Leobald, Chett, Brannik, and Willem trudged along the road towards Fairmarket, their pace steady and their eyes watchful. The path was bustling with activity—merchants with carts creaked by, travelers moved in clusters, and farmers herded livestock, all converging towards the busy town.
Chett glanced down at the weapons they carried, his brow deeply furrowed. "We shouldn't have brought our swords," he muttered uneasily. "Harald told us to blend in."
Brannik and Willem nodded in silent agreement, their hands shifting uneasily under their cloaks.
Leobald looked over his shoulder, his expression calm yet firm. "Worry not," he said in a low voice. "I have a plan. Just play along and stay calm."
Despite his reassurances, unease lingered among the three men. Chett, Brannik, and Willem kept their eyes darting left and right as they walked, fingers nervously adjusting their cloaks to cover the hilts of their weapons.
After some time, the narrow road widened, and they entered Fairmarket—a town nestled along the banks of the Blue Fork. The streets were alive with activity, filled with townsfolk bustling between market stalls and hurriedly completing their errands. Ironborn banners adorned the main streets, their colors unmistakable: the kraken of House Greyjoy, alongside symbols of House Hoare's dominion—two heavy silver chains crossing between a gold longship on black, a dark green pine on white, a cluster of red grapes on gold, and a black raven against a blue sky.
Leobald's eyes were drawn to the docks, where Ironborn longships were lined up, their dark sails furled but clearly ready to respond to any command. He frowned as he noticed more Ironborn in the streets than during his last visit.
'Did Haldon call in more men? Why?' Leobald wondered, his mind suddenly uneasy.
They continued walking, tension building with every step. Conversations fell to murmurs whenever an Ironborn guard appeared, and Leobald noticed the anxious glances exchanged by the townsfolk, the way hurried conversations died into whispers, retreating into the shadows. Fear clung to the air like a heavy mist.
'What has happened here?' Leobald mused, his brow creasing with concern.
"You there!" A sharp voice cut through the clamor of the street. "Halt!" The demand came again, this time firmer.
Chett's hand moved instinctively towards his sword, but Leobald's reaction was swifter. He grabbed Chett's arm in a firm grip. "No," Leobald whispered sharply.
They turned to see a tall, lean figure striding towards them. His face was cold and weathered, and the kraken of House Greyjoy gleamed on his armor. Five Ironborn men followed behind him, each one with eyes full of suspicion, their hands resting on their weapons.
"A septon traveling with armed men?" the leader sneered, his gaze flicking between them, lingering on the barely concealed swords. "Not something you see every day." His eyes bore into Chett, Brannik, and Willem, their suspicion palpable. "What business do you have in Fairmarket?" he demanded.
Leobald stepped forward, bowing his head slightly in a show of respect. "I am Septon Leobald, assigned to these lands. These men are my escort, good sir," he replied evenly. "We are returning from Oldtown."
The Ironborn's gaze raked over them, suspicion still etched in his eyes. "A septon with an armed escort?" He snorted, his eyes narrowing. "I've never seen your kind hire swords before." He fixed his stare on Chett. "Where are you from, rogue?"
Leobald didn't miss a beat. "By the laws King Halleck Hoare instituted," he said smoothly, "a septon is entitled to travel with protection, especially in these troubled times."
The Ironborn's expression twisted in displeasure. "Troubled times?" he repeated, his tone mocking as though he took offense at the mere suggestion. "What troubled times?"
Leobald's eyes widened slightly in feigned nervousness, and he quickly shook his head. "Not here, of course," he said, his voice hurried and apologetic. "Certainly not in lands governed by the esteemed Lord Greyjoy. I meant the lands south—the ones under House Drumm. Too many bandits, I'm afraid."
The Ironborn's posture relaxed slightly, though his eyes remained watchful. Leobald took a step further, adding with a smile, "I've heard of Lord Haldon's prowess in keeping the peace. I'm certain the good people of Fairmarket sleep soundly under his protection."
