Harald sprinted through the cobbled streets of Fairmarket, his boots hammering against the stone, his axe humming in its sheath on his back. All around him, the town was erupting.
Doors flew open. Windows shattered. Men and women—some old, some barely grown—poured into the streets, their faces lit by the glow of the burning barracks. They held whatever they could grab: butcher knives, hammers, pitchforks, clubs, even table legs. Their eyes burned not with fear but with fury.
A woman screamed as she rushed past Harald, wielding a cleaver still stained from the butcher's block. Beside her, a one-eyed blacksmith swung a heavy mallet over his shoulder, a torn apron fluttering behind him like a banner. They weren't trained, but they didn't need to be. They were angry—and rightfully so.
Harald smiled. Everything was happening according to plan.
He turned down a narrow street and spotted four Ironborn soldiers attempting to regroup. One of them shouted an order, but never finished. Harald raised his hand.
A bolt of lightning lanced through the air with a crack like a thunderclap. It struck the first man square in the chest, then leapt—arcing from one body to the next. All four convulsed violently, their weapons clattering to the ground as their bodies smoked and spasmed. They collapsed in a heap, twitching and dead before they even understood what had hit them.
Harald didn't break stride. He raced onward, weaving between alleyways and buildings until the looming shadow of the Ironborn tower came into view. Beyond it, he could hear the clash of steel and the cries of battle—Jonnel had made his move. Fighting had broken out near the building where the hostages were kept.
"Good," Harald thought, his eyes turning to fix on the tower. Its heavy stone walls rose like a fist in the heart of Fairmarket, and from its base a stream of Ironborn soldiers emerged like hornets from a broken hive, charging toward the chaos in the streets.
Harald stopped on the pathway to the tower, where the Ironborn were rushing out. He reached for his axe. The familiar weight settled into his hands. The runes along its ebony edge pulsed faintly, eager to taste blood.
Then he bellowed, "HEY!"
Dozens of heads snapped toward him.
Harald charged.
The first Ironborn didn't even raise his shield before Harald cleaved through his side, the axe biting into his stomach and tearing through his back. The man folded in on himself with a strangled scream.
The next raised a sword. Harald's free hand erupted in flame. A gout of fire burst from his palm, engulfing the soldier in an inferno. The man screamed and fell, thrashing on the ground as the fire consumed him.
Another tried to strike from behind. Harald spun, ducked, and drove his fist into the man's face. Bone crunched. The Ironborn staggered, and Harald kicked him square in the chest, sending him crashing into the tower wall with a sickening crack.
Two more came at once. Harald barreled into one, shoulder-first, driving him back. His axe came up in a brutal upward arc—catching the other under the chin and splitting his skull like a melon. Blood sprayed, hot and sudden. The first staggered, dazed—Harald shoved him to the ground and crushed his skull beneath his boot.
He didn't stop moving.
Every Ironborn near the tower fell before him—burned, broken, or cut down by his axe. He fought like a storm given flesh, roaring, snarling, smashing through their line like a god of war.
As the last of the Ironborn fell, he could hear the town screaming—a thousand voices crying out in anger, hope, pain, and fury—all rising into the night in a deafening roar.
He turned toward the tower's entrance, blood dripping from his axe. He needed to end this quickly and get back to help.
Harald entered the tower. The stone corridor ahead twisted slightly, lit by sparse torches flickering against damp walls. He had barely taken a dozen steps when the clash of boots on stone signaled the approach of enemies. Four Ironborn burst from an adjoining hallway, blades drawn, their armor clinking as they raised their weapons. Behind them, servants shrieked and fled into corners, ducking behind furniture or scrambling through side doors, their eyes wide with terror.
"Who the fuck are you?!" one of the warriors growled—a higher-ranking officer, judging by the black iron chain draped over his chest.
Harald didn't slow his stride. Instead, he lifted his voice and roared, "I am the Dragonborn. I have come for your lord."
The name fell on them like a curse. Two of them froze, the color draining from their faces. One took a hesitant step backward. The officer's eyes widened with something between disbelief and fear.
"It's you…Greyholt…you're real…"
They turned to run. They didn't make it.
Harald's hand lit with a burst of crackling lightning. He unleashed it in a flash, striking them down mid-step. Without pausing, he raced past and ascended the spiraling staircases, ignoring the shrieks of panicked servants.
At the top, he reached a large wooden door reinforced with iron. He stood before the entrance.
"FUS!"
The Thu'um burst from his lungs, and the doors exploded inward, blasted off their hinges and slamming into the stone walls of the hall beyond with an earth-shaking crash.
Inside the chamber—spacious and torchlit—stood a lone figure:
Haldon Greyjoy.
He was alone. No guards. No servants. Just him.
His face was a storm of confusion and horror. His mouth hung slightly open, his hand twitching by his side as he took in the dark figure stepping into his hall.
"So… it's you, then," Haldon rasped, his voice hoarse. "The one they call… Dragonborn."
