Survivor (A Skyrim Fan-Fiction)

Chapter Eleven

"All right! Gather round, all of you," I ordered.

I pulled out a scroll parchment from my back pocket with the names of the men and women training today. Most were ex-imperials, cowards who were too afraid to fight for the losing side when the killing was happening, or Stormcloaks who had been badly injured previously and need re-training.

"Do I have a Thira Body-Breaker?"

A manly woman's voice sounded out a confirmation that they were here from the group.

"Ethis Feldryn? Many-Scars? Mahj...Mag..."

"Majhazdu-Ro," a Khajiit with its thick accent said.

I continued with the register, confirming that everyone was here. Everyone was put to training: five on archery and eight practicing their sword work.

One who caught my attention was a girl who had lost her sword arm a year ago taking a fort. Now she worked with her left hand, but I don't think she'll ever be good enough to be on the front anymore. She's going to be stuck with guard duty, unfortunately.

At Sun's Height, I switched shifts with Galmar who would take over until the end of the day. I made my way back to the Throne Room to continue with the ordinary and boring day.

~ One week later ~

Ulfrics P.O.V

This day has come round quickly. The day of the Moot, where the Jarls of Skyrim will convene to choose its new High-King. It seems only yesterday that I challenged Torygg to prove his worth as High-King, and if he could truly guide and protect the land as a good king should.

There was a time when leaders were chosen from their prowess in battle, their diplomatic charisma, and their capability to rule. Not from whom their father was. Skyrim needed a change so it can be the magnificent land it once was.

"They're ready for you," Jorleif announced, opening the heavy wooden door of the strategy room. The low murmurs of the other Jarls could be heard, but not enough to make out what they were saying.

I sauntered into the Throne Room, cloak flowing behind me. The Jarls were sat around a large round table, eyeing each other suspiciously. There were two empty chairs closest to the door: one for me, the Jarl of Windhelm, and one for the General, which was Galmar.

"Greetings to you all," I voiced, sitting in the chair next to Galmar and Korir, the Jarl of Winterhold. "I suppose we better get down to business."

Galmar unrolled a long scroll of parchment, which contained the laws and conditions of the Moot, and read them out as clearly as he could with his gruff voice.

"Here on the nineteenth day of Sun's Height, the two-hundredth-and-fourth year of the fourth era, we call upon the Jarls of Skyrim at the fourth moot of the millennium to place a new High-King on the throne of our land. Gathered here in the Palace of the Kings, Windhelm, the great city of Ysgramor, are the Jarls from each hold of Skyrim."

He went round and named the Jarls present.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm. Korir, Jarl of Winterhold. Skald the Elder, Jarl of Dawnstar. Sorli the Builder, Jarl of Morthal. Elisif the Fair, Jarl of Solitude. Thongvor Silver-Blood, Jarl of Markarth. Dengeir of Stuhn, Jarl of Falkreath. Vignar Grey-Mane, Jarl of Whiterun, and Laila Law-Giver, Jarl of Riften."

He let out a huge sigh, not used to these kinds of formalities. Admittedly, Galmar is certainly better with an axe than he is with politics. At least he's more or less reading from the guidelines.

"May the Nine Divines guide the choices we are to make." He put down the scroll and looked around the table. "So, the first and only claimant so far to Skyrim's throne is Ulfric Stormcloak. Are there any others?"