side.
"Zun... Haal... Viik!" Harald shouted, the words of the Disarm shout exploding from his lips.
The Ironborn's weapons flew from their hands, clattering uselessly against the walls. Before they could react, Harald surged forward, using his battleaxe to strike one across the chest, the force of the blow sending the man crashing to the ground. The other tried to raise his hands in defense, but Harald was too fast, cutting him down in a single strike.
Further down the hall, more Ironborn blocked his path. "Krii... Lun... Aus!" he roared, the Marked for Death shout rippling through the air, weakening them as they crumpled before him, the life draining from their bodies.
Finally, Harald pushed open the doors to the great hall. Six Ironborn stood with swords pressed to the throats of a blonde woman and some servants. Their eyes were wide with desperation, fear lacing their movements as they kept their hostages close.
"If you take one step closer, monster," one of the Ironborn snarled, his blade pressed against the woman’s neck, "we will kill them all!"
Harald sighed internally, feeling a wave of boredom wash over him. ‘Why do they always do this?’ he thought. It was a predictable tactic, one he had seen too many times before. His eyes moved over the scene, calculating, as the Ironborn clung to their last, futile hope of survival.
Without hesitation, Harald inhaled deeply.
"Tiid... Klo... Ul!"
The world around him slowed to a crawl. Time itself seemed to freeze, the Ironborn’s movements becoming sluggish and dreamlike, their faces locked in expressions of panic. The flickering flames in the torches became nothing more than slow, wavering tendrils of light. The sound of blood rushing in his ears was the only noise as Harald moved through the stillness.
From his slowed perspective, everything became clear—every movement, every enemy's position, each terrified breath. With his battleaxe in hand, he moved toward the first Ironborn, whose blade was still hovering near the woman’s neck. He pushed the woman away and raised his axe, aiming for the man’s chest, and in one fluid motion, drove the blade through his ribs. The man’s expression of terror remained frozen as the axe pierced his heart.
Next, Harald turned to the second Ironborn, who was standing near the servants. Harald stretched out his hand, summoning a surge of lightning. The bolts crackled between his fingers, illuminating the room in ghostly blue light. He released the spell, the lightning arcing through the air and striking the man square in the chest.
Without wasting a moment, Harald shifted his focus to the remaining four Ironborn. He raised his hand again, feeling the raw power of magicka surge through him. With a low growl, he unleashed the Chain Lightning spell. The bolts of electricity crackled wildly from his fingertips, lashing out at the third Ironborn.
The lightning tore through him, and the electrical surge leaped to the fourth and fifth Ironborn. Their bodies seized, muscles convulsing as the lightning tore through them with relentless force.
Finally, the spell reached the sixth Ironborn. The lightning struck him with full force, his body arching backward as the energy ripped through him. As the effects of the Slow Time shout faded, the world returned to its normal speed for him. The bodies of the Ironborn lay scattered around the hall, blood pooling on the stone floor, the smell of burned flesh heavy in the air. The servants stared at Harald, their faces pale and their bodies trembling in fear.
Harald wiped the blood from his battleaxe and looked at them, understanding their fear. It was only natural, after what they had just witnessed.
"Are you Robard’s sister?" he asked the blonde woman, his voice steady but soft.
"Yes," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Good. Stay here," Harald instructed, turning swiftly to leave the great hall.
But as he ran through the corridors of the keep, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to find Gwen running after him.
"I told you to stay there," Harald said, a mixture of frustration and concern in his voice.
"Where is Robard?" she asked, her eyes pleading.
Harald sighed, his expression softening. "Follow me," he said, and together they made their way toward the courtyard.
As they emerged into the open air, they arrived just in time to see the last of the Ironborn being cut down by the Blanetree men. The battle was over.
Harald scanned the scene and spotted Robard walking toward a lone Ironborn, who lay trapped under a large rock. The man, struggling and cursing, wore a tunic emblazoned with the sigil of House Greyjoy.
"Robard!" Gwen called out, breaking into a run as she rushed toward her brother.
Robard turned at the sound of her voice. "Gwen!" he shouted, his eyes lighting up with relief. They met in the middle of the courtyard, wrapping their arms around each other in a heartwarming reunion.
The servants had followed them into the courtyard, their faces showing disbelief and overwhelming relief. Many of them had likely resigned themselves to lives of servitude under the Ironborn, thinking they would never be free. Now, for the first time, they were safe.
As the reunion softened, Robard and Gwen turned their attention back to the Ironborn trapped on the ground.
Robard took slow, deliberate steps toward the man, his eyes filled with cold resolve.
"Who is that?" Harald asked, walking closer to them.
"Rodrick Greyjoy," Robard replied, his voice devoid of emotion.
Rodrick's face twisted in fear as he saw the younger Blanetree advancing. "Wait! Wait!" he cried out, panic seeping into his voice. "Gwen is my wife now! We’re kin! You’d be a kinslayer if you killed me!" He looked desperately at Gwen. "Wife! Please, talk some sense into your brother!"
Robard’s grip tightened on his sword, his anger building with each word Rodrick spat out, but before he could strike, something unexpected happened. Gwen stepped forward, stopping Robard with a cold, steely look in her eyes.
Harald watched as Gwen moved closer, her expression colder than ice, her eyes fixed on Rodrick Greyjoy’s trembling form.
“He’s mine to kill,” she said.
Robard looked ready to protest, but Harald gently placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. Without a word, he reached into his satchel and pulled out his Dwarven dagger.
“You can keep it afterward,” Harald said quietly, handing the dagger to Gwen.
Gwen took the dagger, her hands steady, her eyes never leaving Rodrick. She stepped closer to the man who had tormented her, who had stolen everything from her.
Rodrick’s face twisted in terror as he tried to bargain, his voice cracking with desperation. “No! No, please! You don’t have to do this! Just—”
His words were cut off by the first strike. The dagger plunged into his chest with a sickening thud, the blade sinking deep into his flesh. Rodrick screamed, his body jerking as the pain hit him, but Gwen showed no mercy.
She pulled the dagger out and stabbed him again, this time in his side. Blood spurted from the wound, spraying across her arms and face, but she didn’t stop. Her movements were frenzied, driven by years of bottled rage. The dagger rose and fell, again and again, each strike more brutal than the last. Blood splattered everywhere, painting her in crimson, but Gwen’s face remained eerily calm.
Rodrick’s screams turned to wet gurgles as the life drained from him. His body convulsed with every stab, but he was helpless.
“Please… please…” he whispered weakly, his voice barely audible as blood pooled in his mouth.
She stabbed him one final time, the dagger sinking into his neck, silencing him forever. Rodrick’s body went limp, his chest no longer rising and falling. His blood soaked the ground around him, pooling in thick, dark patches, and Gwen stood over him, covered in his blood, her chest heaving from the effort.
The courtyard had fallen silent, save for the sound of Gwen’s ragged breathing. The servants and Blanetree men had gathered, watching the scene with a mixture of awe and satisfaction. Some of the servants even smiled, their faces lit with a cruel glee as they watched their former tormentor bleed out at their feet.
Rodrick Greyjoy had begged for mercy, but none had been given. He had met his end at the hands of the very woman he had tried to break.
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