The Birth of a King and the First Breaking of Order
Long before the firelight flared against the beams of Da Derga's hall, long before the riders thundered through the night, there was a prophecy. A quiet, unsettling one that was older than Conaire Mór himself.
King Eterscél of Tara had no heir. His court grumbled, his druids warned him, and the land felt restless beneath his rule. One night, seeking a sign, Eterscél wandered through Tara's outer chambers and came upon a mysterious woman standing in the shadows. She was a stranger, a flame-haired wanderer. Her face bright as moonlight on water.
The druids whispered:
"She is of the sidhe -- the Otherworld. She carries destiny."
Whether she came willingly or whether destiny pushed her into the king's path, none could say. But from her, a child was conceived. When the boy was born, the omens gathered around him like birds settling on a branch.
The druids said:
"One will be conceived by a woman of unknown origin, and he will be the true king of Ireland."
This child was Conaire Mór, fostered among warriors and taught the laws of honour and truth. He grew straight-backed, bright-eyed, and steady as a spear planted in good ground.
Everywhere he went, peace followed.
Raids quieted.
Rivalries eased.
The land seemed to breathe easier beneath his feet.
So when Eterscél died without a lawful son, the druids declared:
"The boy of prophecy must be king."
And the people agreed.
Conaire stood at Tara's stone of kingship, and the land accepted him -- for a time. But every king in Ireland lived under geasa: sacred conditions placed on his behaviour. And Conaire's geasa were many:
He must not follow three red men traveling together.
He must not deny shelter to anyone who sought it.
He must not hunt birds, for his mother's people were of them.
He must not stray eastward after sunset.
Straight forward enough for a cautious man. But destiny, as ever, loves to tighten its knots.
Part II
The breaking of a geisa is a quiet thing at first, a hairline crack in the king's bond with the land. But once made, the world begins to shift, subtle as a change in the wind.
Conaire Mór rode home from that encounter with the three red men, trying to shake off the unease. He still had the loyalty of his warriors, the blessing of Tara, and the goodwill of the land. But beneath it all, something had tilted. The balance was no longer perfect.
The Birds in the Sky
That evening, Conaire walked alone near the ramparts of Tara and saw a flock of birds diving and wheeling in strange patterns, as though fleeing something unseen. They were no ordinary birds, their movements felt deliberate, almost human. Their cries were sharp enough to prickle the hairs on his arms.
And he remembered another of his geasa:
"He shall not hunt birds; he shall do no harm to the winged kind."
His mother had come from the sIdhe in bird-form, they said.
Birds were messengers. Watchers. Witnesses.
The Strangers on the Strand
One night, while riding near the sea, Conaire encountered a group of men gathering driftwood on the shore. Their faces were hidden, their accents strange, their bearing too confident for simple wanderers.
"From where do you come?" Conaire asked.
"We come from the sea," one answered, "and from places beyond naming."
The High King felt a tremor of foreboding. Something in their voices touched the old stories of outlawed kin, men who had once broken faith with the land and fled into the shadows.
He offered them peace, for he was still bound by the geisa of hospitality, but they slipped away into the dusk, shadows blending with the tide.
The Pull Eastward
When the king and his company set out again the next morning, they intended to return to Tara. But the wind changed. The horses veered. A strange heaviness pulled them eastward along the road. Conaire's companions murmured uneasily.
"High King, we should turn back. This road leads to nothing but omens."
But Conaire knew, in that deep way kings sometimes do, that some roads are chosen for you, and to resist would only tear the fabric further. And so they continued eastward, though doing so nudged another geis toward breaking: "He must not travel east after sunset."
They pressed on as twilight thickened, the sky bruising purple, the light thinning toward night. Soon the torches of a great hostel appeared ahead, warm, bright, and welcoming.
Da Derga's Hostel. A place of refuge. A place of doom.
The Man of Fire
Da Derga himself was a strange figure, neither king nor outlaw, but a wandering lord whose name meant Red God or Red Flame. His hostels were famous across Ireland: safe havens where all, noble or poor, were fed and sheltered. When he saw the High King approaching, he stood at the door with arms wide.
"Conaire Mór," he called, "you are welcome here."
And by accepting that welcome, Conaire honored one geis, hospitality, but set himself on the path toward breaking another. The fire inside the hall crackled brightly. The king stepped over the threshold. The night closed behind him like a door. Fate had chosen its place.
The sight of them unsettled him.
Not long after, word reached him that raiders had appeared on Ireland's coasts, moving with boldness unseen in his peaceful reign. Small things at first: a cattle-lifting here, a theft there.
But each incident struck a little closer to the heart of his kingdom.
Part III
The hall of Da Derga blazed with warmth. Torches flared, spits turned, musicians tuned their pipes. It should have been a sanctuary. Yet the moment Conaire Mór crossed the threshold, the atmosphere rippled, as though the very timbers sensed the strain of broken order.
