Stallion of Whiterun (Skyrim Balgruuf SI) Chapter 7 (Patreon)

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"You have a delightful family, my lord," Irileth quipped. 

"Mhm," was Balgruuf's tasteful reply, his face covered by a pillow. Gone was his armor and dignity, now clad in a tasteful plain robe and body smelling off soaps and oils. He lay on his bed, deflated as a worn tire and snoozing peacefully. They were now in his own private room, afforded the chance to rest before the massive feast that was sure to come later. Balgruuf had wanted to get to business immediately with his father but the old Jarl told him no. He had just arrived home after all. No need to rush into business, he was told. 

And so, Balgruuf excused himself, took a bath, and napped. 

His room wasn't particularly ostentatious, a surprise for the dark elf. She had thought that he would indulge in the fine things his station could afford but no, her lord was restrained in his tastes. The beds, the chairs and tables, the chandeliers that offered light and the armour racks and weapon shrines, it was all simple but high quality. The only indulgence she could really find was the bed itself and the many Redguard rugs all over the floor. 

Like a cat, Balgruuf rolled over. He sighed in bliss. "Five years of war makes you forget what life was like before. I look forward to eating, drinking, and hunting my way to excess. I am sure that will please Sanguine," he said with total and utter seriousness. Irileth felt that he was trailing off to something and waited for him to speak. Finally, he did so as he sat up. "If only though. Much has to be done before I can do that. The Thalmor are probably laying the groundwork to ruin the Empire further and Skyrim will be a part of that. They've already started with that, in Markarth." 

Irileth remembered Markarth as a major Nordic Hold west of Skyrim. Apparently, it was known for its silver mines and Dwemer aesthetic. "Markarth? You mean the uprising there, yes?" Balgruuf nodded as he sat on the side of his bed, stretching his loose muscles. "Yes. The native Reachmen have decided to reclaim what the feel is their homeland. I sympathize with their plight, of course, but unfortunately that is part of Skyrim. And if I want to make it clear that I wish to be a candidate when Istlod dies, I have to make waves. And Markarth will be my wave." 

"You've just arrived home, my lord. Can't you not wait a little bit and rest?" Irileth asked. She understood the need for him to be pro-active but surely, a few weeks of rest would do him good. "Think on this, the war is over. A lot of men are tired from battles and conflict. Would they be so eager for battle again?" Balgruuf stood up, humming as he considered her words. 

"No one will ever say no to extra gold, Irileth. As for men, I have half a mind to organize a coalition to reclaim Markarth for Skyrim. It will be less self-serving if its for the Kingdom than for myself," Balgruuf said, his eyes twinkling with ambition. "I intend to ask my father permission about it tonight." 

"And will he accept?" Irileth asked. 

"As long as I do not ask him to mobilize the Hold for this, then yes, he probably would," Balgruuf nodded confidently. "We are Nords. We live for war, for battle. And this is an opportunity to gather prestige for Whiterun, for our House, and for Skyrim. The depression of the White-Gold Concodat will be lessened if a glorious victory will be achieved at Markarth....and it will be a good chance to make my name sing." He then turned towards his wardrobe. "Now, assist me in dressing, Irileth. I intend to look like a dashing warlord tonight." 

The Dunmer clicked her tongue, walking over as Balgruuf's robe hit the floor. "I am sworn to carry your burdens," she mused to herself.

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"We have sent much, for the preservation of the Empire. The call to arms was sounded, and we answered."

Golden fires made the Great Hall shine. The nobles, thanes, and housecarls and other invited guests were in the full and finest clothes, eager to dress and impress. It was a sea of browns, and golds, and greens. Nordic fashions were practically fashionable, if one could use that term. It was made to preserve one's warmth from the cold but still be comfortable enough to dazzle. The men had rings, their beards braided with gold or silver. The women had jewellery aplenty. In Bretonic or Imperial circles, their baubles would have been named with ostentatious titles such as "The Rose of Morning" or something pretentious. Not the Nords however. Names were given to weapons and items of supreme importance, not simple jewellry. 

"The pestilential war that has ravaged our Empire had ended, and the boys we sent away, have returned as men."

