4E 202, High Hrothgar
Gerron Ironbreaker
The meeting was held in an interior courtyard within High Hrothgar. It had open sky visible above them while ancient walls sheltered them from the high winds. It was here that the leaders of Skyrim gathered.
Tables had been set in a wide circle, a neutral ground they said. Though no stone on Nirn felt neutral when so many blades of ambition were sheathed at the same table.
Gerron lowered himself into the sturdy chair provided. His eyes traveled across the assembly.
There was a clear divide in the table, where one side was filled with Ulfric and the Jarls who supported him. The other held the Emperor and Jarl Elisif, with General Tullius and the other Jarls who opposed Ulfric. Balgruuf was the only outlier, taking the seat right between both sides and serving as the divider.
Savos Aren sat with the rest of the more neutral factions. He leaned lightly on his table, quill already scratching notes onto parchment. Beside him was Keeper Carcette along with Isran. Sat not far from them was Serana, who drew as many stares as any ruler present.
The last person who was of interest was Delphine, self-proclaimed Grandmaster of the Blades, who sat beside Kiera.
She wasn't supposed to have a seat at the table since she was technically only here as Jarl Laila's escort. But both the Emperor and Kiera insisted, showing the ancient order some modicum of respect. Though it seemed that was the last bit of grace anyone was willing to entertain them with.
After all, their presence here was a major surprise to everyone. They had heard neither hide nor hair of the Blades ever since their disbandment. The sudden appearance of someone claiming to be a survivor not only prompted doubts, but also suspicion.
Lastly, presiding over the meeting as host, Arngeir stood at the head of the table. Above them, perched on the stone walls were both Paarthurnax and Vermithor.
Aides and bodyguards were allowed in the room, but they remained standing. Esbern of the Blades, Vigilant Tolan, Legate Rikke, Commander Maro, Galmar Stone-Fist, Brunwulf Free-Winter, Sybille Stentor, Vilkas of the Companions, Irileth, and the other numerous escorts of the Jarls.
The moment Arngeir raised his hand, the doors to the room closed as Vigilants took positions along the walls as sentries.
Everyone in the room stilled as Arngeir spoke. His voice was calm, the kind of calm that silenced storms.
"I welcome you all to High Hrothgar. Take your seats, and let us begin. I hope that we have all come here in the spirit of peace, to stop unnecessary bloodshed, and to achieve concession."
A beat of silence stretched. Then Arngeir turned to the young woman who held no crowns or titles, but considered by many to be the chosen leader of the future.
"First, we must speak of the clear and present danger. Dovah, the dragons. Kiera, as you carry the Thu'um and the blood of Akatosh, we defer to you."
Kiera nodded with confidence. Gerron had to stifle a smile. She had gone a long way from the woman who he had met back in Whiterun.
'Looks like she finally settled with the weight that was thrust on her shoulders.'
"Alduin," she said, her voice steady, "is no mere dragon. He is the World-Eater. Long ago, when the Heroes of Old defeated him, they merely shunted him through time. Sending him to the future where he reawakened just last year. The attack on Helgen was the day he returned."
Eyes widened at that, none more so than Ulfric and Tullius, who were there when it happened.
"This imprisonment has waned Alduin much of his strength. However, he regains them swiftly through death. Every soul that falls, every battle fought, every innocent slaughtered. They all serve as fuel to help him grow stronger. The longer we fight amongst ourselves, the greater his strength becomes."
A small murmur rippled across the table as Savos Aren's quill stopped mid scratch. Ulfric's frown deepened.
It was the Emperor who spoke first, his voice measured. "Then the war we wage amongst ourselves serves him. The blood of Nord and Imperial alike is fodder for this… World-Eater."
Ulfric's gaze snapped to him, "Forgive me, Emperor. You speak as though I am to blame for defending Skyrim's freedom. It is your Empire that forced this war upon us. Do not place Alduin's strength at my feet."
General Tullius seized the moment. "But it was your rebellion that divided us, Ulfric. Every soldier that dies in this war weakens Skyrim as a whole, and the Dominion waits for the day when we are so fractured we cannot resist. Now we learn this Alduin feeds upon it as well? You play right into their whims, you fool."
