Chapter three: A Hearthfire homecoming

Beric II

"So, no shit, there I was. Standing on the side of this mountain in Solstheim, lost and looking for this damned White Ridge Barrow and Durag just turns to me asks me if I see a ship. Now, we've been walking for like eight hours through the snow up this damned mountain by now so I think he's finally lost it for good from the cold and lack of sleep and food. But then he said 'no, no, no the wreckage of a ship' As though that makes things clearer!"

They were all sat on benches and chairs, crowded round the open central hearth in the main hall of the Dragonborn's sprawling Kyne's Rest estate, safe in Whiterun's prosperous Wind District. Horns of mead and goblets of wine stayed close to hand as they listened to Beren tell his story, punctuating his words with his sloshing cup of Black-Briar Reserve, his cheeks flushed from the drink to match his guests as they listened with alcoholic attentiveness. The high doomed roof above them was hidden from sight as the fire burnt lower. The feast was over. The servants circled quietly, removing the last of the piled plates and dishes from the tables behind Beren's closely crowded family and friends. They were joined by others, prosperous members of Whiterun, some thanes and even a few members of the Jarl's Court had been invited, and all gathered close to listened to the story he told by flickering candlelight. Safe behind locked doors. For it was Tales and Tallows eve, and that night the dead walked the streets and stalked the houses of the living.

"Well what was it then?" Durag interjected, bald head shining in the flickering firelight.

"Hold on I'm getting to that!" Beren roared back. "you see- Durag and his father have got this theory that the Dwarves used to fly around the sky like boats on the sea. 'Air-ships' if you like, held up by inflated bladders or balloons or something like that. So, they've been wandering Skyrim for years trying to find and rebuild one for themselves." This provoked a chorus of good-natured jeers as Durag half stood and inarticulately tried to defended himself before being dragged down.

"It is a well-established fact that the Dwemer had airships an-"

"Flying orc berserkers? The ground-based ones are dangerous enough!" Lydia cut in to cheers and laughs, putting an awkward grin on Durag's face.

"This all sounds like Ysolda in the Bannered Mare, with her stories of flying cities and singing trees after she's had more than a few horns of mead." Beric put in, waving the story away jokingly.

"Why would they fly if they live underground and have Blackreach?" Serana asked quizzically, before hiccupping and blushing.

"Hush!" Aela scolded them all before Durag could answer. "Let him finish the story."

"Yes! Thank you my dear. So, we're all tied one by one to this rope to prevent us from getting lost in the snow and wind, and Durag just goes running off yelling, which means we all have to follow. So now we're all being pulled along this mountainside by a hallucinating Orc."

"Hey, what did we find when we got there?" Durag yelled pointedly.

"About a million of those little bastard Reiklings." Beren retorted

"And their javelins" Beric added

"And their boars" Lydia prompted, throwing a log onto the fire in a shower of sparks.

"And their javelins and their boars" Beren corrected himself, hoping to move on.

"What's a Reikling?" Erik asked curious.

"It's a goblin." Lydia said dismissively, which again provoked another furious round of shouting. Goblets were waved, wine was sloshed and horns were downed and refilled before the issue was settled and order was again restored by Aela, the soberest of them all. Beren put down his horn and picked up the tale with both hands.

"SHUT UP! Right. So, we're now trying to get into line abreast, while fighting our way uphill, in a snow storm, all tied together on a single rope, and suddenly Durag just starts screaming like he's been hit and falls headfirst into a snowdrift. And Beric, the only one of us who knows his way around a healing spell starts wind milling his arms and legs through the knee-deep snow to get to him, meanwhile Serana's running about the other way shooting ice at the little snow devils, which might as well have been snowballs for all the good it was doing. Now between them is Aela- my ever-suffering and ever-loving wife-" good hearted cheers were raised at this and Aela stood and toasted them all with her cup. "She's got her longbow out, and she's losing arrows, and loosing away, and dodging javelins, and being useful. Meanwhile, neither Serana or Beric are paying any attention to anything else as they run at angles away from each other, so the rope just snaps taught and BAM!" He yells happily cracking his hand together. "whips Aela right off her feet." Roars of laughed filled the hall from floor to roof at this, as Serana and Beric turned red and were jostled by those seated around them.

"So I've made my way to Durag, and he's trying to pull himself up out the snow, just as Beric comes running in dragging Lydia and by now Serana on that damn rope, and he just grabs Durag by the shoulders, shakes him and yells full in his face 'DON'T WORRY MY FRIEND YOU'RE GOING TO BE JUST FINE' and then just stops and stares when he realises that we're just laughing our asses off because there's not a scratch on him, while behind him are Lydia and Serana, who've gotten up are now just covered head to foot in snow, looking like a pair of frost trolls and twice as angry. Meanwhile the Reiklings are still chuckling javelins and boars at us and Durag's again started screaming 'Look! Look!' again at the top of his lungs."

"And there it was-a Air ship! Broken into three pieces on the side of that mountain." Durag jumped in with his take on the punchline, standing proudly, arms raised in victory and validation while good natured alcoholic boos rained down on him. Beric shook his head at this and stood, waving Durag back down.

"Miraak separated Solstheim from the rest of Skyrim, that would have caused huge waves. Waves big enough to carry a ship up a mountainside, and then the cold preserved it where it crashed." Hrongar, Farengar and Proventus behind him nodded, and a few others murmured their agreement. It seemed far more logical that 'air-ships' or some other nonsense.

