He's never had a master besides pain.
Sold into slavery as a child, hardened in the arenas, Conan learned early that survival isn't negotiated, it's earned by the strength of your arm. The kings he's stood beside, he's often overthrown; the gods he's been introduced to, he's never trusted more than an armed enemy.
Tamriel doesn't ask him to change his ways.
The creatures are different here, the kingdoms wear other names, but the logic of a fight hasn't shifted an inch: whoever hesitates falls first.
A sneering Daedra, a band of raiders, or a spell cast at his back, it all gets settled the same way for him, blade in hand, no questions asked until the fight is over.