Ulfric frowned and was about to retaliate but Paarthurnax's voice rumbled, silencing the court.
"Feim. Peace. You both are correct. The struggle of mortals… the krosis, the folly of pride. But know this, Alduin does not need your war. It is only a feast to hasten his strength."
The Emperor leaned back, exhaling.
"Then for now, we must consider a truce. If not for politics, then for survival. Skyrim cannot war with itself while dragons scourge the skies."
Arngeir nodded gravely.
"The Voice is balance. Let us set aside the question of thrones. For now, the question must be survival."
Savos Aren cleared his throat then. "The dragons are one peril, but they are the most immediate. Alduin must be stopped. Yet we do not even know our enemy. How many of his kin follow him? How many dragons follow his command?"
Paarthurnax lowered his head, "At least a Kruziik and a hundred of my kin."
"Kruziik?" Emperor Titus asked, brows narrowing.
"Elder, in mortal tongue." Paarthurnax rumbled. "Odahviing, the Kruziik of the Wind. He is Alduin's right wing, his general, his fang sharpened by centuries. Do not think to face Alduin without facing him."
The name weighed heavily on everyone's minds. Even Gerron, no scholar of dov, felt the threat settle like a mountain upon his shoulders.
Jarl Korir scoffed lightly. "If this Odahviing seeks battle, then we will answer. We are not cowards."
"Cowardice is not the question," Savos countered the Jarl of Winterhold. "Mortality is. We have seen what these dragons are capable of. The ones we have fought, to my knowledge, none of them were this Kruziik that Paarthurnax spoke of."
"Geh, you are correct. In the long history of dov, only five there has ever been. I, Paarthurnax, the Kruziik of flame. Alduin, the Kruziik of life and death. Odahviing, the Kruziik of wind. Durnehviir, the Kruziik of soul. Sahrotaar, a rare serpentine dov, the Kruziik of frost."
"So we'll have to deal with the other four?" Delphine suddenly questioned. "Awfully convenient then that you'll be the sole Kruziik remaining once we deal with the rest."
Gerron frowned at her tone, though it seemed Paarthurnax was unbothered by it. "Nid. No. Durnehviir had disappeared long ago since the early days of the Merethic Era. Sahrotaar exists in a far away land when he was enslaved by the priest known as Miraak."
Kiera spoke up then. "The Kruziik are dragons who possess immense power, and with power comes pride. The others won't submit so easily to Alduin's rule. Alduin and Odahviing are the only threats we have among them."
"Indeed." Jarl Balgruuf said. "As the Archmage said, we still do not know much of Alduin's forces. Riften's fall was proof enough that dragons aren't the only enemy."
Savos Aren nodded at Balgruuf's words. "We require knowledge, and knowledge could be gained through unity."
Gerron found his voice then. "Aye. Knowledge, and craft. Steel alone won't win us this fight, but steel honed with the right edge might. My forges at Shor's Stone can work dragonbone and scale into armor, into weapons that can meet fire with fire. Enchantments laid upon them, wards against their breath. If Skyrim's rulers mean to put aside their squabbles, then give me the backing with resources, and I'll give you weapons worthy of the task."
Eyes turned toward him. Ulfric and Balgruuf nodded slightly, already knowing the worth of his creations. Tullius looked skeptical, but thoughtful. The Emperor's gaze lingered longest, as if weighing not just Gerron's words, but the man himself.
It was then Isran spoke. "The dragons aren't the only threat. There are darker powers stirring, not only from the Daedra. Harkon of the Volkihar is moving. If he gets what he seeks, eternal night will fall on Skyrim, and Alduin's feast will never end."
A hiss of whispers followed, and Serana's voice, cool and cutting, followed.
"My father is a greater danger than most of you realize. If Alduin devours the world, Harkon would turn it into his larder. Neither will leave anything for you to rule."
Kiera continued. "We have learned as well that Harkon now serves as the Champion of Molag Bal. The Daedric Princes have begun moving and Champions are rising across Skyrim."
