I have been in many fights and even what could be considered battles, and I have seen plenty of tv shows and movies (and even played a video game or two) that described or depicted, in historical or fictional detail, what a medieval siege is like. None of them were lifelike, it turns out.

 

If you had asked me—before—what a siege looked like, I would have told you about dirt and time.

 

Months. Maybe years. Lines of tents stretching like a second city around stone walls. Starvation. Boredom. Disease. Engineers. Quiet men with careful hands and dirt under their nails, digging patiently beneath foundations. Sappers. That was the word. I think. Sounds right. Or maybe they trapped the dirt? No, that’s something else.

 

Point being, I expected planning.

 

What I got instead was a bunch of angry Nords screaming “SKYRIM BELONGS TO THE NORDS!” while running headlong into a murder funnel.

 

From above. I mean, I watched it from above – they were below.

 

To give them the minimal amount of credit – and believe me, they were owed very very little – they did try one thing first: they shot rocks at us.

 

The walls of Whiterun thrummed under my boots (high heeled, of course), a living thing resonating with the pounding of siege engines and the answering cries of defenders. The air tasted like ash and pitch. My ears rang constantly—shouts, horns, screams, the deep thoomp of catapults loosing their stones.

 

Twelve of them. I counted – I had time. Plenty of it.

 

That was the only part of the “siege” that felt right, really. Not chaos—waiting. Standing on the wall with my hands resting on cold stone, watching the Stormcloak lines shuffle and reform, watching the catapult arms creak back like spiteful fingers.

 

The first stone sailed toward us, blotting out a wedge of sky.

 

I inhaled and tasted soot.

 

“Fus—”

 

The word caught, heavy and familiar as a scar.

 

“—Rah—”

 

The world leaned.

 

“—Do!”

 

The rock reversed direction midair, spun once, twice, like a coin flipped by an arrogant god, and went screaming back the way it came. It hit the catapult’s arm dead-on. Wood exploded.

 

I blinked, then laughed. Oh. Oh this was going to be fun!

 

The soldiers nearest me flinched the first time. The second time, they started cheering. By the third, word had spread, and I suddenly had an audience—Imperial legionaries leaning on their shields, archers pausing mid-draw, all watching the not-quite-naked woman on the wall play catch with siege ammunition.

 

I adjusted my stance, judging the arc. Timing mattered – too early and the rock dropped; too late and it clipped the wall. There was a rhythm to it, like tennis, if tennis involved screaming geological death rocks at each other (that would liven up Wimbledon).

 

Another stone.

 

Now.

 

“Fus Rah Do!”

 

I corrected at the last moment, twisting my shoulders. The rock flew lower this time, clipping the ground in front of the catapult and plowing through three Stormcloaks before smashing the frame apart.

 

“Four!” someone shouted.

 

I grinned.

 

Four down. Eight to go.

 

The strangest part was how… casual it felt. Not the killing. That part still sat in my chest like old lead. But the doing. I’d expected fear. Adrenaline. Panic. Instead, it felt like solving a puzzle under pressure, or that weird hyper-focus I used to get during finals week back in Columbus, fully caffeinated and two steps ahead of exhaustion.

 

A rock screamed in.

 

“Miss.”

 

Another.

 

“Too high.”

 

The men called corrections now, spotting for me like I was throwing darts instead of inverted meteors. No one touched me. No one laughed. No one made lewd comments. No one stared for longer than professionalism allowed.

 

“She-devil’s got it,” someone muttered with reverence, not lust.

 

Naasektenti.

 

The name clung to me, whether I wanted it or not. But, you know, at this point I wanted it. It was the only fucking thing akin to respect I ever got in this gods-forsaken land. Although, of course, it is anything but gods-forsaken. Which is probably at least 70% of its problem.

 

I destroyed the fifth catapult by accident— I caught the stone late, sent it skimming sideways into the machinery like an angry god skipping a lake. The sixth and seventh were harder – they had learned to stagger their shots, tried to overwhelm me with timing. Unfortunately for them, I could both slow down time and move really really quickly. Between Time Out and Force Speed, I was literally everywhere on that wall at once.

 

By the time I shattered number eight, I felt it click into place, muscle memory and instinct braided together. Shout, breathe, adjust. Don’t think about the men crushed into paste by rebounding rocks. Don’t think about faces.

 

Then the Stormcloaks changed tactics. To the absolute worst tactics I have ever seen. It was like a video game with the worst AI ever.

 

Instead of withdrawing, regrouping, or doing literally any of the fifty siege doctrines I half-remembered from books, tv shows, and movies, they blew their horns and charged the outer bailey.

 

Just…ran. Into closed gates.

 

Under arrow fire.

 

I leaned over the wall, dumbfounded.

 

“What…what are they doing?”

 

Kangme, standing ramrod-straight beside me, flicked his tongue into the air and said, perfectly calm, “Dying inefficiently.”

 

I shook my head. “No, I gotta say, this is quite possibly the most efficient way of dying I have ever seen.”

 

They considered, then nodded. “Agreed. I stand corrected.”

 

It was a slaughter.

 

Imperial archers loosed in disciplined volleys, the sky darkening with fletching. Stormcloaks fell in clumps, tripping over bodies, screaming as arrows punched through mail and leather and exposed skin. Those who reached the gate hacked at it with axes, howling, while boiling oil cascaded down in shimmering sheets, turning men into torches.

 

No ladders. No rams. No shield walls.

 

Just rage.

 

I watched a young Nord beat his shield against the gate until his arm gave out, sobbing—not in pain, but frustration. He wanted the door to open because he wanted it to. Because that’s how things worked in his head.

 

I felt sick.

 

Not because of the blood - I’d seen worse. Well, no, I honestly can’t say I have seen anything worse than that carnage. But I felt sick because it was such a waste. It wasn’t tragedy or valor or even desperation.

 

It was stupidity with a body count.

 

“Who plans this?” I whispered.

 

No one answered.

 

By the time dusk crept in, the ground outside Whiterun was carpeted with dead Stormcloaks, their war cries reduced to a low wet moan of the wounded. Of the twelve catapults, eight lay in ruin because of me. The rest were abandoned, crews either dead or fled.

 

As the horns sounded retreat, I sagged against the wall, suddenly exhausted. My throat burned. My hands shook now that there was nothing to occupy my mind.

 

A legionary approached, helmet tucked under his arm.

 

“Commander,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. “Legate Rikke wants you reported as…ah…operationally decisive.”

 

I snorted. “Tell her I play a mean game of fetch.”

 

He smiled, sharp and tired. “Yes, She-Devil.”

 

They gave me space as we descended the wall. Not fear; respect. The good kind—the kind that doesn’t try to take things from you. I caught a few glances at my outfit, unavoidable, but no leering. No comments.

 

After what I’d done, they knew better than to confuse exposed skin with access.

 

As night fell and Whiterun still stood, unbreached, unbeaten, I found myself wondering—not for the first time—how a rebellion built on this kind of thinking had survived this long at all.

 

Then again, I supposed brute force had always convinced some people. Even when it got them killed.

 

 

 

Don’t feed the bastards. Feel yourself instead.

 

 

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