User blog:Apollo42/A Throne of Ash: Part II

"We need to march, Your Grace.” Serra said, slamming her hand down on the table. “I know Tarin, and no letters or emissaries or empty gestures will stop him in his desires.” The aforementioned table was a painted topography of Tamriel, complete with mountains, valleys, and even blue glass to symbolize the waters of lakes, rivers, and seas.

Emperor Daenar II glanced to his half-sister, wearily. “You will not take that tone with me, Lady Hightower. I have enough enemies as it is, and I will not be berated within my own walls.”

Serra frowned, but she did remove her hand from the map, chastised. The High Chancellor, Bryn Hassildor, turned to the Emperor, his eyes searching the man’s face. He said nothing, but the gaze was enough to send the Ruler of Tamriel’s eyes downwards, as if he was ashamed.

“I agree with her, father.” Maerys spoke up, causing everyone’s eyes to turn to him. He sat in the War Chamber with his father, aunt, and uncle, as well as General Provine of the 1st Legion, Coronis Lux of the Dragonguard, and his older brothers, Pyron and Aaron.

Maerys knew that he and Aaron were only there because they had dragons, and it was a courtesy as much as anything else. “It has been a week since he took Solitude, father. Rulers all over Tamriel are flying his banner, now.” He gestured to the table, pointing. “He has half of Skyrim. Dune, Blacklight, Rihad, Northpoint, Falinesti… The longer we wait, the bolder these people will get.”

Bryn nodded, his gaze sweeping over the young prince in such a way that it made the young man flinch, slightly, before he steeled his nerves. The alleged sorcerer turned to his liege lord, musing. “He’s right…” Maerys’ chest puffed out slightly, with pride. “…As strange as that sounds.”

Maerys frowned, and Pyron was the next one to speak up. “The next thing we know, these rebels will reach into the Heartland. We’ll have them knocking on our door.”

Daenar looked at the three of them, blinking slowly. It looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “I will send an envoy to them. We’ll stop this before it becomes any worse.”

“Father-“ Maerys said, but Daenar cut him off. “No. I am not my ancestors, I will not bring dragonfire to the realm. Tamriel has wept enough blood, and that is final.”

“Father, you’re being weak!” Maerys shouted, slightly stunned himself by the ferocity of his own words. “This is exactly the temperament that got us into this mess!”

Daenar leaned back in his chair at the head of the table, his eyes meeting Maerys’. “Leave us.” He ordered, and the other members of this War Council trickled out, little by little, silently. Serra and Pyron shot Maerys worried looks, Bryn glared at him, and the rest avoided his eyes.

Finally, it was just Daenar and Maerys in the room, their eyes locked in a slight battle of wills. Maerys finally looked away, unnerved, and his father spoke. “You will never call me weak again in front of my council.” He said, coolly. “I am not my father. I am choosing the lives of the smallfolk over my pride.”

Maerys opened his mouth to speak, but Daenar cut him off with a raised hand. “I am aware of the gravity of the situation, and I understand that this may lead to war. And I am preparing for this eventuality.”

“How?” Maerys demanded. As a teenager, he was indignant at being rebuked, especially when all of those important, older people outside knew exactly what was going on.

“The High Chancellor and I are ensuring the loyalty of some of the strongest houses.” Daenar said, resting his head on his hand, looking exhausted. “You will ferry Rallan to Wayrest, Naeron to Taneth, and Aelor to Daggerfall come first light.”

The fourthborn prince frowned, finding himself confused. “Why are you sending us all away?”

Daenar looked down at the map, not meeting his son’s eyes. “Rallan is to marry the young Queen of Wayrest, and Naeron and Aelor will be fostered with the Royal Families in Daggerfall and Taneth. You will return promptly for your own wedding.”

The Prince glared down at his father, the Emperor, the Lord Ruler of Tamriel, allegedly the most powerful man in the realm. “And who will I be marrying, Your Majesty?”

Daenar seemed almost ashamed, and it took him a few moments to speak. “Dyanna Harin, princess of Cespar.”

Maerys almost turned red with rage, baring his teeth as he snapped at his father. “You want me to go off and marry some barely noble elf, live in her backwater country-“

“My lord.” A voice behind them interrupted, sounding like the voice of a young girl. Maerys glared at his father for another moment, before turning around to see who it was. His vision almost immediately turned red as he was struck across the face with something, hard.

When the pain cleared, he looked up to see who it was, his green eyes meeting purple ones. It was the girl from the week before, although her hair now hung loose around her shoulders. She was rubbing her hand, and it was plain to see by her bruised knuckles that she had just punched him right across the face.

