I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

The Palace of the Kings, usually a place of boisterous war planning, was heavy with a tense silence. Ulfric Stormcloak sat upon his throne, his face etched with the lines of conflict. The recent Imperial messenger's fate remind him of the escalating stakes. Galmar Stone-Fist, his loyal shadow, watched him with a growing unease.

"Ulfric," Galmar began, his voice rough but urgent, "we cannot linger. Time slips through our fingers like sand, and Skyrim bleeds with every passing moment."

"What troubles you, Galmar? We've secured vital holds. We've struck a blow against the Empire." Ulfric turned, his gaze sharp.

"Aye, victories," Galmar grunted, his eyes fixed on the map. "But they are scattered, isolated. We need unity, Ulfric. A single banner, a single voice. We need a High King, and we need him now."

"We are fighting for freedom, Galmar," Ulfric retorted, his voice laced with impatience. "Not for titles."

"Titles grant power, Ulfric! Power to unite, to command, to inspire! The Jarls… they waver. They see our victories, yes, but they also see the chaos. They see the Empire still holding strong in places, and they see this… Ibnor, rising like a storm out of the north."

Galmar pointed to the area of Dawnstar.

"He acts, he moves, and he has the Dragonborn at his side. With each day pass, the more the people praise him. His influence are spreading!"

Ulfric frowned, he stood up and walk to the table, where the map of skyrim laid open. He observe the map as his finger trace the lines.

"He is a complication, I grant you. But he has shown no ambition for the High Kingship."

"He doesn't need to declare it, Ulfric! His actions speak louder than words. He consolidates power, he builds alliances, and he has the Dragonborn. With her power, he could sway any Jarl. We need to act before he does." Galmar slammed a fist on the map. "We must convene the Moot! We must claim the High Kingship, and we must do it now, while the Jarls still see us as the true leaders of Skyrim."

"The Moot requires consensus, Galmar," Ulfric countered, his voice laced with doubt. "It is not a simple matter."

"We will forge that consensus! We will remind them of our sacrifices, of our victories, of our unwavering commitment to Skyrim. We will show them that we are the only ones who can lead them to true freedom." Galmar's eyes blazed with conviction. "Ulfric, we cannot afford to wait. Every day we delay, Ibnor gains strength. Every day we delay, the Empire regroups. Every day we delay, Skyrim bleeds. We must act now, before it's too late."

Ulfric remained silent, his mind racing. He understood the urgency in Galmar's words. He felt the weight of responsibility, the burden of leadership. He knew that Skyrim needed a High King, a symbol of unity, a beacon of hope.

"Very well," Ulfric said, his voice heavy with resolve. "Send messengers to the Jarls. We will convene the Moot at High Hrothgar. We will claim the High Kingship, and we will unite Skyrim under our banner."

"By your command, High King," Galmar said, a flicker of relief in his eyes. "We will not let Ibnor, or anyone, steal our destiny."

Back at Dawnstar, Ibnor was drafting the economic plan of Dawnstar for the new year which will be in another 6 months. A spectre announced himself with their unique whistle and emerged from the shadow.

"Your Majesty, Brynjof, Delvin, Vex and Karliah have entered the city."

"Oh? And what is their method?"

"Brynjof has entered openly, in his usual style. His roguish charm works their magic. Delvin and Vex disguised themself as merchants, though Vex seemed to have managed to conclude few successful transactions. Karliah on the other hand, chose to enter discreetly, and we were only aware of it because she let us know."

"Interesting. They wouldn't bypass our usual channels for a social call. Let's see what they want. You stay here and be sure to notify me if anything comes up."

"By your order, my King." the Spectre saluted and disappeared into the shadow once again.

Dusk already settled over the hold, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, when Ibnor left the White Hall. Instead of taking the main entrance, he slipped through a lesser-used side exit, a shadowed passage that led to the outer walls. He moved silently, so that not even the guards, trained to a higher standard than any he'd seen in Skyrim, noticed him.

The Den, an inn established by the Spectres as a front for information gathering, yet somehow lucrative and legal, despite being a mere side income, was alive with noise and activity. Laughter, the clinking of tankards, and the lively music of a bard filled the common room. Ibnor, however, did not linger. He made his way to the back of the inn, where a discreetly placed staircase led to the private section, housing only important guests.

A burly Nord, his arms crossed and his face impassive, stood guard at the top of the stairs. He recognized King Ibnor instantly.

"My King," he rumbled, his voice surprisingly soft. "They're waiting for you."

The private section was a stark contrast to the boisterous common room below. It was quiet, dimly lit, and furnished with plush chairs and a large, round table. Brynjolf's usual smirk was absent, replaced by a tight-lipped seriousness. Vex's eyes darted nervously around the room. Karliah's face was unreadable, while Delvin seemed impatient.

