"Stay here, Serana," Harald said as he took his battle axe from his back.
Serana looked at him with annoyance, her red eyes flashing. "No. I'm coming with you."
Harald's eyes fell on Silus Vesuius, who was waiting eagerly with the shards of Mehrunes' Razor clutched in his trembling hands. They stood at the foot of the mountain, where at the top, perhaps half a mile of treacherous climbing away, stood the Shrine of Mehrunes Dagon, the Daedric Prince of Destruction, Revolution, and Change.
"Serana," Harald said firmly, turning to face her. "I remember what happened when we encountered a Daedric Prince before."
Serana's expression hardened. "That was Bal. You know exactly why I reacted like that." Molag Bal, the Prince of Domination, had made her what she was: a vampire, a Daughter of Coldharbour. Of course she was affected when confronting the prince himself.
"Just let me do this alone," Harald said more gently. Then he leaned closer and whispered so Silus could not hear, "I have a plan. It's best if I'm there alone."
Serana searched his face for a long moment, then sighed in frustration. "I will kill you if you die."
Harald could not help but smile slightly. "How does that work?"
"I'm going to bring you back as a thrall," she said deadpan, "and then kill you. Repeatedly. For eternity."
"Ouch," Harald said with mock hurt.
Serana's lips twitched into a small smile despite her worry. "But seriously, I'll come at the first sign of real trouble."
"Just keep the idiot safe when I send him running down the mountain," Harald said, jerking his thumb toward Silus.
Serana looked at the Mythic Dawn cultist with obvious distaste. "I don't know why we're even bothering with him. He's a fool chasing a dream of a mad god."
"He's just a kid," Harald said with a shrug. "A misguided one, but still. He doesn't deserve what Dagon has planned for him."
Serana smiled, an expression that softened her vampiric features. "If you say so."
Harald turned and walked toward Silus, hefting his axe onto his shoulder. "Let's go, kid. Time to meet your god."
Silus and Harald made their way up the mountain path, narrow and treacherous, carved into the rockface by cultists long dead. The climb took nearly half an hour, and by the time they reached the summit, Silus was struggling from the exertion and the thin air.
The Shrine of Mehrunes Dagon was carved directly into the mountainside, a massive statue of the Daedric Prince himself looming over the space. The carving depicted Dagon in his most terrifying aspect: four arms spread wide as if to embrace the world or crush it, each hand holding a different implement of destruction. A door was set into the mountain below the statue, leading to the shrine's inner sanctum, where the Prince's most devoted followers had once performed their dark rituals.
And in front of the statue stood an altar of black stone, stained with the blood of countless sacrifices over the ages.
As they approached, the winds picked up dramatically, howling around the mountaintop with unnatural fury. The temperature dropped so suddenly that Harald could see his breath misting in the air, and frost began forming on the rocks around them.
"There!" Silus said excitedly, seemingly oblivious to the ominous changes in the weather. "There is the altar!"
He rushed forward and carefully placed the pieces of Mehrunes' Razor on the altar's surface: the pommel stone, the blade shards, the hilt, all arranged in their proper positions. Then he fell to his knees and began to pray.
"Mehrunes Dagon, Lord of Change, Prince of Destruction, Master of Revolution!" Silus called out, his arms spread wide. "We have brought your Razor to you! The pieces scattered across Tamriel, lost for centuries, now reunited at your sacred shrine! We beg you, great Prince, restore the blade to its full glory! Let it serve your will once more!"
Nothing happened.
The wind continued to howl. The cold pressed down. But the altar remained inert, the blade pieces lying there like mundane metal and stone.
Silus's excitement began to curdle into frustration. He looked up at the statue, then back at the altar, confusion and disappointment warring on his young face. "I... I don't understand. The texts said..."
He turned to Harald desperately. "Please, you try! Maybe... maybe it needs someone with power, with divine blood! You're Dragonborn! Surely that—"
Harald shrugged and stepped forward.
He placed his hands on the altar, feeling the cold stone beneath his palms, and spoke clearly. "Mehrunes Dagon. I've brought your toy back. If you want it put together, now's the time to show yourself."
The response was immediate.
The air itself seemed to tear open, and a presence flooded the mountaintop, oppressive and vast. The temperature dropped even further, frost spreading across the altar in intricate patterns. The carved eyes of the statue began to glow with a sickly red light.
Then a voice spoke.
