Harin and Ibnor descended from the Throat of the World, still fresh from the memory of their shared intimacy. As reluctant as they were, they however knew that the defeat of Alduin was only a temporary victory, just another calm before a storm. They knew the World-Eater's return was inevitable.
Theri current destination is the Sky Haven Temple, the ancient hidden stronghold of the Blades. The journey was eventless, save for a few encounters with local wildlife. The challenge mostly comes from the rugged terrain, where a misplaced step can cause a deep fall.
Finally, they reached the secluded valley where the temple stood, nestled amongst jagged peaks. Though time and neglect had taken their toll, the ancient structure still exudes an aura of faded grandeur and lingering power. Within its crumbling walls, they found Esbern. He wasn't hunched over dusty tomes in a forgotten library, but rather amidst the remnants of the Blades' armory. Sunlight streamed through cracks in the stone roof, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air as he meticulously polished a gleaming Akaviri katana, his movements surprisingly agile for his age.
"Esbern," Harin began, her voice carrying the quiet authority of the Dragonborn, "we need your help."
Esbern turned sharply, the katana flashing in the light. His eyes widened with recognition as he took in Harin's presence.
"Dragonborn! You've returned! Did you find the Elder Scroll? What transpired at the Throat of the World?"
"We used the Scroll," Harin explained, her voice grave. "We confronted Alduin… and we defeated him, for now. But he escaped."
Esbern's face fell, his hand pausing mid-polish. "Escaped? By the Divines… He must have retreated to Sovngarde, to replenish his strength by consuming the souls of the dead. If he is allowed to do so unchecked, he will return far more powerful than before!"
"We know," Ibnor affirmed, his voice firm. "That's why we need to find a way to reach Sovngarde."
"Indeed. We must consider this carefully," Esbern muttered, resuming his pacing among the scattered weapons and armor, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "He must possess some means of traversing between Nirn and Sovngarde. But no surviving texts speak of such a passage."
"His dragon allies… they must know the location of this portal," Ibnor suggested, his gaze sweeping across the remnants of the armory, perhaps imagining the Blades of old preparing for battle.
"A sound deduction! Hmm. I ponder…" Esbern paused, tapping a finger to his chin, his gaze distant. "Do you recall Dragonsreach, the Jarl's palace in Whiterun?"
"Of course," Harin replied, a flicker of confusion crossing her features. "What does Dragonsreach have to do with this?"
"You see," Esbern explained, running a finger along the blade of the katana, "Dragonsreach wasn't simply named for decoration. It was built to house a captive dragon."
Harin frowned. "But I thought dragons were only recently returned with Alduin's arrival."
"Oh, this was ages ago," Esbern clarified, sheathing the katana. "Thousands of years before the Akaviri Dragon Hunt scoured Skyrim. Back then, dragons were a far more common sight. One of the early Nord Kings—Olaf One-Eye, as the tales tell it—managed to subdue a dragon and bring it here."
A flicker of understanding crossed Harin's face. "So… if we could lure a dragon into Dragonsreach…"
"We could trap it," Esbern confirmed with a nod. "Precisely. Though… convincing Jarl Balgruuf to use his palace as bait might be… a delicate matter. But if you can face down the World-Eater, I daresay charming the Jarl of Whiterun is well within your capabilities, Dragonborn."
With this unsettling yet vital information, they journeyed to Whiterun. They waste no time, stopping a few times only for a brief moment. Upon reaching Whiterun, they found Jarl Balgruuf in the great hall of Dragonsreach, deep in discussion with Irileth, maps spread across the table before them.
"Jarl Balgruuf," Harin announced, her voice resonating through the hall. "We need your assistance."
Jarl Balgruuf turned, a mixture of surprise and weariness on his face.
"Dragonborn," he greeted. He glanced at Ibnor, then back to Harin. "What brings you to Dragonsreach?"
"We need to trap a dragon," Harin stated directly.
Jarl Balgruuf's eyebrows shot up. He exchanged a bewildered look with Irileth, who remained stoic.
"I believe I must have misheard you," he said slowly. "Did you just ask me to… trap a dragon… in my palace?"
"You heard correctly, Jarl," Ibnor confirmed, stepping forward. "It's the only way to stop Alduin."
