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11: Dragonborn Conqueror, The Lord of Secrets
🕑 Added 2025-01-13 05:51:59 +0000 UTCThe Son of Ice and Fire Next.
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Harald found himself in a familiar place, one he never thought he’d see again. The scent of wood smoke and lavender washed over him. He was standing in Breezehome, the modest house he had called his own in Whiterun.
The hearth crackled warmly, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The simple furniture was neatly arranged just as he remembered it. The golden light of the fire gave the room an inviting glow, but something felt… wrong. This wasn’t where he was supposed to be.
“Finally awake, are you?” a soft, almost teasing voice said behind him.
Harald turned sharply, his heart skipping a beat. Standing there, as if she had always been part of this memory, was a face he thought he would never see again.
“Serana…” he whispered.
Her pale skin seemed luminous in the firelight, her crimson eyes watching him with an amused expression. She leaned casually against the wall, her arms crossed as though they were merely catching up after a long day.
“You’ve been sleeping for a while,” she said with a faint smirk.
Harald shook his head, his thoughts spinning. How could this be? “Serana… What is this?” he asked, his voice heavy with confusion.
She tilted her head, studying him as she stepped closer. “You don’t look well,” she said, her voice softening. “Why don’t we take a walk? It might clear your head.” She placed a cool hand on his arm, her touch familiar and oddly reassuring. “You’re starting to look like me,” she added with a chuckle, flashing her fangs briefly in a playful grin.
Harald hesitated, his instincts telling him to question her further, but something in Serana’s demeanor compelled him to follow. Without a word, she moved to the door and opened it, gesturing for him to step outside.
He found himself walking through the bustling markets of the city. The sights and sounds of Whiterun surrounded him, vivid and alive. The smell of freshly baked bread mixed with the crisp mountain air. It all felt so familiar—almost comforting, yet deeply unsettling.
As they walked, familiar faces emerged from the crowd.
“Aela,” Harald said softly as the Huntress approached, her bow slung casually over her shoulder. She smiled at him, a warm, knowing smile.
“Shield-Brother,” she greeted him. “Good to see you.”
Vilkas and Farkas appeared next, their broad grins lighting up their rugged faces. “Harald!” Farkas boomed, clapping him on the shoulder as they passed. “Been too long!”
Further along, Balgruuf the Greater, the Jarl of Whiterun, strode through the square. He raised a stately hand in greeting. “Dragonborn,” he called out. “Good to see you back where you belong.”
Harald nodded but did not respond. His eyes scanned the crowd, a growing unease gnawing at him. In the shadows near one of the merchants, he spotted Brynjolf and Karliah, the two thieves examining a large stash of gold with practiced stealth. Brynjolf gave him a sly wink before returning to his plunder.
The marketplace seemed filled with faces from his past, each one triggering a memory. Men and women he had fought beside, helped, or even faced in battle. It was like walking through a gallery of his life.
“You look troubled,” Serana said, breaking the silence. Her voice was gentle, but her crimson eyes were sharp, watching him closely. “Is something wrong?”
“This isn’t real,” Harald muttered, his voice low, his tone uncertain but growing firmer.
Serana tilted her head, her lips curling into a faint smile. “Why do you think that?”
Harald stopped in his tracks, his gaze locking onto three figures standing near the Gildergreen tree in the heart of Whiterun: Lydia, Kharjo, and Mjoll.
His breath caught in his throat. Lydia stood tall, her armor gleaming in the sunlight, her shield slung across her back. Kharjo, ever the steadfast companion, held his weapon at the ready, his feline eyes scanning the horizon. Mjoll stood beside them, her greatsword resting on her shoulder.
They were the friends he had lost. Sacrificed. Their lives were taken during his battle with Alduin, casualties of his overconfidence—his hubris.
“This is a dream,” Harald said, his voice trembling before hardening with conviction. “This isn’t real.”
The world around him began to warp and shift. The vibrant colors of the marketplace faded, the laughter and chatter dissolving into an eerie silence. The once-warm air grew cold, and shadows crept in from the edges of his vision.
