Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of torture.

…

Power Plays

Be careful what you wish for. You might just get it.

Balgruuf wanted the Dragonborn on his side as his Thane. Well, he got it in the form of a woman he'd thought easily manipulated and desperate for his aid, a woman who neatly outwitted his plans for her by accepting the suit of a lowly Legion Quaestor. Still, he now had the proof of Arius Aurelius' claims, which meant that his plans could be salvaged. The Jarl of Whiterun had come to the grim realisation that he would have to choose a side sooner rather than later.

The man who approached the dais in Dragonsreach, disgruntled and oh-so-superior in the Breton fashion, was dressed finely and carried himself with conscious arrogance. Balgruuf had no damned idea who he was but garments that rich deserved a personal audience with the Jarl.

"How can I help you?" Balgruuf asked with bored arrogance as the man came within talking distance.

"I am Armaund Motierre." The wiry Breton – who had some Imperial blood in him judging by his features – announced himself as if his name was self-explanatory. When Balgruuf simply stared at him, he pulled out an amethyst and golden pendant in the form of the Imperial Diamond-Dragon. "Of the Elder Council."

"Brave of you to come to Skyrim when a civil war is going on," Balgruuf noted as he rose to his feet. "Avenicci, we'll have wine on the Great Porch."

"The civil war has made it clear that the Empire needs to change its policy," Motierre noted as he brightened, following Balgruuf to the stairs. Irritated with the man's smug tone, the Jarl lengthened his stride until the Breton was forced to jog to catch up. "Given that you haven't joined the festivities and have, ah, acquired a servant with unique abilities-"

"Thane," Balgruuf corrected, irritated on Lia's behalf. "She's a minor noble in my court."

"Of course," Motierre continued with the smoothness of a professional courtier. "As I was saying, you look like a Nord who can appreciate the need for change… and the profits that can come from such."

Balgruuf remained silent until they were seated at the table on the Great Porch with Alto wine in silver goblets. Motierre sipped his and grimaced but wisely said nothing. "Speak plainly, man. We can't be eavesdropped from here."

A lie as an invisible Irileth was already on the balcony that overlooked the porch. But Motierre didn't need to know that.

"I have it on good authority that the Emperor will die soon," the Councillor answered bluntly. "We need to prepare for the inevitable transfer of power across three provinces."

"I see. Does the Emperor know he's dying?" Balgruuf asked sardonically. He was going to play direct barbarian warlord for the moment until he figured out what Motierre wanted from him.

"Does any man truly know their death is near?" Motierre countered, confirming that an assassination attempt would be made on Mede. "You are a powerful man, Jarl Balgruuf, and one reputed to be wise for a Nord. May I be blunt?"

"I'm a Nord. We prefer candour," Balgruuf noted dryly.

"I am second in line to the Ruby Throne behind Vittoria Vicci, who's marrying a Stormcloak noble from Riften." Motierre's voice was blandly disgusted. "The Emperor has wiped out noble families for less treasonous activities. I want to end the purges, end the wars and lead the Empire into a new age of peace and prosperity."

You mean turn us into thralls of the Thalmor, Balgruuf thought disgustedly. There were lines even he would cross.

"I see," was what he said aloud. "What do you want from me?"

"Frankly, somewhere to stay," Motierre answered. "It will take some time to make arrangements in this, ah, fair land of yours and I need somewhere safe to do so. I have rivals in this country who can't find me."

"Stay at the inn," Balgruuf advised dryly. "Or buy Breezehome. It'll cost you roughly eight thousand septims to fix up properly."

"You are refusing hospitality?" Motierre asked with a frown.

"I need to discuss your plans with my advisors," Balgruuf answered bluntly. "Until then, I need to maintain a neutral front."

"Of course." Motierre sighed. "I will take the inn. I only carry a few hundred septims on me for travel."

"I will send word that you are to be given the finest guest room," Balgruuf promised and then smiled. "You are, of course, welcome to eat up at Dragonsreach any time."

"At least the food will be edible then," Motierre said in relief. "Once you commit yourself to me, Jarl Balgruuf, there will be little beyond your reach. Perhaps the High Kingship and a place on the Elder Council? We need more Nords there."

"We'll see," Balgruuf said noncommittally. Already, he had enough to see this man hung for treason… but he would wait and see what happened.

They made small talk before Motierre reluctantly left for the inn. Balgruuf smiled and set aside the goblet of drugged wine he'd pretended to drink. A useful means of making those of dubious character say more than they should.

"Irileth," he said aloud. "I need you to research each and every one of the potential Imperial heirs. Fittingly, the chess game has gotten more complicated with the introduction of the Dragonborn."

"Of course, my Jarl," the Nerevarine, who was the only person he truly trusted in this world, said from her place on the porch. She and he were friends – and former lovers – from the days of his youth, when her dour, cynical guidance helped Whiterun prosper in the post-War years.

Balgruuf rose to his feet. Time to see how things would play out.

…

The courier had half-killed himself to bring the news to Ulfric Stormcloak and in gratitude, the Jarl of Windhelm granted him meat, mead and a bed for the night. Now his closest advisors waited in the war room for his orders. It was time to start this war in earnest despite the omnipresent threat of dragons in the sky.

