Harald stood at the alchemy table in his chambers, carefully adding Blue Mountain Flower petals to the mortar along with ground wheat. The familiar motions were soothing, almost meditative, a reminder of the time in Skyrim when he had first learned the alchemist's art.
He ground the ingredients together with practiced movements, the pestle working in smooth circles. The mixture began to glow faintly, that telltale sign that the magical properties were combining properly. He transferred the powder to a small vial, added distilled water, and watched as it transformed into a glowing red liquid.
A health potion. Basic, but effective.
He took the potion and added it to the rest of his collection laid out on the table: stamina potions in their distinctive green, a fortify one-handed potion that would enhance sword combat, cure disease potions that glowed with a soft white light, and fortify archery potions in pale blue.
Harald could make health and stamina potions in large quantities and had been doing so for months now. The hospitals he had established in the city used them constantly, healing injuries that would have crippled or killed people in a world without magic. The cure disease potions were perhaps even more valuable, preventing plagues and infections that had once devastated the population.
But the fortify archery and fortify one-handed potions were different. Those required rarer ingredients and more complex preparation, and he was reluctant to make them when the ingredients he had were limited.
Need to make larger batches by the end of next month, he thought as he walked away from the alchemy table toward the large couch in his chambers. The tourney would consume his time for the next week, and after that he had administrative matters piling up that could not be delayed further.
The meeting of kings and the tourney so far had been going well. Better than Harald had dared hope, honestly.
He had met with Torrhen that morning, and he had come to genuinely like the King in the North. The man was a bit rigid, set in his ways, traditional in his thinking, as most Northerners were. But unlike many of his lords, Torrhen saw Harald's magic not as heresy or abomination but as a practical tool. A way to uplift the North, to make sure it never starved again, to give his people a chance at prosperity they had never known in their harsh, unforgiving land.
Barthogan's presence had also helped considerably. The young prince's genuine enthusiasm for the Covenant, his willingness to embrace the union of the Old and New Gods, had shown Torrhen that Harald's faith was not the corruption his eldest son, Brandon, claimed it to be. Seeing his own blood accept it had made the king more willing to consider its merits.
And of course, there was the sword.
The gifting of the Stalhrim sword had sealed their friendship. Torrhen had held that blade of enchanted Stalhrim with something approaching reverence. The king had indeed decided to name it Ice, demoting the ancient Valyrian steel greatsword that had borne that name for generations. That sword would be renamed, though Torrhen had not yet decided what to call it. Perhaps "Winter's Bite" or "Frost," as Barthogan had suggested.
As Torrhen had explained it, the legends told of the Stark kings of old possessing a legendary sword named Ice, supposedly made of magical ice forged during the Long Night itself. Some stories claimed it had been wielded by Brandon the Builder, others said it belonged to the Night's King before his fall, while still others attributed it to even older, half-mythical figures from the Age of Heroes.
The Valyrian steel sword had taken that name thousands of years later, after the original was lost, destroyed, or simply faded into myth. It was a worthy blade, yes, but it was still just steel, however magical Valyrian steel might seem to the Westerosi.
Now, Torrhen had told Harald with barely contained excitement, he possessed a sword that actually resembled the one from the tales of old. A blade of ice that was stronger than Valyrian steel, that carried the cold of the North within its very essence.
They had negotiated a deal. Harald would sell the North crops and also not actively preach the Covenant there, meaning he would not send keepers to establish churches or proselytize. In exchange, the North would provide the Heartlands with access to its untapped mineral wealth: iron, tin, copper, silver, and other metals that Harald believed the mountains of the North held in abundance.
It was a good deal, mutually beneficial.
Leobald had not been happy when Harald told him of the terms. The High Keeper had argued passionately that Harald should have demanded the right to send keepers north, showing how the Covenant could bring more order to the faith of the Old Gods in the North.
Harald had been firm in his refusal. The North would not accept the Covenant being forced upon them, and attempting to do so would destroy the fragile friendship he was building with Torrhen. Better to let the faith spread naturally, through example and personal choice, than to create resentment through aggressive proselytizing.