Ibnor entered, his gaze sweeping across the assembled thieves.

"Gentlemen, ladies. This is an… unexpected gathering," he greeted them.

Delvin rose to his feet, bowing with slight exaggeration. Ibnor's lips quirked in a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

"You best stop that old man, lest you break your back," Ibnor replied, taking a seat.

"Ah, always a pleasure, Your Majesty," Delvin chuckled, straightening up with a playful grin. "Though, for a king, you've got a surprisingly good sense of humor. Most of 'em are stiffer than a frozen mammoth tusk. But enough with the pleasantries, eh? We've got... pressing matters to discuss."

Delvin produced a rolled-up parchment, its edges sealed with black wax, and slid it across the table towards Ibnor. Ibnor picked it up, and continued reading while drinking his mead.

"An investigative job? Hmm, nothing unusual there," Ibnor muttered, scanning the details, taking another swig of mead. "Huge payout, with half as a deposit...wow, this patron is generous! The target is..."

"Pffff!!" Ibnor choked, sputtering, and spraying mead across the table. He slammed the document down, his eyes widening in disbelief. 

"...King Ibnor? What the fuck…?"

Ibnor's head snapped up, his gaze sweeping across the room, genuinely perplexed, droplets of mead clinging to his beard. He expected some kind of explanation, but instead, he was met with a rather unsettling sight.

Brynjolf, usually the picture of cool professionalism, was struggling to contain his laughter, his shoulders shaking as he held out his hand to Vex. Vex, never one for open displays of emotion, showed a rare grin of her own, and slapped a bulging pouch of coins into his outstretched palm.

"Worth every septim," she said, her voice a low, amused purr.

"You lot…" Ibnor trailed off, a mix of disbelief and amusement in his eyes. "Who is the idiot who commissioned this?"

"Continue reading." Delvin said with a big grin plastered on his face.

Ibnor turns his attention back to the parchment. Not long after, a cackle escaped his mouth.

"This is golden! Ulfric, oh Ulfric. What a newbie mistake. Or, is this just his bad luck? Nocturnal is still the best!" He said, still laughing.

"Well, she does seem to prefer you a lot, even from back then." Karliah teased.

"True. Looks like I have to raise a statue for Her in Dawnstar." Ibnor agreed, his hand rubbing his chin.

"So," Brynjolf said, joining the conversation, "how do you want this to be handled?" 

"Well.. it's practically free money…" Ibnor shrugged. "I'll leave it to all of you."

"Aye, lad," Delvin chuckled, rubbing his hands together. "Had a few ideas already. Just needed the go-ahead."

"Hmm… since when did you need my approval for anything?" Ibnor raised an eyebrow.

"Maybe not on other things, but this is about the outfit, lad." Brynjolf said, his voice firm. "You are one of us, and as lenient as you are, you are still the Guild Master." 

Suddenly, a raven landed on Karliah's shoulder, its dark eyes gleaming. She glanced at it, a flicker of something unreadable on her own. 

"Ulfric's called a moot," she announced, her voice low. "Leadership, war… the usual."

Ibnor's gaze sharpened, his mind already calculating the implications. 

"And the plan?" Vex asked, a hint of anticipation in her voice. "I'm itching for a challenge."

"Don't worry about that. Let him do it. I have a few surprises waiting for him."

"As you wish," Karliah said. "Anything you need, just say the word."

"Of course. I'll leave you to your business then. But still…" Ibnor stood up, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I can't believe you travel all the way here just to see me reacting. Are you that bored?"

"Well.. the guild is running smoothly," Vex said, her tone smooth. "And the Spectres are keeping things tidy."

"Oh, if you are so free, why don't you help me? I have mountains of things to do."

"My King," Vex said, a hint of playful defiance in her voice, "I must decline."

"Fine, fine. Enjoy your stay." Ibnor turned to leave.

"Send our regards to that Harin lass," Delvin called after him, a sly grin on his face.

The days in Dawnstar settled into a rhythm for Tullius and Rikke, a strange blend of observation and contemplation. They were granted freedom within the city's walls, a privilege they knew was laced with Ibnor's calculated intent. They watched, they listened, they absorbed, and slowly, their perceptions began to shift.

They saw Ibnor the charismatic leader, addressing the city's populace with a quiet confidence that resonated deeply. He spoke of unity, of rebuilding, of a future where Skyrim could stand strong against any threat. He listened to the concerns of commoners, his responses thoughtful and measured, earning him their trust.

They saw Ibnor the humble man, working alongside his guards in the training yards, his movements fluid and precise, a warrior of undeniable skill. He shared meals with his soldiers, not as a king, but as a comrade, fostering a sense of camaraderie that was palpable.