"Lia's the Dragonborn?" Sigdrifa's voice was raw with shock and disbelief. Normally as sharp and cold as the Blade they once called her, the Stormsword paced around the room, broad hands gesturing aimlessly as she tried to articulate her feelings. Her analytical nature balanced Galmar's bloodthirstiness while her pragmatism was eased by his huscarl's honour.

"She is," the messenger confirmed. Avulstein had been forced to break his cover in Whiterun to warn the Stormcloaks of the colossal shift in Skyrim's political landscape. For his safety, he would need to remain here in Windhelm until war was joined. "The day after it was revealed, she left for High Hrothgar after speaking with Irkand Aurelius in Jorrvaskr."

"How did he take the news?" the Stormsword asked, collecting herself admirably. Ulfric admired her ability to gather her wits rapidly.

"He wasn't happy and neither was the Harbinger," Avulstein reported. "Something to do with Bruma, perhaps."

Ulfric pursed his lips. "There are rumours that someone betrayed the Blades at Serpent Fortress after the death of the High Justicar of Cyrodiil."

Avulstein frowned. "She practices Conjuration, Jarl Ulfric… and is engaged to a Legion soldier named Hadvar."

"And Wuunferth the Unliving calls the dead of our enemies to serve us in battle," Ulfric pointed out. "If Lia is the one who betrayed the Blades of Serpent Fortress, then Akatosh has given her a chance to atone for her sins by defeating Alduin."

"I'll get Ralof," Galmar said for the first time. "He grew up with Hadvar."

"Good." Ulfric sighed and looked down at the map of Whiterun. "It's time, old bear. Once it's confirmed the Dragonborn is at High Hrothgar, we will launch an offensive for Whiterun. A siege should make Balgruuf more amenable, hmm?"

"I'll place the city under lockdown," Yrsarald announced. "If one trader escapes to warn Balgruuf…"

"Well done." Ulfric folded his arms and looked at his advisors. "I want Hadvar taken alive as an 'honoured guest'. The betrothed of the Dragonborn deserves all due respect and hospitality from true Nords. I'm sure the Dragonborn will repay our concern for his safety appropriately."

"Can we trust a collaborator?" Galmar asked bluntly.

"Remember, the Thalmor broke me, old friend. I will not hold the Dragonborn beyond redemption just yet." Ulfric smiled humourlessly. "Of course, once Alduin is dead and she is still… recalcitrant, we have no need of her. Sigdrifa, I'm sorry…"

"I will mourn the Dragonborn," the Stormsword informed him. "And wish her all due honour in Sovngarde if she has none in life."

Ulfric nodded in satisfaction. One way or another, the Dragonborn would fight for Skyrim, though he would prefer it willingly.

If he, the man who betrayed the Imperial City, could find redemption… then so could Sigdrifa's milk-drinking daughter.

…

"So the Dragonborn is the one who sold out the Blades of Serpent Path Fortress."

Elenwen poured herself some sweet summer wine from Alinor and did the courtesy of offering her informant some too. It was hard to find good help amongst the men of Skyrim and this one was higher-placed than most. Contrary to popular belief, the Thalmor never betrayed those who kept faith with them. With their short, short lives, humans deserved all the rewards their service brought them so long as they understood who truly held the leash.

"The same," the Imperial confirmed, accepting the wine with a bow of the head. He was unctuous, obedient and greedy, the kind of human Elenwen liked as an agent.

"Given that the World-Eater will devour and regurgitate Nirn if we kill her, it would be best to let the Akaviri wench fulfil her grand destiny," Ondolemar, ever sardonic and proud as the Chief Justicar in Skyrim, pointed out in Altmeris.

"Of course," Elenwen replied, flashing the green-eyed mer a filthy glance. Did he think her so short-sighted and foolish? "I might even let the Talos-bred bitch live out her days as a reward, so long as she's properly sterilised."

"How kind," Ondolemar said with mocking magnanimity as he bowed.

"Have some respect," Elenwen told him in syrupy-sweet tones as not to alarm the fool mortal who was her informant. "Otherwise I will need to revise your dedication to our cause."

"I have exactly the amount of dedication the cause deserves," Ondolemar retorted mildly. "Go give your pet his treat, Elenwen. Some of us have real work to do."

The Ambassador scowled as the tall, rangy mer – more muscular than most of their kind with rounded edges to his face but a pedigree dating back to the Merethic Era – exited her solar. Then she pasted on a smile and turned back to her informant.

It was a sad day when the help was more useful than her so-called equals.

…

The deliberate scrape of leather on stone alerted Rikke to the presence of an old, old ally to the Shieldmaidens at Castle Dour.

"Is it safe for you to be here?" she asked of the slender, saffron-skinned womer with the silky iron-grey hair who slipped into the Legate's personal quarters.

"Probably not, but this is a time of prophecy," Ralinde Sun-Golden replied, folding her hands gracefully before her. The Consort of Talos was still lovely, her human blood softening the harsh angles of elven blood, and Rikke resisted the urge to bow before a living saint who could attest to the divinity of the Hero-God.

"Of all the damned people, eh?" Rikke observed with a sigh.

"Damned? Perhaps." Ralinde's expression was grave. "There will be redemption and vengeance before the Prophecy winds its way through – and some things have already been set in motion."

"Tell me." And Ralinde obliged her, for Rikke needed all the information she could to plan the course of the Legion in these bitter days of blood and fire, and the Shieldmaiden of Talos laughed.

Redemption and vengeance indeed, to all who richly deserved it.