Irileth knew that her life had rules.
To live in a world such as Tamriel, there was a undercurrent understanding that life was not going to be easy when there were beings like the Aedra and the Daedra, the primal forces which influenced in the lives of the mortal races. It was through them that Tamriel was made after all, the Aedra sacrificing much of their legendary power to give life, to shape the mountains, to ensure that there was. The Daedra were the opposite, giving not a lick of themselves to the creation of Tamriel yet intervening so heavily in it. There was not just the Divines either. There too was fate, and destiny, and prophecy.
Like the prophecy that Balgruuf oh so wonderfully brought her into.
"The Dragon War was brutal for men," Balgruuf narrated in its deep richness. His eyes were wandering, back to the stories of his youth. "The Dragons had the Voice, their Words of Power. Men had Courage but not the Voice. So the Dragons Shouted down Men, and broke our hearts." He leaned back on his bed, his face getting animated as he spoke more and more. "Kyne pitied Man and thus, granted us the Voice."
"And where does the Dragonborn fit into this?" Irileth asked, sitting up straight as she regarded her lord. As much as she would love to hear the lore of the Nords, she was a practical elf. She needed details. She could not plan if she did not have those. If Balgruuf was annoyed at her interruption, he made no mention of it. He clicked his tongue instead, smiling. "You must understand, Irileth, that context is important. Without total understanding, we cannot make informed decisions. But, very well."
He adjusted himself yet again, resting one leg over the other. "Dragons are immortal. They cannot die. They can be brought down with mortal means, yes. But they will persist. Their chief, Alduin, can revive them. It is only through the Dragonborn, our Nerevarine equivalent if you will, that can truly destroy them." Balgruuf explained thusly, adding even the legendary Nerevarine to show how important the mythicised Dragonborn was. Irileth did not need the Hortator, Azura'm gah'amer, brought up to get what her lord was saying at.
"Then we must find this Dragonborn and get them ready, should Alduin return," Irileth proposed. Now they knew what to do. They only have to go get this figure. The expression on Balgruuf's face however told her that he proposal was going to get shot down. Balgruuf shook his head as he regarded Irileth. "The Dragonborn is hidden at this time, thankfully. There is no reason for them to appear, not while the final part of the prohecy remains incomplete."
Ïrileth was a practical elf. She liked normal foes, like bandits, or assassins. Hell, she would be willing to fight creatures from Oblivion as well. Nightmares they were, they could still get hurt. But prophecy? There was no way in hell to stop prophecy. At this point, they were utterly at the mercy of fate. "And what is the last part of the prophecy?" Irileth asked, trying her best to keep her expression muted and not terrified.
"The Towers of Mundus and their shutting down is a sign that the Prophecy is being moved. The White-Gold Tower is the foruth Tower. The last Tower is in Skyrim, at the Throat of the World. To be specific, it calls for the Sons of Skyrim to spill their own blood," Balgruuf sagely recited, remembering the stories.
"Civil War, then." Irileth surmised.
"Yes. Civil War," Balgruuf nodded. "It specifies it some more: sundered, kingless, bleeding. The fact that High King Istlod is soon to pass is no great coincidence. His heir, Jarl Torygg, is young. Not incapable but in this future where the Empire is struggling to survive and one of its chief dieites is banned will be challenging for anyone Torygg, he will find himself out of his depth. Skyrim needs someone that the Jarls will respect, to keep the peace. With enough sense to keep the realm stable and hopefully, avoid the prophecy all together."
Irileth watched, unimpressed as Balgruuf puffed up the more he spoke. It was pretty clear to see where he was getting at, a blind guard could find him even with its eyes cut out and other senses dulled. "You wish to be High King," the Dunmer surmised again. Balgruuf smiled slightly. it was brief like a bright fire as he sighed, his shoulders sagging as he glanced towards the fireplace. He sighed as he spoke. "I admit...I would rather not. That is too much responsibility, too much exposure. I am happy enough that I am Jarl and I have my own realm to rule. But a kingdom?"
This Irileth had to admit some surprise at. "I thought being High King would be your ambition. You say humility, my lord but you aren't exactly shy of enjoying attention and the spotlight," Irileth pointed out. Balgruuf spoke softly at moments, only to go and razzle his men or the common folk with his feats.
