Chapter Text
They had enough troubles in Dragonsreach when news of the massacre at Helgen came, but fate had never cared if Irileth and Balgruuf were already burdened. The news came not from one of Whiterun’s own soldiers, nor a soldier from Helgen, but rather from a half-starved refugee woman in shabby robes, her accent strange and her eyes huge with fear as she recalled the day Helgen fell.
“It was a dragon, Jarl Balgruuf, this I swear on my father’s axe. It came with fire, and tore down the walls of that town like a child toppling its blocks.”
Irileth glanced aside at Balgruuf, read the line of his shoulders and the flash of his eyes and knew he was wondering, as she was wondering, how could they defend the hold against a nightmare from the sky? How could they manage this, on top of a war practically at their doorstep?
Irileth watched her jarl take two steadying breaths and square his shoulders, already accepting this new burden without question. It was what he did, what he had always done, and so Irileth in her turn readied herself to send some of her men down to Riverwood.
“There is another thing you could do for me, suitable for someone of your talents–”
Irileth left Balgruuf with the Helgen woman, made her way down through the districts to the guard house, taking the measure of the soldiers she had available and trying to calculate who they could spare. Between the war and skirmishes with bandits, the Guard of Whiterun was already stretched painfully thin.
Ultimately, Irileth chose old Grelkar Ragnarsson and Titus and Beow Strongfist as her task force. It was laughably small in the face of a beast of legend, and Irileth did not blame young Beow for his fear, but she trusted Ragnarsson for he had marched beside her and Balgruuf through the horror of the Great War without flinching. He was the quintessential sergeant, skilled at turning young idiots into proper soldiers, and she knew if anyone could see the people of Riverwood to safety, it was him.
“I don’t expect the three of you to fight off a dragon by yourselves, but I do expect you to do your duty.” Irileth said, leveling a stern look at Beow that had the lad dropping his eyes in shame. Ragnarsson nodded once, face set in determination, and gave Irileth a proper Legionnaire’s salute.
“Of course, Housecarl. We’ll keep Riverwood safe, you can count on it. Let’s get moving, lads, we’re wasting daylight yapping here!” he barked, turning on his heel to retrieve his kit from the guard house. The twins fell in behind him, and Irileth tried to swallow her unease. Three soldiers she could ill-afford against a dragon, three more empty spots on Whiterun’s walls and in the patrol schedule. She was growing tired of making these terrible calculations.
When she returned to Dragonsreach to report back to Balgruuf, she found he had retreated to the war room and that he’d turned the Helgen refugee over to Farengar of all creatures.
“He’s been pestering me for a soldier to go and retrieve that artifact of his. It seems more pressing now, and I thought the young woman might be helpful.” Balgruuf explained, his mouth bent wryly.
“Splendid. She will be dead within a fortnight.” Irileth said blandly, arms crossed over her chest. Farengar had lost them a good young warrior before with his wild goose chases, and she expected much the same fate would befall the poor refugee. Balgruuf gave a single, tired chuckle, a sound without humor, and passed his hand over his face.
“Let us hope not. It is in a barrow, this artifact, but at least it’s out of reach of soldiers or dragonfire. And the girl was canny enough to escape Helgen.”
“The gods love a raw recruit. I doubt she will be so lucky a second time.”
“Cheerful. Tell me, woman, who did you select for your long-awaited taskforce?”
Irileth debriefed her jarl on her choices, reiterating for the hundredth time the need for a more aggressive approach to recruitment for the Guard. This sparked the same tired argument with Balgruuf, who refused to conscript his people as the Empire once conscripted the folk of Skyrim in the Great War.
“I remember what it was to have no choice in that matter, Irileth. I will not inflict the same on our people, at least not until it is truly dire.”
Irileth, who had signed on with the Legion with her eyes open and nothing but ashes where her heart ought to be, merely shook her head in exasperation. She wanted to tell him that waiting until it was dire would likely be far too late, that they needed to shore up their ranks now and at least the people of the hold would be alive to resent their conscription…but he was tired already, the proud line of his back bent under the weight of all his cares, and Irileth kept her tongue.
And so it was that they fell into a new uneasy rhythm for a fortnight or so, Irileth at Balgruuf’s side as ever, both of them waiting and watching the skies. Things were deceptively peaceful, setting Irileth on edge, when one of the lads from the Western patrol came sprinting into Dragonsreach with news of a dragon nearly at their doorstep.
