12: Dragonborn Conqueror, Welcome to Fairmarket

Leobald, Chett, Brannik, and Willem walked along the road towards Fairmarket. It was bustling with activity. Merchants with carts, travelers, and farmers all moved along the well-trodden path that led to the busy town.

Chett glanced at the weapons they carried, his brow furrowed. "We shouldn’t have brought our swords. Harald told us to blend in," he muttered uneasily.

Brannik and Willem nodded in agreement.

Leobald glanced over his shoulder at them, his expression calm. "Worry not. I have a plan. You only need to play along and stay calm," he reassured them.

Despite Leobald’s words, Chett, Brannik, and Willem remained uneasy, their eyes darting left and right as they walked. They pulled their cloaks tighter, covering the hilts of their weapons as best they could.

After some time, they entered Fairmarket, the famous town nestled along the Blue Fork. It was alive with activity, the narrow streets crowded with townsfolk going about their business. Ironborn banners were draped along the main streets—bearing the kraken of House Greyjoy, alongside the two heavy silver chains crossing between a gold longship on black, a dark green pine on white, a cluster of red grapes on gold, and a black raven flying in a blue sky—all symbols of House Hoare’s dominion.

Leobald's eyes turned towards the docks, which were lined with Ironborn longships, their dark sails furled but clearly ready for any command.

He frowned as he noted there were more Ironborn in the streets than during his last visit.

'Did Haldon call in more men? Why?' Leobald wondered, his mind uneasy.

They continued walking, the tension in the air evident. Conversations fell silent whenever an Ironborn guard walked by, and Leobald noticed the stolen glances between the townsfolk, the way hushed conversations quickly moved into the shadows. The people were afraid.

‘What has happened here?’ Leobald thought, his brow creased with concern.

"You there!" a voice called out, cutting through the noise of the street. "Halt!" the voice demanded again, firmer this time.

Chett's hand instinctively went to his sword, but Leobald quickly reached out, placing a firm hand on his arm to stop him. "No," Leobald whispered under his breath.

They turned to see a man sauntering over. Tall and lean, with a cold, weathered face, he wore armor emblazoned with a kraken—the unmistakable sigil of House Greyjoy. Five other Ironborn followed behind him, each eyeing them suspiciously.

"A septon traveling with armed men?" the Ironborn sneered, his eyes narrowing as he looked between them, lingering on the weapons beneath their cloaks. "Not something you see every day." His gaze fixed on Chett, Brannik, and Willem, narrowing in suspicion. "What business do you have in Fairmarket?" he asked, his tone demanding.

Leobald stepped forward, bowing his head slightly in a show of respect. "I am Septon Leobald, assigned to these lands, and these men are my escort, good sir," he said, his voice calm. "I am returning from Oldtown, you see."

The Ironborn’s gaze moved over them, still filled with suspicion. "A septon with armed escorts? I’ve never seen your kind hire swords before," he said, then turned his attention to Chett. "Where are you from, rogue?"

Leobald's expression didn’t falter. "By the laws King Halleck Hoare instituted," he said smoothly, "a septon is entitled to travel with protection, especially in these troubled times."

The Ironborn's expression twisted in anger. "Troubled times?" he repeated, as if deeply offended. "What troubled times?"

Leobald's eyes widened slightly, and he quickly shook his head. "Not here, of course," he said hurriedly, his voice carrying a hint of nervousness. "Especially not in lands governed by the esteemed Lord Greyjoy. I meant the lands south—the ones governed by House Drumm. Too many bandits, I’m afraid."

The Ironborn seemed to relax slightly, though his eyes still studied them warily. "I've heard of Lord Haldon's prowess in keeping the peace," Leobald added with a smile, "and I’m sure the townsfolk here sleep soundly under his protection."

The Ironborn grunted, the flattery doing its job and softening his demeanor. "Best not cause any trouble, Septon," he muttered, casting one last wary glance at Chett, Brannik, and Willem before turning away, his men following.

Leobald let out the breath he had been holding in, his shoulders relaxing.

"That was close," Brannik whispered, his voice barely audible.

"Come, the sept is nearby," Leobald said, his tone hushed, as he led them further down the crowded street, blending in once more with the people of Fairmarket.

Soon they arrived near the sept, a humble building that seemed to have endured years of neglect. Its stone walls were cracked, and the once-beautiful stained glass windows were faded, the vibrant colors long dulled by time and weather. It was a modest place of worship, struggling to keep its dignity in the face of hardship.

Outside the sept stood two septas, talking to two men.

