"I've humoured you long enough Dragonborn," Ulfric thundered, rising from his seat.

"Humoured me?" the slight figure at the head of the table snapped. "It's hardly humouring me to obey your own laws and traditions, Jarl Ulfric. Wasn't it you who told the people that there would be a Kingsmoot, that you would follow tradition? A Kingsmoot has at last been called and a King will be elected in the way of your ancestors. You have just as much chance as anyone else of becoming High King, so long as you get nominated."

"She's right, Ulfric," Vignar Grey-mane said with a sigh.

"Then I nominate myself," Ulfric growled, settling back into his seat.

"Good. Anyone else want to add a nomination?" the Dragonborn asked, shifting the ebony mask that covered her face.

"I nominate jarl Elisif for the position," Laila Law Giver shouted.

"She isn't even a Jarl," Ulfric spat, "What is her place at this table?"

"Tradition," the Dragonborn said, not even turning to look at the irate Jarl.

"Thank you, Laila. I accept the nomination," Elisif said, as though Ulfric had not interrupted at all.

"I nominate myself also," Maven Black-Briar said in her usual tones of clipped control. Someone across the table let out a bark of laughter and the Dragonborn shifted to see Skald, very clearly amused.

"You were Jarl of a skeeverpit for about a month, Maven. What makes you think you can be High Queen of Skyrim?"

"She has as much right as the rest of you," the Dragonborn interrupted, drumming her fingers on the table. "No other nominations? Fine then. I nominate Balgruuf the Greater."

"You never were a Jarl, you have no right-" Ulfric began.

"Correction," she held up a single finger. "I am a thane of every single city within this country, and this alone gives me the right, just as it gave me the right to be here during the moot at all. Add to this that I am quite probably the single most influential person about this table, including those with links to the thieves guild and dark brotherhood I might add, and quite honestly I'd like to see you stop me." The light glinted on the metal about the eye holes of the mask, the face within concealed entirely by either shadow or magic. "Balgruuf, do you accept the nomination?" she asked, turning to the imposing figure half way down the table.

"I will," he replied after a moment, "If you tell me why you have thrown my name in this pit."

"Because you are a good man. You demonstrated – more than once – during this war that you care for your people more than your own good. You didn't dive into the war, and in fact only joined when you truly had to. To me, this makes you by far the best suited to lead a country." A pregnant silence fell as everyone processed what was indeed a thoughtful compliment for Balgruuf, but also a very clear insult to Ulfric.

"The people will be waiting," the Dragonborn said after a moment. "It is time for the candidates to make their stand." She rose and headed from the room. Various important people lined the corridors of the blue palace, but at the sight of the masked figure they scurried out into the sunshine.

The streets of solitude were packed to bursting point with citizens from across Skyrim. With a single glance the Dragonborn could pick out a vast number of faces she recognised – Lydia was standing at the back, and waved discreetly, eyebrows raised; Mirabelle and Tolfdir weren't too far away from her, although they made no sign that they recognised the figure in the mask. To one side, Brynjolf and Karliah were hidden among the shadows, but as the Jarls and ex-Jarls filed into view they moved forward, ready to see how this would end. They too made no gesture of recognition to the masked woman. Delphine was scowling (she disapproved of the whole thing) from the right of the crowd, while Esbern simply looked on in a sort of bemused interest.

"The nominations are as follows," she shouted over the crowd. "Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm." There was much foot stomping, loud cheers and whistles as Ulfric stepped forward. "Jarl Vignar Grey-Mane of Whiterun." There was a muted response – Vignar was new to his role, unknown outside his own hold. "Jarl Elisif of Solitude." Naturally this was a response not dissimilar to that Ulfric had received. Elisif had been the face of the Empire's campaign, and this was her city. "Maven Black-Briar of Riften." People seemed unsure how to react to this nomination. They had of course all heard of the Black-Briar family – it was impossible to live in Skyrim and not encounter them after all – but not many actually knew all that much of the secretive family. "And finally, Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun." Those who had cheered for Elisif cheered for Balgruuf, who stepped forward to complete the line of nominees.

