The next three days were hell.

Nariilu looked around the bare stone walls of Delphine's former chamber, the side of her body closest to the firepit uncomfortably warm, the side furthest uncomfortably cold. She'd commission some tapestries as soon as she got to Solitude, lest any of her Dragonguard find themselves in the predicament of being stuck on bedrest in such a drab room.

It had to nearly be time for Uthgerd to visit, right? They still had so much to discuss before she and Stormcloak left for Markarth first thing tomorrow morning, as he had sworn was the earliest he'd allow her to leave, and even then only depending on her physical condition.

She wondered if he would even come to see her in the evening to see that she was perfectly capable of flying to Markarth, as if she hadn't just been in well enough health to overwhelm the Forsworn. Nariilu supposed she'd been limping a bit too much, and…well, and he had seen her changing her bandages, but truly, she'd seen worse. Not on her, not that the twisted, torn, burnt, mangled bodies she'd seen had much hope of ever getting back to peak form, but she was different. She was Dragonborn, after all.

And Stormcloak didn't seem to care about that fact. Odahviing had been near to slaying one of the half-useless, low Dragons as penance for getting wounded during the final attack on Druadach Redoubt, and it was only Soskendov's bitter intervention that kept him from killing the poor thing, leaving its Soul for her to devour. No, Soskendov had picked up on why she had been encouraging Odahviing's deadly discipline, and she had to back down lest she be portrayed as a viscious, ruthless First, to both her Dragons and Dragonguard. It was a comparison she did not wish to make, not yet, not when Alduin's rule was so recent.

She counted the hours since Illia came in for her morning healing, and her scolding at 'wasting' her own magic to heal herself. Soon, Uthgerd would be here, with two plates of food for them to share and work out the particulars of how the Dragonguard should operate. It was unusual, to go this long without a visitor; nearly all of the Dragonguard, even ones she did not personally know, had stopped by to speak with her about one thing or the other. Usually, just a thanks and a swearing of allegiance, but a few had gone into more conversational questions about the state of the war and what and how Stormcloak was doing. She answered all as truthfully as she could, they were entitled to know about the affairs of things, and, given how isolated Sky Haven was, Nariilu doubted they had regular gossip.

But Stormcloak-he was another matter. She deflected all questions about him with a simple "He's important, isn't he?" because if they truly wanted to know what and how he was doing, they could simply go and ask him.

She hoped. For all she knew, he had completely fled Sky Haven. It had been three days since she saw him, since he caught her easily as she stumbled from Odahviing, since he frowned at how easily he'd caught her, and stuck his nose up and refused to leave until she was in better health.

It really made her wonder how much he'd remembered of…that night, when he'd been soaking drunk and passed out in her bed, not even having the dignity to sleep still. No, instead, after barging in on her half-naked and certainly in the most vulnerable state she could've been in outside of completely passed out, he had the audacity to grab her in his sleep, wrapping one, both arms around her middle and scrape against her bruises and broken bones. It was a shock her surprised cries and hisses of pain hadn't woken him up.

Gods, he needed to stop drinking. Sooner or later-probably sooner, she decided-it would slip from being an evening event to earlier and earlier in the day. She'd seen it happen too many times with her soldiers, usually the ones who'd seen the worst fighting, who'd come back…different. Stormcloak had certainly had his fair share of hardship, but his drinking would be the end of him.

Nariilu tried to blame his behavior on wine, but knew how it brought out hidden feelings. It was how she and J'zargo had ended up together in the first place, one drunken night after too long in the library when she'd slammed down a first edition of The Real Barenziah, from before her Court had forced edits (rumored to be against Barenziah's own wishes), stolen from under Urag's ever watchful eye after he issued a dare. The two of them had giggled like children over the raunchy sections before they came to a particular passage that made her rather curious.

The rest is history.

Forgotten, ancient history.

She wiped a tear from her eye, refusing to allow it the dignity of falling.

Things were not like that with Stormcloak; he was an angry, complicated man who wanted what was best for him and Skyrim. She had gotten in the way of his plans, and he held that against her, even if Nariilu offered a better route. He'd been too quiet except for when he drank, when he was too loud. She'd need to clear the air with him soon, let him have another good shout at her now that the Forsworn were dead, now that she'd thought a hundred times she'd earned his trust.