Torrhen, along with Barthogan, Brandon Snow, and several earthsingers, had gone to the Isle of Faces after their morning meeting. The King in the North had wanted to visit the sacred island, to see the heart trees where the Pact had been made, to commune with the Old Gods in their most ancient sanctum. Only Crown Prince Brandon and Princess Serena had stayed behind.
During their meeting, Torrhen had offered Serena's hand in marriage. A union between Stark and Stormcrown, joining the North and the Heartlands through blood.
Harald had politely declined.
He had negotiated carefully, explaining his reasoning. The Crown Prince Brandon, who already distrusted Harald intensely, was vehemently against the match. Forcing it would create an enemy in the heir to the North, which seemed counterproductive when trying to build a lasting alliance. Better to keep Brandon as neutral as possible rather than turning his suspicion into outright hatred.
There was also the matter of the rumors Elsa had been feeding him. Apparently, Princess Serena was in a secret love affair with Lord Bolton's second son. Harald had no desire to tear apart a genuine romance for political gain, especially when there were other, better options available.
He knew Loren would offer up one of his sisters as well. The King of the Rock had three unwed sisters, all of marriageable age, and an alliance through marriage would cement the friendship between the Rock and the Heartlands.
But Harald planned to decline that offer as well.
He had decided that Argella would be a better choice. The logic was sound from multiple angles. A marriage to the rightful Queen of the Stormlands would give her the support she needed to reclaim her throne and would unite two kingdoms peacefully.
Some of his lords wanted it to happen as well, particularly those with marriageable daughters who had given up hope of their own girls catching the king's eye. If Harald was going to marry someone, better it be the foreign queen who could double their kingdom's land.
And he was sure Elsa was plotting something as well. He had noticed her arranging situations where he and Argella would "accidentally" encounter each other. The meeting in the grove a few days ago had been too convenient to be coincidence. Elsa was subtle, but not subtle enough to escape Harald's notice.
After that meeting, he had begun teaching Argella the basics of magic. She showed genuine potential, which was not surprising given her supposed divine ancestry through Elenei. With a few months of practice and the proper ritual to fully awaken the magic within her bloodline, she could become quite capable.
A Storm Queen who could actually command storms. The poetry of it appealed to him.
He stood and walked over to the table, where there were many parchments and papers.
The tourney events would begin tomorrow. The melee first, a grand test of combat skill where dozens of knights and warriors would face off in a royal rumble of sorts. The day after would be the jousting, the most prestigious event, where the finest knights would compete for glory and prizes.
Beyond those main events, there were numerous other competitions:
An archery competition, with targets at various distances and under varying conditions. Mounted archery as well, which required both horsemanship and marksmanship. Axe-throwing contests that the Northerners particularly enjoyed. A wrestling tournament that had attracted competitors from all three kingdoms. Strongman events involving lifting, carrying, and pulling massive weights. Horse racing.
The smallfolk had their own football tournament as well, which most lords considered a peasant's game beneath their notice. But the common people loved it, and Harald had made sure there were proper facilities and prizes for the winners.
He had also introduced rugby. For some reason, the lords and nobility had found this more entertaining than football. Perhaps the increased violence appealed to their warrior sensibilities. Regardless, there was now a rugby tournament running parallel to the other events.
He focused on the parchments and papers spread across the table before him, reports and proposals that required his attention before the day's meetings.
The College of Cyrodiil had been created only three weeks ago, so it would take considerable time before it could produce the learned men he needed for the vast bureaucratic machine he planned to build. Education took years, after all. Even with accelerated programs and focused training, they were looking at a minimum of two years before the first graduates would be ready for administrative positions.
Thinking of the maesters only made him more stressed.
He knew they were up to something, this secret order within the Citadel. And he was also sure Hermaeus Mora would be involved with them. The Daedric Prince of Knowledge and Secrets would see the maesters as natural allies, or at least useful tools. An organization dedicated to gathering and controlling information across an entire continent? Mora would be drawn to that like a moth to a flame.
He tried to think of what Hermaeus's plans might be, what artifacts the Prince could have given the order to further his goals. There were relics in Apocrypha, books and scrolls that granted knowledge at terrible prices, scrying devices that let you see across great distances. Mora also collected artifacts from other Princes as well, so that was another concern.
