Spoiler The Bear of Skyrim

[Dovakiin98]

Oh man, more, this sounds good, plus its the Thalmor! I'm an Imperial chap myself, but i'd fight with the Stormcloaks too if it meant getting at those Arrogant.... (breaks down into swearing incoherently)

I'm excited to see where you go next!

Put a Septim in the swear jar!

 

[Skarvald]

An Imperial Sjadbek would have required such a fundamental change in his underlying character that he'd essentially not be the same person anymore.

That being said, if the Legion were to win (and him to somehow survive), he'd probably be willing to join them in the rematch with the Thalmor.

Oh, and there will be a rematch with the Thalmor, in which Skyrim will be joined by, shall we say, the unlikeliest of allies.

Also, Sjadbek wants you to know that, as a Stendarr worshipper, he quite approves of Skarvald's Dawnguard affiliation.

When said rematch happens, I will kill every Thalmor in sight, showing NO MERCY to the elves who banned the worship of Talos! This I swear! >

Skarvald is affilated with the Dawnguard after an encounter with a rather unique vampire named Dante Bellamoré (from the Warcraft universe...don't ask me how he found Skyrim, it's a long story). Said vampire had been fighting Skar for five years and ended up killing his friend Knell Derathane. Skar vowed revenge, and revenge is what he achieved by joining the Dawnguard and serving his bloodied head to Isran on a silver platter. Lol!

Skarvald is a strong worshipper of Talos and Stendarr.

As for these allies... Maybe it is time that the Akaviri warriors pay us a visit? Who knows... But my bet is on Akavir.

 

[bulbaquil]

When said rematch happens, I will kill every Thalmor in sight, showing NO MERCY to the elves who banned the worship of Talos! This I swear! >

Skarvald is affilated with the Dawnguard after an encounter with a rather unique vampire named Dante Bellamoré (from the Warcraft universe...don't ask me how he found Skyrim, it's a long story). Said vampire had been fighting Skar for five years and ended up killing his friend Knell Derathane. Skar vowed revenge, and revenge is what he achieved by joining the Dawnguard and serving his bloodied head to Isran on a silver platter. Lol!

Skarvald is a strong worshipper of Talos and Stendarr.

As for these allies... Maybe it is time that the Akaviri warriors pay us a visit? Who knows... But my bet is on Akavir.

Sjad wants to buy him a mug of mead.

 

[Skarvald]

Sjad wants to buy him a mug of mead.

Skar shall give him a mug full of his special brew: Atmoran Reserve. Skar is descended directly from the warriors of Atmora, who came to Skyrim to get away from Atmora's civil war. (At least that's what I think why the left...) This one's on me Sjad. Death to the Thalmor!

 

[bulbaquil]

Chapter 11: Kill or Be Killed​

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12th of Hearthfire, 4E 202 | 10:35 p.m. | Windhelm | Candlehearth Hall​

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Sjadbek’s return to Windhelm at the start of Hearthfire was greeted with enthusiasm. After buying Hjerim and helping out the various denizens, he had been declared by Ulfric a thane of Eastmarch for his numerous services to the hold, and the happy denizens of Candlehearth Hall had showered him with liberal quantities of mead. Skelja had declined most of the mead owing to her pregnancy—by no means was she a milk-drinker, but it wasn’t very common for even pregnant Nords to drink heavily, and elected to leave earlier with her now-brother-in-law Bjaknir as, effectively, a bodyguard.

But it was high time that he leave. Burdnar appeared locked in a serious arm-wrestling duel with Stenvar, Windhelm’s local blade-for-hire, and he probably would be for a while yet—they were even matches. Skelja happily joined him as they made their way through the streets of the city back to Hjerim.

Bjaknir was already there, sleeping in the spare room that had once been “home” to a different type of butcher, and a far less noble kind at that. “I’ve slept worse places,” he muttered, a statement Sjadbek most certainly couldn’t deny. He ascended the stairs to find Skelja already asleep, and joined her in slumber.

---

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13th of Hearthfire, 4E 202 | 2:05 a.m. | Windhelm​

Sven had no love lost for Windhelm these days. It had been well into Sun’s Dawn when they had finally released him, and they weren’t entirely certain he hadn’t in fact been an Imperial spy. Windhelm would like him even less now if he succeeded on his mission. It might very well be his last. They’d kill him for it.

The former Riverwood bard-turned-assassin was hardly a Stormcloak fan, certainly not after his but the Legion seemed to be losing ground every minute—it just wasn’t worth it, in his opinion, to join them at this point. He got flak for it from his fellow Nords all the time, of course, but Sven was a bit of a milk-drinker.

Which made him a great assassin. He was beyond suspicion—who would think a mere bard, especially a weakling like himself, was behind a murder? Especially of the Dragonborn—it was rather scary to think of it, but the Dragonborn’s duties to all of Skyrim were no longer required, having defeated Alduin, and his goal now was to impose Stormcloak hegemony on all of Skyrim and do… whatever it was the Stormcloaks would do to it. Something bad, no doubt, like kick out all the Imperials—including Camilla Valerius.

The first hurdle, unfortunately, was the lock on the door. He’d have to pick it without being seen by any of the wandering guards—hard to do in this more heavily guarded wealthy district of Windhelm—and he only had a handful of lockpicks.

Fumbling with the slender devices, every second of failure making it more likely that a guard would notice, more risky that someone would see him trying to break in, Sven found both his fear realized and his lockpicking “skills” unnecessary. A blond Nord, around thirty if he had to guess, with a decently long beard and a rather disapproving expression on his face opened the door from the inside, steel longsword at his side.

Gah. Do warriors freaking sleep with weapons here in Windhelm?!

“Sjadbek, I swear you married Sangui—you’re not him,” the man began. “Who are you, and what exactly are you trying to do getting into our house at this hour?”

Sven stammered incoherently.

“Well? Spit it out, man. Burglary? Robbery? Shill job? Get out of here before I call the guards.”

He turned to run, only to bump right into a Windhelm guard.

“I think we’d be very interested to know, too,” the guard spoke. “You wouldn’t mind consenting to a search, would you?”

Skyrim did not, in fact, have a Fourth Amendment, so refusal of consent wouldn’t have done Sven any good, especially not with Bjaknir holding his own sword at the bard-sassin’s throat. Apart from a poison-tipped dagger (“not a typical weapon to bring into a city”), gold, and a few minor trinkets, he held little of interest—except a contract.

“Now what’s this?” the guard asked out of mock curiosity. Handing the slip of paper to Bjaknir, he told the wan bard, “So you were a spy after all. Just not for the Imperials.”

“The Dark Brotherhood wants Sjad dead,” Bjaknir responded. “You’d better hold onto that contract; it’s evidence.”

“Aye,” spoke the guard. To Sven, he added, “Hope you like the headsman’s block, assassin. We’re sick and tired of the bloody Dark Brotherhood.”

---

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13th of Hearthfire, 4E 202 | 7:30 a.m. | Windhelm​

“The Dragonborn has provided an enormous service to Windhelm, Skyrim, and indeed all Tamriel,” Ulfric addressed to his city as he stood before the chopping block. “He is not to be rewarded by being ignobly killed in his own home less than a month after the fall of his mightiest foe. This assassin—this shamefully inept assassin—is to be executed here. Headsman, if you would?”