"No, it was an Air-ship" Durag spoke fervently.

"Any chance of finding those balloons?" Serana teased.

"Uh…no, but my father whose there now says the damage to the air-ship was extensive and…" they booed again and pulled him down at this. With the story presumed over, conversation resumed, loud and boisterous at first as similar adventures and old stories were retold, then slowly easing as the excitement left them and the march of time wearied their limbs. Erik yawned as he toasted a slice of bread over the fire, and many others joined him, or else refiled the cups for one last drink. A professionally trained and expensive bard sang beautifully in old nordic. She had a fine voice and was skilled with her lyre, and they listened in respectful silence to the haunting melody as she sang of old atmora.

Drowsy now, they slipped away slowly, one by one, some upstairs to their own rooms, guests to their houses. All to their warm beds, now that the feast was over and the tales were told. Beren and Aela guided the Thanes and Jarl's Court guests to the door, where the guests were joined by their bodyguards from the south wing kitchens before disappearing into the night. Lydia went around the house after the guests left to check that the bolts on the doors were locked for the night and then left for bed.

Aela sat with her husband, arms around each other's shoulders as they huddled close and stared into the fire. His and Aela's 'friendship' had always been strained since the winter two years ago, when he had returned covertly to Whiterun, Serana in tow, curious to meet his brother, now the man rumoured to be Dragonborn. He had arrived fresh from the Soul Cairn and Beren from wiping out the Glenmoril Coven. Both much changed and the worse for wear from their recent experiences. A difficult peace was forged that winter, and a superficial friendship had flourished between him and Aela, made easier by limited contact as much by accident as by choice.

The hall was quiet, and they were the only ones left staring into the fire in silence. They were all far away, the memory of that mountainside and its confusion was mixed. The events of that day had been a muddle of exhaustion, chaos and fear as they had repeatedly gotten lost looking for that Barrow. The fight had been dangerous, and ill-judged, and the humour that coloured their memories was as much relief as disbelief at their survival in mostly one piece. Relief, the passage of time, and a good deal of alcohol had dulled its pains and sharped the humour of the situation.

"I appreciate you staying on, for a while." Beren said suddenly, taking a sip from his horn, before placing it on the floor and taking up Aela's hand in his own. He squeezed it affectionately as she looked on uneasy.

"Thanks." Beric said simply, taken by surprise.

"I know that you had other plans. You and Serana. Winterhold. Studying magic like you always dreamed." He said inarticulately.

"it's fine." Beric cut him off.

"No. Just…just listen for a minute. I know."

"It's fine." He said, getting up to leave.

"It was an accident, you know. Aela getting pregnant." Beren blurted out blushing and awkward at the omission. Aela blushed pink at this and fidgeted awkwardly, unable to make eye contact.

"…Well, these things have a habit of happening." Beric stood, rooted to the spot.

"I don't want you to feel trapped- like you have to stay."

"No, I want to be here, there's so much work to be done." Beric reassured him, suddenly self-conscious. "and I'm….I'm never going to have children. I want to be there to see my niece or nephew born, before we go. I want to hold that child in my arms." Aela did not particularly look keen at this, but Beren didn't see it and nodded fiercely, relief on his face.

"You were right- earlier. If I was worried about Aela I should-."

"We wouldn't have let anything happen to her." He said, steel in his voice. Beren stood as relief washed over his face.

"Good."

"Good."

"When are you going to make it public?"

"A month or two. When it starts to show and we know for sure." Aela stated simply, he stared at her flat stomach hidden under her feast finery, it seemed almost impossible to image her pregnant, sitting by the fire in a few months with a swollen belly.

"Good." They stood there awkwardly.

Suddenly Beric pulled Beren into a headlock, he flailed awkwardly in his grip, fist painful rubbing the top of his head as he lectured him.

"You fucker! I thought I taught you better than that! Come on! Accident my arse, you horrible little boy." Laughter and yells filled the hall from widely grinning faces as the two brothers wrestled like children. Beren wrestled free, and they froze, then suddenly pulled each other into a bear hug. Exhausted and exhilarated, they broke free.

"what are you going to do after the child is born?"

"I am going to raise them like I was. Take them into the forest, teach them to hunt with spear and bow, how to track, just like my Ma did for me. Beren will teach them how to read, how to fight, how to lead. Together, we will raise a child fit to undertake the trials to join the companions." Aela stated this simply, and he did not miss that he was omitted from having any role in raising the child. She stared at him, almost daring him to challenge her, and he decided not to make an issue of it. They sat there for a while longer, all three of them, chatting quietly until they could stay awake decently no longer, and went to bed.

Beric woke uneasily, the bonds of sleep dropping from his body like loosened iron fetters. Whatever bloody nightmares had troubled his rest deserted his mind as the present filled the void those frightful fleeting visions left. He cracked his eyes open momentarily tense, taking in the still unfamiliar surroundings, then relief filled him as distant memories returned to reassure. It was early, well before sunrise, judging from the lack of light filtering through the shuttered window. He closed his eyes again and relaxed. Nestled in his small but comfortable bed. Home, such as it was, Home, he told himself firmly. He lay wrapped in fine clean sheets spun from tundra cotton, tucked under a thick quilt with his head buried in a well stuffed feather pillow. He pulled the bedclothes close around him and allowed his mind to wander, savouring these forgotten luxuries. His room smelt clean and fresh from the herb-sprig filled bowl that sat by the shuttered window. His head was still filled with the general goodwill that follows a few rounds of drinks, tempered with fuzzy memories and mixed feelings.

