4E 202, Shor's Stone, a week later
Gerron Ironbreaker
Many cheered openly when word arrived of the Mythic Dawn's devastating defeat under the combined might of the Vigilants of Stendarr, the Stormcloaks, and the warriors of Whiterun.
Across Skyrim, bells rang in celebration.
From the wind-scoured towers of Winterhold to the towering stone of Markarth's Dwemer-carved walls, the sound of jubilation carried across the holds. Taverns overflowed with drunken merriment, songs of victory echoing late into the night as tankards clashed and stories grew more exaggerated with every passing cup.
Gerron had followed through as well. Casks upon casks of wine and mead had been sent to every corner of the Rift. The stores of Shor's Stone had been opened freely for celebration, and for three days straight wine flowed like a river through the streets.
Coupled with the news of Kiera and the Imperial Legion's victory at Castle Volkihar, the dark clouds that had hung over Skyrim for so long had begun to lift.
And for Gerron personally, his betrothal to Serana was met with much approval. Their wedding was now only two weeks away.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the people of Skyrim breathed a little easier. The lingering gloom and fatigue of war was starting to be purged.
Eighteen months had passed since the peace summit at High Hrothgar. Even longer still had the Civil War ravaged the land. Stormcloak and Imperial banners had clashed across the holds, brother fighting brother beneath the cold skies of the north.
Hundreds of thousands had died since then, the white snows of Skyrim had been painted red with blood.
How many villages had burned, families shattered? An entire generation of people scarred by war.
Yet now…finally, the land was beginning to heal.
A groan escaped Gerron's mouth as he reluctantly pulled himself from Serana's sweet embrace. The pleasant warmth of her body that came from Meridia's light lingered against him even as the cool morning air brushed against his skin.
He pulled on a loose tunic and trousers before padding barefoot across the carpeted floor. The small alcove beside the bed held a narrow window overlooking the eastern horizon. Gerron brushed aside the curtain and unlatched the shutters.
The first rays of dawn had just begun to crest the peaks of the Velothi Mountains, slowly painting the lands in hues of molten gold and bloody red.
For a long moment he simply stood there, watching the sun rise.
Yet the beauty of the morning did little to quiet the thoughts gnawing at his mind.
Learning that Alduin's fortress had been right there this entire time unsettled him deeply. Skuldafn lay somewhere within those mountains, practically on their doorstep.
It certainly explained why Eastmarch and the Rift had suffered far more dragon attacks than the other holds. Solitude and Markarth had seen far fewer dragons in comparison, though it didn't mean they were free from their own problems.
Serana's tale of Potema and Malkoran was quite the surprise, and Ulfric and Balgruuf's report of Forsworn as well the Mythic Dawn's raids upon the countryside of the Reach told the same thing.
The rot festering in the western borders of Skyrim was not much different than the ones here in the east.
Dragons might have been the greatest threat facing Skyrim, but the truth was far uglier. Skyrim had already been a doomed kingdom long before Alduin returned.
In a strange way, the World-Eater's return had been a blessing, for he gave them a common enemy to unite against.
But what would happen if Alduin fell?
In the unlikely scenario that they managed to kill the Harbinger of Apocalypse and there actually was a land to salvage after it all, what then?
Would Ulfric once again raise his banners against the Empire? Would the Forsworn seize the opportunity to reclaim Markarth and declare independence like they once did? Would the Thalmor view the Emperor's recent actions as provocation and ignite yet another Great War?
Gerron exhaled slowly. When had Skyrim last known true peace?
The old stories spoke of a king's peace. An era where a traveler could walk the roads from Winterhold to Falkreath without fear of bandits or war, where a merchant caravan could cross the province unmolested.
Those days felt like ancient history.
The road to Oblivion is paved with good intentions.
Ulfric had believed himself justified when he slew High King Torygg.
Perhaps he had been, or perhaps he was wrong. But that single act had shattered Skyrim's fragile unity.
Without a High King, the Jarls squabbled like wolves over scraps. Petty grudges, old feuds, ancient rivalries came back in abundance. All pretense of loyalty and honor for one another were so easily swept away.
Skyrim needed a High King. But who among them deserved such a crown?
Elisif?
Ulfric?
Balgruuf?
Or perhaps one of the other lickspitting Jarls who were content to hide in their castles when all of Skyrim bled?
Gerron's gaze drifted toward the rising sun.
…Could he take it?
The thought felt absurd.
Ruling was not easy, much less a land as vast as this one. An entire Hold was one thing, but what of all of Skyrim?
