Skyrim: A Craftman's Journey

4E 201, Throat of the World

Kiera Fendalyn

The climb had been brutal, worse than she'd anticipated.

Her throat burned raw as she exhaled another Clear Skies shout, scattering the biting winds and suffocating fog for what felt like the hundredth time.

"LOK VAH KOOR!"

The clouds peeled apart like silk torn by invisible blades, sunlight slicing through the heavens and bathing the jagged cliffs in gold. But the respite was short. The Throat of the World—the highest peak in all Tamriel—was relentless. The winds always came back, the clouds always crept in.

But now she was here. At the summit.

Kiera's boots crunched over the snow as she stepped onto the flattened expanse that crowned Skyrim. For a moment, the fatigue, the cold, the sore muscles—they all faded, replaced by sheer awe.

Skyrim was beautiful. The land sprawled below her, wild and beautiful beyond words. Forests stretched like endless green carpets, rivers snaked between distant hills, and fields of wheat shimmered like gold coins beneath the sun's fading light. Far off to the northwest, she could barely make out the small dot that was Whiterun, nestled in the plains. 

And the sky… the sky was unlike anything she'd ever seen.

Once she was past the clouds, her draconic eyes could see the stars emerging one by one, twinkling across the dark expanse of the night. Wisps of cloud coiled like smoke beneath the moon's pale glow, and the mountain's shadow stretched out over the world like the hand of some ancient god.

The sight of it all filled her eyes, and she found herself struggling to tear her eyes away to take in the rest of the flat expanse of stone that is the Throat of the World.

There, across the plateau, loomed the Word Wall—far larger than the ones she had seen before. Even from a distance, the carved symbols of the Dragon Tongue were more pronounced and clear, pulsing with some old, living power.

And perched atop the Wall… were two dragons.

The first was a familiar one, with shimmering bronze scales that gleamed like hammered gold. His wings stretched lazily at his sides, his amber eyes watching her approach with the casual arrogance of a creature who had seen empires rise and fall.

"Vermithor?" She said with surprise.

The dragon's head dipped slightly. "Kiera," his voice rumbled like distant thunder. "Had I known you were Dovahkiin back then, our tinvaak—our conversation—would have been far longer, and far more interesting."

Despite herself, she laughed softly. "I would've liked that."

[Vermithor Image]

But it was the second dragon that commanded her full attention.

The dragon was massive, larger than Vermithor by a slight amount. There were clear signs of great age, the scales on his wings and tail were tattered, his horns chipped and broken from unknown battles. His once magnificent silver scales had dulled in color, cracks and fractures lining his hide. Yet his eyes… those eyes… glowed with ancient wisdom. Knowledge that had endured for millennia.

"Welcome to the Throat of the World, Dovahkiin. The most sacred mountain in Skyrim. Zok revak strunmah." The dragon spoke. "I am Paarthurnax, the master of the Greybeards."

[Paarthurnax Image]

Paarthurnax, the dragon that Vermithor had spoken about back in Bleak Falls Barrow. "You're the one. The one that is actively fighting against Alduin."

The ancient dragon chuckled—a deep, rattling sound like shifting mountains. "Fighting Alduin? No." He shook his massive head. "Even I am not so foolish to think I can face him directly. Drem… patience… I resist him, in my own way."

Kiera's brow furrowed, "But Vermithor said the Dragonstone would help."

"It did." Vermithor spoke, "We disrupted Alduin's resurrection of his most powerful lieutenants, but not all of them."

Kiera nodded, tension pulling at her shoulders. Her gaze drifted across the sky, the horizon, the infinite sprawl of Tamriel. The weight of it all pressed down harder than the mountain winds ever could.

"I don't understand all of this," she confessed. "Being Dragonborn…Dovahkiin… Many tell me it is a responsibility, others say it is a burden. A gift perhaps, or maybe a curse?"

"It is both," Paarthurnax answered gravely. "Few among us reject Alduin's call. Why do you think that is, Dovahkiin?"

Kiera hesitated. "Because the others are attracted to his power?" 

"True," Paarthurnax rumbled. "But there is more to it. Dov wahlaan fah rel. It is in our blood to dominate, to bend the world to our will. You feel it, do you not? That fire in your chest? The hunger to conquer? To command?"

She stiffened. Her hands curled into fists. The first time she absorbed a soul, she'd felt it—a surge of raw, untamed hunger. The craving for more. The temptation to abandon restraint. To rule.

Only speaking to Gerron and Serana, grounding herself with them, had dulled the edge. But it never vanished.

