User blog:Apollo42/A Throne of Ash

Hey, guys, it's been a while since I've written anything for the wiki. I don't have enough free time to RP that much anymore, so what little free time I have I've spent writing this! This is kind of a prequel story to the RP I began, "Heavy is the Head," which I believe may be returning soon. I really enjoyed all the lore I built up for it, so I thought that I might as well keep writing for my Lore.

The central character, Maerys Morgan, is a villain, or, more accurately, an opposing force to the so-called 'Royal Party' in Hith. He is the father of Rhaela and Arik, and this is the beginning of his story, an excerpt from the book 'The Definitive Truth of the Morgans.' This is part of a long series of blogs I will (hopefully) be writing.

Thank you for reading!

SunnyWuzHere (talk)

Dragons. Not Dovah, but something related. At least, that’s what most of the common people believed. The people were so confused by it, because so many of them had never seen a dragon, and the ones who had thought of them as the powerful, talking beasts of legend. But they were not. These beasts were larger, more wrathful, and allegedly less intelligent. They could grow to the size of cities, and their flames were so hot that they could melt steel and stone. And they had masters. Dragonlords who had seized the ruby throne for themselves upon the backs of their beasts. That is where our story begins, dear reader. During these years, dragonlords would rise and fall, fighting for an empty throne and for their petty pride. Beware, for not all is as it seems in these days, and may the Divines be with you if you choose the wrong side in this battle.

SunnyWuzHere (talk)

Tamriel has long been a place of turmoil. The year is 109 of the Fifth Era, and dragons have ruled for a century. But it has been a century of blood. From the Civil War to the Invasion of Black Marsh, the people of the nine provinces have long fought and died for one dragonlord or another, and it seems the time has come for more devastation.

Since the reign of the fourth Arik, it has seemed as if Tamriel has been holding its breath. With the legitimization of all four of his bastards, the reign of his trueborn son, Daenar, has been tenuous at best, weak-handed at worst.

Tarin Blackfyre is the true lord of-

“This is bullshit, Maerys. Stop reading that.”

The aforementioned boy glanced up from the newspaper, making eye contact with his older brother, taking him in for a moment. Ser Pyron Morgan, the Prince of the Topal, Heir of the Empire, would cut an imposing sight to many, but Maerys had grown up with the man. Only twenty-one years old and well-built, the man stood at well over six feet, with close-cropped hair and the high cheekbones and sharp nose of the Morgan Line. Unfortunately, he bore the straight, light brown hair and eyes and the tanned skin of his mother, a marked difference from the rest of his siblings. People whispered that the reason he was dragonless was because he wasn’t a true Morgan, but Maerys doubted that.

Maerys did have a dragon, though. Not that he felt that Pyron needed to be reminded of his ineptitude. “I think it’s something to worry about, Py. There’s tension in the air.” He shook his head, tossing his black curls. “We have to be ready if this goes south.”

Pyron stepped closer to him, looking over his shoulder at the writings on the paper. Maerys was a tall boy for his age, sixteen, with an athletic build, but Pyron was so much taller and more muscular than him. The younger brother tried not to be jealous of it, as Pyron was the better warrior, but he did take pride in the fact that he at least looked like a Morgan. As a “black” Morgan, he possessed curly black hair and green eyes, like his father. “It’s not a big deal, Maerys. I heard Uncle Aberon was going to Solstheim to convince Tarin to quiet down.”

Maerys locked eyes with Pyron. Pyron trusted Aberon Darksteel, their father’s other bastard half-brother, because he had fought with him in the War in Hammerfell. But Maerys didn’t, but he had no desire to get into an argument about the Mercenary Prince. Again. “Father should have given Tarin more. He’s a prince of the blood, and technically he comes from two royal Morgan lines. Governor of an Imperial Colony in the backwater would never be good enough for him.”

Pyron opened his mouth the respond, only to pause as he saw a messenger sprint past, clearly heading for the throne room. He frowned, looking to his younger brother. “I’m going to go check that out.” He grumbled, before jogging after the frantic courier, taking Maerys’ newspaper with him.

