And So The Eagle Conquered 013 (Patreon)

The rhythm of hammer on steel had always been a kind of prayer for Adrienne Avenicci, but this morning the god she found herself supplicating had a name, a face, and a pair of eyes the color of poured bronze.

It was a foolish thing, she knew, the sort of girlish distraction she’d have scolded any apprentice for indulging in whilst working the forge. But her hands knew this labor as well as they knew her own body, and the sword taking shape upon the anvil -a fine piece, commissioned by Idolaf Battle-Born and thus requiring her very best- did not truly need the whole of her attention. Fold, heat, hammer, fold. The rhythm was beyond familiar, quite literally the sort of thing that she could do while mostly asleep, and that meant that her mind could wander a bit in the direction of the man who so captivated her.

And oh, how it wandered. She had seen him only twice, both times in passing as he moved through Whiterun, and neither occasion had lasted more than a handful of minutes. The first had been when he’d arrived with the Riverwood delegation and that grim-faced legate, and she’d caught no more than a glimpse of him as he made his way into the city and their gazes had caught. The second had been when he’d returned to Riverwood -accompanied by not just two of the Companions, but the Jarl’s own niece- on a secret mission for the Jarl.

A mission that, according to the whispers running through Whiterun’s streets like the tributary the city had been built around, had something to do with the dragon that had razed Helgen to ash. She didn’t put much stock in the wilder rumors, of course -that he was a Daedric prince in mortal guise, that he’d single-handedly slain a dozen dragons already, that he’d bedded the Jarl’s niece and half the Companions besides- but she believed enough of them to know that Constantine Valerius was no ordinary man.

Which, if she were being honest with herself, was rather the entire problem.

She brought the hammer down again, harder than the strictly necessary -though not so hard as to damage the sword’s blade- as she mulled over the problem in her mind. On first examination, seducing him wouldn’t pose a problem in her own home. As much as she adored her husband, and he was a man she loved fiercely, he didn’t favor the company of women and the love they had for one another was that of very close siblings. While she had never taken a lover before, and Ufberth had only ever done so rarely, it was well and happilly understood between them that both had more than enough right and permission to do so.

But all of that ran head-first into a distinct and unfortunate factor: that she was the daughter of the Steward of Dragonsreach. She couldn’t risk giving someone leverage over herself, and therefor her father, by taking a lover that couldn’t be trusted. A lover that might be looking to seduce her in order to undermine her father, and perhaps Whiterun itself.

It was a paranoid line of thinking, perhaps, but it was also the sort of paranoia that a lifetime spent in the shadow of Dragonsreach had bred into her. Her father had not risen to the position of Steward by being trusting and naive, and he had not kept that position through the shifting tides of war-torn world by allowing sentiment to override sense. She had learned those lessons at his knee, had absorbed them the way that another child might absorb prayers or fairy tales, and they were not easily set aside simply because a handsome stranger had crossed her path with eyes that consumed her and a sufficiently impressive build that she was sure would both allow him to pin her down and ravish her, then sweetly hold her close in the aftermath.

And yet, and yet, and yet…

She quenched the blade, steam billowing with a sharp hiss, shaking her head slightly. She was mooning over a complete stranger like she was nothing more than a girl again, not a full-grown adult in her twenties, and she’d lost count of the number of nights that she’d spent in her bed, legs spread wide and the air filled with soft, obscene sounds as she drove herself to orgasm after orgasm. Each and every one of them coming as she imagined precisely what those bronze-gold eyes would look like filled with lust, how those powerful hands would feel wrapped around her throat or tangled in her hair or palming one of her breasts. Or what his voice might sound as he murmured praises and compliments and commands into her ear…~!

A firm, insistent throbbing between her thighs, wholly inappropriate for the middle of the working day, was what finally dragged her back to herself. She let out a shaky breath, pressing the heel of one soot-stained hand against her forehead and glaring balefully at the sword cooling in the trough as though it were somehow responsible for the state she’d worked herself into.

“By the Nine,” she muttered to herself, low and rueful, rolling her eyes. “you’re worse than the most virginal maiden, Adrienne.”

“Virginal? Say it isn’t so, my lady. Not for such a fine woman as the one I see before me.” came a voice, rich and smooth and flirtatiously amused, and Adrienne’s head snapped around to see the very man she was fantasizing about standing there, a large bundle in his arms.