"MORTAL. YOU ARE WORTHY OF SPEAKING TO. YOU HAVE CLAIMED THE PIECES OF MY RAZOR. IT HAS BEEN AN AMUSING GAME TO WITNESS. BUT DAGON DOES NOT DECLARE A WINNER WHILE THERE IS A PAWN STILL ON THE BOARD."
A pause, heavy with malicious intent.
"KILL SILUS VESUIUS. HE AND HIS FAMILY HAVE SERVED THEIR PURPOSE. SPILL HIS BLOOD UPON MY ALTAR, AND THE RAZOR SHALL BE YOURS, REMADE AND GLORIOUS."
Ah, Harald thought with grim satisfaction. I guess I win the bet with Serana.
Silus heard this, and the color drained from his face. He scrambled backward, nearly falling, his eyes wide with betrayed horror.
"No! Please!" Silus begged, looking at Harald with desperate hope. "I'll abandon this quest! I'll seal the pieces away forever! I'll never speak of the Razor again! Please..."
Dagon laughed.
"Sure, let's go then," Harald said to Silus.
"YOU DARE?" Mehrunes Dagon's voice exploded with fury, the mountain itself seeming to shake. "YOU WOULD DEFY ME? RENOUNCE YOUR SERVICE? SEAL AWAY WHAT IS MINE?"
"I dare," Harald said calmly, looking at the burning eyes of the statue.
The presence focused on him with great intensity.
"I'm not afraid of you, Dagon," Harald continued. "Did your last encounter with a Dragonborn not teach you anything? Or are you so consumed by your own nature that you cannot learn from past mistakes?"
He smiled coldly. "You're the Prince of Revolution, of Change. But you yourself never change. You're predictable. Boring, even. Just like Bal, to be honest."
"SILENCE!" Dagon's voice was a scream of pure rage that made the stone crack beneath their feet. "YOU DARE MOCK ME? YOU DARE STAND IN MY SHRINE AND INSULT A PRINCE OF OBLIVION?"
"What are you going to do about it?"
"DIE, DRAGONBORN! DIE SCREAMING IN THE JAWS OF MY SERVANTS!"
Reality tore open in ten places simultaneously around the shrine. The rifts glowed with that same sickly red light, and from them poured Dremora, Daedric warriors in black and red armor, wielding weapons of enchanted ebony, their eyes burning with unholy fire.
Ten of them. Each one a deadly warrior from the planes of Oblivion, centuries or millennia old, skilled in combat beyond mortal comprehension.
"Silus!" Harald barked without taking his eyes off the materializing Dremora. "Run! Get to Serana! NOW!"
The young cultist did not need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet and fled down the mountain path, slipping and sliding in his panic but moving fast.
Harald readied himself for battle, his battle axe humming with power in his hands. The Dremora finished materializing and began to advance, forming a semicircle around him.
From somewhere within the shrine, Mehrunes Dagon's laughter echoed.
"YES! FIGHT! STRUGGLE! DIE WITH BLADE IN HAND, DRAGONBORN! IT WILL MAKE YOUR SOUL'S TORMENT IN OBLIVION ALL THE SWEETER!"
The battle erupted with explosive violence.
The first Dremora lunged, its ebony blade crackling with the fire of Oblivion. Harald met the strike with his battle axe, the clash of enchanted metals sending sparks flying. He twisted, using the Dremora's momentum against it, and brought the axe around in a devastating arc that cleaved through the daedric armor and the creature within.
The Dremora exploded into ash and sulfur, banished back to Oblivion.
But nine more remained.
Harald did not give them time to complete their encirclement. He hurled his battle axe with all his strength at a Dremora on his left. The weapon spun through the air, its enchanted edge glowing, and struck the daedra square in the chest, punching through armor and bone.
Before the creature even finished disintegrating, Harald extended his hand and called.
The axe ripped itself free and flew back to his grip.
Three Dremora charged from different angles.
"YOL TOOR SHUL!"
Fire exploded from his mouth in a torrent, engulfing two of the charging daedra. They screamed, an inhuman sound of rage and pain, as the dragonfire consumed them, burning hotter than any mortal flame.
The third Dremora closed the distance, its sword raised for a killing blow.
"IISS SLEN NUS!"
The Ice Form Shout struck the Dremora mid-swing, flash-freezing it into a statue of crystalline ice. Harald's axe shattered it into a thousand glittering pieces a heartbeat later.