"Will we even have time to handle Harkon with Alduin breathing down our necks?" Jarl Igmund of Markarth spoke. "We have to pick and choose. From what I see, the Vampires haven't done anything damning. Just leave them be until we're done with the dragons."
Keeper Carcette seized the opening, "Tolerating the presence of these threats are what put us in this position in the first place. Ignorance is bliss, but choosing inaction in the midst of it all is the biggest mistake you could make."
The Jarl of Markarth scowled. "Then what of the Forsworn then? They're as much a threat to the people as any other, yet I don't hear any of you talking of purging them."
"Why should we? After all, the Forsworn haven't done anything damning have they?" Ulfric turned Igmund's own words around. "Might as well leave them be until we're done with the rest."
"You–!"
"Enough," Arngeir spoke. While his voice was calm, the very table trembled. "We are not here to debate dogma. We are here to see if you will live long enough to argue it later."
The council shifted, murmurs rising again.
Gerron watched it all with a calculating gaze. At the very least, if an alliance could not be forged today, the seeds of defiance had been planted. Even if they all walked away at the end of this, they would all know enough to have a chance in surviving what is to come.
And for that, Gerron was satisfied.
…
4E 202, Whiterun
Farengar
The ringing of the bell was not a mere warning anymore; it had become a dirge. The sound carried over the streets of Whiterun as Farengar gazed skyward. The sky itself seemed to burn and shatter.
Over a dozen dragons had approached Whiterun, wheeling above the city like carrion birds circling a dying beast.
Many had already been felled by the city's ballistas, their carcasses lying smoking in the fields outside the walls, but more still pressed the attack.
Eight dragons circled overhead, loosing streams of frost and fire into the districts below. The initial volley had cost them four, but those remaining moved with a cunning ferocity that made his blood chill.
Farengar wasn't a fighter, rarely if ever did he fight in the front lines. But he didn't get the name Secret-Fire for nothing.
He pressed his hands together, molding the raw magicka coursing through his veins. His fingers sparked, then ignited as he compressed fire into a single, molten sphere. He thrust his arms forward, releasing it like a siege stone flung from a catapult. The spell streaked across the sky and burst against a copper-colored dragon mid-flight. The beast shrieked, wings faltering, before it crashed down into the Plains District, leveling a row of stalls and homes.
Aela and the companions instantly descended the felled beast. Aela loosed two arrows that pierced its eyes as Athis, the Dunmer Swordsman, plunged his longsword deep into its underbelly.
They were smaller dragons, Farengar noted. Smaller than Mirmulnir and Silklovkul at the very least. But their numbers, their relentless dives and strafes, made them just as deadly.
One dragon banked wide and unleashed a thunderous Fus Ro Dah. The Shout shattered Belethor's General Goods in an instant. Stone, wood, and bodies were hurled into the air, crashing down into the cobblestones like ragdolls.
While a majority of their soldiers manned the north and western walls, pockets of warriors were stationed in the districts as the last line of defense. Dragonsreach served as the bunker for the civilians, thus their best soldiers were trusted in defending it, the ones clad in thick dragonplate.
Another group of guards were readied at the Great Porch, ready to trap any dragons who landed on it. Though it seems without proper bait, few dragons were that foolish.
While the fight for the walls was a struggle, the fight in the fields outside of Whiterun had some semblance of success.
Krosis' army wasn't large. Less than three thousand from initial counts. The Alik'r and volunteer warriors who would hold them numbered a little over than that at four thousand.
They were sent to meet the undead in the field before they could storm the walls. This was done deliberately to prevent the dragons and the undead from coordinating.
The only problem came from the Dragon Priest that led them. Krosis was a powerful mage, and it seems his reputation precedes him.
With a single wave of his hand, tens of soldiers froze into ice blocks. His right hand wielded a wrought iron staff, where building-sized plumes of ice emerged from the maw of the dragon-shaped head.
Farengar let out an involuntary shiver. Not from fear, but from the sheer cold Krosis exuded. Snow started to fall from the clouds overhead.
He grimaced. Only Master-level wizards had the ability to change the weather.
