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Dragon's Conquest

Summary:

The Civil War has ended in favor of the Imperials, thanks in no small part to the Dragonborn. Ulfric Stormcloak kneels before her, ready to meet his kinsmen in Sovngarde, when he is spared unexpectedly. The Dragonborn finds his Thu'um to be of use to her, and Ulfric is now at her service -- as Dragon-bait.

Reviews greatly appreciated!

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you enjoy this story. Sorry for the sudden dip in quality after the first few chapters; I went back and rewrote some of them because who would've thunk that four years of writing makes one improve?

Anyways, here's a playlist I made around chapter 30 ish for writing and its about all I listened to to write the last couple of chapters.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/158FeG9rGCOWoymYshFt46?si=QRPsZxHNRLSE853xa8acJg

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy it! Feedback of all kind is always appreciated <3

Chapter Text

Ulfric knelt before his own throne, barely keeping himself up. His muscles ached in time with his racing pulse, quickening with every drip of blood down his arms from where he couldn't parry, block, dodge, something in time to avoid the glowing Daedric sword his opponent now held aimed at his neck, scraping against his skin with each heavy pant. He kept his chin raised to meet her bright red eyes, dancing with shimmering light from her enchanted armor, mismatched between Elven-made gauntlets, a glass cuirass, and an Imperial Legate's helmet. She looked almost bored by her victory over him. Over his entire army.

 

"Surrender, Stormcloak," she commanded with a smooth, effortless bark, a quick rise and fall of her chest betraying her to be just as exerted as he. But her sword-arm held steady, her free arm resting against the empty hilt of a second Daedric sword. Its harsh curves and spikes of bloodied ebony lay somewhere at the entrance of the Palace of the Kings, forgotten after he Disarmed her with a Shout. And she'd barely been phased, simply drawing another Daedric weapon, a sword befitting the Oblivion-damned woman who'd brought everything he'd fought so hard to achieve crashing down.

 

Ulfric's eyes darted towards his own steel sword, just out of reach and dented from the blows against her cursed weapon. He wondered which Daedra she'd prayed to for the boon, and spat blood and phlegm at her feet. "Never. Never to you, never to anyone. You can kill me, but you will never end the Stormcloaks." He steeled his lungs to Shout the woman down, the rumors of her being the Dragonborn the Greybeards summoned over a year prior seemed to be just that; rumors. She could've ended their duel with a Shout of her own, a Dragonborn's Shout would outclass even Arngeir's.

 

But, to imagine a Dunmer woman with a heavy Cyrodiilic lilt to her voice was the prophesized Dragonborn, a legendary Nordic hero, was beyond foolish.

 

Galmar cried out across the throne room, bursting into a tirade of curses against General Tullius and Legate Rikke. Ulfric dared a look, and watched his former allies tie up his only friend left. Ulfric met her red eyes again, daring her to kill him. Pleading for her to kill him. He wondered if the Thalmor were waiting outside of Windhelm's gates to take him prisoner, having let their Puppet Emperor's army do all the difficult work for them. He'd sooner die.

 

She frowned back down at him with what he could've sworn was pity, and he cursed her. How dare she pity him!? Ulfric inhaled through his nose to Shout her back, to slam her against the ancient stones of the Palace, to knock that Legate's helmet off of her head.

 

And then he fell to his side, unable to move and barely able to breathe. And the elf woman sheathed her sword and knelt over him, pulling a red sash around her waist. She tied it around his mouth tightly, before he felt the tingle in his fingers of the paralyze spell wearing off. "Kill you?" She whispered. "No, no, no, I couldn't send your soul to Sovngarde just to be devoured by Alduin. I've much bigger plans for you, Jarl." She kicked his sword away as she pulled a length of rope, turning him to his stomach and tying his hands together just as he was able to roughly struggle against her.

 

General Tullius sauntered over with all the confidence of a man who'd just earned some useless bureaucratic promotion. "Well, Legate Therel, I believe victory celebrations in your honor are more than deserved," he said, crossing his arms. A nasty gash across his cheek matched Galmar's axe.

 

"We must discuss the terms of surrender, first," the Legate said, hoisting up Ulfric with her own strength, despite him easily being a head or more taller than her.

 

"Total surrender. What's there to discuss?" Tullius asked. "Beyond where their executions should be, of course. Helgen is off the table." He chuckled. "I know you mentioned wanting to keep things quiet, martyrs and all, but--"

 

Ulfric lunged for General Tullius, trying to at least tackle him to the ground. Legate Therel held him firm by his wrist bindings. He snarled, smiling to himself as Tullius took a step back and nearly stumbled over. "No executions. If I'd wanted to kill them, they'd be dead," the Legate argued. "Besides, we have how many prisoners to negotiate over? And our intelligence--"

 

"Quiet, Therel." Tullius composed himself, staring down Ulfric. Galmar went quiet; Ulfric tried to strain himself to see what Legate Rikke was doing with him. It was always too quiet in the throne room. High ceilings and stone walls echoed with ghosts Ulfric swore he would live up to. "You just lead a siege of his city. Ulfric's got nothing left to bargain for."