The Windhelm executioner raised his axe as Sven whimpered. No dragon swooped down from the sky to save him—Sjadbek could have called Odahviing, but he wasn’t exactly in the habit of trying to save the lives of those who actively tried to murder him while he slept.

“And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no more…” Sven sung solemnly from the block, looking very regretful, “when his ugly red head rolled around on the floor.”

The axe fell.

“They’ll send someone else after me, you know,” Sjadbek muttered to Burdnar and Bjaknir, unaware that he was within earshot of Ulfric. “If they bothered to send a second, they’ll send a third. And a fourth. However many it takes.” It was a bit ridiculous, though; even for a competent housebreaker to kill him in Hjerim they’d have to get through Bjaknir, Skelja, and his housecarl Calder without them being able to wake him—like many of his fellow Stormcloaks, Sjadbek had made a habit of sleeping with a blade close at hand. He supposed the Legionnaires did too, come to think of it.

“All the more reason for you to take care of that minor stipulation you discussed with the Penitus Oculatus at High Hrothgar,” Ulfric responded.

“Infiltrate their Sanctuary and assassinate the assassins, right?” Bjaknir spoke, smiling. “Should be fun. But we should get breakfast first.”

Nobody there present knew yet that the Dark Brotherhood had in fact been successful. But it wouldn’t be long.

---

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18th of Hearthfire, 4E 202 | 4:20 p.m. | Riften | Mistveil Keep​

Jarl Maven Black-Briar of Riften adjusted her position in her lovely throne as a messenger stepped in. Maul scowled: he didn’t like messengers.

“My Jarl, I have bad news: ‘Operation Dragon’s Bard’ has had the axe taken to it. The details are in this letter.”

Maven nodded neutrally in receipt of the news—it had indeed been she who had commissioned the death of Sjadbek of Helgen. She did not expect it to succeed, of course, not with the patently incompetent assassin that had been hired for the mission; it had been a ruse to distract attention from her real goal.

“And what of ‘Operation Law-Taker’?”

“That was a success. Not only was Harrald Law-Giver killed, but we took the stone of Barenziah from the court mage’s chambers.”

“Excellent.” That made eight now. The only downside was that she had neglected, distracted by matters of meadery business, to make sure the incompetent assassin was at least a competent thief. But the Dark Brotherhood sent her who it sent her, and this was Sven the incompetent bard and Beradin the significantly more competent mage from Wayrest. So there are useful Bretons after all, she mused.

Maven switched tacks. “I want to ask the court what this will mean in terms of Windhelm politics.”

Pietra Racebbi, an auburn-haired, forty-something ex-Legion noblewoman who served as Maven’s strategy expert responded, “I expect Windhelm’s more reactionary elements will attribute Harrald’s death to the dark elves or Argonians.”

“And Ulfric?”

“Ulfric will not jump to such quick conclusions. But the Stone-Fists might. Rolff and, more importantly, Galmar. Expect security around Windhelm to increase regardless, and some unsanctioned harassment in the Gray Quarter. More than usual, I mean. This may result in an increase in refugees to Riften.”

“Would the Dragonborn stand for it?”

“Sjadbek does not seem to hate the dark elves. Indications are he believes the reactionaries’ actions serve to discredit the rebel cause, and to an extent that’s true. Would he stand against it? Perhaps.”

“Thank you,” Maven spoke terminating the conversation. Security around Windhelm would be tightened, and the stone of Barenziah that had once been in the Thalmor Embassy was likely there now, in Sjadbek’s residence, currently occupied by four Nords (five, if you counted the unborn baby in Skelja’s womb), one of them bound to the house as a housecarl, and Sjadbek and his brother both practiced, battle-hardened warriors.

On the other hand… yes. It was possible—very sneakily possible—that someone in her beloved Guild who already knew Sjadbek to filch the stone of Barenziah from his house. Like, for instance, another particularly competent Breton.

Provided, of course, she was willing to make the trip to Windhelm in the first place.

---

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24th of Hearthfire, 4E 202 | 8:15 p.m. | Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, Falkreath Hold​

Babette paced around the back of the sanctuary, near the rear exit to the barrow that doesn’t show up in the game but that exists. “When will Beradin be back?” she muttered. “I’m feeling feverish and I need him to use his frost magic on me.”

Everyone’s favorite Redguard assassin, Nazir, sighed in response. “He left on the second. Even with Shadowmere, it’s a good five, six days to Riften, where the contact was. Then who knows where the target is? Could be in Markarth; that’s another eleven, twelve days by horse to get there, then the same time to get back to collect payment. Then he’s just now returning from Riften and we’re already into Frostfall, and that assumes he doesn’t stick around and scope out anything.”

“It also assumes he doesn’t get caught—”

“Don’t say that,” Nazir interrupted. Getting caught was the last thing he wanted of any of the Brotherhood members, and it was bad luck to even mention the idea. Sithis forbid it had been in Markarth and he had been caught: as a Breton, Beradin would no doubt be suspected of affiliation with the Forsworn, something that was almost certain to result in a one-way trip to Cidhna Mine, especially with a Silver-Blood running the city.

“And where’s Arnbjorn?” the eternally prepubescent vampire inquired.

The Redguard sighed again. Babette may have been two hundred years old, but her mind was in many ways still that of a child’s, with a child’s impatience and petulance. “Arnbjorn,” he explained, slowly and painstakingly, “is out in the wild tonight. Both moons are full—werewolves can’t control themselves on a night like this. You know that.”

Without warning, Cicero rushed into the room, the Night Mother’s coffin draped precariously in his arms. “Cicero must protect the Night Mother!” he shrieked, clambering towards the back exit of the facility.

“What was that all about?” Nazir wondered aloud, readying his blade, anticipating danger as he crept toward the front of the Sanctuary, where pandemonium ensued.

The floors of the assassins’ haven were drenched in blood and corpses of both Dark Brotherhood members and their assailants even as blade-to-blade combat continued among the living, and the torchlight made it clear who the attackers were: Stormcloaks, probably fifty of them, against at best twenty assassins. For some reason there was also what appeared to be an Imperial captain in the bunch, but that didn’t make any sense.

“Talos smite you!” a burly blond Stormcloak shouted as he parried a blow of Astrid’s, but then fell to the poisoned dagger in her other hand—an act that particularly displeased another burly blond Stormcloak, this one wearing officer’s attire.

“Ralof, no!” the Stormcloak officer screamed. “Zun—haal!” As if by magic, Astrid suddenly found both her weapons ripped from her hands and clattering to the floor as her attacker swung a dwarven sword set to cleanly slice the Dark Brotherhood leader’s head off.

It did just that.

Nazir froze in shock as the Stormcloak turned towards him. No—it couldn’t be—we shouldn’t have—

The last thing the assassin thought was that they absolutely should not have even considered going after the Dragonborn, whether or not the Night Mother had ordered it.

---

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24th of Hearthfire, 4E 202 | 8:50 p.m. | Decrepit Nordic Barrow, Falkreath Hold​

Hadvar knelt beside the corpse of his erstwhile shield-brother and comrade. “We’ll meet again in Sovngarde, old friend.”

