Arc One: The Dragonborn Comes.
The first sensation that pierced through the fog of my consciousness was the rhythmic pounding of hooves and the unsettling creaking of a cart. Panic surged as I realised I was bound. My eyes flew open, and I was met with the sight of a rugged, Scandinavian-looking man similarly restrained before me. A quick survey of my surroundings revealed a dense forest, and then it hit me—this was Skyrim.
Before I could process my situation further, the man spoke. "Hey, you. You're finally awake. You two were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."
'You two'? Confusion washed over me as I turned to my right, and my breath caught in my throat. "Daenerys?" I blurted out, bewildered. She looked different from Emilia Clarke's portrayal, but the platinum hair and striking purple eyes were unmistakable. A deep instinct told me I was right.
Her eyes widened in shock, a mix of fear and confusion. "You know me? Where am I? What's happening?" Despite her ragged appearance, her regal bearing shone through the dirt and disarray.
"You're very far from home, Daenerys," I replied, deliberately sidestepping the complexities of multiverse theory, even though the urge to explain was strong. Her gaze narrowed slightly at my casual tone; I had no intention of addressing her as 'Queen' or 'Lady.' I continued, "You're in the province of Skyrim, part of the Empire, on the continent of Tamriel." I knew that would mean little to her.
"And I have no doubt I'm the only one who knows of you in Tamriel—except perhaps the Gods," I added, watching her process the information.
"Province?" she echoed, clearly grappling with the unfamiliar term. It struck me that such a concept might not exist in Planetos. I needed to choose my words carefully.
"A province is a region within a nation-state, like an empire or kingdom. For example, 'The province of the North of the Seven Kingdoms, on the continent of Westeros' is essentially the same idea." Her expression shifted to one of understanding, and I seized the moment to preempt her questions. "It seems we were caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, snatched up by the Imperials who were capturing this man." I gestured toward the gagged figure beside us. "That is Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, claimant to the throne of Skyrim, and leader of Skyrim's independence rebellion."
"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you… Oh gods, where are they taking us?" The 'horse thief' interjected, his panic palpable. I couldn't recall his name.
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits," Ralof added grimly.
"No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening," the thief muttered, his voice trembling.
"Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?" Ralof pressed.
"Why do you care?" the man shot back.
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home," Ralof replied, his tone softening.
"Rorikstead. I'm… I'm from Rorikstead," the thief admitted, his voice heavy with despair.
"I believe we're heading to Helgen, if I'm not mistaken," I chimed in, scanning the surroundings for any landmarks.
"Why is he gagged?" Daenerys asked, glancing back at Ulfric.
"He learned to wield an ancient form of Dragon magic called 'The Voice' or Thu'um. A few words of power from his lips, and he can send a man flying." My explanation only deepened her bewilderment.
"Dragon magic?!" she exclaimed, her interest piqued.
"Unlike where you come from, dragons here are intelligent," I clarified, noting her glare. "Here, they possess language and magic. In ancient times, dragons ruled this realm, much like the Valyrians. Most humans were enslaved, save for the 'Dragon Priests,' who were sycophants to the dragons and traitors to their kind. A goddess blessed humans with the ability to wield the same magic as the dragons and tasked a sympathetic dragon to teach them the Thu'um, giving them a fighting chance against their masters. The Greybeards of High Hrothgar have preserved this knowledge, and it is where Jarl Ulfric learned his power."
I finished my explanation, feeling a sense of satisfaction at how my knowledge of Skyrim was proving useful. Ulfric regarded me with an impressed, appraising look.
As the cart continued its journey, I noticed that we had been travelling longer than expected. Perhaps I had awakened earlier than the others, but I hoped Skyrim was larger than it appeared in the game; the scale had always felt off, with cities resembling mere towns, Winterhold being the only one that made sense for its size.
Eventually, Daenerys broke the silence. "So what awaits us at this Helgen?"
"The headman's axe, lass. And I'd be surprised if they cared whether you lot weren't with us and let you go," Ralof added sympathetically.
Instead of reacting with anger or despair, Daenerys adopted a look of resigned acceptance. I wondered which version of her this was, and at what point in her journey she found herself here. She met my gaze, and I offered her a small, reassuring grin and a wink, which only deepened her bewilderment.
We would survive this. We just had to dodge fire, falling debris, fight some Imperials, spiders, and make our way to Riverwood… and that was just the beginning—a piece of cake.
After a sombre stretch of contemplation and planning, we approached the village fortress of Helgen. An Imperial soldier called out to the lead wagon.
"General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"
"Good. Let's get this over with," General Tullius muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me," the horse thief prayed, his voice trembling.
"Look at him. General Tullius, the Military Governor. And it seems the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this," Ralof remarked bitterly. "This is Helgen."
"I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in," he continued, nostalgia creeping into his voice.
"Funny… when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel safe," Ralof added, continuing his scripted dialogue.
I noticed Daenerys eyeing the elves with a scrunched brow, but she remained silent—a conversation for another time.
As we passed the homes surrounding the fort, a man and his son watched us being pulled into town.
"Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?" the boy asked innocently.
"You need to go inside, little cub," the father urged.
"Why? I want to watch the soldiers," the boy protested.
"Inside the house. Now," the father insisted.
"Yes, papa," the boy replied reluctantly.
Was that the child who would later face Alduin's wrath? It was hard to tell; there were only a handful of child models in the game.
As we passed through the gates of the fort and entered the centre, where an ominous tree stump awaited us, one thought dominated my mind: I hope I get a character customisation screen. The fact that no one had acknowledged my identity or even asked my name had not escaped my notice. Perhaps there was still a chance.