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Chapter Text

The courier ran the familiar route down the path beside Lake Ilinalta. He had run it many times before. He knew there was little chance of being jumped by a wolfpack. Still, he held the hilt of his sword as he ran, just in case. Falkreath might be one of the safer holds, but this was still Skyrim after all.

As his ears strained for any indication of attack on the ground, the courier's eyes swept the sky. Though it had been five years since the death of Alduin, dragons still soared through the skies, though not so many now as there had once been and their attacks were rare. Still it was not unheard of for the odd merchant wagon or travelling adventurer to mysteriously vanish, or else be discovered dead in the middle of a patch of scorched earth.

Not for the first time, the courier wondered why men like him must needs be dispatched alone. Surely the added security of being in a group was worth sacrificing a little time to ensure a message reached its intended recipient?

The courier sighed as he rounded a bend that would lead him away from the lake and towards his destination. He glanced up the other road that led to Rorikstead. His family were up that road. It had been many weeks since he had last visited the old farmstead. He was probably due some time off. He heaved another sigh and kept on running. There would be time enough for that later, duty must come first.

He had been dispatched the day before from Whiterun with an important message, by no lesser man that Jarl Balgruuf himself.

'Get this into his hands,' the Jarl had commanded, fixing him with a glare that would give a sabre cat pause for thought, 'I don't care what it takes, you get this to him.'

The courier had been running ever since. He had only stopped when he had reached Riverwood, when night was starting to creep in. Though it was still light enough to see the road, he had not fancied trying to find a place to sleep in Helgen. The town may well have been rebuilt but there were few honest men who chose to make that cursed place home. Fortunately Orgnar had given him a room and a mug of ale for the few septims he had.

'What brings you out here?' Orgnar had asked with his usual brusqueness. They had known each other for many years. Orgnar had sometimes visited Rorikstead with his father and the courier had made a point to visit whenever he was close to Riverwood ever since Orgnar had started working at the Sleeping Giant.

The courier had cast his eyes around the large, smoky room. Orgnar might be his friend but he was fairly sure divulging the contents of what he was carrying would be something he'd loose his job for, if he was lucky.

'Business,' he'd said at last, evasively, 'the usual.'

'Uh huh,' Organr had said, his look a little too knowing, before saying, 'he's still at Lakeview, in case you were wondering. Least he was last I heard.'

The courier had grunted softly. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Orgnar had always been able to see to the heart of a matter. It was a gift he had. In truth he was glad to hear this, it meant he was going the right way, not wasting his time. Still, it was probably for the best that he had changed the subject then. No need for anyone in the Sleeping Giant to start asking questions.

'Still no word from Delphine?' he had asked, innocently, taking a sip from his tankard. Orgnar had taken his turn to grunt.

'No,' he'd said, his face showing nothing, 'haven't heard from her since she left. Not since the damn war. Alduin died and still nothing. She said she likely wouldn't be coming back when she left, I think that was the truth.'

The courier had taken another sip. He felt for Orgnar. He might not give anything away but he had a hunch the gruff barkeep had cared more for Delphine than as just an employer. He'd had the chance to meet Delphine a couple of times before the civil war. A handsome woman who had certainly had a fire in her. The courier could certainly understand Orgnar's attraction.

Unfortunately, he'd been unable to get close to Riverwood during the civil war, so poor Orgnar had been left with none but those mutton heads who called the village home until after the war was over. And here he was now, off to deliver a message to the reason why.

The courier heard his breath come hissing between his teeth as he crested a hill. He'd had mixed feeling about this from the start. On the one hand, all the man had done, what he was alone, made him something that should be held in the utmost respect of any true Nord. But at the same time, he was the man who had led the assault on Windhelm, had killed Jarl Ulfric and, with him, the Stormcloak dream of a Skyrim free of imperial rule, of the clutching hands of the Thalmor. How could any true Nord not despise that, and him for what he did?

The courier had been running messages for the stormcloaks during the war and it had been his unhappy task to run the final message to the Winterhold camp.
'The Imperials have taken Windhelm,' it had said, 'Ulfric is dead.'

Those simple words had echoed across Skyrim like a hammer hitting a gong. There were some who had not let the dream die. There were still some Stormcloaks at large today, living the lives of outlaws in the wilds. But many, like himself, had lost the spirit of the fight. The spirit had died with Jarl Ulfric. He had taken service with the new jarl of Eastmarch. It had been that or head to the Rift and the courier would have rather eaten his own shoes after a long day's run than serve a Thalmor lapdog like Maven Blackbriar.
Finally the house came into view. It was a grandiose affair, certainly more impressive than any other homestead one was likely to find in Falkreath Hold, a sweeping building with two wings and a high tower and a stables where two horses whinneyed and nickered in the autumn chill.

From the other side of the house, the courier could hear the sound of children playing.

'Keep your shield up!' One voice, a girl's, shouted insistently.

'Don't be so rough with him!' another girl shouted over the sound of an infantile warcry from what sounded like a boy even younger than the first two.

'You'll play nicely or I'll take those swords away,' another, more mature, female voice called, 'Llewellyn, would you mind keeping an eye on them?'

Llewellyn's reply was not loud enough to hear, not that it mattered for the courier had just caught sight of the man he had been sent to find. His breath caught in his throat.

It was him.

To look at, he seemed much like any other Nord. He was tall, well muscled and tanned from travel, but it would be hard to find a Nord warrior who wasn't, with thick, dark hair that fell to just above his shoulders and was tied back with a length of cord. Even the man's clothes were ordinary. A simple red tunic and patched, brown trousers with boots made of simple leather. No decoration of any kind apart from a simple wedding band on his finger and an amulet that hung from a leather thong around his neck, tucked into his tunic.

But there could be no denying who the man was, what he had done. This was the figure of so many stories now told in taverns and palaces across the land. The man who had unified Skyrim, the Dragon Slayer, the man who had performed so many great deeds that the gods alone would be able to name them all. At his waist hung the sword that was now almost as legendary as the man who wielded it. Dragon's Breath, the sword that had killed vampire lords, dragons and saved the world.

No matter the opinion any son or daughter of Skyrim might have of the man, the courier could not help being awe struck at the sight of him.

So transfixed was he by the sight of that blade that he barely noticed the one now bared before him.

'Who are you?' a deep, woman's voice challenged, 'What business have you here?'

The courier turned to see a woman stood before him, a Redguard, clad in armour made of dragon bone that covered everything but her head, which was wrapped in a hood after the fashion of her people. In her hand was gripped a sword, also dragon bone, the blade of which gleamed with enchantment. This could only be one of the famous housecarls. The courier seemed to recall this one was named Rayya.

'An urgent message,' the courier said, hurriedly, 'for the Dragonborn!'

The name nearly caught in his throat as he said it which made it come out louder than he'd intended. Rayya eyed him with a look that was wary, yet there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. She sheathed her sword and beckoned him.

'Then you may approach,' she said.

Chapter Text

Uhther Stormfist, Disciple of Kyne, Legate of the Northern Legion, Thane of nine holds, Wallbreaker, Husband to Harpies, Slayer of the Glenmoril Witches, Champion of the Sun and Dragonborn Hero of Skyrim, dug the hoe deep into the soil of his garden.

That was the problem with creep cluster, he thought, no sooner had pulled what you thought was the last of it out, the damned stuff was back again, attacking the crops. Uhther reached down and yanked up another creeper with a snarl of annoyance, tossing it into a sack that lay open by his feet. No doubt Roggi could make some use of it, he spent enough time in the alchemy lab.

From the other side of the house he could hear the children playing. The whack and crack of wooden sword on wooden sword echoed in the still summer air, as did Sofie's scolding when Lucia went at her little brother too hard.

At the sound of the play, Uhther felt a smile spread across his face. Lucia had come a long way since the days when she had been begging in the streets of Whiterun, before Uhther had adopted her. She was well on the way to becoming a shield maid of renown, that one. She was always itching to train with sword and shield and even more so since little Æthur had been born. It seemed the boy had only just started walking when Lucia had dragged him outside and pressed a wooden practice sword into his pudgy hand.
All this was done under the hawk-like watchfulness of Sofie, Uhthur's other adopted daughter. She was no warrior, but she was no less fearsome for that. Uhthur sometimes pitied the one who would one day take her to wife. Sofie would have them wrapped around her finger before the priest of Mara even gave them the rings. She had grown into a rare beauty with long, raven hair and pale skin. As different in looks to Lucia, with her short, flaxen hair and olive toned skin typical of an imperial, as she was in temperament.
Yet, for all their differences, the two girls had been all Uhther could have hoped for in daughters these past years and had both been overjoyed when Sylgja had given birth to Æthur. In truth, they had spent more time raising the boy than Uhther had. The Dragonborn was often called away to help with this matter or that, helping suppress a new bandit group or else dealing with some matter of state one of the jarls wanted his help with. This was why when he was able to spend time with his family, Uhther made a point of doing as much to help as he could, even if that meant missing out on playtime.

Uhther looked longingly at the wooden sword that lay propped up against the side of the house, the one he used when he joined in with the games. If he could get the garden weeded quickly enough, he might be able to join the children after all. It was always fun to have Lucia and Æthur work together against him, usually to rescue Sofie, or their mother, or both, with Uhther playing the role of an evil warlord or a troll.

'Trolls don't use swords,' Æthur had protested the last time they had done this as Uhther fought him and his sister off while holding a giggling Sofie over his shoulder.

'How would you know, boy?' Uhther had demanded, swatting his son lightly on the top of the head with the flat of the wooden sword, 'have you ever fought one? Because I have, loads of them.'

'And did any have swords?' Lucia had demanded, swatting him on the thigh with her own sword.

Uhther winced as he dropped to his knees in mock defeat. 'No,' he admitted, 'but they didn't need them.'

So lost was Uhther in this pleasant memory that he didn't notice Rayya drawing close, a stranger stood behind her.

'My thane,' she called, insistently, bringing Uhther out of his reverie. He turned to see his housecarl stood on the other side of the garden fence. Behind her was a man who had the bearing of a courier.

'This man claims to have a delivery for you,' Rayya said, indicating the man. Uhther felt his stomach tighten. Could this be it? Could this be what he was waiting for?

'You must be weary from your journey,' Uhther said to the courier, 'would you care for a drink?'

The man seemed taken aback, Uhther imagined he was not used to such an invitation. Most couriers simply delivered their packages and then made their way to the nearest inn.

'Oh no, that's alright,' the courier said, his voice rather hoarse, 'I was going to head down to Falkreath...'

'I may have replies to send,' Uhther cut him off, 'besides there's nothing you can find in Falkreath that you can't get here. Please, I insist.'

The man still seemed hesitant, though Uhther saw him look up at the house with open awe. He had to suppress a small smile. This was not the first man to be struck by his legend when they met and Uhther would be lying if he said he did not enjoy that a little.

'Alright,' the courier said, finally.

Uhther, flanked by Rayya, led the courier towards the front door.

'Sylgja!' he called as they went, 'we have a guest!'

His wife and children appeared around the side of the house. Sofie and Æthur looked inquisitive, Lucia openly suspicious. Sylgja shot her husband a questioning look before chivying the children to follow them inside with Llewellyn, Uhther's bard, bringing up the rear.

'Roggi!' Uhther called as they entered Lakeview manor, 'we have a visitor. Open a cask of the good mead, would you?'

The knot-bearded steward hurried out of his rooms at the back of the house to meet them.

'Some of the Blackbriar, lord?' Roggi asked. Uhther spat in contempt.

'No, none of that Orc piss,' he said, 'Why do you keep buying that filthy stuff?'

'Blackbriar is the best mead in all of Skyrim, lord,' Roggi, smugly, 'I should know, I've sampled them all.'

'That's as may be,' Uhther said, his mouth twitching, 'but I'll have nothing to do with Maven Blackbriar, and that includes drinking her mead.'

'And yet you keep in touch with Ingun,' Sylgja said, coyly, taking a seat at the main table and sitting Æthur on her lap. The two girls sat across from her while Rayya took her usual seat at the foot of the table. Uhther wagged a finger at his wife.

'It is not the same,' Uhther insisted, 'Ingun is not her mother. And Ingun is not in the pocket of the Thalmor. Why Tullius allowed that vile woman to take the Rift's seat, I've never understood.'

'So a cask of a lesser vintage then, lord?' Roggi asked, with the superior air of a connoisseur.

Uhther heaved a sigh. 'We have some of the Honningbrew left, I think,' he said, 'fetch that, would you?'

As Roggi Knot-Beard left to retrieve the mead, Uhther turned to the visitor and gestured towards the table.

'Take a seat, friend,' Uhther said in his warmest tone, 'and let me see what you've brought me.'

The courier jumped at being addressed so familiarly before reaching into a satchel that hung from his shoulder. Pulling out two tightly rolled scrolls, each wrapped in a different coloured ribbon and sealed with wax, he handed each to the Uhther before taking a seat besides Rayya.

Uhther regarded the scrolls curiously. He had only been expecting the one.

The seal on one of the scrolls was a plain red, a simple sealant, while the other was sealed with pale blue wax, pressed with the symbol of an eye in the centre of a five-pointed star. Uhther's breath caught in his throat. This was the symbol of the College of Winterhold.

Why would the Arch-Mage be writing to him?

Resisting the urge to read the message he had so eagerly been awaiting, Uhther broke the pale blue seal. The Arch-Mage was not someone who should be kept waiting, even when it came to reading letters.

It was a short message, nothing dissimilar to the kind of thing Uhther had received uncountable times in the past. Yet he knew, somehow just knew, that this was something that would impact his entire life. It was the same feeling he'd gotten that day, so long ago, when he had crept into the cave beneath Bleak Falls Barrow and first heard the chanting of the Word Wall.

The candles lit on the table seemed to illuminate the page and throw the words into sharp relief.

We need to talk – Safiya al-Ruuz

Chapter Text

Sylgja's eyes followed her husband as he sat down in his usual seat at the head of the table, beside her, his back to the fireplace. She had seen his eyes widen as he had opened the first letter, his face going from puzzlement, to surprise then finally to a look of resolution which she knew all too well.

It was similar to the look he got when he received a message from Jorrvaskr or else from one of the jarls asking for his help, but more than that. Only once before had Sylgja seen that look in Uhther's eyes and that had been years ago, on the day he had departed for Solstheim. It was the look of a man readying himself for something, something that even he could not guess at. It was the look of a man expecting adventure.

Even now, after years of marriage, Sylgja sometimes forgot who it was she was married to, and what he represented to the people of Skyrim. She had grown so used to Uhther being just who she saw every day. The brusque but good hearted man she had met so long ago, who had cleared a mine of frostbites and then offered to carry a message to her parents. Who had returned to Shor's Stone every week since then, for the ebony he had claimed at the time though later he confessed it was to see her. She still remembered the tingly, excited feeling that had come over her when he had appeared in the village, looking for her, an amulet of Mara around his neck. He was the man who had made a home for her and the two girls, the father of her son. He was all she could want of a husband.

But then there was the other side to him. The adventurer, the hero, the slayer of monsters, the man that made the other children gape when they walked through town together and come running up to Sofie and Lucia, all of them wanting to play with the children of the Dragonborn. Uhther had always done his best to keep that side of himself out of their lives. He wanted Sylgja and the children to think of him as a man like any other, he had told his wife shortly after their marriage.

'Let the others think of me however they like,' he had said as they lay together in their bed, 'with you I want to be just a man, with no one expecting or wanting anything more of me. Is that alright?'

Sylgja had responded by leaning over and kissing him. She had never wanted to be with some legendary hero, she had only ever wanted to good and honest man. If that was what Uhther wanted to be with her, then that was as much as she needed. They had made Æthur that night, she was sure.

And Uhther had been true to his word. All these years, the only face he had ever shown his family was the one of loving husband and doting father. Only once had Sylgja ever seen the other side of him. The true side of him.

It had been the month after they were married, before Sylgja knew she was carrying Æthur. They had come to Lakeview Manor for a week away from the hustle and bustle of Windhelm. That first evening, Sylgja had been in the main hall, preparing dinner, when the door had crashed open. Spinning around, she had seen three men armoured in rough iron burst into the house. Bandits! One of them was holding the girls, a large arm wrapped around each girl's neck. Sofie was screaming and crying while Lucia was snarling, kicking her legs and trying to bite the man's arm.

Sylgja had heard thumps against the wooden boards upstairs which told her that Llewellyn had seen the intruders too. Roggi had come running into the hall from his back room and froze when he saw the intruders.

Where was Rayya? Sylgja had thought with the frustration born of fear. Had she let them slip past her?

The sound of clashing weapons from the now open door had answered that question. Apparently these three were not alone and had merely run in while Rayya had her hands full with their friends.

'Gold!' The leading man had said then, gesturing at Sylgja with a war axe, 'jewels, whatever you've got. Quick now, or we slit the girl's pretty neck.'

That had been all he had said as just then a feathered quarrel had sprouted from his throat. Uhther kept a hunting bow and a quiver of steel tipped arrows on the upper floor and it seemed Llewellyn had taken it upon himself to act. Blood gushed from the leader's throat. The shock of the impact took all strength from his legs and he collapsed to the floor, clutching his neck, trying to stop the bleeding.

His companion, the one holding the girls, had dropped both of them in his surprise and they both ran to Sylgja. No sooner were they in her arms then a sound like thunder boomed through the house, rattling the windows and sending everything in the living room flying, including the intruders. The leader's body and one of the bandits were slammed into the wall and crumpled to the floor while the one who had held the girls had flown back through the open door.

Turning, Sylgja had seen him. Uhther, the real Uhther, the Dragonborn. He had worn no armour, just a simple tunic beneath the leather apron he wore when he went down to the cellar to work in his forge. But in his hand he had held the sword. Dragon's Breath, the blade he had made from the bone of a dragon he had killed, with an edge keener than the finest razor, the blade glimmering with the enchantment that caused first flames to flicker down it, then ice and finally lightning, crackling down to the blade tip. In his off hand he held a simple shield banded in steel.

The Dragonborn's face was thunderous.

'Take the children to their bedroom,' he had called to Sylgja, without taking his eyes from the bandits, 'don't come out until I come and get you.'

Not waiting for a reply, he had charged. Straight down the hall and out the door. Roggi, who had retrieved his old family shield during the commotion, charged after him, a sword of nordic steel clutched in his hand. Llewellyn had come down the stairs, slowly. The bow was still in his hand but the bard was visibly shaken. He was no warrior. Sylgja doubted that the man had ever killed before. Lucia took him by the hand and the four of them walked quickly into the children's bedroom, closing the door and locking it behind them.

Then they had waited. The two girls had huddled in Sylgja's arms while Llewellyn had drummed his fingers nervously against the bow. From outside, Sylgja could hear the noises. The noises she had heard about but had never heard for herself.

In Shor's Stone, she had faced the giant spiders that sometimes broke into Redbelly Mine, she had even killed a couple of them, but the sounds those horrors had made were nothing to the sound of men and women fighting, killing and dying. Shouting curses, begging for their lives to be spared only for their voices to be cut short, never to be heard again. Once or twice there came a burst of light followed by the agonised screams of the bandits engulfed in dragon fire.

Her husband's work.

Sylgja had no idea how long they had waited there, only that the fighting had stopped and then someone came and knocked on the door.

It had been Uhther. Dragon's Breath was sheathed. He was her husband again. She and the girls had hugged him while Uhther had given his thanks to Llewellyn for his quick thought in saving his daughters.

So long ago that seemed now, and not since then had Sylgja seen Uhther the Dragonborn. But he was there again, now, as he sat beside her at the head of the table, still fixing the note with a piercing gaze. Sylgja did not know if she felt worried, scared or proud of her husband.

'Do you know how long ago this was sent?' Uhther asked the courier, accepting a horn of mead from Roggi.

The courier shook his head. 'I was merely given it by the jarl and told to get here as fast as I could.'

Uhther nodded. It was the answer he had expected. He folded the note and placed it on the table.

'Well you have my thanks,' he said, 'I'll see to it that you're well rewarded.'

'Oh, that's not necessary,' the courier protested, 'anything for the good of the empire, right?'

There was a flat tone to his voice that Sylgja could not help but notice. Neither, it seemed, had Uhther. The Dragonborn fixed the man with a hard look before speaking.

'You were for Ulfric during the war?'

It was a question, though Sylgja could see the answer in the stiffening of the man's back and was sure Uhther had known without asking. Her husband smiled and pulled something from underneath his tunic that hung from a leather cord. An amulet of Talos. Uhther had told her it had been a gift from his mother when he had been a boy growing up in the city of Bruma, before he had had to leave. He had never told her why.

'Its alright,' Uhther said, reassuringly, 'that war is long done.'

Finally, the courier nodded. Instinctively, Sylgja's eyes went to Sofie. The dark haired girl had gone pale.

'Did you see much action?' Uhther asked, looking at the courier with an interest that surprised Sylgja. The courier shook his head.

'Not much,' he said, 'I ran messages, mostly. I was there at the Battle of Windhelm.'

Suddenly Sofie stood up and took her brother by the hand.

'I'm going to put Æthur to bed,' she said, her voice tight, 'its past his bedtime.'

The sky had grown darker as they had been talking, though not by much.

'It is not!' Æthur said, indignantly. But Sofie would not be argued with and Æthur was nearly dragged away to the children's bedroom. Lucia followed behind them, shooting a disapproving glare at her father who waited for the door to close before speaking again.

'Sofie doesn't like talking about the war,' he said, softly, 'when I found her she was living on the street. Her mother died when she was young, and her father was a Stormcloak who didn't see the end of the war.' A long silence greeted these words. The courier seemed to have something he wanted to say but was too nervous to say it. As it turned out he didn't need to, for Uhther saw his face and knew what it was. 'You're wondering if it was I who killed him? I thought so. In truth, I don't know. I was certainly not the only man to kill stormcloaks during the war. But I never forget the fact that it might have been me.'

Sylgja saw the courier bite his lip.

'Does the child know?'

'She knows who I fought for,' Uhther answered, looking across and catching the look of anger and confusion in the courier's eyes, 'a choice you disagree with, I see.'
'How could you do it?' The courier, it seemed, could hold himself in check no longer, 'you were the hero we were waiting for. You could have swept the empire aside like dried leaves. Ulfric might have reigned as high king. We might have been free of those damned elves. But now Queen Elisif, the Thalmor's little doll, sits the seat that should have been Ulfric's. Why? Why did you turn on your own people?'

Rayya, her face a thunderstorm, had stood while the courier ranted, her hand going for the hilt of Witchbane, her own dragonbone sword. Uhther held up a hand. Rayya slowly took her hand away from the sword hilt and took her seat, albeit grudgingly.

'Come,' Uhther stood, indicating for the courier to join him, 'there's something I should show you.'

Hesitantly, the courier stood and was led upstairs. Sylgja knew, somehow, what her husband intended. He kept that dossier close at hand wherever he went.

What is he scheming now? Sylgja wondered. On the surface, Uhther did not appear a cunning, nor overly intelligent man. Not that that was a bad thing. That plain honesty of his was one of the things which had first drawn her to him. But behind that simple face there was a mind always at work. He had been planning something for years now, some new adventure. Sylgja wondered if this letter from the arch-mage was part of that plan. Or something new.

Thinking of this drew her attention down to the other letter, the one Uhther had not yet opened. Did she want to know?

Quickly, before she could change her mind, Sylgja reached down, cracked the seal, and unrolled the letter. It was a short message. But one that Sylgja immediately understood. Uhther kept little from her and had always told her his plans. This latest one was no different.

She supposed a part of her had hoped it wouldn't work. She had no wish for Uhther to disappear again, on what would likely be his most dangerous journey. But there it was before her, in a flowing, elegant hand. Proof that this part, at least, had been successful.

I am in. This one stands guard for the ambassador. Ready when you are. -Kharjo

Chapter Text

Hesitantly, the courier followed the Dragonborn upstairs. From below, he could feel the wife's eyes on him. A good looking woman, it was true. He could certainly see how she had been the one, out all the women in the province, to catch the great hero's eye.

He still remembered the consternation it had caused; the news that Uhther Stormfist, Dragonborn hero of Skyrim, had taken a miner's daughter to wife. Most had expected a man so rich in wealth and renown to marry the daughter of a noble family, perhaps a Blackbriar or a Battleborn. The courier and his friends had guessed at Idgrod the Younger of Morthal, a rare beauty by all accounts, after hearing that she and the Dragonborn knew each other. There were even some who had believed the newly crowned Queen Elisif would take the Empire's newest hero as her consort. The courier did not know if that would have made things better or worse in the eyes of Ulfric's supporters.

But it had not come to pass and it was Sylgja of Shor's Stone, the daughter of Annekke Crag-Jumper and Verner Rock-Chucker, simple miners from a small mining hamlet, who now shared the Dragonborn's bed and raised his children.

Uhther himself had now reached the top of the stairs and was riffling through a large chest. The courier glanced over his shoulder and had enough time to glimpse a set of what looked like leather armour made out of lizard skin before a small, leather bound book was pressed into his hands.

'What is this?' he asked the Dragonborn, confused. Uhther looked rueful yet unrepentant.

'This is the reason I fought against Ulfric,' he said, 'it was after I read this that I knew we were all in danger and, if we were going to survive, the empire had to win.'

Nervous but curious, the courier cracked open the small book and began to read. With every sentence, his eyes grew wider and his stomach felt colder.

'Where did you find this?' he breathed. It could not be true.

Mighty Talos, make it not so!

There was a sad look in the Dragonborn's eye, as if he knew exactly what the other man was thinking.

'I was infiltrating the Thalmor embassy,' he said, 'trying to find out if they were the cause of the dragons coming back. There were dossiers on a few people, but that one was among them.'

The courier couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it. But there it was. In his hands, the words burning unpleasantly in his eyes. An asset. Ulfric was considered an asset by the Thalmor. The Thalmor who hated and despised Talos worship. The Thalmor, who every Stormcloak had considered the greatest of enemies. The Thalmor who, it seemed, had provided support for the Stormcloaks against the empire. But no, that wasn't right.

'It says that a Stormcloak victory was to be avoided,' the courier said, with the air of a man struggling to find an anchor as he was swept downriver, 'why would they help the Stormcloaks if they didn't want them to win.'

There was sympathy in the Dragonborn's eyes. The courier couldn't help but think he might have had the same reaction to seeing these notes.

'It was my guess, and the guesses of some associates of mine, that it means that the Thalmor wanted the war to last as long as it could,' Uhther said, 'If the Stormcloaks had won, the Thalmor would have been faced with a land full of Nords who wanted them out. As long as we were fighting each other, we were weak.'

'But then why did they support us?' the courier demanded, 'the empire had already bent its knee to the Thalmor, surely they would want them to win?'

The Dragonborn sighed.

'If you think the empire sides with the Thalmor, you are as mistaken as Ulfric was,' he said. The courier spat.

'The emperor signed the white-gold concordant!' he said, angrily. 'He made the Empire servant to the Aldmeri Dominion!'

The Dragonborn fixed the courier with a piercing stare, and he remembered that he was not only talking to the Dragonborn but a legate of the imperial legion. Slowly, Uhther's hand moved to rest on the hilt of Dragon's Breath. He did not draw it, but the courier could not help but move his own hand to the dagger that hung on his belt. A simple thing made of steel. It would be no more use than paper against the dragonbone blade. But still, Uhther did not draw the sword.

'If I were to offer you the choice of fighting me now or bending your knee to my service, which would you take?' he asked, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

The courier tried to master himself, his heart was racing a mile a minute. With a great effort, he held his head high, his grip on the dagger hilt so tight he was sure he felt his knuckles crack.

'A true Nord never backs down from a fight,' he said. Uhther chuckled and moved his hand from his sword hilt.

'You're brave,' he said, 'I'll give you that. But you're a fool. You are outmatched and my weapon is better than yours. You would have no chance of winning. So it was with the Great War. The empire fought bravely with steel against elven arms and armour, which were better. Their tactics were better. Their mages were better. If we had not signed their concordant, we would have been annihilated. And then who would have stood against them?'

'The Redguards kept fighting,' the courier protested, 'they didn't give up.'

'For five years,' Uhther allowed, a sad note in his voice, 'then they too were defeated and signed their own treaty. And now they are sundered from the Empire, making them weaker. Imagine if Ulfric had won and Skyrim had also been renounced by the Empire. The nations of men would be almost completely divided, which is exactly want the Thalmor want. It will make it easier for them. They can take us out one by one when they come at us again, as they surely will.'

The courier opened his mouth, but no words came out. He could think of none. Uhther went on.

'The Empire is not as strong as it needs to be,' he said, 'only three provinces still stand united under the dragon banner. But if you think it an Aldmeri lapdog then you are wrong. The Empire stands ready. And the time is close at hand. Our weapons are better,' he indicated a sword that hung on a plaque on the wall. The courier recognised it as nordic steel, an invention from out of Solstheim, a way of forging steel with quicksilver that made it a match for any elven weapon, 'and this time, we will fight the real enemy, not each other.'

The courier was taken aback.

'But you just said that the Empire is not as strong as it needs to be,' he said hesitantly. Uhther smiled.

'Well perhaps you can assist us. I'm going to need all the help I can get, wherever I can find it. Even now, there are some remnants of the Stormcloaks out there,' he gestured outwards, managing to take in the whole of Skyrim, 'there may be some I could reason with, but I have no doubt there are others who would attack me on sight as the killer of Ulfric Stromcloak. And I do not want that. Not when our goals are the same. Not as it is I who wants to bring Ulfric's dream to a reality.'

The courier thought he understood now. Excitement coursed through his veins.

'What would you have me do?' he asked. Uhther smiled at him in a way that let him know he had been right. His heart positively thundered.

'What is your name, courier?' the Dragonborn asked.

'Alaric,' said Alaric, 'they name me Alaric Fleetfoot.'

'Then, Alaric, I would have you return to Riverwood. Find Gerdur, she runs the mill, and ask her where to find her brother, Ralof. He was a Stormcloak and a good fighter. As far as I know, he's still out there somewhere. Find him, and give him this.' Reaching back into the chest, he pulled out a bundle of scrolls. 'He may ask you to find others,' Uhther said, 'if he does, do it. We'll need as many as we can get. I will expect you and as many as you can find at the Karthspire by the end of the month.'

Alaric took the bundle of letters as if they were a newborn babe. For a moment, he cradled them in his arms. He was part of the story now. The story that would no doubt echo throughout the ages. He slipped the scrolls into his bag and turned back to Uhther.

'I will do this, Lord Dragonborn,' said Alaric, solemnly.

Chapter Text

The sound of the horse's hooves echoed around them, along with the gentle rumble of the carriage as it rolled through the Wayward Pass. Uhther sat in the back, alone, quietly fuming. He was going the wrong way.

Not the wrong way to Winterhold, the pass was certainly the fastest way there from Windhelm, but Winterhold was not where he wanted to go. It was not where he needed to be.

'The Nine curse the Arch-Mage,' Uhther muttered as the carriage hit a bump in the road, 'why now, of all times?'

Sylgja had shown him the letter from Kharjo. He was there, in position, ready for the next step of the plan. And he, Uhther, was going in the opposite direction. He did not know how long Kharjo would be able to keep his cover. He was there, alone, surrounded by enemies. How long would he be able to keep up the pretence?

It had been nearly five days since Uhther had read the letter bound in the seal of the College of Winterhold and almost every hour of daylight since then had been spent on the road, which had not helped his mood.

He and his family had packed up their belongings at first light the day after Alaric had set off. They had then made the two-day journey back to Windhelm so that he could pick up some things he needed before carrying on alone. Rayya had accompanied them. The road beside the White River could be a dangerous place, she said, especially where it met the Darkwater. Uhther had agreed but swiftly turned her down when she had made the offer to come with him all the way to Winterhold.

'I don't know what will happen there,' he had said, 'I don't know what the Thalmor know. I can't see the Arch-Mage helping them, you know how her people feel about the Dominion, but if it is a trap, I want you and Calder here watching over my family.'

He had been grateful that Rayya had not pressed the matter. The truth was that he wanted her with him. Or Calder, or indeed anyone he could rely on. The truth was, Uhther was nervous about what he might find at the College. Though he might be thane of Winterhold, he did not really know anyone. He had no housecarl there, none of his sworn swords, no one. He would be alone. Someone there to back him up would have made him feel infinitely better. But no, Sylgja and the children needed that protection more than he did. He had a shield of his own which would serve him more than well. He touched the rim of that shield now. It was lying by his foot. The solidity of it was reassuring.

All the same, he had been tempted to ask Alfarinn to turn the carriage west before they reached the pass. Head over to Dawnstar. Gregor would be a good man to have with him right now.

No, Uhther thought, irritated with himself. That would add another day, at least, onto the trip. And that was time he did not want to give up. Besides, it would probably be wise not to put the arch-mage on edge by turning up with an armed guard.

Uhther gripped the pommel of Dragon's Breath in his left hand. The blade lay sheathed in its scabbard, ready. That would have to do, he thought, if something happened.
He then thought of Lucia. She had also wanted to go, as had little Æthur and it had only been Sylgja's firm hand and Sofie staring the boy down that had stopped the two of them jumping into the carriage with their father. Uhther smiled. The two of them were so eager to prove themselves.

But that time would come, and probably sooner than he would like, Uhther thought solemnly. Especially if things went the way he thought they would. There was no question of Æthur getting involved, he was still far too young. But Lucia was almost a grown woman and the time would soon come when not even the stern words of her father would be able to stop her from setting out in search of her own adventure.

Uhther thought of the locked chest in the children's room. He had put it in there because its contents would someday be theirs. Steel ingots, quicksilver, ebony and dragon bone, all of it ready for the day when Lucia and Æthur would have need of them, and Sofie too of course. And on that day, Uhther would light his forge again and create arms and armour worthy enough for the children of the Dragonborn.

But not yet, Uhther prayed silently to Talos, not yet.

