Dawn reflected off of the great dome of the Blue Palace, perched out on the cliffs like a sapphire jewel rising from the sea, as the city of Solitude came alive around it. Every day in the capital of Skyrim was a busy one, never more than in the aftermath of the bloody civil war, but the last few days had seen an extra burst of activity and excitement. The Moot, the council of Jarls that would elect the next king or queen of Skyrim, was finally at hand.
There was a festival air in the streets as banners of victory and welcome streamed gaily from the eaves of houses and from the parapets of Castle Dour, but there was also a noticeable current of trepidation about what was to come. With the Empire's tacit support behind Jarl Elisif, the wife of the previous High King, most assumed that the heavy mantle of rulership would fall on her young shoulders.
More than a few words of concern, however, had been raised in the quiet corners of the Winking Skeever Inn about the queen's age and competence. What Skyrim needed now was a strong leader, one that could unite the people and heal the wounds of war. A leader like the late High King Torygg might have grown into one day. Or, though no one would have admitted it out loud, a leader like Ulfric Stormcloak could have been had he been able to put aside his rage and pride. And so the people of Solitude waited and watched as, one by one, the Jarls of the Nine Holds assembled at the Palace and the country held its breath for peace.
~~0~~
Gallica rose later than usual, already feeling out of sorts as she wiped the sleep from her eyes and remembered what lay ahead of her. She had been up too late the night before, her presence being required at a reception for the visiting Jarls, each of whom seemed to want more of the Dragonborn's time and attention than the last. She had been alternately congratulated on her victories and mercilessly interrogated about the battle and her opinions on the Moot before General Tullius had rescued her to discuss the security of the event the following day.
Though where Tullius was concerned, she reflected with an smile, politics was hardly the only reason that she had been losing sleep lately.
A month had passed since Gallica had returned to Solitude and almost three had gone by now since the terrible final battle that had culminated in Ulfric's death at her hands. The memories were still tender and bone-sore, like the jagged scar on her side from Galmar Stone-Fist's final act of vengeance in this world, but day by day she was learning to live with it. She was needed here. There was work to be done. Ulfric was gone, but she wasn't. Though, she nearly had been.
In the immediate aftermath of the battle, she had been lost - paralyzed with grief and such intense self-loathing that Gallica could barely stand to be in her own skin. She had been unable to wash the memory of Ulfric's blood from her hands though she scrubbed them until they bled. Remaining in Windhelm, a city heavy with ghosts, had become more torturous with each day that passed and so, when given leave to rest and recover, she had fled with no thought as to where she would go. Anywhere but Ulfric's city and its nightmare memories. Anywhere that would allow her to finally disappear from the crushing agony of the world once and for all. By chance, she had met with a recruiter for the Dawnguard on the road – an orc who had failed to recognize her as the Dragonborn. She had allowed him to recruit her anonymously into Isran's vendetta against the vampires, fully expecting to die in the campaign. She had died, in fact, if only temporarily. It was that choice - to rejoin the living world and those she still deeply cared about - that had begun to heal the part of her that had been shattered in the Palace of the Kings.
And Tullius had still been waiting for her there at the end of it. She would never forget Ulfric, but no longer did Gallica feel the need to bury her future beside him in his crypt either. Though it would take some time for her to become used to being loved by someone again, Tullius had proven himself more than a match for the challenge so far. She looked forward to their limited time alone together in the evenings. They were not yet lovers in the physical way - he teased her about having to marry him first to prevent her from learning his shortcomings until it was too late - but it was the company of Tullius the man, with all his passions and sharp mind and growling good-humor, that Gallica needed most in her life and which gave her a sense of peace once again.
Not that Gallica was likely to get much peace today.
She dressed quickly, tied back her long hair, and called her housecarl in to help her don the iconic dragon-plate armor that had become a revered icon since she had defeated the dark dragon Alduin and warded off the apocalypse of Nord legend. The Jarls and the people would expect to see their Dragonborn today. The title no longer chafed at her as it once had. With the prophecy fulfilled, she would turn it at last to her own purposes.
A few bites of bread, and she was on her way to the Blue Palace, hurrying through the bannered streets and falling in with the dignified hustle in the Palace courtyard as the late-arriving nobles sorted themselves out by rank and exchanged gossip.
"Dragonborn," a familiar voice called out of the crowd as Gallica entered the elegantly designed great hall. She looked up to see Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun standing on the walkway overlooking the lower entrance.