It was almost a relief, if Irileth were to be honest with herself. Weeks of waiting for the next blow to come, and here it was at last. She sent the scout on ahead to alert Balgruuf and the rest of the danger and sent orders down to her men at the guardhouse to muster at the gates. That done, she too raced to reach Balgruuf, running strategies and assets through her mind and wondering if any of it would be enough.
Irileth stopped in the doorway of Farangar’s workroom, whistling to draw his attention from the two women crowded around his desk– a stranger, and the refugee woman from Helgen, alive and well after all.
“Farengar, you need to come at once. A dragon’s been sighted by the Western tower, the jarl will need your counsel.”
She paused as the wizard lit up with excitement, eyeing the refugee with a critical eye. Small, wide-eyed, with a plump physique better suited to pushing papers than swinging a blade, the young woman did not inspire confidence in Irileth. The field was no place for such a soft civilian…and yet she had come out alive from Helgen, when hardened Imperial soldiers had died in their dozens.
“You had better come as well.” she said grudgingly, beckoning the refugee forward. The lass came readily, though her fear showed plainly on her face, and Irileth grunted in approval. The girl had guts, at least, and Irileth had made fine soldiers out of less.
Irileth led the way up the staircase to the war room at the head of her merry troupe of fools, swearing quietly to herself as her left knee twinged in angry warning. She would deal with that later, when her city was not being threatened by Oblivion-sent flying lizards. Just beyond the map table, Balgruuf was debriefing the terrified young soldier who had brought the news to her. He had a hand on the lad’s shoulder, steadying him, setting his scattered mind to rights with just a few words. (Balgruuf had a gift with that, making others feel at ease; he’d had it even as a young stripling out on his first campaign, thirty years back. Irileth supposed it had worked on her better than most, seeing as she had followed him back to Skyrim.)
“Good work, son. We'll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest, you’ve earned it.” her Jarl said, calm and steady as ever. He turned from the scout and looked to her, with that steel in his gaze that she knew all too well.
“Irileth, you’d better gather some guardsmen and get down there.” Balgruuf said gruffly, giving an order that somehow was not an order when said to her. Irileth touched her fist to her chest and nodded deeply.
“I’ve already sent word for my men to muster at the gate.”
“Good, do not fail me.”
“Of course, my Jarl.”
It was a bit of an old joke, those words, one whose origins they had both lost over the years. It had many meanings tucked into it– good luck, do not be stupid – and Irileth bit down on her answering smile. Balgruuf then turned to Farengar and forbade him to accompany Irileth’s party, for which she was deeply grateful; this would be tricky enough without having to work around the wizard’s alarming lack of self-preservation. Irileth spun on her heel and made for the stairs once more, waving for the Helgen girl to follow her.
“Irileth! One last thing.”
Irileth looked back over her shoulder, eyebrows arched impatiently. She was not precisely eager to go fight a dragon, but nor was she fond of drawing things out. Balgruuf fixed her with a glare she was sure he thought was very frightful, with much beetling of brows and a steep frown.
“This is not a death or glory mission, woman. I need to know what we’re dealing with, nothing more.” he growled, and she knew in her bones he was referring once again to the incident with the mammoth, which the nagging old fusspot had never once let go of in the thirty years since it occurred.
“Of course, milord. I am the very soul of caution.” Irileth intoned gravely, offering another salute before finally being loosed from her tether. With the refugee dogging her steps, Irileth left Dragonsreach and made her way down to the guardhouse, where six of her finest were already awaiting her. There was no easy way to tell the lads she was asking them to fight a bloody great flying lizard, so Irileth just set it out for them:
“Here is our situation: there is a dragon attacking the Western Watchtower, and we are to confront it.”
The soldiers stared at her for a heartbeat, then all at once burst out with nervous chatter and curses. Irileth narrowed her eyes at them until they shut their mouths, putting the full force of her will behind her next words.
“That’s right, a dragon! I do not care who sent it, or what hole it crawled from, all I know is that it has made the mistake of attacking Whiterun.”
“But Housecarl…how can we fight a dragon?” Gunnar asked, sounding more like a frightened boy than a man with a husband and grown sons. The others had that same fear in their eyes, and Irileth could hear the thundering of their racing hearts even in the clamor of the street. She let herself soften, just slightly, for a good molakhan knew when to bend, lest their warriors break.