Still Uhther could not help but imagine a future in which he found himself riding in a carriage opposite Lucia, and Æthur too should Uhther live long enough, the two of them clad in steel, swords at their waists, on the way to some new adventure. The vision put a funny feeling into Uhther's stomach, a feeling he couldn't put a name to.

The carriage left the pass and followed the new road north towards the imperial road that would take them east. Uhther fancied he could see the tower of Alftand, even from this distance.

Not long now, he thought to himself, only a couple more hours and I'll be there.

And then, he wondered, what will I face there? Just what, exactly, do I have waiting for me?

Uhther had only visited the College of Winterhold once before, years ago, when Savos Aren had still been running the place. He had not paid the Arch-Mage much notice, in truth. It had been the library he was interested in, not the college's sorcery.

But he had heard the stories of what had happened since. It had been soon after Uhther had defeated Alduin that rumours ran up and down the province, whispers of something called the Eye of Magnus, of Thalmor involvement, of the death of the Arch-Mage and the Master Wizard.

No one outside of the college had ever learned what really happened. All that was known was that an old Nord called Tolfdir had been named Master Wizard of the College while the seat of Arch-Mage had been passed to Savos Aren's protege, a Redguard woman named Safiya al-Ruuz. And that was how it had been ever since, as far as Uhther knew. The Dragonborn tried not to get involved with the mages any more than he had to. Their business was their business, he had his own to deal with.

The snows began getting heavier as they continued on to the north east. The great horse pulling the carriage huffed and snorted but did not falter, even as the snows began to get deeper. Uhther was more worried about the wagon than the horse. If it got stuck in a drift then they would have to walk the rest of the way. Three miles in driving wind and snow. Uhther was already craving a hot fire and a belly full of mead.

They were lucky. The snows did not deepen so much that the new road became unusable. The new road met the old one and, not soon enough for Uhther's liking, the College of Winterhold came into view, looming over the horizon.

The town of Winterhold had grown considerably in recent years. A partnership between the new Jarl and the new Arch-Mage had proved mutually beneficial. The town had expanded and was now almost as large as Whiterun. It even had the beginnings of a stone wall around it. It was before this wall that Alfarinn reined in his horse.

'Here we are,' he said, 'Winterhold. And I think it may be grander now than it was when last I was here.'

Uhther hopped down from the carriage, retrieved his shield, and looked towards the gate. Beside it hung a banner showing the three towers of Winterhold. Two town guards, showing the same crest on the shields, stood watch outside. There was another banner hanging from the wall, the familiar imperial dragon banner. Uhther looked again at the walls, and the new, well built houses that lay behind it.

The benefits of cooperation, Uhther thought with a kind of bitter satisfaction. He approached the gate. The guards knew him on sight and did not try to bar his way. One of them gave him a respectful nod as he went in.

'Hail, Dragonborn,' he said. Uhther gave him a small smile in response. It had been a long time since he had come up this far north, but he supposed many would still remember him.

As he walked through the new part of the town, Uhther looked appreciatively at the houses. The snow was falling heavily, as it always seemed to in Winterhold, but still children were playing and the glow of fires could be seen through the windows and the gaps in the doorways.

It dawned on Uhther then that, though he was a thane of the hold, he had no place of residence here. Indeed, Winterhold was the only hold where he owned no property.
Perhaps I should pay a visit to old Kraldar, Uhther mused, especially if I'll need to be coming here more often. I don't know what the Arch-Mage wants, after all.

That was for another time though. Right now, he knew, he had to get up to the college. Uhther could see it, even now, its towers reaching up above the roofs of the town.
In spite of himself, Uhther felt a small shiver run down his spine.

He let out a heavy breath, gripped the hilt of Dragon's Breath still tighter, just for reassurance, and continued through the town and out. To the bridge. And there, waiting for him, just as she had been the last time he had come here, was the Altmer, Faralda.

'Greetings,' the high elf said, smiling, her golden skin still somehow managing to glow, even under the iron grey clouds overhead, 'I remember you, though it has been years since you were last here. What brings you to the College of Winterhold, Dragonborn?'

Uhther thought he heard her put a strange, almost mocking, inflection to the last word. Though, of course, given his deep mistrust of high elves he could easily have imagined it. He decided not to press the issue but instead held up the note, being sure to show the elf the blue-grey seal.

'The Arch-Mage wished to see me,' he said simply.

'Ahh,' Faralda nodded, understandingly. She said no more but instead beckoned Uhther to follow her across the bridge. With only the slightest of hesitations, Uhther heaved a heavy sigh, and followed her into the college.

Chapter Text

Uhther looked around himself as he followed Faralda across the bridge. The college had changed almost as much as the town had in the past five years. It seemed that the new Arch-mage had been able to do what Savos Aren had not and finally repair the bridge that led across to the great rock on which the college stood.

Uhther remembered how last time there had been great chunks missing from the bridge, as well as holes as wide as a man's outstretched arms. Now though, the bridge was whole and, for want of a better word, pristine. It almost glittered in the blue, ethereal light that rose in a column from the college.

In spite of himself, Uhther was impressed. This Safiya al-Ruuz was clearly more affirmative in action than her predecessor had been.

They crossed the bridge and arrived at the gate that barred the college from the outside world. Uhther saw, again, the five-pointed star with the eye at its centre, now staring at him from the gate, as if demanding to know what he was doing there.

Faralda unlocked the gate and led him into the courtyard. It was a large, open area, flanked on all sides by the thick, stone walls that surrounded the college. At its centre was a large statue and it was from this that the pillar of blue light rose. Not far from them, a group of novice mages were practising warding, under the watchful eye of a Breton mage who Uhther thought he had met last time he'd been here. A short, thin woman with a very stern face.

One of the novices saw them approach and, after deflecting a small fireball from one of the other novices, quickly dropped her ward to come over to them.

'Lord Dragonborn!' she greeted them, enthusiastically, waving her hand familiarly. Uhther thought she looked familiar but was having difficulty putting a name to the face that was now smiling at him. The girl stopped in front of them, lowering her novice hood to reveal a head of long, blonde hair. 'Lord Dragonborn,' she said again, still smiling warmly, 'it's me, Sissel. You used to come to my village and take Erik off on adventures.'

It took Uhther another moment but he finally remembered.

Sissel had been a small, good natured girl who had been cursed with a less that satisfactory family. Like she had said, Uhther had met her a few times when he had come to Rorikstead to recruit his friend Erik the Slayer for some adventure. It had been on these occasions that Uhther had also met her father, Lemkil, a sullen and violent tempered man who had been a little too fond of beating his children for their supposed laziness.

I must remember to get in touch with Erik, Uhther thought, privately, he would certainly be good to have around in the days ahead.

'It is nice to see you again,' Uhther said aloud. He was being truthful. He had always been fond of the girl and had always stopped to speak with her when he passed through Rorikstead. He just wished he could have done more to help her. 'What are you doing here?'

Sissel beamed and looked back to where her instructor was looking straight at her, somehow looking even sterner than she had before. 'Jouane said I was finally ready,' she said, apparently unperturbed by her teacher's glowering. 'He gave me some money and some food and paid for the carriage driver to bring me here. We had to do it quick, to make sure my father didn't know.' She looked back to him, still beaming. She was clearly overjoyed by the way her life had turned, though given where she had been living, that was hardly surprising.

Uhther heard a patient but insistent cough and turned to see that Faralda was waiting for him, a politely expectant look on her face.

Sissel also heard the cough and looked past Uhther at Faralda. Her eyes widened.

'Why are you here?' she asked, her voice thick with curiosity.

'The Arch-mage wanted to see me,' Uhther answered. He saw no reason to lie to the girl. It was not as though he was scheming anything. At least, not yet.

'Oooh,' Sissel gasped, clearly impressed, 'why?'

But before Uhther could answer, Faralda was at his shoulder, scowling at the girl.

'If you wish to be raised to apprentice this year, Sissel,' she said, her voice brooking no argument, 'I suggest you stop wasting the Dragonborn’s time and return to your training.'

Sissel's face flushed, quite an accomplishment in Winterhold weather, and stammered an apology. Faralda sniffed, turned on her heel and walked away in the direction of the opposite side of the courtyard.

Bidding Sissel a friendly goodbye, and assuring her she had not been wasting his time, Uhther followed Faralda to the main tower, through the great double doors, up the winding staircase and finally arrived at a new door. It was carved of oak and upon it was embossed the college's sigil of the eye at the centre of five-pointed star. Uhther was already getting a little tired of seeing that thing staring at him wherever he went. The Divines only knew how the college students felt having to live with it. Did they ever get used to it?

Outside the door, Faralda turned to him.

'The Arch-mage is expecting you,' she assured him, 'I must return to my studies.' And with that she walked back the way they had come, leaving him outside the door.

Uhther hesitated. He was very aware of the fact he was about to be alone in a room with one of the most powerful mages in all of Skyrim. In spite of wearing his best set of armour, dragonscale enchanted with spells of strength and endurance, he felt nervous. He knew that the Arch-mage, this Safiya al-Ruuz, possessed powers he could only dream of, perhaps even powers that would render his armour completely useless. He had no skill with magic himself, not that he had ever really needed it. A good sword had always been enough to suit his purposes. He gripped Dragon's Breath's hilt tightly now before he knocked on the door. He did not expect he would need it, but it never hurt to be prepared. Especially with a mage.

At first there was no answer. It was as Uhther raised his fist to knock that he finally heard a voice from within.

'It's open, Dragonborn!'

Uhther took a deep breath. He did not understand why he was so nervous. He'd faced powerful mages before, Miraak was a prime example. Was it the uncertainty of what this one wanted that was making him feel this way? He supposed that at least with Miraak he'd known where he stood.

Trying to appear confident, Uhther pushed the door open.

The first thing he noticed was the small garden that grew in the middle of the room, illuminated by soft blue light that shone all around them. His eye went to the white tree that stood in the centre of the garden. It seemed like a strange thing to have growing here, at the top of a tower. Banners showing the college insignia hung behind the garden. More of those eyes staring at him.

'Thank you for arriving so quickly.' Uhther's attention was snapped away from the garden and the eyes behind it and turned instead on a woman who sat behind a desk in the corner of the room. She wore the fur-trimmed blue mantle of the arch-mage, though she apparently preferred to wear the hood down. Her dark hair hung in a braid over her shoulder, her darker eyes were fixed on him. Her face was set in an expression that seemed cold yet determined. This was a woman of serious intent, Uhther realised, not a will to be underestimated.

From the easy way she sat in her chair, Uhther could tell this was someone who was used to being in command of whatever room she was in. He would need to show equal will or else this arch-mage would run rough-shod all over him.

Drawing himself up to his full height, Uhther met Safiya al-Ruuz stony stare for stony stare.

'Well I have never received anything from you before,' he said, being careful to keep his voice level, 'I assumed it must be something important for you to want to get in touch now. Even when the cult of Miraak threatened this very coast, calling for the "False Dragonborn", I heard nothing from you. And you had been arch-mage for a few months by then.'

Safiya nodded and rose gracefully from her seat.

'It's true,' she said, her voice like silk over steel, 'a meeting between us has been overdue. But there was always something going on here, something that needed my attention. My duty has always been to the College, you see? While yours has always seemed to be everywhere but here.' She smiled a small smile to herself, picked up a quill and scribbled something down in what Uhther assumed was a journal.

'So why now?' Uhther asked, trying to catch a glimpse of the words being written, and failing. Safiya closed the journal with a snap and looked back up at him with eyes like flint.

'Because something is coming, Dragonborn, something unlike anything you have faced before. And if we are to survive it, it will take all of us working together.'

Uhther was taken aback by the sudden change in her voice. The silk was gone now, showing only the bare steel, sharp and deadly. It was almost enough to have him reaching for Dragon's Breath.

'What is it?' he asked, trying hard now to keep his voice as level as the Arch-mage's. Safiya sniffed.

'That is something, I'm afraid, that I alone cannot answer,' she said, and there was a note of impatience in her voice now. She moved out from behind her desk and began making for the door. 'Come,' she said, 'take a walk with me.'

Hesitant but intrigued, Uhther followed her out of the room and up a set of stairs he had not noticed on the way in. They walked together, Safiya leading the way, until they reached a landing that opened out onto a terrace. Uhther thought he saw dim daylight and heard what sounded like the howling of the wind. But that couldn't be, there was no chill in the air. If anything, the air was now warmer than it had been inside.

They walked out onto the terrace and Uhther saw that they were indeed outside, on top of the tallest tower of the College, but the winds that howled all around them did not touch them, no more than the snows that swirled and flurried but never settled atop the tower.

'Magic,' Uhther breathed as he watched the heavy snows swirl around them but never onto them. He could not help but be impressed. He had the power to clear the skies of these snow clouds with nothing but his voice, but this dome of clear air was beyond his skill.

Uhther was so distracted by the magic around him that he almost did not notice the figure waiting for them. He was tall, too tall for a man, and wore yellow robes with a deep hood drawn over his head. It was not until he turned to face them that Uhther's suspicions were confirmed. He was an elf, a High Elf of the Summerset Isles, like Faralda.
Uhther felt his hackles go up. It was true that not every Altmer was a supporter of the Aldmeri Dominion but, in his experience, it was best to assume so unless proved otherwise. He had known Faralda from his last time here, he did not know this one. He felt the fingers of his right hand twitch as he fought the urge to reach for his sword.
Safiya moved forward to make introductions.

'This is Quaranir,' she said, indicating the elf in yellow, 'a sorcerer of the Psijic Order.'

Uhther's eyes never moved from the elf, but he did relax a little. He knew a little of the Psijic Order, no more than anyone else did. The first magical order in Tamriel, from whom the Mages Guild had been created, centuries ago. Uhther remembered hearing that the sorcerers kept themselves independent of Thalmor rule, though that could just be rumour for all he knew.

Quaranir inclined his head to Uhther.

'Truly, it is an honour to meet you,' he said. He did, at least, sound honest, 'word of your many deeds have reached us in Artaeum. In truth, I had thought to try to meet you sooner but there did not seem much point given your lack of magical ability, no offence meant.'

'None taken,' said Uhther, who had never thought of his lack of magic as a disability. Turning to Safiya he said, 'so what is this thing we need to be prepared for?'
Safiya shook her head.

'Not yet,' she said, 'there is one more person who needs to hear this. I rather thought she would be here by now.'

'I am,' came a new voice. I deep, imposing voice with the inflections of the east. The air beside the door they had walked out of seemed to twist and glimmer and suddenly there was a figure there where none had been before. A figure clad in close fitted clothing the colour of storm clouds and shadow. A deep cowl of the same shade covered her head while her face was obscured by a mask. A cloak that seemed to shimmer through different shades of grey hung down her back. At her hip hung two daggers that appeared to be made of ebony. She regarded the three of them with appraising eyes. She held up a scroll marked with the same blue seal as the one Uhther had received. 'So,' she said, 'what is this all about?'

Chapter Text

Uhther swore loudly and ripped Dragon's Breath from its scabbard. The purple light of fire, lightning and ice intertwining, shimmered along the blade. His shield was up and ready. Auriel's shield, that he had found in the inner depths of the Forgotten Vale. If this newcomer did attack, she would find more than she bargained for.

The stranger in grey chuckled.

'Twitchy one, aren't you?' said the stranger. She strolled over to them, as though there were no sword pointed at her. 'I am here at the Arch-mage's invitation, Dragonborn, just like you.'

'I can see that,' Uhther growled, quickly looking over to Safiya and Quaranir, neither of whom had so much as moved, before turning his attention back on the stranger, 'what I can't understand is; why?'

Safiya had cocked her head to one side, a curious expression on her face. 'Do you know who this is?'

Uhther lowered his sword slightly. The newcomer did not seem hostile but it never hurt to be careful with her sort. Without taking his eyes from her, he shook his head.
'I do not,' he said, 'but this is not the first time I've met a Nightingale.'

The Nightingale stopped, seeming genuinely taken aback.

'It isn't?' she asked, curiously. Uhther shook his head.

'About a year or so ago,' he said, 'I was clearing some bandits out of some ruins on Lake Geir. Before I could face their leader, someone dressed just like you are appeared from nowhere and slit his throat. I took them for a member of the Dark Brotherhood, at first. But after a little research I discovered the truth about Nocturnal's inner circle, The Nightingales, the best thieves and some of the deadliest killers in Tamriel.'

The Nightingale had not moved. Her eyes were not visible but Uhther got the impression that he was being appraised. Finally, she lifted her hands to lower the cowl and then pull away the mask. This revealed an angular yet feminine, grey skinned face with eyes as red as blood. Her hair was a mane of coppery auburn that, now it was freed, fell to her shoulders. A pointed, almost knife-like, black tattoo ran down the side of her face beneath her left eye.

'Dragonborn,' Safiya stepped forward, 'may I introduce Llirvalie Lonailu, Master of the Skyrim branch of the Thieves Guild.'

Llirvalie inclined her head. 'And of course,' she said, a rather sardonic expression on her face, 'it would be hard not to know who you are, Lord Uhther.'

Uhther sniffed and did not lower Dragon's Breath. The Guildmaster? Here? He had to stifle a laugh at the thought of what Mjoll the Lioness would say had she been there with him.

Quaranir sighed and stepped forward, as if determined to remind them all that he was still there.

'If we might turn to the rather pressing matter at hand,' he said, impatiently, 'petty squabbles can wait until afterwards.' His voice had the casual authority of many High Elves that Uhther had encountered and that put his hackles up. He had too often heard Thalmor agents speak with that tone of voice.

Llirvalie turned her attention from Uhther and focussed instead on Quaranir.

'And what is this matter, Sorcerer?' she asked, and Uhther noticed a note of barely hidden dislike in her voice. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. From what he knew of the Dunmer, they had no more reason to like the High Elves than the Nords. 'I answered the Arch-mage's call as a courtesy, yet I have heard no reason to explain why you are here, why the Thieves Guild should be involved, nor why I should be concerned.'

Quaranir drew himself to his full height. An impressive sight, Uhther was loathe to admit. He was considered tall for a Nord, yet Quaranir dwarfed him by about a head.

'It is a matter that involves all who call this world home,' said the sorcerer, ‘and should concern all those who wish things to continue that way.'

'How very ominous,' Llirvalie scoffed. Uhther, however, was now interested in spite of himself. He heard the sincerity in Quaranir's voice and had seen enough in the past few years to know the danger they could be in. He sheathed his sword and waited. Safiya had all her attention on the sorcerer as well. Clearly, she had been summoned to this meeting as much as he had. Llirvalie tutted impatiently, folded her arms but still watched the sorcerer and waited for him to speak.

Quaranir shot Llirvalie a disdainful look before turning his gaze on Uhther.

'I wonder,' he said, 'if you will understand what I mean when I tell you this matter concerns The Towers of Mundus?'

Uhther did not understand. The words meant absolutely nothing to him. He turned to look at the other two. Safiya seemed to know what Quaranir was talking about. She did not look confused, at least. She only continued to look at Quaranir, an unmoving expression of polite attention on her face. Llirvalie looked as if she was being careful to conceal her emotions, but from the narrowing of her eyes and a slight frown, Uhther was fairly sure that she had no more idea than he did.

Quaranir paused for only a moment before sighing a small sigh.

'I thought as much,' he said, 'though I did dare to hope that the knowledge had not been completely forgotten. I suppose the fault does lie partially with us. Perhaps we have guarded our secrets too jealously. Well that must needs change if we are to weather this storm.' He paused only to raise a hand. Uhther was dimly aware of the surging of magical power and almost brought his shield up before he realised that four chairs had just been conjured in a circle. Quaranir gestured to them to sit down which they all did, though Llirvalie did hesitate somewhat.

'The Towers,' Quaranir began, 'go back a very long time in the history of our world. Some were not always there, some appeared over time and others are as old as Nirn itself. They are the barriers that separate Mundus, the physical plane, from that of Aetherius, the spiritual plane from which magic is drawn. When the Eight Divines joined with Lorkhan...'

'Shor,' Uhther corrected. Quaranir ignored him.

'...to create Mundus, a place of solidity and order amongst the chaos of Aetherius, it took a lot of power. And it takes even more power to stop Mundus from unravelling and dissolving back into Aetherius. And so, places of power came to be, these were The Towers. Constructs, both natural and forged, that hold up Mundus and stop it from falling into chaos. Each had at their heart a source of great power, what we call the Stones. The first of these Towers was Ada-mantia, what you call the Adamantine Tower, in High Rock. This Tower had, at its heart, the Convention, the meeting of the Divines at the beginning of time. From this meeting it was decided that Lorkhan's punishment for the taking of their immortality was that he should be separated into pieces. One of those pieces was his heart which was plunged into the depths of Nirn. But from these depths, Red Mountain grew and became the second tower, with the Heart of Lorkhan at its centre.'

Llirvalie was now leaning forward. It seemed she no longer wished to hide her interest.

'But the heart disappeared,' she said, 'the Nerevarine destroyed the enchantments around it to defeat Dagoth Ur and then the heart vanished. My grandmother told me the story, she was there when it happened.'

'Yes,' Quaranir sighed, 'the Heart disappeared and, years later, Red Mountain erupted. It is a Tower no more.'
Safiya had been leaning back in her chair, her face neutral, making it clear that she knew all this already. Now, though, it was her turn to lean forward. 'But from what you said,' she began, her tone still clinical, ever the seeker of knowledge, 'there are more than just the two Towers.'

Quaranir nodded, though his face remained grave. 'There were,' he said, 'but they have been destroyed, one by one. You see, the stones are the power and hearts of the Towers. If a stone is destroyed, the Tower becomes inactive. The White-Gold Tower was disabled when the Amulet of Kings was destroyed at the end of the Third Era. The Walk Brass Tower, what history calls the Numidium, disappeared from Tamriel during the Warp in the West. The Doomcrag Tower, the Orichalc Tower, even the Crystal Tower of Summerset, all gone.'

A rather shocked silence followed this announcement. Uhther did not like what he was hearing but could see no reason to doubt the elf. And now there was a new, familiar feeling rising within him. Excitement. This felt like the beginning of a new adventure.

'But how?' Llirvalie demanded, 'who would destroy them?'

Quaranir didn't need to answer. Uhther could hazard a guess.

'The Thalmor?'

Quaranir nodded.

'My kind,' he said, 'believe ourselves to be lesser Aedra who followed the Divines in the creation of Mundus and were stripped of our immortality, just as they were. It is my understanding that the Dunmer have a similar philosophy, despite their preference towards the worship of the Daedra.' He turned an expression that Uhther could not read, disapproval perhaps, on Llirvalie, but went on talking before the Dark Elf could speak. 'While most elves see our confinement to this mortal realm as a test that we must prove ourselves equal to, which we shall be rewarded for when we shed our mortal forms and pass into Aetherius, others see it as an obstacle that must be overcome. The Aldmeri Dominion hold fast to this belief. If the Towers are destroyed, or their power becomes too weak, then Mundus shall unravel. This world shall cease to exist which, to the Thalmor, means we elves shall be returned to our once immortal selves and dwell alongside the Divines.'

Uhther had done too much in the last few years, had been on too many adventures and quests, not to recognise the note of foreboding in Quaranir's voice.

'How many Towers are left?' He asked, his voice strangely quiet in his ears. Quaranir met his gaze, levelly.

'We don't know,' he said flatly, 'in truth no one, not even the Thalmor, knows how many Towers there are. My research indicates that at least two Towers must be active for Mundus to exist, for it was only after the rise of Red Mountain that Nirn truly took form.'

'How many,' Safiya asked, her voice still flat though Uhther thought her tone had changed, even if it was ever so slight, 'how many Towers, that you know of, are left?'
Quaranir paused, with all the weight of someone who does not wish to deliver bad news.

'Two,' he said finally, 'perhaps three.'

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Llirvalie began to laugh. A strange laugh, somewhere between a chuckle and a nervous giggle. Uhther slumped in his seat and he could see Safiya sitting ramrod straight, her eyes wide, her mouth a thin line.

'That few?'

Quaranir nodded.

'The Green Sap Tower is in Valenwood,' he said, 'the Graht-oak trees are held sacred by the Bosmer, so we believed it safe. But then the Aldmeri Dominion took over the province and some of the Graht-oaks have begun rooting themselves. This might mean that the Tower has been deactivated but we never found out what the Tower's stone is, only that it is some sort of fruit. Without that knowledge, we don't know if the stone has been destroyed or not.'

'And what of the other two?' Safiya asked.

'Well the Adamantine Tower is safe,' Quaranir assured them, 'its Stone is a moment outside of time, it cannot be destroyed. The other,' he looked at Uhther again, 'is here in Skyrim. It is named in the Nu-Mantia Intercepts as The Snow Throat Tower.'

Uhther felt as though he should be surprised. But he was not. It made sense, really. It was a holy place, a place of pilgrimage, of great power, the highest mountain in all of Tamriel with a connection back to the Merethic Era.

'The Throat of the World.'

Uhther had not meant it as a question, but Quaranir nodded nonetheless. The other two were now looking at Uhther, Safiya’s eyes cold and calculating while Llirvalie’s were narrowed in curiosity.

Chapter Text

Nobody spoke for a long time. The two humans and the two elves each seemed lost in their own thoughts. Uhther, realising he was still clutching the sword's hilt, finally slid Dragon's Breath home into his scabbard, though he did not yet put away Auriel's Shield.

'One thing I am curious about,' Uhther said, breaking the silence, 'is why you are so keen to prevent all this.' He directed this at Quaranir. Safiya's expression became reproachful while Llirvalie was looking at him thoughtfully. Perhaps she had been wondering the same thing. Quaranir seemed genuinely surprised for the first time since they had all arrived. 'What I mean is,' Uhther said, before the sorcerer could speak, 'you said yourself that all Altmer believe that they were robbed of their immortality. If the Thalmor are right, you will return to Aetherius to live among the gods. Why, then, would you wish to avoid this?'

Quaranir drew himself up, his chair toppling to the ground as he stood where it flickered then faded from existence. The sorcerer seemed sternly indignant rather than angry as his golden eyes regarded Uhther.

'The Psijic Order does not hold with the philosophy of the Aldmeri Dominion,' he said, his voice cold as the snows the flurried around them, 'we have ever held to the belief that we were given mortal form as a test of faith. And it is only by passing this test that we shall earn our place. What is more,' Quaranir cast a quick look at Safiya, 'The Crystal Tower was the home of arcane knowledge dating back to the Merethic Era. Though the tower was destroyed by Daedra during the Oblivion Crisis, the stone was left intact. The tower might have been rebuilt, its knowledge retrieved. But when the Thalmor killed...' Quaranir hesitated, frustration in his eyes now. He had not meant to say that but it was too late now. '...killed Rynandor, the Stone of the Crystal Tower, that knowledge and power became lost to the world. I intend to see the Thalmor pay for that.'

Quaranir stepped back from them, his arms folded into the sleeves of his robe. Apparantly he had said all he meant to. Llirvalie looked at Uhther. Her expression seemed hesitant but she did not seem to be disbelieving anymore.

'So what are we supposed to do about this?' she asked, bluntly.

Safiya stood, a book appearing in her hands as if from nowhere, her chair twisting out of existence just as Quaranir's had. Uhther was nervous of moving in case his own chair suddenly vanished and he was left to land on his rear on the hard stone.

'According to the research of the Psijics,' she said, her tone still lacking in emotion, 'the appearance of Akatosh's avatar during the Oblivion Crisis, outside the White Gold Tower, may indicate that that tower may have been reactivated, which would certainly explain why the Thalmor were so keen to get in there during the Great War.'

'The towers can be reactivated?' Llirvalie asked, her eyes darting between the two mages. She was all but ignoring Uhther now. Safiya shrugged.

'Its possible,' she said, her gaze was still fixed on the book, 'but at best, the White Gold Tower is a maybe. I would say it would be best to focus on the Tower that we know is still active.'

'But how?' Uhther demanded, exasperated, 'what are we supposed to do?'

Safiya finally looked up at him, pedantic incredulity on her face. 'Have you not been listening?' she demanded, 'the Stones are the hearts of the Towers. We must defend the Stone of the Snow Throat Tower.'

'Which would be...?' Llirvalie asked, her voice somehow managing to sound bored and interested at the same time.

Safiya shot Llirvalie a quick, irritated look before casting her eyes back down the page of the book.

'The Stone of Snow Throat is mentioned but briefly,' she said, 'it is named only as "The Cave", an opening of great power.'

Uhther knew immediately what that must be. In his mind he saw the Time Wound through which he had seen, with the aid of the elder scroll, the heroes of old use the Dragonrend Shout to defeat Alduin.

'Though we do not know what The Cave is,' Safiya was saying, 'what is clear is that it is near the summit of the mountain.'

Uhther was conflicted. Should he tell them what he knew? They said they were against the Thalmor but words did not make truth.

'I doubt the Greybeards will allow the Thalmor to just walk up to the mountain summit,' Llirvalie said, stoutly, 'from what I've heard its a sacred place to them. They will likely defend it to their last breath.'

'That's as may be,' said Safiya, inclining her head slightly, 'but as powerful as the Greybeards are, they are still but four men. If they are met with an army of Thalmor, even the Way of the Voice may not be enough.'

Uhther was not wholly convinced by that. A true master of the Way of the Voice would be able to knock back whole platoons of enemies with their Thu'um, and there were no greater masters than the Greybeards.

But then, he did not really know the level of power that the Thalmor would have on their side. He had faced their Justiciars on more than a few occasions but only ever in small groups. Imagining an entire army of Thalmor soldiers and mages, all of them clad in armour lighter yet stronger than steel, all able to use magic, was rather a chilling thought. And surely they must be the least of the forces at the Thalmor's disposal. Perhaps the Arch-mage was right.

'We will need to mobilise quickly,' Safiya said, snapping the book closed as she spoke, 'I will move a group of my best mages to Ivarstead immediately. They should be able to manage any advance parties while the rest of the forces muster.'

Uhther was taken aback by this.

'Is such haste necessary?' he asked, 'I can believe the Thalmor will want to take the Mountain but they've been in Skyrim for years now and have made no move for it yet.'
Safiya turned her impatient gaze on Uhther.

'It is my belief they were hoping to do it five years ago while everyone was distracted by Ulfric's Rebellion,' she said, speaking very quickly now. She clearly wanted to be away, making a start on what needed to be done, 'but you scuppered those plans by winning the war for the Empire. Since then, I believe your presence in Skyrim has made them cautious but you know as well as I that the Thalmor do not stay cowed long. They must be impatient by now, having the Tower within their grasp yet unable to act. They will come for the Tower, perhaps not tomorrow but it will be soon.'

Uhther held the Arch-mage's gaze for a moment, then he nodded. What she said made sense.

'I can have some advance troops mobilise at the imperial camp at the base of the Mountain,' he said with the authority of an Imperial Legate, 'I can send a courier to Castle Dour today.'

Llirvalie stood up now. She had an uncertain yet stubborn look in her eye.

'And me?' she asked, 'what exactly did you want me to do? The Thieves Guild may be large now but we are not an army.'

'You can help in other ways,' Quaranir spoke up unexpectedly, making the rest of them jump, 'the Thalmor have many agents and spies who skulk in the shadows.'

'Like us, you mean?' Llirvalie shot at the sorcerer, her red eyes blazing hotly.

Quaranir's mouth twitched into what might have been an amused smile, though not long enough for Uhther to be sure. 'Which makes you ideally placed to root them out,' he said.

Llirvalie sucked her teeth, irritably, but did not argue.

'All our effort needs to go into protecting the Throat of the World,' Safiya went on. Uhther did not think she had even noticed Quaranir and Llirvalie talking, 'whatever differences there are between us, I think we are united in that wish.'

Uhther nodded in agreement, Llirvalie did not disagree. Quaranir smiled solemnly.

'Then it is agreed,' he turned his gaze on Safiya, 'I have some things I need to attend to. I will be in touch. If you need anything, let me know in the usual way.' And with that, the air around them seemed to buzz. Quaranir seemed to be filled with white light and then he simply faded away.

Uhther was about to ask what he had meant by all that when suddenly the winds and snow of Winterhold hit them like an icy slap in the face. it seemed it had been Quaranir's power that had held them at bay.

Shouting with shock, Uhther turned, without bothering to see if the other two were following, and ran back the way he had come, through the stone arch and down the stairs. Only then did he turn to see Llirvalie running down behind him, swearing loudly, and Safiya following at a more stately pace, an aura of warm air surrounding her that seemed to have kept the snows off her.

'Well,' said the Arch-mage, as though they had experienced nothing worse than a brisk walk along a country road, 'I need to go find Tolfdir. He'll probably be best to lead the mages to Ivarstead. Thank you both for coming, Faralda can show you out when you're ready.' And with that, she inclined her head politely to the pair of them and strode off down the corridor.

Llirvalie turned and made to walk off in the opposite direction, back towards the courtyard, but Uhther stopped her.

'Wait,' he said. He had made a snap decision. He did not yet know if he could trust Safiya. Her interests in the Towers seemed too impersonal for his liking. But Llirvalie seemed to have been a bit more passionate about the whole business, besides the Psijic had been right. Her position in the Thieves Guild did make her ideally placed to help him with his own plan.

Llirvalie turned to regard him, her red eyes coldly indifferent.

'Yes?' her harsh, Dunmer voice echoed in the corridor. Uhther was acutely aware of the ebony blades at her belt. In this tight corridor, they would be far more effective than Dragon's Breath. True he had his own dagger, but he had a feeling the Nightingale would be a lot deadlier with hers than he was with his.

Trying to appear confident, Uhther began strolling down the corridor.

'Walk with me,' he said, 'I'd like to discuss a possible business opportunity.'

Llirvalie raised an eyebrow, and Uhther was pleased to see the look was interested now rather than contemptuous.

'Alright,' she said as she fell into step beside him, 'let's talk business.'

