Chapter 27: Thane.
The sun had long since dipped behind the jagged silhouettes of the mountains. Candlelight flickered along the stone wall of Dragonsreach, casting long shadows as the room cooled. The warmth between the sheets still lingered, moist, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex.
Irileth lay on her stomach, silent save for the occasional shallow breath. Her obsidian skin glowed faintly in the amber light, a sheen of exertion still clinging to her back. My eyes stayed on her for a moment longer, admiring the masterpiece I had created.
I was spent, for now.
I slid out of the bed, wiping myself with the edge of the furs before letting them fall back over her. She didn't stir, not anymore.
Three sharp knocks interrupted the quiet.
I didn't bother dressing and opened the wooden door with only my trousers, drawn from the inventory.
An old maid stood there, hunched with age, her body covered only by a linen skirt and a faded apron.
She blinked as her eyes fell on me, the scent of sweat and sex rolling from the chamber.
Her nose wrinkled before her gaze dropped, "The Jarl summons you. The feast is about to begin."
She handed me a folded set of dark blue garments embroidered with gold. Fine, clothes. She mumbled something I couldn't catch, and turned without waiting for more.
I closed the door with a quiet thud, setting the bundle on the table. What's all this about? I wondered. There was no such thing in the game.
I exhaled. I need to stop thinking of all this as a game
I wore the new set of clothes with the System's help. Black undershirt. Gold-threaded sash. Leather bracers. The fine blue tunic overtop. Sword at the hip, dagger in the boot. Nords and their love for steel. I shook my head.
I paused before leaving, returning to the bedside where Irileth still lay face down, one leg crooked beneath her. Her ears twitched as I approached, but she said nothing.
I leaned down, taking the edge of her pointed ear in my mouth. She shuddered at the touch, moaning in silence, "I'll be going first," I whispered, licking her ear.
The Great Porch.
The doors to the Great porch creaked open, and I stepped through, followed by a whiterun guard, the warmth of Dragonsreach bleeding into the cold breath of the northern night. The porch was carved from whitestone and ancient timber.
The entire tundra lay exposed beneath the stars, windswept plains, laid bare, a great view.
But it was the hall's prize that loomed above them all: the great iron trap suspended over the hall before the porch—a monstrous cage said to have once held the dragon Numinex, the dragon shouted to submission by Olaf One-eye, and slain on Mount Anthor, it's head now displayed in the Great Hall of Dragonsreach.
Below it, out under the night sky, the grand table had been set—oak and silver, drinking horns and roasted meats already steaming. Torches crackled in sconces, Laughter clashed with low, guarded conversation.
Soldiers ringed the porch like silent statues, spears in hand, eyes occasionally flicking toward the guest as if expecting them to attack each other.
I approached with measured footsteps, my presence turning heads, and conversation dipped.
I looked at the unfamiliar faces and familiar names with the help of my System, Vignar Gray-Mane, his long white beard braided in Nordic fashion, gave a slow nod of recognition. Beside him sat Kodlak Whitemane, broad-shouldered and quiet, his presence calming but unreadable. The man radiated the kind of stillness that only came from years of mastered violence.
Olfina Gray-Mane, young, kind-eyed, sat near her uncle, her eyes lingering on me for just a bit longer. Her white hair, an inheritance of the Gray-Mane, shone in the moonlight above us.
Across from them, Olfrid Battle-Born scowled as he leaned on the table, adorned in a fur-trimmed tunic far too regal for a face so bitter. His wife, Bergitte, sat beside him with a rigid spine and lips like a tightened noose, her hand folded over jeweled rings.
The table, though united in ceremony, was split down the center by blood feud and old grudges.
To one side, the Gray-Manes, old nobility and honor.
To the other, the Battle-Born, opportunists, loyal to the empire, loud in their claim of righteousness.
At the table's head sat Jarl Balgruuf, his crown subtle but his posture proud, one hand wrapped around a drinking horn, the other resting casually near the hilt of his sword. He looked up at me and gave the faintest, knowing nod.
Beside him, Proventus Avenicci, his steward, was already speaking quietly to a serving girl, waving for more mead with a mixture of stress and snobbery. His voice grated even from afar.
Farengar sat at the edge of the table, eyeing everything with a quiet, his eyes finally fell on me, and a small knowing smirk flashed before hiding away in his hood.
Hrongar, who was facing me, stood from his chair, raising the silver goblet in his hand, a bruttish grin tugging at his lips. A warrior's grin, unlike Balgruuf's contained demeanor.
"Here comes the Dragonslayer, the man who struck a dragon from the skies and made the heavens tremble," Hrongar exclaimed.
