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Then, he turned and led Lydia, Jenassa, Eisa, J'zargo, Onmund, and Brelyna up into the capital of the Empire. His Imperial mission was finally complete. But as he walked through the heavy gates of Solitude, Aerion carried a new secret burning quietly in his mind. He could summon a dragon. And for the very first time since arriving in this world, he began to seriously wonder whether the absolute limits of his power were disappearing faster than he could even understand them.
The rhythmic clatters of the footsteps of the group on the cobbled stone echoed off the high walls of Solitude as Aerion and his retinue walked through the city's main gates.
After weeks spent navigating the freezing, paranoid streets of Windhelm and the rotting, damp wooden walkways of Riften, the capital of Skyrim felt like stepping into an entirely different world. The streets were immaculately clean.
High stone arches swept gracefully over the bustling market, and the crimson banners of the Imperial Dragon fluttered proudly in the crisp evening breeze blowing off the Sea of Ghosts. There was an undeniable aura of wealth, stability, and martial order here that the eastern holds simply could not replicate.
Aerion guided the group through the crowds, leading his weary group directly toward the Winking Skeever, the premier inn located just inside the city walls.
They dismounted, tying their horses to the sturdy posts outside, and pushed through the heavy wooden doors.
The tavern was warm, filled with the lively chatter of off duty Legionnaires, wealthy merchants, and traveling bards. Aerion stepped up to the main counter, where Corpulus Vinius, the jovial, balding proprietor, was wiping down a mug.
"Welcome to the Winking Skeever!" Corpulus greeted them warmly, though his eyes widened slightly at the sight of the heavily armored Altmer and his diverse, heavily armed entourage. "What can I do for you, traveler?"
"I require seven rooms," Aerion stated smoothly, his metallic voice muffled slightly by the bronze mask of Krosis. "For two nights."
Corpulus blinked, quickly doing the math. "Seven? Well, you're in luck, friend. We just had a merchant caravan clear out this morning. That will be one hundred and forty septims."
Aerion reached into his satchel and placed the exact amount of gold onto the wooden counter.
With the keys secured, Aerion turned to his group. He looked specifically at J'zargo, Onmund, Brelyna, and Eisa.
"The four of you will remain here at the inn for now," Aerion instructed them, keeping his voice low enough that the nearby patrons couldn't overhear. "General Tullius and Legate Rikke are not aware of your presence in my retinue. The politics of the Imperial high command are delicate, and introducing three College scholars and a heavily armed mercenary into a classified military briefing would raise unnecessary complications. I want to keep this simple for now."
The apprentices, who were very exhausted from the long ride and the earlier dragon battle, nodded their heads in immediate agreement. Eisa simply shrugged, as far as she was concerned, getting paid to sit by a warm fire and drink ale while her boss handled the politics was the perfect assignment.
Aerion pulled out another heavy pouch and handed it to Onmund. "There are one hundred and fifty septims in there. Eat well, drink, and rest. Do not cause a disturbance in the city."
"We will be on our best behavior, Expert Aerion," Brelyna promised, offering a tired but grateful smile.
Aerion nodded. He then gestured for Lydia and Jenassa to follow him.
While the apprentices and Eisa moved to claim a large table near the hearth, Aerion, his Housecarl, and his deadliest assassin stepped back out into the cool evening air.
They made their way up the steep, winding stone ramps that led toward the imposing, fortified structure of Castle Dour. The military heart of Solitude loomed above the city, its thick walls and heavy iron portcullises designed to withstand a prolonged siege.
As they approached the main entrance to the command wing, a pair of heavily armored Imperial guards instantly crossed their halberds, blocking the arched doorway.
"Halt!" the guard on the left ordered sharply, his hand resting nervously on his sword hilt.
It was an entirely understandable reaction. Aerion did not look like an Imperial officer. He wore the terrifying, heavy fur and steel plates of Nordic Carved Armor, wielded a massive, pitch black Ebony Greatsword and Bow, and his face was completely obscured by the jagged, ancient bronze visage of a Dragon Priest mask. Flanked by an imposing Nord warrior in full steel and a Dunmer assassin carrying an Ebony Bow, Aerion looked like a rogue warlord who had come to sack the castle.
Aerion stopped, remaining perfectly calm. He reached up, unclasped the leather straps, and pulled Krosis away from his face.
The moment his flawless, golden Altmer features were revealed, the tension in the guards' shoulders vanished. Recognition dawned instantly on their faces. They remembered the towering High Elf who had walked into this courtyard weeks ago carrying the Jagged Crown, and walked out holding the rank of Tribune.
