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Chapter Text

The Justiciar was careless today, leaving a key on a table within sight of the cell door, and that could prove her salvation. Sticking her thin hand through the bars, she extended a tendril of magicka towards it in a desperate attempt to drag it close enough to free herself. Gaunt from three weeks of hunger after Coldfall Prison half-collapsed due to a storm and given minimal rations by the Thalmor agents who took over the facility afterwards, it took every fraction of might she possessed to nudge it off the table. Since the mer were elsewhere, eating or plotting to interrogate their newest prisoner, the tinny ring of brass on stone didn’t attract any undue attention. But she was panting now, every use of Telekinesis draining away strength that she didn’t have to lose, and haphazardly dragged it closer. Her plan was to release herself and then creep out of the sewer entrance that the other escapees used when the wardens abandoned the half-flooded prison. After that, she’d have to get far away from the blackcoats before they decided to eliminate her.

            By the time that the key was within reach, her energy levels were little more than embers and all she wanted to do was sink back into the grey fugue of exhausted despair that was her existence. Yet any moment meant that the Justiciar could return and then she’d be strung up for torture across from the man they interrogated repeatedly. A flicker of hope was a powerful thing and she marvelled that she could still feel such a thing after years of imprisonment and eventual abandonment by the Penitus Oculatus. First she had to unlock the door and make it into the nearby row of general cells to escape before the Thalmor realised she had enough strength to attempt it. Like the Empire, the Aldmeri Dominion had every reason to want the last of the Aurelii dead.

            Her fingers brushed the tarnished brass of the key, almost pushing it out of reach, and she choked back a groan of despair as she strained with all her might to grab it. Muscles aching from the effort, her breath harsh, she finally nudged it into reach and for the first time in her life triumph surged through her. Quickly pulling it into the cell, she used the bars to drag herself up and then stuck it inside the keyhole. The click was a clarion of hope and she carefully opened the door, stopping at every squeak of the hinge, but all she could hear was the groans of the male prisoner in a nearby cell. Bad luck for a Blade to be captured by the Thalmor but it wasn’t any problem of hers.

            After confinement to an admittedly generous cell, the sensation of moving freely felt alien, and she tiptoed through the dank, dim cells towards the lefthand row where the sewer grate was. But her foot kicked a rusty gladius left by a fleeing Penitus Oculatus agent, the clatter of metal ringing out, and she cringed as she thought of the Thalmor catching her outside the cell. Yet there was no sound of boots splashing through the stagnant puddles everywhere and only the prisoner to the right made a desperate groan that was half-prayer. Unbidden, her gaze went to him, and she saw a hulking brute of a man with bronze skin, long black hair and a crimson face tattoo hanging from chained wrists in the cell used for interrogation. The Thalmor had left bruises and weals on him, visible even in the single torch that burned in the cell, and she saw that he wasn’t much older than her. Entirely too young to have been a Blade despite the Justiciar’s accusations.

            Prudence dictated that she flee before the Thalmor returned. But the small voice inside of her that decried the injustice of being condemned for the sins of her ancestors compelled her to pick up the rusty gladius and make her way to the cell. If he was clever and silent, he could follow her out of the prison and both of them could find sanctuary… somewhere else. He looked big enough to survive a fight with a mammoth.

            The door clicked open and she carefully pulled it back, causing him to look up at her blearily. Placing a finger to her lips, she made her way to the shackles and unlocked them as well. He immediately collapsed on his hands and knees, trying to swallow a groan, and she heard the whisper of “healing potion.” Fortunately for them both, there was a moderately strong one next to some blood-caked torture implements and she retrieved it, helping him to sit down and bringing it to his lips. Golden light rippled through him as he swallowed quickly, wounds and bruises healing with unnatural speed, until his scarlet eyes were free of pain once more.

            “Bottled miracle, that stuff,” he rasped in a light baritone. “Now all we need to do is retrieve my arms and armour and get out of here.”

            “Are you crazy?” she hissed, pointing to the sewer grate across the aisle. “We can get out before they realise we’re escaping!”

            “Not without my weapons and armour,” he said stubbornly. He grabbed the gladius and key from her nerveless grip. “Get out while you can and I’ll meet you outside. If I don’t come in about an hour, follow the road across the bridge to Windhelm. Ulfric will give you sanctuary.”

            She was nothing loath to obey him, scurrying out of the cell and heading for the grate. The smell of effluvia and rotting flesh struck her, making her eyes water, and she carefully lowered herself into the grate as the sound of an Altmer’s startled curse reached her. That lent speed to her feet and soon she was stumbling her way through a tunnel until she found a manhole cover. Pushing that open and climbing the crude ladder took all of her strength.

            Outside, the light was thin and grey, a cold drizzle soaking the land. She scrambled to the shore but remained under the bridge, shuddering at both the enormity of the world she hadn’t seen since she was a child and the fact that she had escaped Coldfall Prison. Pine trees clothed the lower slopes of the mountain that clawed towards the lead-grey sky, filling the air with their resinous tang, and the dregs of her strength flickered like dying embers. How she was to reckon an hour was beyond her, so she simply lay under the bridge and hoped that the other prisoner survived. She was going to need all the help she could get.

            The light had taken on a blue quality when the sound of clanking metal reached her, jarring her from a fitful doze, and she rolled to the side to try and rise to her knees. Flames spurted between her fingers, the only magicka other than crude Telekinesis that she knew, as the noise grew closer. There was no way she could outrun whoever was coming. If it was the Thalmor, she hoped they killed her rather than dragging her back to the prison for a torturous end. She knew that the Justiciar had hated being there in the first place.

            Iron-dark boots appeared and she flung a blast of fire at them in a panicked rush that had their owner hopping away with a startled curse. “Talos titty-fucking Dibella, it’s me!” the other prisoner exclaimed, quickly sticking his head under the bridge. “Glad you’re still here. Hard to pay a life-debt when you got to track down the one you owe.”

            She crawled out from under the bridge, staring up at the massive warrior, and accepted his offered hand to stand up. She swayed violently, her strength deserting her, and he caught her with one strong arm. Solid and steadfast as an oak, he held her as she leaned against him, unable to believe that he was here and alive, both of them free. “The Thalmor?”

            “Dead,” he said softly. “Looted the place for all it was worth as well. Ulfric pays well for Thalmor heads.”

            Swallowing, she pondered her options. Ulfric, she knew, was a rebel Jarl in eastern Skyrim. The woman who might be her mother had married him. But no one would welcome her in Windhelm if they knew who she was. If she was lucky, she could make her way to the port-city and find a boat that would take her away from Imperial and Stormcloak alike.

            The other prisoner looked to the sky. “Almost sunset. We’re lucky there’s a place we can stay at nearby. Gilfre will trade us food and shelter in return for some help at the sawmill.”

            She swallowed again, trying to moisten her dry throat. “Is it safe?” she croaked.

            “Aye. We’re in Eastmarch now.” He wrapped a strong arm around her waist. “Lean on me. You’re skin and bone.”

            It took them the better part of dusk to reach the nearby sawmill, the Imperial woman who ran it feeding some chickens in the dimming light. She saw them and gasped in shock, dropping the rest of the grain for the chickens to gobble up greedily. “Kaidan?” she asked. “What in Oblivion happened to you?”

            “Better you don’t ask,” the warrior said shortly. “I need to use your worker’s cottage. If you’ve got a spare dress and pair of shoes for my friend here, I’d be grateful as well. I’ll cut firewood in the morning for you.”

            Gilfre, she recalled her name was, nodded. “I can spare some things if she doesn’t mind they’re practically rags. Get into that cottage before anyone sees you.”

            Kaidan nodded and half-carried her to the cottage, opening the door and getting her inside. The cottage was musty and disused but still usable, five beds filling the room, and he helped her to sit down on one before grabbing firewood to put in the hearth. She lay down on the bed, curling up in her familiar foetal position, as he kindled a flame with fire-flints to warm up their current shelter. It was hard to believe that she was free of the prison, in the company of one who said he owed her a debt, and that she might yet escape the long reach of the Penitus Oculatus.

            “Right, we’re safe for now,” Kaidan said as he rose to his feet and shrugged off the bag, bow, blade and quiver he carried. “Gilfre knows how to keep her mouth shut and Cyrelian was operating without orders, so his superiors don’t know he was in Eastmarch.”

            She nodded, finding it hard to speak. She wasn’t a prisoner. She was free of the cell. She could theoretically escape the Penitus Oculatus somehow.

            Unbuckling his lamellar armour, Kaidan set it aside with a groan of relief, his shirt and breeks little better than patched rags. “Bastard Thalmor destroyed my gear,” he grumbled. “Will take a lot of the reward from Ulfric to replace it.”

            “Your sword,” she managed to say. “Do you know why the Thalmor wanted to know about it?”

            The big warrior sighed, shaking his head. “I only know it belonged to my mother and the inscription on it is Dragonish. Cyrelian thought I was a Blade when I’m no follower of the Madgoddess and didn’t believe me when I told him the truth.”

            Gilfre opened the door, arriving with folded garments and a leather bag. “I found some clothing and food for you both,” she said as she set them on the table. “Just cut me a half-cord tomorrow and it’ll be pay enough.”

            “Of course.” Kaidan gave her a grateful smile. “No trouble will come to your doorstep, Gilfre. I killed it.”

            The lumberjack chuckled. “Of course you did. But the sooner you two go on to Windhelm, the better.”

            “We’ll leave the day after tomorrow,” Kaidan promised. “It’s not so far away.”

            She nodded and left the cottage. Once the door was shut, Kaidan sighed in relief.

            “Right, so you need something to eat and drink,” he said as he moved to the table. “When was the last time you had a good meal?”

            “I… was a prisoner for a long time,” she confessed. “I was mostly fed gruel and soup.”

            “Right, so bread and cheese might be a bit heavy for you.” Kaidan made a disgusted noise as he opened the bag of food. “Reckon some brotsuppe ought to do the trick. We’ll need you strong enough to make it to Windhelm, much as I’d prefer you to gather your strength.”

            Sitting up, her stomach growling at the thought of food, she watched him take some heavy dark bread and tear it into pieces before throwing it in a pot of water with herbs, a dash of cream and a cracked egg. Thin gruel and broth had been her portion, from both the Penitus Oculatus and Thalmor, and bread was a rare treat. It was clear that Kaidan knew how to cook by the savoury fragrance that soon filled the cottage.

            “So, what did you do to piss off the Thalmor so badly they left you to rot?” Kaidan asked as he stirred the soup.

            “I was born,” she said simply. “And that prison used to be run by the Penitus Oculatus. They threw me in there when I was twelve… because my grandfather was a traitor.”

            “Gods.” Kaidan shook his head. “No wonder you’re a tiny little thing. I’m surprised you managed to get your hands on a key.”

            “Taught myself Telekinesis,” she admitted, watching him cook the soup. “Cyrelian left the key within reach.”

            “Well, thank the gods that he did,” Kaidan said. “So what’s your name? I’m Kaidan, called Red-Eyes by the Nords.”

            She closed her eyes. “I… don’t remember. When I was thrown into the cell, my name was legally taken from me. I was just ‘Prisoner Twelve’ to them.”

            “Those fucking bastards,” Kaidan said in a low deadly tone. “Well, I won’t be calling you Prisoner or Twelve, that’s for certain. Was there anything you ever wanted to be?”

            “A bird,” she said softly. “So I could fly away.”

            “Huh.” Kaidan checked the soup carefully. “Well, do you have a problem with the name Jedda? It’s Yoku for ‘wren’ and since you’re Redguard and your hair’s brown…”

            “Jedda.” She tasted the name. It was short and simple. An ordinary enough name. “Jedda.”

            “You don’t have to take it,” Kaidan said softly as he began to serve the soup.

            “No… Jedda will do.”

Chapter Text

The brotsuppe wasn’t quite properly made as it required a meat stock for proper flavour but for something knocked together from the scraps Gilfre gave him it was more than adequate after days of the saltrice slop fed to prisoners in the Thalmor facility. Kaidan watched Jedda tentatively sip from the wooden bowl he’d dished out a generous portion into, wincing a bit at the hot liquid until she blew on it, and then swallow. It was the softest meal he could make from what he had, suitable for a stomach fed on gruel and soup, and he’d tried to make it as flavoursome as possible. His life-debt to her was more than just simply saving her life in return as she had no experience of existence outside of a prison cell. Should they encounter any Penitus Oculatus agents, those bastards would die very quickly, both to protect and avenge her.

            Jedda swallowed it, licking her lips, and regarded the bowl of soup as if it was a revelation. “I didn’t know there were flavours other than salt,” she finally said.

            “There’s four or five, I think,” Kaidan observed, recalling what he’d learned from that Orc whose life he’d saved a few years ago. “Salty, sour, bitter, sweet and savoury. Except he called it umami. I was always an alright cook but he taught me how to do better on our way back to civilisation.”

            She nodded and returned her attention to the soup, drinking it with the care of one who’d made herself sick before by gorging after a long period of malnutrition. While not quite as emaciated as some of the starvation victims he’d seen in the past, she had little flesh to spare on those birdlike bones of hers and needed to put on about fifty or so pounds. Thankfully it was easier to gain weight than lose it.

            Kaidan turned to his own meal, gulping it down and using his fingers to scrape out the wet bread scraps to stuff into his mouth. Manners wasn’t a concern here when it was just the two of them, not when he had more pressing concerns about how they were going to reach Windhelm when Jedda was still weak from imprisonment. He’d only been a prisoner for a few days at most after his capture at Lake Ilinata while she’d known nothing but a prison cell since the age of twelve. Ulfric would pay generously for the Thalmor heads he'd collected and his smiths would claim the moonstone armour and elven weaponry for their forges but it was going to take a lot of time and coin to resupply himself and make sure she was taken care of.

            Jedda finished her meal, going so far as to lick her bowl clean without shame, and Kaidan said nothing as he set his own bowl aside. “I’ll draw us some water from the well so we can wash,” he told her, rising to his feet. “That clothing Gilfre gave you ought to fit well enough until we can get something better.”

            The woman said nothing as she nodded, returning to her bed and curling up, soon fast asleep. It was clear she’d learned to make the hours go faster in her imprisonment by sleeping as much as she could. And Kaidan couldn’t fault her one bit.

            Drawing a couple buckets of water, he left them by the hearth to keep warm as he sat down, still too edgy to sleep after the events of the past few days, and began to sort out what he’d looted from the prison. Aside from the Thalmor’s gear, none of the abandoned cloth, steel or leather had been salvageable because of the mould, mildew and rust, but he’d found enough copper septims to cover a couple nights at one of the cheaper inns in Windhelm. Ulfric offered five gold septims per Thalmor head, so there was ten right here with two, but he’d need to purchase a tent, camping supplies and all the other needs a winter traveller needed. Overwintering in Windhelm was expensive due to the scutage that a long-term resident had to pay to avoid being conscripted into the Jarl’s rebel army. Kaidan despised the Empire as abandoning its people but he thought the esteemed Jarl of Windhelm was nothing more than a power-hungry racist with an ego who was going to get a lot of people killed.

            Eventually exhaustion drove him into a fitful slumber that was broken by the sound of Gilfre’s rooster crowing the dawn in. Kaidan groggily raised his head and saw Jedda sitting upright in bed, her eyes wide and panicked, with her thin hand on her chest in an attitude of fear. “It’s just the rooster,” he told her, yawning into his fist as he tried to rub sleep from his eyes. “They always crow at dawn.”

            She drew her knees up to her chest, still trembling like a leaf, as he rose from the seat he’d taken and stretched out his sore back and neck with an audible crack. In the daylight that filtered in through the rafters and thatch, she was pallid and skinny from her long incarceration, tangled ash-brown hair lank and in dire need of a comb. Washing would help some but it was going to be clear to anyone with eyes that she’d been confined for years on end. Her eyes, however, were a melange of blue, grey and green that depended on the flickering firelight from the hearth.

            “Reckon you could eat a slice of bread and cheese?” he coaxed, rolling his neck to ease the last of the strain. “Gilfre’s keen for us to be gone and while I know Cyrelian had no friends nearby, travellers go by the inn all the time and all we need is for word to return to Solitude or Northwatch Keep.”

            “I can try,” she said weakly. “I got bread rarely… and cheese twice.”

            “Fucking bastards,” Kaidan muttered. “Well, let’s get washed and you out of those prison rags then.”

            Jedda rose to her feet and walked over to the bucket of water, casually removing her garments so that they fell into a stinking pile at her feet. Kaidan’s anger simmered like a bellyful of flin after seeing the whip scars on her back but he kept silent, handing her a chunk of slightly dusty soap and a clean rag. Verbalising his rage at her abuse would be counterproductive because he could see the fragility of her psyche. He could hunt down and kill Penitus Oculatus later if he wanted.

            Half an hour later, both of them were much cleaner and dressed, and he tossed the prison rags into the fire to burn. Cutting a small slice of bread and cheese from what Gilfre gave him, he handed it to Jedda and made himself a bigger sandwich. He still owed the sawmill owner a day of woodchopping so the sooner he got onto that, the sooner they could leave.

            “Want to come out for some fresh air?” he asked as he headed for the door. “I’ve got that firewood to cut for Gilfre before we can leave for Windhelm.”

            She followed him outside, sitting on a stump as he picked up the iron-headed woodcutter’s axe and began to split half-logs. The sun had peeked out from the clouds today, gilding the scene in warm golden light that lent tawny tones to her skin and chestnut highlights to her hair. Kaidan revelled in the weak warmth of a late summer’s day as he lost himself in the rhythm of cutting firewood after days spent chained to a wall. The healing potion had cured most of his injuries but he’d need to be careful for the next week or so until the rest were healed. Fucking Thalmor.

            It was somewhere around noon when a russet-brown blur launched itself at him, almost knocking him over as he ate another cheese sandwich, and Kaidan had to hold his meal out of the questing muzzle of a very hungry wolf. “Karnwyr!” he yelled as Gilfre came to see what the commotion was. “Get down!”

            The wolf, of course, had no such intentions when there was cheese within reach until his owner’s rumbling baritone barked a command at him. Reluctantly, he dropped back down, whining pitifully. To reward his good behaviour, Kaidan tore off part of his sandwich and gave it to him, earning an enthusiastic tail-wagging.

            Jedda was very still, her eyes wide, as Bishop Thrice-Banished sauntered down the road accompanied by a very pretty ash-blond Cyrod in fine green wool. Tall and rangy for a Nord, he wore well-worn black leathers with a recurved horn-and-sinew bow on his back, a wickedly sharp knife and hatchet riding on his belt. Guiding people around Skyrim was part of how the ranger made his money but this was the fanciest customer Kaidan had seen him with in a while.

            “Taking up honest work?” Bishop asked sardonically, amber eyes flicking across the sawmill.

            “I’m surprised you know what that looks like, given your avoidance of it,” Kaidan retorted as he swallowed the rest of his sandwich. “Just paying off Gilfre for her hospitality before heading to Windhelm.”

            Bishop raked a hand through his tousled sable-brown hair. He was still as handsome, albeit a little more scarred, as the last time Kaidan had seen him. “You look like shit, if you don’t mind me saying. Cross the wrong person?”

            “I do mind you saying so,” Kaidan said softly. “And I ran afoul of some blackcoats who thought my nodachi was a Blade’s weapon. They’re dead now and I’ll be delivering the heads to Ulfric for the bounty.”

            “Good. Few less of those bastards improves life for the rest of us,” Bishop growled approvingly. “Always told you that sword and armour of yours was playing with fire.”

            “I didn’t hear that,” the blond Cyrod said in a prim scholar’s tenor. He was very fine-featured, with crystalline-blue eyes and fair skin, and Kaidan wondered whether Bishop had wrangled him into bed yet. “Friend of yours, Bishop?”

            “We’ve worked together,” the ranger said shortly. “Kaidan, this is Lucien, my current employer. We’re looking for a Dwemer ruin named Dumzbthar. Lucien, this is Kaidan, a… bounty hunter. I don’t know who the wench is.”

            “Good to meet you, Lucien,” Kaidan said, nodding. “The lady’s Jedda.”

            “As in the cheese?” Lucien asked, wrinkling his brow.

            “No, Jedda.” Kaidan emphasised the “J.” “It’s a Redguard name meaning ‘wren.’”

            “Oh.” Lucien rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry.”

            “If you’re heading to Windhelm, we might as well stick around,” Bishop said, taking up residence leaning against a tree. “Lucien’s a little too free with his political opinions to chance taking into the city proper and we’ll need someone to get supplies.”

            “Reckon I could do it for a gold septim,” Kaidan told him as he picked up the woodcutter’s axe again. “Jedda stays with you though. I owe her a life-debt.”

            “I’m not ‘free with my political opinions’,” Lucien complained. “I just don’t understand how anyone could be disloyal to the greatest Empire in Tamriel!”

            “The Empire that threw me in Coldfall to rot because my grandfather was a traitor?” Jedda asked, her contralto harsh as a raven’s cry. “I hope Mede burns in the Deadlands and Irkand with him!”

            Lucien gaped for a moment at her outburst before looking penetratingly at her, eyes narrowed. The Cyrod blanched slightly and stepped back, hands automatically forming a gesture against evil, and Kaidan’s grip on the axe tightened. “You’re… You’re an Aurelia. Akatosh defend me.”

            Even Kaidan knew of the Aurelii, the clan that had corrupted the Blades and rebelled against the Empire at the end of the Great War, and it explained a lot as to why a child was thrown into a prison cell to rot. But that didn’t mean it was her fault. “She was tossed into that cell, stripped of her name, and left to rot at twelve,” he told the scholar in a soft deadly tone. “You say she deserved it, and client of Bishop’s or not, I’ll make you live long enough to regret it.”

            Lucien threw a panicky glance at Bishop, who shrugged nonchalantly. “If you die, I get all your gold,” he said dryly. “So don’t look at me to protect you from the consequences of your own big mouth.”

            “Right, I think you’ve cut enough wood,” Gilfre said firmly, looking between all of them. “Kaidan, I… think it’s best you leave with your friend. I don’t need trouble here.”

            “Of course, Gilfre.” He set the axe down. “Just let me get my gear on and we’ll leave.”

            Within half an hour, he was armed and armoured, feeling much better in his skin of steel. Lucien blanched again as he emerged from the cottage while Bishop was engaged in a conversation with Jedda as she scratched his wolf’s ruff. Trust the ranger to somewhat sympathise with her as someone condemned for the sins of his father as well.

            The trip to Windhelm was going to be a tense one. He could tell that much. And one way or another, he’d pay the debt he owed Jedda or die trying.

Chapter Text

Jedda remained silent as they left the sawmill, whose name she never learnt, and focused on remaining upright despite the tremor in her legs as they followed the road to Windhelm. Lucien, pampered scion that he was, had reminded her that most of the loyal citizens of the Empire hated her for merely existing despite being relatively innocent of the crimes her family committed. Kaidan’s threat towards him surprised her despite the bounty hunter’s kindness while Bishop, a shifty ne’er-do-well if ever she saw one, had told her not to mind the ash-blond Cyrod because he was wet behind the ears. The sky was impossibly huge, reaching further than she could see, and the landscape across from the river they walked along was sere and brown. She could see the edges of snow and knew that Windhelm was frost-bound most of the year. If she was so easily recognised by some random scholar, would those in the city who knew of her clan be so perceptive? Even the rebels despised the Aurelii as Daedra cultists, she’d been told, so she’d find no sanctuary among the Stormcloaks.

            Bishop’s dog ranged ahead of them, occasionally running down some hapless rodent or rabbit and eating it in two gulps before running back for a pat from his owner or someone else. Lucien had managed to swallow most of his fear, though he kept on eyeing her warily, while Bishop had his hand on his hatchet while scanning the horizon for trouble. Kaidan just marched along stolidly, resting his “nodachi” across his shoulder in preparation for any danger. She was very much the weak link here as Lucien was apparently a mage with some unique spells learnt from Dwemer sorcery.

            Slowly the pines faded into low scrubby bushes that produced scarlet berries that Bishop casually plucked and ate, tempting her to try a handful despite the prickle from the saw-edged leaves. They were sweeter than could be believed, leaving a cold afterburn that lingered on her tongue, and she wondered what made them taste so. Along the edges of the slope down to the river grew fat purple globes she recognised as grapes from her reading but neither Bishop nor Kaidan made a move to consume them, so she decided not to. The world was so much bigger than she recalled and she wondered how she was going to survive in it when Kaidan inevitably went his own way.

