4E 201, High Hrothgar
Kiera Fendalyn
The wind howled like a beast all its own.
Even wrapped tightly in her thick traveling cloak, Kiera could feel the chill sink through every layer, nipping at her skin, biting through the gaps in her gloves. The air at this altitude was thin, sharp, and unforgiving. Snow stung her cheeks, the mountain's breath icy and relentless.
She had thought The Pale was cold—gods, she had complained about the Pale. But this was something else. The cold felt like it sapped her endurance, every step heavier than the last. It was no wonder that not many people dared to go up here.
It was at times like this that she was utterly jealous of Gerron's and Serana's physiques. Nords were said to have ice in their blood, while vampires were famously resistant—and even immune to some extent— to the cold. She remembered seeing them completely unbothered by the biting chill when they passed through Eastmarch.
Ivarstead had faded behind her hours ago, just a sleepy little village clutching the foot of the mountain. Now, she was alone with the wind, the endless stone stairs, and her thoughts.
Well, not really alone. The sheer amount of Frost Trolls, snow bears, ice wolves, and ice wraiths that she had killed walking up was quite mind boggling. Not like she could complain, for they served as adequate training for her to get used to the strength boost after absorbing Caraxes' soul.
The most intriguing thing in her journey were the etched tablets that could be found along the path. She paused at each one, brushing off snow with numb fingers to read the weathered inscriptions:
"Before the birth of men, the Dragons ruled all Mundus..."
"The Voice was a gift from the gods, taught to mortals by Paarthurnax..."
"Men learned to shout back at the dragons, and the Dragon War began..."
She read each word with reverence, letting the stories sink into her bones. The words spoke not just of history, but of legacy. They told of a time when mortals had learned the Voice and challenged their would-be tyrants, dragons who had shaped the world with power alone.
It was a humbling story. One that painted quite the picture of what life was like back then. It brought ill tidings for the future.
After all, were they not on the cusp of another Dragon War? Only this time, it won't just be men and dragons in the picture. But Vampires and Daedra as well.
She didn't know what it was that made Skyrim such a prime target for everything. Kiera had discussed this with her mother. It seems like every dangerous faction in all of Tamriel had their sights on this land of strife and snow, drawn to this moment like moths to a flame.
The thought of vampires brought her mind back to Serana, to the story that she had told back then. What kind of father would do that to his own wife and daughter?
It explained much of the woman Kiera now proudly calls a friend. Her quiet strength, her grief carefully masked behind sarcasm and cold humor, her wanting for a life that she built by herself, far from the dangers and prophecies that her father had wanted to use her for.
'She's been through so much.'
Serana hadn't asked for Kiera's sympathy—but she had earned it. In the few battles they've fought side by side with, in every smile that graced her features, Kiera saw a flicker of the girl Serana used to be, trying to reach the surface.
They had all suffered. And yet, none of them had stopped moving forward.
Even Gerron, the pillar of strength that had stood rigid even after all the news of trouble that came at them. Of the three, he was the one with the least responsibility in all of this. This wasn't his fight. He was neither the Dragonborn, nor a carrier of an Elder Scroll.
Yet he still stayed.
It spoke much of his character, always ready to help whenever others need it. She grew even more confident now that he was blessed. He was a chosen of the Divines, she was certain of it.
A small hum emanated from the beacon at Kiera's belt, a reminder of yet another task she's been set up with. Despite Kiera's concerns, Serana had the right of it. The help of a Daedric Prince would be greatly needed for the battles to come.
Besides, it's not like Meridia asked her to do anything untoward. It was simply to clear her temple of undead and necromancers. She could do that.
Eventually, the stairs leveled out, revealing the grey-stone monastery of High Hrothgar at last. It was a bastion of grey stone, carved from the mountain itself, forever battered by the howling winds yet remained standing.
Kiera's boots crunched softly in the snow as she approached. She walked up the steps, to see the massive doors flanked by tall stone braziers that opened at her arrival.
Waiting for her on the other side was an elderly man, with dark robes lined with fur to help stifle the chill. His hands were folded before him, a gaze wiser than her years met her amber eyes.
"Welcome, traveler," he said, voice deep and calm, "to High Hrothgar."
Kiera took a step forward. "Are you…Arngeir? One of the Greybeards?"
He inclined his head. "So you know of us. Yet we do not know you."
"You called for me," she said, squaring her shoulders. "I heard the summons after I… after the dragon was killed. My name is Kiera."
Arngeir eyes widened slightly. "So you are her. The Dragonborn appears…at this moment in the turning of age."
From the corridor behind him, three more robed figures emerged—Greybeards, each one cloaked in the same heavy garb, their faces weathered but serene. They formed a quiet line behind their master, observing her in silence.