“That is a fair question. None of us have seen a dragon, let alone met one in battle. But we are honorbound to fight it, for the sake of our city. This thing is threatening our homes, our families. Could you call yourself Nords if you ran from this monster, left me to fight it alone?”
A Nord’s honor was their dearest treasure, Irileth had learned, even above gold or land. It was her surest tool when leading Nords, the one thing that never failed to rally them, and it did not fail her now. There was a spark among her men, catching like wildfire amid dry grass, and they all stood straighter, even the woman from Helgen.
“No, Housecarl!”
Irileth had them now, bound to her in the ancient way of the warband where a pack of warriors became one beast with dozens of hands and a single, purposeful mind. She grinned, sword-sharp, and went for the kill.
“Think of it, men; the first dragon seen in Skyrim since the last age. The glory of killing it is ours, if you’re with me. Now what do you say? Shall we go kill us a dragon?”
Her warriors raised their voices in wordless roar of assent, and the Helgen girl thrust her axe into the air as she added her shout to the battle-cry. Irileth felt herself kindle with the anticipation of battle, her blood running hot.
“Let’s move out!”
Irileth led the charge out the city gates, her warriors hard on her heels, and she made sure not to press them too hard; speed would be worthless to them if they were spent by the time they reached the tower. She wished there was time enough to get the horses saddled, but that was a luxury they could ill afford now.
They ran like a pack of hounds over the tundra, and Irileth did not have to look back to know every eye was turned nervously up to the sky the closer they got to the Western tower. She, too, scanned the horizon, and strained her ears for the thunder of huge wings; this was to be the first dragon any of them had faced down, and only a fool left fear behind entirely. Despite that uncertainty, she knew these men, and knew her own skill; if dragons held any gods dear, the one at the tower ought to start appealing to them now.
The Western tower gradually came into view over the horizon, the silhouette obscured by a haze of smoke and fire. As they drew near Irileth was appalled to see the tower was torn open, the massive stones scattered over the ground as though they weighed nothing at all.
Like children’s blocks, Irileth recalled, and she fought to repress a shiver of dread. Behind her, the guardsmen muttered nervously among themselves. Irileth squared her shoulders and called back to them, aiming to stamp out any chance of the men undermining themselves.
“I know it looks bad, but we’ve got to figure out what happened and where that dragon got to. Spread out, look for survivors; we need to know what we’re dealing with.”
The guards began to fan out among the slabs of charred stone, and Irileth drew her sword as she approached the gutted tower itself. She was dimly aware that the refugee woman had her bow out and was staring around with wide, frightened eyes; she gestured for the lass to stay close, sparing a moment of pity. If Irileth and her soldiers had not asked for this, then this woman certainly had not.
“No, get back! That thing is still out there somewhere, it carried off Hroki and Tor when they tried to run for it!”
Irileth spun around at the desperate scream and saw a guardsman waving wildly from the inside of the tower, his fear stark on his face.
“Where is the dragon, guardsman? Quickly now!”
“I don’t know, it–sweet Kynareth, here it comes again!” he shrieked. The refugee screamed in terror behind Irileth, but the noise was swallowed utterly by the deafening scream coming from on high. She lifted her head in time to see the sun obliterated by massive wings that seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon, bearing a nightmarish form of spines and scales and flame.
“ Get down! ” Irileth roared, and she shoved the Helgen woman into the relative safety of the tower as the dragon soared over them, spewing fire and acrid smoke. Irileth swung her bow from her back and knocked an arrow to the string in a heartbeat, tracking the beast’s path through the sky.
“Get ready, it’s coming round again! Make every arrow count!”
At her signal, her men sent a hail of arrows into the belly of the dragon as it blazed by. Irileth drew a deep breath and called up a crackle of lightning in her off-hand, waiting for the beast to come back for seconds before loosing the wrath of the storm at their terrible foe.
The spell flew true, taking the dragon directly in the chest, but the beast did not even slow . The magic sank into the scales, almost as if the dragon were absorbing Irileth’s attack into itself, and the sight made dread curdle in the pit of Irileth’s belly.
