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3rd First Seed, 202 4E

The soldiers collided on the banks of the White River, a century of legionaries led by a young quaestor, and a drengjaval led by a Nordic veteran. The screaming and yelling was indecipherable, but the death cries were not. Swords, axes, and spears lashed out, killing, maiming, and missing. The ground became drenched with blood, but the fighting didn’t cease. Reinforcements arrived from both sides, the better part of a cohort for the Imperials, and a strong hird led by the local Stormcloak commander.
The death was endless, and the battle was shifting, spanning both banks of the river, and the only bridge that allowed a crossing. The Legate who arrived to assess the battle knew the value of the bridge, as did the Stormcloak Thegn. Plans were issued, reassessed, changed, and issued again. Nothing changed. The bridge would be in Stormcloak hands, then Imperial hands, then back to the Stormcloaks. Either this battle would end with the withdrawal of both sides, or the death of all involved.
Overlooking the battle was a hill with a tomb dug into it, and in front of the tomb were two men and a woman, watching the battle unfold silently. The first man wore an iron breastplate and seemed horrified by the proceedings going on down below. The second man wore a brigandine vest of boiled leather and small steel plates over a woollen tunic and sat with a sword resting in his lap as he pulled a whetstone across the blade, seemingly unphased by the fighting. The woman wore a set of steel armour, and was leaning on a large battle-axe, clearly disturbed by the battle, but also resigned to it.

“Will you not intervene?” Golldir asked him. Karsten looked up from sharpening his blade, but kept the stone moving across the metal.
“How would I do that?” He countered, “I am but one man, and they are many.”
“You could shout, like you did in the tomb!” The young Nord exclaimed. “They are slaughtering each other!”
“But what would that solve?” Karsten asked him. “Even if they did stop, the war would not end. More men would die, and they would be sent somewhere else to die. Or perhaps they would kill me and continue on as they were. Who can say?”
“But… you are the Dragonborn!” Golldir said, “you are here to save us!”
“Do they look like they want saving?” Lydia asked him. “They are soldiers, Golldir, not farmers. They do as they are ordered, because someone else has made the decision for them. You saw how the greed of men works in your family tomb. That was a small version of what you see here.”
“But whose greed is it?” Golldir cried out. “I am of the Pale, but I cannot support this! I cannot support Ulfric if this is what his war entails!”
“If there were more men like you, Golldir, there would have been no war,” Karsten sighed. “You asked whose greed this is? It is Ulfric’s greed, and it is the Empire’s greed. It is the greed of the Thalmor, of the thanes, and the jarls. The emperor and the counts, and all the kings and queens in Tamriel. That is why there is war.”
“Then why do you not stop it?” Golldir challenged him, “you have the power to do so.”
Karsten rose from where he had been sitting, sliding his sword into it’s sheath, and slipping his shield over his back.
“Power is always dangerous, Golldir,” he told the Nord. “Power is enticing, it attracts the worst, and it corrupts the best. There is a saying, though I am not sure where it came from. ‘Absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ I did not understand it at first, but I was uneducated then, because I did not have any power for myself. I did not want this power, and I did not ask for it. It was forced upon me. That is my burden. I would not have others suffer for it. So, yes, I have the power to stop this fight, but then what? What do I tell them as to why I stopped the fight? Do you think they would listen to me if I told them they were both wrong? That their enemy was not each other, but the dragons roaming the land, killing their families and burning their homes? No, they would not believe me, because there are not enough dragons to threaten them as such.”
“But,” Golldir drifted off, “it is pointless death.”
“It is,” Karsten agreed, “but it is their deaths nonetheless. Many of them are already in Sovengarde, I expect, with tales to share, and friends and family to see once more.”
“I do not understand,” Golldir admitted.
“I did not understand at first either,” Karsten told him, “but since my destiny was revealed to me, death has been a constant companion. I have learned much that I did not want to. One day, when we are both old and grey, you will understand.”
“I want to do something,” he admitted, “but I do not know what I can do. I do not wish to fight in this war, but I do not wish to see my homeland ravaged.”
Karsten spared a glance to Lydia, who shrugged at him.
“Do you have a map with you?” He asked Golldir.
“Of course,” he told him, pulling it out.
“There is a camp deep in the Reach,” Karsten explained, marking it on the map, “it once belonged to the Forsworn, before I cleared it out. It sits on the entrance to an old fortress of the Dragonguard, if you wish to help, go there. Tell them that I sent you.”
“Tell who?”
Karsten smiled at him.
“The Blades, of course,” he answered.
“Who else is going to kill dragons when I am not around?”
“What will you do?” Golldir asked him when Karsten went to leave.
He spared a glance to the fighting below him.
“I am going to stop a battle,” he answered with a tight smile, “I have seen enough death for today.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

28th First Seed, 202 4E

“We’ve received out latest reports from the Legates in the field, Jarl Elisif,” Rikke reported to the Jarl. Falk Fire-Beard liked the older Nord. She was respectful but honest in her discussions with Elisif, which was most likely why Tullius had assigned her as the liaison for the Legion. “The only report of note came from the Pale. A large force of our troops encountered an equal sized force of Stormcloaks at the White River, and battle was commenced.”
“And what made this particular battle so interesting, legate?” Erikur drawled, clearly bored. Falk refrained from snapping at the Thane.
“The Dragonborn intervened in this one, Thane Erikur,” Rikke said slowly, as if talking to a child. He hid a grin under his fist as Erikur’s face turned red.
“The Dragonborn?” Elisif asked in surprise, “why?”
“Legate Tituleius reports, and I quote, ‘the Dragonborn was fed up with us killing each other, so he summoned a storm that forced our two forces to separate before clearing it and ordering us to return to our camps.’”
“And both sides obeyed?” Elisif was intrigued now, and Falk couldn’t blame her. He was trying to reconcile that description of the young boy that had grown up in Solitude.
“Not at first,” Rikke admitted, “but I was at our camp in the Pale when the battle occurred, and I heard the shouts that followed. It was… unsettling, to say the least. It was almost as if he was standing a few paces from me. Legate Tituleius was prepared to continue the battle, if necessary, but the Stormcloak thegn honoured the Dragonborn’s words and withdrew his forces from the field of battle. The legate did shortly after. I was only at the camp for a few more days, but there was no reengagement before I departed.”
“What did he get out of stopping this battle?” Bryling mused.
“I did not get anything out of it,” a new voice cut in, a voice that when Falk had last heard it had been in the early stages of adulthood. “Except for the fact that no more lives were tossed away without cause. That was good enough for me, thegn Bryling.”
All eyes snapped towards the newcomer, some recognising him, others knowing him only by reputation. Falk and Elisif belonged to the former, while both Erikur and Bryling belonged to the latter group. Despite being thanes in solitude for close to a decade each, Karsten’s time was still before them.
“The Dragonborn, I presume?” Bryling asked. Karsten shrugged at her.
“Some call me that,” he answered, “but my name is Karsten, so that is what I answer to.”
Falk took the opportunity to examine the Nord standing before them. Karsten had been a boy of twelve winters when he was taken to his father’s estate in Eastmarch, and another fourteen had passed since then. He was no longer short and skinny but had grown into the frame of a powerful warrior, towering over the guards, and even topping Bolgeir, if just barely. His hair was long and thick, braided in cords and tied up at the back, sideburns leading into a neatly trimmed beard. His armour was simple, a brigandine vest over a woollen tunic, and thick breeches tucked into a pair of boots. A sword hung on his left hip, an axe on his right, and a strap held a shield to his back. Thick, powerful arms were folded over his chest. He was covered in soot, dirt, and what looked to be dried blood.
“And what brings the ‘great’ Dragonborn to our fair city?” Erikur asked, not even bothering to hide his mocking tone.
“There was a dragon nesting to the south, just west of Dragon Bridge,” Karsten explained. “It is dead now. I assumed that might be of some interest to the Jarl and her Steward, not to mouthy thegns who look as if they don’t know which end of a sword to hold.”
Erikur’s face was a violent red now, but before anything else could be said, or any fights started, Elisif spoke up.
“It is good to see you again, Karsten,” she said, “but if you continue to insult my thanes, I will have to ask you to leave.”
Karsten’s eyes flickered to Elisif, and Falk noticed the flare of interest in them.
“Forgive me, my jarl,” he bowed his head. “I am tired from my journey, and it has affected my manners.”
“It is not her he needs to apologise to,” Erikur mumbled, but no one but Falk and Bryling heard him. Neither would say anything.
“Have you been on the road for long, old friend?”
“Since the Third of First Seed, after I ended the battle between the Legion and Stormcloaks,” Karsten revealed. “I have been tracking several dragons and a cult.”
“A cult?” Elisif asked, “are they in Haafingar?”
“I do not believe so,” Karsten replied, “or rather, they are not based here. They hunted me down and tried to kill me, but I believe they came from Solstheim.”
“If I may, my Jarl,” Falk stepped forward, “we could prepare a room for Karsten, and have him join us for the evening meal, where he might answer any questions you have? If it is agreeable to you, Karsten?”
The tall warrior shrugged.
“I was planning on sleeping in the inn,” he said, “a bed in a palace sounds much more enjoyable.”
“I will have a room set up for you,” Falk said.
“General Tullius will want words with you, Dragonborn,” Rikke spoke up. Karsten didn’t look pleased by the notion.
“If the general wants words, he can give them himself, legate,” Karsten bit out. “He owes me that courtesy at least. He did try to have me beheaded.”
“What?” Elisif hissed, causing Falk to grimace. She and Torryg had always had a soft spot for Karsten and learning that Tullius tried to have him killed would cause more problems than naught.
“I’m sure it was a misunderstanding,” Rikke tried, but Karsten barked out a deep laugh.
“If you wish to believe that, that is your choice,” Karsten chuckled, “but let us not play games, Legate Rikke. I will speak with your general, but I will do it on my time.”
“I will… let him know,” Rikke sighed. Karsten grinned at her. That part of him hadn’t changed, at least.
“I have some business to complete in town,” Karsten declared, “it was an honour to see you again, Jarl Elisif. I look forward to speaking with you again.”
“And I you, Karsten Iron-Sides,” Elisif tilted her head.
And then Karsten was gone, striding out of the palace while whistling an old soldiers song, one that Falk hadn’t heard in many years.
“I must report to General Tullius,” Rikke said. “Forgive me, my Jarl.”
“Go on then,” Elisif waved her hand, “court is dismissed for the day. Return to your homes.”
Falk went to counsel her, but she quickly shot him a look that warned him against it. While he usually would have done so anyway, there was something about the gleam in her eye that told him he would regret it. He held a groan in. Karsten was barely back half hour and already he was inspiring Elisif to rebellion.
“Remain a moment, Falk,” Elisif said, “I wish to speak.”
“I serve at your command, my Jarl,” he answered, and waited for the others to leave.
“Karsten is much changed,” she noted idly, “but then again, we were children last we saw each other. Time has changed us all. Torryg would have liked the new Karsten.”
“I believe so too,” Falk said softly. Torryg had been like a son to him, and his death stung as deeply as any wound. “He would have made him a housecarl in a flash if he saw him right now.”
“It is not a bad idea,” Elisif mused. “Did you notice he kept using the word thegn, instead of thane?”
“It is Old Nordic,” Falk said, “often used by the more traditional clans and holds. I hear it is growing in popularity in the holds of the Stormcloaks in particular, and that each village has elected a thegn to lead their soldiers in battle.”
“Do you think he supports Ulfric, then?” Her voice was quiet, and it was not difficult to imagine why the thought might upset her.
“I do not,” he said firmly, “otherwise he would not have come her as a friend. He is Dragonborn, remember? He could shout down our gates if he wished.”
“Then it is a good thing he is here,” Elisif decided, “perhaps he wishes to help us?”
“I would not count on it,” Falk admitted, “there is an old term for men like him—drengr, a courageous warrior. They live for fighting, but only for those who are worthy of it. You heard him say it yourself, Tullius ordered him beheaded, though we not for what reason. He will not fight for the Imperials.”
The conversation created a wriggling feeling in his brain, however. It was true, Karsten would not fight for the Imperials, but perhaps… perhaps Falk could convince him to fight for Elisif.
“You’re thinking of something,” Elisif stated, “I said your name three times and no response.”
“Forgive me, my Jarl,” he immediately apologised. “I am thinking of something, but I would not trouble you with it for now.”
Elisif frowned but didn’t push him. Instead, she changed the subject back to Karsten.
“He has grown, too,” she noted, “I did not think he would become so… large. He looks like a bear.”
“A wolf would be more realistic,” Falk countered, “he has the look in his eyes of a hunter, and he almost prowled out of the throne room.”
“That would be most fitting for him, wouldn’t it?” Elisif smiled, “the Wolf of Solitude.”
Falk grinned. It did suit him.

Falk had ordered two guards to follow Karsten once he got the chance, and when they reported to him at the end of the day, he almost laughed at the tale. He had barely been back a day and he was already endearing himself to the people of Solitude. Little Svari had found herself fascinated by the warrior who returned her uncle’s amulet to her mother, and the guards reported that once he had gotten Greta’s permission, he had taken to carrying the little girl on his shoulders, letting her point out places of interest in the city.
He also convinced Captain Aldis to let Angeline know the fate of her daughter, something that saddened Falk immensely. Then, he was dragged into Radiant Raiment and emerged with new clothes bundled in his arms, and then promptly resolved two men’s debt issues. Falk wasn’t sure how he did it, but he wasn’t going to question it either.
There was a knock at his door, and when he answered, it was Erdi, one of the maids.
“The dinner is ready, my lord,” she stated, “and that handsome young man is back. He is waiting for you and the Jarl.”
“Then I’d best not keep him waiting,” Falk said, closing the door behind him and locking it. When he emerged in the dining hall, Karsten was indeed waiting for him, and he had a bottle tucked under his arm. “What’s this?”
“I was told that you had ordered some Stros M’Kai Rum,” Karsten chuckled, “so I offered to bring it to you. I’ll be honest, Fire-Beard, I never saw you as the rum type.”
“This war has made a drinker of me,” Falk sighed, “I am surprised it has not done the same of you, Dragonborn.”
“I do not need alcohol,” Karsten admitted. “I find that dragon souls are far better for me. It is… difficult to explain.”
“Then you need not do it, my friend,” Elisif’s smooth voice interrupted them as she swept into the dining hall. “Though I do have some questions for you, if you are willing to answer.”
“You have taken me into your home, Jarl Elisif,” Karsten answered, “you may ask of me what you wish.”
They took their seats and a large roasted leg of goat was brought out.
“How is your father?” Falk asked, “we have heard nothing of him since the war broke out. Is he… supporting Ulfric?”
“No,” Karsten said, a pained expression crossing his face, “he is dead. Killed by supporters of Ulfric, in fact.”
“He was a thane!” Elisif exclaimed. “How could Ulfric order that?”
“He didn’t, not truly,” he said. “But my father refused to betray the Empire. He told Ulfric he would not commit any of our men to his cause. The Bear of Markarth didn’t take too kindly to that. Only a few weeks later, a mob of armed men stormed our estate. They killed my father, his wife, and my half-brother. They almost killed me.”
“How did you escape?”
“They left me in the snow to die,” Karsten admitted, “and I think that is the only reason I didn’t. We had been trading with the Orc Stronghold to the south-east of Windhelm, and when they saw the smoke from my home burning, they sent scouts to investigate. They brought me back and healed me.”
“How did you end up captured by Tullius?” Falk asked next.
“I was tracking Ulfric and his war-party,” Karsten said, “I meant to challenge him to a duel to avenge my family. The Imperials didn’t care why I was there, I was a Nord, I was armed, so I was a Stormcloak. They knocked me out, stripped me of my weapons and armour, and bound my hands, before sending me to be killed. Do you understand why I will not fight for either side now?”
Truthfully, Falk did understand, but he could not admit as such.
“How did this whole ‘Dragonborn’ business start then?” Elisif was leaning forward in her seat, food forgotten.
Karsten’s eyes closed, and he took several deep breaths.
“That is another long story,” he said, “after I escaped Helgen, I went to Whiterun to warn the Jarl of the dragon, at the request of the local blacksmith in Riverwood. I ended up doing some favours for him, which culminated with a dragon attack just outside the city. It almost killed me, but afterwards, the body of the dragon began burning up, and I absorbed its soul. I was summoned to High Hrothgar not long after.”
“Yes, I remember hearing the Greybeards,” Falk noted, “it was a great surprise to me.”
“It was very exciting, too!” Elisif added, “the people were alight with gossip. I almost didn’t believe the rumour that it was you until Balgruuf announced you as his thane to all the other holds.”
“A clever move on his part,” Falk said. Karsten chuckled.
“Who do you think advised him to do it?” He asked, “it was a deterrent to stop either side from trying to occupy the hold. I’ll fight to defend Whiterun.”
“Could you?” Falk challenged, “against the Stormcloaks or the Imperials?”
“Some of them, yes,” Karsten answered honestly, “there is one way into the city that I know about, and it is protected by a drawbridge. Feasibly, I could hold it for as long as I pleased. Add to that the fact that the Whiterun city guard is one of the strongest and best trained in Skyrim, well, the city could hold out against any assault. A siege, on the other hand… well, that wouldn’t end well for the besieger either.”
“Enough of war!” Elisif snapped, “I have had enough of it already. Let us talk of more pleasant things.”
“As you wish, my Jarl.”
“And for the gods’ sake, call me Elisif, like you used to!”
Falk flinched. The jarl was never so inflamed.
“Apologies, Jarl Elisif, but I cannot do that,” Karsten apologised. “You are a dear friend of mine, but there are some things that must be respected.”
“Am I?” She countered, “Torryg was a ‘dear’ friend of yours too, if I recall, but you have not said a word about him yet!”
Karsten was silent, staring at the table, and he saw the heat leave Elisif’s face. She looked like she was about to speak.
“When I heard what Ulfric had done, I went to go kill him myself, and that was before he had my family killed. My father had his huscarls prevent my escape, and when I tried to fight back, they beat me down. I was locked in the basement of my home so that I could not do anything stupid. That is where I was when Ulfric’s men came.” Karsten’s voice was quiet. “I did not speak of Torryg because it pains me to. I did not have the relationship with him that you did, but we grew up together. He was my king, and he was going to be a great one. I imagine it is more painful for you than for me, so I did not want to sour the mood. It appears I have done so regardless. Forgive me, Jarl Elisif.”
Karsten rose and quickly escaped the room. Elisif watched him go, before letting out a cry of anger. Falk watched silently. He wanted to stay and help Elisif, but he also wanted to follow Karsten, to make sure he did not do anything stupid. His Jarl made the decision for him.
“Go after him,” she waved, “ensure he does as little damage as possible, Falk, and perhaps, you can fix this mess that I have made once more.”
“My jarl,” he bowed his head and quickly left. When he reached the front door, two guards were standing there sheepishly.
“Lord Steward,” the first one stated, “The Dragonborn has left. He, uhm, he snagged a bottle of mead from us as he went.”
“I will deal with you two later,” he said, “come find me tomorrow morning, if I am available.”
He did not have to go far to find Karsten. It seemed Tullius had become impatient and had sent a patrol of men to find him, led by Legate Rikke.
“Please, Dragonborn, just come with us,” the legate was pleading.
“I have told you that I will see Tullius on my own time,” he spat, before looking at the soldiers, “unless you think these are all the men you need to take me?”
“There are ten men with me!” Rikke exclaimed.
“I know,” Karsten said, “you should have brought more.”
“Enough, Karsten!” Falk barked. “Rikke, leave, now. Take your soldiers back to Castle Dour and inform the General that he commands the soldiers in Skyrim, not it’s people. If he has an issue, he may take it up with me later.”
Rikke paused but left without incident.
“I can fight my own battles, Fire-Beard,” Karsten said to him.
“That is what I was concerned about, Karsten,” Falk replied, “I am certain you can fight your own battles, but the legion is not an enemy to be made lightly, especially not in this city.”
“Who would stop me, Falk? The older guards who drink on shift?” He asked, waving the mead bottle in his hand, “or the boys who have been drafted to keep up numbers? You don’t have a city guard, you have a mob.”
“I am aware,” Falk snapped back, “but Elisif wants this war over, and to ensure that, she has given the general permission to take the veterans from our guards. They fight in the legion now. This war is ruining us, Karsten!”
“If this is where you ask me to fight for Elisif, I cannot,” Karsten said. “I have a much more important war to fight, Fire-Beard, and it is one that may kill me. This war will only get in the way of that.”
“Then why would you come here, Karsten? The death of a dragon could not be the only reason?”
“I have missed Solitude,” his voice was deceptively soft, “I missed Elisif, and I missed you. You were not my father, but you raised me along Torryg, and I loved you for it. But I am a man now, and I have to do things for myself. Give Elisif my apologies. Perhaps when I have dealt with the Dragons, I will return here.”
“Tullius will not let you leave,” Falk sighed, “you know that.”
“I know. I plan on having some words with him before I go,” Karsten replied. “I will make my position clear to him.”
“Just… don’t kill anyone,” Falk said. Karsten grinned at him.
“I would never.” He said, before turning and marching towards Castle Dour.
Falk didn’t fail to notice that the gate was lowered. Karsten wouldn’t have failed to notice it either. What was he—
“Fus Ro Dah!” A wave of blue energy burst from his mouth and slammed into the portcullis, shattering the wooden beams on it. Falk swore under his breath but couldn’t hide the small grin that graced his features.
Karsten always liked making a statement. That hadn’t changed, at least.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