The flattery seemed to work; the Ironborn grunted, his expression softening though his suspicion was far from gone. "Best not cause any trouble, Septon," he muttered, casting one last warning glance at Chett, Brannik, and Willem before turning on his heel, his men following behind.
Leobald waited until they were out of earshot before letting out the breath he had been holding. His shoulders relaxed, and he gestured for the others to follow.
"That was close," Brannik whispered, his voice barely audible.
"Come, the sept is nearby," Leobald said quietly, urging them onward, their heads lowered as they made their way through the crowded streets, attempting to blend in with the people of Fairmarket once more.
Before long, they arrived at the sept—a humble structure that bore the scars of years of neglect. Its stone walls were cracked, the stained-glass windows faded, the vibrant colors dulled by years of wear. It was a modest place of worship, struggling to hold on to its dignity amid the hardships of the times.
Outside the sept stood two septas, engaged in conversation with two men. Their heads turned at the sound of Leobald's voice calling out to them.
"Septa Lora! Septa Tanis!"
The septas looked up in surprise, their eyes widening. The older septa quickly dismissed the men she had been speaking with. The two men nodded and bowed respectfully before walking away.
The septas walked towards them, meeting Leobald, Chett, Brannik, and Willem halfway.
"Septon Leobald!" Lora said, her voice a mixture of surprise and relief. "We didn't expect you back for another two months." Beside her, Septa Tanis nodded, her face still showing signs of shock.
Leobald offered a small, polite smile. "Plans have changed, I'm afraid. I need to speak with Septon Ryam—urgently."
Septa Lora's gaze shifted to the three men behind Leobald, her eyes narrowing slightly. "And who are these men?" she asked, her voice cautious.
"I will explain everything inside, with Ryam," Leobald said, his tone gentle but firm.
Lora held his gaze for a moment before nodding, though her eyes still held curiosity—and perhaps a trace of suspicion. "Very well," she said, gesturing towards the entrance. "Come in."
As they walked toward the entrance, Leobald took in the state of the streets with concern. "Has something happened since I left?" he asked, his voice low. "The town seems tense."
Lora and Tanis exchanged a look, their faces darkening. Septa Tanis's eyes began to glisten, and she looked as though she might burst into tears.
"It's the godless heathens," Septa Lora replied, bitterness clear in her voice.
Leobald frowned, his heart sinking. Together, they entered the sept. The interior was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of candle wax and incense. The walls seemed to press in on them, worn and weary with age. They made their way down the central aisle, their footsteps muffled on the worn stone floor, until they reached the sanctuary.
Septon Ryam was kneeling in the middle of the floor, his eyes closed, his hands clasped together tightly as he prayed aloud. His voice was soft but resonant, each word filled with conviction.
"O merciful Seven, who are one in truth,
Guide us with your wisdom and light.
Grant strength to the weak and protection to the helpless.
Bring comfort to those in sorrow and heal the wounds of the broken-hearted.
Look upon us with mercy in this dark hour,
And let your justice prevail over the wickedness that plagues our land.
May your grace watch over the faithful,
And may your love unite us in hope and peace.
We ask this humbly, in the name of the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger."
"Septon Ryam," Lora called softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ryam's eyes opened slowly, blinking against the dim light as he looked up. His face brightened momentarily with recognition before fading into disbelief. He looked tired, his robes worn and frayed, dark shadows hanging under his eyes.
"Leobald?" Ryam murmured, his voice laden with disbelief. "What are you doing—" His words trailed off as his eyes shifted to the men standing behind Leobald. His gaze sharpened, wary. "Who are these men?" he asked, guarded.
Leobald raised a placating hand, his expression calm and unthreatening. "It's a long story, Ryam," he said, offering a reassuring smile. "But I promise you, they mean no harm."
=====
Leobald looked down at the meal laid out before them. Ryam had offered them lunch before asking why they had come. That was Ryam's way—kind, generous, always putting others first, even when he himself had so little to give. Leobald had always admired that about him, the quiet compassion and unyielding resilience. Ryam was someone Leobald had looked up to, someone whose virtues he had long aspired to emulate.