He turned back to Serana. Her form was growing faint, like smoke dissipating in the wind. “This isn’t real!” he repeated, louder this time.
Serana smiled softly, almost sadly. “No, it’s not,” she said, her voice echoing faintly as she too began to fade.
And then Harald was alone. The marketplace stood empty, the life it had once held replaced by an oppressive stillness. The golden light was gone, leaving only a gray, muted world.
Harald’s eyes fell to the ground, and there it was—a mask. His blood ran cold as he recognized it immediately: the jagged, ornate mask of Miraak, the First Dragonborn.
May he be as richly rewarded as I was. Miraak’s words echoed in Harald’s mind as he stared at the ancient Dragon Priest’s mask.
Harald’s jaw tightened. “Hermaeus Mora,” he growled.
The world around him began to shift, the familiar cobblestones of Whiterun dissolving into an incomprehensible swirl of greens and blacks. The air thickened, heavy with the acrid smell of old parchment and ink. Towers of books and scrolls jutted into the void like jagged teeth, their spines marked with alien runes that seemed to shimmer and shift under an invisible light. The world pulsed with a sickly green hue.
Apocrypha.
A deep, grotesque voice echoed from the shadows—smooth yet hideous—resonating with a presence that seemed to emanate from all directions at once. “My dear champion…”
The words slithered through the air like oil, clinging to Harald’s ears. He looked around to face the voice, and Hermaeus Mora appeared, his amorphous form a writhing mass of tentacles and eyes, shifting and reforming as if his very existence defied comprehension. A single massive, unblinking eye hovered in the center, fixated on Harald.
“I am not your champion,” Harald spat.
Mora’s laughter was a grotesque, gurgling sound, as though it emerged from a thousand unseen mouths. “Ah, but you are. Whether you claim the title or not, your actions speak for themselves. And now, I have found you.”
Harald’s eyes narrowed, his fists clenching at his sides. “What do you want?”
Mora’s voice was a syrupy hiss, laden with malice and smug satisfaction. “My investment in you has already paid off. You have brought me… a whole new world.”
Harald’s heart sank at the words, dread creeping into his mind.
The Daedric Prince’s tentacles writhed, his massive eye swiveling to focus on Harald with a predatory glint. “This world you find yourself in, so full of secrets and untapped knowledge. Its histories, its powers, its mysteries… they will be mine to uncover, mine to wield.”
Harald took a step forward, his voice low and furious. “Leave this world alone, Mora. If you or any of your kind interfere here, you’ll feel my wrath.”
The laughter that followed was deeper, darker, and more menacing than before, reverberating through the very fabric of Apocrypha. The ground beneath Harald’s feet seemed to ripple and tremble as Mora responded, “Such bravado, my champion. But even your will is not beyond my grasp. This world’s secrets will be mine, and you… you will play your part, as you always have.”
The great eye bore down on Harald, its unblinking gaze filled with an ancient, otherworldly hunger. The oppressive weight of Mora’s presence threatened to crush him, but Harald stood firm.
Suddenly, the world around him began to collapse. The towering bookshelves toppled, their contents spilling into the ink-black sea that churned violently beneath him. The sickly green skies folded in on themselves, a vortex of chaos consuming everything in sight.
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Harald jolted awake.
The echoes of Mora’s voice still lingered in his mind. He sat up in the simple bed, breathing heavily. The dim light of dawn filtered through the small window of the chambers he had been given. For a moment, he merely sat there, trying to steady himself as his mind churned with unwelcome memories and thoughts.
He rose and walked to the washbasin, splashing cold water onto his face. The chill bit into his skin, grounding him in the present.
“This is bad,” he muttered, his voice low. ‘If the Daedric Princes start influencing this world…’ he thought, shaking his head.
One thing at a time, Harald. One thing at a time.
He dressed quickly, fastening his tunic and slipping his satchel over his shoulder.
The hallways of the castle were quiet, save for the soft movements of servants going about their morning routines. As Harald stepped out of his chambers, he was met with respectful bows and murmurs from the freed soldiers and attendants he had helped liberate.