Chapter Text

Lucia had waited until midday to leave the house. No one could know she was going. Not the where, and certainly not the why. Sylgja was making her daily trip to the market. Sofie had taken Æthur up to the Palace of the Kings to visit Jarl Brunwulf's son, Weiswulf. The two boys were the same age and the jarl had been more than happy for his heir to play with the son of his most famous thane. Calder was in the yard, practising with Storm's Vengeance, the dragonbone war-axe her father had given him, as he did every day. She had timed things well.

She had not wanted any of her family to see her leave because this day she was going out dressed very differently to how she usually did. Normally she wore a simple woollen dress, her preference being for light green wool. But today she had left her dresses in the wardrobe and had instead clad herself in the set of leather armour she had bought from Adrianne the last time she had been in Whiterun. No one had known, not even her father, though Lucia thought he would likely approve. He often said he saw the makings of a warrior in her. Which was why, she told herself, it would be fine that she had taken the axe, made of Nordic steel, from his forge. The axe now hung at her waist alongside the plain, steel dagger Uhther had given her for her fourteenth birthday, the day she had become a woman.

He would approve of what she had planned, she thought. This was Uhther, the Dragonborn, the warrior with so many great deeds to his name that the Bards College were still trying to compose a song that would celebrate all of them without being overlong. Of course he would approve. She couldn't be sure though. Which was why she had watched him leave for Winterhold without telling him what she was doing. He would find out when she felt the time was right. When it would be too late for him to stop her, even if he wanted to.

She had taken the long way to reach her destination, around to the Grey Quarter then back towards the middle of the city. True, that path had taken her past the very gates of the Palace of Kings, but she would prefer someone saw her there than down by the market. By the time anyone passed the news on to Sylgja, it would be too late.

Through the Grey Quarter she walked, her pace fast and purposeful, then up the steps back into the Stone Quarter. Candlehearth Inn was her destination. She felt nervousness tickle her stomach but forced herself not to feel it. Now was not the time to be nervous. Now was the time for surety and action. She was sure her father never felt nervous at times like this. He was Dragonborn, an imperial legate. He'd led men and woman in loads of battles. He would just march in there and tell them all what to do. She had to be the same.

Pushing open the doors she found the place much as it ever was. Adonato Leotelli was ensconced in his usual nook, surrounded by notebooks and journals. The writer had all but retired from fieldwork in recent years and had instead committed himself to the writing of recent histories. He had been badgering Uhther every time he had come to the tavern for first-hand accounts of the Stormcloak Rebellion, the Destruction of the Silver Hand and the War of the Sun. His eyes lit up when he saw Lucia but then, when he saw Uhther did not accompany her, he merely gave her a friendly nod and returned to his scribbling.

Elda's sour face also glanced at her from behind the bar.

'Ah,' she said, 'it's you.' Elda had been a staunch supporter of the Stormcloaks and so had been less than friendly to Uhther and his family since the end of the war. 'There's a group upstairs waiting for you. I'll be expecting you to buy food and drink while you're here, I won't have you taking up space for free.'

Lucia said nothing but simply grunted in assent before climbing the stairs that led to the common room. She met Susanna on the way down, carrying empty tankards. She smiled at her as they passed but did not stop to talk. Lucia imagined she'd probably be back up to take orders soon.

She reached the common room, turned and breathed a sigh of relief. They were all here. She had, without realising it, been worried some or all might not come. She had sent the letters just two weeks ago so she had been worried some might not make it or else ignore the letters altogether. But they had come, all of them. They all sat together around a long table at one end of the common room, some talking and laughing, some quiet. Some were armed and armoured while others wore only simple clothes and carried no more than a dagger or an axe on their belt.

That could be resolved quickly enough, Lucia thought.

They would have come from all over Skyrim. From Solitude to Riften, they had all made the trip up to Windhelm for this. And Lucia knew them all. She had talked with them, had even played with some when they had been younger, when she had gone with her father to his various holdings.

Braith was the closest. Dark skinned and dark eyed, she was one of the ones not talking. She sat at the end of one of the benches, running a whetstone down the edge of a scimitar that already looked sharp as a razor. When Lucia had first met Braith, she had thought her a rather pudgy child with frizzy hair and a mean look. That was hardly the case any longer. Braith had grown into quite a beauty. Her body was all sinewy muscle, her now sleek, black hair hung in an elegant plait over one shoulder. She had followed in her father, Amren's footsteps and become a sellsword and had come dressed the part in a leather tunic and skirt set with iron studs.

Beside her sat Lars Battleborn, another child from Whiterun who had grown up and filled out. No longer the rather weedy boy he had been, Lars now had the size and bearing of his father, Idolaf, though he still seemed a rather tentative man.

Perhaps the legion will hammer that out of him, Lucia thought. Lars had followed Idolaf's wishes and had joined the legion as soon as he was old enough. He had even come wearing the light jerkin of a legion scout and had a gladius hanging from his hip. And he was not the only one. Samuel of Honorhall and Blaise Boarspear had also come in their legion armour. Lucia found it funny how, only a few years ago, they wouldn't have been allowed within a mile of this common room wearing those clothes. The three young men were talking happily together, along with Hroar and Runa Fair-Shield, both of them also of Honorhall. Hroar was dressed plainly except for the iron sword on his belt, but Runa was dressed in banded iron armour, a steel mace lying on the table in front of her. It was easy to see that Runa looked to Mjoll the Lioness as something of an idol.

Further up the table, Britte of Rorikstead sat in ill-fitting hide armour, not talking but instead glowering at Alesan the Red, who sat fidgeting nervously under her stare. The last two had no fidget in them at all. Haming the Hunter sat across from Britte and matched her stare for stare, while Joric sat in his iron armour, his steel greatsword, Bloodbane, leaning against the table beside him, staring happily into space, seeming unaware that there was anyone else there.

All she had invited had come. Lucia had to keep herself from showing how happy she was. She was a little disappointed that the three legionnaires hadn't been able to bring Clinton along, though she supposed she should not be surprised. He had ever been a stickler for the rules and this was certainly not legion business. She had not held out much hope that the three Honorhall orphans would bring Francois Beaufort. No one had seen him in years.

Those who were talking ceased when they saw Lucia and they turned expectantly to her. This was it, she realised. She had called them here, they were waiting on her. She took a deep breath.

'Hello, everyone,' she began, 'thanks for meeting me here.'

Braith put her scimitar down on the table with an audible clunk then swept up a tankard to take a healthy gulp. She had been the one Lucia had been most nervous to see. When she had lived on the streets in Whiterun, and even after, Braith had been the city bully, ruling over the other children mercilessly. She had picked on Lucia more than the others, mainly because she had been poor and homeless. Though she had eased off on this after Lucia was adopted, and even more so after Uhther had had a quiet word with Amren about her. But Braith had never let Lucia forget what she had been. Thankfully she didn't say anything. She merely watched Lucia over her tankard, her dark eyes seeming to pin her in place.

It was Britte who spoke up first.

'This had better be worth it, Princess,' she said, sullenly, 'I had a hard enough time getting away from my father.'

Lucia turned to regard Britte coolly. She had only really spoken to her once or twice on those occasions when Uhther and his family had come through Rorikstead on their way to somewhere. Those conversations had never been long. In truth, she had been hesitant to invite her but she had need of fighters and Britte was certainly that.

Lucia cleared her throat.

'I've asked you here because we need to discuss the Thalmor,' Lucia began.

'What about them?' Britte demanded. Joric seemed to snap out of his reverie suddenly and turn his slightly dreamy eyes on Lucia.

'What about the Thalmor?' he asked. There was a slamming sound as Braith's tankard crashed onto the table.

'If you idiots would shut up,' Braith blazed at them, 'then she might tell us.'

Britte sat back in her chair, arms folded, while Joric looked politely surprised. Haming's lips twitched in what might have been a smile had he not controlled himself. Braith turned back to look at Lucia, unsmiling, giving her an encouraging nod.

Careful not to make her gratitude obvious, Lucia began again.

'My father, the Dragonborn, is about to launch an attack on the Thalmor.' She spoke quickly, wanting to get it all out. She had half expected gasps or surprise but no one reacted. All of them, even Britte, were watching her intently. 'He doesn't know that I know,' Lucia went on, 'but I've seen the letters he's sent. He's planning to drive the Thalmor out of Skyrim, has been for ages now. And to do that he's going to need all the help he can get.'

'He's got the legion,' Blaise said, sounding defensive. Lucia knew she would need to tread carefully here. She knew how proud Blaise and the others were to be part of the legion, not to mention having the Dragonborn as their legate.

'I know the legion will fight for him,' she said, slowly, weighing each word before she said it, 'but it’s going to take more than that if he's going to beat them. Remember the Thalmor won the Great War.'

'We're stronger now,' Samuel said, pounding a fist against his legion breastplate so that the steel rang like a bell. Samuel, though barely a man, was built like an ox. Tall, broad and muscular with a thick beard already covering his chin, he could have passed for a man twice his age. Blaise and Lars nodded their agreement.

Lucia sighed. Pointing out what was obvious to her without offending anyone was a lot harder than Uhther made it look. There came a dull thunk from the end of the table. Haming had buried his knife into a scrap of mutton on his plate and lifted it to his mouth.

'The Thalmor are stronger too,' the young hunter said, 'and you don't know what kind of powers they've got.'

'Exactly,' Lucia said, 'we don't know everything about the Thalmor and I don't think my father does either. He's going to need all the help he can get and I think we could help him.'

There came an unpleasant snort from the far end of the room. Lucia jumped then cursed herself. She had been so pleased to see everyone there that she had not checked to see who else was there. She was sure, had there been a Thalmor agent there, someone would have alerted her. But this was not much better. Rolff Stone-Fist and a couple of cronies sat around a table. They had meat and mead in front of them but none of them were paying the food any attention. All three of them had eyes on them.

'Something funny?' Runa demanded. Lucia had to suppress a smile. She even sounded a little like Mjoll. The Lioness had joined them for meals often when they had been in residence in Honeyside, Uhther's Riften home, so Lucia had heard her speak and had been impressed by the calm yet forceful voice she had. Runa might actually be cast in the same mould.

Rolff got to his feet and regarded the group, an amused smirk on his lips.

'You are,' he said. Lucia thought there might be a slight sway in his step from a little too much mead, 'you little children off to fight in the traitor's war.'

The smile was immediately gone from Lucia's lips.

'My father is no traitor,' she said, hotly. Rolff barked a laugh.

'Oh, your father, is he?' he said, smiling a nasty smile, 'last I checked, him and his bitch are both Nords. Say what you like about the Dragonborn,' he put as much contempt on that name as possible, though that was not really much, 'at least he married his own kind. But you, you're an imperial whelp. So how exactly is he your father? Did some imperial get you on him? That would make sense, he's been the Empire's whore for years.' He shot an even nastier look at the three legionnaires then he and his cronies roared with laughter at the feeble jape. Lucia was almost shaking with rage.

That someone, especially a Nord, would show such disrespect to Uhther Stormfist, the man who had saved their worthless hides the gods only knew how many times, was inexcusable. He would not have dared to say such things had Uhther been here himself. She had to stop herself from pulling out her axe and rushing the sneering bastard.
Before she could do anything else, an arrow was let fly and thudded into the wall behind the three. Lucia turned to see Haming, bow in hand, a look of sincere dislike on his face. Rolff and the other three had stopped laughing and were now looking angrily at Haming.

'They're not going to like this,' Joric said, his fingers idly tracing Bloodbane's hilt.

Chapter Text

When Lucia looked back on that moment in later days, she supposed she was thankful to Rolff and his lackeys for getting involved. Braith seemed ready for the fight, some things didn't change, and Lucia doubted there were many places short of Oblivion that Blaise, Lars and Samuel wouldn't follow the Dragonborn Legate. But the others did not seem so convinced. The other two Honorhall Orphans had looked sceptical at being told their help would be needed while Alesan looked nervous. Britte, she knew, rarely did anything that did not directly benefit herself and Haming's face was as unreadable as a castle wall.

That was until he had got to his feet, nocked an arrow to his bowstring, pulled back and loosed, all in one fluid motion and before anyone had time to react. Now the young hunter's face showed the same contempt that Rolff's had shown just second ago, though that had now been replaced with rage. Three chairs clattered to the floor and weapons were grabbed from the table.

'You dare?' Rolff snarled, brandishing an evil looking iron mace. The thing looked as though it had been made from the melted remnants of a much larger weapon. One of his companions was holding an equally sinister iron war axe, the other held a steel sword and carried a shield showing a symbol that was both familar and unfamiliar. It looked like the roaring bear of Windhelm, only the bear was drawn in lines of bright gold, and was crowned, and it was set against a storm cloud grey backing. 'You'll pay for that, boy,' Rolff was saying, advancing on Haming while the hunter pulled another arrow from his quiver.

Lucia did not doubt that Haming could send an arrow straight between the bastard's eyes but she was also fairly sure he would not have chance to nock a third arrow before the other two set on him.

There was the scrape of chair legs against the wooden floor, and Runa Fair-shield was on her feet too, mace in hand and showing her own crest on her white painted round shield, a sword crossed with a blooming Dragon Tongue, mimicking the crossed swords of Riften. Second later there were more on their feet.

Joric, hefting his greatsword, Hroar, Alesan, the legionnaires, Braith, all of them, even Britte, were on their feet, drawing what weapons they had and looking at Rolff and the other two with considerable dislike. Taken aback for only a moment, Lucia drew her axe and walked out in front of the rest until she stood almost toe to toe with Rolff. Despite his age, he was still more than a head taller than she was but she did not let herself look intimidated. Instead she rested the head of her axe on her shoulder and looked coolly into Rolff's eyes.

'You're outnumbered,' she said, 'I think it'd be best if you just leave.'

Rolff sneered, though his eyes did dart around the group. 'Outnumbered by children,' he said, dismissively.

Lucia shrugged.

'True enough,' she said, 'but if you're not afraid to fight a bunch of children, we're ready.'

She lifted the axe off her shoulder and readied it. The others lifted their weapons. Rolff was clearly thinking fast. Despite his bold words, he knew he and the other two could not face so many. Ill equipped as some of Lucia's group were, they still outnumbered them three to one. He eyed Lucia's war axe.

'That's Nordic steel,' he growled, 'you have no right to hold that, imperial bitch!'

Lucia brought the axe blade up until it rested beneath Rolff's chin. To his credit, the man did not flinch.

'My father, the Lord Dragonborn, made it,' she said, careful to keep her voice free of tone. He had to think she was ready to use it, 'that gives me the right.'

Rolff clearly wanted to say something else but seemed to force himself to remain silent. Instead he let the haft of his mace slip through a leather loop on his belt.

'Come on,' he grunted to his cronies, who put away their own weapons, and followed their leader out, all three of them giving dark looks to the group, particularly at Lucia and the other imperials.

Only when she heard the door to the inn close behind them did Lucia allow herself to breath. Her axe fell from her loose and trembling fingers. She had not noticed how badly her legs had been shaking.

She felt the axe shaft being pressed back into her hand. Looking around she saw Braith, almost nose to nose with her.

'Don't let them see weakness,' she said, with utmost seriousness. For a moment, Lucia did not understand what she meant, then saw the others looking at her, most with concern, though Britte had raised an eyebrow.

Quickly, Lucia took her axe back from Braith, slipping it into her belt, and turned to look at the others.

'Thank you for your help,' she said, she hoped her voice sounded firm, 'and you can see there my point. There are those, even among Nords, who hate the Lord Uhther. They will oppose him on nothing else but principle. We can't just assume he'll get the support he needs. We need to be ready to fight for him.'

'But what are we supposed to do, exactly?' Britte asked. Her voice seemed to have lost some of its bitter tone but it was still rather antagonistic, 'the Dragonborn's going to be using the Legion I bet, and though I'm sure they're very brave,' she shot a sadistic smile at the three legionnaires which was not returned, 'I don't much feel like being one of his little soldiers.'

In spite of Britte's words, Lucia smiled. This was the part she definitely knew. Britte was not wrong. Lucia had no doubt that when the time came to act openly against the Thalmor, Uhther would trust to the legion to be the main attacking force, most likely strengthened by sellswords in his employ.

But Lucia had read enough histories, they were her favourite kinds of books, to know that before the Empire or the Aldmeri Dominion faced each other in the open, each would be making moves to quietly seize advantages over the other. The Blades had done it before the Great War, but they were all gone now, so Uhther would need someone else to fight his shadow war.

And before he'll let us do it, she thought, we'll need to prove ourselves.

'We won't need to be soldiers,' she said, aloud, indicating for them all to sit back down, 'we will fight as we choose to. But first we'll need to prove ourselves. We need to do something that will help the Dragonborn in his war against the Thalmor.'

She then, in hushed tones to make sure no one downstairs heard, explained what she had in mind. By the time she was finished, Blaise, Samuel, Lars and Runa were looking at her like she'd gone mad, Alesan and Hroar were both looking nervously excited, Haming was smiling a small smile, that was like laughter to him, Britte was looking reluctantly impressed and Braith looked eager. Joric was still smiling dreamily, though Lucia doubted that was anything to do with what she had said.

'We can't do that!' Lars spluttered, 'the city's under imperial control. It would be treachery!'

'I'm not talking about taking the city,' Lucia explained, with a calm she did not feel, 'just a few pieces of it. And you three can shout "For the Empire" while we're doing it, if it'll make you feel better.'

'But...' Lars began unhappily, but Braith laid a hand on his thigh.

'We can do it,' she said, and her voice had taken on a sultry note that Lucia had most certainly not heard there before, 'you'll be serving the Legate doing it. He might even promote you for it.'

Lars did not look convinced but, from the way he looked at Braith, and more importantly the way she looked at him, Lucia doubted he'd make any further objections. Blaise and Samuel rolled their eyes, clearly amused.

'Obviously, this will not be without risk,' Lucia said, 'and some of you may not want to join us in this. If that's the case, you can leave now.' She pointed towards the stairs. Her heart was in her mouth. Lars and the others might refuse. But no one moved. The legionnaires still looked a little unhappy, yet also resolute.

‘We stand with you,’ Samuel finally said, his voice a little shaky but bold, ‘for the Dragonborn.’

‘For the Dragonborn!’ Blaise and Lars repeated. And, before Lucia knew it, everyone else around the table was nodding and repeating the same thing. Even Britte, though she did lack some of the enthusiasm.

‘For the Dragonborn!’ Hroar and Runa said together. They were the last.

'Very well then,' Lucia said, quietly relieved, 'we will need to leave as soon as we can, tomorrow if possible.'

'We need a name,' Braith said. She had been one of the first to repeat the pledge to Uhther, but had paused afterwards, looking thoughtful.
Lucia was taken aback. 'What?' she said.

'Well we are a band now,' she said, looking around for confirmation, and no one denied it, 'and all the best groups of warriors from history have names. Like the Companions, or the Blades.'

'The Dragon fights with Thu'um and wing,' Joric suddenly said, loudly, causing everyone, even Haming, to jump, 'its enemies fear its mighty roar. But no less deadly are its fangs, mighty tooth and ripping claw.'

Nobody said a word. Everyone had their eyes on Joric, expecting him to say more, but the young man simply continued staring, half vacantly, out the window. Lucia remembered her father saying that the son of the Jarl of Morthal had been exposed to raw magicka and was sometimes given to funny turns, though there were some who called them visions.

It was clear that Joric wasn't going to say anything else so Lucia turned her attention away. Her eyes met Braith's. The Redguard woman looked as though she was considering something.

'Something to think about there,' she said.

Chapter Text

'Wake up, my lord,' Bjorlam called back, 'we're nearly there.'

Uhther started awake and glanced around. The carriage driver was right. The sun was just now rising and the light of dawn was illuminating the farmholds of Rorikstead. To the left, a little way to the west, he could see the mountains that marked the edge of the Reach.

'About damned time,' Uhther said, stretching his back and wincing at the pain in his shoulders and hips. It had been nearly two days since he had left Winterhold and he felt as if he had spent every moment of those days in a wagon. Which he had, near enough.

He had returned to Windhelm long enough to retrieve a couple of possessions, stock up on potions and bid farewell to Sylgja and Sofie before leaving again and jumping on the carriage to Whiterun. He had not seen Lucia, which worried him a little. Sylgja had said she'd left with some friends two days before he'd returned but hadn't come back.

Apparently she'd taken an axe from his stores and had bought a set of armour from somewhere and had gone adventuring. But though he worried, Uhther couldn't deny feeling a little proud that Lucia had grown up so much. He supposed it had only been a matter of time before she would want to make a name for herself.

Perhaps she will even join the Companions one day, he thought. He wondered how the Circle would react to seeing Lucia stride into Jorrvaskr. He, Uhther, was still technically a member of the Circle but their last parting had been less than friendly. He was sure Farkas wouldn't care but Vilkas, as Harbinger, might hold it against her. And as for Aela...well, he thought, best not think about that.

He had been in Whiterun less time that he had been in Windhelm. He'd only needed a quick word with Ysolda, to get a message to someone. Though he would have liked the chance to sleep in an actual bed, but there had not been enough time with the result that he was now working the stiffness out of his joints. His dragonscale armour made the uncomfortable business of sleeping in a carriage even more unbearable.

He gave his back one final stretch before turning his attention to the dark-haired woman who sat opposite him.

'Did you get any sleep at all?'

Lydia shook her head.

'You needed it more than I did, my thane,' she said, 'and someone needed to keep watch. There have been more bandits than usual in this part of the hold lately.'
Uhther looked out across the moors and grimaced. The wild country out there was certainly a good place for bandits to hide. He remembered all too well how many caves and hidden places there were out there that were the perfect places for hideouts.

'I'm surprised Balgruuf would allow that,' Uhther said, 'he's usually quite vigilant about such things.'

Lydia looked troubled.

'That's the thing,' she said, 'the Jarl hasn't been seen much lately. He keeps to Dragonsreach, won't even grant audiences anymore. And he hasn't posted any bounties in weeks. Farengar and Proventus made an announcement, saying he's ill, but the people are growing worried.'

Uhther didn't respond. He supposed Balgruuf was growing old, sickness was not unbelievable. He had heard of younger men than he carried off by disease in Skyrim. Though the timing seemed strange. Perhaps while he was nearby...

Uhther shook the thought from his mind. He could worry about that later. He had enough to think about for the moment, chief among them was what would be waiting for him when he arrived at the Karthspire. Would Alaric have had enough time to spread the message by now? Would he have even spread it? The courier had seemed earnest enough when he had seen the dossier but time had a way of changing minds. And even if he had spread word, would anyone have come? And, more importantly, was there any left to come?

Bjorlam reined in the horse with a "woah girl" and turned back to them.

'Here we are,' he said, 'will you be needing me to stay?'

'Well we will need to return to Whiterun,' Uhther said, thoughtfully, 'I don't know how long we'll be though.'

Bjorlam nodded, understandingly.

'Not a problem,' he said, 'I'll book a room at the Frostfruit Inn. Come find me there when you want to head back.'

Uhther thanked him, gratefully before stepping down from the carriage. Lydia followed behind him, her dragonplate armour making her descent considerably louder than his own, and handed him the shield that he had laid on the wagon floor.

This was one of the things Uhther had retrieved from his Windhelm house. He had thought that, if any former stormcloaks had answered his message, turning up with the elven shield of Auriel might give the wrong impression. So, he had left that behind in exchange for the broad, round shield that had once belonged to Ysgramor himself. The steel surface carved with Atmoran designs, he thought, would appeal to Nord sensibilities much better.

He hefted the shield now and began walking the road northwards. This path, he knew, would take them around, and then through, the Reach's border mountain range. Lydia followed behind him, her own shield, this one of dragonbone, at the ready for any sign of a threat. Her hand was resting on the hilt of Vaatdeinmaar, the sister sword of Dragon's Breath. Uhther had forged the two swords from the same piece of dragon bone and had given Lydia the other. She had been the first of his housecarls so he had felt it was only right that she should be the first to receive such a blade.

As they walked through the village, Uhther caught the eye of Lemkil, up despite the hour and already working his fields. The farmer made no sign of greeting, nor even any sign he had noticed the new arrivals, and merely continued scowling as he returned to his work

Uhther wondered if he missed Sissel, or had even noticed that she'd left the village for the College of Winterhold. Curiously, though, he did not see the other girl, Britte. Had she left as well?

They carried on through the town, up the road and into the hills, continuing north until the road forked and they took the left path that would lead around the mountains, into the Reach, and then turn south along the Karth River.

It was approaching the middle of the day by the time the Karthspire came into view. Even now the sight of the place made Uhther feel uneasy. It had been many years since the Forsworn had been here, but he still had memories of the horde he, Delphine and Esbern had had to fight through to reach Sky Haven temple. They had been camped outside the ruin, almost like a town of rustic huts and tipis but they had all fallen beneath their swords and Esbern's magic. There were tents there again now, though, more than there had been that day.

It was as if a small army had arrived outside the Karthspire. Uhther stopped, almost agape. He had never expected so many. A few dozen, at the most, but there must have been hundreds down there.

Lydia tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the bridge that ran over the Karth river onto the island. Uhther had been so transfixed by the sheer number camped by the ruins that he had failed to notice the twenty or so men and women, dressed in furs and leather, who stood guard by the bridge. Great swords and battleaxes in hands and all of them with their eyes on him.

Uhther straightened his back, raised his chin and strode towards the group, Lydia on his heels. He noticed as he approached that the hands of the Nords guarding the bridge tightened on their weapon hilts. Some eyes widened while others narrowed. They were afraid. They knew who he was. They knew that if he attacked, they would stand no chance. But they would not run. In their minds, if they were to die that day, they would go to Sovngarde in glory.

Good, he thought, these are the type of people I need.

He was careful to put his hand nowhere near his sword hilt. Instead he marched straight up to the man who stood at the group's head. He was shorter than Uhther but built like an ox, with broad shoulders and arms like tree trunks. His fingers were drumming nervously on the haft of his battleaxe. The weapon wasn't raised but Uhther could tell he was ready to swing if it was needed.

'I am Uhther Stormfist,' he spoke loudly, his voice strong and unwavering, a few of the group facing him flinched a little as he spoke but took no steps backward, 'I wish to speak with your leaders. Please take me to them. Should you wish, I am willing to surrender my sword.'

To demonstrate the truth of his words, Uhther unfastened his sword belt and lifted the sheathed blade up to hold it out to the leader. The man drew back.

'That won't be necessary, Lord Dragonborn,' he said. Uhther noticed there was a kind of reverence in his eyes as he looked on the sword, a look shared by many in the group.

They might not like me, Uhther thought, they may even hate me for what I did. But hey respect me. That is enough to work with.

'The captains await you, Lord,' another of the group, a woman with fiery red hair and a scar running across one eye, spoke up, 'we can take you to them.'

Uhther nodded and, after refastening Dragon's Breath's sword belt, followed the group towards the camp.

The closer they got, the more Uhther was in awe of just how many people had turned up. The tents were pitched so close together that there was barely room to move through. The men and women who had come were finding a way though, stepping lightly through the gaps, talking, laughing, some carrying tools, buckets of water and weapons for sharpening or hafting.

Over the hum of hundreds of voices talking and laughing, he heard the sound of a blacksmith's hammer on steel. They had created a true military encampment on the slopes of the Karthspire.

The gods help me if Tullius ever finds out about this, Uhther thought.

Two years previously, Uhther had finally convinced the Governor to sign an amnesty for all surviving stormcloaks. It had been agreed on the condition that they would be registered and would be forbidden from ever joining a professional army or informal militia. Just by looking around, Uhther saw enough to know that the terms of the amnesty were broken to pieces.

Rikke may well skin me alive, he thought, forlornly.

The small unit leading him and Lydia stopped and gestured towards a pavilion that stood at the centre of the camp.

'They await you in there,' the red-haired woman said before turning and heading back towards the bridge. The rest followed her.
Uhther looked at Lydia, who smiled encouragingly, then swallowed and walked into the tent.

The pavilion was spacious, large enough for ten men to stand in comfortably. It was clear this was no sleeping tent. There was no bed nor personal belongings. The only furniture there was a large, round table in the centre of the space and a few chairs. Two of these chairs were occupied, both by people Uhther knew. On one chair sat a stoutly built Nord man with straw coloured hair that fell to his shoulders and dressed in a padded leather jerkin, his shoulders covered with a bear's pelt. The other was filled by a stern-faced woman built like a poker, her long, silver blonde hair pulled back in a severe pony-tail. She was dressed in light, steel plate, made in the Akaviri style. Before her, on the table, lay the slim, single edged sword of the Blades while the Nord had placed a simple steel war axe on the table.

Around the edge of the tent were others. Three Nords, dressed similarly to the sitting man, stood facing an Orc and a Nord who were dressed in the armour of the Blades. All eyes were fixed on the two sat at the table and each had a hand on a weapon.

'It is inexcusable,' Delphine, Grandmaster of the Blades, was saying, 'this temple is the headquarters of the Blades. You have no right to be here. I insist you pack your things and leave.'

'Though I would love to see you try and make us,' Ralof of Riverwood said, his voice betraying amusement, 'I'm afraid we are here to answer the call of the Dragonborn.'

'The Dragonborn has no authority here,' Delphine spat, 'he hasn't for half a decade. He betrayed what we stand for and has not been welcome here since.'

Inwardly, Uhther groaned. That was something else he should sort out while he was here, he supposed. In truth, he'd been meaning to do it for quite some time, years in fact. There just never seemed any real need.

Well there's a need now, he thought, I will need the Blades.

The seven in the tent finally seemed to notice he was there for Ralof and Delphine ceased talking and turned to face him. Ralof stood, Delphine did not.

'Dragonborn,' Ralof said, bowing his head, respectfully, 'welcome. I received your message and gathered all I could.' He raised his head, and there was a look of interest, and a twinkle of mischief, in his eye. 'Now, why don't you tell us about this plan of yours?'

Chapter Text

Ralof leaned back in his chair as Uhther spoke. His body seemed so relaxed it was as if he were letting the words wash over him like a summer tide. But if his body seemed at ease, the man's eyes were completely at odds with it. They were open and as alert as an eagle at wing. Ralof's eyes were a pale grey that put Uhther in mind of a sky before a storm. The question was, Uhther thought, was it a storm that would break soon? And if so, would he find himself trapped in its fury?

He pointedly ignored Delphine. She was not why he had come here. True he had known he would probably have her to deal with but that was for later. He could feel her eyes on him as well, as frosty and piercing as an icicle. He had to resist the urge to let a shiver run down his spine. Surprisingly, she remained silent all the time he spoke. He supposed her disgust with him did not overcome the old oath of the Blades completely but he could see another storm brewing there and, unlike with Ralof, he had no doubt that that one would break all too soon.

He kept speaking. He could only do what he had planned to do. Tell this remnant of Ulfric's rebellion of his plan, and hope that they would find it to their liking.

Finally, he had finished speaking. Ralof leaned forward in his seat, his arms resting on the table. Goblets and a flagon of wine had been placed in front of them but none of them had poured any out. Ralof did now, pouring so that each goblet was nearly full to the brim. He passed one to Uhther, smiling wolfishly before passing another to Delphine, as if she were an afterthought. 

The woman did not so much as touch the goblet.

'It's an interesting proposal, Dragonborn,' Ralof said, his eyes glittering mischief, 'But I don't see how it would be possible. The terms of your amnesty were quite clear and what you propose violates those terms, does it not?' He was smiling but there was a calculating look in his eye. This was not a man given to impulsive moves, Uhther knew. Ralof would wait for the right moment then act with deliberate and calculated force. 

If all Stormcloaks had been like him, Uhther thought, my job would have been much harder.

'It was Tullius's amnesty, if you recall,' Uhther said, coyly. This got a bark of laughter from Ralof and a smile from two of his men. 'And terms can be renegotiated. It has been a few years now, and you've held to the agreement.'

Ralof leaned back in his chair, regarding Uhther with an almost appraising look. 

'Letting us come out of hiding is one thing,' Ralof said, 'but the old bastard will likely return the Shrine of Talos to the Temple of the Divines before he'd let us join or form any kind of army.'

Uhther glanced back outside, careful to keep his face innocent.

'Seems to me like you've already done that.' 

Ralof's face was the picture of hurt innocence.

'This is merely a gathering of old friends,' he protested, 'here at your invitation, I might add.'

Delphine snorted, impatiently. Uhther was sure her self-control was starting to wear thin. Perhaps it would be best to bring these talks to an end. There had been enough waiting around anyway.

'Well will these friends of yours follow me? Will they join me in this?'

Ralof's expression changed. He was all serious thought now.

'I think they will,' he said, slowly, 'but it will need to be said in the right way. Many of them still think of you as the man who killed Ulfric. The one who ended the Stormcloaks.'

Uhther was not surprised to hear a touch of anger in Ralof's voice. He had been a staunch supporter of Ulfric and a firm believer in his cause. Something that Uhther could understand. He often thought if more of the Stormcloaks had been like Ralof, and he had never found that dossier, he might well have joined them himself. 

He and Ralof had been enemies in the rebellion but they had known each other before Uhther had ever joined the legion. Ralof had been one of the first men he had spoken to after he had returned to Skyrim, what felt like a lifetime ago. They had escaped together from Helgen and Alduin's first attack. This had been fortunate because it had been nothing but that recognition that had stopped Ralof from drawing his axe and attacking Uhther the first time they had crossed paths after the rebellion had ended. Faendal and Camilla's marriage celebration. Instead they had each bought a tankard of good Nord ale and had talked.

Even now, Uhther was not sure if he could trust Ralof, however much he might like the man. But that did not change the fact that he needed his help. His and that of the men who now followed him.

