The Rebellion pt.1

Two weeks ago, Arlan Frey's life was as normal as it had been for a long time. He fretted, as always, about Harren's excessive taxes, which drained the resources of his lands year after year. The recent surge in Ironborn raids troubled him deeply, as they took his people as thralls. He was concerned for the well-being of those he was sworn to protect. But most of all, he agonized over his youngest son, held hostage for the past four years—a pain that gnawed at his heart each day.

Yet now, as Arlan rode along the Blue Fork on his way back home from Fairmarket—having experienced the strangest days of his life—those constant worries seemed to slowly lift away.

His son had been returned to him.

Arlan smiled, watching his youngest ride ahead of him, laughing with the guards. The Blue Fork sparkled in the late afternoon light, its waters flowing gently. Willow trees dipped their branches into the current, and birds darted above the river's surface, their chirps adding to the serene atmosphere.

For the first time in years, he felt hope blossoming inside him—hope for his family, hope for his people. He could finally believe that brighter days were on the horizon. The gods themselves had answered their prayers. They had sent a champion, someone strong enough to stand against Harren, to free the Riverlands from his tyranny.

He rode with renewed purpose, following the road that would lead him past Ironholt—the infamous outpost the Ironborn had built to control the Blue Fork. The sight brought a smile to Arlan's lips. He had 'heard much of what had happened here, but witnessing it firsthand was something else entirely.

'Lord Stormcrown had been humble when he spoke of the attack on the fort,' he thought as he laid eyes on the almost ruin.

The once formidable walls of Ironholt had a massive breach, rubble scattered across the ground. Parts of the fort looked like they had been hit by a storm—crumbling, charred, broken. He could see smallfolk moving inside the ruins, some carrying away plunder.

'Looting,' he thought with a shrug. 'The Ironborn had taken enough from them—let them take back what they could.'

He had chosen this route back to witness Lord Stormcrown's power for himself, to better understand the man who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. He had witnessed Lord Stormcrown's abilities in Fairmarket when he demonstrated them to him, Lord Blackwood, and Lord Mallister. And now he saw how destructive that power truly was.

'We Wouldn't even need to lay siege to a castle,' Arlan thought. With Lord Stormcrown, Lord Stomcrown could simply shout it down. He chuckled softly, the thought almost absurd if it weren't for the evidence in front of him.

"Shouting," he muttered, shaking his head, remembering the name Lord Stormcrown used for it—the Thu'um.

He rode toward Lord Jasper, who stood nearby, his gaze fixed on the gaping hole in Ironholt's walls, his face unreadable.

Arlan still remembered vividly the moment the raven arrived from Fairmarket. The words written in his son's familiar scrawl felt unreal, as though he were reading a tale rather than a letter.

He had not believed it, not at first.

Haldon Greyjoy, dead. Fairmarket, rid of the Ironborn. The hostages, freed.

And all of it—the victory, the impossible liberation—achieved by a single man of extraordinary power. A man the septons claimed had been sent by the gods themselves. A man named Harald Stormcrown.

His son had described, in vivid detail, the abilities possessed by this Lord Stormcrown—the power of his voice, the divine aura he possessed.

At first, Arlan could not believe it.

He had lost his faith in the gods when his father, loyal and dutiful, was executed at Harren's command. He had stopped praying, stopped hoping for anything more than mere survival for himself and his family. The gods were cruel and distant, or so he had thought.

But then he saw Lord Stormcrown.

And then, Arlan believed.

It was as if the gods had answered their prayers in the most direct, miraculous way possible—by sending a champion, a warrior of such incredible might.

Perhaps the gods had not abandoned them, after all. Perhaps they had simply waited until the right moment, the right man, to grant them deliverance.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Arlan called out, his voice laced with amazement.

Jasper turned his head slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a small smile. "Impressive? I'd say terrifying," he replied, shaking his head slowly. "To think a single man could bring down a fortress like this."

"You saw what he could do, Jasper," Arlan said.

"Yes, yes I did," Jasper replied with a sigh, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at the gaping hole in the fortress wall. "So did you and Blackwood."

Lord Blackwood had stayed behind in Fairmarket to gather the forces they would need for their rebellion. The word rebellion brought a sense of deep satisfaction to Arlan, a fire burning within his chest. After years under Harren's iron grip, they were finally rising. Harren's reign would soon end, but they would need the entirety of the Riverlands behind them. Still, he wasn't worried—once the others saw what he had seen, once they met Harald, they would all rally behind him.

