Chapter Text
Mitchell was looking for Narnia when he stumbled across Tamriel. Not to imply that it was a serious mission. One too many tequila shots with his cousins had been the culprit behind the quest. Like a drunken tool, he automatically agreed when his cousins proposed the idea. None of them ever actually expected to find anything. It was just a dumb game, take another drink every time you don't find something! And yet, here he was.
The last thing Mitch remembered was opening up a weird looking door in the lodge's attic. Next thing he new was being suddenly jolted awake by a bump in the road. "Mother of fuck!" He exclaimed, jumping up a bit.
"What in the hell am I doing here?" He hissed, holding his head in his rope-bound hands. "I am never doing shots with those pricks again. I feel like I've been wrecked by a half ton, jaysus."
The man who sat across from him in the cart looked slightly alarmed. "Are you alright, stranger?" He asked carefully, taken off guard by the foreigner's sudden shouting.
At least, the man looked foreign. With short but curly brown hair, tan skin, sharp blue eyes, and a strange black rectangular facial device he wore over them. His clothes also indicated someone who wasn't from around Skyrim. Strange pants of a dark blue material, with a thin short tunic and a hooded jacket with strings attached to it.
"Very fuckin' best." Growled Mitchell sardonically at the blond haired stranger who looked like Thor's long lost twin.
"Easy, friend. No need to get hostile." The stranger tried the reassure. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush. Same as us, and that thief over there."
Before Mitchell could ask where he was, the thief spoke up. "Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along!"
He turned to Mitchell. "You there! You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these damn Stormcloaks the empire wants."
"What the fuck's a Stormcloak?" Asked Mitchell flatly.
He glanced at the man bound up and gagged next to him. "And who's this motherfucker? The one dressed like fucking Thorin or some shit."
The bound man looked at him, an unreadable expression on his face. The man across from Mitch looked insulted at his words. "Watch what you say! You are speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!" He declared.
"Thank you, Davos." Muttered Mitch, rolling his eyes. "Personally more of Daenerys guy myself."
Mitch shook his head, looking to the sky as the thief started to freak out. Quickly the blond engaged him in a conversation, and Mitch could ignore the both of them in favour of staring ahead. He idly tried to break his binds but the rope was too strong. It was times like this he missed his pocketknife.
As the convoy rolled to a stop, everyone was ordered off of the wagons and instructed to proceed to the chopping block by name. One by one they proceeded. Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm. Ralof of Riverwood. Lokir of Rokirstead. Mitch watched in shock as Lokir took off running, only to be shot down by one well placed arrow. "Unholy fucker of mothers." He whispered in terror.
"You, step forth." Instructed the Captain.
Mitch found himself obeying quickly. "Who are you?" Asked the man.
"Mitchell Xavier. Of Canada. Who is really hungover right now and just wants to get the fuck back home and off of this shit trip." Mitchell replied, coming to the conclusion that this had to be a dream.
The Captain barked at him to watch his tongue. The man looked hesitant. "He's not on the list."
"Forget the list, he goes to the block." Ordered the Captain icily.
"By your orders, Captain. My apologies, friend." The man attempted to console Mitch, but found nothing comforting to utter.
"Fuck it, it ain't your fault." Replied Mitch as he walked forward. "Besides, this is probably just a dream. I'll wake up as soon as I bite the dust. Pull an Inception."
Mitch listened to the General's tirade about the war, and the Priestess's opening about some gods. As the priestess was interrupted by the death-seeking rebel, who on the block said aloud "My ancestors are smiling on me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"
"Not even a guillotine. My French ancestors are crying in shame." Mitch drawled.
The rebel's head was sliced off. Mitchell had to use all of his willpower to not puke everywhere. Another noise, the same one that had rung out before the first execution, distracted the group briefly before the Captain ordered Mitch to the block. Mitch slapped himself across the face with his hands. "Ow, fuck! Not a dream then!"
The Captain yelled at him in aggravation. "Okay, Jesus Christ! I'm fucking going!" He shouted back.
Mitch walked to the chopping block, scared shitless and praying for someone or something to intervene. All he could think to do was stall, so stall he did. "Isn't it illegal to execute someone without proof that they did shit? That's fucking murder!" He said, turning to face the General. "Is it a crime to cross a goddamn border? I demand to speak to my lawyer!"
The General gave him a strange look. "On the block, Prisoner. Stop spewing your nonsense."
Before anything else could happen, a giant fucking dragon landed on the nearest tower. And that was when shit truly hit the fan.
"Come on, the gods won't give us another chance!" Shouted Ralof to Mitchell as all hell broke lose.
Mitch scrambled to his feet as fire caught around him. He ran like the wind, chasing after Ralof while trying to not hyperventilate. Quickly the two entered into the Keep. Once inside, Mitchell let himself freak out. "Holy fucking tits! Dragons! An actual fucking dragon!" His terror was replaced by a sudden giddiness. "It's all Targaryen up in this bitch!"
Ralof and Ulfric both bore incredulous expressions on their faces as Mitchell exclaimed "I fucking love dragons!"