4E 202, Whiterun
Balgruuf the Greater
The soft claps of hooves on stone echoed through as Balgruuf rode at the front of the procession.
The long column of a hundred men who had travelled to High Hrothgar just weeks ago are now half that number.
Irileth rode beside him as they studied the state of Whiterun that had happened in his absence.. Her eyes remained sharp despite the exhaustion written across her face. "Home, my Jarl," she murmured. "Though not as we left it."
When the messenger arrived at Ivarstead bringing the news that Whiterun was burning, Balgruuf's heart had stopped. He'd almost requested the Dragonborn to return with them atop the dragon Vermithor, but Savos Aren's calm voice had stayed him.
"The battle is over," the Archmage had said, his eyes alight with pale green fire. "My Arcane Eye hovers above the city. The dragons lie slain. The priest retreats."
Balgruuf remembered the breath of relief that escaped him then, though it did little to still the pounding in his chest. He had still failed to protect his people.
When the messenger had left, the Peace Summit continued for another half hour before concluding.
The following morning, they'd set out, back on the road heading towards Whiterun.
Now, as the city's silhouette rose over the horizon, the reality of it struck him harder than any blade. The once-lush plains were pockmarked with craters of frost and blackened earth. Jagged spires of ice were present everywhere, jutting skyward piercing the skies. Smoke still curled from the outskirts where homes had burned.
It hurt him to see his people suffer such a fate when he wasn't here, but another sense of pride emanated at their resilience.
"It's worse than I thought," he muttered.
Irileth's answer was quiet. "The people endured, my Jarl. That's more that could be said for the other holds."
While the return of the Jarl to his capital city was usually met with fanfare, it was a lot more subdued here.
There was no parade this time, no triumphant fanfare. Instead, there were tired smiles, nods, the quiet gratitude of survivors. Whiterun's people bowed their heads as the Jarl passed.
Vilkas and Farkas broke away from the procession as soon as they entered, sprinting toward the ruins of Jorrvaskr.
Balgruuf's gaze followed them. The Companions' hall had been nearly gutted. One wall caved in entirely, its roof charred black from dragonfire.
He turned yet again to a hole in a section of the outer walls, where rubble and broken stone now lay as men and women worked tirelessly to clear the debris. A simple wooden rampart was hastily built to plug it up, Hrongar or Caius' order no doubt.
Twelve dragons had died in the assault. While they weren't large by any stretch, certainly much smaller than the dragons that Balgruuf himself faced atop High Hrothgar, their carcasses remained like vast mountains as they littered Whiterun's streets and fields.
One of them was even stuck, caught in the long powerful branches of the Gildergreen, the blood pouring down and suffusing within the roots of the ancient tree.
Even with the smell of sulfur and blood clinging to the air, Balgruuf knew what such corpses meant. These dragons did not burn since Kiera was not here. While it meant that they were much harder to salvage, the precious resources they could get would serve them well in the coming war.
It was when the column reached the heard of the Wind District when Hrongar approached, Farengar and Proventus at his side.
They fell to a knee as Balgruuf dismounted. "Welcome back to Whiterun, my Jarl."
Balgruuf threw all propriety in the wind as he clasped his brother's hand before pulling him to a hug. "I'm glad you're alright, brother."
The Master-at-arms let out a sigh as Farengar pursed his lips.
"As am I," Hrongar replied. "But there's much to discuss."
They returned to Dragonsreach in silence. The great hall bore scars of its own, some columns have collapsed, windows shattered. Yet the warmth that came from the central fire pit still burned.
The skull of Numinex was untouched, as was the throne beneath it.
"Father!"
Two small shapes rushed forward. Dagny and Frothar threw themselves into his arms, tears streaking their soot-stained cheeks. Balgruuf dropped to one knee and wrapped them both close, breathing in the scent of his children as though to prove to himself they were real.
"Shh," he whispered. "It's alright. It's over." He wiped the tears from his only daughter as Dagny cried. Frothar as well, trying to look strong.
But when he glanced past them, he noticed the empty space where his youngest should have been. His heart froze.
"Where is Nelkir?"