No, things between them were all business. Not that she wanted anything more, or that he would ever see her as anything but an Elf. Oblivion, it was something that he'd admitted he didn't hate her, couldn't hate her, and that was as close to friends as they'd ever make it; allies at best, simply not enemies she'd take from him, too.

Uthgerd knocked once before entering, Salma and Illia behind her, Illia carrying the stack of papers Nariilu and Uthgerd had been scribbling on the past three days. "Alright," Uthgerd said, "let's finish getting things settled."

Musing about Stormcloak could wait. Forever. She had an army to set up.

One night.

He'd had one night without dreaming.

He supposed he should be grateful, but considering how he couldn't get her warmth out of his mind, Ulfric figured he'd paid a certain price for his night of peace. He'd taken to shoving his back against the stone wall as he laid down, because now he couldn't stand to be alone, for all the Guard that wanted to spend their waking hours with him, hearing stories, being trained, simply being in his presence.

Ulfric damned the giant temple and the sheer size of the fallen Blades; as the Guard was so small, everyone had their own chamber. There were no barracks for him to sleep with the others in peace, hearing the comforting sounds of snores and restlessness. And now-Ulfric finished his wine and barely remembered to set the bottle down softly-the Dragonborn had moved to a different chamber (the Grandmaster's chamber, Annekke had mentioned offhand) and he could no longer hear her gentle movements through the wall. Or go bother her, he thought with a curse.

And he hadn't bothered her, as the only thing that would come out of visiting her while she was on bedrest was discussion about how either she was more than well enough to fly to Markarth, or some knowledge of how she planned to use the Dragons to overthrow Mede, no doubt. Or some line about how she slayed the Forsworn for him, because he asked.

He wondered what else he could ask for.

But he'd have to go see her for that, and the only thing seeing her in a bed would remind him of was how she turned into a furnace when she slept, despite her wasting away. Because, despite himself, he was still a man who had spent too long away from a woman, and his body had begun to betray him.

Because why shouldn't he care about a woman who would avenge his failures, who promised him the world? Who was crazy and powerful enough to pull it all off? She'd given him the Forsworn, the least he could do was trust her.

That's all it was, a swelling of gratitude, of trust. It had been so long, after all, since things had even somewhat gone his way. Not that he would've believed what he was thinking even six weeks ago. Oblivion, if he could go back, he would've trusted her from the beginning, despite everything. Despite himself.

Gods, he couldn't wait to rule with her.

And how he'd likely ruined everything by getting drunk, saying gods knew what to her. How cruel it would be if he had just learned to trust her only to have lost hers, the trust he never had to earn, the trust she gave freely from the beginning. He'd have to figure out a way to make it up somehow, almost certainly by treating her with the respect she deserved. No more drunken rants, no more foolish behavior or pretending to be angry, none of that if she were to keep him as her choice for High King.

He could do better. He had to do better. Ulfric finished his wine glass, weighing the costs of another. One more glass couldn't hurt-not like it was a bottle, after all-and he hadn't even begun to feel the lightness of drink. Wine, not whiskey, a glass, not a bottle. It was better than before, even if it meant he was likely to wake up thrashing, thinking about…about her.

Of Elenwen, or of gore and flying limbs, hearing wails of dying horses, soldiers, mud warm from blood squelching beneath his boots, coating him like the stink of iron and piss in an Imperial cell, a Thalmor dungeon, a blade and spell coaxing secrets and sobs out of him, his smiling interrogator Elenwen laughing in a high-pitched twinkle.

No, no he'd rather think about her, the Dragonborn, the Throne, the Jagged Crown, of Dragons and victory and safety for him and for all, of a home with her-

Ulfric downed his glass. Trust was a strange thing.

Salma figured it out first. "You're joking."

Nariilu smiled down at the map, tracing her finger over the roads easily accessed from Skuldafn. Soon enough, there would be a fixture of Dragonguard there, too, along with countless Draugr and Dragons. "I'm not the joking sort."

"You have to be! You're a Battlemage, for damned sake! You can't just overthrow the Empire!"

"What?" Simultaneously from both Uthgerd and Illia. Uthgerd continued. "We're hunting Dragons. Protecting the people."

"The Empire is weak. The Civil War would've lasted for another decade, weakening both sides until the Thalmor decided it was time to steal all of the Empire for themselves. Cyrodiil, Skyrim, the whole of Tamriel would belong to them," Nariilu replied. "Now that the War has ended, it's only a matter of time before the next destabilization event comes along to weaken us all further, or they'll simply invade and take what they couldn't during the Great War."

