"Jon!" I, Jarl Stark, exclaimed upon seeing my old friend. "Free-Winter you old bastard!" he said, grabbing my fist in a power hold. We held it for a moment, before turning towards the Kingsmoot table, and taking our respective seats. It was only me and him, my oldest friend, and should Talos permit, my future King. The Kingsmoot chambers were scarcely lit, and the table was large, stone-crafted, and bore a map of Skyrim. I sat beside Dawnstar, and he besides Whiterun, although it was actually connected, since his home was truly the heart of Skyrim, in many ways. We began talking, discussing, reminiscing. I was but twenty-seven, he thirty-seven. Funny it was that we were so close, with me the youngest Jarl, and him the eldest. I was thinking on this, among other things, when the Captain of The Royal Guard opened the thick door to the dark chambers. "My Jarl's. Another rider is entering the capital with a small party. It's Kinzelus, of Falkreath." "The Imperial shit has finally arrived." Jon said, his words dripping with venom. And so it begins.

I walked through the hallowed halls of The Blue Palace, my dominant hand instinctively placed on my sword hilt, my dark grey eyes looking about the halls, rooms and chambers, until The Captain of The Royal Guard ended his path, and opened the door to the Kingsmoot chambers. I, for the smallest of moments, wished I hadn't left my four guardsmen behind at the stables. For the smallest of moments, I was aware of the deep hatred the older Jarl before bore towards me, and the loyalty the younger bore for him alone. For the smallest of moments, I was aware of the possibility I may need to use my sword before day's end. Then I pushed the thoughts out of my mind and stepped into the chamber, the door being closed behind me. It was windowless, the air stale like in a crypt along a mountain, the torches burning low, and the eyes watching me powerful, penetrating, scheming, unrelenting. "My Jarls." I said, never moving but my lips. Snowborn spat upon the ground before speaking. "Decimus."

"I didn't know we were on a first name basis." I quickly fired back.

"We are now."

"Are you sure you want that?"

"As sure as the heavens shine."

"Well, it is a cloudy day." I said, my eyes locked upon his.

"Why, you little-" the big brute of a Nord was cut off by his younger Argonian compatriot.

"Can we have silence." he said loudly, picking up a chalice filled with what I presumed to be mead or ale. I strode past the two, and took my seat besides Falkreath along the table, and began staring questioningly at the map in front of me, and thought deeply on how the country it was in likeness of was about to change.
=A LONG WHILE LATER=

Slowly, the Jarls Ravenheart, Silver-Blood, and Black-Axe arrived, and I broke bread, drank deeply, and enjoyed camaraderie with them, finding them to be much better company than the Nordic Jarl of Whiterun. But, time went on, and later, after it had been dark for a long while, I saw that the Jarl of Eastmarch, Trevelyan II, had still not arrived. The other Jarls bore little mind to his absence, but Jarl Snowborn's sourness towards his tardiness became increasingly, and infuriatingly, apparent. It got to the baffling point where I was sure he was about to speak out in anger about him, and kept my hand rested upon my hilt in case he did so, not wanting an angry Nord to rile up the group of Jarl's, each irritable enough on their own, when finally, the door to the chambers opened to reveal the Nordic Jarl. The room grew silent as the crypt and all eyes upon him. He was a truly sorry sight. Covered in a drenching layer of rain, with muddy boots and heavy eyes. All the same, he strode in purposefully, apologizing for his absence as he seated himself besides Eastmarch on the massive stone table.

"I apologize, my fellow Jarls, for my keeping you. Surely you understand, what with this weather." All, besides the brusque, ever-irritable Nord Snowborn, nodded and mumbled agreement, turning to one another and muttering something along the lines of "Fucking Haafingar". Jarl Snowborn stood, towering and with a serious expression, and spoke.

