Haldon Must Die pt.2

Haldon stood at the window of his tower's throne room, watching in disbelief as flames engulfed his men's barracks. Moments ago, he had been dictating a letter to King Harren through his maester, explaining the shortage of thralls he would be sending. Then, a thunderous explosion shattered the evening's calm.

Turning his gaze, he saw the barracks consumed by fire.

"What the fuck did they do over there?" he screamed, eyes wide with shock. Behind him, the maester quivered in fear.

First, his heir had vanished without a trace, forcing him to dispatch Vikon to search for him. Then, despite seizing townsfolk, he still lacked enough thralls to meet Harren's demands. He'd had to bring in more soldiers just to maintain order amid growing unrest. And now this—a fire in the barracks.

Anger surged through him, hot and searing, his pulse pounding in his temples.

'How could this get any worse?' he thought, clenching his eyes shut as rage boiled beneath the surface.

"My lord! My lord!" a panicked voice echoed from the corridor.

The door flew open, and one of his commanders burst in, panting and frantic. "My lord," the commander gasped, struggling for breath.

Haldon whirled around, his patience snapping. "What? What the fuck is it?" he roared, his voice reverberating off the stone walls.

"The... the Greenlanders... they are... they are rebelling!" The commander struggled to speak, fear etched on his face.

Haldon stared, uncomprehending. "What?" he finally managed, his voice dropping to a disbelieving whisper.

"The townsfolk, my lord... They're rising up against us. Attacking our men!" the commander exclaimed, his face flushed with exertion and dread.

His mind raced. The townsfolk? Had they started the fire at the barracks? No, no, no. He didn't need this. Not now.

His gaze snapped back to the commander. "Gather everyone! Crush this little rebellion. Make an example of them," he snarled, fury dripping from every word.

The commander nodded and hurried out, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Haldon turned to the terrified maester, still frozen with quill in hand. "What the fuck are you standing here for? Leave!" he shouted.

The maester stumbled backward, tripping over his robes as he scurried away, leaving Haldon alone. He clenched his jaw, trying to steady his breathing. From the distance, he could hear the rising voices of the townsfolk—the clamor of unrest reaching the tower.

"They think they can rise against me?" he muttered, his voice low and laced with contempt.

After some time, Haldon watched as his men left the tower for the town. He saw the flickering lights of torches coming alive below.

'How?' he wondered. He had been in control. The Greenlanders had remained meek and obedient. 'Did taking the thralls push them over the edge?'

Grinding his teeth, his thoughts swirled. His fists clenched around the hilt of his sword. He would crush this revolt, drag these rebellious Greenlanders back to heel, make them pay for their insolence.

But his musings were abruptly interrupted by unmistakable sounds—screams and clashes of metal—coming from nearby. His heart pounded as he froze, straining to listen. It wasn't the uproar from outside—it was here, inside the tower.

The cries of his own men echoed down the halls, accompanied by another sound... something that reminded him of lightning cracking the sky over the sea.

Suddenly, a guard burst into the chamber, his face pale with terror. "My lord, there's a—"

The guard's words were cut short by a blinding flash. A bolt of lightning shot through the doorway behind him, striking him in the back. He screamed, body convulsing violently as lightning surged through him.

Haldon stumbled backward in horror, falling to the ground as the guard collapsed before him, skin charred and smoking. The acrid stench of burnt flesh filled the room.

His breath caught in his throat. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat a dull thud in his ears. His eyes locked on the figure standing in the doorway.

A silhouette loomed there—a man illuminated by crackling arcs of lightning dancing from his outstretched hand. His armor was black as midnight, glinting ominously in the flickering torchlight.

Haldon's voice failed him. Mouth agape, no words came out. His limbs felt weak, useless, as he sat on the cold stone floor, staring up at the figure.

'Was this the Storm God himself?' he wondered in terror.

"You look like your son," the man's voice was calm, almost amused. "Rodrick, I mean."

Haldon's eyes widened. "Rodrick?" he croaked, his throat dry.

"Perhaps Vikon took after you as well, but I never got a good look at his face. Burned it off before I could," the man said, his tone eerily calm.

"Burned him..." The words struck Haldon like a blow. His sons—what had this man done to them?

"My sons..." Haldon whispered, his voice breaking.

"They're dead," the man stated coldly.

Haldon's mind reeled. His sons—dead? The words twisted in his gut, a tumult of disbelief and rage. He struggled to his feet, sword shaking in his grasp.

"I'll kill you!" he screamed, lunging forward, fury fueling his movements. But before he could close the distance, another bolt of lightning erupted from the man's hand.