The silence that followed was deafening. Hrongar's shoulders sank. Farengar opened his mouth, then hesitated.
A pool of dread settled in his gut. "Hrongar," he said quietly, dangerously. "Where is my son?"
Hrongar shook his head. "We…don't know. In the chaos of the attack, I—"
"Where is Lydia?" Balgruuf snapped. "She was meant to guard him!"
It was Frothar, his eldest and heir, who spoke, voice trembling. "Lydia is dead, father."
His voice instantly cooled the storm in Balgruuf's heart as he centered himself. He closed his eyes. Slowly, he exhaled, steadying himself as a ruler must.
"How?"
Farengar stepped forward. "We found her in the kitchens, slain by a blade. And the Whispering Door…" His tone faltered. "It is gone. My Jarl, we believe Nelkir was… taken by the voice behind it. He killed Lydia before escaping the castle."
For a long time, Balgruuf said nothing. Then he sank into a nearby chair, letting out a heavy sigh. His injured hand throbbed, but he barely felt it.
"How many died in the attack?" He asked, his voice tired.
The destruction of the city was one thing. The death of his people, another. But hearing his own flesh and blood…claimed by darkness.
There was blood on his son's hands, that was something that cannot be taken away nor forgiven so easily. His heart ached, not with anger, but with a hollow grief that felt deeper than rage.
"We're still counting, my Jarl." Proventus cleared his throat. "With the aid of the Alik'r and the volunteer warriors, the number of defenders had swelled to nearly twelve thousand. Among them, Commander Caius and two thousand of Hold Guards perished in the walls and streets. Outside the gates… less than a third survived Krosis' assault."
Balgruuf bowed his head. Caius had fallen as well. A good man, loyal to the end. "And the civilians?"
Proventus had to take a breath before continuing. "While we secured much within Dragonsreach and put them in bunkers, we couldn't do so for all the hundred thousand souls that live within the walls. At least five thousand deaths have been confirmed, with more than twice that number still missing."
"Even then, most of the deaths happened because many stayed behind to fight rather than flee." His court mage stated, a rare proud look on his face. While the dark circles around his eyes told plenty, the fire within them had yet to be dimmed.
"Aye." Hrongar, for once, smiled faintly. "Even when facing certain death, the people of Whiterun stand proud."
"I saw one corpse so full of pitchforks and cleavers it looked like a hedgehog." Irileth mused. "Death by a thousand cuts, as my people would say."
Irileth was equally tired, for she had not shied away from the fights back in High Hrothgar and Ivarstead. She bore a new scar because of it, a vertical line that went right over her right eye, courtesy of a Draugr Deathlord.
A grim laugh escaped Balgruuf's lips despite himself. "Sons and daughters of Whiterun, through and through."
"The ballistaes worked," Farengar added. "Four dragons fell before they reached the city proper. The defenses held as well as could be hoped. However, I've updated their designs to be capable of swifter movements and turns. Hopefully the changes will be for the better."
"Though it would be proper to tell you that the battle ended swiftly due to Aela." Hrongar stated. "Without her…awakening," He said hesitantly. "Then the number of deaths would have been even more overwhelming. She killed three of the beasts by herself."
Balgruuf let out a low chuckle. "Truly, heroes rise in times of great need. Though Kodlak's death is one to mourn, the Companions are in good hands."
Soft snoring could be heard as Balgruuf turned. In the corner, both his remaining children had fallen asleep on the table, heads nestled against each other, their tiny forms illuminated by the hearth's dying glow. Frothar's arm was around Dagny.
Balgruuf's heart melted at the sight.
He rose, and gently lifted both of his children in his arms like he used to do a long time ago, one in each arm. While Frothar was quickly becoming a man and an heir worthy of him, Balgruuf had to remind himself again and again that he was still a boy.
Irileth wanted to help, as Balgruuf grimaced slightly from the weight on his wounded arm. But he shook his head, ignoring the pain.
"We'll adjourn for tonight. Rest and we'll continue tomorrow." He looked over his shoulder at his court. "The Emperor has promised needed reinforcements from the Empire, whatever legions can be spared without weakening ourselves to the Thalmor. When that day comes, the counter attack begins."
