Capítulo 8: Down the Blue Fork
Harald stood at the river's edge, watching as the men boarded the longship that had once belonged to Rodrick Greyjoy. It was a sturdy vessel, sleek and well-crafted. The long, slender oars were already manned, dipping into the water in preparation for the journey ahead. The sail was furled for now, but the wind was steady, and once it was unfurled, it would propel them faster downstream toward Fairmarket.
The men gathered on board were a mix of seasoned Blanetree men and new recruits. Harald glanced toward the keep. Robard had enough men to defend it, so he wasn't concerned about its safety in his absence.
He turned to face Robard and Gwen, who stood behind him.
"With luck," Harald said, his voice steady, "I'll return with Haldon's head and the hostages. And then the real struggle begins."
Robard nodded solemnly. "The gods are with you, Harald."
Gwen stepped forward. "I have no doubt you'll succeed, Harald."
"When it's done, I'll send a raven to you," Harald promised. "And I'll send one to Lords Blackwood, Frey, and Mallister as well. We'll meet in Fairmarket."
Without another word, Harald turned and walked toward the longship. The wooden deck creaked beneath his boots as he stepped aboard, his eyes scanning the river and the distant trees lining the shore. The current was slow but steady—perfect for the journey ahead.
His gaze fell on Septon Leobald, who was sitting awkwardly, dressed in a borrowed gambeson that seemed a size too large. A helmet covered most of his face, leaving only a pair of nervous eyes visible. The sight drew a small smile from Harald.
"You look like a proper warrior, Septon," Harald said with a smirk.
Leobald shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the helmet that seemed determined to obscure his vision. "I think I'm starting to regret this decision," he admitted, his voice slightly muffled under the ill-fitting helm.
Harald chuckled. "Too late now," he said, signaling the men to begin rowing.
The oars dipped into the water in perfect unison, pulling the ship smoothly into the current as the longship moved forward.
The rhythmic splash of the oars against the water set the pace as the longship glided smoothly along the Blue Fork. The riverbanks slipped past in a blur of dense greenery, carrying them farther toward Fairmarket. Harald stood at the prow, his thoughts turning to the journey ahead when Septon Leobald's voice broke the quiet.
"Harald," Leobald began, shifting awkwardly in his oversized helmet, "you've spoken little about the world you come from. What was your life like? Were you a knight there?"
The men rowing the oars perked up, their curious gazes turning toward Harald as well. They had heard bits and pieces of his life, but none had been able to picture where he came from.
Harald smiled slightly, casting a glance at the septon and the men. "I was not a knight, Septon Leobald, though I was made a lord a few years ago," Harald replied, chuckling softly.
"A lord?" Leobald exclaimed. "Why did you not say so? We would have addressed you properly by your title."
"Hah! I knew it!" Brannik, one of the men at the oars, chimed in with a grin.
Harald shook his head, waving off the idea. "The correct term would be thane," he corrected. "But I'm no lord here, and there's no need to address me as such."
Leobald leaned forward, clearly intrigued. "But still," the septon said, "you must have done great deeds to be made a lord in your world."
Harald's gaze grew distant for a moment. Memories flashed through his mind. "Through my blood and my deeds… yes," Harald said, pausing as if measuring the weight of what to say next.
"I come from a land known as Tamriel," Harald began, his voice carrying over the gentle splashes of the oars as the longship drifted down the Blue Fork. The men aboard the boat leaned in, their attention fully on him now.
"Tamriel is home to at least a dozen races, with many more having died out or changed in ages gone by," Harald continued. "It's a vast land divided into nine provinces. I was from Cyrodiil, one of those provinces." Memories of his youth flashed through his mind—the Great Forest, the Imperial City, the struggles he faced in that distant world.
Harald paused briefly before continuing. "I won't bore you with the history of Tamriel, but most of my youth was spent in Cyrodiil. I was a sellsword and later an adventurer, taking on whatever jobs I could to survive."
"Wot kind o' jobs?" Grett, one of the men near the bow, asked, his voice low with curiosity.
Harald shrugged. "Whatever paid. Clearing out bandit camps, hunting down wild beasts, escorting merchants through dangerous lands. Sometimes even delving into ancient tombs for treasure. It wasn't glamorous, but it kept me moving."
Leobald frowned slightly. "So, you were like a hedge knight?"
"Something like that," Harald said, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. "I wandered for years, never staying in one place for long. But eventually, I felt a call to the north—to the province of Skyrim."
The men listened intently as Harald continued, his gaze drifting to the passing treeline. "Skyrim was in the midst of a civil war when I arrived. I didn't have much stake in it at first. I went there looking for work, just like anywhere else. But fate... fate had other plans."