28th Last Seed, 202 4E

The shout stopped him from almost falling asleep. He had been leaning over the table while Rikke reported her failure to bring the Dragonborn and Falk Fire-Beard’s intervention before it escalated to violence when the castle shook, and the shout tore through the air. He was out the door in a flash, just in time to see a squadron of soldiers surround a tall Nord standing in the centre of the courtyard.
“Stand down!” He barked as he pushed his way though. The soldiers all parted as he stalked forward, the occasional ‘general’ leaving their lips. Standing in front of the Dragonborn, he realised just how large the man was, even by the standards of Nords. He was closer in height to an Altmer, but broad across the shoulders, powerful arms crossed over his chest with a smattering of scars on them. “The Dragonborn, I presume?”
“Well I doubt that Ulfric would shout down your gate without his army behind him,” he replied. “And the Greybeards are sworn to peace, so there’s that as well.”

“Was destroying my gate necessary?”
“Was trying to execute me without cause necessary?” the Dragonborn countered.
Tullius sighed. “You don't come when I summon you. Why?”
“Come meet me yourself,” the Nord said, “I was a stone’s throw away, after all.”
“That’s not how this works, Dragonborn,” Tullius said, “whether or not you support the Empire or the Stormcloaks, respect is expected.”
“Respect is earned, not assured,” the Dragonborn said, “and my name is Karsten, not Dragonborn. How many people address you as Imperial General?”

“More than you’d think, Karsten,” Tullius told him with a wry smile, “I apologise for not seeking you out personally. May we talk now?”
“It’s why I’m here,” Karsten said, and his eyes flickered in suspicion, before settling back into their dispassionate steel colour. “Lead the way, General.”
Tullius led him to the war-room, the maps long since cleared away, and Rikke closed the door behind her. He didn’t fail to notice the way that the Dragonborn tracked her movement, relaxing slightly once she wasn’t behind him anymore.
“I’m sure you can understand that it would be against your best interest to join the Stormcloaks,” Tullius told him, “because then I’d have to devote an entire cohort to tracking you down.”
“It would be against your best interest to threaten me, general,” Karsten replied evenly, “that said, I have no intention in joining with Ulfric and his ilk.”
“And why not?” Rikke challenged, “does your father not fight for Ulfric?”
“Do you not know?” Karsten asked in surprise, “your spy network must be awful. My father was killed by supporters of Ulfric not long after he killed Torryg. I was hunting him down when you and your soldiers decided to cut my head off.”
“What?” Tullius blinked, “that doesn’t match the report I was given. I was told that you were captured scouting the pass where we ambushed Ulfric. My captain told me you were a Stormcloak scout.”
“Yes, she did seem rather eager to have as many Nords killed as possible. Was she from Cyrodiil by chance?” Karsten’s tone was knowing, and Tullius withheld a curse. It did no good to curse the dead, no matter what they had done. It was a waste of time.
“Let me be the first to extend my apologies then, Dragonborn, and assure you that the Legion will not pursue any further legal charges against you, unless you break our laws.”
“I’m sure simply existing at this point is breaking a law, General,” Karsten laughed, “how do you think the Emperor in Cyrodiil is going to feel when he finds out that there’s a Nordic Dovahkiin in Skyrim? That would make any politician nervous.”
“He’s got a point,” Rikke noted, “we may be ordered to apprehend him regardless.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Tullius stated, firmly this time, “and I will make sure to stress that in my next report to the Imperial City.”
“You really have no idea what I symbolise, do you General?” Karsten cocked his head to the side. “I’m a Nord, and I’m Dragonborn. The last man like me was Talos, and he founded the Empire you fight for. Only, Talos never killed any dragons. He learned his power through the Greybeards, and even at his prime, his power wouldn’t reach mine. General Tullius, I am the largest internal threat Titus Mede has faced, ever. Prepare yourself for that possibility.”
“And what if those orders are given?” Rikke asked quietly. Tullius was still trying to wrap his head around what the two were telling him. The Dragonborn hadn’t done anything wrong. They couldn’t arrest him for simply existing, could they?
“I suppose it depends on when the order comes through,” Karsten replied with a shrug, “if it is before I have dealt with Alduin, I won’t be coming in. The World-Eater is the largest threat we have, and fighting this war isn’t helping. If Alduin has been slain… well, I imagine I’d be an even larger threat than I already am. I would go to Cyrodiil.”
Karsten was silent for a moment.
“You’ve been remarkably civil for a military governor,” he stated, “so let me give you this free information. Halfway between Solitude and Dragon Bridge is a small hill on the left side of the road. There’s a goat path that starts behind the hill. It leads to a Stormcloak camp. They’ve started constructing siege equipment, which I find incredibly arrogant. If you want to blind Ulfric to your movements here, I’d eliminate it.”
“That’s not possible,” Tullius said, “our scouts assured us that Haafinger was safe!”
“Then you need new scouts,” Karsten laughed, “and I’d investigate the ones you have. Perhaps find out what their relationship with the executed guard was.”
“I—thank you, Dragonborn,” Tullius stated. “You’re free to go.”
“Likewise, General,” Karsten said, pulling a coin purse out. It was large, likely a couple thousand Septims in it. “For the gate.”
“Let me escort you, Iron-Sides,” Rikke said, shooting Tullius a look that she would explain later. “At least to the gates.”
“I’d appreciate the company,” he said, “I need to recover my huscarl from whichever tavern she’s decided to occupy. I hope it’s still standing.”
“Nord girl, is she?” Rikke asked, “best warriors in Tamriel.”
“Of that,” Karsten said, “I have no doubt. Do you know she once leapt from a cliff trying to—”
The door closed behind them, and Tullius let a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. He collapsed backwards into a chair as he comprehended what he had learned.
The Dragonborn wasn’t necessarily a foe, and under other circumstances, they may have even been able to recruit him to their cause. But there was also the issue of Cyrodiil. Rikke and the Dragonborn had been correct. If the Emperor saw him as a threat, and decided that he needed to be apprehended, Tullius and the legion would have no choice but to arrest him, and with a force bolstered by Nordic Auxiliaries, and legions dominated by them, there could be a revolt on his hand. The last thing the Empire needed was a civil war to be won only to have the legions that won it revolting for a legend. Even a living one.
As had become his habit, Tullius poured himself a glass of Colovian wine as he read through his reports. Most were from the forward camps and garrisons, but a few were from roaming scouts and spies. Most of those reports were on Stormcloak movements, or the political balance in the holds, but a few were on the Thalmor, who were becoming a massive terror on the Nordic population. It sickened Tullius to let them get away with it, but orders were orders, and for now, the Aldmeri Dominion were allies, and the Thalmor their representatives.
The last one, however, intrigued him the most. It was from his nephew, stationed on the border in Cyrodiil with the Eighth Legion. As a legate, Quintus Tullius was allowed to send official communiques with anyone he saw fit, and they normally made their way to himself, all the way up in Skyrim.
General Tullius, it started, scouts have picked up increased bandit activity on the border. They are armed with superior weapons than most. Suspect third party involvement. Advice requested.
It was rather succinct, but the fact that it came on such a large sheet confused him. He stared at it a moment before a memory struck him, of himself and a younger Quintus playing around, and teaching him how to make invisible ink from lemon juice. It had been their secret for many years, and the last time they had spoken, Quintus had admitted that he still hadn’t told his parents.
He held the letter above a candle, close enough to warm it, but not enough to burn it. He watched with interest as an entire new block of writing appeared, dominating most of the page.
It read,

Uncle,

I hope this portion isn’t visible to you when it arrives. As I stated, bandit activity has increased on the border, though the situation is far worse than you would be told. They are armed with quality weapons and armour made of steel and other, rarer metals. The consensus among the other officers in the Eighth, Ninth, and Thirteenth is that the Dominion is supplying them. We have sent requests to the Imperial City for reinforcements, but none are available. We are tied down on all fronts.

I know that asking you to end the civil war in Skyrim quickly is absurd, so I won’t even bother, but you have contacts in the capital. I beg of you, we need help, and badly. If not, we may lose the border to the bandits. If it is not possible… well, we can always use advice as to what to do. Civil unrest has always been your specialty, and your actions during the Great War has earned you much respect among the legions here.

Rikke entered at that moment, but he held a hand up to stop her from talking. To her credit, she stood patiently while he finished reading.

General Marius moved his headquarters from Skingrad to one of the legion camps, which should tell you the severity of the situation we are dealing with. He’s brought Lucius Sertorius with him, and both send their regards to you. The general asked me to remind you of the drink you owe him, and that he plans on collecting the next time you are both in the Imperial City.