'We will be carrying on what Ulfric started,' Uhther said, carefully, 'but done right this time. Ulfric was angry at the Empire and so lashed out at them. But that just led to us killing each other. Nord against Nord, man against man, when we should have been fighting the Thalmor. They are the true enemy.' Uhther had not mentioned the dossier, if Alaric had then there was no need to salt a wound, and he had certainly not brought up the business of the Towers. No sense making things more complicated than they needed to be. 'Most in the legion feel the same way you do,' he went on, ignoring the sneer of derision from one of Ralof's men, 'they hate the Thalmor and want the return of Talos as much as you do. If we can drive them from Skyrim, they will join with us.'

'I remember Ulfric saying something similar before Markarth,' Ralof said, dryly, 'things did not work out so well back then.'

Uhther nodded. 'But this time we will be fighting the right people. And you will have something this time that Ulfric never had.'

Ralof's storm grey eyes met his own. Uhther could see understanding there. And excitement. 

He is with me, Uhther thought, careful not to let relief show on his face.

'I think I know how to convince them,' Ralof said, 'give me two days and we will be ready to strike north.'

That was apparently the spark that lit the tinderbox of Delphine's anger. She was on her feet faster than Uhther could blink, her wine goblet sent spilling over the table.

'I will not tolerate this!' She near enough snarled. 'I will not have this rabble on the Karthspire for two days.'

'Sit down, Delphine,' Uhther said, with a calm he did not feel. He had been far too lenient these past few years. He had not needed the Blades and so had ignored them. But he would not allow this. Delphine had clearly forgotten who he was. The woman was staring down her nose at him, nostrils flaring. Yes, a reminder was certainly past due.

'You have no right...' she began. But that was as far as she got.

'I have every right!' Uhther's voice boomed inside the tent in a way that had every Blade, Stormcloak, and even Lydia reaching for weapons. He had inflected his voice with the power of Fus, a trick that the Greybeards had taught him, not enough to be a true Thu'um, but enough make his voice seem as thunder.

Delphine's eyes had widened and she even backed away a step as Uhther rose to his own feet and turned his gaze on her.

'You have forgotten who I am,' Uhther's voice rumbled dangerously, 'and I have been far too tolerant of your oath breaking.'

That did get a reaction. Delphine, whatever her faults, was no weakling, in spirit or body, and her shoulders squared at the accusation.

'I have broken no oath,' she said, 'the oath of the Blades allows us to serve none who spares the life of a dragon. You refused to kill Paarthurnax and so you lost our service. I warned you that would be the price.'

In answer, Uhther pulled out a thick book bound in brown leather. "The Rise and Fall of the Blades", the copy he had brought out from Apocrypha.

'The oath of the Blades is to serve he who is of the Dragonblood, as it was with Reman Cyrodiil, and to protect Tamriel from danger. The Blades exist to serve the Dragonborn.' He glared at Delphine who looked back at him, not showing any sign of backing down. 'Do you deny this?'

A moment of silence. Delphine's eyes did not move.

'No,' she said finally, her teeth gritted.

'And who am I?' 

'Uhther Stormfist, the Dragonborn.'

'Then,' Uhther said, lowering his voice to its usual note, 'I would say that you and the Blades who follow you have broken this oath. I will give you this one chance to swear yourself again and renew your oath, or else you will no longer be Blades.'

Those piercing blue eyes remained fixed on him, full of a stubborn will, just as they had been on the day they had first met. They were fixed on him a moment enough for Uhther to think she might just attack him or at the least refuse him. A small part of him almost hoped she would. Then, to his surprise, the eyes lowered. She sank to one knee, drew her sword and held it up to him. The other Blades in the tent followed her example.

'I am sorry, Dragonborn,' Delphine said, her voice barely rising above a whisper, 'you are right. The Blades have only had one true duty. To protect and serve the Dragonborn. I give you oath now, to protect you and to serve you. If you would keep me as your Grandmaster, I will continue to do the job. If not, name my replacement and I shall follow them as if they were you.'

Uhther was a little taken aback. Not only by her words but by how readily she had said them. Suspicion rang a faint bell in his mind. Was this a true change of heart? Either way he did not see how he could turn her aside now. Delphine had been a Blade since before the Great War. There could be no denying she was the best person for the job.

'Rise, Delphine,' said Uhther, his voice formal, 'you shall remain Grandmaster of my Blades.' He was careful to emphasise the "my", 'but in future remember who it is who rules the Blades, or else I shall find a Grandmaster who will.'

Delphine inclined her head, her face unreadable, but said no other word. She merely stepped aside to stand beside Lydia, who to her credit did not look taken aback. The other two Blades took places on either side of her.

Uhther turned back to Ralof, who had barely moved while all this had been going on. The other Stormcloaks seemed rooted to the ground, their faces pictures of nervousness.

'I will stay in the temple,' Uhther said, as if nothing had happened, 'send word when you're ready to move out.'

Ralof nodded and opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a new arrival entering the tent.

He wore the garb of a courier. He was not a man Uhther recognised.

'Lord Dragonborn,' he spoke in a breathy voice of one who had been running, barely paying attention to the others in the tent, 'I've been looking for you. Got something to deliver, your eyes only.'

Uhther said nothing but indicated for the man to deliver the message. How did they always know where he was?

The courier dug out a letter from his satchel, written on parchment in a hasty hand.

'Here it is,' the courier said, glancing at the letter. Then his eyes widened and gulped. 'My lord,' he said, his voice near panic, 'it’s your daughter.'

Terror flooded Uhther's mind. Was it Sofie? Had something happened to her? Lucia had gone off adventuring. Was she hurt? Or worse...?

'She's taken Riften, Lord Dragonborn,' the courier said, 'Your daughter has taken Riften.'

Chapter Text

For a moment, Uhther was completely stunned. This was something that did not happen often to him. The first time he had seen the walking dead, faced down a dragon, even when he had learned of Miraak and that there had been other dragonborn before himself, he had still been able to shake off the surprise. 

Now though, he simply stood there. His body felt numb, his mind was blank. Except for one thing. The Courier's words echoing inside his head like a stone thrown into a cavern. Lucia had taken Riften? But how? How could that be possible?

They were all looking at him. The Courier, Delphine and Ralof and their soldiers, all previous animosity forgotten. Their faces all seemed to carry the same mixture of shock and concern. Were they worried about how he was going to react? Were they expecting anger? Should he be angry?

These new thoughts crept slowly into his head and, as they did so, seemed to eat away at the shock that immobilised him as curiosity overcame stunned disbelief.

He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking around, he saw that it was Lydia. Though her face was mostly covered by her dragonbone helm, he could make out her expression. It was concern but he could tell it was not the same as the that on the others' faces. She had been with him from the beginning, serving as his housecarl since the day he had known himself to be the Dragonborn, and she had never seen him so shocked by anything. And it unnerved her as much as it did him.

Noticing his mouth was slightly open, Uhther closed it with a snap and gave her a quick smile to show her he was alright before turning his attention back to the Courier. 

'When did this happen?' he asked, surprised at how level his tone was.

'Last night,' the Courier answered, 'in the hours before dawn. She and a small group entered the city and went straight to Mistveil Keep. They then took Maven Blackbriar into custody and declared her reign at an end.'

Where before it had been blank, now Uhther's mind was racing. Who, exactly, was this group who had followed Lucia in this? And how had they got in? A warband big enough to take power from Maven Blackbriar must surely have been stopped at the gates. Unless, of course, they didn't come in through the gates. 

Uhther had commanded enough battles to have an idea how Lucia would have got herself and a warband into Riften without needing to worry about the guards. Thinking about it, it was probably what he would have done had he needed to infiltrate the city. And if they had come in at night, of course they wouldn't have been seen. But he had to check.

'My housecarl, Iona,' Uhther said, 'was she with my daughter?'

The Courier hesitated before nodding.

'Yes,' he said, 'witnesses saw them together when they went to the keep.' 

Uhther heaved a sigh. So he had been right. He could see it all now. Lucia leading this warband of hers around the city walls in the dark, all the way to the staircase that led up to the porch of Honeyside. His home. Normally that door was kept locked and bolted, but of course Iona would open it for Lucia. Uhther wondered how much convincing Iona had needed to go with her. Had she gone out of loyalty to Uhther, to make sure his daughter came to no harm? Or had she been more than willing once she heard the reason they were there?

'And what did the Riften guard do about this?' Uhther asked. The Courier met his eye, shiftily. 

'They did not put up much of a fight in truth, Lord,' he replied, 'there were not even any casualties. It was, perhaps, the easiest takeover in Skyrim's history. As soon as Lucia had Maven in custody, all guards laid down their arms.'

That did not surprise Uhther. The Blackbriars, though rich and influential, had been incredibly unpopular since before the Stormcloak Rebellion. Something about their smug superiority and friendliness with the Thalmor and the Thieves Guild had always rubbed the people of the Rift the wrong way. Maven's rule as jarl had done nothing to improve their opinion.

Uhther wondered how Llirvalie and her colleagues had handled this news. It was Riften's worst kept secret that the Thieves Guild had an understanding with Maven that the guards would look the other way regarding the Guild's activities. This had allowed the guild to flourish in recent years but that would likely now be at an end. The thought alone was enough to make Uhther wince. He was no fan of the Thieves Guild but the agreement he had made with the Nightingales was unlikely to hold if his daughter ruined their operations.

'So no one was hurt?' He asked. The Courier shook his head.

'Some cuts and bruises,' he said, 'but it did not last long enough for anything serious.'

'So where is Maven now?' 

'In the dungeons,' the Courier replied. He seemed to be getting anxious now, as if there were something he was holding back but knew they were arriving at the point where he would have to tell. After a moment, he finally went on, 'by order of the new Jarl.'

The new Jarl? Oh gods, Uhther thought, tell me she hasn't. If Lucia had declared herself jarl of the Rift, the Moot would come down on her like an avalanche. As if he had read his thoughts, the Courier now shook his head.

'Saerlund Law-Giver had been named Jarl of Riften, Lord,' he said.

Saerlund? Uhther vaguely recalled the name. A surly man, barely out of his youth. The youngest son of the old jarl, Laila Law-Giver. Yes, now he remembered, he'd spoken out against Ulfric during the rebellion, urged his mother to side with the Empire, and so had been disowned. 

He'd been sent to the Palace of Kings after the end of the war, with the rest of the dethroned jarls and their families, but had been allowed to return to Riften after pledging his loyalty to the Empire. Uhther supposed it made sense for him to be chosen, only...

'How has he been named already?' Uhther demanded, 'if this all happened last night then surely the Moot can't have met already.'

This was apparently it, the thing that the the Courier had not wanted to say but now knew he had to.

'Saerlund was named Jarl by Lucia, Lord,' he said, 'she did it in your name. By the authority of the Lord Dragonborn, Imperial Legate of the Northern Legion.'

For a moment, Uhther felt as stunned as he had when he had first heard the news, then he closed his eyes. He did not know if he wanted to groan, rage or laugh. The sheer audacity of the girl really was quite remarkable. Done in his name, indeed? He would be having a sharp word with her when they next met. And Talos only knew how he was going to smooth this over with the other jarls. There was a good chance they wouldn't mind too much. Saerlund was the son of a jarl, after all, and he was loyal to the Empire so Tullius likely wouldn't care. It would be the break from tradition that he would have to soothe. The Moot would not like this decision being made without their knowledge or blessing.

Though, despite all that, Uhther could not help but feel a flare of pride. Taking over a city, at her age. The bards would make a great song of this.

'Did she send me any note, or letter?'

The Courier shook his head and held out the message he'd been reading from. 

'Jarl Saerlund sent these out to all the other jarls, but Lucia wanted one sent to you as well. She seemed quite insistent on that.'

Uhther took the message and gave it a quick glance. It was, in truth, no more than what the Courier had told him. 

The Fangs, led by Lucia the Young Dragon, (was that what they were calling themselves?) had removed Maven Blackbriar from the Rift's throne. By the order of Uhther Stormfist, the Lord Dragonborn and Imperial Legate (Uhther really did wince upon reading this), Saerlund Law-Giver had been named Jarl in her place. He now commanded the Riften guard and had at his side Mjoll the Lioness, who had sworn him fealty as housecarl.

The courier had left out that last part and Uhther could not pretend it was not a blow. Mjoll had been his friend for years and also one of the strongest of his sworn swords. He had rather been counting on her help in the trials ahead.

He let the message fall to the table where it was snatched up by Lydia before anyone else could take it. She stuffed the page into a bag on her belt and, when Uhther did not speak, gestured for the courier to leave. He did so, bowing and then running back the way he had come.

Lydia then turned her attention to Uhther.

'So what should we do, my Thane?' she asked, 'to Riften?' 

Uhther only considered that for a moment before shaking his head. He could not risk it. It was a three day journey to Riften, and he had lost enough time already. He turned back to Ralof.

'Two days,' he said. His voice was flat, without emotion. Uhther himself did not know if he was angry, proud or excited, 'on the morning of the third, we march north.' 

Chapter Text

Elenwen looked out onto the frozen valley overlooked by the Thalmor Embassy. The sheer mountain face covered, as it was all year round, by a thick blanket of snow. Evergreen trees rising into the sky. It was twilight and the sun was sinking behind the mountain peaks and the sky was turning from blue to waves of inky red and purple.

She had made her complaints ever since the day she had first been sent here but, in truth, Elenwen thought Skyrim was a very beautiful place. It was just the people who lived here that ruined it. 

Nords. She had to resist the urge to spit in disgust. What good had ever come from this barbaric people, perhaps the worst of all breeds of men. Stubborn, surly and warmongering. They had been a thorn in the side of the Thalmor ever since the First Great War. It had been too good to believe when they had captured Ulfric Stormcloak. Turning the Nords against each other had been a stroke of genius that had earned her great honours from the Thalmor hierarchy. She had even received word that she was to be recalled to Alinor to take a seat on the High Council. She had hardly been able to believe it. She would have been able to bid farewell forever to this frozen backwater of a province, leaving it in the hands of one of her underlings.

That was, of course, until He had appeared. That Uhther, the one these human savages named "Dragonborn", had thrown down Ulfric's rebellion with a brutality she would have hardly believed, even from a Nord. Years of planning in ruins. The war should have kept the Empire distracted for longer. The Thalmor had needed more time to formalise their plans for the next thrust against the humans. Against this torturous, seemingly unending existence.

As they always were when her thoughts turned this way, Elenwen's eyes were drawn into the distance, where the peak of the Throat of the World could still be made out, though it was now little more than an outline against the horizon.

The Throat of the World. An apt name. Cutting that throat would be an end to the troubles of every elf. It was so easy to think about. Doing it had turned out to be another matter. She had thought that, if all the humans in Skyrim were busy fighting each other, she and her agents might have been able to slip up the mountain unnoticed. But no. It turned out the only climbable way up the mountain had been deep in Stormcloak territory and, with the animosity of Ulfric's Nords, all attempts to infiltrate into the Rift had been disastrous. 

That had been until the end of the war. Maven Blackbriar had always been a loyal friend of the Thalmor, as close as a human could get to being called a friend anyway. But even with her on the jarl's seat of the Rift, the hackles of these Nords still went up any time an Altmer got within a mile of their sacred mountain. 

She clenched her fist, crumpling the two letters that she was still holding. It was no matter. She had no need to read them again. The words were burned into her mind. The first had arrived three days ago, news that this whelp of the Dragonborn's, this girl-child that these fools already named "The Young Dragon" had taken Maven off the jarl's throne and replaced her with a man loyal to the Empire. Elenwen ground her teeth at that. Ulfric's fools might have believed there little difference between those loyal to Titus Mede and those loyal to the Thalmor but she knew better. Still, it was no great matter, she supposed. She still had agents all across the province, placed after the civil war. This new jarl could be supplanted easily enough. These Nords were easy enough to rile up against each other. It was the second letter that gave her more cause for concern.  

It was a letter she had sent to many agents since the occupancy of Skyrim began, but not one she had ever expected to receive. News that she, Elenwen, First Emissary, a High Inquisitor of the Aldmeri Dominion, was on probation and that, if she did not achieve her mission soon, she would be recalled to Alinor, not with honour now but for demotion, the stripping of rank and honours. She could not allow this.

There had to be some way of getting near the mountain. Perhaps she could use this takeover of the Rift. It was unlawful, that could not be denied. She could insist Tullius act. Send troops to Riften to restore Maven and, in that confusion, she could dispatch a few Justicars to the Throat of the World. Surely an entire platoon would have little difficulty with these Greybeards?

She had begun pacing around the edge of the Embassy courtyard, lost in thought. She met a patrol of Thalmor Guardsmen going in the opposite direction. A Justicar leading two Bosmer archers and a Khajiit equerry bringing up the rear. 

Momentarily distracted, Elenwen's eyes narrowed as she watched them move away. She disliked giving Bosmer and Khajiit positions in the guard. They made capable servants and informants, and few could match their skills as knives in the dark, the duties that were below the dignity of an Altmer. But Elenwen preferred the days when she had been guarded solely by her own kind, by Altmer justicars and sorcerers. But orders had come north the previous year, from the High Council itself.

The Khajiit kingdoms of Anequina and Pelletine had proved their loyalty and had earned respect within the Dominion. The Bosmer had also been honoured, unjustly in Elenwen's opinion. To her knowledge, the wood elves had yet to provide the true location for the Green Sap Tower. Still, orders were orders. The Dominion depended on obedience, they could not succeed otherwise.

A strange sound caught Elenwen's ear, distracting her from her thoughts. A strange kind of whistling. Elenwen looked up, half expecting to see a canah swooping elegantly on the breeze. But that was madness. She heard a grunt and turned in time to see one of the bosmer fall, a thin shaft protruding from his neck. 

Too late, Elenwen realised what she had heard. The fletching of an arrow as it soared through the twilight towards them. They were under attack! She now heard more of that same whistling sound. Much more. 

'To arms!' Elenwen shouted as she raced for the cover of her solar, 'To arms! We are under attack.'

The arrows began falling like rain, striking the courtyard with deadly ferocity. Some of the soldiers who had been patrolling were able to get shields up in time, moonstone met steel arrow points and the courtyard echoed with clangs and clatters as the arrows glanced off the shields. Others were not so lucky. Elves and Khajiit fell, screaming and choking, arrows lodged in bellies, chests, skulls and throats.

'Who?' was all Elenwen could say, thinking aloud as she watched the carnage around her, 'who would dare?'

Outside, in the forest, Uhther watched as the arrows fell, a grim satisfaction filling him. He had been working for this for so long, to see it now come to fruition...he stopped himself. It was not done yet. The battle had yet to be won. Never assume it is done until it is done, Legate Rikke had once told him. 

He drew Dragon's Breath and turned to Delphine.

'Advance to the gate,' he told her. She nodded. Uhther could see a eager kind of hunger there, which did not surprise him. The Blades had been all but destroyed by the Thalmor in the aftermath of the Great War. This was more than just a necessary strike for Delphine, this was personal. As it was for the man at her side. Knight Brother Fultheim, another veteran of the Blades who had come to join after hearing of their reformation. 

Uhther remembered meeting the man once, in a lonely tavern in Eastmarch Hold. He had been much more the worse for drink last time. Now he stood tall, sober and as eager as Delphine to rush in and kill all in his path.

'Delphine may hold to this whole dragon slayer thing,' Fultheim had said to him as they had journeyed from the Karthspire, 'but killing Thalmor always seemed more important to me. If you're gonna lead us to that, I'll follow you anywhere.' He had then brought a fist to his chest in respectful salute, his gauntlet ringing against his Akaviri style armour. 

The rest of the Blades were there as well. They were the vanguard of this assault, along with Uhther and Lydia. The rest of their group was made up of a hundred archers from Ralof's former Stormcloaks. They had been all Uhther had wanted. A small raiding party, he felt, was better for this than a large army. The rest of Ralof's remnant, he had sent north to the old Stormcloak camp on the border of Haafingar, under Ralof's command. they were to remain there until Uhther sent further orders.

Though any orders I send will depend on how this goes, Uhther thought as he advanced through the trees that had kept them hidden during their approach. They had only encountered one patrol, and that had been quickly overpowered by Uhther's men, one old Stormcloak by the name of Leifric had proven particularly deadly, his sword moving faster than even Uhther would have believed. That was good, Uhther had thought, they won't see us coming.

The remnant Stormcloaks had then moved to encircle the embassy, still keeping to the trees, while Uhther, Lydia and the Blades had taken position in sight of the gate. A nod from Uhther had been the signal. Almost as one, the Stormcloaks had raised their bows and loosed. Arrows flew up and then began to fall.

And now they were charging. Uhther, flanked by Lydia and Delphine and followed by the twenty Blades. Fultheim, Jenassa, Vorstag, Ugor and the rest, all with bare blades and looks of grim determination. 

There was a guard by the gate. A group that looked to made up of five justicars and a sorcerer. The justicars conjured arcane blades when they saw them coming, and the sorcerer's arms suddenly became alight with lightning.

'Fus Ro Dah!' 

The Thu'um sent the Thalmor flying backwards, colliding with the gate that remained shut tight. While they were trying to regain their feet, Uhther and the Blades fell on them like the gods' own fury. Uhther took the sorcerer, Dragon's Breath seeming to shine with light as he plunged the dragonbone blade through the elf's chest. The sorcerer's eyes widened and he clutched at Uhther's wrists for a moment before the arms went limp and he was still. 

Around him the Blades were at their work. The thin, single edged swords of the ancient Akaviri plunged and sliced and the elves screamed and died. Delphine neatly decapitated one, sending a helmeted head spinning and rolling down the hill while Fultheim was stabbing another again and again, though it was clear that the elf was already dead.

The rest were watching Uhther, ready for the next step.

'What now, Thane?' Lydia asked. 

'Now we hope,' Uhther said, and he turned to the gate, 'Kharjo! Are you there?'

There was a moment where no answer came. All that could be heard were the shouts and screams from further into the embassy. The archers were doing their work well but Uhther could hear the sound of approaching soldiers, coming to investigate the commotion by the gate. Still no answer, long enough for panic to lance through Uhther. Had he changed his mind? Was this a trap?

'I am here,' a voice thick with the accent of Elsweyr finally answered. There was a click and the gate swung open.

'My gratitude, my friend,' Uhther said. Kharjo was wearing the same armour as the rest of the Thalmor guard though now he cast down the helmet and shield and replaced them with his own iron banded shield and the helmet made from Nordic Steel that Uhther had gifted to him, wrought in the shape of a snarling sabercat, before drawing his mace.

'This one remains in your debt,' said Kharjo, 'and there are others here who are ready to join you.'

That did take Uhther aback. The idea that citizens of the Dominion might want to defect from Altmer rule had not occurred to him. But then he remembered Malborn. Such things did happen. 

A grin stretched across Uhther's face. 

'Well then,' said the Dragonborn, 'come and let's finish this.'

It was not a battle. It could not even be called close to one. The Thalmor forces were too disjointed, too unprepared. They had assembled in small groups, easily dealt with by Uhther's raiding party, especially when the Stormcloaks joined the fray. Then a group of khajiit from the kitchen emerged into the courtyard carrying knives and cleavers. The elves thought them reinforcements, at first, before the cat-men of Elsweyr leapt into action, screaming blood-curdling battle cries in their native tongue while three wood elves, dressed in the simple attire of hunters, climbed to the top of the wall from where they began loosing arrow after arrow into the groups of Thalmor elves. These must be the ones Kharjo had spoke of, Uhther thought, as he took a heavy sword blow on the Shield of Ysgramor before kicking forward, sending the elf sprawling.

Before the moons had truly risen, it was over. Uhther removed his helmet and surveyed what was left of the Thalmor Embassy. Bodies lay everywhere, and he was pleased to see that the enemy dead outnumbered their own.

The surviving Thalmor had surrendered and were now being rounded up. He would deal with them later. First things first. He turned to one of the Stormcloaks.

'Head to the camp now,' he said, 'tell Ralof he's to blockade the highway, nothing gets in or out until I get to Solitude.'

The man saluted and was away, as fast as his legs would carry him. As he passed through the gate, two more men followed on behind him. Uhther watched until they were out of sight then turned his gaze to where he fancied he could just about make out the spires of the Blue Palace. 

That was the easy bit, he thought, sourly, what happens next will depend of what Queen Elisif will think of all this.  

Chapter Text

There was a storm brewing. The snows were falling colder than usual and, even in the stone towers of the College of Winterhold, those towers that were wreathed with arcane power centuries old, it could be felt. Even if not everyone knew the full extent of the storm, or where it came from, all could feel it.

It could be felt most tangibly by those at the top of the tallest tower of the college, in the chambers of the Arch-mage. Three were in there, all gathered in the study. One sat, at ease, behind a desk, one stood quite still in the corner, nervously wringing their hands, and the last, the most agitated, pacing up and down the room, stopping to re-read the message in their hand for what must have been the thousandth time, before beginning to pace again.

'This is a disaster,' said the pacer, 'an absolute disaster.'

The one behind the desk laid aside the quill that they had been using to write a lengthy note in a journal to turn their attention on the pacer.

'I don't see that its as bad as that,' said the Arch-mage, Safiya al-Ruuz, 'you wished the Thalmor dealt with.'

'Yes but not like this,' Quaranir exclaimed, 'this needed to be handled delicately, with care and precision. The man has instead hurled a waraxe at a beehive!'

Safiya snorted.

'You expected him to do otherwise?' she asked, her voice smooth as silk, 'it seems you have yet to truly understand the impetuousness of Nords. Try and make things complicated, most of them would start a fight just to simplify things.'

The other man in the room, the one wringing his hands, stopped for a moment to glower at the Arch-mage. Safiya shot a fond look back at the grey-bearded man.

'You know I speak with the greatest fondness, Tolfdir,' she said, 'but you must admit, your countrymen are not the most subtle of peoples.'

Tolfdir harrumphed but said nothing else. Still smiling, Safiya turned her attention back on Quaranir.

'You wished him to protect the Snow Throat Tower from the Thalmor, surely this strike on the embassy is the first step to removing them from Skyrim for good?'

Quaranir looked at her with an expression of ill-disguised frustration, tempered with patience.

'You do not know the Dominion as I do,' he said, 'they will not take this attack calmly. What's more, an attack on the embassy gives the Thalmor an excuse to move more troops into Skyrim. And the emperor will either have to let them into the province, under the guise of seeking justice, or he can refuse which will spark another Great War, something they are certainly not prepared for.'

Safiya's expression did not change, though a slightly troubled look did now touch her eyes. 

'But you said Elenwen was unable to get any messages out,' she said, hesitantly, 'how then would the High Council know?'

'Ambassadors send reports back to the Council,' Quaranir explained, 'and Skyrim, being such a hotbed of Talos worship, was of particular interest to the Inquisitorial Board.' Safiya noticed the sorcerer's lip curled at the name of Talos. She must remember that, though he might be allied with them, he was still a High Elf, with an Altmer's opinions on the ninth Divine. 'They demanded reports every few weeks,' Quaranir went on, 'and Elenwen did not shirk that order. And I doubt she'll be sending any messages now, do you?'

Safiya winced. Though she had no love for the Thalmor ambassador, it had still been hard to hear about her final fate. The Blades had not been gentle, according to Quaranir. Though, she supposed, considering what the Thalmor, and likely Elenwen herself, had done to many captured Blades during the Great War, it had been a deserved fate.

'But surely it will take them months to mobilise any kind of invasion force,' Safiya reasoned, 'and longer still to convince the emperor to allow them into Skyrim?'

Quaranir looked dubious.

'It will depend on how long it was since they received a report from Elenwen,' he said, 'and on how easily Emperor Lucius Mede can be convinced. He is still little more than a boy, after all.' 

Safiya pursed her lips, deep in thought. Tolfdir took advantage of the momentary silence.

'But surely we can provide aid to the Dragonborn?' 

Quaranir snorted.

'My order is closely monitored by the Thalmor as it is,' he said, 'they have sorcerers of their own. If they find we've been giving aid against them even this much, we would be hard enough pressed to defend ourselves, never mind you here in Skyrim.'

'We can send mages to boost Uhther's ranks,' Safiya took up the explanation, 'but Altmer have a talent for using magicka that outstrips any of us. We could, at most, balance the scales. We have nothing to tip things in our favour when the Thalmor arrive.' When, not if, Safiya heard herself say, and knew it to be true. Quaranir was right. Uhther's attack on the embassy gave the Thalmor all the excuse they needed to invade in force. And they would go straight to the Snow Throat Tower, sweeping aside any obstacles. Just as they had during the Great War. 

Tolfdir looked troubled. Quaranir, however, looked thoughtful. He seemed unhappy with what he was thinking, but also had the look of a man who had come up with a solution.

'There may be something,' he said, slowly, 'or rather someone. I mislike it greatly but he was there at the breaking of the last tower. And he has the power that outweighs even the mightiest of the Thalmor. The question is whether he will help or make things worse.'

Safiya felt completely perplexed.

'Who?' she asked, 'who do you mean?'

Quaranir did not answer straight away. He seemed to be debating inwardly with himself. This was not a decision he was making lightly, Safiya realised, it was a choice he would rather not make. But Uhther had forced their hand.

'The Dragonborn must go to Whiterun,' the psijic said, at last. And, offering no more explanation, he opened a gateway and was gone, leaving the room in silence but for the sound of the wind outside.

That same wind howled many miles to the south, whistling past and through the windows of Mistveil Keep.

Lucia paced the chambers she had taken, impatiently. A week it had been. A week since she and the Fangs had taken Riften away from the Thalmor and still she had heard nothing from her father. No praise, no word he was on his way to join them, not even an admonishment for her rashness. She might have even welcomed one of his lectures. Better that than this silence. He must have heard by now. 

Her mother's letter had arrived barely two days after Saerlund Law-Giver had been named jarl of the Rift. It had been roughly what she had expected. A sound telling off mixed with words of pride. She smiled at the thought of that letter now, imagining Sylgja's face when she had been writing it, somehow managing to smile with an annoyed frown. The letter had also contained words from Sofie, warning her to be careful, as well as an illegible scrawl that she had to assume was Æthur's attempt at a message.

But nothing from Uhther. And that was infuriating. Lucia sighed. She had to get out of this room. All this pacing was not doing any good. Perhaps a walk through the town.

Quickly she grabbed her belt on which hung her dagger and waraxe and tied it around her waist, over the leather armour she had now taken to wearing at all times during the daylight.

Out the chamber, down the steps and she was in the jarl's hall. Saerlund was speaking to the imperial legate and barely glanced in her direction. Mjoll gave her a friendly smile, however. The legate, on the other hand, fixed her with an appraising look that Lucia returned. Fasendil was one of those rare High Elves that disliked the Aldmeri Dominion, chosing to fight for the Empire instead. Uhther had always spoken highly of him. What were his opinions on the change in Riften's leadership?

Lucia did not stay long enough to find out. Iona was in the hall as well, eating from a pewter platter, still wearing her dragonplate armour, but stood up when Lucia approached. 

'You heading out?' she asked as Lucia approached. 

'I am,' Lucia replied, shortly, 'I think I need to stretch my legs.'

'Care for some company?' Iona asked. Lucia nodded, not that she really had much choice. Iona would accompany her whatever she wished. It was her duty, she said, to serve and protect the Dragonborn and his family. And that service, apparently, did not extend to obedience to her, as Iona had gone curiously deaf any time Lucia had asked her to leave her alone.

Iona stepped over the bench she had been sitting on and came to stand behind Lucia, one hand resting on the hilt of Sanguine, her dragonbone sword. The sword made for her by Uhther. Lucia could not help but glace at the blade with envy. How she longed for such a weapon of her own. But it seemed Uhther was one of a bare few smiths in Skyrim able to work with Dragonbone, and she knew none of the others apart from Eorlund Grey-Mane. And he was in Whiterun. It had been many years since she had seen Whiterun.

Lucia and Iona left the keep together and walked down the steps, both exchanging nods with the guards who stood on duty. Lucia did not know how Saerlund could be so trusting of guards who had surrendered so easily. But they had given him their oath, very enthusiastically she had noticed, and the jarl had insisted they keep their positions.

It was a pleasant day. The sun was out and shining, the citizens of Riften were going about their usual business. All in all, barely a soul seemed to have notice the Hold's change in leadership. But then, as she recalled, the same had been true when Maven had taken power. She supposed, to the common man, whoever ruled the Hold mattered little when there were crops to be planted, fish to be caught and work to be done.

She walked around the edge of the marketplace, listening to those calling out their wares, as she made her way to Honorhall. 

The old orphanage building had been taken over by those who had followed Lucia, Hroar and Runa had insisted on it. A small banner, showing a white fang against a pale grey field striped with a diagonal black line, hung over the doorway.

Lucia still felt rather guilty about displacing Constance and the two orphans who'd been living here when they'd arrived, though they had seemed all to happy to relocate to Honeyside when Lucia had made the offer. She had no need of the house, since she was staying as the guest of the jarl. The only condition she had made was that the door to the porch, the door that Lucia and the Fangs had come in through, was barricaded. She did not need any enemies using the same trick she had.

She was sure they would be alright. She just hoped her father had not left anything dangerous in there. Though that seemed unlikely. He had moved all his most powerful, and most dangerous, possessions up to the Armoury and the Museum years ago.  

She pushed the door open.  They were all in there. Some, like Hroar, Lars and Braith were lounging around the dining table, Braith was sharpening one of her swords. Haming had erected an archery target at one end of the room and was now loosing shafts into the coiled rope. Blaise, Samuel, Britte, Runa and Alesan were watching him, sat on the beds like they were benches, and Joric was lying back on another bed, staring at the ceiling with a merry smile on his face.

They all had upgraded their equipment since they had arrived. Those who had before owned nothing but an iron axe now were armed with good steel and wore banded iron or stiff leather armour. Lucia had Balimund to thank for that. He had offered to outfit the band, he said to curry favour with the new jarl, though Lucia suspected it was a thank you for getting rid of Maven.

Haming lowered his bow arm when he heard Lucia enter and all turned to face her. There was expectancy on all their faces. They, like Lucia, had been waiting for word from Uhther, perhaps orders to join him somewhere for some great battle with the Thalmor.

