Chapter 12: WhiterunSolace's POV

Loki and I take the route through Riverwood, our horses burling through the small town and startling the blacksmith into dropping his hammer with a clatter. Over the thunder of our horses hooves I can hear a familiar shout.

"Solace!"

I lean back sharply, stopping Arvak. The undead steed groans and his bony frame rattles at the sudden halt. Loki reigns in Shadowmere to prevent collision with Arvak and I. Shadowmere rears back, frustrated at the now dead pace.

"Solace! What trouble have you found?"

The voice sounds again, drawing my attention to the male bosmer running in my direction with a simple hunting bow strapped to his back. Faendal. His hair appeared whiter than ever in the sunlight, contrasting nicely with his large, almond eyes and darkly tanned skin.

He is sprinting at Loki and I, and as he reaches Arvak's side he doubles over, breathing heavily.

Not having the time to spare, I speak before he catches his breath, "Faendal! I haven't much time. The Imperials, and likely the Stormcloaks, are preparing to march on Whiterun. I will prevent this, but I need you to prepare. The soldiers will not be pleased with their failure, and Riverwood is en-route to both Stormcloak and Imperial camps."

Faendal stands up straight and declares, "Let me accompany you! It would be an honor to fight by your side once more!"

"No," I return, "You must stay here. I do not speak ill of your skills, but this will not be a small bandit skirmish. Besides, this town needs you more than I."

Without waiting for a reply, I click my tongue; setting Arvak back to his previous pace. So, With a squeal and rattle of bones from our masterful steeds, we clatter out of town and over the bridge.

I feel impatience as we rush around the foliage, the scenery a blur of color only the sharpest eyes can discern. I Count every step until I reach the bend that turns into the downhill road to Whiterun. Finally! As the foliage breaks I guide Arvak into a sharp turn. His hooves dig into the soft dirt and he leans so far to the left that I can touch the road if I reach out my hand.

When Arvak rights himself I turn back to see if Loki makes the turn. To my slight surprise, he drives Shadowmere expertly into an exact emulation of my horsemanship.

Shadowmere levels and as I start to look away, Loki catches my attention by shouting my name and pointing ahead of me. When I look to see what he gestured to, my heart nearly stops in worry. Two armies, about 100 to 150 each, both stand on opposite sides of the road into the city. The stormcloaks and Imperials have already arrived. They stand still, not at the city gates but nearby at the stables.

I curse in Dovahzuul as we clatter over the cobblestone bridge and pass the farms. Hopefully not too much damage has been done. I urge Arvak even harder, well past the point of death for any normal steed. The soldiers draw their swords and cry out in alarm as we approached rapidly. The sight we portrayed is surely gastly; two armoured beings riding in on monstrous steeds. We look like death itself, and if these soldiers crossed me, I would be their death. However, I ignore my urge to slaughter all of the pesky, tiny, mortals that threaten my home and pass them by without a second glance.

The city gates are just ahead, and I contemplate slowing down, but disregard the notion. I don't have time to walk through town. I need to get to Dragonsreach, now, and the gate is closed to horses. I growled. Not my problem. The gates nervous guards are startled into dropping their shields. I hear one yell halt, but in reply I move the cloth covering my mouth and Shout.

"Fus Ro!"

The shout tears from my lips and hits the main gate with great force, slamming it open and nearly removing it from it's hinges. I trample onto the cobblestone street, grateful everyone chose to remain inside. Not slowing in the slightest, I make my way through the empty market and pass the oak and cobblestone houses. Dragonsreach in sight, I realize my next obstacles, the stairs, and the doors at the top of them. My horses are sure footed and can make quick work of the stairs, and the doors...they seem big enough.

Jarl Balgruuf's POV(3rd)

Jarl Balgruuf sits in his throne with his fingers pressed to his temple. He has a persistent ache thumping against his skull, frustrating him further than he already was. Before him stands the two that are the cause of his stress and frustration; Legate Rikke of the Imperial army, and Galmar Stone-Fist of the Stormcloak rebellion. He lets out a sigh as a testament to all of his troubles. Originally he would be worried about his lack of decorum, but his guests had lost all sense of professionalism within minutes of being in each other's presence, and were so involved in their squabbling that they don't even notice his lack of propriety.

"If Whiterun were in the hands of Ulfric the Pretender, it would fall to ruin! Just look at the state of his own province! Jarl Balgruuf won't let him ruin his city as well!"

"Do not slander the name of the rightful king! Whiterun is a true Nord city, and Jarl Balgruuf a true Nord! He knows it belongs to its people!"

"Its people you say? I don't remember Whiterun ever being yours by home province, or residence! Skyrim is part of the Empire, and therefore Whiterun is rightfully ours!"

"The Empire let us down! Skyrim will have her freedom! For Talos!"

"For Talos!? Ha! More like for that wannabe-king-Ulfric."

"Ulfric won against Torygg fair and square in his Rite of Combat! He is the TRUE KING! Balgruuf respects the olde ways and understands this!"

Legate Rikke and Galmar Stone-Fist argue back and forth vehemently, choosing to insult and degrade the other side rather than persuade the Jarl to their side. Jarl Balgruuf feels insulted that General Tullius and Ulfric sent bloodthirsty soldiers instead of cool-headed politicians, and further insulted that they are both stating their ideals as if they were his! It was clear to him that both sides believe they are right with so much conviction that they expect him to share their opinion.