Then he let out a wistful “heh”. The circumstances of Ralof’s death could not have been more unexpected to him. The Legion captain had fully expected to have to face his traitorous former friend again in combat as enemies (and very likely on the defensive end, given the way the war was going) but certainly not as allies. And yet here they had been, walking into battle against a shared enemy together. The Stormcloaks wanted an active Dark Brotherhood just as much as the Empire did, which was to say, not at all.

And Ralof had died for it.

“You knew him before?” Sjadbek the Dragonborn asked in concern as he joined to mourn and bless Ralof’s journey to Sovngarde. He’d like it there.

“We were friends from childhood,” Hadvar affirmed. “We both joined the Legion. Same basic training in Bruma, same contingent, and all that. Battle of Fort Hjelstad, Sun’s Height 197. We were encroaching on southern Eastmarch, and at this point it was only them and the Pale that had thrown in their lot with the Stormcloaks. We win. We took prisoners; Ralof was assigned guard. I guess one of the prisoners told him something he liked, and… Freed the prisoners; poisoned the well we got our water from. Only a handful of us survived, mostly those of us later in line for rations. myself included.”

“Fort Hjelstad… I don’t know what it is now, but it’s definitely not a Legion camp. Probably a Stormcloak one if anything. We had tactical geniuses there, ready to infiltrate Windhelm by stealth. We would have succeeded, but… they died. Because of Ralof.” Hadvar turned to look at Sjadbek directly. “I heard about your story. I heard about Berdja. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Sjadbek grunted, skeptical. “You called out her name that day in Helgen. You sent her to die.”

“I did not send her to die!” Hadvar rebuffed, his fists balling and his face darkening. “I did not know what she had done. She was on the list; that’s all I knew. I was just following orders.”

Sjadbek swore beneath his breath. “You did send her to die,” he responded slowly, “but you are not to blame for her death. I believe you didn’t know. All things considered, from what I’ve heard the Legion is particularly… secretive, even to its own soldiers. I wouldn’t be surprised if the citizens of Solitude think the Empire is winning the war.”

“We’re not,” Hadvar admitted, looking despondent. “I shouldn’t even be telling you this, but we’ve already lost. Reinforcements aren’t coming from Cyrodiil or High Rock. They’ve had two months now free of risk of ambush from you boys. If they were going to send more troops—they’d be here by now.”

He indeed sounded defeated, Sjadbek observed. “So what are you going to do now? Try your best to battle us when we resume the war?”

“I—” Hadvar stopped himself, and then continued softly, “I don’t know.”

---

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9th of Frostfall, 4E 202 | 4:35 p.m. | Windhelm​

“Can’t believe I’m actually in Windhelm,” Penelope’s brother Heron declared to his sister. “And not even the jail or chopping-block parts of it, either.”

“I know, right?” Penelope shivered. Windhelm was cold in more ways than one. It wasn’t a place she liked to visit too often. Heron looked obviously uncomfortable, and she could see why. The Windhelm guard’s uniform was the Stormcloak uniform, and the blazing blue-and-gold banners with the bear of Eastmarch lined every street. Though Rolff was nowhere to be seen, his sneering face seemed to loom out of every shadow, taunting every “gray-skin” and supporter thereof who dared invade “his” city.

And it looked like he’d get his way, too.

“May the gods watch over your battles, friend,” a familiar voice echoed from the steps of Candlehearth Hall.

“Why hello, Brunwulf,” Penelope replied to the aged veteran. After a bit of small talk, including the introduction of Heron to him, she declared her intent. “I… actually would like to meet with Sjadbek, if that would be possible.”

“The Dragonborn?” Brunwulf raised his brow. “Well, if you’d wait a few hours, he’d likely be swilling mead just inside there. He does that a lot. Right now he’d either be at his home Hjerim… or in the palace with Galmar and Ulfric, and I’m not sure you’d want to go in there.”

Penelope reflected that it probably would not be a good idea to meet Sjadbek while in council with the Stormcloak leadership. She or Heron (or both) might be tempted to throw a punch at Ulfric, which… would not end well. “Let’s try Hjerim, then.”

“It’s in the northwest of the city,” the old soldier responded. “I could take you to it, if you’d like.”

Hjerim, as it turned out, was a reasonably large but nevertheless rugged-looking mansion, built in Windhelm’s style of course, and in her opinion rather befitting its owner.

The Breton woman knocked on the door, which was answered by an auburn-haired, steel-armored Nord man who looked about what would be thirty for a Breton, so roughly mid-twenties. It was definitely not Sjadbek. Hmm… if he was thane of Eastmarch now, he’d have a housecarl, wouldn’t he? This must be him. That seemed to be how it worked.

“Sir,” she spoke sweetly, “please forgive our dropping in uninvited, but could we please speak to Sjadbek?”

“What business do you have with Thane Sjadbek?”

“Just tell him Penelope of Cheydinhol is here.”

Before the housecarl had a chance to respond, a voice from just upstairs resounded, “It’s all right. I’ll be right down.” Sjadbek, clothed in the attire of a Stormcloak officer, emerged from the top of the stairwell.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Heron inquired.

“Trust me,” Penelope replied. “It won’t be a problem.”

“Oh, hello there, Penelope,” Sjadbek spoke, recognizing her. “What brings you to Windhelm today? I don’t think you’re here to join the Stormcloaks.”

Penelope laughed. “Um, that would be no.”

“Who’s this?” Sjadbek gestured to Heron. “A friend of yours?”

“Brother, actually. Heron, meet—well, the Dragonborn.”

“Thanks for not killing me back in Rain’s Hand,” Heron spoke, confusing Sjadbek somewhat.

“Eh?”

“I was posted at Fort Snowhawk when your boys came to rescue you,” the Breton male admitted, oddly smiling. “Got wounded in the battle, and you almost Shouted me off the battlements. Have to say that was a fun skirmish, though.”

“Heh, so you are in the Legion, then?” Sjadbek replied. “Don’t worry, I won’t kill you. We’re in truce, and besides, I get the feeling you’re not as mean as some of the other Legionnaires I’ve had to deal with. You might not want to tell Bjaknir, though.”

“Oh, well of course not. I mean, coming to Windhelm and spouting the praises of the Legion would be amusing. Well, until they put me on the whipping post, then that wouldn’t be amusing. I wonder what would happen if someone put a cheese wheel on Ulfric’s head—no, forget I asked. The whole thing’s just one giant chess game. We’re the pawns. Well, you’re probably more like a rook, but…”

“They should have posted you as guard when I was in Snowhawk. I’d have found it more interesting. Won’t you come in?”

Sjadbek beckoned Penelope and Heron to enter the large house. A pregnant Nord woman sat diagonally from the housecarl at the dining table, intently reading a book—Sjadbek’s wife? Or Bjaknir’s? On the dining table itself lay an assortment of fresh fruit and meat, as well as a couple bottles of mead. Nords and their drinks, she thought, amused.

“You didn’t come all the way to Windhelm—into the heart of the enemy, in your case”—Sjadbek gestured to Heron—“just to talk with me, did you?”

“Well… not entirely,” Penelope confessed. “When you were at the Thalmor Embassy, by chance did you happen to pick up a stone of Barenziah?”

“A what?”

“A particularly unusual gem. Pinkish-purple in color.”

“Now that you mention it, I have. Put it on the bedside table. Just one moment.” Sjadbek retreated upstairs for a few moments and came down with the stone in question. “Is this what you were talking about?”

