Interlude 1 – The City of Kings
A walled city of stone rests upon the banks of a mighty river. Flurries of snow drift from an overcast grey sky, obscuring the mountainous horizon. Though it's still early in the season, storms blowing in from the northern seas have grown steadily colder and harsher, enough for unrelenting snowfall and bitter frost to follow in their wake. A sign of worse things to come, some have said.
Ice floes glide soundlessly down the river, their inexorable bulk disrupting the activities of numerous fisherman and merchants plying their trades in the frigid waters. Broad granite quays reach out into the swift current like splayed fingers, bustling with activity as tradesmen furnish their wares from all across the Empire, the Spice Islands, and beyond. Above and behind them rise high walls topped with ancient battlements, patrolled by men clad in blue tabards bearing the sigil of a snarling bear.
And more ancient still is the city ensconced within these fortifications. Timber-framed buildings with solid stone foundations form uneven rows along the narrow streets, many of which are sunken lanes overhung by balconies and spanned by weather-worn bridges. The city is labyrinthine, with different levels of paved walkways separated by primeval but well-maintained brick walls twisting in on themselves in a truly maze-like arrangement. Numerous sets of stairs, passageways, and subterranean tunnels only add to the confusion.
It's clear to the casual observer that this city wasn't built on a planned grid, or if it was that it has long since been abandoned. Such a thing is hardly surprising for the City of Kings, mankind's eldest extant city in the entire continent of Tamriel.
In the northernmost quarter of the city – an enclosed district practically a city unto itself – stands a sprawling citadel constructed of massive cyclopean blocks of dark stone. This is the most ancient structure in the City of Kings, having survived even the devastation of the Dir-Kamal invasion of the Second Era which reduced so many other ancient façades to rubble.
Within lies a snow-clad courtyard bounded by gates of embossed bronze. One of these gates opens into an expansive palatial hall, the central nexus of this innermost district. The icy weather precludes any hint of sunlight reaching the hall's windows or doors, leaving the interior shrouded in ominous torch-lit dusk.
At the far end of the hall, a granite throne festooned with blue banners and carvings of noble beasts stands proudly atop the summit of a staired dais. The throne is currently unoccupied, but its usual denizen paces nearby – a mighty lord, regal in bearing despite his agitated demeanor and the desolate emptiness of his palace.
Besides a handful of blue-cloaked guardsmen stationed by the far doors, the only other presence in this sanctum is a warrior clad in a bearskin cloak kneeling on the warmthless floor before the throne.
The pacing man mutters to himself, his rich garments and prominently-displayed amulet of Talos swishing with each restless movement. Much has happened in recent months, much that is beyond logical belief. In his forlorn utterances, one word is repeated over and over again.
"…Dragon…"
Dragons, it goes without saying, do not exist. If they ever did – which is a matter of passionate debate among certain circles – then they certainly did not survive beyond the highest days of the Septim Emperors, under whose reigns they were driven to extinction or at the very least eternal seclusion. That is the truth.
At least, that's what he has always believed. The lord pacing before his throne exhales loudly and tugs at his beard in frustration. One year ago, if someone dared to tell him with a straight face that he would be captured by his enemies, placed before the executioner's block, and then saved at the last possible moment by the appearance of a dragon of all things, which then proceeded to wipe an entire town off the face of Nirn… Unsurprisingly, he would condemn them as a raving fool, and rightly so.
"Then a raving fool that makes me, it seems," he mutters scornfully.
His attendant says nothing, still kneeling dutifully before him.
"What sort of days are these, that legends and fairytales would come to our aid only to sow such misery and death? I cannot help but wonder."
He dares not assume that the dragon, his apparent savior, harbored any goodwill or benign intentions towards himself and his followers. Several of his men were slain by its Voice, after all. He was unbelievably fortunate to survive. That any of them made it home is a miracle in and of itself.
"What cruel twist of fate must it be, for us to be delivered from our oppressors by a monster…"
"I have said it already, my liege," the kneeling man finally speaks, his voice harsh like gravel. "You are favored by Ysmir Talos and the blessed Warrior-Wife. You are the chosen of the gods, destined to lead our people into a glorious new age! What other explanation could there be?"