            Three shaggy grey-black dogs slunk into view, growling aggressively, until Bishop’s hound Karnwyr intimidated them into fleeing with a savage growl of his own. The snow had replaced the sandy-beige landscape of across the river while a statue of a helmed man standing astride a slain serpent of some sort, leaning on a sword, overlooked where the river fed into a large harbour. On the horizon she could see grey walls that reached ten man-heights from the water. She could only assume that was Windhelm.

            “Right, I’ll take Lucien and Jedda to the Salty Salmon while you get some supplies and collect that bounty,” Bishop announced as they approached the crossroads in front of the bridge. “The Argonians are less likely to be outraged by my employer’s opinions than the locals.”

            Kaidan nodded, accepting a pouch of coin from Bishop and sheathing his nodachi across his back. “Aye, reckon you’ll have better luck finding Dumzbthar there as well. I only know of Mzulft in Eastmarch myself.”

            “I was thinking that,” Bishop agreed. He gave Kaidan a smirk. “Don’t worry, Jedda’s safe with me. I prefer my lovers with some meat on them.”

            “Why, so there’s more of them to disappoint?” Kaidan retorted, tucking the pouch away. “I’ll be back by an hour after dark, I reckon. Ulfric always likes to pike Thalmor heads as fast as he gets them. Jedda, Bishop’s an arse, but you can trust him… if only because he knows what I’ll do to him if anything happens to you.”

            Bishop responded with a raised middle finger. “That’s hilarious coming from the guy who joined a Dagonite cult after cheating on me with that Breton slut.”

            “Least I’m not a kinslayer twice over,” Kaidan said, mouth tightening a little. “Try not to get arrested this time.”

            The bounty hunter took himself off across the bridge, leaving Jedda alone with two strangers – only one of whom was marginally trustworthy. “Right,” Bishop said as he gestured to the buildings clustered on the docks. “Let’s go to the only inn that will cater to Argonians and foreign sailors in Windhelm. Lucien, shut the fuck up about your Imperial buddies because I’m not going down because you decided to sing the national anthem.”

            “I can keep quiet,” Lucien said tightly. “Assuming they don’t take offence at me being Cyrod in the first place.”

            “So long as you keep your mouth shut, they’ll ignore your race,” Bishop said as he led them to the stairs that went down to the docks from the bridge. “But a rich boy’s fair game on the docks, so hang onto your pack and purse.”

            The docks of Windhelm were full of people coming and going, mostly Nords and Argonians with a sprinkling of Imperials, Dunmer and Redguards. Jedda stuck close to Bishop and Lucien reluctantly as they made their way to a tavern at the end of the street whose weathered sign of a salmon in the sea swung in the wind. Warehouses were built into the walls themselves while vendors sold everything from potions to charms to food to those who worked on the piers. Her stomach growled as it was assaulted by more scents than she knew was possible, most of them delicious, but she had no coin with which to purchase anything.

            They reached the Salty Salmon and Bishop opened the door to let them inside. It was dark and a little dank, almost familiar to Jedda after years in Coldfall, and she breathed a sigh of relief as the noise of the docks was cut off by the closing door. Furnished with trestle tables and benches, it was hung with faded banners and strange totems, while the counter was manned by a vivid green Argonian with horns and copper-gold highlights to her face, crown and throat. Despite the odd scale glittering on the stone floor, it was clean and smelt mostly of fish and beer. An athletic Nord with long sable hair, a square stubbled jaw and a fine bearskin cloak sat at the bar, watching them with a stern gaze.

            “So you finally bought the Salmon, eh?” Bishop asked the Argonian cheerfully as he approached the bar.

            “Yes,” she said in a light rasp. “Prince Egil was kind enough to loan me the money.”

            “It’s not a loan, Shahvee, it’s a gift,” the Nord corrected in a deep rumbling baritone. He wore fine steel chainmail and thigh-high boots with an Amulet of Stendarr. “You saved my life.”

            “And I’ll pay it back,” was the innkeeper’s retort. She pushed herself up a bit. “I’m assuming you want rooms and a meal, Thrice-Banished?”

            “I’ll need four pallets because Kaidan will be joining me,” Bishop said easily. “Just whatever’s on the menu for food and drink. It’s been a long walk from Falkreath.”

            “Right, for four of you, that will be a gold septim,” Shahvee said calmly. “Includes fish stew and a tankard of house mead each.”

            Bishop tossed her a gold coin that she caught nimbly, tucking it into her bodice, and steered Jedda and Lucien to a corner table with four seats. Lucien was covertly trying to watch Egil, who returned the look with frank assessment in his eyes, and Jedda just kept her head down. She’d heard the name Egil before but couldn’t place it.

            “I wasn’t expecting a Stormcloak to be friendly with the Argonians,” Lucien remarked once they were seated. “Aren’t they all ragingly racist towards non-Nords?”

            “Most of those are the mouth-breathing cousin-fuckers from Winterhold and the Pale,” Bishop said dryly, rolling his eyes. “Egil’s chummy with the Argonians and Bjarni’s got a fetish for Dunmer barmaids… or so the rumour goes.”

            Shahvee doled stew into three wooden bowls and brought them over with a loaf of heavy dark bread. “You Cyrods know nothing of Eastmarch,” she said as she placed the bowls on the table. “I’d appreciate you keeping your opinions to yourself. If you anger the wrong Stormcloak, I won’t stop them from tossing you into the harbour.”

            “Thanks, Shahvee. I’m trying to drum it into his head but…” Bishop spread his hands helplessly as the Argonian laid out horn spoons on the table. “I suppose this is your famous ‘seafood surprise’?”

            “There’s no surprise about it,” Shahvee said, rolling her golden eyes. “It’s got clam and salmon bits in it. Slaughterfish costs extra.”

            “Better than what Keerava down at the Bee and Barb serves,” Bishop said as he picked up the spoon. “I reckon we could use a drink as well. Better bring the mead you serve to outsiders. Lucien’s a lightweight and I don’t think Jedda drinks much.”

            “Of course.” Shahvee gave a lipless smile and returned to the counter, filling a jug of mead from the butt of drink on the bench and bringing it over with three cups. “Have you heard about Helgen?”

            “Heard about it? I was there,” Bishop said with a shudder, taking the cup and filling it to the brim with mead before tossing it back like water. “That dragon damned near turned me and Lucien into barbecue.”

            Dragon? Jedda wondered, tentatively taking a cup and pouring some of the slightly sour-sweet liquor into it. The stew was chunky and she knew she’d have to eat it carefully so she didn’t get sick. Her first taste of mead was one of slightly sour sweetness before it settled warmly in her stomach.

            Shahvee glanced at Egil. “We don’t know a lot. But Kynesgrove has that big dragon burial mound on it and Bonestrewn Crest has a Word Wall.”

            “The Priests of Talos have assured us that the Dragonborn will come,” Egil said calmly, though a muscle rippled in his jaw. “As to who that will be… we’ll see.”

            “Talos is a-“ Lucien’s sentence was cut off by Bishop’s none-too-soft kick under the table. Jedda suspected that the Cyrod was too stupid to live by the way he kept on opening his mouth.

            “I have seen miracles done by his Priests,” Shahvee said simply. “If you stay around, Cyrod, maybe you’ll see a few yourself.”

            She took herself back to the counter and Bishop shook his head at Lucien, who looked stubbornly unchastened.

            “What’s this about a dragon?” Jedda asked to distract them both from a fight.

            “Dragon burnt down Helgen,” Bishop said succinctly, pouring himself another cup of mead before shoving the jug at Lucien pointedly. “We managed to outrun it. Decided to head north because the dragons seem centred in the south.”

            Lucien shuddered. “The civil war was almost over as well. I’m guessing if the Stormcloaks know now, Ulfric and his son got back to Windhelm.”

            Jedda decided not to say anything, instead picking up her spoon and eating the fish stew. It was thicker than the broth she was fed at the prison or the slop that the Thalmor gave her, salty and savoury all at once, and the texture was a bit odd because of the chunks of clam meat. She ate it carefully, the meal sitting heavier in her stomach than she was used to, and wondered what she’d do when she was inevitably left to her own devices.

            Dusk had fallen and the inn filled up with Argonians and sailors by the time Kaidan returned, taking a seat at their table. Egil had left, thankfully, and Shahvee was busy with customers. Jedda had nursed the single cup of mead the entire afternoon, feeling a little drowsy, while Bishop had ordered another jug. What were they going to do after this?

            “How’d it go?” Bishop asked, shoving a cup in Kaidan’s direction.

            “Ulfric paid in five gold septims and the rest will be in supplies,” Kaidan said, taking the cup and drinking it gratefully. “Did you hear about the dragon?”

            “Yeah. I was actually at Helgen with Lucien.” Bishop leaned back in his seat, sighing. “So what now?”

            “I spoke to Wuunferth the Unliving and he tells me that Dumzbthar is on Solstheim,” Kaidan said, rolling his neck both ways with a groan. “Place’s half ash and full of reavers.”

            “Solstheim?” Lucien asked plaintively. “Where am I going to get workers on Solstheim?”

            “Given the mine’s played out, might find a few at Raven Rock,” Kaidan said succinctly. “But the Dunmer have even less love for the Empire than Ulfric.”

            “Fuck. I’m more familiar with Skyrim than Solstheim.” Bishop pinched the bridge of his nose. “What about you and Jedda? She’s in no condition to traipse around Skyrim.”

            “I’ll find somewhere to overwinter in,” Kaidan said simply. “If she hadn’t pulled the key from the table to her, we’d both still be rotting in Coldfall.”

            Bishop nodded, drinking some more mead. “Winterhold’s a shithole, but it’s an affordable shithole. Plenty of work to keep you occupied and she can fatten up over winter.”

            “Aye. I’ve no love of mages but Jedda clearly has a gift for it.” Kaidan sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Might be dangerous to go to Solstheim. Wuunferth says there are dark powers stirring over there.”

            “Of course there are dark powers stirring,” Lucien, who’d had a couple cups of mead, pointed out. “They worship the Daedric Princes.”

            Bishop sighed. “They don’t need some Cyrod trying to convert them to the Imperial Cult, Lucien. Why don’t we hold off on Solstheim for a few weeks until you learn to shut up?”

            Winterhold? Jedda looked at her thin scarred hands. Kaidan thought she had a gift for magic. But would that be enough at the College?

            “So you’ll come with us to Winterhold then?” Kaidan asked. “Lucien could learn more about the Dwemer at the College.”

            “My father is one of the greatest authorities on Dwemer mechanics in Tamriel!” Lucien protested. “What could some farce of a College teach me about them?”

            “Don’t suppose we could just stick him on a boat and make him Solstheim’s problem?” Jedda asked hopefully.

            “I owe him one,” Bishop said reluctantly as Lucien spluttered. “He helped me rescue Karnwyr.”

            “I know all about debts like that,” Kaidan said. “I owe Jedda one.”

            “Exactly.” Bishop nodded. “I’ll come with you to Winterhold. Lucien’s not ready to face Solstheim and I could use some more coin with winter coming.”

            “That okay with you?” Kaidan asked her.

            “I… guess so,” she said slowly. “Not sure I have much of a talent for magic though. All I can do is call Flames and move objects.”

            “You can cast Telekinesis, untaught?” Lucien asked incredulously. “It took me six months to learn it!”

            “Well then, sounds like Winterhold it is,” Kaidan said quietly. “We’ll leave once we have the supplies.”

            She hoped it was the right choice.

Chapter Text

Lucien Flavius was a scholar, scientist and mage whose affinity for Dwemer mechanics was outmatched only by his father Davidicus and the famed Altmer wizard Calcelmo. He prided himself on his intelligence, open-mindedness and acceptance for others. Diversity, he knew, was the strength of the Empire where the civilising ways of Cyrodiil tempered the unique talents of the other races. So he had learned during his years of education with Akaviria and the fostered heirs at the Imperial Court and so far hadn’t seen any reason to question that knowledge. It was as evident as the properties of Dwemer brass or the nature of water.

            Bad enough that he was stuck in a lowbrow tavern in Windhelm, eating dubious food and sleeping on a pallet when his funds could certainly cover a proper room, but being repeatedly to shut up – even being kicked! – by the ranger he was paying to guide (and toughen) him was a bit much. The big hulking brute that called himself Kaidan watched him with those blood-red eyes, daring him to say something about “Jedda”, while the Aurelia herself had casually suggested shipping him off to Solstheim sans guide. Wishing Titus Mede to Oblivion was treason to say the least while Irkand… well, the man was ruthless but given the enemies arrayed against the Empire, it was hard to argue against him even if his actions were personally distasteful. It was perhaps a little excessive to throw a twelve-year-old into prison for long enough to stunt her growth and make her pallid yet there was undoubtedly a good reason at the core of it.

            His sleep was fitful that night, the thin pallet Shahvee gave him (surely the worst of the lot) barely enough to soften the cold wooden floor, and he was sandy-eyed in the morning as the Argonian opened up for business. Breakfast was gruel made with water and oats, sweetened with minimal honey, and tea made from flower petals and dried berries. Kaidan and Bishop donned their armour while Jedda watched them like fascinating specimens under a focus-lens and Lucien heartily wished for his typical breakfast of kaffe, sausage, eggs, beans and toast. Adventure certainly wasn’t what the stories made it out to be, especially after the horrors of Helgen and their long walk from Falkreath to Eastmarch.

            With Jedda’s physical frailty and his own lack of stamina in mind, it was decided that they should catch the ferry to Winterhold instead of take the coastal road. Lucien was highly dubious about the wisdom of seeking learning from a College that barely rated three stars in The Tamriel University Guide but he was incapable of surviving the dangers of Solstheim on his own since Bishop was reluctant to journey there. He told himself that it gave his father more time to hunt down information about the Dwemer facility before they actually went. It took a lot of convincing not to complain as they left the Salty Salmon and made their way along the docks to the pier reserved for small boats. The Nords around them regarded Lucien with open hostility while Kaidan and Bishop received greetings of varying levels in politeness.

            They just reached the dock in question when a rangy barbarian with a tangle of golden braids arrived with a pair of heavy packs on his shoulders. “Heading out already, Red-Eyes?” he greeted with a raised hand, carrying the bulky canvas packages with an ease Lucien envied. “And I see you’ve teamed up with Thrice-Banished again.”

            “Ralof,” Kaidan greeted with a nod and thin smile. “Heard you were at Helgen. Dragon take one look at you and realise you weren’t that tasty?”

            “Talos spared me for greater deeds,” Ralof said as he shrugged off the packs. “Little birdy tells me you’re heading to Solstheim. Or is it Winterhold?”

            “Winterhold,” Kaidan said shortly. “Cheaper place to spend winter at than Windhelm.”

            “Fair,” Ralof conceded, cold blue eyes flicking over at Lucien and Jedda. Lucien drew himself up proudly, meeting the barbarian in the eye, and received a smirk in response. “Bjarni and I chose the goods ourselves. Not quite five gold septims’ worth, but it’s all useful. The dragon’s return… changes things.”

            “I understand,” Kaidan said quietly as he picked up the packs. “Did the Priests of Talos give you any indication of who the Dragonborn might be? I know the old stories…”

            “Female. And of… a Dragon-Blooded line,” Ralof said quietly, glancing around himself. “There are multiple candidates ranging from Sidgara Storm-Caller to that little brat Balgruuf calls a daughter, and that’s just among the Jarls of Skyrim. Gods know the Dragonborn of old spread their seed far and wide…”

            Kaidan nodded. “I’ll keep an eye out. Reckon me and Bishop will need to raise our fees if the Jarls start wanting dragons dead.”

            Ralof chuckled. “Maybe, Red-Eyes. Gods know your kin used to hunt the beasts like goats on the rock according to the Stormsword. I’d better get back to the Palace of the Kings. Talos guide you.”

            “And you,” Kaidan said, raising a hand.

            “Kin?” Could Kaidan be one of the last Akaviri? Lucien pondered as the big warrior handed a pack to Bishop. The unfortunate involvement of the Akaviri in the Blades and subsequent rebellion under Arius had led to their near-extermination by the Thalmor. It was said some few had fled to the hills or to islands off the coast of Skyrim… and given his sharp features, scarlet eyes and long straight black hair, it was more than possible he was one of them. Maybe that was why he’d been captured by the Thalmor and took to protecting Jedda like she was a sacred treasure.

            Only one boat was moored at the docks – a large one with patched sails, weathered boards and three dubious-looking Nords – and much to Lucien’s horror Bishop led them straight to it. “Ragnar!” the ranger yelled, raising his hand, as Karnwyr trotted beside him. “You taking passengers?”

            “Only if you’re going west,” was the response from the oldest one, clad in furry garments with the leather turned outwards. “Heading back to Dawnstar after a trip from Icehome.”

            “Huh, don’t get many ice-folk coming to the coast,” Bishop observed, grunting. “What’s the rate for four to Winterhold?”

            “Three gold septims,” Ragnar said sourly. “Onmund finally took himself there after threatening to do so for years and I see you’ve got some pampered Cyrod mage with you.”

            “Three gold septims? Who do you reckon I am, one of the Silver-Bloods?” Bishop asked incredulously. “I’ll give you two because you’re a friend.”

            “You don’t have friends, Thrice-Banished,” was the sailor’s retort. “If you want to pay two gold septims, you’ll be sharing deck-space with a few horkers to make up for the loss. Since you’re a good customer, I’ll charge you six silvers each and carry the wolf for free.”

            “Two gold, four silver? I can do that,” Bishop agreed cheerfully. “I’ll even make sure Lucien pukes over the side instead of on the deck.”

            “Is this really the ferry?” Lucien asked Kaidan nervously as Bishop paid the sailor. “It looks rather dubious.”

            “Ragnar’s son Onmund is the best Clever Crafter on the coast,” Kaidan said shortly as he walked towards the boat. “Every inch of that boat’s enchanted.”

            Lucien doubted that greatly, given the expense of soul gems and the boat’s shabby appearance, but he reluctantly stepped onto the vessel as packs were thrown on. Jedda was simply picked up like a child and carried onboard by Kaidan, who set her down near the prow. It was small consolation that she herself eyed the waters dubiously.

            Once everyone was onboard, Ragnar untied the mooring rope while a ruffian with a strong resemblance to him pulled down the sails. Lucien immediately felt queasy as the tillerman guided them away from the docks, heading towards the open waters of the sea. This was going to be an unpleasant trip.

            Their captain’s name was Ragnar Broken-Tusk and the two crew were his elder son Hakkon and brother-in-law Snorri Horker-Hunter. All three divided their time between fishing, hunting horkers and the snow-white animals of the coast, and ferrying passengers between the ports on the coast. Unabashed pagans who hewed to the primitive beliefs of the native religion, they were unhappy that the magically inclined Onmund had taken himself off to study sorcery at the College of Winterhold under the sponsorship of Bjarni Storm-Born himself. It never occurred to them that “the Clever Craft”, the Nords’ native folk magic, was as arcane as the spells wrought by Imperials, Bretons and the mer. Lucien decided not to confuse them by discussing the mechanical magics of the Dwemer.

            Snorri, who was a hard-bitten sort, draped a patchy fur blanket over Jedda’s shoulders in between manning the tiller through the treacherous rocks and shoals of the Sea of Ghosts. Lucien wondered why she got special treatment and he didn’t, assuming that it just boiled down to common Old Holder racism.

            “So old Ryuu sent you out into the world, eh?” Ragnar asked as he handed Kaidan a strip of jerked oily meat. “The ice-folk don’t leave Icehome much after the massacres.”

            So it’s true some Akaviri managed to escape!

            “I was born and raised on the mainland,” Kaidan said quietly, nodding to the captain gratefully. “Raised by a Nord, in fact.”

            “Huh, didn’t know anyone had survived. You want to head to Icehome, it’s one gold for a one-way trip.” Ragnar shook his head. “Carried Toshiro over. The Stormsword and him get along like sparks from a fire-flint and fool’s gold but he’s the greatest champion of them all.”

            “I’ll keep that in mind,” Kaidan said sombrely. “My guardian never said much about my mother. I only know that my nodachi belonged to her.”

            “Probably safer that way,” Ragnar said grimly. “I manned one of the boats that carried them away when the Thalmor came. Some of the others who escaped the massacres on the mainland tell me that the Legion was involved in the Reach and Rift.”

            “That’s a bald-faced lie!” Lucien exclaimed, nettled beyond belief at the slander. “The Akaviri were slaughtered by the Thalmor after the Arian Rebellion!”

            Snorri growled angrily. “My mother’s ice-kin, you little Cyrod snot. Are you callin’ her a liar, what she saw with her own eyes?”

            “I’ve heard that the Legion were involved too,” Jedda ventured, speaking for the first time since boarding the boat. “In fact, Irkand boasted of it. He said it served them right for being traitors.”

            Ragnar glared at Lucien. “Now I’ll assume that your damned Empire has kept the truth quiet from its people instead of you calling my kinsman a liar, Cyrod. Ice-folk, as they call themselves, fled from all over Skyrim to the coast when the Thalmor came and most of the survivors mentioned that the Legion participated in the slaughter. Shut the fuck up before I pitch you overboard.”

            The outright hostility made Lucien quail back in his seat, falling silent out of self-preservation. He didn’t dare speak for the rest of the journey, knowing that the Nords now quite despised him.

            Jedda reached out and squeezed Kaidan’s hand sympathetically. “Explains why they came after you,” the Aurelia said softly. “If you are Akaviri…”

            “Aye,” he said bleakly. “Pity I don’t have an army and a few Blizzard spells. Reckon I’d pay good coin to see every fucking blackcoat in the province dead.”

            He fell silent and Jedda shifted her attention to Lucien, those changeable eyes of her fixed on him. “You don’t believe me,” was all she said.

            “With all due respect, you’re an Aurelia,” Lucien pointed out. “Your sanity – and therefore your veracity – is dubious at best.”

            Her mouth quirked to the side humourlessly. “I’d argue the same, given you think Irkand’s a reliable witness. A man who tortured a child for the sins of his father… I’m probably not sane, Lucien. Who could be after rotting in a cell for sixteen or so years? But if you’re okay with that being done to me… I don’t think you’re a very decent person at all.”

            With those words, she turned her attention back to the water, leaving him in utter shock at the quiet condemnation. He was a good man! He went to Temple, kept (most) of the Ten Commands, obeyed the law and honoured the Emperor!

            “Irkand sounds like a real piece of work,” Bishop noted.

            Much as he wanted to, Lucien couldn’t refute that. Jedda’s words, like acid, etched their way into his soul all the way to Winterhold.

Chapter Text

They arrived at Winterhold just as dawn broke, having had to evade icebergs and a pirate ship along the way (Ragnar unfurled a bear banner that earned him recognition from what were surely Ulfric’s privateers), and the boat docked at the ramshackle pier at the base of what was a deep chasm that divided the College of Winterhold from the village proper. In the books she’d been given by the wardens at Coldfall, Jedda knew that the “Great Collapse” had shattered the former capital of Skyrim, but seeing the reality of land torn in twain was something else. Lucien was too preoccupied to notice the ruins while Kaidan had observed he admired the locals’ resiliency and Bishop muttered something about prancing mages. She accepted the bounty hunter’s hand to disembark, thanking Snorri for the lend of the fur blanket, and the weathered tillerman gave her a nod. It seemed that Palers, as the hunters were, had more kindness in them than previously believed.

            “Bit of a hike up that path but there’s an inn in the village,” Kaidan assured her, nodding to the beaten-earth track. “Dagur and Haran run the Frozen Hearth. It’s not bad for a village pub in the middle of nowhere.”

            “Tomorrow, you and I can go horker hunting to pay for our rooms,” Bishop said, nodding to the mist-veiled forms of the coastal-dwelling creatures relatively nearby. “One or two ought to be worth a month’s stay.”

            “Aye, between the hide, the ivory and the meat…” Kaidan agreed. “Always thought that Winterhold’s resources were never used to their fullest. Shame the Jarl’s lost in glories of yesterday and too bitter to reach out to the College.”

            Lucien opened his mouth, then glanced around and closed it again. Jedda took that as an improvement over his habit of speaking whatever came into his mind without thought. Perhaps he was beginning to realise that this wasn’t the heart of the Empire, where only the Emperor’s benevolence to his people was known. She didn’t think he was a bad person exactly, only just one that was very sheltered and naïve.

