I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

The intense fire subsided, leaving behind a smoldering ruin where the Stormcloak catapults had stood moments before. The air was thick with smoke and the stench of burnt wood and flesh, a grim testament to Odahviing's power. The remaining Stormcloak soldiers, witnessing the devastating display, lost all heart. Their lines broke, and they turned and fled, scattering across the plains in disarray. The siege of Whiterun was broken.

A cheer erupted from the walls, a wave of relief and exhilaration washing over the defenders. Whiterun had been saved, at least for now. Irileth, her face grim but resolute, turned to the assembled warriors. 

"Well fought," she said, her voice carrying across the battlefield. "Now, follow me. Jarl Balgruuf the Greater wishes to speak."

The defenders, weary but triumphant, followed Irileth through the city gates and into the marketplace, now thankfully spared from the predicted inferno. A makeshift platform had been erected near the Gildergreen tree, and Jarl Balgruuf stood upon it, his expression a mixture of relief and stern resolve.

He raised his hands, silencing the remaining cheers. 

"People of Whiterun! Soldiers of Whiterun and Helgen!" His voice boomed across the marketplace. "Revel in your victory here today, even as the gods revel in your honor! They already sing of your valor and skill! The halls of Sovngarde are no doubt ringing with your praises! In defeating these Stormcloak traitors, you have proven the hollowness of their cause and the fullness of your hearts. The citizens of Whiterun are forever in your debt!"

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, then settling on Ibnor, who stood alongside Rayya and a few of his warriors.

"But Ulfric will not stop here," Balgruuf continued, his voice hardening. "He will not be deterred by this setback. He will regroup, he will rearm, and he will return. This battle has shown us the true danger we face, a danger we cannot face alone."

He took a deep breath, his voice resonating with newfound conviction.

"Lord Ibnor of Helgen came to us with a proposal, a vision of a united Skyrim. I confess, I was… skeptical. Words are easily spoken, and promises are often broken. I demanded proof, a demonstration of the strength and resolve he claimed. And today," Balgruuf declared, his voice ringing with newfound respect, "he has given us that proof. He did not simply send aid; he arrived at our darkest hour, facing not bandits, but the full fury of Ulfric's siege. And with the aid of… a most unexpected ally," he added, glancing towards the sky where Odahviing had vanished, "he turned the tide of battle, saving Whiterun from certain destruction."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. They had all witnessed the dragon's fiery intervention, a spectacle that would be etched in their memories forever. Balgruuf raised his hands once more, silencing the murmurs.

"Lord Ibnor has shown us the true weight of his… might. He has proven his ability to not only lead his own people, but to stand as a shield for others. Therefore," Balgruuf announced, his voice filled with authority, "I, Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, pledge Whiterun's full support to Lord Ibnor and his vision of a united Skyrim. We will stand with him against Ulfric and any other who threaten the peace and stability of our land."

A resounding cheer erupted from the crowd, a mixture of relief, gratitude, and newfound hope.

After the speech, the crowd began to disperse, but Balgruuf beckoned Ibnor forward.

"Lord Ibnor," he said, extending his hand. "I thank you. You have saved Whiterun today. I confess, I underestimated you. Your… methods are… unconventional, to say the least," he added with a slight smile, "but undeniably effective. I stand by my word. Whiterun is your ally."

Ibnor clasped Balgruuf's hand, a firm grip sealing the newly forged alliance.

"Jarl Balgruuf," he replied, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "The threat to Whiterun was a threat to all of Skyrim. We did what was necessary."

"'Necessary' is one word for it," Balgruuf chuckled, glancing towards the still-smoldering remains of the catapults. "I daresay few would have considered summoning a dragon… necessary." He shook his head in disbelief.

"But it worked. And for that, I am eternally grateful." He lowered his voice slightly, leaning in closer to Ibnor. "Tell me… how did you manage that?"

Ibnor simply shrugged, a cryptic smile playing on his lips. "Some things are best left as mysteries, Jarl. Suffice it to say, I have… unusual allies."

Balgruuf raised an eyebrow, but didn't press the matter. He understood that some secrets were best kept.

