Skyrim System In Westeros

The weather was clear, with only a few white clouds dotting the sky. A fleet of large Dornish ships sailed across the Bay of Myr, heading toward the city of Myr on the continent of Essos. Pirates lurking nearby caught sight of the banners of the Prince of Dorne and wisely chose to steer clear.

Once past the Stepstones and further east, rainy days became scarce. On the deck of the largest ship in the fleet, numerous lounge chairs and tables were arranged. The ship buzzed with activity. Mercenaries lounged or sat, sailors climbed the masts to keep watch or adjusted the sails, and some sprawled out, enjoying drinks under the pleasant sunlight.

Nymeria played a hand drum, Tyene accompanied her on the flute, while Wright strummed a harp and sang:

"Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart.

I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes.

With a voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art,

Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes.

It's an end to the evil, of all Skyrim's foes.

Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes.

dovahkiin, dovahkiin, naal ok zin los vahriin

wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal!

ahrk fin norok paal graan fod nust hon zindro zaan

dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal!

When the song ended, applause erupted from the onlookers aboard the ship. Soldiers and sailors, some of whom understood Valyrian, clapped enthusiastically. Even those who didn't grasp the words found the melody captivating, adding to the chorus of applause and whistles.

In this world, noble families often included music in their children's education. However, most nobles left performance to hired musicians as they grew older. There were exceptions — like Rhaegar Targaryen, a master of the harp. His skill, combined with his striking looks, charmed countless women every time he played.

But Rhaegar had miscalculated during the opening feast of the tourney at Harrenhal. His song captivated Lyanna Stark, setting off a chain of events that ultimately brought down a dynasty.

"What does 'Dragonborn' mean?"

Reclining on a chair draped with rugs, Prince Oberyn clapped as he raised a goblet of wine. Having roamed Essos for years, he spoke conversational Valyrian, but "Dragonborn", a compound term, was new to him.

"It means 'child of the dragon' — a dragon mage," Wright replied, offering no further explanation. The secret of absorbing dragon souls was his alone to bear.

"A mage who can breathe fire like a dragon. Impressive," Oberyn remarked, assuming it was a grandiose title Wright had invented, much like Dorne's Sword Of The Morning, which was crafted to sound equally awe - inspiring.

"That last part was in High Valyrian, wasn't it? I heard something similar in Volantis once. It sounded intricate," commented Ellaria Sand, feeding Oberyn an orange slice. She was Oberyn's lover and had borne him four daughters. Though not a classic beauty, her exotic features and alluring figure were undeniable. Her daughters, being too young, hadn't joined them on this journey.

Oberyn leaned back comfortably, holding Ellaria in one arm and his sworn knight and lover, Ser Daemon Sand, in the other.

"Yes, adding a segment in High Valyrian gives it a certain flair," Wright said, helping himself to fruit from the table.

Both Wright and Oberyn had dropped out before receiving titles from the Citadel, though Wright had later been granted the title of Honorary Archmaester. By that measure, the two could be considered former schoolmates of sorts.

Oberyn had traveled extensively across two continents, while Wright's adventures were confined to Westeros, though he had read widely. Their conversation ranged from one end of the world to the other.

Meanwhile, Nymeria and Tyene were speaking with their elder sister, Obara Sand. In recent years, Obara had followed Oberyn on his journeys, her sun-darkened complexion a testament to her time under Essos' skies.

"How did you deal with the Mountain?" Nymeria asked.

Obara took a sip of coconut rum. "Prince Doran and Father held a public trial for him in Sunspear. After chopping off his head, they coated it in pitch and displayed it on a spear, parading it through all of Dorne's cities."

"Why coat it in pitch?" Nymeria asked.

Obara turned to Tyene with a smirk. "It's your fault. The Mountain's head turned entirely blue. Without the pitch, people might've thought it was fake."

Tyene shrugged. "That was the first time I used that poison on a person. I'll pick a different color next time."

Ser Daemon Sand, nestled under Oberyn's arm, watched Wright intently. With his long brown curls and handsome, quintessential Dornish features, Daemon seemed to be sizing him up.

Daemon and Wright were of the same age. Though Daemon was a bastard, his rigorous training and battlefield accomplishments had earned him knighthood from Prince Doran. He had even managed to take Arianne Martell's maidenhead and proposed marriage.

But his aspirations had crumbled when Arianne rejected him. Though Doran had not punished him, Daemon understood he could no longer remain in Sunspear. Eventually, he joined Oberyn as his sworn sword and lover, trading pride for favor in Oberyn's service.

Wright's rise had been meteoric, his name celebrated even in the songs of Dornish taverns. In contrast, Daemon Sand's jealousy simmered as he observed the man who seemed to embody everything he lacked.

Yet Wright, engrossed in wide-ranging conversation with Oberyn, hardly paid him any attention.

---

That evening, as most of the crew retreated to their cabins to rest, Oberyn and Daemon stood at the prow of the ship, each holding a bottle of pear brandy, the sea breeze whipping around them.

Oberyn took a sip. "I received a letter from my daughter, saying she plans to travel across Essos with Wright, exploring the Free Cities. That made it clear — I must accompany Wright and watch him closely, at least until he leaves Braavos."

Daemon took a swig of his own drink. "Is surveillance the only goal?"

Oberyn's gaze hardened. "Dorne has long played a double game. Years ago, in Braavos, I forged a secret pact with a few key figures on behalf of Dorne. Wright's strange magic has raised concerns. No one can guarantee he won't uncover those individuals in Braavos. It's imperative we shadow him closely and ensure he discovers nothing. If he does, we must find a way to resolve the issue quietly."

Oberyn's trust in Daemon was unshakable, forged through years of loyalty and tests, including dealings involving Princess Arianne. For such a covert mission, Oberyn needed trusted hands. Everyone aboard the ship had been carefully selected for their unwavering allegiance to Dorne.

Daemon nodded, clearly pleased by the prospect of undermining Wright. "If there are moments when you can't act directly, leave the matter to me. I swear on my honor that I'll handle it flawlessly."

Oberyn swirled the brandy in his bottle. "Originally, I saw Nymeria and Tyene's marriages as political maneuvers to stabilize alliances among younger sons. I didn't pay them much attention. But Wright's rise has changed things — he's become a significant figure in the realm. According to my daughters, their marriage is strong, and Wright has proven himself a capable husband."

Daemon ventured cautiously, "Wright and your daughters haven't yet had children. If something were to happen to him, it would be easy enough to find them new husbands."

"If only he weren't a Baratheon," Oberyn muttered. The night air grew chill, and the brandy was making his head spin. Feeling unsteady, he turned and headed for the cabin.

Caught between his duty to Dorne and his daughters' happiness, Oberyn knew where his priorities lay — for now, Dorne came first, barring any drastic developments.

Daemon followed, a satisfied smile creeping across his face. He had correctly anticipated Oberyn's thoughts, and he relished the idea of making Wright suffer in the days to come.

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