“My lord.” “Blessed one.”
Harald grimaced slightly at the latter title—Leobald’s doing, no doubt. He inclined his head in acknowledgment but said nothing as he made his way through the keep.
It had been a day since the castle was taken back from the Ironborn. Harald had stormed the stronghold, cutting down both the Ironborn soldiers and their leader, Rodrick Greyjoy. Yet the victory felt hollow. The villagers he had hoped to save were gone—transported before his arrival. Interrogation of the few survivors had revealed the grim truth: the captives had been taken to Greyholt, a fort on the banks of the Blue Fork. From there, they would be sent to Fairmarket and then on to Harrenhal.
His quest wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Stepping outside, he found the stone courtyard bustling with activity. Signs of the recent battle still lingered.
Harald’s attention was drawn to a gathering near the sept. A large crowd had formed. Curiosity piqued, he approached quietly. He cast a simple spell of invisibility, his form shimmering for a moment before vanishing from sight.
Near the sept, at the center of the gathering, he saw Leobald standing tall and commanding everyone’s attention.
“…the Hand of the Gods walks among us!” the Septon declared, arms raised high. “Sent by the divine, he has brought justice where there was only despair. He has cast down the Ironborn and shown us the path to freedom!”
The crowd erupted into murmurs of agreement, many nodding fervently, their faces alight with hope and reverence.
Leobald’s voice rose higher, his fervor filling the square. “The days of the Ironborn are numbered! Their chains shall be broken, their tyranny cast aside! The Riverlands will be free once more, for the gods have sent us their champion—their mortal form on earth—to lead us!”
Invisible at the edge of the gathering, Harald muttered under his breath, “This is getting out of hand.”
He watched as his friend wove a narrative that painted him as a savior—a messiah sent by the gods to deliver the Riverlands from its suffering. A part of Harald—his most naïve part—had believed that after rescuing the villagers, he could return to the life he had built for himself, but he knew now how naïve that hope had been, crushed by the reality unfolding around him.
This was only the beginning. The people, stirred by Leobald’s fiery sermon, would look to Harald as the instrument of their salvation.
Leobald’s voice rose again, reaching a crescendo. “The Blessed One will smite Harren the Black and lead the Riverlands into a thousand years of peace and prosperity!”
Harald sighed, shaking his head. ‘A thousand years,’ he thought dryly. Turning away from the crowd, he slipped away unseen.
Walking through the winding paths of the castle grounds, Harald’s mind churned with the Daedric Prince’s cryptic words echoing in his head. A new world, ripe for the taking…
“Might as well go with the flow,” he muttered. “Let’s see where this all leads.”
‘If it’s anything like my adventures in Skyrim, I’ll probably end up king of these lands,’ he thought wryly.
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Harald found himself walking into a small, ruined garden near the castle’s eastern wall. It looked like it had been burned in a recent fire.
There, he spotted Gwen Hickory, her younger brother Robard, and Ser Aerion Ser Aerion. Gwen sat on a low stone bench, her hands folded in her lap. Robard stood close by, his small frame rigid as he held a practice sword awkwardly.
Ser Aerion stood nearby, his watchful eyes scanning the surroundings as if expecting an ambush at any moment.
Harald dropped his invisibility spell as he approached.
“Harald!” Robard called out when he spotted him.
“Lord Robard,” Harald greeted the boy, then turned to Gwen, his voice softening. “Lady Gwen.”
Gwen rose to her feet, still holding her brother protectively. “Lord Harald,” she replied, her voice steady but fragile.
“How do you fare, my lady?” he asked.
“I am well,” she said, though her voice trembled slightly. “Thank you. Thank you for healing me.”
Harald’s piercing gaze studied her face, now unmarred by the injuries she had suffered. His magic had mended her broken bones and healed her torn flesh, leaving her skin smooth and unblemished. Yet he knew all too well that no spell could mend the deeper scars within.
He nodded solemnly. “I healed what I could, Gwen. But there are wounds I can’t touch. Those will take time.”