Leobald called out to them as they approached, "Septa Lora! Septa Tanis!"

The septas turned at the sound of their names, surprise evident on their faces. The older septa quickly dismissed the two men she had been speaking with, and both of them nodded, giving respectful bows before walking away.

The septas walked towards them, meeting Leobald, Chett, Brannik, and Willem halfway.

"Septon Leobald!" Lora said, her voice filled with surprise. "We didn’t expect you back for another two months." Beside her, Septa Tanis nodded, her expression still carrying the same shock as she looked at the returning septon.

Leobald gave them a small, polite smile. "I'm afraid plans changed. I need to meet Septon Ryam—it’s important," he said, his voice urgent.

Septa Lora's gaze drifted to Chett, Brannik, and Willem. She studied them, her eyes narrowing slightly. "And who are these men?" she asked, her voice cautious.

"I will explain everything inside, with Ryam," Leobald assured her, his tone firm.

Lora looked at him for a moment before nodding, though there was curiosity—and perhaps a hint of suspicion—in her gaze. "Very well," she said, "come in." She gestured towards the sept's entrance, and they began to walk towards the building.

As they walked, Leobald cast a concerned glance around, taking in the state of the streets. "Has something happened since I left? The town seems tense," he said, his voice low.

Lora and Tanis exchanged glances, their expressions turning grim. Septa Tanis's eyes welled with tears, and she looked as though she might burst into sobs at any moment.

"It’s the godless heathens," Septa Lora said, her voice tinged with bitterness and sorrow.

Leobald could only frown at her words, his heart sinking with worry. They made their way through the dimly lit interior, the air inside the sept heavy with the smell of candle wax and incense. As they moved deeper into the sept, they found Septon Ryam in the middle of a prayer.

Ryam's voice was soft, yet filled with conviction. His eyes were closed, his hands clasped tightly together, his head bowed.

"O merciful Seven, who are one in truth,

Guide us with your wisdom and light.

Grant strength to the weak and protection to the helpless.

Bring comfort to those in sorrow and heal the wounds of the broken-hearted.

Look upon us with mercy in this dark hour,

And let your justice prevail over the wickedness that plagues our land.

May your grace watch over the faithful,

And may your love unite us in hope and peace.

We ask this humbly, in the name of the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger.”

Septa Lora called out softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Septon Ryam."

Ryam's eyes slowly opened, and he looked up, blinking in surprise when he saw Leobald. He looked haggard, his robes worn and frayed, dark circles under his eyes.

"Leobald?" Ryam said, his voice filled with disbelief. "What are you doing—" His words trailed off as his eyes moved past Leobald to the three men standing behind him. His gaze narrowed, suspicious and wary. "Who are these men?" he asked, his tone suddenly guarded.

Leobald raised a placating hand. "It’s a long story, Ryam," he said, his voice calm. He gave the older septon a reassuring smile.

=====

Leobald looked at the meal before them. Ryam had offered them lunch before asking about why he was here. That was Ryam’s way—kind, generous, always putting others first, even when he had so little himself. Ryam had always been someone Leobald looked up to, someone whose compassion and resilience he had tried to emulate.

"It isn’t much," Ryam said apologetically, his gaze lingering on the simple fare. Bread, a bit of cheese, and some dried vegetables lay before them, a humble meal. "Prices have increased since last month," Ryam added, a hint of sadness in his voice.

Lora nodded solemnly.

Leobald gave them a reassuring smile. "It’s more than enough, Ryam." He nodded in appreciation. Beside him, Chett, Brannik, and Willem murmured their agreement, and they all began eating.

As they ate, Leobald couldn’t help but notice how quiet Ryam was. His gaze was distant, his eyes hollow, and his hands trembled slightly when he raised his cup of wine. Ryam had always been a jovial man, his mere presence a comfort to those around him, but now… there was an emptiness in his demeanor that Leobald had never seen before.

When they finished eating, Leobald set his cup down and looked at Ryam, his brow creased with concern. "Ryam, the town… it seems so tense. What has happened since I left?"

Ryam’s expression faltered. He took a shaky breath, his hands trembling as he set down his cup. He looked at the table for a long moment before answering. "Haldon… Haldon took many from the town as thralls," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Leobald's eyes widened in shock. "Thralls?" he muttered, disbelief heavy in his tone. "But he’s never done this before—not in Fairmarket."

Ryam nodded sadly, his eyes hollow. "He took them. And to avoid any dissent among the townsfolk, Haldon commanded the guards to keep the peace—gave them more power." His lips twisted into a bitter frown. "And they've been misusing it ever since."