"Show us, Dragonborn. Let us hear your Voice." Arngeir stated.
Kiera blinked, "But—"
"Fear not." Arngeir assured gently. "Your shout shall not harm us."
Her nerves twisted. All this time, she had only used her shout on her enemies. She wasn't blind to the destructive potential the Thu'um possessed.
In the end, Kiera nodded. These people were the closest to being the masters of the Voice, she would trust them.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, pulling all the limited understanding she had of the very first shout she had learned before unleashing it, "FUS!"
The word burst from her lungs, a wave of force that had previously disturbed the clouds above the Western Watchtower emerged from her throat. The wave passed over the Greybeards like a mountain wind. They did not flinch. They merely closed their eyes… and accepted it.
When she opened her eyes again, Arngeir was smiling.
"Dragonborn. Kiera," Arngeir greeted her for the first time. "Welcome to High Hrothgar."
He gestured to a room with a roaring hearth in the center, "We are just about to have supper. Come join us, we have much to discuss."
…
4E 201, Windhelm
Galmar Stone-Fist
Days after the attack on Windhelm by the blood-red dragon, recovery efforts were still going strong.
Galmar stood at the edge of the ruined gate, arms crossed. He could still hear the screams in his head. His arms still sore from the repeated use of drawing his bow. He's never shot that many arrows in his life. He swore he'd put some time in yard training his archery after this.
The gates of Windhelm—great, proud things that had stood since the time of Ysgramor—were now shattered. The wooden ramparts hastily thrown up in their place were little more than kindling should the beast return. Three of the towers had crumbled. Rubble lay thick in the streets, choking pathways and alleyways alike. But even so, Windhelm endured.
Buckets were passed from man to man that formed a chain all the way from the docks to the inner districts of the city. The crimson flames had disappeared entirely all of a sudden, though the regular flames that came from the numerous burning houses had to doused. Brunwulf led the efforts to rescue the people buried under rubble, while Jorleif continued tallying the number of dead and survivors.
The one good thing this event brought was the unity that the men and women of Windhelm had in working together to fix and repair their homes. Men and mer alike worked shoulder to shoulder, shoveling snow, digging out the injured, reinforcing broken buildings with salvaged timber and stone.
Whatever animosity existed between the Nords and the Dunmer was nowhere to be seen, Galmar watched a pair of Dunmer boys drag broken bricks from a collapsed home under the guidance of a Nord shield-maiden. Another Dark Elf shovelling snow with a Nord side by side.
Ulfric's order to save the Dunmer had even earned him some semblance of support from the denizens of the Gray Quarter. Brunwulf's previous worries had proven true. Being the easternmost district in Windhelm, they bore the brunt of the damage that the Dragon had wrought.
But the casualties were few and far between. Brunwulf's quick evacuation meant that many were saved.
However, Galmar knew that animosity spanning generations weren't so easily quelled. They were only lucky that a common enemy was found now. The Dragons that many before doubted the existence of were now gone. The damned flying beasts had now earned the ire of many sons of Skyrim.
Galmar had received word that young men and women who had doubted Ulfric's cause now came flocking to his banner. After all, the one true reason that they managed to push away the dragon was Ulfric's use of the Thu'um.
He wasn't a Jarl that shied away from combat, but one that had led the men from the front. This action had earned him much respect from his soldiers.
Only time will tell how this event would change the fate of Skyrim. For now, Galmar was confident the city would heal. But a raw, boiling rage emerged from his core. A feeling of helplessness at encountering a foe not so easily killed with his axe.
He turned from the gate and strode through the broken city toward the Palace of the Kings.
Inside, the war council had already begun. All the important characters of Windhelm and the Stormcloaks gathered to discuss their next move.
"Send out couriers to Forts Amol, Kastav, and Dunstad," Ulfric commanded, his voice low but firm. "Tell them to reinforce their defenses and to send additional men to fortify Windhelm's garrison. And word must go to Riften, Dawnstar, and Winterhold as well. Have their Jarls post sentries. One league in every direction. If another dragon comes, I won't have us caught like this again."
Galmar's hand clenched into a fist against the tabletop. "With the walls and gate broken, Windhelm is defenseless. If the Empire learns of this, they'll strike without hesitation. Tullius will take this chance."
"I've already sent scouts to tail the beast," Brunwulf said from his corner, arms folded. "Hard thing to track, I'll admit. The dragon flies faster than a hawk."
"Following the dragon was never the priority. They simply need to confirm if it leaves or stays in Eastmarch territory." Ulfric said, earning Brunwulf's nod. He looked to Jorleif then, "What are our losses?'