Her men could not afford for her to lose her cool, and Irileth swung her bow from her back and knocked an arrow in time to prick the dragon’s wing as it looped around the top of the watchtower, spewing flame onto whatever poor bastard was up there.
“The wings, bring the bastard down!” Irileth roared, and for a moment the sun was obscured as her men fired countless arrows into the dragon’s fiercely beating wings. It screamed and fell away from the tower, swinging its massive head around to fix murderous eyes on them all. For a moment Irileth was transfixed by the horrific beauty of the thing, vast and impossible there in the sky, and in that heartbeat of wonder the dragon roared and dove straight for her.
Irileth threw herself to the side to avoid the terrible raking claws and yelled when her left knee finally wrenched and gave way under her, sending Frost-Tongue skittering over the bloodied grass. Agony bolted up her leg and into her hip, refusing her every attempt to rise again.
“Not bloody now !” she snarled.
The ground heaved underfoot and knocked her prone; the dragon was there , looming over her, close enough to smell hot blood and sulfur from its maw like a fell wind. It opened its terrible jaws, baring an armory of fangs, and Irileth understood then that she would die this day.
“Oi, over here!”
Overhead Irileth heard the song of a bowstring thrumming, and the dragon hissed as an arrow pricked it beneath the eye. The beast swung its massive head around to meet its attacker, and Irileth saw the woman from Helgen perched on the collapsed tower wall, waving her upthrust bow wildly.
“Come and kill me, if you can! Du bekar !”
The little idiot .
Snarling, Irileth gained her feet and dove for her sword while the dragon shrieked a challenge into the acrid air. Its flank rose up beside her like a wall of flesh, unguarded save for its rough hide; the dragon opened its maw wide, and Irileth saw fire crackling at the back of its throat.
Irileth braced herself, then rammed her sword between two overlapping scales on the beast’s belly, her arm going numb to the shoulder from the force of the impact. The beast howled, a sound that threatened to rupture her ears, and black blood spurted from its reeking flesh onto Irileth’s face. She grinned, her head roaring with the battle-joy that had served her in countless fights.
It could bleed , and that meant it could die .
Roaring in triumph, Irileth ripped her blackened blade from the dragon’s flesh and reared back to deliver a second blow to the joint of its wing, blade biting deeply to the bone.
“You won’t flee from us, damn you!”
The scaly fetcher could shrug off Irileth’s lightning bolts like they were nothing, but it was still gratifyingly vulnerable to her sword. She jammed her foot into the wound she had carved into the dragon’s side and scaled the wall of scalding-hot flesh, hacking hard at the wing as the dragon shrieked and tried to snap at her.
“For Whiterun!”
Irileth’s men came charging over to reinforce her, blades flashing in the smoke as they drew the beast’s fury from her. Screaming, swearing, they fell on the dragon like hounds on a downed stag, hungry for the blood-letting.
“Watch its feet, you fools, it can still crush you!” Irileth bawled, twisting away from the now badly maimed wing. She slid down the dragon’s side as easily as a child sledding on new snow, diving away from the thrashing tail and crushing claws. The dragon bellowed in fury and reared back to flame them all–then jerked, choked, and the flames died between its teeth.
“ Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu !”
Through the chaos of bodies, Irileth spied the Helgen woman down in front of the dragon dragging her axe free from the wide, wet cleft she had just hacked into the beast’s throat. She was screaming in that odd language of hers, but Irileth knew a battle cry when she heard one. The wound sprayed the lass in black blood from hip to hairline, and only her eyes and teeth showed through the muck. She was wild with fear, wilder still with fury, and before Irileth could shove her way though to stop her the Helgen woman took a running leap and hurled herself onto the dragon’s snaking neck.
“What in Oblivion is she–”
“Holy shit, she’s–”
“Look out!”
The woman was thoroughly gone in the battle-joy, screaming and laughing the shrill, jagged-edged laugh of the insane as she brought the axe down on the dragon’s neck again and again, flecks of blood and hide flying in the fury of her blows. She was as fierce and free as a wolf on the tundra, the soft little newcomer, and nothing would shake her from her prey now; the dragon thrashed in agony and still the Helgen woman clung on with her legs, laughing and laughing until her axe finally bit through muscle and bone and the dragon’s blood came like a black flood.
