"It's done. My men are prepared," Jonnel said.
"Good," Harald replied, slipping his battleaxe into the aetherial satchel in his hands. He watched as the weapon vanished into the void-like space of the enchanted bag, its bulky form disappearing without a trace.
Jonnel couldn't help but stare, his eyes widening. "What else do you have in there?" he asked, his voice tinged with awe.
Harald grinned, glancing at Jonnel out of the corner of his eye. "A little bit of everything. Armor, weapons, potions, and a few… other important things." He reached back into the satchel, his brow furrowing slightly in concentration. "I really should sort this thing out one of these days," he muttered.
After a moment, he pulled out a sword. The blade was forged from a mix of materials: parts of it bore the dark sheen of his armor, while other sections had a jagged, pale appearance, as if crafted from bone. The hilt was wrapped in dark leather, and the pommel had been carved to resemble the head of a dragon.
"This will do." He nodded to himself, securing the dragonbone sword—Vulthuriik—at his hip. The blade clinked softly as it settled into place. He had named the blade after the dragon whose bones he had used to forge it.
Turning back to Jonnel, Harald continued, "Remember, wait for the townsfolk to begin their revolt. Once the commotion starts, most of the guards around the tower should be drawn away. That will be your moment to strike—kill the guards and stay inside, protecting the hostages."
Jonnel gave a sharp nod of understanding. "Aye."
Before they could continue, a soft knock sounded at the door. Harald looked up to see Septa Tanis standing in the doorway.
"Lord Champion," she said, her voice reverent. "Septon Ryam and Leobald have returned."
Harald sighed, shaking his head with a smile. "Septa, I've asked you to call me Harald. There's no need for all that formality."
Tanis flushed, looking a little embarrassed. "Yes, Harald... Lord Harald."
Jonnel chuckled behind Harald, clearly amused by the exchange.
"Lead on then, Septa," Harald said.
He followed Tanis through the winding corridors of the sept, making their way back to the large central chamber, where the statues of the Seven stood in solemn watch.
There, he saw Ryam and Leobald waiting, accompanied by about ten men. They were a mix of the town's folk—some richly dressed merchants, others plainly dressed laborers. These were the leaders of the planned revolt, the one Ryam had previously convinced them to delay.
As Harald entered, the chamber fell silent, and all eyes turned to him. He was used to those looks—the widened eyes, the surprise, the awe that greeted him whenever he stepped into a room. His imposing armor, his size, and his very presence set him apart as something beyond ordinary.
"This is Lord Harald Stormcrown, the champion of the gods!" Leobald announced.
A murmur rippled through the group, echoing off the cold stone walls of the sept. Harald could hear the whispers—some laced with disbelief, others tinged with awe. Their gazes swept over his armored form, searching for a glimmer of the divine spark that Leobald had promised them.
Harald had learned long ago that embracing these perceptions could have its advantages, and today was one of those times. He could see the change in their eyes—the uncertainty shifting to hope, the fear transforming into a kind of determined resolve.
One of the men, an older fellow with a grizzled beard and wary eyes, stepped forward. His voice trembled slightly. "Is it true, then, what the septons say?" he asked. "Are you truly the chosen of the gods?"
Harald looked over them, allowing the weight of the moment to settle before he spoke. "Yes," he said, his voice deep and steady. "I have vowed to rid these lands of the Ironborn—to free you all from Harren's tyranny. Haldon Greyjoy will die today, and I need your help to reclaim this town from your oppressors."
As he spoke, he watched their faces shift. Perhaps it was the dragonblood flowing through his veins, but he had always seemed to have an effect on people—a way to draw out courage where fear once stood. He knew of others like him: Tiber Septim, Reman Cyrodiil. All had carved out empires with their dragonblood. Perhaps they too had wielded this same power of inspiration.
Another man stepped forward, muscular, with his hand cradled in a sling. His eyes narrowed as he studied Harald. "You may be a great warrior," he said gruffly, "but I lost faith in the gods a long time ago." His voice softened, pain evident in his words.
Ryam stepped in, his tone gentle. "Lommy, what happened to your daughter was a—"
"Where were the gods then, Septon?" Lommy snapped, his eyes flashing as he turned to Harald. "I don't care about gods. I only care if you can kill that bastard Haldon and rid Fairmarket of the Ironborn."
Harald met Lommy's gaze, unflinching. "Yes," he said, his voice calm and clear. "I can."
