(A/N: Hey, I waited a few days until I knew it was ready, with editing and the like, but I figured, have a holiday gift. Please read and review, feedback makes it better!)
"For the last time, I need to know my city is secure before letting a dragon into my city, and into my keep!" Jarl Balgruuf reiterates, the Jarl agitated by the already-stressful conditions of the war, and the regrettable request I gave him only moments ago.
Frustratingly, there is no way around it. "Jarl Balgruuf, you must trust me. This is the only way I can defeat Alduin, and save the world. Do you want your children to die before they've even seen their coming of age?"
He huffs. "It's not that I don't want you to do this; I just can't endanger my city like the way you're asking me to! I'd leave my people open to attack by the Stormcloaks. They'll seize any opportunity they can to lay waste to a city, and I can't let them do that to my people! It's dangerous enough as it is with them already a threat, but if my guard force is distracted by a dragon? In the keep? We'd stand no chance!"
I sigh, leaning back in my chair. We're sitting at a table, nursing wine to help with the troubling request. It's made by Nords, so not particularly flavorful, but they seem to appreciate it more than a robust Elvish wine, one of the only good things about the White-Gold Concordat. It made getting it into Skyrim, and the Empire, much easier. I wish that more humans would keep it around. "Would it help if I requested a division of soldiers to help defend the city beforehand?"
Balgruuf shook his head. "I doubt that would help enough. Even in the event of a battle, free of any possible dragons appearing, I doubt a single division of your soldiers would be enough. And, Dragonborn, I know. I know that you're a veteran of the Legion. You're just trying to hold Skyrim together, but you're doing it for the Thalmor instead of for the Empire. One damn division of your soldiers can't possibly be enough to hold back an army, or a dragon! I don't want you in my city any more than I want the Stormcloaks!"
"I can request more, if that would help," I add, trying to convince him still, though it feels like a failing hope. Getting through another elf's ward on the battle ground would be easier.
Balgruuf heaves a sigh. "I appreciate the try, and the offers of support, but I don't think it would be prudent to do so when Whiterun is vulnerable to attack. If there was a truce, perhaps."
"A truce?" I ask, curious. "That… might work, actually. Of course, it'd have to be brokered on neutral ground…."
"I doubt that they'd object terribly, thanks to the fact that you're trying to save the world. And that you're the Dragonborn, of course." Balgruuf brings his wine to his lips, taking a hearty gulp.
"At the very least, if I managed to set up a perimeter of Legionnaires around Whiterun, would that be enough? I'm not sure whether the Legion and the Stormcloaks would be agreeable to meeting to even talk about a truce, temporary or otherwise." I scowl at the thought, the idea of meeting those racist bastards to discuss a truce a foreign enough concept that it makes the wine in my goblet taste like goblin piss.
"I'll consider it, but a truce would be the best option. If you want me to agree to this disastrous plan of yours, you'll have to get it," Balgruuf warns, his tone clear.
I sigh, but set my goblet down. "Then I am off to talk to the General and that rebellious asshole who calls himself High King of Skyrim despite not deserving a single ounce of the respect it has."
Balgruuf raises his cup to me as I exit, my cloak swirling around me as I walk out of his private quarters and Dragonsreach, vanishing into the night.
I haven't been in the Legion for a little over a year, since I found out about my unfortunate destiny as Dragonborn. I was a battle mage, and a damn good one, like most of elvish descent. I served for fifteen years, and made Legate in record time, an oddity for a battle mage to be. Usually, we have our own rankings and own hierarchy, but General Tullius himself brought me up to my position, letting me advise him on various strategies and work with more military personnel than I would have had the opportunity to do so.
I heard about him in the lower ranks, a respected General, known as the fixer of problems. Most people admired him for his ability to command troops in battle, and, yes, fix the problems the Emperor sent him for. He sat directly on the Emperor's council, advised him on battle strategy in the Great War, and led the charge in over a dozen battles that faced overwhelming odds against them.
To say that he wasn't an impressive figure in both the ranks and gossip, among even the mage corps, would be simply and utterly incorrect.