It was a shame we had started drinking like that, he thought guiltily. It was a shame we had to stop at all, another replied. Outside the house this early in the morning the city of Whiterun was yet to awaken properly, and the thick walls muffled all sounds. Inside the house had settled during the night, and was also yet to stir. He felt at peace and restful, safe and secure in a manner he had not felt for far too long. He relaxed, and dozed for a long moment more, remembering their return to Whiterun more than a week ago.

Beren had pulled him away shortly after the assault upon Halted Stream Camp had finished for a quiet apology and an explanation. The news of Aela's pregnancy, imparted in secret, made the two-day journey home feel like the work of an instant. He floated home, giddily as a youth on their name day. They had arrived at the Whiterun gates after nightfall, hurried on by watchful gate guards straight to Dragonsreach, where they handed Frothar over to his grateful father in the grandeur of the main hall. The handover had been without ceremony, as they had outpaced news of their arrival.

Balgruuf hugged the boy deeply, eyes crinkling with emotion as he saw the bandage Beric had applied to his hand. He sent his servants and guards scurrying with a stream of commands, calling for physicians and hurrying Frothar away, while politely begging their forgiveness for leaving them awhile. In the meantime, the hospitality of his hall was extended to them as servants opened casks of mead and a few bottles of good wine to slake their thirst. Exhausted and saddle-sore they at once sunk into chairs and onto benches, legs stretched before them. A trio of bards, hastily woken and grumbling had struck up a pleasant air from the gallery on lyre, drum and flute, and shortly afterwards the hall was filled with the smell of food as a couple of small lidded pots and an array of platters was placed upon the table for them. The hall was filled with the smell of bread, warmed pottage and hot spiced wine. They thanked the servants profusely, waving away their apologies for the quality of the food, understanding that the hour was late, and proffering their cups to be refilled for compensation.

Not wanting to look rude, Beric fished out a few pieces of meat from a small helping, and then abandon his place at the table, to stretch his cramped legs, he explained. He walked easily, filling his time with easy conversation at random, taking in the wall hangings and elegant carving of the wooden panelling and pillars of the hall while drinking a few cups of good warmed spice wine, imported at great expense from solitude. He pointed out the great skull above the throne to Erik, who scurried in excitement to view it at a closer but respectable distance. He had just finished chatting with Farengar, telling him of his intention to live in Whiterun for the next year, and being warned against 'reopening old wounds to repay old scores' when Balgruuf returned.

The tension and relief on his face was been readily visible, and he pulled them all into bear like hugs, ignoring Irileth's warnings about assassins. He even managed to pull Serana into an embrace, and pumped Erik's arm in a way that had left them both red faced and blushing before pulling away and seating himself securely upon the throne of the hold. Servants circled discretely, re-filling their cups while Balgruuf encouraged them to tell the tale of the rescue. Beren, always a skilled storyteller, brought the tale to life. Balgruuf looked satisfied, and assured them that their reward of 2,000 golden Septims would be organised by Proventus and delivered under armed guard with the next few weeks. Then, with exhaustion and relief gripping their limbs, they politely excused themselves after a natural pause in the conversation signalled that their meeting was at an end.

The gentle tinkling of an enchanted bell hanging from a frame on his night stand forced Beric from his reverie, and despite several times stilling its clapper back into silence its insistent little chimes could not be denied forever. He groaned, stretched, groaned again, and reluctantly pulled himself from his bed. Naked, he crossed the narrow floor of his room to the washbasin that stood beside the dresser and wardrobe. He washed, and speculatively ran his hands over his face, and decided to shave tomorrow. He dressed quickly, automatically even, in the clothing in the fashion of Whiterun merchants. Comfortable black leggings and a blue shirt with golden thread edging, coupled with a dark dyed leather jerkin. Last a pair of highly polished oxblood cuffed boots, and a belt, heavy with his ebony roundel dagger and a small pouch for loose change completed the look.

The days were fast becoming routine despite the manic pace of the city. Whiterun was in the grip of festival season, the streets filled with festival goers as Harvest End filled the streets a day after their arrival, closely followed by Tales and Tallows. With that holiday over, preparations were now intensifying for Jeek's Day, to be held on the Seventh of Hearthfire. They celebrated around their work as best they could. All mornings Serana and Beric discretely sorted through endless paperwork, while between sunrise and late morning Erik, Beren, Lydia and Aela chopped firewood, ran the seven-mile circuit of the walls in full armour and practiced swordplay and archery. Their late morning was filled with paperwork and administration. In the afternoon Serana and Beric practiced their own swordplay and magic in the coolness of the large training hall that formed the ground floor of the East Wing, while the rest held court in the main hall or the office, receiving petitioners or granting private audiences as the case may be, often stretching into the early evening. A later dinner marked the end of the day, and often they would all gather around the fire of the main hall drinking a horn or cup or two and chatting away before retiring, exhausted, to bed. In this way the weeks had passed, and Last Seed slipped to Hearthfire.

