If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Also everyone I have a new novel a Dragon Age Inquisition novel named "From Couch To The Inquisitor", be sure to check it out and give some power stone)
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"NO ONE FALLS BACK!" Irileth roared down at the Whiterun militia. "YOU STAND YOUR GROUND! YOU DRAW YOUR BOWS, AND YOU MAKE THEM BLEED FOR EVERY INCH OF DIRT! ARCHERS... LOOSE!" Thousands of bowstrings snapped in unison. A massive, black cloud of arrows launched from the Whiterun walls, arcing high into the sky before raining down mercilessly upon the charging Stormcloak vanguard.
Hundreds of rebels fell in the first volley, their bodies tumbling into the tall grass, their screams joining the cacophony of war. But the sheer mass of the army simply absorbed the losses, stepping over their dead and continuing the furious sprint.
"LOOSE!" Irileth screamed again.
Another volley tore into the charging ranks.
And then, the blue wave crashed into the yellow and red wall.
The impact of the Stormcloak vanguard hitting the Whiterun and Imperial barricades sounded like a clap of thunder.
The wooden spikes splintered and groaned under the immense weight of the crushing bodies. Stormcloak soldiers threw themselves recklessly against the heavy steel shields of the Legion, hacking wildly with axes and broadswords.
The Imperial discipline held.
"THRUST!" Tribune Valerius roared from the center of the line.
In perfect synchronization, the front rank of the Legion thrust their weapons forward through the gaps in the shield wall, driving the steel tips deep into the stomachs and throats of the charging rebels. The first line of Stormcloaks crumpled, instantly replaced by the men behind them, desperate to climb over the wooden barricades and the mounting pile of corpses.
The battle instantly devolved into a brutal, claustrophobic, deafening meat grinder.
Swords clashed against shields. Axes bit into bone. Mace or Warhammer loud crash. The screams of the dying mingled with the roaring orders of the commanders and the relentless twang of bowstrings from the walls above.
Aerion stood on the battlements, his golden eyes sweeping over the horrific carnage below, acting as the supreme tactical overseer.
"Livia!" Aerion shouted down, pointing to the right flank where the militia was struggling to hold off a concentrated push. "Shift two squads to the eastern gate! The line is buckling!"
"Moving!" Livia yelled back, blowing a sharp whistle to redirect her heavy infantry, plugging the gap with Imperial steel before the Stormcloaks could exploit it.
"Aeloria! Valdemar! Jenassa! Eisa! Lydia!" Aerion commanded his retainers. "Get down to the lower platforms! Anchor the militia! If any rebel breaches the barricades, you put them down!"
The three of them didn't hesitate. They drew their weapons and rushed down the stairs, throwing themselves into the desperate, bloody defense of the inner perimeter.
The three apprentices and Eirik now stood beside Aerion, their hands glowing with Destruction magic, hurling precise, explosive fireballs into the densest clusters of Stormcloaks pressing against the outer barricades, blowing huge holes in their lines and providing the legionnaires vital seconds to breathe.
The sheer violence of the clash was overwhelming. The air grew thick with the metallic stench of fresh blood, the smoke of burning grass, and the terrifying, endless roar of men fighting for their lives.
The Stormcloaks were dying by the hundreds, shattered against the impenetrable anvil of the Imperial Legion and picked off by the relentless arrows of the Whiterun guard. But they did not retreat. They pushed harder, fueled by the fanaticism of their cause and the fury of their losses.
Down below the sound of beating and slashing filled on the slaughter. There was no maneuvering anymore. There were no grand tactics. It was a brutal, grueling test of endurance, steel against steel, blood against mud. The sheer numbers of the rebel army were overwhelming. For every Stormcloak that fell, two more seemed to take his place, rushing blindly into the fray.
As the sun began its slow descent toward the west, casting long, bloody shadows across the plains of Whiterun. The brutal, visceral reality of the siege had fully set in, and as Aerion watched the relentless waves of blue crashing against his lines, it showed absolutely no signs of an end.
But even if the setting sun cast a bruised, bloody light across the plains of Whiterun, the dying of the day brought absolutely no reprieve from the slaughter.