Would the Jarls even follow him? Would the people?
An upjumped blacksmith lucky enough to be chosen by a Divine, who had grown too ambitious to want a crown that didn't belong to him.
Slender arms wrapped around him from behind as Serana rested her head against his shoulder. "What are you thinking about?" she murmured.
Gerron sighed softly, leaning his head against hers. "Just worrying about things that may not come. It's nothing."
Truthfully, there was no guarantee any one of them would survive what lay ahead. Alduin grew more powerful by the day, and every plan that they had to attack Skuldafn fell apart after much scrutiny.
Just how were they supposed to siege a fortress that perched in the high reaches of the mountains? A fortress guarded by Dragon Priests and countless dragons sworn to Alduin's service.
Yet Gerron knew one thing with certainty, Skuldafn was important.
Call it instinct or the subtle guidance from Zenithar, but there was something up there that demanded the attention of the Divine of Craftsmanship.
"Are you sure?" Serana asked softly. "You know you can talk to me about anything."
Gerron hesitated before answering.
"…Just thinking about the future," he admitted.
His gaze drifted down toward the sprawling town of Shor's Stone below. Smoke rose lazily from chimneys. People were already beginning their morning routines.
"If—by some miracle—we actually kill Alduin… what comes next?" He exhaled slowly. "I never really thought about the future before you barged into my room that night."
Serana snorted softly at the memory.
"We'll have a family one day," Gerron continued. "And they'll be born into this land filled with war and cruelty."
Serana hummed thoughtfully. "True, but they'll be prepared. They will be the children of a Jarl and two Champions, and half vampires no less."
Her hands slid across his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns in a way that sent slivers of desire across his spine. "Neither you nor I would allow our children to grow soft or weak, they will be warriors and mages without equal."
Gerron had questioned whether it was even possible, considering Serana's physique. But she had smiled coyly, saying that Meridia had altered her body in a way that having children was not an impossibility. 'A simple task for the Prince of Life and Energy,' she had said.
Gerron imagined it then. A gaggle of children running through the palace, their looks a mix of his and Serana's. Some with her raven black hair and his stormy blue eyes, others bearing his golden locks and her pale skin. Gods, just imagining it had his heart nearly burst from joy.
He laughed softly. "True enough…Whatever comes, we'll handle it when it comes."
Gerron turned to face her, meeting her crimson eyes. Whatever business he had today could wait as Serana grinned at him before dragging him back toward the bed.
A few hours later, Gerron found himself back in his workshop. The clanging and shifting of gears was heard as a few of the Builders were busy toiling in the back rooms, working tirelessly to assemble their brother creations.
Over a hundred and fifty of the Guardians existed now, with more being built by the day. By the time the wedding rolls up in two weeks, they'd more than double that number.
Valerica wasn't here today. She had departed earlier alongside Filnjar to oversee the final arrangements for the wedding ceremony.
The event would take place within the Temple of Mara—constructed only a few months ago after Erandur had requested a proper temple for the town.
The Dunmer priest would officiate the ceremony. Afterward, the celebration would continue within the great hall of the Ebony Palace.
Serana, meanwhile, had left earlier to wander through the city.
She claimed she needed time to examine something within herself. Apparently the strange mixture of powers within her had created a kind of imbalance.
She was a pure-blooded vampire courtesy of Molag Bal, yet she was also the Champion of Meridia. There also existed the lingering fragments of Potema's power that still clung to her after their encounter.
Three opposing forces within a single being.
While Gerron had worried at first, Serana seemed unconcerned.
If anything, she believed mastering the imbalance might expand her magical reserves even further. Gerron trusted her judgement. After all, she was far more experienced with magic than he was.
For now, he had other matters to attend to.
His gaze settled on Volsung's mask that rested upon a stand on how worktable.
The Dragon Priest's mask was forged of corundum, yet despite the battle that claimed its owner, the metal remained entirely flawless. Not a single scratch marred its surface.
Of all the Dragon Priests they had slain, Volsung had likely been the most powerful, and his mask carried a formidable enchantment.
A ward that covered the user like a second skin, capable of blocking a single attack—no matter how powerful.
It was an extremely rare enchantment, one created through a blend of Nordic and draconic runic magic.
But Gerron had already surpassed both systems, the Arcanic script he had devised was superior to either. Which raised an intriguing possibility.
Could he recreate the enchantment himself?
His eyes drifted toward the mannequin standing near the wall, covered entirely with his own full plate of ebony armor. It was recently repaired, with all the dents and scratches carefully hammered out.