Dressed, he left his room, walked down the corridor past Serana's and through the door to look from the gallery at the now bustling main hall below, where the last few remaining remnants from last night's festivities were being clean away by the estate's large household of servants and retainers. Tables with chairs and benches for seating were arranged around three sides of a large open-hearth fire, seating for the forty people they had entertained during last night's feast to mark Tales and Tallows. A pair of servants carried the remains of the spitted roast away while another teased a fire from the embers of the central firepit, preparing the room for the household's breakfast, still a few hours away. Other swept and mopped the floor, while more servants hurried past, carrying well water, plates and cutlery to dress the tables for breakfast. They appeared and disappeared via the large double doors in each of the four walls, marking the four compass aligned wings of the estate. Beric descended a staircase, nodded good mornings to their greetings as he crossed the hall and entered the west wing, moving down the hallway. The west wing was made up of three rooms arranged along a corridor, the first room was known as the map room, a magically secured meeting room named for its large wall hanging, the second room had been set up as an office, and the last as a library with a small alchemy set and enchanting laboratory, all hidden away from public eyes.

He entered the office, where a pair of windows opposite the door let in the faint rays of dawn, to which he added to with a touch of his fingers to the wicks of scattered candles. Handsome bookcases lined the walls, their shelves filled with books, scrolls, soul gems and assorted odds and sodds. Three larges solidly build desks of oak filled the room. Two arranged along the left-hand wall and one framed by the windows opposite the door, all looking inwards to the centre of the room where a faded Elsweyr rug lay before a large fireplace, cold for now. A small child's writing desk facing the wall and a pile of stacked firewood sat next to it.

Beric closed the door and walked past the desk closest to the door, upon which sat a small lockbox, two large leather-bound books, a neatly arranged writing set, and an abacus. Serana's late, he thought to himself in surprise as he picked up the sack of letters which Cassius Gallenus, the estate's steward, had hoarded in anticipation of their arrival. Half a year's worth of correspondence lay before him, courtesy of an extended campaign with an army manoeuvring in the wilderness of Skyrim, a pile which grew daily.

He collapsed into his chair and looked with the familiar creeping sense of early morning depression over the vacant desk space before him. Damn all couriers and their letters to oblivion, he though viciously. A large leather-bound blotter and a writing set sat in front of him, along with a pair of tankards, one overfilled with bent and broken quills, and another with penknives and pencils. Besides that, the desk was empty, with large spaces cleared to the left and right. With a frown he reached down, pulled a number of letters out and began sorting them, checking seals, splitting them with a dragonbone letter opener and reading them one by one. He swore quietly in his mind. By all the Divines it was dull work!

The jingles of the estate's keys on Serana's hip announced her arrival a few hours later. The door creaked open and looking paler then usual (if such a thing were possible) she slouched into the room wearing a nicely fitting merchant's dress of cream and crimson, accompanied by the scent of her lavender and honeysuckle perfume, which was currently failing at hiding the smell of alcohol. Beric looked up from the mountain of correspondence that now filled the right-hand side of his desk, relieved to have something else to do. He dropped his quill into its pot and leant back in his chair hands folded behind his head as he savoured the display.

"So, how did you find last night?" he asked with an evil little grin.

Serana gave a non-committal groan and fell into her chair, dropping her head onto her desk. He reached over and poked her elbow. She groaned in answer but didn't move, and he poked her again a few times until she gave a half-hearted swot at his hand and turned her head to look at him. Resting the side of her face on the cool leather of her accounting books, one hand clearing the strands of hair from her face as her eyes cracked open blearily.

"I was counting on you to make my morning as painless as possible. I've already run into Beren and the rest of them on their way to morning training and had enough abuse from them." She answered in a pained whisper.

"No mercy this morning I'm afraid. What do you expect, when you, Lydia and Aela hide yourself away in the corner all night giggling at everything and calling for more wine?"

"I call that socialising."

"What I did was socialising."

"You spoke to the three biggest bores in Whiterun."

"Rubbish, I never spoke to Nazeem."

"Ugh." She groaned.

"Professional socialising." He correctly himself. She shuddered.

"I've heard other words for it." she said archly, reaching out feebly to poke him back with a slender finger, which he trapped and then let slide from his hand. "You should have joined us, we were having a great time, a couple bottles of wine for each of us. We would have made space for you. It would have been just like Solitude." She gave a pained smile, and then closed her eyes as she seemed to relived the memories of last night in her head. She had loved Solitude's culture while they were there last winter and again for a short time during the Moot, and had missed it deeply once they had left. She was now doubtless savouring her memories of the good wine and music, played by professional bards and not some tavern skald with more enthusiasm than skill. She spoke again, quieter. "Or perhaps you're worried that its…. unprofessional….to drink so much…worried about bad behaviour." Beric stilled for a moment, uneasy and flicked his eyes over to glance at the closed door, and weighed his next words with care.

"I'm a legion officer, drinking is a professional hazard. It would however be unprofessional to be hungover." He tried to inflect some of his previous levity into his words.

''Ugh".

"Well said."

"Ugh." She groaned again, and then sighed and sat up, defeatedly staring into space. She finally opened the ledgers before her and looked with little enthusiasm at the stories they told in numbers written in neat little lines, one ledger written all in black ink and other all in red.

Beric reached over and handed her letters one at a time, summarising their stories as they piled up upon her desk like autumn leaves.

"Charity cases." He explained by way of introduction as he spread the opened letters across her desk. "and Pensions for the outgoings, Ransoms and Rewards in. This one is Argis's disability pension, and this one the pension for Valdimar's family. This is a request from Whiterun's Grand Temple of Kynareth for funds. This letter is the response to our ransom demand from the family of Jod Stone-Breaker, Housecarl to the late Jarl Skald. Also expect 2,000 golden Septims to be delivered today by the Jarl's Men." She took the letters and nodded at this, and started to work.