Six left.
They were learning, becoming more cautious, more coordinated in their assault. Two feinted while four moved to flank, trying to force him into a defensive position where numbers would overwhelm skill.
Harald saw the trap and Shouted again.
"ZUN HAAL VIIK!"
The Disarm Shout tore the weapons from the hands of three Dremora simultaneously, the daedric blades clattering away across the stone shrine. The creatures roared in fury and charged anyway, trusting in their supernatural strength and claws.
Harald met them with axe and magic, cutting one down with a vicious strike, blasting another with a lightning bolt that left it twitching and smoking, dodging the third's claws and driving his weapon through its spine.
Three remained, but they were the strongest, the fastest, the most skilled. They came at him in perfect synchronization.
A blade scored across his shoulder, cutting through his armor. Another scraped along his ribs. He was bleeding now, and they could smell it.
Then more rifts opened. Six more Dremora poured through, fresh and eager for battle.
Nine against one.
Harald felt the pressure mounting, felt the beginning of that moment when skill would not be enough, when numbers would finally tell.
So he used it.
"MUL QAH DIIV!"
Dragon Aspect, one of the most powerful Shouts in his arsenal.
Power exploded through Harald like a sun going nova. His form became wreathed in ethereal dragon armor, spectral scales of gold and crimson covering his body, spectral wings spreading from his back, spectral claws extending from his hands. His eyes burned with pure golden light, and the air around him shimmered with heat.
The Dremora, brave and battle-hardened though they were, hesitated.
Harald simply stood there, glowing with the full power of Dragon Aspect, and the force of it, the raw presence, pushed the Dremora back.
They stumbled, their advance halted not by blade or spell but by sheer intimidation, by standing in the presence of something that made even daedric warriors feel small.
"IMPRESSIVE!" Mehrunes Dagon's voice boomed with genuine appreciation mixed with fury. "BUT NOT ENOUGH!"
More rifts. Ten more Dremora, then ten more beyond that. They kept coming, an endless tide of Oblivion's warriors.
Harald shifted tactics. The axe was put aside. This needed magic now.
Lightning arced from his hands, chaining between Dremora and leaving them convulsing. Frost formed into deadly spears that impaled daedric hearts. Flames danced at his command, forming a whirlwind of fire that consumed three more.
But they kept coming. Twenty. Thirty. More.
Dragon Aspect was powerful, but it would not last forever, and his magicka reserves, while vast, were not infinite.
He needed something decisive. Something devastating.
Harald thought of the experimental spell he had been working on, dangerous, untested, potentially catastrophic for the caster. But desperate times.
Twenty fresh Dremora charged as one, a coordinated assault meant to overwhelm even a Dragonborn.
Harald's eyes began to change. The golden glow of Dragon Aspect shifted, intensified, concentrated. They began to burn, not metaphorically, but literally, heat building behind his retinas until it felt like his skull was on fire.
Then he unleashed it.
Twin beams of pure thermal energy exploded from Harald's eyes, red-gold lances of concentrated heat that could melt stone, vaporize steel, reduce flesh to ash in seconds.
The beams lanced out, struck the first Dremora, and burned through it like it was paper. They shifted direction in sharp angles, sweeping toward the others. The heat vision cut through them all. Armor melted. Flesh vaporized. The Dremora did not even have time to scream before they were reduced to ash and scattered essence.
Twenty down in less than five seconds.
But the cost.
Harald screamed, clutching at his eyes as the spell ended. Pain like hot knives stabbed through his skull, his vision going white with agony. Blood tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, and he fell to one knee, gasping.
"THIS IS NOT OVER!" Mehrunes Dagon's voice thundered. "YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS INSULT, DRAGONBORN! I WILL HAVE MY VENGEANCE! I WILL—"
Harald looked up at the statue of Mehrunes Dagon through eyes that still glowed with residual power, still hurt like they were being stabbed with needles, the edges of his vision rimmed with red from burst blood vessels.
He drew in a breath, the deepest breath of his life, and Shouted with everything he had left.
"FUS RO DAH!"
The Unrelenting Force exploded from his mouth with apocalyptic power, amplified by the lingering Dragon Aspect, channeled with perfect precision at the shrine itself.
The altar shattered, stone exploding into dust and shrapnel. The massive carved statue of Mehrunes Dagon cracked and was destroyed. The shrine's door was torn from its hinges and sent tumbling down the mountain. The very rock of the mountain groaned and split.