"Each Jarl will step forward and make his or her attempt to win your votes, or else nominate a champion in their place," the Dragonborn shouted over the stomping. "Let each of them be heard fairly." She stepped back and, naturally, Ulfric stepped forward to take his stand first.

As she had predicted, he started by going on about the war, about their glorious victories (most of which had been down to her anyway, although he seemed to gloss over that), but it was when he began to talk about his plans for Skyrim in the future that it truly became interesting.

"We have rid ourselves of the Thalmor!" he bellowed, "But I say why should we stop there? Skyrim is for Nords, and Nords only!" The vast majority of the crowd cheered with him, but there were a few who looked askance at their neighbours. This was the part that would either make or break Ulfric's entire campaign. The Dragonborn glanced at Karliah, whose eyes had narrowed and whose fingers were clearly itching to reach for the bow that sat upon her back even now. "We don't need any elves telling us magic is superior! We don't need a Redguard to show us how to fight! A free Skyrim is one for the Nords!" He stomped his foot once, setting off the crowd again, and moved back into the line.

Each of the prospective Jarls had something to say. Grey-Mane spoke of tradition, and Maven talked about the position in terms of business and what she could bring to Skyrim. Elisif did not speak for herself, but instead nominated her steward, Falk Firebeard to speak as her champion. When Balgruuf's turn came and he took a step forward, so did the Dragonborn. "I would ask leave to speak as your champion." She said quietly so that only he could hear. He hesitated for a moment and then nodded. She stepped forward and for the first time the crowd was truly silent, everyone present waiting for her to speak.

"I have many regrets stemming from my work in recent years," she said at last. "Many people died in the war, and not an insignificant number of those were at my hands. My greatest regret, however, was the loss of Jarl Balgruuf for Whiterun. I have not, and probably will never, forgive myself for joining that fight. When Ulfric Stormcloak ordered me to attack the city, it was the closest I ever came to disobeying one of his orders. Balgruuf is a good man, one who will put his people first, keep their interests at the forefront of his mind at all times. The fact that he managed to keep them from entering the war for so long when they sat in the centre of it should tell everyone that. To those who supported the Stormcloaks and ask why he sided with the empire, I say it was for his people! Balgruuf is a Nord and worships Talos as much as anyone here. I support him in this Kingsmoot as High King of Skyrim!" When she finished, the crowd erupted, cheering and whooping. She smiled slightly under her mask. Really, she could have said anything and the reaction would have been the same. They just wanted to hear the Dragonborn speak, wanted to show their appreciation for everything she had done. She had saved many lives by bringing the war to what many considered a premature close, and she had saved the souls of all Nords by journeying to Sovngarde and killing the devourer of worlds. But she hadn't finished yet.

"Some here will call me Dragonborn, Dohvakiin. Others will call me Stormblade. I forsake the title Stormblade here, today. I do not wish to be associated with the Grim events of the Siege of Solitude. Upon that day, when General Tullius lay dying upon the ground, Ulfric Stormcloak turned to me and asked me to kill him, to create a story sure to send him onto Skyrim's high throne. I refused. Ulfric Stormcloak is a war hero, let that never be forgotten, but he is also a bully, a brute and not suitable for the position of High King." Without even turning she knew the rage that would be written across Ulfric's face. They had never truly got on – how could they in truth? – but this was something more.

"Tell me," Ulfric shouted, stepping forward. "Why am I so unsuitable?"

"You persecute all those who are different to yourself, Stormcloak," she replied calmly. "The Thalmor have no right to rule in Skyrim, to ban the worship of your Gods, but that does not make it right to force out the Dunmer, the Orcs, the Redguards, the Bosmer. What have they done to earn your anger? What great sin have they committed that they should be thrown from the country?"

"They do not abide our laws!"

"They abide them as well as any Nord. True, perhaps they may not worship the same Gods as you, but I would have thought that Skyrim of all places would appreciate a freedom of worship!" she shouted the last words, turning to the crowd as they cheered once more. She was beating Ulfric, and it was easy. Delphine was smiling, Tolfdir had an amused expression on his face and Karliah had relaxed, with even a slight hint of a smile playing around her lips.

