Chapter Text
Location: Solitude
The banners of the Empire fluttered red and ragged on the high stone walls, torn by smoke and firelight. The sky above Solitude was the color of old iron, and the air hung heavy with the scent of burning pitch and war-forged resolve.
Ulfric Stormcloak stood before the gathered ranks, a black tower crowned in wolf-pelt and fury, his voice low and solemn as he began to speak.
“We come to this moment carried by the sacrifices and courage of our fellows. Those who have fallen. Those still bearing the shields to our right.”
Sáraeth stood just in front and to the side of him, her cloak of blue and black shifting gently in the breeze. His mother’s cloak. His armor on her body. The weight of what they were doing—what they were about to become—tugged tight in her chest. His eyes flicked to her once. Just once. But it was enough.
“On this day, our enemy will know the fullness of our determination,” he continued. “The true depth of our anger, and the exalted righteousness of our cause.”
She felt the shift in the air. The way his voice filled the marrow of every soul present, Stormcloak and otherwise. The way the men and women leaned toward him as if their hearts answered him before their minds did. She was bearing witness to the becoming of a true king.
“The gods are watching. The spirits of our ancestors are stirring. And men under suns yet to dawn will be transformed by what we do here today.”
Several soldiers cried out battle roars that wanted to shake the heavens.
“Fear neither pain, nor darkness. For Sovngarde awaits those who die with weapons in their hands and courage in their hearts.”
A woman, a soldier she knew as Freya, bellowed like a barmaid trying to shut down a rabblerousing crowd.
“We now fight our way to Castle Dour, to cut the head off the Legion itself! And in that moment, the gods will look down and see Skyrim as she was meant to be. Full of Nords who are mighty, powerful, and free!”
This time, the Dragonborn’s voice – her natural, human voice – cried out in unison with her brothers and sisters, axe raised high. “HUZZZAAAAAAHHHHHH!”
“Ready now! Everyone, with me! For the sons and daughters of Skyrim!”
A thunderous cry rose around him, blades slamming against shields. And then the gates were falling, and they were in.
It was chaos and fire.
Steel on steel, blood on cobblestone. Arrows flew overhead, bolts of frost and fire from desperate Imperial mages. But it was the Stormcloaks who surged, led by Ralof and Galmar, the latter roaring like a bear reborn, his axe cleaving through a line of soldiers as if they were mere children.
Sáraeth fought not as a woman but as legend incarnate—her twin blades spinning with brutal grace, Ulfric’s armor catching the firelight with every killing blow. She fought for her love. For her people. For Skyrim. Her blood sang.
And then she heard it.
A cry—his cry.
Ulfric.
Her heart dropped like a stone. She turned, eyes slicing through the chaos—and there he was, on his knees, blood soaking into the furs around his waist, a blade still stuck deep in his side. An Imperial officer stood above him, sword raised for the final stroke.
“Fus—RO DAH!”
The Shout cracked the air like the wrath of heaven. The officer was blasted back into a stone pillar and did not rise again.
Sáraeth dropped to her knees at Ulfric’s side, her hands already on the Aetherial Crown. His breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes locked on hers.
“Sáraeth—”
“Don’t speak,” she whispered, fierce and urgent. “Just trust me.”
She took the crown from her head and placed it upon his brow.
A pulse.
A hum.
The crown glowed with an eerie blue-white light, threads of energy weaving like spider silk from the metal into his skin. And then—
A blinding flash.
The wound closed before her eyes, the blade popping out of his gut like a sliver from a finger. His skin knit itself whole, the blood drying in an instant. His lungs filled. His back straightened.
And the crown—
It shattered.
Like crystal meeting divine will, it split in a soundless burst of light, leaving only a few glowing shards on the stones.
Silence fell. Not just around her—but across the battlefield.
Stormcloaks and Imperials alike had seen. This was a woman touched by gods. A weapon and a blessing all in one. A Dragonborn who heals with the touch of her hand and the gift of the old magics.
A ripple of fear ran through the Imperials. And they broke. They ran—toward Castle Dour, toward the final fallback, panic scattering their ranks like ash in a gale. And she? She turned to Ulfric, hand extended.
He looked up at her, the weight of what had just happened dawning behind his eyes—blue and stunned and full of something he had never dared hope for. She smiled. And spoke with quiet, radiant power.
“Come. Let us make you a king at last.”
His hand took hers. Together, they rose. And behind them, the Stormcloaks roared—and followed.