“Speak about my home, and my family, like that again, and one punch will be the least of your troubles.” The girl said, lowly, anger written in every feature of her face.

“Maerys, allow me to introduce the Princess Dyanna. I can see that you two will get along famously.” Emperor Daenar said, his voice oozing with sarcasm and-was that glee?

The prince turned on his heel, enraged by the whole ordeal. First, he had been insulted, and then struck. He made it to the door, and opened it on Bryn and Serra, the Imperial Battlemage clutching a letter tightly in her pretty hand.

Maerys stepped back as they stormed in, their faces grave. “Your Majesty,” Bryn Hassildor began, his voice sounding even more tight than usual. “Count Aravec Argon of Bruma has just raised the White Dragon Banner.”

Daenar put his head down into his hands, and Dyanna looked stunned to suddenly be in the midst of a war council, but Serra jumped in, continuing. “Rumor has it that the Counts of Cheydinhal and Kvatch mean to do the same. The war has come to Cyrodiil, brother.”

“We must make an example of them, Your Grace.” Bryn said, almost pleadingly. He walked around the table and placed a single hand on the Emperor’s shoulder. “Emperor, if we bring an army to Bruma, the other cities in Cyrodiil will be cowed. No one will dare raise the White in the heartland again.”

Daenar looked to him, considering this statement for a few moments of tense silence. “No, Lord Hassildor, my decision stands. We will not bring war to Tamriel until after I have spoken with our half-brother.”

Maerys frowned, opening his mouth to express the idea that, perhaps, Aaron or Bryn could take their dragons to Bruma and intimidate the Count into surrendering and raising the Black Dragon, but Serra and Bryn looked to him before he could speak. The both of them were telepaths of significant strength, something that was becoming rarer and rarer in the Dynasty. Serra gave him a look of disapproval, as if she didn’t want him to press the issue at the moment, but Bryn’s gaze was far more unreadable.

Either way, Maerys shut up. “You are all dismissed. Leave me to my thoughts.” Daenar stated, resting his head back against the chair. The hour was getting late, and his father was fatigued. Dyanna left first, almost running out of the hall, and Bryn and Serra went a moment after. Maerys followed hurriedly, to talk to them, but the moment he went into the hall it seemed as if the pair had disappeared.

“Damned sorcerers.” He growled, deciding that the best he could do at the moment was to head off to his room and go to bed.

“You’re overextending yourself, Ved!” Pyron exclaimed, knocking the boy into the dirt. They stood in the training yard of the Imperial Palace, in a ring of dirt. It was late, and the moon was high in the sky.

The boy at his feet was a boy of nineteen, by the name of Vedin Darkholme. He was Pyron’s one-time whipping boy, and longtime friend. He stood at about Maerys’ height, with cropped black hair and the dark eyes of most Imperials. He was not a great looker, like the Morgans, but he managed to hold his own with a chiseled jaw, full lips. The one thing that marred his features was his nose, which looked like it had been broken more than once, probably in service to Pyron.

“Why are we training in the middle of the night, again, Py?” Vedin asked, shortly, casually reaching for the sword that had been knocked from his hands and landed a foot away from his sprawled out body.

“We’re going to war, Ved, you need to be prepared.” Py said, offering his hand to the lowborn boy. He took it, lazily getting to his feet. From where they stood, their faces were only inches apart, until Pyron stepped away.

“Again.” He ordered, and the boy lunged at him. Pyron stepped to the side, as if put Vedin off balance, but the boy anticipated it, quickly switching directions and tackling the Prince, sending them both sprawled into the dirt.

Vedin rolled off, laughing, and the Prince began to chuckle, too, finding Vedin’s joy infectious. The pair lay, side-by-side, staring up at the moon, which rested high above the towering spires of the palace.

Their laughter eventually faded, and they lay in comfortable silence for a few moments, before Vedin spoke up. “Are you scared, Py? Going off to war again?”

Pyron sighed, knowing his friend was referring to his own service during the War of Shifting Sands, in Hammerfell, the year before. “Not really. We have dragons this time, and nothing can beat a dragon.”

Vedin shifted, rolling over onto his stomach. “Pyron, you’re going to bring me with you this time, right? I don’t think I can spend another year worrying if you’re going to live or die, fighting in some stupid battle.”

“I’ll be fine, Vedin.” Pyron said, keeping his eyes trained on the moon. “I can handle my own on the battlefield.”

“All it takes is one arrow, Py.” Vedin said, softly, and Pyron finally turned onto his side, locking eyes with the boy. The boy’s eyes showed how worried he was for his friend, and Pyron felt his heart stir at how the boy was reacting to him going to fight.