            It was a hike, as Kaidan warned, up the slope to the village proper and her body was shaking from the effort by the end of it. Years of incarceration and malnutrition had left her weak to the point of frailty while Lucien was huffing and puffing from living a basically sedentary life as a scholar. “Do I need to join the College?” he finally asked, bent over and wheezing at the top of the hill. “It doesn’t exactly have a reputation for academic excellence in Cyrodiil, you know.”

            “Figured it’d give you something to do while Kaidan and I go hunting,” Bishop said with a shrug. “Don’t have much time for most mages because they look down at me like I’m a howling barbarian, but you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Just try to keep your mouth shut unless you’re going to bequeath us all your gold.”

            “Funny, Bishop, because I thought you were a howling barbarian,” Kaidan quipped, mouth quirking tiredly. The discussion about the genocide of the Akaviri had left him sombre but it seemed the chance to poke at Bishop’s ego revived his humour a little.

            “That’s hilarious given that Brynjar raised you,” was Bishop’s retort. “It’s your turn to pay for our pallets.”

            “Why must we sleep on pallets?” Lucien complained as they headed down the main (and only) street of Winterhold. Houses with steep curved thatched roofs, designed to shed the eternal snow, lined both sides of the street with a few ruins behind them. The two largest bracketed the entrance, while snowberry bushes dotted the street. Guards in greyish-teal leather coats patrolled desultorily along the street, giving them curious glances as they walked towards the building with a sign on it. Bleak and desolate, Jedda could sense the grim determination of the village’s inhabitants. “We can afford rooms, you know.”

            “Frozen Hearth doesn’t have enough rooms, pallets are good enough compared to camping, and I’m trying to save as much coin as possible,” Bishop said shortly. “Adventurers don’t waste money unless they’re truly prosperous… and you need to save all that stipend of yours for the digs at Dumzbthar, remember?”

            Lucien grumbled but remained silent. Perhaps he truly was learning.

            The Frozen Hearth was clean and neat, though afflicted by an unpleasant stench that made Jedda wrinkle her nose, and Dagur the innkeeper was happy to sell them pallets and soup for one silver each. A flame-haired Nord clad in tatty fur robes and wearing a tarnished copper circlet eyed them sourly, muttering about mages bringing trouble, and Bishop elbowed Lucien in the side when the blond opened his mouth to protest. Kaidan led them to a corner table where they could observe the locals, mostly as shabby as the inn but painfully clean and neat. Winterhold wasn’t prospering, that was for certain.

            “Right, I’ve been thinking,” Kaidan said once they were all seated.

            “No wonder you were so quiet,” Bishop observed. “The effort must have been monumental.”

            A raised middle finger was his answer from Kaidan before the bounty hunter continued. “We’ll probably be here for a while, so it makes sense to get on the Jarl’s good side. So when we’re not hunting, Bishop and I will take bounties, while Jedda and Lucien make friends with the folk.”

            “How am I going to do that?” she asked in dismay. “I’ve… well… never really had the chance to make them.”

            “You need to rest and build up your strength anyway, so running errands for the locals will achieve both,” Kaidan suggested. “Korir’s not a bad Jarl, he’s just hamstrung by the fact that his Hold’s the poorest in Skyrim. Earning the goodwill of the folk will benefit you, Jedda. Relationships are what builds someone’s reputation.”

            “Okay,” she said dubiously. “As if anyone’s going to be impressed by a skinny half-Nord in patched garb.”

            Lucien sniffed audibly. “The Hold’s absolutely impoverished. Any Imperial administrator would be ashamed to leave his protectorate in such a shape.”

            “Winterhold’s a Stormcloak Hold, so you might want to keep your opinions to yourself, Lucien,” Kaidan warned flatly. “Ulfric supplies half of Winterhold’s food, so Korir’s beholden to him.”

            Jedda shook her head. Lucien might be book-smart but he was certainly people-dumb.

            A slender copper-haired woman brought over bowls of soup and a stack of flatbread on a wooden platter. “Planning on staying for a few weeks, you two?” she asked Kaidan and Bishop. “We actually have a few bounties that need collecting.”

            “Aye,” Kaidan confirmed, giving her a smile. “Jedda and Lucien want to join the College and this is as good a place to overwinter as any.”

            The woman nodded. “We’d welcome the custom. Nelacar’s being a pain in the arse with his experiments, Ranmir owes us for his drinking, and business has dropped off because of the civil war. Reckon you and Thrice-Banished could bring in a horker or so every couple weeks?”

            “More than that,” Kaidan promised. “Got to fatten up Jedda here and being cold requires a lot of meat.”

            “I love how you just volunteer me for things,” Bishop observed sardonically as he accepted a bowl of soup.

            “It was your idea to begin with,” Kaidan pointed out.

            Jedda picked up the horn spoon she’d purloined from the Salty Salmon and scooped up a spoonful of soup, blowing on it gingerly. It smelt fishy and had chunks of what she assumed were potato in it, but was much thinner than the hearty stew served at the last inn she stayed at. But it was edible, tasting mostly of fish and potato, filling the hole in her stomach. She was getting used to regular meals again and had no wish to be denied more.

            “College’s got a few apprentices now,” the innkeeper’s wife remarked, resting the tray on her hip. “Young Onmund Broken-Tusk finally joined, but we’ve got a Dunmer lass from Morrowind, a Khajiit from Cyrodiil, and some jackass from High Rock.”

            Lucien sighed, pushing his soup around with a pewter spoon. “I suppose he’s a blond Breton named Darren?”

            The innkeeper’s wife nodded. “Friend of yours?”

            “We shared classes together at Arcane University. He’s an egotistical little toad whose only talent is for making giant icicles to compensate for his lack of gifts elsewhere,” Lucien said sourly. “We should have gone straight to Solstheim.”

            “Gods, if you think he’s a twat, he’d be downright unbearable,” Kaidan said sardonically, earning a laugh from Jedda.

            “Well, he’s already been kicked in the balls for trying to seduce Birna,” the innkeeper’s wife said ruefully. “Got himself exiled from Solitude too because he managed to piss off some knight there.”

            “I can bear the self-inflicted disintegration of Darren’s career with great fortitude,” Lucien said with exaggerated piety as he turned his attention to his meal.

            “So just be careful of him,” the innkeeper told Jedda wryly. “He thinks he’s Dibella’s gift to women.”

            Kaidan nodded. “Thanks for the heads up.”

            She smiled and returned to the counter.

            The crowned Nord rose to his feet and lumbered over to their table, looking down at them with bloodshot eyes and tousled hair. “What is your business in Winterhold?” he asked. “If you’re wise, you’d avoid the College.”

            “Jarl Korir,” Kaidan said with a nod. “We’re overwintering here while Lucien and Jedda consult with the College about something. Is there any way we can serve you?”

            “If the College accepted Darren, I’m not sure I’d like to consult it,” Lucien said sourly. “But I suppose short of going to Solitude, it’s going to be my only source of local information on Dumzbthar.”

            Korir regarded Kaidan for a long moment, blue eyes narrowed. “Red-Eyes. You have a reputation as a bounty hunter.”

            “Might have built myself a bit of one,” Kaidan confirmed. “Bishop and I were planning to collect some bounties in between paying for our keep with some hunting.”

            “I’m looking for the Helm of Winterhold, which was once worn by Jarl Hanse in the First Era,” Korir said curtly. “It was stolen by a Dunmer thief just after the Great Collapse, but the boat he took wrecked on the shore to the east. Find it and I’ll pay you three gold septims… and tolerate your mage friends in my Hold.”

            “Aye, we could do that,” Kaidan agreed. “Won’t be too many wrecked boats on the coast.”

            “Good.” Korir closed his eyes and then sighed before pinning Lucien with a glare once they were open again. “Don’t judge me, Cyrod, for the state of my Hold. Your Empire ignored us for seventy fucking years because we weren’t worth it in taxes. Ulfric, at least, listens.”

            “We’re… educating him,” Bishop drawled sardonically. “It’s just taking a while.”

            “He’d better learn to shut up sooner rather than later,” Korir warned darkly. “He should be grateful I’m more tolerant than Ulfric or Skald.”

            Lucien blanched at the implied threat and Korir smiled in satisfaction to see it. Then he returned to his seat and his beer.

            Jedda bit her bottom lip at the sudden tension that gripped the table. “So, I, uh, learned to see things outside the prison in water,” she tentatively offered. “It’s nearly as draining as Telekinesis but I could try to find the Helm?”

            “Save us scouring the coast,” Kaidan said, seizing the change of subject. “You’ve got a real talent for magic if you learned Clairvoyance on your own, Jedda.”

            She looked into her half-empty bowl. “Some of the wardens were kinder than others and gave me things to read. Since I never had much magicka, I wasn’t fed magebane, so I practiced as much as I could from the descriptions in the novels. If they knew, I’d have been executed.”

            “Well, it’ll make our lives easier,” Bishop observed.

            Lucien swallowed, face still pale. “I, uh, will approach the College tomorrow. I don’t think I’d be very popular here.”

            “That might be the first sign of wisdom you’ve shown since I met you,” Kaidan said softly. “Perhaps you could make yourself useful researching dragons or something.”

            “Why dragons?” Jedda asked. “It’s not like it’s our problem or anything.”

            “Just… a gut feeling,” Kaidan said grimly. “No knowledge is ever wasted.”

Chapter Text

Kaidan had many, many flaws but stinginess with his coin wasn’t one of them. Once they’d eaten their soup and flatbread, Jedda scraping her bowl with hers to get every last drop in lieu of licking it clean, the bounty hunter ordered a jug of house mead from Haran. Dagur was a decent brewer for the north, his ale and mead both drinkable, and the food at the Frozen Hearth was actually edible in comparison to the Sleeping Giant in Whiterun. Bishop poured the drinks, giving Jedda a little extra and Lucien a little less, and cradled his cup after tasting the honey-sweet brew. The promise of three gold septims for finding some old helm was good because it’d sweeten Korir’s temper soured by Lucien’s big mouth.

            “Maybe I should try finding the helm before drinking mead,” Jedda said dubiously. “I think I got a bit drunk at the Salty Salmon.”

            A wave from Kaidan summoned Haran once more. “Can we get a bowl filled with clean water?” he asked the innkeeper’s wife. “My friend’s gonna try and scry for the Helm of Winterhold.”

            Haran nodded and vanished like a scarf in a magic trick, returning in short order as Korir, his interest piqued, turned towards their table once more. “You think magic will find the Helm?” he asked sceptically. “Other Jarls had the College do it and they claimed they couldn’t find it!”

            “Then I reckon they were shit scryers,” Kaidan told him. “Jedda’s got a knack for sorcery, Jarl Korir, and she volunteered to try and find the Helm for you. A little less doubt and a little more thanks would be welcome if she saves us a lot of flailing around on the coast.”

            The Jarl grunted but said nothing more as Haran set the bowl down on the table. “I sprinkled some salt in it,” she said. “That’s what Onmund uses when he looks for blizzards.”

            Jedda looked dubious but she raised her hands to cradle the wooden bowl, a blue-white mist seeping into the water. Bishop watched curiously despite his dislike of magic (more for mage attitudes than fear of some spell) as a picture slowly formed. It was the hold of a rotting ship, Dunmer in design, and a stalhrim-banded helm glimmered in the uncertain moonlight. Already pallid, the scrawny woman was growing paler as her magicka drained like spilt water, but she gamely kept the image in the water as she carefully pulled the “eye” back to reveal the hull with carved Daedric script.

            “The Pride of Tel Vos,” Lucien read with a casual glance at the image. “Fits with what the Jarl said about a Dunmer thief stealing the helm.”

            The image slowly drew back to reveal a rocky headland, bandits camped around the wrecked ship, and then abruptly shattered as Jedda nearly fell into her cup of mead with a cry. Kaidan caught her before she hit the table with her face, helping her right herself, and even Bishop was impressed with her endurance. She was a tiny battered little thing who just kept on soldiering without complaint despite her physical frailty.

            “I didn’t know your friend was a Clever-Crafter,” Korir observed, sounding impressed. “Just goes to go show that we don’t need those mages at the College when we’ve got some good saltwater seers.”

            Lucien opened his mouth to say something and Bishop, to save his employer’s life, stepped on his toes until he squeaked in pain and closed it. Never had the ranger known someone so intent on getting himself maimed or killed by speaking his mind whenever something popped in there for a visit. Cyrods were already on thin ice in the Old Holds because of the civil war and Lucien’s staunch Imperial allegiance wasn’t going to help him if it became widely known.

            “Well, we’ve got a good idea of where to look,” Kaidan said in satisfaction. “It’s on that headland near the tomb Ragnar pointed out last night. Saw the bandits too, so we’ll have some loot to bring back.”

            “Bring that Helm back and you’ll be rewarded well,” Korir declared. “Perhaps with it on my head, Ulfric will give me some credence.”

            Personally, Bishop thought that Korir was right where the Stormcloaks wanted him, voiceless and reliant on them to keep his Hold afloat but a long lifetime of lessons in when to shut the fuck up kept him silent. Instead, he pushed the cup of mead closer to Jedda, who looked wan and unhealthy. She needed the quick burst of energy that alcohol brought if she wasn’t to fall face-first into her drink.

            I’ve got my hands full with Lucien, he thought wryly as the little would-be mage took the cup and sipped from it cautiously. I’ll leave her to Kaidan to take care of.

            Kaidan yawned into a fist. “Sunset won’t come too soon,” he observed.

            Bishop looked over to where Karnwyr was begging for scraps of cheese from Assur and Eirid. “Agreed,” he conceded, yawning himself. “Hard to nap on Ragnar’s boat.”

            Lucien drained his first cup of mead and poured himself a second before Bishop could take command of the jug. “You know, this stuff grows on you,” the mage observed.

            “Well, be careful, even the homebrewed mead’s got a kick to it,” Bishop warned. “Not much to do around here except drink and learn magic.”

            The door opened to admit the bald bearded Ranmir, who made their way to them with hope in his eyes. “I don’t suppose any of you could spare a drink?” he asked pitifully.

            Jedda handed him her cup and the town drunk downed it in one gulp, belching sulphurously. “Thanks,” he said, handing her the cup. “You’re my favourite drinking buddy.”

            “Well, maybe you should do something to pay the innkeeper back for all you’ve drunk so far,” she suggested quietly. “Got to be some firewood that needs cutting or something.”

            Ranmir belched again, looking shamefaced. “You’re right. What would my ancestors think of me if I didn’t pay my debts? Haran, need some firewood cut?”

            The innkeeper’s wife nodded. “Yes, Ranmir. Reckon a quarter-cord will pay your debt. But when you’re sober. Don’t need Birna putting herself in debt with the mages to heal you up.”

            The drunk muttered something and took himself to a lonely table. Bishop shook his head, reminded himself to never get into so pathetic a state no matter how much oblivion alcohol brought, and glanced at Jedda. “Well, sweetness, you just achieved a miracle. Ranmir’s never offered to pay his debt in the two years I’ve been coming here.”

            Haran snagged a half-loaf of bread and wedge of cheese, bringing it over and plonking it in front of Jedda. “Ranmir’s a good man, just bad with his coin and his drink,” she said with a sigh. “Consider yourself welcome to a pallet and some food whenever you’re in town. You’ve got a good heart and true honour.”

            “Of course she does,” Korir pointed out after a long pull from his tankard. “She’s a Nord!”

            “Well, you’ve got the Jarl’s good opinion,” Kaidan noted as Jedda flushed in embarrassment. “If the helm’s at this wreck, then who knows where you’ll go from here?”

            “So, I’m a little confused,” Lucien muttered, just loud enough for them to hear, as he slanted a wary gaze at the Jarl. “Korir hates mages but he has no problem with Nord folk mages. How, exactly, does that work?”

            “Difference between the Clever Craft and magery to most Nords,” Kaidan explained softly. “Clever Craft’s what Nords do. Magery belongs to foreigners, especially elves.”

            “That… doesn’t make sense. It’s all magic.”

            “Never said it made sense.” Kaidan shrugged, picking up his cup and taking a drink. “It’s just the way it is.”

            “No wonder the Legion’s having a time of it winning the hearts and minds of Nords when they have such illogical beliefs,” Lucien muttered under his breath.

            Bishop sighed. Lucien was very pretty, with fine features, soft ash-blond hair and big blue eyes, but he was also very good at inserting his foot into his mouth. Kaidan seemed to waver between dislike and exasperation, Jedda had outright told him she didn’t think he was a decent person, and he seemed to piss off just about every Old Holder he met. When Bishop, abrasive as he was, had to be the one to try and show some tact…

            The door opened to admit a mixed quartet of people clad in the drab grey robes of College apprentices. Onmund Broken-Tusk, slender and fine-boned, was the first to enter, followed by a pretty blond Breton whose arrogantly tilted nose meant he had to be Darren. A lovely Dunmer girl with black hair was on his heels and the rear was brought up by a black-spotted Khajiit with grey-beige and white fur. Haran bustled over to greet them with a smile.

            “Can we just have a couple jugs of mead, thanks?” Onmund asked in his light voice. “It’s been a long day.”

            “Yes, mostly thanks to Darren,” muttered the Dunmer, flashing a ruby-eyed glare at the Breton. “He bet Master Faralda that he could make a bigger icicle than she could and we all had to stand in the courtyard to watch.”

            “I won, didn’t I?” Darren asked in the sort of snide High Rock accent that made Bishop’s fists itch to break that aristocratic nose.

            “Congratulations, you can make giant icicles,” the Khajiit observed sarcastically. “Perhaps it will compensate for your lack of girth… elsewhere.”

            “I have plenty of… girth,” Darren said tightly. “It’s hardly my fault that none of the local women appreciate it and none of the men are worth my time.”

            “He says that because he’s suffering from little man syndrome,” Onmund said as Haran brought over a tray with cups and a jug. “You’d think after hitting soprano when Birna kicked him in the balls, he’d learn.”

            “You’re just jealous because I don’t find unwashed Nord fishermen attractive,” Darren said haughtily, though he flushed dark red. “In fact, no one in the College is worth my time.”

            “I’ll tell Tolfdir that and we can all pray to Jhunal in gratitude,” Onmund said dryly, earning some laughter from Haran and Dagur. His eyes settled on the table where Bishop sat with his friends. “Hey Thrice-Banished, I see they haven’t hung you yet!”

            “Caught a ride to Winterhold with your da,” Bishop retorted with a smirk. “He still smells like horker.”

            “Which is twice as fragrant as you,” Onmund countered easily, though he winced at the mention of his father. “What brings you to the College?”

            “Got a friend who wants to join,” Bishop said, pointing to Lucien, who cringed a little. Well, if he was going to interact with the mages, he needed to toughen up a bit. “You ever meet Kaidan?”

            “Couple times,” Onmund admitted, raising a hand. “That blond a friend or a friend?”

            “Oh. My. Gods.” Darren started rubbing his hands with glee. “He’s gorgeous! I must simply buy him a drink!”

            Lucien quailed. “Oh gods, no!” he exclaimed. “I’d sooner declare allegiance to Ulfric than even think of Darren that way!”

            Unfortunately, the Breton missed his expression, as he came over with what he imagined was a seductive pout. “Want to join me for a private lesson?” he asked, voice oozing like horker oil. “I can show you all sorts of magical wonders.”

            He leaned across the table, making Jedda lean back, and filled the air with the sort of too-heavy perfume that made Bishop sneeze. “I’m Darren LeBeau. My friends call me ‘the Icemaster.’”

            Lucien raised a hand to fend him off. “Please go away! You’re not my type!”

            “Oh, c’mon, a pretty flower like you needs some wooing.” Darren sneered at Kaidan and Bishop. “I can show you wonders that such barbarians never could.”

            “Back off, Darren!” Haran yelled. “You’re about as appealing as horker shit!”

            Kaidan raised an eyebrow at Bishop as Lucien tried to scoot back in his seat. “Reckon we ought to throw him outside?”

            “After I break his aristocratic nose,” Bishop said as he stood up. “Hey, shit-face, you’ve got about thirty seconds to back off before I have you singing soprano permanently.”

            Darren sneered up at him. “I could freeze you solid with a single spell, barbarian!”

            Bishop stepped away from the table as Kaidan rose like a nightmare in the gathering gloom. Everyone watched avidly, clearly not fans of Darren, and he was happy to give them a show. “Leave. Before I crush your nuts to paste.”

            In what could only be described as suicidal overconfidence, Darren puffed up his chest defiantly. “Make me.”

            Bishop’s boot connected with his balls, making the mage fold over, and then the ranger grabbed him by the back of his head and introduced his nose ever-so-gently to his knee. Darren yowled with pain, falling back, and Kaidan surged forward to grab him by the shoulders and steer him towards the door that the Khajiit helpfully opened. With a well-planted boot to the arse, he kicked Darren out, sending the Breton into a snowbank… much to the cheers of everyone at the pub.

            “I could kiss you right about now!” Lucien said fervently. “I can’t believe he didn’t recognise me!”

            Bishop smirked at Lucien until the mage blushed. “I’m not quite that easy,” he joked. Kaidan’s resulting cough sounded a lot like “Bullshit.”

            “Don’t suppose we could use this to get that arrogant jackass kicked out of the College?” the Dunmer asked hopefully. “I’m Brelyna Maryon, by the way.”

            “Lucien Flavius,” Lucien said, rising to his feet and offering his hand. “You’d be the heir to Tel Mirar, right?”

            “Yes.” Brelyna came over and shook his hand. “You related to Davidicus Flavius?”

            “He’s my father, actually.” Lucien nodded at the door that the Khajiit closed. “I see Darren’s managed to get even worse than when I knew him at Arcane University.”

            “He’s… something,” Brelyna agreed ironically. “Our Khajiit friend is J’zargo.”

            “J’zargo is pleased to meet you,” purred the Khajiit. “Perhaps you might prove a worthy challenge.”

            Lucien nodded. “The big guy’s Kaidan, the brown-haired one’s Bishop, and the lady is Jedda. She might be joining the College as well.”

            “Well, since we’re all here, the first lessons are about to start,” Brelyna said cheerfully. “Are Kaidan and Bishop your retainers?”

            “I hired Bishop to show me around Skyrim and Kaidan just sort of started following us,” Lucien said with a laugh. “Nice to meet you.”

            “And you. Good luck with Faralda tomorrow.” The Dunmer girl smiled and returned to where Onmund sat.

            “Well,” Lucien said as he sat down. “If the heir to House Telvanni’s here, perhaps the College might be worth going to after all.”

            Bishop returned to his seat. Maybe he should have taken that kiss from Lucien. Or not. He was patient after all.

Chapter Text

Innkeepers began their day before dawn so Jedda was woken by a hand on her shoulder from Kaidan, who was sitting up on his pallet cracking a yawn wide enough to eat a whole loaf of bread in one go. Bishop was shaking an unhappy Lucien awake as Haran, light-footed despite the early hour, stoked the fire with fresh fuel and a poker. She crawled out from under the patchy fur blanket and rolled up the straw-stuffed canvas bedroll for tonight, pushing it under an empty table. Her life in the prison had consisted of sleeping, reading, looking off into the distance and hoping that the wardens weren’t feeling sadistic. Now she was facing a possible apprenticeship in the College and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

            Taking a seat at the table they’d been at last night, she tried to ignore her growling stomach as the others slowly woke and rise, Kaidan up first and followed by Bishop. Their goal was to search out The Pride of Tel Vos for the Helm of Winterhold and some meat to cover the next couple weeks’ stay at the pub. She and Lucien would be left behind to seek admittance into the College as apprentices despite the latter’s misgivings. He’d warmed up a little to the Dunmer girl, Brelyna, last night as both of them were only children from noble houses. Darren had been barred from the Frozen Hearth and Onmund had vowed to see him cast out of the College because of his actions. No one would be sad to see him go, least of all Lucien.

            Once the fire was stoked, Haran brought a platter of day-old flatbread and clay jar over to their table, smiling slightly. “Thanks for handling Darren last night,” she said cheerfully. “Ranmir’s already chopping firewood outside, so that debt will be paid. Maybe it’ll help him get over Isabella’s death.”

            “Glad to be of service,” Kaidan said with a wry smile. “Obnoxious little twat, isn’t he?”

            “Even by Breton standards,” Haran said, laughing. “You and Bishop can consider a couple drinks on the house whenever you’re staying here and I’ll see if I can sneak you some leftovers from the customers.”

            “Appreciate it,” Bishop said, yawning into his fist. “We’ll have breakfast and head out. Lucien, reckon you can keep your mouth shut long enough to get into the College on your own?”

            “There’s no need to be offensive,” Lucien said defensively. “I suppose the College isn’t a total loss.”