Balgruuf snorted, aware of the hypocrisy. "I admit I enjoy it at times. It feels gratifying, to be praised and acknowledged." His expression dulled. "This is different however. You will have a whole Kingdom to support, its Jarls love their independence and they are used to doing things on their own. The High King seat of Skyrim, it merely is an office now. To be the Nord's representative and fulfil the dictates of Cyrodiil,"
"...And?" Irileth pressed. Balgruuf blinked, looking towards the Nightblade. Irileth leant back as she elaborated.
"Yes, you are somewhat vain, perhaps conceited at times. But that is a part of you, my lord. One thing you cannot be accused for is dereliction of duty. You complain of it now but we both know, you will do it in the end." She leaned in. "You know what awaits you, the hard road. And yet, here you are making plans and plotting." The Dunmer then stood up, walking over to Balgruuf. Irileth knelt before Balgruuf, wrapping his hand with hers. Their fingers were callused, injured.
But warm.
Fiery red rubies met with the ice snow tempest met. Irileth gripped Balgruuf's hand, holding him with signature tenderness and urging support. "I do not know what sort of enemies we shall fight. It could be in Skyrim, or back in Cyrodiil or even to the furthest reaches of Tamriel. It matters not to me. You were there when I needed someone the most and I will be here as you prepare to fight the ages, Balgruuf." Irileth spoke truly and sincerely. She did not hesitate at all to swear her oath.
Their eyes did not leave. Balgruuf nodded slowly, taking in her words. He leaned in, kissing her on the cheek. Irileth accepted the kiss, drawing in the flutter in her heart. He pulled back. "Thank you," Balgruuf whispered.
"Of course," Irileth smiled.
And thus, they left in the following morning, the villagers waving them away. Balgruuf struck a figure of inspiration, his yellow cloak fluttering under the wind. "Farewell, farewell, Riverwood!" Balgruuf waved them off. "Upon my return here, I shall repay Riverwood for the hospitality it has shown me."
The villagers cheered their lord away, eager to receive the blessings he promised them. They departed quickly, the road turning from sleepy village to signs of nearby civilization. More and more carts and travellers were seen, some bearing returning legionnaires or merchants excited at the prospect of returning trade.
"Back to business," Hrongar yawned, noting a cart on the side of the road.
"War is bad for business after all. Well, except for those that make the weapons and the arms," Balgruuf said, tapping his armor. "The war was a killing for profiteers, eh?"
Hrongar rolled his eyes at the joke. Balgruuf chuckled at himself, turning away. Then he brightened. "We are returned home," he whispered.
There on a hill a city stood, surrounded by endless green grass. It had towers and walls built in the Nordic fashion, the mighty stones weathered by age but still formidable. The towers had flag-poles where banners flew, yellow as the sun and with the image of a roaring stallion in its fields. The best landmark however was what was atop the hill. there a mighty bastion of grey stone, dark wood, and a roof made of thatched material that deceptively looked like gold when seen far off. Carved pillars and mosaic stones decorated its walls.
Dragonsreach was the castle's name. And Whiterun was the city.
And it was home.
They returned like heroes of old, fresh from conquest.
The banners of the Stallion flew proudly, the citizens of Whiterun out in full cheer as the caravan rolled in. At its head, Balgruuf preened and waved as all articles of joy were tossed at his feet. Colorful flowers were allayed before their path, cries of his return carried high into the sky. Their cries were more exuberant then as Balgruuf nodded and from the caravan train, his men opened chests and shamelessly tossed septims for the crowd to catch. Blatant bribery, Irileth snorted, as the citizens all helped themselves the the bounty.
But not all were ecstatic at the gold. There were things far more precious, more valuable than that.
"Father! Brother! Son! Mama!" were such cries the came from the crowds. Nords who were away from home for five years now returned. Still, the men kept their discipline as the marched through the streets. They were not given leave by their chief to break discipline yet and even despite the naked want of them to return home, the men respected Balgruuf greatly.
And so, the family members of the soldiers would have to wait until they finished their marching, towards Dragonsreach. The city was rich, prospering from its location at the centre of Skyrim. Through that, Whiterun earned revenue from taxing the routes. Irileth lost count of how many shops and stalls and peddlers their band passed. Her senses feasted on shops that revealed what Whiterun could offer. Fine jewellery, tools. Fine wool and pottery. Hides, and fish, and game caught from the plains. Cheeses of from goats, from cows, or even mammoths. Ale and mead houses aplenty dominated the streets, a culture like the Nords would not go without their spirits. Many were handing out free mugs, courtesy of their men's return and many were helping themselves to that rich bounty.