“You’ll come with me this time, Ved.” The Prince said, not breaking the gaze. The silence lasted for a few moments, and Pyron thought he saw Vedin shift slightly closer to him. Or maybe he was imagining it, but he did not look away.

Until Pyron saw something in his peripheral vision, and he looked up to the sky. Was it his imagination, or was that a dragon flying across the moon, away from the city?

Maerys tossed and turned, finding himself unable to sleep. His father was making them look weak and stupid, by not marching on Skyrim, and sacking Bruma. It was foolish, and it would turn most of Tamriel to the side of his uncle, Tarin, who looked like the winning side at the moment.

Why shouldn’t Maerys do something about it?

He shot up in bed, throwing his covers off of him. His idea had some weight to it. If Maerys took his dragon to Bruma to intimidate the Count…

No, his father would never allow it.

A thought sprung into his brain, and Maerys was shocked by how sinister it sounded. It was his voice, he thought, but it didn’t really sound like him. Or maybe it was just his worst impulses. Why can’t you go tonight? He thought. No one can stop you.

Maerys nodded, finding himself agreeing with the train of thought. He stood up, striding to his closet and drawing his riding leathers out. He hesitated slightly, before steeling himself and slipping them on. He put on high leather boots and headed out, his boots squeaking slightly on the marble floor.

As he turned his first corner, he was surprised to find the two guards who normally patrolled this hallway fast asleep. Either his father really needed to hire some new protectors, or some divinity was looking out for him that night.

He slipped through the double doors to the dragonyard, finding himself cringing slightly at the noise the old doors made as they slammed shut. He strode through the yard, swiveling his head to see if there were any Legionnaires were about, but there were none.

All the dragons shook awake at the noise as he walked towards them, and all but Makar looked slightly irritated at his approach. Of course, Maerys avoided the two other beasts, only heading towards his own mount.

He stopped into a small hut at the end of the row, finding himself staring at a few sets of Dragonrider’s armor. The suits were made of black steel, wrought and enchanted in such a way to help defend against fire and arrows, after the Dragon’s War all those years ago.

Maerys strapped himself into a set that fit him, struggling slightly to get it on by himself. He was a prince, raised in the Imperial Palace. It wasn’t often that he put on real armor, let alone by himself. But he knew he would need it, if his intimidation went south.

Erys growled as he exited the building, but he ignored that beast. He had his own.

Makar looked at him, giving him a look that almost spoke of a dare, if a dragon could give a look like that. Maerys hurried himself in wrapping the saddle around the beast’s body, as quickly and as quietly as he possibly could. He had no desire to be caught, especially doing something that his father could consider treason.

He pulled the lever, and the chains began to slide off of the gargantuan creature, leaving it room to stretch out its wings. Maerys clambered on as quick as he possibly could, fitting his legs into the straps at the sides of the saddle, to keep him from flying off.

“Icaeros.” He murmured, and the dragon began to move. The Prince glanced to the Imperial Palace once more, catching a glimpse of the pale man standing at one of the balconies, looking down upon him.

Bryn Hassildor raised a hand, as if in farewell, and the Prince was off, shooting into the sky.

It took them less than a few hours to reach Bruma. Dragons were fast creatures, and Maerys had pushed Makar to the limits of its speed.

The town spread out before him in the Jeralls, displaying its Nordic architecture. Most of the homes were built of wood, unlike the Imperial City, which was comprised of a lot of stone and marble. The Temple of Talos dominated the skyline, standing in the center of the city, and the Count’s Keep was the second largest building, to the north of the city. It was a small place, compared to most of the other major cities in Cyrodiil, housing only about one hundred and twenty thousand men and women.

As Maerys and Makar approached, the guardsmen on the walls hurried to ring the bells and alarms, but there was not much else they could do as the dragon and its rider flew right over the walls. Men and women were sleepily exiting their homes to see what was going on, and they gaped in awe as he flew overhead. Unlike the denizens of New Imperia, these people had most likely never seen a dragon, and they were an awe-inspiring sight. And then the screams began, as people began to worry about what it was doing here.

Maerys had Makar circle the Temple of Talos once, twice, three times, to give the Count time to prepare, before he made for the Castle.

He landed in the central courtyard of the Castle, Makar being so heavy that the force of his landing causing dust and snow to fly up in every direction. The guardsmen quickly rushed to surround them, building up a wall of bristling steel as they drew swords, axes, and halberds to block his approach. Most of their hands were shaking, however, never having had to face a beast of such a tremendous size.

“I’m here to speak with your liege lord.” Maerys called, removing his dragon-helm. He did not dismount, however. “By the order of His Royal Highness, Prince Maerys of House Morgan, Prince of Tamriel, Lord of Stirk, and Rider of the Dragon Makar.”

