I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

The tremors from Whiterun had become a province-wide quake. From the halls of Solitude to the remote holds of the Pale, whispers of Ibnor and his summoned dragon echoed, each retelling adding to the growing legend. In the Bannered Mare of Whiterun, a bard strummed a lute, singing of a man who rode the storm winds, a dragon his steed. Patrons huddled around, listening intently, some with awe, others with fear in their eyes.

In Solitude, the Imperial war room was currently hectic, filled with ceaseless movements and transfers of documents. The war with the Stormcloaks was at a fever pitch, and this new development had thrown everything into disarray. General Tullius paced before the war table, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. Legate Rikke stood beside him, her expression a mixture of concern and frustration. Maps of Skyrim, marked with Imperial and Stormcloak troop positions, were spread across the table.

"A dragon… controlled by a man?" Tullius muttered, more to himself than Rikke. He stopped pacing and turned to face her, his expression a mix of disbelief and concern. "How is such a thing even possible?"

"The reports are fragmented, General," Rikke replied, "but Jarl Balgruuf has publicly declared an alliance with him. And the situation in Windhelm… it's deeply troubling."

"Troubling how?" Tullius pressed.

"The city gate was breached, not by siege engines, but by sheer force. Ulfric himself is said to be injured, incapacitated. The official reports from Windhelm are attempting to downplay it as a… disagreement. But the rumors tell a far different story. They speak of Ibnor alone, a man of extraordinary strength, tearing down the gate and confronting Ulfric in his own hall."

Tullius's lips tightened. "If what they say is true, if this 'disagreement' involved the physical assault of a Jarl within his own city… it's an audacious move, even for Ulfric. Or rather, for this dragon rider. To strike at the very heart of Stormcloak power like that… it's a gamble of the highest order." He resumed his pacing. "This isn't just some isolated incident, Rikke," Tullius said, his voice grim. "This changes the entire strategic landscape. A man who controls a dragon… that's a force multiplier we can't afford to ignore."

"Indeed, General," Rikke agreed. "And yet, it has undeniably crippled the Stormcloak advance. Ulfric's injury has thrown their forces into disarray."

"He claims to seek a united Skyrim," Tullius continued, "but there's something about this whole situation that doesn't sit right. It feels… staged."

"I agree, General," Rikke said. "It's unsettling. His intervention at Whiterun was strategically advantageous for us, but his actions in Windhelm… they seem designed to make a statement, though the message itself is unclear. It's as if he's deliberately courting attention."

"And wasn't he present with the Dragonborn during the negotiations for the truce at High Hrothgar?" Tullius asked, looking at Rikke for confirmation. "The one they called Ibnor?"

"He was there, General," Rikke confirmed.

"Hmm," Tullius mused, tapping his fingers on the table. "I remember him from Dragonsreach afterward. He was remarkably efficient in organizing the dragon trap. The speed with which he grasped the plan… that wasn't the work of a simpleton. He's clearly more than he lets on. So why this blatant show of force in Windhelm? Why assault Ulfric in his own hall? It seems… counterproductive."

Rikke then said, "And then there's also the matter of Crack Tusk Keep. Tribune Valerius secured it recently, apparently on Ibnor's advice."

Tullius raised an eyebrow. "Crack Tusk Keep? That insignificant little fort? What strategic advantage could it possibly offer in this context?"

"That's the puzzling part, General. It's a small holding, yet Valerius took it with surprising ease and minimal losses. It's as if there was little to no resistance, as if they were allowed to take it. It's as if Ibnor is playing some larger game, one with rules we don't yet comprehend."

Meanwhile, in the other holds of Skyrim, the news was received with varying degrees of disbelief, fear, and cautious interest.

In Markarth, Jarl Thongvor Silver-Blood sat upon his throne, his fingers drumming impatiently on the armrest. The news from Windhelm had reached him, and he was not pleased. A weakened Ulfric meant a more assertive Empire, and that threatened the delicate balance of power he had carefully cultivated in the Reach.

"This… Ibnor," he muttered, his voice laced with annoyance. "He disrupts everything. Just when things were settling into a manageable… chaos."

His steward, a sharp-eyed Breton named Betrid, approached him. "Jarl Thongvor, the Silver-Blood family's mining operations are reporting some… unrest among the workers. They're frightened by the rumors of the dragon."

Thongvor waved a dismissive hand. "Let them be frightened. Fear keeps them working. What concerns me is this… alliance between Ibnor and Balgruuf. Whiterun has always been a thorn in my side. This strengthens their position."

A messenger, clad in Stormcloak colors, entered the hall and bowed before Thongvor. "Jarl Thongvor, a message from Windhelm."