"Very well," he conceded. "But this victory, while significant, is but one battle in a larger war. Ulfric will not be deterred so easily. We must prepare for his inevitable return."

"What are your plans, Jarl?" Ibnor asked.

"For now, we reinforce Whiterun's defenses," Balgruuf replied. "I will send word to other holds, informing them of our alliance and urging them to join our cause. We must gather our strength if we are to stand against Ulfric's rebellion." He paused, his expression turning grave. "And we must also consider the Empire. Tullius will undoubtedly see this as an act of defiance, and he will likely demand an explanation."

"Let him," Ibnor said firmly. "We are not rebelling against the Empire. We are seeking to unite Skyrim, to protect it from the chaos that Ulfric has unleashed. If the Empire cannot see the wisdom in that, then they are blind to the true danger."

Balgruuf nodded slowly. "You speak with conviction, Lord Ibnor. I pray your vision is the right one for Skyrim." He turned to Proventus, who had been listening intently to the conversation. "Proventus, see to it that Lord Ibnor and his warriors are given proper quarters within Dragonsreach. And ensure that they have everything they require."

"Of course, my Jarl," Proventus replied, bowing slightly. He turned to Ibnor and gestured towards the keep. "Lord Ibnor, if you would follow me…"

As Ibnor and his warriors followed Proventus into Dragonsreach, Rayya lingered for a moment, watching the city slowly begin to return to some semblance of normalcy. The water brigades were still active, dousing the remaining embers, and citizens were beginning to emerge from their homes, surveying the damage. The relief on their faces was palpable.

She then looked up towards the sky, where the last wisps of smoke from Odahviing's fire attack were dissipating. She shook her head slightly, a small smile playing on her lips. She had seen many battles in her time, but she had never witnessed anything quite like this. Ibnor's "unusual allies" were certainly a force to be reckoned with. She hurried to catch up with Ibnor and Proventus, eager to discuss the next steps in this unexpected and rapidly escalating war. The momentum of events had taken hold, and they were all swept along in its swift current.

Inside Dragonsreach, the great hall buzzed with a tense energy. Guards patrolled, their armor clanking on the stone floor, while others tended to minor wounds or cleared debris. A long table, hastily laden with roasted meats, bread, and flagons of ale, stood as a testament to the hurried meal that had just concluded. Ibnor stood near the hearth, seemingly unaffected by the surrounding activity, his gaze distant.

Proventus Avenicci wrung his hands, his face pale. "By the Divines… that dragon… it was… terrifying. Jarl Balgruuf, are you certain…?"

Balgruuf the Greater, seated heavily in a nearby chair, cut him off with a weary wave of his hand. "I saw it myself, Proventus. With my own eyes. A dragon… at Ibnor's command."

Proventus Avenicci looked at Ibnor, a mixture of awe and apprehension in his eyes. "Lord Ibnor… how…?"

Ibnor turned, his expression unreadable. "Our… arrangement is… complex. For the moment, he serves our purpose."

Irileth stepped forward, her brow furrowed. "Such a display of power, Lord Ibnor… it will not be easily forgotten. Ulfric will surely see this as a declaration of war."

"He already considers it such," Ibnor stated simply. "This changes nothing in that regard. Only in the means by which it will be fought."

Balgruuf sighed, rubbing his temples. "This… this alliance… it was born of necessity, I know. But summoning a dragon… it's… unprecedented." He paused, then looked directly at Ibnor. "Do you understand the implications of this, Ibnor? The Empire… they will demand answers."

"Let them," Ibnor replied, his voice firm. "I acted to protect Whiterun, to protect Skyrim. I said it earlier, and I'd say it again. If the Empire cannot see the value in that, then their vision is clouded."

Ibnor turned his gaze towards the main doors of Dragonsreach, a resolute look settling on his face. "I will travel to Windhelm."

Proventus turned to Balgruuf, his voice laced with concern. "My Jarl, alone? That's madness! Windhelm is a fortress! He'll be walking into a trap!"

Balgruuf looked at Ibnor, considering. "Ibnor… Proventus has a point. Windhelm is not a welcoming place for outsiders, especially not after what has just transpired."