Your nephew, Quintus

Tullius handed the letter to Rikke wordlessly. She scanned it quickly.
“Invisible ink?” She asked with a quirked eyebrow. Tullius shrugged in response. “The situation isn’t good, clearly. Perhaps we could raise a cohort of men and transfer them to the southern border?”
“We need them here, and desperately,” Tullius countered, “Skyrim is the second largest of the provinces, and we’re stretched dangerously thin. I’ll see about Bruma raising some new troops. I still have some clout there.”
“Very good, sir,” Rikke said.
“What did you and the Dragonborn discuss?” He asked.
“Of his housecarl, mostly,” Rikke answered, “but I did manage to secure a deal with him, sir.”
“Oh?”
“In exchange for getting access to legion camps and more specifically, their quartermasters, he’ll report any Stormcloak camp to the local legates,” Rikke reported proudly.
“That’s rather bold of you to do without my permission,” Tullius noted, “how do you know he’ll hold to his end?”
“He gave me two more, sir,” she said, “one in the Reach, and the other in Falkreath. Sir, your convoy went right past it on the way to Helgen. We’re lucky word hadn’t spread too far of Ulfric’s capture, or you may have been ambushed.”
“Have messengers sent to those holds at once,” he ordered, “and organise a demi-cohort to eliminate the camp in this hold come morning.”
“Already done, sir,” Rikke answered, “I hope that wasn’t to presumptuous of me?”
“Not at all,” he replied, “in fact, it makes my job easier.”
“I am to serve, sir,” Rikke said. “In addition, a guard passed a message from Jarl Elisif, sir. She wishes to speak with you tomorrow.”
“Very well,” Tullius sighed, “inform her I’ll be available at—”
“Sir, she’s requested you come see her,” Rikke interrupted, “I’m under the impression that the Dragonborn’s return to Solitude may have sparked an interest in the war effort, sir.”
“Return?” He muttered, but Rikke heard it.
“Karsten Iron-Sides was born in Solitude, sir,” she explained, “his mother was from the city, and his father from Eastmarch. They met during the muster and fell in love.”
“I knew of his father,” Tullius noted, “Refil Iron-Sides was notorious during the war for the elves he killed at the battle of Red Ring, but I know not who his mother was.”
“Truly, sir?” Rikke blinked in surprise, “I assumed everyone in Cyrodiil would have known.”
“And why’s that?” He frowned.
“Well, sir, it’s just that his mother was General Jonna.” Rikke sounded almost sheepish, which was a tone he had never heard from her.
“What?” He blinked. “That man is Jonna’s son?”
“Sir,” she confirmed with a nod. “She passed in his twelfth year, and then he moved to Eastmarch to live with his father. It was rather important news in Skyrim. Even I heard about it, and I was in Bruma at the time.”
“Jonna?” Tullius asked again, “the She-Devil of the Red Ring?”
“One and the same, sir,” Rikke said, “did you truly not know?”
“We never received word of Jonna marrying, or having children,” he said, “we barely received word of her death.”
“Truly?” Rikke seemed insulted, “for all that she was applauded and decorated for her role in the war, she was so quickly forgotten?”
“It was a difficult transition period,” Tullius sighed, “we forgot many of our heroes. When did they marry?”
“They didn’t,” Rikke answered, “Refil was promised to the daughter of an important thane in Eastmarch, but the affair carried on for four years before Karsten was born. He was an oddity in Skyrim, one parent being a famous war hero, the other a thane in a hold. It was why he grew up with Torryg. He was practically royalty.”
“He and Torryg were close?”
“Like brothers, I’m told,” she told him, “it’s rumoured that Karsten and Elisif were interested in each other during their youths, but Karsten was only twelve winters when he left, so I doubt it. But I was here for five years before this war started, and Torryg and Elisif clearly cared for each other deeply.”
“If they weren’t ‘interested’ in each other, what relationship to Karsten and Elisif have, then?” Tullius needed to know these things, especially since Elisif likely knew that Tullius had given the blanket order for executions.
“Close, not a sibling relationship like Torryg and he had, but closer than normal. They all grew up together. Those sorts of bonds are tight, especially among Nords. The Jarl may be irate when you see her, but hopefully Steward Falk would have been able to calm her down some.”
“Hopefully,” Tullius echoed. Rikke grinned at him.
“Don’t worry too much, sir,” she said, “I’ll protect you from the Jarl should she become too… Nordic.”
Tullius slanted her a look, but Rikke was already out the door, her chuckle following her. Tullius sighed again and re-read the other reports. There was nothing of note, but he needed them fresh in his mind as he moved pieces around on the war map. Come morning, he had no doubt it would need to be adjusted again. He played around with a dragon piece, uniquely carved, a gift that had been delivered anonymously, handed off between a dozen couriers before it reached him. He placed it right on Solitude.
The last place he had seen the Dragonborn.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Karsten lifted his shield to block the reckless attack from the bandit. His sword shot forward, and he drove it through the man’s unarmoured stomach. Beside him, Lydia brought the Axe of Whiterun down in a vicious swing, opening a man from shoulder to hip. His sword flicked to his left instinctively, and another bandit had his throat slit. The others seemed realise that the two of them weren’t an easy mark, and they began fleeing. One only made it a few steps before Karsten’s axe embedded itself deep in his back. The others were scrambling to get away now, and while he was tempted to follow them, he elected not to. Instead, he wiped the blade of his sword on the pant leg of one of the bodies and retrieved his axe from the other.
“No pursuit today?” Lydia asked him, leaning on the head of her axe. A gift from Jarl Balgruuf, the axe was made of Skyforge Steel, and enchanted so that it never rusted, never dulled, and never became slick with blood. It was a large, hefty weapon, and while Karsten knew how to use it, it wasn’t his preference. So, after some time together, he had gifted it to Lydia.
“Not today, no,” he answered, “I need answers from the Blades, and if I stop to track down each and every group that attacks me, I won’t make it to Sky Haven Temple until the new year. We’re heading back to Whiterun to sell off what we’ve grabbed and resupply, and then I’ll head to the Reach.”
“And where will I be during this time?” Lydia gave him a knowing look.
“Whiterun, of course,” He grinned at her, “I need someone to manage my estate, after all. Besides, I have a new task for you, should I get the jarl’s approval.”
“Do I want to know?”
“If he gives me permission, I’ll tell you,” he shrugged, “I don’t see the point of having your mind start racing if it turns out to be nothing.”
“You’re a very peculiar Nord, Karsten, do you know that?” She told him, before hefting the axe over her shoulder, “I don’t think I’ve ever met one as... intellectual as you are.”
“Consider me intellectual, do you?” He laughed, “explain that to me, at least.”
“You know what I mean, you oaf,” she nudged him, “you were taught by the tutors of a king when you were a child, and then you were taught by Nordic warriors in a multitude of arts. Most Nord Warriors stick with one weapon their entire lives. I’ve seen you use a bow, axe, sword, great-sword, great-axe, mace, Warhammer—I’ve lost count of the weapons I’ve seen you handle with ease. So yes, educated is the word I’d use. You’ve the mind of a scholar but the body of a warrior, and the skills of both.”
Karsten glanced at Lydia. Her face was completely blank, his indicator that she believed everything she had just said. He gave her a broad smile.
“You’re right, of course,” he said, “my mother wanted me to be as prepared for the world as I could be. I was tutored by mages and scholars, even after I left Solitude. My father let it happen because of the love he bore for my mother. But with him, I was also taught by a plethora of warriors. Nords who fought in the ancient Atmoran style, retired legionaries, scouts, horsemen. He wanted me ready for the world in a different way. He knew that the Thalmor weren’t done with us, and so he prepared me for a life of war. I’ve no idea where most of them went, actually. My tutors, that is.”
“Truly?” Lydia looked at him, “they weren’t at your home when…”
“No, no they had been gone before that,” he answered, “when I reached my twentieth year, my father decided that I should see the world. I boarded a ship that took me to High Rock, where I served as a mercenary guard for a lord for about a year. Then I went down to Hammerfell, where I joined another mercenary company. That led me to Cyrodiil for a few years, before I wound up further east in Morrowind. I returned about a year before Ulfric killed Torryg. I spent that time teaching my younger brother what I had learned about the world. Part of me wishes I had done what I had wanted to and returned to Solitude. Perhaps I could have stopped Ulfric. Perhaps not. But I would have been there.”
Lydia didn’t respond, instead letting them settle into a comfortable silence. They trudged along the road, letting the sounds of nature fill the silence between them. Karsten enjoyed walking throughout Skyrim. The motherland was full of beautiful places that could easily be missed if you rode. It was also harder to ride into an ambush, especially since Karsten knew that bandits loved riders. They were the richer folk, and the usually only travelled with a guard or two. That meant that most traps were designed to be missed be a mounted rider. That wasn’t the case for two travellers on foot.
“Did you ever go in Dominion controlled land?” Lydia asked him after an hour of near-silence.
“Hmm? Oh, no,” he replied, “that was the one thing that was stressed to me that I should never do. My father earned most of his fame killing elves in the war, and he didn’t want me to wind up near the relative or friend of someone he had killed. So I stayed in the lands of the empire or neutral territory, like Hammerfell. It was better that way, I think. Both my parents opposed the concordat. I don’t think I could’ve restrained myself in their territory. I would have started a fight myself.”
“What’s Cyrodiil like?” She asked next.
“Depends where you are,” he answered, “further north, near Bruma, it’s much like Skyrim. Towards the south, however? It’s green, and flat. There are large forests, and open plains. There are farms the size of Riverwood, and entire towns dedicated to agriculture. It’s remarkable, actually. Most of the land was ravaged during the war, but they’re recovering. There’s hope.”
“Would you live there?”
“I wouldn’t trade Skyrim for anywhere else in the world,” he told her, “there are nicer places, yes, but hard life breeds hard people, and the only place that breeds places like Skyrim is Hammerfell, which is far too hot for my liking. Why do you ask? Plan to move south?”
The derisive laugh that he got in response was all he needed to hear.
_______“Thank you for receiving me on such short notice, my jarl,” Karsten said as he approached the large throne. He didn’t kneel, but neither would Balgruuf demand it of him.
“I am always willing to receive you, Karsten,” the Jarl of Whiterun laughed, “what can I do for you, friend?”
“The civil war is threatening to spill into Whiterun,” he noted, “and despite having a well-trained guard, parts of Whiterun are in disrepair.”
“I’m aware,” Balgruuf sighed, “but my coffers are strained enough as it is, Iron-Sides.”
“But mine aren’t,” he continued, “you’d be amazed how many people make deals with me when the word ‘dragonborn’ is dropped. I’ve cultivated many favours over the past year, and my adventures have given me much reward and riches. With your permission, I’d call in some of those favours, and fund the rebuilding of Whiterun’s defences. It will be done in your name, of course, but I would request that Lydia be allowed to act as overseer to the process, should you permit it to happen.”
“Proventus?” the Jarl called. The Imperial Steward stepped forward. Karsten wasn’t sure how he felt about the Nibenean. Proventus Avenicci was loyal to Balgruuf, loyalty earned in war, but he wasn’t Nordic, and he had trouble understanding their ways. He tried, but Karsten knew he also saw most Nords as a backwards people. Shortly after being made thegn, he had been forced to intervene before an argument between Proventus and Hrongar turned violent.
“The plan has merit, my Jarl,” Proventus said, “but it would place you in the debt of Thane Iron-Sides, and all of Whiterun would know that it was he, and not you who funded the walls. I would suggest—”
“It is a good plan, brother,” Hrongar cut in, “as a thegn,” he used the term purposefully, “Iron-Sides has an obligation to Whiterun, something he understands and cherishes. If he wishes to fund the rebuilding of the walls, then let him. Raise a plaque, or a statue if you feel the need to commemorate him for it.”
“Please don’t,” Karsten said immediately, “I understand how to some, my actions could be seen as ambitious, my Jarl, but my intent is pure. I was not raised here, but it is now my home. I would rather see it stand another hundred years then fall to the pride of Ulfric or Tullius.”
Balgruuf was silent for a moment.
“Frothar!” He called out, and his eldest son whirled at being summoned.
Frothar was nearly thirteen winters now, and that meant that he would have to start learning to lead Whiterun, though privately, Karsten thought he wouldn’t be especially suited to it. Perhaps as a huscarl, or a guard commander, but leading a city? He didn’t have the patience for it.
As such, he wasn’t entirely surprised when the young boy shrugged.
“Improving the defences makes it harder for any attacking army to breach the walls,” he said, “but it also means that our warriors wouldn’t be able to fight sooner. I’d leave them as they are. The more fighting, the better.”
Balgruuf stared at his son for a moment before sighing. Karsten caught some movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Nelkir!” He said, and the Jarl’s bastard son froze on the spot, “what’s your opinion?”
“That’s not neces—” Proventus began, but Balgruuf raised a hand, cutting him off.
“I—father?” The young man tried. Karsten knew that Nelkir had been fathered on a serving maid, only a year before Frothar was born and that his mother hadn’t survived the birth, and it was that guilt that led to Balgruuf taking him in. He also knew that Mephala had been talking to him for quite some time before he intervened, nearly half a year prior. He had spent most of that time convincing the Jarl to reassure his son that he was valued. It seemed to be working.
“Answer the question,” Balgruuf rumbled, “I too wish to hear your thoughts.”
Nelkir was silent for a moment, and Karsten could see Frothar making faces at him.
“Strengthening our walls strengthens our city,” Nelkir said slowly, “bringing workers in means that our taverns and inns will have more patrons—but that also means that drunken brawls will be more likely. More guards will need to be hired, but that will give Eorlund Grey-Mane and Adrianne Avenicci more business. It’s a cycle, but in the end, Whiterun will come out on top. Worker will want to stay or take up land outside the city. With better defences, more caravans will come to our hold. More money flows in, and that means that the land can be patrolled, making the roads safer, bringing in even more caravans. I don’t see how we wouldn’t benefit from this.”
“Well said, Nelkir,” Karsten praised, because he knew Balgruuf would not be able to, “with your fathers permission, perhaps you would like to come to Breezehome later? I’d enjoy talking with you further.”
Balgruuf watched him closely for a moment before nodding.
“I grant it,” he said, “but we should speak in private before then, Iron-Sides. I have something to discuss with you.”
“By your command, my Jarl,” Karsten tipped his head.
“Come, Iron-Sides,” Balgruuf barked, “with me. The rest of you, return to your duties.”
Balgruuf led him upstairs, past the war room and into his private wing. They passed several empty rooms before reaching a large study. The Jarl closed the door behind them.
“Why are you placing this offer now?” He asked immediately. “You return from Solitude and a discussion with General Tullius, and now petition to rebuild the walls of my city? I am not a man prone to paranoia, but you must understand…”
“I have heard nothing that indicates the Imperials will besiege Whiterun,” Karsten assured him, “but if you received word of my meeting with Tullius, then Ulfric will too. He may decide that I’ve leaned too far towards the Imperial’s cause, especially with several of his camps about to be destroyed. It would still take him time to rally an army large enough to besiege the city, time enough for proper repairs and improvements to be made.”
“You’ve struck a deal with the Imperials?”
“It’s mutually beneficial,” Karsten explained with a shrug, “I don’t care for Ulfric, even if I understand his supposed motives. The Empire may not be what it used to, but it is the only thing that will stop the dominion from dominating all of Tamriel.”
“Are you suggesting I declare for Tullius?”
“I wasn’t aware that Tullius was a contender for the throne,” Karsten told him, “but no, I am not suggesting you do anything. I may not have been born in Whiterun, but you took me in when I was at my lowest, my Jarl. While my focus is on Alduin, Whiterun will always be important to me. If you choose to remain neutral, I will support you. If you choose to support the Imperials, I will support you. If you choose to support Ulfric… well, I suppose I would have to find another city to live in. But I would not fight against you.”
“I value your loyalty, Karsten,” Balgruuf told him. “Now, let’s discuss Nelkir. You clearly have a plan for him.”
“I do not, in fact,” Karsten replied, “but the boy is lost and confused, and up until six moons ago, he was being manipulated by a Daedric Prince. Naturally, I am concerned. But he is much like I was at his age. He has the same anger that I had, the same drive. I used it for good, but under the right pressure… well, all have seen the dedication Nelkir has to Whiterun, and the lack of it that Frothar has. Lydia has been approached on several occasions by those who are concerned about your heir. They have wanted to meet with me, but she has turned them away. The fact that it has happened more than once alarms me. I think some time away from the city would be good for one of them.”
“I can’t send my heir away,” Balgruuf sighed, “it would be seen as refusing his position. Where would you take Nelkir, if I allowed it?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted, “perhaps High Hrothgar. Perhaps the Reach. Perhaps even Solitude, to my old family home. It needs someone to take care of it, and I think the responsibility could be good for him.”
“You would take him to the Greybeards?” Balgruuf’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Karsten withheld a snort. Of course that was what he heard from it.
“Not to study—that is not my place, but to watch, and to meditate with the Greybeards is an enlightening experience that not many can claim. But forgive me, my jarl, I must confirm, do I have your permission to contract workers to begin reconstruction of the defences?” Karsten asked, a bit more firmly than was perhaps appropriate.
“Yes, yes,” Balgruuf waved his hand, “I will have Proventus write up a contract.”
“Have Hrongar check it, if it pleases you,” Karsten requested, “Proventus seems to think the worst of me. Perhaps he sees me as another Ulfric in the making—I am not certain, but I’d feel better knowing that Hrongar is protecting my rights.”
Balgruuf snorted loudly but nodded.
“Hrongar, defender of the Dragonborn,” he laughed, “I’m sure he would enjoy that title. I will do as you ask, only because I have noticed it too. Very well, Karsten. I will send Nelkir to you by the end of tomorrow. You have him for two years, until he reaches his majority, at which point, he is free to do as he pleases.”
“Thank you, my Jarl,” Karsten bowed his head, before walking to the door, “if I may, my Jarl—Frothar needs to understand the weight of leading beyond fighting, and he needs to understand it soon. War makes men out of boys far sooner than we like, and if he doesn’t mature quickly, he could easily destroy your hold in the future.”
Balgruuf slanted him a look that clearly said get out, so he did. No one approached him as he made his way to Breezehome, which he assumed had to do with the frown on his face. He walked through the door of his house only to find Aela and Vilkas sitting in the chairs at the front, an annoyed Lydia standing at the foot of the stairs.
“How can I help you?” He asked without preamble.
“We’ve found another nest of Silver Hand,” Aela stated, “those who escaped your assault on their headquarters.”
“Send a companion to deal with it,” Karsten shrugged, “I have more important things to deal with than a broken bandit clan.”
“They are your responsibility, Karsten,” Vilkas tried.
“They are not,” he countered, “I am not a companion any longer, Harbinger—you made that abundantly clear after we cleansed Kodlak’s spirit.”
“My blood flows through your veins, whelp,” Aela barked, clearly intending to beat his wolf into submission. It had the opposite effect. His beast-blood boiled at the insult, but his dragon’s blood kept it at bay.
“And I can shatter you with a whisper, Huntress,” Karsten replied, “so kindly leave my house before I show you what a dragon can do to a wolf.”
Aela opened her mouth to speak again, but Vilkas placed a hand on her arm.
“I beg you to reconsider, brother,” Vilkas said, “and if you do, know that they are hiding in Haafinger, near Dragon Bridge.”
With that, the two Companions left.
“Apologies, my Thane,” Lydia said immediately, “I could not stop them.”
“No, I imagine you couldn’t,” he sighed. “It is no issue, Lydia, you would not have been able to if you wanted. Werewolves are dangerous by nature, and always willing to fight.”
“Are you not one?”
“I am,” he confirmed, “but I have Dragon’s blood in me, and that is far more potent than the curse of Hircine. That is why the Companions are frightened of me. I am something… different.”
“How so?” She asked him. He didn’t blame her, she had never seen him shift. It was a unique process for him, something he chalked up to as Akatosh’s interference, preventing Hircine from fully claiming him.
“I must keep some things to myself,” he smiled at her, “and at the moment, I am ready for some sleep. Good night, Lydia.”
“And you, my Jarl,” she replied, ducking into her room. Karsten entered his own, stripping his armour off and placing it on the stand near the door. His axe was left resting against the dresser, while his sword went on it’s stand. Once he was stripped, he collapsed into his bed, breathing in the smell of the fresh sheets.
______________________

“What do you see, Karsten?” His father asked.

They were high in the Velothi Mountains, overlooking Windhelm and the Sea of Ghosts. He was eighteen, and his father’s wife was in labour. His father had grabbed him and told him to dress warmly, before leading him up a narrow, winding path.

“I see the power of a Jarl,” he answered, motioning to the large fleet of ships that had assembled at the mouth of the White River. Ulfric had funded an expedition to Atmora, to see what had become of the ancient home of the Nedes. He had asked his father to lead it, but Refil had refused on the account of his wife being with child. “And I see the pride of a Jarl. The two are tied together, are they not?”

His father laughed loudly, the sound echoing throughout the pass.

“Perhaps you are smarter than I hoped,” he said, before sighing. “In a perfect world, I would have married your mother, Karsten, and you would be my heir, not my bastard. But this world is not perfect. You have my name, but it was a fight to get you even that. Thrognar Stone-Fist was not happy when he heard about you. It was only your mother that stopped him from running me through.”

“She always spoke fondly of you,” Karsten said, “but she also told me that if you ever came to Solitude with your wife, she would castrate you.”

Refil laughed again.

“That sounds like her all right,” he said. “Tell me of Torryg, Istlod’s son.”

“He’s… not a warrior, like you or I,” Karsten said, “but he can hold his own in a fight. What he is, is a good man—or he had the makings of one when I last saw him, which was nearly seven years now.”

“Each year, you petition me to return to Solitude, and each year, I give you the same answer,” Refil sighed. “I am a thegn, Karsten, and while you will not follow me in this role, you will be a drengr to your sibling—whether they are a male or female.”

“Agni has been praying for a son,” he told his father, “so that you will send me away. I wish to spare you the decision of choosing between your wife and your son. I have learned all my tutors have to teach me—let me return to Solitude and serve as the shield-brother to the future high king. Is that not a high role for a bastard?”

“I will think on it,” Refil said, as he always did, “now let me tell you something about power, Karsten, because I know you, and I know one day, you will have it in droves. Power is dangerous. It draws in the worst and corrupts the best. Power is not given to you, you have to lower yourself to pick it up. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, my father told me, years ago, in this same range. But power is a tool, a weapon. You can be trained to use it, but not taught. You will understand one day, when you have it yourself.”

“I’m a bastard,” Karsten laughed, “what power could I ever hold, beyond that that is given to me?”

Refil’s eyes were darker than Karsten ever remembered them being, as if they were filled with ancient knowledge.

