A Broken Lord

Harald knelt by the river, which he had been told was called the Sevenstreams. The gentle current rippled beneath him as he caught sight of his reflection in the water. His long, sandy-blond hair cascaded over his broad shoulders, and his beard—wild and unruly—framed his face like a lion's mane. His dark green eyes stared back at him. Despite his rugged appearance, there was a handsomeness to his face—a mixture of strength and calm that drew people in, even in this new world.

He sighed, running a hand through his overgrown beard. It had been too long since he had cared for it. Reaching for his Dwarven dagger, he held it up to inspect the blade in the light. The blade was a dull gold, engraved with intricate geometric designs, and the hilt was adorned with small rune-like carvings. He had found it in one of the old Dwarven ruins. Though old, it was a finely crafted weapon, as sharp as the day he first discovered it.

Harald dipped the dagger into the river, wetting the blade before bringing it to his face. With steady, precise strokes, he began shaving away the thick beard. The blade glided effortlessly across his skin, each pass revealing the sharp angles of his jaw and the chiseled lines of his face beneath.

After trimming his beard to a manageable stubble, he turned his attention to his long hair. Grabbing a fistful of it, he used the dagger to slice through the strands with quick, deliberate motions. His sandy-blond locks fell to the ground, and as he cut, the weight lifted from his head.

Harald glanced at his reflection once more. Clean-shaven, with much shorter hair, he barely recognized himself. It had been a long time since he had looked like this—since before the first battle with Alduin, before he lost all his friends. He closed his eyes, trying to suppress those dark memories.

Standing up, Harald placed the Dwarven dagger back into his Aetherial satchel—a gift from Tolfdir, his teacher and the new Archmage of the College of Winterhold. It was a relic passed down from Archmage to Archmage, granting the bearer access to a pocket dimension of considerable size. The satchel was capable of holding weapons, armor, potions, and even treasures like gold and gems. While it had its limits, it had been invaluable during his journeys through Skyrim and Solstheim.

Suddenly, the sound of children's laughter drifted over the riverbank, drawing his attention. Harald glanced to the side, his dark green eyes following the sound. His lips curved into a smile as he saw a group of children playing, chasing after glowing spheres of magelight he had conjured for them earlier. The small orbs bobbed and weaved in the air, flickering with soft light as the children giggled and darted after them.

They had been afraid of him at first, but once he showed them his magic, they warmed to him. The simple joy they found in the magic he shared with them brought a warmth to his chest. 

As he watched the magelight moving around, his thoughts drifted toward the nature of magic in this world.

On Nirn, the flow of magicka was like a river, sustained by the endless cycle between Mundus and Oblivion, fed by the ethereal energy of Aetherius. Magic flowed freely, shaping the world and empowering those who could tap into its depths. But here, in this strange world, the flow of magicka was different—weak, fragmented. It felt as though this world had forgotten magic, allowing it to fade so much that it only existed in small, isolated places.

He had sensed these hotspots of magic ever since he arrived, or 'nexuses of magic,' as he began calling them. One was close—he had felt its presence from the moment he crossed into this land. He would later learn it was called the Isle of Faces, or the Gods Eye. Another was further north, radiating power from what he assumed was The Wall. Then, far to the east, he sensed something darker—destructive, chaotic energy that he did not expect in this world. Beyond that, even further east, there was a place of immense magical power, stronger than any of the other spots. He didn't know what these places were, but he wanted to find out.

He also realized that he himself had become one of these nexuses of magic. It was as if he had become a walking conduit of magicka in a world that was starved of it. He was a beacon, drawing in energy and releasing it in ways that felt natural to him but foreign to this world.

This raised more questions—how would this world react to his presence? 

What kind of changes would he cause just by being here? 

He planned to visit the Isle of Faces eventually and experiment with the magic of this land, but that journey would have to wait.

=====

Harald walked toward the camp where young Robard Blanetree and his men had set up. The camp was modest, with a few tents scattered around a central firepit. Smoke curled lazily into the air from the crackling flames, and the scent of roasting meat filled the surroundings. Around the camp, the men of House Blanetree were engaged in light conversation, but most were sparring, testing each other's skills with their swords.

As Harald approached, the men sparring in the center of the camp stopped what they were doing, their eyes shifting to the towering figure striding toward them.

"Well, don't stop on my account," Harald said, a smirk playing on his lips.