Balgruuf is growing tired of their childish behavior, but unsure how to move forward. He cannot accept either alliance for fear of being destroyed by the other, but neither can he refuse both. Both armies are at his doorstep; if he sent both away he would have to fight both armies with nothing but his guards, who are little more than retired adventurers.

Luckily for Jarl Balgruuf, help arrives; and with the most dramatic of entrances.

With a large bang that causes Dragonsreach to tremor, the doors of the palace slam open; startling the residents within. Jarl Balgruuf stands in alarm as his guards, his housecarl, and his guests draw their weapons in defense.

To everyone's shock, in comes two riders on horrifying steeds. They roll in with a thunderous fury, straight towards Rikke and Galmar with alarming speed. Everyone tenses and the Imperial and Stormcloak guard their faces and extend their weapons expecting to be pummeled. Jarl Balgruuf shields his face as well and crouches low; hoping to be spared from the hooves of the large beasts.

As soon as the chaos began, it abruptly ends,and hearing silence instead of pain induced screams, Balgruuf looks up. The steed of bones stands still, inches from Legate Rikke, and the steed of darkness stands adjacent to the boned one, inches from Galmar Stone-Fist. Both stand unnaturally still, as if they hadn't just been running but rather have been there all along. The Captains of the opposing sides stumble back in fear.

Jarl Ulfric, however, is instantly relieved upon the sight, for upon one of the steeds a familiar female figure sits regally.

"Dragonborn!" he says happily; unable to resist a grin at how quickly things turned to his favor.

The Dragonborn turns her head from Legate Rikke and nods at him in respect. She dissmounts her steed, and it falls into the ground with a high-pitched scream; causing the two in front of her to jump and point their weapons in her direction.

"You are interfering with Imperial business! Leave!" the Legate says authoritatively.

Galmar shifts on his feet, not willing to attack or demand anything from a prophesied Nord legend until knowing her intentions.

"She has more right than you to be here!"Jarl balgruuf states loudly; grasping the Dragonborn's arm as she approaches.

The Dragonborn's companion stays mounted on his steed and watches over the room with a sharp eye.

"As a meeting concerning Whiteruns fate, this only concerns the Jarl!" Rikke persists and Galmar grunts with a sneer, everyone unsure if he is agreeing or disagreeing.

Jarl Balgruuf declares ,"As she is Thane of Whiterun, I have every right to hold her counsel! She stays and that is the end of it!" , allowing a bit of his anger to seep into the words.

The Legate snarls in a very unladylike way and sheaths her sword; Galmar sheathing his own weapon while both cast wary glances in the other rider's direction.

"What about him?" Galmar questions.

The dragonborn's head snaps to the Stormcloak,"He's with me," She says, her hidden gaze flickering from him to Rikke, daring them to refute her.

Galmar Stone-Fist scowls, and crosses his arms across his chest.

"Jarl Balgruuf," he grunts, "Hasn't made a decision."

Legate Rikke chimed in with her condescending tone, "And what, pray tell, do you advise mighty Thane?"

The Dragonborn turns back to the Jarl Balgruuf and says in cool, crisp manner, "My Jarl, perhaps we can discuss our option thoroughly and reconvene with our guests tomorrow. As you can tell by my abrupt entrance, I have crucial news to share."

Neither Galmar or Rikke seemed to like the idea, but with a forced, "fine," from the Imperial and a terse, "Choose well," from the Stormcloak, they stomped out of Dragonsreach; the tension in the room leaving with them.

As soon as the outsiders are gone, Solace speaks.

"What do you have in mind?"

"Pardon?" Jarl Balgruuf asks, confused.

"We have two armies at our door. What do you want to do about it?" she returns very business-like.

Jarl Balgruuf sighs loudly and shakes his head unsuredly.

Jarl Balgruuf's housecarl, Irileth, steps forward, "My Jarl, If I may? Perhaps we should gather your brother, the wizard, and your steward and all move upstairs?"

Jarl Balgruuf nods his affirmation, "Yes, of course. Irileth, find the others, we'll meet you there."

The dragonborn looks to her companion, "Care to join us Loki? We need as many sharp minds as we can get."

Balgruuf observes his Thane's new companion, having been to immersed in the chaos to do so before.

He wears strange armor, that looks to be mostly black leather with green accents, and a golden metal more brilliant than elven armor. He himself looks to be the palest imperial he ever laid eyes on, with raven hair combed back neatly and eyes an unusual shade of green. His lean frame sits with poise, and looks to be tall, but as he is on the horse, it is difficult to discern.

The man dismounted the stallion and gestured ellegantly, "Lead the way."

The now obviously tall man follows as Jarl Balgruuf and the Dragonborn make their way up the stairs and into a spacious area with a rectangular table covered nearly entirely by a map of Skyrim; little red and blue flags marking various locations.

Jarl Balgruuf, Loki, and the dragonborn gather around the table and are soon joined by the Steward Proventus Avenicci, Hrongar, Balgruuf's brother and Thane, Farengar Secret-Fire, the Court Wizard, and Irileth.

Once everyone was gathered around, The dragonborn started, "Now, about our unwanted guests…"