They had worked through the morning, and a maid dropped off a breakfast tray with two plates of bread, fruit, cheese and cold cuts which sat uneaten, though they savoured the two goblets of hot watered wine. Serana sat and worked her abacus as her hangover abated, updating the accounts in black and red ink, while Beric sat and read through letter after letter, request after request, sorting out what needed Beren's personal attention, writing replies that merely needed Beren's signature, and leaving to the side what could be rejected with a polite letter written by another. Pointless or timewasting requests went unanswered and were cheerfully lobbed into the cold hearth, alongside equally deluded love letters and death threats.

Harvest time was a madness of unending work, and he wrote replies and apologies to the stewards of the various estate of Whiterun, Hjallmarch, Haafingar, Falkreath and the Reach, noting their projected harvest yields and rents from the tenants, passing the numbers onto Serana. Lakeside Manor was reporting that several families on the estate were two months in rent arrears and were asking for guidance and extra manpower to bring in the harvest- a rather late request, he thought as he placed the letter to one side, hoping a solution would present itself. Next, a letter from Vignar Grey-Mane, updating them on the planned Foundation Day celebrations for The Companions, held to commemorate the arrival of Jeek of the River and the building of Jorrvaskr and foundation Whiterun. The Harbinger traditionally absorbed some of the costs out of his own purse as a gift, and the list of entertainments and providers was as extensive as it was expensive- food, wine, bards, minstrels, jesters, cooks.

Beric looked at the letter with special interest, sharp teeth nibbling the end of his quill, 'Jeek's Day' as it was informally known, had not been celebrated since the last Harbinger. After Jarl Balgruuf had declared Whiterun hold neutral in the civil war Kodlak Whitemane had guaranteed to defend that neutrality as Harbinger of the Companions, an act more of honour than of substance, but a powerful symbol given the respect the Companions held in Skyrim. An act moreover which drew sharp criticism from neutral commentators and Stormcloak sympathisers alike, but publicly Tullius, Elisif and Ulfric had all written letters in which they had sworn to respect the Harbinger's arbitration.

Ulfric however had broken his oath and marched upon Whiterun, blaming Balgruuf's provocation. While Beren had burned for revenge following Kodlak's assassination shortly after his return from Ustengrav. He had raged at Kodlak's death and alleged the Silverhand had acted as a cat's paw for the Stormcloak armies menacing the city. Newly declared dragonborn, he had sounding the horn of Jurgen Wind-caller from the gate and rallied the panicking city to victory against the Stormcloaks in their assault upon Whiterun in Frostfall 201. Many of the Companions had flocked to his side to uphold Kodlak's Oath as a last tribute to him, while those companions who had been Stormcloak sympathisers slipped away from the city or refused the call, the Grey-Manes most prominently amongst them.

All actions which had deepened the divide amongst and between the Companions, Whiterun and Skyrim as a whole. Beren's rapid elevation to Harbinger after the battle and him publicly denouncing Ulfric the following year had further alienated many Companions such that the celebrations had not been held in 202, Beren thought as he chewed harder on the quill. In the end Beren had went to war with only a handful of the hundred or so Companions as his back. The quill suddenly snapped in his mouth. Annoyed, he took it from his mouth and placed it with the others in the tankard filled with similarly nibbled quills. He hoped that with the war over and a good celebration the issue could be laid to rest, and he passed the letter to Serana to add her growing columns of black and red, to find the necessary cash. He did not double that the price of the festivities would continue to rise.

The next letter was heart breaking. A deathbed letter dictated by Rayya, Beren's Falkreath Housecarl. She had lost one leg and badly broken another during the siege of Windhelm, and the gangrene had been slowly killing her. It was fortunate that she had survived the road home. The letter was dated a month ago. She would have likely died while we were in Solitude, enjoying the hospitality of The Court of the Blue Palace, he thought guilty. Beren would have to write a personal reply to her family, while Beric selected a number of candidates to fill her post.

He had just finished writing a letter which sent several demobbed Whiterun soldiers requesting work and homes to Lakeview Manor when Erik and Beren burst into the office. Their faces still flushed from a morning of exercise in the yard, though they had washed the sweat from their limbs and dressed in clean clothes. Beren strode into the office, casually picked up a plate of food and cheerfully took it to the last great desk in the room. It stood alone, framed by the two windows and covered in an untidy mess of work and toys, which he threatened to dislodge as he threw his boots up onto his desk and placed his plate on his lap as he began eating with relish. He peaked out over great untidy piles of paper, kept in place by improvised paperweights-a pair of callipers, Nettlebane, a small hourglass, a skull. He leant back happily in his chair for the morning report and munched on a second breakfast.

"Good" Beric said in relief, standing up and putting down his quill. Erik had been given a number of chores upon arrival, the list of which grew almost daily. Letter writing was today's addition, and Beric tried his best to set the boy at ease.

"Erik, I've got a job for a man of your talents. I've got a number of replies to letters I need you to write that require a bit more polish in their hand and language than Beren or I can manage. Your father Thane Erikur paid for good tutors, straight from the Bard's College, which makes you." He sighed theatrically and gestured broadly at Erik and Serana "Ed-ja-ma-cated." She gave him a thin smile having heard this speech in similar veins many times. "us? not ed-ja-ma-cated." He continued, gesturing to himself and Beren, who grinned through bulging cheeks. "We'll put those talents to good use. We also need a couple of copies of letters for our own records made latter. Happy so far?" The boy nodded uneasily, not entirely sure if Beric's soldiery levity was humour or mockery.