The arc of energy slammed into Haldon's chest with brutal force, hurling him backward. Lightning coursed through his body, searing every nerve. His flesh burned, the stench of scorched skin filling the air. Muscles convulsed violently, limbs jerking uncontrollably. His veins felt aflame, the searing heat tearing through him from head to toe.

He crashed into the small throne behind him, the wooden frame splintering under the impact. His entire body was wracked with pain—pain beyond anything he'd ever known.

"Arghhhh!" Haldon's scream tore from his throat, a raw, guttural sound as agony consumed him. His muscles twitched and spasmed uncontrollably, the shock leaving him half-paralyzed. His sword slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly to the floor as he slumped against the shattered throne, breath coming in ragged, agonized gasps.

The man approached slowly, his boots echoing on the stone floor. Haldon could barely see through the haze of pain, his vision blurring with tears of torment. He tried to speak, to beg for mercy, but words stuck in his throat, choked by the agony coursing through him. His lips trembled as he attempted to form a plea.

The man positioned his sword at Haldon's chest.

"You... you'll pay..." Haldon rasped, voice barely above a whisper—the only defiance he could muster as his broken body failed him.

In one swift motion, the sword came down.

Haldon felt the pain cease, his body going limp as darkness enveloped him, mercifully swallowing the agony. His last breath escaped as the void took hold.

.

.

.

Tristifer, son of Oswin, was only fourteen. He spent most days learning and helping his father, a butcher. But today, his father hadn't opened their little shop in the market. Instead, Tristifer watched as Oswin sharpened his largest knives, his face set in grim anticipation.

"Do you think what the septons say is true?" Tristifer asked, his voice wavering with uncertainty. "That there's a champion sent by the gods?"

Oswin's hand paused, the steady scraping of the whetstone falling silent. He didn't meet Tristifer's eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on the weapon in his hands. "I do not know," he finally replied. "But I do know that today, we'll have a chance to fight back. To avenge your mother." His voice grew thick with grief and anger, the memory still raw.

A month ago, his mother had been taken as a thrall by the Ironborn, shipped off to Harrenhal, never to be seen again.

Tristifer's hands clenched into fists as he remembered that day—his mother's screams as she was dragged away, the helplessness that had rooted him in place. He had felt so small, so powerless. He could scarcely imagine what his father had felt.

"Prepare yourself, boy," Oswin said, standing and placing a butcher's knife into his son's trembling hands. "Today, we avenge your mother."

Tristifer gripped the knife, his fingers shaking. "Perhaps the champion will help us save her," he said, eyes filled with hope.

His father did not respond, returning instead to sharpen another knife.

=====

As the sun began to set, Tristifer, his father, and others walked toward the market square. A tense silence hung over them as they waited.

Tristifer's eyes darted nervously, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the tension, the fear, the simmering anger among the group. It wasn't long before he witnessed something strange. A group of Ironborn suddenly began attacking each other, their rage erupting without warning. Knives flashed, swords swung, blood splattered across the ground.

His father and the others watched in confusion and grim satisfaction as the Ironborn tore each other apart. Murmurs spread among the men, and Tristifer heard his father mutter, "What was that?"

A man beside them asked, "Was that the sign?"

Oswin shook his head. "No."

They continued to wait, Tristifer growing restless. Anticipation built inside him until it was almost unbearable, tension twisting his insides. He was scared. He didn't know if he could do this.

Suddenly, a loud, thunderous noise echoed through the air. He jerked his head to the right, eyes widening at the sight of the Ironborn barracks in the distance, now engulfed in flames. The fire blazed high, an angry scarlet beacon against the night sky.

"Now!" his father shouted. There was no hesitation in his voice as he stepped forward, knife gripped tightly. Oswin lunged at the nearest Ironborn, who stood alone in the market, looking around in confusion.

Tristifer watched as his father drove the butcher's knife into the Ironborn's neck. The blade sank in with a sickening crunch, slicing through skin and muscle, the tip scraping bone. Blood erupted from the wound, splattering Oswin's hands and face in warm crimson. The Ironborn let out a strangled gurgle, eyes bulging in shock. His hands clawed weakly at his neck as Oswin twisted the knife viciously.

The Ironborn crumpled to the ground, twitching briefly before going still, eyes staring blankly at the sky.

Soon, the market square swelled with people, their faces illuminated by flickering torchlight as darkness enveloped the town. The septons joined them, bringing more people—an avenging sea of Rivermen united by one purpose: to drive out the Ironborn and reclaim Fairmarket.

They moved forward in a furious wave, overcoming scattered Ironborn guards. Makeshift weapons in hand, they struck true. Mercy was forgotten; soon, the ground was littered with the bodies of those who had oppressed them for so long.

Tristifer found himself at the front with his father. "Fairmarket will be free!" Septon Ryam bellowed, his voice carrying across the mob, echoed by countless others.

