Harald stood atop the black-stoned battlements of Weeping Hall. The sky was overcast—a low blanket of grey that smothered the sun and cast the world in a cold, steely hue. Below, the camp of the Army of Liberation stretched across the fields like a sea, its flickering campfires dotting the dawn like dying stars. Most of the men were quartered outside the castle, while the lords and their household knights remained within its walls.
Harrenhal lay just a week's march to the east.
And in a week, Harald intended to end the Hoare dynasty, drive the ironborn back to the sea, and claim for himself the title of King of the Rivers and Hills. It had been a simple, decisive plan—one that had felt right when the rebellion began at Greyholt. Then, the path had seemed clear.
Now it was clouded.
He narrowed his eyes at the horizon, where mist curled along the tree line like writhing fingers. The wind carried no sound this morning—only the taste of damp earth and smoke. He let the silence settle around him.
The Daedra were here. That truth pressed against his mind like a cold dagger.
He already knew Sheogorath was aware of this world—the Mad God had been the one to send him here. But Hermaeus Mora had made himself known as well.
And if the Prince of Fate had found him, the others would not be far behind.
He clenched a gauntleted hand on the stone.
One question plagued him: Why had Mora not manifested fully?
This was not Nirn. This realm lacked the divine walls raised by Akatosh—the barriers that forced the Daedra to whisper instead of roar, to tempt rather than conquer directly. Here, in this new world of fragile gods, they should have been able to walk freely.
But they hadn't.
Why?
Harald's gaze followed the mist again, searching for a shape in the fog. Some power protected this realm; he was certain of it now.
He was sure because, considering how their last encounter had ended, Hermaeus Mora would have manifested here and tried to kill him—yet he hadn't. Harald was convinced the Prince of Secrets had begun seeking a mortal champion, and he suspected Mora had found one: his ash golems had started to die.
Four of them had already been destroyed.
The fourth had fallen yesterday, sent ahead again toward Harrenhal to scout the path. For days he had felt it moving across the landscape; then, without warning, it was gone just like the three before.
Footsteps echoed softly on the stone behind him, pulling Harald from the depths of his thoughts. He turned to see Leobald and Lord Merrick Frey approaching.
More lords had arrived since the defeat of Garmon Drumm and the capture of Weeping Hall. The rebellion was no longer a flicker—it had become a blaze, consuming most of the Riverlands. The Vances of Atranta and the proud, impulsive Pipers of Pinkmaiden had joined, along with the lesser houses of Smallwood and Lychester. By Leobald's reckoning, more than sixty percent of the riverlords now marched beneath the rebellion's banner.
"Leobald. Merrick," Harald greeted, nodding calmly.
"Dragonborn," Merrick replied, bowing slightly—his tone casual, yet edged with deference.
Leobald merely smiled and offered a silent nod.
Harald faced Merrick. "How are our new arrivals?"
"Still digesting what you showed them," the Frey lord said, grinning. "You shattered the laws of the world before their eyes. A hard mouthful for many."
Harald chuckled. "You all reacted the same way."
He had indeed given the newly arrived lords a demonstration: they had seen the golems, witnessed his magic, and listened to Leobald's fiery sermons. Having answered House Tully's call, they were now convinced of the rebellion's chances.
Harald's tone shifted, becoming brisk. "Merrick, I need you to take your men and ride north to Seagard."
Merrick blinked. "Seagard? We're so close to Harrenhal—so close to the end. Why now?"
"Because, if Bracken's information is correct," Harald said, eyes sharpening, "Prince Wex will strike the western coast. Seagard will be first. I want you there, Merrick. Reinforce Lord Mallister."
Merrick frowned. "I can't do that alone. The Iron Fleet is too large, and Wex himself leads seven thousand men. Mallister and I cannot hope to defeat him."
"I had hoped you would lead us yourself, once Harren was dealt with."
Harald didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned and reached for the long object propped beside the battlement wall—a staff.
It stood just over six feet tall, carved from ebony-black wood that shimmered with faint, iridescent veins, like obsidian caught in starlight. At its head was a twisted metal cradle shaped like curling talons; cradled within lay a glowing crystal the size of a clenched fist. The gem pulsed slowly with a deep blue light, wisps of arcane energy clinging to it as though the staff were alive.