"It's almost as if we won the war," Irileth whispered. Balgruuf kept his face cheerful as he waved, only keeping his voice level enough for Irileth to hear. "We did not lost it either," her ears picked up his reply. "Let them enjoy themselves, before the bad news hits them."
There was a commotion from the front as a woman rushed forward, a bundle of something in her hands.
Balgruuf's guards reacted immediately, their hands reaching for their swords. Irileth too would have brought her sabre out if it wasn't for the fact that the bundle was crying. "Hold!" Balgruuf cried out as the woman stopped, freezing. The noise of celebration died down as the woman realized that she was doing something stupid, her face turning pale as the guards moved to surround her but Balgruuf called out again. "Let her come!"
And so they parted and gave way for her to approach. Hesitantly, the woman walked up to Balgruuf, the bundle tight in her hands. Balgruuf astride his saddle offered her a look of supreme grace, his helmet he took off and let hang from his saddle-bags. "My lord," the woman muttered as she stopped before Balgruuf. She would not bow however for that was not their way. Nords never bow. She instead saluted him. Awkwardly thanks to the babe that was in her hands but still, she tried.
"How may I help you, kinswoman?" Balgruuf asked kindly. The woman nodded, seeing her chance.
"I would ask, my lord, that you bless my child, Aela!" she asked graciously as she held up her baby. Balgruuf chuckled in amusement as a pair of bright-red eyes looked up at him, without fear. In fact, Balgruuf felt like he was being challenged. And Aela? That name rung familiar to him. His mind thought of that Companion in a future that would hopefully not come of a fiery huntress.
"She has strong eyes. She will make a good hunter," Balgruuf said kindly, putting away his thoughts. He nodded as he then spoke grandly. "I bless you, child, with all the wishes of my House. Grow strong, grow proud for your mother, for your Hold, and for Skyrim!" He ended his sentence with a boom, a grand acclamation that surely would have reached even far Alinor. That was the point, Balgruuf thought. Let the Dominion and its Thalmor slave-holders hear their cries for there in front of him was a newborn, one of countless thousands that will grow strong and kick their arrogant pompous asses back into the dirt.
When they grew older.
The mother smiled grandly, putting the child Aela back onto her breast. She cooed gently to her, patting her on the nose. "You heard that, Aela? You're going to be a hunter."
And with that, Balgruuf nodded and bid the column to advance, to the cheer of the crowd. They marched up, from the Plains District which was the name of their current district. Whiterun had three of them; the Plains, Wind, and Cloud districts. Their names given so after the three levels of hills that each district occupied. They were now in the Plains District, where most of the city's lower-classes lived and where most of its commerce was conducted. They will pass soon through the Wind district where most of the residences and temples were and then finally, the Cloud District.
To the sky.
"And so, you both have returned," came the grand and martial voice of Jarl Heorot, the man whom Whiterun called Jarl. Balgruuf and Hrongar said nothing as they halted before thrones, their armor clinking as they did so. They regarded him carefully, this old Jarl. He was dressed moderately, a rich red robe with a few decorations save for a golden belt and a crown with the insignia of a horse. "Like warriors of old," added another voice. At the Jarl's side was his wife, the Lady Wealhtheow. Kind was her eyes and matronly was her spirit. She smiled broadly and openly, uncaring how she looked.
The interior of Dragonsreach was what Irileth exactly had in mind of a Nordic court. They were in the grand Hall. Frescoes and mosaics were carved onto tall pillars. At the very centre, a great hearth that provided much of the warmth for the room. The grandest decoration however was the massive dragon skull that hung above the throne of the Jarl. Balgruuf once told her that was the skull of Numinex, a dragon an ancestor had slain and bones kept as trophies.
Nords, she shook her head.
"We have returned, father," Balgruuf spoke up. "And with honors and gifts from the battlefield and from the Emperor." He looked up and turned around, nodding. At that, men marched in carrying extensive chests. It clinked with each step. The halted before the throne and lowered their cargo. They were opened and the court whispered at the sheer amount of shine from them. Gold, gold aplenty. The Emperor was generous. But there too were others. Spoils of war that Balgruuf and Hrongar earned from the battlefield.