“See you, then.” Maerys muttered. He wasn’t upset that Pyron had left so hurriedly; no, Pyron had spent most of Maerys’ youth going from one battle to another, looking for a fight at all times, so they weren’t particularly close. The younger Prince thought there were more tactical ways to win and succeed than bludgeoning everything with a sword. No, Maerys was upset that he was being left out of another discussion.

“Idiot.” The black-haired youth grumbled, noticing that his older brother had taken his reading material. He forced himself to his feet, stretching with his hands high in the air and yawning. He had recently gone through another growth spurt, so his clothes were kind of short and tight on him, but his father had more pressing matters to attend to than his son’s pant length.

He strode through the marble halls of the Imperial Palace, figuring that he had better things to do than to sit around and mope. He was a practical boy. His steps echoed down the hallways, and he considered that it was odd that there weren’t any servants or noblemen around. He turned the corner, and slammed into something, sending him tumbling onto his ass.

A person.

A girl, more specifically. A girl of about his age, tall and thin. Pretty, in a girlish way, with dark red hair pinned back into a crown-braid, and large, almond-shaped eyes. She had a delicate jaw, and a small button nose, but her mouth was curved downwards into a frown, staring at him from across the floor. “Watch where you’re going!” She growled, standing up and dusting herself off.

Judging by the pale green Cesparian dress, and the purple color of her eyes, and the slightly pointed ears, she must have been an Underelf. Not that he cared, particularly. He was a prince, and people didn’t get to talk to him like that.

“I’m a prince. You can’t talk to me like that.” He said, brusquely, voicing his thoughts. He didn’t get up, expecting her to extend a hand to help him up.

“Whatever.” The girl said, rolling her eyes and striding past him, leaving the boy on the floor. He watched her go, his eyes taking in the sight of her hips swaying before she turned the corner. He was a teenage boy, after all, and she was a pretty girl.

Then, Prince Maerys realized that ‘his royal person’ was currently sprawled out on the floor. He coughed, shaking his head, and clambered up, grateful that no one had been around to witness that exchange.

Maerys strode out of the palace, heading for the stables. Not the horse stables, but the yard that had been converted to chain a different sort of beast.

There were five sets of heavy chains, but only two of them were being used at the moment. He ignored the beast being held back by the second, choosing to go to the first, where a sleeping dragon lay.

The beast was gargantuan in comparison to him, but small compared to the beast in the other chains. Its head was about his height, and its body was about twice his height. Overall, the dragon was magnificent. At least, to Maerys it was. The scales that covered most of its body were dark, so black that they were almost blue, but its horns, which were about the length of his arm, were a shimmering gold. The dragon lazily opened the eyelid nearest to him as it approached, revealing an eye the color of cobalt that was about the size of a dinner plate.

“Makar.” Maerys whispered, soothingly, as he moved around the beast to grab his saddle from a stand nearby. The dragon shifted against its chains, but otherwise made no move to stop him as he fitted the leather seat to the base of the creature’s neck, before pressing the release button that caused Makar’s chains to loosen and gradually fall off.

The dragon immediately forced itself to its feet, using its wings. For a second, Maerys wondered if his mount was going to take to the sky without him, but Makar turned its head to look at him, as if daring him to hop on board. Maerys didn’t need another invitation, clambering up the handholds on the saddle’s straps and fitting his legs into the legholds.

The Prince wrapped his hand around the spike in front of him, before calling, “Icaeros!” The word, in the Underelf tongue, meant ‘flight,’ and the dragon immediately responded. He took a few steps forward, before spreading his massive wings, which were about twice the length of its body. Maerys felt a rush of wind as the creature leapt into the air, flapping its wings to force itself into the sky.

As they circled higher and higher above the Imperial Palace, Maerys glanced down once in satisfaction. Few citizens of the Imperial City reacted other than to stare, having grown used to the presence of dragons over the course of their lives. It had been a long time since any dragon had been much of a danger to anyone there. At least, they never had been in any of their lifetimes. As the dragon leveled out, so high above the city that all of the people looked like ants, it took to flapping its wings only once in a while, preferring to glide and save energy.