Each man and woman in the room stood high and strong, a drinking horn or goblet in their hands, depending on the preference. In them was either wine, ale, or mead. On the tables were a bounty to be had. Pies with rich fillings of apples, or succulent meats. Breads of rye, wheat, or barely all in bowls or baskets. Seared meats of vension, beef, or mammoth. Normally they would be paired with sauces made with common ingredients but in this special time, the faint scent of herbs and spices made them irresistible. Then, there was the roasted chickens, and the steaks of fish cooked in butter and garlic. Then the little cakes, and tarts, and tortes made with cream and snowberries. Tonight was a night for feasting and the cooks of Dragonsreach marshalled their full strength to make the delicacies, and put out more if required. 

"Many might question, what have we gotten to gain from the war? Well, I tell you, my sons have returned and with glories aplenty!"

Balgruuf stood on the left side of the high table overlooking the Great Hall. His father was at the centre, a golden-carved drinking cup in hand. He then raised it up and the Hall followed. "A toast to the returning heroes! A toast to those who have died, and a toast to Empire!" 

"Hail!" the hall boomed and waited as the Jarl drank. They then followed, drinking and drinking until their cups were empty. With a pleased sigh, Jarl Heorot clapped his hands. "Now, eat and drink, you glorious bastards! Tonight is on me!" 

"Hail!" the men and women of the Hall laughed. As if by some hidden cue, jaunty and cheerful music began to play as the Nords descended into their festivities, eating and drinking. Irileth was in her corner with the other housecarls, quietly eating her food and watching above as Balgruuf began to speak with his family. She strained to listen, her ears catching their conversation. 

"...so how was the capital? Was Cyrodiil as glorious as we remember it?" Jarl Heorot asked, cutting into pieces of meat on his plate. 

"Ah, it was pretty. Imperial City and the tower, very impressive. The people there, soft like cakes," Hrongar answered. "Some were strong, and good fighters. They were the ones that survived." 

"You speak as if they were fops that would faint at the sight of blood, brother," Balgruuf chuckled. "True, the cosmopolitanism of the capitol would surely dull their senses a little bit but those soft Imperials managed to fight a five year war and did not break. That takes some nerve, don't you think?" 

"Bah, I reckon I could take twenty legionnaires in a fight. All sword-and board, no fury," Freydis quipped, munching on a particularly tasty piece of steak. "How do the elves fight like? All magic like we heard?" 

"Oh yes," Balgruuf nodded. "Even their most basic infantryman has a grasp of magic that would make your average human mage look like a chump. Not very powerful though once you get close and bash their brains in." A displeased tsk left Wealhtheow's lips, earning a look from the table. "We are at the table, we speak of pleasant things, not battle." She calmed herself after a sip of wine, her face gentler now. "Now that you are home, son, what do you plan to do? I hear Solitude is looking nice this time of year. Or you can go socialize with the Thanes and get on a hunting trip." 

Balgruuf's lips went into kind of a thin line, an awkward glint in his eyes. He turned to his father who at this time had been absent-mindedly munching on his food. He blinked, seeing his son look at him. "Eh? What is it?"

"There has been something I wanted to ask you, father. It is regarding my plans for the future," Balgruuf said, scratching his head. The Jarl and his wife shared a look before turning back to their son. "Yes..?" trailed Wealhtheow. Balgruuf leaned in closely and in hushed tones, whispered. "I wish to organize a militia of Nords to retake Markarth from the Forsworn and return to Nordic control," 

There was silence, then, as the Jarl and his wife processed what their son asked of them. Hrongar merely bit on his steak, aware of his brother's plans. Freydis was intrigued, whispering something into her husband's ear. The Jarl's mouth went agape as a fish before finally, he settled with a serious look. "You want to reclaim Markarth...from the Forsworn?" he said slowly. 

Balgruuf nodded. 

"...You do realize we will have to discuss on this extensively, correct?"  

"I have plans in mind but I can be flexible in discussing them, father," Balgruuf said confidently. The Jarl leaned in, his face serious. "And you have mentioned of this to...?" Balgruuf pointed towards him. "I am not suicidal enough to have announced it yet. I wish to ask for your blessing to proclaim it at least tonight or tomorrow." 

"...We are discussing it tonight, once this feast is over." 

And discuss it, they would. 

Irileth sighed as she drank from her own goblet, the rich sweet nectar of Nordic mead filled her throat. This was going to be a long night. Gods, she just arrived and she was already going to pull a all-nighter. She glanced around her table, with her fellow housecarls. The exalted armsmen of the nobility had been gatehred together to show their rank, the closest to the high table meant social rank. And she was already rubbing shoulders with interesting characters. 