Lommy stared at Harald for a long moment before nodding slowly. Harald then gestured to Lommy's injured arm, still bound in the sling. "And your arm?" Harald asked. "What happened?"
Lommy glanced down at his injury, sighing. "An accident at the forge," he said.
Harald smiled, stepping closer. "We can't have you leading an uprising with a damaged arm, can we?" He extended his hand towards Lommy's arm.
Lommy hesitated, confusion clouding his face as he glanced toward the septons for some explanation. Leobald nodded, urging him gently. "Let Harald heal your hand, Lommy."
A wave of murmurs spread through the gathered crowd.
"Heal?" Lommy muttered, bewildered.
Harald moved even closer, placing his hand over Lommy's arm. He took a deep breath, and suddenly, bright golden light began to emanate from his palm. The warmth of it filled the chamber, casting radiant rays across the faces of all who watched.
Gasps echoed around the room as the light intensified. Lommy's eyes widened, his mouth parting in astonishment as the pain in his arm began to ebb away. Bones and muscles, once fractured and torn, seemed to mend under the golden glow. After a few moments, the light faded, and Harald lowered his hand.
Lommy stared, disbelieving, as he gingerly flexed his arm and then slipped it free from the sling. He looked up at Harald, amazement written plainly on his face. "It's... it's... how?" he stammered.
The murmurs in the chamber swelled, filled with awe and wonder. "The champion of the gods," someone whispered. "It's true," another voice said, barely above a breath.
Harald stepped back, his expression growing serious. His voice echoed through the room, commanding and unwavering. "Tonight, we take Fairmarket back from the Ironborn. Haldon Greyjoy's head will be on a pike by dawn."
A cheer erupted from the men, their voices reverberating off the walls of the sept. Lommy stared at Harald, his gaze filled with something approaching reverence, his eyes shining with newfound belief and resolve. The once hesitant townsfolk now stood ready to fight—to reclaim their town and follow their champion into whatever fate awaited them.
.
.
.
Jonnel departed first to join his men and the Blantree men, who were charged with freeing the hostages. Harald prepared to leave as well, while Ryam and Leobald prepared as well—Ryam, in particular, would be crucial for rallying the people to join the revolt.
"Many of the Rivermen guards will join us," Ryam said.
"Good. Like I said, when the commotion begins in the barracks—"
"Yes, Harald, you've said it a thousand times already," Leobald interrupted, shaking his head with a small smile. "We all know it."
"Just making sure," Harald muttered with a shrug.
"How will the others convince the townsfolk to rise with them? Will they believe what the men saw—that I am this 'champion of the gods'?" Harald asked.
Leobald nodded confidently. "We told the more hesitant ones that there's already a rebellion spreading across the Riverlands. They'll think we're part of a much larger uprising."
"A lie," Ryam pointed out, his tone somber.
"Sometimes, a lie for the right reason is worth telling," Harald said, his expression softening into a small smile. With that, he raised his hand and, with a muttered incantation, cast the invisibility spell. His form shimmered before disappearing entirely, leaving Ryam and Leobald blinking in astonishment.
Harald slipped out of the sept, cloaked in the invisibility spell. The faint shimmer of magic was barely noticeable as he moved silently through the town, recasting the spell whenever necessary to stay hidden.
He could feel the tension in the air as he moved through Fairmarket, a sense of unease that even the Ironborn seemed to notice. The Ironborn soldiers patrolled in large groups, their eyes wary, as if they had been warned of possible unrest. Harald noted one particularly large cluster gathered near the market, casually talking, their axes and swords hanging at their sides.
A small, grim smile curled Harald's lips as he moved closer. He extended his hands, his fingers glowing a bright crimson as he prepared his spell. With swift precision, he cast three fury spells in rapid succession, each one striking a different target among the Ironborn.
The effect was immediate.
The three Ironborn soldiers' eyes darkened, pupils dilating as an uncontrollable rage consumed them. Without warning, one of them turned on his comrade, driving his axe deep into the man's chest.
"What in the name of the Drowned God are you doing?" one of the others shouted, raising his sword just in time to block a wild swing from one of the afflicted men.
Chaos descended upon the group. The three ensnared Ironborn turned on their own, their faces twisted in madness.
"They've gone mad!" someone yelled, his voice filled with panic as the marketplace erupted into a battleground.