Thongvor took the scroll, his eyes scanning the contents. His lips curled into a thin smile. "So, Ulfric has been… inconvenienced. Interesting. This changes things." He looked at Betrid. "Increase security in the city. And send word to our contacts in Solitude. I want to know how the Empire intends to respond to this… development." He paused, tapping the scroll against his knee. "This dragon rider… he's a wild card. A dangerous one. But perhaps… perhaps he can be… useful."

In Morthal, Jarl Sorli the Builder surveyed the misty marshes from Highmoon Hall, her brow furrowed in thought. The news from Windhelm had reached her, and she considered its implications with a pragmatic mind. While she was a staunch supporter of the Stormcloak cause, she was also a practical leader, concerned with the well-being of her people in this less than ideal location for a city.

"This… Ibnor," she murmured, her brow furrowed in thought. "He is a force of nature. His actions… they are both bold and… unsettling."

Her steward, Pactur, a Nord man, approached her. "Jarl Sorli, the townsfolk are uneasy. The rumors of the dragon have spread quickly, and they fear for their safety. Furthermore, the constant mist is making it hard for our guards to patrol effectively."

Sorli nodded. "The mist is always a problem here. But fear is understandable given the circumstances. Ensure our guards are vigilant, especially at night. I will not tolerate any unrest within the town." She paused, her gaze sweeping across the dreary town. "This… situation… it could be advantageous for the Stormcloak cause. A weakened Ulfric may be more willing to… compromise. To consider other options."

A messenger, clad in Stormcloak colors, entered Highmoon Hall and bowed before Sorli. "Jarl Sorli, a message from Windhelm."

Sorli took the scroll, her eyes scanning the contents. Her expression hardened. "This changes everything," she said grimly. "This dragon rider… he has challenged Ulfric directly. This is no longer a simple matter of rebellion against the Empire. This… this is a power struggle." She looked at Pactur. "Increase the town's defenses. And send word to Windhelm. I will offer my counsel to Ulfric. This… situation… it requires careful consideration. Perhaps it is time for the Stormcloaks to consider more than just independence."

Teeba-Ei, her housecarl, a tall Argonian woman, stood silently near the door, her hand resting firmly on the hilt of her sword. She gave a slight nod of acknowledgement to Sorli's orders, ready to carry them out.

In Riften, the news of Ibnor's actions had rippled through the city's underbelly, reaching even the shadowed depths of the Thieves Guild. In the Ragged Flagon, the usual boisterous atmosphere was muted, replaced by hushed whispers and nervous glances.

"Did you hear about what happened in Windhelm?" whispered a hooded figure to another, their voice barely audible above the low hum of conversation. "They say Ibnor tore down the city gates with his bare hands."

"And that's not the half of it," replied the other, glancing nervously towards the shadows. "They say he faced Ulfric himself. In his own palace."

A third figure, leaning against a pillar near the bar, spoke in a low, gravelly voice. "He's always been different, that one. Even back in Helgen… there was something more to him."

Brynjolf, overhearing the conversation, approached the group, a serious expression on his face. "Enough with the rumors," he said quietly. "This is a delicate situation. We need to be careful what we say, and to whom." He paused, his gaze sweeping across the tavern. "Especially now."

Meanwhile, in her opulent manor, Maven Black-Briar sat with Hemming, a frown creasing her brow. The reports about Ibnor's actions were… disturbing. She knew more about him than most. She knew the whispers that followed him from Helgen, whispers that spoke of a Lord, a survivor, a man who had risen from the ashes with an almost unnatural resilience. She had kept that knowledge close, a secret advantage. Now, this… public display of power… it was a dangerous escalation.

"Hemming," she said, her voice low and thoughtful. Hemming entered the room, sensing her unease.

"Mother?"

"These reports about Ibnor," she said, gesturing to the parchments scattered on her desk. "He's making… waves. Big ones."

Hemming nodded. "His actions in Windhelm… they're causing quite a stir. Even the Imperial court is unsure how to react."

Maven sighed. "They don't know the half of it. They see a powerful warrior, perhaps a skilled strategist. They don't see… what I see." She paused, her gaze distant. "He's not just a man, Hemming. He's… something else. Something… more."

Hemming frowned, confused. "What do you mean, Mother?"

Maven shook her head slightly, as if dismissing a troubling thought. "It's not important. What is important is that we tread carefully. This… situation… it could become very volatile. And I have no desire to be on the wrong side of it."

"So… what do we do?" Hemming asked.