"It isn't much," Ryam said apologetically, his gaze resting on the simple fare before them—bread, a wedge of cheese, and some dried vegetables. It was a humble meal. "Prices have risen again since last month," he added, a note of sadness creeping into his voice.
Septa Lora nodded solemnly, her lips pressed into a thin line.
Leobald gave Ryam a reassuring smile. "It's more than enough, Ryam." He nodded in appreciation. Beside him, Chett, Brannik, and Willem murmured their agreement, and they all began to eat.
As they ate, Leobald watched Ryam closely. Something was wrong. Ryam's gaze was distant, his eyes hollow, and his hands trembled when he raised his cup of wine. The man who had once been a pillar of strength and jovial warmth now seemed frail, burdened by a weight that had drained the life out of him. Leobald couldn't remember the last time he had seen Ryam look so utterly defeated.
When they had finished their meal, Leobald set his cup down and turned to Ryam, his brow furrowed with concern. "Ryam, the town… it feels so tense. What has happened since I left?"
Ryam's expression faltered, his hands trembling as he placed his cup down. He looked at the table, staring at the humble meal as though it were suddenly foreign to him. After a long pause, he spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "Haldon… Haldon took many from the town as thralls."
Leobald's eyes widened in shock. "Thralls?" he repeated, disbelief heavy in his tone. "But he's never done this before—not in Fairmarket."
Ryam nodded, his eyes filled with a hollow sadness. "He took them. And to keep control, Haldon commanded the guards to 'maintain order'—gave them more power." His lips twisted bitterly. "They've used that power to line their own pockets ever since."
Leobald frowned deeply. The puzzle pieces began to fall into place—the way the townsfolk shrank back, the hushed conversations, the fearful glances cast at the guards. It all made sense now.
But there was something else—something darker. Ryam seemed broken, and this news alone didn't account for the emptiness in his eyes. Leobald studied his old mentor, searching for answers. "Ryam," he began gently, "what happened to you? You look… worse than I've ever seen. Please, tell me."
Ryam looked away, his eyes welling up. Septa Lora looked down, her face pale, while Tanis seemed on the verge of tears, struggling to contain her emotions.
After a long silence, Ryam finally turned to Leobald. "Come," he said, his voice hoarse. "Follow me."
Leobald stood, his heart pounding as he followed Ryam through the shadowed corridors of the sept. They walked in silence, the flickering candlelight casting shifting shadows along the cold stone walls, their footsteps echoing softly.
"You remember Tommen, don't you?" Ryam asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Leobald nodded. "Of course. Little Tom…" A hint of a smile touched his lips. "Has there been any word from Oldtown? Has Tommen left already?" Leobald asked, his tone tinged with hope. Tommen had been a bright presence in the sept, always helping where he could, a boy who wanted nothing more than to dedicate his life to the gods.
Ryam paused, his shoulders sagging. "No," he whispered, his voice cracking with pain. "All he wanted… all he ever wanted was to serve the gods." His words broke, the emotion almost choking his voice.
Leobald felt a cold fear coil in his chest. Panic clawed at him. "What happened?" he asked, his voice trembling. "Ryam, what happened to Tommen?"
Ryam closed his eyes, his hands trembling as he struggled to find the words. "Tommen's father…" he began, his voice frail. He looked down, as though the weight of the truth was too much to bear. "Tommen's father fell behind on his tributes to the guards—the 'taxes' they demanded from all the market stalls. When they came to collect, there was nothing left."
Leobald's heart began to pound, his throat tightening. He remained silent, his eyes locked on Ryam, waiting.
"They beat him," Ryam continued, his voice filled with a deep, quiet rage. His fists clenched at his sides. "When Tommen tried to intervene, they turned on him… beat him until he was barely alive." He swallowed hard, his eyes glistening. "His father brought him here… hoping we could help. Hoping our prayers and our herbs could save him."