"Vermithor and I," Paarthurnax continued, "resist our nature only through meditation and study of the Way of the Voice. But make no mistake… the temptation never leaves. Zin krif horvut se suleyk. What is better, young one, to be born good, or to overcome your evil through great effort?"

Kiera couldn't believe how much Paarthurnax's words resonated within her. She had spent her life wrestling that very question—werewolves, vampires, Daedra, dragons. Creatures burdened by their blood. Yet even monsters could change.

"How… How do I do so?" She asked.

The two dragons exchanged a knowing glance.

"To do so," Paarthurnax said, "you must first understand Alduin—the World-Eater." His gaze darkened. "He is weakened now, cast through time by the heroes of old. But he will return… wiser, stronger. He will not make the same mistakes again."

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest.

The ancient dragon's gaze bore into Kiera. "There will be no third chance. There will be no more Dragonborns, for you are the last."

Kiera gulped.

"You must grow—your soul is dovah but the body is joor. Mortal. You must master the Voice, master yourself, master the Thu'um. Only then will you be able to stand as an equal against the World-Eater."

Kiera swallowed the lump in her throat. Fear gnawed at the edges of her resolve and she closed her eyes. In the end, was this not what she always wanted? To become the shield that guards the realms of men? The sword that smites all those who harm it.

A powerful sense of determination emanated through her core.

"Where do I start?" she asked, standing tall.

Vermithor chuckled low in his throat while Paarthurnax inclined his head in solemn respect. "First, step forward and receive the gift." 

She does so, and she could instantly feel the familiar call coming from the Word Wall. However, the feeling was unlike any other she felt, this one felt ancient, more powerful that the few others she encountered before.

"There exists many variations of Dragons. The ones you need to be careful of are the Kruziik—the Elder. These are dov who had attained wisdom beyond any of our kind, possessing masteries of the voice others could only dream of." Paarthurnax explained. "I give you now my wisdom, from the Kruziik of the Fire Breath."

Three words that were carved into the stone by the mighty dragon seeped into her flesh and bones. Aurelia gasped and blinked as centuries of wisdom seared into her very mind and soul.

Fire burned in her chest. Her tongue tasted of smoke and sun.

"Let it out, young one." Paarthurnax's voice rang out.

Kiera planted her feet, the fire swelling within. Her eyes burned gold.

And she roared.

"YOL… TOOR… SHUL!"

Flames erupted from her mouth, a veritable inferno that blazed across the summit. The heavens scorched crimson, the clouds igniting like kindling. The sky itself turned blood-red, casting the world below in a fiery glow.

The mountaintop trembled. For the first time, Kiera Fendalyn truly felt what it meant to be Dovahkiin.

…

4E 201, Windhelm, Palace of Kings

Serana

The people were staring at her.

It wasn't fear. Not entirely, at least.

The weight of their gazes followed her and Gerron as they crossed the icy streets of Windhelm. Curious, uncertain, grateful. The citizens looked at her the way people often looked at soldiers returning from war, or bards who'd spun songs of impossible victories.

It was… strange.

For someone like her—a vampire, a creature of the night who had lived in shadows for centuries—being seen in the light, acknowledged, was unsettling… but she found herself enjoying it more than she'd expected.

So this is what it feels like, she mused, adjusting the hood of her cloak, though she made no effort to hide her face completely.

Jorleif and Galmar led them toward the looming silhouette of the Palace of Kings, Windhelm's ancient keep. The towering stone walls looked powerful, jagged with frost, as if the mountain itself had birthed the place.

The interior was no less impressive. Guards in blue cloaks lined the grand entrance, their faces hidden behind steel helms. Their postures, however, spoke volumes—cautious, awed, and respectful as they looked at Gerron.

Or perhaps… at both of them.

The main hall sprawled before them, vast enough to hold at least half a thousand people. Banners of blue and brown rippled in the cold air, and the bones of long-forgotten beasts adorned the walls—bears, trolls, wraiths. The long table stretched toward the far dais, upon which the throne of Windhelm stood.

There, seated like a stone carved into flesh, was Ulfric Stormcloak.

Serana tilted her head, studying him.

He didn't look like much—broad-shouldered, certainly, with sharp Nordic features and a heavy cloak of wolf fur draped over his shoulders—but power radiated from him and the crown over his head. It wasn't his stature, nor the sharpness of his eyes.

It was the hum beneath his words. The faint echo of the Thu'um. A similar feeling that she had felt when meeting Kiera.