“It is,” Penelope spoke. “Can I… buy it from you?”

“Skelja?” Sjadbek asked for his pregnant wife’s thoughts on the matter—which made sense, Penelope supposed; she probably liked the jewel.

“Oh, I suppose,” Skelja answered. “How much were you intending on selling it for?”

“Is four hundred septims acceptable?” Penelope inquired. The reward for the stone back at the Guild was seven hundred fifty septims.

“Four hundred’s fine with me if it’s fine with Sjad,” replied Skelja.

“I’m all right with that,” Sjadbek affirmed. The transaction made, Penelope and Heron bade the Stormcloak-supporting family farewell, and headed to the inn for the night.

Sjadbek had no idea the ramifications that this simple sale would engender.

 

[Start Dale]

A great chapter there. I have to say i'm liking your slow build on a scheming Maven a lot... Keep it up.

 

[Docta Corvina]

I agree with Dale, very interesting things at work here! I'm adoring it all! I love your interactions between Pen and Sjad, they've got an adorable and steadfast rapport, despite their obvious and striking "political" differences. Very, very cool.

I also love your Heron. He's spot on. I laughed to myself at the "thanks for not killing me back there!" and "that was a fun skirmish!" bits. He's such a goofball. In a way, he's naive. But also quite wise. He knows when to be light-hearted and when to be serious. It's something that Pen truly learns from him over time. Life's too short to take everything totally seriously. As I mentioned in my PM, Heron's one of my most beloved characters. He's my baby.

 

[Skarvald]

Love the new chapter! I was sad to see Sven die, but so is the life of an assassin – you risk your life to preform the Night Mother's contracts. I'm looking forward to what happens when Maven has all of the Stones of Barenziah.

 

[imaginepageant]

Without warning, Cicero rushed into the room, the Night Mother’s coffin draped precariously in his arms. “Cicero must protect the Night Mother!” he shrieked, clambering towards the back exit of the facility.

That cracked me up so hard. I'd hoped it was just a random but common event, Cicero running around with the coffin while everyone else rolled their eyes in an "Oh, that Cicero" kind of way. That would have been a riot.

But. Ralof.

 

[bulbaquil]

Well, if it helps, Ralof was given a proper Nordic funeral, and is now happily in Sovngarde. He got to meet Ysgramor, and Berdja properly, too

Sjadbek will be happy to see him again when he dies.

Heh, yeah, I brought in one of my other characters. Still thinking on whether or not I should bring in Halsyn. Most likely he died as a Legionnaire, or is spending time in Cidhna/Dragonsreach/wherever for a botched theft.

 

[bulbaquil]

Chapter 12: The Retaking of Riften​

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14th of Evening Star, 4E 202 | 12:01 a.m. | Riften​

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Eighteen days, Penelope thought as the Riften town clock tolled midnight. Eighteen days remained until the truce was over, and her family would become embroiled in combat once more, likely with Sjadbek himself leading the charge against the Legion. If she knew anything at all about how the Stormcloaks were likely to operate, they would make him lead the charge. They’d hold him responsible for “giving up” the Rift at the peace talks.

But in a way, this pleased her. Now at least she would know what had happened to her father and brother should they die in battle—and she was sure Sjadbek would do whatever it took to ensure their remains were properly returned to Cheydinhol. Maybe he’d even ensure they lived—who knew?

“Something on your mind, lass?” Brynjolf asked, the both of them looking out over the dim, aurora-lit shadows of Lake Honrich. A floe of ice drifted by—while the Rift was warm by Skyrim’s standards, it was still in Skyrim and it was Evening Star.

“Yes,” she responded. “Stormcloaks. The truce ends in less than three weeks. They’re going to take the Rift back,” she continued, her voice weary with fatigue and concern. “There’s too much Stormcloak sentiment here and they can’t afford to let the Legion stay so close to Eastmarch. And General Tullius—is not getting any help from Cyrodiil.”

“And you’re worried your family will die in the battle.”

“I’d be worried even if the Legion wins that they’d die in the battle. I just—they’re proud soldiers, and they’d be willing to die, but… I really just want them to get back to Cheydinhol safely.”

Brynjolf nodded. “I do happen to have a guild of thieves at my disposal. We could always… arrange a kidnapping.”

“Are you serious?”

“If you want me to be, lass.”

---

3rd of Morning Star, 4E 203 | 11:23 a.m. | Windhelm | Hjerim​

“Push,” the midwife intoned, and Skelja complied, now nearly five hours into labor. The wife of the Dragonborn had started undergoing contractions at about nine the previous evening—how long was this supposed to last? Sjadbek didn’t like seeing Skelja in pain, and hoped both she and the baby survived it.

Bjaknir had decided that, rather than watch himself become an uncle (though he probably already was one of any children his sister’d had in High Rock), he’d just go ahead and operate the butcher stand they’d set up in the Windhelm market during the truce—the cold was, of course, an excellent preservative. Calder had been ordered to let him know when the baby had in fact been born.

“Okay, I see the head now,” spoke the Redguard midwife, “Okay, breathe… and… push.”

The cry of a newborn child resounded in Hjerim, as Skelja and Sjadbek’s firstborn emerged.

“Surprisingly robust lad for a month premature,” was the first verbal reaction of the midwife, who set the baby over to the scales. “Seven pounds fifteen ounces.”

“For a baby not due until the 29th?” Sjadbek echoed.

“Maybe he’s a Dragonborn too,” Calder offered. “I mean, after all, the Septim line—”

“But if that were the case,” Sjadbek pondered, “there should be thousands of Dragonborns running around out there. Not all the Septim line was entirely… celibate.”

Calder let out a laugh. “Maybe it knows, my thane. Maybe Akatosh can tell whether the child is the proper heir of the dragon blood.”

“That’s true,” spoke Sjadbek interspersed with infant cries.

The midwife interrupted. “Do we have a name yet?”

“We’d been thinking about it,” Skelja responded, tired—she had, of course, just gone through labor, and neither she nor Sjadbek had slept last night. “Bakdur if it’s a boy, Bridka if it’s a girl. So Bakdur then.”

“Sure ‘Bakdur’ won’t sound too much like ‘Bjaknir’?” Calder asked, playfully.

“It’s my uncle’s name,” Skelja explained. “He fought in the Great War, was part of Ulfric’s contingent in the Markarth incident. He died against the Forsworn in the fight. It’s okay; he’s in Sovngarde now.”

Assuming Alduin hadn’t eaten his soul for lunch in the intervening… however long it had been since he’d started to do so.

“Calder, let Bjaknir know,” Sjadbek ordered.

“Yes, my thane.”

---

​

12th of Morning Star, 4E 203 | 2:30 p.m. | Riften​

Penelope was gambling. Not with money, but with something far more important than money: time.

Essentially, she was banking on two things being true: first, that Ulfric would consider the loss of control of Riften to be Sjadbek’s fault, albeit necessary, and would therefore send him personally as part of or even as leader of the regiment to fight for Riften (Sjadbek had, after all, been wearing officer’s attire). And second, that Sjadbek would wait, and Ulfric would wait, until after the baby was born.

