I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

The wind howled outside the Palace of the Kings as Ulfric Stormcloak sat upon his throne. His usually charismatic face look annoyed. This was due to the report he receive moments ago, stating that an Imperial emmisarry has come. While he felt no desire to entertain the uninvited visitor, he had to, as he aspire to become a wise leader, and a wise leader is potrayed through his actions. One does not slap a smiling face and for that, he had to swallow his displeasure.

The doors crashed open, and a richly dressed Imperial messenger entered, his armor gleaming with a polished arrogance that clashed with the rough-hewn atmosphere of the hall, the scent of leather and steel, and the ever-present undercurrent of Nord defiance.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," the messenger began, his voice a carefully modulated baritone, laced with the practiced cadence of the Imperial court. He surveyed the hall, his gaze lingering with a hint of disdain on the rough-hewn walls, the ancient tapestries depicting scenes of Nord heroism, and the stoic Stormcloak guards, their faces impassive masks of barely contained fury.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," the messenger began, his voice a carefully modulated baritone, laced with the practiced cadence of Imperial court.

He surveyed the hall, his gaze lingering with what might, to the untrained ear, sound like admiration on the ancient tapestries depicting scenes of Nord heroism, and the stoic Stormcloak guards, their faces impassive masks of barely contained fury. A faint smile played on his lips.

"It's… inspiring, truly, to witness such… unyielding spirit in this… northern hold."

He gestured vaguely, his gloved hand encompassing the entirety of the hall, the gesture seemingly magnanimous, yet carrying the subtle implication of condescension, as if observing a fascinating, if somewhat crude, display.

"One almost forgets, amidst the… refined airs of the Imperial City, the… raw vitality that still thrives in these… rebellious regions. Such… passion. Such… devotion."

Ulfric had seen this Imperial arrogance before, this thinly veiled contempt for the traditions and beliefs of Skyrim. His eyes narrowed, his gaze hardening like the winter frost, but his voice remained low and controlled. To the wise, this is obviously a dangerous calm before the storm. 

"We Nords have little patience for flowery words, Imperial," Ulfric replied.

"And we care even less for your city folk's… delicate sensibilities. Best speak plainly, and remember where you stand."

The messenger cleared his throat, his composure slightly ruffled unexpectedly by Ulfric's own. He had expected bluster and fury, not this icy control.

"Ah, yes. Reconciliation. I was entrusted to bring a message of reconciliation. A matter of… mutual understanding, shall we say. The Empire, in its… expansive wisdom, acknowledges your… strength, Ulfric Stormcloak. Your… accomplishments on the field of battle. We believe a mutually beneficial agreement can be forged, a path forward that avoids further bloodshed."

"An agreement?" Ulfric countered, his voice like the rumble of distant thunder, a sound that promised inevitable and inescapable destruction.

"After years of war, after the Empire's… betrayal of everything we hold sacred, you come to me with talk of agreements? Interesting. Explain yourself, Imperial. I grew tired of your flowery words."

The messenger's tone grew more persuasive, adopting the familiar diplomatic cadence, the practiced art of twisting words to serve the Empire's purpose.

"The Empire is prepared to acknowledge your rule over certain territories, Ulfric. A degree of autonomy, a… limited self-governance, in exchange for your realignment to the Ruby Throne. Your… fealty, to ensure lasting peace, a peace that will benefit all of Tamriel." He spread his hands in a gesture of placation, the very picture of reasonable discourse.

Ulfric's expression hardened, his gaze fixed on the messenger with an intensity that could chill the warmest blood, that spoke of ancient grudges and unyielding pride.

"My fealty? To an Empire that bleeds Skyrim dry with its taxes, that abandons its allies to the Dominion's cruelty, that enforces laws written by effete Cyrodiils who know nothing of the north? The same one that caused the true sons and daughters of Skyrim to bleed?"

The messenger leaned forward, his voice taking on a more earnest tone, the practiced words of justification flowing smoothly, the arguments honed over years of defending the Empire's actions.

"You must understand, Stormcloak. The White-Gold Concordat… it was a necessary measure, a bitter pill we had to swallow. A… strategic retreat, to preserve the Empire, to buy us time to rebuild our strength. To save lives, Ulfric. The lives of all our citizens, from the bustling cities of Cyrodiil to the remote villages of Skyrim. We faced an impossible choice. A choice between the survival of the Empire, the last bastion of humanity against the encroaching darkness, and… certain traditions, certain… beliefs."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the hall, seeking any sign of understanding or compromise.

"The Empire chose to safeguard its people, to ensure the continuation of the human race. Faith can be… amended, reinterpreted, adapted to new realities. Lives cannot be replaced. The Empire made the difficult choice, the pragmatic choice, the only choice that would prevent the annihilation of everything we hold dear."

It was a wrong choice of subject to be brought up. A tense silence descended upon the hall. Ulfric's jaw clenched, his gaze flickering to the ancient tapestries depicting Nord heroes, a silent invocation of his ancestors. A muscle twitched in his jaw, the only outward sign of the storm brewing within.

