I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

The dawn cast long shadows over the departing retinues of Skyrim's Jarls. From the stone gates of Windhelm, Ulfric Stormcloak emerged, his warband of blue and steel, determined faces stepping onto the frost-rimed road. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed on the distant, snow-capped peak of High Hrothgar, a mountain that loomed like a silent judge over the land.

The air around Ulfric crackled with unspoken tension, the kind that precedes a storm. His departure was more than a journey; it was a major step. A step forward to his dream, a future that he envisioned, now lay within his grasp. 

He gripped the reins so tight that his knuckles turned white. He could almost taste it: Skyrim, free and strong, united under his banner. The clop of his horse's hooves on the frozen ground echoed like the beat of war drums, representing his own heartbeat.

His retinue, a mix of hardened warriors and grim-faced advisors, moved along, carrying their banners, fluttering with the wind. These were his loyalists, his followers, men and women who believed in his vision, who had bled and fought for his cause. But even among them, he sensed a flicker of unease, a shadow of doubt cast by the looming Moot.

Ulfric ignored it. Doubt was a weakness, a luxury he couldn't afford. He had come too far, sacrificed too much, to falter now. The blood of kings flowed in his veins, and destiny called. High Hrothgar awaited, and he would claim his birthright.

From the walls of Whiterun, Balgruuf the Greater watched his own company assemble, his expression etched with a deep concern that mirrored the weight of his responsibilities. 

"Jarl, it's time." Irileth gave him a respectful reminder.

The gates of Whiterun, usually bustling with trade and the clamor of city life, swung open to admit a passage for Balgruuf the Greater and his company. Unlike Ulfric's warband, a river of steel and blue, Balgruuf's procession was a more restrained affair. Banners bearing the symbols of Whiterun's trade and prosperity, not war, fluttered in the morning breeze. Yet, beneath the veneer of civility, a tautness lingered. 

Balgruuf's face, normally open and welcoming, bore the etched lines of concern. The weight of his hold and the burden of the impending Moot pressing upon him. He was a man caught in the treacherous currents of Skyrim's politics, forced to navigate a path between unwavering loyalty and pragmatic survival. But now, as he fixed his gaze on the distant, snow-capped peak of High Hrothgar, a flicker of warrior's resolve sparked in his eyes, a commitment to the die he had cast.

Across Skyrim, other Jarls began their journeys, each departure held a different atmosphere. 

From the stone streets of Markarth, Thongvor, his eyes narrowed and his expression a mask of prejudice, led his retinue. Silver-Blood cronies and city guards, their eyes darting into the shadows, surrounded him, reflecting his own ingrained mistrust. 

In the bustling city of Riften, Maven Black-Briar, with an unreadable expression covering her face, departed with a small but determined group, a collection of mercenaries and merchants. A practical approach to her unique and far-reaching influence. 

From the walls of Solitude, a smaller contingent departed, led by Elisif the Fair. A solemn determination masked her expression, and her eyes reflecting the weight of her responsibilities. She was accompanied by a small group of advisors and guards, their faces grim and resolute. There were no longer the Imperial banners, only the simple, somber colors of Solitude. The atmosphere surrounding their departure was one of quiet dignity, a contrast to the more boisterous retinues of the other Jarls.

From the mist-shrouded marshes of Morthal, Idgrod Ravencrone guided her retinue of mystics and guards. Her distant eyes that were filled with visions are the reason why her presence is an enigmatic silence in the damp air.

From the crumbling, frost-bitten walls of Winterhold, Korir, his face etched with the harshness of the north, led his small retinue. Mages, scholars, and a handful of hardened guards comprised his company. Their departure was a somber affair, the silence broken only by the crunch of snow beneath their boots and the cry of the wind. The atmosphere was one of quiet resignation, a reflection of Winterhold's decline and isolation.

Each departure was a thread in the tapestry of Skyrim's destiny, a journey converging on the silent sentinel of High Hrothgar. The roads of Skyrim, usually alive with merchants and travelers, now bore the heavy tread of Jarls and their retinues, a diverse procession of cultures and ambitions converging on a single, imposing point.