For a full army to reach Riften would take ten to twelve days from when it was assembled. The news of Sjadbek’s child being born, on the other hand, would only take as long as it took a courier to reach Riften from Windhelm—about five days. It had arrived the evening of the eighth, along with some disturbing news from Markarth: apparently there had been an escape from Cidhna Mine (how?) on the twenty-seventh of the previous month, led by someone named “Madanach” and a mysterious Breton.

Penelope knew little about Markarth, other than that it was haunting and echoed with the ghosts of its Dwemer past. She’d spent the bulk of Mid-Year either in it or traveling to or from it, and that was still with Igmund as Jarl. She couldn’t deign to imagine what it was with Thongvor Silver-Blood in charge. Fitting that Ulfric would want it so badly; Cidhna Mine would be a lovely place to deal with dissidents and Imperial loyalists. Sometimes she wondered if Sjadbek even knew what he was supporting.

The plan had been put in place, with several Thieves Guild members and a handful of the more bribable Black-Briar mercenaries serving as “bandits”. Led by Thrynn, who had some experience in the way bandits tended to operate, the “bandit gang” was currently centered just east of the small town of Heartwood, ready to ambush their quarry: Heron and Captain Adrianus.

The reason she was confident that her family would be traveling from Fort Greenwall to the Imperial camp in Falkreath Hold was that they had been ordered to. The orders were, however, a forgery made by Vex and delivered to Fort Greenwall’s commander by Vipir the Fleet under the guise of an Imperial courier.

But they wouldn’t even make it to Treva’s Watch—Thrynn’s gang would waylay and kidnap them outside Heartwood, and bring them back to Riften, to the safety of the Ratway and Cistern. And if her timing was correct, it would happen… tonight.

---

​

12th of Morning Star, 4E 203 | 5:50 p.m. | Five miles east of Heartwood, the Rift​

The gloom of late winter twilight already fell upon the southern Rift.

“I still do not understand,” Heron asked his father, “why we’ve been reassigned to the western Rift camp. The Stormcloaks are going to attack from Windhelm, not Falkreath.”

“You don’t need to understand, son,” Adrianus responded. “Orders are orders.”

“Of course,” Heron replied, appropriately chastened.

“All the same, though,” surmised the Redguard captain, “this seems a little… out of sorts.”

A gang of nearly twenty bandits began to encroach upon and surround them. “You’re outnumbered and surrounded,” declared the one who appeared to be their leader. “Drop your weapons and we will not harm you.”

“We have nothing of value,” Adrianus protested, his authoritative demeanor still evident despite the hopelessness of the situation. They had little choice but to comply; swords and armor could be reissued, but the two of them were no use to the Legion dead. While Redguards, as a warrior race like Nords and Orcs, believed that death in battle was superior to other forms of death, if they were going to die in this bleak northern land (though, admittedly, the Rift even in winter was not as bleak as the Pale in the best of times), he wanted it to be against Stormcloaks, not against bandits. “You’ll scarcely get seven septims apiece if you kill us.”

“Just drop your weapons,” the brigand replied, waiting for them to comply. When the two Imperial soldiers did so, they were roughly handled, blindfolded and bound, and marched to what appeared to be a cart. Heron panicked. Was this really a covert Stormcloak raid? Were they about to be hauled off to Windhelm, destined for the block, with Ulfric pontificating and sneering at them as their heads were severed from their bodies?

“This is it for us,” Heron spoke quietly.

“I think actually… not,” Adrianus responded after a thoughtful pause. “Why blindfold us if we were to be killed? More likely they simply don’t want us to know the exact location where they’re taking us.”

“But—why?”

“The Stormcloaks are going to attack Riften,” the Penitus Oculatus agent spoke, “and I get the feeling someone in Riften wants us out of the fight.”

“You’re not saying—what is she thinking?”

---

​

21st of Morning Star, 4E 203 | 7:15 p.m. | Shor’s Stone​

A barricade had been erected hastily by the Imperials that day as they had scouted the arrival of the Stormcloak regiment sent to take back Riften, and blocked the advance of them through Shor’s Stone. The citizens of the town, resenting the resumed occupation of Imperials after the wholesale slaughter of Hearthfire 199, hoped and prayed that the barrier would not be as sturdy a barrier as the Imperials anticipated.

The sound of Legion arrows greeted the approaching Stormcloaks, one of them lodging in Sjadbek’s shield. “Fus ro dah!”Shouted the Dragonborn in response, knocking the three or four archers on the left-side battlement down to their doom as the right side attempted to seek cover.

Unfortunately for them, seeking cover did not do so well with Burdnar and three other Stormcloaks hacking away at the base of the structure with battleaxes. The Legion soldiers rushed down the ladder to draw battle to them, proper, rather than to the structure that, if collapsed, would be certain death.

“For the Empire!” a combatant shouted as he pared blades with Sjadbek.

“The Empire died two centuries ago,” Sjadbek countered verbally as he countered physically, the Dwemer-forged blade steeped in blood from the Nordic Legionnaire’s throat. “Talos guide you,” the Dragonborn breathed, followed by a much louder “Have at them, men!”

The Stormcloaks were joined by civilians, still seething from the massacre, as they fought with travel swords, kitchen knives, and whatever other accoutrements of battle they could scrounge up. It was not much longer before the Shor’s Stone garrison fell to their blades—it was always harder to hold a hostile city than a friendly one, as the Stormcloaks had learned first with Riften and later with Falkreath, and as the Imperials had learned here with Shor’s Stone.

But Shor’s Stone had been simple. Next on the agenda was Fort Greenwall, which would be a challenge—and then Riften itself. Filthy, stinky Riften. Honestly, Sjadbek was half tempted to let the Imperials just keep Riften—it was a perfect city for them, much more perfect than Solitude, at any rate. However, since Ulfric obviously wouldn’t go for that—and rightly so—here he was.

---

​

25th of Morning Star, 4E 203 | 5:15 a.m. | Riften | The Ragged Flagon, Cistern​

“The Stormcloaks have taken Fort Greenwall,” Karliah announced to the other two Nightingales, who happened to be asleep together on the same bed.

“You woke us up with that?” a still half-sleeping Brynjolf replied groggily.

“Yesterday at dawn,” the Dunmer spoke, ignoring Brynjolf’s wisecrack. “They will have garrisoned the fort, and then we have maybe… two or three days until the army is at Riften’s gates. It is not far from Greenwall.”

“How bad was it?” Penelope asked.

Karliah told her, to which the Breton responded, “Should I let them know?”

“If you see fit,” the Dunmer answered. “They’re your family, after all.”

Slowly but surely, Penelope got up, dressed, and made her way to the room where her father and brother were sleeping. They had initially been reluctant, of course. Heron was easier to persuade—he wasn’t really and truly ready to die, not yet, and at any rate the Guild fed him better than the Legion did, not to mention had an ample supply, especially by Breton standards, of Black-Briar Mead.

Her father, a soldier all his life, had been harder to persuade, and it had taken some doing just to keep him from storming out of the Ratway and back to his brothers-in-arms. Convincing him took a considerable amount of pressure, but Penelope wasn’t going to just let them die here, even in battle. Not after her father had been stuck locked up in Fort Kastav for Mara knows how long. Not after Sjadbek—his enemy!—had gone through the trouble and concern of reuniting him with her and Heron. There would always be a part of Adrianus that wanted to preserve and defend the Emperor at all costs; that would never change. But it did seem as if the Emperor had all but abandoned Skyrim to the remnants of the Legion that was already there, and he eventually felt his duties were better served as a father than fighting a losing war.