Beric gestured to the schoolboy's desk that faced the wall next to the fire, and Erik quickly sat and Beric laid a couple of letters in front of him one by one, covering up the graffiti that Rihad had cut into the wood with his penknife.

"do you recognise this seal?"

Um…the Gray-Manes?"

"Yes, the Gray-Manes, an old Whiterun Clan. Read the letter, write a reply to Vignar Gray-Mane approving of their work, that the money will be made available, and leave it for Beren to sign and seal" Beren put the next letter down. "And this one?" He asked.

"Arch Mage of the College of Winterhold." Erik said quickly, more confident now but a little awed.

"Good. Savos Aren has offered 20,000 gold Septims per Elder Scroll if we well sell them to him. Write a polite reply apologising for the delay in our response. Then say no, politely but clearly. Our position has not and will never change, then leave if to be signed and sealed." Erik's eyes opened a little at this.

"And this one?"

"…that's the seal of the Elder Council." Erik said in a shocked whisper, scarcely daring to touch the fine vellum on which the letter had been written. Beric nodded.

"then write a letter to the Secretary to the Elder Council, apologising that they must be sadly misinformed as we don't have Ulfric Stormcloak's skull." Erik's eyes were popping out his head at this point, as he looked at the letters strewn in front of him.

"Sir, I've never heard of a Secretary that sits on Elder Council."

"Correct." Beric rapped out. "This is the secretary to the council, not the secretary on the council-they report to the council, but don't hold councillor rank. They should have picked a clearer title but unfortunately I'm not the man in charge of making those decisions." He finished with a dismissive shrug, and Erik looked only slightly relieved.

"Don't' worry- bring everything you write to me, I'll check it, Beren will sign and seal it and then you'll take it to the porter in the north wing for the courier." Erik nodded uneasily, and took up his quill and got to work.

Beric turned, picked up another pile of letters and walked to Beric's desk, who was busy juggling the skull after his second breakfast. He set it down on its jawbone and lent forwards, hand folded under his chin in keen interest.

"Another couple of letters from the Secretary to the Elder Council. The first is a simple message of greetings- High Chancellor Amaund Motierre has been appointed Potentate following the untimely death of the Emperor. The second is an order. The Elder Council wants your report on Tullius's campaign and your conduct and support during its execution. Specifically, your call to arms, the surrender and pardoning of the 10,000 after the Battle of Blizzard's rest and the siege and fall of Windhelm. Also, you need to write condolence letters to Rayya and Valdimar's family. Serana has made some arrangements this morning for a pension for their families." Beric nodded scowling at the skull where it sat grinning on its little pile, records of the death and misery its owner had caused in life. Beren pulled Rayya's deathbed letter towards him to begin writing a response in his untidy hand. With that Beric returned to his desk, and pulled yet more letters out of the sack. With this, the morning disruption to their routine ended.

It was early evening on the fifth of Hearthfire and Beric was practicing with his mace when Erik came to find him in the east wing training hall amidst the dummies and weapon racks. Erik walked uneasily over the chalked floors, gritted for grip, eyes transfixed by the ward spell he was maintaining in his off hand. Beric extinguished the magical shield, and the boy jumped in surprise as it flickered out.

"Yes?" He prompted, trying to be polite after finally escaping from his responsibilities for a brief period of deliberately mindless exercise. There was nothing quite like the release of weapons training after a morning's worth of paperwork, especially when it involved taking a mace to a training dummy.

"Sir, a herald has just arrived from the Court of the Blue Palace. He's refused to hand over his letter to me or to the porter. Says he was instructed to hand it over to the Dragonborn personally." Beric frowned at this. It was unusual for a herald to be send instead of a messenger, or for them to insist on such procedure except for the most sensitive and secure communications.

"Where is he?"

"I took him to the Map Room. It seemed the best place for him. I sent a servant to offer him some refreshments while he waits."

"Good. Where is Beren?"

"The Dragonborn is at Jorrvaskr with Aela, supervising the preparations for Jeek's day."

"Ok. Return to the map room. Tell him I'll be there shortly. Have a runner ready in case we need to fetch Beren, then find and brief Serana and Durag." He rapped out his orders and send Erik running, before placing his mace next to his bastard sword on the rack and pulling the sweat-dampened gambeson from his back with a grimace.

He washed and dressed quickly, and entered the first room on the ground floor of the west wing. the Map Room was a small cheerless room, without a fireplace and with its small windows walled over it had been set aside as a secure planning room. It had been powerfully enchanting by Serana to prevent scrying and other forms of espionage, magical or mundane. The room was a sparsely furnished box-bare whitewashed walls, a large oak table, twelve chairs. The only decoration a large tapestry upon one wall, depicting a great map of Skyrim, looted from Castle Volkihar. It had been here that Beren's personal declaration of war against Ulfric, oath-breaker to the truce of High Hrothgar had been debated, written and re-written over autumn last year. From the map room this unprecedentedly personal declaration, accompanied by the Dragonborn's call to arms had been despatched. It had rallied two full legions to his cause, motivated by a near-religious fervour for the chance to fight at the Dragonborn's side in an affair of honour, forces that had proven critical in the battles that had followed.

It was with guarded curiosity that Beric entered the room to take in the scene before him. The herald, a slender rat-faced little Breton with auburn hair was lounging in a chair at the distant head of their table, two burly guards standing at ease behind him. All wore non-descript clothes and cloaks, still coated in the dust of the road.