Its head lolled obscenely, and Irileth saw that the woman had nearly chopped straight through its serpentine neck; the beast reared up like a tower, feeling its death, and the light went suddenly from those terrible eyes and what fell before them was only so much meat and foul hot blood.
It was dead.
In silence Irileth and her men stared at the monster, and at the mad little woman who had struck the death blow. They looked at their hands, their weapons, all of them stunned that they had killed a dragon. It was Unferth who broke first, whooping and pouncing on Caius, and that set the rest of the boys off. Irileth allowed herself a grin as her back was pounded and her ears assaulted with the shouting and singing of her men, relief cool and sweet as mountain water filling her up.
It was dead, it was done . Whiterun was safe.
“Divines, look! ”
The shout drew Irileth’s attention back to the hulk of the dragon, and before her bewildered eyes the thing began to glow like an ember, a great roaring wind whipping around them all as the sky filled with storm light and the corpse began to crumble into ash.
“Get back, get back!”
She urged them all a few paces back, away from the corpse and whatever new devilry had come. She could just see the Helgen woman standing at the heart of the strange stormlight, her eyes blazing and her hair whipped by the wind. For a moment, just a moment, she seemed like the spirit of fire itself, bright and fell and beautiful.
In a heartbeat the dragon was nothing but a tumble of smoldering bones, and its slayer stood stunned beside them. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, sticking to her bloodied face, but for a moment Irileth swore the woman seemed to glow .
“I don’t believe it! You’re…you’re Dragonborn!”
The stunned quiet was broken by Unferth rushing to the Helgen woman, pelting her with questions and demands, and very quickly he brought the rest of the lads into some asinine discussion involving stories and Tiber Septum and shouting.
Apparently, what just happened indicated that the outlander was some kind of Nordic folk hero . Irileth took a moment to pinch the bridge of her nose, feeling the beginnings of a migraine building behind her eyes, and she used the distraction of her men to down one of the minor healing potions she carried.
Her left knee stopped its agonized throbbing, if only just, and the after-battle shaking subsided. Irileth rolled her shoulders to ease the tension and took a few steadying breaths. Time to deal with this Nordic nonsense.
“You’re awfully quiet, Irileth. What do you think?” Caius asked, already smiling wryly. The old badger knew damn well what Irileth thought of Nords and their heroes-of-old. Irileth scowled as she joined the others, kicking at the long bones of the dragon’s leg with a grunt of satisfaction.
“Hmph. Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums on matters you don't know anything about. Here's a dead dragon, and that's something I definitely understand. Now we know we can kill them.”
Again Irileth kicked at the dragon bones, eyeing them up to see if they might find something useful to do with them. Armor, perhaps? Soup stock?
“I don’t need a hero from a myth; someone who can put down a dragon is more than enough for me.”
With this said Irileth ignored the continued Nord natterings entirely, turning instead to toss a spare rag to the outlander and nod at the other woman’s filthy weapon. The girl startled, clearly lost in her own thoughts, and fell to wiping blood from the axehead. Though she had the look of a merchant or scholar, the young woman handled the weapon with familiarity. Irileth clapped the new-made dragonslayer on the back, her opinion thoroughly revised. As shy and unassuming as she was, the Helgen woman had more guts than most of the soldiers Irileth had marched with in the Great War.
“You’re a menace with that axe, Dragonborn or no, but I’m glad you’re on our side.” she said jovially, in tearing good spirits. The young woman staggered under Irileth’s hand, but glanced up to give her a wide smile under the muck of battle. It was lopsided and dimpled, a grin that creased the corners of her eyes and made the whole of her glow with goodwill. For a moment, Irileth stared at her and her sweet smile.Then she sheathed Frost-Tongue and rolled her neck, already tallying up the damages in her head.
“Right. You head back to Whiterun with the lads, and tell the Jarl what’s happened. I’m taking command here for a few days, to see if we can’t salvage the outpost.” she said briskly, making for the base of the watchtower without a backward glance.
The Dragonborn’s smile kept coming back to her over the next few hours, a small unexpected bit of brightness that intruded in her thoughts as Irileth heaved stone and salvaged what equipment had survived. She tucked it away, however, when she and Gunnar tried to recover Hroki and Tor for burial. They had only been able to salvage melted mail shirts and fragments of charred bone from the dragon carcass, all that was left of two men Irileth had talked and drank with not even two weeks ago.