The Whiterun party was the last to arrive, having been absent at the reception the night before. Balgruuf seemed in particularly fine fettle this morning, the care-lines on his brow eased, the gold of his circlet and torc glinting in the morning light, and a triumphant grin on his face. Gallica felt a smile come to her face, too, and found that she was genuinely pleased to see the Jarl. He was one of the first allies that she had made in the chaotic early days after she had come to Skyrim, and she made her way up the stairs to clasp his arm heartily in welcome.
His reception was equally gratifying, as he clapped her on the shoulder. "It is good to see you again, my friend. You gave us all quite the scare with your disappearance."
"I took some time to reflect after the war. But, as you know better than anyone, I always turn up when I'm needed," Gallica explained, flashing a facetious grin.
She nodded briefly to Hrongar, Balgruuf's blond hulk of a younger brother, who stood to one side looking rather uncomfortable in his court attire. She sympathized, being a woman of the field and not the court herself. Hrongar inclined his head in a silent gesture of acknowledgement, but the big man remained aloof. The Jarl's smile, however, took on a conspiratorial cast.
"I think Skyrim will have even more need of you now, Dragonborn."
Gallica turned her gaze back up to her friend quizzically, but more information was not forthcoming. There was clearly something on Balgruuf's mind, but he was not ready to share it with her just yet. Still, Gallica knew, patience was not one of her friend's virtues, and he would come out with it sooner or later. The Jarl gestured towards the corridor that led to the council chamber.
"But, come. Will you join Hrongar and me at the council today? You are a citizen of Whiterun after all."
"I think Tullius already has a claim on me," she ventured as she caught sight of Legate Rikke across the room, scanning the crowd like a falcon. Balgruuf's gaze followed hers and she shrugged apologetically. "A soldier's work is never done."
"Truer words were never spoken," Balgruuf chuckled, nodding graciously and waving her off as Gallica turned and hurried towards Rikke.
"There you are," the dark-haired Legate hissed tersely. "I was about to send someone to find you."
If Balgruuf was looking more pleased with himself than usual, Rikke looked more on edge. She was resplendent in her carefully polished parade armor, but Gallica remembered how much the Legate detested these ceremonial occasions and politics in general. Well, they were all going to get their fair share of that over the next few days. Before Rikke could continue, a herald moved out among those assembled.
"Way for the royal blood of Skyrim! The Jarls' Moot is assembling now in the high hall!"
"Let's get this over with," Rikke muttered and Gallica followed her back to the large meeting chamber where the fate of Skyrim would be decided.
~~0~~
Though not uncomfortably crowded, the Moot chamber milled with activity as the Jarls and their advisers settled themselves down around the tables. Servants hurried to place pitchers of water, wine, and small trays of food to tide over what was likely to be a long morning of discussion. As the interim ruler, Jarl Elisif took pride of place at the head of the hall. She was much as Gallica remembered her: tall, slender, and pretty in a girlish way although her expression was serenely grave. Her queenly stature was marred only by the slightness of her form in the great high seat. It made her look even younger than usual and, if not for the bulk of her enormous housecarl standing firmly behind her, it would have been easy to see her as weak.
Gallica's eyes fell immediately to Tullius seated directly to her left, his noble Imperial features and military bearing accenting everything that Elisif was not. From the way he tried to seem disinterested in the young Queen, Gallica immediately recognized that the General felt the incongruity as well and was calculating on how best to leaven the visual effect. He was already accused of having too much influence over Elisif. Quietly, Gallica and Rikke made their way over to stand at attention behind the Queen, lending their own formidable presence and understood approval to her suit.
After the refreshments had been dispersed, the doors to the chamber firmly secured, and an opening prayer intoned by the High Priest of the city, finally the chamber grew silent and Tullius stood up to speak. Gallica watched as he rose to his full height, cleared his throat slightly, and scanned his audience, making careful eye contact with each of the Jarls in turn. Whatever grumbles Skyrim's Jarls might have about Imperial hegemony, no one could have any illusions as to who was in charge in the room. Even before other feelings had become involved, Gallica had admire this quality in the General. Rarely had she met anyone who carried themselves with the same confident control that Tullius seemed to exude naturally. Although a decade climbing the ranks in the Legion had taught her much about command, Gallica knew that she had a long way to go before she could rival that level of self-confidence under fire.
"Since the death of High King Torygg, at the request of his widow Queen Elisif and on behalf of His Majesty Emperor Titus Mede II, I have shouldered the burden of Skyrim's government during a time of war. With the traitor Ulfric Stormcloak dead and victory declared, it is time that the powers granted in trust to me during wartime were returned back to a true ruler of Skyrim. Therefore, I urge this council to choose wisely a High Queen or King that will govern Skyrim effectively and as a true peer and councilor to the Emperor."
