Harald stood near the banks of the river, gazing out at the sunlight reflecting off the rippling waters. The gentle sound of the flowing current and the warm glow of the sun filled him with a quiet peace. He closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath as he centered himself.
He opened his eyes and summoned the power of the Voice from deep within. Harald let out the first word of the Unrelenting Force Shout:
"FUS!"
The single word rippled across the water, the force sending faint waves dancing outward from the shore. Harald frowned slightly as he observed the strength of the Shout. While still formidable, it was not as powerful as it had been during his battle with Alduin. After his adventures in Apocrypha, his full-power Unrelenting Force had been capable of disintegrating objects or living beings entirely. Here, however, his Shouts and magic were diminished.
Yet, over the past year, Harald had noticed something curious. Slowly but surely, his powers were returning, growing stronger as if this world were acclimating to him—or perhaps he was acclimating to it. He theorized it was the latter. Whatever the case, the power he had once wielded in Tamriel was not lost to him; it merely lay dormant, waiting to be reawakened.
With a faint smile, Harald turned and began walking back toward his cottage. His smile widened into a grin as he spotted a familiar figure approaching from the nearby path.
"Leobald!" he called out, raising a hand in greeting.
"Harald!" the Septon called back, his arms outstretched in a jovial gesture of friendship.
Leobald was the Septon assigned to the Blackwood Vale. From what he had told Harald, he was the least busy Septon in the Riverlands. The Blackwood Vale was a bastion of those who followed the Old Gods, with only a few villages like Riverwood and the surrounding settlements, along with the town of Fairmarket, adhering to the Faith of the Seven.
Harald and Leobald had met under dramatic circumstances. The Septon had been near death after being attacked by a pack of wolves that had terrorized the nearby lands for months. He had been bitten near the neck and would have died if Harald had not found him and healed him in time. To this day, Leobald thought he had simply fainted and that Harald had saved him before the beasts could get to him.
The wolves of course never troubled the villagers again—Harald had ensured that personally.
"How was Willowood?" Harald asked as they came closer.
Leobald shrugged with a good-natured smile. "Oh, same old, same old. I came with the wedding party."
Harald chuckled. "Ah.. the wedding's tomorrow. I almost forgot."
Leobald pointed a finger at him, his expression suddenly animated. "And we need to finish our debate. I've been thinking about it for some time now."
Harald laughed heartily. "Leobald, my friend, know when you have lost."
The two of them had spent countless hours over the past year debating faith and religion. It had all begun when Leobald, upon learning that Harald followed no particular faith, took it upon himself to try converting him to the Faith of the Seven. What started as an impassioned attempt at persuasion soon turned into an ongoing intellectual exchange. Harald had learned much about the religions of Westeros, while Leobald had gained insights into the faiths of Tamriel and even Earth. Harald, of course, had been careful to omit the detail that he and his ideas hailed from another world.
Leobald chuckled as they walked toward the cottage.
They found themselves sitting in front of the flickering fire. Harald poured two cups of ale, the golden liquid reflecting the light of the hearth. He passed one to Leobald, who accepted it with a nod of thanks.
Leobald leaned back in his chair, holding the cup of ale as he regarded Harald with a curious glint in his eye. "You still haven't told me where you get this marvelous drink," he said, swirling the liquid in the cup.
Harald smirked faintly. "I brought it from my home."
Leobald raised an eyebrow. "You haven't told me where you hail from, either."
Harald's smirk deepened as he leaned back in his own chair. "People are allowed to have their secrets, my friend."
Leobald chuckled softly and took another sip, but his face quickly shifted to one of concern. Harald noticed the change immediately.
"What troubles you?" Harald asked, his tone measured.
Leobald sighed, setting the cup down on the table. "I am worried, Harald, about what's happening in the kingdom."
Harald leaned forward, resting his elbows on the sturdy wooden table. "Has King Harren increased taxes again?"
Leobald's shoulders sagged as he nodded. "Well, he's been doing it every year…" He paused, shaking his head. "Here in the lands of the Blackwoods, we are fortunate. Lord Blackwood's clever diplomacy keeps the worst at bay. But the rest of the Riverlands are not so lucky. Harren's monstrous castle claims more lives every day. Thralls are taken to work on it, their lives spent like coin for his vanity."
