- Unknown -
The afternoon sky lay heavy with low clouds, muting the sun to a dim, melancholy glow. A fog crept in from the lake known as the God's Eye, wrapping the Riverlands in a ghostly hush. Beneath this pale cover sat Harrenhal, the once-indestructible fortress now scarred, scorched and haunting.
Harrenhal had been built by Harren the Black, the last King of the Isles and Rivers, who meant it to tower above all castles—a monument to himself. He commanded men from the Riverlands and Iron Islands to labour for forty years, raising five massive towers and walls so vast that an entire army was required merely to garrison them.
But the castle's completion marked its downfall. On the very day its last stone was set, Aegon I Targaryen landed in Westeros. At Harrenhal, he rode his dragon Balerion the Black Dread over the castle walls and bathed the fortress in dragon-fire, killing Harren and his sons, melting the towers and staining the walls black with ruin.
Since that day, the great castle has stood half-ruined, five vast spires rising like broken bones from the earth, curtain walls cracked, towers melted into grotesque shapes. Its halls once built for kings now echo with emptiness. Its godswood, once alive, is overgrown and filled with bats and shadows.
Despite its size and strategic location in the Riverlands, Harrenhal proved a terrible stronghold: too large to defend well, too costly to maintain. One lord after another claimed it—and one after another met ruin or death. Thus the castle earned a reputation as cursed.
Now, beneath the thickening fog and the pallid light, Harrenhal loomed—a ruin half-alive, half-dead, its ramparts draped in flame-scarred stone and haunted memory. In this place of ancient pride and destruction, the villagers and soldiers of the Riverlands felt the weight of history, pressing down like the fog itself.
Harrenhal's vast, blackened courtyard echoed with noise — the dull clang of steel on steel, drunken laughter spilling from ruined halls, and the murmur of men trying to fill the silence of a cursed castle. The air was heavy with smoke and damp rot; the charred stones of Harren the Black's folly still seemed to drink in the heat from the past.
A group of Lannister soldiers gathered near the collapsed stables, dicing on a shield plate.
"Seven again!" one shouted triumphantly, scooping up the silver. "The gods bless me tonight!"
"The gods curse you, more like," another grumbled, throwing down his cup. "Ain't no man alive that lucky."
"Maybe I got the Stranger's favor," the victor smirked.
Not far from them, two younger soldiers shared gossip while sharpening their blades.
"Have you heard the talk?" one said in a low tone.
"They say someone's leading the river lords now… but not from any house we know. Not Stark, not Tully. Not even from Westeros."
The other frowned. "A sellsword, you mean?"
"No. They say he's from beyond the known seas. A man who commands iron and blade, who killed the Freys and turned Riverrun into his fortress."
A nearby veteran snorted and spat into the mud.
"Aye, and I suppose he farts lightning too. Don't fill your head with tavern tales, boy."
But the younger man persisted, whispering,
"They call him something else….the man from nowhere. Said to wield weapons that spit death faster than crossbows, and a dragon with three heads at his side."
The veteran looked up sharply, eyes narrowing.
"You best keep that tongue of yours still. Talk like that brings bad luck in this place."
A silence followed, broken only by the clatter of armor and the hiss of oil lamps.
Overhead, a crow perched atop the highest, half-melted tower. Its feathers gleamed darker than pitch, and for a fleeting moment, its eyes glowed a deep, unnatural red. It gave a single croak—harsh and sharp—before spreading its wings and soaring into the mist-choked sky.
None of the soldiers paid it much mind, save the veteran, who frowned faintly.
"Strange bird…" he muttered.
The crow flew far, carried by the cold wind over the burned fields and twisted woods surrounding Harrenhal.
Beyond the castle's shadow, through fog and smoke, it descended toward the waiting encampment where banners bearing the sigil of Noxus rippled in the wind, a stylized axe-helm, its form resembling a Spartan helmet whose edges curved into twin, crescent blades.
Rows of disciplined soldiers stood beneath those banners in grim silence, armor polished dark, eyes forward.
At the camp's center, command tents and siege engines loomed, all turned toward the scorched black giant of Harrenhal.
The crow circled once above them, then descended toward a single tent where a figure waited. The man from nowhere, the one whose name the Lannisters will whisper in fear.
"It is time."
Back at Harrenhal, the sound of alarm bells tore through the smoky air.
"Enemy sighted! Enemy sighted to the east!" a lookout shouted from a half-collapsed tower, his voice carrying across the ruined walls.