"Now that we, finally, are all in commune, let us begin." We all looked at him, nodding in likeness, and he continued "I, firstly, would like to give my thanks towards Brunwulf, may he reside in Sovngarde until the stars fall from the heavens" we all bowed our heads temporarily, in respect for the honorable Nord who previously ruled as High King. After waiting a few moments out of respect, he continued, and we turned our heads once more up, looking at him "Now, with the formalities out of the way, and Talos' blessing, I wish to cast my vote to the new regent. I nominate myself as High King." He said powerfully, before sitting down once more.

Next, Jarl Stark rose, and spoke. "I vote for Jarl Snowborn as High King." He proceeded to take his seat.

"I nominate myself, and put forth my vote with it." Said Jarl Trevelyan II, rising, before seating himself once more. Jarl Ravenheart voted in likeness towards Jarl Snowborn, and Jarls Silver-Blood and Black-Axe voted for Jarl Trevelyan II, and then I rose, realizing with nauseating depth that I was the deciding vote. I thought long, deep, and true. Personally, I despised the Whiterun Jarl, but I knew him. I knew that beneath that rough, arrogant demeanor, he was a cunning, smart leader, and a tried and tested battle commander. What did I know of Trevelyan? Mira had told me his father was a great man, and that she somehow had learned about him from some book or another. Did that mean he was too a great man? I knew not what to do, and, not for the first time, I let my guts do the decision making.

"Jarl Trevelyan II" And all oblivion broke free, as if from a portal in the middle of the chambers. Shouting, growling, and swords unsheathing in a flurry of steel and voices. One Jarl shouted towards another, one pointed her blade at her neighbor, and I saw two with their swords slashing furiously at the table, as if to destroy Skyrim herself. And in the center, the two rivals argued with the full wrath of two opposing Nords.

"I will die before I bend the knee!" Snowborn furiously shouted, kicking aside his chair.

"Then you will die!" Trevelyan retorted, spitting out the words. How did Nords get furious so fast? Before I could answer my own question, and with my sword still drawn, at the ready, the door bust open, and The Captain of The Royal Guard flew in, followed by three Royal Army Officers.

"What is happening?!" He shouted. The four of them already had weapons at the ready, two of them swordsmen and two wielding battle-axes, and Jarl Silver-Blood quickly answered, her eyes darting to and fro frantically.

"We have a new King." Several shouts and profanities quickly were shouted from the crowd of Jarls.

"No" I said, realizing we were literally seconds away from an all out blood-bath "we have two." Looking out into the watching group, my sword held in front of me, the blade thirsty for blood, I spoke, my voice ripe with conviction and purpose "This is NOT a conflict among nations, but a dispute between two men!" I shouted "If there is to be blood spilled, let it be Here Today! Let the two of you duel, and be it done! Let the High King of Skyrim be the last one breathing!" I shouted, passion dripping from my words, not wishing to view a full-blown battle unfold in the heart of Solitude. And, with my last stirring sentence, a hush fell over the room, and all eyes fell upon the Two Kings.