Da Derga greeted him with honour. The warriors found places at the long benches.
Servants laid out bread, meat, and mead. But beneath the welcome, an unease stirred, thin as a draught creeping along the floor.
The Porter's First Vision
At the door sat Fer Caille, the porter, he was a big-shouldered man who had seen enough winters to trust his instincts. Every so often he leaned into the night air, frowning into the darkness.
Suddenly he stiffened.
"Who comes there?" Conaire asked.
The porter answered slowly:
"I see a lone rider, dark of face, with a single garment, one shoe, one spear, one horse. He asks if the High King is within."
Conaire felt a chill.
A single rider, half-clad, half-armed; such figures often belonged to prophecy or doom.
"Let him in," the king said.
He still honoured the geis of hospitality, though his heart warned him otherwise.
The rider entered, bowed stiffly, and took his place by the fire without a word. His presence felt like a smudge of shadow in the bright hall.
The Second and Third Visions
Not long after, Fer Caille called out again.
"Three riders now, each with only one shoe, one cloak, one spear. They ask for the king."
Conaire swallowed hard.
This was no coincidence.
These were echoes, reflections, of the first breach, the three red men he had followed on the road.
"Let them in," he said again, though the words tasted of dread.
The three entered, their faces unreadable. They sat together, silent as tombstones.
A third time the porter's voice rang out, strained now:
"A great troop approaches, fierce men, their faces marked, their weapons jagged, their gait like wolves. They demand entry."
This time the hall fell silent. These were no travellers seeking shelter. These were men with a purpose, a purpose that twined around the king's broken geasa like binding cords.
The Returning Outlaws
Into the hall strode Inge and his kin, men once banished for raiding and blood-feud now returned to settle old debts under cover of Conaire's unravelling fate. Their leader carried a cruel grin.
"High King," he said lightly, "we heard you were abroad on the roads. We thought to pay our respects."
Their eyes told the truth: they had come for destruction.
Conaire's warriors tensed. Hands hovered near hilts. But hospitality bound them, as long as the king gave welcome, the outlaws must be tolerated within the hall. And Conaire, cornered by his own sacred laws, could not deny them entry.
The Fire That Would Not Hold
As the night deepened, the hall's great fire suddenly dimmed, not from lack of fuel, but as though some unseen force drew the heat away.
Da Derga frowned.
"That has never happened in this house."
A murmur passed through the company. The king rose, unease tightening his chest.
Then, from outside, a sound rolled across the night, a battle-cry, distant but unmistakable.
Another followed. And another. The outlaws' eyes gleamed. They knew their allies were gathering.
The king's geasa, once protections, had become snares tightening around him. He could not leave the hall. He could not refuse shelter. He could not undo the woven fate now closing in.
The Veil Between Worlds Thins
Just before midnight, Fer Caille called out once more, but this time his voice trembled.
"A woman comes, tall, pale, with red hair unbound. Her eyes are like fire. She carries a wand of silver. She says doom is at hand."
Conaire's breath caught. He knew her lineage. She was one of the sidhe, kin to the mother who had borne him.
"Let her speak," he said quietly.
She stepped into the doorway, the wind swirling around her.
"Conaire Mór," she said, "you have broken your geasa. The land cannot shield you. The outlaws come. The night will not pass without blood."
The hall held its breath. Conaire bowed his head.
He had been a good king, a peace-king, but even the best of rulers falter when fate tightens.
And now, that fate stood at the door, waiting for the first spark to catch
Part IV
Midnight gathered around Da Derga's hall like a thick cloak. The fire within guttered; the torches sputtered low. Outside, the storm-lanterns of the outlaws flickered across the hills, growing brighter, closer, hungrier.
Conaire Mór stood at the centre of the hall, feeling the threads of fate pull tight around him. This was the place destiny had chosen, not Tara or indeed the battlefield, but a wandering lord's hostel on the eastern road.
And, so he braced himself.
The First Assault
A roaring cry split the night, a sound like wolves driven mad with hunger. Then came the pounding: fists, axes, stones slamming against the great oaken doors.
Da Derga shouted to his men to bar the entry. Conaire's warriors sprang to their feet. The host's beams creaked under the strain, dust drifting from the rafters.
A voice boomed from outside:
"Open, Conaire! Your time is finished!"
The king's champion seized his spear. But Conaire lifted a hand. "No. As long as they ask for shelter, I must not refuse them."
His warriors stared in disbelief.
Hospitality, the very law that marked him as a rightful king now shackled him in the moment he needed freedom most.
"High King," said Da Derga, voice grim, "they ask not for shelter. They ask for blood." And with that, the door gave its first splintering crack.