Iona went to join Braith and the others by the table while Lucia shook her head. 

'No word,' she heard the disappointment and the bitterness in her voice. 

Britte's lip curled and the rest looked no less disappointed. Even Haming, who kept his emotions in check better than anyone, loosed an arrow with such ferocity that it missed the target completely and instead thudded into the wooden wall.

'So what do we do?' Runa asked, 'do we just wait here forever now?'

'Just hope that the Dragonborn, or someone will bother to send word to us?' Hroar muttered before taking a good drink from his tankard of nord mead.

Lucia did not know what to say. She had been sure Uhther would have sent word to her. Sure he would want her with him. He had never dissuaded her from her choice to be a warrior. He was the one who had given her her first wooden sword to practice with when she'd been little more than a slip of a girl. So why now the silence? She had to force herself not to grind her teeth.

She was just opening her mouth, though she was not sure what she was about to say, when she heard the door open again behind her. Spinning around, she saw a dark elf. A rather pretty dark elf, as they went. She had pale, silvery hair, a wary demeanour and was wearing very plain clothes.

'Hello,' the elf said, nervously, her red eyes glancing around at the motley group, 'I was looking for the Fangs of Honorhall, I was told I could find them here.'

A tense atmosphere had descended on the room. Lars had gotten to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his gladius, though he seemed to have relaxed when he saw her. Lucia was not so calm. She had heard enough of her father's stories to know that a hopeful, pretty face could hide a world of trouble.

'Who wants to know?' Lucia asked.

The red eyes glistened, as if the woman was about to cry. 

'I'm from Shor's Stone,' she said, struggling to hold back a sob, 'the town is under attack. Bandits have taken Fort Greenwall and are stopping anyone from coming or leaving. I was only just able to get away.'

Lucia sniffed, impatiently.

'That's surely a matter for the Riften Guard,' she said. Or my father if he was around, she thought.

'But you don't understand,' the dark elf said, 'they are flying the banner of Ulfric Stormcloak.'

That did give Lucia pause for thought. Bandits flying any banner, never mind the banner of a man dead these five years, was unusual enough. Though now she thought of it, she had never heard of bandits directly threatening a town before, certainly not one so close to a hold capital.

'Have you told the jarl about this?' she asked.

'He said he did not have the men to help,' the dark elf replied, 'he said the Riften guard are formalising his strength in the hold, he doesn't have the men for an assault at the moment. He was the one who told me to come to you. He said you might be able to help.

Lucia thought. It made sense. The jarl surely trusted her enough to act in his stead, retake the fort of the Rift for him while his men were out in the hold. And Shor's Stone. Sylgja had come from Shor's Stone. There were people there that she had known for years.

She looked at her companions. Braith was smiling eagerly. Most of the others wore similar expressions. They had been sitting around waiting for too long. Their blood had been stirred by their taking of Riften, and now they wanted the next adventure. Only Iona did not look eager. But then, she had seen countless battles, fighting alongside her father. She merely looked resigned and ready for the next.

'Alright,' Lucia said, turning back to the dark elf, 'we'll help you. But you will need to come with us. You might know something that will help us beat these bandits. What is your name?'

The dark elf smiled, warmly, wiping tears from her eyes. She looked so grateful.

'Thank you,' she said, her voice thick with sincerity, 'my name is Llirvalie. I'm ready whenever you are.' 

Chapter Text

Lucia reined Ysmir in as they came into sight of Fort Greenwall. The horse let out a whinny and tossed his head nervously so that Lucia had to fight to get him back under control. She had purchased the dapple-grey stallion from the Riften stables and she did not think he was used to her yet. Though that was hardly surprising after only half a day in his saddle. She thought wistfully of Arrow, the young colt her father had bought her earlier that year. He was stabled at Lakeview Manor where she and Sofie would go riding around the country with Uhther, she on Arrow, Sofie on a pony she had named Silver, and Uhther on his old, black mare, Alfsigr.

Llirvalie reined in beside her. Her horse was a black even darker than Alfsigr. So black, in fact, that it seemed to blend with the shadows as they passed between the hills. The sun was just beginning to sink towards the horizon and Lucia had the feeling that once the light was gone, this horse would be all but invisible. That was except for the eyes. They were a red, so bright that they seemed almost to glow. Just looking at the creature made Lucia almost want to shiver so she kept her eyes averted. Where would such a nice, demure woman as Llirvalie have found such a mount?

The dark elf had been most pleasant company as they had ridden through the Rift, talking about the places she had been to and the things she had seen in her life. Her family had apparently come to Skyrim shortly before the Red Year. Her father had been a merchant and had hoped to re-establish the old trade route through the Dunmeth Pass after the Oblivion Crisis. But then Baar Dau had fallen and there had been nothing to return to and nothing from Morrowind to bring through the pass.

'But father was able to start again here in Skyrim,' Llirvalie had said, proudly, 'we came to Shor's Stone and we began transporting the ebony from the mine to other parts of the province. And we've done that ever since.' Her face fell, 'until now.'

Lucia was filled with pity for the elf. All she and her family were trying to do was make a living, no easy thing to do in Skyrim at the best of times, and that was being threatened now by some brutes who wanted to play at being Stormcloak rebels.

'You leave them to us,' Lucia had said, reassuringly, gesturing back at the Fangs, some on foot, some on horses of their own, 'we'll sort them out.'

Those were words easily spoken, Lucia thought now as she beheld the fort, with its high, stone walls, but how was she going to live up to them.

Britte seemed to have similar ideas as she drew level with them.

'So,' she began, her tone as confrontational as ever, 'how exactly are we supposed to get them out of there?'

Lucia grimaced but said nothing, only dismounted from Ysmir. 

'For now,' Braith had drawn level with them, 'I suggest we stay out of sight, wait for dark and think of a plan.'

Iona, who had been following behind Lucia on foot, shot Braith an approving smile.

'Your father always favoured the dawn raid,' the housecarl said to Lucia, 'the night guard are tired and the rest are just waking up. A good time to take them by surprise.'

A rustling in the trees behind them wiped away the reply Lucia might have given. Acting on instinct, she drew her axe while the other Fangs who had caught up drew their own weapons and readied shields.

Three men came into view, all wearing padded leather tunics beneath blue short cloaks, all carrying swords and war axes and all holding hunting bows with an arrow nocked and drawn, pointing directly at Lucia. 

They were a mismatched trio. Two of them looked to be getting quite long in the tooth, their beards greying, while the third looked only a little older than Lucia. All wore the same expression, however, a mistrust bordering on hatred.

'You are not welcome here,' one of the older men said, 'leave now and you won't be hurt.'

Lucia could not help but let out a snort. True they might have taken them by surprise but there were still only three of them. Braith seemed to be thinking along the same lines because she let out a bark of laughter then rested her twin scimitars on her shoulders in a way that managed to be relaxed yet threatening at the same time. All around them, the Fangs who had caught up were fingering the hilts of their weapons. Runa was drumming her fingers on the rim of her shield while Britte was smiling, appearing all too eager to hit something.

'Wait,' it was Samuel who had spoken. He was looking at the younger of the three whose eyes had widened, 'I know you. You're Assur, Son of Korir.'

Lucia saw the boy's teeth clench but none of the bows were lowered.

'So what if I am?' Assur demanded, 'it doesn't change that you have to leave!'

'Your father, and all the other jarls who rebelled against the empire, were forbidden from taking up arms again,' Samuel spoke over him, seeming barely to hear him, 'them and their families. The Lord Dragonborn may have arranged an armistice for the Stormcloaks but that did not change.'

Assur actually snarled at that.

'We do not recognise the authority of the Thalmor's puppets!' the other of the older men snapped, 'not the Empire and certainly not Uhther the Traitor.' The man spat at the name. The other old one took his turn to speak.

'We follow only the one, true king of Skyrim. Ulfric Stormcloak!' He gestured towards the banner of the bear's head that flapped over Fort Greenwall. 'We are the Kingsworn! The king may be dead, but his vision for Skyrim lives on in us!'

The three were working themselves up into a fury, Lucia realised. In a few minutes they would attack, in spite of the odds. They would be cut down but there was a chance they'd take one or two of the Fangs with them. And Lucia had no wish to lose any of her band, especially to something so needless. But she couldn't speak. She was too incredulous. Thalmor puppet? Traitor? Didn't these fools understand anything? 

She had thought stupidity like this was only found in men like Rolff, drunkards with too much time on their hands. She had never expected this.

'Gentlemen, please,' Llirvalie had come to stand beside them. Lucia was only dimly aware of the fact her black horse did not seem to be anywhere nearby anymore. 'I don't think there's any need for trouble.'

Far from pacifying the situation, Llirvalie only succeeded in bringing the animosity of the three Kingsworn on herself.

'You stay out of this, Elf!' one of the older men spat at her, contempt plain in his voice.

'But...,' Llirvalie began, looking upset, but was cut off by an arrow that went speeding past her, missing her throat by a little over a foot.

'That was a warning, Elf,' Assur said, already pulling another arrow from his quiver, 'the next will be lodged in your dirty hide.' Then he stopped moving his arm. In fact, he became suddenly as still as stone. Likely, Lucia thought, due to the arrow shaft that had just appeared in the tree Assur had been standing beside. The shaft was so close to the boy's face that, as the arrow shuddered from the impact, the fletching tickled his nose.

Lucia tried to hide her surprise enough to look at the three Kingsworn with as much contempt as she could muster.

'That was your warning,' she said, 'run back to your fort now, or more will follow.'

The three men looked at each other, nervously. They spoke no more words but did not seem to want to risk the chance that Lucia had more archers hidden out of sight. They took off at a steady run back to the fort, pausing only to shoot dirty looks at Llirvalie.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Lucia heaved a sigh of relief and looked with gratitude towards Haming who had just emerged from the trees, longbow in hand and a small smirk on his face.

'It would have been smarter to kill them,' Britte said, looking after the three men. 

The other Fangs looked like they agreed with Britte, even Iona was frowning at Fort Greenwall.

'They will surely tell the rest that we are here,' the housecarl muttered, 'whatever chance of a surprise attack we had is now lost to us.'

Murmurs of agreement went up.

Lucia couldn't blame them. Killing the three would have been the sensible thing to do. Why hadn't she? Maybe it was because they had not been a threat. The Fangs could have easily overpowered the three men. Had she been stayed by pity? 

Uhther would not have been merciful, she thought, feeling disgusted with herself. Uhther would have done what was necessary. Iona was right. Now Assur and his friends would be able to tell the rest of the men in the fort that they were there. If she'd killed them, they could have still surprised them. She needed to get tougher.

'Set up camp just behind the treeline,' she said, her voice firm, 'they may know we're here but they don't know how many they are. If they think we're some big army, that might give them pause.' She hoped that was the right decision. She looked towards Iona, who smiled and gave a slight nod.

The other Fangs went to begin setting up their tents, except for Braith and Samuel. They were waiting to be told the plan, Lucia realised, or else help her come up with one. A hierarchy had definitely formed within the band. And it had happened by itself. Without needing to be agreed upon, it had been decided that Lucia was in command, with Braith, Samuel and Blaise as her seconds. 

Lucia wished she had something to tell them. How was she to root out the Stormcloaks, or Kingsworn as they called themselves now, now that they knew they were there? 

Uhther would have known what to do, she thought. During the Civil War, he had taken Fort Kastav in the middle of the day, almost single handed. How had he done it again?

'Where's the elf gone?' Samuel said suddenly. Lucia looked around. Llirvalie had vanished. 

'Maybe she's gone to Shor's Stone?' Braith said, hesitantly, 'maybe she's gone to find reinforcements.' 

'Or maybe,' Samuel said, 'she was just scared. She hardly seemed that bold and those bastards did nearly shoot her.'

'Maybe,' Lucia said slowly, while inwardly cursing the dark elf. She'd been counting on Llirvalie to provide some knowledge about the surrounding country that might provide the key to taking the fort. Maybe some hidden passage or cave...

That was it, Lucia remembered, Uhther had taken Fort Kastav by sneaking into the dungeon and releasing the prisoners there, who had then helped him fight through the Stormcloaks and open the gate for the rest of the soldiers. Lucia remembered her father telling her that he had found a drain grate at the base of the fort which had led through to the lower levels. Perhaps Fort Greenwall had a similar way in. Perhaps a sewage tunnel? They would have to dispose of waste somehow. If only Llirvalie hadn't disappeared, she could have told them about any nearby caves or streams.

'Talos take the woman,' Lucia cursed under her breath. She supposed she could ask Braith and Haming to scout out the area, though the gods knew how long that would take. But what choice did she have? They couldn't leave the Kingsworn in that fort. They would be a thorn in the side of the new Jarl Saerlund, who they'd no doubt see as another Thalmor puppet due to his loyalty to the Empire.

And it'll be one more thing father has to deal with, she thought, disgustedly. In spite of the situation, she couldn't help feeling rankled that the Kingsworn were only acting now, when for the past five years there had been an actual Thalmor puppet on the throne of the Rift. Lucia supposed a friendship with the Thieves Guild had helped Maven with that, somehow.

Lucia was just turning to ask Braith to go grab Haming when suddenly Llirvalie was there again. Lucia could have sworn that the demure woman had not been there a moment before.

'I think I know a way in,' said Llirvalie, giving no explanation, 'there is a cave to the north of the fort that leads into the castle's dungeon. If you go in after dark, you might be able to take them by surprise.'

Lucia was taken aback. It was everything she had hoped for. Too good to be true? It was certainly very convenient. And surely the Kingsworn would know about it. But she saw no other option. 

'To the north, you say?' Lucia said, thoughtfully. The dark elf nodded. Lucia turned to Samuel and Braith. 'Tell everyone we're moving out,' she said, 'pack up and make it obvious that we're leaving. We'll move north to Shor's Stone.'

Chapter Text

The two moons, Masser and Secunda were high and bright in the sky when Lucia and the Fangs set out across the moors of the Rift. Lucia glowered angrily up at the moons, hoping that the remnants of Shor's body could feel her displeasure. She had been hoping for a dark and overcast night, that she and the others would be hidden from view. But no, the sky was bright with stars, almost as bright as day. She and the others had been resting in the Miner's Mug, the small village tavern that had been set up in Sylgja's old house, and Lucia had cursed the gods when she had looked out the window to see the night's sky.

'Perhaps we should wait?' Lars had suggested, hesitantly. Both Lucia and Braith had shaken their heads.

'We can't just wait around and hope the gods will smile on us,' Lucia said, 'we'll just have to go and make the best of it.' She had noticed Llirvalie smiling slightly at that. Lucia supposed she was happy they were trying hard to make her home safe again.

All the people of Shor's Stone seemed happy that the Fangs had come to help. No sooner had Lucia walked into the tavern with Llirvalie at her side, the villagers were smiling, welcoming and wanting to see to their every wish. Ale, food, the horses stabled, all was seen to. Durwin, the barkeep, had virtually bent over backwards in his desire to see to their needs. Their welcome had only gotten warmer when they had revealed they intended to take the fort that very night. Odfel and Grogmar gro-Burzag, a pair of old miners, even offered to join them. Lucia tried to politely, but firmly, refuse and, though that was enough to turn Odfel away, it was not enough for Grogmar.

'I have been away from the stronghold for many years,' the old orc had said, 'but I still follow the code of Malacath and I would die with honour.'

No amount of persuasion by any of the Fangs, even Samuel, could turn him away. Well so be it, Lucia thought in the end, if the old fool wants to die, who am I to turn him away.

The bigger surprise had been Llirvalie. Lucia had assumed that, upon reaching Shor's Stone, the dark elf would have chosen to remain behind. But she had also insisted on joining them.

'I need to show you where the cave is,' she had said when Lucia had protested, telling her she would be safer if she stayed behind, 'it's hidden. You won't find it easily.'

Though Lucia doubted they'd miss a hole in the rock nearby to Fort Greenwall, she relented.

And so it was that Lucia, snarling at the sky, led the Fangs out of Shor's Stone, accompanied by Llirvalie and Grogmar. They moved as quickly and quietly as shadows across the grass and ferns, always aware of the dark outline of Fort Greenwall that seemed immense and foreboding under the starlight.

Keeping low to the ground, Lucia led them around a hill, thinking to keep it between them and the fort. She was dreading the sound of a shout, a horn call, something that would be as a death song for them, a signal that the Kingsworn had seen them. But there was nothing. She heard nothing from the fort. So far, so good.

Once the Fangs were in position, she sent Haming and Alesan ahead with Llirvalie, to scout the area and find this cave. The rest of them waited, as wolves waited for the prey to reveal itself. None of them talked, all of them were waiting and listening. With the exception of Joric who was staring dreamily up at the sky.

Lucia noticed that there was only one who seemed more on edge than she herself was. Samuel was drumming his fingers on the sleeve of his studded jerkin and kept glancing in the direction the three scouts had disappeared in. Lucia's eyebrow raised thoughtfully. Samuel and Alesan had got quite close in the days since they had left Windhelm, staying up talking late into the night as they had travelled south. And she had seen that look before. It was the same look Lars and Braith got on their faces when the other was sent off without them. So that was the way the wind blew, was it? From the significant look she shared with Runa, she had not been the only one to notice.

The minutes dragged by. Lucia was not sure how long they waited exactly. None of the Fangs spoke a word. A few cast nervous glances over at the dark silhouette of Fort Greenwall but that was all. Some others fingered weapon hilts or drummed fingers on shield rims. Lucia could hardly blame them. Her own thumb was running softly along the edge of her axe.

Finally, the scouts reappeared. Samuel was the only one faster to his feet than Lucia. Alesan greeted him warmly while Haming gave the report.

'We found the cave,' he said, nodding back in the direction they had come, 'there's a good stretch of shrubs between here and there. If we go in small groups and keep low, no one should see us.'

Lucia nodded. It sounded like a good plan. So it was in twos and threes that the Fangs finally arrived at the mouth of the cave that would, according to Llirvalie, lead them right into the heart of the fort. Lucia turned to look at her little warband, all of whom now looked eager. There had been very little fighting when they had taken Mistveil Keep. Hroar, Runa and Britte were positively champing at the bit for some real action.

'They might have sentries in the cave,' Lucia began, trying to sound confident, 'there might not be many but they'd be complete fools not to have a few watchmen out, especially in the fort. We've got to move fast. Whoever's leading these bastards is likely in the main bed chamber. We get them, we can make the others surrender. If you can knock out any you pass, great, otherwise kill them and move on.' Her voice became shaky at that last part. In truth, Lucia had never killed before. The prospect of doing it tonight scared her. But she had to be brave. Uhther would not baulk at the idea. She had to be as brave as her father if she was to be worthy of the name her band had given her.

'For the Young Dragon,' Joric whispered, smiling and hefting his greatsword. The line was echoed by many of the Fangs. Lucia turned to the cave so they would not see her blushing and pulled out her waraxe.

'I'll go first,' she said, 'with Braith and Llirvalie. The rest of you follow in packs of four. Leave a couple of seconds between each. There'll probably be a trapdoor or something up to the fort, we'll gather there.'

'Where is the elf?' Lars asked, looking around. Lucia mimicked him. Llirvalie was nowhere to be seen.

'Did she go back to the village?' Runa asked.

'I didn't see her,' said Haming.

'Me neither,' said Grogmar. The old orc looked very different now, clad in furs and carrying a nasty looking battleaxe. He had been taking up the rear most of the way but was now as eager as the Fangs to get to the business at hand.

'She wouldn't have done,' Lucia said, 'she wanted to come with us so badly, why would she go back now?'

'Second thoughts?' Runa suggested, though she looked sceptical.

Almost as one, the group turned to look into the cave.

'She wouldn't...'Braith said.

'She might've,' Blaise said, drawing his sword.

'That stupid elf!' Britte exclaimed.

'With me!' Lucia said and, together, the Fangs ran into the cave.

Lucia had been right. The Kingsworn had not been foolish enough to leave the cave under the fort unprotected. There were only a handful, certainly nothing that the Fangs would not have been able to deal with. Though they did not have to. The first sentry they came to was slumped on the ground, his sword held loosely in limp fingers, his throat opened, almost from ear to ear. The Fangs had been moving quickly through the cave but the sight of the dead man made them falter.

Braith looked at Lucia. 'The elf?' was all she said.

Lucia could not believe that that shy, demure woman could have done this. But on the other hand, who else could it have been?

'Let's keep moving,' she barked.

They passed four more bodies before they reached the ladder. All had their necks opened, just as the first had, and all wore the same expression of surprise on their faces.

Alesan went up the ladder first, followed by Samuel, then Braith, then Lars. Lucia went up next. There was no one waiting at the top of the ladder, though that changed when Lucia pushed open the door onto a scene of total chaos.

Men and women were running around the fort's courtyard, shouting at each other, their voices merging together into one incomprehensible din. More were up on the walls, bows in hand and also shouting to each other.

Lucia was so shocked by the amount of people that she completely forgot about remaining unseen. She realised this a moment too late.

'There!' one of the Kingsworn shouted, 'There! The intruders!'

A group of men heard the shout and turned to look at Lucia. Then they were charging, swords and axes raised. Lucia acted without thinking. There wasn't time to think. Her Nordic axe was swinging through the air and, when Lucia blinked, its blade was embedded in a man's neck, him gurgling around the blood that was now filling his mouth. He dropped, pulling the axe out of Lucia's hand.

She stared down at the body. The man's eyes were open, his eyes were green, filmed, staring but not seeing. His mouth was open too, blood trickling down his cheek. His axe held loosely in his hands. He had been alive and now he was dead. In all her father's stories, he'd never said how empty a body looked.

Because there's no time to look at the dead during battle, a small voice that sounded a lot like Uhther said in the back of her mind. You can't dwell on that when any moment might be your last. The dead are dead, that is all. They have gone to the gods. Move on, mourn them later if you must.

Lucia shook herself out of her stupor. No more than a few second had passed but even that was too long to be standing around when you were surrounded by enemies. More of the Fangs had emerged into the courtyard from behind her. The young legionnaires came together, their imperial shields forming a small wall. Runa and Alesan joined their shields and, together, they marched forward. Kingsworn smashed into them like waves against a rock. The other Fangs formed around the wall. Haming was loosing arrow after arrow from behind the shields while Hroar, Braith and Joric countered any attempts by the Kingsworn to flank them. Not that there were many.

Grogmar, howling with battle laughter, had charged into the former Stormcloaks, taking two off their feet before even using the axe. Britte, wielding a mace and a waraxe, was following in the wake of the old orc, swinging both weapons viciously at those Grogmar hadn't taken care of. Lucia joined the wall and, together, the Fangs made their way to the fort's main keep. They had practiced this over and over before they'd gone to Riften, in case they'd had to fight through the guard. Lucia was strangely happy that all that training hadn't been a waste of time.

The Kingsworn were in disarray. They'd been roused from their beds, none of them knowing what was going on. There were more of them but there was no organisation to them. They were a rabble. Though far from easy, the Fangs were able to beat and cut their way through them. Another Kingsworn charged their line, swinging at Lucia with a greatsword. Lucia remembered her father's lessons and side-stepped the attack, using the haft of her axe to knock the blade further away. Then, before the Kingsworn could recover, she lunged with her dagger. The short blade pierced the padded jerkin and the Kingsworn dropped, gasping. Don't think, Lucia thought, keep going.

They reached the keep. Joric kicked the door wide open. The Fangs poured in, pausing only to let Samuel and Joric close the door and heave a heavy wooden chest in front of it.

'Stay here and guard the door,' Lucia said to Braith who grabbed Lars and Joric by the scruffs of their necks to stop them from following after the rest of the Fangs as Lucia led them through the tower. They came across no more of the Kingsworn, Lucia supposed they must all be outside by now. The only exception was one man who sat slumped in his chair where it seemed he had been eating his dinner. A black feathered arrow protruded from his eye. Lucia exchanged a glance with Samuel.

They kept going. Up a long flight of stairs. It was as they reached the top that Lucia heard a voice, a gruff voice raised in panic. Not bothering to wonder what it might be, Lucia ran forward through the door. It was the sight that greeted her that made her stop dead.

Llirvalie, the demure, nervous dark elf woman, was standing over a brawny man, her boot on his throat. The dress she had worn since Lucia had met her was gone. She now wore what looked like leather armour but so strange. It appeared one second to be black as ink, the next grey as smoke. She was wearing a deep cowl, though lowered to show her face, her silvery hair falling in a curtain around her dark skin. She held a quiver of arrows, fletched with black feathers on her back. In her hand she held a curved, single edged sword. It reminded Lucia of a sword she had once seen her father use. The word "Akaviri" came to mind.

'...took what was not yours,' Llirvalie was saying to the big man, reaching down to pull something that looked like grey cloth from the man's belt, 'and the Night Mistress does not smile on those who steal from Her.'

'Please...' the man gasped. Lucia could not imagine it was easy speaking at all with a boot on his neck, but that was all he was able to get out anyway. Llirvalie's blade plunged down into the man's chest. He let out a whining sound, shuddered and was still.

Llirvalie withdrew her sword, wiping it on the man's coat. Only then did she turn her attention to Lucia and the other blades who had now joined them, and was looking at Llirvalie with just as much shock as Lucia was.

'I was wondering where you would catch up,' Llirvalie said, smiling wickedly.

'You killed him!' Samuel exclaimed, looking down at the man who, Lucia had to assume, had been in command of the Kingsworn in the fort. This rather spoiled her plan for getting out again.

'Yes,' Llirvalie said, matter-of-factly, looking back down at the man, 'shame really. Normally the Guild would have welcomed men like him. But stealing from the Thieves Guild, from Nocturnal herself? Well that could not be permitted.'

'You're part of the Thieves Guild?' Lucia exclaimed. Beside her, she could feel Runa tensing.

Llirvalie chuckled warmly. 'I lead the Thieves Guild,' she said before turning to look back at Lucia, 'I am sorry for the deception, truly I am, but we needed to get you out of Riften. Mjoll makes things hard enough for us without you in the city as well. Besides, your father needs you elsewhere.'

The fury Lucia had been about to throw at the elf was forgotten at that.

'You know my father?' she exclaimed.

'Oh yes,' Llirvalie said, smiling, 'we've entered into something of an alliance.'

Lucia could hardly believe that. Uhther had never hidden his contempt of the Thieves Guild.

'Why would he ally himself with you?' she demanded.

Llirvalie sighed and walked over to the table. 'I'm not here to answer every question you have about the Dragonborn,' she said, 'I'm not exactly here on his instruction. He's off in the North-West. All he asked me to do was make sure this part of Skyrim was secure and that's what you're going to help me do.'

'What are you talking about?' Runa demanded. In answer, Llirvalie handed Lucia a piece of paper.

'These fools aren't the only ones,' she said, her voice dark, 'there are Kingsworn all over east Skyrim, trying to carry on the work of their beloved Ulfric the Idiot. The Dragonborn and I can't do what we need to do if we're having to worry about them. That's where you come in.'

Lucia looked down at the page. It was a map of Skyrim. Red crosses had been marked across it, most of which were in Eastmarch. Lucia looked back up, her eyes meeting the dark elf's red ones.

'If you want to help your father,' she said, and all coyness was gone from her voice now, 'deal with the Kingsworn. I will help where I can, but I can only do so much. Appeal to the jarls for help, I doubt Jarl Saerlund will deny you anything.'

Lucia didn't know how to take all this. Surely moving some of the guard out of Riften left the city vulnerable to further influence by the Thieves Guild. Whereas, if Llirvalie was telling the truth, could she afford not to follow her advice? She knew her father being in Haafingar meant he had begun his plan and, if that was the case, he certainly did not need the Kingsworn stirring up trouble. There would be plenty of that to come.

Looking down at the map made her decision for her. The biggest mark was on the bank of Lake Yorgrim, barely half a day from Windhelm. The Kingsworn were moving on Ulfric's old capital and there was little doubt what they'd do with the family of the Dragonborn if they took the city. Lucia turned back to the Fangs.

'We go north,' she said.

Chapter Text

The grey stallion frisked nervously as the small army descended the hill. Uhther pulled his reins back, impatiently. He missed Allie, his old black mare, though he doubted his dependable old warhorse would have been able to manage this steep slope. She was rather long in the tooth these days. Still, she could only have been an improvement on this mount. He supposed Elenwen must have raised this one for parades or pleasure riding as he was certainly not used to being around large groups of armed men and women.

Still, even if it were on the worst mount possible, Uhther was glad to be heading away from the embassy. Two days they had been there. The Blades and the Stormcloaks between them had virtually pulled the place apart in their search for anything that might have been useful. There had been nothing that Uhther could see. Just letters from inquisitors around Skyrim still searching for Talos worshippers that had made Uhther snort. Shrines dedicated to the Hero-God still stood all over Skyrim. Markarth still maintained its temple to the Ninth Divine, in spite of Thalmor efforts. The Thalmor might be powerful, but Uhther had always thought they had bitten off more than they could chew in Skyrim.

Those days had also been given over to disposing of the dead. The men and women that had died in the assault had been laid to rest in Skyrim’s soil and then he and the others had raised a stone cairn over them. Elenwen’s elves had been piled up and burned.

Elenwen had not been among them. Uhther had half expected to find the ambassador waiting for him in her apartments, spitting defiance at him. But it seemed she had been able to slip away. Likely she had used the same route he himself had used when he had escaped the embassy all those years ago. He probably should have sent men to guard the end of that tunnel but, truth be told, he was glad Elenwen had escaped. Someone needed to carry news to the Dominion and an ambassador’s voice would hold more weight than some random soldier. Not to mention, Delphine and Fultheim had seemed a little too eager to get their hands on her. Uhther had no love for Elenwen but he did not think he would have enjoyed giving her to the old Blades.

The sun was rising high into the sky now on the third day since their raid on the embassy and it was time to move on. Uhther had expected a message from Solitude by now, or at least from General Tullius asking him what in Oblivion he thought he was doing. But there had been nothing, not a word. When he had sent a runner to Ralof, he had replied that no one had come out of Solitude since they had taken position.

Uhther had been worried, when he’d sent Ralof and his Stormcloaks off, that there would be trouble if they came across an Imperial patrol or the Solitude guard thought they were blockading Haafingar. He’d known that was a risk, but he could not take the chance that Queen Elisif would not interfere. But now, that lack of trouble or attempted interference worried him all the more. So, he had given orders that morning. They would move on to Solitude, and they would fire the embassy.

He could still feel the heat of the burning building and, turning back, he saw the thick column of black smoke rising above the tree line. Fultheim had suggested leaving a few soldiers there but Uhther had disagreed, pointing out that the embassy had no tactical or strategic position. The aim had been to destroy the Thalmor Embassy, and that was what they had done.

Uhther’s attention lowered from the smoke to the soldiers following behind him. Directly behind him was Lydia, her eyes sweeping the surrounding forest, her hand on the hilt of Vaatdeinmaar. Delphine rode beside his housecarl, her eyes no less watchful, and close behind her was Gulrbjorn, the man Ralof had put in command of the Stormcloaks he had given Uhther.

Not that he had done much commanding, especially since the raid. Since then he had spent a lot of his time in the company of Vorstag, one of the Blades, each of them telling stories of past battles and conquests. As time had gone by, Gulrbjorn had spoken less and had grown more and more attentive. Now, he kept his horse at a slow walk so that Vorstag could walk alongside.

Uhther looked down the column. Gulrbjorn wasn’t the only one. Each of the Blades was walking with at least one or two of the Stormcloaks and all of them were the ones talking. Uhther saw Ugor, an orc who boasted the longest bow shot of any of the Blades, gesturing as she spoke to three men who had eyes for nothing but her. Even Jenassa, a dark elf who would usually go around an entire city to avoid having to talk to people, had two women in tow whose eyes resembled dinner plates as they listened to her speak.

Uhther could understand. He would likely have been as intrigued by the life of a dragon hunter had he not been who he was. It must seem a life full of honour and glory, which no true Nord would turn away from. He would be very surprised if Delphine did not have a few new recruits by the end of this.

Though that did not seem to be the only thing attracting the Stormcloaks. Uhther had overheard some of them talking to Lydia about the likes of Benor the Bold, Mjoll the Lioness and Faendal Strongbow, heroes with their own reputations who had given their oath to Uhther to become the Sworn Swords of the Dragonborn. More than a couple had walked away from those talks looking thoughtful.

There were many in the Stormcloaks who had not wanted to speak of the Blades or the Sworn Swords, and they now walked at the back of the column shooting contemptuous looks at those who walked ahead.

Privately, Uhther thought it was a shame that none of those brave men and women were expressing any interest in the Legion. For what lay ahead, the northern forces could use fighters like them, just as it had in the old days and during the Great War. But he knew there was no hope of that. Too much bad blood had come between the Nords and the Legion thanks to Ulfric Stormcloak. Though Uhther could not say he could blame them. Indeed, he had come close to joining the Stormcloaks. Had it not been for… well that was all in the past now.

What was important was what was happening now. He had tired of waiting for Elisif’s message so now he was going to present himself to the queen.

Uhther was no fool. He knew exactly what his attack on the embassy would mean. The Thalmor would move north to Skyrim and invade, just as they had Cyrodiil during the Great War. What the arch-mage and her psijic had revealed had only made him all the more certain of that fact. He had handed them the excuse they needed. But that was just it, Uhther wanted them to invade.

One thing that he and Ulfric both agreed on was that the Dominion and the Empire had carried on with this silent war for long enough. He wanted them to come so that he might face them on the field of battle. There he would show them the power of the Dragonborn.

The only question was, would he have the support of Elisif and Tullius, or would he and his new unlikely allies stand alone? For Safiya and Llirvalie would have to join. They had all agreed that the Snow Throat Tower must be protected. If the Thalmor came, they would have no choice.

He hoped he would have all of Skyrim at his back. Alone, with what he would have at his command, he would stand a chance. If he had the aid of the queen and the great general, they would have more than that.

