Ironholt pt.2

As the sun began its descent, Harald strode towards Ironholt. The fading light was absorbed by his dark ebony armor. His battleaxe, dark and imposing, rested in his right hand, while his left arm cradled the glowing Heartstone, which pulsated softly with a crimson light. He planned to use it to conjure an Ash Guardian—a safer conjuration. It was better than attempting to summon an atronach, a Daedra from Oblivion; he didn't want to create any unforeseen consequences by summoning Daedra into this new world.

Ahead, Harald could see the sentries posted on the watchtowers. They spotted him, confusion evident in their stance. Men on the battlements turned to look, clearly taken aback by the lone figure walking towards their fortified stronghold.

Harald kept walking, his footsteps slow and deliberate, his eyes fixed on the imposing walls before him. 'This is going to be bloody,' he thought.

He drew in a deep breath, his chest expanding as he summoned the power of the Thu'um, letting it build from the depths of his being and soul.

"FUS… ROH… DAH!"

The shout erupted from his throat. The air itself seemed to ripple, a shockwave blasting forward with unstoppable momentum. The force hit the wall like an enraged beast, stone crumbling beneath its power.

Harald watched as a section of the wall began to shatter, cracks spreading like veins through the thick stone, splintering apart. The sentries on the watchtowers screamed as the structure beneath them gave way, the tower itself collapsing under the strain of the Thu'um. Rocks broke loose, tumbling down with a deafening crash, dust billowing in thick clouds as the stone crumbled. The wall fell inward, leaving behind a gaping hole—a path that led into the heart of Ironholt.

Shouts and cries erupted from within the fort—cries of shock and alarm as the Ironborn struggled to understand what was happening. Harald could hear the panicked calls, the orders being barked as the men scrambled to respond.

Without hesitation, Harald turned his attention to the Heartstone in his hand. He extended his arm, his voice low as he whispered the incantation. The Heartstone flared with brilliant light, and the very earth seemed to tremble beneath its power.

Before him, the Ash Guardian began to take form—an enormous figure, towering over eight feet in height, crafted from chunks of smoldering rock. Its jagged, rough-hewn body was made of molten stone and glowing embers, the cracks between its limbs flickering with fiery light. Each section of its body was held together by an unseen force, with floating stones hovering in place as if bound by magic alone.

This was a larger version of the Ash Guardian Neloth had made, a spell Harald was lucky enough to learn before he left Solstheim and returned to Skyrim after defeating Miraak.

Harald looked up at the massive conjuration. "Attack," he commanded.

The Ash Guardian let out a guttural rumble, its glowing eyes flaring as it turned towards the fort. The ground shook as it moved, the earth itself quivering beneath its heavy, thunderous footsteps. As it neared the fort, it broke into a lumbering run, each stride shaking the ground as it approached the shattered wall. The Ironborn on the battlements above stared in disbelief, unable to comprehend the massive, ash monstrosity advancing on them.

The Ash Guardian slammed into the broken section of the wall, stepping over the rubble and crushing any Ironborn in its path. Screams of terror echoed from within as the Ironborn tried to regroup. Some of them turned to flee, others stood frozen, unable to comprehend the creature that had come for them.

Harald slowly followed, his gaze fixed forward as he watched the carnage unfold. The Ash Guardian carved a path of destruction through Ironholt, each of its powerful strikes tearing down walls, battering away doors, and scattering those who tried to stand in its way.

Harald raised his battleaxe and summoned another shout.

"WULD... NAH... KEST!"

The three words of Whirlwind Sprint tore from his lips, and in an instant, Harald's body surged forward, a blur of motion that carried him through the broken section of the wall, past the crumbling rubble, and into the heart of Ironholt.

As soon as the shout ended, Harald found himself face-to-face with an Ironborn soldier, who barely had a moment to react. Harald's battleaxe swung in a deadly arc, the ebony blade slicing through the air with terrifying precision. The Ironborn's eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening in a silent scream just as the axe connected with his neck.

The blade cleaved through flesh and bone, severing the man's head from his shoulders in one brutal strike. Blood sprayed across the ground, the severed head spinning away, eyes still wide in shock as it hit the ground with a sickening thud.

Harald turned his head, his eyes scanning the courtyard, and saw them—more Ironborn. A large number of them stood there, their expressions twisted in horror as they watched the Ash Guardian rampaging through the fort. The massive construct was tearing through everything in its path, its smoldering fists smashing into soldiers, reducing them to little more than shattered limbs and broken bodies.