"Alduin?" The Jarl's expression shifted to one of grave concern. "The World-Eater himself? Returned again? By the Divines… how can this be? How can we possibly stand against him? Does this portend the end of all things?"
Harin met his gaze steadily. "Perhaps. But we won't surrender without a fight. We defeated him at the Throat of the World, but he escaped. We believe he's retreated to Sovngarde, and we need to interrogate a dragon to learn how to follow him."
Jarl Balgruuf was silent for a moment, absorbing the weight of her words. He looked from Harin to Ibnor, then back again.
"Sovngarde... This is grave news indeed. If Alduin is allowed to feast upon the souls there..." He shook his head slowly, then looked back at Harin. "Very well. Explain this plan of yours. What's this nonsense about trapping a dragon in my palace?"
Harin outlined their strategy, emphasizing the urgency of the situation. Jarl Balgruuf listened intently, his brow furrowed. When she finished, he sighed heavily.
"I want to help you, Dragonborn. I truly do. But I need your help first." He gestured towards the maps on the table. "Ulfric and General Tullius are poised to strike. They watch Whiterun like hawks, waiting for any sign of weakness. Do you think they'll stand idly by while a dragon rampages through my city, slaughtering my men and burning my homes?" He paused, his gaze fixed on Harin. "I simply cannot risk weakening Whiterun while we face the threat of a siege. I'm sorry."
"What if you didn't have to worry about an enemy attack?" Ibnor suggested with a hopeful tone in his voice.
Jarl Balgruuf's eyes flickered with a spark of hope. "If that were the case… then I'd gladly lend you Dragonsreach for this… ambitious undertaking. But securing a truce between the Imperials and the Stormcloaks? That's a tall order. The animosity between them runs deep. It's like trying to mix oil and water." He paused, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
"Perhaps… hmm… What of the Greybeards? They command respect from all Nords, regardless of their allegiance. High Hrothgar is considered neutral ground. If they were to host a peace council… well, even Ulfric and Tullius might be compelled to listen."
"The Greybeards," Harin mused, exchanging a glance with Ibnor. "That's… a possibility."
"Aye," Jarl Balgruuf agreed, a hint of optimism returning to his voice. "Perhaps you can manage to quell both the dragons and this infernal war. Now that would be a feat worthy of legend."
"Speaking of legends… was Dragonsreach truly built to house a dragon?" Ibnor asked, gesturing towards the imposing dragon skull mounted above the hearth,
"So the stories say," Jarl Balgruuf confirmed. "Though I confess, I never gave much credence to the tale. Jarl Olaf One-Eye—who later became High King Olaf—is the one they credit with the feat. They say he Shouted the beast into submission in single combat atop Mount Anthor, then brought it back here to Whiterun. Numinex was its name. That's his skull you see there."
Before they departed to attempt this delicate diplomatic mission, Harin turned back to Jarl Balgruuf. "Assuming we can secure this truce, Jarl, will you have your men prepare Dragonsreach to hold a dragon?"
Jarl Balgruuf nodded, his expression now serious and determined. "My men will be ready, Dragonborn. But as I said, you have a truce to arrange first. Without that, this entire endeavor is… well, it's putting the cart before the horse, wouldn't you say?"
The path to High Hrothgar was familiar to Harin, but this time, the weight of her purpose felt different. It wasn't merely about learning the Voice; it was about securing peace for a war-torn land, a peace necessary to confront a far greater threat.
They ascended the Seven Thousand Steps again, the biting wind a constant reminder of the Greybeards' isolation. Within the ancient monastery, they found Master Arngeir, his face etched with the wisdom of ages.
"Master Arngeir," Harin began, her voice respectful but firm, "we need your help to stop the war."
Arngeir's brow furrowed. "You misunderstand our authority, Dragonborn. The Greybeards have never involved ourselves in the affairs of men, especially not in their petty squabbles."
"This isn't a petty squabble, Master," Harin countered. "Jarl Balgruuf has agreed to help us trap a dragon, which is a crucial step in defeating Alduin, but only if the war ends. He can't risk weakening Whiterun while it's threatened by both the Empire and the Stormcloaks."
Arngeir remained silent for a moment, his gaze distant, as if contemplating the implications of her words. "I see," he finally said, his voice low. "The dragon… this is meant to lead you to Alduin. But without the Jarl's cooperation…" He trailed off, the unspoken consequences hanging heavy in the air.