            Haran rolled her eyes heavenwards. “I’ll get you some mountain flower tea,” she offered tactfully. “Will perk you right up.”

            Jedda took a bit of flatbread and opened the jar to reveal a glistening red jelly inside. “What’s this?” she asked Kaidan, holding the jar out to him. “I’ve never seen it before.”

            “Looks like snowberry jam,” Kaidan said, glancing inside. “You’ve eaten the berries before. It’s real good on flatbread.”

            She picked up the horn knife that came with it and scraped along the edge, smearing the red spread across the flatbread dubiously. Rolling it into a twist, she took a bite and was rewarded with almost too-sweet flavour flooding her mouth. Chewing and swallowing, she handed the jar back to Kaidan, who was only too happy to spread it on his breakfast. When she was done, Jedda decided that she liked jam very much.

            Mountain flower tea was faintly sweet and warming, chasing away the chill as she cradled the wooden tankard, and Lucien poured himself some with a slight grimace. She was getting the feeling that he was quite sheltered and naïve, possibly even spoilt, which was behind much of his foot-in-mouth moments. But since she was an Aurelia, he wasn’t likely to listen to her, and she wasn’t sure she cared enough to try and talk sense into him.

            After breakfast, Kaidan and Bishop donned their armour, promising to return before dawn the next day with an entire horker and the Helm of Winterhold. Jedda didn’t ask the bounty hunter to stay despite him making her feel safe, because she knew he’d need to leave eventually and she’d have to figure out how to stand on her own two feet. Hopefully by the time Lucien told someone in power, she could be across the border in another province and far away from being found.

            Lucien watched Bishop go with a slightly nervous expression before sighing and looking into his empty tankard. “I suppose I better see Master Faralda at the gate,” he said glumly. “Not that I expect a stringent entry exam, given the College’s reputation, but hopefully they’ll expect some arcane proficiency.”

            “I’m sure the son of the great Davidicus Flavius will pass the test with flying colours,” Jedda observed with just a hint of sarcasm. “I’ll… be along. I want to warm up first.”

            “Of course.” Lucien rose to his feet and then paused, looking down at her. “If you can teach yourself Clairvoyance and Telekinesis, you probably have some native arcane talent yourself. Perhaps the College will suit you after all.”

            “Maybe,” she said dubiously. She’d gone along with Kaidan mostly because she didn’t have an idea of what she was going to do. “Good luck.”

            Lucien smirked. “I’m a Journeymage of the Synod, Jedda. I don’t need luck.”

            Then he took himself off and she shook her head. Despite Bishop’s warnings, he was still very arrogant, if not quite as obnoxious as Darren had been last night. She was glad he was gone, though, because it was her first time alone since escaping the prison with Kaidan and she… needed to think, she supposed.

            Haran brought her over a fresh pot of mountain flower tea. “After talking Ranmir into paying his debt, I meant what I said about there always being a meal and a pallet for you here,” she said warmly. “You impressed the Jarl as well. Korir’s funny about ‘foreign magic’ but the Clever Craft isn’t such a bother to him.”

            Jedda poured herself another tankard of tea. “Lucien says it’s all the same thing.”

            “Nelacar says much the same thing, but it isn’t,” the innkeeper’s wife said quietly. “It’s magic, alright, but it doesn’t involve soul gems or glyphs. Onmund’s probably the best Clever-Crafter of his generation but there’s more than one out there. Lot of folks hew to the old ways in the north.”

            “All of my magic is self-taught,” Jedda admitted. “I’m not even sure I want to join the College. It was Kaidan’s idea because of the spells I already know.”

            “Well, you don’t have to do what Red-Eyes tells you to,” Haran pointed out. “I don’t mind you sitting around and having a good think. I get the impression you’ve had a pretty rough go of it recently. Winterhold’s the end of the world so far as the rest of Tamriel is concerned. Maybe you’ll find what you need here.”

            “Thanks,” she said awkwardly. “I’ll try not to get in the way.”

            As Dagur emerged from downstairs to open the door for those who ate their breakfasts here, including the Jarl’s family, Jedda drank tea and let her mind wander where it willed. In the prison, she was conscious of her hunger, despair and misery, trapped as she was in a cell that was commodious but bleak as anything. For some reason, Irkand was reluctant to kill her, but he’d stripped her of her name, identity and freedom for the sins of her grandfather, who was his sire. For sixteen years she’d been Prisoner Twelve, tortured now and then when spite took the wardens, but otherwise left alone with books and her own pain. But now she was free, sitting in a tavern while the staff worked and drinking herbal tea. She didn’t know what to do now and the idea of choice frightened her.

            Jedda, the little brown wren, she reflected as the door opened around lunchtime. Lucien hadn’t returned from the College and the others wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. It was truly just her and a pot of tea in a village at the edge of Tamriel.

            Of all the people she expected to enter, a tall Cyrod with the barrel chest, broad shoulders and powerful limbs to carry steel plate-and-chain was fairly low on the list. His surcoat was scarlet, blazoned with a white lion holding a sword in its mouth, and his aquiline profile was purely Colovian. Short-cut black hair framed a long-jawed face while melancholic steel-blue eyes regarded the world from beneath thick dark brows. Jedda supposed he was handsome but there was something that told her he carried a wounded spirit.

            “Welcome to the Frozen Hearth,” Dagur greeted, wiping down the table. “We’ve got a spare room if you need one, milord.”

            “I would be grateful,” the knight responded in a grave deep baritone. “My journey from Solitude has been long. Will it be free for the next few days?”

            “Yeah. We’re short on custom thanks to the civil war and everyone else is sleeping on pallets,” Dagur said respectfully. “Reckon a gold septim ought to cover two weeks if you’re willing to eat what’s served to the guests.”

            “It will suffice,” was the reply. He produced a shining golden coin and slid it across the counter to Dagur. “I’ve stabled my destrier under the awning. He can eat almost anything so long as there’s some grain…”

            Dagur winced. “Warhorses eat a lot. But I might be able to get some grain from the Jarl’s stores. You’re a long way from Solitude, milord. Don’t see many knights this way.”

            “I am on a mission,” the knight said gravely. “I must consult with the College on the matter of dragons.”

            Haran poured some ale into a tankard, looking at him with one eye squinted. “Are you the guy who stuffed Darren into a prison cell?” she asked curiously.

            “Unfortunately, I’ve had the displeasure of his company,” the knight said sourly. “He saw fit to cast Ice Spike in the middle of Solitude’s marketplace while making comparisons between it and parts of my anatomy when I ordered him to stop. Regretfully, I was forced to send him on his way back to Winterhold at the High Rock ambassador’s request instead of shipping him back to Wayrest.”

            “Should have been here last night then,” Haran said cheerfully. “Bishop kicked him in the balls and broke his nose while Kaidan Red-Eyes kicked him up the arse into a snowbank. It would have warmed your heart to see, milord.”

            “Given Thrice-Banished was involved, unlikely, but I can appreciate the sentiment,” the knight said with a sigh. “I don’t suppose this means he’ll be tossed on the first ship back to High Rock?”

            “He’s barred from the pub and Onmund’s going to see about him getting kicked out of the College,” Haran assured him. “No one likes Darren here either.”

            “That makes me feel a little better.” The knight hoisted a pack. “Where do I stay?”

            Haran gestured to a room on the left. “Right there. It’s yours for two weeks.”

            The knight nodded and went into the room, closing the door. Her curiosity piqued, Jedda drank the last of her tea and watched, wondering what he was doing here. Dim memories from Cyrodiil painted him as an Imperial Knight, but what would one of Mede’s equestrian soldiers be doing in rebel territory trying to learn about dragons? She wished Kaidan, Bishop or even Lucien were here to explain what was going on.

            About fifteen minutes later, the knight emerged, still clad in his plate-and-chain and with a sword hung at his side. He accepted the tankard of ale from Haran with a gracious nod and glanced around the room, gaze settling on Jedda. She shrank back into the shadows, worried that he might be able to guess she was an Aurelia. If he did…

            But instead he inclined his head and found a seat near the door.

            Haran brought over some more flatbread and cheese, putting it in front of Jedda. “You need to fatten up quite a bit,” she remarked. “Don’t feel bad, cheese and bread are getting old anyway.”

            “Thank you,” she said quietly, taking the food. “I appreciate it.”

            She was just finishing her meal when a sudden roar shook the inn and cries of alarm filtered in from outside. The knight immediately rose, drew his sword, and strode outside as Haran and Dagur exchanged glances. What was going on?

            Jedda stood up and crept towards the door, gingerly poking her head outside. The knight, surrounded by a circle of golden Restoration magic, was fighting a bat-winged horned monster hued a deep bronze with the help of the Winterhold guards. With a frisson of horror she realised it was a dragon.

            “Get into the cellar!” she yelled, slamming the door shut. “A dragon’s attacking the village!”

            Dagur chivvied everyone, including a curious Nelacar, into the cellar to huddle as the sounds of battle raged above. They said nothing, looking upwards in fear, until silence reigned again. She supposed that the roof hadn’t collapsed, so that was a good thing. Hopefully it was dead and everyone safe.

            Cautiously creeping upstairs, she stuck her head outside to see the dragon’s bloody corpse in the middle of the street. The knight was panting in exhaustion, wiping his blade, and he glanced in her direction. “It’s dead, for now,” he said.

            Kaidan and Bishop will be unhappy about missing this, she thought as she yelled for everyone to come upstairs and look at the dead dragon. The knight was probably going to be the village’s new hero. Maybe he was the Dragonborn that Ralof had mentioned.

            No, he said that she was female and ‘dragon-blooded’, whatever that means. Jedda emerged from the inn and approached the dead dragon, wondering if she could steal a fang or something for luck. How had a creature that destroyed another village died so easily?

            When she was about three paces from the corpse, it burst into flame, contrails of power spiralling in on her. Overwhelmed by the taste of iron and bile, she fell to her knees as jagged golden script wrote itself across her eyes in words of light that she recalled from some book she read years ago. “Kaan,” she breathed, her voice stirring the wind itself.

            “By the gods,” one of the guards said. “She’s the Dragonborn!”

            Darkness took her.

Chapter Text

Overwhelmed by the power coursing through her veins, the Dragonborn collapsed in the snowy street before Casavir could catch her, mutterings of amazement from the crowd surrounding them. He cursed his lack of a cloak, as he’d rushed out to confront the dragon immediately, and knelt by her side to lift her. She was tiny for a Nord, too slender in fact, with the weals of whipping on her flesh and the pallor of a prisoner. That matched with the Divine Council’s supposition after she’d vanished from the Workhouse at the age of twelve. Sixteen years of searching had brought him to Winterhold, only to find her at the village inn. Truly the gods worked in strange ways sometimes, even for a fallen Paladin as himself.

            Rumour would ripple out from Winterhold like a stone thrown into a pond, eventually reaching hostile powers like the Thalmor and the Penitus Oculatus, making it all the more imperative that she was protected. He carried her into the tavern, where the innkeeper and his wife clustered around them in shock, and took her into his room to lay her on the straw-stuffed mattress. The fur blanket was barely adequate in his opinion, so he added his thick fur-lined woollen cloak, and wondered how in Oblivion he was going to handle the situation when she awoke. Once she realised who he was…

            “Milord,” Dagur said tentatively at the door. “What in Mara’s name is going on? The dragon’s just a skeleton and the guards are all swearing the Dragonborn’s come.”

            Casavir sighed and turned from the bed. Brooding over the unconscious woman would achieve little when she was safe enough in this inn so long as he had an eye on the door. Bishop’s presence in the Hold was concerning, given the renegade’s history of acting as a mercenary of the worst sort, and he’d heard of some dire things involving this “Kaidan Red-Eyes” as well. Allies were few and far between in the Old Holds, especially for an Imperial Knight, and not all dragons would die so easily as that one. Ulfric Stormcloak would salivate over bending a Dragonborn to his will and if she’d been kept prisoner, she’d likely hold a deep grudge against the Empire. That union would surely lead to disaster as Irkand dispatched assassins to dispose of the daughter he never wanted.

            “She is Dragonborn,” he told the innkeeper candidly. “I will be watching the door to make sure that none… bother her. Finding her was the second part of my mission to Winterhold.”

            Dagur nodded. “Reckon Korir will be beside himself with joy. This is the biggest thing to happen here since the Great Collapse. When Red-Eyes and Thrice-Banished get back, I’ll let them know. She was travelling with them and a Cyrod named Lucien.”

            The involvement of Lucien Flavius was a welcome one, given the lad’s allegiance to the Empire, but that she was acquainted with Bishop and Kaidan troubled him. “You trust them…?” he asked, letting the question trail off to show his dubiety.

            “Kaidan’s ice-kin, or so I’ve heard,” Dagur said quietly. “And Thrice-Banished’s always done right by us. Lucien… well, I think he’s a good kid, but he needs to learn to shut his mouth before someone like the Jarl shuts it for him.”

            Ice-kin. Rumour from the coast was that some of the Akaviri had managed to cross the seas to the chain of islands that dotted the Sea of Ghosts. Kaidan was a very Akaviri-sounding name the way that Dagur pronounced it, instead of the softer pronunciation of a Cyrod or Breton. Given their history with dragons and the Dragonborn, it made sense that the survivors would send a champion. But to work with Bishop… “I have a history with Thrice-Banished that’s far less benevolent,” Casavir admitted grimly. “He came by his moniker honestly.”

            “Well, if I got caught up about the past of every traveller who paid a visit to Winterhold, I’d have no customers,” Dagur said dryly. “I reckon the Jarl will send Malur over shortly. About high time that lazy git did his job as a Steward.”

            He took himself off and Casavir sighed, leaving the room himself and taking a seat right next to it. The Frozen Hearth was a typical northern inn, built from wood and thatch, its floor strewn with rushes against the cold and an open hearth set up along the length of the common room to warm the entire space. It was clean, a vast improvement over some of them, and the fragrance of fish-and-potato soup filled the air from the kettle simmering on the flames. Like many communities, the social life of Winterhold revolved around the inn, and he suspected that most of the locals ate their meals here to converse fuel and effort in the permafrosted landscape.

            It was less than fifteen minutes later that a pair of windblown mages entered the tavern, one of them young Lucien with his ash-blond hair and fine features and the other an almost elfin brunet with a slender build and light voice. Casavir raised a hand to Davidicus’s son in silent salute, earning a delighted smile from the lad as he hurried over. “Sir Casavir!” he said eagerly. “You’re a sight for sore eyes!”

            “And you are far from home,” Casavir noted, nodding at the plain grey garb that he wore. “Joined the College then?”

            Lucien nodded, looking into the room with narrowed blue eyes before glancing back at him. “I am. And I guess Jedda’s the Dragonborn then?”

            Well, he was always quick on the uptake… but one educated in the Imperial Court in both academics and politics would need to be. Should Akaviria rise to the Ruby Throne, Lucien was a contender for the positions of Imperial Battlemage or Court Archivist given his specialty of mythoarchaeology. “Yes,” Casavir confirmed bluntly. “You know…?”

            “That she’s an Aurelia? Gods, yes.” Lucien sighed and raked back his bangs as the other mage looked a little perplexed. Well, given the lad’s weathered complexion, Nords from the backwoods of Skyrim had likely never heard of the notorious clan. “She’s no love of the Empire, that’s for certain. From the little she and Kaidan – he’s almost certainly Akaviri – have said, she was a prisoner for most of her life thanks to Irkand’s, ah, zeal.”

            “His paranoia,” Casavir corrected grimly. “Is she…?”

            “Sane?” Lucien finished candidly. “I don’t know. She’s coherent and reasonably competent for someone who rotted in a cell for only Akatosh knows how long. Taught herself a smattering of magic, including Telekinesis and Clairvoyance. Is astonishingly ignorant of daily things in other ways. She helped Kaidan escape, so he’s very protective of her.”

            Perhaps Kaidan can be worked with. Casavir nodded and passed a hand over his face. “We certainly have our work cut out for us. Irkand will react to this news with his typical restraint… which is to say none.”

            The other mage folded his arms. “Jarl Korir’s going to have a few things to say about this. Given how isolated Winterhold is, he’s going to make her a Thane before anyone else can. And the College will want to speak to her about her Voice.”

            Lucien collected himself. “Sir Casavir, this is Onmund Broken-Tusk, Apprentice of the College. Onmund, this is Sir Casavir Remano, Knight… Imperial Knight.”

            Casavir inclined his head to the young mage. “Good to meet you, Onmund. I intend to consult with the College about dragons. The Dragonborn will need such knowledge.”

            “Of course. There’s so much that even the Wuthsahvot have forgotten, and I intend to learn it all,” Onmund said quietly. “But the Empire’s going to have a fight on its hands if it thinks it can make the Dragonborn belong to it. She’s the epitome of everything we’ve been praying for since the Oblivion Crisis.”

            So he’s a pagan then. Casavir spread his hands. “I’m here to protect the Dragonborn from the Penitus Oculatus if need be. I have that much rank in the Empire. But I cannot speak to her other choices until she’s conscious.”

            “Your father’s acknowledged you then?” Lucien asked, sounding surprised.

            Casavir couldn’t help but snort. “Unfortunately. That will make things tense between me and… Jedda?”

            “Jedda. It’s apparently a Yoku name,” Lucien said. “She told me that Irkand stripped her of her name and identity before throwing her in prison. That seems… excessive.”

            “Excess is Irkand’s style,” Casavir said flatly. “He revels in wholesale mayhem and misery. I’ve told my sire that he’s the greatest blight upon the Empire in living memory.”

            “No,” disagreed a husky contralto, oddly tuneless but still pleasant, from the open door of the room. “The greatest blight on the Empire is the one who gave him leave.”

            Jedda had awoken and came to the door, soundless as a cat, and eyes that burned blue-green in the firelight fixed on Casavir like he was a puzzle she sought to solve. Tangled ash-brown hair fell to her shoulders in a ragged cut and her even features were creased around her eyes and mouth from long suffering. But there was still loveliness there, or would be once she was filled out a bit more and tidied up some.

            “Lady,” Casavir said, bowing his head to her politely. “Your words are not wrong, but it is treason to say thus. It is best to keep that in mind, given how they can travel like the wind.”

            She snorted softly. “Irkand will send out his minions or even hunt me down personally. If I am Dragonborn, that means the Aurelii were telling the truth about their ancestry, and that makes all his actions for nothing.”

            “I wish I could say you were wrong but…” Lucien let the sentence trail off. “Casavir, I think it’s a good idea you attach yourself to our little group. Kaidan and Bishop are quite competent fighters and I’ve got my little Dwemer spider. Your healing abilities will go a long way… and well, the guards outside are saying you killed that dragon singlehandedly.”

            “Kaidan might be salvageable but Bishop is a renegade,” Casavir told the young mage. “His rightful place is swinging from a noose.”

            “I hired Bishop to guide me around Skyrim and aside from being abrasive and telling me to shut up a lot, he’s been quite reliable,” Lucien countered. “No one else knows Skyrim quite like he does. I think this is one of those ‘grin and bear it’ moments.”

            “Once bought, Bishop stays honest,” Onmund supplied helpfully. “My father has worked with him in the past. For a landlubber, he’s a good hunter.”

            Casavir growled. He’d rather just throw Bishop off the precipice dividing the College and the village, but he suspected he was going to be overruled. “Dragonborn?” he asked, deliberately calling Jedda by her new title. “What do you think?”

            “Bishop’s done right by me so far, so I have no reason to distrust him,” she said softly. “In fact, I trust him more than I do Lucien… or you.”

            “I am not the enemy,” he said, holding her gaze unflinchingly. “You will need me. I was a Paladin once. And Lucien’s court connections, knowledge and mastery of mechanics will serve you better than blades. I… cannot fault you. But you can trust us.”

            “I have no reason to trust you after sixteen fucking years rotting in a cell for the sins of my forefathers,” Jedda said bitterly. “But I’m smart enough to know that the more warm bodies between me and a dragon, the better.”

            Damn you, Irkand. Casavir gave her a bleak smile. “Would it make things better to know that the last time I met with Irkand, three Paladins had to pull me off him because I was trying to beat him to death for dropping Direnni Fire on civilians?”

            Jedda’s laugh was an ugly thing. “It makes me like you just a little, knight. Is that why you’re no longer a Paladin?”

            “No. That… came afterwards.” He steadfastly shoved the memory of Ofalia from his mind. “But I’m here to help and protect you. I swear.”

            “We’ll see,” was all she said.

Chapter Text

Dagur brought Jedda a shot of something stronger than the mead served to customers that tasted like concentrated sweetness and burned like fire in her stomach. It was so potent that her head, unused to alcohol, swam for a moment but the warmth chased away the cold feeling in her limbs from the realisation that she’d… taken something from the dragon that left it as scale and bone. She was Dragonborn, like the Septims of old, like her supposed ancestor Martin. The Penitus Oculatus was going to hunt her down like an animal once word got out of Winterhold, even if the knight – Sir Casavir – claimed to have the rank to protect her. Steadied by the spirits she’d just drunk, she decided to challenge him outright on it. No one short of the Emperor could sway Irkand from his goal of destroying her.

            The Imperial Knight must have sensed something in her expression, as he held up his hand to forestall a demand. “We shall discuss this privately,” he said in that low grave baritone. “My presence in the Old Holds, given my paternal ancestry, is not without risk. But it’s one I gladly take to both meet you and consult with the College.”

            Onmund folded his arms. “Well, given that Faralda’s dad was a Tongue, she’ll probably let Jedda inside as an apprentice. But you’ll have to offer a generous… donation… to access the Ysmir Collective.”

            “Fuck.” Jedda rubbed the side of her nose with a finger, sighing heavily. Her life had become even more complicated. “There’s no chance of keeping this between us?”

            “Not after every guard in Winterhold saw you suck the soul from that dragon,” Onmund told her sympathetically. “Kai Wet-Pommel knows already, since they answer to him, and you can bet there’s a pigeon with Ulfric’s name on it heading to Windhelm.”

            “Oh, lovely. We’re going to have the rebels chasing us to wherever we’re meant to go next,” Lucien said sourly. “Explaining that to General Tullius will be awkward.”

            Casavir sighed and passed a hand over his face. “I intend to try and talk Tullius into a truce with the rebels so we might travel freely between the Holds. I know that the Greybeards purportedly train the Dragonborn and their monastery is in the Rift…”

            “High Hrothgar,” Onmund said quietly. “There’s another group of people who know about the old dragonlore too.”

            “The Blades? Given they’re all Daedra-worshippers, I don’t think they’d be too reliable,” Lucien pointed out but Onmund shook his head.

            “No, the Wuthsahvot. There’s more of us than the Imperials and Talosites know.” Onmund gave Jedda a sympathetic smile. “Your first Word was ‘Kaan’ – Kyne – the goddess that the Cyrods call Kynareth. The one who gave humanity the Voice to fight off the tyranny of the dragons. Lot of Winter and Paler folk will see that as a good omen.”

            She rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly. “I read it in a book somewhere. It… stuck in my head because of the clawed way it was written.”

            “Dovahzul, the Dragon’s Tongue,” Onmund said in satisfaction. “Urag’s got a book called Dragon Language: Myth No More in the library and some of the older records are written in the Rotmulaag – the Words of Power. Can you read anything other than dragon script?”

            “I can read Tamrielic,” Jedda admitted. “You seem to know a lot about this.”

            “My father thinks I joined the College just to become a mage but Tolfdir’s training me up to replace him as Priest of Jhunal, the old god of magic and logic,” was Onmund’s reply. “To be a Sonaak, a Priest, you need to be fluent enough in Dovahzul to translate the Word Walls and speak blessings. It’s not the dead language that Cyrods claim. Most Wuthsahvot know a few phrases and words.”

            Lucien was staring at his fellow apprentice with a wide bright gaze that looked almost like adoration. “I had no idea you knew so much!” he said, audibly impressed. “I mean, folk magic is one thing, but…”

            Onmund smiled sheepishly at the Cyrod. “Tolfdir’s been teaching me for years because we sell the alchemical ingredients to him and I was the best at Clever-Crafting in the clan. Had to wait until I was of age to join the College though, which Da hates because he reckons I won’t go to Sovngarde.”

            “He’s the best on the coast,” Haran said proudly as she came up with a tray of cups and a pot of tea. “Jedda, I know getting drunk is probably tempting right about now, but I reckon Malur’s due any minute. The tea will chase away the effects of the spirits he gave you.”