“Greenwall’s been taken,” Penelope declared, waking them up. “At least three thousand Stormcloaks against maybe four hundred at that fort.”

“By Akatosh’s nose, outnumbered eight to one,” Adrianus breathed.

“And with the Dragonborn leading them,” appended Heron. “I know it makes me sound like a bad soldier, but I’m glad I wasn’t there. Did anyone survive?”

“Besides the Stormcloaks? About thirty fled in retreat. Delvin thinks a few of them are in Riften now, but some of them may have gone straight through to Morrowind.”

“Morrowind?” Each knew what the other was thinking: these days, what was left of Morrowind was hardly a tourist attraction—a rump Balmora was really the only thing left of Vvardenfell. Poor Dunmer, Penelope thought. Riften was really the best place for them these days. But at least they had somewhere.

---

​

27th of Morning Star, 4E 203 | 3:59 p.m. | Outside of Riften​

The south entrance to Riften was meant to be used by the city’s upper classes, and certainly wasn’t meant to be used as a point of invasion. But intent was irrelevant when you were an invading army. As in Whiterun, arrows flew all over the battlefield as the Stormcloaks fought from both non-maritime entrances to the city, Sjadbek taking the south side, which was closer to Mistveil Keep anyway.

The battle for Riften had been waged for about five hours or so when a messenger came bearing flag of surrender. The Imperial numbers were flagging and the Stormcloaks did appear to have the upper hand in the battle, but the quick offer of truce came as a shock.

“What? Cease fire!” Sjadbek cried in legitimate disbelief. Of all the things he had expected when taking Riften, he hadn’t expected a very early surrender of the city. Several of the Imperial soldiers looked infuriated, and with good reason. “Riften surrenders? I want to speak to the Jarl as—as commanding officer of the offensive.”

“Of course,” the messenger replied. “Here she is now.”

Sure enough, Maven Black-Briar descended from a ludicrously ornate carriage as the combatants on both sides sheathed their blades and lowered their bows in a confused cease-fire. “Good evening,” she spoke in her typical haughty tone. “Sjadbek Stormblade, Thane of Eastmarch, and commanding officer of the forces invading my city, I presume?”

“Speaking,” Sjadbek announced. “What are you playing at, Black-Briar? Surrendering now, your defenses not yet broken?”

“I wish to defect, actually,” Maven answered, causing Sjadbek’s jaw to drop. “You are of humble origin, so your confusion is justified. It is clear that, should I continue to prosecute the defense of Riften, it would be severely damaged as Whiterun had been. This would have unfortunate ramifications for the production and dissemination of Black-Briar Mead. And I know you like Black-Briar Mead.”

“You’re defecting because you don’t want the meadery to burn down?” That seemed a little unusual, even to Sjadbek who understood the extreme importance of mead.

“Do you have any idea how many mercenaries I employ, and how much they charge? I spend more money each and every year than you’ve made in your entire lifetime simply maintaining my personal armies, and I am taking your adventurous forays into account. My beverages are sold all across Skyrim, western Morrowind, northern Cyrodiil—we’ve even made inroads into Hammerfell in the past year or so. Granted, being Jarl provides me with some flexibility in terms of taxation power, but even so such significant destruction of Riften would be… unwelcome.”

“But I heard you favored the Legion, even the Thalmor.”

“I side with power, Stormblade,” Maven retorted. “regardless of who holds it. Nords, Imperials, high elves, dark elves. Knowing who to befriend is quite wise, you’ll find. It has become clear to me that this revolution—one can hardly call it a rebellion anymore—is here to stay. Not to mention I would much rather remain on Riften’s throne than be sent into exile in Solitude, only presumably to be executed when you take that city.”

“Well, you’re certainly… forthright about your intentions.”

“When dealing with straightforward people such as yourself, honesty helps. Do you accept my surrender?”

“I do. The question is whether the Legion forces do.” Legate Fasendil seemed particularly displeased at the goings-on.

“Ah, yes, I was afraid of that. Mercenaries!”

A contingent of Black-Briar mercenaries joined the fight from inside the city, fighting as far away from the meadery as the combat would allow, as the fight resumed. By dawn, the Imperials’ strength seemed broken, and their remaining soldiers fled to the thawing wilderness of the Rift.

---

​

29th of Morning Star, 4E 203 | 8:25 a.m. | Riften​

“Try it now!” came a familiar brogue from the marketplace. “Genuine Falmerblood Elixir, only forty septims a bottle for the next half-hour!”

Sitting on a bench nearby, Sjadbek snorted. Still with the Falmerblood elixir—it must have been something addictive, because even if it were real Falmer blood, that material hardly had healing properties. Blisterwort, barley, red mountain flowers, and a bit of skooma if he had to guess. It wasn’t his place.

Two Bretons he knew well and a Redguard he’d heard of but never met properly walked into view, and Sjadbek stood up to greet them. “I expected one of you here. Didn’t expect the other two of you to be here, let alone alive.”

“Pippa kidnapped us,” Heron explained. “Well, not by herself, but… she was very persuasive. I wasn’t ready to die, not with death so certain. I hear only fifty Legion soldiers out of a thousand even made it out night before last.”

“I heard you vanquished the Dark Brotherhood,” Adrianus spoke to him. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed that I wasn’t the one to do it, but, stuck in Fort Kastav for such a long time…”

“You needed to get your strength back. My brother Bjaknir spent two years locked up in Fort Snowhawk, in Hjaalmarch.”

“Bjaknir?” Heron perked up. “I remember him. I’m afraid I might have… made fun of him once or twice. Called him a milk drinker – Nords hate that, apparently. But I never did him any physical harm.”

“Bjaknir is no milk drinker,” Sjadbek declared. “And he’ll happily prove it to you, except that he’s busy preparing to take Hjaalmarch.”

“I believe you.”

“You do realize you’ve effectively deserted the Legion, though? By staying here and not fighting?” the Dragonborn asked. “I know you’re from Cheydinhol; I’m not sure how much they’d appreciate that.”

“Yes,” the Redguard responded, wistful melancholy in his heart. The man had all the look of a soldier weighing a love of battle with the cost of the same. He’d been forced to not battle, but would the Emperor see it that way?

“I’m sure we could find some sort of solution,” Penelope urged. “Maybe call them prisoners of war?”

“Hmm…” Sjadbek thought, “that’s not a bad idea. Prisoners of war, taken in the Battle of Riften and consigned to Riften until official Imperial recognition of Skyrim’s independence, or until the Legion takes Riften again—we’ll allow that possibility, but only in the interest of taking into account all the potentials.”

“If you insist,” Heron declared.

“I’m just glad you’ve managed to reunite our family,” Penelope smiled, “but—why? I mean, you barely know us, and you’re fighting for the side we weren’t.”

A serious expression on his face, Sjadbek answered, “Stendarr’s orders.”

“But what about Mom?” Heron asked.

“Oh, I’ll notify the border patrols,” he responded playfully. “If a Breton woman of the right age from Cheydinhol who claims to be related to you should happen to show up at the posts—she is welcome to enter Skyrim. But I fear I must bid you farewell. I need to stop by Bersi’s shop before I make my way back up to Windhelm.”