He paused at the doorway, eyes sweeping across his weary council. "Prepare yourselves."
And with that, he turned away, carrying his children down the quiet corridors of Dragonsreach.
In their peaceful, sleeping faces, he saw all that was left to protect.
In his heart, a silent prayer escaped him.
'Wherever you are, Nelkir… please, be safe.'
…
4E 202, The Rift
Gerron Ironbreaker
The clouds hung low over the Rift's jagged peaks as Vermithor's bronze wings sliced through the sky. The Bronze Fury banked low as they approached the expansive town of Shor's Stone.
"There," Gerron leaned forward, gripping the rim of the saddle. "Just by the mountainside. They don't know of Vermithor yet, and I'd rather we not get blasted out of the sky."
Serana chuckled softly beside him, her hood drawn back as she once again enjoyed the feeling of the sun sprayed across her face. "True enough. Let's not make a repeat of what happened in Winterhold, yeah?"
Her humor drew a faint grin from Gerron, though it didn't linger long. His gaze was fixed ahead, where the valley opened wide into the Rift, and the once-humble town of Shor's Stone sprawled across the basin.
After the Peace Summit in Ivarstead, each Jarl had been ordered to return to their Holds by Kiera and the Emperor. The decree was clear, mobilization was to begin at once.
Mines, forges, and tanneries would run until their fires went cold. While the Civil War reaped many lives, the one good thing that came out of it was that the people were ready.
War wasn't something foreign to the people of Skyrim, it was something they've been suffused with for years. But this time, it was not a war where they fought against their own brothers and sisters. No, this was a war for survival, Skyrim united as a whole.
Thus preparations were needed.
All raw ore, all dragonbone and scale trophies, every scrap of steel and leather hidden away in vaults or prideful displays. Everything was to be turned toward one purpose: war.
The general resources were to be handled by each Jarl in their own hold to outfit their own armies.
But all the dragonbones and scales were promised to be sent to Shor's Stone. Not many smiths know how to work them into proper equipment, only Gerron with the system as well as the few students he had taught could do so.
Gerron was prepared to make use of it all to their fullest potential. With him now becoming the rightful Jarl of the Rift, the lands he had in his command had expanded hundreds of times in size.
It still didn't feel real. The words Jarl Gerron Ironbreaker felt like armor two sizes too big. Yet he bore it all the same. The Rift was his to protect, and the thousands who called it home would now look to him for safety, food, and justice.
While that thought felt heavier than any hammer he's ever carried, he was prepared to do his utmost of his responsibility.
It reminded him of another task he should prepare for. Arngeir had descended from High Hrothgar after the summit, bearing surprising words.
"Paarthurnax has spoken," he had said. "Though crippled, the Great Sage wishes still to serve. He will teach again. Each of your Holds shall send twenty souls to High Hrothgar. They shall learn the Way of the Voice."
The table erupted in murmurs and disbelief.
Very few people in Skyrim could use the Voice, the numbers waning to a scant few wielders. The current Era had the least amount of people in existence, and it was this exact era that Alduin chose to return to.
Gerron did not believe in coincidences, and judging from Kiera's face, neither did she.
Ulfric spoke up. "To learn the Voice takes time. Do those we chose have enough of it to learn?"
Kiera answered before Arngeir could. "Yes, we do. It'll take a while for Alduin to recover after the wounds we dealt to him. If we stop any dragons that come to reap souls for his healing, we might buy ourselves months, close to a year even."
"Then we must not waste it." Balgruuf spoke up. "Should the people we choose have certain qualities needed to learn?"
Arngeir shook his head. "Young or old, man or woman. Any who can speak and listen, with patience. The Voice requires nothing else."
That of course sent all the Jarls present in a frenzy. That single sentence had upended centuries of pride and hierarchy.
To have men and women who could use the Voice in their employ was something every Jarl wanted. Even now, facing certain apocalypse, the promise of power never left the minds of those greedy enough to covet them.
Jarl Elisif brought up her concerns. Power so freely given could be misused. And Kiera's curt, chilling promise that any who did would answer to her personally.