Maester Flowers of Riverrun had been confirmed by Elsa's investigations to be part of this secret order. So far, only four people knew of the order's true danger: himself, Elsa, Leobald, and Edmyn. He had decided to keep that circle small for now, to avoid tipping off the conspirators that their network had been compromised.
Flowers was under observation, watched by Spectres who reported his every movement. He had also been kept far away from the College of Cyrodiil project underway, assigned to minor administrative duties that kept him busy but gave him no real influence or access to sensitive information.
For now, Harald's plan was to use Loren's invasion of the Reach to infiltrate the Citadel himself and end the order. It was ambitious and dangerous, but it had to be done as soon as possible. While the Reach's armies were occupied fighting the Westerlands, Harald could slip into Oldtown, make his way into the depths of the Citadel, and root out the conspiracy at its source.
Of course, that meant making sure Loren succeeded in his invasion. And Harald planned to do exactly that. Supporting Loren gave him multiple benefits: a chance to destroy the order, an opportunity to severely weaken the Faith of the Seven by taking Oldtown, and even a pathway to restore Argella to power by destabilizing the Stormlands' enemies.
Harald was broken from his thoughts by a knock at the door. "Come in," he commanded.
In walked Primarch Aerion Whiteflame, the man who led the Spectres. Harald had chosen Aerion personally for the role. He was one of the first warriors to join Harald's cause during the rebellion against the Ironborn, and he had proven himself repeatedly through his skill as a leader and his aptitude for spycraft.
"Aerion," Harald welcomed him with a smile. "Good to see you."
"Your Grace," the Primarch said as he bowed, his armor tinted purple.
"None of that," Harald said, waving a hand dismissively. "Come, sit."
Aerion smiled and took a seat near Harald's desk. "You asked for a report on security during the tourney."
"Yes. Is everything going well?"
"So far, yes…" Aerion's voice trailed off, his expression troubled.
"I sense a 'but' coming," Harald observed.
Aerion nodded. "We have found many of the Warrior's Sons embedded among the guests. Knights from the Reach and the Westerlands, but identified by our informants as members of the Faith Militant. Also ten septons from Oldtown who claim to have come to debate the keepers on theological matters, but their behavior has been… suspicious."
Harald sat up straighter. "Suspicious how?"
"We have found them in some key locations. They ask questions about security, about where you spend your time."
"Do you think a conspiracy is afoot?" Harald asked, though he already suspected the answer.
"Yes," Aerion said flatly. "And I believe they have conspirators here in the castle."
Harald leaned forward. "Have you been able to determine which kingdom these conspirators belong to?"
Aerion considered carefully. "We can rule the North out. They are First Men and keep to the Old Gods. It has to be connected to the West. There could be some lords from the Westerlands involved, perhaps those more loyal to the High Septon than to King Loren."
Harald nodded slowly. "Increase the number of Spectres in the castle. I want eyes on those septons at all times."
"It shall be done, Your Grace," Aerion said, standing and bowing.
He sat alone for a moment, processing the information. The Faith and the maesters working together, perhaps, or separately toward the same goal.
He would need to be careful. Very careful.
He waited for King Loren to arrive. They were scheduled to meet in the evening to discuss the particulars of their alliance.
As he waited, he found himself running through a mental list of the Daedric Princes, trying to determine which of them might target him beyond those he already knew were present.
Bal, Hermaeus, Dagon, and Sheogorath. He knew they were here, so he needed to consider whether any others might make their presence known.
Meridia: He crossed her off the list. He had helped her, after all. Dawnbreaker, sitting in his aetherial satchel, was proof of their positive relationship. She was perhaps a little too hardline in her hatred of the undead, but overall a positive force in the universe. No threat there.
Azura: He had her star and had chosen not to blacken it, preserving its purpose rather than corrupting it for his own gain. She was not good or evil in the mortal sense, but she wanted the world to remain in balance, which was generally positive. Unlikely to interfere unless he upset that balance dramatically.