Banners, each a symbol of a hold's identity and a claim to power, fluttered in the wind like desperate pleas. The land itself seemed to hold its breath, a silent observer of the unfolding drama, as the retinues make their way across the varied terrain, their eyes fixed on the towering peak of High Hrothgar, the mountain that will hold the destiny of Skyrim.

After days of arduous travel, the Jarls and their retinues arrived at the foot of the Throat of the World. High Hrothgar, the ancient monastery of the Greybeards, loomed above. The silence of the walls and the lack of activies reminded everyone of the isolation and solemnity of this place.

Temporary camps, hastily erected, dotted the rocky expanse at the mountain's base. Tents, banners fluttering in the biting wind, created a makeshift village. A fragile peace brokered after the chaos of the Civil War. But beneath the veneer of diplomacy, a different purpose simmered. Everyone knew this was more than a mere peace talk; it was a veiled struggle for the High Kingship, a contest of wills masked by ancient tradition.

The understanding was clear: the ascent to High Hrothgar itself would be undertaken on foot, and in small, select groups. This was a concession to the Greybeards' neutrality, a gesture of respect, or perhaps, a calculated show of humility. Each Jarl knew that the words spoken within those ancient walls would carry the weight of destiny.

Ulfric, his expression is one of a restrained impatience, oversaw the setup of his camp, his eyes constantly drawn to the winding path that led up the mountain. He knew the terms, but his gaze betrayed the ambition that burned within him. He selected his advisors with care, choosing those whose voices would amplify his own.

Balgruuf, his face etched with the weariness of a man caught between warring factions, watched as his own retinue established their camp. He knew this gathering was a precarious balancing act, a chance to solidify the unsteady peace, or to plunge Skyrim back into the chaos of war. He chose his companions with a heavy heart, knowing that every word spoken could tip the scales.

Thongvor's paranoia made him bark orders at his men, setting his camp as a fortified outpost against threats, whatever it may be. Maven Black-Briar directed her people with only subtle gestures, her camp a quiet hub of information and influence. Idgrod Ravencrone, her gaze distant as usual, seemed almost oblivious to the activity around her, her camp a collection of strange symbols and whispering mystics.

A contingent from Solitude stood apart, their presence a quiet, almost mournful counterpoint to the other Jarls' gatherings. Their banners, bearing the wolf sigil, once a proud symbol of the empire's hold, now seemed to represent a different solitude, a lonely resilience. Elisif, her elegance dimmed by the weight of recent events, sat quietly with dignity, directing her retinue with subtle nods and gestures.

Korir, Jarl of Winterhold oversaw the task with a quiet resignation. Mages and scholars, their robes fluttering in the biting wind, worked alongside a handful of hardened guards. The air around their camp was thick with an almost palpable silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of parchment or the soft murmur of arcane incantations. It reminded the people of Winterhold's isolation and the quiet desperation that clung to its crumbling walls.

As they settled down, the various entourage began to chatter among themselves. A group of Ulfric's soldiers huddled around a crackling fire, the flames casting flickering shadows on their grim faces. A young recruit, barely old enough to shave, fidgeted nervously. 

"They say Ibnor brings change," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the distant High Hrothgar. "But what kind of change? That's what worries me."

A grizzled veteran, his face etched with the scars of countless battles, spat into the fire. 

"Change is coming, whether we like it or not," he growled, his voice rough. "The question is, will it be changed on our terms?" 

"And will it come with blood?" He continued, his hand now fiddling with his axe.

Nearby, a small group from Elisif's retinue were filling waterskins at a rushing stream. The young woman, her hands trembling, splashed icy water onto her face. 

"Peace," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the roar of the water. 

"Please, let it be peace. My brother... he was lost in the war." She looked up, her eyes pleading. 

A scholar from Korir's entourage, passing by with a bundle of scrolls, paused, his brow furrowed when he overheard her. 