"Tribune Aerion," the guard exhaled, instantly stepping back and raising his halberd in a crisp salute. "My apologies, sir. We did not recognize you in that... gear."
"Vigilance is nothing to apologize for, soldier," Aerion replied smoothly, returning a brief nod.
The guards stepped aside, allowing the trio to enter the heavy oak doors of Castle Dour.
Inside, the atmosphere was one of frantic, organized military efficiency. Couriers rushed past with sealed missives, quartermasters shouted logistical orders, and armored officers huddled in the corridors. As Aerion walked down the main hall, almost every eye turned toward him.
It wasn't just his height or his race, it was his armor. In a fortress awash in uniformity, standard issue Imperial leather, chainmail, and steel, his rugged, elite Nordic warlord attire and the priceless ebony weapons on his back made him stand out like a wolf among hounds.
He ignored the stares, striding purposefully toward the heavy double doors of the main council room.
He pushed the doors open.
The strategic map room was brightly lit by hanging iron braziers. A massive wooden table dominated the center of the room, covered in sprawling topographical maps of Skyrim, scattered with dozens of red and blue carved wooden markers representing troop movements.
General Tullius was nowhere to be seen.
However, Legate Rikke was leaning heavily over the table, her hands braced on the edges, deep in discussion with three other high ranking Imperial Legates.
At the sound of the heavy doors opening, Legate Rikke looked up. Her eyes narrowed sharply as she took in the imposing, masked figure and his two retainers.
"This is a classified briefing room," Legate Rikke barked, her voice carrying the unquestionable authority of a veteran commander. "Who are you, and who gave you clearance to enter?"
Aerion simply reached up and lowered the bronze mask of Krosis once more.
Legate Rikke blinked, genuine surprise crossing her weathered face as she recognized the Altmer.
"Tribune Aerion," she breathed, standing up straight. She looked him up and down, her eyes lingering on the heavy Nordic armor and the jagged mask in his hand. A wry, incredulous smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "By the Divines. I didn't expect to see you returning in that getup. You look like you're preparing to raid the coast of High Rock."
"One must adapt to the harsh roads of Skyrim, Legate," Aerion chuckled, his tone warm but respectful, offering a slight nod of agreement. "My standard robes offers little protection against the freezing winds of the Pale. Or the things that hunt in it."
Legate Rikke let out a short, approving laugh. She was a Nord, and she practically appreciated a soldier who knew how to armor himself properly for her homeland.
"Fair enough," Legate Rikke conceded, gesturing toward the map table. "Since you have returned, am I to assume this means you are done with the reconnaissance task the General gave you?"
"I am," Aerion confirmed, his golden eyes sweeping over the scattered troop markers on the map. "Where is General Tullius? I have acquired many intelligences that I am absolutely certain the General will want to hear for himself."
Legate Rikke sighed, rubbing her temples as if warding off a headache. "The General is currently in a meeting at the Blue Palace with Jarl Elisif and her court. Dealing with the local nobility's anxieties regarding the budget and the war effort. He should be back any minute now."
As if summoned by her words, the heavy doors behind Aerion swung open again.
General Tullius marched into the room, looking profoundly exhausted. The lines on his face seemed deeper than Aerion remembered, the weight of managing both a bloody civil war and a fragile political court clearly taking its toll on the aging Imperial commander.
General Tullius stopped, his sharp eyes instantly locking onto Aerion.
"Tribune," General Tullius greeted, his posture straightening immediately, the politician vanishing and the general returning. He looked over Aerion, Lydia, and Jenassa. "You have returned. Has your task been completed?"
Aerion snapped off a crisp, flawless Legion salute, his fist striking his chest plate with a resounding metallic clang.
"It is complete, General," Aerion reported smoothly, his voice projecting absolute authority. "I have some trusted associates stay in Whiterun past several weeks, and I can confirm that Jarl Balgruuf and his family remain perfectly safe and sound. There have been no assassination attempts or sabotage against Dragonsreach."
General Tullius let out a breath he seemed to have been holding. "Good. That is one less fire to put out. And the rest of the holds?"
Aerion's expression darkened slightly. "The intelligence I have gathered from the eastern holds, however, is the exact opposite of safe and sound."
General Tullius's eyes narrowed. He walked slowly around the map table, planting his hands on the wood opposite Aerion. He gestured for the other Legates to step back and listen.
"Give me the report, Tribune," Tullius commanded. "Everything you learned."