"The Thalmor haven't recovered from the Great War, either," Illia said, placing down her notes and searching the map, nodding at the areas marked as potential Dragonguard holdings. "Do you really think-"

Nariilu cut her off. "The Thalmor will do anything for a victory. They've been planning this for years. Decades. Most of the Great War veterans that aren't Elves are half-dead already. The Civil War wasn't just to weaken us, it was to test how the new generation of the Legion fought. And it's poorly. I found Dossiers in the Thalmor Embassy detailing parts of their plan. It's the one thing Delphine and I agreed upon; the Thalmor must be stopped."

"Were the Forsworn a test of your own? To see how the Dragons would fare against the Thalmor?" Salma asked, an edge to her voice.

"No." Nariilu answered honestly, but she hated to admit she really only did it for Stormcloak. "I know how powerful the Dragons are; but now the Reach is indebted to me. And, if they're smart, the world will fear me."

"The world will target you for this," Uthgerd said. "Powerful people like to stay where they are."

"I have to agree," Illia said. "The Forsworn massacre may have come too soon. The Dragonguard are not established and are still basically the Blades, which is an illegal order. This is a threat. You are a threat."

Nariilu shrugged. "And if I die, Dragons will return to roam free through Tamriel."

"Is that really a deterrent?" Uthgerd asked. "Few powerful people like to think long term, either."

"I count myself among the blessed."

A tense silence was cast, and Nariilu could tell how badly everyone wanted to speak against her idea, but perhaps she'd already convinced them she was crazy and determined and strong enough to reach her goals. To build her own Empire, as the old ways demanded, with a Dragonborn ruler on the Ruby Throne.

Uthgerd sighed. "I'm glad you'll have the Dragonguard to watch your back. Your head is going to be worth more than that damned throne."

"Ulfric knows?" Illia guessed. Nariilu nodded. "He's fine with it? Ulfric Stormcloak?" Another nod. Illia's eyes narrowed. "Are you two…?" She trailed off, tapping two fingers together suggestively.

"Gods! No," Nariilu answered quickly. Almost too quickly, she felt. More eyes narrowed. "He'll be High King."

"You destroyed the man's movement to become High King, and now you go and undo all your hard work," Salma said, crossing her arms.

"The Civil War weakened Skyrim and the Empire. I couldn't let it go on."

"Uh huh."

More silence. Nariilu wondered if this would be the end of the Dragonguard, these three traitors would leave her behind and go back to hunting the Dragons she worked so hard to tame. Finally, Uthgerd shrugged. "It seems a good way to go down in history one way or the other."

"Agreed," Salma said. "You'll be a better fit than Mede, for certain. A drunk horse would be better, but truly, I never cared much for politics. The Dragons are nice to have, though."

Illia sighed. "Alright, but you can't keep shirking your healing. Keep the assassins off of you, and the salve on. No more fighting for at least a month. I'm serious." She pointed her quill for emphasis, then ruffled her pages into a neater stack. "We have more to discuss than I imagined. Let's continue."

The Dragonborn threw Madanach's head at Igmund's feet, letting the ice around it shatter. "My Jarl," she said, taking a knee that Ulfric could only find it within himself to match with a slight bow, "Ulfric Stormcloak and I have solved your Forsworn dilemma."

The silence was long.

"You spared Ulfric Stormcloak. I didn't believe the missive until I heard it from the Jarl Balgruuf himself." Jarl Igmund finally spoke. Fabric shifted as his Steward and Housecarl took this in; they had obviously decided the more pressing issue was the severed head on the floor in front of their Jarl. Ulfric could've laughed. Igmund continued, "You fly in on the back of a Dragon-I received your letter this morning, Thane, not that I could have believed it until this-and tell me that Ulfric Stormcloak has finished what he was called to the Reach to do after twenty-seven years? You show me the head of the most persistent enemy the Reach has had in three generations? Avenge my father's murder? How."

A demand more than a question. Ulfric felt a surge of pride; this boy who had been sitting on his father's lap until he was forced to sit on the throne itself had grown himself into a man. He'd never fully let go of that final piece of blame for Hrolfdir's death; if Hrolfdir had truly eradicated the Forsworn rather than rest on some foolish deal with the Empire, the old man would still be alive. But Ulfric knew Hrolfdir was watching from Sovngarde, proud of his son's command of the cavernous throne room, his piercing stare and demands that would not go without answer.