Mehrunes Dagon's scream of rage and frustration echoed across the peaks as his connection to this shrine was severed, the sacred space desecrated beyond repair.
Harald stood there in the wreckage, panting heavily. Dragon Aspect faded, leaving him exhausted and bleeding, his eyes still burning with pain.
"HARALD!"
He turned to see Serana running up the mountain path, her vampiric speed carrying her faster than any mortal could move. She reached him in moments, her eyes wide with concern and fury.
Then she saw his eyes, the way they were bloodshot, the edges rimmed with red from the strain of the heat vision spell, blood tears still wet on his cheeks, and her expression shifted from concern to exasperation.
"Did you use that stupid spell again?!" she scolded, grabbing his face and tilting it to examine his eyes more closely. "Harald, we talked about this! That spell is dangerous! You could have blinded yourself permanently!"
"Hey," Harald said with a weak grin, his voice hoarse. "It worked."
Serana shook her head, muttering in an ancient dialect of Skyrim that Harald was pretty sure translated to some very unflattering things about his intelligence and sanity.
"Let's go," she said finally, slipping under his shoulder to help support him. "We can rest in the inn nearby."
"What about Silus?" Harald asked.
"He's fine. Terrified, but fine. He's waiting down at the base with the horses." Serana glanced back at the ruined shrine. "You made an enemy of another Daedric Prince today. Again. You're collecting quite the list of enemies from Oblivion."
"What can I say?" Harald replied as they began the careful descent down the mountain. "I have a gift."
"You have a death wish," Serana corrected. "But I suppose that's part of your charm."
=========
Harald woke up, the memory of his encounter with Mehrunes Dagon fresh in his mind, vivid and visceral, as if it had happened yesterday rather than years ago in another world entirely.
It was strange for him to dream about that particular incident. His dreams of Tamriel were usually good ones, memories of time spent with his friends, adventures with Serana, Lydia, his fellow students from the College, and the Companions, quiet moments in Whiterun watching the sunset. Not memories of nearly being killed by a Daedric Prince on a frozen mountaintop.
Was it a warning? A sign? Or just his subconscious processing the stresses of his current situation?
He pushed the thought aside and rose from the large new bed in his new chambers inside Castle Cyrodiil. The room was magnificent, far larger and more luxurious than anything he had ever had in Tamriel. High ceilings with carved beams, walls of white marble accented with gold, and stained glass windows that cast colored light across the floor. The bed itself was massive, with silk sheets and a canopy of deep purple fabric.
Harald moved through his morning routine. He bathed in the adjoining chamber, a proper bathing room with a large stone tub kept warm through a combination of heated pipes and warming enchantments carved into the stone. The hot water eased the lingering tension from the dream and helped him focus on the day ahead.
After drying and dressing in comfortable but fine clothing, a simple tunic and trousers of good quality, nothing too ostentatious, he called for his breakfast to be brought out to the large balcony accessible from his chambers.
The balcony was one of his favorite features of these new quarters. It jutted out from the White Tower, providing an unobstructed view of Lake Rumare stretching out below. The great lake gleamed in the morning sun, its waters reflecting the sky. In the distance, he could see the Isle of Faces.
He sat at the small table that had been set up, servants placing dishes before him: fresh bread, butter, honey, eggs prepared with herbs, strips of bacon, fruit that should not have been available this early in spring but was, thanks to his agricultural magic. But he barely ate, picking at the food while his mind churned with thoughts of Dagon, Bal, and Hermaeus.
"Your Grace."
Harald looked up to see Patrick, the steward of Castle Cyrodiil, a competent man in his forties who had been managing the day-to-day operations of the growing castle with impressive efficiency.
"The High Keeper is here to see you," Patrick announced.
Harald smiled. "Let Leobald in."
Soon his friend walked onto the balcony. "Your Grace," Leobald greeted, bowing.
"Have you broken your fast yet?" Harald asked, gesturing to the spread of food.
"No, Your Grace. I came directly when I heard you were awake—"
"Good. Then sit and eat," Harald interrupted, waving away the formality.
Leobald smiled and sat, accepting a plate from one of the hovering servants. They began eating in companionable silence for a few moments before Leobald spoke.
"You have a strange look on your face this morning," the High Keeper observed, his eyes sharp despite his gentle tone. "Troubled?"