"We observe," Maven said firmly. "We gather information. We keep our distance. We make absolutely certain that we do nothing to provoke him. He's a force of nature, Hemming, and trying to control a storm is a fool's errand. Our best course is to weather it."

"But if he… interferes with our operations…" Hemming began.

Maven cut him off with a sharp gesture. "He won't. Not if he knows what's good for him. He understands the value of… discretion. He knows what we know. And that… mutual understanding… is our best protection." She paused, a flicker of something that might have been fear in her eyes. "Let's just hope it stays that way."

In Falkreath, Jarl Siddgeir was inspecting a freshly polished hunting knife, barely registering the reports Nenya was reading aloud. He'd much rather be napping. But the name "Ibnor," when it finally reached his ears, snapped him to attention. He sat bolt upright on his throne, his usual indolence replaced by a flash of bitter resentment.

"Ibnor?" he repeated, his voice laced with venom. "That… man. He's causing trouble now?" He slammed his fist on the armrest, the sudden violence startling both Nenya and Helvard. "This is… infuriating!"

"Jarl Siddgeir, the reports from Windhelm…" Nenya began, but Siddgeir cut her off with a snarl.

"I don't care about Windhelm!" he spat. "He took Helgen from me! I gave him the chance to rebuild it, made him a Thane, even! And then… then he just… took it! After all the work he put into it, after I trusted him, he stole it from under my nose! He spouted some nonsense about it being strategically important, a first line of defense! And then he used that to… to blackmail me! As if I didn't know what was good for my own Hold! And now he's making alliances, acting like he's some kind of… king?!"

Helvard, his hand instinctively moving towards the hilt of his sword, stepped forward. "The reports suggest he's allied with Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun, Jarl."

"Balgruuf!" Siddgeir scoffed, his anger now a cold, focused rage directed at Ibnor. "Always meddling. But this… this Ibnor… he's the real problem. He thinks he can just… use me, rebuild my town, and then claim it for himself? He needs to be taught a lesson. He needs to understand who's really in charge here." He slumped back against the throne, the outburst spent, replaced by a calculating gleam in his eyes. 

"This isn't just about me, you know. This is about all of us. He disregards tradition, undermines established authority. He thinks he's above the law, above the customs that have kept Skyrim stable for centuries. Mark my words, he's a threat to every Jarl in Skyrim. He needs to be… dealt with." He looked at Nenya and Helvard, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Nenya, Helvard. I want this… situation… handled. Discreetly. Find my… associates. They understand the importance of… maintaining order. And make sure they understand that any… disruptions… caused by this Ibnor will not be… tolerated. Especially not after… Helgen. And… Nenya…" he added, leaning forward slightly, his eyes narrowed. 

"Spread the word. About his… disregard for tradition. About how he's a danger to the established order. Make sure the other Jarls understand… what kind of man we're dealing with."

In Winterhold, the College of Winterhold was in a state of near pandemonium. The news of Ibnor's apparent control over a dragon had ignited a firestorm of scholarly debate, practical experimentation, and frantic research. The Arcanaeum, normally a haven of hushed whispers and rustling pages, was now a cacophony of excited voices.

"It's simply unheard of!" exclaimed a Breton conjurer, gesturing wildly with a rolled-up scroll. "Dragons are beings of pure instinct, creatures of immense magical power! To bind one to your will… it defies all known magical principles!"

"Perhaps not entirely," countered a Dunmer destruction mage, carefully adjusting a series of runes etched onto a nearby table. "We know they are intrinsically linked to the Thu'um. Perhaps Ibnor has found a way to manipulate that connection, to exert control through the very essence of their being. We must test this theory."

In the Hall of Countenance, several mages were gathered around a magically projected image of a dragon, attempting to replicate some aspect of Ibnor's control. Sparks flew as they adjusted their enchantments, the projected dragon flickering and distorting.

"Increase the magical flux by another ten percent!" instructed a stern Altmer master mage, his voice echoing through the hall. "Perhaps a greater influx of raw magicka will yield results."

"It's still not responding as we'd hoped," sighed a young Imperial apprentice, wiping sweat from his brow. "We're not even close to replicating the kind of control Ibnor seems to wield."

Nearby, in a secluded corner of the Arcanaeum, a Bosmer researcher pored over a crumbling tome, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Look at this," he called out to a Redguard scholar, pointing to a passage in the ancient text. "It speaks of the ancient Dragon Priests, how they commanded dragons through powerful masks and artifacts."

"But those were artifacts of immense power, imbued with the very essence of dragon souls," the Redguard scholar replied, leaning closer to examine the text. "Ibnor possesses no such artifacts. His control seems… different. More… direct."

