4E 202, Road to Winterhold
Gerron Ironbreaker
The wind was biting that morning, as it always did this far north. The road to Winterhold was one that was always wrought with deep snow. The roads were ill-maintained here, turning a six day trip into twice as long.
The air shimmered faintly with frost as the small convoy made its way north. Six riders in blackened armor bore the sigil of Shor's Guard, the best warriors in their order sent to accompany Gerron in the travel.
Gerron had initially declined any sort of escort, claiming that the manpower was best used elsewhere. To his surprise, almost everyone in his inner circle, including Serana, insisted.
"It wouldn't do for a Jarl to visit another Hold without a proper escort." Serana shook her head. "It's for propriety and safety, Gerron."
"Back when you were travelling, you were just a blacksmith from a small town, lad." Filnjar said. "Bandits avoided you simply because you weren't the hassle. But now? You wear a crown, and crowns attract daggers of all kinds. The title of Jarl comes with many enemies."
In the end, he relented, knowing that they were right. It also reminded him that he has yet to appoint a housecarl, a position that's considered obligatory in a Jarl's court.
A housecarl not only served as a guard, but also could lead the Jarl's armies when it comes to it. Now that he thought about it, Ralof ticked all the boxes for that position.
Even now, he was already fulfilling all the duties expected of one. Then again, the man was a Stormcloak. Would Ulfric really give away one of his best men just like that? Who knows.
Serana's horse drew alongside him.
"You doing okay?"
"Yeah," Gerron nodded. "Just uncomfortable with all this new grandstanding I have to do as a Jarl."
Serana smiled faintly. "It doesn't suit your tastes?"
"Not really." His reply earned a small laugh from the vampire.
The road to Winterhold stretched before them, winding through the snowy wilds of the Eastmarch. He didn't know how long he would have to stay in the College, but Gerron had ensured that Shor's Stone would not falter in his absence.
Filnjar oversaw the most logistical issues along with trade, Grogmar commanded the guard and security of the city, and Ralof handled the Stormcloak patrols all across the hold of the Rift.
Brynjolf had returned to the Thieves Guild, now serving as its temporary guildmaster. While Gerron was reluctant to let them establish roots within the city, Serana's argument had made sense.
Using them for his own ends was much more efficient rather than wasting resources in taking them down. Even now, six of their best agents were operating discreetly beneath the streets of the city, serving as his eyes and ears.
The rhythm of travel settled into something familiar. There was something calming in the way snow scraped beneath their feet, the whistling of the wind, the occasional clatter of a distant hawk's cry.
As they crested a ridge overlooking the frozen valley, Gerron's thoughts drifted to the recent reports carried by courier: Kiera had solved Dawnstar's Daedric crisis, restoring stability to the northern trade routes.
Jarl Skald the Elder had fumed when he found out what befell the city. Kiera caught him up to speed regarding all the recent events in Skyrim, which the Jarl took with a grain of salt, not willing to believe the words of a single woman.
That changed when both the Emperor and Ulfric sent couriers detailing new orders. Ever since then, the harbor of Dawnstar was reopened and had never been busier.
It was just in time as well, for the reinforcements from Cyrodiil had arrived. Two full legions, another ten thousand men under Imperial banners.
They arrived through the three ports of Skyrim in Solitude, Dawnstar, and Windhelm, spreading to all the holds in Skyrim to reinforce their garrisons. It was both a blessing and a curse, really.
Housing, feeding, and maintaining them was not an issue easily handled. Fortunately, Skyrim did not lack competent people with talent in logistics. Last Gerron had heard, Proventus Avenicci, Falk Firebeard, and Esbern of the Blades were put in charge to solve those problems.
Speaking of the Blades, they had now unofficially resurfaced under quiet orders. Their existence was hidden to not give the Dominion any reason for aggression.
Delphine, Esbern, Fultheim, Mjoll the Lionness, and Aerin. Five ghosts, serving as silent shadows that answer only to Kiera and the Emperor.
Their duties now involve perhaps the most dangerous one of all, to hunt down Alduin and find his dwelling.
In his current wounded state, they knew that Alduin would take the time to recuperate. As the dragons wage death upon all of Skyrim, he would hide and lie in wait for his injuries to recover.
Their plan was to stop him from doing so, to find where he was hiding and launch an assault with everything they had to stop him.
However, not even Paarthurnax or Vermithor knew of such a location. It was something known only to Alduin and Odahviing.
Thus the small, yet elite group was formed. If anyone could find Alduin, it would be them.
"What has the College discovered that made you leave so urgently?" asked Karliah, her voice soft yet cutting through the creak of saddles and crunch of hooves on frozen earth.
Her crimson eyes, half-hidden beneath her hood, studied him with quiet curiosity.
"I'm not quite sure yet," Gerron replied, his tone even. "Though it has to be something extraordinary for Savos to call me personally."
Karliah merely hummed, falling silent again.
Gerron didn't know yet what to make of her, though she seemed amicable so far. She was quiet most of the time, though her skills were certainly not one to be underestimated.