The battle had devolved into a grueling, suffocating meat grinder. The initial shock and awe of the mammoth charge and the enormous magical bombardment had faded, replaced by the relentless, grim reality of a siege. The Stormcloaks, fueled by fanaticism and enraged by their heavy losses, continued to hurl themselves against the Imperial and Whiterun barricades in seemingly endless waves.
High upon the outer walls, the magical artillery was finally beginning to stutter.
J'zargo, Onmund, Brelyna, and the mercenary mage Eirik stood near the stone parapets, their faces pale and streaked with soot. For hours, they had been raining fire, frost, and lightning down into the dense pockets of Stormcloak infantry attempting to breach the lower platforms. But mortal reserves were finite.
Brelyna's hands shook violently as a Fireball sputtered and died in her palms, fizzling into harmless smoke. She staggered backward, her Magicka completely depleted, a deep, nauseating ache throbbing at the base of her skull.
"Drink!" Eirik shouted over the din, pulling a cork from a glowing blue vial with his teeth and shoving it into her hands.
Brelyna downed the Magicka potion, coughing at the bitter, chalky taste, while J'zargo leaned heavily against the stone, his fur matted with sweat as he forced another stream of Chain Lightning into the fray below. They were holding the line, but they were running on fumes, sustained only by alchemical reserves and pure high combat adrenaline.
Down in the mud of the forward trenches, the physical toll was even worse.
Aeloria, Valdemar, Lydia, Jenassa, and Eisa had anchored themselves at the weakest point of the militia's line, acting as an unbreakable breakwater against the blue tide. Aeloria's heavy steel armor was dented and coated in gore. When a massive surge of Stormcloak greatswords threatened to overwhelm a squad of terrified Whiterun soldiers, the Dragonborn stepped forward, drawing a deep breath.
"FUS RO DAH!"
The Unrelenting Force tore through the choke point, shattering the rebel shield wall and sending more than two dozen men flying backward into the dirt.
But for every man she shouted down, three more stepped over the bodies to take their place.
To her right, Valdemar swung his massive steel sword with mechanical, brutal efficiency, cleaving through chainmail and bone. Jenassa and Eisa fought back to back, a whirlwind of blade and pale steel, their movements a lethal dance that kept the flanking rebels at bay. Sinmir and the heavily armed mercenaries of Tundra Homestead had formed a tight phalanx nearby, roaring defiant war cries as they took the brunt of a heavy infantry charge, refusing to yield a single inch of Whiterun dirt.
The Whiterun militia, seeing the terrifying resilience of the Praefect's retainers, found their courage and held the line, thrusting their spears into the crush of bodies. But they were exhausted. Arms were growing heavy. Shields were splintering.
The sky continued to darken, the first stars appearing over the Throat of the World, and still, the bloody fight showed absolutely no signs of ending.
Then, it happened.
It started as a low, resonant vibration in the earth, distinct from the chaotic stomping of the melee. Then came the sound. It was not the deep, guttural blast of a Nordic war horn. It was a sharp, clear, brassy clarion call that cut cleanly through the roar of battle.
Every head on the battlefield, Imperial, Whiterun, and Stormcloak, turned toward the western road.
Cresting the rolling hills of the tundra, illuminated by the last, dying rays of the sun, was a sea of crimson and steel.
The main army of the Imperial Legion in Skyrim had arrived.
More than thirty thousand hardened legionnaires marched in perfect, terrifying synchronization. Their heavy boots struck the earth in unison, creating a sound like a continuous, rolling earthquake. Hundreds of massive crimson banners bearing the Imperial Dragon snapped violently in the wind. The sheer, overwhelming scale of the army stretched as far as the eye could see, a tidal wave of Imperial might flooding the western plains.
In the surviving Stormcloak command camps to the east and north, the rebel officers stared through with their squinting eyes, their faces turning completely ashen.
The grim reality of the war settled over them in a suffocating instant. They had spent the entire day bleeding their forces against the walls of Whiterun, trying to secure a fast, decisive victory. Now, it was too late.
One of the senior Stormcloak commanders lowered his eye as the sun make it hard, befoe then he look toward the heavily armored mammoths resting on the flanks, and then up to the battlements where the towering, masked High Elf stood.
"We never stood a chance of taking those walls today," the commander muttered, his voice trembling slightly. "Not with him."