Across of her, an impromptu drinking was due to start. A middle-aged Nord grinned mightily as he put forward multiple mugs of golden ale in front of him. He glanced around, his eyes looking for challenge. "Any of you sluts can beat me in this drinking contest, I give you five hundred septims and a dagger, made from Eorlund's hands himself! So, who has the courage to face me?" The other housecarls glanced at each other before someone, Irileth did not know, put forward a suggestion. "What about the Dunmer, eh? She looks like she can hold her liquor." 

At that, the eyes at the table turned towards her. Irileth did her best not to let the dismay on her face show as the Nord beamed at her. "So, what do you think, Nightblade? Think you got what it takes?" Irileth considered herself a classy elf. She was not going to get dragged into some quaint drinking challenge. She shook her head, stabbing a fork into the meat on her plate. "Not interested," Irileth said simply. 

"What are you, chicken?" the Nord asked mockingly. 

Her lips curled into a frown. 

"What did you just call me?" she asked, her eyes narrowing into slits. 

"Called you chicken, dunmer," sneered the Nord. "What, did Azura curse you with poor ears as well as your ashy skin?" 

Irileth watched him with a stunned expression. Her shock turned swiftly to offence. If this up jumped monkey thought he could get away with challenging her and insulting her honour, he was going to get a rude awakening. "Give me that damned mug then, n'wah," she hissed.

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The festivities eventually died down, the lords and ladies of Whiterun eating and drinking to their hearts content, until finally they all ran out of tolerance for the eating and drinking. Slowly and slowly, the genteel men and ladies of the city filtered out enough for the more important ones to be ushered into their rooms, gathered by the fire, or otherwise thrown out of the castle. The leftovers were gathered, plenty of it in fact, to be used as fare for the following morning or as donations to the poor and hungry. 

None we left now in the Great Hall, save for the Jarl and his family. The Old Horse sat on his throne, a drinking horn in hand as he looked at Balgruuf. His finger tapped the arm-rest of his throne. He glanced at his eldest who stood up straight, confident and sure of himself. The war had changed much of Balgruuf, mused Heorot. His boy had left bright-eyed and in high spirits, now he returned as a warrior of his own right. At his side, his Dunmer housecarl was doing her best to stand straight and not collapse on the ground. 

"His housecarl has spine," Wiglaf said, slight slurring in his voice. Heorot raised an eyebrow, smelling the ale on his breath. His eyes adjusted towards his own housecarl. "...Did you seriously let that girl beat you in a drinking contest?" The old warrior groaned, rubbing his forehead. "...Forget about that. His Housecarl is prickly like a thorn but stands up for herself if push comes to shove." 

Hrongar's yawn brought them out of their quiet discussion. His youngest on the other hand was seated on a chair, his wife passed out and snoring next to him, a drinking horn in her hand. Freydis's manners were always something that she lacked but then again, this was night and no one was here to watch her drool. At his side, Wealhtheow opened up discussions. "You want to reclaim Markarth..." she trailed, still disbelieving what she had heard. "Why?" 

"Cidnha Mine, the richest deposit of silver in Skyrim," Balgruuf began strongly. "Skyrim will need that silver if she means to last through the uncertainty of the coming years. To have Reachmen control it, a people noted for child sacrifice and daedra worship, should be out of the question in the first place." 

Heorot could see the reasoning behind that. Since it was opened, Markarth's silver had been funding Skyrim. To describe the wealth flowing out of the place would simply be a understatement. "What else?" Jarl Heorot asked, fishing for more insight into his son's brain. Balgruuf continued. "To shore up support, father. By restoring the Jarl of Markarth into his seat, we can make sure that we have a hand in the profits of his mine, the Dwemer artifacts in his hold, as well as the favour of a major Hold." 

Again, sound reasoning. But there was a question that Heorot had to ask. "And to what end is this support, Balgruuf?" he asked, his eyes settling with Balgruuf. His son paused, considering his question. For what seemed like an eternity, Balgruuf deflated and sighed. Seeing his son distraught made Heorot feel distraught as well. Which parent would be fine in seeing their own brood distressed? Eventually, Balgruuf answered. "You all know the details of the White-Gold Concordat, yes?" 

