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The Imperial legionnaires, who were in the process of rolling up their tents, stopped and stared in absolute, silent awe. To create a fortress of ice was the work of a god, to casually erase it from existence without leaving a single puddle of mud was the work of a being who held the very elements of Nirn on a leash. Aerion turned his back on the dissipating mist and walked back toward the fortress to oversee the renovations.
Miles to the west, the atmosphere was drastically different.
The Imperial siege of Fort Dunstad was a grinding, deafening, chaotic endeavor. The Pale was buried under a heavy, suffocating blizzard, and the main army of thirty thousand legionnaires was bogged down in a brutal, conventional war of attrition. Massive wooden trebuchets hurled flaming boulders against the thick, reinforced stone walls of the fortress, while thousands of Imperial infantrymen huddled behind massive wooden pavises, enduring the relentless, lethal rain of Stormcloak arrows.
In the center of the sprawling, muddy Imperial encampment stood the supreme command pavilion.
Inside, the air was thick with tension and the smell of wet wool. General Tullius stood at the head of a massive tactical map, his weathered face carved with deep lines of exhaustion and frustration. Legate Rikke stood to his right, her golden armor stained with soot, while a half dozen other Legates and senior Captains crowded around the table, arguing over supply lines and breach points.
"Their western wall is holding," a battered Imperial Captain reported, pointing at the map. "We've pounded it for twelve hours, General, but the stone is too thick. If we try to push the siege towers through the mud, their fire arrows will turn them into pyres before we reach the ramparts."
General Tullius scowled, rubbing his temples. "We cannot afford a prolonged siege. The longer we sit here, the more time Ulfric has to march reinforcements from Windhelm. Legate Rikke, tell the engineers to double the payload on the trebuchets. I want that wall cracked before midnight."
Before Legate Rikke could acknowledge the order, the heavy canvas flaps of the pavilion were thrown open.
A courier, exhausted, covered in snow, and breathing heavily, stumbled into the warm tent. He ignored the furious glares of the senior officers whose meeting he had just interrupted and marched directly to the head of the table.
"General Tullius, sir!" the courier gasped, snapping a frantic salute. "Urgent dispatch from the eastern front. From Captain Aerion at Fort Kastav."
The entire command tent went absolutely silent.
The senior Legates and Captains exchanged bewildered glances. The eastern front? Captain Aerion had only marched out two days ago with a single, unproven regiment of a thousand men. A conventional siege of a mountain stronghold like Kastav should take weeks just to establish a proper perimeter, let alone yield actionable intelligence.
General Tullius's brow furrowed. He reached out and took the sealed parchment from the courier's trembling hand. He broke the red wax seal with his thumb and unrolled the missive, his sharp eyes rapidly scanning Valerius's precise handwriting.
The silence in the tent stretched on, heavy and expectant.
As General Tullius read the report, a strange, entirely unfamiliar expression began to crack the hardened, stoic lines of his face. His eyes widened slightly, reading a specific line twice. Then, slowly, remarkably, General Tullius began to laugh.
It wasn't a roar of triumph, but a low, disbelieving, genuine chuckle that shook his armored shoulders. It was a sound so rare that several of the Legates physically recoiled in surprise.
General Tullius lowered the parchment, shaking his head slowly as he looked around at his stunned command staff.
"Legates," he announced, his gravelly voice echoing with profound, lingering disbelief. "Fort Kastav has fallen. The entire Stormcloak garrison is either dead or bound in the courtyard. The eastern pass is entirely under the control of the Imperial Legion."
The war room erupted into a cacophony of shocked murmurs and outright denial.
"Fallen? Already?" an older Legate demanded, leaning over the table. "General, that is impossible! He marched with one thousand men! Kastav is a mountain redoubt! They would have needed siege towers, battering rams, and weeks of starvation to even breach the outer gates!"
"Apparently," General Tullius replied, a fierce, predatory smile touching his lips, "Captain Aerion does not require siege towers. He requires eleven mammoths and an afternoon."
