"They are close," the scout said, urgency in his voice.
Harald's gaze sharpened. "And what of the other army?"
The scout shook his head. "We dared not go too far northeast—too much risk."
Harald gave a curt nod and turned to the gathered lords, mounted and alert, their retainers waiting in tight, disciplined formations. "We'll take the high ground," he said, pointing toward the broad crest of a steep hill that dominated the surrounding plain. "That ridge commands the field. Let them try to take it from us."
At his command, the army moved—twelve thousand strong, a river of men and steel winding up the slope. Towering behind them came the ash golems—two of them, each a massive, lumbering beast of hardened ash and stone, glowing heartstones pulsing in their chests. Harald had only two left: four had been destroyed, and he had sent four more with Merrick to aid the siege at Seaguard.
"Are you certain?" Leobald asked. "About Dagon… and him being granted power by this dark god?"
Harald didn't answer at once. He looked out over the field below, where the wind stirred the tall grasses, and his face tightened—not in rage, but in guilt. Quiet, gnawing guilt.
"Yes," he said finally.
Leobald saw the change in him at once. "Then… what troubles you, my friend?"
Harald turned his head just slightly, his voice laced with something between irony and regret. "Come now, my friend. You know why." He gave a dark chuckle. "It is because of me that Hermaeus Mora is here. And I am certain he will not be alone for long. The others will soon be upon us as well. I have brought great evil here, Leobald."
He looked at the septon. "It seems your sermons have become true in the most terrible way. I have truly become the herald of the gods—the herald of the Daedric Princes to this world."
Leobald's throat tightened. "But… but you said they couldn't fully manifest—that something kept them from coming through."
"Yes," Harald interrupted gently, "I said that, and I still believe it. Something in this world prevents them from fully appearing. That is why they work through men—through avatars, through champions. But I do not yet know what that something is, what keeps them at bay for now." He glanced skyward. "Perhaps there are secrets here I must uncover before the mystery yields."
Leobald stood silent as Harald rode ahead with a final word: "Come—let us not delay our plans."
Harald made his way to the front of the army. The host stood at full attention, a sea of men awaiting his words.
"All of you, lend me your ears!"
A hush rippled over the gathered host; even the horses' snorts seemed to quiet.
Harald glanced at Leobald, who gave him a subtle nod.
"There is something," Harald began, "that I must tell you—something I have kept from you all."
Murmurs rose at once; a few men exchanged uneasy glances.
"You have seen the ash golems I created," Harald said, his voice ringing across the ridge. "Only two remain. Four I have sent with Lord Frey for the defence of the coast—but a week ago I had ten. I must confess to you that the four I dispatched to Harrenhal were destroyed."
Gasps sounded at once.
"How?" called a lord—Smallwood or Piper, Harald could not tell.
"Aye, how?" echoed others.
It was Leobald who stepped forward, solemn and firm. "Because the enemy does not fight alone," he said. "Just as our gods—the Seven, and the Old Gods of forest and stream—have chosen to bless and send forth Harald Stormcrown as our saviour, so too has the Drowned God, in His malice, chosen a champion of His own."
A low rumble of disbelief and fear swept through the ranks.
Hermaeus shared certain unsettling similarities with the Drowned God, so Harald and Leobald had agreed it was best to frame the threat in those familiar terms.
Harald raised both hands. "My friends—listen!"
The murmurs died at once, quelled by the force of his voice.
"This is the truth. The Drowned God is a lord of chains and blood, of drowning and desecration. A cruel being that lives only to devour.
"Our struggle has grown far beyond rebellion. We stand in the midst of a celestial war."
Every eye fixed on Harald.
"And you must have noticed," he went on, "that the gods—old and new—have chosen this field for their battle. Not the Reach, where the High Septon in Oldtown proclaims divinity. Not the Vale, whose airy peaks boast of piety. Not even the North, where they say the Old Gods still linger.
"No—here, in the Riverlands. Your land. Our land."
He swept an arm over the hushed host.