"Rich in splendour, indeed." hummed the Jarl. He stood up to his full height, earning a hush in the court's murmurs. "And so, I declare that there will be feasting tonight in Dragonsreach! Do not eat and drink, kinsmen, because you will all be eating from my larders later!" Great cheers were earned from the thanes, the houscarls and other nobles who were in the court. Why would they not when they were eating for free. He turned away from them and to his sons who he then bid to approach. The two men did and were promptly brought into a massive hug.
To which the court cheered some more, as Lady Wealhtheow joined in. From where she stood, Irileth heard the Jarl's quiet whispers of thanks that his sons had returned. His sons said nothing, merely letting themselves be drawn into the embrace. The way that they held onto their father and mother, that was all Irileth needed to know how the felt about everything.
"Where is he? Where is my damned fool of a husband!" the voice of a woman cried. Hrongar glanced up, his face shining in familiarity at the voice. A cry of pure joy left his lips, his eyes as bright as stars as a woman rushed up. The dress she wore did little to hide the absolutely exercised body underneath. She looked like she belonged in the battlefield, not in the court. Behind her, a gaggle of ladies followed. The handmaidens, Irileth realized. Her eyes however settled on the small child, black of hair, with them.
If things weren't even more sweet, it became more so as the woman ran up, her dress be damned, into the arms of Hrongar. Laughter, musical and light, left their lips as they hugged and embraced, the longing of five years finally poured out in a moment of breathless delight. They stayed connected for what seemed like forever before they finally pulled back and in one swift moment, kissed each other.
"Eyyyyyy!" the court cheered, touched at the reunion. From where he stood, Balgruuf finally pulled himself from the hug of his parents and turned towards Hrongar, smirking. He walked up to them, the Jarl and his wife following closely behind. The two pulled away from their kiss, looking into each other's eyes with passionate love until finally, they felt Balgruuf approach. The woman's eyes widened and quickly, she saluted Balgruuf in the Nordic way, a closed fist to the chest. "Hail, kinsman," the woman greeted Balgruuf. The Jarling returned the salute as to which she continued to speak. "Welcome home to Skyrim, my lord. And thank you for watching over my damned fool of a husband," said she, grinning as she held Hrongar close to her.
"It is what I do, Freydis," Balgruuf said, giving a name to her. "I was loaning him from you after all,"
"Damn right you were," huffed Freydis, she turned away from Balgruuf and up to Hrongar, her eyes shining with love. "It's also about time you saw your daughter," she said softly. Hrongar's eyes widened then as the handmaidens walked up, leading the child from earlier. Freydis pulled away to let Hrongar go. The bigger Nord knelt, his face the epitome of gentleness. The child regarded him cautiously, hugging the handmaiden's legs tight and long.
"Hello, little one," Hrongar greeted her. The girl's lips quivered as she looked towards her mother. Freydis smiled assumingly, telling her that it was alright. With that encouragement, the girl turned towards Hrongar and took a step forward. A little braver now, Irileth saw. "...Papa?" the girl asked, looking at Hrongar. The smile on his face spoke volumes of how much he was touched. "Yes. Yes, I am your papa," Hrongar whispered. "My name is Hrongar. What is yours?" he asked her.
"Lydia," she replied, her voice finding strength now. "My name is Lydia."
"Lydia is a beautiful name. It is a strong name," Hrongar said, nodding. "You are going to be just like your mama when you grow older, Lydia. Big, strong, and beautiful," he praised her. The child giggled and the sound of it was like the smoothest music to Hrongar's ears. Then, Lydia spoke again. "Mama says you were away because you had to fight the bad men. Did you win, papa?"
A pained look flashed across Hrongar's eyes. From where he stood, Balgruuf too battled in keeping his face neutral. Hrongar however, smiled. "Yes. We won." he lied.
"So...you are home now? No more fighting the bad men?" Lydia asked curiously.
"Yes, Lydia. I am home. No more fighting the bad men," Hrongar nodded. Lydia glanced up at him, as if her eyes were trying to see the truth in his words. It went on for a minute until finally, Lydia nodded in satisfaction. She crossed her arms cutely, pouting. "Good. Mama misses you. I miss you." she added in childish imperiousness.
