Hello! This is my redone version of a story I had wrote a few years back and had partially uploaded on my old account "David Demeter". It is a sort of mash-up of elements of George RR Martin's "A Song of Ice and Fire"/HBO's "Game of Thrones" and other such political drama's, but in the world of Elder Scrolls. I hope you like it! Thanks for reading and feel free to leave a review. Constructive criticism is, as always, appreciated.
A Rewriting of "The Elder Scrolls: Civil War"
It is a time of revolution and tyranny, defiance and resilience, hope and war. Two hundred and fifty years have passed since the death of Ulfric Stormcloak and the destruction of his Rebellion. The Empire, under House Meade of the Imperial City, lost sway over Skyrim some fifty years later, under the great Brunwulf the Northern Wolf, during Brunwulfs Rebellion. But, Brunwulf has now been dead for some one hundred and seventy years, and all of his line now lay in the ground with him. Across the frozen tundra and lush green forests of Skyrim, Jarls make the pilgrimage to Solitude to elect the next High King- but darker forces grow beneath the shroud of peace, and destruction is coming to the Fatherland.
Part One
The Kingsmoot
The Jarls of Skyrim-
Kyrtis Trevelyan the Second, Jarl of Windhelm-and-Eastmarch
Arren Free, Jarl of Dawnstar-and-The Pale
Jon Snowborn the First, Jarl of Whiterun-and-Whiterun Hold
Decimus Kinzelus, Jarl of Falkreath-and-Falkreath Hold
Irri Silvercrow, Jarl of Morthal-and-Hjaalmarch
Makin Silver-Blood, Jarl of Markarth-and-The Reach
Irgwyn Black-Briar, Jarl of Riften-and-The Rift
Dengeir Free-Winter, Jarl of Winterhold-and-Winterhold Hold
I, Jarl Decimus Kinzelus of Falkreath, rode forward atop my dark grey, ornery mare, my eyes burning and my breathing hard as the rain fell down harder and harder onto me and my party. Haafingar wasn't known for its hospitable countryside, but then again, neither was Skyrim. My party was a small one; myself, and three Falkreath guardsmen, riding along the cold, stone roads north out of my forested hold, into the capital of the Fatherland, which I'd visited more than once in my life. I was twenty-eight, hardly the youngest Jarl of Skyrim, but far from the oldest, as well. In Skyrim, my father used to tell me, a man is judged not by his age, or his name, but by the strength of his steel, the valor of his heart, and the courage he wields to face his enemy. My father was a good man. More than once, I'd struggled to see myself as even half his worth.
My party came into view of Solitude, the mountain fortress that had served as the High King's seat for thousands of years, since before the days of the Empire, or even the days of Mankind's supremacy. My second-in-command, the gruff, no-nonsense Nord Burren, called to me from his stallion, riding only a few paces behind me.
"We ought to make it to the Blue Palace by nightfall, my Jarl." His voice was rough and weathered, just like the elder warrior's face.
"Aye. Continue the pace, lads." I said back, and heard Burren grunt in response. Burren was a man of few words, but he was easily one of the best warriors in the whole of western Skyrim.
Traveling along the weary, old roads of Haafingar made me think on how I'd arrived at this point in my life. I was the second-born son of the former Jarl of Falkreath, my father, the honorable Marcius Kinzelus, who had served the former High King Argyle, the Northern Wolf's great-grandson. My father was a wise man, with a firm voice and a level-head, which my brother, Regillus, possessed as well. Regillus was always meant to be Jarl, not me; Regillus was a handsome man, with thick black hair, piercing hazel eyes, and a voice as hard as steel or as soft as silk, when he wanted it to be. He was my better in everything; as boys he always learned faster, always ran quicker, always rode harder. The local girls loved him. I had more than my share of consorts as a young lad, but it would always be Regillus who was the envy of every man, and desire of every woman. He made friends fast, and outsmarted enemies even faster. High King Argyle himself bore great love for Regillus, even taking him on as his Thane and most trusted adviser after me and my brother put down the Red Bandit Rebellion in my home Hold, after my father fell ill. I still remembered seeing Regillus riding off to serve Argyle.
