The early morning light spilled over the rolling hills near the ruins of Oldstones, bathing the dew-covered grasses in golden hues. Harald moved through the small patch of land he had claimed, his calloused hands brushing against the familiar leaves of the alchemical plants he had brought from Tamriel. Snowberries, lavender, blue mountain flower, and jazbay grapes thrived under his careful attention and subtle magical encouragement.
Kneeling among the rows, Harald carefully plucked the ripe fruits and blossoms, placing them gently into a woven basket he had crafted. His large hands were surprisingly gentle as he handled the delicate plants. He hummed quietly to himself, a tune he couldn't quite place.
Harald wore simple clothes: a loose tunic and trousers that hung lightly on his broad frame. His dark blond hair was cut short, and his jaw bore a light stubble. His once-battered body had healed in the year since his arrival, though pale scars remained, streaking his weathered skin like echoes of a past life. For the first time in years, he felt unburdened.
As he finished gathering the ingredients, he straightened, the basket now brimming with materials. Harald turned toward his cottage, a simple structure nestled in the lee of a gentle hill. Built with his own hands and a touch of magic, it was modeled after Breezehome, his first true home in Tamriel.
The walls were made of smooth river stones, carefully stacked and mortared, their natural hues of gray and brown blending seamlessly with the surrounding landscape. Carved wooden beams supported the overhang of the roof, etched with simple Nordic patterns—knots, wolves, and dragons—that Harald had painstakingly chiseled during quiet evenings. A small chimney puffed a steady stream of smoke, the scent of burning oak mingling with the crisp morning air. Flowering vines, encouraged by his magic, climbed one side of the cottage, softening its rugged appearance and making it feel like a natural part of the landscape.
Harald stepped inside, the warm interior welcoming him. The single large room served as both his living space and workshop. A stone hearth dominated one wall, its flickering fire casting dancing shadows across the room. A sturdy wooden table stood at the center, its surface scarred with marks from countless projects—alchemy experiments, carpentry, and the occasional meal.
Shelves lined another wall, filled with jars of herbs, alchemical concoctions, and books he had brought from Tamriel. A small cot tucked into the corner served as his bed, covered with thick furs that warded off the chill of the nights.
As Harald put away the freshly picked ingredients, he reflected on his life over the past year. He had been right: the new world he found himself in was indeed a fictional one he was familiar with back on Earth. But unlike Tamriel, he did not have complete knowledge of this one. He was in Westeros.
When he was transported to Tamriel, he had survived mainly due to his knowledge of the world. Here, he barely knew enough, and from what he had learned, any knowledge he had was useless since he was years back in the past, long before the story he knew began.
The first human settlement he found was the village of Riverwood. The irony was not lost on him. The people were kind and helpful. When he told them of his intention to set up a home near the ruins of Oldstones, they were mortified, believing the ruins to be haunted. That belief worked in Harald's favor; it meant he could do as he pleased without interference.
In his time there, Harald had made friends, particularly with Septon Leobald, a priest of the dominant religion of the continent, the Faith of the Seven. From Leobald, Harald had learned much about Westeros, especially since these lands around Oldstones were remote. He knew that the current king was tyrannical and that most people were unhappy with his rule, which worried Harald. He feared war was on the horizon but hoped he was wrong.
During his time here, he had become famous among the villagers as a healer. He used potions and, in grave situations, magic discreetly to cure afflictions. Over the year, many from nearby villages sought him out. His reputation as a master healer spread quickly.
His days followed a simple rhythm. In the mornings, he tended to his crops and livestock—a few goats and chickens. He worked the soil with his hands, though when no one was watching, he sometimes used a word of power or a spell to coax life from the earth. His alchemical plants flourished under his care, thriving in the foreign soil.
In the afternoons, villagers often came to him for aid: a sprained ankle, a stubborn fever, or other minor ailments. Veiling his abilities under the guise of practical remedies and herbal salves, Harald used magic sparingly and subtly. The villagers, while initially wary of his foreign ways, came to trust him as a healer and friend.
Evenings were quiet. Harald often sat by the hearth, carving small totems or reading the worn books that lined his shelves. Sometimes, he stared into the fire, his mind drifting to the past—memories of battles fought and friends lost. These moments of melancholy were fleeting. The peace of his new life, the simplicity of it, always drew him back.
