"What can we do?" Leobald asked as they stood watching Harald's seat of power being built.
The structure was taking shape day by day, rising from the earth. It would be his home, his hall of judgment, the physical embodiment of his authority in the Heartlands. As Balgruuf had Dragonsreach, he would have his—well, he still didn't have a name for it.
"We must be very careful," Harald replied, his eyes following the ash golems as they worked. The constructs moved, their forms wrought from volcanic ash and bound by his magic. One brought another large white marble block, carrying the massive stone as though it weighed nothing, then set it down near the artisans who would shape it.
The workers had grown accustomed to the golems by now, though some still flinched as they passed. Magic was returning to the world, and the smallfolk were learning to live with it.
"The new maester we requested will be arriving in two moons, Harald," Leobald said, his voice troubled.
"He could poison you, if what you say is true. If the Citadel truly has agents working against magic…against you…"
Harald nodded slowly. "He could. But let me worry about that."
"What of the ones already here?" Leobald pressed. "The maester from Grell, and the maester from Riverrun who will arrive today to assist? Should we—"
Harald did not respond immediately, his gaze distant as he watched the construction continue.
"How can you be so calm?" Leobald asked, frustration creeping into his voice. "Your Grace, if these men mean you harm—"
Harald turned and placed a hand on Leobald's shoulder, his grip reassuring. "We need to be calm for things like this, my friend. Panic serves no purpose but to cloud our judgment."
He took a breath and continued, his voice measured. "We cannot assume the entire order is part of this conspiracy. Such a thing wouldn't be manageable; the logistics and keeping it a secret alone would be impossible. I believe it's a small number of maesters, higher-ranked, with a few lower ones assisting. Perhaps the powerful lords in each kingdom have maesters loyal to this order-within-the-order. The kings as well, no doubt."
Leobald's expression was grim. "Then how do we fight something so entrenched?"
"That is why, my friend, we must win over those who are not part of it those who have issues with the Citadel, those who have been overlooked or dismissed. We need to strengthen our spy network. It will be a long process, and I will need your help."
Leobald nodded.
"Come, let us go back. We already have a long day ahead of us. We can discuss this conspiracy later."
"We should send that maester back as soon as he arrives," Leobald said as they began walking. "Make an excuse…say we don't need—"
"As I said, my friend, I shall handle it," Harald interrupted gently but firmly. "Trust me in this."
Together they walked back toward Whitemore, speaking with the smallfolk and workers as they passed. Harald made it a point to know his people to be seen among them, approachable yet bounded. He was king, after all, and there was a fine line between being accessible and being taken for granted.
Harald decided not to return to the castle but to the encampment where his first legion was being trained. This was his pride: a military force unlike anything Westeros had seen.
He planned to base it on the Imperial Legions of Tamriel the disciplined, devastating machine that had conquered and held an entire continent. They would be called the Legions of the Heartlands.
The thousand men he was training now would be the First Legion. Once it reached its full strength of five thousand, the Second would be raised, and so on, until he had an army that could stand against any threat in Westeros.
For now, the legion was led by Harald, along with ten officers he had selected centurions each commanding one hundred men in units called centuries. Each century was divided into ten-man squads, each with a squad leader elected by the men themselves; soldiers fought harder for leaders they had chosen and respected rather than simply been assigned.
Each squad would receive one support staff member. With one hundred squads across the legion, that meant there were eleven hundred active personnel at present when accounting for support roles. Harald's plan was that, in the coming years, this number would grow into a full legion of five thousand fighting men, with appropriate support staff to match.
Harald and Leobald arrived at the camp. It had been laid out in the style of a Roman castrum organized, efficient, and defensible. Proper barracks stood in neat rows alongside administrative offices, armories, and training facilities. At this hour it was largely empty, save for a few support staff being trained as medics in one of the open yards.
The support staff stood and bowed as they spotted their king approaching. In the distance, Harald saw the legion in the midst of marching drills, ranks moving in perfect synchronization across the field.
Leobald and Harald watched as a thousand men marched in full armor. The sight was impressive.
