The winds blew harsh and hard down the slopes of western Eastmarch. Snow flurried so thick and heavily that it was almost impossible to make out the road.

Through this blizzard, Samuel kept on going, Runa and Hroar not far behind him. Haming had gone ahead to scout, though what he could have expected to see was beyond Samuel. He was having enough difficulty seeing more than five feet ahead and, as good a woodsman as Haming was, Samuel doubted his eyesight was that much better.

Not that it would matter, Samuel knew. Haming was only really scouting out of habit and to make sure there were no ambushes ahead. They were not here to fight. At least, Samuel hoped not.

He could just about make out the outline of the fort now, looking out of the thick air like some kind of phantom. Fort Amol. According to Jarl Brunwulf, the last stronghold of the Kingsworn.

Samuel took a deep breath, then immediately regretted it as snow filled his mouth. Hroar slapped him on the back as he coughed.

'Are you sure this is a good idea?' Runa had to shout to be heard over the wind.

'The Legate will need all the help he can get,' Samuel shouted back, 'the Kingsworn may hate him but I'm hoping they hate the Thalmor more.'

'That doesn't answer my question,' Runa pointed out.

Samuel stayed silent. In truth he had no idea if this was a good idea or not. In fact, all evidence pointed to it being a terrible plan, especially with him being a legion soldier, but it had struck him as something that needed to be done.

If the Kingsworn were going to prove Lord Uhther's enemies in the war to come, they had to be made to see that the Thalmor were the greater enemy. If they would not fight with them, they had to be made to stand down until the war was done. And if they would fight with them, they had to be brought now.

Haming suddenly appeared close by. Samuel cursed the snow again. They might be surrounded by enemies and he would not know.

'It's a clear run from here to the fort, as far as I can see,' said Haming. It was strange to hear him shout, Samuel could not help but think, he was usually so silent, still and reserved. 'As for the fort itself, I couldn't see much. There are fires burning but there could be anywhere between ten and a hundred inside.'

Samuel grunted and pulled his furs tighter about him. He noticed the others doing the same.

'Well we may as well get this done,' he said and, with a confidence he most certainly did not feel, strode towards the gate. The others followed him. As they drew close to the gate, he heard the unmistakable sounds of lookouts spotting intruders. 'Hold up the flag!' He called back to Hroar.

The flag was just a white sheet tied to a tree branch, but it should have been recognised as what it was. A request to parley.

When no arrows fell towards them, Samuel took that as acceptance and so the four of them walked through the gate and into the courtyard. They were immediately surrounded.

Just at a casual glance, Samuel could see Kingsworn all about them. Many with bows though some merely had drawn swords. All of them wore thick fur lined cloaks and hoods against the cold though even with those hoods, Samuel could tell they were all looking at him and his companions with the same looks of distrust and dislike.

There was a long moment when nothing happened. There was no sound except for the howling wind. Then one of the Kingsworn came forward.

'You will follow me,' he said, his voice deep and rich with the accent of the Nords. With the snow and the hood, it was hard to make out the man's face. All that could be seen was a thick auburn beard. Even so, Samuel though he recognised the voice.

They were led out of the courtyard, up to the fort's main keep. Once inside their guide pulled down his hood and Samuel immediately knew him.

'Unmid Snow-Shod,' he exclaimed. Behind him, Runa and Hroar also gasped.

Unmid turned to regard them, 'Do I know you?'

Samuel shook his head, 'I was raised in Honorhall Orphanage. I remember seeing you with Jarl Laila when she walked out in the city. I thought you were imprisoned after the Civil War?'

Unmid grunted. 'I was,' he said, 'but I was called to fight again. My only shame is that I had to leave Laila behind.' Unmid pushed open a door that led into a large, circular room.

'My father will see you here,' he said.

Samuel was about to ask more about that when a voice called from inside the room.

'So here they are, at last,' it was a gruff voice, thick with age and anger, 'the couriers sent from the whelp of a traitor.'

There were four inside the room, three men and a woman. All three of the men had grey hair, though only the one who had spoken seemed to be of much age. The other two looked barely older than the Lord Uhther.

Gray-Manes, Samuel realised. He remembered that ancient Nord house had sided with the Stormcloaks.

The woman had dark hair and looked to have the build of a blacksmith. She and the old man were looking at the new arrivals with dislike, though the two Gray-Manes simply looked curious. Unmid entered behind them, closed the door and then just stood there, like a bodyguard.

'I am Vulwulf Snow-Shod,' the old one said, 'Commander of those who remain loyal to Skyrim's true king.' Samuel thought he recognised him now. The old man had been a regular patron of the Bee and Barb.

'Why are we doing this, Vulwulf?' the woman spat, 'they are our enemies. We should kill them now, send their heads to the Young Dragon and be done with it.'

Samuel had heard the mocking note she had put into Lucia's title and turned his coolest expression towards her. Behind him, Samuel could feel the others stiffen in indignation. Lucia had proven herself time and time again, leading them to victory after victory. He was not about to let these Stormcloak leftovers disrespect her.

'Peace, Hermir,' Vulwulf said, though he did not look as though he disagreed, 'let's hear what they have to say first.'

Samuel gulped. The brief bravado suddenly gone from him. They did not have the rest of the Fangs with them now. Lucia was not here to lead, and it was easy to forget that their victories had come in chief from luck, good planning, ambush, not to mention having superior fighters with them, Iona in Riften and then Llirvalie as they had moved on the Kingsworn. None of that was here now.

Samuel had been practising what he would say ever since leaving Windhelm. He took a deep breath and began.