His words prompt a scowl from his lord. "And I have told you, Galmar. If there are any gods, whether good or evil, that would be willingly complicit in a slaughter such as that…" Though he hides it well, his retainer still notices as he shudders. "…Then I want nothing to do with them. Such a tragedy is exactly the sort of thing from which I seek to rescue our people!"
It goes unsaid that the event in question, the destruction of the town of Helgen by that damnable dragon, reminded him far too much of another day twenty-five years ago – the day he stood atop a grassy bluff on the northward shore of Lake Rumare, looking down on the greatest city in the world as it was brought low by shadow and flame. That cursed place where everything he ever believed, the ideals to which he committed his life and his faith, were destroyed utterly by the wicked depredations of mankind's eternal enemies.
Even today he can still hear the beating of deep-toned drums, the creaking operation of innumerable siege engines, and… the screams. The wailing horror of a hundred thousand innocent citizens as the zealous armies of the Dominion fell upon them without justice or mercy, as their summoned daedric monsters tore through crowds and shattered whitewashed buildings. The screams more than anything else will never leave him. This he knows without question.
And worst of all is the irrefutable knowledge that he had a hand in that catastrophe, whether willingly or no. By misfortune for which no one could be blamed, he was captured by the Thalmor during the Emperor's defense of the Imperial City in 4E 173. They kept him down in one of their dark holes for weeks, interrogating him relentlessly, not allowing him to see the light of day to better torment his spirit.
He suffered, and could take it no longer, and finally spoke. He spoke of all that he knew to speak, if only so the agony could end. And it was that very knowledge, divulged by his own traitorous lips, that the Dominion used to breach the walls of the Imperial City the following year, at least in part.
That humiliation, that shame… it's something he must endure for the remainder of his days. He can never make right the fruits of his weakness, for that time has already come and gone. He can never be exonerated of his sins, for they are immeasurable.
In this age of darkness, he can only continue to fight. He must. There is no other recourse, and if he were to turn away from the cause of justice when his people need him the most… then all the fighting he's done until now would have been for nothing.
After a long silence, he ceases his frenetic pacing and runs his calloused hands through his mane of greying golden hair. Long has he struggled with these demons. A few more to lengthen the list are ultimately meaningless.
"There is no use in dwelling on what has passed," he emphatically states. "All we can do now is look to the future, and whatever it may hold for us."
"Well said, my liege."
He slowly ascends the steps to his hollow throne, his rich clothing and cloak swaying with each purposeful movement. "We have struggled for many long years, my friend. Soon it will be time for us to cast off these despotic shackles imposed on Skyrim by our would-be tyrants."
"We're ready to begin this war in earnest then?"
"That day is fast approaching, but it is not here quite yet. Everything still yet hinges upon the allegiance of Whiterun and… Jarl Balgruuf." His lip curls in distaste. "Many true sons of Skyrim dwell within his doughty walls, and I am loathe to shed their blood in the city's capture. Balgruuf is many things, but though it pains me to admit, the blood of Atmora does still flow strongly in his veins. I hold out hope that he will come to see things clearly and take measures to distance himself from the Imperial dogs in Solitude."
"You have read the courtier messages we've intercepted, the same as I," Galmar rumbles. "The Empire pressures him more insistently with each new moon. If he's still not with us even after all this time, then perhaps…"
"Perhaps he's against us, you would say," his liege dryly replies. "And you may be right. I cannot fault you for speaking your mind. But understand that many of our people are of a different mind. They are not yet convinced that it's necessary to wage war against a neutral Hold." He whispers under his breath, too low for hearing. "And neither am I."
"Then let them cower like the snowbacks they are! We will earn our rightful seats in Shor's hall and secure our nation's future in the doing! Do they not see that this is the only path?"
His lord exhales heavily. "We have been soldiers for a long time, my friend. We already know the price of freedom, for we've seen it with our own eyes many times – in the brothers we held in our arms as they died on foreign soil, and in their wives and children whose names we heard whispered in their last breaths. But our people, they… they are still weighing these things in their hearts."