"So tell us, people of Skyrim," she went on, "Out of these nominees, who is your High King or Queen?"

Truly it was no contest. The shouts erupted and, while a quiet few cheered for Elisif, Vignar, Ulfric or even Maven, it was quite clear who the crowd had chosen. "Balgruuf!" they shouted, over and over again, "Balgruuf! Jarl Balgruuf of Skyrim!"

She turned to him to see the shock on his face, as though he had truly not expected this outcome, had not believed it possible. She was smiling beneath her mask, however, as she turned back to the crowd, she caught a glimpse of some bright light as it flew towards her. Recognising a spell she instantly threw up her strongest ward, one that had protected her from death more than a few times over the past month. The spell struck the magic field and it shattered. People screamed as the Dragonborn was thrown backwards into the wall of the Blue Palace and slid, motionless to the ground.

"I said leave the mask," Balgruuf snapped as people rushed to and fro. The healer jumped back and nodded, just as the door opened and Mirabelle Ervine entered.

"I came as quickly as I could get through," she said in a business like tone. "I'm afraid I'm the best you've got to hand – Colette remained in Winterhold, and to the best of my knowledge the Priestess of Kynareth remained in Whiterun.

"Danica stayed behind, yes," Balgruuf said, nodding.

"Well I can't do much unless I know what's wrong," Mirabelle said, turning to the still unconscious Dragonborn, "And I can't do that if she's still in the mask."

"Everyone else out," Balgruuf said after a moment. "If you've never seen her out of that mask and your name is not Mirabelle Ervine, I want you out of this room this instant." Everyone obeyed and within seconds the room was clear but for himself, the sorceress and Lydia, the Dragonborn's housecarl. "You tell no one who she is," Balgruuf said firmly. "Very few people know, and those that do are sworn to secrecy."

"Why?" Mirabelle asked, clearly bemused.

"She likes to earn things on her own merit, not that of her title," Lydia explained. "I think you'll understand soon."

"Of course," Mirabelle turned and unclipped the hood that covered the back of the woman's head, peeling it away. She was a little shocked to see the pointed ears of an elf beneath the hood. "That explains why she didn't support Ulfric I suppose," she said, not even glancing up, "But I must say I expected the Dragonborn to be a Nord."

"Most people do," Lydia said, shrugging. Mirabelle lifted the mask, surprised at how heavy the thing was, as otherwise the Dragonborn only ever seemed to wear robes, and almost dropped it. In fact, she would have done had Lydia not been ready to take it from her.

"Is something wrong?" Balgruuf asked.

"No," Lydia said, taking the mask and stepping back, "They know each other, I think."

"Know each other?" Mirabelle spluttered. "She is the Arch Mage."

"She is? She never told me that," Lydia said with a scowl.

"So let me get this straight?" Balgruuf said, smiling a little. "A college full of some of Tamriel's strongest sorcerer's let the Dragonborn in, watched her become Arch Mage and never knew she was the Dragonborn? If I hadn't promised to keep her secret, that would have made a priceless story."

"You get it now though, don't you?" Lydia asked. "Why she didn't want you to know she was Dragonborn?"

"I suppose so," Mirabelle said, turning to back to the elf on the table. Carefully, she pushed one eye open, revealing a brilliant orange iris. As she checked over her, Balgruuf realised just how long it had been since he had seen the elf's face. She had been very young, when she first came to him with news from Riverwood and Helgen, perhaps seventeen at the most. Now she was a striking woman in her mid-twenties, her face made memorable by the orange markings he thought might now be tattooed upon her face, as many of them were these days. When he had first met her, the war paint had been smudged in red across her face, rather than the intricate swirls that now covered her cheeks, and she had been dusted with ash and splattered with blood, some of it her own.

Then she had killed a dragon, taken its soul and the Greybeards had called for her. "I think she's waking up," Lydia said from where she was standing by the Dragonborn's head. "Iona, can you hear me?" Balgruuf had almost forgotten the name, it had been so long since he heard it. Iona blinked and sat up slowly, blinking rapidly. She looked around and saw Mirabelle standing by her bed and instantly her hands moved to her face, feeling the absence of the mask. Her cheeks flushed, visible even under the red ink and Mirabelle smiled.