General Tullius tossed the letter onto the center of the map table for the officers to read themselves.
"They broke the curtain wall with magical bombardment, routed the vanguard in the open field, and cleared the interior keep in a matter of hours," he summarized, still shaking his head at the sheer, terrifying audacity of the victory. "He shattered a fortress that has stood for centuries in less than three days. With a thousand men."
Legate Rikke, who had personally witnessed Aerion's power at the defense of Whiterun, did not share the other officers' disbelief. She simply let out a long, satisfied breath, crossing her arms over her breastplate.
"It is exactly as I told you, General," Legate Rikke said, her voice filled with a grim, respectful certainty. "When you put Captain Aerion on a battlefield, conventional military mathematics cease to exist. With the level of magical devastation he commands, anything is possible. He is a walking cataclysm. He doesn't besiege fortresses, he erases them."
The other Captains stared at the map, the reality of the situation rapidly sinking in. Aerion had not just won a battle, he had fundamentally altered the strategic landscape of the entire northern war in a single stroke.
General Tullius turned back to the exhausted courier, his demeanor instantly shifting back to the ruthless, decisive supreme commander.
"The Captain also requested permission to press the advantage," General Tullius noted, tapping the parchment. "He wants to march his regiment directly on the capital of Winterhold and depose Jarl Korir. He wants to install a Jarl who is sympathetic to the Empire."
General Tullius didn't even hesitate to consult his Legates. The opportunity was too massive to ignore.
"You ride back to Fort Kastav immediately," Tullius ordered the courier, his voice ringing like striking iron. "You tell Captain Aerion that he has my absolute authorization to march on Winterhold. He is to take the city by whatever means he deems necessary, and he is to ensure that a new, Imperial supporting Jarl is sitting on that throne before the week is out."
The courier saluted sharply, turning and sprinting back out into the blizzard.
General Tullius turned back to the tactical map, his eyes burning with renewed, aggressive fire. He looked at the marker representing Fort Dunstad, the fortress currently resisting their thirty thousand men.
He realized, with clarity, that Captain Aerion was no longer just a highly effective officer. Aerion was the single greatest weapon the Empire possessed in Skyrim. He was vastly more reliable, controllable, and devastating than even the Dragonborn.
"Legates!" General Tullius roared, slamming his fist onto the table. "Captain Aerion has severed their eastern supply lines! Dunstad is completely isolated! I want the trebuchets firing until the barrels melt! Break that wall! The Empire takes the north this week!"
The courier rode his horse to the absolute brink of exhaustion, tearing back through the snowy mountain passes with the speed of a desperate man.
By the time he crested the plateau and saw the Imperial banners flying proudly over the shattered stone of Fort Kastav, the sun was beginning to dip below the western peaks. He rode through the cleared breach, pulling his lathered horse to a halt in the center of the newly organized courtyard.
Aerion was standing near the center of the fortress, surrounded by his command staff, overseeing the final distribution of rations.
The courier practically fell from his saddle, jogging forward and snapping a breathless salute.
"Captain Aerion, sir!" the courier gasped, his lungs burning from the cold. "A direct reply from General Tullius!"
Aerion turned, his golden eyes calm. "Speak."
"The General sends his profound congratulations on your victory," the courier reported loudly, ensuring the surrounding legionnaires could hear the praise of the supreme commander. "Furthermore, the General has granted your request with absolute authorization! You are to march your regiment on Winterhold immediately. You are ordered to secure the city and ensure that a new Jarl, one entirely loyal to the Empire, takes the throne!"
A murmur of excitement rippled through the nearby soldiers. They weren't just holding a fort, they were going to conquer a hold capital.
Aerion offered a slow, satisfied nod. The political mandate was secured.
"You have done well, soldier. Get some hot food and rest," Aerion dismissed the courier.
Aerion turned to Valerius, Quintus, and the five Tribunes who had gathered around him.