There had been zero intelligence regarding a mage of that caliber operating in Skyrim, let alone serving as an Imperial soldier. The officers had discussed it in hushed, terrified whispers while reforming their lines. No normal man or mer possessed the capacity to summon forty Attronachs entities and single handedly shoot catapult boulders out of the sky. The only logical, terrifying conclusion they could reach was that the Empire had somehow recruited a rogue Psijic Monk, a master of the arcane arts whose power defied mortal comprehension.
Facing an entrenched, magically fortified city, and now a fresh army of thirty thousand legionnaires at their backs, the calculus of the battle was instantly decided.
The Stormcloak commander closed his eyes and gave the bitter order.
A long, mournful, descending blast from the Nordic horns echoed across the plains.
"Retreat."
On the barricades, the relentless pressure suddenly ceased. The Stormcloak soldiers, hearing the signal and seeing the massive Imperial host arriving, broke their engagement. They turned and began a rapid, organized withdrawal, abandoning their siege lines and falling back toward their distant, ruined camps to the east.
For a long moment, the defenders of Whiterun simply stood there, their weapons lowered, their chests heaving as they watched the enemy pull back.
Then, a single Whiterun guardsman raised his bloodied sword into the air and screamed in triumph.
The cheer caught like wildfire.
Thousands of soldiers and militiamen erupted into absolute, deafening jubilation. Men fell to their knees, weeping with relief. Legionnaires slammed their swords, axes, and maces against their shields. The mercenaries roared, pulling the exhausted militia members into heavy embraces. They had done it. They had stood against the full fury of the Stormcloak rebellion and held the line.
High upon the outer wall, Jarl Balgruuf who saw this also drew his steel sword and thrust it high into the twilight sky, his booming voice joining the roar of his people.
Aerion, standing beside him, raised his gauntleted fist high into the air, allowing the victorious energy of the army to wash over him. His golden eyes, however, remained sharp, looking past the retreating rebels toward the arriving Imperial host.
The massive Imperial army did not immediately march into the city. Following disciplined protocols, they began sweeping into the wide, open plains along the western road, seamlessly transitioning from a march into a sprawling, fortified encampment that dwarfed the city itself.
From the front of the arriving column, a small, heavily armed detachment broke away.
A group of twenty elite Imperial cavalrymen rode at a brisk trot toward the outer walls of Whiterun. Leading the detachment was General Tullius, his golden armor gleaming dully in the fading light. Riding to his right was Legate Rikke, her face set in a grim, satisfied line. Slightly behind them rode Hadvar, the seasoned Imperial soldier, looking up at the towering stone walls with deep respect.
The cavalry detachment bypassed the cheering infantry and pulled their horses to a halt at the very base of the outer wall, looking up at the Jarl and his command staff.
Jarl Balgruuf leaned over the stone parapet, a weary but genuine grin spreading across his face.
"General Tullius!" Jarl Balgruuf called down, his voice carrying over the wind. "It took you and your legions long enough to get here! We were beginning to wonder if you got lost in the tundra!"
General Tullius looked up, a rare, dry smirk touching his lips.
"We are not gods, Jarl Balgruuf. Nor can we fly or teleport across the province," General Tullius called back, his tone carrying a deep, pragmatic respect. "We force marched more than thirty thousand men across uneven terrain. We did our absolute best. But by the looks of the carnage on these plains... it seems my Praefect has helped Whiterun stand tall against the rebels in my absence."
Aerion leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the stone. He kept his voice steady, projecting the quiet humility of a loyal citizen.
"I have helped Whiterun stand tall, General, but I am also a resident and a Thane of this hold," Aerion corrected smoothly. "It is my home. It was my absolute duty to defend these walls, even if I was not a Praefect of your Legion."
He gestured toward the massive, open gates of the city.
"But we can exchange pleasantries later. Why don't you and your command staff enter the city, General? The Jarl and I can speak with you much easier in a command tent rather than shouting over a stone wall."
General Tullius nodded in agreement. "Open the gates. We have much to discuss."
Aerion stepped back from the parapet. Now that the immediate threat of combat was over and the supreme commander of the Legion was present, it was time to finalize his elaborate deception.
He let his shoulders slump dramatically. He allowed a heavy, ragged sigh to escape his lips, swaying slightly on his feet.
"Master!" Onmund gasped, immediately rushing forward.