Yet the armor had lost the pristine shine it once possessed when he first forged it, back when he aimed to rob Kagrenzel of its soul gems.
A lifetime ago, and it had served him faithfully through countless battles.
The Ebony Warrior, the people called him. That along with Dragonslayer, Champion, or Hero.
He had no plans on changing anytime soon, for it suited him well both aesthetically and functionally.
Gerron's gaze lingered on the antlered ebony helm. The question was easy. Could he replicate the enchantment from Volsung's mask and bind it to his own helmet?
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Well…" A faint grin spread across his face. "There's no harm in trying, is there?"
…
4E 202, Helgen
Legate Rikke
Retaking Helgen was not difficult. Bandits made for poor soldiers, proven when they were only bold when attacking merchants and lone travelers. But when faced with disciplined ranks of trained warriors, their courage often vanished like mist under the morning sun.
The combined force that marched upon Helgen had been small by the standards of the Empire.
Only three hundred and fifty warriors total, the majority of which belonged to the Hold Guards of Falkreath, their shields bearing the white stag upon a dark blue field. The rest consisted of Imperial Legionnaires and agents of the Oculatus, with most acting as scouts or shadowy operatives under the command of Commander Maro.
It was a modest warband in truth, but it was more than enough.
The bandits occupying Helgen had been cut down with brutal efficiency, but Helgen was not the only victory tied to this campaign.
Together, it was this coalition who had put the Dark Brotherhood to heel.
Rikke still remembered the attack vividly, and it had not been easy.
Commander Maro's assessment had proven accurate: the assassins of the Brotherhood were dangerous individually. Each one was a deadly fighter, trained to kill with speed and lethality.
But even the deadliest assassin could not stand long against a coordinated assault by Legionnaires and Oculatus agents. Numbers, discipline, and preparation went a long way in determining victory, and it was these tools that had ended the Brotherhood's reign.
Even Festus Krex—the man who had so easily bested Rikke back in the wedding—had fallen quickly once the trap was sprung. Pinned to a tree near the pond outside their hideout with fifty arrows piercing him in every direction.
Some would have called such an act dishonorable, and Rikke would have been the same a year ago.
But did not the Dark Brotherhood thrive in sudden assaults and assassinations? Rikke still remembered the dozens of people dead in the aftermath of Vittoria Vici's wedding. She still remembered the way their families wept as priests and priestesses of Arkay chanted their burial rites.
What use was honor for when dealing with such foes?
If assassins thrived in such circumstances, then it was only fitting that they died in the same way.
Nevertheless, the duties of a Legionnaire never ended, and their victory over the Brotherhood was already fading into the past.
Just a week earlier, a runner from Solitude had reached them with sealed orders bearing the Emperor's sigil. The Empire commanded both Rikke and Commander Maro to accompany Jarl Dengeir of Stuhn to the upcoming wedding in Shor's Stone.
Neither Rikke nor Maro had much respect for the man. Dengeir had not exactly distinguished himself during the recent struggles of Skyrim.
Alongside the Jarls of Markarth and Morthal, Falkreath had contributed very little to the war effort.
Where Whiterun, Windhelm, and Solitude had continuously fought in the frontlines; Shor's Stone and Dawnstar utilizing their rare laborforce and resources, blacksmiths for the former and sailors for the latter; the other three had not done plenty.
But the Emperor had shown to be wise. Rather than using a more heavy handed approach, he opted to show restraint. Simply because the reasons behind their inaction were understandable.The previous Jarls of Falkreath and Morthal had both died during the disastrous Battle of High Hrothgar.
Their deaths had thrown the internal politics of each hold into chaos.
Dengeir himself had already retired from ruling years earlier, his health declining with age. Yet when his nephew died, the old man had been forced to reclaim the throne since there had simply been none else capable of ruling Falkreath.
Morthal's situation had been even worse. With no clear successor to Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, the city had practically sealed itself off while its Thanes argued endlessly over who should take over the Jarlship.
For months they had ignored the wider struggles of Skyrim, and only recently had a Nord woman named Sorli the Builder stepped forward to stabilize the hold and take control.
Now Morthal was finally joining the Emperor's caravan bound for Shor's Stone.
While Rikke was sympathetic, it did not erase the cost nor the casualties that had come from their hesitation.
Many legionnaires and civilians, friends and families had lost their lives. Had they acted sooner, perhaps many tragedies might have been prevented.