"Wot 'appened?" one of the men asked.
Harald's expression remained calm, though his eyes darkened with the memory. "I crossed the border into Skyrim, and the next thing I knew, I was captured—caught up in an Imperial ambush meant for the rebels. They thought I was one of them, so they dragged me off to a town called Helgen to be executed."
"I was standing there, bound, waiting for the axe to fall," Harald said. "And then... everything changed. The skies darkened, and from out of nowhere, a dragon appeared."
"So your land has dragons as well?" Leobald asked, his brow furrowed in interest.
Harald shook his head. "No, no. The dragons of Tamriel are nothing like the ones your Valyrians ride around here. Our dragons are sentient. They can speak—some even once ruled over us."
"Truly?" Leobald asked, his eyes widening in astonishment.
Harald nodded. "Yes. Long ago, they enslaved mankind. But we rebelled, and for a long time, we believed the dragons were gone. Extinct. So you can imagine how surprising it was when one showed up, right as I was about to be executed."
The men sat in stunned silence, their minds grappling with the idea of intelligent, speaking dragons.
"That moment at Helgen was the beginning of a great adventure for me," Harald said, his tone reflecting both pride and sorrow. "The fate of Tamriel—and the entire world—rested on me for the next two years of my life."
The men aboard the longship listened in rapt silence, their oars still dipping into the water in rhythm, but their attention fully fixed on Harald.
"I was revealed to be Dragonborn," Harald continued. "A man born with the soul of a dragon. The only one who could truly kill a dragon, for I had the power to absorb their souls after defeating them."
Septon Leobald's eyes widened in awe. "So, you truly are chosen of the gods," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
"But how, Harald? How did you hold the fate of the world in your hands?" Leobald asked.
Harald's gaze grew distant, and for a moment, the weight of his past flickered in his eyes. "Alduin," he said quietly. "The World-Eater. A dragon unlike any other—the very one that once ruled over mankind. He returned to destroy the world, as he had done in ages past. There was a prophecy that only the Dragonborn—only I—could defeat him."
Harald paused, allowing the gravity of his words to sink in. "The abilities you've seen me use, the Shouts, or Thu'um, as it's called, can only be wielded by dragons and by those like me. And some select mortals as well."
"Tha's wot they are!" one of the men exclaimed in awe. "Yer shouts!"
Another man grinned and chuckled. "So yer a dragon, then?" he said, laughing lightly.
Harald allowed himself a brief smile. "Yes," he said with a chuckle of his own. "You could say that."
He continued, "I traveled across Skyrim, fighting dragons, learning to control my power. It wasn't easy. I lost many friends and allies along the way. The cost was high, but in the end... I defeated Alduin."
"And then you were sent here," Leobald finished quietly, as if piecing together the puzzle himself.
Harald nodded slowly, his expression solemn. "Yes. There was nothing left for me in Tamriel. Only sorrow awaited me there." He paused. "But here… perhaps I could start anew," he added after some time.
The silence deepened, broken only by the gentle lapping of the river against the hull of the longship. The men looked at Harald with a new sense of awe.
Brannik, one of the men who had been listening intently, finally spoke up, breaking the quiet. "If I hadn't seen what you could do, Lord Stormcrown, I'd have called you a madman."
The others nodded in agreement, their faces a mixture of disbelief and respect.
Leobald, his gaze thoughtful, spoke next. "You are a good man, Harald. You did not have to help us, especially after the life you've had. Yet, you chose to… I believe you."
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The longship cut through the Blue Fork like a blade, its prow splitting the calm waters as the sun dipped below the horizon. The quiet splash of the oars was the only sound, aside from the distant calls of birds returning to their nests for the night.
Leobald, sitting near Harald, pointed ahead. "There's a village not far from here. We could stay there for the night."
Harald nodded in agreement. They had made good progress, and at the rate they were going, they could reach Fairmarket by tomorrow. What surprised him was that they hadn't encountered any Ironborn ships yet.
But his musings were cut short when one of the men suddenly spoke up, his voice tight with alarm. "Ironborn ships, ahead!"
Harald straightened, his gaze sharpening. His eyes followed the man's pointing finger, and there they were—two longships, their sails dark against the evening sky, cutting across the river in the fading light.
"Well, well, well," Harald muttered to himself.
Leobald's eyes widened in fear. "What if they're heading to the village I mentioned?" he asked, his voice tense with worry.
Harald's gaze remained fixed on the distant Ironborn ships. "We'll follow them," he said firmly. "If they're going to raid, we'll stop them. If not, we'll slip past them without a fight."