Ibnor turned to address his warriors, who stood nearby, their expressions a mix of concern and anticipation.

One of the warriors, a grizzled Nord with a scarred face, stepped forward slightly. "Lord Ibnor, we are ready to accompany you. Let us show these Stormcloaks the true strength of Helgen!"

Another warrior, younger but equally determined, nodded in agreement. "Aye, Lord. We will stand by your side, wherever you lead!"

Ibnor placed a hand on the first warrior's shoulder, his expression firm but appreciative. "I know your loyalty, and I thank you for it. But your strategic value lies here, in Whiterun. Your presence will bolster these defenses should Ulfric attempt another assault, and it will offer reassurance to the people of Whiterun during this time of uncertainty." He turned to Rayya, who stood nearby. "Rayya, you will ensure they are well-provisioned and prepared for any eventuality. Their orders are to defend Whiterun as if it were Helgen itself."

Rayya nodded firmly, her hand resting on the hilt of her scimitar. "As you command, Lord."

Balgruuf then said, "They will be treated as honored guests. They will have all they require." He then turned back to Ibnor, a mixture of concern and respect in his eyes. "Be wary, Ibnor. Ulfric is a cunning man. And Windhelm… it is a city steeped in tradition and fiercely loyal to him."

Ibnor met Balgruuf's gaze, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

"I understand the risks, Jarl. But this must be done." He paused, a slight, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "Sometimes, a storm needs to be met head-on."

With a final nod to Balgruuf and Irileth, Ibnor turned and strode purposefully out of Dragonsreach, leaving the others to grapple with the implications of his swift departure and the rapidly escalating conflict. The weight of the impending storm settled heavily in the hall.

Ibnor's journey to Windhelm was unlike his usual pace. His enhanced condition allowed him to traverse the harsh terrain with inhuman speed. He moved like a phantom, leaving a blur trail against the landscape, covering leagues in what would have taken others days.

The imposing walls of Windhelm soon loomed on the horizon, a testament to the city's ancient strength. The massive gate, reinforced with thick bands of iron, stood as a formidable barrier. Ibnor approached it without hesitation, his gaze fixed on the heavy wooden planks. This was no simple door; it was a statement, a symbol of Windhelm's defiance.

A few nearby Windhelm citizens, drawn by the unusual sight of a lone figure approaching the gate with such purpose, stopped to watch. Whispers began to circulate. 

"What's he doing?" one muttered to another.

"Who is that?" another echoed. 

Ibnor began with a powerful punch, channeling his enhanced strength into his fist. The wood groaned under the impact, a deep crack spider-webbing across the surface. He followed with a swift, brutal kick, the force of which reverberated through the entire structure. The gate shuddered, but held. The whispers turned to murmurs of concern as the guards on the wall above began to take notice, grabbing for their weapons. 

"Halt! Who goes there?" one of them shouted down. 

"By order of Jarl Ulfric, state your business!" another guard yelled, nocking an arrow to his bowstring.

Ibnor paid them no heed. He repeated the process, alternating between punches and kicks, each blow delivered with calculated precision and immense power. Splinters of wood flew, and the iron bands began to buckle and twist. The murmurs grew to shouts of alarm as more citizens gathered, a small crowd now witnessing the incredible display of force. 

"By the Divines, he's going to break it down!" another exclaimed, his voice laced with fear. 

"Get the Captain!" a guard yelled to a runner, who sprinted off towards the city barracks. 

"He's mad! Completely mad!" an elderly woman shrieked, clutching her chest. 

The guards on the wall shouted down, demanding he stop, threatening him with arrows, but Ibnor remained focused on his task. It was a brutal, relentless assault, a testament to Ibnor's almost superhuman strength and his unwavering determination. It took considerable effort, even for one of Ibnor's capabilities. The damn thing had been built to last.

With a final, earth-shattering kick, aimed at the weakest point he had identified, the gate finally gave way. The hinges shrieked in protest as they tore free from the stone, and the massive wooden structure crashed inward, sending up a cloud of dust and debris. The guards stationed within were sent scrambling, some falling to the ground in surprise, others drawing their swords with panicked cries. The crowd of citizens gasped in unison, some recoiling in fear, others staring in stunned silence at the gaping hole in their city's defenses. 