Each legionnaire wore metal armor with overlapping steel plates protecting the chest and shoulders, complemented by chainmail beneath. Harald had modeled it on the Imperial Legion armor of Tamriel, ensuring superiority over the typical medieval armor used in Westeros. The design offered maximum protection while preserving mobility crucial for the tactics Harald intended to employ.
The legion's scouts wore lighter armor and camouflage cloaks to make them harder to spot; they would be the eyes and ears of the force.
Each centurion wore polished armor with engraved insignia tasteful markings that signified rank without ostentation. They were sons of lords as well as knights Harald had handpicked after judging who was best suited to command. Jonnel Blackwood was among them; the young man had proven himself capable, having fought beside Harald from the beginning. Harald even planned to name him the legion's first legate in time.
All carried a sword and a kite shield. Harald intended to enchant each blade to make it sharper, giving his soldiers an edge literally over any foe they might face. With this equipment, this training, and Harald's leadership, they would be the most powerful army on the continent.
The legion began marching back toward camp, their formation perfect. As they approached, one of the centurions, Ser Mark Piper, called out in a voice trained to carry across battlefields.
"LEGION, HALT!"
As one, the thousand men stopped.
"ABOUT FACE!"
They turned to face Harald, shields at their sides, backs straight.
"Your king stands before you! KNEEL!"
The legion dropped to one knee in perfect unison, fists pressed to their hearts in salute.
"Your Grace!" they chorused, voices strong and unified.
Harald felt a surge of pride as he looked at them. These were his men, forged into something greater than the feudal levies and knights that made up most armies in Westeros.
"Stand!" Harald commanded.
The legion rose as one, returning to attention.
Harald took a moment, scanning the ranks and meeting eyes here and there. Then he began to speak.
"You have done well," he said. "In these past months, you have transformed from individual warriors into a legion. You move as one. You fight as one. You are becoming something Westeros has not seen a legion, the finest army to be fielded on this continent, defined by discipline, training, and brotherhood."
He paused, letting his words sink in.
"But I will not lie to you. War may be on the horizon. There are those who would see our kingdom fall before it has truly begun. You will need to train even harder in the days ahead. You may have to fight in winter something no sane commander would ask, but something that may be necessary to protect what we are building here."
The men stood straighter, determination visible on their faces.
"When that time comes, you will be ready. Because you are not just soldiers you are legionnaires. You are the First Legion of the Heartlands, and you will show the Seven Kingdoms what true military might looks like!"
A cheer erupted from the ranks, fists raised high, voices shouting their approval and loyalty.
The centurions moved forward, and Ser Mark Piper called out again. "FIRST LEGION! DISMISSED! Return to barracks!"
The legion saluted once more, then broke formation in orderly fashion, marching back toward their barracks by centuries and squads.
As they left, Jonnel Blackwood, the centurion of the First Century, walked up to him.
"Your Grace," Jonnel said.
"Jonnel looks like everything is going well here," Harald observed.
He nodded. "Very much so, Your Grace." He gestured toward the camp. "The armor and weapons were finished so quickly I can hardly believe it. When you first told us what you planned, I thought it would take a year to equip a thousand men like this."
Harald smiled. He had introduced innovations in metallurgy that Westeros had never seen before: blast furnaces that burned hotter and more efficiently, charcoal-based refining techniques that produced superior steel, and more. He had also harnessed the rivers of his kingdom water-powered bellows and trip hammers doing the work of dozens of men without tiring.
Water power, he knew, would carry the Heartlands to new heights. It was renewable and abundant in a land defined by its rivers.
"I will soon enchant your swords as well," Harald said. "Each blade will hold an edge that never dulls cutting through lesser steel like cloth."
"I can't wait, Your Grace," Jonnel said, genuine excitement in his voice. Then his expression grew serious. "If I may ask… is there any truth to the rumors of marching to war? Has King Argilac…?"
Harald held up a hand. "I will learn more today and make my decision then. But I will tell you this—the legion is ready in my eyes."
"Of course, Your Grace. We're itching for a fight," Jonnel said with the eagerness of youth.