For one mortifying, brief eternity, Adrienne simply stared at him, hammer still clutched in one soot-blackened hand and her mouth slightly agape, quite certain that her face had gone the precise shade of the coals glowing in her forge. The gods, it seemed, possessed a sense of humor every bit as cruel and capricious as she had so often heard her neighbors lament, for what other explanation could there be? To have summoned him, quite literally into the very flesh, in the exact moment she’d been lamenting the state he’d worked her into without ever having laid a hand upon her?

It didn’t help that he was even more striking up close than her brief glimpses had prepared her for, and he’d flirted with her. Briefly, simply, but flirted all the same. That was….something. A lot of something, the intensified certain other feelings, rather strongly.

He was, she noted with the small, detached portion of her mind that hadn’t yet dissolved into flustered mortification, dressed rather more simply than she might have expected of a man who’d become the subject of at least half the city’s gossiping. A tunic of good but unremarkable make, dark trousers, boots that had seen the road. But no clothing, however plain, could disguise the breadth of those shoulders or the easy, predatory grace with which he held himself, and those eyes —gods, those eyes!— were regarding her with a warmth and amusement that made her want to either throw herself into the damned forge…or throw herself bodily across the anvil and beg.

She did neither, of course, being a grown, mature woman and the daughter of the Steward besides, and instead she swallowed hard and forced her spine to straighten, setting the hammer down upon the edge of the anvil with a deliberate care that she hoped might disguise the trembling in her fingers.

“Master Valerius, hello!” she managed, and if her voice came out somewhat higher and more breathless than she’d intended, well, she could only pray he’d attribute it to the surprise of his sudden appearance alone rather than anything that might lay beneath it. “I—ahem, forgive me. You caught me somewhat unawares. I hadn’t heard you approach.”

“Well, I can’t blame you for that. Without my armor, I’m not the loudest fellow in the world, and gods know that you yourself were rather close in proximity to something that was plenty loud.” he remarked with a smile, tipping his head in the direction of the anvil to demonstrate his meaning.

“Ah. Yes, of course.” She flushed further, if such a thing were even possible, and hastily wiped her hands on the leather apron cinched about her waist, grateful for something, anything, to occupy them. “What—that is, how might I be of service to you, Master Valerius? Something to be sharpened, perhaps, or repaired? I imagine that whatever business the Jarl sent you on was not gentle on your equipment, and you seem to have quite the bundle with you?”

“Astute of you.” He shifted the bundle in his arms, and only then did she truly register the weight and bulk of it, the way the muscles of his forearms flexed beneath the sleeves of his tunic as he adjusted his load. Gesturing with his chin to a workbench, he continued. “If I might trespass a bit further into your domain, forge-maiden?”

“Oh! Yes, of course. Please, be my guest.” she stepped quickly out of the way, fortunately not stumbling -which would have been potentially fatal, and quite possibly humiliating enough that she would wish it was fatal- in the effort, and he stepped past her to set the heavy bundle down with the clank of metal on metal. Drawing her eyes away from his utterly spectacular rear end at the sound of him unwrapping his burden, all thought of flirtation or fantasizing left her mind entirely by sheer awe at what he had just revealed.

It was ebony.

And not just ingots, or a few scraps, or even a worn piece of armor, like she so often saw and was envious of. No, this was a full set of well-forged armor, worked by what could only be the hand of a life-long master, and old. Incredibly old, and bearing a design she recognized fairly well from books, texts, and the occasional ultra-traditional Nord traveller. The design of the ancients, the Nords that had lived in the time of Ysgramor and the Dragon Cult.

“By the Nine…” she breathed, all thought of her flustered heart momentarily banished by the reverent awe of a craftswoman confronted with something transcendent. Her hands hovered over the armor, almost afraid to touch it. Not due to any lack of permission, that factor wasn’t even on her mind right now. No, it was more that she felt, bizarrely, that she might somehow taint it by touching it. “This is... where did you come by this?”

“Bleak Falls Barrow.” He said it simply, with a small shrug that made light of what she suspected had been anything but. “There were draugr, of course. There always are, in places like that. And these ones were particularly old. We had to put a fair number of them back to their rest, and this was among the spoils that came as a result.”

