Author's Note: First off, I want to tell you that this chapter is the beginning of something potentially quite big. Something that will cover a lot of characters, a lot of locations and a lot of time. Completely uncanonical, of course, but all references to cultures and past rulers, etc, are lore-friendly. It's just speculation about what might have happened after the events of Skyrim. Kind of political, inspired partly by 'Game of Thrones' (the books, not the tv series, else this fic would have an M rating ;)). Please please PLEASE don't hesitate to leave feedback or contact me, and constructive criticism is more than welcome. I'm actually begging you for it! Oh, and the Dragonborn /isn't/ the centre of attention, for once, but I'm sure he's out there somewhere. Maybe he'll turn up later?
Thankyou for reading :)
None of them could have known how bad things were going to get. If they had, they would have called off the hunt there and then, and left the Stormcloaks to die of thirst in the Dragontail mountains. But Tullius's fierce pride wouldn't let go. "We must show them that raising arms against the Empire means death. Unconditionally!" he'd said, and wouldn't be persuaded otherwise.
Legate Octavian Lucian Gallenus had won numerous victories against the Stormcloaks during the war, so it was he that Tullius was sending after them. A hard man, in his forties now and greying a bit, he was the one who'd led the contingent to victory against the Stormcloak repercussion in the Reach. Following the Battle of Windhelm, where the Empire killed Ulfric and his most loyal Stormcloaks, the remaining Stormcloaks had looped around to the south, with the intention of storming Solitude and killing Tullius and Jarl Elisif, but Octavian and his men intercepted them at Dragonbridge. The Stormcloaks charged over the Dragonbridge, but they were fatigued by their forced march, and were easily defeated. The rest of the army fled across the Reach and into Hammerfell. The Imperials cheered; they thought the war was over for them. But no.
Tullius was sending them after them.
Octavian entered Castle Dour the day before he was supposed to leave. It's quieter in here these days, he remarked. Only Tullius was in there, in his office, poring over some document that was pressed with the Imperial seal. One last try, he thought. One last attempt to change the general's mind.
"General?" he said.
Tullius looked up sharply. "Oh, it's you, Legate." He relaxed. The general had been on edge even more than usual, these last few years. "What do you want?"
"Sir… This business with the Stormcloaks…"
Tullius held up a hand. "I've heard enough about this already. You know what my answer will be, so save your breath."
"Sir, what about Cyrodiil? With the Emperor murdered, shouldn't we be sending men south? To help the council secure the province?"
"What do you think the other legions are doing? Since half the damned provinces left, there are more than enough legionaries to go around. Our task is to hold Skyrim, and by the Eight, I intend to do it."
"The Dragontails are harsh, unforgiving terrain –"
"I said I've heard enough! I won't rest, not while a single Stormcloak lives. I want their gods-damned heads, Legate. They've led us on this chase for nigh-on a decade. It's time to end it."
"It's just too dangerous, sir. No doubt they'll have Forsworn guides to lead them through the mountains – you know how little love the Forsworn have for the Empire," Octavian said.
"They have even less for the Nords," Tullius argued.
"Yes, but desperate times make desperate allies, and King Madanach is unpredictable. I wouldn't be surprised if he throws his lot in with the rebels. If the Stormcloaks hide in the mountains and wait for us to chase, supported by the Forsworn, they'll ambush us and wipe us out, then head straight for Solitude."
That gave the general pause. He pored over the maps of Hammerfell and Skyrim that had been pushed together, scanning the roads and routes through the Reach and Dragontail mountains with his finger. He followed it up to Solitude, pausing slightly as he went over Dragonbridge. Eventually he shook his head. "We destroyed them at the Battle of Windhelm. Their king-"
"Jarl, sir," Legate Octavian corrected.
"Yes, Jarl, king, whatever he is, he's dead. So they'll be disheartened. We stopped their final push at the Battle of Dragonbridge after that, too. Damn it, if only we'd taken Jarl Ralof's head there and then!" He slammed his hand on the table. "I will not give up Ralof's body to the deserts of Hammerfell. I want him here as a symbol. I won't let him win, damn it."
"Sir, let it go. He's gone. The civil war is over."
"No. No. We will hunt them down."
"You forget that the Dragontails are in Hammerfell, and Hammerfell is no longer an Imperial province-"
"And you forget your place, Legate! I want them dead, and that is an order. Please, Octavian – I can't afford to have you against me on this." He sighed heavily. "It's been five years since the Battle of Windhelm, since we killed Ulfric. By the Eight, I thought the war was over then." He rolled the maps up with a sense of finality. "I want those rebels dead so I can give the rule of this backwards province back to Jarl Elisif, and retire in peace. This war has gone on too long already. End it for me."
This was the side of the general that no-one else saw. Behind that harsh exterior, ever-strong, ever-powerful, was a tired, ageing man that wanted nothing to do with the war anymore. The usual contortions of stress were carved into his face – the stress of his position that had already turned him grey before he was fifty. This job would age him ten years before he was finally granted his retirement. Eventually Octavian saluted. "It will be done, my general."
"Good... good. And Legate?"
"Yes, general?"
"Bring me his head so I can spit on it. Five years he's led me on this chase. I want my revenge."
"Yes, general." Octavian left the keep.