“Oh, my son,” he said, clasping Karsten’s shoulders, “you will be the most powerful man in Tamriel, when your time comes. Do not doubt that for a moment. Think about what you will do with that power.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Nelkir stared at the temple in amazement. When his father had sent him to serve the Dragonborn, he thought it to be as good as exile. Two weeks of hard riding on the road hadn’t done much else to dissuade him of that notion, but now, his thoughts were changing. He was seated in the courtyard, watching as two men, a Nord and a Bosmer led another group of six through the techniques of using the Akaviri blade. At another section, another group of men and women drew their bows back as they fired arrow after arrow at targets.
Karsten had ducked into a side room to talk with two other Blades, and one of the newest recruits, a man named Golldir led him to where he was now. Nelkir wasn’t sure if Skyrim was becoming safer, or if the fear of the Dragonborn kept them safe. Every so often as they travelled, Karsten would angle his head upwards before letting out a shout. When he had asked, the older Nord explained that he was sending a warning to anyone in the area that he was present. It had worked so far, so he gave Karsten the benefit of the doubt.
“You’re a bit too young to be joining us,” the wood elf said, dropping himself beside Nelkir. “Why’d Karsten bring you with him?”
“I think as a favour to my father,” he said carefully, “though I’m not entirely sure to be honest. Where are you from?”
“Nice subject change,” the elf laughed, “I’m Faendal. I lived in Riverwood before Karsten brought me here.”
“Why’d you go with him, if I may ask?”
Faendal chuckled.
“It’s a bit of a sad story, actually,” he said, “I was competing with another Nord, Sven, for the affections of an Imperial Girl, Camilla Valerius. I approached Karsten while he was recovering with Alvor and asked for his help. He looked at me like I was an idiot before refusing. I didn’t see him for four months, but when he returned, he sat Sven and I down, told us why we were being stupid, and offered us an opportunity to do something important. I accepted, Sven didn’t—not right away, at least.”
“Why not?” Nelkir asked.
“He thought that with me gone, he’d have a better chance of wooing Camilla,” Faendal laughed, “I returned to Riverwood nearly six months later with Karsten and two other Blades—Anneke over there leading the archery drills, and Ogol, who isn’t here. We had heard reports that a dragon was nesting at the old barrow at the top of the mountain. Karsten thinks it sensed his Dragon Blood when he arrived, because it immediately swooped down and began attacking. The guards did what they could, but… we had been trained to kill dragons, and they hadn’t. It took damn near an hour, especially since Karsten was just there to ‘watch.’
“He didn’t help?”
“Us? No, he didn’t,” Faendal replied, “he helped the Whiterun guard keep the villagers alive, though he did intervene towards the end of the fight,” he motioned towards a long, jagged scar on his arm, “to stop me from losing my arm. Sven asked to join the Blades after that. Karsten brought him here, and now he teaches the sword classes.”
Faendal pointed towards the Nord who was leading a quartet of recruits through the use of the Akaviri blade, and how to best use it.
“Elves can say what they want, but you Nords are quick at learning weapons. I had six months of Sven and he’s surpassed me with his skills with a blade—though mine always laid with the bow. I never thought Sven and I would become friends, but here we are, weeks from Riverwood in the mountains of the Reach, helping revive an order of dragon slayers led by a legendary figure from Tamriel’s past we never thought to see again.” Faendal shrugged, an easy-going grin on his face. “Interesting times make for interesting friends.”
“So I’m learning,” Nelkir said.
“And what of you?” Faendal asked, “it’s not very often the son of a Jarl comes to visit us, even if he is a bastard.”
Bastard. The word didn’t sting as much as it used to. A fortnight of travelling with Karsten had broken the effect the word had on him.
“I’m a bastard too,” he had pointed out, “my father and mother weren’t married, and he even married someone else not long after I was born, yet I’m no more or no less than any other man.”
“But you’re the Dragonborn,” Nelkir had countered. Karsten had laughed at that.
“I am still a man, Nelkir. I bleed. I need food and drink, I need to sleep. I was a man before I found out I was Dragonborn, and I will be a man long after,” Karsten had turned in his saddle then, “being a bastard didn’t make me any less. In fact, it made me more. People disregard bastards. They expect very little of us, so I always enjoyed showing them that I was so much more. We are not so unalike, you and I. You’ve been raised in your fathers household, been afforded tutors, and now you’re with me. There are worse lives for bastards.”
So no, the word bastard didn’t sting like it used to. That doesn’t mean he had to enjoy it.
“Whether or not my parents were married doesn’t matter,” he snapped, “I’m here for reasons of their own. I’ve been apprenticed to the Dragonborn, so to speak. I think it’s to ensure my brother’s place in Whiterun is solidified.”
“Oh? What makes you think that?” Faendal arched an eyebrow.
“Karsten asked me a question when he was in Dragonsreach,” he admitted, “I made my brother look like a fool for answering a question realistically. In front of court, too. It’s not exile—I’ll be allowed to return once I reach my majority if I wish, but it’s clearly a power-move by my father and his most important thegn.”
“There are worse people to learn under,” Faendal noted. He opened his mouth to continue, but was interrupted by the temple shaking, and Karsten’s loud, angry voice cutting through the air like a knife through butter. Even muffled by the thick stone walls and doors of the temple, the sound was incredibly painful, and Nelkir pinned his ears under his hands.
“Kos Nahlot! Zu’u Los Dovahkiin Ahkk Hi Fen Thaarn!”

There was a pause, as Nelkir presumed that Karsten talked to them in the common tongue.
The courtyard was completely silent, and after a moment, the door flung open, and Karsten stalked out.
“Nelkir!” He barked, “we’re leaving. Come with me!”
He rose without word. This wasn’t the time to question the Dragonborn, clearly. He made his way to his side. Karsten stared at the courtyard of Blades.
“You have a decision to make,” he told them, voice strong and full, “Delphine and Esbern have decided that the Blades do not need the Dragonborn. That is their choice, but I trust you all know by now that I am only trying to do what is best for Skyrim. I will not lie to you about this argument. The leader of the Greybeards is the dragon Paarthunax. He was a lieutenant to Alduin during the reign of the Dragons, but when Kyne blessed the Nords with the power of the thu’um, it was Paarthunax who taught them to wield it. It was he who helped them overthrow Alduin. I hold him no ill-will, and I will not kill him because Delphine and Esbern demand it.”
The two whom Nelkir assumed to be Esbern and Delphine had arrived in the courtyard both with faces pale and flushed.
“The Blades have revoked their assistance. Very well. I revoke mine,” Karsten continued, “none of my funds will flow towards Sky Haven. No stones, metals, and wood will be delivered. No gold will fund your ‘crusade.’ Survive without me. See what happens when the dragons you kill return.”
He turned towards the entrance, but Delphine had drawn her blade. Karsten simply stared at her. She didn’t move.
“Dreh Ni Dah Zu’u, Delphine,” He spat, the shout echoing in the air, travelling Divines know how far. “Zu’u Los Bo. Try to stop me.”
Nelkir had never heard the Common Tongue amplified by the voice, and it was a terrifying sound. If they heard it in Cyrodiil he wouldn’t be surprised. The sound of a bow being drawn back reached their ears, but Karsten kept his gaze directed at the two blocking his way out.
“Let them go, Master Delphine,” the Nord lady, Anneke, said. “We’re sworn to obey the Dragonborn. That’s the oath you made us swear. That you swore before us. Does it not hold true now?”
Faendal had done the same, his bow pointed towards Delphine and Esbern. They weren’t the only ones, either. The Nord, Sven, had drawn his blade and was standing beside Karsten with half a dozen others. Archers spread out, perching themselves where they had a clear shot. There wasn’t a single Blade who supported the two in front of them.
The older man, Esbern, reached out and grabbed Delphine’s arm.
“Let him go,” he said softly, “the Blades have made their decision.”
Delphine held her blade for a moment longer before sheathing it. She huffed, and disappeared back into the temple. Esbern stared at Karsten a moment longer, before blinking and following her.
“They won’t forgive you for that,” he said softly, turning to the men and women who had supported him. “If you wish to help me, I have a request of you. On the north-western shore of Skyrim is an old fort, Northwatch Keep. The Thalmor control it, and they keep captured prisoners there. I think it’s about time for a jailbreak. Kill the Thalmor. Free the prisoners, and occupy the fort. Let the last two Blades stew here. Become the Dragonguard, dedicated to Skyrim and ending the Dragon threat.”
“I will go,” a tall, burly Nord declared, “I owe much to you, Karsten, but very little to these Blades. If I must alone, then I will do so.”
“Do not kill yourself, Golldir,” Karsten said.
“He won’t,” Anneke declared, “I am no fan of the Thalmor, and I will gladly take my bow to this fight.”
One by one, all the Blades stepped forward, declaring their intent to support Karsten. Nelkir watched it all in amazement. They were essentially declaring war against the Dominion, yet all of them offered their service to Karsten. To the Dragonborn. Not even Nelkir’s father, loved by all in Whiterun, could muster this kind of support.
Yet here were thirty men and women, elves and humans, Khajiit and Argonians who would fight the Aldmeri Dominion because it was what the Dragonborn had asked of them. It was astounding, and he felt privileged to have seen it.
“I thank you all,” Karsten declared, “take what supplies you need, seeing as I paid for them all. Once you’ve taken Northwatch, send a message to my huscarl, Lydia, and tell her these exact words, ‘the twenty-eighth of Sun’s Height, when the sun set on Clan Iron-Sides,’ and then request whatever materials you need. She will understand.”
The Dragonguard nodded, and Karsten grinned at them, before turning to Nelkir.
“Come now, Nelkir,” he said, “we’ve got a long road ahead of us to Solitude. I imagine we may be set upon by several Forsworn bands as well. Best prepare yourself for that.”
He simply nodded in response, following Karsten through the winding hallways of the temple. They were escorted by two of the Dragonguard, mostly to ensure that Delphine didn’t try anything, but Nelkir had a feeling that even if she wanted to, there wouldn’t be much she could do against him. He had yet to see Karsten truly fight anyone, but to most, the prospect seemed daunting. Not even Irileth, one of Whiterun’s best fighters, had wanted to cross blades with the Dragonborn, even in a sparring match.
“You’ll regret this, Karsten,” Delphine called out to him as they reached the exit. He paused and turned to face her, Nelkir mirroring the action.
“I doubt it,” Karsten replied, and Nelkir noticed he didn’t seem phased in the slightest by what had happened, “I’m not the one who just lost nearly thirty Blades, after all. It’s a big temple, Delphine. Try not to get lost in it.”