"You dare," he snarled, his voice a guttural growl, raw and untamed, "you dare to stand in the halls of the Kings of Windhelm, in the very heart of Nord tradition, and justify the abandonment of our gods? You speak of amended faith? Of strategic retreat? You sacrificed our very souls, our connection to our ancestors, our birthright, for survival, you pathetic, groveling cowards! You claim to speak for all men, yet you forsake the very essence of what makes us men!"

"Ulfric, please, you misunderstand the complexities of the situation-" the messenger began, his composure crumbling.

His carefully constructed arguments dissolved in the face of Ulfric's wrath, a flicker of fear replacing the arrogance in his eyes. He swallowed hard, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple, realizing, too late, that he had misjudged his audience.

"Misunderstand?" Ulfric's voice, now a thunderous bellow, echoed through the hall, shaking the very foundations of the palace.

The force of his rage rattling the very bones of those who stood witness.

"I understand perfectly! The Empire chose weakness over honor, expediency over faith, and the lives of craven men over the eternal spirit of Skyrim! You come here, to my hall, to the seat of my power, and offer me scraps of autonomy in exchange for my silence, for my continued submission to your treachery? You offer me a gilded cage and call it peace? I would sooner die a thousand deaths, my name be cursed for eternity, than yield an inch of Skyrim's soul to your corrupt and faithless Empire!"

Galmar Stone-Fist, his hand gripping the hilt of his own axe, stepped forward. There's a fiery spirit in his eyes and anyone who see it will understand that it was a warning. He knew Ulfric's temper, the barely contained fire that could erupt at any moment. But even he could not stay in the storm this time. He could only watch, his face grim but resolute, as the inevitable unfolded.

Ulfric unsheathed his sword, the metallic clang echoing the finality of his actions, the death knell of any hope for negotiation.

"Let this be a message to the Emperor!" He roared as the veins on his neck swell.

"Let it be carried across the borders of Skyrim, to the halls of Cyrodiil itself. Skyrim will not be bought, nor will it be broken. And its gods will not be mocked with impunity. The blood of our ancestors cries out for vengeance, and we will not be silenced!"

Ulfric's sword flashed, severing the emissary's arm at the shoulder in a swift, brutal motion. The pitiful messenger's scream echoed through the hall, a high-pitched shriek of agony that mingled with the wet thud of flesh and bone hitting the floor.

"That," Ulfric hissed, between his clenched teeth, "is for the insult to our gods!"

Ulfric sheathed his sword, the metallic clang echoing the finality of his actions, the death knell of any hope for negotiation.

"See to it that he receives proper treatment," Ulfric ordered, his voice slightly lower now, the immediate fury spent, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

"He will carry the mark of our displeasure, and the Emperor will know that we do not make idle threats."

Meanwhile, in the relative warmth of Dawnstar's keep, Tullius and Rikke sat opposite each other on a table, their expressions thoughtful. The was a short silent as they both fell under deep contemplation. The only sound is the holwing wind outside, and the crackling of the fire in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the parchment, highlighting the jagged mountain ranges and the winding rivers that crisscrossed the land.

"His words… they were not what I expected," Rikke said, her voice laced with a hint of surprise, breaking the silence.

"He spoke of unity, of a Skyrim strong enough to stand against the Thalmor. Not the usual rabble of a rebel. There was a… a clarity to his vision, a sense of genuine conviction that I find… unsettling."

Tullius nodded, his gaze fixed on the outside, tracing the lines of the mountains and snows with his eyes.

"He is a strategist, Rikke. I will give him that, and a cunning one at that. He understands the importance of a unified front, even if his methods are… unorthodox. He sees the larger game, the looming threat that transcends petty squabbles and internal conflicts."

"Unorthodox?" Rikke raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharp and questioning. "He gave us our freedom, Tullius. He treated us as guests, not prisoners. He spoke of 'vision' and 'future' as if he truly believes it, as if he sees a path forward that we, with all our Imperial might, have somehow missed. It's… unnerving."

"He does," Tullius said, his voice firm, brooking no argument. "I have seen it in his eyes. He is not a fool, Rikke. He is not some power-hungry warlord blinded by ambition. He sees the Empire's weaknesses, the rot that festers within its core, the Thalmor's insidious influence that spreads like a creeping poison. He believes he can forge a stronger Skyrim, a bulwark against the coming storm."

"But can he?" Rikke asked, doubt in her voice. "Can he unite Skyrim, bridge this divide, or will his ambition bring only more chaos?"

"He has a plan," Tullius said, turning his gaze lingering on Rikke. "Have you heard the rumors?"

"Rumors? What rumors?" Rikke's brow furrowed.

"Whispers, mostly," Tullius admitted, a hint of unease in his voice. "They say he is a warrior whose strength surpasses mortal men, whose resilience defies belief, and upon whom fortune seems to smile at every turn. They say he is more than just a man, that he is blessed by the gods or touched by some otherworldly power. Some even whisper of a connection to the Dragonborn herself..."