Seeing so many of them gathered together, Harald's lips twisted into a dark smile. He raised his hand, feeling the cold surge of magic building as he prepared the spell. Frost formed around his fingertips, coalescing into a swirling sphere of cold energy.

With a sudden movement, he unleashed the spell.

An icy wind whipped across the courtyard, the Ice Storm spell tearing through the Ironborn. The freezing blast engulfed them, frost spreading across their bodies. Their screams turned into choking gasps as the ice encased them. Their skin turned blue, their eyes bulging in terror as the cold consumed them. Blood vessels burst beneath the skin, their bodies stiffening and cracking until, in a horrific instant, they froze completely.

The courtyard was now littered with frozen statues—an entire squad of men killed in an instant, their bodies forever frozen in terror.

Harald turned away, satisfied. He continued his path deeper into the fort, his eyes set on one goal: to find Vikon Greyjoy and end him.

Harald stepped forward, shouting the words of another Thu'um.

"SU... GRAH... DUN!"

The Elemental Fury shout enhanced his battleaxe, an ethereal wind swirling around the blade, making it lighter and faster than any weapon could hope to be. He began to cut his way through the remaining Ironborn.

One after another, they fell. His axe swung with supernatural speed, the sharp edge cleaving through armor and flesh like a hot knife through butter. An Ironborn soldier tried to flee, but Harald's blade caught him in the back, slicing through his spine. Another man raised his weapon in defense, but Harald's ebony battleaxe shattered it, continuing its path straight into the man's chest. The blade burst through his ribcage, blood spraying as the man fell, his eyes wide with terror.

The Ironborn tried to retreat, but there was no escaping Harald. He was merciless, cutting them down as they ran. The fort was awash with blood, bodies strewn across the ground.

Harald paused, turning his gaze to the Ash Guardian, still wreaking havoc across the fort. The massive creature smashed its fists into another tower, reducing it to rubble—molten ash rock scorching everything in its path. But it had done its work; the Ironborn had been broken, their defenses shattered.

Harald raised his hand, summoning the power to end the conjuration. The Ash Guardian began to shimmer, its form destabilizing as the magic sustaining it faded away. The rocks and molten stone fell apart, crumbling into a pile of smoldering ash.

Harald turned, continuing deeper into the fort, searching for Vikon. The inner keep lay ahead, its doors closed, but that did not concern him. He strode forward, slamming the door open with his shoulder, and entered the dim corridor within.

Ironborn stood ready, but Harald was faster. He took in a breath, summoning the fire within.

"YOL!"

The word of fire erupted from his lips, flames bursting forth in a wave that washed over the corridor. The Ironborn screamed as they were incinerated, their bodies consumed by the intense heat of dragon fire, flesh charring, their bones blackened and brittle. The flames seared everything in their path, leaving nothing but charred remains.

He continued his search, looking for Vikon in the inner keep, but he only found terrified Ironborn, whom he quickly put out of their misery.

'Where is Vikon?' he thought. 'Maybe I already killed him.'

He was about to move further inside when he noticed a shape cowering near the corner of the chamber he was in—a terrified Ironborn, hiding behind an overturned table.

Harald strode over, his eyes locking onto the man's. "Where is Vikon?" he asked, his voice cold and demanding reverberating through his helm.

The Ironborn's eyes were wide, his body trembling. He let out a sob, his voice cracking. "The docks! The docks!" he screamed, pointing with a shaking hand.

'Fuck, Jonnel,' Harald thought. If Vikon was there then there would be more ironborn there than they expected.

Harald raised his hand. A crackling bolt of lightning shot from his fingertips, striking the man with a blinding flash. The man's body convulsed violently before turning lifeless.

He needed to get to the docks fast.

.

.

.

Jonnel and his men sat on their horses in the cover of the trees, just outside the view of Ironholt's docks. The fort loomed in the distance, silent for now, but Jonnel knew that silence wouldn't last long. One of his knights rode up beside him, concern etched across his face.

"My lord, what do you think Lord Stormcrown will do? He might get himself killed," the knight said, his voice low.

Jonnel kept his eyes forward, watching the distant fort. "Do you remember what Septon Leobald said?" Jonnel replied. "The gods themselves may have sent Harald. You and I have seen his magic. Let us see what he's capable of."

The knight was silent for a moment, then nodded. "And what happens after? If Lord Stormcrown succeeds, we'll be in open rebellion."

Jonnel nodded, his expression grim. "Yes, we will be. But if we're lucky, we'll be in rebellion with Harald on our side. And that should give us a fighting chance."