That shut everyone up rather quickly.
Archmage Savos Aren took over the summit then, questioning the Jarls what to do of Ancano and the few members of the Thalmor currently imprisoned within the College of Winterhold.
The Emperor was the one who answered, requesting to take them off his hands. The Archmage accepted. Commander Maro had sworn to take this matter himself and will personally escort the Thalmor prisoners to Castle Dour.
When the summit adjourned and everyone left to make their own preparations, the sense of something greater stirred in Gerron. Skyrim, broken and bloodied, was being reforged. Perhaps this was how the age of heroes began, born not of conquest, but survival.
Vermithor descended with a rumbling growl, wings buffeting the ridge before folding in. The dragon's shadow stretched across the slopes like an eclipse as he landed, scattering dust in a glittering cloud.
Serana hopped down gracefully as Gerron followed, landing with a heavier thud. Kiera, still astride the dragon's neck, looked down at them both with an amused smile.
"Good luck, Jarl Gerron," she teased, a spark of warmth in her eyes. "I'm only glad Serana's with you so you don't do anything stupid."
Serana smirked. "Well, being the court wizard of the newly appointed Jarl does come with certain privileges. I'll keep him from doing anything too dangerous."
Gerron rolled his eyes, though there was fondness in it. "You'll need luck more than we will. Send word if you need help. While I'm sure you and the Vigilants could handle the situation in Dawnstar, there's nothing wrong in being cautious. Isran and the Dawnguard made sure to keep a lookout of Harkon in the meantime."
"Don't worry, I'll be careful." Kiera nodded. "I'll see you guys soon."
Vermithor's massive eye turned toward them, molten gold meeting Gerron's blue. "Farewell, Gerron, Serana. May your hammer strike true in the days to come."
"Until next we meet, Vermithor."
With a roar that shook the mountain, Vermithor launched himself skyward. The downdraft nearly knocked Serana off her feet as snow erupted in a blinding swirl. Within seconds, dragon and rider were gone, vanishing into the mists toward the north.
"I'll never get used to that." She shook her head before turning to Gerron. "Shall we?"
Gerron let out a long breath, nodding. "Let's."
They began the trek down the narrow path, walking the rest of the distance to Shor's Stone. When they finally crested the last ridge, Gerron stopped in his tracks.
The squat little town he used to live in was nowhere to be seen, for a veritable fortress worthy to be called the Capital of a hold now stands.
"It…has changed much." Gerron let out a breathless chuckle.
Smoke rose from a dozen forges within the walls, mingling with the smell of freshly cut pine and burning coal. Banners of black and white fluttered along the parapets, the sigil of a hammer with a mountain peak shining proudly. His sigil.
Serana smiled faintly, her eyes filled with mirth. "A fine seat for a Jarl."
Gerron laughed quietly under his breath, the sound a mix of pride and disbelief. "Aye… but it'll take some getting used to."
He started down the trail again, his steps sure and steady. "Come on. Let's not keep them waiting."
…
End of Act 3
…
AN: Man, can't believe we're here, the finale of Act 3.
This act was hard to write, let me tell you. But in the end, I'm satisfied with how it ended up.
This act was a lot shorter than the previous two, though it was no less important.
It encompassed the Peace Summit itself, with the 'good' factions of Skyrim uniting to fight their common enemy. The Blades, the Vigilants, the College, the Greybeards, and the Jarls. Alduin's defeat as well as the attack on Whiterun happened as well, two things that will have a major impact in the coming chapters, especially considering two new champions rose in that attack.
Aela, the Champion of Hircine. Nelkir, the Champion of Mephala.
The Vampires and the Mythic Dawn took a backseat during this act, something that was done very deliberately.
I thought this a great place to end the Act, for the preparation of war shall commence as the flames ignite. While there are still many plotlines still yet to be completed, I'll try my best to tackle them in the coming chapters.
Anyways, I'll be taking a week-long break to give myself some time to breathe as well as put a little focus on my Fairy Tail fic, which I had been abandoning to churn out chapters for this one.
Thanks so much for those of you who've stuck by me this whole time. Love y'all lots.
Cheers.