"I have tamed many of the Dragons that once hunted these lands," the Dragonborn answered, as if she were discussing the running of the deer. "I and my Dragonguard rode the Dragons to victory against the Forsworn, leveling mountains and razing strongholds. Many heroes were made, all of our enemies' blood was shed."

"Then you paint a target upon your back, if you truly command a host of Dragons. Leveling mountains!" Jarl Igmund laughed. "It's no wonder you've allied yourself with Ulfric, as impulsive as he is. Was. Is?"

"Am," Ulfric answered, and Igmund laughed again. The Jarl of the Reach had always been good natured, with a soft spot for him but deeply condemning the Stormcloak movement. He'd been a man who craved the peace his father could never bring, and now that he had it, well, the smile easily reached the young man's eyes.

"I would be glad if my Thane were a Nord, with honor in her blood, that I might trust her Dragons would not level Markarth as well."

And he'd learned politics since the shouting match at the Moot. Ulfric cursed to himself. The Dragonborn's shoulders flinched with the insult.

"My great Jarl," the Dragonborn knelt deeper, "I see no reason to throw away a powerful ally, even less to destroy a stronghold that was ancient in the First Era. I simply wish to bring peace to Tamriel, and the Dragons will soon no longer be a threat to your people. The Forsworn are no longer a threat. I give you Madanach's head as a sign of my obedience and service. Let it be a symbol of the strength of the Reach, that no enemy shall find purchase in these mountains."

Igmund raised an eyebrow; he didn't quite believe her words, but who would?

Then again, who would oppose her? Dragons had been wreaking havoc on Skyrim for years; to eliminate their tithes and feedings would save a hundred lives in each Hold every year. In Eastmarch, Dragons had been holing up on cliffs and impossible to reach mountains and valleys in between flying to whatever unlucky hamlet caught their eyes; the Reach had no shortage of mountains for the Dragons to home in. Their Dragon problem was likely the largest in Skyrim.

"My Jarl," Igmund's steward cut in. "A word?"

Igmund allowed his steward and Housecarl to approach with a flick of his wrist, the two bending at the waist to form a triangle of ears to mouths. A minute of hushed voices later, he waved them away.

"The Reach is grateful for your service," Igmund said, "and will not forget this gift. However, we cannot ignore the threat of your Dragons, and the unknown nature of your Dragonguard Dragonriders. I request a full report of the actions and intentions of this group. And, if required, I may adopt them into the fold of the Reach Guard, as is my right as your Jarl."

"I am Thane of many Jarls, my Jarl," the Dragonborn replied, "but you have likely already seen a reduction in Dragon attacks these past few weeks. Expect that trend to continue. Expect a report within the month."

Jarl Igmund hit his fist on the arm of his throne. "I will not share your loyalty."

"I will not share my Dragons."

Another word from his Housecarl. After a long minute of discussion, Igmund hid a scowl. "I am honored and ever grateful for your service in slaying the Forsworn, my Thane. I will consider word that any Jarl or army counts a Dragon amongst their forces as an act of war."

"They are no more soldiers than are your skeevercatchers, my Jarl."

"A word of warning, Jarl Igmund," Ulfric spoke up, biting back a smile as the room perked up to listen to his words rather than focus on the tense match between Igmund and the Dragonborn. "A Civil War in Skyrim is not so easily won, specifically when you fight against the Dragonborn."

Igmund chuckled. "But, it seems losing one is an excellent way to ensure the deaths of your enemies."

Ulfric eyed the Thalmor soldiers standing at perfect attention to either side of the throne, just far enough to stay out of direct sight when speaking with the Jarl, but easily close enough to hear every word to report back to whatever Justiciar they served. He wondered how many Justiciars and soldiers the Reach had been through now; before the war they were approaching double digits of Thalmor somehow getting lost in the ancient ruins of the Keep. "Not all of my enemies."

Hiiii just a lil smth quick that's part of the original chapter ive now broken up bc the other sections are halfway done and it was over 7k words. I figured this would be a nice lil update for yall but its def a target for a rewrite later because lmao im just tryna get this book done fr

anyways love yall! and love reviews 3