Nocturnal: Harald had no direct dealings with her, but he had befriended a Nightingale named Karliah and had a brief affair with her years ago. Nocturnal simply wanted mortals to steal, to honor her through acts of theft and shadow he might be oversimplifying with that explanation. The Prince was morally ambiguous, but not necessarily hostile. Unlikely to appear here.
Sanguine: This one Harald knew too well. He had once become one of the Prince's favorites during his… wilder years. The year he spent in that cult still made him shudder. He had a feeling that he and Sanguine would meet again sooner or later. The Prince of Debauchery would find this world entertaining, full of new vices to encourage and excess to cultivate.
Malacath: He had helped the Orcish Prince and had been rewarded with Volendrung for his troubles. Malacath was kind to orcs, protective of outcasts, and not actively malicious toward others. Vengeful, yes, but only toward those who wronged him or his people. There were no orcs here, so there was little chance of Malacath appearing.
Vaermina: There was a chance. He had helped break her hold on Dawnstar and had freed the town from her nightmares. She might still hold a grudge for that.
Clavicus Vile: He had no direct dealings with him, but the Prince of Bargains could easily make deals with mortals here. That was concerning. Vile loved to trick people, to give them exactly what they asked for in the worst possible way. If he started making pacts with desperate nobles or ambitious merchants…
Mephala: Now she, Harald knew, would love this world. Especially the Faceless Men of Braavos, assassins who served the Many-Faced God. He had also angered her when he helped Balgruuf's family escape her influence in Whiterun. She was the Prince of Lies, Murder, and Secrets. He had taken precautions against the Faceless Men, wards and protections, but what magic Mephala might teach them, he did not know. This was a genuine threat.
Peryite: He had no dealings with the Prince of Pestilence and Natural Order. He hoped desperately that Peryite would stay away.
Namira: Harald shuddered at the memory of the cannibals in Markarth, the horror of that cult dedicated to the Lady of Decay. But he doubted she would show up here. Her followers were rare and secretive, and she seemed content to work through small cults rather than grand schemes.
Boethiah: Oh yes, he had definitely angered her. The Prince of Plots and Betrayal had tried to recruit him once, offering power in exchange for sacrificing his closest companion at the time. He had rejected her violently, and she did not take rejection well. She was an enemy of Molag Bal, though, so perhaps they would cancel each other out.
Hircine: The Huntsman. Harald actually got along well with Hircine. He had proven himself worthy once, and the Prince respected strength and skill in the chase. There was no real chance of Hircine showing up, and if he did, it might not even be hostile.
Harald leaned back, rubbing his temples. Too many variables. Too many potential threats.
He had many theories on why the Princes could not simply walk this world freely, and it all came down to Alessia and her pact with Akatosh. The Amulet of Kings and the Dragonfires had created a barrier between Nirn and Oblivion, preventing the Princes from manifesting in their full power.
But this was not Nirn. This was a completely different world, with different rules.
So why were the Princes limited here? Why were they operating through agents and artifacts rather than simply appearing and reshaping reality according to their will?
Harald had a theory. Perhaps something similar to Alessia's pact had occurred with his presence here. Perhaps Akatosh, or even Sheogorath, had done something when they sent him to this world. Created a barrier, established rules, limited the Princes' ability to interfere directly.
His very existence as Dragonborn, carrying a fragment of Aka-Tusk within his soul, might act as a ward. A living seal that prevented the full force of Oblivion from breaking through.
It was just a theory, but it was the best explanation he had for why Mehrunes Dagon had not simply torn open portals and unleashed his armies, why Molag Bal had not corrupted entire kingdoms, and why Hermaeus Mora was reduced to making pacts with maesters rather than drowning the world in forbidden knowledge.
They were constrained. Limited. Forced to work through mortal agents and subtle influence.
Which meant he had a chance. As long as he remained vigilant, as long as he identified their schemes and disrupted them, he could keep this world safe from the worst of Oblivion's horrors.
But it also meant he could never let his guard down. He could never assume the danger had passed.
The Daedric Princes were patient. They had eternity. They could wait, plan, scheme, and strike when he least expected it.
Harald took a deep breath and turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.
He would deal with them all one crisis at a time.