Harald's expression hardened. "We must never seek out war, Jon. But we must always be prepared for it… And these are times we may need to seek it out for our survival."
Jonnel nodded. "I understand, Your Grace."
Harald continued to meet with other centurions and with the legionnaires, who all seemed to be in good spirits especially with brothels opening nearby, something Harald planned to regulate with proper health inspections. He had no illusions about soldiers and their needs, but he could at least ensure the establishments were clean and the workers protected.
As Harald and Leobald prepared to leave, Jonnel caught up with them again.
"Your Grace," he called out.
Harald turned, then smiled. "We are alone, Jon. You can call me Harald."
Jonnel hesitated, then nodded. "Harald, then. I have a request."
"Ask away, Jon," Harald said, his tone encouraging.
"Gwen and Robard are coming next week," Jonnel said, a smile breaking across his face at the mention of his betrothed.
"That's great!" Harald said, genuinely pleased. "I've missed little Robard. And how is Gwen, Jon?"
"She is well," Jonnel replied, his smile widening. "We plan to be married, and… I was hoping you would officiate. Before the gods, before the Covenant."
"It would be my honor, Jon," Harald said, clasping the younger man's shoulder. "Truly."
"Thank you," Jonnel said. "Thank you, Harald."
As Jonnel walked away, practically floating with happiness, Harald looked at Leobald with a grin.
"Looks like we're to have a wedding," he said.
=========
As Harald and Leobald neared the castle and passed through the main gates, they saw Lord Chancellor Edmyn Tully greeting new arrivals in the courtyard.
A maester stood beside a woman with the Tully look auburn hair and blue eyes.
"Ah, this must be Elsa Tully, Edmyn's sister, and the maester from Riverrun," Harald said quietly to Leobald.
"Your Grace! High Priest!" Edmyn called as he spotted them.
Elsa and the maester both bowed. Leobald's eyes fixed on the maester with open suspicion, as though he might read guilt in the man's face. Harald's attention, however, was on the Tully woman.
She was striking; she reminded Harald of Aela of the Companions, with whom he'd had a brief affair during his time among them. Elsa's eyes held intelligence and a hint of amusement as she regarded him.
Time to up the charm. Harald thought as he stepped forward and took Elsa's offered hand, and brought it to his lips in a gesture of courtly respect. "Your brother was right," he said, voice warm and genuine. "And more about your great beauty. His words did not do you justice, my lady."
Elsa smiled, mischief glinting in her eyes. "How honest. From what Edmyn has said about you, Your Grace, I was expecting something more… godlike. Perhaps lightning in your eyes and thunder in your voice. You seem disappointingly mortal."
"Elsa!" Edmyn's eyes widened. He spoke her name almost angrily, clearly mortified that his sister would be so bold with a king.
"Oh, I save the lightning and thunder for special occasions, birthdays, weddings, particularly stubborn sieges. For everyday use, I find being merely mortal far less exhausting…" Harald replied with a grin.
Elsa laughed. "I like you already, Your Grace. A king with a sense of humor about himself is a rare thing."
"I think we shall get along splendidly," Harald said.
"I am looking forward to getting to know the Herald of the Gods," Elsa replied, still playful. "I will be spending the winter here, it seems, so we shall have plenty of time."
"I look forward to it as well, Lady Elsa," Harald said. "I suspect this winter will be far more interesting with you in residence."
Edmyn gestured to the maester beside his sister. "This is Maester Flowers, Your Grace my trusted maester from Riverrun."
Harald smiled and welcomed him warmly. "We need all the help we can get, Maester. Welcome to Whitemore."
Maester Flowers bowed with a courteous smile. "I have been looking forward to this, Your Grace. To serve in the court of the Herald of the Gods is a great honor."
Harald studied his eyes. Behind the courtesy he saw nervousness, fear, and something else hate, perhaps, or suspicion. The man was guarded, his emotions carefully controlled but not quite hidden from someone like Harald.
"Come," Harald said to Edmyn and Leobald. "Let us begin the council. We have much to discuss."