They waited, eyes fixed on the fort, their hands tense on their reins. The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the moment when everything would begin. It wasn't long before they heard it—a thunderous, earth-shaking noise that echoed across the fields. The sound of crumbling stone, followed by the unmistakable screams of men in terror.

"Was that...?" one of the men began, his voice filled with disbelief.

"I think so," Jonnel said, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the fort.

The screams grew louder, mixed with strange, guttural sounds—sounds unlike anything Jonnel had ever heard. "Now," he said, his voice steady. He lifted his sword and turned to his men. "We attack the docks now!"

With a shout, Jonnel spurred his horse forward, his men following suit. The horses charged, hooves thundering against the earth as they raced toward the docks.

As they reached the docks, Jonnel saw that there were more men here than he had anticipated—many of them running in confusion, their attention fixed on the chaos erupting from the fort. Some were heading back toward the docks, fear evident on their faces, while others tried to maintain some semblance of order. Near the docks, Jonnel could see a makeshift pen, filled with men and women huddled together, bound, terror in their eyes as they listened to the terrifying noises from the fort.

"Ride them down!" Jonnel shouted.

They charged into the Ironborn, their swords flashing in the fading light. Jonnel leaned forward, his blade slicing through the air as he brought it down on a sailor's shoulder, the man's scream cut short as he fell to the ground. Beside him, one of his men swung his sword, cutting through the gut of an Ironborn.

The dock was filled with chaos—Blackwood men and Ironborn clashing, men screaming as they fell, blood staining the wood beneath their feet. Jonnel cut down another sailor, his eyes darting towards the makeshift pen where the captives were huddled, but he quickly turned his focus back to the battle, his eyes scanning the docks.

And then he saw him.

Vikon Greyjoy. The man stood near the entrance to the dock, shouting orders at the Ironborn as they scrambled to regroup. Anger surged through Jonnel, the image of Gwen—his beloved—flashing before his eyes. He remembered Rodrick, remembered the horror and the pain that Vikon's brother had inflicted on her and her family.

"Vikon!" he bellowed, urging his horse forward, charging toward the Greyjoy. Jonnel saw Vikon turn, his eyes widening as he spotted Jonnel bearing down on him.

But before Jonnel could reach him, an Ironborn shoved Vikon out of the way, putting himself between Jonnel and his target. Jonnel's horse slammed into the Ironborn, the impact throwing the man to the ground with a sickening crunch.

But the distraction had given Vikon the time he needed.

Vikon lunged at Jonnel's horse, his sword slashing across the animal's side. The horse reared, screaming in pain, and Jonnel felt the world tip as he was thrown from the saddle. He hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs. For a moment, everything was a blur—the sky above him spinning.

But Jonnel forced himself up, his body aching as he scrambled to his feet.

"Well, well, well... a Blackwood," Vikon sneered, his lips curling in a mocking grin as he advanced. "You look just like your little brother."

Jonnel's teeth ground together, fury flashing in his eyes, but he kept his stance firm. Vikon stood there, his sword held confidently in his hands, a grin spreading across his face.

"I'm going to strangle that runt with my own two hands after I'm done with you," Vikon spat, his voice dripping with malice. He lunged, his sword flashing as he charged.

Jonnel barely had time to brace himself. Their swords clashed, the metal ringing out in the evening air. Vikon's strength was overpowering—each strike, each thrust, carried a force that Jonnel struggled to match. Jonnel parried desperately, his feet sliding backward with each blow. His arms ached with the strain, his muscles screaming as he blocked and dodged, trying to keep up with the relentless attack.

Vikon swung his sword with brutal precision, and Jonnel barely managed to block, his knees buckling under the force. He staggered backward, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He tried to counter, swinging his sword in an attempt to break through Vikon's guard, but the Greyjoy easily parried the blow, his grin widening.

"Pathetic," Vikon sneered, and with a sudden surge of strength, he knocked Jonnel's sword to the side. Jonnel stumbled, his footing lost, and in a heartbeat, Vikon's boot slammed into his chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. Jonnel hit the earth hard, his sword skittering away from his grasp.

Vikon stood over him, his face twisted in a smirk of triumph. He pointed his sword at Jonnel, pressing the tip against his chest, just enough to draw a drop of blood. "How the fuck did you even move an army here?" Vikon growled.

Jonnel, lying on his back, his chest heaving, smiled through the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "An army?" he said, his voice a rasp. "There is no army."

Vikon's face contorted with anger, and his grip on the sword tightened. His eyes narrowed in rage, and he raised the blade above his head, prepared to bring it down and finish Jonnel once and for all.

'I'm sorry... Mother,' he thought.

