Settling In

Harald woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. The memories of his battle with Alduin—the mighty dragon's death—had twisted into a nightmare, filled with fire and shadows that refused to fade even as he sat up. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, and his gaze fell on his ebony armor and battleaxe, both resting on the table before him. The familiar sight grounded him, the dark sheen of the armor reflecting the early morning light filtering through the window.

He was in the house of the village elder, a man named Elric, who had offered him shelter for the night. Elric was in his fifties, his face weathered by years of toil, but his gratitude had been evident when he welcomed Harald. They had spoken only briefly—Harald had been far too exhausted to converse for long. After being given water and a hearty serving of stew, he had retired to bed, his body craving rest after what felt like an eternity without sleep. He hadn't had a moment's respite since arriving at Skuldafn, where he had fought through to reach the portal to Sovngarde.

One thing stood out from his short conversation with Elric: Harald had learned that he was no longer in Tamriel, but in a land called Westeros.

A place very familiar to him.

Harald chuckled softly, shaking his head in disbelief. This was the second time he had been thrown into a world he had once thought fictional. "Is this my fate now?" he mused. "To be cast from one world to another, under the whims of gods and beings I'll never fully comprehend?"

"Take this as a boon for helping me before… a place you can start over… well, start over again…" Sheogorath's words echoed in his mind, the memory of the Mad God's maniacal laughter still fresh.

"A place to start over." The thought lingered in his mind as he stood and stretched, his muscles still stiff. Could he really find peace here? The memories of Tamriel, his life there, the losses—none of that could ever truly be left behind. Yet, there was something about this land, something different. He could never have found peace in Tamriel, not after all that had happened, not after the death and destruction that had marred his every step as Dragonborn.

He took a deep breath and walked out of the house, stepping into the cool morning air. Before him, a large field stretched out, but it was no longer green and full of life. The Ironborn had torched it, leaving a blackened wasteland in their wake. The grass was burnt to ash, and the charred remains of crops stood like skeletal fingers reaching up from the earth. The smell of smoke still lingered faintly, carried on the breeze.

Despite the destruction, there was a strange poetry in this place for him. This village was named Riverwood, the same name as the small village in Skyrim where he had found himself most often. It was a coincidence, or perhaps something more, that brought a bitter smile to his lips.

As he stood there, lost in thought, a woman's voice called from behind him. "Oh, you're awake."

Harald turned to see Maris standing behind him. She was Elric's daughter and the village healer. Her dark hair was tied back, and her face still held the lines of concern from the events of the previous day, but she smiled warmly when she saw him.

"Healer Maris," Harald greeted her with a nod.

"Ser Stormcrown," she replied with a slight bow.

He chuckled softly. "Oh, I'm no knight, my lady."

"And I'm no lady," Maris replied with a teasing smile. "Please, call me Maris."

"Then Maris," Harald said, inclining his head. "And you can call me Harald."

"I've brought some people to see you," Maris continued, stepping aside. "They wish to thank you."

Harald looked beyond her and saw the woman he had saved from the last Ironborn, along with her brother. The woman was staring at him in awe, her eyes wide as if she were looking at something far beyond a mere man. Her brother, Jory, had a more grounded expression—his face was filled with gratitude.

The woman was the first to speak. "Ser… Harald," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "You saved my life… I don't know how to thank you properly."

Harald shook his head humbly. "No need for thanks. It's what I do."

Jory stepped forward, his voice firmer than his sister's. "We won't take up much of your time, ser—uh, Harald. We just wanted to let you know that we're grateful. Truly. We'd be dead or worse if it weren't for you."

Harald nodded, his gaze steady. "I'm glad you're both safe. That's what matters."

Jory glanced at his sister, who was still looking at Harald as if she were searching for something. "We'll leave you to yourself," Jory said, a little awkwardly.

But before they could turn to leave, Alanna abruptly asked, "Were you sent by the gods?"

A heavy silence followed her question, and Jory looked at his sister with an expression of annoyance, clearly embarrassed by her words.

Harald paused, unsure how to answer at first. He glanced between the two siblings and Maris before muttering, almost to himself, "I was sent by a mad one."

All three of them froze, their eyes widening in confusion and slight alarm.

Harald quickly shook his head, letting the subject drop. "Maris," he said, turning back to her, "I wish to speak with your father."

Maris hesitated for a moment, still processing what Harald had said, then nodded. "He's at the fields, taking stock of the damage."

Harald gave her a brief nod in thanks and turned to walk toward the burnt fields. In the distance, he could see Elric, standing amid the scorched earth, surveying what the Ironborn had left behind.

