This chapter may not be up to par as I wrote it while tired and slightly tipsy, so there's that. Happy belated Halloween! As always, reviews are wanted and appreciated.

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Markarth: The history-rich city of stone, rumored to be built by the renowned Dwemer, claimed by Forsworn but occupied by Nords, and birthplace of the notorious Stormcloak Rebellion. It was a long and tiresome distance from any other major city, with both main roads cutting through valleys, mountains, and rugged terrain, ripe with bandits, Reachmen, sabertooth tigers, and other nameless foes seeking the lives of wanderers. Thorunn had detested every trip she took to this treacherous city, but then she hadn't had anyone to accompany her. Now, she had a full battalion.

Aegetha strode at a leisurely pace with her straddling his back. He was almost as armored as she was, with reins guarded by iron, a saddle forged from steel, and a crupper and shaffron of the same make. Sharing a saddle and sitting behind her was Eriswe, who'd been fitted with enough armor to deflect a good deal of blows without giving out. To her left, Thongvor Silver-Blood rode his mare- also armed to the teeth- and to her right, Rayya rode a borrowed stallion. Altair, Vunthar, Isha, Kemaan, and the twenty nameless soldiers making their unit rode behind, some on horses and some not.

Thorunn rode a couple yards ahead of the battalion for most of the ride, taking it upon her to scout. Sabertooth tigers prowling the prairie hissed warningly at her approach, but sulked away when the squadron caught up with her. They passed a camp of giants, as well, but stayed well out of range in order to not evoke the giants' territorial wrath. Each of their massive steps was timed with a thunderous bang, and they waved their giant clubs at Thorunn's party as they passed. All around them, their docile mammoths grazed without acknowledging the oddity. Thorunn's curiosity was sobered when she saw the cow not far from the camp; it was painted with white traditional runes denoting peace and generosity. A farmer must have donated it to the giant to keep it from becoming bloodthirsty to travelers. Thorunn thanked whoever may have left the cow.

"They say the runic scars carved into the giants' chests are religious symbols," chimed in Altair, bringing him and his horse up to her side. "To Malacath, or so scarce evidence suggests. The patterns the giants carve into themselves and their mammoth's tusks are often seen on shrines to Malacath as well."

"Fascinating," Thorunn deadpanned. She was tired and weary from the trip. It did nothing to put her in a good mood.

Altair shrugged it off and kept going, knowing she would be interested later. "Many believe this means they're related to the Orcs somehow, but other texts say they originated in Atmora."

Atmora caught her attention. It was the alleged birthplace of men, and was once a land of green and fertility now turned to inhabitable ice. Nobody knew what caused the climate to deteriorate so abruptly, but anyone who didn't migrate to Tamriel in time succumbed to the below freezing temperatures centuries ago. Some said that all can be found there now is frozen bearded kings, but there was no way to tell if that was true or not. What was true was that it was the birthplace of Tiber Septim and Ysgramor.

At any rate, she doubted the gargantuan humanoids that herded mammoths and dabbled in art once lived in Atmora. "How do you know all this?" she asked, turning her head to look at Altair pensively.

His smile was almost bashful. "My mother loved to tell stories." It was the first time he'd mentioned her since Thorunn had known him.

She wasn't going to throw him off by making a big deal out of it. She nodded and turned her head back to the horizon. "Maybe both of those theories are true," she suggested blindly.

"Beastfolk aren't known to have lived in Atmora," he stated matter-of-factly. Thorunn smirked, pleased with getting the reaction out of him that she wanted. "Which is why the giants' origins are so puzzling. I cannot recall the details of it, but something to do with the painted cows suggest Atmora. Everything else suggests Orsimer. Then again... well, the giants do tend to ignore the cows, do they not? They ignore them and attack holds and farmers' fields anyway. In fact, the painted cow seems to encourage their fury."

Thorunn looked back at the cow grazing the giants' camp. Its watchers seemed peaceful enough. Thorunn shrugged. "They look pretty pleased with the beast to me."

Altair grinned at that. "How would you know?"

She looked a second time, mildly confused. The scene had not changed. One of the three giants scratched his rear as he watched the cow oddly. "I don't think they know what to do with it," she said, turning back to Altair none the wiser.

"Who can say?" He shrugged.

"What are you lot on about?" piped in Thongvor Silver-Blade.

"Oh, nothing, dear father," Altair sighed, annoyed. "Only small talk of giants and painted cows."

He harrumphed, malcontent, and both Altair and Thorunn dropped the subject after that. The journey continued in quiet, the tension between father and son lingering and souring Thorunn's mood further. She prayed her own child and Ulfric would never harbor such hostility towards each other.

They stopped at a ridge in the evening to eat dinner and give their horses a much-needed rest. Thorunn's inner thighs were sore when she dismounted, but she didn't let it slow her down. They rationed bread, pork and mead among the soldiers. Eriswe offered to serve, but Thorunn declined, telling her that the soldiers would not treat her kindly. That was sugarcoating. Eriswe was a pretty young girl with armor thin enough to show her figure. More than that, she was an Altmer, so the soldiers would see no reason to be courteous. Sexual harassment and impolite gestures were only the beginning of the trouble Eriswe would face if she walked through that crowd alone.