            She took the cup of tea from the tray, cradling it in her hands as Casavir scrubbed a hand through his short black hair. “Malur?” the Knight asked.

            “Jarl’s Steward. Useless git of a Dunmer who has the job because Korir reckons he’s got relatives in the College,” Haran said, rolling her eyes. “If the Jarl doesn’t make you a Thane, it’s because he’s been ordered not to by Kai.”

            “Ulfric certainly maintains an iron grip on the rebels,” Lucien noted, taking a mug of tea himself as Onmund did as well. “Does Korir have so little spine?”

            “We’re reliant on food from Windhelm,” was Haran’s blunt answer. “Empire ignored us for years, Lucien, because we had no money to pay taxes when the city collapsed into the sea. Ulfric has his faults but he does stick up for the common man.”

            “Common Nord,” Onmund corrected. “I hear it’s Egil sticking up for the Argonians at the docks and Bjarni speaking for the Dunmer, which doesn’t exactly endear them to the ‘let’s kick out everyone who ain’t a Nord’ crowd.”

            “Given the state of neglect the Old Holds have existed in for decades, Ulfric has been able to take advantage of a justifiable resentment among the Jarls,” Casavir told Lucien quietly. “The Empire is reaping what it has sown in the east and north. Between the neglect and the banning of Talos worship – undoubtedly engineered by the Thalmor – that half of Skyrim rose in rebellion was inevitable.”

            Jedda looked at him sharply. “Are you saying that Ulfric’s a puppet of the Thalmor?”

            “Not in intention, I believe, but he was captured by the Thalmor during the Great War and tortured,” Casavir said bleakly. “His interrogator is the Thalmor Ambassador to Skyrim. From my briefing before I left Solitude, I suspect that she’s counting on him to keep Skyrim fragmented to bleed out the Empire. This stalemate is precisely what the blackcoats want.”

            “By Talos great and good,” Haran breathed in horror. “That makes a hideous amount of sense. So Ulfric winning could be a good thing, right?”

            “That… depends on Ulfric’s ability to make alliance with Hammerfell,” Casavir said grimly as Lucien blanched. “Given his obdurate isolationism and hatred of elves, a solitary Skyrim would be easy pickings for exploitation on a political level. If he can even gain Hammerfell’s assistance…”

            “You know much, Cyrod.” Korir had entered with a shabby Dunmer and fur-clad Nord at his side. “I think I need to know your business in my Hold. For your slaying of the dragon, you will be allowed to leave peacefully if I deem it necessary.”

            Casavir rose and bowed slightly. “I am Sir Casavir Remano, Imperial Knight, and I was dispatched to assist the Dragonborn. There are those who will take poorly to her existing, so I will be a shield against that.”

            The bearskin-clad Nord grunted. “So you’re Mede’s bastard son. Pardon me if I’m a little sceptical about your motives in this whole affair.”

            Mede’s… Damn it. Jedda drank some tea as the tension suddenly rose in the common room, Haran and Dagur exchanging worried glances. Casavir was a mighty fighter but there were a lot of guards and Korir was looking mightily pissed off.

            “My sire sent me here to prove myself,” Casavir told the Stormcloak candidly. “It is my decision, reached after consulting with General Tullius, that I assist the Dragonborn. Undoubtedly you have guessed she is an Aurelia. That news will send shockwaves through the Empire and stir some of the less scrupulous powers to action.”

            “I promised he could leave freely,” Korir told the Nord, who had to be Kai Wet-Pommel. “That man saved my Hold, Kai.”

            “Oh, I’m not stupid enough to try and capture a Paladin,” Kai responded, glancing at the Jarl. “Personally, I’d rather have my eye on him than let him go unwatched.”

            “I will only fight a Stormcloak if they provoke a fight or threaten the Dragonborn,” Casavir said with an edge to his voice. “In fact, given the dangers that the dragons represent, I think we should pursue a truce between our factions to give the Dragonborn some breathing space.”

            “Which the Thalmor will try to disrupt, if half of what you say is correct,” Jedda said bleakly. “Cyrelian of the Justiciars thought nothing of taking over the ruins of Coldfall Prison, which was a Penitus Oculatus facility in Eastmarch.”

            “The Thalmor are planning another war, Cyrod. I’ve seen the files myself,” Kai told Casavir. “Your father sold out the Empire’s founding god to save his pathetic life and throne.”

            “My sire,” Casavir said pointedly. “Mede is no, nor never was, a father to me.”

            Korir’s mouth tightened. “Kai, send messages to the other Jarls. Tell them we need to hold a Moot to discuss a truce.”

            “None of the Imperials will dare come to Winterhold,” Kai countered. “We’d need somewhere neutral… and no, the College doesn’t count.”

            Onmund cleared his throat. “What about Jorrvaskr? The Companions are the arbiters of Nord honour.”

            Kai nodded. “Could work. Kodlak is respected. Unless, of course, the Dragonborn could lend her Voice to the cause? Skyrim would be liberated in weeks.”

            All eyes went to Jedda, who sloshed tea on her dress from the cup as she instinctively hugged herself. She hated the Empire and hoped to outlive Irkand and the Emperor, but she knew that Ulfric wasn’t exactly cordial to those who weren’t Nords, and she had no idea how she’d cope in an actual war. The only winners of the civil war, so far, seemed to the Thalmor. Cyrelian had boasted as much to Kaidan while torturing him, she recalled that much.

            “Jedda, if you choose the Stormcloaks, Irkand will damn the world itself to kill you,” Lucien said worriedly. “I know you have no love of us and… that’s understandable. But you’re going to live longer if you choose a position of neutrality. Assuming the Stormcloaks won’t try to kill you, of course.”

            “We know what the return of the dragons means, Cyrod,” Kai said flatly. “It’s time to show our last best worth. Dragonborn, I can’t speak for Ulfric, but I know that every true child of Skyrim will stand to face the dragons alongside you. All I’m asking is that if you don’t join the cause, you at least don’t help the Empire.”

            She inhaled shakily. “I’ll… go to Jorrvaskr, wherever that is, and ask the Companions to arrange a… what did you call it?”

            “A Moot,” Korir said quietly. “Jedda, right? I know what it’s like to be small and ignored, silenced by forces outside of my control. If you become my Thane, you’ll have diplomatic immunity in all the Holds, and I’ll gain some much needed credibility with the other Jarls. Should my Thane call for a Moot…”

            Jedda looked down at her feet. She wasn’t even sure what a Thane was, though she knew that diplomatic immunity meant she couldn’t be arrested by outside parties unless she broke a major law. But in fleeing Coldfall she’d become a fugitive…

            A week ago she’d been a nameless prisoner. Now she was the Dragonborn, a power that everyone wanted a piece of. Korir, at least, had been honest in his intentions. Neutrality was likely going to be her best bet and Casavir’s comments about the Thalmor… well, it matched with what she’d heard Cyrelian say.

            “I’ll become Thane,” she said, her voice cracking. “And I’ll go to Jorrvaskr.”

            “Thank you,” Korir said softly. “You won’t regret it.”

Chapter Text

They trudged up to Winterhold from the shoreline, carrying bundles of horker meat and loot from the bandit camp in the wrecked ship, and were met by a squad of guards hacking a dragon’s skeleton to bits in the middle of the street. Kaidan rubbed his watery eyes to clear them, certain he was seeing things, but the sight was still there. Karnwyr, ever the opportunist, darted forward and grabbed a chunk of bone left by the wayside as something to gnaw on while Bishop gave a long low whistle. It was obvious that they’d missed a fight worthy of the tales while seeking the Helm of Winterhold.

            Avoiding the skeleton, they made their way to the Jarl’s hall at the front of the village to deliver the Helm as promised. Guards looked at them askance while an ugly iron-dark horse, muscular as only a knight’s steed could be, returned Karnwyr’s sudden growl with a threatening whinny of its own. Kaidan glanced at Bishop and realised the ranger’s expression was flinty with hatred on seeing the warhorse. There was only one knight that he knew of that was Bishop’s mortal enemy. So what was the Paladin Casavir doing in Winterhold when he was from Cyrodiil?

            Inside the Jarl’s longhouse, they were met with the sight of Jedda wearing an oversized woollen cloak pinned by a triple-spiked bronze brooch talking to Korir on his throne. Kai Wet-Pommel, the Stormcloak commander, was present and even Malur looked a bit more alert than he was usually. Lucien and Onmund, both clad in the College’s grey robes, were participating in the discussion while a tall barrel-chested Cyrod with a severe warrior’s cut stood to the side. From the red surcoat and plate-and-chain, that had to be Casavir, but hadn’t he been a Knight of the Divine? It was clear that a lot had happened over the past two days.

            Korir spotted them first, beckoning them forth with a gesture. The Jarl was more energetic than usual, his dourness swept away by an almost feverish excitement, and his wife Thaena stood by him with a pleased expression. Whatever happened had fired Winterhold’s ruler up and the return of the Helm was going to be the icing on the cake. Assuming Bishop didn’t cock it up by snarling at Casavir like a feral wolf, so Kaidan nudged him in the side as his face contorted into a sneer that the knight returned with a glare of balls-freezing hatred.

            He bowed slightly and offered the Helm to Korir in silence. Actions spoke louder than words at times like this.

            “So the Dragonborn’s scrying was correct,” Korir observed, triumph thick as honey in his voice, as he leaned forward to take the still-bright stalhrim-banded steel-spiked Helm. “It is clear that the gods intend great things for Winterhold.”

            Dragonborn? Jedda’s the Dragonborn? Kaidan collected himself quickly as the flinty hatred on Bishop’s face faltered, shock taking its place. That explained everything and nothing. Of all the people he expected, his fellow prisoner was the prophesised hero who would save Skyrim from the dragons. Little and thin-boned, she was vulnerable in a world that would eat her alive.

            Well, now I know why she was spared, and where she found the strength to help us both escape the Thalmor. Kaidan’s resolve hardened. He’d be sticking with her until the bitter end. It was more than a life-debt. It was his duty as one raised in the old Nord ways by Brynjar. And maybe along the way, she could translate his sword and uncover its mysteries.

            “I’ll be with you until the end,” he told Jedda firmly. “You can count on it.”

            Her smile was almost radiant with gratitude and showed how beautiful she could have been without years of imprisonment. “Thank you, Kaidan,” she said in relief. “I’m… still adjusting to the news.”

            “Dragons, huh?” Bishop asked in his sardonic drawl, nodding in Casavir’s direction. “How convenient we have some dragonbait to hand.”

            Kai and Korir snickered in amusement as Casavir’s mouth tightened humourlessly, steel-blue eyes glittering like faceted gems. “Have a care, Bishop,” he said in a baritone all the more deadly for its softness. “I am no longer bound by holy vows.”

            Jedda stepped between both men with a fearlessness that surprised Kaidan. “That’s enough, both of you,” she said softly. “Casavir, Bishop is Lucien’s guide, and so you’ll be civil to him. Bishop, Casavir has sworn to help me with the dragons, so I expect the same from you.”

            “Sweetness, the dragons are very much not my problem, so…” Bishop drawled, smirking. “Unless Lucien has suddenly decided to join your little band of dragon-hunters?”

            “Actually, I have,” Lucien told him. “Jedda is… politically problematic due to her ancestry. Between Casavir and I, we’ll make sure that no one acts… precipitously because of that. I’d like you to stay with us because of your skills as a ranger, but I won’t stop you from leaving if you truly can’t bear the Knight’s company.”

            Bishop’s face showed an entire evolution of emotion that would have been funny under other circumstances but Kaidan rested a hand on his shoulder to forestall the inevitable explosion. “Think of the glory in hunting dragons,” he coaxed, knowing that they’d need his expertise. “Worth putting up with the Paladin, eh?”

            “I’d better get paid a lot, on time, to tolerate that cunt,” Bishop replied through gritted teeth. “He got Jules killed… and we all know he fucked Lotte and got her pregnant.”

            “Jules died because you betrayed him to Thorn,” was Casavir’s starkly delivered retort. “And her second child was his posthumous son.”

            “Thank you, Bishop,” Jedda said softly, but with as much gratitude as she’d shown Kaidan, as the ranger’s face went puce in rage. “I’m… well, I’m going to need a lot of help to do this.”

            “I’m grateful as well,” Lucien added, his tone persuasive. “I don’t think we could do it without you.”

            The tension bled away to be replaced by a cold silence that was broken by Korir. “Well then, I’ll name Red-Eyes as Jedda’s huscarl by my right as Jarl and bestow upon her a staff that has a unique power as her badge of office. Malur, fetch the ivory-and-crystal staff from the armoury.”

            “Of course, my Jarl,” bowed the Dunmer as he went into the back of the hall.

            Huscarl? Well, I hadn’t planned on that. Better roll with it or I’ll offend the Jarl.

            “Thanks,” Jedda said, nodding respectfully to Korir. “With your permission, I’ll head back to the pub and tell Kaidan and Bishop what they’ve missed.”

            The Jarl nodded. “Of course. It’s critical you go to Whiterun in the next couple days. If Onmund’s tales are correct, we need that truce with the Empire.”

            Tales… Truce… Oh fuck. Kaidan gave a full-body shudder as he remembered Brynjar’s horror stories of the World-Eater consuming the souls of heroes in Sovngarde. The civil war would have provided the black dragon with plenty of fodder if he’d returned.

            “The Thalmor’s machinations are nothing to be sneezed at either,” Casavir said bleakly.

            “The goldskins will fall as the Falmer did,” Korir said dismissively. “It’s the souls of the heroic dead I’m worried about.”

            Malur returned with a spiral-carved staff set with an opalescent crystal, enchantment shimmering in every line. “Behold the Staff of Winterhold,” he intoned. “Each time the sun sets, you may change its effect to any one of five powerful spells of frost, fire, lightning, zombie or soul trap.”

            “That’s ghoulish,” Jedda remarked, shuddering as she took the staff. “I think I’ll stick to the Destruction spells, thanks.”

            “Wise,” Korir agreed. “No true Nord would dabble in the foul arts of necromancy.”

            “Too bad no one told our ancestors that by the amount of draugr at Saarthal,” Onmund muttered.

            Jedda leaned on the staff, looking wan and worn. “If you’ll excuse me, my Jarl?”

            “Of course. Your retainers will need to know what’s going on.” Korir raised a regal hand to wave them farewell.

            “I’ll give him fucking retainer,” Bishop muttered as they left the Jarl’s longhouse. Then his face cleared. “We go away for two days and come back to you as the Dragonborn Thane of Winterhold, sweetness. Too bad you picked up Casavir along the way.”

            “I can tolerate your presence… on the hope that some dragon chokes on you soon,” Casavir said flatly.

            Jedda closed her eyes and inhaled deeply; Kaidan could see that she was strained to the ends of her tether. “Please stop, both of you. I don’t have the strength to do this and manage you as well.”

            Onmund turned to Lucien, giving him a sweet smile. “I’ll head back to the College and see what I can scrounge up from the library on dragons,” he said. “I’ll also have an amulet for Jedda that will mark her as a friend to the Wuthsahvot.”

            “Thanks, Onmund,” she told the young mage. “I’m going to need all the help we can get.”

            He nodded, raising his hand as Lucien smiled at him. “You’re welcome, Dragonborn. Kai was right about it being the time for Nords to prove our last best worth.”

            He took himself off and Jedda pinched the bridge of her nose. “Gods, Kaidan, you or Bishop should have been the Dragonborn. They’d be running scared of you.”

            “Maybe the gods chose you so they don’t see you coming,” Kaidan told her. “So we’re going to Jorrvaskr then?”

            “Yes. Kodlak Whitemane can apparently summon all the Jarls for a Moot to make a truce.” Jedda sighed and looked up at the bright morning sky. It was one of Winterhold’s rare fine days. “Let’s get that meat to Dagur. You two must be exhausted.”

            They returned to the pub, where Dagur was happy to take the packs of horker meat, fat and bone for the people of Whiterun to use while Kaidan was happy to shrug off his nodachi and sink into a seat at their usual table. He was joined by everyone else, Karnwyr flopping down by the fire and yearning piteously towards the cheese wheels hanging from the rafters. It had been a long two days.

            Casavir leaned against the wall within earshot, seemingly comfortable in his plate-and-chain. “Kaidan, my name is Sir Casavir Remano, and I’m an Imperial Knight. I’ll be… a liaison between Jedda and the Imperial authorities, I suppose. There are those who will react poorly to an Aurelia Dragonborn.”

            “Between Casavir and I, we should be able to avoid treasonous activities,” Lucien added, raking a hand through his tousled ash-blond hair. “It’s a bit of an ugly balancing act we’re performing because the Penitus Oculatus will react poorly to the news but Onmund’s painted a rather scary picture of what will happen if Jedda dies.”

            Kaidan lifted his chin at Casavir. “You mentioned the Thalmor are involved. Those bastards captured me for torture because of my nodachi. What’s their stake in this?”

            “Ulfric was a victim of Thalmor interrogation during the Great War and the Thalmor are likely using him as an unwitting pawn to fracture the Empire,” the knight said bleakly. “I don’t doubt that his sentiments are sincere but when the Thalmor Ambassador is the womer who tortured him…”

            Bishop examined his fingernails before drawing a thin-bladed knife to clean them. “So let’s grab a bunch of Stormcloaks and raid Northwatch Keep. That’ll put a kink in their plans for Skyrim.”

            “Give me twenty good fighters, a half-dozen Blizzard scrolls, and a free go at that place,” Kaidan said fervently. “Cyrelian boasted that the Great War was just the first one.”

            Casavir’s smile was thin and humourless. “If I had free reign, I’d be leading the charge. But butchering the Ambassador would be a diplomatic outrage that could ignite a second war. No, our best chance is to make a truce so we can focus on the dragons without worry.”

            “And I have to be the one to talk them into it,” Jedda said in a small voice. “Behold, the mighty Dragonborn, skinny as a rake and with no presence whatsoever!”

            Kaidan reached over to squeeze her hand. “Don’t worry, Jedda. You’re more persuasive than you know. And we’ve got your back all the way.”

            “I hope so, I really do. Or we’re fucked.”

Chapter Text

That Casavir admitted the faults of the Empire was a surprise to Jedda, so she was more sanguine about him joining their group, and Lucien’s concession that what happened to her was wrong improved her opinion of him considerably. It made the upcoming journey to Whiterun feel less burdensome, so she spent the rest of her time in Winterhold reading everything she could about the dragons. Archaic language and fading script made it hard to translate everything but Hela Thrice-Versed’s Dragon Language: Myth No More proved to be the greatest treasure. Onmund negotiated its purchase from the College’s librarian for a sum of gold that made her head swim but Casavir paid without blinking. Between it and the chart of glyphs and words that the apprentice provided, Lucien was certain that she’d be able to decipher the Word Walls in fairly short order.

            It was a cold overcast day when they left Winterhold for Whiterun, the weekly carriage providing the fastest transport for most of them. Casavir rode his “destrier”, an ugly grey horse that had an intelligent gleam to his eye and entertained himself by chasing Bishop around the street for about five minutes before the knight bade him to stop. She’d never laughed so hard in… ever. When it was over, she contritely apologised to the ranger, who glared at the steed and muttered, “Stew” but made no more fuss about it. They all knew that this journey was critically important.

            Jedda spent most of the daylight poring over the book and the chart, trying to make sense of it with Lucien’s help, and quickly learnt that the draconic language was guttural and harsh on the human throat. But some of the words seemed to whisper to her more than others, their meaning plain to her untrained eyes. “Wind” and “Ice” and “Fear” spoke to her in ways that she understood, undoubtedly part of some Shout, and she’d repeated “Kaan” until her merest breath produced a calming effect on man and beast alike. Given they were about to negotiate a meeting for a truce, that one was going to come in handy.

            Bishop and Kaidan spoke with each other about the practicality of hunting dragons, discussing things like necessary supplies and how much to demand in bounties per kill. Jedda was a little uneasy about taking a mercenary approach to it, as they were about to beg a lot of favours from the Jarls, but they told her that she’d need a lot of coin to take on each creature. Lucien seemed to take it in his stride, citing that it was a seller’s market so far as draconic extermination was involved, but she was unhappy about the fact that she’d be killing a lot of sentient creatures and… taking their souls. It felt too much like soul trap for her, which Irkand had threatened her with in the past.

            The landscape slowly changed from the snowfields of Winterhold to the frosty crags of the Pale and the carriage stopped for the night at an isolated inn that called its Nightgate. Kaidan and Bishop were familiar with the place, as it was a good place for a mercenary to use as a base in winter if they were hunting the beasts of northern Skyrim, and despite its lonely location two people were staying. One was a bitter Nord whose curved blade raised brows as it echoed Kaidan’s nodachi in style while the other was an Orc that Kaidan greeted by name, startling him until he realised that it was the warrior who’d saved his life. Of all things, Balagog was a chef, but she supposed that it took all sorts.

            After a reasonably comfortable night, fortified by a rabbit stew that was so delicious that she could scarce believe food tasted so good, they left the next morning for the final stage of the journey to Whiterun. The southern Pale’s landscape of pine-strewn snowfields eventually faded into a vista of wide green-gold plains with a rusty tinge, dotted with wildflowers and farms producing brown wheat and orchards of scattered trees. Kaidan had remarked that Whiterun was the breadbasket of Skyrim and now she could believe it on seeing the fertile tundra.

            Windhelm, with its granite walls, had intimidated her but Whiterun was the epitome of every Nord city in the old tales she’d read in prison. Banners flew from its palace and walls while the three-tiered space within was crowded with buildings. Prosperity and a long peace had caused the population to spill outside of the walls and she instinctively understood why its current Jarl had tried to avoid choosing sides in a war. Balgruuf had been described as a milk-drinking gold-hungry coward but she sensed that he feared the devastation of battle upon his people and plains. He’d undoubtedly seize the chance for a truce to pause the war and buy himself some time.

            Once the carriage had rolled to a stop outside the stables, Jedda was only too happy to get off and stretch her legs as Casavir led his horse to a stall, greeting the stablemaster by name. The Knight had admitted he’d spent time in Skyrim before as a Paladin, trying to fight the evils that assaulted the province, but the tale had been short as Bishop kept on adding his own snide asides. Kaidan, of all people, was proving to be the moderating influence as he told both of them to stop sniping at each other like a pair of bitter old housewives. Lucien had laughed at their offended faces and even Jedda had managed a chuckle.

            She was about to ask Casavir on where they could spend the night, as asking hospitality from the Companions was a bit much when she was already wanting them to host a Moot, when a shadow swept over them and a roar echoed across the tundra. Kaidan, Bishop and Casavir immediately drew their weapons and started to run towards the tower that the dragon was attacking with streams of fire as Jedda and Lucien looked stupidly at each other. Then she realised that most of the horses at the stable were panicking, kicking at their stalls and such, and decided to see if the Kaan word could calm them. Lucien, no horseman at his own admittance, ran to the gates to alert the guards in the city as to what was going on.

            Much to her relief, the one Shout she knew kept the horses calm, and she was able to help Skulvar hitch them to the stalls so they couldn’t run away. It took her little time to learn the knot to hold the reins in place and only Steadfast needed no tying up. He whickered and nuzzled at her before tossing his head and looking over at the western watchtower. Judging by the horns blaring in Whiterun, the guards were mobilising to defend the city.

            It was a tense wait for the battle to be over. “So, you Wuthsahvot then?” Skulvar asked, meditatively chewing on a grass-stem as his son Jervar tied up the last of the donkeys. “Never known anyone else to know the Beast-Calm galdr.”

            “No,” she admitted. “They tell me I’m the Dragonborn.”

            “Scrawny little thing like you? Explains all those big warriors you got with you though.” Skulvar spat out the grass-stem. “Casavir’s good people though, and Kaidan’s reliable. Bishop’s a little dodgy but he does the job.”

            “I know. I’m lucky to have them as allies.” She watched the plume of smoke reach into the cold blue heavens. “Whiterun seems like a beautiful place.”

            “It is. Jarl’s fair. Bit greedy, but it’s as much for his folk as it is for himself.” Skulvar grunted sourly. “Shame all three of his brats are little shits though.”

            Another hour passed before Kaidan, streaked with soot and blood, returned to the stable. “Dragon’s dead,” he reported tersely. “Time for you to do your thing, Jedda. Jarl Balgruuf’s huscarl is with the troops.”

            Since Lucien hadn’t returned, she left the stables and followed the bounty hunter to a scene of carnage where the stench of burnt flesh hung low and greasy. Trying not to retch, because she could feel the eyes of everyone on her, she made her way to the hacked-apart body of a bronze-scaled dragon that gasped its last breaths. “Dovahkiin? Niid!” was its last cry and she felt a visceral sense of horror at what she was about to do.