"I won't leave you and her ever again, Lydia. I promise," Hrongar vowed.
Much later and in the quiet of a stately room, Balgruuf heard a whisper.
"You have a delightful family, my lord," Irileth quipped.
"Mhm," was Balgruuf's tasteful reply, his face covered by a pillow. Gone was his armor and dignity, now clad in a tasteful plain robe and body smelling off soaps and oils. He lay on his bed, deflated as a worn tire and snoozing peacefully. They were now in his own private room, afforded the chance to rest before the massive feast that was sure to come later. Balgruuf had wanted to get to business immediately with his father but the old Jarl told him no. He had just arrived home after all. No need to rush into business, he was told.
And so, Balgruuf excused himself, took a bath, and napped.
His room wasn't particularly ostentatious, a surprise for the dark elf. She had thought that he would indulge in the fine things his station could afford but no, her lord was restrained in his tastes. The beds, the chairs and tables, the chandeliers that offered light and the armour racks and weapon shrines, it was all simple but high quality. The only indulgence she could really find was the bed itself and the many Redguard rugs all over the floor.
Like a cat, Balgruuf rolled over. He sighed in bliss. "Five years of war makes you forget what life was like before. I look forward to eating, drinking, and hunting my way to excess. I am sure that will please Sanguine," he said with total and utter seriousness. Irileth felt that he was trailing off to something and waited for him to speak. Finally, he did so as he sat up. "If only though. Much has to be done before I can do that. The Thalmor are probably laying the groundwork to ruin the Empire further and Skyrim will be a part of that. They've already started with that, in Markarth."
Irileth remembered Markarth as a major Nordic Hold west of Skyrim. Apparently, it was known for its silver mines and Dwemer aesthetic. "Markarth? You mean the uprising there, yes?" Balgruuf nodded as he sat on the side of his bed, stretching his loose muscles. "Yes. The native Reachmen have decided to reclaim what the feel is their homeland. I sympathize with their plight, of course, but unfortunately that is part of Skyrim. And if I want to make it clear that I wish to be a candidate when Istlod dies, I have to make waves. And Markarth will be my wave."
"You've just arrived home, my lord. Can't you not wait a little bit and rest?" Irileth asked. She understood the need for him to be pro-active but surely, a few weeks of rest would do him good. "Think on this, the war is over. A lot of men are tired from battles and conflict. Would they be so eager for battle again?"
Balgruuf stood up, humming as he considered her words.
"No one will ever say no to extra gold, Irileth. As for men, I have half a mind to organize a coalition to reclaim Markarth for Skyrim. It will be less self-serving if its for the Kingdom than for myself," Balgruuf said, his eyes twinkling with ambition. "I intend to ask my father permission about it tonight."
"And will he accept?" Irileth asked.
"As long as I do not ask him to mobilize the Hold for this, then yes, he probably would," Balgruuf nodded confidently. "We are Nords. We live for war, for battle. And this is an opportunity to gather prestige for Whiterun, for our House, and for Skyrim. The depression of the White-Gold Concodat will be lessened if a glorious victory will be achieved at Markarth...and it will be a good chance to make my name sing." He then turned towards his wardrobe. "Now, assist me in dressing, Irileth. I intend to look like a dashing warlord tonight."
The Dunmer clicked her tongue, walking over as Balgruuf's robe hit the floor. "I am sworn to carry your burdens," she mused to herself.
"We have sent much, for the preservation of the Empire. The call to arms was sounded, and we answered."
Golden fires made the Great Hall shine. The nobles, thanes, and housecarls and other invited guests were in the full and finest clothes, eager to dress and impress. It was a sea of browns, and golds, and greens. Nordic fashions were practically fashionable, if one could use that term. It was made to preserve one's warmth from the cold but still be comfortable enough to dazzle. The men had rings, their beards braided with gold or silver. The women had jewellery aplenty. In Bretonic or Imperial circles, their baubles would have been named with ostentatious titles such as "The Rose of Morning" or something pretentious. Not the Nords however. Names were given to weapons and items of supreme importance, not simple jewellry.
"The pestilential war that has ravaged our Empire had ended, and the boys we sent away, have returned as men."