The decision was made swiftly, and the men adjusted the oars, turning their longship to shadow the Ironborn vessels. The sun dipped lower, and soon the cover of night fell over the river as they trailed the raiders from a safe distance.
As night deepened, the Ironborn ships slowed and veered toward the shore, stopping at the village Leobald had mentioned.
"Pull in," Harald ordered quietly, and the men did as commanded, steering their ship toward the shore. The longship crept toward the riverbank, the men working silently as they drew close. Harald leaped into the shallow water, helping the others pull the ship up onto the shore, where it would be hidden by the trees.
"Four of you with me. The rest, stay with the ship," Harald instructed, turning to the men.
Septon Leobald whispered a quiet prayer under his breath, his voice barely audible in the night air.
Harald led the way, moving swiftly but silently into the dense treeline, the four men following close behind. As they neared the village, Harald signaled for them to crouch down, and they moved into the cover of the trees.
Torches flickered in the hands of the Ironborn raiders, their guttural voices carrying through the night, cruel laughter and barking orders mingling with the terrified cries of the villagers. Several of the raiders were dragging men and women from their homes, throwing them into a rough, makeshift pen in the village square. The villagers were bound, huddled together in fear, their eyes wide with terror as they were herded like cattle.
Harald's jaw clenched as he surveyed the scene.
"Look," one of the men whispered, pointing toward the far side of the village. "More over there."
Harald narrowed his eyes, quickly weighing his options. An open attack would risk the lives of the villagers. He needed to handle this quietly, carefully. Stealth was his best weapon now. He closed his eyes and whispered under his breath, summoning the words of power.
"Laas… Yah… Nir."
The Thu'um swept across the village, and as it did, Harald's vision sharpened. He could now see the glowing red auras of the Ironborn, scattered like embers in the darkness. Ten men in total, their movements outlined in the night as fiery beacons. One stood in the middle of the village, shouting orders at his men as they dragged villagers from their homes.
"Wait for my word," Harald whispered to his companions. "Then attack."
"What are you going to do?" Chett, who was at his side, asked.
Harald only smiled in response, raising a hand and muttering a spell. The air shimmered around him as he vanished from sight, casting an invisibility spell that left his companions staring in awe.
Moving silently through the village, Harald became nothing more than a whisper in the wind. The Ironborn were oblivious to his presence as he weaved between the scattered huts and flickering torchlight. His first target was an Ironborn standing near the captives, barking orders to his comrades. Harald reached out, his hand glowing faintly as he cast the paralysis spell. The Ironborn stiffened instantly, his body frozen mid-movement, his sword hanging limp in his hand.
Harald continued through the village, moving from one Ironborn to the next, carefully selecting his targets. Each time he cast the spell, the raiders fell motionless, trapped in their own bodies, unable to shout or call for help.
Finally, with most of the Ironborn paralyzed, Harald reappeared as the invisibility spell wore off and called out to the four men.
The Blanetree men surged forward from the treeline, blades drawn, and began mercilessly slitting the raiders' throats. The Ironborn couldn't even scream, their bodies already locked in place by the paralysis spell.
Throats were slit, and chests were pierced by swords. One by one, the Ironborn raiders were cut down, their blood soaking into the earth of the village they had come to pillage.
"Leave him," Harald ordered Chett as he approached the leader. "We'll need him to answer some questions."
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Harald sat by the campfire as the morning sun began to rise. The nearby village, the one they had saved the night before, was slowly coming back to life. He could see the villagers moving about, tending to their homes and helping those who had been taken captive. Fortunately, no one had died in the raid.
Leobald walked over to Harald, his steps light. "The villagers are fine," Leobald said, his voice filled with gratitude. "Thanks to you."
Harald nodded, still gazing at the village. "Is this normal?" he asked, his tone dark. "Ironborn raiding for thralls?"
Leobald sighed and took a seat beside him. "It has been, ever since Harren became king and began building his damned fortress. The Ironborn are sent to capture people to serve as thralls—laborers for his monstrous castle. It's been relentless."
Before Harald could respond, Chett and Brannik approached.
"Well?" Harald asked, standing up to face them.
Chett wiped his brow and smirked. "The bastard talked," he said, glancing at Brannik, who nodded in agreement. "They were sent by Vikon Greyjoy."
"Vikon?" Harald repeated, his eyes narrowing.
"Aye," Brannik added. "Haldon sent Vikon to search for Rodrick and to raid for thralls while he was at it."
Harald's eyes darkened as he processed the information. Vikon Greyjoy, another of Haldon's sons, was out here.
Harald clenched his fists. "Well," he said, his voice hardening. "It seems we have another Greyjoy to kill."
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