==========
Soon the lords filed into the throne room Blackwood, Frey, Mallister, Bracken, Vance, Piper, Mandrake, and more seating themselves in a semicircle before Harald's temporary throne.
"I call the first Crown Council to order," Harald announced.
They discussed many matters: preparations for winter, the stockpiling of food, the fortification of castles, and the war in the Vale, where the Mountain Clans were wreaking havoc on the Vale lords. The mood was generally positive, though tinged with the anxiety that always comes with the approach of winter.
At last, the final matter arose—Argilac's war.
The Lord Chancellor, Edmyn Tully, spoke. "Your Grace, my lords two moons ago the Storm King, Argilac Durrandon, invaded the Alliance of the Blackwater Kings."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber, heads nodding.
Edmyn continued, unfurling a map across the table and tracing routes with his finger. "The campaign, which the king expected to end quickly, has dragged on. They have taken only half of the Blackwater territories." His voice darkened. "And now, in frustration, Argilac has done the unthinkable: he has sacked Duskendale. House Darklyn is no more put to the sword, every last one of them."
"Impossible!" Several lords exclaimed at once.
Lord Blackwood stepped forward, face grave. "Argilac would not go that far. He is a hard man, but not a butcher."
Bracken, surprisingly, nodded. "Aye. There must be some mistake."
Harald leaned forward on his throne. "Are you certain, Edmyn? House Darklyn wiped out entirely?"
This shocked Harald; if true, his understanding of Argilac's character would have to change.
Edmyn's expression was grim. "Yes, Your Grace. My sources are reliable merchants who fled Duskendale, smallfolk who witnessed the massacre. I believe Argilac means to make an example, to break the will of the Blackwater kings through terror."
He went on, "The Stormlands host is now advancing on Maidenpool. King Mooton has asked us for assistance." Edmyn looked directly at Harald. "He begs for mercy and says he will kneel to you, King Harald. He believes Argilac intends to wipe out his family as well, just as he did the Darklyns."
"Bah…that traitor."
"Now he calls for His Grace's help?"
"Where was he when we fought Harren?"
"Craven scum."
The lords were not fond of Mooton.
"I am leaning toward answering Mooton's plea, my lords," Harald announced.
Merrick Frey stood, concern clouding his face. "Your Grace, winter has come. We cannot raise our army now. It would be madness."
Piper agreed, as did Grell, Mandrake, Vypren, Blackwood, Bracken, Mallisiter and others. Heads nodded throughout the chamber.
Harald raised his hands, and silence fell. "Yes, we cannot…winter is here, I agree." He paused, letting that settle before continuing. "But winter has not fully set in yet. And Argilac has little time as well. Mooton can hold until winter truly bites, and then Argilac's host will have to withdraw or freeze in enemy territory."
The lords nodded, following his logic.
"My lords, I have a daring plan," Harald said, rising from his throne. "I will march the First Legion myself and give battle to the Stormlanders. We will seize what ground we can, relieve Maidenpool, and drive Argilac back before winter's grip becomes total."
"But a thousand men against twenty thousand?" Lord Mallister protested.
Harald smiled, almost predatory. "You forget, Lord Mallister…I will be leading them."
"Argilac has done the unthinkable. He sacked Duskendale, putting an ancient house like House Darklyn to the sword. Thousands were slaughtered. He has shown the Blackwater lords that surrender means death. They hate him now. When we march in, we will be seen as liberators, not invaders; they will flock to our banners."
The lords nodded slowly, understanding dawning on their faces.
"If you wish to join, bring fifty of your own men which I believe many of you have already with you for this council," Harald continued. "If all goes well, within three months before winter fully sets in we will be home in our castles, warm by our fires, with new lands and new vassals sworn to our kingdom."
A beat of silence as the lords absorbed this.
Then Lord Merrick shouted, "King Harald!"
Others took up the cry.
"Dragonborn!"
"The True Storm!"
The throne room erupted in cheers, fists raised high the lords of the Heartlands united in purpose. They would march to war. They would face the Storm King head-on.