One of the soldiers, a grizzled man with a thick beard and a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward, wiping sweat from his brow. "Will you spar with us, Ser Stormcrown? The villagers tell us that you fought against those ironcunts like the Warrior himself came down from the heavens."

Harald smiled, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Give me a sword."

One of the younger men, eager to see how Harald fought, tossed him a sword. Harald caught it easily, testing the weight with a few swings before stepping forward.

"Just one?" Harald asked with a smirk, eyeing the six men standing around him. "No, all of you."

The men exchanged glances, a mix of surprise and amusement spreading through the group.

"All of us?" one of the younger men asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, all of you," Harald repeated, his smirk widening. He could feel the excitement building within him.

The oldest of the group, the one with the scarred face, grinned. "Well, boys, what do you think?" He nodded toward Harald. "Shall we give it a go?"

There were murmurs of agreement, and the men spread out in a loose circle around Harald, their swords at the ready.

"And you can't use your magicks," the man said.

"I am a warrior first ser," Harald said as he twirled the sword in his hand.

Without warning, one of the men charged forward, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Harald sidestepped effortlessly, the sword in his hand moving faster than the man could react. He deflected the blow with a sharp clang and twisted his body, bringing the hilt of the sword into the man's gut, sending him stumbling backward, winded.

Two more rushed in from opposite sides, trying to catch Harald off guard. His eyes flicked between them, his reflexes sharp as a hawk's. He parried one strike with ease, the impact barely slowing him, and used the momentum of the second man's attack to step inside his reach. With a quick flick of his wrist, he disarmed the man with a single motion, sending his sword clattering to the ground. Harald then pivoted on his heel and slammed his shoulder into the other attacker, knocking him off balance.

The remaining three men hesitated for a moment, clearly rethinking their approach, but they charged together in a coordinated effort. Harald grinned, welcoming the challenge. His footwork was fluid as he dodged their strikes, moving like a shadow between them. One swing came dangerously close to his head, but Harald ducked just in time, countering with a swift jab to the attacker's ribs.

As the last two came at him in unison, Harald's sword danced between their blows. He knocked one sword away with a powerful strike and spun around to block the second. In a blur of movement, he swept the legs out from one of them and sent the last man staggering with a well-placed strike to his wrist, causing his sword to fall from his grasp.

Within moments, it was over. All six men were either disarmed or on the ground, breathing heavily and staring up at Harald in shock and admiration.

Harald stood in the center of the makeshift battlefield, his breathing calm and controlled, not a single bead of sweat on his brow. He glanced down at the sword in his hand, chuckling softly to himself before looking at the fallen soldiers.

"That was fun," he said with a grin, tossing the sword back to the man who had given it to him.

The men stared at him in stunned silence for a moment before bursting into laughter. Even the scarred man, who had been the first to challenge him, got up with a grin, rubbing his sore ribs.

"By the gods," the old man said, shaking his head. "You fight like you've seen a thousand battles."

"You truly were sent by the gods."

Harald's smile lingered as he looked around at them, his dark green eyes gleaming. "Something like that."

.

.

.

As night settled in, the warmth of the campfire provided welcome comfort against the cool air. Harald sat among the men, the orange glow of the flames flickering across their faces. Robard had joined them after speaking with the villagers, sitting down next to Harald, his one good hand resting on his knee. The young lord was well-liked by his men; they spoke highly of him, claiming he was a good leader, just like his father had been.

"Why did the ironborn sack your keep?" Harald asked softly, wanting to know more about the incident.

Robard looked into the fire, his expression darkening as old memories surfaced. The men around the fire, who had been lively moments before, grew silent.

"It was Rodrick Greyjoy," Robard began, his voice steady but filled with disdain. "He's the heir to Lord Haldon Greyjoy, sent to these lands to oversee the collection of taxes. It was punishment, I heard—punishment from his father."

Harald listened carefully, watching the faces of the men around the fire as they, too, seemed to relive the tragedy. He noticed their tight jaws, clenched fists, and quiet simmering anger as Robard spoke. Harald glanced at Robard, his eyes softening. "You don't have to continue if—"

But Robard shook his head. "No, I will," he said firmly, though his voice wavered slightly. He took a deep breath and continued. "I had a sister… Gwen. When Rodrick laid eyes on her, he demanded my father give her to him, to make her his salt wife. 'I need someone to warm my bed while I'm here,' Rodrick said." Robard's voice thickened with anger, disgust clear on his face. "That was too much for my father. He refused and had Rodrick thrown out of our keep."

