Open Field, Hidden Knives

Ibnor met the housecarl's gaze unflinchingly.

"By the right of a Dragon Rider," he declared, his voice ringing with a chilling authority. "I speak the language of dragons, I feel their power in my very bones. While your Jarl cowers in his Longhouse, I have faced the very creatures that threaten this land! I offer Dawnstar not just words, but the strength and protection of one who understands the dragon's fury." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. "These are desperate times, and desperate times call for a leader who can face any threat, be it man or beast."

A stunned silence fell over the square, broken only by the crackling of the torches. Then, a ripple of whispers began to spread through the crowd, a mixture of awe, fear, and disbelief. One of the citizens, who had always dismissed dragon stories as old wives' tales, now stared at Ibnor with wide eyes, his jaw slack. He'd heard the rumors, the outlandish tales of a dragon answering a man's call during the siege in Whiterun. He had dismissed them as the ramblings of frightened refugees, but now, seeing the unwavering confidence in Ibnor's eyes, doubt crept into his heart. 

The housecarl's hand tightened on his sword hilt, his eyes flickering between Ibnor and the crowd. He'd heard whispers from Falkreath as well, about Ibnor's abrupt departure, the loss of his title. It was all starting to connect, forming a disturbing picture. The crowd's reaction was palpable, a growing tide of belief washing over the square.

Skald's breath hitched. He'd dismissed the rumors as mere whispers, as attempts to discredit Ibnor after… after what had happened. But the crowd's reaction, the way they were looking at Ibnor with a mixture of awe and terror, sent a chill down his spine. The confidence radiating from Ibnor, coupled with the desperation of his own people, made the impossible seem suddenly plausible. He glanced at Brina, a desperate plea for reassurance in his eyes, but she simply met his gaze with a look of quiet resolve, confirming his worst fears. Her decision was made.

"Very well," Skald finally conceded, his voice trembling slightly, barely audible above the now-renewed murmurs of the crowd. "I accept your challenge… Ibnor."

A roar erupted from the crowd, a wave of sound that washed over the Longhouse and echoed through the streets of Dawnstar. The tension that had hung heavy in the air for days, the thick blanket of fear and exhaustion, seemed to momentarily lift, replaced by a raw, electric excitement. They had a contest. They had a chance for change.

The housecarl, still standing protectively in front of Skald, lowered his hand from his sword hilt, his face a mask of grim acceptance. He knew the old Nord customs as well as anyone. A challenge issued publicly, and accepted, could not be denied.

"What form will this challenge take?" Ibnor asked, his voice calm and measured, cutting through the lingering echoes of the crowd's roar. He turned to Skald, offering a respectful nod, though his eyes held a steely glint. "The customs dictate we must agree on the manner of the contest."

Skald hesitated, his mind racing. He was no great warrior, his strength lying in diplomacy and governance, skills that were useless in this situation. He glanced at Brina again, hoping for some guidance, but she remained silent, her gaze fixed on Ibnor. A cold dread settled in his stomach. He was outmaneuvered, outmatched, and utterly alone.

"A duel," Skald finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

It was the simplest, most direct form of challenge, and perhaps the only one he had any chance of surviving. Though his chances were slim. Ibnor considered this for a moment, then nodded. 

"A duel it shall be," he declared, his voice ringing out across the square, addressing the crowd once more. "We will meet within the hour on the field of honor, by the frozen stream. Let the preparations begin! May the Divines witness our contest and grant victory to the one who deserves it."

The crowd roared its approval, the chants of "Ibnor! Ibnor! Ibnor!" echoing through the night. 

The tension had shifted again, from fear and desperation to anticipation and excitement. They had a spectacle to look forward to, a chance to witness the changing of the guard, and it wasn't going to make them wait another agonizing, nightmare-filled night.

As the crowd began to disperse, buzzing with excitement and speculation, Brina approached Ibnor, her expression serious. 

"Ibnor," she began, her voice low, "this… this is a dangerous game you're playing."