The garrison erupted into motion. Soldiers dropped their mugs and scrambled for weapons, kicking over benches and dice tables as they rushed to the battlements. Commanders barked orders, horns blared, and the red-and-gold banners of House Lannister snapped sharply in the cold wind.
Below, through the creeping fog, they saw them — ranks upon ranks of soldiers marching with unwavering discipline, their dark armor glinting faintly beneath the gray sky. At their front flew banners none of the Lannister men recognized: a black field bearing a crimson axe-helm, its twin blades gleaming like wings of blood.
"Those aren't northern banners…" one archer muttered, peering down with growing unease.
Another, older soldier clenched his jaw.
"No. Those are his."
"Whose?"
"The man from nowhere."
The words spread like wildfire through the ranks, carried by fear more than voice.
A messenger burst into the courtyard, clutching a parchment.
"Send a raven to King's Landing! Inform Lord Tywin—Harrenhal's under attack!" he bellowed.
But before the bird could even leave its perch, the air itself trembled.
A deep, resonant roar rolled across the land — not the cry of any beast known to man, but something older, heavier, divine in its malice. The very ground seemed to hum with the sound.
Men froze midstep, arrows halfway nocked, eyes wide with disbelief.
"What—what in the seven hells was that!?" someone shouted.
And then they saw it.
Through the fog and low-hanging clouds, an immense golden shape broke through the sky, a three-headed dragon, vast beyond comprehension, its wings casting a shadow that swallowed the field. Each of its necks writhed like living lightning, eyes glowing with malevolent energy.
When it descended, the air howled around it. Trees snapped from the downdraft, and soldiers stumbled back as debris and ash spiraled upward.
The creature landed with an earth-shaking thud, its claws gouging the ground. Smoke danced along its smooth golden skin streaked with its long whip-like tails slashing the air.
The beast's central head fixed its burning gaze on the fortress, while the other two scanned the trembling army before them like a predatory, intelligent, and cruel.
"It—it's got three heads!" a terrified archer screamed.
"No dragon's got three heads!"
"Run! Run for the gods' sake!" another yelled, abandoning his post as panic rippled through the Lannister lines.
The dragon exhaled, and the air shimmered with energy gravity bending faintly around it, a low hum vibrating through the ground as if the world itself recoiled from its presence.
And high above, circling through the clouds, a dark shape watched — the same crow from before, its crimson eyes glinting as it marked the unfolding ruin.
Below, the soldiers of Noxus advanced without fear, their armor gleaming beneath the dragon's golden light, and at their head stood Mattias, cloak billowing, expression calm yet commanding.
Harrenhal's walls, once melted by Balerion's flame, would soon face a terror far worse.
Swain's eyes glowed brighter as he surveyed the field, every movement calculated and precise. The Noxian soldiers advanced with terrifying synchrony, their armor gleaming under the muted afternoon light, the axe-helm banners whipping violently in the wind.
Swain raised his hand, and the Noxian horns sounded in deep unison.
"Advance. Crush them and show them who they are up against."
As the Lannister archers fired, Swain raised his hand and a wave of dark energy shot forward, intercepting the arrows midair. Several of the projectiles disintegrated before reaching the frontlines, while others were deflected harmlessly into the dirt.
The tendrils of shadow crept forward like living snakes, ensnaring Lannister commanders, yanking them from their horses and tossing them into the chaos of the melee.
The shield-bearers slammed into the enemy lines with the precision of a battering ram, forcing the Lannister infantry backward. Spears thrust through gaps, cutting down any soldier who dared to raise a blade. Crossbowmen at the rear fired in rhythm with the Noxian advance, each bolt finding its mark with deadly accuracy.
Swain's ravens darted above, cawing sharply, swooping into the midst of the Lannister lines, pecking and clawing at exposed soldiers, leaving panic in their wake. The air was thick with smoke, dust, and the metallic scent of blood. Every corner of the battlefield seemed to move at Swain's command, as though the army itself were an extension of his will.
Amidst the chaos, the Lannister commanders struggled to coordinate their men. Every order was delayed, every formation faltering. The frontlines cracked and splintered under the relentless push, leaving the enemy soldiers vulnerable to precise strikes and tactical flanking that Swain anticipated effortlessly.
The sound of steel clashing against steel was deafening, punctuated by the screams of the fallen, yet Swain remained unshaken, his gaze sweeping the battlefield as if already planning the next decisive strike.
Meanwhile, at the same time, Mattias descended from the back of his colossal dragon, landing with a heavy yet graceful stride as the three-headed beast roared above, its voices shaking the sky itself.