They saw Ibnor the compassionate soul, visiting the sick and injured, offering words of comfort and practical aid. He showed genuine concern for the well-being of his people, his actions speaking louder than any proclamation.

They saw Ibnor the strict leader, his voice sharp and commanding when necessary, demanding efficiency and discipline from his guards and stewards. He tolerated no incompetence, his gaze unwavering, his expectations high.

One afternoon, Tullius and Rikke found themselves wandering near the newly constructed docks, watching as ships laden with goods arrived from distant shores. The air was filled with the sounds of creaking wood and the shouts of dockworkers, a testament to Dawnstar's burgeoning prosperity.

As they strolled along the edge of the docks, they noticed Ibnor, standing in a secluded corner, his back to them. He was engaged in a heated, albeit hushed, conversation with Illia. Her usually serene expression was replaced with a look of stern disapproval, her voice low but firm.

"Ibnor," she hissed, her eyes flashing, "you cannot simply vanish whenever you please! The economic reports are due, the trade negotiations with Winterhold are pending, and the new irrigation system requires your immediate attention!"

"Oh, come on Illia," Ibnor, his face flushed, attempted to placate her. "The paperwork is suffocating me. I just need a short break." 

"Short break? You call this a short break? You've been gone for hours, leaving Brina to handle everything! Have you forgotten your promise?" Illia continued, her voice rising slightly.

"Alright, alright, I understand," Ibnor sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'll return to the reports immediately. Just… give me a moment."

"A moment? Your moments stretch into hours! This isn't Helgen and you are no longer a mere Thane!" Illia snapped, her patience clearly wearing thin.

Tullius and Rikke exchanged surprised glances. They had never seen Ibnor so… chastised. The image of the powerful king being reprimanded by his seemingly gentle steward was unexpected, to say the least.

"Is that… Illia?" Rikke whispered, her voice laced with disbelief.

"It would seem so," Tullius replied, his eyes widening slightly. "I must admit, I did not expect such… assertiveness."

Illia, noticing their presence, abruptly ceased her tirade, her expression shifting back to its usual composure. 

"General Tullius, Legate Rikke," she said, her voice calm and polite. "My apologies. His Majesty and I were merely discussing… administrative matters."

Ibnor simply shrugged, a faint, almost amused smile playing on his lips. 

"Yes, yes, just a gentle reminder from Illia about my… 'priorities'. I better get back to those reports before she decides to start issuing formal reprimands." He gestured vaguely with his hand, as if dismissing the entire exchange. 

He turned to Illia, his tone light. 

"Fine, you are right, as always. I'm sorry. Lead the way, my beautiful Illia. And try to keep the 'I told you so's' to a minimum, alright?"

"Very well, Your Majesty. Let us proceed." Illia gave him a pointed look, but a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. 

As they walked away, Tullius and Rikke were left in a stunned silence.

"He... he doesn't seem to care," Rikke murmured, her voice laced with disbelief.

"Indeed," Tullius replied, his brow furrowed. "He treats being reprimanded like a minor inconvenience. As if it's a normal occurrence."

"That," Rikke continued, her voice laced with a mixture of amusement and surprise, "was… unexpected, from… A king."

"Indeed," Tullius agreed. "It would seem that even kings have their… moments."

The incident, however, did more than just amuse them. It revealed a different side of Ibnor, a vulnerability that humanized him, and a dynamic with Illia that was both surprising and intriguing. They began to see the complexities of his character, the layers beneath the confident facade.

As the days turned into weeks, Tullius and Rikke's initial skepticism began to erode. They witnessed the genuine progress in Dawnstar, the sense of hope and purpose that permeated the city. They saw the loyalty and respect that Ibnor commanded, not through fear, but through genuine leadership.

"I thought I had figured him out, but it seems… There is more to him than meets the eye," Rikke admitted one evening, as they sat by the fire in their quarters. "He is not a conqueror, nor a tyrant. He is… something else entirely." 

They looked at each other, a silent acknowledgment of the shift in their perceptions. They were no longer simply observing Ibnor, they were beginning to understand him. And in that understanding, they saw a glimmer of hope for a future they had thought impossible.

A messenger, bearing the sigil of Windhelm, arrived at Dawnstar's keep, his face grim and his tone formal. He presented Ibnor with a sealed scroll, the wax stamped with the unmistakable bear of Ulfric Stormcloak. Ibnor broke the seal and read the contents, his expression unreadable.

"The Moot," he announced, his voice echoing through the hall, "at High Hrothgar. Ulfric seem eager to solidify his claim."

Illia, ever present, stepped forward, her brow furrowed. "A bold move, Your Majesty. He seeks to gather the Jarls, to force their allegiance."