"You heard the orders," Aerion stated smoothly, his voice dropping into the focused, clinical tone of a strategist. "The General has given us the leash. Now, we must plan the execution. Praefects, Tribunes, into the command quarters. We have a city to take."
The command staff followed Aerion into a large, relatively intact stone chamber on the ground floor of the keep that had been hastily converted into a war room. A rough map of the Winterhold region had been unfurled across a wooden table.
Aerion stood at the head of the table, but he did not immediately issue orders. He crossed his arms over his chest, remaining completely silent, allowing his officers to take the initiative. He wanted to test their strategic acumen.
"We have a significant logistical hurdle, Captain," Praefect Quintus began, tracing the narrow, treacherous mountain path leading from the fort directly to the city of Winterhold. "We currently have roughly eight hundred and seventy combat capable men and women, factoring in our wounded. That is more than enough to overwhelm the city guard, but it is not an overwhelming force if the citizenry decides to arm themselves and fight street to street."
Quintus looked up, his expression grim. "Furthermore, we cannot use the mammoths. The path to the city is dangerously narrow, and the infrastructure of Winterhold itself is crumbling. If we march eleven armored mammoths through their streets, the vibrations alone might cause half the city to collapse into the Sea of Ghosts. We have to leave our heavy siege weapons behind."
Tribune Arcturus leaned over the map, his Nord blood running hot. "We don't need the beasts, Praefect. The city has no walls. We march the eight hundred men in a solid column right up the main thoroughfare, surround the Jarl's longhouse, and demand his immediate surrender. If Korir refuses, we burn the door down and drag him out by his beard."
"A direct assault will cause panic," Tribune Sabina countered, shaking her head. "If we march an army into a starving, desperate city, they won't see us as liberators, they will see us as butchers. They will fight with pitchforks and hunting bows. We will lose men to rioting."
"There is another variable," Praefect Valerius interjected, his voice quiet but incredibly serious. He pointed to a small, isolated island connected to the city by a massive stone bridge.
"The College of Winterhold."
The entire room fell silent. The officers looked at the map, the reality of the ancient magical institution suddenly looming over their tactical plans.
"The Companions in Whiterun stayed out of the siege because they are bound by honor to remain neutral or that's what they say," Valerius explained. "But the College is an independent entity. There are dozens of master level mages, scholars, and apprentices residing in that fortress. If they perceive our invasion as a threat to their sanctuary, and they decide to intervene on behalf of the city... eight hundred infantrymen will burn."
Slowly, uniformly, the eyes of every officer in the room turned toward Aerion.
They all knew, courtesy of the rumors spread by Onmund, Brelyna, and J'zargo, that Captain Aerion was formally enrolled as an Adept of the College of Winterhold. It was a rank that felt absurdly, insultingly low given his godlike display of power, but it meant he had intimate, inside knowledge of the institution.
Aerion met their gazes, his expression entirely unreadable.
"The College is a complex variable," Aerion finally spoke, his voice smooth and measured. "I cannot say with absolute certainty whether they will intervene as a unified front. However, we must consider the political reality of the hold."
He placed a gauntleted finger directly on the Jarl's longhouse.
"Jarl Korir is a paranoid, deeply prejudiced man," Aerion explained, utilizing his metaknowledge to dissect the local politics. "He despises magic. He actively blames the College for the Great Collapse that destroyed his city, and he has spent years poisoning the minds of his citizens against the mages. He hates them so deep that he would rather see his city burn to ash than beg the College for their assistance."
Aerion shifted his finger to the College itself.
"Furthermore, Arch-Mage Savos Aren is a strict isolationist. He is a pacifist who cares only for the preservation of magical knowledge. He will never formally authorize the College to march to war to defend a Jarl who openly despises them."
"So the College will remain neutral?" Quintus asked, a wave of relief washing over his scarred face.
"The leadership will," Aerion corrected carefully. "But the individual students and teachers are a different matter. If they see Imperial soldiers slaughtering civilians in the streets, individual mages might take it upon themselves to intervene. That is the variable we must control."
