Barthogan Stark walked with his father and uncle, led by four Spectres through the gardens of Castle Cyrodiil toward the weirwood grove.
Their time in the Heartlands so far had gone almost exactly as Barthogan had hoped. Nearly two years ago, he had left the new kingdom believing the North would see what he saw: a southern realm that could greatly benefit the North, one that embraced the Old Gods even within a new faith. A king whom Barthogan believed with all his heart had been chosen by the gods.
But it had not gone as he expected. His thick-headed brother had immediately opposed Harald and the Heartlands, along with half the North, who believed Harald to be some dark sorcerer desecrating the very foundations of their faith.
Barthogan saw it for what it truly was: the North's fear of the south, their fear of anything new, anything that challenged their precious traditions. Even the Manderlys, more than a thousand years after their arrival and settlement in the North, were still viewed with distrust by some of the lords.
They will never change, Barthogan thought, a surge of anger rising within him.
The gods had literally given them a chance to prosper, to finally be free from the terrible cost of winter. No more children starving. No more elderly left to die alone in the cold. No more choosing which mouths to feed and which to let go hungry.
But no. That did not matter to them. Tradition mattered. And tradition, to them, meant the old and the young dying in the winter, hungry and alone, as it had always been.
In the months since his return from the Heartlands, he had formed a faction of his own: lords who saw the benefits of such an alliance. Most of them did not particularly like the Covenant, but they recognized the immense advantages Barthogan saw and were willing to set aside their discomfort for practical gain.
Thankfully, his father leaned toward him more often than not. King Torrhen was a practical man beneath his traditional exterior, and he understood that a king's duty was to his people's well-being.
Barthogan had been overjoyed when his father accepted the invitation to the tourney at Cyrodiil for the meeting of kings. He had known, had felt certain in his bones, that Harald would win over his father. Perhaps even his thick-headed brother, if Brandon could be convinced to listen for once instead of seeing demons in every shadow.
Now the tourney was several days underway, and his father was already quite taken with Harald. The gift of a new sword, forged of enchanted ice and now proclaimed by his father as the new Stark family blade, had sealed that friendship more firmly than any words could have.
Brandon, on the other hand, had managed to insult Harald to his face just days earlier, accusing him of trying to corrupt their sister.
The future King in the North, Barthogan thought derisively.
He was glad his father was healthy and well. Brandon would have to change his tune in the coming years. He would have to grow up and see reality instead of the conspiracies he saw everywhere. Yes, that was Barthogan's hope. Time would mature his brother and show him that the world was more complex than simple narratives of good and evil.
His thoughts were broken by a conversation between his uncle, Brandon Snow, and one of the Spectres escorting them.
"So both the armor and the sword are enchanted?"
"Yes, my lord," the Spectre answered.
"What does it do?" Torrhen asked, leaning in with interest.
The Spectre seemed pleased by the question. "The armor can withstand tremendous force, Your Grace. Even the most powerful warhammer strikes glance off or are absorbed by the enchantments woven into the steel. We are nearly invulnerable to conventional weapons while wearing it."
He touched the pommel of his sword. "The sword bears two enchantments. The first is the same as those carried by the Legion: enhanced sharpness, never dulling, able to cut through lesser steel like cloth. But the second is unique to the Spectres."
He partially drew the blade, and Barthogan's eyes widened.
A red glow rippled along the edge of the steel.
"Fire enchantment," the Spectre explained. "The blade burns as it cuts."
"No wonder you guard the palace and the king," Snow said with a low whistle of appreciation.
They arrived at the weirwood grove to find King Loren already there, standing with his arms crossed and a thoughtful expression. Beside him stood Lord Chancellor Edmyn Tully, looking somewhat anxious.
"Your Grace, Prince Barthogan, Lord Snow," Edmyn greeted them with a respectful bow. "Welcome. The King will be here soon. He had to retrieve… proof."
"Proof?" Torrhen asked, his brow furrowing. "Proof of what?"
King Loren said, "That is what I have been asking as well."
Chancellor Tully's expression grew grave. "Proof of the greatest conspiracy in the Seven Kingdoms, Your Graces."
Just then they heard footsteps behind them, along with the sound of a man's voice pleading, "Let me go! You monster, let me go!"
Barthogan turned and saw King Harald stride into the weirwood grove. In one hand, he held a maester by the scruff of his neck, lifting him partially off the ground as though he weighed nothing.