"Indeed," Ibnor replied, his gaze distant. "He seeks to unite Skyrim under his banner. A banner that may soon clash with mine."

"What will you do, Your Majesty?" Illia asked, her voice laced with concern.

Ibnor paused, his eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight.

"We will attend, of course. Someone has prepared a stage, it would be a shame not to utilize it."

He turned to Illia, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"It's time to officiate the founding of our nation."

Later that evening, Ibnor visited Tullius and Rikke in their quarters. The atmosphere was tense, the air thick with unspoken questions. Ibnor, however, remained calm, his demeanor composed.

"General Tullius, Legate Rikke," he began, his voice low and steady. "I have received an invitation from Ulfric. The Moot will convene at High Hrothgar. He seeks to claim the High Kingship."

Tullius and Rikke exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. They had anticipated this moment, the inevitable clash of ambitions.

"And you, Ibnor?" Tullius asked, his voice carefully neutral. "What are your intentions?"

"I intend to attend. And also, I intend to offer you both a choice." Ibnor met his gaze, his eyes unwavering and paused, allowing his words to sink in. 

"I understand your loyalty to the Empire. It is a loyalty born of duty and honor. But the Empire is dying, Tullius. It bleeds from within, weakened by corruption and the Thalmor's insidious influence. Skyrim needs a new path, a new hope."

He stepped closer, his voice laced with a quiet intensity. 

"I offer you that path. I offer you a chance to rebuild Skyrim, to forge a nation that can stand strong against any threat. I offer you positions of power, respect, and the opportunity to use your skills and experience for a greater purpose."

He extended his hand, his gaze unwavering. 

"Join me, Tullius, Rikke. Help me build a new Skyrim. A Skyrim free from the Empire's decay and the Thalmor's grasp."

A tense silence filled the room. Tullius and Rikke looked at each other, their expressions a mixture of doubt and reluctant admiration. They had witnessed Ibnor's leadership, his vision, and the genuine progress in Dawnstar. They had seen the flaws of the Empire, the rot that festered within its core.

"You ask us to betray our oaths," Rikke said, her voice laced with a hint of doubt.

"I ask you to embrace a greater oath," Ibnor replied, his voice firm, his gaze softening as he looked at Rikke. 

"An oath to the very soil beneath your feet, to the people who share your blood. An oath to a future where Skyrim thrives, where her children are not pawns in a dying empire's game, but masters of their own destiny." He paused, letting his words sink in. 

"Think of your homeland, Rikke. The Skyrim you know, what it can be and the Skyrim you want it to be. That is the oath I ask you to keep."

Tullius, his gaze fixed on Ibnor, spoke slowly, his voice heavy with the weight of decision. 

"And what of the Empire, Ibnor? What of our duty?"

"You have fulfilled your duty, Tullius. You have fought and bled for your duty. The Empire's defeat at Solitude marked the end of that obligation." Ibnor countered, his voice unwavering. 

"Look at the facts. You and Rikke have been here, under my 'protection,' for weeks. Have you seen any sign of the Empire attempting to reclaim you? Any messenger, any legion, any flicker of interest? They have written you off. They have abandoned you, just as they have abandoned Skyrim." He gestured around the room. 

"Let's be pragmatic, Tullius. You've witnessed the Empire's decline firsthand. Inefficient leadership, questionable directives, a clear erosion of the very principles they claim to uphold. You possess a discerning mind; you understand the difference between sound judgment and folly. Is your allegiance based on unwavering faith, a blind adherence to a dying institution, or a clear-eyed assessment of reality, a commitment to what is right? The Empire is a shadow of its former self. They offer you only ghosts and empty titles. I offer you a chance to shape a living future, a future that resonates with true purpose."

After a long moment of contemplation, Tullius stepped forward, his expression resolute. "Very well, Ibnor. I will serve you. I will help you rebuild Skyrim."

Rikke, her gaze unwavering, nodded in agreement. "We swear our loyalty to you, King Ibnor. We will serve you faithfully."

Ibnor smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. 

"Excellent! Welcome, Tullius, Rikke. Henceforth, you are both my Generals. Your experience and wisdom will be invaluable."

He turned to leave, pausing at the door. 

"You will take up the post immediately. Tullius, you will stay behind to oversee the city. Illia and Brina will assist you in adapting to our administration and policies. Rikke will accompany me to High Hrothgar. We depart for High Hrothgar at dawn." 

As Ibnor left, Tullius and Rikke exchanged a glance, a silent acknowledgment of the momentous decision they had made. Reaching the door, Ibnor paused and gave them a reminder.

"Prepare yourselves. We have a Moot to attend. And a nation to found."