"I won't tell the others," she said in what was probably as close to reassuring as her voice ever came, "But I must admit it was quite a shock."

"I'll be fine anyway," Iona said, wincing a little as she pushed herself from the bed, "Just some bruising from the impact, I think. Did anyone see who did it?"

"Afraid not," Lydia said, clearly unhappy about the fact, "But Talos knows you've got enough enemies."

"And probably made a few more today with that stunt," Balgruuf said, although he could not stop himself smiling a little.

"Honestly, I just wanted to see you in the jagged crown," Iona laughed as she sent a rush of healing magic through her body, banishing the ache from her muscles. She straightened the blue master robes she wore and took her mask from Lydia. When she had started to hide her identity she had used a simple cowl and mask, but finding the dragon masks had truly been a stroke of luck. They were so easily recognisable, so unique, that she could create a face for the Dragonborn that wasn't her own. Recognisable and yet easily hidden. "Come on Lydia, I wanted to drop into Proudspire before we went to Falkreath."

"Of course my thane." Iona scowled. Lydia only ever did that because it annoyed her. She shoved her mask on and turned to Mirabelle. "I should drop into the college soon, if you want to check up on me."

"Yes, Arch Mage." Iona sighed and Lydia smiled, knowing that the irate thane was almost certainly rolling her eyes. She stormed from the room and Lydia followed. She had already loosened the straps on her sword should there be another attack, and was grateful that Proudspire was so close to the Blue palace. However, when they reached the front and could see out of the window, it was clear that it might just take them some time to reach the house nonetheless. There was still a humongous crowd. Iona laughed a little at the sight of Esbern and Delphine (mainly Delphine) clearly becoming quite irate with the guard refusing them entry to the Blue Palace.

"So," Iona said matter-of-factly, "Do we try like this or without the mask?"

"Probably better to go with the mask," Balgruuf's voice called from the top of the stairs. "They'll want to know you're alright."

"I don't like it," Lydia said, biting the inside of her cheek and peering through the window again.

"I'll just shout if anyone gets too close then, right?" Iona laughed. Lydia knew she was joking, but sometimes she wished Iona would do just that. She was next to useless in close combat, which was exactly why she almost always had someone with her, be it Lydia (as it more often than not was), one of the blades, or even one of her other housecarls. "On three," she said, now with some seriousness. "One… two… three!" They pushed open the doors and stepped into the evening sunlight. The sound of the crowd increased dramatically at the sight of Iona, who raised a hand and waved to assure them that she was alright. When Delphine pushed past the guard, Iona shook her head to indicate that she shouldn't follow. Delphine sighed, but knew it wouldn't be worth following if Iona didn't want to talk.

By the time they reached Proudspire the sun had set. Iona locked the door behind them with more than a little relief. "Come on, let's go." She said, heading down the stairs and pulling off her mask.

"Who are you going to be in Falkreath?" Lydia asked.

"Guild Master," Iona replied, fishing in a pouch at her waist, searching for the right key. Lydia sighed. She didn't particularly like this part of Iona's life (and at times Iona herself seemed rather discomforted by it), and it didn't fit at all with the woman Lydia knew, but she was a housecarl, and it was not her duty to question (or report) anything her thane did. "Aha!" Iona cried in triumph, pulling out a small, rusty key. She knelt down and slotted it into the trapdoor beneath the stairs and together they descended. Lydia felt the familiar tingle of magic as they were transported to wherever the hell this place really was, and shivered.

Lydia settled herself on the bench just through the door at the bottom of the steps as Iona went on. She had never seen much of the secret home Iona had built herself, simply the doors that connected it to her other hosues – Proudspire, Hjerim, Breezehome, Vlindrel Hall and Honeyside.