Valerius's eyes lit up with a sudden, pragmatic idea.
"Captain, you are a member of the College," Valerius suggested eagerly. "Why don't you send a missive to the Arch-Mage? Or better yet, we could ask the mages to support us from the inside! If the College openly backs the Empire, we could trap Korir between the Legion and the mages. It would secure our footing instantly, and the Empire would reward the College with much better treatment and funding!"
It was a sound, traditional political maneuver. But Aerion immediately shook his head.
"Absolutely not," Aerion denied the suggestion, his tone laced with absolute finality.
Valerius blinked in surprise. "But Captain, the advantage it provi—"
"Would be entirely negated by the social backlash," Aerion interrupted, his tactical mind operating on a level the young Praefect could not yet perceive.
Aerion leaned over the table, his golden eyes sweeping over his officers. "Listen to me. The people of Winterhold already hate and fear the College. They believe the mages destroyed their lives. If we, an invading Imperial army, suddenly ally with the College to overthrow their Jarl, we will confirm every single paranoid conspiracy Jarl Korir has ever fed them."
He tapped the map sharply. "It will completely vilify the College, and it will vilify us by association. The citizens will not surrender, they will fight to the bitter, bloody end because they will believe they are fighting a cabal of evil mages and Imperial tyrants. I will not turn this occupation into a holy war."
Aerion stood up straight, his presence dominating the dim room.
"I will send a message to the Arch-Mage, yes," Aerion stated. "But I will only ask that the College lock their gates and remain entirely neutral. I will promise them that the Imperial Legion will respect their sovereignty and protect them from local harassment. Nothing more."
Quintus frowned, rubbing his jaw. "If we do not have the College, and we cannot use the mammoths, how do we take a hostile city with eight hundred men without triggering a bloodbath in the streets?"
Aerion's lips curved into a slow, terrifyingly charismatic smile.
The officers stared at him in profound confusion.
"Winterhold is starving," Aerion explained, his voice dropping into a persuasive, hypnotic cadence as he laid out his masterstroke. "They are freezing. Their economy is dead, and their Jarl sits in a rotting wooden hall, offering them nothing but empty Stormcloak pride and hatred for the elves. Pride does not fill a child's belly."
Aerion looked at his Tribunes. "We are not going to march into that city with drawn swords and fire. We are going to march into that city leading a massive train of heavy supply wagons. We are going to bring the salted meat, the grain, and the heavy furs we confiscated from this fortress."
He pressed his hands flat against the table. "I have gathered intelligence on the citizens. I know the merchants who are failing. I know the innkeeper who cannot afford firewood. When we arrive, we will not attack the guards. We will distribute food to the people in the town square. We will offer them the absolute security, wealth, and prosperity of the Empire. We will show them that Jarl Korir has given them nothing but suffering, while the Legion brings life."
Aerion's golden eyes burned with absolute, manipulative genius.
"We will turn the people of Winterhold against their own Jarl," Aerion promised softly. "By the time we reach the longhouse, the citizens will open the doors for us themselves. It will be the most peaceful, devastating conquest in the history of this war."
The Praefects and Tribunes stood in stunned, absolute silence. They had expected a battle plan of shields and spears. Instead, their Captain had just orchestrated a flawless, bloodless political coup.
"Prepare the supply wagons," Aerion commanded, breaking the silence. "Load them with every scrap of food and fur we can spare. Tomorrow, we do not march as conquerors. We march as saviors."
The heavy, iron bound doors of the makeshift command chamber closed softly, leaving Praefects Valerius and Quintus, alongside the five Tribunes, to immediately execute their Captain's grand strategy. They had a supply train to pack and an entire city to buy, and the officers moved with the manic, synchronized energy of men and women who knew they were making history.
Aerion did not follow them to the quartermasters. He turned his back on the bustling inner courtyard and walked slowly back out toward the shattered, open expanse of the eastern ridge, where the freezing mountain winds whipped the snow into blinding, localized squalls.