"All games are dangerous, Brina," Ibnor replied, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "It's the stakes that make them interesting." He paused, his gaze meeting hers. "I understand your loyalty to Skald, but I also see your concern for Dawnstar. I assure you, my intentions are for the good of this city."

Brina looked at him, searching his eyes for any sign of deception. She saw only confidence, determination, and a hint of something else… a deep-seated ambition that made her uneasy. She knew that Ibnor was a force to be reckoned with, a man who would stop at nothing to achieve his goals. And she couldn't shake the feeling that Dawnstar was now caught in the wake of his ambition.

"The people…" she began, her voice tight, "they're desperate. Skald… he hasn't done anything to help them. This nightmare… it's tearing the city apart." She paused, her gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before meeting Ibnor's again, a flicker of reluctant acceptance in her eyes. 

"I hope you're right," she said finally, her voice low. "For Dawnstar's sake, I truly hope you're right."

She then remained near the edge of the makeshift arena, watching as the preparations for the duel began, her gaze fixed on the field where the fate of Dawnstar would soon be decided. The night was now thick with anticipation. The stage was set. The hour was upon them.

The crowd surged towards the frozen stream, a torchlit procession snaking its way through the narrow streets of Dawnstar. The air was crisp and cold, the breath of the onlookers forming small white clouds in the night air. The frozen stream, usually a quiet trickle, now reflected the flickering flames of the torches, turning the ice into a river of fire.

The field of honor was a small, cleared area beside the stream, usually used for training or small gatherings. Now, it was transformed into a makeshift arena, the crowd forming a rough circle around the designated dueling ground. Guards, still unsure of their role in this sudden turn of events, attempted to maintain some semblance of order, keeping the crowd from encroaching too closely.

The housecarl stepped back, the weight of the moment settling heavily on the small field. The crowd, still buzzing with the revelation of Ibnor's title, parted slightly, creating a clearer space for the impending duel. The flickering torchlight danced on the faces of the onlookers, casting long, dramatic shadows that seemed to amplify the tension.

Skald stood rigid, his hand gripping his sword tightly. The initial fear had given way to a grim determination. He knew he was outmatched, but he would not surrender without a fight. He had been Jarl of Dawnstar for years, and he would not relinquish his position without putting up some resistance, even if it was a futile one.

Ibnor, in contrast, remained relaxed, his posture suggesting a practiced ease. He held Bolar's Oathblade loosely in one hand, the relic of the Blades feeling strangely light in his hand, yet he knew its edge was keen enough to cut through bone. His gaze steady and focused on Skald. There was no arrogance in his expression, only a quiet confidence that radiated outwards, further unsettling the Jarl.

Brina stood near the front of the crowd, her arms crossed tightly. Her mind raced. She knew Ibnor was a skilled warrior; she had seen the way he carried himself, the subtle movements that betrayed years of training. Skald, on the other hand, was a politician, not a fighter. He had some basic training from his youth, as all Nord men did, but he was no match for a Dragon Rider. She felt a pang of guilt, knowing that she had inadvertently played a part in this. Had she been more supportive of Skald, perhaps this challenge wouldn't have happened. But she also knew that the people's desperation had reached a breaking point, and someone needed to act.

Erandur, his face etched with worry, muttered a silent prayer to Mara, asking for protection for both men and for the city. He had hoped for a peaceful resolution to the nightmares, but now he could only pray that this conflict would not escalate into further violence. The housecarl raised his hand once more, silencing the murmurs of the crowd.

"The duel will be to draw the first blood," he reiterated, his voice echoing across the field. "No magic is permitted. Only steel and skill. May the Divines be our witnesses." He lowered his hand, and the two men stood facing each other, the only sound the crackling of the torches and the soft whisper of the wind off the frozen stream.

The silence stretched, thick with anticipation. Skald took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He shifted his weight slightly, adjusting his grip on his sword. He knew he had to make the first move, to take the initiative, or he would be at Ibnor's mercy.

He lunged.