"Both sides respect the Greybeards," Ibnor interjected, stepping forward. "They will listen to you. If anyone can bring them to the table, it's you."
Arngeir closed his eyes, his expression contemplative. The silence stretched, filled only with the howling wind outside and the crackling of the fire within the hall. Finally, he opened his eyes, a strange mixture of resignation and amusement in their depths.
"Paarthurnax has made the decision to aid you," he said, his voice carrying a hint of wry acceptance. "This… this seems to be the path we must walk. Even the Greybeards must bend to the winds of change, it seems. So be it." A faint smile touched his lips. "Tell Ulfric Stormcloak and General Tullius that the Greybeards wish to speak with them. We will see if they still remember us."
Harin and Ibnor exchanged a look, a flicker of hope igniting between them. This was a significant step.
Before departing, Harin turned back to Arngeir. "Are you ready to host the peace council, Master?"
Arngeir simply nodded, his expression now resolute. "Deliver the message to the warring parties, Dragonborn. If they will listen, I will do what I can to bring them to terms."
Their first stop was Solitude, the imposing capital of the Imperial province. Castle Dour loomed large, a symbol of Imperial might. They were ushered into the war room, where General Tullius stood amidst maps and strategists, his expression stern and focused.
"Are my men now giving free rein to anyone who wanders into the castle?" Tullius demanded, his voice sharp. He turned his gaze on Harin and Ibnor. "Do you have some reason to be here, citizen?"
"I was at Helgen," Harin stated simply.
A flicker of recognition crossed Tullius's face. "Right… Helgen. One of the prisoners, if I recall correctly."
"I was set free," Harin continued. "I could've gone anywhere. I came here to fight for the Empire."
Ibnor raised a brow and gave her a quick, questioning glance. Harin subtly elbowed him in the ribs, a silent message passing between them.
Tullius considered this for a moment, his eyes assessing her. "I suppose that's… commendable. Fine. Why don't you have a chat with Legate Rikke? I suspect we might have use for someone resourceful like you. Not many survived Helgen. Besides, I'm sure your being imprisoned was all a terrible misunderstanding." He turned back to his maps, dismissing them.
"That's not why I'm here," Harin said, her voice firm.
Tullius stopped, turning back with a sigh. "I see. Then there is nothing further to discuss. If you change your mind, speak with the Legate."
"I have a message from the Greybeards," Harin stated.
Tullius's eyebrows rose in surprise. "The Greybeards? What do those old hermits want with me?"
"They are convening a peace council at High Hrothgar," Harin explained.
"A peace council?" Tullius scoffed. "Why? There's nothing to discuss as long as that traitor Ulfric is in arms against his rightful Emperor."
"We need a truce," Ibnor interjected, "until the dragon menace is dealt with."
Tullius's expression shifted, a flicker of concern replacing his earlier dismissiveness. "They are getting to be a problem, I'll grant you that." He paused, considering. "But I wasn't sent to Skyrim to fight dragons. My orders are to quell this rebellion, and I intend to do just that, dragons or no dragons."
"The dragons are a bigger problem than the Stormcloaks right now," Harin emphasized. "Alduin has returned. He is a threat to all of Skyrim, to all of Tamriel."
Tullius was silent for a moment, mulling over her words. "You have a point," he finally conceded. "It's getting damn near impossible to move any troops without losing them to dragon fire. And I've received reports that the Stormcloaks are suffering similar losses. Even Ulfric… even he might see the sense in a temporary cessation of hostilities."
"Then you'll come to the peace council?" Harin asked, her voice hopeful.
Tullius sighed again, a weariness settling over his features. "Yes. Yes, fine. I'll attend this… Greybeards' summit. For all the good that it'll do. But I make no promises about the outcome."
Their next destination was Windhelm, the ancient capital of the Stormcloaks. The city, carved into the harsh, windswept landscape of Eastmarch, exuded an air of grim determination. They made their way to the Palace of the Kings, where Ulfric Stormcloak held court.
They were granted an audience quickly, Ulfric's keen blue eyes assessing them as they entered. He stood before the great fire, his imposing figure radiating a quiet intensity.