"But what if... what if this time is different? What if the Greybeards have truly brought us here to forge a new path?" he mused, his voice thoughtful, his eyes drifting towards the distant, crumbling peaks. "Perhaps... perhaps even Winterhold can find a new beginning."

Further away, two guards from Thongvor's retinue stood watch, their eyes scanning the rocky terrain. One scoffed, his voice laced with disdain. 

"The Greybeards," he muttered, adjusting his heavy fur cloak. "They speak of peace, but they know nothing of the real world. They live in their mountain, untouched by our struggles."

"They're dreamers," the other guard agreed, his eyes narrowing. "And dreamers get us killed."

A mystic from Idgrod's retinue, her eyes wide with a strange light, approached them. 

"Idgrod speaks of visions," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "She sees a future, a branching path. One leads to darkness, the other to... something else." 

"Something... unsettling." She shuddered, pulling her shawl tighter. 

Thongvor's retinue went speechles.

"What was that?"

"It's one of the mystics. Ignore her."

The conversations swirled around them, fragmented and tense. The Jarls, their faces etched with the weight of their responsibilities, could feel the eyes of their retinues upon them, the unspoken pleas for a future free from bloodshed, a future that hung heavy in the thin, cold air.

As the camps took shape, the Greybeards still remained a silent presence within High Hrothgar, their essence woven into the mountain itself. The ancient stones seemed to observe the Jarls and their retinues, the inscrutable gaze of the Greybeards permeating the thin mountain air. Their silence, amplified the unspoken tension, the fragile peace hanging precariously in the balance.

The steady rhythm of the Jarls' ascent was broken by a new arrival, a distinct presence that rippled through the gathered retinues. A hush fell over the camps, a momentary stillness in the thin mountain air. Ibnor arrived, not with the boisterous retinue of a war-leader, nor the measured procession of a seasoned Jarl, but with a quiet, almost unsettling efficiency.

He was accompanied by Rikke, her face showing a professional expression, and a small, elite guard, the King's Blade. Their movements were uniform, their presence radiating an aura of disciplined power, much different compared to the more varied retinues of the other Jarls. They moved with an almost unnatural grace, their armor gleaming with a dark, polished sheen.

Ibnor himself was a study in contrasts. His eyes, sharp and intelligent, moved from face to face, lingering for a moment on each, as if weighing their worth. While he scanned the gathered Jarls, his expression was unreadable. He carried himself with an air of quiet authority, a confidence that bordered on arrogance. There was an otherness about him, a sense that he did not quite belong, yet commanded attention nonetheless.

The reactions of the other Jarls were varied. Ulfric, his eyes narrowed, observed Ibnor with a mixture of strategic curiosity and competitive suspicion. He recognized a rival, a force that could reshape the political landscape. 

Balgruuf, his face now wearing a smile, watched Ibnor's approach with a sense of calculated camaraderie. He sensed a power that could, perhaps, tip the delicate balance of the Moot in a favorable direction. 

Thongvor, his eyes filled with ingrained prejudice, sneered at Ibnor's retinue, his disdain barely concealed, a blatant display of political animosity. 

Maven Black-Briar, her eyes like chips of obsidian, observed Ibnor with a calculating gaze, her mind already dissecting his every move, searching for leverage. 

Elisif, her expression composed, watched Ibnor's arrival with a quiet dignity, her eyes reflecting a cautious curiosity, a silent attempt to gauge his influence. 

Idgrod Ravencrone seems to see something beyond Ibnor's physical presence, her expression a cryptic mix of understanding and profound unease, as if she glimpsed a future that threatened the fragile balance.

Korir observed Ibnor with a pragmatic detachment. He saw a potential factor in the Moot's outcome, a variable to be considered, weighed, and perhaps, utilized.

Ibnor's arrival was a clear declaration, a statement that his presence would reshape the upcoming Moot. His gaze fixed on the winding path to High Hrothgar, his every step a statement of authority. The silence that followed him was not one of fear, but of respect, a recognition of the power he wielded. 