“Spoils,” she echoed faintly, and then a bark of slightly-hysterical laughter escaped her before she could stop it. “You call the finest suit of armor I have ever laid eyes upon in my entire life ‘spoils’, as though it were a handful of septims scraped off a dead bandit’s corpse. Master Valerius, do you have any idea what you’re holding?”

“Constantine, please. And its a rather old and beautifully made suit of armor that, unfortunately, doesn’t fit me particularly well. Nor am I terribly fond of the style, if I’m going to be perfectly honest.” he replied, entirely deadpan, and the twinkle in those bronze eyes told her he was doing it on purpose, teasing her, drawing out that reaction. It should have irritated her, the way he made sport of something so precious, but the warmth in his gaze robbed the teasing of any cruelty, and she found herself fighting a smile even as she huffed at him.

“Doesn’t fit you? The style?” she repeated, shaking her head slowly, unable to keep the incredulity from her voice as she at last allowed her fingertips to graze the pauldron. The metal was cool and impossibly smooth beneath her touch, the dark surface drinking in the forge-light rather than reflecting it, and she suppressed a shiver at the sheer quality of the work. “Constantine, this armor is older than Talos Himself, and you want to reforge it? Why?!”

“Because it isn’t mine to wear as it is.” He leaned a hip against the workbench, folding those impressively muscled arms across his chest, and she had to make a rather concerted effort to keep her eyes on his face. “It was made for a man of a different build, in a different age, for a purpose I’ve no interest in carrying forward. The proportions are wrong for me, which means the armor plates won’t sit right, and the ornamentation...” He gestured vaguely at the interlocking geometric patterns worked into the surface, the stylized serpents and beasts that spoke of the old Dragon Cult. “It’s beautiful, of course, and the history behind it appeals to me on a certain level, but it’s just not practical. It’s far more likely to get me killed than actually provide me any real protection.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, and Adrienne was able to ignore the sudden impulse to do the same. It looked so very soft, and certainly begged for fingers to tame it…

“And all of that aside, as much as I’d love to keep this armor on display somewhere, I can’t. With what’s going on, I’ll need the best armor I can get my hands on, and ebony is both far too rare, far too expensive, and far too effective for me to replace it or forgo wearing it.” he finished, and Adrienne frowned. He had a point. Ebony was incredibly rare, quality equipment made from it was even rarer, and it was the best armor that could be forged by mortal hands.

Nothing else came close, save for the fabled daedric alloys or the equally-legendary stalhrim of the skaal, and neither of those was remotely obtainable for the average person, however wealthy or well-connected. And she couldn’t fault the logic that a man would want the best protection that he could get, with the Thalmor roaming far and wide, a civil war in the offing, and now dragons of all things flattening fortified towns.

But that didn’t change the fundamental, painful truth that she had left unspoken thus far, and she felt her shoulders slump slightly as she considered the armor before her with the eyes of a professional rather than an admirer.

“I can’t do it.” she admitted, the words coming out reluctant and heavy with a genuine regret, a bitter twist to her mouth. “I’m a talented enough smith, I can work with steel and iron without difficulty, and I’m a fair hand with leather-working as well, but ebony? I’ve never even touched it before, never mind worked it. You need a better smith than I am to work something like this for anything more than a resizing and a cleaning.”

The admission cost her something, she found. Not merely the loss of what would have been the single most prestigious commission of her career, though that stung badly enough on its own, but the loss of an excuse to keep him here in her forge, to keep those bronze eyes upon her and that warm, teasing voice in her ears. Once he learned she couldn’t help him, he would take his precious burden and his broad shoulders elsewhere, and she would be left with nothing but the memory and the ache and the certainty that she’d let something rare slip through her soot-stained fingers.

She had expected disappointment, perhaps even irritation, anger, or resignation. What she got instead was a thoughtful hum, and when she glanced up she found him regarding her with an expression that held neither, only a sort of patient consideration that made her feel, absurdly, as though she were being weighed and found rather more interesting than she had any right to be.

Which was as flattering as it was bewildering and bemusing.

“You’re being modest.” he said at last, and when she opened her mouth to protest he held up a hand, cutting her off, if not unkindly. “No, not false modesty, I don’t think. Genuine. But you’re still selling yourself short, Adrienne. I’ve seen the work you’ve done, both here elsewhere. You’re a fine smith, very fine.”