Ryam turned to face Leobald fully now, tears streaming down his worn cheeks. "I've tried everything, Leobald," he said, his voice thick with despair. "Prayers, poultices, every remedy I know… but he may not make it through the night."
Leobald felt his chest tighten painfully. He looked at Ryam, his own eyes misting, stunned into silence. Ryam's tears flowed freely now, and he wiped his face with a trembling hand.
"May… may I see him?" Leobald finally managed to ask, his voice barely audible.
Ryam nodded, his eyes filled with deep sorrow as he led Leobald down a narrow hallway to a small, quiet chamber in the back of the sept. Inside, the room was dimly lit by the weak flicker of a single candle. Tommen lay there, his frail form barely visible beneath a thin blanket. His breaths were shallow and labored, his face bruised and swollen, his skin pale as death. The fever had drained the life from him, leaving only a fragile shell.
Leobald knelt beside the bed, placing his hand gently on the boy's forehead. The heat of his fever burned against Leobald's palm. He looked up at Ryam, who stood in the doorway, his expression etched with heartbreak.
Leobald whispered a prayer, his voice cracking as he invoked the names of the Seven. Yet even as he prayed, his thoughts were not only on the gods.
No, he was thinking of Harald.
Harald could save him. He knew it. If there was anyone who could save Tommen, it was Harald.
.
.
.
"Leobald, Leobald!" Chett's voice broke through his haze of thought.
Leobald quickly turned, shaking himself free from his musings of Tommen and the desperate hope that had lodged itself in his chest.
"Are you sure this is it?" Chett asked, his eyes scanning the surroundings, focused on the heavily guarded building before them. They stood in the shadows near the looming tower where Haldon resided. Chett had discarded his armor and weapons at the sept, blending in better as they scouted the town—just as Harald had ordered.
Leobald nodded, his eyes narrowing at the building and its adjacent tower. "This is it. Once, it was part of a castle belonging to House Justman."
Chett frowned, a skeptical glint in his eyes. "House Justman? How far they have fallen," he muttered.
Leobald only nodded solemnly. "Haldon will be there," he said, pointing toward the tall, dark silhouette of the tower that loomed over them, its shadow engulfing the cobbled streets below.
Chett nodded again, though his unease was palpable, his eyes drifting from guard to guard, studying the structure.
For the rest of the day, Leobald, Chett, Willem, and Brannik stayed close, observing the guards' movements and noting the rhythms of life around the tower and the residence where hostages were being kept. They remained as inconspicuous as possible, fading into the flow of townsfolk, their eyes tracking every patrol, every shift in Haldon's men.
Leobald noticed something that struck him as unusual—the hostages were only allowed out of their quarters under the watchful eye of armed guards. It was strange; during his last visit, they had roamed more freely. He mentioned this change to Septa Tanis back at the sept, who sighed heavily and explained she had heard rumors of an incident involving Brynden Blackwood, though she didn't know the details.
It became clear to Leobald that their movements had begun to attract attention. He had seen more eyes turning toward them, and felt the whisper of suspicion in the air. The town, ever tense, now seemed more aware of their presence.
That night, when Leobald returned to the sept, he found himself facing an agitated Ryam. The old septon's eyes were full of worry and doubt, his normally calm demeanor overshadowed by apprehension.
"Leobald, what are you doing?" Ryam demanded, his voice sharp, the agitation evident. "Who are these men, truly? Don't lie to me—I do not believe they are simply escorts you hired for protection."
Leobald hesitated, studying Ryam's lined face, the earnest concern in his eyes. Then, with a glance at the others, he nodded. "Give us a moment," he said, gesturing for Ryam to follow him. Together they walked to a private chamber within the sept, the door creaking softly as it closed behind them.
Ryam's eyes bore into Leobald as soon as they were alone. "Why have you come back so soon, Leobald?" he asked, his voice taut with tension. "You lied to me, didn't you?"
Leobald let out a weary sigh, his expression shifting from guarded to serious. "You're right, Ryam," he admitted. "There is more to my return than I told you."
