Author's Notes: A sudden reignited interest in Skyrim I experienced a couple years ago led to me making my first Breton Dragonborn ever. This fic came about once I realized that I wanted to write a compelling origin story for him, taking place in High Rock. Now, I present this story to you all to enjoy. I hope you all like it!


Whirling smoke and roaring fire enveloped the world, a mandala painted in the colors of chaos, and Sir Dorian Durand found himself standing at the very center. Everywhere he turned, the Breton could see nothing but shifting shadows with leering faces, black and gold banners flapping like eagle's wings. He was blinded by the glare of flame and the swirling smoke that writhed and curled skyward. Beyond it, he could see the tower, an ivory lance pointed toward the heavens where roiling clouds heaved and churned with the wrath of the gods.

Where is the standard-bearer? He thought frantically, casting his gaze about while his hands gripped his sword and splintered shield tightly. Steel blue eyes darted back and forth. Chaos reigned within this realm. Everything was a riotous patchwork of colors that refused to coalesce into shape from their ceaseless motion. Where is my unit?

Leering faces emerged from the tumult, lashed at him with shrieking scorn. His sword crested in a deadly arc. Blood flew in an arterial spray, steaming hot, and the mer in front of him fell dead. Burning agony erupted in his lower back; a choked gasp of pain emerged, and Dorian twisted around to drive a wrathful strike into the leering, golden visage. The shade crumpled, and the Breton fell to a knee with a pained snarl. Where is the standard-bearer? Where is my unit? Where is my father?

Pale light shone. For an instant, the world was thrown into stark relief, illuminated by the ethereal glow of enchantment. Dorian twisted around for the source. As if time had slowed at the moment of a lightning bolt's impact, he saw him. Bernard, his lord father, stood atop a pile of rubble and corpses both human and meric. One hand clutched a tattered, bloody Imperial banner - the other held Durandal, the ancestral blade of House Durand. A rampant, white dragon roared from the lord's sky blue jupon, and Bernard himself echoed his sigil-beast's roar as golden Thalmor fiends scrambled up the pile toward him, brandishing their blades amid the smoke and fire.

Sir Dorian lurched forward with the dogged resolve of a doom-driven man, knowing that he would be too late to reach his father. A terrible, deadly light reflected from Durandal's polished blade as Bernard swung. The foes fell before him with helms cloven and elven hearts pierced through gilded breastplates.

Mustering the last vestiges of his strength, Sir Dorian forced himself to run. He called out his father's name, but his blood-red voice was swallowed by the tumult of war, and Bernard was deaf to it. The lord struck down another lithe elven figure clambering up the piled dead, then turned and raised his sword in a rallying cry. Behind him, the Breton men-at-arms and Imperial legionnaires in their unit beheld him in his blazing splendor. Inspired, they came climbing through smoke and fire to reach him. Only Sir Dorian saw the Thalmor sorcerer at the other end of the ringed street, raising a staff with eagle-wing ornamentation that began to burn with an ardent flame. He cried out in desperation one last time.

"Father!"

His father turned. Stormy gray eyes met Dorian's steel blue ones for a heartbeat. The stoic Bernard managed to smile in a manner both proud and sad, moments before the Thalmor's magefire enveloped him.


Dorian awoke with a start, clutching his bedsheets for a moment. His gaze flickered back and forth, taking in his surroundings and grounding himself in reality. Mahogany and chestnut furniture was lavishly decorated with patterned mats of lace. Large, rich Sentinel rugs covered the floor. Colorful tapestries hung from the walls, rustling with the warm breeze that blew in from the opened lattice window to his bedroom. With it came the scent of the sea-bound Bjoulsae.

Another dream of the Imperial City. The man relaxed, rubbing his face with a weary grunt. The war tortures me even from fair High Rock.

Watching one's father's death play out before him was not an ideal way to awaken from another night of restless sleep. Dorian - the new Lord of Mournoth, King of the great city of Evermore - felt tired. He wondered what time it was; the stronghold was gripped by an early morning stillness. All he could hear from the hallway beyond his bedroom door was the shuffling feet of the cleaners, who always began their work before the first light of dawn.