Blue Palace, Solitude, Haafinger

“The next matter of court is a petition from the people of Dragon’s Bridge, claiming that strange sounds and lights have been seen up the road, in between their settlement and Solitude, at Wolf Skull Cave,” Falk read out. Elisif sat poised as usual, her back ramrod as the reports were read out. She frowned at that particular comment. Wolf Skull Cave had a terrible history, and if something was going on there, she wanted it investigated.
“Legion scouts have seen nothing in the area,” Rikke frowned after Falk handed her the petition, “we’ll send another to—”
“Dreh Ni Dah Zu’u, Delphine,” A sharp voice cut through the air, causing the palace to tremor violently. Elisif gripped the armrests of her throne. “Zu’u Los Bo. Try to stop me.”
Once the shaking stopped, it took everyone several minutes to recover. It was Erikur who spoke first.
“By the Eight, what was that?” He cried out. Falk was frowning heavily, as was Rikke.
“That was Karsten Iron-Sides,” her steward answered, “though I do not know this ‘Delphine’ he was talking to. But that was…”
“That was the Voice at it’s strongest,” Rikke said, still shaking slightly, “and I know who Delphine is. She was a Blade in the court of the Emperor. I fought alongside her at the Battle of the Red Ring.”
“So the Dragonborn consorts with enemies of the Empire?” Erikur leapt upon the opportunity as soon as it arrived, but thankfully, it was Rikke who corrected him.
“The Blades aren’t enemies of the Empire,” she said with a scowl, “but they no longer exist. Enemies of the Dominion, on the other hand… well, we all know what happened to the Blades. If one of them angered the Dragonborn enough that we heard it here, well, I wouldn’t want to see what happens the next time he returns to Solitude, and you accuse him of ‘consorting with enemies of the Empire.’”
“I, well, I didn’t mean—”
“We know what you meant, and what you didn’t mean Erikur,” Bryling sighed, “so let’s move on, and pray that we’re not interrupted like that again.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“May I ask who Paarthunax is?” Nelkir asked him after a few hours on the road. Karsten twisted in the saddle to look at him. The boy shrugged at his glance. “I have a general idea of who he is, you were rather honest with the Dragonguard, but I’d like to know more, if you don’t mind.”
“Fair enough,” Karsten said, “Paarthunax is the second oldest Dragon alive. Alduin was the first, and most powerful. He’s quite literally a god. After Alduin came Paarthunax, and for many years, it was just the two of them. For all intents and purposes, the two are brothers, more so than any other dragon. It could have been a decade or it could have been a thousand years, but eventually, Akatosh seeded the world with more dragons, and soon the Dragons found themselves ruling over all of Mundus.”
“After thousands of years, Mankind decided that Dragons had oppressed them for long enough,” Karsten continued, his gaze locked on the Throat of the World, “we fought a long and bitter war. For many years, Paarthunax fought against us, breathing hellfire upon mankind, burning us alive by the thousands. But then, something miraculous happened. Kyne bestowed the gift of the thu’um, the Storm-Voice, upon man, and it was Paarthunax she chose to teach us. Why?”
The question startled Nelkir, but Karsten was staring right at him, waiting for an answer.
“I-I do not know,” he admitted quietly.
“It’s alright not to know something, Nelkir,” Karsten told him, “so long as you do not forget it once it has been learned. Kyne chose Paarthunax because despite all his cruelty, his killing, and his tyranny, in his soul, he was good. Remember, for many years, Alduin was the only one Paarthunax knew, so he followed the lead of his brother—his lord. But deep down, he knew what they were doing was wrong. Dragons are an inordinately powerful species, and by dominating all ‘lesser’ species, they revert to their most basic and cruel form. So when Kyne asked him to teach the mortals, he did. He taught them how to harness the thu’um, turning it from a uncontrollable force within them into a honed weapon. And when Paarthunax publicly switched sides to the rebels, the war was over. The Nordic Tongues stormed the Throat of the World and banished Alduin from this realm. I’m trying to figure out how he came back.”
“Is that why you went to the Blades?” He asked. Karsten nodded.
“Foolishly, I thought they might help, but somehow, they learned that Paarthunax is the grand-master of the Greybeards,” he sighed, “they thought to issue me an ultimatum—kill Paarthunax, or they would revoke all support,” Karsten scoffed loudly, before spitting over the side of his horse, “honestly, I gave them everything they had. I opened that temple, I gave them supplies, I recruited all their trainees. Everything they had was mine to start with.”
“And that was what the argument was about? You refusing to kill Paarthunax?” Nelkir knew this already, how couldn’t he, but it was good to have confirmation.
“Exactly,” Karsten nodded, “now, I need you not to panic, because we’re about to ride into an ambush.” Nelkir jerked suddenly, but Karsten reached over and clamped an arm on his shoulder. “Calm,” he repeated, “don’t worry, they won’t attack straight away. The Forsworn know who I am, and only if they’re incredibly stupid will they attack. If it does happen, smack your horse in the neck, here,” he showed Nelkir what to do, “she’ll drop to the ground, and you find the nearest boulder to hide beside. I’ll deal with any attackers, understood?”
“I—yes, I understand,” he confirmed with a shaky nod.
“It’s alright to be afraid,” Karsten said, “I’ve been afraid many times. Bravery comes and goes, but the fear is always present. Harness it, use it, but never try to avoid it.”
They kept riding, Nelkir keeping his gaze locked forward, those his eyes were trying to spot any Forsworn. He didn’t know what they looked like, but he figured one of them would make a mistake and be spotted. Karsten, on the other hand, was completely at ease, sitting relaxed in his saddle, whistling an old tune.
That was when the first arrows began flying. Despite his mind screaming at him to gallop away, Nelkir did as Karsten had instructed, and whacked his horse on the spot on her neck that he had indicated. She buckled immediately, dropping to the ground, and he slid off, diving in between two large rocks.
Karsten’s horse was gone, having taken off the moment he dismounted, but he had more pressing concerns. Nelkir watched as five men wearing goat-hide armour and wielding swords and axes made of wood and bones charged down at him. Karsten’s shield was still slung on his back, but his sword and axe were in his left and right hands, respectively.
The first man ran right into Karsten’s sword, which he twisted as he yanked it out, his axe embedding in the skull of another ma—woman, screaming just as loudly in the strange, guttural tongue of the natives. The third lasted a moment longer, spinning away from Karsten’s dual swing, only for the beard of his axe to catch on the man’s bow, which was still strapped across his back. Karsten practically threw the man backwards, before stomping on his throat with his boot.
The last two were more careful. Nelkir nearly gasped when he saw that both of them had large cavities where their hearts should have been, twine stitching showing a plant of all things that was located where the natural organ should be. Karsten grunted as one of them beat his sword out of his hand, but he ducked under the next swing, before ramming his head into the thing’s chest, before reaching in and tearing the plant out of the cavity with his spare hand. The man-zombie-thing collapsed in a heap as the Dragonborn turned his focus on the other one, who was staring at the sight with slight disbelief.
Despite the moment of hesitation, the man attacked, his two bone-reinforced axes cutting through the air in front of Karsten, he leapt back before taking a deep breath.
“Yol!” He shouted, a jet of flames emerging from his mouth, engulfing the man and setting him alight. Still he pressed forward, but he inly made it a few steps before collapsing on his knees in front of Karsten, who had used the opportunity to retrieve his sword. He walked back to the man, before pressing his blade straight in the cavity, and then kicking the man off the blade. Nelkir stared at the aftermath. Four dead within the span of two hundred heart-beats. But none of them had bows, and he had seen at least two arrows fly…
“Drop!” Karsten roared as he flung his axe. Nelkir obeyed out of sheer terror, dropping to the ground. He heard the sound of the axe impacting flesh, and then a body dropped right in front of him. It was another woman—no, it was a girl, barely his age. Nelkir felt sick, and scrambled as he heaved over on the rocky grass.
The Dragonborn examined the body before sighing, pulling his axe out of her chest and closing her eyes. He patted Nelkir’s horse on the side, and the mare rose, standing perfectly still as Karsten’s own horse trotted back.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said, rubbing Nelkir’s back gently, “the Forsworn start at a young age, but seeing children killed—killing children is abysmal.”
“Why—why would they do this? Sending children to fight? What does it accomplish?” He asked, wiping the remnants of the bile from his mouth.
“It accomplishes very little,” Karsten told him, “as for why they do it? It’s my fault, truthfully. My huscarl, Lydia, was injured by some Forsworn when we last came through the Reach. I took her to Markarth to recover, and then stormed five of their camps, killing all their warriors. It took me about a fortnight, and they haven’t recovered from it, so they’ve brought out their reserves, so to speak.”
“But why?”
“They want a free Reach, with no Nordic interference. It’s stupid, but it’s their goal, and they’ll kill as many as they want to see it accomplished. I make a habit of hunting them whenever I’m in the area, but they’ve gotten better at hiding their camps. Maybe one day I’ll finish the job.”
The casualness that Karsten talked about wiping out entire war parties would have made Nelkir laugh, but after watching him fight, he was certain it wasn’t boasting. There was a simplistic beauty in the way he fought. There were no excess movements, no unnecessary risks. It was all designed to kill, or at the very least severely cripple.
“Come,” Karsten said, holding his hand out, “Karthwasten isn’t too far from here. We can rest for the night there before continuing on our journey.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Karthwasten was a small mining village for Silver, funded by the Jarl of Markarth as a way to wrest some power away from the Silver-Bloods. Karsten had told him that they had sent mercenaries to harass the mine owner into selling, at least until he intervened, threatening them to stay away or he would use his ‘Dragonborn Powers’ on them. The way Karsten told it, the mercenaries fled within minutes, running faster than men on horseback. Nelkir didn’t doubt that it was true.
There was a small, sturdy hut that had been constructed for Karsten as thanks for helping the miners, and once he had fished the keys out of his pack, he had opened the door to a cosy cottage, with a bed on one side, and a fireplace on the other, with two chairs and a small table in the middle. There were a few weapons hanging on the wall, but other than that, the room was sparse.
“There’s only one bed,” Nelkir pointed out.
“So there is,” Karsten nodded, “I’ll sleep in the miner’s house, it’s not a problem. We’ll have dinner and break our fast here, but then we’ll begin riding for Dragon Bridge. If we ride hard, we can make it in a sennight. Get your rest today, because we’ll be travelling fast and light starting tomorrow—if the Forsworn attack, lock the doors, and keep your head down. You don’t move unless you hear me tell you so,” Karsten pulled a dagger from a drawer, “keep this. If you can’t use it on someone else… perhaps it would be better to use it on yourself than letting the forsworn get their hands on you.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry, Nelkir, but it is the truth,” he was interrupted by Karsten, whose face was completely blank. “The Forsworn do not ascribe to the same rules of warfare that most others do. They rape, murder, and enslave, though not necessarily in that order. To them, you are a Nord on the cusp of manhood, which makes you a threat that needs to be eliminated. They’d rather slit your throat and leave you dying on the ground that risk you coming back later and fighting them. You look tired, boy. Get some rest. I’ll be back in a few hours to bring you food.”
“Where are you going?” Nelkir was hesitant to ask, because he thought he knew what the answer to be.
“If we were attacked on the road, that means there is a camp somewhere nearby. I’m going to go deal with it,” Karsten answered, before sitting down in front of him. “It is not quite war, Nelkir. It is more like… annihilation, if we are being honest. The Forsworn are radical Reachmen, natives, but despite being radicals, they have control of several major roads. It does not matter if the Empire or the Stormcloaks held the Reach, they would suffer for it. All I am doing is making it slightly safer for the regular people, the normal people who live here. It is bloody, but necessary work.”
“But why are you the one to do it?” Nelkir asked, “is it because you are Dragonborn?”
“Partly, yes,” Karsten admitted, “even if I were not, I would feel obligated to help. In this case, I have the power to do so on my own. Were I a regular man, perhaps I would have formed a private militia to cleanse the Reach, much like Ulfric did when he drove them out of Markarth.”
He rose, ushering Nelkir to the bed.
“Rest, Nelkir,” he said again, “I’ll be back before you know it.”
He didn’t mean to fall asleep so quickly. While his body had kept him awake due to the fight, he now felt the fatigue of riding first to Sky Haven Temple, and now after being on the road all day. He didn’t even know if Karsten left before or after he fell asleep.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Karsten trusted the miners at Karthwasten to keep Nelkir safe. They owed him too much to do otherwise, and he knew for a fact that they all hated the Forsworn, so the chance that they would sell his charge out was minimal. Still, a part of him was… hesitant to leave the boy so alone, especially after the ambush. Karsten had been thirteen when he killed his first man—a raider who had joined the assault on his family estate. His father had been leading the defence, but some had snuck in through the sewage drain. He had been peering out the window to see what was happening when the raider rounded the corner.
He had grabbed the first thing he could see, which happened to be a shield hanging on the wall. The raider never expected him to attack, swinging the iron-rimmed shield like a weapon, cracking him on the skull. He had kept hitting, and hitting, and hitting until Volensus, his weapons teacher, had found him and pulled him off the body. The next day, his father took him into the mountains for the first time. It had taken him some time to get over the event, and for nearly a moon, he couldn’t touch a weapon without being sick.
He couldn’t imagine what it looked like to Nelkir. Karsten had become so desensitized to killing that he didn’t even blink at the girl who had tried to kill his ward. He had just reacted. He didn’t even realise it was a child until Nelkir swore and scrambled to upheave his stomach. The girl couldn’t have been much older than him, and it was possible that she was younger, closer in age to Frothar than to Nelkir himself.
When he approached the sight of the ambush, he wasn’t surprised to find the bodies gone. Either the wolves and bears had already come to the sight, or the Forsworn had recovered the bodies of their failed ambush. He slid off his horse and looked around. There were no weapons, not even pushed to the side. The Forsworn it was, then. Moving over to where he had been standing when the ambush began, he looked into his memory to see where his attackers had come from. Two had been directly east of him, one had come from the south east, one from the west, and one had approached from the north, along the road.
The western side continued on for a metre before dropping into a river, so the chances that the camp was on that side didn’t seem likely to him. The nearest bridge was miles away, which meant that he would need to head east. Into the mountains. Karsten stared at the steep climb for a moment before sighing. It would take some time, but he reckoned he would find a small, barely visible path about half way up the ridge. That in turn would lead into a cave, which would turn into a hidden valley, an old Reachman fort, or a Nordic tomb. He briefly considered letting it be but decided that he couldn’t allow any further raiding.
He was partly right. The small, hidden goat path wasn’t halfway up the ridge. It was at the top, nestled between to boulders, with a pair of skulls impaled on spears. Very conspicuous. Karsten drew his axe before entering the path. It was a tight squeeze, forcing him to enter it sideways. That would make fighting difficult should one break out, but he was nothing if not resourceful.
Nearly twenty metres in the path widened, letting him walk through it naturally, though he did have to keep his knees bent lest he hit his head on the overhanging branches. Sometimes, his height was bothersome. Finally, he found himself staring at a small camp nestled in a cleft between four peaks. There was a small lake in the gulley beneath it where any melted snow and rainwater would have fallen. Huts were built on stilts at the edge of the lake and on the steep mountain side, giving the settlement a tiered look to it. If it were anywhere else, Karsten would have found it rustic and charming. Not in the Reach, however. He knew this for what it really was—an enemy stronghold. Each platform was a location for archers to shoot from, and each hut could hold one, two, or even three warriors.
The good news was that they hadn’t seen him yet. That was good, it gave him an advantage. He scanned the cleft, looking for any sort of advantage. He didn’t travel with a bow and quiver on hand, but now he was wishing that he did, because it would’ve made his work much easier. Even having two archers with him now would’ve made this much easier, but he was only one man, so he would have to suffice.
There was another path that led higher up into a ridgeline, where a single, solitary hut sat. Anyone who knew about the Forsworn would know who resided there. Hagravens may be venerated by the Reachmen, but they were still ostracised when they weren’t needed for something. It was an odd relationship. Still, killing the hag first would be best, lest she use her foul magics to raise the dead, or any other possibility.
Karsten hated the creatures, and while he didn’t relish killing anything, he did gain some satisfaction knowing there was one less of those monstrosities in the world. Moving along the path silently, he kept scanning the camp, making sure that none of the sentries had been alerted to his presence. There was no sign that they had been, which was good for him. He’d rather the large fight wait until the witch was dead.
The hut, like many of the ones he had encountered, was surrounded by a ring of spikes, the heads of goats, cows, and horses rammed on to dissuade any faint-hearted individual from approaching. He walked past them without hesitation, kicking the door open, his shield raised in case it launched an attack.
“Why so much aggression, Iron-Sides?” an old, raspy voice chuckled. Karsten peered over the rim of his shield to see the Hagraven hunched over a table, blood dripping from the head of a goat she held into a bowl. “Oh, don’t look so surprised, you Nordic brute. The old gods speak to me. Most of the times, it is sweet nothings, but when they warn me that a child of Akatosh is coming, well, who can resist that?”
Karsten registered the warning too late, and hadn’t even begun turning when something hit his head hard, sending his vision black.

“Karsten, why did you travel?” Bor asked him, the curious expression on his face made more amusing by the red tint he had gained from the cold. Karsten shot his father a look, which earned him a shrug in response.

“I wanted to see the world,” he answered, “I was born in Solitude, and spent my first twelve winters there. When I travelled to Eastmarch, I was able to see Hjalmarch, the Pale, and Winterhold. I spent some time in Windhelm as well. I’d seen all of Northern Skyrim, but I wanted to see more. Like our father, my blood boils hot. I wanted to fight, to travel, to discover. So, I went west, travelled through Whiterun and the Reach into High Rock. Then to Hammerfell, and finally to Cyrodiil. But in my dreams, I could feel the cold air of the Velothi mountains, the night howls of the wolves. Skyrim is my home, and I missed it terribly.”

“Did you miss me?” Karsten wasn’t surprised by the question. Bor had taken to following him around ever since he had returned. His brother had been too young to remember his departure, but apparently his father had told Bor stories of his older brother, the one who didn’t have the same mother as him.

“I missed you more than I missed Skyrim,” he said, kneeling in front of his brother, “we share the same blood, you and I. I felt it calling to me more so than Skyrim did. We are brothers, after all, and brothers should not stay separated.”

“But… we don’t have the same mother,” Bor frowned, “and you are only a few years younger than my mother…”

“It is complicated,” he sighed, “but we are still brothers, and I will always be here to protect you.”

“Always?”

“Always,” he confirmed, “even when I am old and grey and not able to pick you up anymore.”

He snatched Bor from his feet, flinging him onto his shoulders with a laugh, his brother crying out in joy. Erik, his father’s huscarl, couldn’t hide the smirk from his face, so instead he coughed into his hand. Refil, on the other hand, was roaring with laughter at the sight, slapping his knee in amusement. Karsten stomped around the courtyard, letting Bor direct him on where to go, and what to do. He caught a brief glimpse of Agni inside the house, glaring at him, but he pretended not to see and continued on.

“Rider incoming!” One of the guards called out, and the gate was pulled wide open. Bor clambered down from his shoulders when Refil called him over, joining their father at his side. Once, it would have been Karsten, but with a legitimate heir now, his role was that of a drengr, a warrior. That he was his fathers son only gave him slightly more power.

The man, covered in dust and snow, slid from his horse, supported by two men when he almost lost his footing.

“The High King is dead!” He exclaimed, “Jarl Ulfric killed Torryg in a duel by shouting him to death!”

Karsten felt his blood stop as all eyes shot to him.

“Karsten,” he heard his father say as he turned to the armoury. “Karsten! Erik, Bjorn, stop him!”

His vision returned slowly, his hearing much faster. There was chanting in a language he didn’t understand, though all he could see were very fuzzy shapes. After a moment, his eyes cleared and the world stopped spinning. He was tied to a post, hanging by his arms. He was also surrounded by Forsworn. The Hagraven he had gone to kill was standing in front of him, a large, sharp knife held in her hand. There were two Briarhearts standing next to her, acting as bodyguards.
“Welcome back, Iron-Sides,” the feathered witch rasped, “did you enjoy your dream?”
“I’m going to rip you apart, you feathery bitch,” he spat at her, “and then I’m going to burn this hovel to the ground, and everyone with it!”
Not all of the Forsworn understood what he said, but those who did began jeering at him, and translating. Rocks were thrown, one cutting his lip. He withheld a shout, instead suffering the abuse in silence.
“None of that, Iron-Sides,” the Hagraven laughed, “you’ll make an excellent warrior for the cause, Nord you may be. Regardless, it is custom that any sacrifice be granted their last words, willing or otherwise. Do you have any?”
“You should have gagged me,” he told her, smirking when her eyes widened. “Feim!”
His arms slipped from the bonds, and he landed on the ground like a feather. A blade went right through him, causing several to scream in terror. That was when the shout faded, and his body became corporeal once more. He didn’t give them the chance to react.
“Yol!” he spat, the flames engulfing the platform in front him, and a dozen Forsworn with him. He snatched an axe from the ground, immediately planting it in the skull of a warrior, before turning towards the crowd. “Yol Toor Shul!” He shouted again, and the men and women, the boys and girls, the old and the young, all of them were engulfed in flames. Their deaths would be slow and painful, but he didn’t care. He turned on the Hagraven, which was trying to flee with one of the Briarhearts.
Karsten grunted as he flung the axe, burying it in the back of the Briarheart. It stumbled forward before dying. He moved forward, picking up a bow and pulling an arrow back on the string and releasing. The arrow sailed through the air before hitting the witch in the leg, sending her to the ground in a scream of pain. He stalked to her side before ramming his foot into her good leg at the knee, snapping it like a twig.
“I told you,” he breathed in her ear, before snapping her neck. It was a cleaner death than she deserved, but he had more important things to do. Like burning this village to the ground.
He turned to see what was left. The fire had spread immensely, but there were still parts that were untouched by the flames. A few shouts here and there, and the entire village was alight, a massive bonfire, sending a clear message to any Forsworn who knew of its existence. His weapons and armour were lost, but he wasn’t concerned. The cottage at Karthwasten had everything he needed, and he could always make a new set once they reached Solitude.
His horse was where he left it, standing in the middle of the road. He patted its neck.
“Good boy,” he said, before looking across the river. There were two Forsworn, watching with wide eyes. He tilted his head as he stared at them, waiting for a reaction.
They backed away silently.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

When Elisif awoke that morning, she didn’t expect to be told that Karsten had arrived late the night prior and purchased a house. Nor had she expected to find out that half a staff had already moved in, and he had gained the bastard son of Jarl Balgruuf as a charge. In fact, she had to be told twice, but that was mostly because Erdi had told her in the span of a few heartbeats without pausing to breath.
“Karsten is here?” Were the first words to escape her mouth. Her handmaiden flashed her a grin but nodded.
“Steward Fire-Beard met with him. He returned late last night with a large sack of coin, and I heard from some guards that the Dragonborn had already moved into Proudspire,” Erdi said, “at least three men and two maids are already with him. And the boy—the bastard, though I do not know why the jarl would send his base-born instead of his legitimate child with a hero lime him…”
“I’m sure he had his reasons,” Elisif said neutrally. “Let us prepare me for court, and afterwards, perhaps I will see why he has decided to move back into his childhood home after so long.”
“His childhood—my jarl, he lived in Proudspire? I thought it belonged to General Jonna…”
“It did,” Elisif answered, “technically, it still belonged to Karsten, but with Clan Iron-Sides in Eastmarch, Falk and I decided that foreclosing the home and placing it on the market was the best option. I’m intrigued to hear why my steward decided to sell it back to him.”
“Of course, my lady,” Erdi grinned, “I shall make you look stunning.”