The Breton was looking around the room with muted distaste, seemingly taking its sparse furnishing as either a studied insult or an expression of the wealth and status of their owners. His bodyguards were a heavyset and scarred pair, a Dunmer and an Imperial, who had been relieved of their weapons but scarcely seemed less dangerous for it. The Breton did not stand when he entered, his herald's staff of office lay discarded on the table, while a large signet ring on his right hand ostentatiously displayed his personal rank and wealth. It caught the candle light as he impatiently drummed the letter with his long-fingered hands, a letter showing the ornate blue wax seal of the High Queen's court. Serana sat opposite him, arms crossed across her chest. She looked up when Beric entered the room and shook her head, angry. While Durag stood in the corner, leaning against the wall and grimacing with a face like a smacked arse.

Beric strode forwards and extended his hand politely by way of introduction.

"Good Afternoon, I am-"

"Praefect Beric Stone-Strider" the messenger cut off, not stirring from his seat. Beric came to a stop and dropped his hand, giving him a measured look. No ordinary messenger would behave so undiplomatically, and a common man was unlikely to know him by face, or to address him so casually. A well-informed man of rank, who reckoned himself be several steps above a mere 'praefect,' and secure enough in his position and mission to flaunt it.

"You have been offered refreshments?" He said neutrally.

"We have." The herald nodded. It seemed that they had been refused, for no cups or jug sat before them. Straight to business then.

"Is that the letter?"

"Yes."

"You and your men must be tired from your journey. If you hand over the letter can discuss matters after you have had a chance to wash and rest." The Breton shook his head at this, dismissing this last attempt at pleasantries.

"I was directed to hand it over to Beren Stone-Strider personally."

"And if you give it to me, he will get it." the messenger shook his head again.

"Personally." With that he lapsed into silence, his face a unemotive mask. Beric cocked his head to the side, looking at the little shit of a man. He turned to Serana and Durag. Both looked like they had received similar treatment. Beric turned on his heel and opened the door, something very wrong was afoot.

"Erik! Get me that runner! Now!"

Beren stomped into the room red faced. Beren ran his estate on simple principles. Beren did not like it when people forgot or ignored them. For all his virtues like bravery, loyalty and dedication, he had little experience or interest in diplomacy, politics or administration. He had however been wise enough to trust his friends and advisors with those issues, and made it publicly known they spoke with his voice and his authority. Beric prayed fruitlessly to divines who ignored his prayers that he would show a measure of diplomacy now that herald and Dragonborn were face to face.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Excellent start, Beric thought to himself.

"I am-."

"You will stand when you speak to me in my house." Beren cut him off with a growl, as veins pulsed dangerously in his temples. The Breton stood silkily.

"I am Marquis Reynald Masterfield, Herald. Here on behalf of the Court of the Blue Palace, bearing a letter from Steward Falk Firebeard." He stated this simply and directly, as much to announce his purpose as his protector. Beren held out a hand, palm upwards, and after a moment pause the Breton walked around the table and placed it in his hand, unable to meet Beren's eyes for longer than a few seconds. Beren turned his back on him abruptly and he stood there stupidly, rooted to the spot.

Beren ignored the man and walked back to where Beric, Serana and Durag stood against the wall. They checked the seal, and all confirmed it was correct and in good order. Beren cracked the seal and read the letter once, quickly. Whatever words were written there seemed not to his taste, and his express grew ever more shocked, ever more horrified, ever more angry with every word, every line he read. He turned and looked at the three at the far end of the table as though he would rend them limb from limb like a beast, taking deep steadying breaths as his hands shook. The Breton looked as if he was on the point of speaking again, but Beren forestalled him, raising an open palm the size of his head in warning. The Breton looked startled as the hand closed slowly into a fist on the air. The very gesture seemed to grasp and pull the breath from the man's lungs as he paled, silencing him. He turned back and read the letter again.

"You will take a reply."

"Yes. We have rooms in the Gildergreen Inn." With that Beren wrenched open the door and called as politely as he could manage.

"Erik." The boy came running at the call.

"Yes sir?"

"Show these men out."

"We can find the exit by ourselves." The Breton grumbled with what remained of his courage. Beren turned on him and fixed with a glare.

"Do." Beren rumbled.

The three of them skirted around the Dragonborn, whose bulk and stance forced them awkwardly against the wall. He had a good head and shoulders of height on all of them. None of them had the swagger or arrogance they had shown earlier, and small patches of sweat marked their clothes. Erik looked at them with open curiosity before he moved to close the door behind them.

"Cunt." Beren said just loud enough for the Breton to hear before the door swung shut, and he saw the thin muscles in the man's back stiffen for a moment as he walked out the door. Smart move Beric thought to himself, and for a moment he wondered idly how news of the Dragonborn kicking a messenger to death would be received by the Court. Not well, not well at all, he thought bitterly as he sunk into one of the chairs, suddenly exhausted and with his head in his hands.

To his surprise Beren collapsed into the one next to him.

"What's the letter say?" he asked, as any number of increasingly horrifying and unlikely scenarios ran through his head. Harkon, Miraak or Aldiun back from the dead? An invasion of Redguard pirates? A Second Great War?

"It's an invitation for divorce and marriage."

"What?"

"See for yourself." He said bitterly, pushing the letter across to him.