 

[imaginepageant]

GO STORMCLOAKS.

 

[Atmora]

Wow, really great story so far! I'm looking forward to reading more!

 

[bulbaquil]

Chapter 13: For Skyrim!​

​

17th of First Seed, 4E 203 | Mid-Morning | Solitude Military Camp​

The trebuchets resounded throughout the night and into the day as the siege of the Legion’s last bastion in Skyrim continued. It was almost time—time to storm the gates and spill out into the streets of the city that had placed too much of its faith in a dying empire. Sjadbek’s teeth gritted in determination as Bjaknir turned to speak to him.

“Are you ready for this, Sjad?”

“Absolutely,” the Dragonborn affirmed. “Let’s no longer let a dying and corrupt empire plunder our people.”

“For Skyrim!” Burdnar shouted.

“Meet me at the docks after the battle, both of you. And if not…” Bjaknir paused, the very real possibility entering his mind, “then in Sovngarde.”

“Talos be with you, brother.”

“The same to you, Sjad.”

Sjadbek gathered his contingent and headed to the front. This would be a bloody battle—this was the Legion’s last stand in Skyrim, and it was fortified as such. More than thirty contingents—six to seven thousand Stormcloak troops—had been brought in for the battle, and they would need every last one of them. Solitude was a large city of nearly a hundred thousand people, and there had been no convenient dragon attack to blow open a previously non-existent gate for them this time.

“This is it, men!” Ulfric declared as his best contingents stood before him. “It’s time to make this city ours! We come to this moment carried by the sacrifices and courage of our fellows—those who have fallen…”

And they were many. Sjadbek recalled them, Ralof in particular. Kaalvast, Bekrir, and many others. And most of all Berdja.

Ulfric’s speech continued. “Fear neither pain nor darkness, for Sovngarde awaits those who die with weapons in their hands and courage in their hearts!”

And await it does, Sjadbek knew. He’d been there. And they had nothing to fear in Sovngarde now: he’d taken care of that. Alduin was dead—their souls would be safe. Neither his comrades nor his enemy kinsmen need fear the afterlife today. May Talos guide all the dead to their rightful places, he entreated as he turned his attention back to the conclusion of Ulfric’s rallying cry.

“Ready now! Everyone, with me! For the sons and daughters of Skyriiiiiiiim!”

Battle was drawn, as Galmar and a couple dozen men put a battering ram to the city’s gates. They would need no Roggvir this time to let him in. As the gate collapsed, thousands of Nords (and a handful of Redguards and Bretons) streamed in and Ulfric saw Solitude for the first time since killing High King Torygg now more than two years ago.

Blade pared against blade as Imperial soldier after Imperial soldier streamed in to fight Sjadbek and his comrades as quickly as they sliced them down. They had nowhere to run to—besides Cyrodiil, that was, and the Stormcloaks had blocked off access to the port in their approach.

A barrage of shock waves battered one of the Stormcloak officers—Hrakveld Bleak-Horn of Whiterun, a former Legion Quaestor who had defected after Ulfric’s forces took that city. Thalmor, Sjadbek instantly thought, recognizing the infernal robes. Were they allying with the Empire in defense of Solitude… or were they trapped with nowhere else to run in a Skyrim that was rapidly becoming intolerant of their continued presence?

It didn’t matter. “Fus ro dah!” Sjadbek Shouted at the same time as Ulfric. The double Unrelenting Force caused the poor Thalmor to splat into a bloody mess on the wall of what appeared to be a barber shop. “Ugh, I do hope that’ll come off,” Sjadbek intoned.

It took a while, but they made their way through numerous battles until ultimately making their way to Castle Dour itself. Funny, the last time he was here, they had been negotiating a peace treaty—now he was here to exterminate the other party in it.

“Secure the door,” Ulfric ordered as he, Galmar, and Sjadbek entered the stronghold of General Tullius. Galmar was a step ahead of him in this matter.

“Ulfric—stop,” Legate Rikke implored.

“Stop what? Taking Skyrim back from those who’d leave her to rot?”

“You’re wrong, Ulfric! We need the Empire. Without it, Skyrim will assuredly fall to the Dominion.”

“And haven’t you already handed Skyrim over to the Dominion without even a fight?” Sjadbek added.

“You were there with us,” Galmar appended. “The Empire died when it signed that treaty.”

“Fools, all of you,” Rikke retorted. “What do you know of the Empire?”

“I know enough. What would you have us do?” Sjadbek asked. “Surrender to you right here, right now? I don’t see Tullius talking.”

“He has given up. But I have not.”

“Rikke, go,” Ulfric stated. “You’re free to leave.”

“I’m also free to stay and fight for what I believe in.”

“Fair enough,” Sjadbek responded. “I cannot fault you for that. May the gods grant you safe passage to Sovngarde.”

“So be it!” Rikke declared, drawing her weapon. “I have no other choice. Talos preserve us.”

A minute later and Rikke fell, cleaved by Galmar’s axe. “Talos guide you, old friend,” muttered Ulfric as he stood beside her corpse. Now only Tullius remained, broken, knowing time was up for him.

“This is it for you,” Ulfric declared. “Any last words before I send you to Oblivion?”

“You realize this is exactly what they wanted.”

“What who wanted?”

“The Thalmor. They stirred up trouble here—forced us to divert needed resources and threw away good soldiers quelling this rebellion.”

“But it didn’t go as planned, did it?” Sjadbek asked, still pointing his sword at the Imperial general.

“No,” Tullius admitted. “We’re not the bad guys, you know.”

“Of course not. The Thalmor are,” Sjadbek responded.

“And the Dragonborn on our side was not to your benefit,” Ulfric added.

“And I wonder how you feel, Dragonborn, to hand Skyrim over to the Thalmor!” implored Tullius.

“We will fight the Thalmor,” Sjadbek countered. “If they should come here, we will defend Skyrim as the Redguards did Hammerfell.”

“The Thalmor withdrew their covert support of us as soon as we took Falkreath,” Ulfric added. “It isn’t exactly what they wanted. They didn’t want us to win. I read the dossier they had on me.”

“And if I surrender?”

“The Empire I remember never surrendered,” Ulfric declared.

“That Empire is dead,” clarified Galmar, “and so are you.”

“So be it. Thirty-two, four, seventeen, eleven, thirty,” Tullius spoke in an apparent non-sequitur.

“What’s that?” Galmar asked.

“The combination for the vault where we keep our intelligence on the Thalmor. If you’re serious about fighting them, you’ll need it.”

“Thirty-two, four, seventeen, eleven, thirty,” Sjadbek repeated, trying to commit it to memory as soon as possible.”

“Good. We can use that,” said Ulfric. “Anything else you want to say?”

“Just kill him and let’s be done with it,” Galmar intoned impatiently.

“Come, Galmar, where’s your sense of the dramatic moment?”

Galmar protested. “By the Nine, then perhaps the Dragonborn should be the one to do it!”

“Good point. What do you say, Stormblade?”