Waiting patiently in the deep, untrammeled snowfields just beyond the ruined curtain wall were the eleven armored mammoths. They stood in a massive, impenetrable ring of steel plated muscle and jagged ivory, exactly as Aerion had commanded, maintaining absolute vigil over the colossal, bleeding carcass of the slain dragon.
As Aerion's heavy boots crunched through the snow, the alpha mammoth turned its massive head. The beast let out a low, vibrating rumble, a deep, resonant sound that physically rattled the loose stones of the fortress walls. It took a slow, heavy step forward, lowering its massive trunk to gently nudge against Aerion's pauldron, letting out a series of short, inquisitive huffs and guttural snorts.
He reached up, running his gauntleted hand affectionately along the thick, coarse hair of the beast's trunk, and spoke to it directly.
"You have guarded the prize well," Aerion said, his voice a steady, calming anchor against the howling wind. "But we leave for the northern coast at dawn. The snow will bury this carcass, and scavengers will ruin the scales if it is left in the open."
The alpha mammoth let out a soft, questioning trumpet, tilting its massive head.
"I need the beast brought inside the fortress," Aerion instructed, pointing a gauntlet toward the massive, gaping breach in the southern curtain wall. "Drag the dragon through the broken stones. Secure it in the main courtyard. The two bulls will remain behind to guard it until I return. The remaining nine of you will march with me to war."
The alpha mammoth's dark, intelligent eyes fixed on the breach, then back to Aerion. It let out a sudden, deafening trumpet of absolute agreement, raising its trunk high into the freezing air. The beast immediately turned its massive bulk toward the herd, letting out a series of sharp, rhythmic barks and low, thudding rumbles.
The herd responded instantly. The massive animals broke their defensive circle. Four of the largest bulls lumbered forward, wrapping their thick, prehensile trunks tightly around the dragon's heavy, spiked tail and its massive hind legs. With a synchronized, earth shaking heave, the mammoths began to drag the huge carcass through the snow, hauling the dead god toward the shattered walls of Fort Kastav with terrifying, effortless strength.
Confident that his most valuable crafting materials were secure, Aerion turned and walked back into the main keep.
He bypassed the busy lower levels, ascending the spiraling stone staircases until he reached the highest tier of the fortress. He bypassed the blood stained officer quarters and walked directly into the Fort Commander's private suite. Because he was the supreme commanding officer of the occupying force, the best, cleanest, and most heavily fortified room in the stronghold was naturally reserved for him.
The suite was spacious, featuring a large stone hearth that the legionnaires had already stoked into a roaring fire. The air was warm, smelling of burning pine rather than the coppery tang of the courtyards below.
Aerion locked the heavy wooden door behind him. Standing in the center of the room, he methodically began the long, arduous process of unbuckling the heavy, fur lined plates of his Nordic Carved Armor. He laid the steel pauldrons, the breastplate, and the jagged bronze mask of Krosis carefully over a heavy wooden table, finally left standing in his sweat dampened linen undershirt and trousers.
He poured himself a goblet of water from a silver pitcher, drank deeply, and sat on the edge of the large, fur-draped bed.
It was time to harvest the true spoils of the siege.
Aerion closed his eyes, his breathing slowing to a deep, meditative rhythm, and summoned the System interface.
The absolute darkness of his mind was instantly illuminated by a cascading waterfall of ethereal, glowing blue text. The sheer volume of combat experience he had accumulated over the past two days, slaughtering hundreds of hardened Stormcloak veterans, bombarding a fortress, healing critically wounded legionnaires, and executing a dragon, was staggering. The notifications scrolled endlessly, quantifying his localized ascension.
