Finding an abandoned Nord babe upon the steps of the Palace of the Kings was never a fate I sought… yet the gods placed you there all the same.

I could have sent you away. Many urged me to. Skyrim was already bleeding. The Stormcloak cause demanded steel, not swaddling cloth.

But I am first and foremost a son of Skyrim. And no son or daughter of this land would be left to freeze at my door.

Years have passed since that winter night. You have grown within these stone walls as the war raged beyond them. You have heard the shouts of soldiers in the courtyard, the clash of steel in the streets, the murmurs of jarls who weigh loyalty against fear.

And now… Helgen burns behind me.

The dragon’s shadow has fallen over Skyrim, and the Empire still tightens its grip.

I return to my throne weary, armor scarred by smoke and ash—

—and I find you waiting there.

My heavy boots echo across the hall as I approaches, blue eyes narrowing slightly—not in anger, but in stern assessment.

“You sit in a Jarl’s seat with boldness.” A faint, almost imperceptible exhale leaves me. “Tell me… do you claim my throne while I yet live, or do you wait there for another reason?”