Harald was quiet for a moment, then decided honesty was best with Leobald. "I had a dream of my time in Tamriel. A memory of when I fought a Daedric Prince, Mehrunes Dagon, the Prince of Destruction."
Leobald set down his fork, his expression becoming serious. "Is that a sign, Harald? The gods sending you a warning?"
"Could be," Harald admitted. "I don't know. It might just be my mind processing current stresses. We have a lot happening right now." He shook his head. "Or it could be Dagon himself, reaching across the void between worlds to remind me he has not forgotten our encounter. Daedric Princes are petty like that."
Leobald looked troubled but did not press further. Instead, he changed the subject. "Speaking of current matters, Queen Argella. That was quite a surprise."
Harald nodded, taking a sip of his morning tea. "Indeed it was."
It had been three days since the Queen of the Stormlands had arrived seeking asylum and aid. Harald had been giving her time to rest and recover from her journey, but he planned to finally speak with her properly today. He knew what she was going to ask of him, help reclaiming her throne, military support against her cousins, and it had even been suggested she might offer herself as a marriage prospect to secure an alliance, something the lords were very interested in.
He had decided what answer he was going to give her. The question was whether she would accept it.
"This could be a tremendous opportunity," Leobald said, his voice taking on that tone of zealous enthusiasm that had been growing stronger lately. "A chance to spread the light of the Covenant to the Stormlands! If you help her reclaim her throne, you could ask for concessions. Permission to preach there, to build churches, to—"
"No, my friend," Harald interrupted gently but firmly. "I know our successes in the Blackwater have made you confident, but it will not be the same everywhere. The Stormlands are different. Trying to force the Covenant on them would cause more problems than it would solve."
"But the Stormlands will bleed!" Leobald protested. "They're tearing themselves apart in civil war! You could easily end it, place the Queen on her rightful throne, and in exchange ask for permission to have the Covenant preached there. Not forced, just allowed."
He leaned forward earnestly. "Harald, I had hoped you would come to similar agreements with the King in the North and the King of the Rock as well. I have seen how different people's lives have become with the Covenant. The hope it gives them, the sense of purpose, the way it unites rather than divides. This faith is a gift, and we should share it with all who would receive it!"
Harald did not answer immediately. He would need to deal with the rising zeal in his friend later. This missionary fervor was concerning, even if it came from a place of genuine belief and a desire to help people. Religious zealotry, even well intentioned, could be dangerous.
But he had other things on his mind for the next two weeks. The tourney was approaching. King Loren would be arriving soon, King Torrhen after that. Queen Argella needed his answer.
He stood, changing the subject deliberately. "Have you seen the Spectres yet, Leobald?"
Leobald blinked at the sudden shift in topic. "Ah, your royal guard? You have been very secretive about them."
"They will be an elite unit," Harald said, walking toward the balcony railing and looking out over the lake. "Not just guards, but spies, investigators, protectors, enforcers when necessary. They will handle sensitive matters that require discretion and skill beyond what the regular legion can provide. We only have ten now, but there will be many more in time."
He turned back to his friend with a slight smile. "Come. I'll show them to you. I think you'll be impressed by what we've accomplished."
Harald led Leobald out of his chambers, through the corridors of the White Tower, his mind already moving ahead to the afternoon when he would finally sit down with Queen Argella Durrandon and discuss the future of the Stormlands.
.
.
.
Harald arranged to meet the Queen in the throne room that afternoon.
He entered through the main doors to find Argella waiting with her small retinue, her two handmaidens, Lady Cassandra Tarth and Lady Maria Estermont, along with her knights standing at respectful attention. They were all she had brought with her into exile, the last remnants of her court.
Harald walked in with two of his Spectres behind him, their presence immediately commanding attention. The Spectres wore armor of a unique design, overlapping plates of dark steel with a distinctive purple tint, almost iridescent. Their helmets completely obscured their faces, giving them an inhuman, almost ethereal quality.
They were quite intimidating, and Harald could see it in the faces of Argella's knights. The Stormlander warriors tried to maintain their composure, but their hands drifted unconsciously toward their sword hilts, their bodies tensing in the presence of these strange, silent guardians.
But Harald's attention was primarily on Argella herself.