Within moments, eight Ironborn lay dead, their bodies sprawled across the blood-soaked cobblestones. Two remained standing, panting heavily, their weapons dripping with blood as they looked around, bewilderment etched across their faces.
"What... what just happened?" one of them stammered, his voice trembling as he knelt beside the bodies, eyes wide with disbelief.
"They turned on us... like wild animals," the other muttered, his face pale, his hands trembling.
Harald smiled to himself, his invisible form slipping away unnoticed. He moved swiftly through the town, targeting the Ironborn who patrolled in groups. Each time he found them, he repeated the process, casting his fury spells with practiced ease.
The results were the same each time: chaos, confusion, and bloodshed. The Ironborn fell upon one another in blind rage, their comrades left in stunned confusion, unable to comprehend the madness unfolding around them. Harald knew this would clear the streets for the townsfolk, making it easier for them to rise against their oppressors without the watchful Ironborn in the way.
He arrived at the barracks, situated near the tower where Haldon resided. Harald, still cloaked in invisibility, slipped inside unnoticed.
The timing was perfect. It was the changing of shifts, just as he had anticipated. The barracks were bustling—men coming in from their patrols, tired and eager to rest, while others prepared themselves for the upcoming night watch. Laughter and banter echoed through the room, and Harald noticed a particularly large group at the center, relaxed and joking with each other as they removed their armor.
Harald smirked, preparing a frenzy spell—a powerful variant designed to engulf a larger area. He extended his hand, and a crimson mist unfurled near the Ironborn, spreading swiftly across where they stood.
Chaos erupted almost instantly.
"What are you doing?!"
"Stop! Put that down, you fool—"
"Why are you attacking me?!"
Shouts and cries of confusion filled the air as the Ironborn turned on each other, swords and axes clashing in sudden madness. Blood splattered across the walls as one man drove his blade into his comrade's side, while another swung a hammer across a friend's face. The barracks had become a slaughterhouse. Harald watched with grim satisfaction as the warriors tore each other apart, consumed by their madness.
He moved swiftly, preparing two more frenzy spells. With a sharp movement, he cast them at the larger groups rushing in to restore order. They too were engulfed by the crimson mist, their eyes glazing over as the rage overtook them. In seconds, they turned on one another, drawing their weapons, screams of anger and pain echoing throughout the barracks.
Satisfied with the havoc he had unleashed, Harald shifted his focus to the next part of his plan. He raised his hand, summoning a fireball. Flames danced between his fingers, the flickering light casting eerie shadows on the barrack walls. He hurled it toward the far side of the building. The fireball struck with a thunderous explosion, the heat and force tearing apart part of the wooden structure. Flames roared to life, consuming the dry timber hungrily, and the heat quickly intensified as the inferno spread.
The sound of crackling flames added to the chaos. Ironborn scrambled to escape the blaze, the collapsing roof trapping those unlucky enough to be caught beneath the falling timbers. Screams of agony mixed with the roar of the fire, and the entire barracks became a raging hellscape.
This was the signal he had told his fellow conspirators to watch for.
He stepped away, the flames rising behind him as he moved into the shadows. Already, more Ironborn rushed towards the barracks, drawn by the sounds of battle and the sight of flames devouring the building. With a flick of his hand, Harald cast another frenzy spell. The crimson mist settled upon the new arrivals, and, once more, the men turned on each other—swords swinging, frantic cries echoing into the night.
Harald moved swiftly towards the tower. The town was beginning to stir—he could hear the townsfolk raising their voices, doors creaking open as people stepped out to witness the commotion. The chaos at the barracks had spread, and what had once been a quiet, fearful town was now alive with movement. The orange glow of the flames illuminated the townspeople's faces, and Harald could hear their growing chants of rebellion, the angry cries of a people too long oppressed.
He approached the tower, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the Ironborn guards standing at its entrance. They were on high alert—tense, their weapons ready, clearly unnerved by the sudden chaos engulfing the town. Their eyes darted nervously, struggling to make sense of the disorder that had taken hold.
With a swift motion, Harald unsheathed Vulthuriik. The blade glinted in the firelight, its edge shimmering like a promise of death. In his other hand, sparks of lightning crackled, leaping between his fingers, illuminating his face in brief flashes of blue.
It was time.
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Westeros at the Time of Harald's Arrival
Kingdom of the Isles and Rivers
Next Chapter will be on the 27th