Yet, even in the stillness of the evenings, Harald could feel it: the faint whisper of his Dragon soul, a fire that refused to be extinguished. It murmured of destiny, of purpose, of battles yet to come. But for now, Harald silenced it. He had found something he never thought possible: peace. And he intended to hold onto it for as long as he could.
Harald glanced at the dwindling pile of wood near his cottage.
'Time to get some more,' he thought as he took his axe, slung it over his shoulder, and ventured into the nearby forest. The air was cool, the faint scent of damp earth and pine filling his lungs as he found a sturdy tree. Its trunk was wide and strong, perfect for his needs.
With practiced precision, Harald swung the axe. Each blow sent splinters flying, the rhythmic sound of wood splitting echoing through the quiet woods. Before long, the tree groaned and toppled, crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust and leaves. He set to work cutting the large trunk into pieces.
When he had finished, he hauled one of the largest pieces over his shoulder, its weight barely slowing him down. He trudged back toward his cottage, and as he neared it, he paused, hearing a voice call out behind him.
"By the gods!"
Harald turned to see Willem, one of the villagers, standing nearby with wide eyes. Harald lowered the log to the ground, brushing his hands off against his tunic.
"Willem," Harald greeted with a nod. "What brings you here?"
Willem stared at the massive log Harald had just carried as though it were a feather. "Gods, you're strong," he said, awe evident in his voice.
Harald chuckled, the sound deep and warm. "Oh, it's nothing," he said simply. "Now, what is it you need?"
"You asked me to come by for the medicine for my boy," Willem replied, his voice hesitant, as if worried he had interrupted something important.
Harald's brow furrowed in thought before he nodded. "Ah, yes. I almost forgot."
Willem's son had been gravely ill a few months ago, suffering from an affliction that would have claimed his life if not for Harald's intervention. Through a combination of potions and discreet magical aid, the boy had grown stronger. Harald was confident a few more treatments would see him fully cured.
Harald walked into his cottage and looked for vial.
Magic here was different, fragmented, and weak compared to the rich flow of magicka in Tamriel. On Nirn, magic was like a river, sustained by the endless cycle between Mundus and Oblivion, fed by the ethereal energy of Aetherius. Here, magic felt forgotten, existing only in small, isolated places.
He had sensed these "hotspots" of magic ever since he arrived, or nexuses of magic, as he had begun calling them. One was close—he had felt its presence from the moment he crossed into this land. He would later learn it was called the Isle of Faces, or the God's Eye. Another was further north, radiating power from what he assumed to be The Wall. Then, far to the east, he had felt something darker, destructive—chaotic energy he did not expect to find in this world. Beyond that, even further east, there was a place of immense magical power, stronger than any of the other spots. He didn't know what these places were, but he wanted to find out.
He had also come to the realization that he himself had become one of these nexuses of magic. It was as if he had become a walking conduit of magicka in a world that was starved of it. He was a beacon, drawing in energy and releasing it in ways that felt natural to him but foreign to this world.
This raised more questions—how would this world react to his presence?
What kind of changes would he cause just by being here?
He planned to visit the Isle of Faces eventually and experiment with the magic of this land, but that journey would have to wait for another time.
He had been able to use all schools of magic except for one: conjuration. For some reason, he could not summon atronachs or other creatures from Oblivion. The magic simply fizzled when he tried.
Perhaps it was for the best—he had no idea how such beings would react in this world, and there was a chance they could cause more harm than good. Conjuration was volatile, and without the balance of Mundus and Oblivion, it was hard to predict how the fabric of this world would handle such entities.
Breaking away from his thoughts, Harald filled the vial with the potion and stepped outside. Willem stood waiting, his hands clasped nervously in front of him. Harald handed him the vial with a small nod.
"Here you go," Harald said. "Make sure he takes it this evening."
Willem graciously accepted the vial, his face lighting up with gratitude. "Thank you, Harald. I don't know what we would do without you."
Harald waved a hand dismissively, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It's no trouble. Has Leobald returned yet?"
Willem nodded. "Yes, I believe the good septon plans to visit you this evening."