Gentle sounds of wind and nature emanated from the latticed window; he noticed that they had cracked open at some point in the night. At once, the man slipped out of bed and crossed to them, throwing the windows wide open to admit a fresh breeze. He leaned forward on the sill, surveying the domain he'd inherited. Light from the slowly rising sun shimmered and danced across the surface of Lake Halcyon. Dozens of fisherfolk already stood on the banks, casting their lines into the water where leaping fish were snatched up by ospreys. Farmland surrounded the lake, where activity began to grow as the farmers prepared themselves for the day's toils. The Bjoulsae River flowed out from the lake and plunged into hazy invisibility, beyond where his gaze could follow.

He preferred it here, living in Durand Stronghold. Once an Orcish keep that came into his family's hands a millennium ago, it was out of the way and quiet, but within riding distance of the city, should he need to return for urgent business. But after the chaos of the battle he'd survived in the siege of the Imperial City, Dorian greatly preferred the solitude and relative peace of living in his family's ancestral stronghold - and so he had moved his court out from Castle Evermore to here.

A knock came at the door, pulling Dorian from his reverie. "My lord?" the visitor asked, muffled.

Dorian called back, "You may enter."

The door opened. An Orc stepped through, green-skinned and broad-shouldered, wearing a blue, quilted gambeson. A patch bearing House Durand's rampant dragon was sewn onto his breast. Thick gray hair hung from his head in a wolf's tail. One of his tusks was missing; a pale scar told where the Thalmor blade had carved through it, but the Orc had gotten the better of that exchange compared to his now-dead foe. He bowed his head and uttered a husky rumble. "Good morning, young Dragon."

King Dorian offered a dry, weary smile and a wave to the approaching Orcish battle-master. "Good morning, Razig. I expected you to still be asleep at this hour, after all those early mornings we spent in the Legion."

Razig gro-Dushnikh gave a shrug of his weighty shoulders. "I am old. It is difficult to break certain habits once you've nurtured them for so long."

The Orc paused to look out the window. "You should take care to keep these windows locked. Perhaps have a guard outside. I could see an assassin attempting to climb up into your room from down there, if they had a grappling hook."

"Less than a month into your new job and you've already proposed half a dozen changes to the keep."

"My people have a saying: Betrayal is inevitable. These changes I propose are liable to save your life someday."

"That is fair." Dorian nodded, gazing out at the lands below.

Razig studied him just as he'd studied the windows. He rumbled, "What troubles you now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't give me that, Dorian. I know you're going through it; you were also keen to rouse yourself from bed too early on those mornings before we marched on the Imperial City."

"Perceptive as ever, my friend."

"It comes from long practice in dealing with whelps who need to be whipped into shape. And I know you well enough by now, besides." Razig gave the Breton a pointed look; from up close, the height difference between them was considerable, but the pair viewed each other as equals. The Great War had forged a strong bond between the men.

Dorian knew that the Orc could read him as easily as any other foe on the battlefield, and he hung his head. "Another bad dream. It was the Imperial City." He paused, then added, "I saw Bernard again."

"I see." Razig considered this, turned toward the open window. Far below, rowboats began to race across the surface of the lake, circling the large island in the center. The distant whinny of horses suggested that the River Horse tribes were passing through the area, as well. "You must miss him dearly."

"Every day." The Breton nodded, looking down at the figures in the lake. "He left quite some large shoes to fill. My whole world has been changed. Nothing's been the same since Cyrodiil."

"Orcs know about enduring upheavals such as this." Razig jerked his shovel-like chin up at the scene that lay beyond. "Orsinium has been sacked and razed countless times, only to be built back up again, stronger than before."

"You're hardly one to wax poetic about your homeland. What are you suggesting, Razig?"

The Orc arched a bushy gray eyebrow. "What do you think?"

Dorian looked back out the window, pondering. "You suggest that I grow up and move beyond the past. What has happened cannot be changed, but the future is for us to take charge of."

"And to build something better with what we have." Razig thumped him on the back. He grinned suddenly, and the scar on his face stretched in a way that only enhanced the savage appearance that the Orc had so carefully cultivated for many years during his service to the Imperial Legion. "But you already have such grand plans, eh?"

The Breton nodded with a somber air. "The Great War taught me some valuable lessons, and it gave me some vital insight as to what the future will bring. Time is not our friend, and I must act as quickly as I can with my power as the new king."

"I still think you are mad," the Orc chuckled with a shake of his head, "to think that you could manage such an ambitious alliance of the powers of the bay - this Iliac League, as you've proposed. But I enjoy a bit of madness."