Iona, meanwhile, hurried deeper underground to the armoury. Row on row of mannequins were on display, one wearing the Robes of the Arch mage, a whole set in master robes for each discipline. To one side was a complete set of deadric armour forged with a sigil stone on the atronach alter beneath the college, but most were simply empty. She hurried to a corner, where the Nightingale Armour granted to her by Nocturnal, as well as her Guild Master's leather, were sitting. She hesitated for a moment and then decided to go for the Nightingale set. She then grabbed a knife (she felt a theif should carry a knife, even if she was next to useless with it) and hurried back to join Lydia.

Together they headed up into Breezehome. Lydia headed to her room and Iona to her own, laying the Nightingale Armour down on the dresser before stripping her robes and falling into the furs on the bed. They had to be out early in the morning, and she wanted to be as well rested as possible.

She had strange dreams that night, of faces she half remembered but couldn't place, people who she knew she should call out to, should know but didn't. When she woke it took her far too long to shake it off than she was honestly comfortable. They were awake early and left Whiterun before the sun was up. Iona stopped only to drop a note at Dragonsreach with a report of the Kingsmoot included. A guard would find it when the sun rose and the city could celebrate/mourn as they deemed appropriate. The weather was pleasant enough for a walk south, skirting the shadow of High Hrothgar. Naturally, however, they had been walking barely half an hour when they were met by a group of bandits.

Iona had always thought bandits would know better than to choose targets who even vaguely looked as though they could defend themselves, but shortly after arriving in Skyrim she had learnt otherwise.

"Pay up," one of them – the biggest, stupidest and therefore probably in charge – growled.

"Do we have to?" Iona complained. "I really don't have time for this."

"That's right, antagonise the armed bandits," Lydia sighed. Iona shrugged and raised her hands in the air, flames licking about her fingertips.

"Run," she hissed at Lydia, who didn't need to be told twice. She'd been caught on the edge of one of Iona's strongest spells before and it wasn't something she ever intended to do again. She darted at one of the badits, sword flashing, and knocked him aside, leaping for cover behind a nearby boulder. She held her breath, waiting for the explosion… that never came. Instead she heard a single, quiet, "Shit." Lydia's stomach dropped into her shoes. Something was very wrong. Even as she moved to her feet there was a defeaning shout and flames erupted from the slight figure of the elf as the bandits closed in. "YOL TOOR!" Now Lydia was very worried. If Iona was resorting to the voice when not wearing her mask… she didn't want to think about it. She ran forward, a counter ticking in her head. She knew it took Iona a few moments to recover from the use of the voice, but she could never remember quite how long it was for each shout.

Her sword clashed with that of a bandit as she moved between him and Iona and he stumbled backwards and tripped over the burnt remains of the unfortunate man who had been in the path of Iona's voice. Lydia made sure he didn't get up again and turned to face the other three. One of them was badly burnt, kneeling on the ground and moaning in pain, but the other two had escaped without any visible injury. There was, however, some nervousness in their eyes. Very few people would have chosen to fight against anyone with the power of the voice. Lydia leapt at one of them, her sword arm jarred as he brought his warhammer crashing into her blade. She stumbled back but stayed on her feet, aware that Iona was moving to her feet.

"STRUN BAH QO!" The sky above them darkened and Lydia felt her heart sink a little. She hated this one, even if it was effective. Even as this thought crossed her mind a bolt of lightening skittered to the ground not too far away, accompanied by an unearthly boom of thunder. The bandits looked at each other in fear and then at Iona, eyes wide. They ran, but they didn't get far with the enchanted storm raging above them. Lydia silenced the cries of the wounded bandit and turned to her friend. She stopped, heart now in her mouth, as she saw the blood. She cried out and ran forward, gently turning Iona over. There was a long gash across her stomach and she seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness.

Riverwood! She thought. If they could get to Riverwood, they could use Delphine's hidden space in the inn and Iona could recover. "Can you heal yourself a little?" Lydia asked, shouting over the rain and thunder. "We need to get to Riverwood."

"Can't heal," Iona gasped.

"Of course you can," Lydia insisted. "I've seen you heal worse than this before."

"Can't heal," Iona repeated, "Can't do anything."

"What do you mean?" she shouted in exhasperation.

"My magic… it's gone."

Vilkas will actually be in the next chapter, promise :D