Each man and woman in the room stood high and strong, a drinking horn or goblet in their hands, depending on the preference. In them was either wine, ale, or mead. On the tables were a bounty to be had. Pies with rich fillings of apples, or succulent meats. Breads of rye, wheat, or barely all in bowls or baskets. Seared meats of vension, beef, or mammoth. Normally they would be paired with sauces made with common ingredients but in this special time, the faint scent of herbs and spices made them irresistible. Then, there was the roasted chickens, and the steaks of fish cooked in butter and garlic. Then the little cakes, and tarts, and tortes made with cream and snowberries. Tonight was a night for feasting and the cooks of Dragonsreach marshalled their full strength to make the delicacies, and put out more if required.
"Many might question, what have we gotten to gain from the war? Well, I tell you, my sons have returned and with glories aplenty!"
Balgruuf stood on the left side of the high table overlooking the Great Hall. His father was at the centre, a golden-carved drinking cup in hand. He then raised it up and the Hall followed. "A toast to the returning heroes! A toast to those who have died, and a toast to Empire!"
"Hail!" the hall boomed and waited as the Jarl drank. They then followed, drinking and drinking until their cups were empty. With a pleased sigh, Jarl Heorot clapped his hands. "Now, eat and drink, you glorious bastards! Tonight is on me!"
"Hail!" the men and women of the Hall laughed. As if by some hidden cue, jaunty and cheerful music began to play as the Nords descended into their festivities, eating and drinking. Irileth was in her corner with the other housecarls, quietly eating her food and watching above as Balgruuf began to speak with his family. She strained to listen, her ears catching their conversation.
"...so how was the capital? Was Cyrodiil as glorious as we remember it?" Jarl Heorot asked, cutting into pieces of meat on his plate.
"Ah, it was pretty. Imperial City and the tower, very impressive. The people there, soft like cakes," Hrongar answered. "Some were strong, and good fighters. They were the ones that survived."
"You speak as if they were fops that would faint at the sight of blood, brother," Balgruuf chuckled. "True, the cosmopolitanism of the capitol would surely dull their senses a little bit but those soft Imperials managed to fight a five year war and did not break. That takes some nerve, don't you think?"
"Bah, I reckon I could take twenty legionnaires in a fight. All sword-and board, no fury," Freydis quipped, munching on a particularly tasty piece of steak. "How do the elves fight like? All magic like we heard?"
"Oh yes," Balgruuf nodded. "Even their most basic infantryman has a grasp of magic that would make your average human mage look like a chump. Not very powerful though once you get close and bash their brains in." A displeased tsk left Wealhtheow's lips, earning a look from the table. "We are at the table, we speak of pleasant things, not battle." She calmed herself after a sip of wine, her face gentler now. "Now that you are home, son, what do you plan to do? I hear Solitude is looking nice this time of year. Or you can go socialize with the Thanes and get on a hunting trip."
Balgruuf's lips went into kind of a thin line, an awkward glint in his eyes. He turned to his father who at this time had been absent-mindedly munching on his food. He blinked, seeing his son look at him. "Eh? What is it?"
"There has been something I wanted to ask you, father. It is regarding my plans for the future," Balgruuf said, scratching his head. The Jarl and his wife shared a look before turning back to their son. "Yes..?" trailed Wealhtheow. Balgruuf leaned in closely and in hushed tones, whispered. "I wish to organize a militia of Nords to retake Markarth from the Forsworn and return to Nordic control,"
There was silence, then, as the Jarl and his wife processed what their son asked of them. Hrongar merely bit on his steak, aware of his brother's plans. Freydis was intrigued, whispering something into her husband's ear. The Jarl's mouth went agape as a fish before finally, he settled with a serious look. "You want to reclaim Markarth...from the Forsworn?" he said slowly.
Balgruuf nodded.
"...You do realize we will have to discuss on this extensively, correct?"
"I have plans in mind but I can be flexible in discussing them, father," Balgruuf said confidently. The Jarl leaned in, his face serious. "And you have mentioned of this to...?" Balgruuf pointed towards him. "I am not suicidal enough to have announced it yet. I wish to ask for your blessing to proclaim it at least tonight or tomorrow."
"...We are discussing it tonight, once this feast is over."
And discuss it, they would.
Irileth sighed as she drank from her own goblet, the rich sweet nectar of Nordic mead filled her throat. This was going to be a long night. Gods, she just arrived and she was already going to pull a all-nighter. She glanced around her table, with her fellow housecarls. The exalted armsmen of the nobility had been gatehred together to show their rank, the closest to the high table meant social rank. And she was already rubbing shoulders with interesting characters.