 

"Then his life is the only thing left of value." Legate Therel shifted her grip on his bindings. "And I'll claim it as any other spoil of this city, as is my right as its' conqueror."

 

Slavery. Of course she would, the damned elf. He'd be shipped off to Morrowind by the morning.

 

She continued. "It's an old Nord custom, similar to a life debt. Wuunferth the Ash-King cemented it long ago. Fell out of favor around the Oblivion Crisis. In essence, I take his honor, not his life, even though it's well within my power. It binds him to me, since the only way for him to regain that honor is if I were to finally kill him myself."

 

Ulfric could've rolled his eyes at her ignorance. It fell out of favor long before the Oblivion Crisis, long before the ascension of Tiber Septim to Talos…but the ideals the practice harshly demonstrated--they were still healthy in Nord culture. A death well-earned was better than a life of mercy, and a debt to another was a stain on one's soul.

 

"Same reason you were to execute him in Helgen, right? Things have changed, General. There's dragons about, and even without a war there's too many for me to fight by myself. His Thu'um could save more lives than he's lost. And his honor is what his army rallied around."

 

General Tullius spit blood and brought a hand to his gashed cheek. His eyes narrowed, scanning Ulfric up and down. "Lock him up tight and sweep the Palace for any more rebels. I expect no mercy if they still have some fighting spirit left in them," Tullius said, moving to put his helmet on. "That's an order. Meet back here for a report on casualties, and to discuss the final terms."

 

"Yes, sir." She pushed him forwards roughly. Ulfric stumbled before he finally forced himself to walk forwards towards his own cells. "The gods saved you once before, and it looks like they're still on your side, Stormcloak," the legate muttered, leading him down into the cold, damp barracks.

 

The fire the guards usually kept roaring had died down to embers. If Galmar'd seen it, he'd scold the lazy recruits and make them rub two sticks together rather than get Wuunferth to relight it. Divines, that crazy old pacifist was right to have left the city weeks ago.

 

The legate tied him to the outside of a cell; it was locked shut and only his guards had the keys. His guards were dead or close to it now. He wished for the same fate.

 

"We managed to take more prisoners than lives," the legate said. Ulfric quietly tested the give of his bindings. Nothing. "I did everything I could to keep casualties low, and General Tullius' reputation can't take high casualty numbers, even from enemies."

 

She was taunting him. Tullius was a man known for methodical, by-the-book battles; casualty rates had never concerned him in the past. He'd been ready to execute an entire company at Helgen, and any 'bloodthirsty' epithets would only hurt him if he was to transition from the battlefield to the Senate floor…of course. Tullius wanted a damned promotion.

 

"Arngeir wanted me to apologize on his behalf. He feels he failed you."

 

Something snapped inside Ulfric. Arngeir, his old Greybeard master, had begged him not to leave High Hrothgar for the Great War. And he'd scorned the monk, snapping that he'd never understand why he had to leave, that Arngeir would never understand a call to action. The words of an angry boy, too young to see any way out but violence.

 

And look where it'd landed him. Years of pain and bloodshed for him and so many countless others. Galmar, his Housecarl, his Shield Brother, his best friend would be dead alongside him soon enough, and he couldn't even apologize with his mouth bound like it was. He glared at the legate and screamed against his gag.


"All captured Stormcloak soldiers will be released within the month."

 

Ulfric didn't move from where he slumped over on himself. It'd been hours since he'd been tied up in the cold room, and he'd heard nothing since the fire finally died however long ago. Leather padded shoes crossed the barracks to where he sat, glass armor echoed against itself. The legate knelt in front of him, her Imperial helmet with its distinctive rank plume gone and replaced with an enchanted glass helmet.

 

She looked the way she had months ago, striding into his court like she owned the place to deliver some potion to Wuunferth. He'd been angry at the intrusion until she mentioned Helgen, how she escaped that fateful day with Ralof. And Ulfric had been so impressed that she managed to survive, that she'd had the guts to walk into the Palace of the Kings without an invitation, that he'd offered her a place in his own army.

 

And she betrayed his good will.