So instead, Thorunn kept her at her side and glared off any soldier's whose eyes wandered. Men would be men, and Thorunn didn't blame them for that, but by Talos, they were still annoyingly obnoxious. Upon finishing their tasteless dinner, they remounted their horses and took to the road once more. Thorunn stuck to the paths in the mountains in order to avoid a scuffle with the Forsworn or worse. While the goal was to reach an agreement with the Forsworn while here, Thorunn first needed to display that she wasn't here to fight them, she was here to fight the Dominion, of which was a threat to more than just the Nords.

As they passed through more treacherous mountains and ridges, Thorunn realized why the Dominion had not yet managed to take Markarth. By all logic, they should have easily taken Markarth without even its Jarl to protect it. It was clear to Thorunn that these mountains she passed that annoyed her so had been the sole factor in ensuring Markarth's victory thus far. That, and the heaps of soldiers she and Ulfric had been sending here as well as Markarth's own inherent defenses.

In the far distance, she could hear an orotund voice bellowing orders. "Carrus, get those blades sharpened, and get it done fast. The queen and her men are going to be arriving any day now and we need to be ready. Saddle that horse, Anthis, and Frigga, I expect you to have that armor on in fifty seconds."

They rode up to the Stormcloak camp. Commander Kottir Red-Shoal turned out to be the harbinger of the orders being executed. He looked frazzled and exhausted, with a bloodied bandage wrapped around his upper arm, a countless amount of bruises covering any exposed skin, dark circles under his deep brown eyes, and what looked like a fresh burn starting at his jawline and disappearing beneath his dented Stormcloak Officer armor.

"Archers!" he bellowed when he saw their approach. About twenty arrows were then trained on Thorunn and her entourage, ready to fire the moment she made a wrong move.

"At ease, men!" she called.

"The queen," Kottir breathed when he realized. "Stand down! Make way!"

As Thorunn's stallion came to a halt at the outskirts of the camp, she dismounted and approached the Commander. Thongvor Silver-Blood followed suit. "I'm not queen yet," she pointed out.

Kottir chuckled out of relief. "You may as well be. My men are bellowing your name almost as much as Ulfric's now. I don't think it really matters whose name they call, only those they take." He looked past her shoulder at the unit she'd brought. "You brought more men. Good. We lost over fifty in our last scuffle and I'm still counting bodies. The Dominion hasn't breached the city yet, but they're going to, and we can't evacuate civilians with them barring the way."

Innocents would die, but at least it'd be for the greater good. "We can't be concerned with civilians right now," she said firmly.

"With all due respect, ma'am, the civilians are who we're fighting for. Those are our families in there. If you have a way to get them out, maybe do something with that Voice of yours..."

"How opposed do you think they'd be to a dragon?" said a new voice. Thorunn looked sharply and discovered the speaker to be Altair, dismounting his horse and walking up to join them.

"What?" said Kottir, inconvenienced.

"What?" echoed Thorunn.

Altair looked back and forth between the two. "During the Battle of Solitude, you called in a dragon," he explained. Thorunn had no idea how he knew about that, but he was quick to address her confusion. "That battle is famous for ragged wings coming unfurled and raining fire onto the helpless Imperials. A lot of people believe it was Akatosh Himself, swooping in to support the rightful king. But anyone with half a mind would know that you, the Dragonborn, conveniently stationed at this battle, called that dragon in. Perhaps you could do the same for Markarth, only this time the dragon's job is to evacuate the people rather than kill them."

"Are you suggesting... these people ride the dragon while he removes them from the city?" Thorunn said, aghast. It was among the most far-fetched ideas she'd ever heard.

"That's ridiculous," Kottir said, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand.

"And your only option, or so it would appear," Altair retorted.

"That... might work, actually," Thorunn said thoughtfully. "The city is hard to reach, even from the sky, but if we could somehow get word to the city guard not to shoot at the dragon... We need to get in there ourselves. How hard will that be, Commander?"

"This is ridiculous," he repeated.

"How hard will that be, Commander?" she said again, firm.

He sighed. "I'll humor the idea, but I still hold to it that it is ridiculous. Getting into the city isn't impossible, but at the gates is where the fighting is thickest. If you can comb your way through, you can reach the gates but that doesn't mean you can open them. They undoubtedly barred it. You'll have to wait until the next bout of soldiers is released before charging, and even then you only have a very small opening. It'll be a narrow slip."

Thorunn exchanged a look with Altair. "When is the next release?" she asked the Commander.

"There's no way to tell. The Jarl's regent is sure to have no patterns, so that the Dominion can't predict their next move. You could send a raven, but there's no guarantee it won't be shot down, and if it's shot by the wrong person, the enemy will know your plan."

"It's reckless," Thorunn stated. She never was the cautious sort, she supposed. When she next made eye contact with Kottir, a decision was in her eyes. "We'll send the raven. We'll be vague. Thongvor, there has to be some symbol or another that will let your Thane know it's us and not a Dominion dog trying to trick her."

"There is," he said grimly.

"Good. I will call Odahviing. Provided he even agrees to this... we may have a plan."

With that, she turned to the skies.