"What remains of Skyrim to weigh?" asks Galmar with visage grim. "We are no longer free in our own homeland, this country upon which our ancestors rose to glory in centuries past! The Thalmor trample our fields and drag away our young men and women to never be seen again! And the Empire looks on these atrocities with a smile, doing nothing to defend their own citizens!"
"…Your words are true." His voice hardens. "I cannot refute them. These are the same thoughts that have plagued my own mind for many sleepless nights. And yet…"
Ulfric Stormcloak hasn't quite reached the summit of his dais when he pauses and falls still.
His kneeling companion finally looks up at him, revealing a weathered face with a scraggly silver beard. His brows furrow with uncertainty. "What is it, my liege?"
The man is answered by a resounding boom from outside the hall, a remote crash of thunder rumbling on the wind and yet not so. It's incredibly loud, hearkening them back to days of calamitous war where the sound of such unforeseen detonations were the norm rather than the exception.
But it is not thunder. Even through the dampening snowfall and the impenetrable walls of their abode, distinct words can be discerned in the mysterious noise.
"DOV-AH-KIIN!"
The golden-haired lord's features go slack with abject shock. "By the gods…"
After a few seconds, he rearranges his expression into a dispassionate mask with great effort. Beneath the veneer, his eyes grow flinty.
"I know that Voice," he breathes.
Galmar trembles. "Lord Ulfric, was that-?"
"It was." His tone is dour and resigned. "It was, my friend. There is no mistaking it."
His pale lips press together and the wrinkles adorning his checks become even more pronounced.
"That is their call. For the first time in centuries, the Greybeards of High Hrothgar have just announced their will to the world. Their attention, for so long reserved solely for the heavens, has finally returned to Skyrim." He scoffs disdainfully. Proud shoulders slump and calloused fists tighten.
His bewildered attendant watches and listens closely to his next words.
"'Dragonborn,' they say," he says softly. "It seems that heroes walk among us once more. Dragons and Dragonborn…" He chuckles without mirth as he sits down not upon his throne, but upon the sharp-hewn steps beneath it, heedless of his image once dignified and kingly now reduced to that of an exhausted man. "What sort of days, indeed."
Outdoors, the hubbub of confused citizens and shouting guardsmen rises and falls on the keening wind. Chaos unfolds in the streets as the populace struggles to comprehend this portentous development, desperate for direction, anxious for a leader to guide them. Within the hall itself, noble warriors and sagely clever-men assemble to confer nervously among themselves.
The lord of the city does not move. He remains trapped within his own thoughts, recalling a time before hardship and war when he dwelled in blessed isolation among the very monks who have spoken prophetic to the world this day.
Finally, his subordinate warily addresses him. "My liege…"
Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, Lord of the Eastmarch, the Bear of Markarth, is roused from his stupor by the words of his longtime friend and confidant.
"We have sat idle for too long," he at last declares. "Events are moving apace, far beyond the scope of what we ever could've guessed. We must do our utmost to match them. If a Dragonborn truly walks the Old Kingdom once more, then we will be sure to act accordingly. The Legion is certain to do the same."
He grimaces in a poor approximation of a smile.
"The game has changed, and the time for waiting is over. The time to act has arrived. That can no longer be disputed, not by myself nor by any man." As he stands to his feet, a small degree of his previous dignification returns to him. Upon his dais, he towers over the great hall with the countenance of a stately king of old.
"What must we do?" asks his bear-draped companion.
The grimace deepens. "Gather the banners and call our allies to muster. Laila, Korir, and Skald must be made aware of these developments if they are not already. Distribute writs of impending notice for mercenaries both foreign and domestic – yes, even to the Redoran. Blacklight must hear of this too. For what lies ahead of us, we will require all the force of arms at our disposal and much, much more.
"With the onset of snowmelt and the first blossoms of spring… we will march. To death and ruin, perhaps. But we will march nonetheless."
Galmar Stone-Fist slowly and fiercely grins, the joy of future battles already dancing in his eyes.