He spotted his friend Beron wielding a large hammer—the kind Beron's father used in the forge. Beron swung it with such force that even Ironborn armor splintered beneath it. Many had similar makeshift weapons—tools of their trades turned into instruments of war.

"Where is the champion?" someone shouted from the crowd, desperation in their voice.

It was a question Tristifer asked himself. Had the septons lied?

No, he told himself. Septon Ryam wouldn't lie. He looked to the septon leading them, and Ryam turned, bellowing that the champion would soon reveal himself.

Tristifer closed his eyes, praying silently for the champion the septons said the gods had sent.

Then they all stopped. Ahead, a large contingent of Ironborn marched toward them, swords in hand. Tristifer's heart sank at the sight. There were so many. How could they hope to win against such a force?

"Father..." he began, but his voice faltered. His father stood his ground, but even he looked worried, jaw clenched tight.

"Don't stop!" Septon Ryam urged, but the sight of the heavily armed Ironborn made many hesitate. Some began to step back, fear overtaking their courage.

Tristifer kept his eyes closed, praying fervently, heart thundering in his ears.

Suddenly, a bright light cut through the darkness, gasps echoing from the crowd. Tristifer opened his eyes to see the Ironborn turning, looking behind them.

And then he saw it—the sight that stopped them all.

Behind the Ironborn ranks, a figure emerged from the darkness. A man bathed in radiant light, shimmering with hues of gold, orange, and blue, as if cloaked in the very essence of the gods. His eyes glowed like twin suns, piercing the souls of those who dared look upon him. The light reflected off his armor, which seemed almost alive, pulsing with energy. He held a sword that blazed with flame, its fire licking the air around it.

Tristifer's mouth fell open. "It's him," he whispered, hardly able to believe. "The champion... he's real."

"Behold the champion of the Seven, the answer to our prayers!" Septon Ryam proclaimed.

"By the Seven, it's true!" someone shouted.

"The septon was right—there is a champion!"

"The champion sent by the gods! To the champion!"

The chants grew louder, a roar of hope and vengeance rippling through the crowd, invigorating their spirits as they beheld the Champion of the Gods.

Tristifer's heart pounded as the champion strode forward. Without a word, he raised his arm and hurled something toward the Ironborn ranks. The object bounced and rolled across the dirt, coming to rest at the guards' feet.

Tristifer gasped as torchlight revealed what it was—a severed head.

"Haldon," his father whispered, awe in his voice. It was the head of Haldon Greyjoy.

Then the champion uttered words that shook the very earth. "Zun... Haal... Viik!"

The air rippled with power, and the weapons of the Ironborn were torn from their hands, flying across the square as if pulled by an invisible force. The Ironborn stared in shock at their empty hands, fear and confusion etched on their faces.

That was all they needed.

"To the champion!" his father bellowed, voice hoarse with emotion, charging forward.

"Kill them all!" Tristifer followed, knife held high, heart pounding in his ears. The crowd surged behind them, emboldened by the champion's presence.

The Ironborn tried to regroup, to flee, but they were overrun. Tristifer swung his knife wildly, striking an Ironborn warrior who stumbled to his knees. The blade sank deep into his shoulder, and the man crumpled, blood spilling across the ground.

His father fought beside him, hacking down another guard with a brutal swing of his butcher's knife. Together, they fought like men possessed, driven by a hope they hadn't dared feel in so long.

As the last Ironborn fell, Tristifer's gaze fell on the champion, who walked toward them, still bathed in that holy, ethereal light. He shone like molten gold, his sword blazing with divine fire. The crowd fell silent, eyes wide, breaths held, captivated by their savior.

The champion raised his flaming sword high, its light illuminating his strong, stern face. His voice boomed, echoing off the town's walls. "Fairmarket is free!" he declared.

Silence broke like a dam, and cheers erupted like thunder. It was as if every ounce of fear and despair had been swept away by those words. The crowd surged forward, their cheers growing louder, more fervent as they surrounded the champion.

"Hail to the champion!" someone cried, and soon the chant was picked up, rippling through the crowd in a wave of devotion and joy.

"Hail to the champion!"

"Hail to the champion!"

Tristifer's heart soared as he joined the chant, his voice lost in the chorus of hundreds.

In that moment, he made a promise to himself. He would follow the champion. He would do whatever it took, even lay down his life for him. And above all, he hoped—he prayed—that this champion would help save his mother. That somehow, with his power, she could be freed from the torment of thralldom.

With that hope firmly lodged in his heart, Tristifer continued to chant.

"Hail to the champion!"

.

.

.

Harald used the Dragon Aspect Shout here to draw attention from the Townsfolk.

Next chapter will be on the 5th