"Of course you do. Otherwise, you would never have pledged yourself to serve a Breton nobleman."

Razig shrugged. "The war drove men and mer alike mad, they say. I suppose I am no different in that regard. But I'm content to serve as Battlemaster to a proven, capable warrior. There's a reason why the men of the Legion came to call you Dragon. You've earned my respect."

A voice cleared its throat behind them. Both men turned to see the steward, Vivian. While the Imperial woman didn't look particularly remarkable, olive-skinned and dark-haired, her brown eyes hid a formidable spark of intelligence. Like Razig, she was a fellow veteran of the Great War who had also followed Dorian home to High Rock to serve his House. She bowed her head courteously. "My Lord, you have a guest waiting to see you."

Dorian frowned. "I wasn't expecting anybody. Who is it, Viv?"

Vivian shrugged a shoulder. "I've no clue, my Lord. She wouldn't give me a name. Looked like a Breton woman, a commoner. She had a baby with her."

"Be wary," muttered the Orc distrustfully. "She might be a House Blackthorn informant."

"She isn't an informant," answered Vivian with certainty. "The woman does not strike me as suspicious, but she is clearly not from the local area and does seem determined. Focused, if perhaps anxious. I suspect she might know you, my Lord - she asked for your name personally."

None of the men doubted her assessment; having been one of the Imperial Venators formerly attached to their army during the Great War, they knew Vivian's ability to read people could not be called into question.

Dorian frowned in contemplation, wondering what this could be about. Curiosity overrode any concerns about a potential security breach. At length, he gave his steward a nod. "Very well, I will see what this woman wants."

Dorian and Razig made for the throne room while Vivian retrieved the guest. It was a spacious hall that could double as a feasting area when the large tables were set. Far across the hall, a large painted portrait of his late father Bernard hung, his dignified gaze looking down upon them from above with flinty gray eyes.

After a few minutes of waiting, the men heard footsteps heralding the arriving party. The steward was first through the threshold, and behind her walked a young Breton woman with a baby in her arms. She was fair-skinned with pink cheeks, but her dark brown hair had seen better days, and there was a weariness in her eyes that Dorian had seen in soldiers who'd been on the march for too long. Despite that, she held her head high with dignity.

Vivian approached the throne, gave a bow, and gestured to the guest. "My Lord, here she is. You may approach, miss."

The woman did not even look at Vivian; her gaze instead focused immediately upon Dorian. Something in her eyes bespoke recognition right away, and the man found himself feeling awkward. Did he recognize her? He tried to pin her to some place in his memory - her eyes were hazel, her hair dark brown. Something in his memory clicked. Slowly, his eyes widened in realization. No. It cannot be…

Carefully, the woman stepped closer, her gaze never leaving Dorian's. The child in her arms made a little inquisitive gurgle and reached for her hair. He could not have been older than three months. Razig and the other two House guards standing on either side of the throne grew tense as the woman continued approaching, until at last, the Orc declared, "That is close enough, woman. Identify yourself."

The woman stopped and met Razig's gaze without flinching. After a few moments of a short stare-off, her gaze fell upon Dorian again. He had to fight the urge to squirm in his chair, though he failed to suppress the flash of guilt across his features. Seeing him in discomfort like this brought no joy to the woman. She frowned. "Why do you shy away from me so, Dorian? You remember my face, do you not?"

Silence gripped the throne room. Razig and Vivian shared a surprised look before turning their gazes on the Breton seated in his throne. Dorian met his comrades' looks with a pained smile. Razig scowled, while Vivian arched a delicate eyebrow. "My lord? Do you know this woman?"

Dorian couldn't lie under the weight of their gazes. He nodded, slow and deliberate, guilt written across his features. "I do… Her name is Amelie."

Amelie nodded when Razig and Vivian turned their gazes on her next. The woman raised her delicate chin at the man sitting across from her. "He came to me, the night before the Battle of the Red Ring. We'd grown close during the march; I tended his wounds and kept him company."

Her child gave a gurgle and reached for his mother's dark hair. She laid her finger against his palm for him to grip. All eyes were on the child now, and the sudden weight of Amelie's presence fell upon those in the room at that moment. Amelie looked Dorian straight in the eyes and gave a short nod. "Yes. This child is the fruit of our love, from our night together on the eve of battle. It is your son, Dorian."