"This land that has bled under reaver boots for a hundred years; that has burned beneath conquests by other kingdoms. Villages razed, children stolen, men and women enslaved. This land that has suffered more than any since mankind first set foot on Westeros…"
His voice rose, bright with fire.
"It is this land the gods have chosen as their battlefield—this land they deem worthy to be lifted up and crowned in glory."
Harald brandished his battle-axe.
"This land is the heart of Westeros!"
A great cheer thundered back.
"And in these Heartlands we will crush the Ironborn, cast down their dark god, and we will never kneel again!"
"Heartland! Heartland!" the army roared, the chant rolling like thunder across the hill.
=========
Harald watched as the host of House Hoare finally emerged across the plain, banners bearing its sigil snapping in the wind.
The Army of Liberation had been deployed with deliberate care. On the left flank stood the men of House Piper, joined by the twin Vance contingents of Wayfarer's Rest and Atranta, arrayed in neat, disciplined ranks. On the right gathered House Blackwood, House Bracken, and House Tully. The rest held the center, while archers advanced in a broad screen before the line, ready to rake the Ironborn with arrows the moment they came within range.
If Harald timed matters well, the force marching from the northeast would arrive to find Dagon Hoare already broken, and that, he believed, would be enough to make the wavering Riverlords in that host change their allegiance.
Edmyn Tully rode up beside him, grimacing as he studied the enemy column. "Roote, Wode…they're at the rear. They've thrown in with Harren," he said, sounding almost crestfallen.
Harald did not flinch. "Don't fret," he replied softly. "Like Lord Bracken, they'll change sides when this is finished."
Edmyn nodded toward the flat ground below. "The archers have the range. The fool has brought his men too close—and in the open."
"Then the fool must have a reason," Harald muttered, narrowing his eyes. Something was wrong; Dagon had indeed advanced too far, too fast.
Then they saw him.
One figure stepped out from the Ironborn van, striding alone across the field. He appeared inhuman—unnaturally pale, almost translucent. A long, twisted blade hung at his side, the tendrils along its hilt writhing faintly even from this distance. When he spoke, his voice carried impossibly far.
"DRAGONBORN! I CHALLENGE YOU!"
"LET US BATTLE! COME AND FACE ME—IF YOU TRULY CLAIM TO BE THE CHAMPION OF YOUR WEAK GODS!"
A hush fell over the rebel host. All eyes turned to Harald.
"Dragonborn, do not accept!" Lord Hother Blackwood roared from the line. "This reeks of treachery!"
But Harald only smiled. This was better than he had dared hope. To clash with Dagon amid the chaos of battle would bring ruin on both armies; if Hermaeus Mora had granted the prince new powers, it was far wiser to meet him now—alone.
Harald turned to Edmyn. "Make sure the Ironborn do not advance from their line. If they do, rain arrows upon them."
Edmyn stared. "Is that wise? This could be a trap."
"It is better this way," Harald answered, calm. "After I kill him, you will charge and ride them all down."
Edmyn nodded slowly.
Harald wheeled his horse toward the slope and reached for his battle-axe, its runes pulsing along the ebony surface. He gave his mount a light kick.
The steed reared and thundered downhill, hooves tearing through the grass. As speed built, Harald loosed a battle-cry, the axe gleaming in his hand, wind whipping around him while he bore down on the lone figure before the Ironborn host.
The sight of his foe turned Harald's stomach: pale and slick, the man looked scarcely human, the reek of Hermaeus Mora's taint clinging to him like a miasma.
Harald expected Dagon to move, but the Ironborn prince merely waited. Only when Harald drew near did he raise his twisted sword.
Black-green light pulsed along the blade; oily tendrils writhed across its edge. Harald's eyes widened—it looked too much like Miraak's sword, the one he had faced when he fought the first Dragonborn.
Before he could react, the weapon screamed.
A torrent of shadowy tendrils and warping energy erupted from the blade, shrieking through the air and striking Harald's spectral steed. The horse gave one agonised cry, then burst into pale-blue flame and vanished, its ghostly form dispersing like smoke.