Merrick and Leobald instinctively stepped back as Harald raised the staff above his head, the blue crystal humming with power.
"This," Harald said calmly, "is a Staff of Fireballs."
"The Staff of Fireballs?" Merrick echoed, his brows furrowing in disbelief. Leobald repeated the words in a whisper.
"Better to show than to speak," Harald replied.
He walked to the edge of the rampart and pointed the staff at a clearing well away from the camp. Knights and retainers on the wall fell silent, every eye fixed on him. A soundless pulse flashed from the crystal.
A heartbeat later, a roaring sphere of flame shot from the staff's tip, screamed across the field, and slammed into the ground. The explosion shook the earth; fire blossomed in a shock-wave that hurled dust and debris skyward.
"Seven above…" Leobald gasped, shielding his eyes.
"Mother preserve us," Merrick muttered, stunned.
Harald turned back to them, his expression unreadable. With deliberate calm he extended the staff toward Merrick. "Even you can use it. I'll teach you."
Merrick blinked. "You mean… I can do that?"
Harald nodded. "Yes. It will take a day to learn. I've made some adjustments—anyone can wield it with the proper guidance."
Still shaken, Merrick accepted the staff.
Harald smiled faintly. "Now—what do you think your chances are against Wex Hoare?"
Merrick's grin turned wolfish. "By the time you take Harren's head, I'll have his fleet burned to cinders."
Harald clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Good. But remember, the staff has a limit to its magic. So use it wisely. We'll drill outside the castle."
Merrick nodded and strode off slowly, the staff in hand.
When he was gone, Leobald spoke in a low voice. "Is that wise—giving such power to him?"
Harald kept his gaze on the horizon. "Merrick is the best choice. He's the most honorable man here."
He turned to Leobald. "Before I join him, we need to talk. I believe the ironborn have allied with one of the evil gods I told you about."
"Are you certain?" Leobald asked.
Harald nodded. "I have a plan to turn it to our advantage, but I'll need your counsel." He gestured for his friend to follow him into the castle.
==========
Harald led the Army of Liberation—twelve thousand strong—through the rolling hills of the central Riverlands, marching eastward from Weeping Hall. Three days had passed since they left the castle, and now they neared the lands ruled directly by Harren the Black.
Three more days to Harrenhal, he thought.
Harald rode at the head of the column, clad in darkened armor astride his faintly glowing spectral steed. Yet even with his own power and twelve thousand soldiers at his back, his thoughts were troubled.
Hermaeus Mora was watching.
He felt it in his bones—an itch in the soul, the weight of unseen eyes flitting from shadow to shadow. The Daedric Prince of Knowledge and Fate had not acted yet, but Harald knew better than to trust the silence. Mora never waited idly; he plotted, seeded thoughts, bent destinies.
Is Dagron Hoare his puppet now? Was it Mora who destroyed the golems? Harald's scouts ranged far and wide in search of answers, but so far they had seen neither an army nor the prince.
"Sieging Harrenhal will be difficult," said Lothar Vance, squinting ahead. "Its walls are higher and thicker than all of ours combined. The place is truly monstrous."
"I don't think Harald plans for a siege, good-brother," Edmyn Tully replied. "His voice alone might crack those stones."
Harald allowed himself a smile. That was indeed the plan: give Harren one chance to surrender—an empty show of mercy—and, when he refused, bring the walls of Harrenhal crashing down before sacking the fortress.
If only Mora doesn't interfere…
"The walls aren't like Greyholt," Lothar added. "You won't shout them down that easily."
Harald turned in the saddle, grinning. "Lord Vance, what if I told you I haven't shown my full power yet?"
Lothar and Edmyn stared at him, mouths agape.
"You haven't?" Edmyn asked.
Harald laughed then faced the road again and spurred his steed forward, leaving the two lords to resume their discussion.
He knew Tully and Vance were plotting something—nothing nefarious that he knew.
They were plotting to crown him.