Leobald frowned deeply. That explained the tension he had noticed—the way people avoided the guards, the hushed conversations, the stolen glances. It made sense now.

But there was something more. Ryam looked broken, and this news alone didn’t explain it. Leobald looked at his old mentor, searching his eyes. "Ryam… what happened to you?" he asked gently. "You look… worse than I’ve ever seen. Please, tell me."

Ryam looked away, his eyes glistening. Septa Lora looked equally distraught, and Tanis was barely holding back her tears.

After a long moment, Ryam turned back to Leobald. "Come," he said, his voice hoarse. "Follow me."

Leobald stood, his heart pounding in his chest as he followed Ryam through the sept. They walked in silence, the dim glow of candles casting flickering shadows along the stone walls.

"You remember Tommen, don’t you?" Ryam asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Leobald nodded. "Of course. Little Tom..." A hint of a smile touched Leobald’s lips. "Has there been any word from Oldtown? Has Tommen left already?" Leobald asked, hopeful. Tommen had been a regular in the sept, always helping around, and the boy wished to be a septon as well.

Ryam paused, his shoulders slumping. "No," he whispered, his voice low and filled with pain. "All he wanted… all he wanted was to serve the gods." His voice broke, his words almost choked with emotion.

Leobald felt a cold pang of fear settle in his chest. Panic surged through him. "What happened?" he asked, his voice trembling. "Ryam, what happened to Tommen?"

Ryam closed his eyes, his hands trembling as he struggled to keep his composure. "Tommen’s father…" Ryam began, his voice cracking. He looked down, his eyes filled with pain. "Tommen’s father fell behind on his tributes to the guards—the 'taxes' they demand from all the market stalls. When they came to collect, there was nothing left to give."

Leobald's heart began to race, his chest tightening. He remained silent, his eyes fixed on Ryam, waiting for him to continue.

"The guards began to beat him. Tommen tried to stop them," Ryam said, his voice filled with a deep, silent anger. His hands clenched into fists. "They beat him… almost to death." Ryam’s voice trembled, and he looked away, blinking back tears. "His father brought him here… he thought… he thought we could help."

Ryam turned to Leobald, his eyes filled with pain. "I’ve tried everything, Leobald," he said, his voice filled with despair. "Prayers, poultices, every remedy I know… but he may not survive the night."

Leobald felt as though the air had been stolen from his lungs. He stared at Ryam, visibly shaken, unable to respond. Ryam’s tears began to fall, and he wiped his eyes with a trembling hand.

"May… may I see him?" Leobald finally managed to ask, his voice barely audible.

Ryam nodded, his eyes filled with grief as he turned and led Leobald to a small back chamber of the sept. Inside, lit only by the flickering glow of a single candle, lay the frail form of Tommen. The boy’s breaths were shallow, his skin pale and clammy, his face covered in bruises. His lips were cracked, and his eyes barely opened, unfocused and distant. His frail chest rose and fell with difficulty, each breath a struggle.

Leobald knelt by the bed, placing a gentle hand on the boy's forehead, feeling the fever burning beneath his skin. He looked up at Ryam, who stood in the doorway, his face etched with grief.

Leobald whispered a prayer to the Seven, but his thoughts were not solely on the gods. No… he was also thinking of Harald.

Harald could save him. He knew it. If there was anyone who could heal Tommen, it was Harald.

.

.

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"Leobald, Leobald!" Chett's voice broke through the haze.

Leobald quickly turned to face Chett, shaking himself free from his thoughts of Tommen.

"Are you sure this is it?" Chett asked, glancing around, his eyes focused on the heavily guarded building in front of them. They stood near the tower where Haldon resided. Chett had discarded his armor and weapons at the sept to blend in better as they scouted the town, just as Harald had ordered.

Leobald nodded, looking at the building and the adjacent tower. This place was once part of a castle that had belonged to House Justman years ago.

‘How far they have fallen,’ he thought to himself.

"Haldon will be there," Leobald said, pointing at the tall, looming tower.

Chett nodded, his eyes scanning the structure.

For the rest of the day, Leobald joined Chett, Willem, and Brannik in observing the guards near the tower and the residence where they kept the hostages. They stayed as inconspicuous as possible, their eyes carefully tracking every patrol and every move made by Haldon's men.

They learned that the hostages were allowed out only under guard, which was strange, as Leobald remembered that when he was last here, they had been able to move about more freely. He mentioned this to Septa Tanis at the sept, who sighed heavily and said she had heard there had been some sort of incident involving Brynden Blackwood, though she didn’t know the details.