The Battle Within the Hall
When the outlaws burst through, the hall erupted. Warriors clashed in a tangle of flame and shadow. The torches flared as blades struck, sparks dancing like fireflies.
Conaire fought with the calm strength of a man who knows this is the appointed end. He moved like a spear in the hand of the land itself, each blow clean, decisive, unyielding. He felled three attackers with the first sweep of his sword. Two more with the second. His foster-brothers fought back-to-back with him, roaring their loyalty above the din.
The Fire Takes Hold
But in the chaos, a torch fell. Then another. Dry rushes caught fire. Smoke curled around the rafters, then rose in twisting pillars. Da Derga shouted for water, but the outlaws controlled the wells outside. The king's men fought in heat that grew sharper, fiercer, choking.
Flames licked the walls. Still the outlaws pressed in. Still Conaire held the centre.
The Messenger of Doom
Through the smoke, the Otherworld woman arrived again, her hair wild, her eyes bright as coals.
She cried out:
"Conaire Mór, three things have undone you: curiosity, hospitality, and truth."
The hall seemed to dim as her words fell:
"You followed the red men. You welcomed the outlaws. You would not lie to save yourself."
Conaire lifted his head.
"I was king," he said simply. "And a king must hold his truth, even to death."
Her eyes softened. But she did not or could not change the path ahead.
She vanished like smoke in a gust.
The Final Stand
The fire raged. The roof beams began to crack and fall. Warriors stumbled through thick smoke. Outside, the outlaws howled for the last breach.
Conaire, coughing but unbroken, stood firm. He had lost his crown the moment he broke his geis; yet in this final stand, he regained the dignity of a true sovereign.
He faced the last wave of attackers alone, his companions fallen or trapped beyond the flames.
One outlaw shouted: "Yield, Conaire! Save yourself!"
The High King straightened, ash on his skin, fire at his back. "I yield only to the judgment of the land."
The final clash came, brutal, close, without flourish. Conaire felled many before the blades found him.
He sank to his knees in the burning hall, the roar of fire in his ears. As he fell, a great beam cracked overhead, the roof collapsing in a shower of flame. The High King of Ireland died as the hostel burned around him, a good man undone by a single misstep, a rightful ruler caught in the merciless arithmetic of broken geasa.
Part V
Dawn crept across the eastern sky, pale and sorrowful, casting long shadows over the charred ruin that had once been Da Derga's mighty hall. The scent of smoke lingered heavy in the air. Ash drifted like winter snow over the bodies of the fallen.
The people of Leinster gathered in small, stunned knots, whispering the news that travelled faster than any messenger: "The High King is dead."
Conaire Mór, the peace-bringer, the straight-backed son of prophecy, lay among the embers with the last of his faithful company. The fire had taken his crown, but the dignity of his final stand had already begun its work in the heart of the people.
The Poets Arrive
Before midday, the poets, those who guarded the memory of the land, arrived. They moved through the wreckage with solemn care, lifting the king's body from the blackened timbers, murmuring lines that would one day form the backbone of the tale.
One of them, an old man with a voice like worn oak, said:
"A king's geasa are the measure of his soul. Break them, and the land withdraws its hand."
Another answered:
"But he met his death in truth. And truth is the last geis of every ruler."
They wrapped Conaire in a cloak of crimson wool-- the colour of royalty, and of endings, and carried him toward Tara.
Da Derga's Lament
Da Derga himself stood amid the ruins of his hall, eyes red from smoke and grief. He spoke only once: "Hospitality bound him, and I welcomed him. My house held his doom, yet I would not shut my door against the king."
And so the blame was shared, not in bitterness, but in recognition.
In Ireland's old order, every sacred duty had two edges, one for honour, one for danger. And the hall's destruction became a lesson whispered for generations.
The Shifting of the Land
After Conaire's death, the land turned restless.
Raids grew bolder. Rival claimants circled Tara. The peace of his early reign vanished like mist under the sun.
The druids said the balance had been broken the moment Conaire broke his geis -- even slightly. A king was a hinge upon which the land turned. When the hinge cracked the whole door shook.
But they also honoured him:
"He died in courage. He died in truth.He died as a king should die."
The Legacy of the Burning
Years later, long after the ashes of the hostel had been washed away by rain, the tale of Conaire Mór was still told at hearths, at gatherings, in quiet winter nights.
Da Derga's hall became a symbol. One of hospitality honoured even at terrible cost, of the fragility of kingship, of the inescapable weight of geasa, and of the way sovereignty falters when even one sacred condition cracks.
And so the story entered the sovereignty lore of Leinster, a moral beacon as much as a memory. It became one of Ireland's great warnings: that the greatest danger to a rightful king is not the enemy outside the gates but the small, seemingly harmless breach that loosens the woven order of the world.
Leinster Branch:
Justice & Kingship
The Tale of Labraid Loingsech -- The King with the Hidden Ears