She was dressed in a gown of lighter blue than the one she had worn when she first arrived, a beautiful dress of silk and fine fabric that complemented her figure while maintaining perfect propriety. The color brought out her sapphire eyes. Her black hair was arranged in an elaborate style, braided and coiled in the fashion of Stormlander nobility, with small silver ornaments woven through the dark strands. She wore a silver circlet that marked her royalty, simple but elegant, resting upon her brow.
She carried herself with perfect queenly dignity. Her spine was straight, her chin lifted, every inch the ruler despite being a queen in exile.
But Harald could see the tells that betrayed her nervousness.
The slight tension in her jaw. The way her hands were clasped before her just a bit too tightly, knuckles white beneath the skin. The barely perceptible pause before she met his eyes, as if she were gathering courage to look directly at him, steeling herself to face the sorcerer king she had heard so many terrible and wonderful stories about.
She was intimidated, trying very hard not to show it, maintaining her royal mask with admirable skill. But intimidated nonetheless.
He decided to put her at ease as best he could.
"Queen Argella," Harald said warmly, his voice deliberately gentle and welcoming. He gestured to the comfortable chairs that had been arranged near the large windows overlooking the growing town below. "Please, sit."
They moved to the chairs, and Argella visibly relaxed slightly at the informal arrangement. This was to be a conversation, not an audience.
"How has your time here been?" Harald asked as they settled into their seats. "I hope your chambers have been satisfactory. I know they were prepared hastily when you arrived."
"They were excellent, Your Grace," Argella said, her voice controlled and formal but with genuine warmth beneath it. "Your hospitality has been most generous. The chambers are more luxurious than I had any right to expect. Your servants have been attentive without being intrusive. I am grateful."
Servants appeared with wine and small plates of food: cheese, bread, fruit, and some candied nuts. Argella accepted a cup of wine but did not drink immediately, holding it in her hands like a prop.
"Your castle is extraordinary," she said, and now genuine awe crept into her voice. "It is remarkable how quickly you have built it. I have been told construction only began a year ago? That seems impossible."
Harald smiled. "Every major castle in Westeros has its own legend, does it not? Winterfell, built by the legendary Brandon the Builder with the help of giants. Your own Storm's End, built by Durran Godsgrief in challenge to the gods themselves. No small feat. Mine is simply this: made with the help of stone giants of my own making."
He gestured toward the windows, toward the castle around them. "I will not claim it is more impressive than Storm's End. That castle has stood for thousands of years and never fallen. Mine has yet to face its first real test. But I do what I can with the gifts the gods have given me."
Argella took a sip of wine, her eyes studying him over the rim of her cup. She seemed to be reassessing him, comparing the reality to the stories she had heard.
Harald decided to move to the point. "I assume you would rather talk about the situation in the Stormlands than admire my castle, Your Grace?"
"Yes." Argella set down her wine cup, her expression becoming more intense, more focused. This was what she had come for.
Harald glanced toward his two Spectres standing silently by the door, then toward Argella's handmaidens and knights. "Would you prefer we speak in private?"
Argella followed his gaze, considering. She looked at her loyal companions and knights.
"Leave us," she said finally. "Wait outside. I will speak with King Harald alone."
The knights seemed hesitant, clearly uncomfortable leaving their queen alone with the foreign sorcerer king. But they had sworn to obey, and they did, bowing and filing out of the throne room.
Harald motioned for his Spectres to leave as well. They departed in absolute silence, their purple tinted armor gleaming as they disappeared through the doors.
Now it was just the two of them.
Argella took a breath, gathering herself, and when she spoke, her voice was steady.
"Your Grace, I will be frank with you. My kingdom is tearing itself apart. Three of my cousins, Ormund, Baldric, and Lyonel, have gathered among traitorous lords and are contesting my rule. They claim a woman cannot hold the throne, that I am a heretic, that I am unfit to rule the Stormlands." Her voice hardened with barely suppressed fury. "The High Septon himself has condemned me, claiming I follow the Covenant of your making. A lie, but one that serves their purposes."
She leaned forward slightly, her sapphire eyes blazing. "But I am the rightful Queen. My father named me his heir before witnesses, proclaimed it before all the lords of the Stormlands. The throne is mine by right of blood and by his decree. And I will not surrender what is mine by right to usurpers and oathbreakers who seek to steal my crown for their own ambition."
"A noble sentiment," Harald said carefully. "And one I understand completely."