            When its bones were picked clean by the force that took its soul, she licked her lips, tasting iron and smoke. “Yol,” she breathed, producing sparks that danced in the air. Fire. Now she could breathe flame just as they could.

            “I don’t know about this Dragonborn business, but anyone who can keep a dragon dead is alright by me,” said a flame-haired Dunmer clad in fine leather armour with a yellow tabard, slinging her bow across her back. “Jarl Balgruuf will want to speak to you. He’s in Dragonsreach.”

            “Aye, we’ll need to talk with him anyway,” Kaidan agreed, glancing at her. “Jarl Korir wants the Companions to call a Moot so we can discuss a truce.”

            “I saw the Winterhold badge.” The womer’s ruby eyes fixed on Jedda. “I can’t speak for the Jarl but he’s concerned about the dragons as well. I think you’ll find him amenable, assuming Jorrvaskr will agree.”

            “I hope they will be. I’ve been told some pretty grim stories about the return of the dragons.” Jedda raked a hand through her hair and then offered it. Thaena had trimmed the edges to be neat. “I’m Jedda.”

            “Irileth.” The huscarl shook it briefly, a moonstone crescent moon-and-star ring flashing on her finger. “You have a hard burden to carry. I hope it doesn’t overwhelm you.”

            “Same,” she said wearily. “I’ll go speak to Jarl Balgruuf immediately.”

            “Do so. Your Cyrod friend is already with him.”

            Casavir and Bishop joined them, both looking worn and exhausted by the battle. “That dragon was a hard battle,” the Knight observed, wiping his grimy forehead. “To Bishop’s credit, his arrow blinded it.”

            “I’m a good shot,” the ranger observed arrogantly. “So how much you reckon we could get out of Balgruuf for saving his city?”

            “His agreement to a Moot will do,” Jedda said, looking bleakly at the bones. “You know that… I’m kind of a vampire, right? I’m consuming the souls of sentient creatures.”

            “That is how dragons grow stronger, according to the legends,” Kaidan said simply. “If one kills you… well.”

            Her gorge rose and she spewed onto the grass. It had never occurred to her that the same fate could befall her. Was that why dragons were so selfish and power-hungry? Because it was kill or be killed in their world? It was a horrifying thought.

            “We will endeavour to make sure that’s not your fate,” Casavir pledged gently.

            “That is… terrifying,” Irileth said, her tone sickened. “And I have seen many horrors in my time.”

            “Hey, it’s not so bad,” Kaidan said, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Reckon the World-Eater hasn’t got any friends to watch his back. He just has minions and each one would stab him in the back faster than Lucien can read a book.”

            “Let’s get inside,” Bishop suggested, yawning. “It’s been a long fight and I want some beer.”

            Jedda nodded, forcing herself to move as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Thankfully she hadn’t puked on the dress that Thaena gave her. That wouldn’t have made a good impression with the Jarl when she had to look like a proper Thane, even if Winterhold was the poorest Hold in Skyrim because of the Great Collapse.

            Guards let them inside without an argument and they made their way to the palace in streets that were crowded with diverse people all bent on getting the best deal they possibly could as either purchasers and sellers. Whiterun was clean and cosy, its folk well-fed and prosperous, and she never felt like more of an outsider when their gazes slid over her like she wasn’t there. Over a week out from Coldfall Prison and while she’d been eating regularly, she was still skinny and pallid. Most of them probably thought she was sick.

            How was she going to convince a powerful Jarl like Balgruuf, let alone the storied Companions of Jorrvaskr, into agreeing to a Moot? She had no idea and that jeopardised the whole plan. But what choice did she have when the other option was annihilation?

Chapter Text

Lucien was relieved to see Bishop, Kaidan, Casavir and Jedda return from the watchtower, the Dragonborn looked wan and worn after the obvious strain of absorbing another soul but otherwise relatively hale. Jarl Balgruuf leaned forward in his horse-carved throne, gaze intent on the small bedraggled figure clad in brown wool and fur about four sizes too big for her with a staff that was about a foot longer than she was tall. It would be years before the effects of her long incarceration were erased, if ever, and he personally considered it a major miracle they’d managed to talk her around to neutrality in the civil war. Jedda lending her Voice (and the Dragonborn’s mantle) to the rebellion would have made the Imperial war effort crumble like stale crackers.

            Casavir’s open hatred of Irkand helps, he reflected as they approached the dais. The Knight’s bitterness towards his father and the Redguard was blatant but then even as a Paladin, he’d never been known for tact and diplomacy, and there would be those who claimed it bordered on treason. His suppositions about the Thalmor’s intentions with the civil war made a hideous amount of sense, from everything he’d learned in his lessons at the Imperial court, and had been a deciding factor in Korir calling for a truce instead of making Jedda work for Ulfric. But it was an open secret in particular circles that the White-Gold Concordat was only meant to last long enough for humanity to rebuild in time for the next war. Men, after all, bred faster and more frequently than mer in the crudest possible sense.

            “Dragonborn.” Balgruuf’s rich tenor rolled out like a carpet, heavy and luxurious, into the hall. “Welcome to Whiterun. I’ve assigned my Steward to provide you and your entourage rooms worthy of a Dragonborn Thane. Let it not be said that I scorned even the least of Skyrim’s Holds in my hospitality.”

            Jedda awkwardly punched her chest in salute, clearly trying to mimic the preferred Stormcloak style. “Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf,” she said in a hoarse, strained voice. It was clear she was at the end of her resources from the trembling of her too-skinny body, only her strong will keeping her on her own two feet. Lucien had to concede that her willpower was extraordinary. After sixteen years of imprisonment, it would have to be for her to have anything resembling competency and sanity. Her flinty hatred of the Empire likely wasn’t going to be softened, not after the way Irkand treated her, so he and Casavir were trying to get her to remain neutral. Thankfully she was willing to listen and had even softened slightly in her hostility towards them, giving their opinions equal weight to Kaidan or Bishop’s. One had to be grateful for small favours after all.

            Balgruuf nodded and leaned back into his throne, expression grave. “Master Flavius mentioned that Korir wants a Moot to make a truce between the Legion and the Stormcloaks in light of the dragons’ return. I’d offer Whiterun for the venue but neither side would trust in my honour because of my neutrality. Where do you intend to hold it?”

            “Jarl Korir’s suggestion was Jorrvaskr,” Jedda ventured. “I’ve been told that the Companions are the arbiters of honour in Skyrim.”

            “Typically, they are, but Kodlak hasn’t been well for some time.” Balgruuf sighed and looked at a beringed hand. “Still, Korir has a point. Kodlak Whitemane is as much a servant of Skyrim as any Jarl should be. He will set aside his personal issues to bring this civil war to a simmer instead of a boil.”

            “I hope so,” Jedda agreed.

            “Where do you stand in this war?” Balgruuf asked bluntly. “Korir’s a Stormcloak Jarl, but that’s because Ulfric has complete control over the sea and land routes to Winterhold, forcing him to rely on Windhelm’s… generosity.”

            “I hate the Empire,” Jedda answered candidly, her tone dripping with raw hatred. “I was imprisoned for sixteen years because my grandfather was the architect of the Arian Rebellion. But Casavir and Lucien have pointed out that there’s a third party who benefits from the civil war’s continuation as a stalemate.”

            “The Thalmor.” Balgruuf’s tone turned cold. “Even your endorsement, Dragonborn, would win many of the moderates to Ulfric’s side. Korir’s status is elevated above Idgrod Ravencrone and even Skald the Elder because your name lends his lustre. You aren’t quite the most powerful woman in Skyrim yet but you’re up there with some of the mighty. If you hate the Empire so badly, why aren’t you a Stormcloak?”

            Jedda’s mouth tightened. “Because my neutrality’s the only thing keeping the Penitus Oculatus from killing me, Jarl Balgruuf. A Dragonborn Aurelia is the stuff of nightmares for Irkand and his people.”

            “That’s why Casavir and I are lending our talents to the cause,” Lucien told the Jarl candidly. “He’s the Emperor’s natural son and I’m a schoolmate of the Imperial Heir’s. Our loyalty is beyond reproach. Ulfric, at the very least, is an unwitting pawn for the Thalmor who can play him like a fiddle because of his previous, ah, experiences with them. The Empire is the only hope for stability on a Tamriel-wide basis but I’ll settle for keeping Jedda out of the civil war entirely.”

            “Heh, Cyrod. You think it’s that simple?” Balgruuf steepled his fingers. “One look at Jedda will tell anyone that she’s Kreathling royal blood. It’s the blue-green eyes, you see. The Stormsword lay down with Arius’s Redguard son and bred three daughters. You grew up with the Imperial Heir, you’d know the one Irkand kept. The Stormsword fled with the other. To the third fell… well, fell the worst portion.”

            Jedda tensed. “We don’t know whether the Stormsword’s my mother. Irkand said that his mistress gave birth the same day and I was likely from her.”

            Wait, she could be Irkand’s daughter? Lucien managed to keep the bile from rising to his throat. It was one thing to make hard choices when faced with treason but quite another to throw your own flesh and blood under the cart to appease the Emperor. Casavir, tensing, was equally outraged as a tense silence fell upon the dais.

            “No,” Balgruuf said slowly. “You’ve got the blue-green eyes. Comes from Falmer blood in the Kreathling line, they say, and it breeds true over other colours. Ulfric is your stepfather. By blood and right, you have a claim to Falkreath just like Sidgara, Bjarni, Lia and Egil. As Dragonborn… well, you have the right to be heard.”

            “With all respect, why are you telling us this?” Kaidan asked as Jedda, ashen-faced, fell silent. “Doesn’t exactly serve a purpose, does it?”

            “But it does, Red-Eyes.” Balgruuf’s smile was crooked. “Ulfric will have thought of it. The Empire will fear it. So it is better than she know what she is instead of being caught unawares.”

            Lucien’s mind raced as he put the pieces together. He wasn’t the best at politics, not like Lia or Ria, but he’d perforce learned the basics in his lessons with everyone else. Nord traditionalists would argue that her Dragonborn status made her the natural heir of the lost Septims, the Aurelii’s claim about their bloodline notwithstanding, while a lot of Imperials would realise that her claim to Falkreath made her a strategic match for some ambitious scion with a bit of charisma and patience. Jedda, as someone kept cloistered from the world, was uniquely vulnerable to seduction by a charming person with a lust for power. Lia was courted by those who despised Siddgeir and Sidgara was apparently married to one of Ulfric’s favoured hearthmen. Balgruuf had forced an issue none of them were ready to face.

            “Fuck.” Of all people, it was Casavir who swore, a few moments behind Lucien’s own realisation. “You would make her a prize to be won.”

            “She already is,” Balgruuf said bluntly. “Dragonborn, kin-ties to both sides of the civil war, young and female. Korir was shrewder than I expected to make her a Thane. But that will only whet the appetite of every single man – and quite a few women – of noble birth in two or three provinces.”

            Fuck fuckity fuck. Lucien winced as Jedda began to hyperventilate. Balgruuf could have chosen his timing better, that was for certain. He wasn’t sure that even neutrality would be enough to stop Irkand from eliminating a potential threat to Ria’s ascension to the Ruby Throne. If she joined the Stormcloaks, Ulfric would likely find some kind, sympathetic and politically appropriate Nord for her to wed. The Empire…

            “I suspect the nobility of Skyrim’s about to drop in population,” Bishop drawled sardonically as Kaidan rested a hand on Jedda’s shoulder, murmuring to her softly to try and calm her down. “If we play it right, we could let them eliminate each other to whittle down the problem to a manageable size.”

            Balgruuf’s laugh was sardonic. “I suppose to you, Thrice-Banished, there’s little difference between a gang of Thanes and a meeting of bandit-chiefs. I didn’t bring this up to make you think there was no hope. My own Steward suggested that I sweet-talk the Dragonborn into joining with me. I felt she deserved a fair warning of what to expect at this Moot.”

            “I’ll make it simple,” Kaidan said softly, his tone a deadly promise. “Anyone who lays a hand on her without her permission dies… and I won’t give a flying fuck whether they’re Jarl, Thane or even fucking ruler of Skyrim itself.”

            “She’ll need a huscarl like you, Red-Eyes,” Balgruuf said grimly. “I have no intention of wooing her. I have three heirs, I’m content with Whiterun, and I have someone who loves me. But Ulfric’s got an entire crop of ambitious young commanders and I imagine that the Imperials are in a similar boat.”

            Jedda was so still and silent that Lucien wondered if the shock had finally broken what was left of her mind. Bad enough to realise that she was as vulnerable to dragons as they were to her; worse to discover that she was a tasty lamb in a forest full of wolves on the political level. What made it worse was that he couldn’t just let nature take its course in case a Stormcloak swept her off her feet. She was the greatest symbol of legitimacy in Skyrim at this very moment.

            Casavir swallowed thickly. “You aren’t without recourse in this situation,” he said, breaking the silence. “Religious vows are a possibility. And there are very few who can force you to do anything you don’t want to. Or you could renounce all claims under Imperial law, which could mollify the Elder Council enough to get them to lean on the Penitus Oculatus to back off.”

            “They’d love that,” Jedda finally said in a whisper that was as loud as a scream in the silence following his words. “Irkand, sadist that he is, wouldn’t have felt safe enough to let me rot in jail without their backing. Why should I yield power to those who let me suffer?”

            Oh gods. Lucien recalled Onmund’s warning that the dragons were passionate creatures that craved power and dominion as they measured themselves by strength and strength alone. Jedda, disenfranchised and abused, had every reason to clutch at whatever power she could. And the more dragons she killed, the more power she’d possess. Already she could calm men and beasts. If she learnt darker Shouts…

            Miraak could bend the will of dragons, he fretted as the silence rose to a screaming tension. Balgruuf looked a little perturbed, Bishop was nodding in what he suspected was approval, Kaidan was troubled and Casavir had blanched slightly. Lucien had no idea of how to defuse the situation or even persuade her to not seek power wholeheartedly. In her position, he’d probably want to make sure he was never hurt again too.

            If she becomes a villain, she’s the very one the Empire created with their own actions.

            “Why shouldn’t I find someone who could give me power?” Jedda asked, her tone defiant and raw with emotion. “In my darkest dreams, I begged of Irkand and Mede on their knees at my mercy, begging for the pain to stop. I dreamt of freedom. I dreamt of power. Why shouldn’t I take what is my fucking birthright?”

            She was on the edge of madness, Lucien could tell, and he was absolutely terrified.

            “Because power corrupts.” Casavir was the one to find his voice. “Pride corrupts. Power without compassion, without morals, leads to the path of damnation. You would become as Irkand. He commits atrocity without conscience and calls it righteousness. Your rage, your pain, are understandable. Even justified. But Onmund told you of Alduin, of Miraak, of Ahzidal and Morokei. Will to power, power to corrupt, corrupt to evil.”

            Oh, bless you, Casavir. You mightn’t be a Paladin anymore but you’re still right morally. Lucien nodded at her. “If you really wanted power, you’d have killed me when I tried to justify what Irkand did to you instead of telling me I wasn’t a decent man. You’d have set aside Korir – as a Thane, you could do that, and few would argue – and joined Ulfric with a plan to usurp him eventually. Of course you don’t want to be hurt ever again. That’s understandable. You probably want Irkand to suffer, which is only human. But you don’t want power, Jedda. Not at the expense of others’ suffering at least.”

            He forced himself to meet those wild blue-green eyes squarely. “You give into a lust for power, you become Irkand or Arius. Do you really want that?”

            There was a long tense silence before she shook her head. “No. I don’t want to be them… or Mede.”

            “And we won’t let you be,” Kaidan promised softly.

            Balgruuf cleared his throat. “In that case, I will send messages forth. Convince the heirs of Ysgramor to call a Moot and I will do everything in my power to bring it about.”

            Lucien wiped his forehead, surprised that he was sodden with sweat. That was a terrifying few minutes. Thank Akatosh they’d managed to avert a power-mad Dragonborn. They’d have been in trouble otherwise.

Chapter Text

Jedda was silent for most of the evening after her outburst, seeking an early bed and trying to avoid the others until morning. Balgruuf’s revelations and Casavir’s suggestions had worked in tandem to provoke an outpouring of rage from that darkest part of her she suspected was the seat of her dragon’s soul. Knowing that failure brought dissolution – painful if Mirmulnir’s cry of despair was anything to go by – had compounded the bitter vengeful side that lurked beneath the compliant prisoner. None of them knew what it was to have a desire for bloody carnage upon the bodies of her enemies born from a hatred so profound its shape was etched into her bones by the acid of her suffering. Only Bishop had approved of her actions last night – even Kaidan, who felt he owed her a life-debt, had been well and truly perturbed. It had only been the observation that to grab all the power she could made her no better than Irkand or Mede that pulled her back from the brink. But the edge was still just a short step away.

            In the morning, she rose, rubbing at her sandy eyes, and donned the brown dress Thaena gave her with the oversized fur-lined cloak wrapped tight around her with the hood raised to conceal her identity. She left the Staff of Winterhold behind, as it blazoned her identity to the world, and crept through the halls of Dragonsreach until she found a discreet entrance used only by servants. Anonymous in the grey light of an overcast dawn, she left the palace and walked around the side to where the three flights of stairs led down to what Casavir had called the Wind District. Dominated by a dead tree with a jagged scar from some lightning strike, it was bordered by temples and residences on one side and a massive overturned boat turned into a hall on the other. That, as she understood, was Jorrvaskr and already she could hear the sound of clashing metal and cries of effort from its yard. Well, she had to speak to the Companions anyway for this Moot to work…

            Pulling the hood down to release the ash-brown hair that Thaena had kindly cut into a neater style, she walked around the hall to see a motley collection of Nords, a Redguard and an Imperial gathered around two fighting figures, one of which was the light ash-grey of a Dunmer while the other was a pale silver-haired Nord woman. An old man, grizzled and white-haired, oversaw the bout and even from here she could see the slight tremor in his body. That had to be Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions. A couple glances were sent her way but most of the attention was on the brawling pair.

            Finally, the Nord’s right hook connected with the Dunmer’s jaw and sent him sprawling on his back, Kodlak waiting for him to try and rise for a count of three before declaring the bout over. “The gods have decided,” he decreed in a grave weary baritone. “The victory goes to Njada. Athis, you will offer an apology and train in shield techniques for nine days under her tutelage. Njada, do not abuse this power. Even an elf can have the heart of a Nord.”

            The silver-haired Nord grunted her acquiescence as she offered the mer a hand to rise. Buxom and bulky, she wore her hair in elaborate braids like so many Old Holders, and her shoulders were tattooed with the stylised bear-claw of the Stormcloaks. But among the watchers was an Imperial woman, little older than a girl, whose deliberate Nord style failed to hide the scarlet dragon of the Empire on her right arm. It was clear that all political sides were allowed to join the Companions of Jorrvaskr.

            Her stomach growled at the whiff of roast meat that boiled out from the hall as a shrunken old woman, grey-haired and bent by years of labour, opened the doors to announce that breakfast was ready. Most of the younger warriors made their way to the hall eagerly, Kodlak, a grey-haired veteran with an impressive moustache, another who was still in fighting trim and a lean Nord with short black hair for a non-Legion soldier staying behind. Their eyes went to her and Kodlak raised a hand to forestall the black-haired man from speaking.

            “A stranger comes to our hall,” he remarked, beckoning her closer. “One, I think, who speaks with a dragon’s Voice.”

            Jedda stared at him in shock, unable to even articulate a question as to how he guessed, and Kodlak gave her a kindly smile. “To be Harbinger is to have a sense of things to come, Dragonborn,” he told her. “I saw black wings unfurling and your face in my dreams. When Vilkas here saw you absorb the dragon’s soul yesterday, I knew then that the gods hadn’t yet given up on this world.”

            Right. The Harbinger can see the future. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. Jedda stepped closer, fists clenching in her skirts, as the words dried up in her mouth. There was a clear-sighted sternness in Kodlak’s rain-grey eyes, tempered by the knowledge of human nature both good and bad, and an aura of authority that wasn’t diminished by his obvious illness. No wonder Korir believed he was the man to call a Moot to make a truce. The Jarls of Skyrim would heed no less of a power, especially among themselves.

            “Welcome to Jorrvaskr, lass,” said the old moustached man in a warm tone. “I am Vignar Grey-Mane, uncle to Ulfric Stormcloak and kin to you through your mother’s marriage to him. The Grey-Manes will stand with you as needed, for we know what the return of the dragons means for humanity.”

            She swallowed, her throat dry, and managed to choke out a few words. “I’m Jedda. And we need a truce.”

            Vilkas and the still-hale warrior exchanged glances as Kodlak watched her silently. “Why a truce?” the warrior asked, his one eye gleaming. “Neither side will hinder you if they’re wise.”

            “Souls. Dragons eat them.” It was hard to get the words out through her renewed sense of horror at the price of failure that Onmund had outlined. “Sovngarde.”

            Kodlak’s eyes widened in understanding as Vignar and Vilkas blanched, while the one-eyed warrior seemed unbothered by the Nords’ equivalent of a fate worse than death. The Harbinger inhaled a shuddering breath, visibly shaken for a moment, before nodding decisively. “So the old tales are true then. You think the Jarls and Legion will listen to us?”

            “Jarl Korir says… you’re the only one who can call them all.” Jedda raised her hands, noting that they were trembling. What would he think of her if he knew of the streak of cruelty and passion that lay in her soul like a fissure? Everyone agreed that the Companions were the epitome of honour by Nord standards. “Legion… won’t listen to me. I’m an Aurelia.”

            “There’s another way – Kodlak, let me speak as Ulfric’s uncle for a moment,” Vignar rumbled. “Bring your Voice and influence to the Stormcloaks, Jedda, and Nords will flock to our side. The tide would turn our way and the war be over quicker.”

            “Irkand would damn the world by killing me should I choose the Stormcloaks,” Jedda said bitterly. “I can’t support the Legion. I have to try and maintain neutrality, assuming someone doesn’t force me into a marriage for political power.”

            Kodlak looked intently at her, expression growing hard. “You bear the marks of a long imprisonment. Little more than skin and bone, a pallor to your complexion, and shadows in your eyes. Irkand Snow-Stone’s reputation is not unknown to us.”

            The one-eyed warrior sighed. “He was broken by the Great War, Kodlak. What he had to do to win victory for the Empire…”

            “A victory that was thrown away because of Mede’s cowardice!” Vignar spat in outrage. “The Stormsword had plenty to say about him and none of it good, so don’t try to cry sympathy for the Daedra with me, Skjor.”

            “Anyone can be broken,” Kodlak said softly. “Irkand chose to sacrifice his own flesh and blood on the altar of what pleased him to call necessity. That the Dragonborn isn’t a ravening beast or a ruthless powermonger is more by grace of the gods than anything he did.”

            She closed her eyes against the sting of the words. If he’d heard her speak last night…

            “Dragonborn.” Kodlak’s voice was kind but firm. “Open your eyes and look at me.”

            Jedda obeyed, unable to resist the authority in his tone, and met his rain-grey gaze.

            “It is a sin for a Nord to commit kinslaughter, unless the offending party is declared nithing, even should they suffer untold torments at their own blood’s hands,” the Harbinger said softly. “Doubly so for you, a woman with a dragon’s thirst for blood and power. But you aren’t without recourse under Nord law.”

            Vilkas tensed. “You want one of us to serve as champion? Kodlak, she has three warriors by her side!”

            “One of whom is Bishop Thrice-Banished, who’s a kinslayer twice over, and another is the son of the man to whom Irkand answers to,” Kodlak observed mildly. “Kaidan Red-Eyes… well, if he was willing to join the Companions to redeem himself, he’d be acceptable. But only a Companion can stand against such as Irkand as champion under the old laws.”

            Jedda swallowed thickly. “We need that truce,” she whispered. “The Empire won’t cooperate with you if you kill Irkand illegally.”

            “It wouldn’t be illegal, lass,” Kodlak told her gently. “You can’t fight this battle, you have no kin to fight this battle, and Irkand has put Skyrim in grave danger by imprisoning you to the point of physical disability. Under Nord law, ratified by the Elder Council and never changed, a Companion can stand as your champion and challenge Irkand to trial by combat. It will be an open duel, fairer than he deserves, but we aren’t ragged assassins to ambush from the shadows.”