An old man, wearing silk sleeping garments and a fur robe, briefly appeared on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, glaring down at him. They met eyes for a moment, but the man seemed to grasp that, had the Emperor sanctioned this meeting, there would not have been a dragon involved. He disappeared, returning inside.

“His excellency, Count Aravec Argon of County Bruma, the Lion-Crowned, has declined to meet with you.” The Captain of the Guard said, stepping forward. “Return to your palace, Princeling, and do not return.”

Maerys narrowed his eyes, dropping his dragon-helm onto the floor of the courtyard. It hit the ground with a thump and a rattle, startling some of the guards. “His Excellency has chosen the White, then?” He asked, in a dangerously emotionless voice.

“He has, bastard!” One of the guardsmen called out, and Maerys turned his green-eyed gaze upon the man. It was the middle of the night, and it was difficult to make out a face, but the Prince eventually found the man, a young man, barely more than a boy, by the looks of it.

The Captain shot the man a glare, before looking back to the Prince, and his dragon. “He has, Your Lordship, as have we all.”

Maerys nodded, turning to face forward, resting his hand against the black scales of his beast, Makar. “Let this be the hill he dies on, then.” He said, quietly, although the silence in the courtyard caused his voice to carry to all of the guardsmen. “Icaeros.” The Prince said, and Makar flapped his great wings, once, twice, taking them into the air. The wind that was caused by his take off caused the men around them to stumble away.

Maerys once again directed Makar to circle around the great spire of the Temple of Talos, and he took that time to gaze upon the city. To the west, there were manses and keeps, for the richest members of the city. To the east was the merchant shops and homes, as well as the market, and to the south were the slums. He knew, of course, that only the noblemen were likely to have been involved in the actual declaration for the White, but he had a plan.

He circled Makar around for a few more minutes as he mused, giving people time to escape to the caves and sewers, if that was their desire. Many of the men and women in the slums had easier access to the sewers, but the merchantmen and nobles had basements, at the least.

Prince Maerys of House Morgan, the first of his name, finally stopped circling the black dragon, letting him hang in the sky above the Temple. He looked down on the city. It was so silent at night, and there was a kind of beauty in this Mountain-City.

“Phaethos.” He murmured, quietly, and the dragon reared its head back. There was a rumble, at the base of its throat, almost like the sound of thunder. And then, it opened its gaping maw, and dark blue flames came roaring out.

The wooden houses of the city caught fire quickly, as Maerys circled the city. He made sure to spread it as evenly as possible, so damage was inflicted upon all its denizens, but he spared the slums from the worst of it. The Keep and the Temple he avoided entirely.

The shrieks as people were roasted in dragonflame brought the prince no joy, as he thought they would. He was, after all, rescuing his family and saving them from more encroachments into the Heartland. Maerys felt empty, though. The deaths of so many people did not excite him, nor did he feel guilty. It was a necessary evil.

Already, people were desperately trying to put out the flames, and guards were running onto the walls of the city, drawing bows and loosing arrows at him. The distance spared him from most of the bolts, causing them to fall into the city and upon its denizens. Maerys did not particularly enjoy that, and he flew Makar towards the city’s walls.

“Phaethos.” He ordered, again, and the beast released its horrible fire upon the walls. The force of the blast was so powerful that, on top of incinerating the archers, it actually tore down a section of the battlements.

With that taken care of, Maerys made Makar fly higher, into the night sky, so that he could survey the damage he had done.

The city was in chaos, to say the least. Men and women swarmed like aunts through the streets, desperately trying to avoid the flames. Guardsmen tried at first to calm the people and direct them around, but they too became panicked fairly quickly and joined the crowds. A few had begun to notice that only the Count’s Castle had been scared, and, judging by the anger they had begun to display, they were unhappy about it.

By sparing the Count’s Castle, making him exempt from the devastation, Maerys had consciously turned the hearts of the people against him. He had declared for the White, after all, not them. Why should he be saved from the flames he had brought down on them?

If Maerys didn’t decide to kill the Count for his treason, the commonfolk surely would, in retribution.

Thus, in one fell swoop, he had intimidated the Count, tore down his city, left them vulnerable to any invading armies, and convinced the people that it was a bad idea to turn against men who rode dragons.

He smiled, slightly, and directed Makar back to the Count’s Keep. He circled the building once, twice, three times, and then leveled himself and Maerys out in front of the highest balcony of the castle, where the Count and his family were currently watching the destruction of their city as the fires consumed them all. The Count would be ruling over a city of ash, if Maerys decided to continue to torch the city.

“Do I have your attention now?” The Prince called, as the Count gaped at him in awe.