Aerion stepped up to the edge of the map table. He didn't need notes or a journal. He possessed the perfect, terrifying recall of his system and his meticulous analytical mind.
"I have mapped the logistical and political reality of Ulfric's territory," Aerion began, his voice cold, precise, and echoing in the quiet room. "I will begin in the far north. Winterhold."
Aerion reached out, tapping the frozen northern coast on the map.
"Winterhold is entirely irrelevant militarily," Aerion stated bluntly. "The city is starving, its economy has completely collapsed, and its population is a fraction of what it once was. Jarl Korir blames the College as usual, but the reality is that the hold is actively freezing to death. Ulfric draws no significant manpower or supplies from them. It is a dead zone."
He moved his finger west, resting it on the coastal port of Dawnstar.
"Dawnstar, however, is the exact opposite. It is the logistical shield of the north," Aerion explained, his golden eyes locking onto Tullius. "The city is highly prosperous, running entirely on maritime trade and its quicksilver mines. But it is terrified. The war is bleeding them. Ulfric has stationed a garrison of approximately eight thousand Stormcloak troops along the mountainous border between Dawnstar and Whiterun."
The Legates in the room shifted uncomfortably at the hard number.
"They are heavily supplied, drawing directly from Dawnstar's wealth," Aerion continued. "They are positioned in a defensive offensive pivot. If you attempt to march the Legion out of Solitude toward the Pale, or if you attempt to reinforce Whiterun from the north, this army will surge south to flank you. But if you can break Dawnstar's economy, or cut their supply lines, that entire northern front will starve in the snow."
General Tullius nodded slowly, his eyes calculating the distances on the map. "And Windhelm? The capital?"
"Windhelm is a powder keg sitting next to an open flame," Aerion reported, his voice dropping slightly. "Militarily, it is the heart of the rebellion. Ulfric has a massive reserve force of approximately twenty five thousand seasoned soldiers dug into the deep valleys of Eastmarch. They are incredibly well supplied, drawing on the forged steel and deep grain reserves of the city."
Aerion paused, leaning slightly over the table.
"But internally? The city is catastrophically divided. The racial tension between the Nords, the Dunmer in the Gray Quarter, and the Argonians on the docks has reached a boiling point. The war hasn't unified the city, it has fractured it. Ulfric is spending a massive amount of his political capital simply keeping his own capital from ripping itself apart."
Aerion then offered a critical, geopolitical insight drawn from the fears he had uncovered from Ulfric's own inner circle.
"Furthermore, General... Ulfric is terrified of the spring," Aerion revealed. "He knows that once the snow melts in the southern passes, the Empire will no longer be restricted to the sea routes. You will be able to march your main legions north from Cyrodiil. He is operating on a rapidly closing timeline. He is desperate to force a conclusion to this war before the Pale Pass opens."
Tullius and Rikke exchanged a sharp, highly significant look. That was the exact strategic reality the Empire was relying on, but confirming that Ulfric was actively panicking over it was invaluable.
"Lastly, Riften," Aerion concluded, moving his hand to the southeastern corner of the map.
"Riften possesses immense wealth and massive manpower. Ulfric has a force of roughly twelve thousand troops stationed near the Falkreath border, and another eight thousand along the Whiterun border," Aerion detailed, his memory flawless. "But those twenty thousand men are a massive logistical burden, and they are being fed almost entirely by the Rift."
Aerion looked at Rikke. "But Riften has a fatal flaw. Jarl Laila Law-Giver publicly supports Ulfric, but she is effectively paralyzed. Maven Black-Briar controls the economy of the Rift, and her business interests are tied to the Empire. Maven is quietly, aggressively throttling Laila's contributions to the war effort. Ulfric cannot force Riften to commit its full strength because Maven will not allow it. Militarily, the hold is a fortress. You cannot simply march an army into the Rift. But politically, it is bleeding the Stormcloaks dry from the inside out."
Aerion stepped back, resting his hands behind his back. The report was finished.
For several long, heavy moments, absolute silence reigned in the council room.
The three lesser Legates were staring at the map, utterly stunned.
General Tullius and Legate Rikke shared a look of profound, unadulterated shock. They had expected the Tribune to return with a general assessment of the mood in the eastern holds, perhaps a few rumors about troop movements, and a confirmation of Balgruuf's safety.
They had absolutely not expected such a flawless and detailed, mathematically precise deconstruction of Ulfric Stormcloak's entire war machine, complete with hard troop counts, logistical bottlenecks, and the deeply buried psychological fears of the rebel leader himself.