Harald's smile widened at the thought of seeing his friend again. "Good. It'll be nice to catch up."
Willem hesitated for a moment before adding, "Ah, Harald… my daughter Maise… her marriage has been arranged."
Harald raised an eyebrow in surprise. "With that boy from Willowood?"
Willem sighed deeply, muttering under his breath. "Yes. I should have never let her visit her mother's family."
Harald laughed, the sound warm and hearty. "Your daughter loves the boy, and he loves her. They'll be happy."
Willem's expression softened, though his voice was tinged with a father's reluctance. "She's still my little girl."
Willem then added, "The marriage is planned to take place this moon. Leobald will stay long enough to conduct the ceremony."
Willem's voice grew steadier as he continued, "You're invited to the wedding, of course."
Harald inclined his head in acceptance. "I'd be honored to attend."
Willem smiled, his gratitude evident. "Thank you, Harald. For everything."
With that, Willem turned and began walking back toward the village. Harald watched him leave, a fond smile lingering on his face. Once Willem was out of sight, Harald picked up his axe again and returned to the tree trunk he had brought in earlier. He set to work chopping it into smaller pieces, the rhythmic swing of the axe grounding him in the simplicity of the task. The sound of splitting wood echoed through the quiet morning as Harald lost himself in the steady, familiar work.
.
.
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Rodrick Greyjoy stood in the courtyard of the modest castle of Honeytree, his dark eyes scanning the scene with cold disinterest. Before him knelt Lord Hickory, a man of advancing years, his voice trembling as he spoke.
"My lord," Lord Hickory began, "Lord Blackwood has an agreement with your father. There are to be no raids in these lands."
Rodrick's lips curled into a smirk. "King Harren requires more thralls. My father has rescinded any such agreements."
"But… but," Hickory stammered, his voice faltering.
Rodrick rolled his eyes, his patience wearing thin. "Why am I even talking to you?"
Lord Hickory straightened, attempting to assert himself. "These lands are under my protection—"
The sentence was left unfinished as Rodrick drew his sword in a fluid motion and struck. The blade cleaved cleanly through Hickory's neck, sending his head tumbling to the ground. Blood spurted in a crimson arc, staining the stones beneath them. Lady Hickory, who had stood at her husband's side, screamed in horror.
Rodrick laughed, a sound devoid of humor, his voice echoing through the courtyard. Hickory's men-at-arms, enraged by their lord's death, charged at Rodrick. With a dismissive wave, Rodrick motioned to his own men, who surged forward to intercept the attackers. Steel clashed against steel, and cries of pain filled the air as Rodrick's forces overwhelmed the modest garrison of the castle.
Rodrick turned his attention to the scene unfolding before him. The castle would serve him well as a temporary base during his exile. Though he needed some distractions. His thoughts were interrupted by a piercing scream.
"Father!" cried a young woman as she rushed toward the fallen Lord Hickory. Rodrick's gaze snapped to her, his interest piqued. The girl was beautiful, her features striking even in the throes of grief.
"Gwen, no!" Lady Hickory cried, motioning desperately for her daughter to retreat.
Rodrick's grin widened. "Well, well, my lady. It seems you were hiding this beauty away in the castle."
"Please, I beg you," Lady Hickory pleaded.
Rodrick ignored her, his attention fixed on Gwen. "She will make a fine saltwife."
He motioned to his men, commanding them to seize Lady Hickory. "Do with her as you please," he said coldly, dismissing her with a wave. Gwen's pleas grew louder as she begged for her mother's release.
"My lord, please have mercy! Let her go!"
Rodrick's expression darkened. He struck Gwen across the face with the back of his hand, the force of the blow silencing her cries. "Enough. Take her to the lord's chamber. No one is to touch her."
His men moved quickly to secure the castle, subduing the remaining defenders with ruthless efficiency. One of his captains approached, his face grim.
"My lord, the boy is not here."
Rodrick's brow furrowed. "His son?"
The captain nodded. "It seems he has fled."
Rodrick dismissed the concern with a shrug. "It doesn't matter. Begin the raids. If I please my father, this exile will end, and I can return."
As the captain relayed his orders to the men, Rodrick turned and strode toward the castle's interior. He intended to enjoy his new saltwife.