Across of her, an impromptu drinking was due to start. A middle-aged Nord grinned mightily as he put forward multiple mugs of golden ale in front of him. He glanced around, his eyes looking for challenge. "Any of you sluts can beat me in this drinking contest, I give you five hundred septims and a dagger, made from Eorlund's hands himself! So, who has the courage to face me?" The other housecarls glanced at each other before someone, Irileth did not know, put forward a suggestion. "What about the Dunmer, eh? She looks like she can hold her liquor."
At that, the eyes at the table turned towards her. Irileth did her best not to let the dismay on her face show as the Nord beamed at her. "So, what do you think, Nightblade? Think you got what it takes?" Irileth considered herself a classy elf. She was not going to get dragged into some quaint drinking challenge. She shook her head, stabbing a fork into the meat on her plate. "Not interested," Irileth said simply.
"What are you, chicken?" the Nord asked mockingly.
Her lips curled into a frown.
"What did you just call me?" she asked, her eyes narrowing into slits.
"Called you chicken, dunmer," sneered the Nord. "What, did Azura curse you with poor ears as well as your ashy skin?"
Irileth watched him with a stunned expression. Her shock turned swiftly to offence. If this up jumped monkey thought he could get away with challenging her and insulting her honour, he was going to get a rude awakening. "Give me that damned mug then, n'wah," she hissed.
The festivities eventually died down, the lords and ladies of Whiterun eating and drinking to their hearts content, until finally they all ran out of tolerance for the eating and drinking. Slowly and slowly, the genteel men and ladies of the city filtered out enough for the more important ones to be ushered into their rooms, gathered by the fire, or otherwise thrown out of the castle. The leftovers were gathered, plenty of it in fact, to be used as fare for the following morning or as donations to the poor and hungry.
None we left now in the Great Hall, save for the Jarl and his family. The Old Horse sat on his throne, a drinking horn in hand as he looked at Balgruuf. His finger tapped the arm-rest of his throne. He glanced at his eldest who stood up straight, confident and sure of himself. The war had changed much of Balgruuf, mused Heorot. His boy had left bright-eyed and in high spirits, now he returned as a warrior of his own right. At his side, his Dunmer housecarl was doing her best to stand straight and not collapse on the ground.
"His housecarl has spine," Wiglaf said, slight slurring in his voice. Heorot raised an eyebrow, smelling the ale on his breath. His eyes adjusted towards his own housecarl. "...Did you seriously let that girl beat you in a drinking contest?" The old warrior groaned, rubbing his forehead. "...Forget about that. His Housecarl is prickly like a thorn but stands up for herself if push comes to shove."
Hrongar's yawn brought them out of their quiet discussion. His youngest on the other hand was seated on a chair, his wife passed out and snoring next to him, a drinking horn in her hand. Freydis's manners were always something that she lacked but then again, this was night and no one was here to watch her drool. At his side, Wealhtheow opened up discussions. "You want to reclaim Markarth..." she trailed, still disbelieving what she had heard. "Why?"
"Cidnha Mine, the richest deposit of silver in Skyrim," Balgruuf began strongly. "Skyrim will need that silver if she means to last through the uncertainty of the coming years. To have Reachmen control it, a people noted for child sacrifice and daedra worship, should be out of the question in the first place."
Heorot could see the reasoning behind that. Since it was opened, Markarth's silver had been funding Skyrim. To describe the wealth flowing out of the place would simply be a understatement. "What else?" Jarl Heorot asked, fishing for more insight into his son's brain. Balgruuf continued. "To shore up support, father. By restoring the Jarl of Markarth into his seat, we can make sure that we have a hand in the profits of his mine, the Dwemer artifacts in his hold, as well as the favour of a major Hold."
Again, sound reasoning. But there was a question that Heorot had to ask. "And to what end is this support, Balgruuf?" he asked, his eyes settling with Balgruuf. His son paused, considering his question. For what seemed like an eternity, Balgruuf deflated and sighed. Seeing his son distraught made Heorot feel distraught as well. Which parent would be fine in seeing their own brood distressed? Eventually, Balgruuf answered. "You all know the details of the White-Gold Concordat, yes?"