"Then you understand why I have come to you," Argella continued, her voice taking on a negotiating tone now. "You have power, real power. I have seen the reports from the Blackwater campaign. You defeated ten thousand of my Stormlanders with a fraction of that number. You command magic that can turn the tide of battles." She paused. "The same magic you use to make your kingdom prosper."
"I have seen it firsthand in my travels here," she continued. "You have something no other king in Westeros possesses. The power to truly change the world."
She met his eyes directly, and Harald saw both fear and hunger in her gaze. Fear of his power, yes, but also a desperate desire to wield it for her own purposes, to harness it to reclaim what she had lost.
"I am not asking for charity, Your Grace," Argella said firmly, her voice carrying the authority of a queen making an offer rather than a supplicant begging. "I am proposing an alliance. Help me reclaim my throne, and I will offer you formal recognition of all your territories, the Heartlands, the Blackwater, all your conquests, acknowledged as legitimate by the Kingdom of the Storm. I will also offer you recognition of the Covenant as a legitimate faith."
She was speaking faster now, listing her offers like goods at market. "I will offer trade agreements favorable to the Heartlands, reduced tariffs, preferred access to our ports, exclusive trading rights for certain goods. I will offer friendship and alliance between our kingdoms for generations to come. Our children and grandchildren will grow up as allies, not enemies."
Harald was quiet for a long moment, impressed despite himself.
She was bargaining well, offering everything she could think of that might tempt him. Trade concessions, religious freedom, formal recognition of his conquests, these were not small things.
But Harald had already considered this scenario when he had first heard she was coming. He had thought through all the implications, all the consequences, all the ways this could go wrong.
"Queen Argella," he said gently, "I appreciate your offer. Truly. And I sympathize with your situation more than you might know. But I must be honest with you about the realities of intervening in the Stormlands."
He stood and walked to the window, looking out over Cyrodiil.
"If I send my armies into the Stormlands to support your claim, what happens?" He turned slightly to look at her over his shoulder. "Your three cousins are currently preparing to fight each other, yes? They are gathering their forces, making their alliances, preparing for war. But the moment I invade, the moment a foreign king with a so called heretical faith marches into their kingdom, what do you think they will do?"
Argella frowned, confusion and concern crossing her features. "They will fight you. But you will win. You defeated ten thousand at Maidenpool."
"They will unite," Harald interrupted, turning back to face her fully. His voice was firm but not unkind. "Ormund, Baldric, Lyonel, all their factional differences, all their competing claims, all their mutual distrust, it will disappear in an instant. They will see a common enemy, a foreign invader, a sorcerer king trying to conquer their homeland and put a puppet queen on the throne. And they will combine their forces against me."
He moved back to his chair, his expression deadly serious. "You said yourself they can field perhaps fifteen thousand men between them. Add in Lord Swann's forces at Storm's End, whatever other lords remain neutral or uncommitted who would rally to defend against foreign invasion, and we are looking at possibly twenty thousand soldiers. All united against me, fighting for their homeland."
He sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Yes, I would win. My legion is superior in training, equipment, discipline, and tactics. My magic would turn the tide of any battle. I have no doubt I could march from one end of the Stormlands to the other and conquer it entirely if I chose."
He paused, letting that sink in before continuing.
"But how many would die, Your Grace? How many thousands of Stormlanders, your people, would I have to kill to put you on your throne? How many villages would burn in the fighting? How many children would become orphans? How many wives would become widows? How many mothers would lose their sons, fighting and dying not because they support your cousins, but because they see me as an invader threatening their homes?"
Argella's face had gone pale, her hands clenching in her lap. He could see her jaw working as she tried to find words to counter his argument, but she could not.
"I have spent the last two years trying to stop wars, not start them," Harald continued, his voice softening slightly. "I liberated the Riverlands from the Ironborn and united it. I intervened in the Blackwater only because the Stormlanders invaded first, and even then I tried to minimize casualties."
He spread his hands. "I have no desire to march into the Stormlands and bathe it in blood just to place you on your throne. The situation is difficult, Your Grace. I understand that. I genuinely do. But the cost of helping you through military intervention would be devastating, not just to your enemies, but to innocent people caught in the middle."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant sounds of construction and the gentle whisper of wind through the windows.
Argella sat frozen, her face a mask of controlled emotion, but Harald could see despair beginning to creep in around the edges.
"So you refuse," Argella said, her voice tight. "You refuse to help me."