"By the Eight..." General Tullius muttered, his eyes wide as he looked at the High Elf. He stood up straight. "Aerion... how in the name of Oblivion did you acquire this level of detail? This is top secret intelligence. Ulfric's own commanders likely don't possess a picture this comprehensive!"
"I have my own sources of credible information, General," Aerion replied smoothly, his tone perfectly polite but entirely unyielding. "I spent a great deal of coin and utilized highly specialized methods to gather this. I cannot share the nature of those sources to protect them. But I absolutely guarantee the validity of the numbers."
General Tullius stared at him, his jaw tight. For a moment, the Imperial General looked as though he wanted to demand the names of Aerion's spies. But he grunted, shaking his head slightly, waving the demand away.
"I don't care if you read it in the tea leaves or bought it from a Daedric Prince," General Tullius admitted, a rare, genuine smile breaking through his exhaustion. "What you have done here, Tribune, is truly remarkable. We have been operating completely blind regarding the exact disposition of the Stormcloak reserves. If this is true..."
"I assure you, General, it is true," Aerion said firmly, bowing his head slightly. "Forgive me for cutting you off, but you can build your strategy on these numbers."
"He's right, General. This changes absolutely everything," Legate Rikke interrupted, stepping up to the map, her eyes blazing with sudden tactical inspiration.
She slammed a finger down on the snowy mountains of the Pale.
"Galmar Stone-Fist," Legate Rikke said, looking fiercely at Tullius. "Galmar still doesn't know that we already have the Jagged Crown in our possession. Ulfric's second in command is still out there, tearing apart ancient ruins, desperately looking for the artifact to legitimize Ulfric's claim."
She looked at Aerion, a sharp, predatory grin forming on her lips.
"We can use your intelligence to gut them,"Legate Rikke proposed, her voice ringing with excitement. "We let them waste their precious, dwindling resources digging in the ice. Then, we use these exact troop counts to ambush them at the locations they think the crown is hidden. We bleed their supply lines dry while they search for a ghost. And when their morale is at its absolute lowest, we publicly announce that the Jagged Crown has been sitting in Solitude for a month."
Aerion nodded slowly, deeply appreciating the Legate's ruthless tactical mind.
"I agree completely, Legate," Aerion voiced his support. "Let them expend their manpower chasing shadows. When they realize they have bled their soldiers for nothing, the psychological blow to their leadership will be devastating."
General Tullius nodded his head, his eyes burning with renewed vigor. The sheer weight of the war seemed to lift from his shoulders, replaced by the cold, calculating focus of a military genius who had just been handed the winning hand.
"Agreed," he commanded.
He leaned down over the map, grabbing a handful of blue Imperial markers.
"If Ulfric's northern armies are positioned defensively to protect Dawnstar, and his southern armies are relying entirely on Riften's strangled economy... then we push," General Tullius ordered, rapidly moving the wooden pieces across the map.
He began to assemble a massive, coordinated plan of localized skirmishes.
"Legates," he barked, pointing to the officers at the end of the table. "I want heavy, relentless pressure applied along the borders of the Empire controlled territories connecting to Dawnstar, Winterhold, and the Rift. We will not launch a full invasion, but we will bleed them. Intercept their supply wagons. Burn their forward camps. I want an enormous amount of pressure applied so that Ulfric feels the squeeze on his logistics."
He pointed to several key forts guarding the mountain passes. "Strengthen the garrisons at Fort Dunstad and Fort Greenwall. Double the patrols. If Ulfric is panicking about time, we make every single day cost him blood and gold."
"Yes, General!" the Legates chorused in unison, saluting sharply before turning to memorize the new deployment orders.
General Tullius slowly straightened up, placing his hands on his belt. He looked up, his sharp eyes locking onto Aerion once more.
"Tell me about Whiterun," General Tullius said quietly. "Jarl Balgruuf should be well aware of these massive, dangerous armies stationed directly across his borders, correct?"
"He is, General," Aerion nodded. He briefly shared a sanitized version of the tense war council he had interrupted at Dragonsreach just days ago. "Jarl Balgruuf knows the wolves are at the door. He knows Ulfric is losing patience. Based on my assessment of the Jarl's mindset... it will not be long before Jarl Balgruuf formally asks for the Legion's help. He simply needs to know that you are ready to support him when he finally plants his flag."
"We will be ready," Legate Rikke promised fiercely, everyone in the room nodding their agreement. Whiterun was the ultimate prize.
General Tullius walked around the map table, stopping directly in front of the towering High Elf.