She was greeted by bowed heads and a murmured ‘my jarl’ from the court. Falk tipped his head in greeting, which she returned before taking her seat in her throne. Bryling looked calm and collected as usual, but something was clearly on Erikur’s mind, because he was shifting where he stood, his gaze shooting towards the stairs, as if expecting someone to come.
“Someone may have informed Karsten that Erikur accused him of consorting with enemies of the Empire,” Falk whispered in her ear, “and Erikur may or may not have been made aware of that fact.”
Elisif hid a grin behind a cough.
“Shall we begin?” She asked Falk, who nodded.
“The first matter involves a purchase made late last night between my self and Karsten Iron-Sides, formally of this city,” Falk declared, “shortly before midnight last night, I was informed that the Dragonborn had returned to Solitude, and so I went to meet with him and inquire as to his visit. He informed me that he wished to reclaim his family home, Proudspire Manor, and was willing to pay for it.”
“Proudspire belongs to General Jonna’s family,” Erikur stated immediately, but the glare that Falk threw him caused him to hesitate. “Did they consent to the sale?”
“It has remained in General Jonna’s family, Thane Erikur,” Falk said slowly, “it is Karsten’s childhood home. He was raised there for twelve years. But he offered nearly fifty-thousand gold for it.”
“Fifty thousand?” Elisif couldn’t help the outburst. “Whatever for? It is his home?”
“That is what I said, my jarl,” Falk admitted, “but Karsten wouldn’t take no for an answer. He handed me a bag with nearly thirty-thousand gold in it and told me the rest would arrive soon. Apparently, he had been planning this for some time, because the moment I gave him the key, he took his charge, two Colovians and a Nord into the house, and from what I understand, he hired two maids today.”
“Forgive me my jarl, but are you saying that Karsten Iron-Sides is General Jonna’s son?” Bryling interrupted.
“That is correct,” Elisif said.
“It is not exactly a secret,” Falk added, “ask anyone who was in the city when Karsten was a boy and they’ll tell so the same. Even you knew, Legate Rikke, and you were stationed in Bruma for many years.”
“That is correct,” the legate confirmed. “Legion records also indicate that General Jonna named her son Karsten as her main beneficiary in her will. That included, from what I read, Proudspire Manor.”
“You’re not wrong,” Falk agreed, “but as I said, Iron-Sides refused to not pay for the house. Why he chose such a high number, I’ve no idea.”“Perhaps I need to ask him myself,” Elisif mused, “if he is to live in my city, he owes me that much.”
“Of course, my jarl,” Falk gave her a sly smile, “moving on, we have several reports from the people about strange noises. I’ve sent guards to investigate, but they found nothing out of place. The complaints are still coming, however, and they even dispatched a man to personally petition the Palace.”
“Is he here?”“Downstairs, my jarl. Shall I call him up?” Falk informed her.
“Bring him up then,” she said, and Falk waved to one of the guards, who vanished before reappearing with an older Imperial man.
“My Jarl,” the man bowed deeply. “I am Varnius Julius of Dragon Bridge. I come with a petition for the Jarl to investigate Wolfskull Cave.”
Elisif shot a look to Falk.
“Varnius, as I told you, we’ve already investigated the cave,” he told the man.
“Respectfully, sir, but you’re men didn’t even enter it,” Varnius said, “I swear to you, unnatural magics are coming from that cave! Strange noises and lights! We need someone to investigate!”
Elisif felt pity for the man. He was so convinced in his actions, so determined to protect his home. She could understand.
“Then we should send a cohort to secure the town and scour the cave,” she said, “Haafinger’s people will be safe under my rule.”
“Th…thank you, my jarl,” Varnius bowed again, but Sybille stepped forward, a rather uncommon event.
“Your eminence,” she said, “my scrying has suggested nothing in the area. Dragon Bridge is under Imperial control. It is mostly just superstitious nonsense.”
“Perhaps,” Falk added slowly, “a more… tempered reaction…might be called for?”
Elisif held a sigh in.
“Of course, Falk,” she said, “inform Captain Aldis that I have ordered a small detachment of guards to go to Dragon Bridge to patrol the northern road, clearing the rest to secure the town and southern road.”
“Thank you, my jarl” Varnius said again, “but about the cave…”
“I will have someone investigate,” Falk assured him, “you are dismissed.”
Varnius bowed again, before turning to walk away. Elisif closed her eyes for a moment, but the sound of a clap made her open them. Varnius had been stopped in his tracks by a hand on his arm. There was a man talking to him, and it took her a moment to realise it was Karsten. He was by far the tallest man in Solitude, as tall as any Altmer, but as broad as any Nord. It was an interesting combination, because had he been any shorter, he would’ve looked rather bulky, but with his height in addition, it was evenly distributed, giving him a rather lithe disposition.
The exchange between the two lasted a few moments before Karsten released Varnius, giving him a clap on the back. The imperial stumbled forward a step, but gave the Dragonborn a wide grin, before descending down the stairs. It didn’t fail to reach Elisif that all activity in the court had stopped the moment Karsten made himself known.
“How long have you been there?” Sybille asked, concern and suspicious clear in her tone.
“Since you began,” Karsten’s voice was deep and smooth, just like last time. There was no arrogance, no pride, but neither was there shyness or submissiveness. He simply was. “You need to have your guards examine groups individually when they come through. I entered with your thegns, and none of them realised I was there.”
“I have wards…” Sybille muttered near silently by her side, but somehow, Karsten heard her.
“Oh the wards are spotless,” he laughed, “but there are some things that wards can’t detect. Dovah Sos, Dragon blood, is one.”
“And you just stood there silently while you were talked about?” Erikur asked, somehow forgetting that he wasn’t high on Karsten’s list of friends.
“I was interested to see if anyone would accuse me of treason,” he said casually, “I heard it happened once before. You wouldn’t know who it was, would you?”
Erikur opened his mouth, but no words came out. Karsten just smiled jovially at him the entire time. After a moment, he closed his mouth.
“You should be aware,” Karsten said, “there was a Forsworn camp overlooking Dragon Bridge. It was in Haafinger too, so either they were watching to make sure that no legion reinforcements came in, or they considered it part of the Reach.”
“I’ll get soldiers on it immediately,” Rikke said, but Karsten shook his head.
“You misheard me,” he said, “there was a Forsworn camp. It is no longer there.”
“You… wiped out a Forsworn camp on your own?” Rikke asked slowly, “as in, by yourself?”
“Is there another meaning for ‘on your own?’” Karsten replied. “Yes, by myself. Not the only one, either. I would’ve been here a fortnight earlier if I hadn’t stopped to destroy each one I found. The Reach should be marginally safer for your soldiers and caravans, but it won’t last. The Forsworn are like rats. They’ll be back.”
“And why were you destroying their camps?” Bryling asked, leaning forward and digging her chin into her palm.
“They tried to sacrifice me to their gods,” Karsten shrugged, “I didn’t care much for that. I’m sure they got the message.”
“How many camps did you destroy?” Rikke cut in again, a legion scribe next to her scribbling furiously in a notebook.
“Five, six if we include the warband that was following me throughout my trip in the Reach,” Karsten said, “they were nomadic, so it was less of a fortified camp and more of a rest-stop.”
“And did your journey in the reach have anything to do with your conversation with Delphine?” Rikke gave him a knowing look. Karsten stiffened immediately, and Elisif gaped as his demeanour changed immediately. He wasn’t calm anymore, he was on edge, defensive. His hand was hover loosely by his axe, and his eyes immediately shifted towards all the guards, before resting on Bolgeir for a moment. Her housecarl noticed that too and narrowed his own eyes.
“How do you know about that?” He asked quietly.
“How could we not?” Falk intervened, stepping between Karsten and Rikke, “Karsten, we heard you here. You shook the entire city.”
“I did?” He blinked in surprise, but his posture didn’t change. Even Elisif could see that he was still ready for a fight. “Ah, how much did you hear?”
“Not much, admittedly,” Falk told him, “some words in the dragon tongue and then the name Delphine. I wouldn’t be able to tell you what was said.”
Karsten was silent for a moment.
“Huh. I didn’t know I could be that loud. How interesting,” he finally settled on, before murmuring to himself, “back to High Hrothgar, it seems.”
“Why buy back Proudspire?” Bryling asked, clearly wanting to change the topic to something safer. “By all rights, even with it confiscated by the Jarl, you could simply ask for it back without paying.”
“I could,” Karsten agreed, “but why would I? Solitude is fighting a war against a man I very much do not like. Funding Solitude funds the war against Ulfric. Seems like a good deal to me.”
“You paid an exorbitant amount of money… because you don’t like Ulfric Stormcloak?” Erikur asked in confusion.
“Yes,” Karsten replied simply, “thank you for talking with me, my Jarl. I’m sorry for disturbing court, but I must go check on my charge before I leave.”
“Leave?” Elisif spoke for the first time since Karsten made himself known.
“Wolfskull Cave is a good half-day of riding,” he answered, “I’d like to be there before nightfall.”
“There’s nothing there,” Sybille said again, “my scrying—”
“That cave has an old and bloody history,” Karsten interrupted, his voice surprisingly harsh, “there are dark magics seeped into the stones that would fool any scrying, and unfortunately, the guards are too cowardly and ill-trained to investigate properly. I’d imagine there’s something in there, even if it’s only a troll or perhaps a few Draugr. Better to clear it out than leave it to kill some unfortunate traveller, citizen, or guard.”
“Our guards aren’t that—” Falk tried, but the look Karsten shot him made him stop mid-sentence.
“I’ll inform you if I find anything of note, Steward Fire-Beard,” Karsten told him, before turning to Elisif. His face softened, and he gave her a small, genuine smile. “Until we next meet, my jarl.”
He stalked out of the room, and Elisif tried her best to keep a smile from her face.
“Wolf of Solitude indeed,” Falk muttered. “Moving onto other matters!”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Gods be good! What sort of a grip is that, Nelkir?” Volensus barked at his pupil, “I could cut off your thumb right now! What would you do then? How would you live without your thumb, Nelkir?” How?”
Karsten held a grin in. He hadn’t been sure that his old tutor would receive his letter, but he was pleasantly surprised when he showed up in Solitude to find the ex-legionary waiting. Gaius Volensus had fought with his father in Cyrodiil at the Battle of the Red Ring, and just over a decade later travelled to Skyrim at Refil’s behest to teach Karsten how to wield whatever weapons he found necessary.
Volensus had trained him in the sword, the bow, the spear and the dagger. He had learned how to wield an axe of both varieties, maces, and great-swords from the other man he had contacted, Sigurd Solvensson, who had also served with his father in Cyrodiil, though they met when his mother was marshalling her legions in Skyrim. The last of his tutors was Lelana Gellus, a Breton Scholar who had taught him everything he needed to know about history, maths, sciences, reading, and writing. She was easily his favourite tutor, but that was because there was no physical punishments involved with struggling.
There were others, of course, but those three had been his best, longest teaching, and favourites. It was bittersweet to see them again, because they reminded him of a time when things were better—his family was alive, Torryg was alive, and there was peace. There were no dragons, and he was a simple drengr, a warrior, not the Dovahkiin.
“I need a word with Nelkir for a moment, Gaius,” Karsten called out, making his presence known. Once, he may have stumbled around wherever he went, knocking things over and being as large and visible as ever, but his months with the Thieves Guild had made him much better than that. Delvin had exclaimed that he had never seen such an improvement in a thief than in Karsten. It still made him smile at times.
“You know better to interrupt lessons, Karsten,” Volensus told him, lowering his shield just a fraction.
“If it weren’t important I wouldn’t do it,” he said to the trainer, “you know that as well.”
“Fine,” Gaius grumbled, “go ahead.”
He gave his old trainer a grin before ambling over to Nelkir.
“I’ve got a job to do out of the city,” he told him, “a cave with an… interesting history is causing concern among the locals. It may be nothing. It probably is nothing, but I feel obligated to investigate. While I’m gone, Lelana is in charge of the household. If she tells you to do something, do it, even if she tells you to do it while your training. That applies to you, too, Volensus!”
“I hear you, smug bastard,” Gaius muttered, but Karsten picked it up anyway, the wolf-blood in him boiling at the insult. He ignored it.
“Be good, Nelkir, and keep working hard,” Karsten placed a hand on his shoulder, “make me proud.”
“I will, Karsten,” Nelkir assured him, “will you tell me about the job when you return?”
“I will,” he grinned, “I’m sure it will not be as interesting as whatever you learned.”

It was, in fact, something. Karsten stared at the hole in the floor that dropped down into some old fort. He and Torygg had once snuck out of the city to visit Wolf Skull, the prince’s exasperated huscarl following them. The cave had been devoid of any life, just a few sarcophagi that must certainly hadn’t exploded to life. Something had stirred the draugr that resided here, and they were most likely further down the cave system.
He sighed and dropped down, rolling forward so that he didn’t break his legs. He rose before dropping immediately to avoid a rather large axe removing his head. He didn’t have time to draw his sword or axe, so he tackled the draugr to the ground, pulling his dagger from it’s sheath in a groove in his gauntlet before ramming it down through the undead warrior’s eye.
The draugr spasmed for a moment before stilling, but Karsten stuck his dagger in it’s throat and then again in it’s chest, just to make sure. He groaned as he rosed, wiping the blade on his pant-leg before sliding it back into the sheath. Ravyn Imyan had been the one to recommend he keep a dagger in his gauntlet, and he had figured that the former Morag Tong would know best. It had worked rather well, in his opinion.
Shrugging his shield off his back and drawing his axe, he began slowly walking forward, eyes scanning the room he was in. There was a door at the end of the hallway, leading further in. He could hear muffled chanting, but even his enhanced hearing couldn’t make out what was being said. That was rather concerning.
He slipped through the door, only to find himself in a rather large cavern, with an equally impressive fort built in it. He made it to the edge of the pathway when he finally heard what was being chanted.
“Potema, hear our call and awaken. We summon you!” A woman cried out, and Karsten felt his heart skip a beat.
“We summon you Potema!” The necromancers standing on the largest drum tower echoed.
“Talos’ balls,” he swore under his breath, turning to follow the path.
“Long have you dreamed the dreamless sleep of death, Potema. No longer,” the ritual master yelled, “hear our call and awaken! We summon you!”
“We summon Potema!”
Karsten came tearing down the path, and a draugr turned to see what was making such noise. He launched his axe forward, catching the undead warrior in the head, sending him stumbling back into the wall. The necromancer nearby turned to see what had happened, but Karsten was upon him, and, having leapt forward, slammed his feet into him, dropping to the ground before rising to finish the job. The mage slammed back into the rocks, and in an immense stroke of luck, hit them at such an angle that the force broke his neck.
He snatched his axe from the draugr’s body as he kept moving, cutting down an arrogant mage who thought he could kill him with a spell and a dagger. He didn’t even look, his axe intercepting the woman’s body before she could close the distance. She let out a cry as she collapsed, but he was moving onto the bigger threat, the Draugr Deathlord looking at him like a meal.
The draugr circled him, before opening it’s mouth to shout. Karsten beat it to the punch, letting out a furious ‘Yol!’ The flames engulfed the Deathlord, but it countered with a simple ‘Fo!’ The frost extinguished the flames, but it had given Karsten the time he needed to close the distance. He rammed the rim of his shield into the draugr’s chest. It went back half a step before digging it’s heels into the ground, batting his shield down.
He spun left, his axe scoring a graze along the stomach of the draugr, but it was his shout of ‘Zun Haal Viik!’ that did the most damage, ripping the weapon from the Deathlord’s hands. He rammed his boot into it’s knee, before slamming his axe into it’s skull, wrenching it out with a twist. He turned, trying to find a path to the tower. He scanned, and scanned, and—there! In between two pillars was a small walkway, a cobble path covered in dirt from the years of neglect, small roots growing through.
He passed under the bridge, and the most unholy voice he had ever heard crooned in victory.
“Yes. YES! Return me to this realm!” The voice, clearly female, declared. Karsten shuddered at the sound. That was Potema.
“As our voices summon you, the blood of innocents binds you, Wolf Queen!” The master exclaimed, which was followed by an inhuman roar. Not quite like a dragons, more like that of a wolf, but even then that wasn’t an accurate description.
“What? What are you doing?” Potema demanded as Karsten kicked open an old door, one that led to the tower the necromancers were in.
“Summoned with words, bound with blood!” They chanted. He could hear their voices more clearly, grunting as he slammed his shield into a draugr at the top of the stairs.
“You ants don’t have the power to bind ME!” Potema roared.
“Summoned with words, bound with blood!” They chanted again, their words ending right as Karsten appeared on the roof. His axe was flying in a moment, catching the woman with the most ornate robes in the chest. His sword was out in a flash, cutting down two mages in succession, and the others turned to confront him. There were six left, and it didn’t pass Karsten’s attention that one of them was young, barely an adult. But what they had tried to do… who they had tried to bring back… death was the only answer.
They cried out as he cut them down, their spells doing nothing to him. They were using weak magic, magic that he had built resistance to over the years. The last one standing was the youngest. He was backing away, not throwing any spells, trying to escape. He wouldn’t find any, not here.
“Please! I’m sorry!” He cried, “I’ll—I’ll turn myself in! I won’t practice magic anymore!”
Karsten paused, staring at him.
“I don’t believe you.” He said, before ramming his sword through his chest, right into the heart. It was a quick death, painless, unlike his companions, some of whom were still bleeding out. One was raising her hand, the glow of a healing spell starting, but Karsten placed his boot on her wrist, pinning it to the ground. “None of that now. I’d like you think about what you tried to do before I arrived.”
She glared at him, eyes full of hatred. She knew she was dying, there was no way she didn’t, so hatred was her only option. He wouldn’t pity her, he wouldn’t spare her. Both of them knew it. Blood dribbled out of her mouth, and she began coughing, more coming out. There was no strength left in her. She wouldn’t be able to do anything. Karsten removed his boot and turned, walking over to the ritual master. Her eyes were still wide from the shock of his axe hitting her, but she was long dead. He yanked the axe out and made his way to the large lever on the other side of the tower, connected to a wooden walkway.
It didn’t take him nearly as long to get out of the cave as it did to get in. The winding path led him back to the entrance, and when he walked out, the moon was high in the sky—and there was a Thalmor hit squad waiting for him. That in itself wasn’t surprising, he had encountered a few since the debacle at the Embassy some months prior, what did surprise him was that there were nearly thirty of them. Hit squad may have been a misnomer.
“Hello there,” he said, giving them a slight wave, enjoying the fact that some flinched at the movement, “I don’t suppose you came here to investigate the rumours of strange things happening in the cave, because if you did, I can safely report that it has been dealt with. Thank you for coming, but everything is completely under control.”
“Oh my dear boy, they came to guard me,” a soft voice declared, and the Thalmor parted ranks to reveal First Emissary Elenwen, flanked by two rather large Altmer. Karsten held in a sigh. He really didn’t like her, and judging from the several times she’d ordered his death, the feeling was mutual.
“First Emissary,” he greeted, “finally slumming it with the subordinates, are we?”
“Well it’s not everyday that we get a hero in our area,” Elenwen told him with a sly smirk, “I was wondering if you may give me a moment to discuss a conversation you had with a woman not too long ago—Delphine, from what I understand.”
“She’s dead,” Karsten said simply, and Elenwen blinked in surprise.
“Pardon?”
“She’s dead,” he repeated, “she tried to kill me, so I put a blade through her throat.”
“And why did she try to kill you?”
“Because I wouldn’t do what she wanted,” he told her. The lie was easy to tell, mostly because it was based on a partial truth. He hadn’t killed Delphine, obviously, but he had wanted to, and part of him still did. Playing into that fantasy made for telling the lie all the easier. “So when she tried to kill me, I killed her instead. You heard me all the way here from where I was—what makes you think I wouldn’t kill her?”
“I’m not sure I believe you, Dragonborn,” Elenwen said with narrowed eyes, “an ally like the Blades…”
“The Blades are gone,” he said, “disbanded after the war, by the stipulations of your treaty. If there were any survivors of the purges your people led against them, they’d know better than to approach me. I’m a high value target to the Thalmor, am I not? You’ve sent spies and soldiers to watch and kill me. Have any of them succeeded yet, First Emissary?”
The soldiers around her flinched, clearly wanting to strike at him, to avenge those he had killed. But Elenwen was the epitome of calm.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” she settled on, “I apologise for wasting your time, Dragonborn. It is good of you to… assist the people of Haafinger with matters such as caves. Tell me, was there anything of interest inside?”
“Just undead,” he said, “and idiotic mages he thought to control them. Nothing overly sinister.”
“You are aware of this cave’s history, yes?”
“More so than you,” he replied, “I saw nothing to concern me, and I am very much aware of what threats are and aren’t present. Perhaps you should do the same?”
“Perhaps I should,” Elenwen agreed. “Very well. Come, we must be off.”
The last part was directed to the soldiers around her, who followed her wordlessly. Karsten waited for nearly an hour, prepared for any sort of ambush. If it was to come, he would be able to retreat into the cave, force them to come to him. The could, of course, collapse the entrance but his thu’um would ensure that he could escape.
There was no ambush. Not where he was, at least. Karsten looked up to the sky again. There were still a few more hours of darkness. He could return to Solitude, which meant he’d be sleeping for most of the morning, or he could camp here, under the stars. He had a bed in Solitude, and he didn’t have one here. It wasn’t much of a choice at all.