"So," Ulfric began, his voice deep and resonant, "the Dragonborn comes to Windhelm. I assume this isn't a social call."
"We have a message from the Greybeards," Harin stated.
Ulfric's expression shifted, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. "The Greybeards?" He paused, a hint of respect entering his voice. "It's about time they turned their gaze from the heavens back to our bleeding homeland. What do they want?"
"They wish to convene a peace council at High Hrothgar," Harin explained. "To negotiate a truce until the dragon menace is dealt with."
Ulfric stroked his beard thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on the flames. "I have the greatest respect for the Greybeards, of course," he said.
"And the dragon attacks are a growing plague. But the political situation is still… delicate. Not all the Jarls are fully committed to supporting me as High King. I cannot afford to appear weak. To agree to a truce now… it could be interpreted as a sign of desperation." He turned his gaze back to Harin. "I cannot agree to this unless Tullius himself will be there."
"He has agreed," Ibnor interjected. "We just came from Solitude. General Tullius has pledged to attend."
A subtle shift occurred in Ulfric's demeanor. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. He looked from Harin to Ibnor, a flicker of something akin to relief in his eyes.
"Tullius… has agreed?" He repeated, as if confirming the unbelievable. He paused for a moment, then a firm resolve settled on his face. "Very well. If Tullius will be there, then so will I. The Greybeards have spoken. I will give Tullius one more chance to quit Skyrim with his tail between his legs." A hint of a grim smile played at the corner of his lips.
With both Tullius and Ulfric now committed, the stage was set. The fate of Skyrim, hanging in the balance, would be decided at the neutral ground of High Hrothgar, under the watchful eyes of the Greybeards. Harin and Ibnor knew this truce was fragile, a temporary shield against the greater threat. But it was a start. It was a chance. And in the face of the World-Eater, any chance was worth fighting for.
Harin and Ibnor returned to High Hrothgar, the wind whipping at their cloaks as they approached the ancient monastery. The atmosphere within was markedly different from their previous visits. The main hall, usually a place of quiet contemplation, buzzed with tense anticipation. The Greybeards stood near the large central fire, their faces solemn as they greeted the assembled delegations.
The scene was a stark contrast of colors and personalities. General Tullius, clad in gleaming Imperial armor, stood stiffly beside Legate Rikke, whose expressions shifted between stoicism and barely suppressed exasperation. Jarl Elisif the Fair of Solitude, elegant even in this austere setting, offered polite but strained smiles. Adding a palpable layer of tension was Elenwen, the Thalmor ambassador, her presence a stark reminder of the underlying political complexities at play.
On the other side of the hall stood Ulfric Stormcloak, his imposing figure radiating controlled intensity. Beside him, Galmar Stone-Fist, his face a mask of barely contained aggression, occasionally muttered under his breath, casting dark glances at the Imperial delegation. Jarl Balgruuf stood slightly apart from both groups, appearing weary but determined.
The arrival of Harin and Ibnor was quickly followed by another, more contentious entrance. Delphine and Esbern strode into the hall, their presence immediately drawing the attention of the Greybeards.
"So, Arngeir, is it?" Delphine began, her voice sharp and challenging. "You know why we're here. Are you going to let us in, or not?"
Arngeir's brow furrowed, his voice resonating with ancient authority. "You were not invited here. You are not welcome here."
"We have as much right to be at this council as any of you," Delphine retorted, her eyes flashing. "More, actually, since we were the ones who set the Dragonborn on this path."
Arngeir's expression hardened. "Were you? The hubris of the Blades truly knows no bounds."
"If it were up to you," Delphine countered, "the Dragonborn would still be sitting on this mountain, doing nothing!"
Esbern stepped forward, placing a calming hand on Delphine's arm. "Delphine, please. This is neither the time nor the place to rehearse old grudges. The matter at hand is urgent. Alduin must be stopped. You wouldn't have called this council if you didn't agree. We know a great deal about the situation and the threat that Alduin poses to us all. You need us here if you want this council to succeed."
Arngeir sighed, a sound like the wind whistling through mountain passes. "Very well," he conceded, his voice heavy. "You may enter."
The tension in the hall remained thick. The stage was finally set for the peace council to begin. The fate of Skyrim, and perhaps all of Tamriel, hung in the balance.