Harald threw the maester to the ground in the center of the grove. The man hit the earth hard and scrambled backward on his hands, his chain rattling.
"What is the meaning of this, Harald?" King Loren demanded.
Harald did not respond immediately. Instead, he began to speak.
He spoke of a secret order of maesters within the Citadel, one that had existed for millennia. Its members claimed to be the true rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, working from the shadows and guiding lords and kings according to their own vision of how the world should be.
Barthogan stood frozen, horror growing in his chest as Harald continued.
"They have killed noble children, women, and men. Lords, Ladies Kings and Queens. Anyone who threatened their control or possessed abilities they deemed dangerous. All of it driven by their hatred of magic and their obsessive need to control the realm."
"This is madness," Torrhen said, his voice rising with disbelief. "I cannot… you are saying the maesters, the very men we trust to advise us, to manage our—"
"Not all maesters," Harald interrupted firmly. "But a faction within the order. A shadow organization that has operated for generations."
King Loren was silent, his eyes fixed on Harald as he weighed every word carefully.
"Your aunt was one of their victims," Harald said, turning to Torrhen. His voice softened slightly. "She was only a child when she was murdered. They killed her because she was a skinchanger, because her gift threatened their vision of a world without magic."
"No," Torrhen whispered, his face going pale. "No, no, that cannot be. She died of a fever. Father told me—"
"Then Morris was involved?" Brandon Snow asked suddenly, his voice sharp. Their maester at Winterfell, the man who had served House Stark for decades.
"Yes," Harald confirmed. "Morris, Flowers here, and maesters in royal courts across the Seven Kingdoms, as well as certain powerful lords influential enough to bend events to their will."
Loren finally spoke. "I always suspected something about Maester Ambrose. I never truly trusted the citadel because of that."
"You believe this?" Torrhen asked, turning to Loren with something like desperation in his voice, as though he needed someone to tell him it was all a lie.
"It is hard to believe," Loren admitted. "But Harald claims the maester before us is part of the order. If he can prove that…"
"We are involved in their plot at this very moment," Harald continued, his voice hardening again. "A plot in two parts, as far as I can determine."
He gestured toward where the tourney grounds lay. "There are Warrior's Sons hidden in the forest, nearly three hundred of them, concealed by a dark artifact that these so called guardians of reason procured from a forbidden source. They plan to attack tonight during the joust."
Barthogan felt his blood run cold.
"And there are two others also involved in this conspiracy," Harald said, and his next words seemed to come with effort, with reluctance. "Prince Brandon Stark and Princess Serena Stark."
"You DARE!" Torrhen exploded, surging forward. "You dare accuse my children of breaking guest right? My own blood?"
Barthogan's eyes widened in shock. No. It could not be. Brandon was stubborn, yes. Hostile to Harald, certainly. But he would never go so far as to break guest right. Never. That was sacred. Inviolable. Even Brandon, for all his faults, would not stain House Stark with such dishonor. And Serena? The accusation was even more unthinkable.
"Yes!" Harald's voice boomed through the grove, enhanced by something that made it resonate like thunder, causing everyone present to tremble despite themselves.
Brandon Snow spoke. "King Harald, I have known my nephew and niece their entire lives. Brandon is… difficult, yes. Stubborn. But he would never—"
"Your Graces," Chancellor Tully interrupted. "This man before you is Maester Flowers. He has served my family for nearly twenty years. All that King Harald says is true." His voice broke slightly. "It was my sister Elsa and I who investigated and uncovered his treachery. We have documents to prove everything. Letters, coded messages, confessions extracted from—"
"My children…" Torrhen said weakly, and Barthogan had never seen his father look so lost, so broken.
"Are being brought here as we speak," Harald said, cutting him off. "They will have a chance to defend themselves—"
Barthogan was about to speak, about to demand answers, when the maester on the ground began laughing.
Everyone turned to look at him in varying states of shock.
Barthogan saw Harald's expression shift to one of genuine confusion.
"You will all die here tonight!" Flowers cackled, his eyes wild and gleaming. "The Order is eternal! We always win! We have guided this continent for thousands of years, and we will guide it for thousands more! You think you have uncovered us? You think you have stopped us?"
He laughed again, spittle flying from his lips. "The trap is already sprung! It is too late. Too late for all of you!"
Oh, fuck, Barthogan thought, his stomach dropping. It is all true. Every word of it is true.