"He wasn't lying," Jasper said, almost to himself, still in awe.

Arlan chuckled. "You still didn't believe it, even after what Lord Stormcrown showed us? The display he put on?"

Jasper's mouth twitched slightly, his brows furrowing. "Oh, I believe in his power. How could I not after seeing it? But it's not about that. It's the talk of him being the 'champion of the gods' that I still question."

"Lord Stormcrown is a true warrior—strong, honorable. A good man with a kind heart," Arlan said, his voice steady and assured. "All the good qualities of a ruler."

Jasper turned his horse toward Arlan, the animal giving a short snort. He looked at Arlan, his eyes probing. "You spent more time with the so-called champion than any of us. Do you truly believe it?" he asked, his voice quieter now, his doubt clear.

Arlan met his gaze without flinching. "Yes," he said simply.

Jasper sighed. "So are we to bow to Lord Stormcrown after he fulfills his oath to kill Harren and drive out the Ironborn?" He paused, his voice tinged with skepticism. "Another foreigner king?"

"It's the best way forward," Arlan replied, his voice hardening. "Do you want to return to the chaos of the Century of Anarchy?"

"Gods, no," Jasper said with a slight shiver. "But still..."

Arlan leaned forward slightly in his saddle, his eyes intense. "A man as powerful as Lord Stormcrown could make the other kingdoms wary of the Riverlands," he said. "We could have peace, Jasper. True peace. We could all unite behind him."

Jasper looked back at the broken remains of Ironholt, at the villagers scouring the ruins, and the shattered walls that had been brought down with a shout. He shook his head, his face a mask of unease. "I'm not sure, Arlan. Perhaps in time, I might be. But I'll tell you this—Harald Stormcrown scares me." He gestured toward the destroyed parts of Ironholt. "What if this is all a trick? What if he's being good and nice now, but later he becomes a tyrant like Harren? A tyrant with power like that... gods, it could be even worse."

Arlan sighed deeply. "I have faith, Jasper. I have faith." He paused, letting his words sink in. "We have our children back, Jasper. We got them home. And now, it's time we take the Riverlands back. Time we make sure they won't live under the same tyranny we did."

Jasper was silent for a long time, his gaze drifting to his own son, who was speaking with Arlan's son.

After a moment, he nodded.

.

.

.

Harald rode through the open countryside, the thundering of hooves filling the air as he led a contingent of men toward their destination. Riding alongside him were Jonnel and his father, Lord William Blackwood, their faces set in determination. A hundred men followed them, all brought by Lord William when he arrived at Fairmarket.

The lords had joined him—Mallister, Frey, and Blackwood—all gathering their forces to fight against the tyranny that had plagued their lands for far too long. The three lords had initially come to Fairmarket seeking their kin, but after meeting Harald and witnessing firsthand his power, they had been eager to join his cause.

There had been some disagreements—especially when Lord Blackwood suggested that the old gods were the ones who had sent him, and Lord Frey countered that it was entirely the Seven. Harald had managed to sideline those assertions, diplomatically stating that perhaps both gods were involved. It had worked well enough; the lords' faith was a tool he would have to wield carefully. There would be those who might take things too far—he was all too familiar with that from Tamriel.

The Freys and Mallisters had returned to their lands to gather their armies, promising that they would march to Fairmarket in a month's time. Their resources were limited—Harren's greed had drained the Riverlands dry—but even a small army would suffice with him leading the charge.

"Edmyn will join us in a heartbeat," Lord William Blackwood spoke up, his voice cutting through Harald's thoughts.

Harald nodded, glancing to his left. "You said he was planning a rebellion himself?" he asked as they slowed their horses, trotting over uneven terrain that led toward the castle in the distance.

"Yes," Lord Blackwood said with a weary nod. "We are desperate, Harald. Harren has taken too much from us—, our kin, our pride."

"Soon, Lord Blackwood. Very soon," Harald said, his eyes narrowing as he looked ahead.

"There it is," William Blackwood said.

Harald followed his gaze and finally saw it—a castle rising up ahead of them, perched strategically between two great rivers. The stronghold stood proud. Its stone towers and walls bordered on the north by the Tumblestone and on the south by the Red Fork, creating a natural defense on two sides. To the west, an immense man-made ditch protected the third side of the triangular stronghold, making it nearly impregnable by conventional means.

"Riverrun," Lord Blackwood announced.