"The Dragonborn is with him, is she not?" Rikke mused, more to herself than to Tullius. "That red-haired woman... Harin. We saw her in action back then..."

Tullius nodded.

"And what action it was. Leaping across rooftops, wielding ancient magic, and cutting down seasoned veterans like they were children. She fought with a ferocity and skill I have not seen since the great wars. If she, a mortal woman, can command such power, what does Ibnor himself wield? What unimaginable forces does he bring to bear? Despite all the rumors, Ibnor has never shown his actual prowess to us."

Rikke stared blankly at the goblet in her hands, her mind racing. The implications of these rumors were staggering. If Ibnor truly commanded such forces, he was far more dangerous than they had anticipated.

"And then there's his title," Tullius continued, his voice low. "He styles himself not as Jarl, but as King. A deliberate challenge to the traditional order, a clear indication of his ambitions. He seeks to rebuild Skyrim in his own image, and he will use any means necessary to achieve his goals."

"A dangerous game," Rikke muttered. "It's like playing with fire."

"Perhaps," Tullius said, a hint of admiration in his voice. "But he is a fire himself, Rikke. And he burns with a conviction I have not seen in many. He is… impressive."

"Impressive, yes." Rikke nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. "But is he a savior, or a conqueror?"

"That," Tullius said, his voice low, "remains to be seen. And his treatment of us..."

"Indeed," Rikke agreed, understanding what Tullius was saying. "He could have imprisoned us, executed us even. We were, after all, leading figures in the Imperial Legion. Yet, he granted us a strange form of... autonomy. We are confined, yes, but with a measure of respect. He allows us to move within Dawnstar, to speak our minds, within reason. He provides us with comfortable quarters, decent food. It's as if he's... waiting for something."

Tullius steepled his fingers, his gaze intense.

"Waiting, or perhaps... testing. He is gauging our reactions, our resolve. He wants to understand us, to see if we are merely puppets of the Empire, or if there is a possibility – however faint – of finding common ground."

"Common ground?" Rikke scoffed, but there was a flicker of doubt in her eyes. "With a rebel who defies the Emperor himself? Who shelters the Dragonborn, a woman of immense power who could be our greatest weapon, or our doom?"

"The Dragonborn," Tullius mused, his brow furrowed. "She is a wild card in all of this. Her allegiance to Ibnor is... complete. I've seen the way she looks at him, the fierce protectiveness in her eyes. It's more than just loyalty, it's devotion. And he... he seems to trust her implicitly. To have given her command of his forces... it speaks volumes."

"So, what does he want from us?" Rikke pressed, her voice sharp with a soldier's pragmatism. "If not our submission, then what?"

"This is why I said he is impressive. It's not our submission he's after, it's our allegiance." Tullius sighed, the weight of command pressing heavily on his shoulders.

"You mean… Does he believe he can sway us to his cause? To betray the Empire we have served our entire lives?" Rikke questioned.

"Indeed. You must have felt it too. His mind games are on another level. He purposely showed us all of this, the town, the people, the hope and the potential of a better future. Letting us know that we can be a part of that, it even made my blood stir. Let alone you. This is, your homeland after all."

Rikke fell silent, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames. The firelight flickered across her face, highlighting the conflict within her. She was a soldier of the Empire, bound by duty and honor to serve the Emperor. Yet, she was also a Nord, born and raised in Skyrim, with deep roots in this land. Ibnor's words, his vision of a united and strong Skyrim, had touched a chord within her, a longing for a future where her people could thrive without the shadow of the Empire or the threat of the Thalmor.

"He is cunning," she admitted finally, her voice low. "More so than any rebel I have ever encountered. He knows how to appeal to our hopes, our fears, our deepest desires. He offers us a choice, a path that is neither wholly Imperial nor wholly Stormcloak. A third way."

"A dangerous path," Tullius countered, his voice firm. "One that leads away from the order and stability of the Empire. A path shrouded in uncertainty, guided by a man whose true nature remains a mystery."

"Yet," Rikke said, her gaze lifting to meet Tullius's, a spark of defiance in her eyes, "is the Empire truly the bastion of order and stability it claims to be? Or is it a crumbling edifice, weakened by internal corruption and external pressures? We have seen the rot, Tullius. We have witnessed the Thalmor's influence, the Emperor's weakness. Can we honestly say that the Empire is the best hope for Skyrim's future?"

Tullius's stern expression softened, a flicker of weariness crossing his features. He pushed himself away from the table, walking towards the window overlooking the snow-dusted roofs of Dawnstar. The howling wind was a constant companion here, a reminder of Skyrim's untamed spirit, a spirit he felt caught between. He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture rigid, but his thoughts were anything but. Rikke's words echoed his own private anxieties, doubts he rarely voiced, even to his most trusted Legate.

"The Empire is not without its flaws, Rikke," he admitted, his voice low, almost a murmur against the wind's lament. "No institution of man is perfect. We are stretched thin, yes, burdened by the Concordat, by the avarice of Cyrodiil's elite, and by the relentless pressure of the Thalmor. But what is the alternative? Anarchy?"