Maerys directed the dragon to the west, wanting to take the dragon to hunt something. The dragon responded quickly, shifting its direction towards Chorrol. Maerys knew he should have been cold, so high in the air, but the magnificent beast beneath him was so hot that it kept all chill from his bones. In fact, the wind almost steamed when it touched the creature.

It was a power trip, riding a dragon. You commanded one of the greatest weapons on Tamriel, a beast that could cause devastation to thousands. You saw Tamriel in a way no one else could, from the sky. With a word, you could travel from the Imperial City to Anvil in half a day, and then torch the city. It was amazing, and scary, knowing that at only sixteen Maerys had such a power to destroy.

Maerys absentmindedly wondered if this was how gods felt, but discarded the idea. He could still die, and a god couldn’t.

The boy and his dragon flew around for a few hours, not finding too many animals that Maerys wanted to waste effort on directing Makar to attack. He also had to keep the beast away from livestock, so he eventually returned to the city, winging around it in a low circle as he got closer and closer to the ground to stable Makar.

However, as he neared the ground, he noticed a stone whiz past his head, narrowly avoiding his forehead. Shook from his thoughts, he looked to the streets below and finally heard all of the yelling that was going on beneath him.

It was a rather large crowd of peasants gathered beneath him, probably in the thousands of men and women. They carried torches, rocks, pickaxes, kitchen knives, any weapons they could get their hands on. Makar released a roar as a rock struck him above the eye, and it took all of Maerys’ strength and willpower to keep him from torching the crowd.

“Death to the Usurpers!” A woman screamed, “Long live the Blackfyre!” The crowd quickly took up the chant, smashing windows, throwing things at Maerys and Makar, mobbing poor citizens, and causing a general ruckus. There were already Legionnaires beginning to assemble, twenty at most.

The Legionnaires drew blades, in an attempt to quell the crowd, but either the mob didn’t care, or they hadn’t noticed. The Legionnaires advanced, a wall of pointy steel, and the mob finally turned on them. Women and men threw themselves at the Legionnaires, and, though they were able to hold their own for a few minutes, the Legionnaires were quickly brought down by this sea of seething rage and human rebellion.

Maerys was tempted to burn the crowd, but he knew that that could be considered treasonous, releasing dragonflame in the Emperor’s own city. Still, it was almost as if Makar read his thoughts, and the beast opened its mouth and looked as if it would release its horrible fire.

Maerys quickly made it jerk its head up, so that its flames roared into the sky. The crowd looked up in awe, before it seemed as if they got even angrier, and the destruction they were causing with their riot became even worse.

The actions troubled him, and he forced Makar to wing back towards the palace. As he descended into the stable yard, he glanced at the other dragons stabled there. His brother Aaron must have returned, as his pale dragon, Erys, was stabled beside his Uncle Bryn’s blue one, Arax, the oldest and largest. They both raised their heads and roared at Makar in greeting, Maerys’ mount returning it.

Maerys quickly chained the dragon back up, running into the Palace, towards his father’s throne room. His foots once again echoed on the marble floors, and he barely gave the Legionnaires guarding the door a second glance as he pushed open the grand, wrought-steel doors to his father’s throne room open.

The room was long, dotted by pillars bearing effigies of dragons curling around them, and above the Imperial Throne sat the skull of a magnificent and large dragon. The Ruby Throne sat on a dais, upon which his father sat. At the foot of the stairs sat a small black chair, usually occupied by the High Chancellor, but today there were numerous people surrounding the it, all of whom turned to look at him as he entered.

As he strode down the red marble towards them, he felt a strange sense of unease as he looked at them. Most of them he knew, but the fact that there were three generals there along with the members of the small Elder Council and all seven of the Dragonguard disturbed him.