It was a clumsy, desperate attack, more a surge of adrenaline than a calculated maneuver. He swung his sword in a wide arc, hoping to catch Ibnor off guard.

Ibnor, however, seemed to anticipate the attack before it even began. He moved with a speed that belied his relaxed posture, sidestepping the clumsy swing with effortless grace. Bolar's Oathblade flashed, a razor-sharp edge tracing a precise arc towards Skald's arm.

The edge of Ibnor's blade kissed Skald's arm, a searing line of pain blossoming across his flesh. Skald's eyes widened in surprise as he felt the sharp sting. He stumbled back, clutching the wound, his face contorted in pain. The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath that echoed across the field, followed by a wave of excited murmurs and shouts. The housecarl raised his hand immediately.

"First blood!" he declared, his voice booming across the square. 

The housecarl stepped forward, examining the shallow cut on Skald's arm. A thin trickle of blood ran down his forearm, staining his tunic.

"First blood, as declared. The duel is over!" the housecarl confirmed, his voice echoing across the now-silent field. He turned to Ibnor and gave a curt nod.

Skald staggered back, clutching his arm, his face pale and his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and disbelief. It was over. Just like that. He had been defeated, not by brute force or overwhelming skill, but by a swift, precise strike that had ended the contest almost as soon as it began.

Ibnor lowered Bolar's Oathblade, his expression unchanged. He looked at Skald, then at the crowd, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the onlookers. He raised his voice, addressing them all.

"The challenge is complete," he declared. "I now claim the right to lead Dawnstar, by the will of the people and by the ancient right of challenge." He paused, his gaze settling on Brina. "And I promise you," he continued, his voice ringing with conviction, "I will bring rest to this city."

A hesitant ripple of applause broke out from the crowd, quickly growing into a more enthusiastic, though still somewhat subdued, cheer. It wasn't a celebration of Skald's defeat, but a recognition of the shift in power, a hope for the change Ibnor had promised.

Skald stood there for a moment, clutching his arm, his face a mask of disbelief. He looked from Ibnor to the crowd, then to Brina, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer. He saw no pity in her eyes, only a quiet acceptance, and that hurt more than any wound. A bitter taste rose in his throat. He had dedicated years of his life to Dawnstar, to its people, and now, with a single, swift strike, it was all taken from him. Not by force of arms in a pitched battle, but in a contest of skill against a man who claimed the right of legend. He straightened his shoulders, a flicker of his former Jarl-like bearing returning. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing him crumble.

Without a word to Ibnor, or even a final glance at the crowd, Skald turned and walked slowly towards the Longhouse, the heavy door closing behind him with a resounding thud that echoed across the square. His steps were measured, but his shoulders slumped slightly, betraying the weight of his defeat. He would not beg for their approval, nor would he curse them for their fickle support. He would simply leave, taking his wounded pride and bitter memories with him.

Ibnor watched him go, a hint of sympathy in his eyes, but his expression quickly shifted back to one of resolute determination as he turned to address the crowd. 

"People of Dawnstar," he began, his voice ringing with conviction, but softening slightly as he looked at the exhausted faces in the crowd. "I see your pain. I feel it as if it were my own. This torment, these nightmares… they must end. I have heard your cries, and I answer now, not just as your Jarl, but as one of you. I go now to confront this darkness. I promise you, the next time you seek sleep, it will be a true respite. When I return, you will know true peace of mind."

The crowd erupted in cheers, this time with genuine enthusiasm. The chants of "Ibnor! Ibnor! Ibnor!" returned, louder and more fervent than before. 

They saw in him a leader who was willing to act, a man who had not just made promises but had already proven his willingness to fight for them.

Ibnor raised a hand, silencing the crowd once more. He looked at Brina, a reassuring smile on his face. 

"Brina, keep everything running smoothly while I'm gone," he said, his voice carrying clearly across the field. "Just a quick errand. I'm just going to… see these nightmares out." His gaze swept over the crowd, a wink in his eye before returning to Brina. "I'll be back soon, and when I am, you can all finally get some proper rest."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. This was unexpected. They had expected a celebration, a period of consolidation. Instead, their new Jarl was immediately taking action, embarking on a quest to solve the very problem that had brought him to power.