Perhaps…Adventus might have survived that dreadful battle at Castle Volkihar.
Rikke remembered when the news reached her. She had said little, just poured herself a drink and raised the cup for her fallen brother-in-arms. He had done his duty well and had died with honor. A warrior could ask for little more.
Still, when the Emperor's orders reached Falkreath, Dengeir at least had the decency to respond with enthusiasm.
Perhaps it was the need to prove his worth. Or perhaps he regretted missing the glory of recent battles, for many still speak of the people who fought and died during the Night of Convergence in awe and revelry.
Whatever the reason, Dengeir had acted swiftly. And today, the results were clear.
Rikke rode beside the old Jarl and Commander Maro as they entered Helgen through its open gates. Their destriers' hooves crunched softly over the thin layer of snow covering the ground.
The aftermath of battle surrounded them. Bandit corpses lay scattered across the courtyard. Falkreath guards moved among them methodically, gathering the dead into piles for burial.
Despite their crimes, even bandits deserved the rites of Arkay.
Commander Maro glanced toward Nenya, the Altmer woman serving as Dengeir's steward.
"What are our losses?"
Nenya inclined her head respectfully. "Helvard reports fewer than two score of hold guards killed, Commander. In comparison, all sixty bandits and their leader were put to the sword."
Helvard… Rikke recognized the name. A formidable Nord warrior and Dengeir's loyal housecarl. The old Jarl had entrusted him with command of Falkreath's forces.
A wise and prudent choice, if Rikke had to admit, for Dengeir's fighting days were long past him.
"And where is Helvard?" Dengeir asked gruffly.
"Being tended to by a healer, my Jarl," Nenya replied. "He was wounded during the fighting, though the injury is not life-threatening."
Dengeir grunted approvingly as Commander Maro spoke. "Good enough then. We'll be waiting here for the Emperor's host to arrive so tell the men to get comfortable."
"I will organize the guard rotations," Rikke said calmly, casting a glance at the Jarl. "If you are amenable to that, Jarl Dengeir."
"Of course, Legate." the old Nord coughed, waving a hand dismissively. "You have leave to command the men as you see fit."
"Much obliged." Rikke nodded.
For a brief moment her eyes met Maro's.
The exchange was silent but meaningful. Their presence here served another purpose. The Emperor had entrusted them with a discreet task.
Dengeir was known for harboring strong resentment toward the Empire, those views being part the reason why he was forced to early retirement in the first place.
Officially, Rikke and Maro were here as escorts for the man. Unofficially, they were here to act as the Emperor's eyes and ears, just in case the old Jarl still nurtured those sentiments.
Before Rikke could speak again, a thunderous roar split the sky. Every soldier in the courtyard froze as heads snapped upward, all looking alarmed. She could even see Dengeir nearly fall from his horse in fright.
Rikke, however, simply chuckled. She knew that roar. After the many campaigns she had fought alongside its rider, it was impossible not to recognize it.
High above Helgen, a massive bronze dragon soared through the sky. Sunlight gleamed across his ancient scales like burnished metal.
Upon his back was a familiar figure, grey cloaked with the armor of the vigilants peeking from inside of it.
Dragon and rider circled Helgen twice, casting a great shadow across the ruined fortress. Then, with a powerful beat of Vermithor's wings, they banked upward, towards the towering peak of High Hrothgar.
…
AN: This chapter was a doozy, but in a good way.
In the safety of his own home, Gerron begins to look to the future for what comes next, and his ambition starts to grow because of it.
His tinkering days begin in earnest once again as the day of the wedding is right around the corner.
Rikke's POV was a fun one, especially since we're getting back to introducing the politics of Skyrim. Some people have commented on the fact that the other Holds seem to be doing nothing while Whiterun, Solitude, Windhelm, and Shor's Stone seem to be carrying the bulk of the fighting.
Well this is the reason, something I've been giving crumbs of in the last few chapters. Dawnstar is a city that gets a lot of traffic in terms of sea trade, so I made it so they are the ones who fulfill most of the sailoring duties of the alliance. They are also the hold that provides the largest amount of raw ore to Shor's Stone since they have an abundance of mines.
All of the plots and subplots I've introduced are starting to coalesce once more as we enter the final stretch.
If things go my way, the next chapter will be the very last chapter of Act 5 before we continue with Act 6 on chapter 112, the final Act of this book.
More chapters are available on my P-word. Chapter 120 should be available by the time this chapter is posted. Just look up my name, TeemVizzle, and you'll find me.
Cheers!