"He… he actually did it," a young Nord whispered in disbelief. "What kind of monster is he?"

Ibnor strode through the shattered remains of the gate, his presence radiating an aura of unwavering resolve. He made his way directly to the Palace of the Kings, his footsteps echoing through the now-alert city. He entered the throne room unannounced, the heavy doors swinging inward with a resounding boom.

Ulfric Stormcloak, dressed in his regal attire, sat upon his throne, surrounded by his housecarls. Upon seeing Ibnor standing at the entrance to the hall, he rose to his feet, a confident, almost arrogant smirk playing on his lips. He descended the steps from the dais, meeting Ibnor in the center of the hall.

The silence in the hall was heavy as Ulfric began, his voice, usually resonant and commanding, now strained, each word a painful exhalation. 

"So," he managed, a weak attempt at his usual booming tone, "you've come to Windhelm, then. I trust your journey was… eventful?" A dry, humorless chuckle rattled in his chest. "Though I confess, I wasn't expecting such a… dramatic entrance."

Ibnor remained still, his gaze fixed on Ulfric, an unwavering point of focus.

"Well?" Ulfric continued, a flicker of his old arrogance returning despite the clear discomfort. "What brings you to my court? Surely not merely to admire my city's…"

Before Ulfric could complete the sentence, Ibnor moved. It wasn't a rush, not even a fast stride, but a sudden, almost imperceptible shift, a blur that defied easy observation. One moment he was standing calmly; the next, his foot connected with Ulfric's chest. The kick wasn't a wild swing, but a precise, focused strike, as if targeting a single, vital point. 

"That's going to hurt. Urgh, fuck! I wanted to say it, so bad." 

A fleeting memory of watching some old movie flickered through his mind – something about a Spartan king and a deep pit. He pushed it aside. 

"Now's not the time. This wasn't a game. I am sending a message." He told himself.

The sound was sickeningly distinct: a dull thud of impact followed immediately by the sharp crack of fracturing bones.

Ulfric was thrown back, not stumbling, but propelled across the throne room. He slammed into the ornate wooden throne, the ancient wood groaning under the sudden, violent force. The impact resonated through the hall, a deafening crash of splintering wood and clashing metal as the throne, a symbol of Ulfric's power and lineage, gave way beneath him. Fragments of wood and metal showered the polished stone floor.

A stunned silence fell over the hall, broken only by the settling dust motes and Ulfric's ragged, shallow gasps. He lay amidst the wreckage, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and pain, slowly focusing on Ibnor, who stood calmly in the center of the hall, utterly unaffected. 

"Well, that's one way to make an entrance. It was a crude solution," he admitted to himself, "but sometimes you had to resort to drastic measures."

With a pained groan, Ulfric pushed himself up, clutching at his chest. His voice, once a booming declaration, was now a hoarse whisper that quickly rose to a cry of pain. 

"What… in the name of the Divines… was that?"

He staggered to his feet, shards of his broken throne clinging to his regal attire. His face was a mask of agony and dawning fury. His housecarls, finally roused from their stunned inaction, drew their swords, their faces a mixture of fear and rage. But they hesitated, a palpable wave of awe and apprehension holding them back from approaching Ibnor.

Ibnor, his expression unchanged, remained perfectly composed amidst the chaos he had unleashed. He simply shrugged, a gesture that seemed almost dismissive in the face of such destruction.

"You asked me to demonstrate my strength, Jarl Ulfric," he said, his voice measured and even, a stark contrast to Ulfric's pained exclamations. He gestured first towards the gaping hole in Windhelm's gate, then to the shattered remains of the throne. "I am simply obliging. Consider this a… down payment."

The housecarls shifted nervously, their swords raised, their eyes darting between their Jarl and the impassive figure before them. The air in the throne room crackled with tension. Ulfric, still clutching his chest, drew a ragged breath, his face flushed with pain and a weariness that went beyond the physical. It was the weariness of a man burdened by war and difficult choices. He forced his features into something resembling a steely glare.