Together with Blackwood, Mallister, and Frey, they had become true believers, already scheming to sway every lord of the Riverlands to that end. This was what Harald and Leobald wanted so he was not going to stop them in their plot, it only made things easier.
"Once Mandrake, Ryger, and Vypren declare for us," Edmyn Tully said, his tone careful but confident, "we'll be unstoppable."
"We're already unstoppable," Lothar Vance replied. "We've got Harald."
"I meant politically," Edmyn muttered, frowning.
"Oh—that," Lothar said with a shrug.
"What of Mooton, Roote, Wode, Goodbrooke, Grel—and the lords of Blackwater Bay?" Harald asked from ahead.
Edmyn's face soured. "They're still under Harren's thumb. They won't dare join us—yet. As for the Blackwater lords—Rosby, Darklyn, Staunton, and the rest—they were never truly Riverlords. Petty kings who sometimes answered to Riverkings or Storm Kings. Mostly they just want to be left alone."
Harald nodded, absorbing every word. He had already begun planning their future. Once the Riverlands were his, the Blackwater lords would have to bend, for securing the Riverlands it needed to be done…
The rapid drum of hooves snapped him from his thoughts. Harald turned—scouts were riding hard toward the column.
The other lords noticed as well and spurred their mounts forward. The scouts reined in before Harald.
"My lords," the first rider gasped, "we've sighted an army—large, fifteen thousand strong—marching straight toward us."
Harald's eyes narrowed; he already knew what would come next.
"The crown prince leads them," the scout finished.
Dagon Hoare. Mora's possible champion.
The second scout cleared his throat. "There's more, my lord. A second host—five thousand men—advancing from the northeast."
That was unexpected.
Murmurs rippled through the gathered nobles.
"Did you see Harlaw colors?" Edmyn Tully asked, calm but urgent. "Is Lord Harlaw with the smaller force?"
The scout bowed his head. "I… I had to leave quickly, my lord. I apologize. I couldn't …."
Harald raised a hand. "It's fine."
"By the gods," Hother Blackwood muttered, jaw tight. "That's twenty thousand men."
"Scared, Blackwood?" Lord Bracken sneered.
"Shut up, traitor," Hother shot back, fingers brushing his sword hilt.
"Enough," Harald said, his voice cutting through the tension. Silence fell. He turned his gaze south-east, toward Dagon Hoare's fifteen thousand, then north-east, where the smaller host approached.
"What are the chances it's Mandrake, Ryger, or Vypren answering our call?" he asked Edmyn.
"There is a chance," Edmyn replied. "I sent word when we left—my father and I have courted them for years, as we did the Pipers and the Vances. But I can't be sure they've risen for us—or if Lord Harlaw commands them."
Harald nodded slowly, weighing his options. Then he turned his horse toward the south.
"We ride to meet Dagon," he ordered.
He rode a few paces ahead, drew a deep breath, and used a trick Greybeards' taught him to amplify his voice.
"Men of the Riverlands!"
The host stirred as one; heads turned, every gaze lifted to him.
"The crown prince of the Ironborn marches toward us. Like every salt-soaked raider, he thinks us greenlanders weak—that we will tremble at the sight of these squids out of water.
"No"
"Never"
"Fuck them squids"
A roar of agreement rose from the ranks.
"I say we meet this prince of salt and rot on the field! Let us show these iron fucks the strength of Rivermen. We'll take his head and gift it to his cunt of a father—let it rot on Harrenhal's gate as we shatter its walls and burn it to the ground!"
The cheers swelled—blades flashed, banners snapped in the wind.
"One week from today, this land will be free. The Kingdom of the Isles will fall, and the Kingdom of the Rivers and Hills shall rise once more!"
"DRAGONBORN!" they roared.
"DRAGONBORN!"
But over that thunderous chant Harald heard another, growing louder:
"King! King! King!"
He did not acknowledge it—yet. Turning his steed, he led the column forward as the army began to march. His face stayed stern, eyes blazing with purpose; but deep within, Harald felt a tremor of unease.
Somewhere out there, the Prince of Fate was waiting, and whatever plan Hermaeus Mora had woven was unknown to him.