In the few years before I left, we had campaigns together, and fought side by side many times. I healed his wounds, he watched my back, and we commanded the forces of the Legion with perfect synchronization. He's a close friend and confidante.
So, imagine my surprise when he starts to yell when I asked him about the possible truce arrangement.
"You think I'm going to bow to those rebels?" he seethes. Alright, his tone isn't quite yelling, but it feels like it, especially since he's only been known to use that tone when he's far too angry to express it.
"I'm not asking you to bow your head and surrender, I'm asking you to talk about it, in neutral territory, to arrange a temporary truce so I can save the world," I explain, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. Legate Rikke, a close friend as well, is mulling over the decision with a bottle of ale, thinking quietly.
Tullius bangs his fist on the table, irate within five minutes of hearing it. "The Emperor won't like it, I don't like it, and the Thalmor definitely will despise it!"
I seize the opportunity. "Yes, they will. Owing their world due to a daring move made by the joint decision of both factions of Skyrim's civil war, demonstrating how capable both leaderships are. Imagine how it'll feel to wipe those smug looks off their faces, when they realize that this is the first step in the direction of reuniting the Empire and bringing the Aldmeri Dominion to their knees once again."
He pauses, thinking about it. After a few moments, he nods his head. "If it works out, it'd be a fantastic success….. And it would deal a blow to the elves…"
"And if it doesn't, you can say you've tried to work things out with the rebels, gaining the respect of practically everyone in Skyrim for looking into all sides of the conflict," Rikke points out. "We Nords dislike talking, but when it's for peace in a war that's been dragging on? We won't mind it."
"It's agreed, then. We'll go to the truce talks, but I'm not sure if we can come to an agreement with those dastardly rebels," Tullius states his decision decisively.
"Thank you, sir. The Greybeards would be happy to host the delegations at High Hrothgar, at the Throat of the World. I'll go ask Ulfric," I say, the action already distasteful, but turn around, ready to exit Castle Dour.
"Legate?"
"Hmm?" I look over my shoulder at Tullius again, whose expression is more… guarded, than before.
"Watch out for yourself. You being Dragonborn will probably make Ulfric covet you…. I don't think he'll just ask for territory in the negotiations." his voice sounds….. Sad. Regretful.
I nod, replying, "Thanks for the advice. I'll… I'll keep it in mind."
I turn back around, exiting the Castle and center of Imperial power in Skyrim.
But I leave confused. What was Tullius warning me about?
Musing silently to myself, I get down to Katla's Farm, saddling my horse, Swifter. Not a particularly creative name, I'll grant you, but it's fairly accurate. She's been fed and watered by the helpful woman who owns what serves as Solitude's stables, and I carefully groom out any tangles in her coat before I put on her tack.
"There there, girl," I say softly, affectionately patting her nose, while leading her out of the stable. It might be about 4 in the morning, but it's a long trip to Windhelm, and I don't like to prolong them. Eastmarch is cold, as is most of Skyrim, but it's a bitter, harsh cold, one where the wind can steal your warmth in a single gust.
I climb onto her back, settling in, and making sure my cloak and pack are both securely fastened. With a light touch of my feet to her sides, Swifter moves smoothly forward, starting at a smart walk. I turn us off the farm, then onto the main road, moving away from Solitude. In a little while, she'll start trotting, but a walk is good for now.
"Well, Swifter, we've got quite a quest in front of us," I mumble to my horse, who tosses her head in response. Or I'm just personifying my horse. Either way, it's not a terribly good sign that I'm already talking to my horse.
Hey, if I'm gonna save the world, might as well.
I open the doors to Windhelm, Swifter safely stashed at the Windhelm stables. The first time I walked into Windhelm, I almost beat a man to death with my bare hands. He, and another man, were harassing a Dunmer woman. Rather than try and talk to them, I just did what a Nord would do. I beat them up.
Seemed sensible at the time, and the guy thought so too. He's still racist, but not as vocal about it. At least they get some rest in the Gray Quarter. No drunk Nords wandering around yelling about their race.
Regrettably, this visit was not one that I could merely stop by the inn and some shops in the morning to sell off loot gained in an ancient Nord crypt.