Falk had just called the court to order when Karsten arrived. The Dragonborn was wearing armour much like the set he had worn in his first appearance in court, a brigandine, though this one had sleeves and a steel gorget around his neck, along with pauldrons. He seemed agitated. He was also, Falk noticed, covered in dirt and a copious amount of blood.
“Karsten!” Elisif claimed in concern. “You’re bleeding!”
Karsten looked down, before reaching up and touching his face. His hand came away bloody.
“It’s not mine,” he said, “Wolfskull cave has been dealt with.”
“Clearly there was something there,” Falk said to him, “what was it?”
“There was something,” Karsten said after a moment, “I’d prefer we continue this in private. The court does not need to hear this.”
“And who are you to decide that?” Erikur asked haughtily.
“The man who just slaughtered his way through a cavern of draugr and necromancers,” Karsten snapped, “would you like a demonstration as to how I did it?”
Elisif shot him a look, and Falk nodded slightly.
“Clear the room,” she ordered, and the guards began ushering the others out. Erikur offered a single protest before Karsten turned on him, his hand dropping to the axe on his belt. The thane left without protest at that. “Tell me what happened.”
“There were necromancers,” he said, “trying to resurrect and bind Potema. I interrupted the ritual, so the matter should be dealt with.”
“Potema…” Falk whispered, “by the Eight, Karsten that could have—”
“I’m aware what it could mean,” Karsten cut him off sharply, “you should let Dragon Bridge know that the matter has been dealt with. I’m heading back later today to destroy the cavern, make sure that no one can try it again.” “Are you… alright, Karsten?” Falk asked slowly. The young man in front of him let a deep sigh out.
“Just… tired,” he said, “I’ve matters to deal with. If that’s all?”
“Yes, of course,” Elisif said, “try to get some rest Karsten. You do look tired.”
“My jarl,” he bowed his head before turning and walking out.
“We’ve got perhaps a minute or two before the court returns,” Falk said.
“He looks exhausted,” Elisif noted, “and something has happened to… not scare him. Concern him? What would be the proper word?”
“Concern is accurate, I believe,” Falk said, “he must handle the matter of what he did on his own, but… too much can cripple a man. I have seen it before.”
“Let us hope it does not cripple him then,” Elisif said quietly, “I rather enjoy having him back, even if his visits are brief.”
“I do too, my jarl,” Falk admitted. “I suspect he does as well.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Let me travel,” Karsten said to his father. Refil had been talking with Bjorn and Erik when he entered his office, and the look he gave him for interrupting would have made him flinch if he were younger.

“You know better than to storm in here,” Bjorn told him, but Refil raised a hand, stopping him from continuing.

“Travel where, Karsten?” He asked, “to Solitude? Jarl Ulfric has made his displeasure for any who visit the capital clear.”

“Let me leave Skyrim, then,” he offered, “High Rock always has need for mercenaries, and Nords are always valued in that role. As does Hammerfell, and I’m sure even Cyrodiil would have work for me.”

“And who has been filling your head with ideas of travel, I wonder?” His father sighed, “Agni has been rather vocal in having you leave.”

“I told you she would be,” Karsten reminded his father, “two years ago, in the mountains. I told you what would happen after your child was born. I gave you an option, a choice, and you sat on it.”

“Be grateful, Karsten,” Erik snapped, “most bastards would not live like you have.”

“I am grateful, and to insinuate otherwise insults me,” he said slowly, the warning clear to the huscarl, “I cannot stay here. Galmar Stone-Fist is huscarl to Ulfric, and Rolff Stone-Fist has already promised to kill me should I go to Windhelm. If I leave Skyrim for a few years, long enough for Bor to grow some more, I may be seen as less of a threat.”

“Or more of one,” Refil pointed out, “but… I think it would be good for you. Very well. I’ll begin organising for your departure.”

“Father,” Karsten bowed his head, turning to walk out.

“And Karsten?” His father called out. He paused and turned to look at him. “Barge into my solar again and I’ll knock you around in the ring.”

Karsten grinned at his father and left.

“I hope whatever you’re thinking about is a good reason to be ignoring me,” Lelana said from her position in front of his desk. Karsten blinked several times as he looked up at the older Breton woman.
“Apologies,” he said, “I was deep in my memories. What did you wish to discuss?”
Lelana let out a quiet sigh as she settled into a seat in front of him. For the most part, Proudspire was still bare, but his old tutor had quickly established an office for him while he was gone, and he was finding it incredibly useful. Despite being hired as Nelkir’s tutor, Lelana had also declared herself to be Karsten’s aide, and he wasn’t about to tell her no. She had organised all the correspondence that had come in for him, and while most of it would be untouched, he wouldn’t be surprised to find that one or two letters had been opened and read.
“I’m concerned about you, Karsten,” she told him, “You left in the middle of the day yesterday, left me in charge, and then didn’t return until early in the morning, covered in blood and dust.”
“I was investigating something for the people of Dragon Bridge,” he explained, “the issue turned out to be larger than I expected.”
“That’s not what concerned me,” Lelana told him sharply, “it was the look in your eyes. The same look you had when you killed that raider as a boy. You were barely able to look at a shield, let alone a weapon for nearly a moon, but you don’t seem the least bit phased by whatever it is that you did.”
“I—it’s a complicated matter,” he sighed deeply, “a year and a half ago, my family was alive, happy. Now I’m the only remaining member on both sides of my family. I saw an entire village burned to the ground by a literal god who I am supposed to kill. I have killed beings so old and so powerful that we worshipped them once as gods. I have the powers of men who founded empires. My homeland is being ripped apart by civil war, and the boy who I grew up with, a man who was my brother, if not by blood, then by choice, was murdered by an ambitious and arrogant man.”
“I’ve killed men and women and even children,” he spat, “I’ve had Dark Brotherhood assassins and Thalmor kill-teams sent after me, as if none of them realise that the World-Eater himself is here, an omen of the end times. If I die, what happens? Does Alduin eat the world? Does another Dragonborn appear? Nirn’s fate rests in my hands and I just—I don’t know what to do, Lelana. I was trained to fight, but not for this.”
“I’d argue that this is exactly what you were trained for,” she told him, placing one of her hands over his own, “I think you forget that I’ve known you since you were six winters old, Karsten. I watched you grow from a boy into a man. If your mother could see you now, she couldn’t be prouder of you. I couldn’t be prouder of you. Volensus and Solvensson may hide it under a gruff and uncaring exterior, but they are awed by the man you have become. You cannot control the actions of others, you’ve never been able to. You can only control you. If it is your destiny to fight a god, then it is your destiny, but when you fight him, you fight to win. Promise me that, Karsten. Do not throw your life away because you believe you do not deserve it.”
“I don’t want to die,” he said, “but why give me this power? Why me? Why not someone better? Someone who deserved it?”
“You listen to me, Karsten Iron-Sides,” Lelana rose from her seat, “you were given this power because there was no better man to wield it. Any lesser man would’ve been crushed by the power, tempted by it, turned it into something dark and twisted. You were given it because you deserve the world, and all that it entails. You say that you wield the power of men who built empires? Who is to say that you won’t be one of them?”
“That’s treasonous talk, Lelana,” he told her.
“What does that matter?” She asked him, “we are in a country torn apart by civil war. Is there something wrong with considering a strong alternative for a leader? Why should you not lead?”
“Because it would be selfish,” he snapped at her, “I could crush their armies under the power of my voice, take control of Skyrim, of the Empire even, but what would it get me? More power that I don’t need. If I took control, then my attention would be divided, and Alduin would win. More dragons would be raised, and more people would die. I am not so arrogant to believe that to be acceptable. I am not Ulfric. I am not Titus Mede.”
He took a deep breath, ashamed at the outburst. He had never snapped like that at Lelana before. She had always been his favourite, and after his mother’s death, the closest thing he had to a mother. Agni had hated him, and while the servants had doted on him, there was a level of detached necessity that Lelana simply had not cared about.
“I know that,” Lelana smiled down at him, “that is why you would make a fantastic ruler. But you are also correct—you have a more important mission, one that the fate of the world relies on. I, for one, like this world, and would prefer that it is not destroyed. I have the upmost faith that you will be able to do so.”
“You are a saint, Lelana,” Karsten told her honestly, “I am glad you came.”
“You say that now, but we haven’t even begun to discuss Jarl Elisif yet,” she laughed, giving him one of the most predatory grins he had ever seen.
“What does Elisif have to do with anything?” He asked with a frown.
“You never told me she was that beautiful, Karsten,” Lelana gave him a pointed look.
“To be fair, we were children last time we saw each other,” he answered, shifting nervously in his seat, “don’t you have lessons to be preparing for?”
“Oh no,” she shook her head, “we’re discussing this, Karsten. You have a house in Whiterun. Why Solitude? Why now?”
“I’m leaving,” he told her, rising to his feet, but Lelana gripped his arm like a vice.
“Sit down,” she said, “for all I taught you, dealing with women was not one of them. I think it’s past time we had this conversation.”
“And I very much disagree—” He shut up at the glare she shot him, before sighing deeply. This wasn’t going to be much fun.
Hours later, a mortified Karsten would manage to escape a cackling Lelana, knowing that he had been absolutely correct

It took Elisif nearly three days to come up with a reason to visit Karsten, and she had Falk to thank for it. Her steward had been disappearing for hours at a time to talk with the Dragonborn in the safety of his house, and whenever he returned, he was more and more reserved, more cautious with her court. She didn’t know what was discussed, but it was clearly important, and if Falk wouldn’t tell her, Karsten would. She would make him. He would tell her, he always had when something important was happening.
Bolgeir rammed his fist onto the door of Proudspire several times before it opened, revealing an agitated older-looking Nord, a large battle-axe held loosely in his right hand. He blinked several times as he looked at her housecarl.
“By the eight you’re a big one,” he said, before peering over to see Elisif. “Ah, my Jarl. Are you here to see Karsten?”
“I am, ser…” She trailed off, and the man got the message.
“Sigurd Solvensson, my jarl,” he gave a bow, leaning the battle-axe against the door, “Karsten would talk of you frequently when he was a boy, but he never did any justice describing you. Come, he’s in the yard with Nelkir and Volensus.”
Elisif blinked at the comment. It was innocuous but told her much. As they followed the Nord through the house, she noticed how bare it was. The bookshelves were empty and covered in dust, and there was a solitary rug in the hallway. She briefly saw an office that had much more in it than any other room but didn’t have too much time to examine it. Sigurd opened the rear door that led into the courtyard, and Elisif blinked slightly at the brightness. She hadn’t been inside that long. Her breath immediately caught in her throat when her vision cleared.
An older Imperial man was working with a younger boy, both of whom stopped when she entered, but that wasn’t what she was focusing on. Karsten was hanging from a crossbeam, slowly pulling himself up before lowering himself down. Every time he moved, Elisif could see his muscles ripple with the effort, his body glistening from the sweat. It was—
“Karsten!” Sigurd called out, dragging Elisif from her thoughts, “the Jarl is here to see you.”
Her old friend let go of the beam, grabbing a towel that was flung across the back of a chair before turning to her. It was odd, seeing him as a man. The last time she had seen Karsten shirtless, they had been children, and there was nothing but innocence there. But they were older now, and Elisif would be hard-pressed to deny that Karsten was attractive.
Her gaze darkened when she saw his torso, a mass of scarred flesh concentrated around his stomach. He seemed to read her mind.
“When the mob stormed the estate, they left me for dead,” he explained, her mind connecting it with what he told her during that dinner weeks ago, “somehow, they managed to miss every vital organ, and the blade simply went through and through. If I hadn’t been in Eastmarch—in the cold—I may have bled out. Instead, it kept me alive long enough for several Orsimer hunters to find me. But I doubt that is why you came here, my Jarl. How may I help you?”
It took Elisif a moment to speak, her anger at what had happened to Karsten threatening to overwhelm her. He, more than anyone else in Solitude, knew what she was suffering from, how she was suffering—only, she didn’t think he had been given the time to process it like she had. From what had been reported to her, ever since Karsten had been revealed as the Dragonborn, he had been on the move, never staying for too long in a single place.
“Jarl Elisif?” Karsten asked carefully, having taken a half-step towards her before pausing.
“My apologies,” she quickly said, “I was distracted. I came here to ask about your meetings with my steward. He has been… disturbed, as of late. It is most noticeable after your discussions, which I must hasten to add I know nothing about.”
“Falk is not telling you?” Karsten blinked in surprise, “if I may have half an hour to clean and dress, and then we can talk. Do you wish to have this discussion here or at the palace?”
Elisif almost agreed to have the meeting at Proudspire, but Bolgeir’s shifting reminded her that it would be seen as incredibly improper, especially considering the background the two had together.
“We will meet at the palace,” she told him, “after we finish our dinner. I seem to recall you storming out on me.”
Karsten turned in surprise, before he noticed the gleam in her eyes. He grinned at her, a toothy canine prominent before nodding.
“Well you know us dovahkiin’s,” he said, “we’re a dramatic bunch.”
“Do-vah-kiin?” She sounded the word out, pleased at his nod that she pronounced it correctly.
“It means Dragonborn,” Karsten told her, “or, it could. I’ve had some debates with another on whether or not it is.”
“In the dragon tongue?” she asked.
“Dovahzhul,” he nodded, “dragon voice. It’s an incredibly complicated language to most, but I took to it as easily as breathing. Thank you for granting me an audience, my jarl. I will be sure to arrive on time for dinner at…?”
“Sundown,” Elisif said, “and wear nice clothes—I believe that General Tullius will be joining us.”
It was a test, to see how he reacted. She had met with the general after Karsten’s first visit and made her displeasure about him trying to kill Karsten without a trial clear, but the General had apologised, telling her that he had been fed false information as to why Karsten had been present, and that he had exonerated him of any charges. Apparently the meeting the two of them had after Karsten abandoned their first meeting had cleared up whatever ill-will they had for each other.
“And how is the intrepid general?” Karsten asked, “I hear that he’s had some rather impressive successes against the Stormcloaks recently.”
“Interestingly enough, that is what is to be discussed,” Elisif said, giving him a knowing look, “do try to arrive on time.”
“I’d rather avoid death-by-Elisif, thank you very much,” Karsten laughed, and Elisif was reminded just how much she liked hearing it. Bolgeir shifted again, causing her to sigh.
“It was good talking, Karsten,” she told him honestly. “I hope we can do it more often.”
Two years ago, she wouldn’t have noticed the way his face tightened slightly, or that the gleam of amusement and humour in his eyes was extinguished. But she did, meaning that something about that statement bothered him. She would have to find out later. Bolgeir escorted her back to the palace, where Falk shot her a questioning look, one she didn’t respond to, instead sweeping past him, entering her room and closing the door behind her. She could hear Bolgeir settling into his usual spot, the sound of his armour chafing ceasing once he was comfortable. She had several hours to work, but she wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to do. Sighing, she picked up a pile, of letters addressed to her—petitions from the estates and businesses of the hold, reports from Legion scouts and Falk’s spy network, and personal letters, matters not relating to the state. It would be a busy afternoon.