At the mention of that cursed paper, something inside Heorot felt like it was being dragged into a pit. He kenw of it, hells, they were all given secret letters detailing what the Concordat meant for the Empire. The disbanding of the Blades, he could grasp. The Blades were guardsmen without masters, serving Emperors whose blood was totally unworthy. The ceding of Redguard territory to the elves, it was understandable too. As far as he and the wider Empire knew, Hammerfell's coasts were occupied by the elves. Those two things, there was some logic to them. 

But the banning of Talos worship? 

Oh, he could grasp the idea if Skyrim too was invaded and had its borders ravaged by marauding elves. But it wasn't. Save for the Reachmen taking control of Markarth, Skyrim was totally unoccupied. The Elves had little right nor basis to demand of that from the Emperor. And the man gave it to them without even consulting the High King and his Jarls. Seeing his father's expression darken, Balgruuf began to speak. 

"With the banning of Talos, there will be unrest. There will be those upset that Divine Talos, someone we worshipped for as long as we remembered, is now illegal to praise. Our honor, our dignity as a people will have been shamed despite our sacrifices to the Empire," Balgruuf spoke freely, with thought. He walked forward, looking up at his father. "We need this, father. Our people need this. By reclaiming Markarth, we will have recovered even a sliver of our honor and show the Empire and the Elves that Talos's people may have lost the right to worship him but our dignity will never be taken away." 

The Jarl leant back on his throne, running a good long look at his son and his impassioned speech. Wealhtheow however stood up, walking up towards Balgruuf. "I forbid it," the noblewoman said quickly. "Do you even know what you are asking for? The Reachmen are wild and primal, son. They dress in skins, they use wild and strange magics. The Reach too is hilly and isolated, you will not find it an easy campaign!" She palmed her forehead, her tongue clicking in annoyance. "You weren't the first one to try this. Jarl Hrolfdir tried to reclaim his home and he utterly failed." 

Balgruuf offered his mother a soft look. He took her by the hands, gently, and looked into her worried eyes. "That's because Jarl Hrolfdir did not have a plan. He underestimated the Reachmen, I won't." 

"If these Reachmen are as wild as you say they are, mother, then I want to fight them," Hrongar shrugged blankly. "What force did the Jarl of Markarth muster? Nordic militia? No, the Reachmen will fight veterans of the Great War now and we too have tricks of our own." He then took a drink of his cup, emptying it down with a belch. "Trust Balgruuf, mother. He knows what he is doing. We did not survive the battles in Cyrodiil by being careless," Hrongar ended, nodding towards his brother. 

At this, Wealhtheow turned towards her husband. "They've just arrived home. And they want to leave again," she said with a frown. "Don't let them do this," she said pleadingly. The Jarl however had a look of contemplation on his face. His mind was considering what his son wanted. He considered himself as a decent sort of man, as decent as any highborn noble was. But he still was a noble in the end. He would never say no to extra prestige for his Hold and for his family. Having a stake in Cidnha Mine too was a attractive prospect and he knew his Steward would be on the moon over the revenues of it. Plus if Balgruuf could pull this off, his rise as a Jarl would be acclaimed well...

However...

"I am not opposed to what you wish, Balgruuf," Jarl Heorot began, earning a look of disappointment from his wife and approval from his son.  "We are Nords, we live and die for war. However, there are times when we too are reminded that we are Men and need time to rest." He sat straighter on his throne and beheld his boy. "Since this is your own plan, you will have to organize everything yourself. I will allow you to recruit men and purchase supplies, here. The Hold however cannot mobilize for this. For one, we do not have permission from the High King and the Empire to mobilize. If I do that, it will alarm the other Jarls. Secondly, the men and my own vassals are tired of war. Let them have time to spend with their families." 

"Of course," nodded Balgruuf. "This will take time to organize anyway. I will spend the coming days preparing for this. People have to be contacted, such as Jarl Hrolfdir himself."

The Jarl nodded. "Present to me your strategy for this battle. I wish to know how you will do this." The Jarl paused. "Is there anything else you need or want to talk about, Balgruuf?" 

His son paused, considering something. He then nodded. "Yes, father. I would like to talk to you about land...." Balgruuf asked, a twinkle in his eye.

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A/N: Next chappie will be a bit light before we get down to business to defeat the Reachmen.