The fire crackled, the only sound for a moment. The men around the fire stared into the flames, their faces dark with remembered pain.

Robard's hands tightened into fists, his knuckles turning white. "And then he returned. With his men. They destroyed everything I knew. He killed my father, my mother… I still hear the screams of the servants. The halls painted in blood."

"How did you escape?" Harald asked quietly.

Robard exhaled, his gaze distant as if he were back in that night of horror. "Ser Brandon, our captain of the guard, helped me escape with as many men as he could muster. We've been on the run ever since, raising whatever forces we could and harassing Rodrick's men. But a few months ago, Rodrick found us." Robard paused, his one good hand trembling slightly. "He killed three-quarters of the men who were with me. Ser Brandon died in the fight, and I… I lost an eye and a hand."

There was a long silence around the fire, broken only by the occasional pop of burning wood.

After a few moments, Harald broke the silence. "Your sister?"

Robard let out a bitter laugh, though it held no humor. His face twisted in pain. "A part of me wishes she had died with my father and mother. But no. Rodrick boasted to me that she still lives… he keeps her as his captive, his prize." His voice cracked, and small tears welled in his good eye. He quickly wiped them away, refusing to show weakness in front of his men.

Harald felt his own anger rise at the thought of what the Greyjoys had done to these people, to this young man who had lost everything.

'Tomorrow,' he thought.

====

The next morning, Harald stood with Robard and his men around a rough drawing of the castle and its surroundings, etched into the dirt by Robard's hand. The map was basic but clear enough to show the key points of interest—the main gates, the walls, and the surrounding fields. Robard's finger traced the outlines as he explained the layout.

"This is the Keep," Robard said, his voice steady but grim. "Rodrick has strengthened the castle since he took it. He's built an additional outer wall here," he pointed, "and reinforced the main gate. He's made other improvements as well. It won't be easy to breach."

Harald listened silently, studying the crude map. The men around him murmured in agreement as Robard continued, expressing their doubts and concerns. The keep was more fortified than ever, and Rodrick had men loyal to him inside those walls.

"We'll need more men," Robard said, his voice firm as he looked around at the group. "Even with what we have, it won't be enough. We could try to recruit from the other villages. They'll rally to our cause."

But before anyone could respond, Harald interrupted, his voice calm but resolute. "No, we're enough."

Robard blinked, staring at him in disbelief. "Harald, that's not possible, even with your magic. We're but eight men against a well-fortified keep filled with seasoned soldiers."

Harald shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "You won't be attacking with me," he said, his voice low. "I'll go in alone and assault the castle myself. When I give the signal, you'll follow and finish off the Ironborn inside."

A stunned silence fell over the group. The men exchanged uneasy glances, trying to comprehend what Harald was suggesting.

Robard was the first to speak, his one good eye wide with shock. "Are you mad? Even if you were sent by the gods, you'll die before you even reach the gate."

One of the older of Robard's men stepped forward, his brow furrowed in concern. "Let's say, by some miracle, Ser Stormcrown's plan succeeds. What then? When Lord Haldon learns of his son's fate, he'll send his entire army of Ironborn scum here. He'll destroy us all."

There was a murmur of fear that rippled through the group at the mention of Haldon Greyjoy's forces. Even Robard looked visibly shaken, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword as the full weight of the situation dawned on him.

Harald remained unfazed. His gaze swept across the group, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke, his voice calm but with a fierce edge that silenced the men. "We'll cross that bridge when we get there. I don't plan to stop with Rodrick. I plan to rid these lands of the Ironborn once and for all. Let Haldon send his entire army. Let Harren the Black himself march down with his forces."

The men fell silent, the weight of Harald's words settling over them like a blanket. There was no fear in his voice, no hesitation. His confidence was absolute. For a moment, they could almost believe that this single man could truly take on the might of the Ironborn—and win.

"The castle is only four hours' ride from here, right?" Harald asked, breaking the silence. Robard nodded slowly.

"Good," Harald said with a satisfied nod. "Then we leave after we've broken fast."

The men around him exchanged glances, their skepticism slowly melting away in the face of Harald's sheer determination.

Harald Stormcrown had made his decision, and they would follow.