Gwen’s lips quivered, and her voice broke as she whispered, “It’s shameful.”
Ser Aerion lowered his gaze, sharing in her sorrow.
Robard, standing beside his sister, looked up at her with a mixture of confusion and determination. “She’s worried that Jonnel won’t love her anymore.”
Gwen’s head snapped toward her brother, her voice sharp. “Robard, be quiet!”
Harald raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Who’s Jonnel?”
Ser Aerion cleared his throat and answered, “Jonnel Blackwood, my lord. He is Lord Blackwood’s third son. He and Lady Gwen—”
Robard chimed in, “She’s going to marry him.”
Gwen turned sharply toward her brother, her voice rising. “It won’t happen! Don’t you understand? I’m ruined! Jonnel will hate me. He’ll…” Her voice failed her, and she buried her face in her hands, her composure breaking as she sobbed.
Ser Aerion stepped forward, his expression heavy with grief, and gently held Gwen while she wept. Harald remained silent as Gwen cried, clinging to the knight.
When her sobs finally subsided, Harald spoke. “My lady, listen to me. If this Jonnel loves you—if he truly loves you—then he won’t care about what happened.”
Gwen shook her head, her voice cracking as she tried to speak. “I… I’m… Rodrick, he—”
“Rodrick is dead,” Harald said firmly. “What he did to you was horrible. No one can deny that. And I won’t lie to you—healing from something like this will take time. But it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t choose this. And you are not ruined.”
Gwen lifted her tear-streaked face, her eyes brimming with doubt.
“You’re still you,” Harald continued gently. “That’s what matters.”
The weight of his words seemed to reach her. She looked calmer, though the pain in her eyes was still there.
Ser Aerion cleared his throat. “Robard, take your sister to her chambers.”
Robard nodded and gently took Gwen by the arm, guiding her toward the keep.
At the entrance, Gwen paused and turned back to Harald. Her voice was soft but full of genuine gratitude. “Thank you.”
Harald inclined his head. “You’re welcome, my lady.”
Harald watched as Gwen and Robard disappeared into the keep. He stood silently for a moment before Ser Aerion stepped closer, his face etched with gratitude.
“Thank you, my lord,” Ser Aerion said. “She… I did not know how to—”
“Let’s hope this Jonnel is a good man,” Harald interrupted.
Ser Aerion hesitated, then nodded. “I believe he is.”
Harald’s expression shifted. “The captives aren’t here,” he said flatly. “That means I need to go to Greyholt.”
Ser Aerion’s eyes widened at the declaration. “Greyholt?” he echoed. “That’s no Honeytree, my lord. It’s a grand fortress—far more dangerous.”
Harald’s lips curled into a faint, confident smile. “I have the power to bring any castle down, stone by stone.”
Ser Aerion regarded him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I see. I forget sometimes… you are the chosen of the gods, the Seven in mortal form.”
Harald chuckled, a dry, knowing sound. “Do you believe that, Whiteflame? What Leobald says?”
The knight hesitated, his sharp violet eyes searching Harald’s face. “I believe… you are a good man.”
Harald nodded, his expression softening slightly. “I’ll leave for Greyholt today.”
Ser Aerion’s brow furrowed, a flicker of unease crossing his face. “My lord,” he began cautiously, “before you go, there’s something I must ask of you.”
“What is it?” Harald asked, folding his arms across his chest.
“There are still Ironborn out there,” Ser Aerion said, his voice low and grim. “I interrogated one of the survivors. He told me there are two more raiding parties still roaming the lands west of here.”
“And you want me to help you hunt them down?”
Ser Aerion nodded, his gaze unwavering. “Yes. If you help me, I myself will accompany you on your noble quest.”
Harald fell silent, his mind racing. His heart was set on reaching Greyholt and rescuing the villagers, but he couldn’t ignore the immediate threat to the innocent lives still in danger nearby.
Finally, he exhaled and nodded. “Alright. We will deal with them first. Then I go to Greyholt.”