Ryam's brows furrowed, confusion mingling with the worry on his face. "Why?" he pressed, his voice a whisper that cut through the quiet of the small room.
Leobald took a step closer, his eyes meeting his mentor's. "I've come to help someone—a man sent to us as an answer to our prayers. A man who will end the tyranny of the Ironborn."
Ryam's face contorted in confusion. "What are you talking about?" he asked.
Leobald placed a hand on Ryam's shoulder, his eyes filled with conviction. "The gods have sent us a champion—a warrior who will free the Riverlands from the Ironborn's grip," he said, his voice low and intense.
Ryam's eyes widened as he took a step back. "A champion? You mean to kill Haldon Greyjoy?" Ryam's voice wavered, a tremor of disbelief running through it. "Leobald, do you hear yourself? You speak of a champion of the gods… but of murder as well. This is madness."
Leobald stepped forward, his hand steady on Ryam's shoulder, his gaze unwavering. "Ryam, haven't we prayed for deliverance? For years, we have knelt here together, pleading for salvation, for help to end this suffering. And now, finally, that help has come."
Ryam stared at him, a conflict of fear and disbelief in his eyes. "You've lost your mind," he said, shaking his head slowly, his voice laced with sorrow. "How can you believe such fantasies? A divine warrior sent by the gods…"
Leobald straightened, meeting his old mentor's gaze, his own confidence unbroken. "He is unlike anyone I have ever met, Ryam. He possesses a power, a magic—it isn't dark like the Valyrians' twisted sorcery, but pure, divine. You will see it when you witness him."
Ryam closed his eyes, his lips pressing into a hard line. "You speak of heresy… of unnatural powers," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of doubt. "This is dangerous, Leobald. Madness and sorcery, nothing more."
Leobald's voice softened. "When Harald arrives, you'll see. He can heal Tommen, Ryam." His eyes filled with determination. "Yes, Tommen will live. The gods have sent Harald, and they have granted him the power to heal. I swear it."
Ryam's expression crumpled at the mention of Tommen, the grief too raw to mask. "Tommen…" he whispered, his voice breaking. "Do not give me false hope, Leobald. I couldn't bear it."
Leobald shook his head, his eyes shining with conviction. "I swear on the Mother herself, Ryam. Tommen will be healed. When Harald arrives, you will see for yourself, and your doubts will vanish."
Ryam did not reply. He turned away, his shoulders slumped, his eyes fixed on the floor. His silence spoke volumes—a deep uncertainty, a hope he was too afraid to grasp.
The door creaked open, and Brannik entered, his expression tense, his eyes darting between them. "Septon Leobald," he said, his voice low. "They're here."
Leobald's heart skipped a beat. He turned to Brannik, his eyes wide with anticipation. "Harald?" he asked, barely daring to hope.
Brannik nodded. "Yes. Him and Lord Jonnel. They've just arrived."
"Come, Ryam," Leobald urged, his hand pressing gently on Ryam's arm. "You must see this."
Ryam hesitated, but after a long moment, he nodded. With a deep breath, he followed Leobald and Brannik through the dim corridors, their footsteps echoing softly as they moved toward the sept's entrance.
The flickering torchlight illuminated the front of the sept, casting long shadows. There, Jonnel stood, speaking with Septa Lora and Septa Tanis, the tiredness clear on his face. As soon as he spotted Leobald, a weary smile appeared.
"Ah, Leobald. Chett met us just outside the town," Jonnel said.
But Leobald barely heard him, his eyes already searching the darkness beyond. "Where is Harald?" he asked, urgency tightening his voice.
Jonnel looked momentarily puzzled, then gestured toward the darkened entrance of the sept. Leobald turned, following Jonnel's gaze.
From the darkness, a figure emerged. Harald Stormcrown stepped into the chamber, his black armor glinting in the flickering candlelight. He carried his helm in one hand, the massive battleaxe strapped across his back, his presence filling the space.
"Why the long faces?" Harald asked, a bright smile stretching across his face, his eyes gleaming in the torchlight.