Dagon sat alone in his tent, the heavy flaps drawn shut, muffling the noise of the encamped host beyond. Fifteen thousand men waited for him, ready for war. Yet here, within the stillness of dark canvas, he heard only the whispers.
They came in hissing tongues, low and churning; they coiled through his skull—whispers from his god.
Dagon looked at his hands.
He had been changed.
The man who had left Harrenhal was no more. His skin, once bronze and proud like any scion of the Isles, now looked as though it had been dredged from the deep—pale and veined, as if barely clinging to life. It hugged bone and sinew, clammy and ever-slick, as though the sea had marked him forever.
His eyes had gone black—not merely dark, but pitch-black, total and lightless, save for the faint greenish glow that bled from their corners.
Even his hair no longer dried. It hung in wet ropes across his face and shoulders, soaked with water that never left.
He had been remade.
The Drowned God had touched him.
He remembered the night in Harrenhal before riding out: how he had been visited by his god in a dream. He recalled little else from that day, save his father's anger and a glimpse of his useless younger brother.
In the dream, the sea had boiled and parted before him. From its abyss rose a thing not of flesh or form, but of tendrils and swirling black mass—millions of eyes blinking across an infinite body.
The Drowned God.
"You and I have the same enemy," the god said. The voice drowned everything else.
"The rebel. The one they call Dragonborn."
And Dagon had understood. He had been chosen—chosen by his god to put down this Dragonborn. It seemed even the Drowned God had taken offense at the man.
He awoke changed, and only grew stronger as he rode out to gather his army.
The force he assembled suffered from low morale—they had heard of the Dragonborn and his exploits, and some even deserted. That did not last long, however, for Dagon revealed his newly gifted powers.
The Dragonborn had sent his stone giants against them.
Dagon needed no axe, no blade—only his fists. He ripped the giants apart; stone and ash split open, shattering into dust with a shriek.
Two more came. He shattered them both, his fists stronger than steel. The men who had once spoken in fear of the Dragonborn fell to their knees instead—in awe of Dagon.
From that day forward, there was no doubt, no whisper of rebellion within his host. They would follow him not merely as crown prince but as the champion of their god.
Dagon Hoare, son of Harren the Black—soon to be something more.
He would kill the Dragonborn, and when the rebels were dust and the Riverlords broken, he would turn on his father.
Only the chosen of the gods should rule, after all.
Suddenly, Dagon was alert, every thought freezing beneath an invisible touch upon his body.
"My champion," came the voice—slimy, oily, slow, like rot dripping into his ears.
He fell to his knees, the black kelp of his hair falling before his eyes. His palms slapped the damp floor of the tent.
"Command me, my lord," he said with fervent obedience, his breath ragged.
A slick chuckle echoed in his skull, slithering through every crack in his thoughts.
"Good… good… he is near."
Dagon's heart beat like a war-drum. "I will crush him in your name."
"No," the voice said.
The single word struck him like a hammer to the gut.
"What?" Dagon gasped. "What do you mean? I—"
"I said… no. You can't."
His god's words shocked him to his core. Dagon's stomach twisted, and all the certainty—all the power he had tasted these past weeks—turned to salt and ash.
"You… you doubt me?" he whispered, more disappointed than angry.
"The Dragonborn is too powerful," the voice replied, slow and final. "You cannot defeat him—not as you are. Not alone."
Dagon bowed his head, feeling something in him collapse. His whole world—his path, his glory—reduced to dust in the tide.
"But you can serve," the voice said. "You shall do what I command."
Dagon shuddered. "Yes… yes, anything."
"Take up your sword."
His hand obeyed before his thoughts caught up. The blade, long-forged of Isles iron and heavy with the blood of his enemies, now lay in his palm and it began to change.
Dagon recoiled as the weapon melted in his grip—not from heat, but as though it were unraveling. The metal darkened to blacker-than-black, a void-metal that hissed with each breath of air. Tendrils squirmed from hilt and blade, wrapping around his wrist like hungry leeches.
It pulsed in his hand as if alive.
Dagon stared in awe and horror.
"With this, you shall stab the Dragonborn," the voice said. "Then I… will take care of the rest."
"But—" Dagon began.
"Do not face him alone," the voice commanded, sterner now. "Strike him from stealth, or in the chaos of battle. But do not face him as you are. You will fail."
Each word fell like a weight upon his shoulders. It was not doubt in his loyalty he heard, but truth: his god knew the limits of even His chosen.
"Do not fail me," the voice whispered.
And then—silence.
The sword still pulsed in his grip, writhing like a living thing tasting the air. Dagon's black eyes stared at it, unblinking.
A weapon fit for a god's champion—yet to be wielded from the shadows?
No. This was a test,
of faith,
of courage.
Yes. His god was testing him, as the sea tests every man with wave and storm. He would not creep like a rat in the dark. He would stand before the Dragonborn and slay him in the sight of all.
He would prove his strength to the true god.
He rose and walked out of the tent.
He would obey… in his own way.
Dagon emerged into the camp. Around him, his army stirred—fifteen-thousand strong. Men sharpened blades, packed supplies, and adjusted their armor.
He moved with unnatural calm, his boots whispering over the trampled grass. A presence appeared at his side—Captain Arrick, his most loyal commander.
"My prince," Arrick said, breathing hard, "the greenlander lords—Roote, Wode, Lants…have arrived. They await your command."
Dagon did not look at him. "Keep them in the back," he said, his voice quiet but cold. "Let them watch while we slaughter their fellow Rivermen."
Arrick parted his lips to reply, but his eyes dropped to the weapon fused to Dagon's hand. He froze.
"My prince… what is that?"
Dagon glanced at the sword—the thing now grown into his flesh. "A gift," he murmured.
With that, he mounted his black courser; the beast snorted with unease beneath him.
Dagon turned to face the host assembled before him. Fifteen thousand men fell silent; even the crows in the branches above seemed to hush. A breathless stillness settled over the camp.
He lifted his head. His voice, though not loud, carried as if whispered into every ear.
"The enemy is upon us," he said. "The rebel greenlander filth have risen against their true masters."
"They are led by a man who claims to be chosen by their gods," Dagon continued, his tone dark with contempt.
A murmur rippled through the ranks—shifting feet, nervous glances.
He raised his pale hand. The sword he held twisted and writhed with oily black tendrils, the blade shimmering like liquid void, its edge glistening with something indescribable.
"This," he said, lifting the weapon higher, "was given to me by the one true god—the Drowned God."
The greenlander lords looked stricken. One made the sign of the Seven; another took a step back. Dagon's abyssal gaze swept over them.
"There will be no mercy—no survivors," he declared.
His voice deepened; it was no longer his alone. It felt as though hundreds spoke through him, and the murmurs of the men swelled into fervor.
"We will take the iron price from every man, woman, and child who dared rise against us."
He turned his head slowly, those lightless eyes piercing every soul that met them.
"What is dead may never die…" he intoned.
The army roared in answer, their voices fierce with devotion:
"But rises again, harder and stronger!"
"HAIL DAGON! HAIL THE DROWNED GOD!"
They cried it again, and again:
"DAGON! DAGON! DAGON!"
The trees shook, the birds fled, and the sky darkened.
And Dagon Hoare marched his host out against the last Dragonborn.