That was the last time I ever saw my brother alive.
I was shook from my melancholy recollections by a shout from Burren.
"Riders approaching, my Jarl! They have the Royal Army standard!" His gruff voice shot my gaze forward, where a small party of Royal Army soldiers, clad in their gold-and-bronze armor and white half-helms, was riding towards us, down the mountain road.
"Hail, Jarl Kinzelus!" Shouted the lead rider, a clean-shaven young Nord with dark blond hair and pale blue iris'.
"Hello, friend." I said back, my voice slightly drowned out by the heavy rainfall overhead.
"We are here to escort you back to the city, milord." The lead rider said, his helmet off, resting in the hands of a younger rider, in bright leather armor. I mused the younger lad to be the lead rider's squire.
"We thank you, sir." I said back, a small, weary smile on my face as my party made our way closer to theirs, as they wheeled their horses about, facing back up the road. Together, we began making our way up the mountain. Solitude was growing nearer and nearer, and far below, I spied the large, bustling docks of the city.
"You are the first Jarl to arrive, milord. I'd have thought Jarl Arren Free of Dawnstar to have made it here first, but it seems he had some trouble on the north road." The lead guard said to me, his horse a few feet ahead of my own.
"What manner of trouble?" I asked the armored man, and he turned his head slightly, his eyes locking with my own. The sound of the rain thundering against the helmets of his fellow Royal Army soldiers drowned out much of our words, and so he spoke louder.
"Nothing of any great import, milord. Mostly, twas the weather that has delayed him. It seems winter is setting in in Dawnstar much sooner than here in Haafingar, or even in Eastmarch." The man said, looking forward once more. In the distance, I heard an eagle cry out loudly, and crunching sounded from besides the road, where a rabbit ran from the sound of our horses hooves thundering against the road.
"I'd expect if it is bad in Dawnstar, it will only be worse in Winterhold. Jarl Dengeir will be greatly delayed." I said absentmindedly, and saw the soldier beside me bristle, his hands grasping the reins tighter.
"That won't be a matter, my Jarl." He began. "Jarl Dengeir isn't riding here for the Kingsmoot." He said, his voice quieter again, his eyes distant.
"What? Why?" I asked, angrily. Around my neck, my furs were drenched from the rain, and I could feel the cold winds bury themselves into my bones. It was cold in Falkreath, but it was much colder here, especially under the downpour of rain.
"Jarl Dengeir wished for no part of the politics of power here in Solitude, my Jarl." The soldier began, his dark blonde hair sticking to his forehead. "He seemed most at odds with the idea of a Kingsmoot, and most at odds with the idea of seeing the other Jarls."
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. "Winterhold has always been a kingdom unto itself," I said, my voice heavy "And Dengeir Free-Winter has always been a man unto himself."
"Indeed, my Jarl. I tried, repeatedly, to change his mind, but he seemed quite set in his ways." The soldier said, tiredly. "With all due respect to Jarl Dengeir, of course." He quickly corrected, causing me to chuckle.
"Fear not for all due respect to Free-Winter, lad. He's a fine warrior, and a better leader than most, but I've never known the man to care much for the weight of words." After a few moments, I sighed and spoke once more. "The other Jarls won't be happy about Dengeir refusing to come."
"Do you think they'll force him to come, my Jarl?" The soldier asked, and I shook my head.
"Doubtless, they'll be more at odds with having to wait for a Kingsmoot, than they will be at him not coming. The Jarls of Skyrim have much in common, albeit much more that differentiate them, but one thing they all see to agree on is the need for immediate action, with whatever problems that arise. They'll have words for him, I'm sure, but ultimately, they'll convene the moot with or without him." I said, looking at the younger man before me. "What's your name, lad?"
"Alecsxandr Jory, milord. Legate of the First Battalion of the Royal Army." He said.
"A legate, eh?" I said. "An impressive title. I've never known the Royal Army to choose their officers poorly. Well met." I said, extending my hand. Gratefully, he took it, and we shook hands.
"Likewise, my Jarl."
Together, our two parties rode into the gates of Solitude, and down the winding roads of the large, walled city, to the doorstep of the beautiful Blue Palace.