            “Might be best to arrange the truce before issuing the challenge,” Vignar suggested dryly. “I don’t see that nithing coming within a dozen miles of Jorrvaskr otherwise.”

            Kodlak gave him a wry glance. “I’ve been handling judicial duels for twenty years, Vignar. I know what I’m doing.”

            “Old man, I will recuse myself from this,” Skjor said sadly. “Irkand was once my friend and lover. I don’t like what he’s become – I know how it happened because I was there – but I can’t raise a blade against him.”

            “Of course,” the Harbinger agreed quietly. “You’ve proven your honour hundreds of times over, Skjor. I’ll not make you do so again in so cruel a manner.”

            “You mean Irkand wasn’t always a cruel, sadistic, evil bastard?” Jedda asked bitterly before she could stop herself.

            Skjor met her eyes. “During the Great War, Irkand was forced to choose between me and a weapon that could turn the tide of the conflict. He chose to sacrifice me, knowing that we needed that weapon, and it broke whatever compassion yet remained. I barely survived and was found by Vignar, who brought me to the Companions. But… that has nothing to do with this because it’s not my fight.”

            “It is easy, Dragonborn, to say that the ends justify the means in this cold grey world,” Kodlak said gently. “There are times when the only mercy you can show is the clean sharp cut of a sword. But an enemy should be slain cleanly with no torment. Not dispassionately, as slaughter is the alteration of their wyrd and yours, but without the indulgence of cruelty and passion that corrodes the soul like acid. More so for you as a woman with a dragon’s soul. No shame in feeling the satisfaction of an enemy’s demise, especially one that has harmed you so greatly. But when you allow that satisfaction to become exultation, that is when you cross a line.”

            She closed her eyes again, tears seeping down her cheeks. “I want him and Mede to suffer.”

            “Which is only human of you. Even Companions are allowed to be human. But honour lies in facing your enemy openly with fair odds. Irkand deserves that much for all he’s done. Vengeance is counterproductive. It is justice that matters.” Kodlak smiled gently. “Something your compatriots Casavir and Bishop need to learn.”

            “Should lock those two in a cage and sell tickets,” Vilkas observed sardonically. “We’d cover this winter’s firewood bill.”

            Despite herself, Jedda snorted in agreement. Bishop and Casavir still sniped at each other despite her requests for civility. But Kodlak’s words lingered. “How do you know the difference between justice and vengeance?” she asked.

            “You learn. Or you fail.”

Chapter Text

Bishop was the first to realise that Jedda had gone missing when everyone awoke and decided to track her with Karnwyr before raising the alarm. After being fed all that garbage last night about being the better person and that when she was well within her rights to claim as much power (and revenge!) as she wanted, he imagined she was pretty shaken up and wanted some alone time. That was all very well and understandable, of course, but losing the Dragonborn meant the end of the world… which was a bad thing. It was in his best interests to make sure she was okay.

            Karnwyr’s keen nose led them out of the palace, passing servants sniffing at him in his black leathers, and down to the edge of Jorrvaskr. So she’d sought out the Companions to sell them on her idea about a truce-Moot – for someone who’d rotted in a cell for sixteen years, Jedda was remarkably persuasive. The murmur of words reached his ears and he quickly realised that Kodlak was offering for the Companions to kill Irkand in a duel (secret agent versus werewolf was only going to end one way) because there was a difference between vengeance and justice. The removal of her right to seek bloody revenge pissed him off but knowing Skjor was a deadly son of a bitch kept his mouth shut. Poor Jedda was so battered by Casavir and Lucien’s rhetoric that she’d just soak up all Kodlak’s bullshit and feel even worse. No one wanted for her to become a monster but there was no shame in looking out for yourself first and foremost. It worked for him, after all.

            Finally, the lecture ended with Kodlak’s agreement to summon the Jarls and host the Moot on the condition that she talked General Tullius and Jarl Ulfric into supporting the plan before she was dismissed. Bishop lurked just around the curve of Jorrvaskr’s side, Karnwyr sniffing dubiously at some mountain flowers, until Jedda came around with a troubled expression on her face. The damage from her incarceration would be years in erasing and there’d always be telltales in the crooked ivory teeth, coarse complexion and weals on her tawny-olive flesh. She could have been quite attractive, even beautiful, but sixteen years of rotting in a cell had worked some permanent damage to her body. Her mind… well, he just hoped she stayed relatively stable. Last night’s outburst, born from frustration, was a taste of what a truly enraged Dragonborn could do.

            “Suppose you won’t need breakfast after a bellyful of bullshit from Casavir, Lucien and Kodlak,” Bishop drawled as he stepped from the shadows. “I’d have puked by now.”

            Her mouth flinched to the side in an aborted smile as a dim flicker of amusement filled her blue-green gaze. “Worried I’d snapped and gone running into the night?” she asked with more than a little sarcasm in her voice. “I am an Aurelia after all.”

            “Oh, sweetness, I’m sure you’re more than a little cracked,” Bishop agreed with a rueful smirk. Jedda had no illusions about her fragile grip on sanity, that was for certain. “I’d need a little time too after being called out for having fairly justifiable fantasies about cheese graters and my enemies. Heaven forbid that you should be sensible and claim whatever you can get in a world that does you no favours.”

            She sighed and looked over her shoulder in Kodlak’s direction. “I’ve had two people tell me that dragons have a capacity for cruelty and power-lust now. In the prison cell, sometimes all I had was the fantasy of Irkand and Mede on their knees, begging for mercy and their lives. It’s… a sweet one.”

            “Of course it is, sweetness,” Bishop told her sympathetically. “Sticking a twelve-year-old in prison for the sins of her grandfather’s fucked and I say this as the son of a man who raped his eldest’s fiancée and murdered him when he was rightfully angry. Power and survival are the only two things in this world that matter.”

            Jedda crossed her arms defensively, looking at him through her eyelashes opaquely. “So take what you want and screw everyone else? I’m not judging, I just want to be aware of who I’m working with here.”

            “I have my limits,” he assured her. “I keep my bargains and word unless the other party screws me over first. I don’t stab my allies in the back. I never overhunt. I don’t abuse or kill those who are weaker than me – there’s no challenge in it. I do my share of the work and don’t steal from my teammates. But anything else is fair game.”

            “That’s… fair,” Jedda conceded. “Gods know that Casavir’s righteousness, Lucien’s naivety or Kaidan’s stubbornness won’t always win the day.”

            “Precisely, sweetness,” Bishop agreed, smiling in relief that she got it. “Personally, if I were you, I’d get everything we can out of those overstuffed Jarls and Generals. You’re the only one that can keep the dragons dead. That makes it a seller’s market. Kodlak had a point about killing your enemies cleanly. The short-term satisfaction of breaking them turns into the long-term aggravation of cleaning blood from your clothing.”

            “It’s tempting,” she admitted. “If they’d use me for power, why not take it for myself?”

            “Exactly!” He jerked his chin down at the dead Gildergreen. “Let’s go before Kodlak overhears us and decides to collect on a couple outstanding bounties on me. The Companions’ hypocrisy never fails to astonish me but I’d rather not rot in a holding cell while three Jarls have a bidding war over who gets to hang me.”

            “Which three?” she asked wryly as they headed away from Jorrvaskr. “In order to make life easier for ourselves, I might have to use your share to pay them off.”

            Bishop sighed as Karnwyr nuzzled at Jedda’s hand for a scratch. “My brother and I racked up a few in Whiterun that Balgruuf likes to hold over my head when he wants me to do something for free. Bastard ripped us off on a bounty by paying in trade-value and Jules took some silverware to cover the cost of what we lost.”

            “Right, I think we can sort that out before we leave Whiterun,” she observed. “Where else?”

            “Got some in Falkreath, Haafingar and the Rift from when I ran with my father’s bandit-clan,” he confessed. “The ‘Thrice-Banished’ came honestly to my clan.”

            “So I see.” She gave him a sideways glance. “The first kinslaying was your father, wasn’t it? The one who raped your brother’s fiancée and then killed him.”

            “Yeah. Torban was a cunt in every sense of the word.” Bishop spat to the side. “Worth Sovngarde to rid the world of him. Besides, fucking, drinking and fighting all day sounds boring as hell.”

            “I imagine they’re screaming and running from the dragons right about now if Onmund’s right,” she said bleakly, losing the trace of good humour. “So Jules was the second?”

            “I didn’t kill him,” Bishop corrected, trying to keep the pain and anger from his voice. All she knew was what Casavir told her. “That was Thorn when Jules tried to betray the clan after Casavir bought him off. Don’t let his pious façade fool you, sweetness. Jules was dying and Casavir used that to sway him with promises of taking care of Lotte and the kid. My brother was killed and Lotte got pregnant.”

            Jedda looked blindly ahead. “I do believe Casavir was telling the truth about Lotte’s child not being his. His outrage at the accusation was too real. I learned how to read people in the prison to survive the wardens’ moods.”

            Bishop grunted in acknowledgment. “It doesn’t matter. Jules died because he tried to double-cross the clan. If he’d come to me, if he’d trusted me, we could have pulled it off and taken Casavir’s gold into the bargain. But he didn’t and he died for it.”

            “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “My mother didn’t want me. Why else would she take my sister and leave me to rot in the Empire?”

            “I don’t know, sweetness. My mother was a bandit’s whore.” Bishop sighed and took a seat under the dead tree’s boughs. Living proof that the gods didn’t exist despite the Priests’ sermons. “Jules and I escaped together. But I guess we couldn’t outrun our upbringing.”

            Jedda sat next to him, scratching Karnwyr’s ears when he laid his head in her lap. “Kaidan’s the one I trust the most because we escaped one another,” she admitted candidly. “I know I can count on your self-interest, so I trust you the second-most.”

            “That’s fair,” he conceded. “Lucien’s so naïve that it would never occur to him to betray you.”

            “His loyalty to the Empire is absolute because his family has profited handsomely from Mede’s rule since the Great War,” Jedda said softly. “I can trust him so long as I serve the Empire’s interests. Should I go outside them…”

            Bishop had only looked at the pretty blond’s sunny nature, painful naivety and lack of guile, not the greater implications of his slavish loyalty to the Empire. “I’ll watch him for you since I’m supposed to be toughening him up as an adventurer,” he promised. “But the one you really need to watch for is Casavir.”

            “Is that experience or anger talking?” she asked, eyebrow rising.

            “Both.” Bishop looked at Heimskr’s house. “There’s no act too vile for a man to contemplate when he believes he’s justified in doing it. From what I gather, that Irkand’s right up there. Casavir saw nothing wrong in subverting my brother sneakily. He saw Jules’ desperation and used it against him. I don’t even know if he kept his promise when the operation failed.”

            “I’ll ask Casavir,” Jedda promised. “He’s… something. But I don’t think he’s a liar about something like that.”

            Bishop snorted. “He broke his vows. His da let you be tortured and his ma was an adulterous slut. I’ve never claimed to be anything great but his blood’s as bad as mine.”

            “Maybe.” Jedda looked down at her hands. The last two fingers on the right were crooked, as if they’d been broken and healed poorly, and he could see the old weals from shackles on her wrists. It was kind of a relief to meet someone who had it worse than him who’d managed to maintain a shaky sanity. She was broken, he could see it in her gaze, but she picked herself up and kept on going. Her desire for power and revenge was perfectly understandable. “Mine’s not exactly great either. My great-grandfather was a demi-Daedroth and that madness came down to his grandson. Maybe even me.”

            “What’s sane and insane?” Bishop asked rhetorically, looking up at the dead tree. “I reckon getting hung up on questions of right and wrong is crazy when the world doesn’t make sense unless you fight to survive. Don’t be a sadistic bitch but claim all you can get from those overstuffed Jarls. They should be begging you to save them.”

            “Dragons are cruel, passionate and greedy,” she said grimly. “I feel that desire in me. Calling the Jarls to a Moot to make a truce is just common sense. But aside from being a Thane of the poorest Hold in Skyrim, I have no credibility with which to bargain. My bloodline is tainted, my parents and grandparents were traitors, and my only living kin are in rebellion. So I’ll need to walk softly and carry a big stick otherwise they won’t listen to me. And if someone gets the bright idea to forcibly marry me…”

            Bishop chuckled darkly. “If you wanted true power, I’d suggest you seduce Casavir. His father’s the Emperor, you’re the Dragonborn, and I don’t think that Ulfric will win the civil war. Spin him a line of bullshit about making amends and forgiveness and he’d fall for it, hook, line and sinker.”

            Her fists clenched and her lips parted for a moment as she contemplated the thought of being Empress of all Tamriel. Nothing wrong with a lust for power so long as one didn’t act stupidly evil, he figured.

            But then she shook her head. “No. Casavir wants a damsel in distress to feel like a hero, I think. I’m not that good at acting.”

            “Well, damn,” Bishop said with a smirk. “I was hoping you could get rid of all my bounties if you became Empress.”

            She laughed ruefully. It was good that they both understood each other as birds of a feather.

Chapter Text

After her enlightening talk with Bishop, which made her feel a lot better, Jedda left the dead tree to return to Dragonsreach. She needed to give Balgruuf Kodlak’s answer, as she’d need the Jarl’s influence to set up this Moot, and then ponder how exactly she was going to persuade Tullius and Ulfric to back it. Maybe her kinship to the Jarl of Windhelm would work in her favour for the Stormcloaks but her status as an Aurelia handicapped her with the Imperial Legion. It was an ugly balancing act and she wasn’t sure how she was going to manage it when her mental stability was questionable.

            She found Dragonsreach in a state of quiet furore until one of the servants saw her, loudly announcing that the Dragonborn had been found. A ripple of almost absurd relief spread out among the help as she made her way up to the dais where Balgruuf, Irileth, a hook-nosed Cyrod, Casavir, Lucien and Kaidan were talking. Had her absence for a few hours so panicked everyone that they turned the whole palace upside down? The need for solitude and guidance had driven her to Jorrvaskr and then she’d run into Bishop, who was remarkably empathetic for a man who proclaimed himself to be utterly mercenary in his actions.

            Kaidan glanced in her direction, relief flashing across his face. “There you are,” the bounty hunter told her, a slight edge to his voice. “When we couldn’t find you this morning, everyone assumed the worst. I suppose we can call off the search now.”

            “I needed some time to myself,” Jedda said shortly, nettled at the implication that she should have told someone before leaving the palace. Who? She hadn’t been in the mood for another lecture about dragon souls and the lust for power. All she wanted to do was try and make peace with everything she learned yesterday and speak to the Companions. Bishop’s reassurances had eased her considerably, even if she couldn’t be as selfish as he advocated for pragmatic reasons. The Jarls would hold a grudge if she extorted everything she could from them for the death of the dragons.

            “We were concerned you’d been kidnapped or harmed,” Balgruuf observed in his lazy drawl. “Until the dragon threat is dealt with, your life doesn’t belong to just yourself, Dragonborn. Skyrim’s fate depends on you.”

            “Yes, that’s been made abundantly clear over the past couple days,” Jedda said acidly. “I took the time to speak to Kodlak Whitemane. He’s agreed to host the Moot and adjudicate it… so long as we can get the backing of General Tullius and Jarl Ulfric themselves.”

            Balgruuf nodded, leaning back in his seat. “That goes without saying. I’ll send out pigeons with letters for both of them, of course, but the official word will need to be carried by you. This is being done in your name, Jedda, and you will play a significant part in the proceedings, so you’ll need to persuade them both to agree.”

            “Oh, wonderful,” Jedda observed sarcastically. “The shabby ex-prisoner with the mental health issues gets to talk with the General who could legally sentence her to death for escaping prison and the Jarl who decided racism was the best way to respond to the White-Gold Concordat.”

            “As Thane of Winterhold, you have diplomatic immunity in Skyrim,” Balgruuf countered, his tone exaggeratedly patient. “I’ll back you all the way. Kodlak’s supporting you as well. If General Tullius and Jarl Ulfric are wise, they’ll heed your words.”

            Lucien exchanged glances with Casavir. “You’re not going to love this,” the young mage said tentatively. “But because you were raised to Thane by a Stormcloak Jarl, you’ll need to visit Solitude first to maintain that neutral balance.”

            Jedda allowed herself a few pithy words that she recalled one of the wardens using back in Coldfall that strongly alluded to someone’s mother’s employment in a low-quality brothel that catered to sloads and other noisome denizens, except she substituted the name of the prisoner’s mother with that of the Emperor’s. Lucien gasped at the treasonous implications of her statement, Casavir merely sighed heavily, Kaidan and Irileth grinned, the Steward rolled his eyes heavenwards, and the Jarl of Whiterun barely smothered a laugh. She was sick of all the political games that she had to play in order to get anywhere in fighting the dragons that threatened everyone.

            “He’s right, however,” the Steward said in an unctuous tenor. “Tullius will be greatly offended – and concerned, given your… antecedents… that you will eventually align with the Stormcloaks. A visit to him first will do much to reassure the Empire that you’re, ah, loyal despite everything.”

            “Fuck off,” Jedda told him crudely. “I wish the entire Empire’s rotting carcass-“

            “Enough, Jedda.” Casavir’s voice cut through the beginnings of another tirade. “You must maintain the appearance of neutrality and vocally expressing your distaste for the Empire without equal contempt for the Stormcloaks will jeopardise that.”

            She stared the Knight in the eye and opened her mouth to respond with a suggestion for an unpalatable dietary substitute when Kaidan cleared his throat. “So, Solitude, eh? Reckon we’ll need to catch the carriage then but that’s expensive.”

            Balgruuf smirked at the bounty hunter. “I get what you’re suggesting, Red-Eyes. Thanks to the civil war, my coffers are strained at the moment, so I can only offer you a token reward for killing the dragon.”

            “Last time it was because of ‘market pressures’,” Bishop drawled as he walked up to the dais. “Next time it will be because of the spots on toads or something. You’re a tight-fisted old cunt who’s never paid a rightful bounty in his life.”

            “I still have bounties on you, Thrice-Banished,” the Jarl retorted flatly.

            “Which I think should be removed for his heroic defence of Whiterun,” Jedda said pointedly. “He didn’t have to shoot out a dragon’s eye, after all.”

            The ranger smirked at Balgruuf as Kaidan coughed into a hand and Lucien laughed, Casavir merely sighing again.

            “My lord, given his general crudity and capacity for disorderly conduct in public, I’m sure he’ll provide us with more leverage to acquire his services at a later date,” the Steward suggested unctuously. “This small favour to the Dragonborn will expedite the facilitation of this Moot.”

            “Fine,” Balgruuf said sourly. “Your current bounties are forgiven, Bishop. Don’t push my good nature by acting like a thug while you’re in Whiterun.”

            Thankfully, Jedda was the only one close enough to hear Bishop’s muttered insinuation about Balgruuf’s sexual acts with a particularly lusty Hagraven and her Briarheart companion, given the depravity and biological improbability of them. When Balgruuf raised an eyebrow, eyes glittering dangerously, she threw her most disarming smile at the Jarl and lied that he was merely expressing his gratitude, elbowing Bishop hard in the side to silence the ranger. It would be like him to earn another bounty within moments of being cleared of several.

            “Perhaps, Kaidan, you and Bishop can source what supplies we need for the journey to Solitude,” Casavir suggested tersely. “Lucien, as our resident scholar, you should consult with Farengar Secret-Fire about the dragons as he’s a noted expert. I’ll brief the Dragonborn on what to expect with General Tullius and Jarl Elisif.”

            “Who died and made you the commander of our little force?” Bishop demanded.

            The Knight met his gaze flatly. “I have recently come from Solitude, where I was operating at the upper echelons of command before journeying to Winterhold, and I have enough rank as an Imperial Knight to bull through most of the bureaucracy to reach both Tullius and the Jarl. Now do us the courtesy of removing yourself from our presence and find something useful to do.”

            Bishop’s response started out with the unpalatable dietary supplement that Jedda had previously intended to suggest for Casavir to consume and was about to descend into speculations about what depraved acts led to his disavowal as a Paladin except that Kaidan grabbed his arm, said something very pointed about the ranger’s mother’s conjugal congress with a troll, and physically dragged him out of the hall as he spluttered at the biological implications of that statement. When they were gone, Lucien – whose face had gone milk-white at the rather choice language being thrown around – squeaked and hurried to where the court wizard puttered about in his workroom.

            “Well,” Balgruuf said dryly. “I haven’t seen so much fucking since that Reach fertility festival the King in Rags invited me to during his regime.”

            Casavir stared at him for a moment before breaking into slightly strained laughter that sounded decidedly rusty as the ex-Paladin wasn’t the humorous sort. Irileth smirked and the Steward sighed dramatically. Balgruuf waved a hand dismissively to the Knight and Jedda. “I have a Moot to plan. I’ll see you tonight at dinner.”

            Reluctantly, she followed Casavir up to Balgruuf’s meeting room, which was dominated by maps covering the table with red and blue flags pinned on various locations. The Knight passed a hand over his face and gave an aggravated sigh. He hadn’t even donned his armour, simply wearing a grey woollen tunic and breeks tucked into black leather boots, and Jedda felt a smidge guilty for having vanished on him. Just a little because she did sympathise with Bishop, knowing the lengths that a man who believed himself righteous could go to.

            Casavir just has a few lines that he won’t cross that Irkand will, she reflected as he stopped a servant and requested a repast of bread, cheese and fruit to be brought up so they could eat breakfast while talking. The servant nodded and scurried off, leaving them alone in the room once more. Jedda wondered what exactly he’d brief her on. Dealing with Tullius would be… difficult to say the least.

            “So Kodlak has agreed to host the Moot. That’s… something,” Casavir sighed, sighing again. “Jarl Balgruuf’s agreed to repair and oil the dragon-trap installed on the great porch. I suspect it will be needed in coming days and if Numinex can be bound, so can others.”

            “I didn’t even know there was a dragon-trap,” Jedda observed, chagrined. “Shame we just can’t lure dragons here, trap them, and… well.”

            “To face sentient creatures, knowing that you will absorb their very souls and that such is your fate if you fail… I cannot imagine how horrific that would be,” Casavir continued, meeting her gaze. “No wonder you needed some time to yourself. But should you need to be alone, tell one of us, Jedda. The forces arrayed against you are considerable.”

            His sincerity was apparent and she flushed, looking down at her feet. “Aren’t you scared that I’ll become mad with power and demand the Ruby Throne or something in return for killing dragons?” she asked with just a touch of acidity to chase away the guilty feeling. “I am an Aurelia, after all.”

            “Given my own experience with the Elder Council, they’ll promise you the sun, moon and stars just long enough for you to dispose of the dragons and then they’ll have Irkand dispose of you,” was the Knight’s retort. “Do not underestimate their capacity to get their own way, especially as my sire’s grip on power has weakened since the Great War. I’m not as versed in court intrigue as Lucien is, his naivety notwithstanding, but I’ve seen enough as a Paladin and Imperial Knight to know how the game is played.”

            “The Companions have offered me a champion to challenge Irkand to trial by combat for what I’ve suffered,” she threw back at him. “How would that affect the negotiations?”

            “Knowing Kodlak as I do, I suspect he’ll wait until the truce is agreed to,” Casavir responded calmly. “And I’d call it justice. What was done to you was wrong, Jedda. You should have been succoured and made an ally of. Irkand is a monster and he’s brought out the worst in the Emperor. They indulge each other’s worst impulses too often.”

            His words disarmed the angry response she wanted to throw at him. Casavir had never known suffering or want, even as a Paladin, and he still carried himself with unconscious authority touched by self-loathing. She wanted to drag him down to her level and make him miserable as a proxy for Mede… but she couldn’t muster the words to do so when he’d made it clear he disagreed with and possibly even despised his father. Or perhaps “seed donor” was more accurate.

            The servant arrived with food before she could articulate anything and her stomach growled. She seized on the chance to eat. It was easier than ponder her complicated feelings for the son of the man she most hated in the world after Irkand. She really didn’t want to look into that.

Chapter Text

Jedda reached for a handful of jazbay grapes and stuffed them into her mouth, juice dribbling down her chin as she chewed open-mouthed and swallowed, licking her fingers afterwards. Casavir had noticed before that she ate like one used to gorging themselves when food was available as it was often scarce but hadn’t said anything because he had no wish to draw criticism from the equally coarse Bishop. The difference was that she’d rotted in prison since childhood, never learning basic manners, while the ranger revelled in being an uncivilised brute to shock people. But such behaviour would earn her only scorn in refined Solitude, heart of Imperial power in Skyrim.