What the fuck is going on?
Balgruuf stood as I approached the table's head. A hush fell over the feast, the clatter of goblets and murmurs fading like mist.
He raised a hand.
"Brothers and Sisters, we gather tonight, not to just share meat and mead, but to witness something the realm has not seen in half a century." He gestured toward me. "This man, Darius, is no mere sellsword, no common hero of chance. Today, I name him Thane of Whiterun."
Gasps ran out, Olfrid's eyebrows climbed into his forehead as his goblet hit the table.
"The first Thane in fifty years," Balgruuf said, voice steady as stone. "A hero to Whiterun and its people."
Olfrid scoffed, loud and sharp.
"So this is what you dragged us here for? Ceremony and parlor tricks." His voice slithered through clenched teeth.
Balgruuf turned his head toward me, unfazed. "Being Whiterun's Thane would be the lowest of his titles. But you need proof, right?"
He nodded to me, "Show them what's left of the beast."
I sighed and moved back under the trap. I extended my arm forward, and with a thought, the space in front of me bent.
A sudden whoosh of displaced air, and bones slammed into stone.
Almost the entire skeleton of the dragon, its spine blackened by fire, wings half-folded in eternal death, crashed onto the cold stone of the Great Porch, rattling dishes and silencing breath.
Guests staggered back, Hrongar rose from his seat in disbelief; he didn't expect the beast to be this large. Farengar's goblet hit the floor, his mouth open in awe. Even Balgruuf leaned forward.
Proventus mumbled something behind the Jarl, "By the divines."
Kodlak stood, slowly, and stepped forward with the grace of a wolf. His eyes roamed the scars across the dragon's bones, the shattered curve of its talon, the broken wing that extended unnaturally. He eyes the skeleton like he could see the battle play out right before his eyes.
Olfina stayed behind her uncle, face pale but gaze locked on the dragon. Bergitte clutched Olfrid's arm, her posture stiff as the dead dragon before her.
Farengar swept forward next, nearly tipping over his robe. "Fascinating. Haha, it still hums with Magicka…" he reacted out, finger trembling as they hovered above a rib like it were sacred.
In the confusion, Hrongar grabbed my arm, dragging me a few paces behind the crowd, near the edge of the porch, looking at the night sky.
"Where's Irileth?" he asked with a knowing grin.
I coughed, "How would I know?" I shrugged.
He leaned in, voice low, "Oh, I know what you two were doing. Half of Dragonreach knows. You weren't exactly being secretive."
I cleared my throat, "I guess we weren't."
He laughed, clapping my shoulder once before looking back at the bones. "You've stirred the world, Darius. Just be careful of the dangers ahead, not all of them will fall to a blade."
Before I could reply, Kodlak joined us, his expression unreadable.
"You have extraordinary strength," he paused.
"But your skills," his eyes narrowed. "Are lacking."
I scratched the back of my head, "Thanks, I guess."
He smirked. "If you ever find yourself aimless, head to Jorrvaskar. We'll see what can be made of you."
A wolf? I chuckled to myself.
Before I could answer, Balgruuf's voice rang out again, steady and commanding.
"Enough."
The crowd turned.
"Tonight, we are here not as factions, but as Nords. As men and women who keep the walls of this city standing, but it will not be for long." He stepped forward, resting a hand on the dragon's rib.
"They're returning, and we have to think as people of Skyrim, not as names given by our fathers." His eyes went to Vignar and then to Olfrid.
"A much bigger threat than the Civil War is approaching, but we know that it can be killed." His eyes fell on me. "We have proof of that now. And we... have a Dragonborn."
.
.
Irielth's Chambers.
The dim amber of the single candle flickered near the bedside, shadows dancing on the stone walls like specters of a fading war. The sheets clung to her form, twisted, damp, with the remains of her and his love.
Irielth stirred awake, breath catching as a dull ache pulsed at her center, reminding her of what had passed.
But instead of a grimace, a faint smile touched her lips. It wasn't the smirk of a warrior winning a spar, nor the cold grin she reserved for barbed comments in council.
It was soft. Quiet.
A blush crept over her cheeks, a rare thing on a skin that had only known the taste of steel.
She sat up slowly, spine aching but shoulders loose, less rigid than ever before. Her knees drew up toward her chest, arms wrapping around them in an unconscious curl of protection. Her forehead pressed to them, her scarlet hair tumbling over bare shoulders in waves of disarray.
She stayed like that for a moment, silent, breathing in the scent of him still lingering on the furs, the smile never left her.
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