Sjadbek thought for a minute. Was he really the right person to kill Tullius? This was, in many ways, Tullius’s war, but he didn’t feel it was rightfully his victory. He was here out of duty, not out of revenge, not really—the Empire had already paid dearly for the injustices wrought upon him and his friends, and the Imperial captain at Helgen who had been the true instigator was long since dead at the flames of Alduin. “It is not my place,” he explained. “This is your war, Jarl Ulfric. It should be by your hand.”

“Very well.” Ulfric produced a sword of durable malachite glass and sliced off Tullius’s head. The Empire had been defeated.

“It’s done,” Galmar responded.

Ulfric turned to Sjadbek. “Bear this blade,” the Jarl of Eastmarch commanded, presenting him with the malachite sword. “I had it made for you. Like Wuuthrad of old, it is designed for elvenbane.”

“I shall wield it with pride,” responded the Dragonborn, pleased at the gift. Apart from Tullius’s blood still being on it, it was a good and light sword. Best of all, it signified Ulfric’s belief that Sjadbek wasn’t done just yet.

But for now, it was time to make his way to the docks as Bjaknir had asked.

---

​

1st of Last Seed, 4E 203 | Mid-Evening | Windhelm, Candlehearth Hall​

The Moot had been held near the start of Mid-Year, and Ulfric had—of course—been crowned high king of Skyrim, in so doing effectively moving the capital of Skyrim from Solitude to its original location in Windhelm.

Burdnar had taken several arrows to the knee in the Battle for Solitude, but still could walk and fight well, and relished his new role as deputy captain of Windhelm’s guard forces. With the cessation of the war and with the Reach’s silver, the city had the available financial resources and manpower to increase guard patrols in many of its more beleaguered areas, such as the Gray Quarter.

Sjadbek had made it clear to Ulfric that he wanted the Dunmer of Windhelm (who far outnumbered the Argonians) to support Skyrim rather than the Thalmor, and had taken efforts to ensure it—he, Bjaknir, and several of the more Dunmer-friendly Nords had spent much of the spring and summer fixing up houses in the Gray Quarter. It would not do for a sizable fraction of Windhelm to welcome a Thalmor invasion, and key to that was making the Nordic rule more amenable.

“Sjad,” Burdnar said to him as he sat down, mead in hand, “what do you say to an adventure? Like old times? Since it’s coming up on the 17th of Last Seed again and all.”

“So long as dragons are not involved or we have to go into Cyrodiil.”

“Do dragon shouts count?”

“I’d be okay with picking up another dragon shout.”

“Because I heard there was a Nordic ruin over south of Blacklight.”

“We are talking about the Blacklight in Morrowind? What are Nordic ruins doing there?”

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe back in the Merethic and First Eras the borders were different. It’s not that far from Skyrim.”

“All right, let’s go. I could use a couple thousand more in barrow gold anyway.”

Sjadbek and Burdnar left the next day, the same day Bjaknir, Skelja, and baby Bakdur left to go to Whiterun and Riverwood for Skelja to visit old friends and family. They had no clue nor would ever know that this happenstance prevented them from being ambushed by Beradin of Wayrest, the most competent assassin in the Dark Brotherhood, still in operation but having relocated. And not to Dawnstar, either: that would make things too easy.

---

​

29th of Rain’s Hand, 4E 204 | 2:05 p.m. | Solitude, Blue Palace​

As Sjadbek celebrated his twenty-fourth birthday in Windhelm, Maven Black-Briar—still Jarl of Riften—strode into the Blue Palace in regal fineries with the intent to follow up on a very valuable lead.

“Good afternoon, Jarl Maven,” Elisif greeted, maintaining the diplomacy appropriate to her status but betraying a bit of a surprise—she did not expect to see the Black-Briar matriarch here, especially not on what in Solitude had been a blustery and stormy day. “What brings you to the Blue Palace?”

“I had an interest in obtaining access to Proudspire Manor,” she responded. Though the house was vacant now, the residence’s previous occupants had been wealthy hoarders of various gems and jewels; it was they had… missed something.

“You are considering purchasing it?” Falk Firebeard, Jarl Elisif’s steward, commented.

“It’s not as if I can’t afford it,” Maven mentioned. “But I would prefer to see the domicile for myself before coming to any conclusions. I am the jarl of Riften; I need to ensure the house would suit my needs for my not-infrequent travels here.”

“As you wish,” Falk stated. “Let us go, then.”

Falk Firebeard escorted Maven to Proudspire Manor and gave her a brief tour. The Solitude steward spent entirely too much time describing the basement and other aspects of the house that were of no importance to her, but as the tour progressed to the top floor, Maven saw it. They had just left it there, on the cabinet: the stone of Barenziah.

She allowed Falk to complete the tour, and mentioned that she did indeed want to buy the house. Twenty-five thousand septims, unfurnished—a tidy sum even for her to pay in one fell swoop for a piece of property she had no more than transient interests in, but in this case… in this case… together with the eyes of the Falmer, long since obtained from Irkngthand, to obtain a power over a force believed impossible to control….

Falk handed over the key, and bade her farewell as he returned to the Blue Palace. Maven returned upstairs and pocketed the gemstone.

Twenty-three of the jewels now lay in her possession; only one remained at large.

End of Part One​

 

[Docta Corvina]

Noooo, Tullius, Rikke! My homies! </3



Very well written as usual, Bulba! I'm excited for Parte Deux!

 

[bulbaquil]

Noooo, Tullius, Rikke! My homies! </3

But you knew it was going to happen!

Neither Sjadbek nor I can doubt Legate Rikke's valor in the slightest, though. Ulfric really is willing to let her walk out unharmed - no, seriously, he is - but she insists on fighting for what she believes right up until the very end. Rikke is probably my favorite Legion-side character (Hadvar is second) because of that.

 

[Docta Corvina]

But you knew it was going to happen!

Neither Sjadbek nor I can doubt Legate Rikke's valor in the slightest, though. Ulfric really is willing to let her walk out unharmed - no, seriously, he is - but she insists on fighting for what she believes right up until the very end. Rikke is probably my favorite Legion-side character (Hadvar is second) because of that.

I know, I knoooooow. I just...I dunno, hoped for some sort of deus ex machina moment for them. Haha, I really can't complain I guess, Ulfric and Galmar will suffer very similar fates in my story too.

Rikke and Hadvar are seriously awesome, I love them so much. I love Tullius too, even though I know I'm rare for that. I give the man credit for a decidedly craptastic job he has to do. I don't envy his vantage point, and I always wanna hug him by the end of the questline, even after we've taken Windhelm and all is as it should be.

 

[bulbaquil]

What I will say is that Hadvar still has a role to play. In fact, I'm considering opening Chapter 14 with him.

 

[Docta Corvina]

Yaaaay, Hadvar!

Also, randomly, have you noticed the search terms that brought people to this very page, Bulba? "maven black-briar sex fanfic", "do the imperials come back for a rematch in skrim"

 

[bulbaquil]

Yaaaay, Hadvar!

Also, randomly, have you noticed the search terms that brought people to this very page, Bulba? "maven black-briar sex fanfic", "do the imperials come back for a rematch in skrim"

The truly scary thing is that the very existence of Hemming, Ingun, and Sibbi implies not only that Maven Black-Briar has had sex, but that she has had it at least three times. (I don't think her kids are triplets.)

I wonder who the unlucky father(s) is/are in this relationship. I'm betting it might be Maul.