King Frithjolf Broken-Shield
City of Daggerfall, Kingdom of Daggerfall

The Council of Kings had been called forth, the fifth meeting since the Forsworn uprisings in Skyrim’s Reach took Frithjolf’s distant cousin from the throne to lead an expedition into Reachman lands to the West of Jehanna. A fool of a man if there ever was one. Frithjolf knew how to fight and knew the value of a well-placed blade, but he also recognized the fruits that could be gained from diplomacy. As he looked about the grand hall he was in, from the multi-colored galaxy of foods filling the room with an all-pervasive smell of grand Breton cuisine, to the men sitting around the table and doing the same as he- sizing up the others. Frithjolf was in a room filled with ambitious men, but he held no love for them, as he knew they were snakes. High Rock was nothing like Skyrim and no matter how much his distant family had ruled Jehanna and made it feel like home, it was not the same.

In Skyrim, personal feuds were settled on the field of battle or a duel was declared. There was no honor to the men arrayed before him. They were all snakes. Serpents and vultures, growing fat off of the strife of High Rock. If he had his way, and had he still been in Skyrim instead of regrettably venturing out to capture his family’s throne in Jehanna, he would challenge each of these men to a duel for their thrones. He’d unite High Rock for the good of the realm. He was a realist, and not easily given over to fantasy. He recognized that any conquering would have to be through guile or war. He did not want to risk Jehanna’s gradual growth in wealth and power by declaring war, nor did he possess the snake’s tongue of Breton politicians. That was what his wife was for, though, and she sat beside him, the two of them flanked by two of his bannermen each, dressed in courtly attire but still had their axes looped on their belts.

“Does King Frithjolf agree with my earlier statement?” Asked Grand Duke Beralt Courtois of Northpoint. Beralt was perhaps the only man he respected in the room, if only for the fact that he showed interest in the battlefield more than the court. He still thought him unworthy of his trust for the time-being, but respect? He would give him that.

“A military union between our two nations would definitely be a good thing. As it stands, I will have to consider what I stand to gain.” Frithjolf spoke, grabbing a leg of chicken on his plate and taking a large bite from it. He approached eating the same way he approached war, hard, fast and quick.

“You stand to gain many things,” Beralt paused, Frithjolf was sure the boy was about to say something foolish before deciding twice, “Trade from my port would greatly increase the wealth of your realm, and having an agreement to mutually defend each other from any threat outside of our two realms would be invaluable to the both of us.”

“I know your games, Breton. Provocateurs, assassins, spies, these are your weapons. Do not try to make me share a bed with you to serve as some trinket to make you feel more confident to move on your own military ventures.” Frithjolf stared daggers at the man before taking another bit from the leg.

“Gentleman,” Crumbs everywhere as the emissary from Wayrest spoke, “Must we fight? As we speak, we have two enemies at our borders, threatening our realm!”

Theatrics, something Frithjolf couldn’t stand. He already couldn’t stand being here, in Daggerfall, so far away from his throne and perhaps his wife, Anneliese had sensed it in him before she put her hand to his thigh, calming his breathing a bit. He looked at her and swallowed, drawing his lips tight and shaking his head ever so slightly, “And who may these enemies be, Sea-Scum?”

“I will let that slide-”

“Let it?” Prince Narcisse Septim-Vincens said, holding a goblet of wine to his smiling lips, trying to stifle a laugh. Perhaps the only thing all of the men here could agree on was that the emissary was fun to mock. That Ambrose Mackin would be dead soon by someone’s hand, sooner or later. Wayrest was a lawless land these days and no one dared to send any land convoys of goods through the area. They all ended up the same: crew slaughtered and supplies burned- except the food, of course.

“Yes,” The emissary scowled, swallowing the bite of bread before continuing, trying his best to not show that he was insulted, “Our enemies from beyond these borders are the Aldmeri Dominion! They’ve already sent emissaries to Pirate-Lord Ambrose Mackin, hoping he would give them a doorway into High Rock. Gladly, Pirate-Lord Ambrose did not let them, fearing the consequences it would bring on the realm.”

“Complete shit, you wretched little man. The Aldmeri Dominion would receive the same answer from any of us. Your Pirate-Lord was looking out for himself and only himself when he gave the answer. He knew what would happen to him if any of us found out that he had agreed to such a thing.” Prince Narcisse spat, taking another gulp of wine before waving over the wine-bearer for more of the purple liquid.

“Prince Narcisse is correct. What is your point? Why do you bring this up, little man?” Frithjolf asked in a patronizing tone before taking a large bite of bread.

“Do tell.” Beralt said, ripping a piece of bread away from his roll before stuffing his mouth with it. He watched with a smile as the emissary searched for a reason. He wasn’t a very good emissary, perhaps that was why none cared for using his name. It was Emmet Bartley.

“Well, we could mount an invasion of their Isles to take control of their resources. Surely they have countless treasures that High Rock could use. The endeavor would unite High Rock as a whole and ensure some sort of peace, given a common enemy.” The emissary seemed proud of himself. Frithjolf would have taken the chance of cutting the pride out from under him but Beralt cut in with a serious voice if Frithjolf had ever heard one.

“Have you ever spent time on a ship, fool?” Beralt asked, chewing slowly.

“Well, I did sail here.” The emissary said, quietly.

“How many times, how many voyages have you sailed? Where have you been in any sea, hm?” Beralt said, straightening himself in his chair and swallowing.

No answer. Silence at the table.

“The Empire could not defeat them. They have Tamriel’s greatest navy, ships of a make few men have seen and could ever hope to replicate. They cut through water like ebony through silk, banners and more banners, listing the heraldry of the captain back to the beginning. They are a terror at sea, Emmet Bartley of Wayrest, Emissary of Pirate-Lord Ambrose Mackin,” Beralt gulped at his wine, washing down the taste of food in his mouth before looking back coldly into the emissary’s eyes, “Your Pirate-Lord didn’t want those ships blockading his harbor and burning his coastal towns. The rabble you call a Navy would barely stand a chance, no matter how many Altmer captains you can say have raised Mackin’s banners. Do not pretend to know what would be good for High Rock, because none of you have done it any good.”

Silence again. Business as usual, it seemed. Frithjolf nodded Beralt. Perhaps they’d have something to discuss in the future, so long as the two could see eye-to-eye on something.