This time I had to meet a man whose ideals I hated beyond measure. It doesn't matter what he's actually like; if he's anything like the slurs that are said about him, I'll kill him myself. One derogatory comment in the negotiations…
I draw myself up as I walk to the palace, determined, yet shivering from the cold. Why was Windhelm like this? Not only their weather, but their people… All cold.
The guards say nothing as I open the door to the Palace of Kings, and I enter, shutting the door behind me firmly. The warmth, at least, is welcome.
A few people look up as I enter, eying me with some interest before going back to their meal. A long table is in the middle of the hall, conveniently focusing the point of power around the throne while also creating a barrier against any potential attacks on the Jarl. Smart.
"Can I help you?" says someone, standing from the table and dusting himself off, approaching me. And judging me from my elven features almost instantly, a curl of dislike adding itself to his lips.
"I wish to speak with Jarl Ulfric." I state, figuring that it's best to get this over with.
"I'm the Steward, Jorleif. You can tell me what you need to tell the Jarl," he says snidely, and I have no doubt in my mind that he won't pass on my message, not even if I tell him I am who I am.
"I said, I will speak to Ulfric, not to his pet steward." I seethe at the man, the horrid cold and the foul weather already grating on my nerves. But this? I'm not going to be an innocent woman if this keeps up.
"The Jarl is busy. You can tell me, or you can get out."
"Oh, okay. Go tell your Jarl that the Dragonborn wants to speak with him, and if he's not out here in one minute, I'm going to Shout this palace down." I smile sweetly at the man, acting as innocent as a maid.
"Pfft. Like an elf is Dragonborn," he scoffs, but I see a flicker of doubt in his eyes.
I stare at him for a moment, draw in a breath, and chuckle. "Go get your master, pet, before I get angry."
Jorleif's eyes blaze with anger. "I am not going to be ordered around by a Thalmor spy!"
"FUS RO DAH!" I Shout him into the wall, tired of this. "Does that prove I'm Dragonborn, or do you need to be set on fire?"
He scrambles up, eyes wide with terror, and he runs into the other room, the door flying open as he almost tackles it in his haste to talk to Ulfric.
A mumbled discussion happens in the room, growing louder, until Ulfric himself, accompanied by Jorleif and, what's his name…. The Jarl's housecarl. Galar? Gallant?
Whatever. Something or other, something like that.
"Dragonborn?" Ulfric asks, and I look at him evenly. He's not unattractive, but the knowledge of what he's done isn't exactly going to sway me anytime soon. "This is a surprise. Come to join the fight against the Empire, is it?"
"No. I need to kill Alduin, and the only way to do that is to arrange a truce between you and the Empire. It wouldn't have to be permanent, you can keep fighting when Alduin's dead, but…. Will you go to the truce talks or not?"
"After you terrified my steward, that's all you have to say for yourself?" he raises an eyebrow, Jorleif shaking like a leaf beside him.
"Your steward is an incompetent arse who didn't believe the Dragonborn could be someone other than a Nord. Now, will you come to the talks or not." I grit my teeth, trying to maintain control over my voice. If I didn't…. I might actually bring down the palace, unintentionally. It would be immensely satisfying, though.
"Where is it?" Ulfric folds his arms over his chest, his eyes sweeping my figure, trying to figure me out already.
"High Hrothgar. You can say hello to Arngeir again."
"Has Tullius agreed to it?" while his housecarl beside him looks angrier and angrier by the minute.
"Yes." My answer is short and clipped, like my patience.
"Very well. There is no harm in talking it out, I suppose. But no Thalmor."
"I don't have any control over that, Ulfric. Just because you don't like an enemy in the ring doesn't mean they're just going to throw down their weapons." I spit out, turning sharply and walking away from the conversation.
"Dragonborn. Next time you Shout at my steward, I won't be so forgiving." Ulfric mentions, his voice carrying relatively well in the hall. It's rather echoey.
"I hope there never will be a next time." I throw back, not even bothering to slow my pace or look at him.
The man next to Ulfric grumbles something to him, but I'm not close enough to catch it, even if I wanted to.
Now to get to High Hrothgar.