The grey stallion whinnied and reared, almost throwing Uhther off. Uhther cursed and got the beast back under control so that he could look at what had so disturbed it.

A man shaped gap in reality, glowing with eldritch light, was walking towards him. With each step, the light solidified into a familiar figure.

‘Quaranir!’ Uhther exclaimed, moving his hand away from the hilt of Dragon’s Breath. The psijic inclined his head.

‘Dragonborn,’ he replied, ‘it is good to see you well. I’m sure you are on important business, but there is an urgent matter I need your help with.’

Uhther blinked with astonishment. What help could a sorcerer possibly need from him?

‘I’m going to speak with the queen,’ was all he could say before Quaranir cut him off with a raised hand.

‘It will not take long,’ he said, ‘and, rest assured, it is urgent or I would not have come.’

There was a strange look in his eye that made Uhther curious. He turned back to look at Delphine.

‘Keep going to Solitude,’ he said, ‘make camp outside the city walls, send word to Elisif that you mean no harm to Haafingar or the people of Solitude and that you are not there to make war. Tell her I will be joining you soon and beg an audience when I am there. Then send word to Ralof that he and the other Stormcloaks are to join you.’

Delphine nodded in acknowledgement of the orders. Uhther turned to Lydia.

‘You will go with her as my representative,’ he said, ‘get word to Jordis that I will have need of her upon my return.’

Lydia did not look happy at those words but she too nodded.

Uhther dismounted from the stallion and walked to stand beside Quaranir.

‘So, where are we going?’ he asked. In answer, Quaranir stretched out his hand, which Uhther took.

He was suddenly aware of a strange sensation, as if his body had become somehow fuzzy. Everything went, if not dark, then shadowy. Then, as soon as it had started, it was over. Uhther was aware of a shift in temperature and the fact he was standing in snow looking up at a building he knew well.

‘Heljarchen Hall?’ Uhther turned, in some confusion, to face Quaranir. The sorcerer had brought him to his estate in The Pale, the place he had nicknamed “The Armoury”. ‘Why have you brought me here?’

‘Because I know this is where you store the great weapons and artefacts that you have found over the years,’ Quaranir said, smoothly, ‘stored under the watchful eye of, perhaps, your most ferociously loyal housecarl and a powerful mage in your service. And we shall need one of those artefacts for what lies ahead.’

‘Why?’ Uhther said, hesitantly. There were many dark and powerful items held in that house, which was why he’d given it such hardy protection. He doubted there was another such trove in all of Skyrim. ‘What lies ahead?’

Quaranir smiled, but there was no pleasure in that smile. Rather a sort of grim tiredness.

‘We will be going to Whiterun. To deal with the problems of Jarl Balgruuf and so that you may speak with an old friend,’ he said, solemnly, ‘and to do both, you will need the Wabbajack.’

Chapter Text

The Whiterun guard looked out from his post by the gate, over the outer walls to the country beyond. The fields seemed to shimmer green and gold in the midday sun. From behind the gates, he could hear the sound of the people going about their business. On the opposite side of the gate, his companion for that day’s watch shuffled slightly, the long handle of his battleaxe shifting slightly as it was moved into a more comfortable position. Lookout was undoubtedly a very boring part of the job these days.

Though, he supposed, given the state of the country a few years ago, a little boredom was no bad thing. He rested a hand on the pommel of his sword and sighed with, if not contentment then something approaching it.

And yet he could not shake that thing he’d been feeling for the past few weeks. A suspicion, a nagging feeling at the back of his mind. And he was not the only one. Not only all the guards but every one of Whiterun’s citizens he had spoken to about it had all said to be feeling a similar thing. A sense that there was something happening, something that they should have noticed but hadn’t, always there on everyone’s minds. And it all seemed to centre on the Jarl.

Any further thought on what this might be was interrupted by a shimmering in front of him that resolved into the shape of three figures made out of light. Both guards made grabs for their weapons, steel glinting in the sun. The light creatures shimmered into colour and suddenly the guards were confronted by three men.

It took only a moment to recognise one of them.

‘Lord Uhther!’ The guard exclaimed. Even had the man not been clad in Dragonscale with his legendary dragonbone sword on his belt, the guard would have recognised Whiterun’s most famous thane. At his side, as ever, stood one of the Dragonborn’s housecarls. The dragonbone helm obscured much of the face but the guard believed it to be a man. Lady Lydia had not come back with the Dragonborn then.

The sight of the Dragonborn with a housecarl at his side, though surprising, was not too unusual but the guard had never heard of him appearing from nowhere like that. And what was he doing with an elf?

Uhther inclined his head to the guard. He had left his head uncovered and the guard was able to see stern authority in his eyes.

‘We have come to see the Jarl,’ he said, his voice hard and full of command. The guard suddenly noticed that he held a staff in his hand, a long, grey stick topped with three screaming faces. Something about that staff twitched at something in his mind but he shook it away.

‘Of course, lord, of course,’ he made a quick bow before pushing open the gate.

Uhther thanked the guards before leading his party inside. Quaranir followed with Gregor, his hand on the hilt of his sword, taking up the rear. Uhther had initially been against bringing the big man along. He had left him at Heljarchen Hall for a reason. It was his duty, his and Aranea’s, to guard his great armoury. But, as Gregor had pointed out to him, he needed someone with him he could rely on to watch his back. And besides, Uhther thought, the time would likely be soon when he would need as many of his housecarls around him as possible. The last thing he had done had been to send a letter to Windhelm, then they had travelled here.

Whiterun seemed just as Uhther remembered it. The sun shone on the stone buildings. He heard the sound of a hammer on anvil that meant the Warmaiden smiths were hard at work and, just up the street, he saw the people of Whiterun gathered in the market.

And yet, all was not right. The city seemed shabbier somehow. The streets dirtier. It was not a city that had been attacked, more neglected. The people he passed looked strange too. Drawn and haggard, their eyes a little wider than they should have been. Some twitched slightly, as if involuntarily.

Together, they walked past Breezehome. Lydia had truly made it her own home in recent years, and Uhther could hardly blame her. None of his family had lived there since he had bought the house in Windhelm, with the exception of the time he had sent Sofie to the city to learn the merchants trade from Ysolda. Though there was something he needed to retrieve from there while he was in the city.

Despite the rather haunted look of the people, some did still stop and say hello. Jon Battle-Born smiled and greeted him warmly, as did his wife, Olfina. Amren, whose sword Uhther had once retrieved from a group of bandits, stopped him as he was coming into the market.

‘Can you believe it?’ he said, his chest positively swelling, ‘Our little girls pulling off a thing like that. I guess they’re not so little any more, eh?’

Uhther had to resist the urge to grimace. That was yet another thing that he would need to deal with at some point. Lucia, or the Young Dragon as she was apparently now known, couldn’t be left to rampage across east Skyrim with her Fangs. Though, he had to admit, she hadn’t done too bad a job so far.

‘I suppose not,’ he said at last. Amren beamed and walked off.

‘What was that about?’ Gregor asked.

‘No idea,’ Uhther replied. Quaranir only huffed, impatiently, and kept on walking. The two men followed his lead now, though Uhther did stop to exchange a friendly word with Ysolda.

Uhther had once thought of asking her to marry him. She was a clever woman, witty and attractive, all a man might want of a wife. But then he had met Sylgja and that had driven the notion straight from his mind. Ysolda had married a merchant from Falkreath. He owned his own caravan and Ysolda sold the wares he brought to the city.

They climbed the steps up to the Wind District and hurried through the plaza of the Gildergreen. Heimskr’s voice rose above the hubbub of the city as it ever did, shouting out the love of Talos for all to hear. Glancing at Heimskr, Uhther’s eyes were drawn, inexorably, upwards to Jorrvaskr. The sight of that hall had once filled Uhther with pride and a sense of glory. Now all he felt was discomfort and shame.

He remembered his last night in the hall. The sound of tearing cloth, Aela screaming. And then the next morning, with all the Circle around him. The look on Vilkas’s face, Farkas’s last words to him. Uhther pulled his eyes from the place and followed Quaranir up the steps to the Cloud District, to Dragonsreach.

The doors creaked on hinges heavy with rust as the three of them entered the palace of the Jarl of Whiterun. Their footsteps echoed in the great hall. There was no other sound. Uhther looked around. There were no servants, none of the usual attendants or visitors that had always been here whenever he had visited in the past.

The long table of the Jarl was also empty. None of the Jarl’s family housecarls, no visiting nobles, nobody. Only Proventus Avenicci was a familiar sight. He stood vigil beside the Jarl’s throne, Balgruuf’s greatsword strapped across his back should his lord ever need it. But it was not Balgruuf who sat in the Jarl’s throne.

A young man sat in the throne, though slumped might be a better word. Uhther knew him, though it had been years since he’d last seen the lad. It was Frothar, the Jarl’s eldest son. He had grown considerably these last years. The boy Uhther had once known had become a bear of a man; tall, well-built with thick black hair and beard. Though as big as he was, he barely seemed to fit the throne that his father had filled. He seemed completely dejected. But, more importantly, why did he sit in it? Uhther had heard no word of Balgruuf’s death and that, surely, would have filled the tongue of every Nord for miles around.

Proventus saw them approach and his eyes seemed to fill with the light of hope.

‘Lord Uhther!’ the steward exclaimed. Frothar looked up quickly and, upon seeing Uhther and his companions approach, quickly tried to make himself look more regal.

‘Proventus,’ Uhther greeted the man before turning to Frothar, ‘I had not had word of your father.’

Proventus took Uhther’s meaning.

‘The Jarl is still with us,’ he hastened to explain, ‘he has taken to bed with a severe sickness. Frothar has been filling in.’

Frothar smiled a weak smile that did not come close to touching his eyes. Uhther looked at Quaranir.

‘Is this what you brought me here for?’

‘In part,’ the sorcerer said, evasively.

Uhther turned back to face Frothar. He remembered the boy as a strong-willed, if a little thick-witted, boy, a little bit of a bully but no more so than many boys his age. This looked like the man that boy would have grown in to but there was none of the spirit that should have gone with it. He looked utterly defeated, even as he tried to sit proudly on the throne.

‘Well you’re not doing much of a job, boy,’ Uhther said, harshly, ‘your city is dirty, your people look like they dwell in the Soul Cairn.’

Proventus gasped. He was an Imperial and, in his mind, it was not proper to speak to the son of a Jarl so. Uhther found it almost funny that, though the man had lived most of his life in Skyrim, he still did not truly understand the Nords. Also, he was the Dragonborn, and that did give him a few privileges.

He’d been half hoping that Frothar would rise in anger but the boy just slumped further in his seat.

‘It's true,’ he said, despondently, ‘I know you are right. I want to do something about it but I find myself unable to. It's as if something holds me back. I wake each day, intending to fix what plagues the city, yet I find myself constantly looking over my shoulder for the thing I know I have missed. And before I know it, night has fallen and I’ve done nothing.’

Frothar hung his head. He was genuinely ashamed. Uhther felt himself feeling sorry for the boy.

‘It is no fault of yours,’ Quaranir spoke up. Frothar jumped and both he and Proventus looked at the Psijic as if seeing him for the first time. ‘A dark power has tainted the Jarl, and that taint is spreading to the rest of the city, including you. But I believe this taint can be removed. Please, show us to the Jarl.’

Frothar blinked. Proventus’s mouth dropped slightly. For a moment, neither moved. Then, Proventus seemed to snap back to his senses.

‘Yes, yes of course,’ he gabbled, excitedly. Frothar rose from the throne to follow the steward towards the steps that led towards the balcony and the bed chambers. ‘This way, this way please.’

Quaranir took the lead in following the two men. Uhther, after exchanging a quick look with Gregor, followed in his footsteps.

After the rather bleak emptiness of the Jarl’s main hall, the bed chamber was positively packed. Beside the bed stood Hrongar, the Jarl’s brother, and Irileth, Balgruuf’s personal housecarl, each looking as worried as the other.

At the side of the room, on two high backed chairs, two others sat. A young woman wearing a fine dress and jewellery, looking distinctly bored, and a slightly younger man wearing slightly plainer clothes whose expression was unreadable. The Jarl’s other children, Uhther knew. He did not spare them more than a glance. He had never liked the Jarl’s other children. Dagny had always been something of a spoiled brat, asking after new dresses and sweets all the time, even at a young age, while Nelkir had ever seemed a wormy little boy.

The others in the room wore cowled robes. Uhther recognised one of them as Farengar, the court wizard. The other two, he assumed, were alchemists. The three of them were so focussed on their whispered conversation that they did not notice the new arrivals until Quaranir spoke.

‘I need everyone out of this room, immediately,’ he said.

Farengar glanced their way and seemed about to say something condescending but then he saw the robes of the Psijic and his eyes widened.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, curtly, and he and the alchemists left the room with no more argument. Dagny sniffed, rose gracefully to her feet and glided out. Uhther rolled his eyes. Dagny had always treated Lucia and Sofie as second best yet his girls, he’d wager, were worth twenty of her any day.

Nelkir was a little longer in the leaving.

‘He should have his sons with him,’ he had protested as Irileth, after a quick word with Uhther who had assured her they were here to cure the Jarl, tried to chivvy him out. It had taken Frothar grabbing his half-brother by the scruff of the neck and nearly throwing him out to get him to leave.

‘I’ll be out here with Hrongar and Irileth,’ he said, once it was done. Uhther nodded in reply. There might actually be a bit of spirit in the lad after all. Perhaps once whatever the problem was had gone, he’d show himself as a true Nord like his father. Another Balgruuf, perhaps even greater than his father. Now that would be a man worthy of one of his daughters.

Uhther turned back to the Jarl’s bed. That was something worth considering but now was not the time for that. Now he had to focus on the matter at hand.

Quaranir was sat beside the Jarl, appearing to examine him. Gregor had taken the place vacated by Hrongar. Uhther stood beside his housecarl and looked down at Balgruuf the Greater.

He had always been a powerful man, considered by many to be what a true Nord should be. Uhther did not doubt it had been Balgruuf siding with the Empire during Ulfric’s Rebellion that had given many Nords second thoughts about joining the Stormcloaks. Uhther still remembered that day, so long ago, when he had come to the Jarl to beg help for Riverwood when the dragons had first returned. How impressive he had looked.

But now he looked like a man gone to seed. His skin withered, prune-like, his once golden hair had turned white and brittle. His eyes were closed but Uhther could hear him muttering faintly.

‘The time is now,’ Quaranir spoke softly. He looked at Uhther. ‘Use the Wabbajack.’

Uhther started and looked between the staff in his hands to the man on the bed.

‘I can’t do that,’ he protested, ‘anything can happen to those hit by the Wabbajack. It could turn him into a chicken or a cake or something. He might shrink or grow…’

‘Just trust me,’ Quaranir snapped, impatiently, ‘we don’t have all day. This needs to happen.’

Uhther ground his teeth. This was madness. Which was ironic really. He raised the Wabbajack. He felt the power surge through the staff, sending a bolt of light from the three screaming faces to strike the Jarl.

The effect was immediate.

Balgruuf sat up and looked at Uhther. Gregor sprang to his feet. Dawn, his dragonbone sword, was in his hands in the space of a blink, flames licking up the blade’s length. It was not hard to see why. Balgruuf’s eyes were wide, far wider than any human eyes ought to be. They were also bright yellow, with cat-like slits, and, most disconcerting, they appeared to be spinning.

‘Well now,’ said Balgruuf, in a voice that was not his own but one that Uhther recognised, ‘there’s a tingle I remember.’

There was a popping sound. Balgruuf’s eyes snapped shut and he fell back on the bed. In the same instant a hole opened in reality, just in front of the chamber door, its edges glowing with the black light of Oblivion. As suddenly as it had appeared, it faded away, and there stood the one Uhther had expected since he had heard the Jarl’s voice.

‘So, I’m guessin’ ya want to talk to me about somethin’,’ said Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of Madness, ‘well get on with it, I don’t have all afternoon!’  

Chapter Text

Uhther was careful to make no sudden moves. Sheogorath, by his very nature, was one of the most, if not the most, unpredictable of the Daedric princes. Gregor also seemed hesitant about moving. He had not been with Uhther when he had met the Daedra lord but he had heard the story, as had most of those nearest to the Dragonborn.

Quaranir, on the other hand showed no such hesitation. He approached the prince.

‘Lord Sheogorath,’ he began, ‘you honour us with your presence.’

‘Argh, spare me yer prattlin’,’ Sheogorath snorted, impatiently, ‘I get enough of that from Haskill. I came here for a holiday. If all you’re after is a rambling, I can fling you off to the Shivering Isles, to beautiful Mania, I have better things to do!’

‘Like taking over the body of Jarl Balgruuf?’ Uhther asked, civilly. Sheogorath seemed to examine him through narrowed eyes.

‘Oh, you’re back, are ye?’ he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching, ‘not sure if I should be worried or thrilled. Yes, I’ve taken up residence here. Not sure why, or am I? I have my reasons. Apparently.’

It was certainly the kind of authoritative nonsense Uhther had heard the last time he had been in the presence of the mad god. He appeared just as he had back then as well, dressed in smart doublet and britches of a kind likely seen in the imperial court, only divided vertically with red on one side and purple on the other. His grey hair and beard were well groomed and combed, yet tufts of it sprung out in odd patches. His golden, cat-like eyes were wide, and staring. And they seemed to be revolving in the god’s head.

Uhther turned to Quaranir.

‘Why have you brought me here?’ he demanded of the Psijic, ‘if you think I might be able to get Sheogorath to leave then-’

‘No,’ Quaranir cut him off, ‘I have brought you here because I heard of what you did at the Thalmor embassy. You have incited a war, the Thalmor will jump at the chance to reach the Snow Throat Tower. You do not seem to truly understand the importance of what I told you at the college.’

Uhther scowled. Didn’t the Psijic understand men at all? It was precisely because the Tower was so important that he wanted all the Thalmor here. In Skyrim, they would be on unfamiliar ground. And there would be no skulking in the shadows, no diplomatic meetings where the two enemies would smile at each other by day and perform the Black Sacrament at night. This would be two sides fighting an honest war for the fate of the world. That was what Uhther knew he had a chance of winning, so that was what he was going to make happen.

But how was coming to Sheogorath supposed to convince him of anything? The Daedric Prince seemed to know, however. At any rate, his eyes had perked up at the sorcerer’s words.

‘The Tower, you say?’ there was a curious edge to his voice now, ‘ooooh yer a sneaky one, you are. I see what you're thinking. Or I can take a guess, at least.’ He wagged a finger at Quaranir, ‘that was a long time ago, little elf. Well, not to me. Not anymore. It was but then it wasn’t. And it was quite literally another life. I used to be me, not me, but then me became not me and so I became me, do you see?’

Uhther was completely baffled. Looking across to Gregor, he was at least glad to see he wasn’t the only one totally mystified by the mad god’s words. Quaranir turned and attempted to explain.

‘Centuries ago,’ he began, ‘Sheogorath was one side of a coin. The other side was Jyggalag, the Prince of Order, who was cursed to live as the opposite of all he stood for except for once an era. It was during the last Greymarch that the curse was finally broken. Jyggalag left to wander Oblivion again, while the mantle of the Daedric Prince of Madness was passed to he who had broken the curse, the Hero of Kvatch.’

Uhther’s eyes widened. Now there was a title he knew. He had been raised in a small village in Bruma and had grown up with the story of the Hero of Kvatch. He looked again at the Daedric Prince, who was giving Quaranir a rather nasty look, as if wondering if he would look better as a lump of mammoth cheese.

‘Argh,’ he spat, ‘what of it? I was once called Marcus Pullo, Knight Brother of the Blades and Hero of Kvatch, but not anymore. I once fought against Dagon with Martin Septim, but that is in the past. I became Champion of the Shivering Isles, defeated Jyggalag and this is the now!’ Despite his words, the Daedric Prince seemed to be getting more lucid with each word, true anger showing from behind his golden eyes. But then that anger seemed to fade.

‘Oh, Martin,’ he breathed, seeming now morose, ‘now there would have been a worthy emperor.’ He looked over at Uhther, ‘you remind me of him a little bit, but then that’s not surprising.’ Uhther had no idea what that was supposed to mean and Sheogorath did not appear about to explain himself. His eyes had begun to spin more rapidly. He spat again. ‘The blood of a god, indeed,’ he muttered darkly.

‘But you were there,’ Quaranir prompted, not one to be deterred, ‘when the White Gold Tower was deactivated, you were there.’

Sheogorath turned his golden gaze back to the Psijic. Whatever lucidity had come over the Daedric Prince had passed and the usual manic grin once again split his face. One of his eyes stopped still, fixed on Quaranir while the other continued to revolve.

‘Oh yes I was there,’ he said, ‘when the Amulet of Kings was destroyed, the White Gold Tower shattered beneath the weight of the world. Didn’t hear it at the time but I heard it when it happened. The sound echoed across all of Oblivion.’

‘But the White Gold Tower didn’t fall,’ Uhther said, ‘it’s still there.’

Sheogorath tutted, impatiently.

‘Mortals,’ he said, ‘so unwilling to see what’s obvious. The tower’s still there, yes, but the Tower is no more. The Amulet of Kings, the Tower’s stone, was destroyed creating that ridiculous avatar of Akatosh to defeat Dagon. Without the stone, there can be no Tower. And Akatosh hasn’t seen fit to create a new one yet so the White Gold Tower cannot yet be remade.’ Sheogorath sighed and crossed his legs, sitting in mid-air, ‘your world hangs by a thread now. Should the Snow Throat Tower fall, well…’ he hissed in a breath through his teeth, ‘that would be a very bad thing.’

That came as a surprise.

‘You don’t want the world to be unmade?’ Uhther asked, ‘to fade back into Aetherius?’

A dark look crossed Sheogorath’s face.

‘You ever seen Aetherius?’ he demanded, hotly, ‘I mean, I haven’t. But I remember it! It’s the most boring thing ever, a realm of spiritual peace and tranquillity. BORING!’ he bellowed so loudly Uhther was afraid those waiting outside would come running. ‘I ask you, how do you take a realm of total chaos and make it so boring? It boggles the mind. And there’s no mortals there. What would I do with my time if I had none of you to play with? I’d go completely mad!’ Then he started laughing heartily.

Uhther and Gregor exchanged a look. Quaranir looked satisfied.

‘No,’ Sheogorath said suddenly, making them all jump, ‘Mundus must stand, the Towers must stand. There can be no madness in a realm with no law or mortality. And if there’s no madness, there’s no me and there has to be a me! So, you have to go put a stop to this plan to make everything boring. I hereby name you,’ he pointed at Uhther, ‘my champion, the Champion of Keeping Things Interesting!’ He hesitated, ‘I’ll think of something better later. Here.’ He stretched out a hand and the Wabbajack was pulled from Uhther’s hand. It hit the hand of Sheogorath where it vanished with a pop and the sound of a chicken squawking. Then Sheogorath held out his other hand from which dangled a strange looking amulet. It looked like a single golden eye.

‘What is this?’ Uhther asked, taking the amulet.

Sheogorath seemed to think about his answer for some time.

‘Not sure,’ he said, finally, ‘I’ll let you know when I figure it out.’

Deciding it would be wiser not to ask any further questions, Uhther tucked the amulet into one of his belt pouches.

‘Now I must ask that you leave,’ Sheogorath said, ‘I’m in the middle of an experiment. I want to see if nagging suspicion can lead to true madness.’

Suddenly the odd behaviour of Whiterun’s citizens made a little more sense.

‘You’re trying to move the entire city to madness?’ Uhther exclaimed.

Sheogorath scoffed. ‘You say that like I’ve not done it before. But don’t fret, I doubt it’ll come to that. My power is centred on old Balgruuf here,’ he bent down and ruffled the jarl’s greying hair as Uhther would a favourite dog, ‘and he’s not long for his world. His mind weakens, which is how I got in, of course.’

Uhther gritted his teeth. He was thane of Whiterun, surely that meant he should do something. But what could he do?

Sheogorath was looking at him, a knowing expression on his face.

‘You could kill him,’ he said, matter-of-factly, ‘put him out of his misery.’

Uhther had to resist the urge to spit a curse and instead forced himself to smile.

‘If I did that,’ he said, ‘you could claim his soul.’

Sheogorath laughed again.

‘So, you’re not as stupid as you look,’ he said, ‘well that gives me some hope at least.’

Then there was another pop and the Prince of Madness was gone.

‘Let’s go,’ Uhther said. Without a word, Gregor snapped to attention and followed him out of the room with Quaranir taking up the rear. Uhther looked back at the bed. Balgruuf still lay there, unmoving but he knew Sheogorath was back in his mind, using his art to drive the jarl to madness.

Though he had quite enough to deal with already, Uhther knew that if he could find a way to drive Sheogorath out then he would, no matter who the Daedric Prince had once been. Because if any Nord had ever deserved his seat in Sovngarde, it was Balgruuf the Greater.

Chapter Text

The descent down the steps to the Cloud District felt longer than it ever had before. Uhther did not like leaving Balgruuf’s mind in the hands of Sheogorath, especially as that meant leaving all of Whiterun in his hands, but it could not be helped. He had fought dragons, vampires, the undead and the First Dragonborn and emerged victorious. But how, exactly, was he to defeat a god? Especially a mad god?

Uhther shook his head, as if shooing the thought away. No time to dwell on that now, he had enough on his mind. As he moved his head, his glance fell upon the roof of Jorrvaskr and the Skyforge where he thought he could see Eorlund working away. He shuddered and turned his mind away from that, back to what was truly important.

Though he had known that Quaranir and Safiya had been telling the truth about the Towers, it had only truly become real now that he had heard the account of the Hero of Kvatch himself, a Daedric Prince confirming the Psijic’s story and telling him he had to protect the Tower or all reality would crumble.

Before, that had just been another reason to fight the Thalmor. Now it had become “The” reason to fight them. Uhther turned to Quaranir.

‘Thank you for bringing me here,’ he said, and truly meant it. Quaranir inclined his head.

‘Now you see,’ he said, simply.

Gregor simply sniffed and followed on behind them. Uhther was quite sure that the terse housecarl had no idea what had gone on in the Jarl’s chamber, but knew that the man’s loyalty could still be depended on.

They finally reached the bottom of the steps and began walking through the Wind District. They passed beneath the shade of the Gildergreen and Uhther looked up and smiled, remembering the grove of the Eldergleam. He had never returned there, despite Danica’s assurances that Kyne had blessed him for what he had done.

They were about to descend the steps to the Plains District, down to the marketplace, when Uhther stopped. Quaranir - who had been walking alongside him, ignoring the curious stares of passers-by - did not notice at first and kept on going down the steps. Gregor, who had been walking behind at the same pace as Uhther, stopped at almost the same moment Uhther had.

Quaranir, noticing that he was suddenly by himself, stopped and looked up.

‘Dragonborn?’

Uhther barely heard him. He did not want to go back. Yet, he knew that he had to. The unfinished business hovered over him like a dark cloud.

‘Lord Thane?’ Gregor cut in. His usually stoic eyes looked worried.

They would probably be useful, Uhther reasoned with himself, if I am going to a great battle, can I afford to not have them alongside me?

 ‘Lord Uhther?’

Quaranir’s raised voice snapped Uhther out of his reverie. The Psijic was almost nose to nose with him, his yellow eyes peering into his own, a look of concern on his face.

‘There’s something I have to do,’ Uhther said, ‘wait for me at the Bannered Mare.’

Quaranir looked taken aback.

‘Dragonborn, this wasn’t supposed to be a long trip. Remember your followers are still outside Solitude and Queen Elisif will be expecting you.’

‘This is important,’ Uhther insisted, though privately shuddering at the thought of Elisif’s haughty face as she waited for him to appear. That woman could make an ice wraith shiver.

Quaranir appeared to be on the verge of disagreeing but then seemed to change his mind.

‘Very well,’ he said, turning on his heel, ‘don’t be too long.’

‘I won’t,’ Uhther promised. He certainly hoped he wouldn’t be. ‘You go with him, Gregor.’ Best if I go alone on this one.

Gregor gave a curt nod and followed the sorcerer down the steps. Uhther watched them both disappear through the door of the tavern before sighing and turning back towards the Gildergreen.

When he was again beneath the shadow of the great tree, he turned right and climbed the steps to Jorrvaskr.

If the climb down from Dragon’s Reach had felt long, the climb up to the Mead Hall of Ysgramor felt like an age. With each step, he heard again the words that had been exchanged when he had last left.

Uhther paused before the doors.

Give me Alduin again instead of this, he prayed silently. He heaved a deep breath and pushed open the doors.

The hall had been rowdy as he’d opened the doors. Most of the companions were sat around the table though two were apart and were brawling as if each were trying to knock the other’s head off. Uhther recognised Athis and Njada Stonearm. He wondered what quarrel there was between them this time.

The other companions, the ones still sat around the table, had been cheering the two brawlers on, though some fell silent when they saw the doors of Jorrvaskr opening and all fell silent when they saw who it was. Athis, who had been facing the door, dropped his hands just in time for Njada, who had her back to the door and had noticed nothing, to sink her fist into the dark elf’s jaw. Athis hit the floor as if he’d been struck by a Warhammer.

Uhther stood awkwardly, having no idea of what to say. His mind had gone blank. His eyes went straight to the Circle, those who had once named themselves his shield siblings. Farkas looked concerned at his brother, who was fixing Uhther with a stare colder than the northernmost snows. Try as he might, Uhther could not stop his eyes then moving to Aela’s face. Her’s was completely unreadable. She looked like a wolf watching her prey from the undergrowth.

‘What are you doing here?’ Vilkas’s demand brought Uhther’s eyes back to him, though they also helped him find some obstinance in the face of Vilkas’s glare.

‘Am I not still a member of the Circle?’ Uhther demanded in return. He had to show strength, he knew. Not too much, lest it be mistaken for arrogance. He was in the wrong and he knew it, but he could not appear weak or he would be thrown from here. And he needed the Companions.

Vilkas hissed through his teeth.

‘You are,’ he said, grudgingly, ‘though you have little right to that place.’

Uhther felt Vilkas’s words as if they were daggers. It had seemed the right thing to do at the time. After defeating Miraak, he had wanted a nice, quiet life for himself and his family. They had lived mainly in Windhelm or else in Lakeview Manor. He had felt a Harbinger should be someone who could dedicate their time to the Companions and that was not something he felt he could do. So he had stepped down from the position and named Vilkas his successor. Unfortunately, the Circle and many of the other companions felt that this was a spit in the face. It was this, mainly, which was why Uhther had rarely visited Whiterun ever since.

Until now, of course. The fate of the world was rather more important than his shame.

‘Brothers and sisters,’ he began, but was cut off by Vilkas.

‘You may hold your place in the Circle,’ he snarled, ‘but you lost the right to name me brother the day you turned your back on the Companions.’ If Vilkas had stopped there, Uhther did not know what would have happened. He would not have known how to win them to his cause while the shame of causing them such dishonour ate at his heart. But Vilkas did not stop there. Vilkas spat. ‘In my opinion, you are unworthy to even stand in the hall of Ysgramor.’

And with that, the shame vanished and was replaced with the rage of the dragon blood.

Uhther strode forward, drawing Dragon’s Breath as he went. The companions who were not already stood leapt to their feet, reaching for their own swords. Uhther slammed the dragonbone blade into the table. White fire crackled along its length.

‘Do not overstep your bounds, Vilkas,’ Uhther bellowed, his voice touched with the Thu’um, ‘and do not forget who I am, nor what I have done. I, who slew Alduin and saved this world from destruction. Do not insult me when it is to me you owe your lives and your souls!’ Vilkas opened his mouth as if to answer, but Uhther rode over him. ‘Yes, I turned my back on the Companions. But who was it who fought beside you against the Silver Hand to avenge Skjor?’ His eyes darted to Aela. She was the only one who had not risen, nor drawn a weapon. Her eyes were still fixed on him. Uhther went on. ‘Who went with you, Vilkas, to cut off the head of the Silver Hand to avenge Kodlak? And then journeyed with you to the tomb of Ysgramor to free him from Hircine’s grasp? And then return, twice over, to free you and your brother so that you may know the sweet air of Sovngarde?’

Aela did react to that. Her eyes darted at the brothers, her eyes loaded with something Uhther could not name. Before he could, they were back on him. Vilkas’s mouth was closed. He was still staring at Uhther, though his gaze carried none of the accusation it had a moment before.

‘You’ve been a good friend,’ Farkas said, softly. He looked at his brother, who bowed his head.

‘My brother speaks true,’ said Vilkas, ‘it was always an honour to fight at your side. Which is why it hurt so much when you left us.’

Uhther felt his anger ebb. He had waited too long to come back. He pulled Dragon’s Breath from the table and slid it back into its sheath.

‘I never wanted to leave,’ he said, ‘merely give my place to one better suited. Which is why I chose you.’ He stepped forward until he faced Vilkas across the long table.

‘I am sorry,’ Vilkas said, ‘I was angry and refused to listen. I took your leaving for abandonment. I thought you were turning your back on everything we stood for, everything Kodlak stood for.’ He reached out an arm which Uhther clasped.

‘Well I am back now,’ Uhther said, smiling, ‘and I have need of my shield brothers and sisters.’

He felt a hand clasp his shoulder.

‘We’re with you, whatever you need,’ Farkas said. He was grinning warmly. Uhther turned his gaze on the rest of the Companions. All seemed to share this sentiment. Torvar and Ria smiled, Athis’s lip curled in a cocky smile, even as blood poured from a split lip. Even Njada, who had never cared for Uhther, looked determined.

‘This evening I ride for Solitude,’ Uhther announced, ‘there is a war coming, unlike any many of us have seen. I would have the Companions at my back.’

‘We shall be,’ Vilkas promised, ‘we march with you, brother.’