The loud whoosh of wind being displaced reminded him of his current predicament.
Another dragon swept along the wall, its Thu'um manifesting as a whirlwind that tore guards and ballista crews from their posts, flinging them screaming into the void.
Farengar grit his teeth. 'If this keeps up, the walls won't hold. The people won't hold.'
He summoned magicka into his hand again, this time shaping his fire into a long, sharp spear. With a guttural cry he flung it at a green dragon banking overhead. The spell lanced through one wing, before exploding into a burst of heat and gore. The beast shrieked and plummeted, crashing into the wooden sprawl near the market.
Farengar ran with a knot of guards toward the site. The dragon thrashed among the wreckage, splintering timbers and tossing debris into the street. Guards jabbed spears into its underbelly, but the scales turned aside most thrusts. Two men jammed iron rods between its jaws to keep it from clamping shut.
Farengar's heart thundered. He had spent long hours poring over tomes and texts searching for the dragon's weaknesses. It was his duty as the Court Wizard to come up with counter measures for the dragons.
Farengar had always been fascinated by them. Ancient, powerful creatures from the Merethic Era. Wielding a form of magic that was considered to be world-ending by many.
He remembered long hours poring over dragon bones, scraping scales, examining the flesh Gerron had given them. He had thought long and hard on ways and solutions to kill the flying beasts.
In the end, the one he came up with was the most mundane solution he could think of.
Without hesitation, Farengar plunged his hand deep into the dragon's maw, magicka roaring to life in his palm.
Dragon hides were impervious, their wings resilient. But inside? Inside they were as soft and vulnerable as any mortal beast.
Thus, he unleashed the Expert Level spell, Incinerate, straight down its throat.
Farengar was a nord by birth, but he would be the first to admit that he never fell into the more baseline instincts that a regular nord might have.
He never had that battle-rage, that want to die proudly with a weapon in hand.
But here and now, the adrenaline flowed through him in equal measure, with the intoxicating scent of a roasted dragon, a meat so rare no Nord had ever feasted upon it. The dragon convulsed once, then collapsed in a final hiss of steam.
The guards cheered, weapons raised, but Farengar was already looking up. Another dragon perched along the western wall, roaring defiance. Hrongar himself led men to meet it, his blade flashing even at a distance.
Then came the thunder.
A boom so loud it deafened him, followed by a tremor that shook the stones beneath his boots. Farengar turned in time to see it, the western wall of Whiterun erupting outward in a plume of stone and dust. Three dragons had combined their Thu'um in one devastating strike, tearing open a section large enough for an army to march through.
Through the chaos, Farengar glimpsed Commander Caius and his men swallowed by the collapse. His stomach turned, but before he could react, a sound froze him in place.
A long, piercing howl rolled over the city like thunder across the tundra. It was primal in a way that sent chills down his spine.
Windows shattered, men stumbled, even the dragons hesitated mid-wingbeat. And then, from the heart of the Plains District, where the copper dragon had fallen, the cobblestones themselves split apart.
A massive wolf emerged, its pelt as black as midnight, eyes burning with unnatural light. It stood the size of a dragon, its shadow blotting out the flames around it.
The defenders of Whiterun all faltered in silence.
The wolf threw back its head and howled again.
And the city shook.
…
AN: The first discussions of the peace summit and tensions are high. Paarthurnax tells everyone of the Kruuzik and their identities are all now revealed.
Durnehviir is the Kruuzik of the soul, a master of necromancy. He disappeared a long time ago, though we all know where he's chilling now :).
Sahrotaar was the dragon we met in the Dragonborn DLC campaign. In this story, he was one of the many dragons enslaved by Miraak when he created the Bend Will shout.
Also, the Whiterun attack seen through Farengar's POV. I've always wanted to do a POV from him but never had the chance to do so. Thought a good place to include him was here.
We have Krosis' introduction, using the Alik'r to make ice sculptures.
Anyways, the next few chapters will probably follow this kind of template. Two POV's showcasing the events at the summit as well as Whiterun's attack.
As always, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 67 should be available by the time this chapter is posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.
Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Cheers!