"Does the Emperor propose a candidate, General Tullius?" rapped out the recently installed Jarl Brina of Dawnstar, her voice ringing clearly and crisply in the quiet hall.
Although retired and well past her fighting years, it came as no shock to anyone that Brina Merilis had been a Legion officer when she was younger. The woman was the embodiment of military discipline, her posture erect and her tone clipped and formal. Even her taciturn housecarl still wore his Legion armor. Though Gallica's primary experience with Dawnstar had been with the rather disagreeable and now deposed Jarl Skald, she had heard only good things about Merilis so far and the northern hold had settled down immensely since the former Legate's elevation. Despite her partiality to the Empire, Merilis had managed to gain the respect of both the loyalists and the few remaining Stormcloak supporters and was of a much more reasonable temperament than her predecessor, so Dawnstar seemed to be in good hands. No small wonder, though, that it would be the retired Legionnaire who would first pose the question of the Emperor's will and no doubt much would be made of that in private later.
"Though the ultimate decision lies with the Moot, it pleases me to extend the Emperor's support to Jarl Elisif. In default of blood heirs, as Torygg's wife, she has the strongest claim on the throne of Skyrim under Imperial law," Tullius answered.
A soft murmur went up from the assembled as he took his seat once more. This was hardly unexpected. Tullius had been resolute in his support of Elisif from the very beginning, although some saw this as opportunistic given her age and experience.
Maven Black-Briar, the newly seated Jarl of the Rift and clandestine power over much of the city of Riften, narrowed her dark, intelligent eyes and smiled as she toyed with the silver goblet in front of her.
"But does Jarl Elisif accept this generous nomination?" the magnate inquired reasonably.
All eyes turned to Elisif who, with a glance at her steward, rose to speak.
"I do accept the Emperor's nomination. By ancient Nord tradition, the wife of a deceased Jarl has a right to rule in his stead if no other heirs exist. By Imperial custom, the Jarl of Solitude has always been High King of Skyrim. On those grounds, if this council deems me worthy, I will proudly wear the mantle of High Queen in my husband's place."
"Indeed," Maven agreed smoothly, the corners of her mouth tipping up even further.
Gallica felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, as she was suddenly struck by the mental image of the raven-haired magnate toying with Elisif like a sabercat toying with a lost fawn.
"One can hardly argue with established tradition," the Jarl of Riften continued conversationally, unhurried, but with a deadly sharpness in her tone all the same, "but there are those - perhaps even here in this room - who are disposed to think that your youth and inexperience would be a hindrance to your reign. Especially now, with so much at stake. How would you answer them?"
An uncomfortable silence descended on the chamber as Elisif considered her reply. Gallica could see the shifting glances among the assembled Jarls, which told her that Maven had only spoken aloud what most of them had been thinking. Elisif cleared her throat.
"I am young and it is quite true that I have not had the many years of valuable experience that you, my peers, have gathered over the course of your lives. But a new age is coming to Skyrim. We have the Dragonborn here with us as proof of that. She has brought us safely through the dark time of Alduin's doom. With her aid and with the incalculable value of General Tullius' leadership, we have weathered the storm of the war. The old legends have been fulfilled. Perhaps an age has come for learning new ways and for new legends. And that is the province of the young, who have not yet become hardened and set in the old ways of doing things. Should I retain my husband's position as Jarl of Solitude and High Queen of Skyrim, I will rule as my Torygg would have done: with justice and honesty and in solidarity with our Imperial brethren. Torygg was a young man also, but who among you considered him less for it? I ask only that you grant me the same consideration."
It was a clever response and well-delivered. As Elisif took her seat once more, it was plain to see that her words had also impressed others in the room. It would take more than fair words to convince the more skeptical of the Jarls, though, Gallica knew. Jarl Igmund of the Reach stood, his long face bristling with the steel grey of his beard, and nodded curtly.
"I will support Jarl Elisif for High Queen of Skyrim. Our traditions allow it, the Empire is favorably disposed towards her, and in my experience a crown is no heavier on a young head than an old one. I will follow her as our High Queen."
A general susurrus of conversation began and was cut short again by a harsh laugh from the back of the hall. Gallica craned her head to see who had emitted the offending sound and was not surprised when the thin, sallow face of Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone of Morthal appeared. The aging seeress rose from her chair like a shadow. Eschewing the elaborate dress of the other Jarls, Idgrod appeared much the same here in the Moot as she did in her own hall in the swampy lands of Hjaalmarch: clad in dark-colored severe breeches and tunic with precious little gold or ornamentation to be seen. She looked every inch the raven-crone of her namesake. It increased the effect of her already eerie aura.