There was a certain…tilt to those last couple of words, but she didn’t have time to delve any deeper into any thoughts along that particular train of thought, because he gestured again in something like reassurance. “I’m quite sure that you’re capable of working with this, given the opportunity, but if it would make you feel better, you can consult with Eorlund and research the matter. For the time being, I’d like you to hold onto it for me. I don’t exactly have the space to store it in my own lodgings, at the moment.”

“I…if that’s what you’d like…” Adrienne responded a bit awkwardly, and he gave her a warm smile and a firm squeeze of her shoulder before sighing.

“I’d like to speak with you further, but I’m headed for the Western Watchtower. Not too long ago we got word that Fort Greymoor has been cleared of the bandits that moved in there, so we’re going to escort them across the plane and get them set up. Perhaps when I return…?” he let his voice trail off, and though he gestured vaguely in the direction of his armor, she rather had the idea that he meant something else entirely. She supposed she ought to be mad that he was coming on to her, married woman that she was, but…she wasn’t. She didn’t know why she wasn’t, but she wasn’t. Instead, she was near-giddy at the thought, and she nodded sharply and with something very much like excitement, something that earned her a warm, almost heated smile before he turned to leave.

Hating to watch him go, but loving to watch him leave, she waited until he was no longer in site before hollering for her husband. She’d have him help her haul the armor inside, where they could safely lock it away someplace thieving hands couldn’t get their hands on it. Then, she’d find every text she could and chat with Eorlund Grey-Mane, because she’d be damned if she didn’t at least try to fulfill Constantine’s apparent faith in her.

And then, maybe, they could have a little chat about her marriage, and she could see just how she might reward that faith~!

#############################################################################

I’d been on tenterhooks since the Wall in Bleak Falls Barrow hadn’t, for want of a better word, Spoken to me. It made no sense, I had to be the Dragonborn. There was no one else whose presence at Helgen couldn’t be explained or was unnatural, no one that stood out in any real way that it could be instead. Not to mention the fact that I had what was, by any objective measure, the most unique and ‘special’ backstory out of anyone in this damn world, so why the hell hadn’t the damn Wall done anything?

it had been gnawing away at me, not to mention the increasing dread of Mirmulnir’s imminent attack, and I’d been nothing short of relieved that it hadn’t happened yet. As anxious as it was making me, I’d half expected for us to be riding back to Whiterun from Riverwood with the Dragonstone when he attacked, or in the middle of escorting the Helgen refugees to Greymoor. Instead, I hadn’t seen hide nor hair -in a manner of speaking- of the winged bastard yet, and we were damn near back to what we would have called the ‘suburbs’ back home.

Or, at least, the closest equivalent that existed in the here and now.

Hell, we were damn near at the Pelagia Farm by this point, which was all to the good, because I had Elisif riding along at my side and her safety was a high priority for me. I’d have rather she’d stay in Whiterun to begin with, but she had insisted on seeing ‘good and loyal Imperial citizens to safety’, intent on finishing the job that she and I had begun in Helgen.

Once I got her safely back inside the city walls, I would need to figure out how it was that I could convince Balgruuf to make some preparations, more than he already was. Gods, but we needed crossbows. Crossbows and ballista and mages, and someplace deep we could put the people. The Halls of the Dead weren’t bad, but I doubted they were deep enough or large enough to shelter the entire city’s population, never mind shield them from a dragon’s efforts.

Mirmulnir had torn -would tear, whatever- the Western Watchtower to pieces in the matter of an hour or two, and that had been a stone fortification. Whiterun, for all it’s walls, was mostly wood. Almost entirely wood, actually, when it came to the structures. And while Whiterun most assuredly had spellwork carved into the wood and stone it was built from -old spellwork, powerful spellwork, from before Nords abandoned their magical heritage-, it wasn’t universal and it certainly wasn’t fool-proof.

“Stop brooding so much, Constantine. Your face is far to fine to risk scarring it with such a deep frown.” Elisif chided, flirtatiously, from beside me, prodding me and jogging me from my thoughts.

“My face is fine, is it? High praise coming from The Fair herself, unless you’re taking pity on me and lying ever so sweetly.” I responded immediately, near-shamelessly flirting back, enjoying the way her cheeks immediately pinkened. She could dish it out, but not take it herself, it seemed. Which only made things more enjoyable and adorable, if you asked me.

