Chương 7: A Cold Nightmare
The great forests west of the Imperial City were vast and dense, filled with towering trees whose thick branches intertwined overhead, blotting out most of the sky. The underbrush was thick with moss and tangled vines, and the air was damp and cool, carrying the scent of rich earth and rain-soaked bark.
Harald remembered these woods well, having spent much time here in the first few years after his arrival in Tamriel.
"There was an Ayleid ruin somewhere in these woods," he recalled.
Leaves crunched beneath Harald's boots as he moved forward, his senses alive with the familiar sounds of the wild—the distant chirp of birds, the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze, and the occasional snap of a twig underfoot.
It wasn't long before the familiar white stone structures emerged from the trees, half-buried beneath centuries of dirt and overgrowth. The ruins were ancient, their once smooth walls cracked and weathered, covered in vines that had claimed the stone as their own.
As Harald walked into the ruins, the silence became oppressive. It wasn't just the absence of sound; it was the presence of something else—something lurking beneath the surface, waiting. He could feel it, like an itch at the back of his mind, a faint whisper in the air that grew louder with each step he took.
Then, the voices came.
Harald, run!
Look out!
They were whispers, fragments of memory that clawed their way into his mind. Familiar voices—ones he had not heard in years—echoed through the ruins, reverberating off the stone walls. His breath quickened, the memories flooding back, unwanted and unbidden. His hands instinctively clenched into fists as he tried to focus, to clear his mind.
"Why here?" Harald muttered to himself. "Why dream of this place again?"
And then it came—the voice. A voice so familiar it chilled him to the core. Deep, resonant, and filled with a cruel, mocking amusement.
"So, this is where the Mad One sent you…"
Harald's breath caught in his throat. His hands tightened into fists, his knuckles white. He turned slowly, feeling the heavy, unseen gaze upon him, watching, waiting. The air grew colder, and the shadows seemed to thicken, swirling and shifting as if alive.
From the depths of the ruin, a figure emerged.
It towered over the crumbling arches, its monstrous silhouette wrapped in a cloak of writhing shadows. The figure was enormous, easily twice Harald's height, and its form seemed to shift and pulse as though it were made of darkness itself. Curled horns protruded from its head, framing a face obscured in darkness. But beneath that veil of shadow, fangs glinted in the dim light. Two glowing red eyes burned with malevolence, fixed on Harald with a smile that dripped cruelty.
Though Harald had never seen this being in this form, he knew—deep down, with an unsettling certainty—who it was.
A low, guttural laugh echoed through the air, filled with malice so thick it made the hairs on the back of Harald's neck stand on end.
"You cannot escape me," the figure growled, its voice slithering through the ruins like a snake. "You think fleeing to this world has freed you from my grasp? Your soul has always been mine to claim."
Harald's breath hitched, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. But he found his courage, forcing the words out despite the overwhelming dread creeping over him.
"My soul is that of a dragon," Harald said, his voice steadying as he spoke. "It belongs only to Akatosh."
The figure laughed again, a deep, mocking sound that echoed endlessly through the ancient ruins.
"Akatosh?" it sneered, its tone dripping with scorn. "The dragon god has no claim here."
The figure stepped closer, its red eyes narrowing in delight as it watched the flicker of fear in Harald's gaze.
"Your soul, Dragonborn, has always been mine," the voice hissed, each word laced with ancient power.
"No," Harald said firmly, clenching his fists, his voice a defiant growl. "Never."
"Tell yourself that as often as you wish," the figure sneered, its tone dripping with cruel amusement. "But deep down, you know the truth. Every battle you fought, every enemy you crushed—it was at my whim. You've fed me, Dragonborn. You've fed my dominion, and soon... I will claim what is rightfully mine."
The red eyes flared brighter, their glow searing into Harald's vision, making the world around him blur. The figure's presence was suffocating, pressing down on him like a physical force. As it stepped even closer, Harald could feel the heat of its breath, the malevolent energy radiating from its form.
Suddenly, the ruins around him began to shift, the stone walls warping and twisting. The solid ground beneath his feet crumbled away, and before he could react, Harald felt himself falling—tumbling into a dark, endless void. The figure's laughter followed him, growing louder, more triumphant as the darkness consumed everything around him.