Brina, her expression firm, nodded. 

"As you command, Jarl." She replied, her voice steady and resolute. She would uphold her duty. She would protect Dawnstar in his absence.

Ibnor gave her a brief nod of acknowledgement, then turned and strode purposefully towards the gates of Dawnstar. The scabbard of Bolar's Oathblade, worn at his hip, swayed slightly with each confident stride, the Akaviri steel within catching the torchlight in fleeting flashes. The crowd watched him go, a mixture of awe, hope, and a touch of apprehension in their eyes. Their new leader had made a bold promise, and now he was going to fulfill it. The weight of their hope, and their fear, went with him into the night.

While Ibnor strode purposefully out of Dawnstar, leaving the cheering crowd behind, a different kind of observation was taking place in the shadows. Hidden amongst the onlookers, cloaked and unseen, were the members of the Dark Brotherhood, their faces obscured by hoods. They had witnessed the entire spectacle: Ibnor's arrival, his challenge to Skald, the swift and decisive duel, and his subsequent promise to end the city's torment.

As the crowd dispersed, the assassins melted back into the darkness, converging at a pre-arranged meeting point just outside the city walls. They gathered in a secluded copse of trees, the only light coming from the faint glow of Dawnstar's torches in the distance.

Astrid lowered her hood, her expression thoughtful. "Well," she began, her voice low and measured, "that was… certainly a display."

Gabriella, her eyes still wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension, nodded in agreement. "The speed… the precision… it was almost… unsettling. He barely broke a sweat."

Festus Krex cackled, a manic gleam in his eyes. "And the way he invoked the right of a Dragon Rider! Such audacity! Such… flair!"

Arnbjorn, still nursing a bruised ego (and a few sore ribs from his earlier encounter with Ibnor), grunted. "He's strong, I'll give him that. But strength isn't everything."

Astrid turned to him, her expression firm. "No, Arnbjorn, it isn't. But he possesses more than just strength. He possesses… presence. He commands attention. He inspires belief." She paused, her gaze sweeping over the assembled assassins. "And he delivers on his promises."

Veezara, who had remained silent throughout the journey and the duel, finally spoke, his voice low and gravelly. "He spoke of ending the nightmares. He intends to confront their source directly."

A heavy silence fell over the group. They had all felt the oppressive atmosphere in Dawnstar, the palpable fear and exhaustion that hung over the city like a shroud. If Ibnor could truly end that torment, it would be a demonstration of power far greater than any duel.

"He said he was going to 'see these nightmares out'," Gabriella murmured, her voice laced with a hint of unease. "What does that even mean?"

Festus cackled again, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Oh, I do hope it involves some grand ritual or ancient magic! That would be simply delightful!"

Astrid silenced him with a sharp glance. "This is not a game, Festus. This is… significant. If Ibnor succeeds in ending the nightmares, it will solidify his position not just as Jarl of Dawnstar, but as a figure of immense power throughout Skyrim."

Babette finally spoke, her voice chillingly calm and clear. "He is the Guild Master."

A collective intake of breath swept through the group. The realization was immediate and profound. The Lord of Helgen… the man who had just claimed Dawnstar… was also the head of the Thieves Guild. The implications of this revelation were staggering. It wasn't just about overlapping skills in stealth and subterfuge; it was about control of two powerful, clandestine organizations.

"He's been playing a long game," Nazir murmured, his eyes narrowing. "Using both organizations to further his own ambitions."

"Perhaps," Astrid conceded. "Or perhaps he sees the potential for a truly powerful alliance. He spoke of merging the Brotherhood with the Guild. Two powerful organizations united under one leader. The possibilities are… intriguing." She paused, her gaze sweeping over the faces of her companions. "Think of the resources, the reach… combining our networks, our skills… We could achieve things we never dreamed possible within the confines of the Brotherhood's current state."