.
.
.
Harald looked down at Flowers, who was now fully immersed in his villainous monologue.
The man was spilling everything, every secret, every justification, as if he could not contain himself, as if the certainty of his victory had loosened his tongue beyond all reason.
"You think this is about power? About control?" Flowers demanded, his voice rising with fervent conviction. "We are the shepherds of civilization! Without us, without the Order's guiding hand, Westeros would have descended into anarchy centuries ago!"
He tried to stand, but Harald's boot on his chest kept him pinned. It did not stop him from talking.
"Do you know why the Valyrians never came here? Why the greatest empire the world has ever seen never came for Westeros?" Flowers laughed, the sound manic. "It was us! The Order made arrangements, spread prophecies and fears. We kept the dragonlords away through careful manipulation!"
His eyes blazed with zealous pride. "And the Old Gods' worship, with its human sacrifices and barbaric blood rituals? We purged that darkness! We brought the Faith of the Seven to civilize the First Men! Everything good in Westeros, everything civilized and ordered, exists because we made it so!"
Both Loren and Torrhen surged forward, murder in their eyes.
Harald raised a hand, stopping them.
"What were your plans for the prince and princess?"
Flowers looked at him and laughed derisively. "The prince? That idiot? Nothing. He knows we plot your death, but he is a useful tool. He is meant to die along with the rest of you!"
He turned his head toward Torrhen, and his smile became cruel. "But the princess? Oh, that one was special. How blind you were to her plotting. How willing she was to betray her family for the Boltons. For her precious lover."
Torrhen's face went white with horror.
"It was so easy to manipulate her," Flowers continued, clearly savoring every word. "Promises of power. Promises that she could finally be with her lover. The wolf bitch became our weapon. And the best part?" He laughed again. "She does not even know that—"
"You bastard!" Torrhen screamed, driving his fist into Flowers' face.
The blow knocked Flowers unconscious.
Harald looked away from the maester toward the entrance of the grove, wondering where Aerion was with Serena and Brandon. They should have arrived by now.
Just then they heard it.
Screaming. The screams of frightened people, raw with terror.
"Fuck," Harald said aloud, already running.
Everyone followed. Loren, Torrhen, Snow, Barthogan, Edmyn, and the Spectres who had been guarding the grove all raced through the gardens toward the source of the commotion.
They burst from the garden path into the open area near the central fountain.
And saw it.
Princess Serena Stark stood in the midst of transforming, her body contorting, her screams blending with sounds that should never have come from a human throat. A dozen Spectres had formed a perimeter around her, swords drawn, trying to keep the gathering crowd of horrified onlookers back. Ladies fled in panic. Knights stood frozen in shock. Servants screamed.
"Evacuate the area!" Harald commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Get everyone into the throne room. Now!"
The Spectres immediately began herding people away, but Torrhen ran ahead.
"Serena! Serena!" he screamed, running faster as Harald continued issuing orders, pushing past the Spectres toward his transforming daughter.
"Torrhen, back off!" Harald shouted, but the King in the North was not listening.
Harald saw what Serena was becoming, and his blood ran cold. This was a werewolf, yes, but nothing like the ones he had encountered in Skyrim. This was not Hircine's curse, the pure, primal transformation of man into beast. This was something else. Something twisted. Something wrong.
This was Hermaeus Mora's defilement of lycanthropy.
Serena's body had grown to nine feet tall, her flesh torn and reformed into something that should not exist. Fur sprouted in diseased patches between raw, exposed muscle.
Her mouth split apart, dividing into four separate sections like a grotesque flower, each lined with jagged, irregular fangs.
"SKREEEEEE-RAAAAAAAAAAGH-HRRRRRRRRR!" it screamed.
Harald raised his hand calling for his Battleaxe from inside the castle and he shouted,
"FUS RO—"
The Thu'um struck the werewolf, and it barely moved.
The creature's four-part mouth opened wider than should have been possible, and it unleashed a blast of sickly green energy, a beam of corruption that slammed into his hastily raised ward.
That is new, Harald thought grimly as he absorbed the attack, his magical shield flaring bright gold against the assault.
As Harald defended himself, Torrhen reached his daughter, or what had once been his daughter.
"Serena!" Torrhen cried out. "Serena, it's your father! It's me!"
He took a step closer.
"I know you're in there, my sweet girl. I know you can hear me. Whatever they did to you, whatever darkness they put inside you, you can fight it! You're a Stark!!"