"You lend your support so quickly, Igmund," Idgrod pointed out, sweetly. "Does it mean so little that you would throw it about before we've heard what other candidates may step forward?"
Igmund scowled at her from his chair but said nothing in reply, and Idgrod turned her sharply amused gaze around the room, obviously enjoying the discomfort she was provoking in her peers. Well did Gallica remember what it was like to be on the receiving end of that unnaturally knowing stare.
"None can deny the fairness or sincerity of pretty Elisif here, but we have heard only of her claim. Are there no others? Does not even one of the celebrated Jarls of Skyrim wish to make his or her own case to ascend the throne?"
"Well, I wouldn't mind being High King," Siddgeir of Falkreath quipped, reclining idly in his chair. He had been silent all this time, appearing bored with the proceedings, but now he raised his wine goblet as if in toast to Idgrod. "As long as the wine is as fine as this every night."
A chuckle ran through the room, but settled uneasily as everyone looked around, trying to ascertain if there really were any serious challenges to Elisif's claim.
Suddenly, Balgruuf stood. Though not the most respected of the Jarls for his qualities as a ruler, he was perhaps the tallest in stature and the most impressive in appearance of those gathered. His stake at Whiterun was the richest of the Holds and his dedication to the history and traditions of Skyrim was without peer. His opinion carried weight and Gallica saw the other Jarl's lean forward, listening carefully, even as she shared their surprise.
It can't be, she thought incredulously. Balgruuf would never seek that kind of power for himself.
Though, she remembered the secret in his smile out in the foyer and grew less certain. For all he disdained the greater politics of Skyrim, had the Jarl of Whiterun finally become a politician at this late stage?
"I have a claim to put forward," Balgruuf began, allowing the statement a moment to sink in.
The noise in the room ceased at once and Balgruuf continued.
"Much has been made over the last few years about our Nord traditions. Who here has not heard the traitor Ulfric bluster and brag about killing Torygg under the laws of the 'True Nords'? That is not to say our traditions should be shunted aside. You all know me and my esteem for the old ways. However, I feel obligated to point out that these traditions of succession are modern traditions. From the oldest times, succession was determined by deeds and by strength. A king's son could only hold the throne if he were strong in his own right, not because of what his dead father had accomplished. Skyrim was built on the strength of its kings. The Empire was built on Nord strength, for Talos himself was one of us. It was by the Empire's traditions that we set Torygg on his throne. May he find glory in Sovngarde forever, but tradition did not save him from Ulfric's Voice."
Several grumbles of protest sounded from the assembled company and Gallica glanced to the side in time to see Falk Firebeard, Elisif's steward, surreptitiously move a protective hand to his liege's elbow. The girl's expression had not changed, but her face had gone dreadfully pale and Gallica could well imagine what must be going through her mind. The young queen had loved her king dearly. It was well known that theirs had been a marriage of love as well as politics and the reminder of how Torygg had died was likely to press upon wounds that were still fresh. Though she remained passive, it was clear that Elisif did not thank Balgruuf kindly for bringing up Ulfric. Gallica could well imagine the scowl forming on Tullius' face, too, though she could not see it from where she stood.
"Are we to assume that you're putting yourself forward as a candidate, Balgruuf?" Igmund asked impatiently, his face still creased in an affronted frown from the barb Idgrod had flung at him earlier.
"No," Balgruuf replied, shaking his head. "I seek no other position for myself than my highseat in Whiterun. I come today to champion another."
"This should be entertaining," muttered Siddgeir with a smirk, but he was ignored this time.
The air of the chamber was dense with questions and mounting tension.
"Well, don't keep us in suspense," Idgrod replied, grinning in such a way that the reality of what was happening finally dawned on Gallica.
Whatever Balgruuf was about to say, the mad old seeress was in on it as well. This was a setup between the two of them. For what purpose? Legally, there was no one with a better claim than Elisif. Who could they possibly introduce as a rival if neither Jarl had an interest in elevating themselves?
Gallica felt her blood freeze an instant later as Balgruuf turned, looked her dead in the eye from across the council chamber, and pointed right at her.
"There is only one viable choice for High Queen of Skyrim - by tradition, by right, and by necessity - and she stands before us here in this chamber. I nominate the Dragonborn. There is no other that I will happily follow."
A roar of voices, all spilling over each other at once, erupted across the hall.