Harald frowned deeply. "Why haven't the Riverlords risen up against him? Surely they must see the suffering he causes."
Leobald shook his head, his expression weary. "The Riverlands have always been like this. The other kingdoms have powerful houses—the Durandons, the Lannisters, the Gardeners, the Starks, and the Arryns. Families with deep roots and the strength to unify their lands. But the Riverlands? We had the Mudds once, but their power diminished when the Andals invaded. Before the Ironborn and the Stormkings, we had the Justman kings. But their line ended with an assassin's blade, leaving a century of anarchy in their wake."
Harald listened intently, his brow furrowed. "Still, no one? Not even one lord has tried?"
Leobald sighed. "Perhaps. I've heard whispers of lords planning to rally behind Riverrun."
Harald leaned back, a faint smile of hope crossing his face. "That's good, isn't it?"
Leobald's gaze darkened. "I've also heard some plan to use Harren's sons to unseat him. And then there's Lord Blackwood, who is almost certainly speaking with the Starks. All these plots lead to the same place: more anarchy and chaos. The Riverlands are doomed no matter what path is taken."
Harald remained silent as Leobald continued. "I am beginning to wonder, Harald, if the gods are truly as merciful as I've been taught. How can they allow such misery? The Faith teaches us to accept their will, but… I cannot. Not when children starve and tyrants like Harren thrive."
"You think the gods allow it? Or is it the men who claim to know their will—the leaders of your faith, the lords of your lands—who fail to act?" Harald asked, realizing their conversation had returned to their long-held debate.
Leobald hesitated, his gaze dropping to his cup. "Perhaps the gods are angry. Perhaps we've brought this upon ourselves, letting an unbeliever like Harren rule us." He paused, his expression shifting as if a realization was dawning on him. "Oldtown has abandoned us," he added sadly.
"The leader of your faith?" Harald asked.
Leobald nodded reluctantly. "Yes. The High Septon in Oldtown sits on his throne, surrounded by gold and incense, while we starve and suffer," he said bitterly. "When I was in Oldtown, I saw how little they cared for the Riverlands. They blamed us for the Ironborn rule, spoke of us as though we had been abandoned by the gods."
Harald snorted. "Sounds like right cunts to me."
Leobald couldn't help but laugh. "That is blasphemy," he said, though his voice held no real reprimand.
"Calling the High Septon a cunt?" Harald asked with a crooked smile.
Leobald sighed, his mood lightening for a moment. "I will look the other way," he replied jokingly. But the levity didn't last long. "They say the Seven guide us, but I grow weary of it all, Harald. The prayers, the sermons—they feel empty now."
"It's fine to feel conflicted, Leobald. Doubt is not a sin," Harald said firmly.
Leobald's tone rose in frustration. "No, no, I should not be! I am a Septon—I swore to serve the Seven and their will. To bring their light to the people. I promised I would not be like those in Oldtown. I vowed to help my fellow Riverlanders. And yet, here I am, losing faith, becoming what I hated and saw in—"
Harald interrupted gently. "It's fine to feel how you feel. Do you think the gods fear your questions? If they are just, they will endure your doubt. And if they are not…" he paused, his gaze piercing, "then perhaps your doubt is a mercy of its own."
Leobald looked at him, his expression vulnerable. "But what am I without my faith, Harald? It's what gives me purpose, what guides me. If I lose it, what's left?"
"Faith doesn't have to mean blind obedience, Leobald. Perhaps your faith is not gone—perhaps it's changing. Evolving into something stronger. You don't have to abandon the Seven, but you can demand better from those who claim to speak for them. Demand better of yourself."
"You think that's possible? To serve the gods, but question their servants?"
"If the gods are just, they would expect nothing less. Any faith so brittle it cannot handle a bit of scrutiny may not be worth holding at all."
Leobald sighed, a mix of exhaustion and hope crossing his face. "You make it sound so simple."
"It's not simple. But then, nothing worth having ever is," Harald concluded, his voice steady and sure.
The room fell into contemplative silence, the crackling fire the only sound between them as Leobald pondered his friend's words.