Arnbjorn grunted again. "If he thinks he can control us, he's mistaken. We are the Dark Brotherhood. We answer to no one but the Night Mother."

"And yet," Astrid countered, her voice low and measured, "the Night Mother has been silent for a long time. The Sanctuary has been dwindling, our contracts… less meaningful. Perhaps… perhaps it is time for a new direction, a chance to reclaim our former glory. Ibnor offers us that chance." She paused, her gaze sweeping over the faces of her companions. "He offers us a new purpose, a new direction. Whether we choose to follow him is a decision we must make carefully. But we cannot deny that he has shown us something… extraordinary. He has shown us a path to power, influence, and perhaps, a return to true significance."

Suddenly, a voice spoke from behind them, startling the assembled assassins. "Discussing my… methods, are we?"

Ibnor stood at the edge of the copse, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He had moved with his characteristic speed, appearing seemingly out of thin air.

A collective gasp went through the group. Hands instinctively went to hilts and hidden daggers. Astrid's eyes narrowed, her surprise quickly shifting to a steely composure.

"Ibnor," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "We were merely… reviewing the events of the evening."

Ibnor offered a subtle smile, his gaze sweeping over each of them. "Of course. A prudent course of action. But I assure you, there's no need for such… secrecy." He stepped further into the copse, the faint light of Dawnstar's torches catching the steel of Bolar's Oathblade at his hip. "I trust you all understand the… potential of our… arrangement."

Nazir, ever the pragmatist, was the first to recover. He lowered his hand from his scimitar and offered a respectful nod. "Indeed, Jarl Ibnor. The possibilities are… considerable."

Gabriella, still slightly unnerved by his sudden appearance, simply nodded silently. Festus, however, let out a delighted cackle. "Oh, this is simply splendid! To be observed while observing! Such delightful layers of intrigue!"

Arnbjorn remained tense, his hand still hovering near his axe. He glared at Ibnor, his suspicion evident. "We are not your puppets," he growled.

Ibnor's smile widened slightly. "Of course not, Arnbjorn. I value your… independence. But I also value… loyalty. And I believe that our goals… are more aligned than you might think." He paused, his gaze settling on Astrid. "I trust you will all remain in Dawnstar, as planned? To… further observe?"

Astrid met his gaze, her expression unreadable. "We will," she confirmed, her voice steady.

Ibnor nodded, his smile fading slightly, replaced by a more serious expression. "Excellent. I will return soon. And when I do… we will have much to discuss." With a final nod, he turned and vanished once more into the night, leaving the assassins in stunned silence. The weight of his presence lingered in the air, a silent reminder of the power he wielded and the uncertain future that lay before them.

(Non-Canon: A Brief Glimpse into a More… Chaotic Future)

As his figure faded into the darkness, the silence was broken by Nazir, who finally exhaled a long breath. "He's been playing a long game," he murmured, his eyes narrowing. "Probably been pilfering our contracts to pad his Guild's coffers. Cheeky sod."

"Perhaps," Astrid conceded, rubbing her temples. "Or perhaps he sees the potential for a truly… chaotic alliance. He spoke of merging the Brotherhood with the Guild. Imagine the paperwork." She shuddered. "Think of the requisition forms for poisons versus lockpicks. The inter-organizational memos about proper assassination etiquette versus acceptable levels of larceny. It's a logistical nightmare."

"Imagine the holiday parties," Gabriella groaned. "One minute we're chanting to the Night Mother, the next we're toasting to… what, exactly? Nocturnal? Gold? Sticky fingers?"

Festus Krex cackled, rubbing his hands together with glee. "Oh, the pranks! Imagine the pranks! We could replace their lockpicks with exploding runes! We could swap their poisons for… itching powder! Oh, the possibilities are simply… delectable!"

Arnbjorn grunted. "If he tries to make me wear a fancy Guild uniform, I'll rip his throat out. I'd rather be naked in the snow."