"I am saying that the cost would be too high," Harald said carefully. "Not just for me, but for your own people. Even if I won, and I would win, the Stormlands would be devastated. There is also the fact that your own rule would be unstable. I have heard of the High Septon's decree. They believe you are corrupted by the Covenant. How would it look if you marched in with the very king and kingdom that spawned it?"
Argella stood abruptly, her carefully maintained composure beginning to crack. "So what would you have me do? Sit here in comfort while my cousins tear my kingdom apart? Watch from safety while they divide what is mine?"
"I would have you consider other options," Harald said, standing as well but keeping his voice calm.
"There are no other options!" Argella said, her voice rising.
"Then you adapt your strategy," Harald said. "Argella, I understand your frustration. But I will not march my legion into a conflict I feel is not worth it."
"My cause is just!" Argella said, her voice sharp. "I am the rightful ruler! My father named me—"
"And your cousins believe their causes are just too," Harald interrupted. "Ormund thinks a man should rule. Baldric thinks he has the stronger claim through his mother's line. They all have their justifications. And I am not going to kill thousands of people to decide which set of justifications is correct."
"So you will do nothing," Argella said bitterly.
"I did not say I would do nothing," Harald replied, forcing himself to remain calm. "I said I would not invade. There are other ways to help that do not involve armies."
"What, send me gold? Weapons? Empty words of support?" Argella's voice was laden with scorn. "That will not win me my throne back."
"Perhaps not," Harald acknowledged.
Argella stared at him, and he could see the realization settling over her. He was not going to give her what she wanted. Not now. Possibly not ever.
She played her last card, straightening her shoulders. "I will offer an alliance through marriage, if that is what you desire. A union between Durrandon and Stormcrown. Legitimacy for your new dynasty, and power for mine. Our kingdoms combined."
Harald did not respond immediately, and Argella took his silence as rejection.
"I see," she said coldly, her queenly mask slamming back into place. "Thank you for the audience, Your Grace."
"I am sorry," he said quietly. "But my decision stands. I will not invade the Stormlands. Not now."
"Then we have nothing more to discuss," Argella said, turning toward the door.
"Wait," Harald said. "Queen Argella, you are still welcome to stay here as long as you wish. You have my protection and my hospitality. That has not changed."
She paused, her back to him. "How generous."
"For what it is worth," he said, "I truly am sorry. About your father. About your kingdom. About all of it. You deserve better than what has happened to you."
"Pity," Argella said, her voice flat. "How wonderfully useless."
She left with her handmaidens and knights.
Harald stood alone and sighed heavily.
He knew he had made the right decision. Invading the Stormlands would be a disaster. It would cost thousands of lives. It would cause instability in the Heartlands, which were not yet ready for another war. They were still consolidating the Blackwater, still integrating new territories, still building the infrastructure and institutions needed to govern effectively.
Thousands would die anyway in the civil war, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, cold, logical, accusing. You are just refusing to act because you do not want the blood on your hands. You could end it quickly, decisively, with your power. Instead, you will let them bleed each other dry because it is easier for your conscience.
He pushed the thought away forcefully.
He thought of the ways he could help Argella, and one came to him.
Yes, there was another way. But it all depended on how my meeting with King Loren would go.
Harald made his way to his chambers, deciding to rest for some time before the evening supper with the lords. As he entered his bedchamber and sat on the edge of his massive bed, his thoughts returned to the dream once more.
The Razor.
The thought struck him with sudden urgency. Mehrunes' Razor, the daedric artifact he had prevented from being reforged, the pieces he had scattered and hidden to keep them from ever being reassembled.
But he had kept one piece. Just one. As insurance, as a reminder, as a trophy of his victory over a Daedric Prince.
Harald stood abruptly and made his way to his aetherial satchel. He reached inside, his hand passing through the opening and into the extra dimensional space within. His fingers found the box easily. Harald pulled it out. It was small, the size of his palm, made of dark wood bound with silver bands etched with protective runes. The runes were still glowing faintly, still active, still maintaining the wards he had placed on the container.
His hands moved slowly as he opened it, a sense of dread building in his chest despite not knowing why. He hoped, needed, the item inside to still be there.
The lid came off with a soft click.
Harald looked inside.
Empty.
The box was completely, utterly empty. The piece of Mehrunes' Razor that should have been there was gone.
"Fuck."
.
.
Harald and Serana were BFF's nothing romantic.