His voice cracked.
"Please, my daughter...."
He reached out toward the creature, his hand trembling.
The creature that had been Serena Stark turned its eyes toward him. For a moment, something flickered there. Recognition, perhaps. Or horror at what she had become.
Then the claws came down.
The massive, taloned hand, easily the size of Torrhen's torso, slashed across his chest and sent him flying through the air. He crashed into the base of the fountain with a sickening impact. Blood sprayed across the white stone.
"FATHER!" "BROTHER!" Barthogan and Brandon Snow screamed simultaneously, both racing toward their fallen king.
The creature turned its full attention to Harald.
It launched itself at him with impossible speed for something so large, claws extended, that terrible four-part mouth opening to unleash another blast.
Just then, his battleaxe flew from inside the castle into his outstretched hand. Harald caught it and swung with all his considerable strength, rotating his body for maximum force. He struck the creature across the face with the flat of the axe head.
The impact was tremendous. The werewolf's momentum was completely halted, and it was hurled sideways through the air, tumbling before crashing into a marble pillar twenty feet away.
The pillar cracked from the force of the collision.
The creature roared in pain and fury.
But it was already back on its feet. Then it vanished into dark wisps, like smoke scattering in the wind, there one moment and gone the next.
What the fuck have you made, Mora? Harald thought, his eyes scanning the garden rapidly.
Now the only ones remaining in the garden were Brandon Snow and Barthogan, kneeling beside Torrhen, trying to move him, trying to get him to safety. The Spectres had successfully evacuated everyone else, but the two men had refused to abandon their king.
The creature reappeared directly behind Harald.
He spun, raising his axe just in time to block the descending claws. The impact drove him back three steps, his boots carving furrows into the garden path. The creature pressed its advantage, slashing with both hands and several writhing tentacles at once.
Harald defended, his axe a blur of motion, but he could not block everything. A claw slipped through and raked across his ribs, the barbs tearing through his tunic and drawing blood.
Enough.
Harald planted his feet, drew a deep breath, and unleashed his full power.
"FUS ROH DAH!"
The Unrelenting Force shout struck the abomination. The air itself became a visible wave of distortion, and the creature was lifted completely off its feet and hurled backward.
It flew through the air, crashed through a stone bench, and slammed into the garden wall with enough force to crack the masonry.
The fact that it had not been launched even farther, that the full force of the Unrelenting Force had not sent it flying clear out of the castle grounds, impressed Harald. The creature had absorbed much of the attack's power, its unnatural body enduring punishment that would have pulverized a normal werewolf.
Harald raised his battleaxe high and let out a battle cry.
"Come on, then! Let's end this!"
At the same time, Serena, the thing that had been Serena, threw back its head and roared.
"HHHHRRRRAAAAAAAGH-SKREEEE-RRRRRRRR-AAAAAAAGH!"
They charged at each other.
Harald used the Whirlwind Sprint shout. "WULD NAH KEST!" He became a blur of motion, crossing the distance in an instant and slamming into the werewolf with his shoulder. They went down in a tangle of limbs and writhing tentacles, rolling across the garden stones.
Harald rose first, lifting his battleaxe for a killing blow aimed at the creature's skull.
But the werewolf's four-part mouth opened again, unleashing that sickly green blast at point-blank range.
The corrupted energy struck Harald square in the chest and face. The beam continued for three full seconds. He felt his skin blistering and burning, his clothes catching fire. The top half of his tunic burned away completely, leaving his torso exposed, raw, and covered in burns.
He staggered back, vision momentarily washed white with pain.
Serena lunged again, her mouth opening for another blast.
Fuck this.
He drew the deepest breath of his life and shouted one of the most powerful Thu'um in his arsenal.
"TIID KLO UL!"
Slow Time.
The full power of the shout took hold. Everything around him slowed to a crawl. The creature's lunge became glacial, as if it were suspended in midair.
Harald moved at normal speed through the slowed world.
He centered himself and unleashed the Dismay shout three times in rapid succession.
"FAAS RU MAAR!"
The first aimed at the center.
"FAAS RU MAAR!"
The second slightly to the right.
"FAAS RU MAAR!"
The third to the left, all aimed at where Harald predicted Serena would be once time resumed.
Then Harald hurled his battleaxe straight at the werewolf's head.
He released the Slow Time shout early.
Time snapped back to normal.