At the mention of that cursed paper, something inside Heorot felt like it was being dragged into a pit. He kenw of it, hells, they were all given secret letters detailing what the Concordat meant for the Empire. The disbanding of the Blades, he could grasp. The Blades were guardsmen without masters, serving Emperors whose blood was totally unworthy. The ceding of Redguard territory to the elves, it was understandable too. As far as he and the wider Empire knew, Hammerfell's coasts were occupied by the elves. Those two things, there was some logic to them.
But the banning of Talos worship?
Oh, he could grasp the idea if Skyrim too was invaded and had its borders ravaged by marauding elves. But it wasn't. Save for the Reachmen taking control of Markarth, Skyrim was totally unoccupied. The Elves had little right nor basis to demand of that from the Emperor. And the man gave it to them without even consulting the High King and his Jarls. Seeing his father's expression darken, Balgruuf began to speak.
"With the banning of Talos, there will be unrest. There will be those upset that Divine Talos, someone we worshipped for as long as we remembered, is now illegal to praise. Our honor, our dignity as a people will have been shamed despite our sacrifices to the Empire," Balgruuf spoke freely, with thought. He walked forward, looking up at his father. "We need this, father. Our people need this. By reclaiming Markarth, we will have recovered even a sliver of our honor and show the Empire and the Elves that Talos's people may have lost the right to worship him but our dignity will never be taken away."
The Jarl leant back on his throne, running a good long look at his son and his impassioned speech. Wealhtheow however stood up, walking up towards Balgruuf. "I forbid it," the noblewoman said quickly. "Do you even know what you are asking for? The Reachmen are wild and primal, son. They dress in skins, they use wild and strange magics. The Reach too is hilly and isolated, you will not find it an easy campaign!" She palmed her forehead, her tongue clicking in annoyance. "You weren't the first one to try this. Jarl Hrolfdir tried to reclaim his home and he utterly failed."
Balgruuf offered his mother a soft look. He took her by the hands, gently, and looked into her worried eyes. "That's because Jarl Hrolfdir did not have a plan. He underestimated the Reachmen, I won't."
"If these Reachmen are as wild as you say they are, mother, then I want to fight them," Hrongar shrugged blankly. "What force did the Jarl of Markarth muster? Nordic militia? No, the Reachmen will fight veterans of the Great War now and we too have tricks of our own." He then took a drink of his cup, emptying it down with a belch. "Trust Balgruuf, mother. He knows what he is doing. We did not survive the battles in Cyrodiil by being careless," Hrongar ended, nodding towards his brother.
At this, Wealhtheow turned towards her husband. "They've just arrived home. And they want to leave again," she said with a frown. "Don't let them do this," she said pleadingly. The Jarl however had a look of contemplation on his face. His mind was considering what his son wanted. He considered himself as a decent sort of man, as decent as any highborn noble was. But he still was a noble in the end. He would never say no to extra prestige for his Hold and for his family. Having a stake in Cidnha Mine too was a attractive prospect and he knew his Steward would be on the moon over the revenues of it. Plus if Balgruuf could pull this off, his rise as a Jarl would be acclaimed well...
However...
"I am not opposed to what you wish, Balgruuf," Jarl Heorot began, earning a look of disappointment from his wife and approval from his son. "We are Nords, we live and die for war. However, there are times when we too are reminded that we are Men and need time to rest." He sat straighter on his throne and beheld his boy. "Since this is your own plan, you will have to organize everything yourself. I will allow you to recruit men and purchase supplies, here. The Hold however cannot mobilize for this. For one, we do not have permission from the High King and the Empire to mobilize. If I do that, it will alarm the other Jarls. Secondly, the men and my own vassals are tired of war. Let them have time to spend with their families."
"Of course," nodded Balgruuf. "This will take time to organize anyway. I will spend the coming days preparing for this. People have to be contacted, such as Jarl Hrolfdir himself."
The Jarl nodded. "Present to me your strategy for this battle. I wish to know how you will do this." The Jarl paused. "Is there anything else you need or want to talk about, Balgruuf?"
His son paused, considering something. He then nodded. "Yes, father. I would like to talk to you about land..." Balgruuf asked, a twinkle in his eye.
A/N: Taken from my QQ account.
If ya likey and for faster updates, please consider supporting me on : pastah_farian