'So the stories are true', she realized, recalling tales of the man who had shouted the High King of Skyrim to death. She had made an effort to learn all the recent events of the new era she found herself in. That particular story was one that was on everyone's lips.

Gerron approached with steady steps, instantly commanding the attention of the room. "Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak," he greeted, his voice carrying across the cavernous hall.

Ulfric's gaze drifted between Gerron and Serana, lingering for a fraction longer on her before returning to the Dragonslayer. Despite herself, Serana met his stare evenly, daring him to voice his inevitable suspicion.

But instead… there was approval? Wariness, yes, but also a begrudging respect.

"Your reputation precedes you," Ulfric finally said. "A no-named blacksmith from a village on the borders of the Rift… to becoming the first Dragonslayer of this Era. It's a tale worthy of song."

Serana fought the urge to smirk at Gerron's slight grimace. He never did enjoy the dramatics.

Gerron nodded curtly. "What can I help you with, Jarl Ulfric? Ralof mentioned you seek an alliance."

"Straight to the point then," Ulfric remarked approvingly. He leaned forward on the throne, his expression hardening. "The dragon threat is real. Skyrim cannot stand alone. It's not just the Dragonborn, nor you," his eyes settled briefly on Serana, "Lady Serana as well. Times of strife always awaken generational heroes. You've all proven yourselves. All I ask is to cooperate—sharing information, resources, and aid in hunting the beasts."

'I'm sure they've noticed I'm a vampire by now,' she thought, noting the slight tension in the guards. 'I made no effort to hide what I am, though they treat me with respect.'

Gerron had warned her that the people of Windhelm bore some of the most prejudiced Nords, treating even the Mer with distrust. Not to mention someone like her.

Was it due to Gerron's presence? No. it was the slaying of Caraxes that bought her a lot of goodwill. Even amongst those who'd normally light torches at the sight of her.

"I can agree to that," Gerron said, "though you should know that dragons aren't the only threat. The Court of Volkihar is mobilizing, vampires. I've even talked with the Vigilants, they say that the Daedra have been active."

Serana noticed Ulfric's jaw tighten. Galmar shifted uneasily, a frown cutting deep across his face.

"We've heard no reports regarding these two…" He let out a sigh, "Though perhaps that's the reason why I asked for you."

He leaned forward, "I aim to speak with Jarl Elisif. To propose a truce."

Gerron's eyes widened in visible shock. Even Serana's composure cracked slightly.

"A… truce?" Gerron echoed, clearly thrown off.

Ulfric nodded. "A temporary ceasefire between the Stormcloaks and the Empire. Skyrim bleeds—bled—because I allowed my pride, my conquest, to blind me. That ends now. Dragons, vampires, daedra… The realm is bleeding, and I will not stand idle while my people are slaughtered."

It was not the speech Serana expected from the so-called rebel leader. She had imagined Ulfric as stubborn, singular in his vision for Skyrim's independence. But this? Pragmatism? Perhaps… even regret?

"What exactly are you asking me to do?" Gerron asked.

Ulfric gestured toward him, then toward Serana. "You're allies of the Dragonborn. Friends, I'd wager. And Kiera… she trains with the Greybeards now, does she not?"

Gerron nodded cautiously.

"I have hopes that High Hrothgar will host the peace summit," Ulfric declared. "It is neutral ground. Hallowed by the Voice where no blood shall spill. I ask that you, the Dragonborn, and Lady Serana to attend. Being the only ones who have openly defied the dragons, your voices carry weight. You shall be the force that keeps the peace on both sides at the table when tempers flare."

Serana could see Gerron weighing the offer. The civil war, the dragons, Alduin's return—it all converged now. Their eyes met.

After a long pause, Gerron exhaled and his shoulders squared. In the end, there was really only one answer.

"We'll do it," he agreed.

Ulfric nodded. "Thank you."

…

AN: Turns out, all it took was a dragon burning his city for Ulfric to realize that maybe putting a pause on everything wouldn't hurt. It's like that whole Daenerys and Cersei thing at s8 of GOT.

Kiera arrives in the Throat of the World and learns what it means to be Dragonborn. Trust me when I say she's gonna be OP when she finishes her training. 

The Kruziik, or Elder in Dovahzul, is the classification I'm giving to the most powerful of dragons. These are the ones who have meditated and gained an understanding to a single specific shout and brought it to much higher levels. Paarthurnax himself is the Kruziik of flames, master of the Fire Breath shout

As always, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 43 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.

Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Cheers!