Harald didn't respond. He stepped forward, slow and steady, the sound of his boots echoing in the vast chamber.
Haldon took a step back, his eyes narrowing.
"Where are my sons?" he demanded. "What have you done with them?"
Harald's voice was cold. "You'll meet them soon enough."
Something in Haldon snapped. He let out a broken laugh—part grief, part fury.
"You fool," he spat. "Do you know what you've done? You've doomed yourself. And these fucking greelanders. Harren will drown them all in blood. For your arrogance. For this… insolence! He will make a mountain of skulls of them all."
Still, Harald said nothing. He continued forward, unshaken.
Haldon's hand moved subtly behind his back. Then, louder: "Where are my sons?!"
Harald stopped just a few steps away.
"Like I said, Lord," he murmured, "you'll meet them soon. In your Drowned God's halls. Isn't that where your dead go?" he added mockingly.
"RAAAAGH!"
Haldon screamed as he lunged, revealing a war axe clutched in one trembling hand. He swung it in a vicious arc, the blade crashing against Harald's chest with a metallic clang.
It bounced off harmlessly.
The ebony armor hadn't even dented.
Haldon stared. He screamed again and struck once more, then again—each blow more desperate, each strike weaker. On the fifth swing, the haft snapped, and the broken axe clattered to the stone floor.
Harald didn't move.
Haldon panted, staring up into Harald's face, trembling.
Harald grabbed him by the throat. He lifted the Ironborn lord with one hand and hurled him across the hall like a doll.
Haldon crashed into his own throne, shattering the wooden seat of power. He hit the floor hard, coughing and groaning as he rolled among the splinters.
Harald walked forward—slowly, calmly—axe raised.
Haldon tried to sit up, blood on his lips, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Harren… Harren will—"
"Will die," Harald said simply. "Like you."
The axe came down.
Haldon Greyjoy's head rolled across the shattered remnants of his throne.
=====
Harald stood over Haldon Greyjoy's lifeless corpse, blood pooling beneath the shattered remains of the throne. The lord's mouth hung open, frozen in a final, breathless curse.
Without a word, Harald reached down and seized the Ironborn's severed head by the hair. It was still warm in his grasp. Then he turned and sprinted from the ruined throne room, boots pounding down the stone stairwell of the tower.
Outside, the streets of Fairmarket were chaos. He raced through narrow alleys and wide lanes, passing blazing torches and overturned carts. Townsfolk were flooding toward the central marketplace from all directions, bearing whatever weapons they could find. The air was filled with shouts, cries, and the sounds of rebellion.
Ahead, in the wide plaza of the central square, a standoff was underway. The last major Ironborn contingent—perhaps fifty or sixty warriors—stood in a tight formation, weapons drawn and shields raised. Around them, the people of Fairmarket gathered like a storm waiting to break, held back only by the cold steel of their occupiers.
"Might as well make a show of things," Harald thought as he approached.
From his right hand, he conjured magelight—not the usual orb of radiant energy, but a weave of light that coated his body, enveloping him in a shimmering aura of pure gold. The glow danced across his armor, making him look like a warrior carved from the sun itself.
A hush fell over the crowd as they looked back and stared at his luminous form.
"Is that… him?" someone whispered.
"The Dragonborn…"
He walked slowly, deliberately toward the Ironborn ranks. The crowd parted before him as he moved; some reached out to touch him. If there had been any doubters before, there were none now.
The Ironborn shifted nervously, terrified, as his glowing figure approached. As he reached Leobald and Ryam at the front, he wasted no time disarming the Ironborn.
"ZUN HAAL VIIK!"
In an instant, every axe, sword, spear, and dagger in the Ironborn's hands wrenched free and flew skyward, clattering uselessly onto the cobblestones or sailing into the crowd beyond. There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then Harald raised Haldon's severed head. He hurled it forward, letting it bounce once before it rolled to a stop at the Ironborn's feet.
Gasps turned to howls.
"Let the rivers run with Ironborn blood!" Harald bellowed, his voice booming like thunder. "Let Harren see it from his Harrenhal!"
He turned to face the townsfolk, still glowing. "Riverlanders—take your lands back!"
With a roar, the townsfolk surged forward. Screams filled the night as they fell upon the Ironborn with feral fury, hacking, stabbing, and beating them down. Some of the Ironborn tried to flee—only to be dragged down, ripped apart by a rage that had been building for years. Others begged for mercy and found none. The ground was quickly slick with blood.
"Dragonborn!" they cried.
"Throw them to the river!"
"Freedom!"
"Death to Harren!"
Harald stood with Leobald and Ryam, watching the massacre he had unleashed. He turned and saw Leobald—his eyes ablaze with triumph, lips curled into a fervent smile. Beside him stood Septon Ryam, pale and shaking, horror etched across every line of his face.
Fairmarket was free. The rest of the Riverlands awaited.