He moved towards the main gathering area, Rikke and the King's Blade flanking him, their formation indicationg their unwavering loyalty, a tangible demonstration of his command.

As he reached the edge of the gathering, he paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled Jarls one last time. Then, he leaned towards Rikke and whispered a few words, his voice too low for the others to hear.

Rikke's eyebrows arched in surprise, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. But she was a soldier, disciplined and loyal. She gave Ibnor a sharp salute, a gesture of acknowledgment and obedience, then turned and moved towards Elisif. She positioned herself at Elisif's side, her presence a silent guard, her eyes scanning the other Jarls with professional vigilance.

Ulfric's eyes narrowed further, his jaw tightening. He watched Rikke's movements with suspicion, his hand instinctively curling into a fist. He recognized a calculated move, a subtle power play.

Elisif, initially surprised by Rikke's sudden appearance, offered a small, grateful smile. A flicker of relief crossed her face, a brief respite from the tension. She was glad to see a familiar face, a potential ally in this gathering of wolves.

Ibnor, ignoring the reactions he had provoked, reached for the hilt of his sword. But instead of drawing it, he unbuckled the belt and handed the weapon to one of the King's Blade. He turned towards the mountain path, his hands empty, unarmed.

A collective gasp rippled through the gathered Jarls. They were accustomed to displays of strength, to weapons and armor. This was something different, a deliberate act that defied their expectations.

A King's Blade, standing near Ibnor's retinue, leaned towards his fellow, his voice barely audible. 

"Look at the King," he said, his eyes never leaving their king. "He is unarmed, yet he holds more power than any Jarl here. What will he do?" 

"He gave his blade to us," the other King's Blade replied, his voice low and tense. "That is a great honor. But also... disturbing." 

"He gave Rikke to Elisif. What does that mean?" 

"I do not know," the first King's Blade admitted. "We best keep our mouths shut. It's not our place to know." 

"Are you both done flapping your gums?" Their captain snapped, his voice sharp and low. "Minor discipline infraction. Two weeks of toilet duty when we get back." 

He gave them a hard stare, then glanced at Rikke, now standing guard at Elisif's side. 

"Remember your place. The King's decisions are not for us to question." 

The first King's Blade gave the other a playful, yet pointed, look. 

"Thanks, mate," he muttered under his breath, a hint of exasperation in his voice, "You just had to ask, didn't you?" 

"Didn't you hear me?" The captain's voice cut through the air, sharp and demanding. 

"Yes, sir!" Both King's Blade snapped to attention, their postures rigid, their expressions becoming impeccably professional.

The other Jarls were slow to react, caught off guard by Ibnor's unexpected move. A moment of stunned silence hung in the air before they began to follow suit, albeit with a degree of hesitation. Each Jarl, after a moment of deliberation, selected only one or two aides to accompany them, leaving the bulk of their retinues behind. The climb to High Hrothgar was to be a matter of words, not war.

The ascent up the 7,000 Steps began, each Jarl navigating the treacherous path in their own unique way. Ibnor maintained a steady, almost leisurely pace, as if taking a stroll through a familiar garden. He moved with an effortless grace, his breath even, his gaze fixed on the path ahead.

Ulfric, fueled by his ambition and unwavering confidence, climbed with a forceful stride. He was determined to reach the summit first, to assert his dominance from the very beginning. His movements were powerful, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity.

Maven Black-Briar ascended at a deliberate, measured pace. She seemed to calculate each step, her eyes scanning the terrain, her mind already anticipating the political maneuvers that awaited them at the top. Her slow, steady climb was a subtle display of control.

Elisif, her delicate features etched with a quiet determination, walked with a graceful elegance that belied the physical challenge. Beads of sweat glistened on her brow, an evidence of the arduous climb, but she refused to falter. She carried herself silently with dignity, her every step showcasing her resilience.

Idgrod Ravencrone paused briefly every few meters, her gaze fixed on the air itself. She seemed to commune with the mountain itself, her movements guided by forces beyond the physical realm. Her pauses were not signs of weakness, but moments of profound concentration.