Jorleif let out a breath, pulling out a scroll. "Quite major, my Jarl. Of the city guard, sixty perished with more than thrice that number injured. The Stormcloak garrison took the most casualties, with over two hundred losses due to being the ones that manned the walls. They were first to be bathed in the dragon's flames. The most significant military loss is our Eastern fleet. Only eleven ships out of the initial fifty remain usable, one warship and three galleys, the rest are merchant or fishing vessels."
"And the non military loss?" Ulfric questioned.
Jorleif gulped. "Over a thousand civilians perished. More than twice that number are still missing or trapped beneath the rubble."
"Madness." Galmar slammed a fist against the table, rattling the map markers. "This means the only fleet we have left are the ones anchored in Dawnstar. Why did the dragon even attack Windhelm of all places? We have nothing that those damn beasts want!"
"Why did they attack Helgen? Rorikstead? Whiterun?" Ulfric asked with a raised eyebrow. "We aren't the first nor are we the last. These aren't random attacks, Galmar. Dragon's aren't mindless beasts. I learned this much from the Greybeards. There is a reason for all of this, a coordinated assault most likely."
Galmar growled. "Whiterun was attacked by two dragons—and they repelled them. Yet we nearly fell to one. One!"
"I surmise part of the reason for it is the existence of the Dragonborn and this Dragonslayer." Ulfric looked to him, then to the others. "In the Dragon Hunt, as they called it, they were the aggressors. They hunted the dragons and cornered them. Free from the risk of civilian casualties. We didn't have that luxury."
"Speaking of the Dragonslayer, my Jarl, I have received news on that front." Jorleif chimed in. "The Gray-Manes, our allies within Whiterun, have sent word. The Dragonslayer's name is one Gerron Ironbreaker, while the Dragonborn is Kiera Fendalyn."
Galmar frowned. The name sounded familiar.
Ulfric's eyes widened. "You mean…"
"Yes, my Jarl." Jorleif nodded. "The Blacksmith friend of Ralof's, from Shor's Stone."
"And this Kiera is the Vigilant you told me that saved your life back in Helgen." Galmar's gruff voice pointed out, finally remembering.
"Aye." Ulfric nodded with a furred brow. No doubt thinking of ways to use this new information.
"If we've received that information, then I have no doubt that the Empire—and more worryingly, the Thalmor—have received it as well." Brunwulf stated.
"Galmar, send Ralof with a hundred men to protect Shor's Stone." Ulfric ordered. "We must make haste. If anything, making allies with them is our priority. With the way the Thalmor operates, I wouldn't put it past them to threaten the town to get to this Gerron Ironbreaker."
Galmar nodded. "And the Vigilants?"
"They are far from powerless and can take care of themselves. Though I would continue the discussions of an alliance with them. I'll be sending you in my stead, Jorleif. Talk to the Keeper and ask them what they need and what they'll want in return for an alliance."
Galmar was about to speak when Ulfric raised a hand.
"There is one more matter," the Jarl said, voice growing colder. "We must send word to Solitude."
The council fell silent.
"To Elisif?" Galmar said, voice almost incredulous.
"Aye."
"Are you suggesting an alliance?"
"A truce." Ulfric's expression was unreadable. "A temporary one. Nothing more."
Everyone's eyes widened. "Are you sure about this, Ulfric?" Galmar asked.
"If we don't reach out first," Ulfric replied, "the Thalmor will. They'll twist the chaos to their favor. I've no doubt they've tried using the Helgen attack as some kind of proof that we're working with the beasts. If anything, this attack on Windhelm is a blessing in disguise. A fragile peace is better than war blind to the real threat. We need breathing room—to regroup, to rebuild. Dragons…this isn't a conflict we can weather alone."
"And you think Elisif will accept?" Galmar asked warily.
"No. Not at first. But a seed planted now may sprout when needed. The real work will be choosing where the talks happen. It must be neutral. Somewhere both sides feel safe."
Galmar leaned back, arms folded. "Like High Hrothgar."
Ulfric's brow rose slightly. "Perhaps. The Greybeards hold no banners. It may be our best hope. Maybe even the Vigilants if they refuse our alliance."
Brunwulf exhaled slowly. "This war was meant to free us, Ulfric. Are you sure this won't bind us instead?"
Ulfric turned toward the window, where the ruins of Windhelm's towers loomed against the darkening sky.
"I'm sure of only one thing," he said. "If we don't adapt… we'll all burn."
…
AN: Kiera has reached High Hrothgar. The training with the Greybeards will be largely glossed over as she'll be visiting Paarthurnax next.
The attack on Windhelm will have pretty major consequences in the whole political scheme of things. The Stormcloaks also didn't get out of it without major losses. The burning of their fleet has made their naval superiority take a nose-dive.
There should only be a few chapters left before this first act of the fic ends. It's been a blast writing all of this.
As always, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 37 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.