"You dare assault me in my own hall?" he managed, his voice strained but laced with the familiar arrogance he used as a shield. "You break my gate, you destroy my throne… Do you think this… barbarity impresses me?"

Ibnor tilted his head slightly, a flicker of something akin to amusement touching his lips. 

"Impress? No, Jarl Ulfric. This is a demonstration. You requested proof of my… capabilities. I have provided it. Perhaps not in the manner you anticipated, but provided nonetheless." His gaze swept over the assembled Nords, a hint of disdain in his eyes. 

"Whiterun has felt the sting of external force. I have shown you what I can do to those who stand against my… allies."

"Allies?" Ulfric spat, the word lacking its usual force. He winced as he shifted his weight. "You… you side with Balgruuf? With the Empire?" The last word was almost hissed, but the venom felt diluted, the fire in his eyes dimmed by the force of the blow.

"I side with those who understand the… subtler threats," Ibnor replied, placing a subtle emphasis on the word. "Threats that whisper in the shadows, that manipulate from afar, that seek to unravel the very fabric of this land without ever drawing steel themselves. Those who sow discord and exploit division. Those who would see Skyrim brought to its knees, not by open warfare, but by insidious whispers and veiled decrees."

A low growl rumbled in Ulfric's throat, a weary sound, lacking its usual ferocity. "You speak in riddles," he said, his voice flat. "As if I haven't seen enough treachery in my time. As if I don't know who pulls the strings." He gestured vaguely south, a flicker of pain crossing his face – a clear reference to the Aldmeri Dominion.

"Awareness is not enough, Jarl," Ibnor countered. "Action is required. And action requires strength. A strength you requested I demonstrate." He gestured again to the shattered throne, subtly emphasizing the word "requested." 

"Perhaps this… unfortunate restructuring of your seating arrangement will serve as a reminder of what that strength entails. A strength that could be… invaluable against those who prefer to work through proxies and veiled decrees."

Galmar Stone-Fist roared, his scarred face contorted with fury. "You dare lay your hands on the Jarl? You'll pay for this with your life!" He hefted his greatsword, taking a menacing step towards Ibnor.

But Ulfric, despite his obvious pain, raised a hand. 

"Galmar… hold," he gasped. 

He took a shaky breath, wincing as he clutched his ribs. A strange light flickered in his eyes – not just pain or anger, but a flicker of… recognition, perhaps even a grudging respect.

Ulfric's eyes narrowed. He glanced at his housecarls, their faces grim and uncertain. He understood Ibnor's implication. The Thalmor presence was a constant, festering wound. He had always suspected their hidden hand in the conflict.

"You come to my hall, break down my gate, destroy my throne, and then accuse me of being a puppet?" Ulfric said, his voice laced with bitterness. "You think I haven't fought against their influence? That I haven't bled for Skyrim's freedom?"

"Fighting one battle does not win a war, Jarl," Ibnor countered. "And sometimes, the true enemy is not the one standing openly on the battlefield, but the one pulling the strings from the shadows." He paused, letting his words hang in the air. "I offer you a chance to see the larger picture. To put aside old grievances and unite against a common foe. A foe that seeks to control us all, regardless of our banners."

Ibnor turned and left the hall, leaving a heavy silence in his wake. However, after a few steps, he stopped and turned back to Ulfric. He extended his hand, then clenched it into a fist and drew it back to his chest, as if grasping and retrieving something invisible. He then turned and finally departed, leaving the onlookers to ponder his inexplicable gesture.

Ulfric remained motionless for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the empty space where Ibnor had stood. The weight of his own ambitions, the years of struggle and sacrifice, clashed with the stark reality of the situation. The dragon's attack in Whiterun, Ibnor's demonstration of power, it was a stark reminder of the larger forces at play. He looked at the wreckage of his throne, a symbol of his authority now reduced to splinters. A sigh escaped his lips, a sound of weariness and reluctant understanding.

Outside Windhelm, Ibnor muttered to himself, "Almost forgot to collect the colored balls."