Harald walked over to Elric, who stood with his back to him, gazing out at the charred remains of the fields. There was sadness in the elder's eyes, a heavy weariness that only deepened as he surveyed the damage done by the Ironborn. The crops, blackened and lifeless, would never see harvest.

"We might starve," Elric said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "We all might starve come winter."

Harald frowned, his mind briefly flashing to the winters he had read about in this world—long and harsh, lasting years rather than months. He realized he needed more information. He knew so little about this place beyond what he remembered from the books about Eddard Stark, Daenerys Targaryen, and the Iron Throne. But those events were in the future, or so he thought. Was he in that era? He vaguely recalled reading about a rebellion, but it had been so long, and the details were faint in his memory.

Elric noticed his approach and turned, greeting him with a nod. "Harald," he said warmly.

"Elder Elric," Harald replied, giving a respectful nod. "Do you have some time to talk?"

"To our savior?" Elric smiled thinly. "Always." He gestured for Harald to walk with him along the burned fields, their boots crunching softly against the brittle remnants of what had once been fertile soil.

As they walked, Harald turned to Elric. "I must admit, I know little about these lands. I would like to learn more if you would tell me."

Elric nodded, his expression turning thoughtful. "This land have been called the Oldstones for centuries its true name forgotten. It was the capital of the ancient Kingdom of the Rivers and Hills. Home to the kings of old. But those kings are long dead, their memory fading with each generation." He sighed, his voice tinged with regret. "Now these lands have been in dispute for centuries—between King Blackwood and King Bracken."

"Kings?" Harald asked.

"Well, not kings anymore," he corrected. "First, the Storm King invaded after the fall of the Justmans, and then… they came." His face twisted in disgust. "The Ironborn. They invaded, defeated the Storm King, and claimed these lands as their own. Their cruelty is all I've ever known."

Harald grimaced. The Ironborn had clearly been a plague on these lands for longer than he had imagined. "And who is the lord of these lands now?"

Elric shook his head. "As I said, the Blackwoods and Brackens have long disputed this land, but a lord once ruled over us for nearly a century under House Blackwood—House Blanetree." His voice grew soft with sorrow. "But they are gone now."

"What happened to them?" Harald asked.

"Lord Gregor Blanetree was a good man, just and fair. He ruled these lands well for the Blackwoods. The village prospered under his watch," Elric explained. "But then the Greyjoys came. They had a disagreement with Lord Gregor, and they did what Ironborn always do—they slaughtered him and his family. They sacked Blanetree Keep and now live there, treating it as their own."

"For last two years, we had only one hope—Lord Gregor's son. He survived the massacre and fought against the Greyjoys, trying to reclaim his lands. He gave us hope during these dark times." Elric's voice trembled slightly, then grew quiet. "But we haven't heard from him in months. I fear the Ironborn finally killed him as well."

Harald listened in silence. The village was trapped in a cycle of violence and fear, with no hope of protection.

Elric stopped walking and turned to Harald, his eyes pleading. "The Ironborn will return. And when they do, we'll be defenseless." He paused, his voice cracking. "I beg you, Harald, protect us."

Harald looked into the elder's eyes and saw the desperation there. These people needed him. He could feel it in his bones—perhaps this was his purpose here, in this new world.

"I will," Harald said, his voice firm with resolve. "I give you my word—I will protect the village. Perhaps that's why I was sent here."

Elric's eyes filled with gratitude, and he bowed his head. "Thank you, Harald, for your kindness."

.

.

.

Harald found himself sitting by the river, away from the village. The cool water flowed steadily, reflecting the soft light of the overcast sky. He thought about the world he was in. Though he had knowledge of it, everything he knew was only going to happen centuries in the future.

But despite that uncertainty, Harald had no worries. He was the most powerful being here, of that he was sure. With his shouts, his skills, and his resolve, he intended to free these people from the Ironborn. He had a purpose again, one that burned deeply within him.

As he sat, lost in thought, he heard soft footsteps approaching from behind.

"Maris," he said without turning.

"Harald," she greeted him, stepping closer.

"You wish to ask something," he said, glancing over his shoulder at her.

Maris hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Yes."

He looked at her more fully, noticing the uncertainty in her eyes. "What is it?"

"Are you truly sent by the gods?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harald thought about how to answer and decided on honesty. "I was telling the truth when I said I was sent by a mad god," he began. "I don't know much about your gods—the Seven, as you call them—but I was sent by one for reasons I may never fully understand." He turned to look at the river again, the memories of Sheogorath's madness lingering in his mind. "I mean no harm to you or to the innocent people of these lands. You can believe what you want, but that's the truth."