“Perhaps a bit of both,” she demurred, though the way her green eyes danced belied the modesty of the words. “A Queen learns to be generous with her compliments and her praise. It costs nothing and gains much, or so my late husband’s advisors were forever telling me.”

“A pity they didn’t also teach you to accept such generosity in kind,” I said, and had the pleasure of watching that flush deepen along the elegant curve of her neck. Her very delectable, kiss-and-bite-worthy neck. “You give quite freely, but seem rather less experienced with receiving them. Or, perhaps I should, say, receiving genuine compliments that have no hook to them.”

“And you, it seems, have made it your personal mission of late to correct that deficiency.” Her tone was tart, but there was warmth and agreement, as well as a bit of pain. I could understand why, the last person who had probably flirted with her without ulterior motives was her dead husband, but as much as I ought to feel bad about all of that, she was obviously moving on. At least to some degree, and if a bit of harmless flirting made her happy, who was I to argue? I’d save any sort of shame or self-restraint for if she tried to seduce me, to make sure it wasn’t something either of us would regret. Because if Elisif and I became lovers, I had every intention of keeping her for myself. Flings with the likes of her were barely worth considering for even a moment, and not just because of the political influence and power I’d get from having her as a member of my family either.

Elisif deserved to be cherished, and that would be exactly my intention if we ever progressed past not-so-idle flirtations. Of course, that was a matter for later, if and when -I was hoping very hard for when- it ended up happening. For now, I would be content with this pleasant, easy, familiar and friendly banter, and happy with the way it chased the shadows out of her eyes for at least a little while.

“Well of course I am! What sort of man would I be if I didn’t dispense compliments and teasing to those that I care for when the opportunity presents itself? Especially to those most deserving.” I agreed cheerfully, an edge of teasing wrapping around genuine warmth, and I felt quite a bit of satisfaction at the way she pressed her lips together in an effort to hide her smile.

“I am beginning to fear,” she said after a moment, her voice pitching low enough that no one around us would likely be able to catch the words. “that you are a rather dangerous man, Constantine Valerius. In a way that has very little to do with martial skill, though that’s certainly not up to any doubt either.”

“Dangerous, you say? I am wounded, deeply and irrecoverably, by such doubt into my benign nature. Here I was, thinking that I’d been the very image of gentlemanly conduct, and yet you strike such a cruel blow…” I lamented, and the sound she made in response could almost have been described as a snort, if she weren’t a refined and queenly lady.

"That,” my oh my, but wasn’t that a dry tone she was wearing right now? How very delightful! “is precisely what makes you so dangerous. Or, rather more accurately, the fact that you’re so genuine about it all is what makes you dangerous. Even a woman who has lived the life I’ve lived isn’t immune to a bit of genuine charm, and I’m afraid that you seem to possess that in abundance.”

“Well, if my Queen should wish it, I’ll apologize profusely.” I intoned solemnly, pouting outrageously in her direction and getting a subtle eye-roll and scoff in response. “Of course, the apology will be for your discomfort or the like. I’m afraid I shan’t be apologizing for the compliments or the kindness. I try to make a habit of not apologizing for things that are true, only for how people might react to them.”

“How very principled of you.” Elisif murmured, and there was no mistaking the warmth beneath the wryness now. Her gloved hand rose to tuck a stray lock of golden-blonde hair behind her ear, the gesture at once unconscious and utterly enthralling, and I had to remind myself rather firmly that we were riding through open country with a column of watchful soldiers close at hand. “Tell me, do you apply such principles to all matters, or only to the ones that suit you? I confess I’ve known a great many men who spoke of principle while displaying everything but.”

“Mmh. A good question with a complicated answer. I strive very hard to stay true to my principles, my own moral code, even if it isn’t immediately obvious to those around me. That being said, there have been times -and will be times again, I have no doubt, especially with the direction this world we live in is so rapidly moving- where I’ve had to…well, compromise, I suppose. Set aside some of my ideals on the smaller, more personal scope in order to pursue the larger and broader. The needs of the many, I suppose.”

She considered that for a long moment, letting her eyes drift off to the expanse of the plains, tall grass and crops alike dancing in the breeze sweeping down from the mountains. When she spoke again, her voice had lost some of it’s playful edge, gotten heavier and more thoughtful.