With that, the Companions immediately began going in search of personal belongings and provisions for the journey ahead. Looking around, Uhther saw Aela leave through the back door that led to the hall’s courtyard. He saw her look back at him with a significant look before going out. Leaving the rest to their preparations, he followed her out.

He saw her turn around the edge of the hall and followed her just in time to see her enter the Underforge. Uhther gulped. She wanted to speak in there, of all places?

Swallowing his nerves, Uhther pressed against the secret spot that opened the cave beneath the Skyforge.

She was standing by the basin, the same basin from which he had once drank her blood to gain the gift of Lycanthropy. The same gift he had cured himself of the day before he had asked Sylgja to marry him.

Uhther stood beside her. Aela turned and punch him in the face.

It was not an overly hard punch, but it still had enough force to make colours pop in front of his eyes. As soon as the spots had cleared, Uhther looked again into her eyes and was relieved to see there was no anger there.

‘What took you so long?’ Aela demanded, without any real hotness.

Uhther massaged his jaw.

‘Shame mainly,’ he replied, honestly.

Aela barked a laugh.

‘You always let yourself be shamed far too easily,’ she teased, ‘if you had stood up to Vilkas then…’

‘Well it was not just that,’ Uhther said, feeling he might as well be completely honest, ‘it was also what we did the night before.’

Aela’s eyes widened with surprise.

‘Why would there be shame in that? You were to marry and I proposed one final night together. You were not yet married so there is no shame to your wife or your family. I was far more annoyed when I heard you went to the tomb of Ysgramor to remove the Gift the next week.’

‘I know,’ Uhther said, taken aback, ‘it was you I felt I’d shamed. I left that morning like you were a common flat-backer.’ 

Aela looked at him incredulously then burst out laughing.

‘Is that what you thought?’ she asked, ‘that you’d used me then cast me aside? Uhther, I wanted you as much as you wanted me, that night as well as all the other times. But that was all it ever was. And I know you felt the same way otherwise it would have been me you’d have come to wearing the amulet of Mara.’ Uhther opened his mouth, found he had no reply, and closed it again. Aela punched him again, though this time it was fondly and in the shoulder. ‘You really are an idiot,’ she said, ‘to stay away from us so long for such stupid reasons.’

Uhther leaned against the basin. He really had been a fool. He had not realised until now how much he had missed his brothers and sisters, and the Circle most of all. ‘I’ll need to make up for that lost time,’ he said. Aela also leaned in, close beside him.

‘You’d better,’ she said, ‘though don’t be thinking everything will be going back to the way it was. You’re a married man now, after all.’ Uhther spluttered with indignation and Aela laughed again before fixing him with a coy smile. ‘That was a pretty impressive night, though.’

Uhther chuckled and tried not to look towards that corner of the Underforge. Impressive was one word for it. The way Aela had screamed was proof of that.

A gentle cuff around the head made him look around to see Aela heading back towards the door.

‘Come,’ she said, ‘we have preparations to make and you need to tell us about this great war that’s apparently coming.’

Uhther nodded and followed her out.

Chapter Text

‘Take Fort Amol!’ Brunwulf Free-Winter exclaimed, ‘It can’t be done!’

Lucia sighed. This was going nowhere. Despite being guests of the Jarl of Windhelm for days now, they had come no closer to convincing him to root out the Kingsworn.

They were sat at the jarl’s table, Brunwulf’s family sat across from them. She had brought along Lars, Samuel and Blaise because Brunwulf was a strong supporter of the Legion and she thought having some imperial soldiers with her might help convince the Jarl. No such luck. Braith had also come, though Lucia suspected that was as much so that she could be with Lars as it was to help her, as had Runa.

The six of them had been shown the highest courtesy and been asked to tell the story of their attack on Fort Greenwall but when the topic had turned to Fort Amol, the Jarl had become considerably less accommodating.

‘As we have said, Lord,’ Samuel said, patiently, ‘Fort Amol can be taken and it must be taken. The Kingsworn are not going to sit by and remain quiet. Especially if war is coming to Skyrim.’

‘You can’t possibly think that these Kingsworn,’ Brunwulf scoffed at the name, ‘will fall in with the Thalmor. I like them no more than you do but I can’t see them sinking that low.’

‘Maybe not,’ Samuel conceded, ‘but I doubt they would fall in with the Lord Dragonborn either. The enemy of an enemy is not always a friend and the Kingsworn still blame Lord Uhther for the death of Jarl Ulfric.’

‘And rightly so,’ Jorleif the steward muttered.

‘Peace, Jorleif,’ Brunwulf barked at the man. Jorleif accepted his jarl’s rebuttal, but continued shooting Lucia a dark look which she returned with interest. She had never liked the man.

‘And you cannot think they will forget Windhelm,’ Samuel went on, as if there had been no interruption, ‘even after all this time, they still think of Ulfric as the true king and this was his seat. You think they will leave it in peace?’

Brunwulf spat but Lucia could see Samuel’s words were starting to sink in. Her heart lifted, tentatively. Perhaps today would be the day.

‘But you would have me assault Fort Amol?’ Brunwulf demanded, ‘even ignoring the fact that it would be attacking my own land, the fort cannot be taken.’

‘It can,’ Lucia said quietly, ‘my father took the fort during the civil war, Lord, or had you forgotten?’

Brunwulf coloured.

‘I had not,’ he said, steel in his voice, ‘but despite what your friends might have you thinking, Lucia, you are not the Dragonborn.’

Lucia felt her own face flush with embarrassment and anger, like she had asked for the name of Young Dragon. True she had never told the Fangs to stop, but still.

She opened her mouth to retort but then saw Blaise shoot her a warning look, and she closed it again. She had been out of line. Brunwulf had lost a son during the civil war. She took a deep breath.

‘I may not be my father, Lord,’ she said, ‘but I have proved myself against the Kingsworn once. With your support, I know I can do it again.’

Brunwulf sniffed.

‘Bold words, young lady,’ he said, ‘I might doubt them if not for your success at Fort Greenwall. But that is an old castle. Your father and I spent the year after the war ended strengthening Fort Amol, it is almost impregnable.’

‘Almost impregnable,’ Braith said, catching the Jarl’s meaning just as Lucia had, ‘so there is a way in.’

Brunwulf’s lip curled in a slight smile as he looked at Braith.

‘Not an easy way,’ he said, ‘but Uhther wanted a way in in case the Fort ever needed to be taken again.’

‘Well I’d say that day has come, Lord,’ Samuel said, appealingly, ‘surely you see that.’

Brunwulf was prevented from saying anything in reply by a new arrival. This man was dressed in the armour of an imperial soldier, just like Lars, Samuel and Blaise, though this one had the look of a courier.

This was confirmed when he made straight for the jarl’s seat, removing a tightly bound scroll from a satchel as he did so.

‘Urgent news from Solitude,’ he said, ‘your eyes only, Jarl Brunwulf.’

Brunwulf accepted the scroll and the courier turned and left the hall. Unrolling the scroll, Jarl Brunwulf began reading. Lucia held her breath. She could see the jarl’s face grow darker and darker with each word he read.

‘The Lord Uhther, known also as the Dragonborn, is to be held by any jarl who may lay hands on him,’ he read aloud, ‘a force of Thalmor Justicars is coming north to arrest him in the name of the Dominion. All jarls are also summoned to a moot in Solitude.’ He looked up at Lucia, ‘this came from the hand of Queen Elisif.’

Lucia felt as if someone had punched her in the gut. The queen wanted her father arrested? Had she finally thrown her lot in wholly with the Thalmor?

‘The letter makes no mention of you,’ Brunwulf said, ‘so you and your band are free to go. But I’m afraid I can give no help to you against the Kingsworn. Elisif says there is an army encamped outside Solitude made up of men and women who seem to be in service to your father. They are not besieging the city but an army is only ever made for one purpose.’

‘You’re not going to fight my father, are you?’ Lucia asked.

‘I will do what I must,’ Brunwulf said, evasively, ‘as my queen and the empire commands.’

As Lucia and her friends left the Hall of Kings, she couldn’t help looking back over her shoulder. Brunwulf was slumped back in his throne, still looking at the letter. He looked like a man preparing to go to his own funeral.

Back in the city, Braith turned to her.

‘What do we do now?’ she demanded.

‘We have to go to Solitude,’ Samuel exclaimed

‘But to join which side?’ Blaise asked, morosely. Samuel and Lars turned on him, looking incredulous. ‘Well you heard the jarl,’ Blaise said, defensively, ‘the word came from Queen Elisif, which means it got Tullius’s blessing to it. They’re going to make Lord Uhther out to be a traitor.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ Lars said, ‘Uhther is still our legate, and I will not believe Tullius thinks him a traitor, whatever the letter says. There’s something more to this.’

Braith looked at Lars, an expression of fierce pride in her eyes.

‘There’s an army sworn to Lord Uhther outside Solitude,’ she said, turning to Lucia, ‘we can go there and join up with them.’

‘That still leaves the Kingsworn though,’ Samuel said, a hand to his chin, ‘if the Thalmor are coming, can we really trust them to stay out of the way and cause no trouble?’

‘Get back to the inn,’ Lucia said, ‘we can talk it over with the others.’

‘Where are you going?’ Braith demanded as Lucia began walking in the opposite direction to the Candlehearth Inn.

‘I need to take care of something,’ Lucia shouted back, ‘I’ll meet you in the Inn soon.’

Alone, Lucia made her way through the streets to Hjerim, her father’s house. As she ran, she held the handle of her axe still so that it would not bang against her leg. She had decided on a name for the weapon in the weeks since the raid on Fort Greenwall. Stormkist. She hoped she would not need it today.

‘Lucia?’ Sylgja exclaimed when she saw her daughter, ‘what…’

‘Sorry, mother, I don’t have much time,’ Lucia cut across her. Glancing to the corner of the room, she could see Sofie with little Æthur. The two seemed to have been playing at warriors, both were holding wooden swords, but they were now looking at her with wide eyes, ‘you need to leave. You, Sofie and Æthur. Take ship to Solstheim, you should be safe with the Skaal, Frea will probably look after you.’ She had only met the shaman once, when Uhther had taken them to see Solstheim. Lucia had admired her strong sense of duty and her determination, not to mention it had been she who had given Lucia the idea of taking up the axe. She was also loyal to Uhther so Lucia was sure she would look after his family.

‘Leave for Solstheim?’ Sylgja, clearly confused, ‘what are you talking about, girl?’

‘The Thalmor are coming north,’ Lucia had to stop herself from shouting. Calder had come into the room, looking concerned, ‘they’re coming for father. The Jarl’s are gathering at Solitude and so’s father, I think. Brunwulf says they won’t bother with us but I don’t think the Thalmor will ignore the Dragonborn’s family.’ Sylgja’s eyes widened with understanding.

‘Uhther’s attack on the embassy,’ she breathed, ‘I had heard but I didn’t think they would act so soon.’ She turned on Calder. ‘Send a message to Darkwater Crossing,’ she said, brusquely, ‘to my mother and father. Tell them to pack some supplies and come here immediately. They may as well bring Derkeethus too, I suppose. My father can come with us to Solstheim but then you, Derkeethus and my mother should go join the others at Solitude.’

Not for the first time, Lucia appreciated why Uhther had married Sylgja. The woman was no warrior but she could command as well as any general, as well as any jarl.

Calder, clearly still confused but happy to follow orders, nodded and ran out the house to, Lucia knew, the city gates to find a courier. It wasn’t far to Darkwater Crossing, but it would still be a day at least before they arrived. But still, at least they knew and were willing to go. Lucia turned to go but she felt a tugging on her sleeve. Looking down, she saw Æthur looking up at her.

‘Are you coming with us?’ the boy asked, ‘Sofie won’t play swords with me as much as you.’

Lucia knelt down and hugged her brother.

‘Sorry,’ she said, softly, ‘but I’ve got to go help Father. But I’ll come find you as soon as I can and we’ll play swords all day then.’

Æthur hugged her back and then Lucia was aware of another body pressed against them.

‘You come back safe, alright,’ Sofie said, her long dark hair tickling her nose.

‘I’ll do my best,’ Lucia grinned.

The two sisters stood up, hugged again then broke apart. Sylgja was busy gathering supplies but before Lucia could leave, she pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead.

‘We heard what you did in the Rift,’ she said, ‘I know your father will be proud. I certainly am. You take care, Young Dragon.’

Lucia could feel her face burning, though whether that was out of pride or embarrassment even she couldn’t tell.

‘You took your time,’ Braith said when Lucia finally joined them in the Candlehearth Inn common room.

It was so strange, Lucia thought, they had met for the first time here. That seemed so long ago.

The Fangs were all there, gathered around the long table. Llirvalie was sat apart, lounging in a high-backed chair. She looked at her ease but Lucia knew if anyone even tried to threaten the dark elf, they would be dead before they had chance to blink.

‘Samuel told us what the Jarl said,’ Hroar reported as Lucia sat with them, ‘what are we going to do?’

‘Well that’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Braith answered before Lucia could even open her mouth, ‘we’re going to join the Dragonborn’s forces at Solitude.’

‘But the Jarl said the Dragonborn’s going to be arrested,’ Alesan said, worriedly, ‘the emperor has commanded them to take Lord Uhther until the Thalmor get here.’

‘And what about the Kingsworn?’ Britte demanded, hotly, ‘you’re not going to tell me we’re just going to let them be?’

‘What if Lord Uhther fights against the jarls?’ Runa asked, worriedly, ‘it would be another Civil War!’

‘The Legate would never do that,’ Lars exclaimed, ‘he’s a loyal servant of the empire.’

‘Just as Ulfric was?’ Haming retorted, sardonically.

Lucia banged her fist on the table. Everyone fell silent.

‘I cannot believe my father would fight this hard to free Skyrim from the Thalmor just to turn on his own people,’ she said, ‘if he’s gathering an army at Solitude, there’s got to be some other reason we don’t know. Brunwulf said he’s not laying siege to the city so it's got to be something else.’

‘But how do we find out?’ Blaise asked.

‘We go to Solitude,’ Lucia said simply, ‘I’d say we’ve done enough to prove our worth. We removed Maven Blackbriar from the throne of the Rift and replaced her with someone actually loyal to the Empire.’

‘But what of the Kingsworn?’ Britte repeated, petulantly, ‘was all that for no reason?’

Lucia grunted. Loath as she was to admit it, Britte had a point. The Kingsworn could still cause trouble for Uhther, but she could not deal with them and go to Solitude. And she wanted to be in Solitude, to be with her father, to fight at his side at last.

‘I have an idea,’ Samuel said slowly. Lucia turned to look at him, ‘you should go to Solitude. I will stay here with Runa, Hroar and Haming. The rest can come with you. We’ll follow you when we’re done.’

‘But what are you going to do?’ Braith asked. Samuel tapped his nose, conspiratorially.

‘I won’t give anything away yet,’ he said, ‘but if I’m right, I might be able to get the Kingsworn to work for us.’

Reactions around the table ranged from disbelief to outright incredulity in response to that, and Lucia was no different. The Kingsworn work for them?

‘Alright,’ Lucia said, hesitantly, ‘you do what you can then come join up with us. The rest of us will be leaving tomorrow after my family are on the ship to Solstheim, then we can travel with Calder, Derkeethus and my grandmother.’

The Fangs nodded in agreement. Then, the official business done with, they turned to social conversations and drinking. Joric sharpened his greatsword, looking at the weapon with a content expression while Braith challenged Hroar to arm-wrestle.

‘I’ll travel with you, if that’s alright,’ Llirvalie came to sit beside Lucia, ‘I’ve been meaning to meet up with the Dragonborn so if you’re going to him, I’ll come too.’

‘Sounds good,’ Lucia said, smiling. She’d got used to the dark elf’s company these past weeks and would be loath to lose her fighting ability now, just as it seemed all Oblivion were about to break loose.

‘Excuse me,’ a new voice broke in on their conversation. Lucia turned to see a slight girl wearing the blue tunic and tan cowl of an apprentice mage standing nearby, shuffling her feet awkwardly. ‘I was wondering, are you the Fangs?’

Lucia’s hand drifted to rest on Stormkist. You never knew with mages.

‘We might be,’ she said, slowly, ‘why?’

The apprentice pushed back her hood to reveal a thin, pale face and long, fair hair.

‘I was hoping to join you,’ she said. It was only then that Lucia noticed the apprentice mage had a sword hanging from her belt. Before she could answer, another of the Fangs had gotten to their feet, recognition on their face.

‘Sissel?’ Britte exclaimed.

Sissel the apprentice turned cool eyes on Britte.

‘Hello sister,’ she said.

Chapter Text

The sun had only just risen when Uhther, Gregor and Quaranir accompanied the Companions to the gates of Whiterun. The streets were quiet and a pale mist seemed to hover above them as they walked. Uhther could not tell if that was natural or more of Sheogorath’s work.

Uhther felt ashamed of himself, and the splitting pain behind his eyes was not helping matters. He had intended to leave last night but telling the Companions about the Towers and the coming war with the Thalmor over a mug of ale had turned into three mugs. Then four. Then reliving the old days and telling tales of the things they had done then and since. The next thing Uhther had known he was waking up, half dressed, peeling his face from the wooden table that had become sticky with spilt beer, with Quaranir looking at him with an expression of clinical interest. The sorcerer had still been sipping from the glass of Alto wine he’d been drinking the night before.

Fortunately, neither he, nor the Companions, were strangers to waking up early in their condition and, after re-dressing himself in his dragonscale armour and buckling on Dragons Breath’s sword belt, he hadn’t had too much difficulty in rousing the others. Farkas and Aela had helped with that a great deal once he’d gotten them awake.

And now they had left Jorrvaskr and descended in a small procession to the city walls.

The guards by the gate looked more haggard than they had when Uhther had arrived. Dark shadows were under the eyes of both of them, clearly neither had enjoyed a decent sleep. There was a third man by the gates, one who had clearly enjoyed the recent days more than any other citizen of Whiterun.

‘Lord Uhther, you are leaving so soon?’

‘Lord Nelkir,’ Uhther gave the small, dark haired young man a curt nod, ‘business calls me elsewhere. I was merely checking in on your father after hearing word of his condition.’

The youngest son of the jarl leaned at his leisure against the stone wall and regarded Uhther with a condescending look.

‘A shame your sorcerer couldn’t do anything to cure him, after all,’ he said, smiling, ‘Irileth was so disappointed. But then, you and I both know he never had much chance.’

Uhther gave the lordling a searching look. He recalled, as a younger boy, Nelkir had been taken with Mephala. Had he transferred his worship to another Daedric Prince? That would certainly have helped Sheogorath get a toe hold in the Jarl’s mind.

Uhther changed direction mid-stride. From behind him he heard the others stop. He knew they would not interfere. He kept walking until he was toe to toe with Nelkir. The young man suddenly looked a lot less cocky as he looked up into Uhther’s glowering face.

‘If I ever find out it was you who brought Sheogorath into your father’s mind, I will be giving your master what’s left of you in a bag. And I promise you, neither he nor your brother will lift a finger to stop me. In fact, Frothar may even help.’ He said this all quite calmly, but he could tell from the look in the young man’s eyes that he’d successfully put the fear of the gods into him.

Uhther turned away and returned to the small column. The little horker-shit wasn’t worth his time. Gregor looked approvingly over Uhther’s shoulder to where Nelkir had slumped back against the wall, but Quaranir did not seem to have noticed.

‘I must return to Winterhold,’ the Psijic said, ‘Safiya will be in need of my council.’ He turned and bowed to Uhther. ‘I believe the battle you desire will come soon, Dragonborn. We may not meet until that battle is joined. But I have hope that we shall triumph and keep the Snow Throat Tower alive.’

‘As do I,’ Uhther answered.

With no further words, Quaranir turned and seemed to step into the air, then vanished from sight.

‘It always creeped me out when mages did that,’ said Vilkas, catching up with them. He turned to Uhther. ‘You are sure you will not join us on the road? With horses we can be at Solitude by sundown.’

Uhther could not deny he was tempted. To spend the day riding beside the Companions, laughing with Farkas and Torvar, maybe to go hunting with Aela for lunch, would have been a treat. But he forced himself to shake his head.

‘I’m afraid I cannot afford to lose even a day,’ he said, ‘Gregor will accompany you, but I must return to Solitude as soon as possible. I’ve been away too long as it is. The Queen will certainly be wanting a word by now.’

A chorus of chuckles went up from the Companions. Uhther turned to Vilkas, the shield of Ysgramor held in his left hand.

‘I’ve carried this for years,’ said Uhther, indicating the shield, ‘ever since we helped Kodlak to Sovngarde. You are the Harbinger now, though so I think, by rights, it belongs to you.’ He held the shield out to Vilkas.

Vilkas looked at the shield, his face oddly blank. Then shook his head.

‘I believe that was left for you by Ysgramor,’ he said. ‘You may not hold the place of Harbinger, but it is still you who leads the Companions. You are Ysgramor’s successor so it is you who should carry his shield.’ His face was solemn, then became mischievous. ‘Though I will take Wuuthrad back, if you are not going to make use for it.’

Uhther laughed. ‘Consider it done.’

‘Well,’ said Vilkas, turning to survey the land around them, ‘we’d better be on our way. We will find you when we reach Solitude.’

He and Uhther clasped hands then Vilkas led Gregor and the Companions down towards the stables. Uhther turned and headed for an open field he knew lay close to the city. His own mount would need space to land.

‘O dah viing!’ Uhther roared to the sky, his Thu’um echoing in the mountains. Soon after, a second roar followed his own. A red shadow flew across the sun then swooped in to land before him in the field.

‘Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin, Thuri ahrk bahlaan fahdoni,’ Odahviing lowered his head formally. Uhther returned the bow by inclining his own head.

‘Pruzah ven, Odahviing,’ he responded, echoing the dragon’s formal tone, ‘I have need of your aid once more.’

Odahviing stretched his wings, as if showing his eagerness.

‘Frin, Dovahkiin,’ the red dragon’s voice rumbled like an oncoming earthquake, ‘I am ever ready to serve.’

‘We must first go to Solitude,’ said Uhther, ‘I shall explain the rest on the way.’

Odahviing lowered himself so that Uhther was able to climb upon his neck, just as he had years before when the former lieutenant of Alduin had carried Uhther to Skuldalfn so that he might slay the first and mightiest of the dragons, and many times since.

But even after all those times, Uhther still found mounting the dragon difficult. But he finally managed it and Odahviing took to the air. The leathery wings beat heavily, pushing both dragon and rider into the sky. Uhther clung on as best he could; this was always a terrifying part. Soon though, they were high above Skyrim and soaring north-west.

Before long, the city of Solitude came into view, the Blue Palace standing proud on its rocky outcrop above the sea. With a rush of wind and wings and Odahviing began to descend, swooping in wide circles down and down until they finally came to land in a copse of trees just north of Dragon Bridge. 

‘You bear a heavy task, Dovahkiin,’ Odahviing rumbled. Uhther had told the dragon all that was to be done, as best as he could, as they had flown together, ‘and a worthy goal, to defend Zok revak stunmah, the most sacred mountain, and all of Lein.’

‘But will the dragons fight beside us?’ Uhther asked, heart in his throat. The Thalmor would undoubtedly have powerful weapons at their disposal but surely nothing like an army of dragons. But Odahviing was shaking his head.

‘Ni Pogaan,’ the dragon rumbled, ‘I will join you, of course. But most of those who are left now follow the Way of the Voice and live scattered in far and quiet places in the world. You must understand that the Dov made peace with the death of Lein, of Mundus, when we followed Alduin. Very few will fight for its survival. Krosis.’

Uhther felt his stomach sink. It had been the answer he had expected yet he had hoped, for a moment, that the dragons would come for this. Still, he supposed Talos had only needed one dragon at his side, and Uhther still possessed the power of the Thu’um. And of course, there was the other.

But Odahviing was not done.

‘Hind, Dovahkiin,’ he said, ‘have hope. There are some who I believe will join me. Goraan Fen Grah! The hot-blooded who still wish to test their voices, those who saw your worth against Alduin’s.’

Uhther nodded, not daring to hope.

‘I shall call when I have need of you again,’ he said. Odahviing nodded in acknowledgement then took off, flapping his great wings until he was once again high in the air. He circled overhead, let out a roar of farewell and then soared away to the south.

Uhther watched until Odahviing was a speck against the blue sky before sighing and turning north. Hand on the hilt of Dragons Breath, he began striding towards Solitude.

Chapter Text

The walls of Solitude rose high against the blue sky of early afternoon, its great watchtowers cutting upwards like giant stone spears. Normally, Uhther would have walked straight up the road up to the city gatehouse, been greeted warmly by the guards and gone right in. Today was different, however.

Today he turned off the main road down towards Katla’s Farm, past the watchtower where Storn the Simple, even after all these years, was pushing his face into the stone tower as if he meant to walk through it. The gods alone knew why Captain Aldis let the man continue wearing the armour of the Solitude guard, it had been a long time since the man had been any use as a soldier. Still he was out here, Uhther supposed, keeping one eye on those who approached the city. Perhaps Aldis knew something he didn’t. Uhther went on.

Past the farm to the shore of the Bay of Ghosts and Uhther found it. The sea of tents that he had last seen pitched beside the Karthspire, now bigger with the combined numbers of Ralof’s Stormcloaks and the Blades. The camp was a hive of activity, the smell of cooking filled the air along with the ringing of blacksmiths hammers on anvils.

There seemed to be few men and women intoxicated, impressive in a predominantly Nord army, Uhther thought. The weapons were neatly in order on racks, swords and axes ready to be grabbed at a moment’s notice, to say nothing of the weapons each man and woman in the camp carried with them.

There seemed to have been a lowering of boundaries since Uhther had left them. When he had last seen the lot of them, Blades, Stormcloaks and the rest had kept themselves to their own groups. Now, he saw Blades and Stormcloaks together in groups, talking by the cook fires, laughing together, training at arms and unarmed combat. There was no sign of his Sworn-Swords but perhaps they were elsewhere in the camp.

A cheer went up from the Blades when they caught sight of Uhther, which was then echoed by many of the Stormcloaks. Even those that didn’t cheer smiled to see him enter the camp.  The sentries snapped to attention. Neither were men he’d seen before but one carried a battle-axe and had the look of a Stormcloak warrior while the other was clad in the armour of a Blade.

‘Lord Dragonborn,’ the Blade was the first to speak, ‘we saw the dragon. We were readying to attack but the Grandmaster stood us down. Apparently, she recognised it as one of those under your protection.’

Uhther smiled, glad to hear Delphine was keeping her word. He did not mind the Blades moving to attack dragons that attacked first, but those that now followed Paarthurnax and the Way of the Voice he had ordered left in peace. And Delphine had seen him upon Odahviing in the past.

‘Is Delphine about?’ Uhther asked.

‘She is in the command tent with Ralof, Lord,’ the Stormcloak put in, ‘they are awaiting you. I shall take you to them.’

Uhther nodded in response and followed the burly man through the camp.

As they passed through the line of tents, many of the soldiers paused in their activities to stand, offer salutes or cheers. Uhther raised a hand in response whenever this happened, all the while trying to guess how many soldiers were here. They numbered in the hundreds. Not only Stormcloaks and Blades, he saw now there were bands of mercenaries and sellswords with their tents mixed in among the others. His Sworn-Swords had apparently been busy.

All the tents were gathered, as they had been on Karthspire, around a large central pavilion which rose a little higher than the sleeping tents that were clustered around it.

The Stormcloak he’d been following stopped beside the tent and pushed aside the flap to allow him inside. Uhther thanked him and stepped in.

He was greeted by a positive throng of people. Delphine and Ralof were there, of course, talking with Lydia who was flanked by Argis the Bulwark, his dragonbone axe, Forsvare, hanging from his hip. He must have come up from Markarth when he’d heard the news, Uhther thought. On Lydia’s other side was Jordis the Sword-Maiden. The three housecarls seemed in deep discussion with Delphine and Ralof.

On the other side of the tent, looking rather irate with his tail swishing from side to side, stood Kharjo. He was also standing with an arrival from Markarth, another of Uhther’s Sworn-Swords, Cosnach. The former tavernfly now stood steady as a rock, clad in Nordic carved armour, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. A woman, a wood elf by the look of her, that Uhther did not recognise stood on Kharjo’s other side.

Jordis was the first to notice Uhther had entered and the muttered conversation ceased immediately.

‘Lord Uhther!’ she exclaimed as she crossed to him, closely followed by Lydia and Argis.

‘Your mission was a success?’ Lydia said, peering over Uhther’s shoulder. He knew she must be looking to see if Quaranir was still with him.

‘In a way,’ said Uhther, ‘we found out what was ailing Jarl Balgruuf.’

‘Were you able to do anything for him?’ Lydia sounded worried. As a citizen of Whiterun, Balgruuf was still her jarl, even if her loyalty was foremost to Uhther.

Uhther shook his head.

‘I’m not sure anything can be done,’ he said, bleakly. That was not entirely true. There were sometimes ways to appease or even defeat a daedric prince. Though this was Sheogorath. By his very nature he would be unpredictable. There was no sense getting hopes up.

‘Problems that will have to wait,’ Delphine cut in, ‘things have been happening while you’ve been away Dragonborn. It might not be prudent to speak to the queen as you’d intended.’

That dragged Uhther’s mind away from thoughts of Sheogorath.

‘What do you mean?’ he demanded. If he could not talk to Elisif, how was he to mobilise Skyrim?

By way of answer, Delphine looked at Argis, who looked at Uhther apologetically, like a man who knew his news would not be well received.

‘Jarl Igmund is here, lord,’ the big man explained, ‘and a lot of the other jarls will be coming too by now. Queen Elisif has called a moot.’

‘A moot?’ Uhther was confused, ‘for what?’

‘For you, lad,’ Cosnach piped up from behind them, ‘didn’t you hear? Elisif’s put a price on your capture. You’re to be dragged to Solitude by whoever finds you, it was announced in the marketplace in Markarth just two days ago. That’s when I knew your man would be heading here quick smart so I thought I’d better join him.’

‘What he says is true,’ Argis said, though he glowered at the other man for interrupting. He had not removed his dragonbone helmet so the glower looked all the more fearsome.

‘And that is why I believe it would be wise to hold our position,’ said Delphine, ‘more warriors swell our ranks every day. We can wait here and allow them to come to us. No sense walking into a trap.’

‘This one agrees,’ said Kharjo, ‘but I say you have no need of these squabbling jarls. These warriors are here to follow you and there are more across the land. Leave this queen and her court to their arguments. We can deal with the Thalmor alone.’

Yes, and set myself up as another Ulfric Stormcloak, Uhther thought. He glanced at Ralof. He was strangely quiet and his face gave no clue to what he might be thinking. He turned to his housecarls.

‘What are your thoughts?’

‘We go with you,’ Lydia said, ‘whatever you decide.’

‘Though, of course, we’d prefer not to get caught in a trap if we didn’t have to,’ said Argis.

Uhther chuckled.

‘Sadly, I think we may have to,’ he said, ‘true more warriors may be arriving but the jarls will be bringing their own forces. If they’re going to try and stop me, I’d prefer not to wait for them to grow in strength. I think now is the right time. Delphine, can you assemble an honour guard of Blades? Around thirty should be enough.’

‘It will be done, Dragonborn,’ Delphine said, turning immediately to get the job done.

‘Lydia, Jordis, Argis, I assume you’ll be at my back?’

Lydia and Argis nodded. Jordis lifted her hand to grip the hilt of the dragonbone greatsword, Frost, that stuck up behind her shoulder.

‘None shall do you harm while we live,’ she said, solemnly. Uhther gave her a smile before turning to the khajiit.

‘Kharjo, can you gather a group of fighters? As many of the Sworn-Swords as you can find plus another twenty or so? I want Elisif to know that it’s the men and women of Skyrim I fight for. That’ll be best shown if she sees them following me alongside those who have sworn to me.’

‘I agree, Dragonborn,’ Kharjo said, his teeth showing in a grin as his tail moved lazily from side to side, ‘this one will find the right soldiers.’ He left, followed by Cosnach and the elf.

Uhther turned to Ralof. He had still said nothing, but a small smile showed his approval.

‘I would also like thirty of your Stormcloaks to accompany me, Ralof,’ Uhther said.

‘I will see to it,’ Ralof said, his voice warm. He began striding for the tent flap but then turned back. ‘Though you should know we now no longer call ourselves the Stormcloaks. I was told they are ready to leave Ulfric in the past. They followed him because he promised to rid us of the Thalmor and Imperial injustice. But now they have you. So, we are the Stormfists now.’

Uhther was so taken aback he had no words to offer in reply, which seemed to be just what Ralof had expected for he laughed, gave a bow that seemed only half mocking, and left the tent. 

Well he hadn’t expected that. What would Elisif say when he presented that name before the throne? He tried not to think about it. Instead he too left the tent, followed by his housecarls. The sky was clear and he looked up to the Blue Palace where, he was sure, Elisif would be discussing him with Jarl Igmund. Would they be planning his arrest? To sell him out to the Thalmor?

Soon enough, he thought, we’ll know soon enough.

Chapter Text

They were gathered within an hour. Uhther had had barely enough time to visit one of the camp’s quartermasters to see about something to eat when a runner came to inform him that his honour guard awaited his pleasure.

Around a mouthful of cheese and bread, Uhther thanked the runner. He gulped down the hasty meal with a swallow of wine, grabbed Dragons Breath, which was propped against a nearby stool, and hastened to the edge of camp.

There he found them, waiting in three lines, one behind the other. Uhther noticed that they were not divided by faction but as one unified force. Blade stood shoulder to shoulder with Stormcloak, or Stormfist as he must now think of them, while the Sworn-Swords and the mercenaries were mixed among them.