Korir, his weathered face betraying little emotion, ascended with a slow, steady rhythm. He took breaks at regular intervals, his pragmatic nature dictating a measured approach. He was not concerned with speed, but with efficiency, with conserving his energy for the trials ahead.

Balgruuf, his face flushed and damp with sweat, stubbornly continued his climb. He was a man of the people, and he would not show weakness, not here, not before the Greybeards. He pushed himself forward, his determination fueled by a sense of duty and resolve.

However, at the very back, Thongvor is struggling. His face contorted with exertion, labored with each step. His breath came in ragged gasps, his movements clumsy and strained. 

"Damn stones," he wheezed, his voice thick with frustration. 

He stumbled, catching himself on a protruding rock. 

"This… this is an insult." He wiped sweat from his brow, his hand trembling slightly. 

"By the Divines," he muttered, his voice barely audible, "they think this… this trial will break me?" 

He glared at the steep path ahead, his chest heaving. 

"They'll see," he growled, clenching his fists. 

"They'll see I'm not some… some weakling." 

He took another step, his leg shaking. 

"This… this mountain," he gasped, "it's… it's trying to mock me." 

He cursed under his breath, a string of vulgarities that echoed off the rocks. 

"If I ever get down from this blasted pile of rocks," he panted, "I swear… I swear I'll flaten it." 

He stumbled again, this time nearly falling. 

"Damn it all!" he roared, his voice cracking. "Damn this mountain! Damn these steps! Damn… everything!" 

He paused, his breath ragged, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and fury. 

"They want to test me?" he whispered, his voice laced with venom. "Fine. Then let them watch me conquer this… this pathetic excuse for a challenge." 

He pushed himself onward, his movements still clumsy, but his eyes now burning. 

"They'll see," he repeated, his voice hoarse but resolute. 

"They'll all see."

The 7,000 Steps, a relentless test of endurance, began to reveal the true nature of each Jarl, their strengths and weaknesses laid bare under the watchful eyes of the mountain.

The arduous climb finally reached its end. One by one, the Jarls and their retinues, weary and breathless, staggered onto the final plateau before High Hrothgar. Ulfric, though winded, still carried himself with a defiant pride. Maven Black-Briar, her composure unwavering, showed no signs of exertion. Elisif, her face pale but maintaining her dignity despite the obvious strain.

Thongvor, however, was the last to arrive, his face a mask of exhaustion and resentment, and his pride wounded. He leaned heavily on his aide, his labored breathing showing his struggle, and his usual bluster replaced by a sullen silence.

As the Jarls gathered, their eyes turned towards the entrance of High Hrothgar. The ancient stone seemed to emanate a silent power, a tangible presence that dwarfed even the most ambitious of them.

From the shadows of the doorway, a figure emerged. It was Master Arngeir, his features etched with the wisdom of ages, his eyes piercing and unwavering. He was flanked by the other Greybeards, their forms still and silent, their presence a reminder of the ancient power that resided within these walls.

Arngeir stepped forward, his voice resonating with a quiet authority that commanded attention.

"Jarls of Skyrim," he began, his voice echoing across the plateau, "welcome to High Hrothgar."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled Jarls.

"You have come here at a time of great turmoil, a time when the fate of Skyrim hangs in the balance."

He continued, his voice firm but measured.

"We have gathered you here, as we did once before, in the hope that reason and diplomacy may prevail. We remember the last gathering, the Season Unending," a flicker of disappointment crossed his face, "and we hope that this convention will bring a better result, a more lasting peace."

He fixed his gaze on each Jarl in turn, his eyes lingering for a moment on Ibnor.

"The path ahead will not be easy. The choices you make here will shape the destiny of your land. May the wisdom of the Thu'um guide you."

The Greybeards withdrew back into the shadows of High Hrothgar, their silent presence a constant reminder of the ancient power that watched over them. The Jarls, their breath still ragged, stood in silence, the weight of Arngeir's words settling upon them. The Moot had begun.