Wolf King of Oblivion

The great halls of the White-Gold Tower gleamed in the morning light, a testament to the restoration of an Empire once thought lost. Emperor Jon Whitewolf sat upon the Ruby Throne, his sharp grey eyes scanning the chamber as his council debated their next move. His armor, though ceremonial, bore the marks of a ruler who had not forgotten the weight of battle. The Amulet of Kings rested against his chest, its faint glow a constant reminder of the divine destiny he carried.

"Westeros is the next logical step," Selina Ashenvale, his chief advisor, said. Her tone was calm yet firm, the kind of voice that had guided Jon through countless diplomatic negotiations. "You've reestablished ties with the Summerset Isles, Hammerfell, and Black Marsh. Even the Orsinium has sworn its loyalty. Westeros is the only major power still unaccounted for."

Jon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Westeros…" He let the word hang in the air, heavy with meaning. The memories of his childhood, of Winterfell, of being Jon Snow, surged unbidden. "It's been a long time."

"Too long," Selina replied. "If your family still lives, they will want to see you. And establishing an alliance with the Seven Kingdoms would secure the Empire's influence across the sea."

Jauffre, the Grandmaster of the Blades, stepped forward. His face, lined with age and experience, was set in a deep frown. "With respect, Your Majesty, Westeros is a land of treachery. You know this better than most. If we proceed, we must do so cautiously. The safety of the Emperor is paramount."

Jon nodded. "I agree. If we go, I want every precaution taken. The Blades will plant agents ahead of our arrival. No one will so much as draw a blade in my direction without us knowing."

Jauffre inclined his head. "It will be done, Your Majesty."

Later that evening, Jon stood in the training yard of the Imperial Palace. Around him, his elite bodyguards—Lyara Emberforge, Drogan Darkstream, Isolde Swiftwing, and Brunar Hollowfist—practiced their craft with ruthless efficiency. Each of them had been personally trained by Jon, and their skills were unparalleled, rivaling even his own.

Lyara Emberforge, a master of destruction magic, hurled fireballs with precision that could rival an archer's arrow. Her fiery red hair and piercing green eyes made her a striking figure on the battlefield.

Drogan Darkstream, clad in blackened armor, wielded his greatsword with a grace that belied its size. A brooding figure with a past shrouded in mystery, Drogan's loyalty to Jon was unwavering.

Isolde Swiftwing, a slender figure with hair as white as snow, darted through the yard with twin blades flashing in the moonlight. Her speed and dexterity were unmatched, earning her the nickname "The Wind's Edge."

Brunar Hollowfist, a towering Nord, struck his sparring partner with enough force to send them sprawling. Despite his intimidating size, Brunar had a sharp mind and a dry wit that kept the group grounded.

Selina Ashenvale watched from the sidelines, her arms crossed as she observed their movements. "You've trained them well, Your Majesty," she said as Jon approached.

"They've earned their place," Jon replied. "Every one of them is the best at what they do. I'd trust them with my life."

Selina smiled faintly. "You may need to. Westeros is not a place to tread lightly."

That evening, Jon gathered his council in the Emperor's private chambers. A map of Tamriel and the known world lay spread across the table, with Westeros marked prominently to the west.

"I'll go to Westeros," Jon announced, his voice steady. "But I'll do so on my terms. The Blades will secure the path ahead of us, and I'll bring my guard. If anything feels off, we leave immediately."

Selina placed a hand on his arm. "Are you sure, Jon? This is your family we're talking about. Old wounds may reopen."

Jon's gaze hardened. "I have to know, Selina. I have to see what's become of them. And if forging an alliance with Westeros helps secure the future of the Empire, then it's a risk worth taking."

Jauffre stepped forward, his expression grim. "We'll leave nothing to chance. I've already dispatched agents to Westeros. By the time you arrive, we'll have eyes in every corner of the Seven Kingdoms."

Jon nodded, his resolve firm. "Then it's settled. We set sail within the week."

As the council dispersed, Jon found himself alone in the throne room, staring out at the city below. The lights of the Imperial City shimmered in the distance, a testament to the restoration he had overseen. The people loved him, and the Empire was stronger than ever. But the thought of Westeros stirred something deep within him—a mixture of longing and unease.

He rested a hand on the Amulet of Kings, its warmth grounding him. "Martin," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I hope I'm making the right choice."

The silence offered no answers, but Jon knew he couldn't turn back now. His past and his future were on a collision course, and he would face them head-on.