The True Story of the Battle of Whiterun

by Legate Levitius Taurus, 4E 221, Leyawiin.

The Battle of Whiterun is either overstated, or simplified to a small skirmish outside Whiterun's halls. I'm here to settle the score and tell the best tale out there about this turning point in Imperial history. I've been told by my commanding officer, General Rikke, that I can only release so much confidential information. While that may impede on the amount of information in this book, it will and shall not impede the legitimacy of this writing.

I was a young scout under command of Legate Quentin Cipius, making several patrols around the tundra of Whiterun. The city itself was surrounded by a shambling wall and the guards were lazy drunkards. I had heard several arguments Cipius had with the local Lord named Balgruuf, usually about how woefully unprepared the city was. The pride of the man gave in, and a legion was fully transferred into a nearby abandoned fort named Greymoor.

Cipius urged for either an evacuation of the city or a preemptive strike at Ulfric, but Balgruuf refused to put his proud people in such positions. That's when me and my patrol found the Stormcloak camp, positioned past the town of Riverwood. They were obviously getting ready to put up a much closer camp near the southern farms, and I knew the time had come. We left for the city, and told Cipius and Balgruuf all we knew. That's when the preparation started, as over a thousand legionnaires were placed into the city, sleeping in the streets or paying for beds from the locals. The local Nords got into fist fights with our men, while the rest just avoided us. Unlike in Cyrodiil, these people had yet to see the true face of war that wasn't uncommon in Cyrodiil. Riots and petty power grabs surrounded each city, and Bravil was no more than a cold, lifeless shell of a former proud city. I feared the same for Whiterun and it's people.

Cipius asked Balgruuf what his local band of drunk warriors, the "Companions" of Jorrvaskr, would do in the upcoming battle. The man looked solemn as he spoke of the death of their eldest member, which has put many of them in either a depressed state, or simply gone altogether. That's why many people ask about the lack of their presence in the battle.

Our engineers had prepared for the worst. The drawbridge had been improved, oiled, and refurbished to sustain the assault. Catapults were put alongside the city walls, and locals had buckets of water prepared for fires. Legate Rikke herself came by with 100 extra men and joined the city's war council, commanding the infantry in several drills. In under a week, the city had turned itself into an impenetrable fortress. That's when the Stormcloaks came upon the farms south of the city. We sent in scouts to view the carnage, as crops and people were burned. By Akatosh, the stubborn pride of the local Lord lead to avoidable deaths.

While the surrounding countryside was being attacked, a single courier rode swiftly past the Stormcloaks and delivered only a simple steel ax to Balgruuf. I came upon that after warning Cipius of the Stormcloaks mobilizing. Balgruuf told us of his message to Ulfric, and the battle had started.

I had been put in charge of a unit of archers along the foremost wall of Whiterun's entrance, and by the Eight, some men fled after seeing a sea of blue and brown charge toward the battlements. They came in with a rage, bearing worn armor and old weapons, likely family heirlooms or stolen equipment. Their age varied greatly, one man swore he saw a young lad with a dagger get cut down. The first wall was overrun, as me and my men fled after getting three volleys at the pigs. The Stormcloaks had cheap armor, the Imperial steel pierced their hides well.

As my men fled back, the heavy unit came forward with Rikke. Heavy shields pushed against the Nords. While this stalled their furious charge, our men came under heavy assault by flanking troops who scaled the small cliff to our right. We had been cut off from the archers and infantry from the gate, and had to scatter towards the city. Men and women were sliced apart as my young archers were beheaded by battleaxes. Surely though, the most striking part of the battle was the diversity of the legionnaires. Orcs bashed in skulls, Bosmer aimed for their eyes, and Dunmer burnt flesh. Me and a colleague were nearly done for when the local guard came in. They were similar to the Stormcloaks, but with Imperial equipment and greater experience, Ulfric's men were beaten down. Arrows from the gates tore down patches of Stormcloaks while the remaining troops regrouped up the hill. More Imperial infantry joined us and we finally beat them back past the front wall. Their leader, a heavy man with red hair covered in bear pelts, was slain by an equally imposing officer, and the young Nords fled for their camp. Many men went after them, chasing until they ended up somewhere in Eastmarch. I didn't follow, for I knew the battle's aftermath warranted attention.

I'm not allowed to say the exact estimates of our wounded and killed, but you can just see the mass grave for yourself outside Whiterun's walls. Wounded Stormcloaks were left in the city's streets, some tended by strangers or even family members. As soon as they were healed, execution followed. Our own men were flooding the nearby temple of Kynareth, with healers being overworked non-stop. Of course the leaders gave their speeches and fancy awards, but the real reward was the looted Stormcloak corpses. Sure, a few staunch locals yelled at us for it, but the rare axes and fine blades were too tempting. Several houses were lost as well, but the fire crews worked well enough, but the farms were done for. We estimated 800-1,100 Stormcloaks lost their lives to blade or injuries, while their wounded were too high to count, as they hobbled down the streets. The worst were the injuries inflicted by our battlemages. Those ten Bretons and elves practically eviscerated rebels, burned and froze them where they stood. Any survivors were missing limbs, organs, or even parts of their head.

Many men were savoring our victory in the local tavern, but the true survivors of the front wall just sat on benches and stared for miles. Sadly, I too had done this, not forgetting the young men and women cut down by our arrows and swords. It would only be 12 days until we were ready to depart the ancient city, but we all knew the Rebels were hurting bad. The men who chased after the fleeing Stormcloaks told our officers of horrifying tales in Eastmarch's heavy winter. Murder, theft, rape, and cannibalism practically finished off the snow covered rebels. They were so close to their safe haven too.

So overall, the battle was a costly success. We beat the rebels at a high cost of morale and life, but the Stormcloaks suffered worst. I would go later on to shed arrows on the older city of Windhelm and see the casket of Ulfric's own head be sent to Cyrodiil. Yet, I would never forget my experience at the only bold attempt made by the Stormcloaks and their long dead leader. Let this book be a warning to any person aspiring for war and glory; Glory comes from the officers and locals at home, happy in their far off victories. But true war leaves a man hard and sad at the fact that his life leads to such horror. Tamriel truly is the Arena.