The head librarian, a wise old Breton with a long white beard, approached the two researchers. "Perhaps we are focusing too narrowly on magical artifacts," he mused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "This news… it calls to mind whispers of a lost form of dragon magic, a ritual of binding said to have been practiced by the ancient Nords. It is only a legend, but…" He trailed off, his eyes gleaming with intellectual curiosity. "Perhaps there is more to this than we currently understand."

The debates and experiments continued late into the night, the College of Winterhold consumed by the mystery of Ibnor and his unprecedented control over a dragon. The implications were staggering, and the mages knew that understanding this phenomenon could revolutionize their understanding of magic itself.

In Dawnstar, Jarl Skald sat upon his throne, his brow furrowed in a perpetual scowl. The news of Ibnor had reached him, not as a cause for measured consideration, but as another example of the Empire's weakness and the righteousness of the Stormcloak cause. He paced restlessly, his expensive noble clothes rustling with each movement.

"This… this is what comes of Imperial weakness!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the White Hall. "They coddle dragons, they appease traitors, they allow chaos to fester in their ranks! And now, this… this upstart… controls a dragon? It is a sign! A sign of their impending doom!"

His court wizard, Madena, a weary-looking woman with tired eyes, sighed quietly. "Jarl Skald, the reports suggest this Ibnor is not aligned with the Empire. He assaulted Ulfric in Windhelm."

"Assaulted Ulfric?" Skald scoffed. "A mere… scuffle! A disagreement between warriors! It is nothing compared to the Empire's treachery! They seek to control Skyrim, to bleed her dry, to crush our traditions beneath their iron heel! And now, this… dragon-riding… whatever he is… is a consequence of their weakness!"

His housecarl, Jod, a grizzled veteran of the Great War, stepped forward, his expression stoic. "Jarl Skald, regardless of his allegiance, this Ibnor commands a formidable power. We must consider the implications for Dawnstar."

Skald waved a dismissive hand. "Implications? The only implication is that we must stand stronger! We must rally behind Ulfric! We must drive the Empire from our lands once and for all! Then, and only then, will Skyrim be safe from such… aberrations!" He turned to Bulfrek, his long-suffering servant, who was attempting to dust a nearby tapestry. 

"Bulfrek! Fetch me some mead! This calls for a celebration! A celebration of the Empire's impending downfall!" Bulfrek, muttering under his breath, shuffled off to obey.

Skald continued to rant, his voice rising in fervor. "This Ibnor… he is a symptom of a greater disease! A disease called the Empire! And we, the Stormcloaks, are the only cure!"

Meanwhile, in Windhelm, the city was in a state of stunned silence. The great gate, once a symbol of Stormcloak defiance, lay in splintered ruin. Within the Palace of the Kings, the scene was even more jarring. The very throne upon which Ulfric Stormcloak had sat for so long was shattered, splintered fragments of wood and stone scattered across the floor. Ulfric himself, his arm in a sling and his face pale but his eyes burning with a controlled intensity, stood amidst the wreckage, surrounded by his most trusted advisors.

"This… this is an outrage," growled Galmar Stone-Fist, his voice rough with barely contained fury. "To be assaulted in our own city, in our own hall… to have your throne broken… by a single man!"

Ulfric's gaze swept across the ruined throne, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "He has made his point… emphatically," he said, his voice low and tight. "He has demonstrated his power. He has shown us… the cost of underestimating him." He paused, his eyes hardening. "But let him not mistake this for submission. He has won a battle, not the war."

"But what does he want?" asked Brunwulf Free-Winter, his brow furrowed with concern. "He claims to seek a united Skyrim, but his methods… they are… unorthodox, to say the least."

Ulfric was silent for a moment, his gaze distant. "He speaks of a united Skyrim… a Skyrim strong enough to withstand any threat, internal or external." He paused again, a subtle shift in his tone. "A… unified Skyrim… is what I have always fought for. Though… I envisioned a very different path to achieve it." He looked back at his advisors, his expression firm. "He believes he can unite us through fear and force. He believes he can replace the strength of conviction with the power of a dragon. He is wrong. Skyrim will not be ruled by dragons, nor by those who command them. We will not be broken."

Galmar slammed his fist on a nearby table, his anger still simmering. "We should hunt him down! We should make him pay for this insult!"

Ulfric raised his hand, silencing Galmar. His gaze shifted back to the shattered throne, a thoughtful expression replacing the anger. "Reckless action will achieve nothing. We must be strategic. We must understand his game. We must… consider our options carefully." He looked at his advisors, his voice now carrying a weight of responsibility. "He has shown us his strength. Now, we will show him ours."