Eirik and J'zargo were right behind him. The three young mages, exhausted themselves, rushed to support the towering Altmer. Aerion allowed them to bear a fraction of his weight, draping one arm over Onmund's shoulder and the other over Eirik's, projecting the image of a mage whose core had been dangerously, brutally depleted by the apocalyptic magic he had wielded.
"I am alright," Aerion murmured, his voice appropriately strained. "Just... still drained that's all. No potions courk fix this."
Jarl Balgruuf looked at him with profound concern. "Get him down the stairs. Carefully."
Supported by his apprentices, Aerion descended the stone stairs to the courtyard below, followed by the Jarl, Irileth, Hrongar, and Aeloria.
They met General Tullius, Legate Rikke, and Hadvar just as they dismounted inside the gates.
When General Tullius saw the towering Praefect being physically supported by three young mages, his usually stoic expression fractured into genuine surprise. Aerion's armor was pristine, but the Altmer's skin was pale, and he was breathing heavily.
"Praefect Aerion," General Tullius stepped forward, his brow furrowed. "What in Oblivion happened to you? Were you wounded in the breach?"
"He was not wounded by a blade, General," Jarl Balgruuf answered before Aerion could speak, stepping forward with a look of absolute, unadulterated awe. "He is suffering from magical exhaustion. And frankly, it is a miracle he is still standing at all."
General Tullius frowned, looking between the Jarl and the Praefect. "Exhaustion? Can you elaborate more on that."
Jarl Balgruuf did not hesitate. With sweeping gestures and a booming voice, the Jarl of Whiterun recounted the events of the afternoon. He told General Tullius about the catapult bombardment. He described, in vivid, terrifying detail, how Aerion had stood on the walls and continuously shot massive siege boulders out of the sky with raw plasma. He recounted the charge of the armored mammoths, the summoning of forty simultaneous Daedric Atronachs, and the absolute leveling of two Stormcloak staging camps.
As Jarl Balgruuf spoke, the silence among the Imperial detachment grew deafening.
Hadvar stared at Aerion, his mouth slightly open. Legate Rikke's eyes widened in sheer disbelief, her gaze shifting to the resting, armored mammoths in the pens nearby as physical proof of the Jarl's wild tale.
General Tullius stood perfectly still, absorbing the information.
He was a hardened military logistician. He understood the value of a strong shield wall, a good supply line, and disciplined archers. Magic was a tool, usually limited to a few fireballs or healing spells. But what Jarl Balgruuf was describing was not a tool.
It was a weapon of mass destruction.
General Tullius looked at Aerion, his perspective of the Altmer had totally shifted. He suddenly realized the true, staggering magnitude of the asset he had promoted to Praefect. Aerion was not just a clever nobleman with good intelligence and a private mercenary company. He was a living, breathing military unit, capable of inflicting the damage of a thousand men in a matter of minutes.
General Tullius's eyes shifted slightly, landing on Aeloria. The Dragonborn stood quietly near the Jarl's guard, her armor battered but her presence undeniable.
General Tullius had wanted the Dragonborn for the Legion. He had known her symbolic power would have been a massive boon to the Empire. But looking at Aerion now, he felt a deep sense ruthless satisfaction. He might not have secured the legendary Dragonborn for his ranks, but he had acquired a genius, apocalyptic mage whose sheer destructive capability was already more than enough to win this war.
"Get the Praefect to a chair, and fetch him whatever potions he requires," General Tullius ordered briskly, his respect for Aerion solidifying into absolute reliance. "We need a strategy meeting. Now. My command tent is being erected as we speak."
An hour later, the massive Imperial command tent was fully operational, illuminated by the warm, flickering light of several oil lanterns. Outside, the night was filled with the sounds of forty thousand men settling into their camps, the distant groans of the wounded, and the crackle of countless watchfires.
Inside the tent, the atmosphere was incredibly focused.
Gathered around a massive, highly detailed map of Skyrim were the architects of the war. General Tullius stood at the head of the table. To his right stood Legate Rikke and Hadvar. To his left stood Jarl Balgruuf, Irileth, and Hrongar.
Seated at the far end of the table, nursing a steaming mug of spiced wine and projecting the quiet, acting as the recovering stillness of an exhausted scholar, was Aerion and beside him was Aeloria.
The dynamic of the war had definitely shifted. The arrival of the main Imperial army had changed Whiterun's situation from a desperate, bloody survival to a position of overwhelming, hopeful strength.