The battlefield seemed to pause at his arrival — Noxian soldiers straightened, their chants rising into a unified roar, fueled by the presence of their sovereign. Even the clamor of war seemed to bend around him, as if the world itself acknowledged his dominance.
Mattias drew his twin Valyrian blades — Voracity and Avarice.
The twin blades spiraled around Mattias like extensions of his will, their movements fluid and precise.
With each sweeping motion of his hands, the ground itself responded; jagged spikes of earth erupted upward, impaling Lannister soldiers mid-charge, sending shields and bodies scattering through the air.
Cries of terror echoed across the field.
"Seven hells—what kind of sorcery is this!?" a Lannister sergeant shouted, stumbling backward as the earth split open beneath his feet.
Then came the heat, molten cracks snaked across the ground, glowing red before bursting forth in torrents of lava, consuming entire ranks in blistering flame.
The smell of burning steel and flesh filled the air as men tried to flee, only to be dragged back by the pull of invisible force.
Mattias raised one hand, and every weapon, every shard of broken armor trembled — magnetism bent the metal to his command. Spears, swords, and shields tore themselves free from the dead and living alike, swirling into a storm of steel that tore through the panicked soldiers.
A captain screamed.
"He commands the ground!! the bloody ground itself!"
Mattias stood unmoving amid the devastation, eyes glowing faintly, his expression calm as the battlefield bent and broke beneath his power.
He saw their faces cowering in fear and confusion as Mattias swiftly showed his power. He crushed and mutilated them with his powers.
The Lannister army tried desperately to fight back, their captains shouting for discipline, for lines to hold.
"Shields up! Hold the formation! Advance together!" a commander bellowed over the roar of battle.
The soldiers obeyed, locking shields into a wall of red and gold, spears braced forward. Arrows flew, clattering harmlessly against Noxian shields or shattering midair as Swain's ravens intercepted them.
But the ground trembled again.
Mattias's forces — drilled under Darius's relentless command — moved like a single organism, their steps measured, their strikes efficient. The Noxian banner with the axe-shaped helm fluttered high above as the disciplined ranks crashed into the Lannister shield wall with overwhelming force.
A soldier in crimson tried to swing at a Stark man-at-arms, only for his sword to splinter upon impact — the Stark's blade gleamed black, Valyrian steel cutting through lesser metal as though it were wood.
"Gods! Their blades— they can't be real!" cried another as his spear was caught and snapped in half.
The once-proud formation of the Lannisters began to buckle. Men stumbled, slipping on the blood-soaked mud as spikes of earth jutted upward, scattering their ranks. The disciplined rhythm of their march devolved into chaos.
"Fall back! Regroup!" a captain screamed, but his words were drowned beneath the thunderous roar of the three-headed dragon above and the relentless advance of the Noxian host.
No matter how many times they tried to rally, the Lannister line broke again and again, crumbling under a storm they could neither understand nor withstand.
As Swain commanded the frontlines and Mattias carved through the chaos, the ground trembled beneath the colossal weight of the three-headed dragon already standing amidst the battlefield.
Its golden scales shimmered with energy as the creature reared back, each of its heads crackling with arcs of radiant lightning. The air grew dense, the scent of ozone burning through the smoke of war.
Without warning, the dragon unleashed its fury — three brilliant anti-gravity beams lanced forward in sweeping arcs of destruction. The golden energy tore through the Lannister ranks, disintegrating men and steel alike. Entire formations were lifted into the air, their screams cut short as the beams twisted their armor and shattered the ground beneath their feet.
The Lannisters tried desperately to reform their lines, captains shouting commands over the roar of the beast, but it was useless — shields splintered, banners burned, and the proud lion sigil was swallowed by chaos.
When the dragon ceased its onslaught, its middle head lunged forward, seizing a cluster of soldiers in its jaws.
It devoured them whole, blood and armor sizzling in its molten breath. The other two heads followed, tearing through the remnants of the enemy as their thunderous roars drowned out the cries of the dying.
Mattias walked calmly before the creature's titanic form, blades of Voracity and Avarice spinning in his grasp. The golden light of the beams reflected off his Valyrian steel, his silhouette sharp and merciless.
Swain stood upon a nearby ridge, his eyes glowing with power as ravens swirled around him like a living storm.
"Do not falter," Swain commanded, voice like rolling thunder. "Strike while the lions cower…show them the cost of pride."
The Noxian, Tully and northern banners surged forward, their formation swallowing what remained of the Lannister host.
And above it all, the golden dragon roared in triumph.