"FEIM!" Harald shouted just before he struck the ground.
The world shimmered as his body turned ethereal. The earth could not bruise him; the impact could not harm him. He rolled, ghost-like, tucking his shoulder, and rose smoothly to his feet, his form solidifying the moment he stood.
Across the field, Dagon advanced slowly, grinning like a predator baring its teeth.
Harald narrowed his eyes and broke into a run. Wind howled around him as his speed doubled, then tripled, tearing the ground beneath his boots. Mid-sprint he hurled his battle-axe at Dagon.
The prince moved with eerie grace. A single, elegant motion of his tentacled blade diverted the axe's path. It sailed past him—harmless to Dagon, deadly to those behind—smashing into the Ironborn ranks with a sickening crunch and killing two men in a spray of blood.
Harald did not slow.
"MUL QAH!" he roared.
Ghostly draconic armour flared into being—gleaming scales of golden-red energy coalescing over his arms and shoulders, the very essence of his dragon's soul.
Dagon's grin widened as he lunged, his sword howling with whispered voices.
Harald reached him first. He drove a gauntleted fist into Dagon's chest, the dragon-aspect armour ringing on impact, yet the prince absorbed the blow like living stone. Harald's hand shot up to seize Dagon's face; they locked eyes—black pits against burning grey irises.
Dagon did not flinch; his smile only broadened.
The twisted sword slashed again, tentacles whipping toward Harald, but they rebounded harmlessly off the glowing armour.
"Good try, Hermaeus," Harald muttered now knowing how strong Dagon was, "but still not strong enough."
"FAAS… RU… MAAR!"
The Dismay Shout burst from his throat, a shockwave of terror rippling outward. Dagon staggered back, screaming and clutching his head; the grin faltered, fear flickering across his features.
Harald seized the opening. His outstretched palm blazed with runic light, recalling his weapon. The battle-axe tore through the air, spinning like a wheel of death, and slapped into his waiting grip.
With a savage cry, Harald struck. Dagon parried; ebony bit against writhing black matter, sparks flying as the ground trembled beneath their clash.
"Hermaeus… are you there?" Harald asked, tilting his head in mockery.
Dagon blinked, taken aback. "Are you mocking me?"
Harald's grin was quick and cruel. "I'm not talking to you, prince—only to your master."
With that, he drove a boot into Dagon's gut, breaking the stalemate. The prince staggered, winded but upright. Harald pressed the advantage, sweeping his battle-axe in a brutal arc. Dagon recovered just in time, parrying with his writhing blade; sparks and black ichor spattered where the weapons met.
What followed was a tempest of steel and shadow.
Dagon's sword snapped out in long, serpentine strokes, its oily edge leaving trails of darkness. Harald twisted away from one strike, caught the next on the haft of his axe, ducked beneath a third, and answered with a spinning blow toward the prince's ribs. Dagon blocked—but retreated a step.
Tentacles of black energy sprang from the sword. Harald vaulted aside, rolling low to dodge the slithering lashes.
"All this power you claim to possess," he growled as their blades rang again, "yet you still hide behind a mortal, Mora. Why?"
Dagon snarled and hacked downward with both hands. Harald sidestepped, hooked the crook of his axe around the descending blade, and locked their weapons together.
"Is this the might of the great Hermaeus Mora?" Harald sneered.
With a roar, Dagon wrenched free and attacked in a frenzy—vicious strokes falling like hail. Harald met each blow, weaving and blocking, edging ever closer.
"I wonder…" he murmured, voice low and taunting, as he slipped inside Dagon's guard.
The prince raised his sword to cleave down—
—and Harald bellowed:
"YOL… TOOR…!"
A torrent of dragonfire blasted from Harald's mouth at point-blank range, engulfing Dagon. Flames wrapped around him; the prince shrieked—a raw, inhuman wail—as oily corruption bubbled and burned from his flesh. His armor steamed while he roasted alive within it.
Harald watched, disgust twisting his features.
Then a voice seeped into his mind—slimy, slithering, mocking.