 

Went and joined up with the Legion that held her in a prison cart, put her head on the executioner's block for Divines knew what. The rumors of her being Dragonborn were wrong; why would the Dragonborn fight for the Empire that worked for the Thalmor? They'd see the reign of Tiber Septim, the reign of Talos, of the Dragonborn rules wiped from history. Not to mention the sheer impossibility of the Dragonborn being reincarnated as a Dark Elf, of all races. Besides, none of his reports on this damned legate had ever mentioned her Shouting.

 

But how had she known Arngeir? Yes, they'd summoned the Dragonborn nearly two years ago, but…it had to be someone else. Perhaps she'd made the climb up the Seven Thousand Steps and mentioned something about being a soldier to the man. Ulfric ignored how the Greybeards didn't speak to anyone who wasn't willing to commit a few years to training with them.

 

"They won't be tried for treason, though I couldn't escape an optional fine levied against them," the legate continued, ignoring how he ignored her. "And I've got a horse ready for you. We're going to Winterhold."

 

That shocked Ulfric to his very core. Winterhold? He'd only been there a few times before the war, and it was in a sorry state. Any aid he could afford to send inevitably went to the struggling city, and every year a few families from Winterhold would show up at Windhelm gates to escape the encroaching cliffs.

 

But more importantly, we?

 

She wasn't being serious about invoking the old war-spoils laws. There was no way she was serious. These were hardly the conditions Wuunferth had in mind when he outlined the code Eras ago. How would she even know the Old Laws? He racked his brain for the intelligence reports on her, and couldn't think of a single thing. He had nothing on her before the Siege of Whiterun, when it was reported a Dark Elf woman led the defense.

 

He'd assumed it was Balgruuf's Housecarl, Irileth, but when another Battlemage with the same description was reported to have captured Fort Dunstad not a week later, Ulfric had ordered a new file specifically for her, not that it made much difference. This legate was Tullius' ace, once she'd shown up. She'd had decimated his army in months, too quickly for any of his spies to find out who in Oblivion she was, exactly. They hadn't even gotten a name for her.

 

To think that he'd simply ride off to Winterhold with her, of all people was almost hilarious. But she untied him from the bars and led him back to the throne room to the Palace of Kings. Ulfric got one last look around before she pushed him through the door. They'd taken his banners down and burned them in the center of the room.

 

Ysgramor's throne looked cold. As if he'd ever thought himself to be worthy of that throne, that legacy. His stomach turned as the legate pushed him through the streets towards the gates. He kept his head down, hearing chatter turn to whispers and silence as he passed. Captured. A prisoner, again.

 

She was probably taking him to the Thalmor. They'd string him out for information again, only this time he didn't have anything to give them. Not that they'd care, they'd slice him and shock him and starve him just for the fun of it.

 

Ulfric stepped over the fallen gates, the smell of snow early on the air. A snowstorm was coming from the northwest. Talos have mercy, he'd die of exposure before this damned elf had him ten minutes from Windhelm. The city he wasn't able to protect. The city of his ancestors. The city he'd likely never see again.

 

And the legate pushed him along, gathering two horses from the Imperial camp on the other side of the bridge. But she didn't climb on one, instead letting the two steeds walk alongside them as they traveled the north road. Snow began to gently fall, picking up and sticking to the ground. It was likely the last snow of winter.

 

She stopped all of a sudden and waited, moving around in front of him. She ducked under him to meet his eyes even as his head was bowed. Bowed in what? Prayer, shame, exhaustion? Ulfric couldn't place it. He realized she'd released him. Ulfric's hands hung freely at his sides rather than bound at his back.

 

"Excellent," she muttered. The legate had put on a cloak of Imperial red. It whipped around in the growing wind. She held a fur cloak out to him--his fur cloak. He didn't take it. He had no weapon; she had two Daedric swords at her hips. Should he run, while he had the chance? Rip off his gag and Shout her into the river? Ulfric stood still, waiting for her to make her move. He realized she was doing the same.

 

She shivered against a particularly harsh gust of wind, rolled her eyes, and reached up to his gag. And Ulfric could speak, if he wanted to. Shout, if he wanted to. He parted his lips to Shout, but lost all will. Instead, he stood and stared at her. What in Oblivion did she want him for? There was no Dominion presence in Winterhold, as far as he knew. Nothing there except the College, and Ulfric couldn't think of why a group of eccentric mages would want him.

 

"Lok, vah koor!"

 

Ulfric stumbled back and fell to the ground as her Shout reverberated around. Sky spring summer. She…she actually Shouted. She Shouted, and the wind stilled, the snow stopped falling. How could she Shout?

 

"My name is Nariilu Therel," she said, holding out a hand to Ulfric. "In addition to being the Dragonborn, I have too many titles to count. With any luck, you will survive travelling at my side."