As the nearby guardsmen standing at attention shot each other quick looks, Razig shook his head with a grimace. He turned a withering glare upon Dorian, stabbed a finger at the man. "My lord, you have made a grievous mistake."

Vivian pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation. "Dorian, why?"

The Breton shrunk in his seat, looking bleakly at Amelie and the child she carried - his child. He made a flighty, helpless gesture with his hand. "It was… fear. Fear, and… love… You know how Bernard was; my father wanted to keep me away from all the whores and camp followers - to keep me from the temptations of the flesh, as he put it. But Amelie was neither. She was my friend. And then with me marching to my imminent death to fight in the Red Ring… can you blame me for wanting to share some tenderness?"

"You should have shared tenderness with your own hand." Razig groused, rubbing his face.

Vivian shook her head. "My lord, do you know how this could endanger your reputation among the other noble Houses? Especially as the newly-risen king of Evermore? You know that High Rock nobility doesn't look kindly upon bastard children."

"Don't turn us away, please." Amelie suddenly took a step closer, her gaze turning intense. Razig put a hand on his sword with a growl of warning. The Breton woman looked him over before scoffing in disbelief. "Oh, please. You flatter me, sir Orc, but I am no threat."

"You are a threat to his reputation," muttered Razig, knitting his eyebrows tightly.

Amelie ignored him, turned her imploring gaze upon Dorian. "Please, Dorian. Take us into your House. Everything I had in Cyrodiil, in the Imperial City, was destroyed after the siege. I have nothing - we have nothing."

She adjusted the child in her arms, turning him to face them. Dorian could see dark eyes peering out at him from that round face, and it filled him with a pang of shame.

"Please," Amelie repeated. "He is your child. You must take him in."

Dorian felt the weight of Razig and Vivian's gazes on him. Far across the hall, he could feel the stern, disapproving glare of his father boring into him. You should not have been so impulsive, the portrait seemed to say. Now you will permanently stain your honor and that of your House. The Iliac League will be a broken dream before it even gets the chance to truly take shape.

At length, the Breton man sighed and hooded his eyes. "Amelie… I cannot do this. In this critical time, I cannot afford to besmirch my reputation with a bastard child. I apologize."

Amelie gaped. "But… Dorian, my love—"

She stopped herself, saw the remorse in his eyes. The woman closed her mouth, swallowed hard. Finally, she gave a stiff bow of her head. "My lord."

The title stung, coming from her lips with such cold formality. Dorian could not bring himself to lift his gaze as Amelie turned and walked out. When she was gone, he turned to Vivian, murmuring. "Have someone see her safely to Evermore. Make sure she gets enough gold to get a room at an inn, at least for tonight."

"Yes, sir." Vivian gave a bow and strode off to accomplish her task. When she was gone, Dorian buried his face into his palm.

Razig's hand gripped his shoulder in a comradely fashion, as he'd done many times in Cyrodiil. The Orc's hard features had softened some. "I know that this is a difficult decision. But it had to be done."

Dorian sighed and pulled his hand away from his face, nodding. "Yes, old friend. I suppose it did."

An uncomfortable silence enveloped them. The Orc grunted and gave a bow of his head. "I should see the rest of the stronghold. Make sure there aren't any other flaws in its layout that could be exploited by our enemies."

"As you will. I wish to be left alone with my thoughts."

The Orc nodded once and took his leave. Dorian found himself alone once Razig had left. Only the House guards standing by the entrances remained. King Dorian sat in his chair, brooding in silent contemplation. He thought back to his time in Cyrodiil. He'd been Sir Dorian then, his father's pride and joy and one of the best warriors in his army, to the point that the Legion soldiers had named him the Dragon of the Red Ring.

But to Amelie, he'd only been Dorian. With her, there'd been no expectations, just mutual caring and warm company when the fate of the Empire seemed to hang in the balance. They would often spend their nights together by the fireplace. She loved listening to him speak of fair High Rock and its brave knights. Having lived all her life in Cyrodiil, she'd been deprived of such stories. Amelie had grown convinced that High Rock's knights were paragons of valor and honor, and that he was the greatest of them all.

Dorian gave a sigh and shook his head with remorse, rubbing his face. Where is the knight she came to love in Cyrodiil?