ch 17 Whiterun in trouble

Part I :The Road to Whiterun

The courier's boots were caked with half-melted snow.

His lungs heaved as he handed Gerdur the sealed letter, barely able to get out the words.

"Whiterun—dragon spotted—heading this way—Jarl calls for aid—"

He didn't need to finish.

The air in the room went still.

Ralof read the letter aloud.

"Dragon, large—winged serpent—observed flying northeast from the Pale. Circling east. Whiterun Hold at risk."

He lowered the page.

"They want fighters. Anyone who's seen the ruins. Anyone who survived Bleak Falls."

He looked at the Dragonborn.

Who was already lacing up his boots.

Out behind the mill, just before dawn, the two men stood in the field.

Ralof lifted the enchanted Nordic war axe, runes etched into the steel, the frost glow humming faintly with each movement.

He swung once.

A shimmering arc of magicka split the air, leaving a crackling wake that shook the tree line.

The Dragonborn stood across from him, holding his own weapon.

No runes.

No glow.

Just a woodcutter's axe.

The same kind he'd used to earn his way back into the village.

No one else's.

His.

He didn't swing it for flash.

Just for form.

Once.

Twice.

Clean, deliberate arcs.

His shoulders moved without strain now.

His grip was smooth.

The axe—a tool, not a weapon—moved as if it belonged in his hands.

Ralof glanced over mid-swing.

"You're still carrying that?"

The Dragonborn gave a faint smile.

"I'm good with it."

Ralof didn't argue.

He nodded once.

Then they packed their gear.

No ceremony.

No banners.

Just two men.

One with a blade of myth.

The other with a blade of habit.

And both walking toward the city that would soon burn.

Part II: The Gates of Whiterun

The sky was low.

Heavy.

Not storming yet—but threatening.

Like the clouds knew something no one on the ground did.

The road to Whiterun curved gently around the hill.

The city rose like a spine of stone and timber, walls stark against the gray. Smoke drifted from the chimneys, but it wasn't from hearthfires alone.

Ralof and the Dragonborn paused at the ridge.

Below, at the gates, extra guards stood armed—bows strung, armor tightened, faces drawn.

The Dragonborn shifted his axe across his shoulder.

Ralof adjusted the strap on his enchanted weapon.

He looked over.

"You ready?"

The Dragonborn gave a small nod.

"I've never been more."

They passed through the gates quietly.

The guards eyed them—especially the Argonian, barefoot and scarred, with a laborer's axe on his back.

But no one stopped them.

Not with Ralof walking tall beside him, carrying a weapon that sang with magic.

Elsewhere.

South of the city.

Across the long, golden plains—

Another figure walked.

Croc didn't use the roads.

He didn't need to.

His cloak moved like smoke behind him, the wind brushing over his wide frame.

His left arm was whole again.

Fully regrown.

But his tail… still absent.

His steps were uneven but deliberate.

Each footfall sank into the grass like it was claiming the earth.

A caravan passed him on the road—Khajiit traders.

They slowed.

Stared.

Said nothing.

Only bowed slightly.

As if they sensed something older than danger.

Something sacred.

He didn't return the gesture.

He just kept walking.

Straight for Whiterun's south watchtower.

Where the guards had stopped patrolling.

Above it all, a distant shadow flicked through the clouds.

No wings yet.

No roar.

But enough to make the guards tense.

Enough to make the children stop laughing.

Enough to make the wind taste like ash.

They were coming.

All of them.

And soon—

So was the dragon.

Part III: Before the Storm

The council chamber of Dragonsreach was built for drama.

High ceilings. Bannered walls. Long tables polished by generations of politics and panic.

Today, there was no ceremony.

Just urgency

And heat.

The table was already crowded when Ralof and the Dragonborn entered.

Proventus, the steward, glanced up from a map.

Irileth, the dark elf housecarl, narrowed her eyes at the axe on Ralof's back.

The Jarl stood at the head of the war-table, arms crossed.

"They're here," Irileth said flatly.

"Not all," Balgruuf replied.

The side door creaked open

And the room went still.

Croc entered without speaking.

No guards flanked him.

They hadn't wanted to stand too close.

He wore no armor.

No weapon.

Just a cloak dusted with mud and ash.

But the moment he stepped inside—

The air changed.

The Dragonborn turned.

His body stiffened on instinct.

Something deep in his chest tightened.

As if someone had put a claw around his heart and squeezed.

He took one step forward.

Then released magicka.

Not a spell.

Just pressure.

Radiating from his skin like heat off a forge.

A quiet warning.

I see you.

Croc stopped.

And smiled.

Barely.

His eyes narrowed.

And the killing intent he kept buried beneath his scales uncoiled—slow and cold like a rising tide.

He didn't need spells.

Didn't need to move.

Everyone in the room felt it.

Chairs scraped.

One steward stumbled back, hand to his throat.

A court mage dropped his scroll.

Ralof gripped his axe without thinking.

Irileth had already drawn her sword.

Only the Jarl remained unmoved.

His voice cracked like thunder.

"ENOUGH."

The room froze

The Dragonborn's magic pressure fell back like a wave pulled from shore.

Croc's presence vanished just as suddenly—like a shadow blown out by light.

Silence followed.

Heavy. Breathing.

Balgruuf stepped forward.

His face carved from stone.

"I don't care what worlds you crawled out of. Or what power dances in your veins."

He looked at them both.

Croc.

Then the Dragonborn.

Then both again.

"You're not here to prove who's stronger."

He pointed at the war-table.

"You're here to stop that."

He slammed his hand on the map.

A black mark was circled just east of the city.

Above it—drawn in red ink:

DRAGON.

Part IV: The Fire Has Come

The chamber doors flew open with a crash.

A guard stumbled through, armor scorched at the shoulder, panting like a hunted dog.

"Jarl—! The watchtower—!"

Everyone turned.

Balgruuf stepped forward.

"What of it?"

The guard didn't answer right away.

He was too busy trembling.

"It's here," he whispered. "The dragon. It's—burning everything."

No one spoke.

No one had to.

The Jarl turned to Irileth.

"Sound the horns."

Then to the room at large:

"Get moving."

Chairs toppled.

Steel hissed from scabbards.

Scrolls were abandoned mid-sentence.

Ralof turned without a word and headed for the door.

The Dragonborn followed close behind, tightening the strap on his woodcutter's axe.

His palms were already sweating.

Not fear.

Anticipation.

Croc said nothing.

He simply stepped outside and started walking.

Each footfall faster.

He didn't run.

Didn't shout.

He just moved—with terrifying purpose.

Outside, the sky was red.

Not with sunset.

But with flame.

Smoke curled from beyond the ridge.

The tower.

The beast.

Was waiting.

And they were coming for it.