There was another problem as well. His activities with the men, his wandering the town—it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

That night, when Leobald returned to the sept, he was confronted by Ryam. The old septon looked agitated, his eyes full of suspicion.

"Leobald, what are you doing? Who are these three men, truly?" Ryam demanded. "Don’t lie to me. I do not believe they are simply men you hired for protection."

Leobald looked at Ryam, then turned to the others. "Give us a moment," he said, and then he gestured for Ryam to follow him to a private chamber within the sept.

Once inside, Ryam’s eyes bore into Leobald. "Why have you returned so soon, Leobald?" he asked, his voice sharp, demanding. "You lied to me, didn’t you?"

Leobald sighed, nodding slightly. "Yes. You’re right," he admitted, his tone serious. "There is a reason I am here, and it’s far more than I told you."

Ryam’s brow furrowed, his expression a mix of confusion and concern. "Why?" he pressed.

Leobald looked into his mentor’s eyes. "I am here to help someone—a man who is an answer to our prayers. A man who will end the tyranny of the Ironborn."

Ryam’s brow furrowed in confusion. "What?" he asked.

Leobald placed a hand on Ryam's shoulder. "The gods have sent a man—a champion to help us," he said, his voice unwavering. "A divine warrior, he plans to free the Riverlands from the Ironborn.” he paused.

“He plans to kill Haldon Greyjoy," he added after a moment.

Ryam’s eyes went wide, and he instinctively took a step back. "A champion? Kill Haldon?" Ryam’s voice trembled with disbelief. "Leobald, do you hear yourself? A champion of the gods… kill Haldon Greyjoy This is madness," he said, shaking his head.

Leobald stepped closer, his eyes filled with conviction, his hand still resting on Ryam’s shoulder. "Ryam, haven’t we prayed for deliverance? For years, you and I have knelt before the Seven, asking for help. Now, finally, they’ve sent us an answer."

Ryam stared at Leobald, disbelief and fear warring in his gaze. "You’ve lost your mind," Ryam said, his voice laced with worry. "How could you possibly think the gods sent anyone?" He turned away from Leobald, shaking his head.

Leobald straightened his shoulders, holding his mentor’s gaze, his confidence unwavering. "They’ve sent a man, Ryam. A warrior unlike any other I’ve ever seen. He has magic—not dark magic like the Valyrians, not some twisted sorcery—it’s divine, Ryam. You need to see it to believe it."

Ryam closed his eyes, his face a mask of doubt. "You speak of HERESY... of sorcery, Leobald," Ryam said. "Madness and sorcery."

"When Harald arrives, you will see. He will heal Tommen," Leobald said, his voice softer. "Yes, Ryam… Tommen will live. The gods have sent him, and they have granted him the power to heal. I have seen it."

At the mention of Tommen, Ryam faltered, his shoulders slumping as his face crumpled with grief. "Tommen…" he whispered. "Do not give me false hope with fanciful tales, Leobald. I couldn’t bear it."

"I swear on the Mother herself, Ryam," Leobald said, his voice filled with emotion. "Tommen will be healed. When Harald arrives, you’ll see, and all your doubts will be gone."

Ryam did not respond, his eyes downcast. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he remained silent.

Just then, Brannik entered the room, his expression tense. "Septon Leobald," he said, his voice low. "They’re here."

Leobald’s heart skipped a beat, and he turned to Brannik, his eyes wide with hope. "Harald?" he asked, his voice hopeful.

Brannik nodded. "Yes. Him and Lord Jonnel. They’ve just arrived."

"Come, Ryam," Leobald said, his voice urgent. He placed a hand on Ryam’s arm.

Ryam hesitated but eventually nodded, following behind them.

They walked towards the entrance of the sept. There, Jonnel stood, speaking with Septa Lora and Septa Tanis. The flickering torchlight lit his face, exhaustion visible in his eyes. When he saw Leobald, he smiled.

"Ah, Leobald. Chett met us near the town," Jonnel said.

Leobald barely acknowledged Jonnel’s words, his eyes scanning the dark outside. "Where is Harald?" he asked urgently, his heart pounding. "He is needed, quickly."

Jonnel looked puzzled for a moment, his brows furrowing. Then, he gestured towards the darkened entrance to the sept. Leobald followed his gaze.

Then, from the darkness beyond, a figure stepped into the dimly lit chamber. Harald Stormcrown, his black armor glistening in the flickering candlelight, his helm in his hand, and his massive battleaxe slung across his back, entered the sept.

"Why the long faces?" Harald asked, a bright smile spreading across his face.

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