“I can understand that, far more than I would like.” she admitted, and I glanced at her sidelong to see that her expression had gone distant in a way that had very little to do with her looking at something far away. “Everyone has to do that, at some point in our lives. Often more than once. For me, it was-”

The roar of a dragon pierced the air, echoing off of the mountains, and I spun in my saddle to see the form of Mirmulnir stooping down from the clouds, arrowing towards us.

“Cassandra! Get Elisif into the city! Sound the alarm!” I snarled at the Legate instantly, not even bothering to look at them -either of them- as I wheeled my mount around.

“Constantine!” Elisif cried, her fingers brushing against my arm, trying to grab me, but Rikke was on her in a moment, yanking the reins from her other hand and leading her mount on as they galloped away. Heh. No parting words, no meaningful looks, no ‘stay alive until I get back’ from Cassandra. No time for it, since this was real life and not a storybook.

“Spread out! Prepare for battle!” I shouted to the remaining soldiers, uncaring of whether or not I really had the authority to command them. In disaster, the surest voice commanded. What was that old saying back home? ‘A Sargeant in motion outranks a Lieutenant without a clue.’ “Draw it away from the farms, back to the watchtower! Archers! Aim for the wing joints! Get it on the ground!”

As they scattered to obey, and as the first man and mount were quite literally consumed by the dragon as it lashed out with a fang-filled maw during it’s first pass, all I could think was: ‘doesn't this just fucking figure?’

############################################################################

The great war-map spread across the table in Balgruuf’s private chambers had, over the past hour, become steadily more marked with charcoal notations and small carved tokens, each representing a potential defensive position, a store of supplies, or a chokepoint that might be turned to the city’s advantage. It was grim work, planning for the arrival of a creature no one had faced for millennia, but the very threat that made it so grim made it equally necessary.

Balgruuf, his brother, his niece, and his Irilith had considered every possibility, gamed out the better part of a hundred scenarios, tossed and modified more plans of a speculative nature than any of them could count, and the map reflected quite well their efforts.

But for all their preparations and speculations, there was one detail, one fact, that was still unambiguously and blatantly clear: if a dragon attacked, Whiterun wasn’t ready and barely had any idea of how to be ready.

“I think the College is our first, best hope for real firepower.” Lydia said, drumming her fingers on the table before looking around at her family, frowning. “Farengar and I can hold a great deal between us, and I don’t doubt that we could give a dragon serious issues in the short term. But whether we could defeat one or not is another matter entirely, and that doesn’t even include consideration on the matter of it attacking someplace we aren’t. We need more mages, we need better mages, and we need them now.”

“I don’t disagree, but how will we convinced them to join us? We’ve never been quite so…stand-offish,” by which Balgruuf meant ‘rude’ or ‘xenophobic’. “as many of our sister-holds, but we’re not exactly their greatest supporters either. Nor are they close at hand, they’ll be traveling for months to arrive, and be months from their home as a result!”

“Savos Aren isn’t an idiot, for all he’s a charcoal-skinned knife ear,” Hrongar grunted, before glancing at Irileth. “No offense, shield-sister.”

“None taken.” she responded, painfully dry, one rust-red eyebrow arching in his direction, and to the amusement of all the brasher of the brothers flushed slightly.

“Anyway, he’s not an idiot. He’s been trying to change how Skyrim looks at magic and those that use it for decades. His mages fighting off dragons and healing the injured or the dying is an unmissable chance to do exactly that. They’d go from being strange outsiders to the heroes of the people.”

“Father has a point.” Lydia agreed, though her mouth twisted slightly as she continued. “And several of his subordinates have been…enthusiastic, in the past, about studying my ‘unusually potent’ connection with frost magic. I suppose now is as good a time as any to let them do so, and if the circumstances don’t permit me to travel so far from home, well…”

She trailed off, and Balgruuf shook his head at her, half-proud and half-dismayed.

“Let’s rely on Hrongar’s point for the time being, I think. I’d rather not use you as bait for aid, dear niece, the idea tastes foul in my mouth. Not to mention the fact that…”

The sound of pounding feet on the stairs nearby gave them half a second of warning before Elisif, wild-eyed, windblown, and tear-streaked, burst into the room.

“A dragon!” she gasped, one hand pressed to her heaving chest, the other clutching at the doorframe as though her legs might give out beneath her. Which it damn well might. She was in fine shape for a noblewoman of the Imperial sort, but depending on how far she had run…wait, what had she said?! “A dragon, on the plains! It came down upon us near the Pelagia Farm, and Constantine—he ordered us away, ordered Rikke to bring me here, and he stayed! He stayed to fight it with the escort!”