Gerron took the time to study her, the Forge Eternal analyzing all it could on her movements. There was a precise stillness to her, the way her shadows seemed thinner than it should.
Nocturnal's Gift perhaps, invisibility and silence, woven into her very soul.
Just a few days ago, they had stumbled onto another Dragon on their way to the College. Of course, Gerron made sure to hunt it down and kill it.
Karliah's skill was shown in that confrontation. Being the Chosen of Nocturnal allowed her a level of stealth previously unattainable to mortals.
Not only could she turn invisible in the blink of an eye, but it was as if her entire existence was muted or silenced. Her steps were silent, her breath a void.
He'd seen her vanish before his eyes in that battle, her dagger blooming from the beast's eye like a shard of night not seconds later.
'She has the makings of a dangerous assassin', Gerron mused inwardly. 'Best to keep her as an ally.'
That dragon had been little more than a fledgling, its scales soft compared to the ancient wyrms he's faced, nowhere near as dangerous as a Kruziik or even Caraxes and Vermithor. Still, it had been good practice and good materials. Without Kiera here, the entirety of the dragon was free to be scavenged. Gerron had stuffed the carcass into his inventory without a second thought.
By the twelfth day, the frozen towers of Winterhold appeared through the snow haze, perched precariously above the Sea of Ghosts.
Jarl Korir greeted them at the longhouse, arms wide and smile weary. "Ah, the great Jarl of the Rift graces my hall! You honor us, Jarl Gerron. I hear you have business with the College?"
"That's right." Gerron clasped his hand firmly. "You honor me with your welcome, Jarl Korir."
They dined that evening with Korir's family beneath the dim glow of hearthfire, speaking of dragons, legions, and every other problem plaguing their continent. Karliah remained mostly silent, while Serana and Korir exchanged measured words about the growing unrest in the north. Gerron merely listened in.
When Korir offered lodgings to stay in the longhouse, Gerron graciously accepted. While he technically has a room back in the College as the Master Enchanter, propriety states that staying in the longhouse with his retinue was the better choice.
When dawn broke the next morning, they set out at first light before finally arriving at the College, where Savos and Mirabelle were waiting.
…
4E 202, Mount Anthor
Galmar Stone-Fist
The wind howled like a wounded beast through the jagged peaks of Mount Anthor, its cry echoing across the snow-choked cliffs. Each gust bit at exposed flesh, turning breath to ice and sweat to frost. Galmar Stone-Fist trudged through the drifts with his company of Stormcloaks, his great bow slung over one shoulder and an axe of ebony at his back.
They had been on the hunt for three days now, and the men were weary, but the fire in their hearts burned hotter than the cold around them.
When the Peace Summit concluded, many things changed for the Stormcloaks.
Ulfric immediately pulled back all the forces that were stationed in Empire territory, dividing them to spread across all Stormcloak lands.
He had unleashed them upon Skyrim's wilderness like a cleansing storm. The Bone-Breakers and Stormcloak companies swept through the holds, driving out bandits, crushing necromancer cults, burning out the rot that had festered during the war. It was hard, bloody work, but honest. Work worthy of Nords.
When the reports started to return of their actions, even Galmar had to grimace. The amount of darkness they had to clean was preposterous. The war had taken much, but he didn't think it was this bad.
Galmar had initially doubted Ulfric's choice of peace with the Empire. But after the events of High Hrothgar, after seeing the threat of dragons for himself, he was glad for his friend's diligence.
And now, their main problem came in the form of the dragons themselves. After Alduin's first defeat in the Throat of the World, the rest of the dragons descended upon Skyrim like a storm.
Numerous of them could be seen blotting out the skies. Battles and skirmishes were aplenty, even Galmar and Ulfric himself had to ride out of Windhelm to hunt them down.
Clad as he was now with proper ebony steel and a dragonbone warbow, he wouldn't be as helpless as he was back when Windhelm was first attacked by a dragon.
Now, he and his company were on a hunt.
This one was called Ahvahthur, the Frozen Tyrant. The beast had been seen circling the Pale, its wings blotting out the moons, its breath freezing entire caravans in moments. Rumors whispered that it had claimed Mount Anthor as its lair, roosting atop the same peaks where King Olaf One-Eye had once subdued mighty Numinex.
Galmar intended to carve his own saga here.
Sixty of the best Stormcloaks were with him now, all clad in quality steel. Gerron Ironbreaker had made good on his promise to outfit the armies of Skyrim, weapons that could pierce through the scales of those damned flying lizards now wielded by the true sons of Skyrim.
Mount Anthor itself was a huge climb, though nowhere near as bad as the Throat of the World. The only problem came in the fact that there were no true paths or roads that led upwards, forcing he and the men to trudge through the knee deep snow.
They were Nords through and through however, a chill as mild as this was nowhere near enough to exhaust them.
They reached the peak near dusk. The air was thin, and the world below was shrouded in mist and clouds. The bones of mammoths and men littered the flat clearing, twisted and half-buried in snow.
'Snacks for the dragon, no doubt.'
And there it was.