The General's expression was one of profound, unadulterated respect. In a matter of weeks, this strange, terrifyingly competent Altmer had single handedly secured the ultimate symbol of Skyrim's throne, and had now delivered an intelligence report that would fundamentally alter the course of the civil war.
"You have, yet again, done a magnificent, unparalleled work for this Legion and for the Empire, Aerion," he praised him, his voice echoing loudly in the silent council room so every officer could hear.
General Tullius stood at attention, his posture rigidly formal.
"When you delivered the great result of your previous assignment, I promised you that if you completed this high level task, the merit you earned would not go unrewarded," General Tullius declared. "You have exceeded every expectation I had."
The General placed a heavy hand on his sword hilt, his voice ringing with absolute authority.
"In this time of war, and by the power formally invested in me by the Emperor of Tamriel, I hereby promote you from the rank of Tribune to the rank of Praefect of the Imperial Legion."
The Legates in the room widened their eyes, but immediately snapped to attention. It was a staggering promotion. A Praefect was a senior command officer, outranking a Tribune, holding authority over entire cohorts of men and carrying immense political weight.
"As Praefect," General Tullius continued, his eyes locked onto Aerion, "vastly more men and resources will be permanently assigned to your direct unit command. Furthermore, you are officially appointed as my appointed military liaison between the Imperial Legion and the city of Whiterun. When Jarl Balgruuf finally makes his decision, you will be the sword that the Empire places in his hand."
Aerion stood perfectly still, his heart beating with a quiet, fierce triumph.
The pieces were falling into place perfectly. He was no longer just a powerful adventurer, or a minor officer running errands. He was a Praefect of the Imperial Legion. A warlord recognized by the state. He now held the official, unassailable military authority he needed to reshape the province exactly as he saw fit.
Aerion raised his gauntleted fist, striking his breastplate in a flawless, ringing salute. "I am honored, General," Aerion said smoothly, his golden eyes burning with ambition. "For the Empire." He understood exactly what the title meant. It was far more than a ceremonial badge. It gave him direct access to massive Imperial supply lines, troop deployments, highly classified information, and immense political authority. It placed him much more closer to the center of the Imperial war effort in Skyrim.
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 860/860
Stamina: 900/900
Magicka: 980/980 [External Capacity & Regeneration: ∞]
Level: 231
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Dragon Master (MAX LEVEL), Eye Of Magnus (MAX LEVEL), Summon Dragon (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire(+5)/Lightning(+2)/Frost(+2)) (Level 0/91/70), Restoration (Healing(+2)/Purify(+2)) (Level 50/98), Alteration (Level 35), Illusion (Level 50), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+1)) (Level 37/90), Persuasion(+2) (Level 83), Smithing (Level 57), Sneak(+1) (Level 64), One Handed(+2) (Level 0), Two Handed(+1) (Level 29), Lockpicking (Level 55), Archery(+1) (Level 0), Enchanting(+1) (Level 23), Light Armor(+2) (Level 10), Block (Level 70), Pickpocket (Level 8), & Heavy Armor (Level 59)
Shouts: Fus Roh Dah (Force Balance Push), Tiid (Time), Krii (Kill), Feim Zii Gron (Fade Spirit Bind), Su (Air), Laas (Life), Yol Toor (Fire Inferno), Kaan (Kyne), Zul Mey Gut (Voice Fool Far), & IIZ (Ice)
[Inventory Panel]
1x Small Sack, Poacher's Axe, the Golden Claw, Arvel's Journal, Inkwell & Quill, Thief Book, Parchment Rolls Of Mammoths Farm And Loan, Ebony Claw, The Mirror, Ring of Pure Mixtures, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Deed to Tundra Homestead, Dawnbreaker, Traveling Backpack (Supplies), Vampire Armor, Vampire Boots, Movarth's Golden Ash (Unique), Potion of Healing, Wuuthrad's Fragments, Mage Boots Of Weight, Master Robes Of Destruction, Staff of Jyrik Gauldurson, & Gauldur Black Bow
2x Common Soul Gem (Empty), Black Soul Gem (Empty), & Potions of Plentiful Magicka
3x Potions of Minor Stamina, Petty Soul Gem (Filled), Potions of Minor Magicka, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), & Greater Soul Gems
5x Mod Chests
8x Iron Arrows, Ancient Nord Arrows, & Common Soul Gem (Filled)
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
10x Lesser Soul Gems
12x Black Soul Gem (Filled)
Weight: 47.71 KG / 750 KG
Septims: 102,867