And then it happened.

In the blink of an eye, a figure appeared beside them.

It was Harald.

Vikon barely had time to react, his eyes widening in shock. "What the fuck—?" Vikon began, but his words were cut short as flames erupted from Harald's outstretched hand. The fire surged forward, engulfing Vikon's face. The Greyjoy let out a guttural, horrified scream, his voice twisting into something barely human. The flames licked hungrily at his flesh, charring his skin, burning away his features until his face was nothing more than a grotesque mask of blackened bone, the charred remnants of his lips twisted in a silent scream.

His eyes were nothing but molten pits, his nose burned away, and his jaw sagged as the skin melted, exposing bone beneath. Vikon stumbled back, his sword clattering uselessly to the ground as he clawed at his own face, his screams turning into desperate, inhuman gurgles.

Harald stepped forward and swung his battleaxe.

The blade connected with Vikon's gut, cleaving through flesh and bone. The force of the blow nearly split Vikon in two, the axe cutting a gruesome path through his torso. Blood and entrails spilled out in a steaming heap, the ground beneath him stained crimson. Vikon's silent screams ended abruptly, his body collapsing to the ground in two halves, the lifeless remains falling in a wet, grotesque heap.

Harald stood over the body, his chest rising and falling steadily, his eyes cold as they surveyed the corpse.

Harald turned his head, looking down at Jonnel, who was still struggling to catch his breath. The terror of the near-death experience had left him shaken, and for a moment, he could only stare at Harald in disbelief.

Harald's voice cut through the chaos around them. "Where is Vikon?" he asked, his eyes scanning the dock as if still searching for him.

Jonnel swallowed, his throat dry, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Slowly, a smile broke across his face. He nodded toward the body lying in two mangled halves. "You... you just killed him," he answered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harald looked down at the bloody remains of Vikon Greyjoy. He nodded slightly.

"Well," Harald said, "mission accomplished."

=====

The battle was over. What would have taken armies and months to achieve had been done in an evening. They had freed the captives, along with other thralls kept here. They had lost three of his men—his father's men. Good and brave men who had given their lives to free their people from Ironborn tyranny.

Harald had left for the fort again to look for stragglers; the remnants of Ironholt would not be allowed to regroup or mount any sort of defense. Some had already escaped, but that did not matter now. Jonnel was a firm believer in Harald, and he was sure Haldon had a day or two left to live. He would be reunited with his brother soon.

Jonnel stood outside the fort, looking at the destruction Harald had wreaked upon it. The walls were shattered, the towers reduced to rubble, and the courtyard littered with the bodies of Ironborn soldiers.

He saw Harald walking towards him.

"You are a force of nature," Jonnel said.

Harald smiled and stood with him, looking at the fort in the dying light.

"We need to go to Fairmarket now," Harald said, his voice urgent. "It won't be long before word of what happened here starts to spread."

Jonnel frowned. "Does it matter? After you kill Haldon, we will all be in open rebellion anyway." He paused, the weight of that truth settling over them. He knew that once they struck at Fairmarket, there would be no turning back. They would be at war with King Harren.

"More suffering for the smallfolk," Jonnel said sadly.

"Yes," Harald said bluntly. "People will die. That is the price for freedom from Harren's tyranny. But it's a price worth paying. Better to fight and die for freedom than live another day as slaves to his cruelty."

Jonnel nodded. Yet something was gnawing at his mind. What happens after? From what he had just seen, he was sure Harald could free the Riverlands from the Ironborn. But then what? Would the century of anarchy return? Would the Stormking invade again, or would trouble come from the north or the east? He had heard tales of the years after the last Justmen king—it was not something he wanted to live through.

He was silent for a long moment before he turned to look at Harald. "After Harren is dead and buried," he began, his voice quieter now, "will you... will you take his place?"

Harald paused, his gaze steady as he met Jonnel's eyes. There was no hesitation in his response. "If that is what's necessary to keep peace, then yes." His words were blunt, without pretense, and they took Jonnel by surprise. For a moment, he simply stared, the wind tugging at his cloak.

His face broke into a small smile, a look of admiration settling across his features. "Then know this," he said, his voice firm. "When that time comes, I will be the first to kneel to you, Harald Stormcrown. The Riverlands... could use a man like you to lead us out of centuries of conflict and suffering."

Harald studied him for a moment before giving a small nod, a glimmer of respect in his eyes.

"To Fairmarket, then," Harald said, his voice resolute. He began walking, Jonnel falling into step beside him.

Behind them, the shattered ruins of Ironholt loomed, a symbol of the old order falling away.