Irileth did all she could for them, finding undamaged axes and swords to pack into the crate with the sad remnants so that the boys wouldn’t be turned away from the Hall of Valor up in Sovengarde. She did not have the first idea of what she would tell their mothers, but tell them she would once she got back to Whiterun. It had been a few years since she’d had to send off letters to families of the fallen, but sadly one never lost the knack for it.
When she was satisfied that the Western watchtower was at least functional again, Irileth returned to Whiterun at the head of her men, bearing the skull of the dragon in a cart for all the people to see. She strode into Dragonsreach to the sound of a hero’s welcome, her back spear-straight and her limp well-disguised. Balgruuf rose from his throne and clasped her forearm in the Nord way, and she could see the relief in his eyes as he glanced her over for injuries.
“Hail, Housecarl. What news do you bring?”
“We have slain the dragon that threatened the hold, my Lord, and the skies are now clear.” Irileth announced, letting the words ring like a drawn sword in the lofty reaches of the hall. Her blood sang with the triumph of what they had all done even as her rational mind could not yet believe that they managed to bring down a dragon .
Balgruuf made the pretty speeches that were expected at this sort of thing, praising the courage of Irileth and her Guard before the assembled folk, and Irileth allowed herself to bask in the fierce swell of pride she felt for the lads; idiots, the lot of them, and the bravest men in all Tamriel.
In time Balgruuf summoned Irileth to a proper debriefing away from prying eyes, and gratefully she followed him even as the long staircase set her knee to twinging again. The moment they were out of sight in his private quarters Balgruuf turned on Irileth and swooped her into a hug, nearly lifting Irileth off her feet. She let him have his moment, freeing one hand to pat between his shoulders. Being held by Balgruuf was not unlike being buried in a landslide, she imagined; immobilizing, even crushing, but she had never felt safer.
“Yes, yes, I am glad to see you as well. Enough of this, Balgruuf, or you’ll put both our backs out.”
Wordlessly he gave her a final squeeze and released her, and they each clapped each other on the back as if that might shake off the vulnerability of the previous moment. He had her change from her armor into a fresh tunic and trousers, then met her in his private dining hall with a fine meal already laid out.
After a hard fight and three days of whatever rations hadn’t been destroyed in the watchtower, Irileth was grateful beyond words to tuck into hearty stew and soft bread. Balgruuf poured them both tea and let Irileth brutalize the food in peace for a while, shoving extra helpings of fruit and bread her way now and then.
For a time, they simply ate and enjoyed each other’s presence.
“Made the Dragonborn a thane of Whiterun while you were out.” Balgruuf said, swallowing down the last of his meal. Irileth snorted and scowled at him over the rim of her mug, barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes.
“Whatever for ?”
“She is Dragonborn.” Balgruuf replied, as if that explained a damn thing.
“And? She did not kill the beast alone, and being a folk hero does not make her more worthy of honor than the rest of the lads.” Irileth snapped, her pride in her men wounded, her ire thoroughly roused.
Balgruuf nodded along as she spoke, thoughtfully turning the ring on his thumb round and round.
“You are not wrong, and I will be honoring your band soon. But you are not a Nord–”
“I have been made aware.”
“You did not grow up with the old tales, Irileth, that is all I meant. To have the friendship of one such as the Dragonborn is no small thing, especially in time such as these.”
Irileth hummed in reply, making sure to lace the small noise with as much doubt as she could muster. Yet there was something to his reasoning, she supposed. She thought over all she knew of Nords and their traditions, how they were perhaps even more enmeshed in the ways of their ancestors as her own people, in their odd Nord way.
“You think the other holds will view her accepting the position of Thane as a sort of endorsement of you and your position, then?”
“That is my hope, yes.” Balgruuf nodded, pouring them both another cup of tea. “Failing that, perhaps having a hero of old making her home here will deter any who have designs on our city.”
“Mmph. Suppose that makes a kind of sense.” Irileth allowed, sliding the honeypot his way. It still rankled that some stranger should be so dramatically elevated above any of Irileth’s soldiers, but she could understand the need for the gesture.
Unbidden, Irileth recalled the sight of the woman drawing the dragon’s attention from her, silhouetted by fire as she waved her bow in the monster’s face and screamed defiance.
“Lass is no coward, at least.”
“Oh? She did not have to go, I suppose.”