Far away to the south, another wind blew. It stirred the mist that rose up in the early morning, creating swirls and patterns in the air. It blew between the many gravestones in the boneyard of Falkreath and against the walls of the town. On top of the walls, Legate Skulnar looked out to the north, in the direction Jarl Siddgeir had ridden off just two days previously accompanied by half the guard.

Skulnar spat in disgust. Bad enough the boy had waited so long to answer the queen's summons but he had left his own holding with barely enough warriors to defend it. Skulnar looked with disgust at Falkreath's wall. It did not even encircle the town. The place was undefendable. The gods help them if the town came under attack.

Skulnar's troops were stationed in Fort Neugrad, a half day's journey away. He would have liked to bring some to Falkreath to make up for the numbers being taken but Siddgeir had refused.

'That boy has always been far too full of himself,' Skulnar spat again, looking towards the dark hills and the dense trees that covered them. Difficult though Dengeir had always been, the old man had at least understood the jarl's duty to their people.

He could only guess at what the stupid pup would say at the moot, especially if the Dragonborn was there too. Skulnar barked a nasty laugh. It might do Siddgeir some good if he did try something with the Dragonborn. A good kick up the backside might well do the fool the world of good.

Thoughts of Uhther got him feeling uneasy again, however.

'What are you playing at, Uhther?' Skulnar muttered, answered by none but the birds in the trees.

He knew Uhther quite well, he'd chatted with him often enough in the Dead Man's Drink about the old days, fighting in the Civil War. Uhther had always seemed a Nord after his own heart, who understood the importance of the Empire. So why now was he following in Ulfric's footsteps? Worse, why was he riling the Thalmor? Surely, he knew that would only end in disaster for Skyrim and the Empire.

A call from below shook Skulnar from his reverie. He looked down to see one of the town guards looking up at him.

'What?' Skulnar called down.

'There's a group approaching the southern gate, Legate,' the guard said, 'Thalmor by the look of them.'

Skulnar groaned. Nenya had warned him this might happen before she'd left with Siddgeir and Helvard. Still, he had been half hoping the justiciars might take a different route.

'Very well,' Skulnar said, resigned.

He descended the steps from the wall and followed the guard through the town to the south gate. Men and women were beginning to cluster around the gate, both those of the guard and the ordinary citizens of the town. Skulnar had to push his way through. He saw more guards above on the wall, bows in hand, looking southwards down the road.

Skulnar was not sure why they kept insisting on calling this a gate. There had been no gate in Falkreath since long before anyone could remember. It was merely a hole in the wall were the road ran through the town. Still, Skulnar moved out and saw the new arrivals immediately.

They were stood maybe fifty paces down the road. They had come to that point and stopped, apparently content to wait. Two wore that fancy moonstone armour the elves insisted on wearing in place of proper steel while their leader wore thick robes, his hood drawn up.

Skulnar felt three haughty pairs of golden eyes on him as he drew nearer. The sensation made the hair on his neck stand up. Unconsciously, his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

'Where is the jarl?' the lead Thalmor demanded as soon as Skulnar had come within earshot. The elf's tone made Skulnar grit his teeth. But he mastered his anger and dislike before answering.

'He has gone north to Solitude, for the Queen's moot,' he said, 'I am in command while he is gone.'

It was very difficult not to be conscious of the fact he had to look up as he spoke. Skulnar was accounted tall among men, but the lead Justiciar was a head taller than he was, and looked down his nose at him.

'That is well,' the Justiciar said, 'we will be heading there soon enough. But first there is another matter we are to attend to by order of the Dominion.'

That brought on a fresh wave of anger.

The Dominion does not rule in Skyrim you arrogant toad, he longed to say. But again, he mastered himself.

'Always willing to help our friends from the Aldmeri Dominion,' he said, as diplomatically as he could. If the Thalmor noticed anything untoward in his tone, he paid it no mind.

'I understand that the one called The Dragonborn, holds land in the holding?'

'Aye, that's right.' Skulnar said, 'A manor estate just north of here. Place called Lakeview.'

The Justiciar nodded.

'You will provide the exact location of this estate, plus any other estates the Dragonborn holds in this province. By order of the Dominion, he is to be stripped of his lands and incomes.'

'With all due respect,' Skulnar said, now having to try very hard to control himself, 'the Dominion does not have that authority. Skyrim owes fealty to the Empire, no one else.'

The Justiciar looked at him properly then, and Skulnar was sure he was not imagining the look of disdain in those golden eyes.

'We, of course, have the full blessing of your emperor,' said the Justiciar. His eyes glinted dangerously, 'Do what you're told, human.'

Skulnar was about to answer but his tongue froze. More figures were emerging from the mist. Thalmor soldiers. At least a hundred. No two hundred. Five hundred. Maybe a thousand on the road. And more he could see out on the moors, marching in thick ranks. This was not a deputation. This was an invasion.

'By the Nine,' Skulnar breathed. It was said without thought. A reflex. In that moment he forgot who he was talking to. He'd forgotten the White-Gold Concordat. The next thing he knew was a blinding pain in his chest. He looked down to see a ghostly sword skewering his chest, its shady hilt in the hands of one of the justiciar guards.

'Heresy will not be tolerated,' said the guard. And that was all she said for the next moment, the shaft of an arrow sprouted from her throat. She went down, gurgling. The other guard then went down, pierced by multiple arrows. The lead justiciar snarled, bolts of lightning crackling around his hands. But now, Skulnar had his sword out and he plunged it into the elf's back. The justiciar fell.

'Warriors of Falkreath!' Skulnar shouted through a mouthful of blood, 'Make ready!'

He said no more than that. For the strength suddenly went from his legs. Suddenly, Skulnar realised he was on his back, staring at the sky. A hawk circled above. Sovngarde beckoned. He tightened his grip on his sword's hilt. The last thing he heard before the world went black was the sound of a charge.