=A SHORT TIME LATER=

The Two Nords faced one another, their eyes never breaking contact. They had dressed in full battle armor, and were wielding beautiful blades. Snowborn, a large, Ancient Nordic Greatsword, and Trevelyan, two dual wielded ebony short swords, and each with seemingly impenetrable armor, in likeness to their respective weapons of choice. They stared each other down, like two wolves facing down over who got to claim a kill, and for what seemed an eternity past, myself and the other Jarls watched them in The Blue Palace Courtyard, the rain hammering down upon us like Talos' fist. Then, with only a loud, furious cry as a warning, Trevelyan charged forward, swinging his blade with expertise and experience, only to be blocked by an equally experienced Snowborn. We watched, with baited breath and white fists, with strained muscles and quick pulses, as the two masters of the art of death clashed in spectacular fashion. When Trevelyan would swing to Snowborn's side, he would block and quickly ram into his foe on the opposite side. When Snowborn would swing low, as to cut from Trevelyan his legs, he would jump, weave and quickly swipe in retort at Snowborn, only to once again be blocked. The battle raged, the storm surged, and we waited. We watched.
It seemed to have no end, no reprise, until finally, it did. Trevelyan swung low, finally hitting his mark, hitting the chink in Snowborn's armor, slicing across the back of the Whiterun Jarls knee, but, instead of dropping , as Trevelyan, and all of us, expected, he rammed the Eastmarch Nord, knocking him unto the ground, sending his two swords flying away. AS Trevelyan looked up, seeing his foe raise his Greatsword high into the night's sky, preparing to take from Trevelyan his very life, he mouthed a quick, final prayer up to Sovngarde, and then, like a surprise savior, and to the utter amazement of everyone standing vigil, myself included, an arrow flew forth from seemingly nowhere, tearing into Snowborn, entering his back, the head jutting out of his chest, near immediately dropping him into a lifeless corpse besides his foe, dead as soon as the ground welcomed him. All heads instantly, instinctively, turned, and we saw, standing with only a bow, half cloaked by the stormy night sky, besides one of the many trees surrounding the courtyard, was The Captain of The Royal Guard.
I do not recall, for true, exactly what happened next. Someone shouted, in joy or outrage I recall not, but I know the new High King rose and picked up his blades before sheathing them. Someone insulted the Captain, someone defended him. All I know exactly is what I did. I bowed, briefly, ever so briefly, to my new King, and then I turned and left. I strode, quickly, anxiously, through Solitude. More than quickly, even. I reached my men at the stables, the horses already saddled and ready, and mounted my mare. "We're leaving. Now." Is all I spoke, all I needed to speak. My men followed suet, and within a few moments we were galloping away from Solitude, away from the new High King, the storm growing fiercer and fiercer all the while.

=LATE THE NEXT MORNING=

"Jon Snowborn is dead." I said, dismounting my horse as my party and I finally reached the Falkreath gates, the morning sun breaking through the mist and fog, the trees encompassing us.

"What?!" Mira Stormhold, my thane and friend, gasped out, totally thrown off guard. She was surprised to see us at all, and we wouldn't be seeing each other, if my men and I hadn't rode at full gallop for most all night, pushing our horses to the damn near breaking point.

"Kyrtis Trevelyan II was elected High King, Snowborn challenged him, and he got an arrow through the back." I walked quickly, having tied my mare up at the stables while Mira was being astounded by my statement, rightfully so. I was practically jogging, my arms swaying quickly, anxiety and questions swirling about me.

"Trevelyan bested him in combat?"

"No. An officer, The Captain of The Royal Guard, he saved the new King's life, for whatever great value a life is now." I continued my quick paced, anxiety riddled trek.

"What?! But, but that's not right! The people won't stand for it! Surely you don't!?" She said, her soft voice becoming hardened and exasperated.

"Whatever I feel is meaningless. He was the last breathing, the throne is his."

"No!"

"No?" I repeated, stopping mid-stride, facing her questioningly.

"No! That isn't true! You know what you would have done in that situation, we both do! You would have fallen upon your own blade before taking the thrown through in-honorable means! So would I! So would anyone worthy of ruling!"

"You and your damnable honor are going to get us both killed." I said, turning and continuing towards the infamous Cemetery of Falkreath, the largest of it's kind in all of Skyrim, all of Tamriel.

"My honor!? We both know where I got it from!" "Aye, we do. And unfortunately, my damnable honor is saying the same, true as yours. But what am I to do? It's too late, my dear, he is the High King, and come Oblivion or Sovngarde, he shall be the High King." I said, reaching my destination, kneeling down and placing my calloused hand upon the top of the gravestone I had stopped before, bearing the name of my brother, he who would be Jarl today, had fate not saw fit to take him from me. "Perhaps not after you see what I found." Raising my hung head, I slowly stood up and turned, locking eyes with the young Nordic woman.

"What?"