As usual, she was the last to enter the dining hall. General Tullius and Karsten were deep in conversation, so much so that they didn’t notice her until Falk cleared his throat. The general looked up immediately, but Karsten seemed to know it was her before he even turned, gracefully dropping into a bow mid-turn before looking up and smiling at her. She returned it before settling into her seat.
“I see you two did not wait to start the conversation,” she said lightly, and Karsten grinned.
“The world never stops moving, so neither must we,” he told her, “the general and I were discussing the bandit issue across the holds. I’ve done what I can to prevent it but I’m only one man. The problem is that there isn’t enough manpower to deal with the issue, and so it’s running rampant.”
Elisif started in surprise.
“I wasn’t aware there was a bandit issue,” she said before shooting a glance towards Falk, who suddenly found his plate incredibly fascinating.
“Truly?” Karsten asked, his own gaze shifting to Falk before drifting back to Elisif, “ah, I see. By the Ni-Eight, that meal looks amazing.”
It was an admirable attempt to change the subject, so Elisif let it happen. She watched with interest, noting how both Karsten and Tullius organized their meal in the exact same way, and after a moment, the two men realised as well.
“That’s—” Tullius began before cocking his head, “were there legionaries in your household?”“Almost everyone in my household fought in the legion during the war,” Karsten said, “but there were several career legionaries who served as my tutors. They taught me a lot, including how to eat, it seems.”
“And what’s so special about this… military way of eating?” she asked them, a hint of amusement creeping into her voice. Karsten glanced to Tullius, who shrugged back at him.
“There’s nothing special about it, per se, it’s just… efficient?” the younger man offered, “meats, then breads, then vegetables. When you’re on campaign, or in dangerous territory, you never quite know when you might be attacked. Place the food you want first closest to you so that if you only have the chance to eat one thing, it’s what you wanted most. It’s not standard, and it’s not taught during training. It’s just… handed down, from veterans to recruits. My tutors ate this way, so I did too.”
“You call them tutors, and not trainers,” Falk noted, “why?”
“That is what they were,” Karsten shrugged, “I never learned to fight simply to be able to. I had to know the style, the history behind it, how others would use it. It was never simply physical for me, it was academic as well. I could tell you about how the standard sword of the legions was developed to work in tandem with a tower shield, designed to be slipped between chinks of armour. I could tell you about how the Nordic Battle-Axe is the result of misunderstanding an ancient epic, and how the style adjusted to having two bladed edges, or how the Imperial Bow was taken was the Bosmer in Valenwood.”
Elisif blinked. Everything about Karsten had screamed ‘warrior’, and while he was well spoken, she had assumed that had been beaten into him by his mother and father throughout the years, but here she was, learning just how much he knew.
“Did you study military history?” Tullius asked him.
“It was my first subject,” Karsten sighed, “fourteen years of it.”
The conversation carried on like that, with Elisif asking about something, followed by another question from Falk or Tullius. While the men were learning about what Karsten knew, Elisif wanted to know what he had done, so that is what her questions were directed towards. After nearly two hours, General Tullius rose, giving a slight bow towards Elisif.
“This was a wonderful evening, my Jarl, and I thank you for it, but I must return to my duties,” he said, “I enjoyed our conversation, Iron-Sides.”
“Good evening, General,” Elisif bade him farewell, before turning to Karsten. “Now, you owe me an explanation, I believe?”
“I do,” he said, “perhaps a more… private venue might be appropriate? I assume you have a solar? Falk can join us there. As can your snooping court mage.”
Elisif looked at him in confusion, but Sybille appeared from the shadows, just beside her. She started slightly, but Sybille was staring at Karsten. Hard. How he had known she was there, Elisif had no idea, because she hadn’t known Sybille was there, and the woman had been standing next to her for the gods sake!
“How…?” Sybille drifted off, clearly unsure how she had been figured out.
“I’ve hunted vampires before,” he shrugged, “I’ve gotten good at finding them.”
“What do you—” Sybille began before sighing, “it’s not even worth trying it on you, is it?”
“Not in the slightest,” Karsten agreed, “I remember coming across you as a child. You haven’t aged a day since then. And the eyes. Actually, it was mostly the eyes. I’ve tried to keep an eye on you whenever you’re present. It’s not personal, just habit. We can discuss it later, if you wish, but the Jarl deserves an explanation as to what’s been happening.”
“Yes, of course,” Falk said, stepping in, “those arrangements can be made later. Are we having the discussion here, or…?”
“My solar,” Elisif declared, “it will be private there.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“You two have been discussing something,” Elisif said with an accusatory tone, pointing a finger directly at Karsten as if he was entirely to blame. He chuckled, leaning back into his seat, completely ignoring the growl that came from Bolgeir at the disrespect, “and deemed it not important enough for me to hear. I would like to know exactly what that is.”
“To be fair, Falk was the one who elected not to inform you what we were discussing,” Karsten reminded her, “and I am only passing on information he requested I look into.”
“And what information would that be, exactly?” Sybille asked. Karsten gave Falk a glance, and the older man gave him a subtle nod.
“Information on Thegn Erikur,” he told them, “and his… dealings, with the Thalmor and other groups in the Hold.”
“You’ve been spying on one of my thanes?” Elisif hissed at him. Karsten simply cocked his head to the side, remaining silent for several moments.
“Did you know I watched him murder a serving girl?” He asked her, and everyone in the room stiffened. “It was several months ago, at a party that Elenwen hosted. You were there, Elisif.”
“The… the party that was interrupted by Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone?” Elisif asked slowly, “he killed someone there?”
“Murdered,” Karsten corrected. “Because he could. You see, Erikur is an informant for the Thalmor in Skyrim. Every development that happens in your court, he reports to the First Emissary. It’s how she knew I was going to Wolfskull Cave. It’s why she was waiting outside with nearly thirty of her soldiers to serve as bodyguards while we had a completely innocent conversation.”
“This… this serving girl,” Falk asked with a shaky voice, “she was of Skyrim?”
“Gods no,” Karsten shook his head, “Erikur never would have been able to kill a Nord girl. No, she was a Bosmer, a Wood-Elf. She was a frail thing, and he beat her to death because the wine she brought him was too cold. Gods forgive me, I just watched it happen. I wanted to stop it, but I couldn’t reveal myself. There were… other things at stake.”
“You said he had other dealings than just the Thalmor,” Bolgeir noted, the large housecarl speaking for the first time. Karsten studied him appreciatively. He had assumed the large man was simply muscle, but it seemed that instead he was just being observant. “And in this hold, those other groups could only be illegal.”
“That’s correct,” Karsten nodded, “Erikur has deals with pirates and shipbreakers in place that delay supplies reaching the war-effort, and instead fill his own coffers. He’s kept it remarkably well hidden, but he’s now the richest man in Solitude. He could easily raise a private army if he wished, and still have extra money left over.”
“How do you know all of this, Karsten?” Elisif asked, “this is not something you would have been able to do alone over several days.”
“I have friends in low places,” he replied, “people who owe me favours or whom I now owe a favour to.”
He didn’t like lying to Elisif, but nor could he openly admit to using the Thieves Guild to do some digging into her most corrupt thegn. Brynjolf hadn’t been happy to cut off dealing with Erikur, but when Karsten had explained exactly why the guild couldn’t continue working with him, the Nord had readily agreed. Despite all his claims to be apolitical, Brynjolf hated the Thalmor with the passion that only someone who had suffered under them could. Many of the others were in agreement. It was easy to disrupt Erikur’s access to the underworld, but it had been too soon for the man to notice it. Karsten gave him a fortnight before he realised that he had lost his alliance with the guild, and by the time he did realise, all their assets would have been moved to newer, more secure locations.
“And what kind of friends are these?” Elisif asked him with a concerned look. It was endearing, in a way, that instead of judging him for being friends with low-life scum, she was instead worried for his safety.
“None that pose a threat to your rule,” he said, and that much was true. He had made it explicitly clear that while they could continue business as usual, anything that might threaten Elisif—or any other Jarl, for that matter—was to be avoided. For now, maintaining the status quo was the most profitable option for the guild. “Most of them are smugglers or low-level criminals,” again, not a falsehood, “those who do what they need to in order to provide for their families. But criminals are still criminals, and they hear things from others. Erikur has been very busy indeed trying to take control of the criminal society in Haafingar, and the Thalmor are more than willing to help.”
“The words of criminals would not be valued over that of a thane,” Falk sighed, his frustration hidden well. Karsten could smell it on him, of course, but the steward was far too professional to show it. Also, they had already had this conversation, several times, in the privacy of Proudspire. “We need solid proof.”
“This is what you two have been whispering with each other about?” Elisif noted with a frown, “ways to prove Erikur of this-this treason?”
“Honestly I was just going to kill him,” Karsten admitted with a shrug, “Falk was the one who wanted to bring him to trial.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Elisif started at his words and shot a look at him.
“You were just going to murder him?” She asked, the fire in her voice surprising him. Unfortunately, his blood boiled at the challenge, and this time, it wasn’t the wolf—it was the dragon. He spoke before he could control himself.
“It’s more like putting down a rabid dog,” he replied, his voice cold. “He’s betrayed Skyrim. He’s betrayed you. He kills because it makes him feel powerful, and because he gets a rush from it. Yet he only kills those who are defenceless, and unable to fight back. So yes, I was just going to ‘murder’ him, as you say, but believe me, Jarl Elisif, I would be doing you a much larger favour than you—” He stopped before he finished, his ears just barely picking up the sound. It was muffled, much like that when a spell was cast, and he knew instantly what had happened. He could have tried to sniff the spy out, but that would have revealed what he was to the others, so instead he rose to his feet.
“Laas Yah Nir!” He whispered gently, and the magic blossomed through the room, only visible to himself.
“What was that?” Bolgeir demanded, but Karsten ignored him as he sighted the watcher, who had become frozen at the shout. He was behind what was likely a false panel, listening in. Karsten didn’t give him a chance to react, ramming his hand through the wood and grabbing the startled man by his collar, before pulling him through, breaking the wood even further.
“Gods be good!” Elisif exclaimed as Bolgeir moved in between the two of them.
“Hello there,” Karsten said, kneeling on the man’s chest and pressing hard. He was a Nord, but a very small one. He had to have been, to fit in the crawlspace he had been in, “didn’t you know it’s impolite to eavesdrop?”
“P-p-please sir!” The man exclaimed, “I was forced to do it!”
“A secret tunnel,” Falk mused, studying the hiding spot, “and it seems to lead further into the castle. Where does it go?”
The spy didn’t respond, quivering beneath him. Karsten pressed down a tad more.
“You heard the steward,” he growled, “where does it go?”
“I-I-I,” the man stuttered, but there was something off about him. The fear was a little too forced. None of the others had noticed it yet, save Sybille Stentor, who was studying the man closely. Karsten leaned down, placing his mouth next to the man’s ears, his voice so soft that only the man and Stentor would hear what he said.
“You’re good,” he murmured, “but you’re faking it too hard. Let me explain to you how this works. Either you tell me what I want to know, or I’ll tear you apart limb by limb, stitch you back together, and then let the vampire have a crack at you.”
That got the desired result. Most trained professionals could and would take any torture that Karsten utilised against them, but vampires were very much feared for their ability to take away the will of the person they were torturing. He knew from intercepted missives that the Thalmor employed a few vampiric torturers of their own, but thankfully they hadn’t brought any to Skyrim yet. He’d have hated to have to single handily wipe out the Thalmor presence in the region, because that would’ve invited even more trouble to his already war-torn homeland.
“I-alright,” he said, his tone changing instantly. It was flat and emotionless, a stark difference from what it had been before, “it leads to the sewers, but branches to two other rooms in the palace—the audience chamber and the Steward’s solar.
I’m the one who constructed it, and I’m the only one who knows how to get here, which is why I was forced to spy on this meeting.”
“Thane Erikur?” Karsten guessed. The man nodded. “Who does he have?”
“What?” Elisif tried to speak, but Falk placed a hand on her arm, the message silent but clear.
Let Karsten handle this.
“My wife and children,” the man answered. “Threatens them each them he summons me to do this, and then sometimes just for fun. I hate him.”
“I figured as much,” Karsten replied. “Do you know where he keeps them?”
“There’s a ship out near the lighthouse—”
“The Dainty Sload,” Karsten nodded, “I know it. They’re kept in the hold?”
“Aye,” the man responded, “I haven’t seen them in weeks, but I know they live. That’s all.”
His heartbeat was steady, and his face was clear of any indications of lying.
“He’s telling the truth,” Stentor said, having reached the same conclusion that he had.
“Aye,” he nodded in agreement, “let’s make a deal. You’ll stay in the dungeons—you won’t be mistreated, but you will wait there. I’ll rescue your family and hide them—and you—somewhere safe. I’m guessing you have some proof that it’s Erikur who hired you? You seem clever enough to have done that.”
“There… may be some correspondence from before my family was taken,” the man admitted, “but it stays hidden until my family is freed. I’ll willingly go to the dungeons, but—”
“I understand,” Karsten said, raising a hand. He got off the man’s chest and held out his hand. He hesitantly took, almost flying to his feet. He weighed much less than most men did as well, yet he was wiry, and clearly strong enough to tunnel into the keep. Most likely a miner, Karsten decided. “I’ll find them for you.”
“Thank you,” the man said, pausing as he held his arm out, “my name is Ivar Stone-Born.”
“Karsten Iron-Sides,” he replied, taking the proffered hand, “is there something I could tell your family so they know I’m not some thug trying to trick them?”
Ivar was silent for a moment before he nodded.
“Tell them that the golem king sent you,” he said, “they’ll understand.”
“There’s an old tale,” Karsten grinned, “which mine are you from?”
“Goldenrock,” the man said, “in Eastmarch.”
“Near Darkwater Crossing. I know it. You’re far from home.”
“We fled the war. Ended up here, but my brother… my brother fights for Ulfric. Erikur, the snake, found out somehow, and blackmailed me into digging the tunnel first. I knew he’d kill me and mine the moment I finished it, so I refused to tell him how to get into it. I told him I would do the spying, no one else. He tried to have me followed, but I lost them in the sewers,” Ivar explained. “Erikur didn’t appreciate it. That’s when my family was taken.”
“How did no one notice?” Elisif asked, “families don’t just vanish!”
“They do in refugee camps, my jarl,” Ivar said, but there was no hatred, “tis not your fault. The tent city is large, and your guards are few.”
“That is no excuse!” Elisif was fired up once more, just like she had been before, and Karsten briefly wondered what Torygg had done when she got like this, but the thought was out of his mind just as quickly. “You’ll need the most loyal guards you can find to watch Ivar,” Karsten said, “when he doesn’t report, Erikur will get nervous, and send more agents to look for him. They may even find him in the dungeons if they look hard enough, and you can’t allow him to be killed.”
“Don’t presume to command the jarl,” Bolgeir growled, but Elisif placed a hand on his arm, utterly dwarfed by him but still in control.
“If his influence extends so far, as you say, then perhaps the dungeons aren’t the safest place for him?” She said carefully, “but everyone at Proudspire are loyal to you, aren’t they? All called from outside the hold?”
“Ah,” Karsten hadn’t considered that, actually. His staff were not only trustworthy, but many of them owed him great debts in some form. “That’s not a bad idea. Matter of fact, it’s a rather good one.”
“It’s rather dangerous having him in your home, however,” Falk noted, “what if Erikur finds out and sends assassins?”
Karsten laughed—genuinely laughed—for the first time in several days at that.
“Gods, I wish he would try!” He struggled to maintain his composure. “Between Sigurd and Volensus any assassin would be dead before they could cross the threshold. Add Lelana into that mix? He might as well do my work for me.”
“Then it is agreed?” Elisif asked, “that Ivar will be hidden in Proudspire until his family is rescued. Then what?”
“I’ll make some arrangements,” Falk said at the same moment that Karsten said, “I’ll handle it.”
The two exchanged stares, but the older Nord backed down first.
“Very well,” he said with a small tip of his head, “I trust you to make the right decision.”
“And I will,” Karsten assured him, “but for now, I must make preparations. I’ve been on the Dainty Sload before, but I was not seen. I will not have that luxury this time.”
“We can send some guardsmen with you if—” Falk began, but he waved the older man off.
“No, the guards you have are useless. They’d just slow me down. I’ll handle it alone.” That earned himself an arched eyebrow from Falk, but as expected, it was Elisif who voiced her concern.
“How… how many of these thugs are aboard the ship?” She asked him, voiced laced with worry.
“Perhaps thirty or forty,” he replied with a shrug, “but none of them are particularly skilled fighting. Fear is their most effective weapons. I’ve faced worse odds.”
“Thirty or forty? Karsten you cannot be serious!” The jarl exclaimed, “you cannot take that many men on alone!”
“I’ve done it before, my jarl,” he replied, “several times, in fact. I’m much harder to kill now than ever before. Pirates will not stop me.”
“No, I imagine they would not,” Sybille muttered in agreement. “My Jarl, may I have a moment with the Dragonborn?”
Ah. She had figured it out then. He was wondering when that would happen.
Elisif shot him a look, and Karsten gave a slight nod in response. The process was repeated with Falk, and only then did Elisif give her assent. Falk, Ivar, and Bolgeir followed her out, most likely waiting just outside.
“When were you turned?” She asked him, studying him even more closely than before. “But there is something different about you, isn’t there? Your blood—the dragon blood, that is—wars against the wolf inside you. Controls it. Am I wrong?”
“No, that’s a fairly accurate assessment. I’m just surprised you didn’t out me when I outed you,” he admitted.
“I considered it,” she replied, “but it wouldn’t serve any purpose. I do not expect you will remain in Solitude long, and if I were to reveal that information, Bolgeir would never allow you to return. And that would cause Elisif quite some consternation. Besides, it does not control you, yes? It is not the curse of Hircine anymore?”
“I control it,” Karsten nodded, “a gift from Akatosh, I believe, though any number of divines could have contributed towards it. Perhaps Kyne.”
“Or something else,” Sybille countered, “another Daedra, perhaps? Maybe even Nocturnal?”
“I’ve had dealing with her,” Karsten told her, “but we came to a… mutual, understanding. She decided it would be more beneficial not to bind me to her for eternity. Too many issues she doesn’t want to deal with. Hircine learned the hard way, or so I was told.”
Sybille just hummed in response.
“I’ll not keep you any longer, Karsten Iron-Sides,” she said, “but I will be watching you closely whenever you are in my city. Remember that.”
“I’ll keep it in mind, Stentor,” he called over his shoulder. Nothing more needed to be said. He had plans to make.