20th Last Seed, 4E 201

From Falk Firebeard at the Court of the Blue Palace, Solitude to Beren Stone-Strider, Dragonborn, Whiterun.

Greetings,

I have been directed on behalf of our newly crowned High Queen to make certain enquiries for the preservation of the new-found peace and stability in Skyrim, and all of Tamriel. The High Queen, the beloved Elisif the Fair has mourned her husband and honoured his memory through victory in the war she fought for him. She now rules alone with no companion to share the burdens of lordship.

The measures we all took in those dark days were enforced by dire circumstance, the fear of immanent death and the needs of duty keenly felt. We should not allow joyous celebrations of hard-fought peace to blind us to our current responsibilities. The future will require a similar sense of duty no less onerous if peace is to be maintained for the good of Skyrim, the Empire and its peoples.

Elisif is young, her beauty is widely known to all and she has a great fondness for you, the man she calls her Dragonborn. Put aside Aela, propose marriage to Elisif the Fair, and you may take up your place at her side, enthroned as her consort.

We look forward to your swift response conveyed with our most trusted courier.

Kind Regards

Falk Firebeard

Beric re-read the letter, though it seemed scarcely less insulting the second time around. He passed it across the table to Serana with trembling hands. She read it, swore quietly under her breath and passed it to Durag as he got up and called for a servant to bring them water and wine.

The room was very still and quiet as the drinks were brought and the door clicked shut. The magical seals glowed for a minute as they activated, blocking any and all prying ears and eyes. Beren broke the silence with a low rumble.

"I want you all to swear to me now, that not a single breath of our conversation here tonight will escape this room."

"I swear it by the Nine."

"I so swear, by my blood and my ancestors."

"by Malacath, I swear it now and forever."

Beren looked around the room. Lost, angry, afraid.

"What do we do?"

Author's Notes

Hello everyone, thanks very much of reading chapter 3. I enjoyed writing this chapter for the chance to see our characters relax, have fun and enjoy themselves after the stress of chapters 1 & 2- unfortunately it didn't last very long before the work started piling up. As a result, there was a lot of different character moments, world building and politics which needed to be put into this chapter. Some parts I'm not completely happy with but I felt aren't going to get any better at the moment with more tinkering, so I decided to publish after getting it to a standard I was reasonably happy with. I'm anxious to hear your thoughts and advice on the matter.

As a consequence of the issues above, this chapter grew in the writing such that I needed to divide it into two- chapter four, tentatively titled 'the Politics of Peace' will be released next month, Hopefully on 01/06/19. That is work and travel dependent and it may be delayed a couple of days. Apologies in advance as I will always aim to release on the 1st of every month.

Please review and tell me what you liked, and what I can improve on. Will try to take your advice onboard and incorporate it as best I can.

Cheers!

Responses to reviews

Hello again HermitWitch, thanks for taking the time to review this.

Thanks very much for the feedback- this chapter was an opportunity to road test a lot of difficult things -characterisation, exposition etc. The back-and-forth conversations that I need to nail for chapter 4, and chapter 5 is probably going to require some more epic storytelling to sell 'Jeek's Day.' Plus, Erik moaned a lot about irrelevant shaggy dog stories in chapter 1 so it was only fair I give it a go!

Beric's paperwork was a difficult but necessary solution- selling the scale of the world, the politics and their responsibilities within it without it becoming a passive info dump, all through the eyes of a staff officer.

I was attempting to humanise the problems within the world through estate management, homeless veterans, party business with former enemies, and the families of dead housecarls. Doing all that while developing character-teasing a hungover vampire or encouraging an earnest squire helps develop Beric as a POV character was an attempt at keeping it entertaining. In short, it was an attempt to try and do a couple things at once, and I'm very relieved you found it engaging.

As for Elisif, I believe her depiction in game is accurate for Last Seed 401, but it's now Hearthfire 403 and she's grown past 'malleable continuity candidate.' Chapter 1 helps show that, with her execution of the traitor Jarls as a prelude to the moot which resulted in her unanimous election as High Queen. She's become a capable independent political actor and probably the most powerful woman in the Empire.

With Ulfric dead, Elisif is fully engaged in reconstruction of her bellowed Skyrim, which makes Beren's position awkward. He loves Aela, but Beren has also lost a lot of friends for peace, and Chapter 2 helps show how awful that war was. With how he raised two legions by myth and personality has a stake in the game, like it or not. He is motivated by emotion and the personal, as his declaration of war versus Ulfric shows.

In contrast, Elisif's position is pragmatic and political. Historically, marriage alliances have always been a tool of foreign policy, and even the 'virgin queen' Elizabeth I wooed potential suitors to play allies and enemies off each other. Meanwhile, 'Angry Beren' is well out of his depth. With the four of them now locked in a windowless soundproof room chapter 4 will be interesting….

Hey GreyWolf93, good to hear from you again.

One of the pieces of advice I found was that you should try to make the hero's greatest strength also their greatest weakness. And then attack them with it. As you note, Ned for example is honourable, brave and compassionate. All great values for a leader on the battlefield. However, when he gets to king's landing all those values are weaknesses.

Beren lacks the stoicism of ned- he's much more like Robert in his youth- gregarious, charismatic, but also hot blooded and quick to anger. We can see why he would rally people to his cause in war, but also why peace doesn't suit him. Elisif proposing marriage is fun to write (and hopefully fun to read) because all of his strengths are useless, his skills are irrelevant while his weaknesses as a man are laid bare.