"Ah, Dragonborn…" It oozed through his thoughts like oil. "It seems this simpleton has failed."
Harald let out a low chuckle, eyes never leaving Dagon's blazing corpse. "You should have chosen a better champion, Mora."
The Daedric Prince laughed—a wet, gurgling sound.
"Champion? You mistake a pawn for a king piece. This one? No, no. He was merely a test. A new world, after all…" The voice tittered. "Your theory is correct: something in this realm keeps us at bay. I was simply… probing the cracks."
The tone drifted, as though receding into fog between realms.
"My true champion has long since left these lands. He will unravel your world's secrets for me."
Harald tightened his grip on the battle-axe, glowering at Dagon Hoare's charred remains.
"Enjoy your little kingly endeavor," Mora cooed. "We shall meet again. I always win, Dragonborn—and next time, what was promised will be mine… your soul."
Hermaeus was gone, and with him the fire that had engulfed Dagon. The burned prince stood swaying, as if in a trance. His body began to contort, spine arching unnaturally, and he screamed—a cry of pure horror.
"What is happening to me?" Dagon wailed, clawing at his disintegrating face.
Harald stepped back in rising alarm as flesh sloughed from the prince's bones like wet paper. Muscles twitched and split. Skin turned a sickly, slime-sheened green, stretching over a frame that twisted and swelled with unnatural force. His mouth gaped wider than any human's, revealing rows of needle-like teeth, while his lower limbs thickened into scaled columns.
His armor cracked and fell away. Slick tentacles burst from his back, writhing angrily.
Harald narrowed his eyes. "Really?" he muttered, almost offended by Mora's parting gift. "A Lurker?"
With a wet, revolting snap of cartilage, the transformation finished—and the creature that had once been a prince shrieked.
Gasps and cries rippled through both armies. The Riverlords on the ridge stared in awestruck terror; the Ironborn dropped to their knees, praying to the Drowned God, convinced their deity had manifested in flesh. To Harald, however, it was merely another Lurker—he had lost count of how many he had slain in Hermaeus's realm.
He shouted a single word to end this as quickly as he could.
"TIID!"
The word echoed like thunder compressed to a whisper, and time slowed. Wind froze mid-gust; a falling leaf hung motionless in the air. Colors dulled to grey-blue, and the Lurker's pounding strides crawled in sluggish arcs.
Harald stepped aside lightly, almost leisurely, hearing the steady thump of his own heart. He walked a few paces, turned to face the creature squarely, extended his arm, and began to weave a spell—the advanced Destruction incantation known as Incinerate.
Not exactly Incinerate, but an even deadlier variant he had devised at the College—Harald called it Hellfire. Flames gathered in his palm, a seething vortex of red-hot plasma, licking and writhing like a caged beast.
The moment the Shout ended—
BOOM.
He released it.
The Lurker never had a chance. One instant it raised a slime-slick claw; the next came blinding light. A sphere of searing fire shot from Harald's hand and struck its chest. The blast blossomed into a burning shockwave, engulfing the creature in a heartbeat. It never even screamed—it was simply gone.
The firestorm rolled on. The front ranks of Ironborn were caught in the flare: some vaporised where they stood, others hurled backwards, flesh charred, armour half-melted into their skin.
Harald, silhouetted amid glowing embers, allowed himself a satisfied smile.
Then he heard it—the rumble behind him: twelve thousand boots and pounding hooves.
The Army of Liberation charged, swords high, shields locked, flooding over the hill like a released river.
"FOR THE HEARTLANDS!" they roared.
The stunned Ironborn tried to flee, only to be cut down by Roote, Wode, Lants and their men, who had turned their cloaks at the last moment. The slaughter became complete when the army from the northeast arrived—led, to Harald's and Edmyn's surprise, by Lords Mandrake,Ryger and Vypren, with no Harlaw in sight.
Eighteen thousand blades closed in; the host of Hosue Hoare was annihilated. None survived.
Harald and the army of liberation stood victorious.
Only Harrenhal remained to fall—then the Riverlands would be free, and his ascent to kingship assured.