"Soon Dragonborn…Soon!" the voice whispered, its words echoing in the depths of the void, filling every corner of his mind.
Harald jolted awake, his heart hammering in his chest, sweat drenching his skin. He gasped for air, his hands gripping the bedclothes as he tried to shake off the lingering terror. Blinking, he looked around, his eyes adjusting to the familiar stone walls of his chamber in Blanetree Keep. The soft glow of the early morning sun filtered through the small window, and the distant sounds of the keep's daily life began to stir.
He let out a slow breath, relieved to find himself awake, free from the dark nightmare that had threatened to consume him. But even as the tension in his body eased, the memory of its voice—its malevolent promise—lingered in his mind.
Harald sat up, running a hand through his damp hair.
'It was just a dream,' he thought. 'Just a dream.'
=====
"Are you sure about this, Leobald?" Harald asked, eyeing the septon, who stood before him clad in a padded gambeson, clearly uncomfortable in the armor meant for battle.
Leobald straightened, his determination evident. "You'll need my help, Harald. These men don't know where the Ironborn outposts are, but I do. And you'll need me at Fairmarket as well."
Harald sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It will be dangerous," he warned.
"My mind is made up, ser," Leobald replied firmly.
Harald chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Fine, fine. I'll meet you by the longship." He watched as the septon stumbled away, making his way awkwardly toward the riverbank, where the longship lay in wait.
The plan was in motion.
Haldon Greyjoy's wrath, once he learned of his son's death, was inevitable. The people of these lands would bear the brunt of it. Robard and Harald had come to the same conclusion: waiting for the hammer to fall was no longer an option. They had to strike first, to take the fight to Haldon before he learned of his son's fate.
Harald had mapped out everything in his mind. They would use the Ironborn longships left behind by Rodrick to sail down the Blue Fork toward Fairmarket. He would take eight of their best men, carefully navigating the river while avoiding the many Ironborn outposts that lined the water's edge.
Those outposts were critical to Haldon's control of the region. They maintained the logistical flow of supplies—food, weapons, and tribute. They served as stations for intimidation, control, and tax collection. More importantly, they were used to raid for thralls—captives of the Ironborn, slaves in all but name. Harald had no doubt that the outposts were also early warning points for Fairmarket, designed to protect Haldon from any rebellion brewing, like the one he was planning.
But those outposts would have to wait. Harald's focus was on one goal: killing Haldon Greyjoy. With Haldon dead, the hostages—noble sons and daughters from House Blackwood, Frey, and Mallister—would be freed. Harald believed that would finally tip the balance. These lords would have no reason to fear rebellion once their kin were safe.
As he stood by the riverbank, waiting for the men to gather, his thoughts drifted toward the future.
'What happens after?' he wondered.
If he succeeded in killing Haldon, freeing the hostages, and igniting a rebellion against Harren, what then?
He could already see the glint of expectation in Robard's eyes and in the way the people looked at him. They expected him to lead. They expected him to be the one to unite the Riverlands under one banner.
'His side,' Harald mused. What did that even mean? He had been a leader before, in Skyrim, rallying armies to face down dragons, the Stormcloak rebels, and even the World-Eater himself. But this… this was different.
He remembered Robard telling him the history of the Riverlands and how it had fallen into anarchy after the Justman kings. There had been peasants, merchants, even charlatans who had proclaimed themselves kings, each trying to carve out their own piece of the Riverlands. None of them had lasted. Harald was sure that would happen again after Harren and his Ironborn were chased out.
'A king,' he thought. He liked the idea of it.
The notion settled in his mind with a strange inevitability. Harren Hoare's cruelty had sown hatred and fear among the people, and now they were looking for someone to bring them together, to be a symbol of resistance. That symbol, whether he liked it or not, would be him.
He was Dragonborn,he reminded himself.
Many of the great Emperors of Tamriel were Dragonborn as well. If anyone was to rule, it had to be him. His blood called to it.
If the Riverlands needed a king, then the Last Dragonborn would give them one.
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