The black chair was occupied by his father’s half-brother, Bryn Hassildor, a tall and lanky man with Morgan-white hair and a twisted red scar that ran from his eye to his jawline. He was extremely pale, paler than most Bretons, and he wore a white hood, giving him a slightly sinister look. His eyes raised to meet him, and Maerys slightly cringed, as he always did. The man had a tendency to make him nervous.

Beside him stood Maerys’ aunt, his father’s half-sister, Serra Hightower. Although she was only a little older than Pyron, she was already the Imperial Battlemage, and was widely considered one of the most beautiful women in Tamriel. With long blonde hair that fell to her waist, a slight figure, and the unearthly good looks of the Morgans, everyone agreed that she was stunning. Some whispered that she was secretly in love with her half-brother, Bryn, but Maerys didn’t believe that. Her eyes were her most stunning feature, as one was an icy blue and the other an emerald green. She moved anxiously as Maerys entered, glancing at his father, shifting the staff she held into her other hand.

Pyron stood by with all four of Maerys’ other brothers: Aaron, Rallan, Naeron, and Aelor. Aaron was the shortest of Maerys’ three older brothers, but he was more broad-shouldered and muscular than even Pyron. Unlike Pyron, he bore their father’s coloring as opposed to their mother’s, with the pale silver hair and lilac eyes. He was probably the most hotheaded of them. Unlike Pyron, Aaron preferred to use a hammer in battle, but he rarely got to use it as one of the only Morgans who rode a dragon, along with Maerys and Bryn. He was twenty years old, but Maerys wryly thought that he had the maturity of a thirteen year old.

Rallan, on the other hand, was the quietest out of the five boys. At eighteen, he seemed more like he was sixty. He had curly blonde hair and light blue eyes, and a thin jaw and pointed nose. He was bookish and shy, and Maerys was surprised to see him here among so many people.

Maerys’ two younger brothers, Naeron and Aelor, were twins, only eleven years old. They had not yet hit a growth spurt, and still had the height of children, and they acted like it. They were mischievous and sly, almost as smart as Maerys and Rallan. They had silvery hair and deep purple eyes, and Maerys sometimes found it difficult to differentiate between them. Today, both wore black tunics, leaving Maerys unable to tell the difference between the twins.

He glanced up to the thrones, taking in his father. His mother was notably absent. At only thirty-eight years old, his father, Emperor Daenar II, should have been in the prime of his adulthood. However, he looked weathered and there were lines in his forehead and bags under his eyes. Once a handsome man, but never a warrior, his father was slight and looked frail, probably from the stress of his life as Emperor. He had long silver hair, braided back underneath the golden crown he bore upon his brow, and his eyes shined purple in the torchlight that lit the room. He looked sad, or worn, or angry. Sometimes it was hard to tell with him.

“Father!” Maerys called, finally striding up to the group. He pushed past Pyron and Aaron, stepping onto the first step. His father leaned forward, looking slightly annoyed by the interruption to what must have been a serious meeting, if all the Morgans, along with generals, the Elder Council, and the Dragonguard were all gathered.

Serra interrupted him, frowning. “Where were you? We spent an hour searching for you!” She demanded, and Maerys barely gave her a glance as he continued, ignoring her question.

“Father, there’s a riot going on outside! They’re calling for your head!” He exclaimed, expecting the assembled group to gasp, or at least be slightly shocked. But no one moved, or looked surprised in the least, not even his younger brothers.

The Emperor leaned back, resting against the ruby throne. He shut his eyes for a moment, and Maerys was saddened to see how tired and sad his father looked. After some silence, his father finally opened his eyes and sat up, his mouth set in a grim line.

“Your uncle, Tarin, has landed in Morthal.” The Ruler of Tamriel said, quietly, and Maerys finally noticed the letter that was grasped so tightly in his father’s hand. “He’s declared himself Emperor…” He sucked in a deep breath. “And he has a dragon. At least one.”

Maerys gasped, his eyes flying open in shock. “Does this mean…?”

“Yes.” His uncle, Bryn, finally spoke, his voice sounding almost like a rasp, or nails on a chalkboard, as he directed his almost-sinister gaze at Maerys. “War has come for Tamriel.”