For a heartbeat, no one moved. In fact, he wasn’t particularly sure that anyone was even breathing, himself included, as they tried to absorb the words that had just come out of his cousin-by-marriage’s mouth.

Then the moment shattered, and Balgruuf was on his feet, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor behind him.

“Rikke? Cassandra?” he demanded, his voice cutting through the air like the blade he had once wielded for oh so many years. “Where is she, cousin?”

“She—she left me at the gates the moment we were within the walls.” Elisif answered, her breath still coming in ragged gasps as she pushed herself away from the doorframe and took a stumbling step into the room. Lydia darted forward, helping her to the table, where she slumped into a chair and ran a shaking hand through her hair. “She’s gathering what soldiers survived the Helgen attack, rallying them for battle. But Balgruuf, please—” and here her voice cracked, breaking on the last word, raw and pleading in a way that a queen should never have allowed herself to sound in front of anyone not closest and most intimate to her. “—please, you have to send help. He can’t fight that thing alone, no matter how skilled he is. He’ll die out there, and I— he mustn’t. He simply mustn’t.”

There it was. Balgruuf heard the tenor of her voice just as clearly as he heard the alarm bells that were now, belatedly, beginning to ring from the direction of the main gate. That desperate, personal fear that had nothing to do with public perception or rank, and everything to do with attachment.

The kind of fear that took firm root when a person had begun, however unintentionally, to matter…deeply.

Lydia, he noticed, had gone very still at Elisif’s words -and, to his eye, the tone that they had been spoken with-, her hand frozen on the other woman’s shoulder, and he restrained a sigh at the sight of it. At the subtly clenched jaw, the tightening around those icy-blue eyes, the set of her shoulders, all of which told him that Lydia had recognized the same thing that he had, and didn’t much care for it at all.

Really, what was it about this man that drew women the way he seemed to? Women from Balgruuf’s own family, at that! It was frankly uncanny, and the curiosity would doubtlessly eat him alive when he had the time, but at the moment the only thing he had time to do was bark orders.

“Irileth.” His lover’s name cracked across the room like a whip, none of the love and fear he felt for her, for all of them, in this moment showing itself. “Call up the Guard. Every man and woman who can hold a weapon, and I want them armed with spears and longbows, not swords and hammers. If we’re to bring a dragon down, we’ll need reach, not edge. Get them to the gates and ready for battle, and send runners to The Companions, the Grey-Manes, and the Battle-Borns. I don’t care about their damned politics, Whiterun and her people are in danger!”

“At once, my Jarl.” The Dunmer was already moving, her hand falling to the hilt of her blade as she strode towards the door with the sort of speed that showed just how far apart she was from the average man or woman, even amongst her own kind.

“I’ll get my armor.” Lydia announced, before he could speak again, and she had swept from the room before he could respond. Not that he was foolish enough to try and lock her safely away here in Dragonsreach. It wouldn’t work, and she’d be furious that he made the attempt. Instead, he turned to her father.

“Hrongar.” He gripped his brother’s shoulder, firm and steadying, the weight of years and blood and shared battles behind the gesture. “I need your help with something, and I need it done quickly.”

“Name it, brother.” Hrongar’s hand fell to rest atop his own, a soldier awaiting his orders, and for all his bluster and his rough edges, Balgruuf knew that his younger brother would never break a promise to him.

“You will remain in Whiterun with whomever remains behind, and see to the people. Have healers and priests ready. If we win, word will be sent back to the city. Those people are to ride, hard, for the battleground. It could save lives. Understood?”

Hrongar nodded, visibly reluctant at the order to stay behind, questions in his eyes. Questions that Balgruuf answered with his next breath.

“Now, help me with my armor. I will not stand by while a nightmare from a thousand years lost slaughters my people, and I will not send my men and women to die defending my people while I remain safely here in Dragonsreach.” he ordered, shedding his Jarl’s robe and tossing it aside, to reveal powerful, scar-littered muscle as he eyed the massive, two-headed axe that hung in a place of honor on his wall. The axe that had been carried into battle by the Jarl’s of Whiterun since the First Era, forged in the Skyforge by the Companions themselves. “It is time for Vindhǫgg to taste dragon blood once more!”