=====
Harald stood watching the ceremony unfold before him. Willem's daughter was getting married, and the village had come alive with celebration. The wedding took place in a small clearing at the edge of the village. Flowers, gathered from the fields and woven into garlands, hung between wooden poles that marked the ceremonial area. The villagers had donned their best attire, their faces alight with joy. Children darted between the adults, their laughter adding to the festive atmosphere.
The bride wore a simple dress of pale linen, her hair crowned with wildflowers that had been carefully woven together. Her face shone with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. The groom, though clad in patched and mended clothes, stood tall with pride. His calloused hands clasped hers tightly. They were young and in love.
Leobald stood before them in his white robes. The seven-pointed star, carved from wood, was held in one hand, while the other cradled a small bowl of river water. His voice carried over the gathering, steady and clear, as he spoke the words of the ceremony.
"In the light of the Seven, we gather to unite these two souls. The Father, to guide them with justice; the Mother, to bless them with compassion; the Warrior, to grant them strength; the Maiden, to preserve their love; the Smith, to help them build a life together; the Crone, to grant them wisdom; and the Stranger, to remind them that all things must end, and so, too, must they cherish every moment they are given."
Leobald dipped his fingers into the bowl of water, marking the foreheads of the bride and groom.
"Do you swear, by the light of the Seven, to honor and cherish one another, in all your days, as long as you both shall live?"
The bride and groom spoke their vows.
"We swear it."
Leobald smiled softly, his expression warm and genuine as he stepped back, giving the couple space. The bride and groom leaned into one another, their first kiss as husband and wife sealing the union.
The villagers erupted into cheers and applause, a joyful noise that echoed through the surrounding trees.
The feast afterward was lively and filled with cheer. Harald made his rounds, congratulating the bride and groom, sharing kind words and toasts with the other villagers. He laughed, he drank, and even joined in the dancing.
For one night, the villagers' worries about increased taxes or poor harvests seemed to vanish. They were united in joy at this event.
As the sun set, Harald found himself standing with Leobald at the edge of the clearing. The festivities were beginning to wind down.
"I hope the peace here will last," Leobald said, his voice tinged with both hope and doubt.
Harald nodded, his gaze drifting over the scene before them. "It's a rare thing, peace. Harder still to keep."
His voice was quieter, almost a murmur. "I hope it stays like this." He didn't add the rest of his thought—that he feared the troubles outside this little slice of heaven he had found would intrude, bringing with them the chaos and pain he had seen so often before.
.
.
.
The villagers of Willowood were awakened by the sound of thundering hooves. Their peaceful night's sleep was shattered by the cacophony of doom descending upon them. The Ironborn raiders swept into the village like a storm, their torches blazing against the night sky.
The captain of the raiders, a sharp-featured man with a patch over one eye, sat tall on his horse, barking commands to his men.
"Leave the children and the old—they're no use to us!" His voice carried over the panicked screams of the villagers.
Chaos erupted as the Ironborn dismounted and began their grim work. Some villagers tried to resist, wielding pitchforks or whatever tools they could grab. They were cut down swiftly, their bravery no match for the seasoned brutality of the raiders. Women screamed as they were dragged from their homes, their struggles met with cruel laughter.
The captain stood amidst the chaos, his one good eye scanning the village. He nodded in grim satisfaction as his men rounded up the captives. Men and women, shackled and chained, were herded like cattle into crude prison carts.
By the time dawn began to break, the Ironborn had what they came for. The captain stood near the carts, inspecting their cargo. He gestured to his men.
"Take them to Honeytree," he commanded.
As his men moved to obey, the captain's gaze landed on a wiry, nervous man who stood trembling. The captain strode over, grabbing the man by the collar and yanking him close.
"You said there were no other villages nearby," the captain snarled, his voice low and menacing. "Was that a lie?"
The man stammered, his words tumbling out in a panicked rush.
"N-no, m'lord! I mean, there's one—a small one. Riverwood, they call it. Barely worth the trouble!"
The captain's single eye narrowed, his grip tightening.
"Small or not. Lead us there."
The man hesitated, his lips trembling. Finally, he nodded, his voice quavering, "Yes, m'lord. Yes, I'll take you."