In front of the front rank stood Delphine, looking impatient, her fingers drumming the hilt of her sword; Ralof, who was hefting his axe and looking so calm you’d think he was expecting nothing more than a day’s hunt; Kharjo, who seemed to have assumed command of the Sworn-Swords and mercenary group; and the three housecarls, looking particularly fearsome in their dragonplate. Jordis stood in the centre, Frost in evidence across her back, while Lydia and Argis flanked her on either side, shields at the ready. Lydia’s hand rested on the pommel of Vaatdeinmaar, Argis’s upon Forsvare’s head.

‘Well,’ Uhther began, not seeing the point of much preamble. They all knew why they were there and what might be expected of them, ‘the queen awaits us.’

With no further words, he strode to the side road that would lead them up past the farm and then onto the main road to the city. The guard fell in behind him, the sound of dozens of heavy footfalls against the ground was monstrous behind him. But Uhther resisted the urge to look back. He kept his eyes up to the spires of the Blue Palace.

He had just rounded the side of Katla’s Farm when he received a fresh surprise. His was not the only small column approaching the capital. A line of town guardsmen, each carrying a shield displaying the crest of Morthal, was marching behind two mounted figures. One was clearly Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, here for Queen Elisif’s Moot, no doubt. How would she react if she saw him? He had always been well received in her court, she had even made him a thane. But she was loyal to the empire and to the throne. If Elisif was declaring him an enemy of Skyrim, would that liking for him be enough?

Before Uhther could decide on a course of action, some of the men in the Morthal column noticed him and his following. There was a moment’s pause. Then a cheer went up from the Morthal men. Uhther felt a tension he had not noticed leave him. It seemed the men, at least, were on his side.

Jarl Idgrod turned back to see what was causing the noise and she too noticed the Dragonborn and his entourage. She reined her horse in turned it about to face him.

‘Uhther!’ she called to him, ‘I must confess I didn’t foresee this. Have you come to turn yourself in?’

Uhther stiffened. Behind him he heard nervous shuffling of men and women hesitantly reaching for weapons. But Idgrod had not sounded confrontational. If anything, she was speaking as if the whole thing were a joke.

‘I come merely to speak to the queen,’ said Uhther, ‘I have no intention of ending up in a dungeon.’

Jarl Idgrod nodded.

‘Good,’ she said, ‘then I will see you at the Blue Palace. I believe there are some of your men travelling with us, you’ll want to catch up with them.’ With that, Idgrod turned her horse about and signalled the men of Morthal to continue on to the city. Uhther saw the burly figure of Gorm, Idgrod’s housecarl, give him a nod before trotting after his liege-lady. The other mounted figure did not follow on, however. They stayed where they were, their horse’s head tossing impatiently. The men of Morthal continued on, many calling over to Uhther;

‘Heard what you did to the embassy, lord!’

‘Those elf bastards won’t win this time, lord!’

‘All hail the Dragonborn!’

Well that was encouraging, Uhther thought.

It was a moment before what Jarl Idgrod had said actually registered. Some of his men had been travelling with them? He did not have to wait long to find out who she had been talking about. Two men moved away from the column and made their way towards them. Uhther knew immediately who they were and, smiling, went to meet them.

‘A pleasure to see you well, Lord,’ said Valdimar, pulling off his dragonplate helmet.

‘Though I do wish it were in happier times,’ said Benor, his gruff face grinning, despite his words.

Uhther was lost for words. Of all the things he’d been expecting that day, to be joined by another of his housecarls and another Sworn-Sword had not been on the list. And Benor was one of the strongest men he knew, certainly worth bringing anywhere there might be a fight. He carried a Nordic battleaxe on his back and he knew how to use it.

And Valdimar, the only mage among his housecarls, if he alone had come then Uhther would have counted his fortune good. His hand rested on the wicked clawed head of the dragonbone mace, Grave’s Fury, the other at his side.

‘I’m so glad you came,’ Uhther finally said.

‘Well when we heard the news from Morthal, Adelaisa and I agreed I should join you,’ Valdimar said, ‘she stayed behind to manage the estate. I picked up Benor on the way then we caught up with the jarl and her men.’

‘And me as well,’ a new voice cut across them and Uhther looked up to see the other rider had joined them. She had been wearing a cowl, obscuring her face, but she had now thrown that back to reveal the face of Idgrod the Younger, the jarl’s daughter.

She had been a good-looking girl, as well as smart and nurturing. Uhther had always enjoyed speaking with her when he had visited Morthal. She had grown since the last time he had seen her. The girl was now a woman, now in her early twenties Uhther believed, and was no longer pretty but beautiful. She would have men and women all across the province fighting for her hand, Uhther thought, if they are not already.

And if I had never met Sylgja, I might have been one of them, Uhther thought.

Idgrod the Younger smiled at him as she dismounted from her horse, an elegant looking gelding, and came to join the two men from Morthal.

‘Lady,’ Uhther greeted her formally, Idgrod would be jarl one day after all. Idgrod huffed impatiently and threw her arms around Uhther, planting a kiss on his cheek as if she were greeting long-absent relative.

‘I wasn’t expecting to see you,’ she said, her voice rich and warm as fresh mead, ‘I was worried the jarls might decide to arrest you.’

‘Me?’ Uhther asked, innocently, ‘why I’m but a simple citizen of Skyrim, why would the jarls bother with the likes of me?’

Idgrod punched Uhther in the shoulder by way of answer then, leading her horse, she walked with him up the path and around towards the city gates. Benor went to join the column while Valdimar fell in with the other housecarls.

Half of my housecarls in one place, thought Uhther, that hasn’t happened in a good while.

‘I assume you heard what happened in the east?’ Idgrod asked.

‘What?’ Uhther asked, suddenly on edge. By Oblivion, what else could have happened?

Idgrod looked at him, half incredulous, half amused. ‘The Fangs,’ she said, prompting, ‘Lucia the Young Dragon.’

‘Oh,’ said Uhther, fighting not to sigh heavily in relief, ‘yes, I heard about that.’

Idgrod beamed, ‘Its amazing. They’re so young yet were able to go against the Kingsworn and still come out victorious.’

‘The who?’ Uhther asked. They had reached the walls by now. The Solitude guard seemed to hesitant about letting so many armed men and women into the city at once but, seeing Uhther and Idgrod, and of course knowing who both were, had no choice but to let them all pass. As soon as they had passed into the city, Idgrod looked at him.

‘Had you not heard?’ she asked, ‘the old Stormcloaks, still fighting for Ulfric’s dream of a Skyrim free of outside influence.’

‘What?’ Uhther’s words were echoed by Ralof, who at the mention of Ulfric Stormcloak, had marched forward to join them.

‘Little more than a pack of bandits really,’ Idgrod said, looking at Ralof, curiously, ‘but they’d taken many of the Forts in Eastmarch and the Rift. The Fangs have chased them up north of Windhelm, last I heard.’

Ralof looked worried. He was not the only one. Uhther looked back at his honour guard. They might call themselves Stormfists now but how many would remain with him if they found out there were still those who were fighting the old fight? For that matter, would Ralof remain? But another question caught at his mind.

‘How are you so well informed?’ he asked Idgrod, who tossed her hair impatiently.

‘My mother is the jarl, if you’d forgotten,’ she said, ‘we hear news from all over Skyrim. Not to mention my brother is one of your daughter’s band,’ she looked slyly at Uhther, ‘you remember Joric?’

Uhther did. A good boy, who’s mind had apparently been addled by magic. He was one of Lucia’s Fangs?

‘Joric sends me messages about what he and the others are doing,’ Idgrod said, smugly, ‘I’m probably better informed than most about what they’re doing. They were in Windhelm, last I heard.’

Windhelm? So, Lucia was with Sylgja and the other children. That was for the best, Uhther thought. By the sound of things, Lucia would be able to keep them safe until he could get to them.

He pushed this news to the back of his mind. Deal with the matter at hand first, move on to the next thing afterwards. Assuming, of course, there was an afterwards.

They passed through the market district and into the residential area, the manors and high roofed houses of Skyrim’s elite stretching out before him, ending in the high towered walls and sapphire dome of the Blue Palace.

The line of Morthal soldiers had drawn to a halt and seemed to be waiting for something.

A sudden, tramping sound caught Uhther’s attention and he turned to see yet another line of soldiers emerging from Castle Dour, those of the imperial legion, and marching down to meet them in front of the palace. At this line’s head were two figures Uhther knew very well. A broad shouldered, flaxen haired woman, clad in heavy imperial plate, marching alongside a blade thin, grizzled, grey haired man. Legate Rikke and General Tullius.

The two lines of soldiers, Uhther’s and the imperial legion’s, drew side by side as the ramp from the castle met the main street that led through the city. Uhther saluted, solemnly.

‘General Tullius, Sir!’

The grey-haired veteran regarded Uhther, his dark eyes unreadable, before giving a curt nod.

‘Legate,’ was all he said. He did not even break his stride. He led the column on, past Uhther’s line, towards the palace. Rikke, however, hung back.

‘You’ve really made a mess this time,’ she said, as she fell in beside him and Idgrod.

‘Are you saying I was wrong?’ Uhther asked, ‘wrong to attack the embassy?’

Rikke’s expression hardly changed, she had been implacable for as long as Uhther had known her, but he did think he saw the side of her mouth twitch.

‘I’m not saying I wouldn’t have liked to do what you did,’ she said, ‘I doubt there are many who wouldn’t, the general among them, but you charging in like that has forced action.’

‘Maybe action needed to be taken,’ Uhther growled, ‘maybe we’ve gotten too comfortable recently.’

‘That was not your decision to make,’ Rikke hissed, ‘you are not jarl, nor king, nor emperor. You are a legate and a thane but that does not place you nearly high enough to make that sort of decision.’

Uhther bit his tongue. The annoying thing was, he knew Rikke was right. But he'd had to do something. Especially after finding out about the Tower. It was not just about freedom from the Aldmeri Dominion any more, it was about protecting reality itself.

‘Elenwen is dead, I assume?’ Rikke cut across his thoughts. Startled, Uhther simply shook his head.

‘Escaped,’ he said, shortly, ‘got out during the fighting, I think.’

Glancing at Rikke, Uhther saw her regarding him, as if she had seen him for the first time. He was spared asking the other Legate what her problem was when they arrived at the gates of the Blue Palace. There they found what was keeping the Morthal guard at bay. Nearly thirty guardsmen, each holding the red shield of Solitude, stood before the gates in a wall.

‘Lord Uhther!’ the man who seemed to be in charge of the line called to him, ‘the Queen awaits you. The Legate and the Lady Idgrod as well. You are permitted to bring your housecarls and your captains,’ the man’s eyes darted to Ralof and Delphine quickly before returning to the Dragonborn, ‘but your other men are to remain outside.’

Uhther nodded. It was no more than he’d expected. If anything, he was surprised he was allowed to bring so many in with him. The honour guard had served its purpose anyway. They had shown their strength and he had arrived at the palace without being caught in an ambush.

He turned and gestured to Delphine and Ralof to follow.

‘Kharjo,’ he called to the khajiit, who was trying to push his way through to the front, evidently feeling ‘captains’ included him, ‘you’re in charge until I get back.’

Kharjo stopped what he was doing. He looked a little annoyed but saluted, smartly.

‘This one obeys. We shall be ready.’

Uhther nodded to him, then turned and walked to the palace doors. The Solitude guards parted for them to pass. Uhther felt a familiar presence at his back. Lydia had moved to his right shoulder. He was sure the other housecarls were doing similar. Taking a deep breath, Uhther pushed open the door.

Chapter Text

‘This is bloody ridiculous,’ Lucia fumed as her horse, a bay gelding named Fleet, trotted steadily in the wake of Jarl Brunwulf’s stallion. The Fangs were behind her, also mounted, also plodding along at the slow pace set by the jarl. Though Lucia was grateful to Brunwulf for giving them so many horses, they had cleared out the Windhelm stables, she had rather hoped they would be making for Solitude as quickly as possible.

But no. It turned out that Brunwulf was bringing a detachment of the Windhelm guard with him and so their pace was set at marching speed. They had been on the road for nearly a day and were only now passing into The Pale. At this rate it would be the week’s end by the time they reached the capital.

Though perhaps that was the jarl’s intention. Lucia was beginning to get the impression that Brunwulf was waiting for something. He kept looking over his shoulder, over the heads of the guardsmen, back the way they had come, an impatient look on his face. Every time he did this, he leaned down to Jorleif, who was walking alongside him, to exchange some whispered words.

After the third time this had happened, Lucia had considered asking her grandmother to drop back to see if she could spot what had the jarl so on edge. But she was off ahead of the column. Annekke Crag-Jumper was a famous scout and had wasted no time offering her services to the jarl. Derkeethus, the other resident of Darkwater Crossing, who had accompanied Annekke, remained in the column, marching alongside Calder. She glanced back and saw them now. They appeared to be chatting away happily as they walked.

Seeing them immediately reminded Lucia of watching the rest of her family sailing away into the mist of the White River. Sofie leaning on the boat rail, Sylgja with little Æthur in her arms, Grandpa Verner hugging her comfortingly as they both looked back at the dock where Lucia and Annekke stood together. Sofie had leaned out and called something back but it had been lost in the noise of the docks.

Lucia wiped her eyes then looked back at the road ahead. They would be safe. Whatever happened next, they would be safe.

Whether that would be true of Samuel, Runa, Hroar and Haming, the friends she had left behind, was quite possibly another matter. Samuel had refused to tell Lucia what he was going to do, but insisted it would lead to the Kingsworn fighting on their side. Without thinking, Lucia spat to the side of the road. That was what she thought of that.

And then there was the new addition to their ranks. Lucia looked back to where Britte road alongside her sister, the mage apprentice, Sissel. From what she knew of them, there was no love lost between the two sisters and a good reason why Sissel had left for the College of Winterhold. There had apparently been words the previous night but none of the Fangs, not even Braith, had had the nerve to ask what had been said. And now they rode in silence, but together which must be a good sign. Possibly.

Lucia shook the thoughts away. It wasn’t any of her business, she had no time to think about that. She looked ahead, at the slow pace of the jarl’s horse. Who was she fooling? She had nothing but time.

She looked ahead. Though she knew it was impossible, she fancied she could see the Blue Palace of Solitude in the distance. She was starting to wish she’d taken a ship to Solitude rather than coming over land. But no, she and the Fangs had nowhere near enough coin to buy passage for themselves all the way to Solitude. Besides, they were stuck here now.

A stirring from the jarl made Lucia snap out of her reverie. Brunwulf turned to look at her.

‘There’s someone approaching,’ he said. Lucia squinted and yes, there were two figures running towards them. She thought she knew who they were but readied Stormkist, just to be safe.

‘Fangs!’ she called back, ‘Forward and ready!’

It took a little goading, not all the Fangs were experienced riders, but they were able to move their mounts forwards and draw weapons in readiness. A crackling told Lucia that Sissel had summoned lightning around her hands and was as ready to fight as the rest of them. Lucia smiled. Even if they were not used to fighting from horseback, a line of armed and armoured fighters on horseback would give any raiders or bandits cause to hesitate. The column of Windhelm guards came to a halt and, as news filtered down the lines, the men and women began fidgeting, some half drawing weapons.

Their efforts were unnecessary, as it turned out.

Just as Lucia had suspected, the figures turned out to be Annekke and Llirvalie. As they drew close, Lucia was struck by just how different the two women were. Llirvalie, dark skinned and dark eyes, her silver hair tied into a plait that ran down her back, moved with a fluid grace born from years of training; Annekke was pale skinned and, despite her years, possessed a mane of golden hair, though white was beginning to show at her temples, and moved more like a prowling wolf, not quite a delicate as Llirvalie’s step yet even the dark elf had been impressed by the grandmother’s agility.

The two of them, bows slung over their shoulders, stopped running only when they had reached the column. A few of the horses snorted and stamped nervously, but none so badly that their riders couldn’t get them back under control.

‘There are men approaching,’ Annekke said, heaving steady breaths as she spoke. Lucia looked at her, concerned. As fit as she looked, she was not a young woman anymore.

‘How many?’ Brunwulf asked, looking worried.

‘About a hundred, I’d say,’ Llirvalie said, clearly nowhere near as tired as her companion, ‘can’t tell if they’re moving to intercept us or if it's just coincidence. They’re well-armed, though.’

‘Were they flying any banners?’ Brunwulf asked, ‘Could you see their shields?’

Llirvalie nodded.

‘They carry the three towers of Winterhold,’ she said.

Brunwulf relaxed.

‘Kraldar’s likely on his way to the moot,’ he said. And again, he glanced back down the road they’d just walked, as if expecting to see someone, ‘we’ll likely see Brina on the road, if she hasn’t already set out.’

But Llirvalie wasn’t finished.

‘There’s more, lord,’ she said, ‘the soldiers of Winterhold are accompanied by mages from the College. The Arch-mage herself seems to be leading them.’

The confident smile faded a little from Brunwulf’s face. Any Nord of any sense knew to be wary of mages, and the Arch-mage most of all.

‘How do you wish to proceed, Lord?’ Jorleif asked, looking up at his jarl. ‘should we move ahead or wait?’

Lucia could see the hesitation in Brunwulf’s face for only a moment before surety filled the old man’s face once more.

‘We will march to Solitude alongside our countrymen,’ he said, ‘we move ahead.’

Jorleif nodded then signalled the column to begin moving again. The Fangs moved their horses to the side of the road to let them pass. Lucia had not signalled to moved ahead yet.

‘You’ll want to speak with the Arch-mage,’ Llirvalie said and Lucia was surprised to realise the dark elf was now speaking to her.

‘Me?’ Lucia exclaimed, ‘why would the Arch-mage want to speak to me?’

Llirvalie rolled her eyes.

‘Well why don’t you ask her yourself?’ she said, ‘she’s just up ahead.’

Lucia thought for a moment, then made her decision. She turned to Braith.

‘Keep the Fangs with the column until I get back,’ she said. Braith, though she did not look too enthused, sighed and nodded. Lucia turned to Annekke. ‘Grandmother, could you scout back behind the column? Brunwulf keeps looking back there and I’d like to know why.’

Annekke sighed. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t call me that, Lucia,’ she said, chidingly, ‘it makes me feel like a doting old lady. I’m not that decrepit yet.’

‘Well what else would I call you?’ Lucia demanded, ‘you’re my mother’s mother.’

Annekke sighed. ‘Very well, I suppose,’ she said, ‘I’ll go take a quick look, I shan’t be long.’

And with that, she was away. Running at a steady jog down the line of soldiers. She seemed to be moving faster than she had been when she was with Llirvalie. Lucia had a suspicion that she was keen to prove that she was still spry, despite being a grandmother.

Lucia then turned her mount around and cantered ahead, Llirvalie easily keeping pace on foot. It wasn’t long before they saw the other column of armed men and women, these marching beneath the banner of the three towers. Lucia looked back to where the guardsmen of Windhelm marched beneath Brunwulf’s bear banner. She wished the Fangs had a banner of their own. She remembered the banner they had made, likely still hanging above the old orphanage where they had left it when they had gone to Fort Greenwall.

A little behind the Winterhold guards, a smaller group stood, as if waiting. These men and women carried no weapons or shields. They wouldn’t need them. Each of them wore the mantled robes and cowls of mages. They carried no banner, though one was holding a tall staff topped with a symbol made of bronze. A five-pointed star with an eye at its centre. The badge of the College of Winterhold.

One of them came forward and lowered her cowl revealing a dark skinned, stern and sombre face. Her robes, different from the others, were white as fresh snow, trimmed in sapphire blue. The Arch-mage herself.

‘You are Lucia?’ she asked, her voice so sharp it could likely slice through leather. Lucia had to force herself to remain upright on her mount.

‘I am,’ she said, her voice as strong as she could make it.

‘I hear there are some in the south who call you the Young Dragon.’

‘There are,’ said Lucia, feeling a little embarrassed by the title in the face of this stern woman, ‘a title my friends gave me.’

‘A title earned, as I hear it,’ the Arch-mage said, ‘you took Riften and secured the entire Rift with a group barely off their mothers’ apron strings, or off their mothers’ milk, as I believe you Nords like to say. Then you went on to chase the Kingsworn all the way to Fort Amol. Quite an impressive achievement.’

Lucia was not sure whether to be flattered or insulted by the Arch-mage’s words. She wondered if the mage knew she was actually an Imperial and not a Nord at all. The woman did not give her the chance to decide.

‘I am Safiya al-Ruuz, Arch-mage of the College of Winterhold,’ she said, as if that was not already obvious. ‘I told Llirvalie to fetch you because I wanted to speak with you for a while as we walk to Solitude.’

‘Why do you want to speak with me?’ Lucia asked, careful to keep her tone respectful. Redguards were as prickly about their honour as Nords and would not respond well to rudeness.

‘Because we have much to discuss,’ Safiya said, as if this should have been obvious, ‘especially if you intend to help your father, which is what I believe your plan is.’

‘You know my father?’ Lucia asked, immediately regretting her foolish question. Of course the Arch-mage would know the Dragonborn.

Safiya’s mouth quirked into a slight smile but she made no comment on the question itself, instead answering; ‘He and I have been working on something together, along with Llirvalie here, of course.’ The Arch-mage turned to regard Llirvalie, the dark elf looking back cockily, though warily. ‘I assume things in Riften are in order?’

‘They are,’ Llirvalie said, haughtily, ‘Black-Briar’s deposition made things a little difficult for a while, but once I was able to get this lot out of the city,’ Llirvalie jerked her head at Lucia, ‘the Guild was able to strike a deal with the new jarl. Things won’t be as fruitful as they were under Black-Briar but I suppose that’s the price we’ll have to pay. Our operatives are now positioned where they need to be. As soon as the enemy moves, we’ll know.’

Lucia glanced at Llirvalie. Operatives? She thought the dark elf had tricked her and the Fangs out of Riften simply so the Thieves Guild could operate more easily in the city. But from what Llirvalie said, there was more to it than that. Had her campaign against the Kingsworn been nothing but a ruse? Something to keep her busy and out of the way? What was going on?

Safiya was nodding.

‘Good,’ she said, ‘so we have our spy network ready and you were able to deal with a potential problem. A good bit of business, I’d say.’

Llirvalie smiled coyly and nodded, but Lucia was starting to feel annoyed.

‘Spy network for what?’ she demanded, ‘Who are you spying on? The Thalmor? We know they’re coming for my father, why do you need spies?’

Safiya and Llirvalie exchanged a look.

‘Well that’s rather what we need to talk to you about,’ said Safiya, ‘there’s a lot more to what your father is doing than a simple war against the Thalmor.’

‘There is?’ Lucia asked. How could anything be more important than pushing the Aldmeri Dominion out of Skyrim?

‘Indeed so,’ said Safiya, ‘come, let us walk and I shall tell you about the Towers of Mundus.’

Chapter Text

The winds blew harsh and hard down the slopes of western Eastmarch. Snow flurried so thick and heavily that it was almost impossible to make out the road.

Through this blizzard, Samuel kept on going, Runa and Hroar not far behind him. Haming had gone ahead to scout, though what he could have expected to see was beyond Samuel. He was having enough difficulty seeing more than five feet ahead and, as good a woodsman as Haming was, Samuel doubted his eyesight was that much better.

Not that it would matter, Samuel knew. Haming was only really scouting out of habit and to make sure there were no ambushes ahead. They were not here to fight. At least, Samuel hoped not.

He could just about make out the outline of the fort now, looking out of the thick air like some kind of phantom. Fort Amol. According to Jarl Brunwulf, the last stronghold of the Kingsworn.

Samuel took a deep breath, then immediately regretted it as snow filled his mouth. Hroar slapped him on the back as he coughed.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ Runa had to shout to be heard over the wind.

‘The Legate will need all the help he can get,’ Samuel shouted back, ‘the Kingsworn may hate him but I’m hoping they hate the Thalmor more.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question,’ Runa pointed out.

Samuel stayed silent. In truth he had no idea if this was a good idea or not. In fact, all evidence pointed to it being a terrible plan, especially with him being a legion soldier, but it had struck him as something that needed to be done.

If the Kingsworn were going to prove Lord Uhther’s enemies in the war to come, they had to be made to see that the Thalmor were the greater enemy. If they would not fight with them, they had to be made to stand down until the war was done. And if they would fight with them, they had to be brought now.

Haming suddenly appeared close by. Samuel cursed the snow again. They might be surrounded by enemies and he would not know.

‘It’s a clear run from here to the fort, as far as I can see,’ said Haming. It was strange to hear him shout, Samuel could not help but think, he was usually so silent, still and reserved. ‘As for the fort itself, I couldn’t see much. There are fires burning but there could be anywhere between ten and a hundred inside.’

Samuel grunted and pulled his furs tighter about him. He noticed the others doing the same.

‘Well we may as well get this done,’ he said and, with a confidence he most certainly did not feel, strode towards the gate. The others followed him. As they drew close to the gate, he heard the unmistakable sounds of lookouts spotting intruders. ‘Hold up the flag!’ He called back to Hroar.

The flag was just a white sheet tied to a tree branch, but it should have been recognised as what it was. A request to parley.

When no arrows fell towards them, Samuel took that as acceptance and so the four of them walked through the gate and into the courtyard. They were immediately surrounded.

Just at a casual glance, Samuel could see Kingsworn all about them. Many with bows though some merely had drawn swords. All of them wore thick fur lined cloaks and hoods against the cold though even with those hoods, Samuel could tell they were all looking at him and his companions with the same looks of distrust and dislike.

There was a long moment when nothing happened. There was no sound except for the howling wind. Then one of the Kingsworn came forward.

‘You will follow me,’ he said, his voice deep and rich with the accent of the Nords. With the snow and the hood, it was hard to make out the man’s face. All that could be seen was a thick auburn beard. Even so, Samuel though he recognised the voice.

They were led out of the courtyard, up to the fort’s main keep. Once inside their guide pulled down his hood and Samuel immediately knew him.

‘Unmid Snow-Shod,’ he exclaimed. Behind him, Runa and Hroar also gasped.

Unmid turned to regard them, ‘Do I know you?’

Samuel shook his head, ‘I was raised in Honorhall Orphanage. I remember seeing you with Jarl Laila when she walked out in the city. I thought you were imprisoned after the Civil War?’

Unmid grunted. ‘I was,’ he said, ‘but I was called to fight again. My only shame is that I had to leave Laila behind.’ Unmid pushed open a door that led into a large, circular room.

‘My father will see you here,’ he said.

Samuel was about to ask more about that when a voice called from inside the room.

‘So here they are, at last,’ it was a gruff voice, thick with age and anger, ‘the couriers sent from the whelp of a traitor.’

There were four inside the room, three men and a woman. All three of the men had grey hair, though only the one who had spoken seemed to be of much age. The other two looked barely older than the Lord Uhther.

Gray-Manes, Samuel realised. He remembered that ancient Nord house had sided with the Stormcloaks.

The woman had dark hair and looked to have the build of a blacksmith. She and the old man were looking at the new arrivals with dislike, though the two Gray-Manes simply looked curious. Unmid entered behind them, closed the door and then just stood there, like a bodyguard.

‘I am Vulwulf Snow-Shod,’ the old one said, ‘Commander of those who remain loyal to Skyrim’s true king.’ Samuel thought he recognised him now. The old man had been a regular patron of the Bee and Barb.

‘Why are we doing this, Vulwulf?’ the woman spat, ‘they are our enemies. We should kill them now, send their heads to the Young Dragon and be done with it.’

Samuel had heard the mocking note she had put into Lucia’s title and turned his coolest expression towards her. Behind him, Samuel could feel the others stiffen in indignation. Lucia had proven herself time and time again, leading them to victory after victory. He was not about to let these Stormcloak leftovers disrespect her.

‘Peace, Hermir,’ Vulwulf said, though he did not look as though he disagreed, ‘let’s hear what they have to say first.’

Samuel gulped. The brief bravado suddenly gone from him. They did not have the rest of the Fangs with them now. Lucia was not here to lead, and it was easy to forget that their victories had come in chief from luck, good planning, ambush, not to mention having superior fighters with them, Iona in Riften and then Llirvalie as they had moved on the Kingsworn. None of that was here now.

Samuel had been practising what he would say ever since leaving Windhelm. He took a deep breath and began.

Far away to the south, another wind blew. It stirred the mist that rose up in the early morning, creating swirls and patterns in the air. It blew between the many gravestones in the boneyard of Falkreath and against the walls of the town. On top of the walls, Legate Skulnar looked out to the north, in the direction Jarl Siddgeir had ridden off just two days previously accompanied by half the guard.

Skulnar spat in disgust. Bad enough the boy had waited so long to answer the queen’s summons but he had left his own holding with barely enough warriors to defend it. Skulnar looked with disgust at Falkreath’s wall. It did not even encircle the town. The place was undefendable. The gods help them if the town came under attack.

Skulnar’s troops were stationed in Fort Neugrad, a half day’s journey away. He would have liked to bring some to Falkreath to make up for the numbers being taken but Siddgeir had refused.

‘That boy has always been far too full of himself,’ Skulnar spat again, looking towards the dark hills and the dense trees that covered them. Difficult though Dengeir had always been, the old man had at least understood the jarl’s duty to their people.

He could only guess at what the stupid pup would say at the moot, especially if the Dragonborn was there too. Skulnar barked a nasty laugh. It might do Siddgeir some good if he did try something with the Dragonborn. A good kick up the backside might well do the fool the world of good.

Thoughts of Uhther got him feeling uneasy again, however.

‘What are you playing at, Uhther?’ Skulnar muttered, answered by none but the birds in the trees.

He knew Uhther quite well, he’d chatted with him often enough in the Dead Man’s Drink about the old days, fighting in the Civil War. Uhther had always seemed a Nord after his own heart, who understood the importance of the Empire. So why now was he following in Ulfric’s footsteps? Worse, why was he riling the Thalmor? Surely, he knew that would only end in disaster for Skyrim and the Empire.

A call from below shook Skulnar from his reverie. He looked down to see one of the town guards looking up at him.

‘What?’ Skulnar called down.

‘There’s a group approaching the southern gate, Legate,’ the guard said, ‘Thalmor by the look of them.’

Skulnar groaned. Nenya had warned him this might happen before she’d left with Siddgeir and Helvard. Still, he had been half hoping the justiciars might take a different route.

‘Very well,’ Skulnar said, resigned.

He descended the steps from the wall and followed the guard through the town to the south gate. Men and women were beginning to cluster around the gate, both those of the guard and the ordinary citizens of the town. Skulnar had to push his way through. He saw more guards above on the wall, bows in hand, looking southwards down the road.

Skulnar was not sure why they kept insisting on calling this a gate. There had been no gate in Falkreath since long before anyone could remember. It was merely a hole in the wall were the road ran through the town. Still, Skulnar moved out and saw the new arrivals immediately.

They were stood maybe fifty paces down the road. They had come to that point and stopped, apparently content to wait. Two wore that fancy moonstone armour the elves insisted on wearing in place of proper steel while their leader wore thick robes, his hood drawn up.

Skulnar felt three haughty pairs of golden eyes on him as he drew nearer. The sensation made the hair on his neck stand up. Unconsciously, his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

‘Where is the jarl?’ the lead Thalmor demanded as soon as Skulnar had come within earshot. The elf’s tone made Skulnar grit his teeth. But he mastered his anger and dislike before answering.

‘He has gone north to Solitude, for the Queen’s moot,’ he said, ‘I am in command while he is gone.’

It was very difficult not to be conscious of the fact he had to look up as he spoke. Skulnar was accounted tall among men, but the lead Justiciar was a head taller than he was, and looked down his nose at him.

‘That is well,’ the Justiciar said, ‘we will be heading there soon enough. But first there is another matter we are to attend to by order of the Dominion.’

That brought on a fresh wave of anger.

The Dominion does not rule in Skyrim you arrogant toad, he longed to say. But again, he mastered himself.

‘Always willing to help our friends from the Aldmeri Dominion,’ he said, as diplomatically as he could. If the Thalmor noticed anything untoward in his tone, he paid it no mind.

‘I understand that the one called The Dragonborn, holds land in the holding?’

‘Aye, that’s right.’ Skulnar said, ‘A manor estate just north of here. Place called Lakeview.’

The Justiciar nodded.

‘You will provide the exact location of this estate, plus any other estates the Dragonborn holds in this province. By order of the Dominion, he is to be stripped of his lands and incomes.’

‘With all due respect,’ Skulnar said, now having to try very hard to control himself, ‘the Dominion does not have that authority. Skyrim owes fealty to the Empire, no one else.’

The Justiciar looked at him properly then, and Skulnar was sure he was not imagining the look of disdain in those golden eyes.

‘We, of course, have the full blessing of your emperor,’ said the Justiciar. His eyes glinted dangerously, ‘Do what you’re told, human.’

Skulnar was about to answer but his tongue froze. More figures were emerging from the mist. Thalmor soldiers. At least a hundred. No two hundred. Five hundred. Maybe a thousand on the road. And more he could see out on the moors, marching in thick ranks. This was not a deputation. This was an invasion.

‘By the Nine,’ Skulnar breathed. It was said without thought. A reflex. In that moment he forgot who he was talking to. He’d forgotten the White-Gold Concordat. The next thing he knew was a blinding pain in his chest. He looked down to see a ghostly sword skewering his chest, its shady hilt in the hands of one of the justiciar guards.

‘Heresy will not be tolerated,’ said the guard. And that was all she said for the next moment, the shaft of an arrow sprouted from her throat. She went down, gurgling. The other guard then went down, pierced by multiple arrows. The lead justiciar snarled, bolts of lightning crackling around his hands. But now, Skulnar had his sword out and he plunged it into the elf’s back. The justiciar fell.

‘Warriors of Falkreath!’ Skulnar shouted through a mouthful of blood, ‘Make ready!’

He said no more than that. For the strength suddenly went from his legs. Suddenly, Skulnar realised he was on his back, staring at the sky. A hawk circled above. Sovngarde beckoned. He tightened his grip on his sword’s hilt. The last thing he heard before the world went black was the sound of a charge.