Irileth then told Balgruuf of that moment when the dragon landed, and her knee had given way. How Irileth had stared her own death in the face as the dragon prepared to devour her, until the Dragonborn had shot at it. Balgruuf went pale beneath his beard, and he suddenly gripped her hand with bruising force.
“That act alone was worth elevating her.” he rasped, and Irileth could not bring herself to meet his eyes.
“Such a fuss.” she said, squeezing his fingers in turn. They held one another’s hands for a heartbeat, then abruptly returned to their respective mugs without another word. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, sharing tea and the comfort of the fire, until Irileth sensed that Balgruuf was waiting for something.
“Ask what you wish to ask.” she said; the meal and the tea had made her indulgent. Balgruuf leaned in, eyes bright with curiosity. For a moment she saw that earnest young man out on his first campaign, and it made her smile.
“What was it like? When the Dragonborn claimed the dragon’s soul?” he asked, and Irileth had to chuckle a bit. Leave it to her jarl to fixate on the metaphysical rather than the practical.
“Alarming, actually, to be truthful. Bit like a storm coming in, with roaring wind and that queer storm-light that comes before the rain. It was all centered on her, though. She looked…” Irileth paused, considering the best word to describe how the Dragonborn had looked in that moment. Fell and fair, limned in golden light, her eyes full of strange ferocity. Beautiful did not encompass it, really, but nor did frightening .
“Sublime.” Irileth decided at last. “Both lovely and terrible to look upon. Not unlike the dragon itself, I suppose.”
There was a beat of silence, during which Balgruuf looked at her strangely with his bushy brows raised nearly to his hairline. Irileth squinted back at him, suspicious of his silence.
“I see.” he said at last, and Irileth knew by his tone that he was not referring to his original question. He looked thoughtfully at her in a way that indicated there was another level to this conversation that Irileth was not privy to, and she did not appreciate it.
“What?”
“I did not expect you to describe it in such terms. It must have been incredible to see.” he said, in what she thought of as his diplomat’s voice. Her squint deepened into a scowl.
“I’m no bard, Balgruuf. Ask one of the lads if you want a more gushing account.”
“Perhaps I will. Or perhaps I’ll ask Kirsten of Northshield for her account.”
At Irileth’s blank stare Balgruuf’s face folded into a frown, disapproval in his eyes.
“Did you never think to ask the Dragonborn’s name , woman?” he demanded, and Irileth did not appreciate his tone in the slightest.
“Hmph. I was too preoccupied by avoiding consumption to observe the social niceties, Balgruuf.” she grumbled, flicking a crumb at him. It was hardly as if she needed to know the girl’s name prior to this point, anyway; she had other concerns to look to. Balgruuf only shook his head and turned the talk to something more sensible, like finding replacements for the men lost at the watchtower, and this carried them until the daylight faded and Irileth began to yawn.
“Sleep, woman. We can solve this problem tomorrow. You and your men bought Whiterun time enough to make these decisions.” Balgruuf said, giving her a tired smile of his own.
“I’ll sleep if you do, milord.” Irileth shot back, knowing damn well the fool would likely take paperwork to bed with him again. After some further chaff, she and Balgruuf withdrew to his chambers, where she refused to enter her own small room until she was certain he was bedding down for the night.
At last, Irileth opened her door and stepped into the sparse, silent haven of her bedroom with a contented sigh. She exchanged her clothes for a sleep shift, and when she turned to find another already sprawled in her narrow bed she did not bat an eye.
“You could have at least taken your boots off, Jenassa.” she scolded, without any heat. On the bed, her dear friend cracked open one eye and looked Irileth up and down critically.
“All in one piece, I see. Could’ve told me that, you know. Had to hear it through tavern-talk.” Jenassa grumbled, shifting aside and flipping back the blankets. Irileth crawled into her bed and sank back with a quiet groan; gods, but you never appreciated the simple joy of a decent mattress until you had to sleep on sooty stone for a few nights.
“M’sorry. Couldn’t spare a messenger. I’ll send word next time a dragon burns down the hold.” she muttered, eyes already heavy. Beside her Jenassa snorted, then burrowed closer to Irileth beneath the blankets.
“Damn well better not be a next time, s’wit. ”
Irileth would have heartily agreed with her oldest friend, but sleep already claimed her.