His battleaxe struck the creature's head first. As it began to fall, the three Dismay shouts hit simultaneously, a triple wave of concentrated terror made manifest.
"AAAAAAIIIIIIEEEEEE-HRRRRR-SKREEEEEE!"
The creature roared in agony as it writhed on the ground.
It thrashed and screamed, clawing at its own face.
Harald stepped forward and shouted again.
"GOL HAH DOV!"
Bend Will.
The effect was immediate.
The curse's hold on Princess Serena Stark shattered. Now weakened, Harald was able to bend the will of the curse itself, and the werewolf form began to revert.
The transformation back was painful, perhaps even more painful than the initial change. The creature shrieked and convulsed as its body contracted, bones breaking, muscles squelching with a wet sound.
Within thirty seconds, what lay on the garden path was no longer a nine-foot werewolf horror.
Princess Serena Stark lay naked and broken on the cold stone, her body shaking with violent tremors. Her skin was disfigured, covered in scars where flesh had torn and reformed. Her once-beautiful face was marked with twisted scars that ran from forehead to chin.
It was over.
"FAAAAATHER!"
A wail rose from behind Harald.
He turned and saw Crown Prince Brandon Stark shoving a crying Barthogan aside, nearly knocking his younger brother to the ground as he rushed to cradle King Torrhen in his arms.
The Spectres were returning now that Serena had been subdued, along with several lords and King Loren, all of them moving cautiously back into the garden.
Brandon gathered his father's limp body against his chest. For a moment, there was silence.
Then he threw his head back and screamed.
"NOOOOOOOOO!"
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"
The scream echoed off the castle walls and carried across the entire courtyard. Brandon clutched his father tighter, rocking back and forth, his face twisted in absolute anguish.
Barthogan hurried over, his expression desperate. "Harald! Can you heal him? Please. You… you can heal him!"
Brandon heard the plea and rose abruptly. His face was a mask of rage and grief fused into something terrible. He drew his sword with a sharp ring of steel and charged at Harald with a wordless roar.
Harald reacted instantly.
"ZUN!"
The single word of the Disarm shout struck Brandon. His sword was ripped from his grip and sent spinning across the garden. Before Brandon could even comprehend what had happened, Harald stepped forward and struck him across the face with enough force to send the Crown Prince sprawling to the ground.
Harald moved past him to Torrhen.
Brandon Snow looked up at Harald with desperate hope. "Can you…?"
King Loren answered instead, his voice heavy. "His neck. It's his neck. I do not think…"
Harald knelt beside Torrhen and examined him carefully. Loren was right. The king's neck was broken. There was nothing to be done. Death had been instantaneous. Torrhen Stark had died the moment he struck the fountain.
Harald slowly shook his head and stood, moving away from grieving Bartogan and Brandon Snow anger bubbling inside him.
Hermaeus got what he wanted, he thought bitterly.
"Your Grace!" Aerion appeared, running toward Harald with urgency. He pointed beyond the castle, toward the edge of Whitemore Forest, where the sounds of battle and the chaos of combat could be heard.
"The Warrior's Sons, Your Grace. The Legion battles them."
Harald took a deep breath, forcing down the anger and frustration, channeling it all into something useful.
"MUL QAH DIIV!"
The transformation was immediate and spectacular.
Harald was enveloped in an ethereal set of dragon armor, scales of golden light covering him from head to toe, shimmering and translucent.
Then, thanks to Paarthurnax's teachings, something more manifested.
Wings.
Great ethereal wings of golden light unfurled from Harald's back, each one easily fifteen feet long. They moved with his will.
Gasps of awe rippled through the assembled crowd.
"By the Seven…" someone whispered.
"The gods…" another breathed.
Harald stood for a moment, wings spread wide, the Dragon Aspect making him appear like divinity made flesh.
Then he launched himself into the sky.
The wings beat once, twice, and Harald was airborne, flying toward the battle.
Below him, people in the city and at the tourney grounds stared upward in wonder.
As he approached the fighting, he saw the Legion below, holding a defensive line against the Warrior's Sons, who fought with unnatural fervor. Even mortal wounds had not stopped them. They fought on with javelins lodged in their guts, with arrows piercing their lungs.
Harald descended low, like a dragon diving upon its prey.
The Legion saw him coming and immediately pulled back, opening a corridor in their lines.
Three words erupted from his mouth.
"YOL TOOR SHUL!"