Maris stood quietly, taking in his words. After a long pause, she spoke again. "I believe you were sent by the Seven. They work in ways we don't understand, and perhaps they used this mad god you speak of to bring you here."

Harald nodded slightly, unsure what to say to that. He had been through enough to know that the gods—mad or otherwise—had their own plans. He was just a part of them now.

"My mother," Maris said, her voice wavering slightly, "and my husband… they were both killed by the Ironborn. I only live for my father now, to protect him and our village. But if you intend to fight the Ironborn, then you won't be alone. You'll have me by your side, and many others too."

Harald felt a deep respect for her resolve, knowing the weight of such loss. Before he could respond, he heard the distant sound of hoofbeats, growing louder as they neared the village.

Maris looked in the same direction, alarm flashing across her face. "Riders?"

Harald stood quickly, his instincts sharp. "We need to get back to the village."

Together, they rushed toward the village, the sound of the approaching riders growing louder with each passing moment.

======

Arriving at the village, Harald's initial alarm began to fade as he saw the villagers huddled around the horsemen, their faces lit with joy. Maris, walking at his side, whispered, "That's the sigil of House Blanetree on the men's armor."

Harald's gaze shifted, and sure enough, he noticed the crest of House Blanetree—a black tree on a field of green. His attention then turned to Elric, who was excitedly speaking with a young man dressed in armor, wearing an eyepatch and missing an arm.

Elric spotted Harald and quickly gestured toward him, practically bursting with excitement. "This, my lord," Elric said, his voice loud enough for all to hear, "this man is our savior! The man sent by the gods! He killed all the Greyjoy men himself!"

The young man with the eyepatch turned his one good eye toward Harald, his expression curious but skeptical. "You?" he asked, disbelief coloring his tone. "How?"

Before Harald could respond, Elric jumped in again. "Harald was sent by the gods!" he exclaimed. "He has the strength of a hundred men, blessed with magic."

Harald stepped forward, keeping his composure. "I'm Harald Stormcrown," he introduced himself, his voice calm. "I did indeed save this village, though not by the strength of a hundred men."

The one-eyed young man regarded him for a long moment before nodding slightly. "I am Lord Robard Blanetree," he said, his tone more measured now.

"Elric believed you to be dead," Harald said.

Robard let out a dry chuckle. "Not dead—injured. We came as soon as we were able when we heard of the Greyjoys' plans to sack the village."

Robard then looked Harald over more critically. "But tell me, why is everyone here claiming you were sent by the gods? Are you some kind of sorcerer?" The question hung in the air like an accusation, and Harald could feel the weight of the skepticism from both Robard and the men with him.

Harald let out a hearty laugh. "Sorcerer? No. I'm adept at magic, that much is true, but I'm no sorcerer."

One of the villagers, a woman, stepped forward, her face full of gratitude. "Harald healed my son," she said. "He's healed many of us."

A murmur spread through the gathered villagers, many of them nodding and speaking up, confirming Harald's actions. Robard's single eye narrowed, and the men with him exchanged uneasy glances.

"I shall show you," Harald said with a smirk, his eyes glinting with amusement. He stepped away from the crowd, moving a few paces away from the gathering, leaving the space between them open. The sky above was overcast, thick clouds hanging low, casting a somber gray over the village.

Harald looked up at the sky and smiled to himself. He turned back to Robard and his men. "You might want to cover your ears," he said with a grin.

Many of the villagers quickly did as he suggested, hands flying to their ears in preparation. But Robard and his men remained still, exchanging glances as if they were looking at a madman.

Harald's smile widened, and with a deep breath, he shouted, "Lok... Vah... Koor!"

The words of the Thu'um reverberated through the air with the power of a storm. A ripple of force shot upward, tearing through the thick clouds above with an audible roar. In moments, the clouds began to part, peeling away like curtains to reveal the blue sky beyond. The village, once shrouded in gloom, was suddenly bathed in bright sunlight, the warmth of it spreading over the land.

The villagers gasped in awe, and even those who had covered their ears peeked up in wonder. Robard and his men stood frozen, their eyes wide in disbelief. The young lord's jaw dropped slightly, and his men glanced between each other, struggling to comprehend what they had just witnessed.

Harald turned back to Robard, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "So, Lord Robard," he said casually, "how would you like to take back your castle from the Greyjoys?"

Robard blinked, still processing the display of power he had just witnessed. He looked Harald up and down, his mind spinning with possibilities. "Yes…my lord, I would very much like that," he said slowly, his voice filled with awe.