"The Stormcloaks have retreated to the eastern ridges," Legate Rikke reported, tracing a finger along the map. "They have lost their siege engines, and their vanguard is shattered, but they still have thousands of men entrenched in the hills. They are bleeding, but they are not broken."
"They will attempt to starve us out," Irileth says, looking down in the map that was spread in the table. "They know they cannot breach the walls with thirty thousand legionnaires holding the plains. They will encircle the city and wait."
"Then we reinforce the defensive lines," General Tullius stated pragmatically, his mind working through the logistics of a prolonged siege. "Rikke, I want the infantry rotated in shifts. Jarl Balgruuf, we will need to integrate Whiterun's supply stores with our own. If Ulfric wants to sit in the snow and wait for us to starve, we will show him that the Empire's logistics are unbreakable. We can hold this city indefinitely."
The council nodded, murmuring their agreement. A prolonged defense was the safest, most logical military doctrine.
Aerion sat quietly, sipping his wine, his golden eyes scanning the map. He listened as they discussed ration distributions, guard rotations, and defensive archery placements.
It was a perfectly sound strategy for conventional generals.
But it was the wrong move.
Aerion set his wooden mug down on the table. The hollow thunk cut through the overlapping conversations.
"Why are we discussing defensive rations, General?" Aerion asked, his voice calm, yet carrying a sharp, analytical edge that instantly commanded the room's attention.
General Tullius looked at him, frowning slightly. "Because we are under siege, Praefect. We must secure our position."
"We are under siege by a crippled army," Aerion corrected smoothly. He slowly stood up, walking around the table until he stood directly across from Tullius. He placed his hands on the edges of the map, looking at the entire province of Skyrim, not just Whiterun.
"I suggest we completely abandon the defensive strategy," Aerion stated, locking eyes with the General. "We do not sit behind these walls and wait. We turn the strategy around. Tomorrow morning, we go on the offensive. We break the siege, shatter Ulfric's southern army, and then plan to push north."
The tent went completely silent.
Hrongar blinked, looking at the Altmer as if he were insane. "Offensive? Aerion, they are dug into the hills. Charging an entrenched enemy is a massive risk. Why throw away our defensive advantage when we can bleed them safely from the walls?"
"Because Ulfric Stormcloak is not a fool, Hrongar," Aerion replied, pointing a finger directly at the wooden marker representing the massive Imperial host at Whiterun.
"Look at the overall situation of the map," Aerion instructed, forcing the council to see the grander geopolitical board. "General Tullius has just marched thirty eight thousand men out of Solitude and the western holds. The absolute vast majority of the Imperial military strength in Skyrim is currently sitting in a five mile radius around this tent."
Aerion moved his hand, tapping the holds to the north and south.
"What happens if Ulfric realizes this?" Aerion asked, his voice dropping into a grave, tactical warning. "What if the Stormcloaks decide that besieging Whiterun is no longer their primary objective? They could easily leave a fraction of their forces here in the eastern hills to pin us down, creating the illusion of a prolonged siege. While we sit here rationing sweetrolls and fortifying barricades, Ulfric could quietly move his northern armies to attack Morthal. He could march on Falkreath. He could burn the western holds to the ground while we are completely paralyzed by our own defensive mindset."
The silence in the tent deepened, shifting from skepticism to a chilling realization. "If Ulfric takes Morthal or Falkreath or even both, while the main Imperial army is essentially trapped in the center of the province, the flame of war will spread uncontrollably," Aerion continued, his logic flawless and undeniable. "We will lose the political advantage. We will lose the western supply lines. It will become a massive, multi front combat nightmare."
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 930/930
Stamina: 970/970
Magicka: 980/980 [External Capacity & Regeneration: ∞]
Level: 245
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(+3)/Frost(+2)) (Level 13/7/76), Restoration (Healing(+2)/Purify(+2)) (Level 76/98), Alteration (Level 43), Illusion (Level 62), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+2)) (Level 37/0), Persuasion(+3) (Level 28), Smithing(+1) (Level 79), 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, Mage Boots Of Weight, Master Robes Of Destruction, Staff of Jyrik Gauldurson, Gauldur Black Bow, & Dwarven Battleaxe
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: 49.21 KG / 785 KG
Septims: 252,867