Ahvahthur lay upon the ledge above, coiled around the ancient Word Wall like a crown of ice and death. Its scales shimmered a deep glacial blue, each ridge glittering with frost. Steam curled from its nostrils as it slept, and each breath sent a faint ripple through the snow.
Galmar raised a hand. The company stopped behind him, all holding their breath and brandishing their weapons.
He reached for the dragonbone bow, the string humming faintly with a piercing enchantment, and notched an arrow fletched in black feathers.
"Steady," he whispered.
He took one step forward, Crunch.
The sound was small, but to the dragon's ancient senses, it was thunder.
Ahvahthur's eyes snapped open, twin pools of pale blue fire.
"Fahliil krosis…" the dragon rumbled, voice deep enough to shake the snow from the rocks. "Zin laan wah dinei! You come to feed my legend… and die beneath the storm!"
"Loose!" Galmar roared.
A dozen arrows flew, whistling through the air. They struck, some bouncing harmlessly off thicker scales, though most others burying into softer joints. Ahvahthur roared, the mountain trembling beneath its fury.
"FO KRAH DIIN!"
The Frost Breath struck like a hurricane. A wave of ice swept through the ranks, freezing men solid where they stood. Half a dozen Stormcloaks shattered like glass when the second blast hit.
"Shields! Form ranks!" Galmar bellowed. "Axes forward! Move, damn you!"
The dragon's wings unfurled, vast as sails, casting the world into shadow. It took to the air, circling above them like a stormcloud. Arrows followed it up, some striking true, others falling short.
A burst of force slammed into their line, hurling men into the rocks. Galmar dove behind a frozen boulder, the air crackling with the sound of ice forming on steel. When he rose, his beard was white with frost, but his eyes burned bright.
"Roggvir! Flank left! Thrain, take your men around and bait it low!"
His orders were followed instantly.
Two groups split from the main formation, moving through the snow in practiced coordination. The dragon wheeled around again, its wings stirring a blizzard as it descended, jaws opening wide.
Galmar waited, his bow drawn, breath steady, heart slow.
"Now!"
Thrain's men launched a volley of fire-enchanted arrows. The flames caught the dragon across the chest, searing its scales and forcing a roar of pain from its throat. Ahvahthur twisted in fury, swooping lower, right into range.
Galmar loosed.
The dragonbone arrow struck deep, punching through one of the beast's eyes with a sickening crunch. It reared back, bellowing, its frost shout cutting short in a wail of agony.
Ahvahthur slammed into the ground, shaking the mountain.
"Forward! Push the bastard down!"
The Stormcloaks surged, axes flashing. Some were caught by the dragon's tail, flung like ragdolls across the rocks. Others hacked and stabbed, their weapons biting into wounded flesh.
The dragon's wings beat frantically, throwing men off their feet. Its remaining eye burned with hate.
"IIZ SLEN NUS!"
The dragon's Thu'um froze the very air. The Stormcloaks who were caught froze instantly into frozen statues. Others were hit with the winds that caused them to move sluggishly, trapped in an icy haze.
Galmar felt the magic claw at him, dragging at his limbs. The outer layer of his skin frosted, causing him to stumble.
Yet he pushed through all the same, a roar exiting his mouth that came from somewhere deep and ancient within him.
Nords were called the Sons of Snow for a reason. The Sky-Children with blood running so hot in their veins that a mere cold would never slow them down.
"Not… today!" he growled, pulling his axe free.
He charged through the frost, boots cracking ice as he leapt onto the dragon's neck. It thrashed, but he drove his weapon down with both hands. Once. Twice. Again.
The dragon's head snapped back, its maw opening in a final defiant roar.
Galmar met it with one of his own. "FOR SKYRIM!"
His axe cleaved through its skull, burying deep between its eyes. The light faded from Ahvahthur's gaze as its body trembled, then went still.
For a long moment, all was silent save for the howl of the wind. Then, slowly, the men began to cheer. Hoarse, tired, but triumphant.
Galmar stood atop the corpse, breath steaming in the cold. Frost and blood clung to his armor. He pulled his axe free with a grunt, staring down at the lifeless dragon.
"King Olaf caged his," he muttered under his breath. "I slew mine."
And with that, Galmar Stone-Fist, the Brown Bear of Windhelm, raised his weapon high over the slain dragon, as the men of Skyrim roared his name through the mountain pass.
…
AN: Part of what makes writing fanfiction so fun is making people who never met in canon interact and meet.
Serana and Karliah are two badass women who I genuinely believe would make great friends with each other. Paarthurnax and the Emperor was another meeting that I was glad to have done.
Anyways, Galmar is a G. With a war as big a scale as this, I don't want the main characters to be carrying everything. The people of Skyrim aren't pushovers nor are they ones who would let other people do the fighting for them.
When trouble comes knocking, they always meet it with a grin on their face.
There's the thing about the indomitable human spirit that always sings to me, so Galmar gets his chance of glory. Trust that he wouldn't be the only one.
Anyways, Thu'um translations here.
FO KRAH DIIN: Frost Breath
IIZ SLEN NUS: Ice Form
More chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 81 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.
Cheers guys and see you next time!