[SKILL UPDATES DETECTED]
[Destruction Fire (+7) ➔ Level 0 ➔ Level MAX]
[Destruction Lightning (+5) ➔ Level 0 ➔ Level 85]
[Destruction Frost (+4) ➔ Level 0 ➔ Level MAX]
[Restoration Healing (+4) ➔ Level 0 ➔ Level MAX]
[Alteration ➔ Level 43 ➔ Level 75]
[Conjuration Summoning (+3) ➔ Level 0 ➔ Level MAX]
[Persuasion (+3) ➔ Level 93 ➔ Level MAX]
[One Handed (+2) ➔ Level 0 ➔ Level 65]
[Two Handed (+1) ➔ Level 29 ➔ Level MAX]
[Archery (+1) ➔ Level 0 ➔ Level 47]
[Heavy Armor (+2) ➔ Level 0 ➔ Level 78]
[LEVEL UP DETECTED! You have leveled up 18 times!]
[Current Level: 267 ➔ 285]
[You have gained 18 Attribute Points!]
Aerion read the data with clinical, cold satisfaction. The brutal melee clearing in the cellars with the Poacher's Axe and the Black Prism had vastly accelerated his One Handed proficiencies, his Ebony Greatsword to slaughter the Stormcloaks outside increase his Two Handed, while the apocalyptic bombardment of the courtyard had pushed his primary magical schools right back to their absolute zenith. He did not hesitate. He selected the six skills that had reached their maximum thresholds, Fire, Frost, Restoration, Conjuration, Persuasion, and Two Handed, and initiated the Legendary Reset.
_____________________________
[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 1030/1030
Stamina: 1070/1070
Magicka: 980/980 [External Capacity & Regeneration: ∞]
Level: 267 ➔ 285
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Dragon Master (MAX LEVEL), Eye Of Magnus (MAX LEVEL), Summon Dragon (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire(+7)/Lightning(+5)/Frost(+4)) (Level MAX/85/MAX), Restoration (Healing(+4)/Purify(+2)) (Level MAX/98), Alteration (Level 75), Illusion (Level 62), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+3)) (Level 37/MAX), Persuasion(+3) (Level MAX), Smithing(+1) (Level 79), Sneak(+1) (Level 64), One Handed(+2) (Level 65), Two Handed(+1) (Level MAX), Lockpicking (Level 55), Archery(+1) (Level 47), Enchanting(+1) (Level 23), Light Armor(+2) (Level 42), Block (Level 70), Pickpocket (Level 8), & Heavy Armor(+2) (Level 78)
Shouts: Fus Roh Dah (Force Balance Push), Tiid (Time), Krii (Kill), Feim Zii Gron (Fade Spirit Bind), Su (Air), Laas (Life), Yol Toor (Fire Inferno), Kaan (Kyne), Zul Mey Gut (Voice Fool Far), IIZ (Ice), & Faas (Fear)
[Inventory Panel]
1x Small Sack, Poacher's Axe, the Golden Claw, Arvel's Journal, Inkwell & Quill, Thief Book, Parchment Rolls Of Mammoths Farm And Loan, Ebony Claw, The Mirror, Ring of Pure Mixtures, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Deed to Tundra Homestead, Dawnbreaker, Traveling Backpack (Supplies), Vampire Armor, Vampire Boots, Movarth's Golden Ash (Unique), Potion of Healing, Mage Boots Of Weight, Master Robes Of Destruction, Staff of Jyrik Gauldurson, Gauldur Black Bow, Dwarven Battleaxe, Mehrunes Razor Hilt, Mehrunes' Razor Pommel, Stone of Barenziah (1/24), Mehrunes' Razor Blades, Iron Circlet of Ruby, & Iron Circlet of Emerald
2x Common Soul Gem (Empty), Black Soul Gem (Empty), & Potions of Plentiful Magicka
3x Potions of Minor Stamina, Petty Soul Gem (Filled), Potions of Minor Magicka, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), & Greater Soul Gems
5x Mod Chests
8x Iron Arrows, Ancient Nord Arrows, & Common Soul Gem (Filled)
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
10x Lesser Soul Gems
12x Black Soul Gem (Filled)
Weight: 49.79 KG / 885 KG
Septims: 255,867