            So when she reached for a piece of cheese to follow the fruit, he reached out and gently caught her wrist, nodding to the breakfast platter that the servant had brought. “I shall be as tactful as I can because I know it’s not your fault, but eating like that in Solitude will bring scorn from the high and mighty. As Dragonborn, you will eat with the court, and Jarl Elisif prides herself on the refinement of her manners. To be seen as their equal, you must act as such.”

            Her gaze weighed and measured what he said, the pupils reflecting light like a predator’s, and he met them steadily. Even at her angriest last night, she had only exploded in words, not worse. That gave him hope that she could temper the passionate fury of a dragon’s soul with the control of a human. She listened to him and Lucien, giving him hope that she wasn’t beyond the pale. It would be a tragedy for her to save the world and then be cut down as a threat to the Empire.

            “Didn’t exactly have utensils beyond a horn spoon at the prison,” she finally said, a touch self-defensively. “You ate what you were given with what you had.”

            “I know,” he agreed, releasing her wrist before she could take offence. “Courtly manners is something I’ve been drilled extensively in as a Knight. Let me teach you the basics of a knife, fork, spoon and napkin so that you don’t stick out at the court like a sore thumb. I swear to you that it will enhance you in the court’s eyes.”

            A humourless smile quirked her mouth. “Sir Casavir, we both know I could stink and eat like a troll and I’d be tolerated so long as the dragons wreak havoc. I have the ability to make sure dragons never rise again. That makes it a seller’s market.”

            “Yes, it does,” he conceded. “But do you want to be treated as a person or as an attack dog? How you eat your meals could well decide the difference.”

            “I didn’t say you were wrong, I was just pointing out the obvious.” She gestured to the breakfast platter. “As you can see, there’s a distinct lack of anything that can be eaten with cutlery.”

            “Indeed,” he agreed. “But there are ways to consume food with one’s hands that don’t look like a ravening wolf. Let me show you.”

            Casavir selected the serrated bread knife and sliced two pieces from the dark peasant loaf – proof that Balgruuf’s coffers were strained – and thin pieces from the half-wheel of cheese. Placing the cheese on bread, he added some of the eternal pickled cabbage beloved by the Nords and sliced off apple to add to it for sweetness to offset the sour. While not quite a Breton charcuterie, there was no reason why she couldn’t learn the rules now. The more refinement she showed, the more respect and courtesy she’d receive. Sliding her share of the food over to her, he picked up the laden slice of bread and bit into it delicately, chewing with his mouth closed and swallowing. Strained coffers or not, Balgruuf set an excellent table.

            Watching him like a hawk, she mimicked his actions, pressing her lips together tightly as she chewed and swallowed. Her expression melted into one of amazement as she experienced the complex interplay of contrasting flavours for probably the first time in her life. When she licked her lips, it wasn’t a great gross smacking, and she looked down at the partly-eaten bread in awe.

            “If we had some smoked meat, I’d introduce you to the Breton charcuterie,” he said with a smile. “Eidar blue cheese, jazbay grapes, smoked ham and hardtack go quite well together.”

            “Kaidan’s a good cook,” she observed, gaze flicking to the side. “But I just thought the only thing you could do with bread and cheese is make a sandwich.”

            “Sandwiches have their place,” Casavir noted, taking another bite and chewing and swallowing before speaking again. “The basic rules are take small bites, chew and swallow with your mouth shut, and wipe your fingers on a napkin when eating at the court. In more casual settings, especially with friends or family, licking your fingers is acceptable but not to the point of smacking or slobbering.”

            Jedda nodded, her expression serious. “I understand.”

            “Then let us practice the art of eating like a courtier. When you’ve mastered that, we’ll work on holding a conversation while eating.” Casavir’s mouth quirked wryly. “That took me a while. My knight-mentor had to literally explain it step by step.”

            Applying themselves to the rest of the platter, the food vanished rapidly and her manners weren’t so rough by the end of the meal. When he was done, he poured her a cup of apple juice and slid it across the table, looking at the meeting room with a pensive expression. Jedda being reduced almost to the level of a literate animal infuriated him but he knew that giving into his anger would set a poor precedent when they needed to remain calm. It was a miracle that she was so stable given her treatment and abuse.

            “Now to the court,” he said, pouring himself some. “General Tullius is the military governor of Skyrim, as you already know, but Jarl Elisif is the Imperial candidate for the High Monarch’s crown. He is a blunt, brusque man who is the epitome of military efficiency while she is a gently reared noblewoman who was fostered at the Imperial Court with Lucien Flavius, the Imperial Heir Akaviria, and others. The power lies with him… but she wishes to be heard and respected.”

            “Just like me,” Jedda observed, taking a great audible gulp of juice.

            “Yes.” He arched an eyebrow at her. “Slowly. Gulping your drink will make you look uncouth… and get you drunk very quickly if you’re imbibing alcohol.”

            “Right, of course,” she said, sighing. But her next swallow was more delicate. “The balance lies in handling Tullius’s military authority while respecting Elisif’s status, right?”

            “Yes,” he said, smiling. “Elisif the Fair is a kind, generous woman who genuinely wants to do the right thing by her Hold and nation, even though she was born in Evermore and raised in Cyrodiil. Tullius thinks that she is passive by nature when in reality she’s been recovering from the shock of losing her husband so brutally. Ulfric… well, to put it bluntly, Ulfric used a force Shout to render Torygg into something needing to be scraped into a bucket in front of his entire court as a way of demonstrating Skyrim’s weakness.”

            Much to his relief, Jedda looked horrified at the implications of what her Voice could do with the right (or wrong) Shout. It made him think that her humanity hadn’t been reduced to almost nothing by the travails of her life. He’d never known anyone to suffer so greatly as she had for so long and so unjustly and it was a miracle that her natural wish to survive hadn’t entirely erased her innate decency.

            “So she’s looking to flex her power,” Jedda mused after a long silence, looking off into the distance. “So as the putative candidate for the High Monarchy, it makes sense to appeal to her sense of vanity and importance by presenting the invitation to parley to her instead of Tullius. Once it’s publicly known, the General won’t be able to sweep it under the carpet because the court will be clamouring for a say in the Moot, putting him – and by extension the Penitus Oculatus – on the back foot.”

            Casavir stared at her in amazement for a long moment, unable to articulate his awe at her ability to grasp the situation and the best way to approach it. He reminded himself that despite her desperate and uncouth exterior, her survival had depended upon her ability to correctly ascertain another’s behaviour and act on it. Jedda was a natural political genius who bid fair to seize power in her own right at the first opportunity.

            “No wonder you want me to act at least half-civilised,” she said, raking back her tousled ash-brown hair. “The more courtly I act, the more likely that Elisif will take me seriously and act upon the invitation positively.”

            “Yes,” he confirmed, nodding and unable to conceal his pleased smile. “You’re learning all of this a lot faster than I did.”

            Her smile was crooked. “I read 2920, The Mystery of Talara, The Horror of Castle Xyr and A Game at Dinner.”

            “Excellent examples of courtly intrigue,” Casavir conceded, surprising himself with a laugh. “You learn fast and well, Jedda. That serves you well.”

            “Thanks.” She sounded like a mixture of sheepish and proud. “So I assume we show General Tullius the military facts of the dragon attacks to get him on board?”

            “Yes. I know how to present that.” Casavir leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers. “I’ll drill you in how to present yourself at court because using the Stormcloak salute will net you disapproval at best, outright distrust and accusations of treason at worst. For all the sins of the Stormsword, she is the daughter of a Jarl, and your grandmothers were high-ranking noblewomen of Hammerfell and the Reach. As Thane, you are the equivalent of an equestrian, and as Dragonborn you are uniquely without peer. All Jarls – and Tullius – are your superiors, you stand equal to any court officer or Thane, and the landowning gentry are your inferiors. Bow to the first, incline your head to the second, and nod lightly to the last.”

            “Sounds like you had a good teacher,” she observed, sounding impressed.

            “What you understand instinctively took me years to learn by rote,” Casavir admitted with a sigh. “I am… poor at reading intention and emotion in others, then reacting accordingly. As a holy knight, this was tolerated because of my piety, but Imperial Knights are creatures of politics and none more so than the bastard of Titus Mede himself.”

            “Remano’s your mother’s name, right?” she asked slowly.

            “Yes. My sire visited Laurentius Manor during the early years of the Great War while my father served in Kvatch’s armies and… used his authority to bring her to bed as a daughter of a lesser Remanite bloodline.” Casavir gave her a bitter smile. “Mede is obsessed with having an heir acceptable to the old Colovian families who think his clan are unworthy. Arius claimed the dragon’s blood of the Septims and won many over to his side despite his madness. When my mother quickened, the Emperor used his authority to make her carry the child to term, and offered incentives to my father to raise me alongside the others.”

            “He’s a cunt,” Jedda said bluntly. “The sooner he dies, the better off the Empire will be.”

            “I… can’t agree with you officially,” Casavir admitted. “It’s treason. But any Aurelius or Aurelia outside of Irkand was a potential threat to the Mede hegemony because of Arius’s claims. Personally, I think your dragon’s blood comes from the Wulfharth lineage in the Kreathling royal bloodline.”

            “So why wasn’t I just killed?” Jedda asked, perplexed.

            “For the first twelve years of your life, you were hidden from Mede by the Blades and then the Knights of the Divine, but Irkand got wind of your existence and prevailed upon the Elder Council to imprison you as a threat to the Empire,” Casavir told her. “He couldn’t kill you because the Prelate of Akatosh promised woe upon the Empire if you, Lia or Sidgara died.”

            “Bastard,” she said softly, bitterly.

            “Yes,” he conceded. “That you are relatively sane is… a miracle.”

            “I… don’t hate you,” she finally said. “Sounds like Mede has wronged you as much as he did me.”

            Casavir gave her a relieved smile. “Thank you, Jedda. That will make our endeavours much easier to achieve.”

Chapter Text

They left Whiterun on a blustery overcast day that carried the promise of autumn rains in it, catching the carriage with Casavir riding his great grey stallion beside them, and Jedda pondered everything that she’d learnt, done and experienced in the trade-city. It was an effort to take her time with food instead of getting it into herself before it was taken away but she noticed that Balgruuf winced less at the dinner table. She’d mastered knives, forks and napkins during the meal under the Knight’s patient tutelage, earning snickers from Balgruuf’s children and smirks from Bishop while Kaidan paid as much attention and refined his own manners. The art of conversing during a meal was proving more difficult, given the admonishment to keep her mouth shut when chewing and swallowing, but her conversational partners seemed content with affirmative or negative grunts. Her ability to understand the nuances of court intrigue impressed him though, giving her the thrill of achievement, and they’d started to build a rapport despite all that divided them.

            Whiterun’s plains were vast, dotted with pine trees and ruins, and far from the flat expanse she’d imagined in prison. In fact, they resembled a blanket laid out over pillows in folds and bunches, and deer roamed them freely with the occasional predator watching warily from a distance. Great bonfires belonging to the giants that herded the native mammoths were visible from a distance and there was little that anyone could tell her about them. But they were clearly as sentient as goblins, ogres and minotaurs from the stories by their use of tools and fire. Those who ventured too close to civilisation were killed as dangers because none had yet found a way to communicate with them.

            A fine drizzle began near the town of Rorikstead and she wrapped her cloak around herself, pulling up the hood, while Bishop scoffed at being affected by so little rain. Kaidan rolled his eyes at the ranger and Lucien pouted at having to put his book away lest the moisture spoil it. Casavir merely rode on, enduring the weather in stoicism, and Karnwyr sighed and put his head on Bishop’s lap mournfully. It was going to be a miserable trip to Solitude if it didn’t let up.

            In Rorikstead, they took an hour’s break while the horses were fed and watered by one of the farmers, bustling into the inn to warm up and eat a hot meal. The flame-haired Erik was greatly taken by Casavir and peppered him with questions about being a knight while his father glowered, serving soup and bread, but they were soon on the road with bread, cheese and salted venison for the journey to Solitude. Her regular meals were making her stronger everyday but it would be months before she was a proper weight.

            After Rorikstead and the curve of the hills that divided Whiterun from Haafingar, the landscape became craggy and water flowed from somewhere underground. They came to a proper fortification manned by Imperial soldiers that waved them through, though someone took notes of their presence, and she wondered what sort of reaction she’d receive in Solitude. Casavir had observed that the Penitus Oculatus were present in the city for the wedding of Vittoria Vicci and the potential presence of Titus Mede himself. Ulfric had given them that much grief in the war that the personal intervention of the Emperor might be needed.

            “Hjaalmarch doesn’t seem so bad,” Lucien noted as the carriage trundled its way through the Hold. “I don’t see any sign of bogs anywhere.”

            “This is the part that borders Haafingar,” Kaidan observed, leaning back in his seat. “Everyone lives in the boggy part. Or the hills if they’re miners at Stonehills.”

            “Why on Nirn would they live in the bog when there’s perfectly decent land here?” the mage asked incredulously.

            “Something about sacred ground. Folk of Morthal say their village is where the great bull Morihaus was born.” Kaidan looked up at the sky, closing his eyes against the drizzle. “Shame Kyne’s weeping today. Would have been nice to have a dry trip.”

            Lucien muttered something about Nords and sanity before huddling back in his cloak like a particularly dyspeptic toad. He was truly unhappy when he couldn’t read or discuss intellectual manners. Jedda supposed she should probably make some conversation with him despite their greatly disparate views.

            “Did you learn anything about dragons from Farengar?” she asked.

            “Aside from a map of dragon burials, there was little he could tell me that I already didn’t know from Onmund,” Lucien answered with a sigh. “He mentioned that there was a mysterious organisation – represented by a hooded Breton woman – that had an interest in the dragons as well. She’d paid him for the retrieval and translation of a stone plaque called the Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow.”

            “Map of dragon burials?” Kaidan asked, perking up a bit. “Given they’re all the remains of dragons, I reckon we might be able to get a few free dragon souls that way. It’s said that the bones and scales of dragons can be used to make powerful weaponry as well.”

            “Too bad we’re reliant on the carriages,” Bishop drawled. “Maybe when this Moot’s over we can do a tour of the burial mounds, get ourselves some free souls, and go a-hunting for Word Walls.”

            “We’ll need to reach out to the Greybeards next,” Casavir remarked gravely as his destrier kept pace with the carriage. “They are the ones who train the Dragonborn.”

            Bishop snorted contemptuously. “The Greybeards should just die already rather than sulk around that broken place! Next time you see one just tell him to run towards the light and be done with it!”

            Casavir gave an aggravated sigh. “She can hardly learn from Ulfric.”

            “Plenty of Word Walls around. We hunt dragons, kill them for their souls, get some coin out of the Jarls, learn new Words and repeat until we run out of Words and dragons,” Bishop said dismissively. “By the end, Jedda will be very powerful and we’ll all be rich.”

            “Until you piss it all away in bounties, booze and booty,” Kaidan drawled sardonically.

            “Yeah, because you’ve made such fantastic life choices of your own,” Bishop retorted with a smirk. “How’s the moon sugar and alcoholism going for you?”

            “Kicked the habit shortly after leaving Rosalind,” Kaidan answered calmly. “Got quite a bit of coin saved for a house of my own. Got my eye on that lodge outside of Ivarstead.”

            “Autumnwatch? You always did like the Rift,” Bishop noted. “Maybe I’ll do up Honeymoon Cottage. Jules bought it years ago and left it to me.”

            “Those sound like lovely places,” Lucien observed, sounding miserable in the drizzle. “Maybe you’ll be able to settle down with someone and have a family.”

            “Well, we got dragons, then we got Dumzbthar,” Bishop observed, yawning as he stretched his arms out along the railing of the wagon. “After that, who knows?”

            “What about you, Lucien?” Kaidan asked. “What will you do when this is all over?”

            “Return to Cyrodiil with the findings of my research expedition to Dumzbthar and rewrite everything we know about the Dwemer,” Lucien said proudly. “I’ll earn my Masters in mythoarchaeology and assist my father in his relic-hunting duties for the Elder Council until I’m either raised to serve as an arcane advisor to the Imperial Heir or take his place.”

            No wonder he’s so loyal if he’s got privilege and power waiting for him, Jedda mused as the carriage followed the line of the river towards a bridge in the distance. He’s the one I can trust the least, I think. I hope Bishop can keep an eye on him.

            “Given how things are in Cyrodiil, I suppose you’ll have to do your part for the fatherland and have children?” Kaidan asked curiously. “I’ve heard that every man’s expected to marry these days.”

            “I’m blessed that my parents want me to be happy more than establish a lineage of courtiers,” Lucien said softly. “I like women well enough, I suppose, to marry a friend – but it’s men I love dearly. Others aren’t so lucky and since so many Cyrod men of good birth were wiped out in the Great War… well. There’s a reason why there’s a glut of spinsters.”

            “Race comes from the mother,” Bishop observed. “So what’s the problem?”

            “Race comes from the mother but Cyrod society is patrilineal – rank and name come from the father,” Lucien explained. “I heard rumours that they were going to relax the laws surrounding polygamy and bastardry while sending out the extra women to marry native nobility to Imperialise the provinces.”

            “Lovely. No wonder Ulfric’s got so much ammunition for a rebellion,” Kaidan said sarcastically. “Let’s make all the rulers Imperial and wonder why the locals are pissed off about it.”

            “I didn’t say that I agreed with it,” Lucien protested hastily. “Only so many women are suited for the Legion, the trades, bureaucracy, academia or magery though. Personally, I think educating all the heirs in Cyrodiil was the best idea. It makes for a cosmopolitan educated ruling class that has a vested interest in the Empire. Nationalism is a cancer that threatens our unity.”

            “Hammerfell seems to be doing alright on its own,” Bishop drawled amusedly.

            “They were lucky the Dominion had been weakened by five years of war,” Lucien said grimly. “Mede didn’t enjoy signing the White-Gold Concordat but he had to thanks to the Arian Rebellion.”

            “Could’ve rallied the Nords and the Redguards to throw the Dominion into the sea,” Kaidan said quietly. “Besides, he’s so high and mighty on his Ruby Throne that he’s forgotten it’s the people who make up the Empire.”

            “I wish it was so simple,” Lucien said with a sigh. “If Arius had taken Fort Pale Pass, he could have blocked reinforcements from Skyrim and wooed the Talosites over to him with his false claims. Insanity isn’t stupidity and he was a demiprince of Sheogorath besides with a frightening command of Illusion that saw the entirety of County Bruma and parts of Cheydinhal rise in rebellion. He planned this for years, Kaidan, and struck when Cyrodiil was at its weakest. Had he won…”

            Jedda snorted. “I’d be an Imperial Princess and the Legion would be delivering dragons to me for dinner.”

            “Cyrodiil would be ruled by a delusional megalomaniac with paranoia as bad as Pelagius, a psychopathic lunatic whose hobbies are crucifying people and sending their body parts in jewelled boxes to his enemies, or a high-functioning sociopath who thinks dropping Direnni Fire on civilians is a great way to solve problems,” Lucien said earnestly, his tone unwontedly grim. “Jedda, your entire family is – to be frank – batshit insane. Even your sister Lia has an obsession with wealth and respectability that Akaviria will need to channel properly in order to avoid trouble and the little I’ve heard of Sidgara makes her sound like an utter maniac. When you, the Dragonborn with trauma from being unjustly imprisoned since childhood, are the sanest, most stable member of your family…”

            “A predilection towards mental illness isn’t a guarantee that one is inherently tainted,” Casavir observed. “Some of the greatest Paladins had Daedroth ancestry. Her imprisonment was unjust.”

            “I agree, Casavir, but as one who’s stood at the heart of Imperial power since childhood… I understand why Irkand and Mede made the decisions they did.” Lucien held up his hand to forestall protest. “It isn’t right, it isn’t fair, but they were working with the historical knowledge that they had. Mercy can bite the giver, after all.”

            “The problem with the ends justify the means is that the means are often cruel,” Kaidan said softly. “If the Temples are telling you to spare some kids, maybe it would have been better to err on the side of mercy instead of ruthlessness.”

            “Rulers don’t always have that luxury,” Lucien said sadly. “And when word gets out that the last Aurelia is the Dragonborn… it’s going to raise Oblivion itself. Unless she’s co-opted into the Imperial power structure somehow – or foreswears power altogether – she’s an implicit threat to the Mede hegemony.”

            “See, sweetness?” Bishop drawled sardonically. “I told you your best bet’s to marry Casavir and become Empress.”

            Casavir made a choking sound and Lucien looked scandalised. But Kaidan, of all people, looked thoughtful.

            “Maybe this is the start of something new,” the bounty hunter said. “Or the return of something old.”

Chapter Text

The carriage stopped at Katla’s Farm just outside Solitude’s docks in the deep dark past midnight, the passengers disembarking in the cold drizzle of Kyne’s tears. Kaidan helped Jedda down, still troubled by Lucien’s justifications of the decisions that led to her incarceration, and pondered the reality of her existing as Dragonborn. His natural instinct was to hunt down the two biggest threats to her and eliminate them to pay down the life-debt but when one was the literal Emperor of half Tamriel and the other was a well-guarded officer in the Penitus Oculatus, that was… difficult. Bishop’s observation that she should marry Casavir and become Empress was a surprisingly astute one from the notoriously apolitical ranger. She and Casavir got along well enough from his observation and it would eliminate many of their problems. But the Cyrods wouldn’t take kindly to an Aurelia after the stark reality of Arius’s rebellion.

            Lucien grumbled and made his way to the edge of the path as Casavir stabled his horse, untacking and feeding it while leaving coin for the stablemaster in the special strongbox attached to the stall. Kaidan caught Bishop’s arm and drew him aside into the shadows, knowing that the ranger was as canny and perceptive as he. “Plenty of folks want Jedda dead,” he murmured just for his ears alone. “We’ll need to be sharp in Solitude.”

            Bishop nodded in easy acquiescence. He and Jedda had found common cause with each other as creatures more dedicated to survival than the thorny questions of morality. Kaidan understood such thoughts very well, because he shared them, but his code was more rigid than Bishop’s because of his raising by Brynjar. His entire world was centred around Jedda and keeping her alive to face the dragons so that the debt he owed would be paid. She saved him from a horrific death and he hadn’t even come close to paying that back. Besides, she needed someone who had her interests in mind, no matter what.

            Jedda yawned into her fist, all bones and eyes and hair in the single burning torchlight. “What’s that smell?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “It reeks.”

            “The sea,” Kaidan told her gently. “It’s fish and salt, mostly. Solitude’s one of the biggest harbours in Skyrim, if not northern Tamriel. The East Empire Trade Company owns the docks.”

            Casavir joined them. “I think we need to strategise before entering Solitude proper. Besides, the gates are locked until two hours before dawn.”

            Kaidan nodded in agreement with the Knight. “Reckon we could get rooms at the Broken Saddle,” he suggested. “It’s not as fancy as the Winking Skeever but…”

            He shook his head. “No. It’s still within opening hours for the Setting Sun and all of us are in dire need of a bath. Despite it’s, ah, bawdy reputation, the house has rooms for rent which don’t require the services of its staff.”

            “Wait, did I just hear you suggest that we stay at the fanciest brothel in Skyrim?” Bishop asked in amused incredulity. “Shor’s balls, you have fallen!”

            “Shut up, Bishop, and try to act like a civilised human being while we’re in Solitude instead of a ravening wolf seeking prey,” Casavir told the ranger disgustedly. “We have enough problems without you trying to mark territory.”

            They walked down to the district attached to the docks, where despite the late hour sailors and dockhands scurried about on business or pleasure. Casavir led them unerringly to a three-storey building that was marked by red lanterns and knocked on the door. A pretty brunette opened it, sighted him, and quickly waved them inside.

            At first glance, there was little to differentiate the Setting Sun from any other fancy inn with its fine furniture, lush carpets and bright hangings, but soon the auditory landscape gave the truth to its purpose. Kaidan never had the money to visit here (not that he liked paying for sex when he could generally get it for free) and noted that Bishop was grinning broadly. The brunette led them to a well-dressed older Cyrod woman whose tasteful cosmetics enhanced her mature beauty before returning to the door.

            “Madam Safira,” Casavir said, nodding. “May I prevail upon your discretion for rooms and baths tonight?”

            “Sir Casavir, our doors are always open to you,” the madam said with a smile. “Quite a collection of folk you have here. Two sellswords of some repute, a blushing virgin and a shabby charity case. Will you be needing just rooms or would you like some company as well?”

            Bishop opened his mouth to say something, only to be silenced by Jedda driving her elbow into his side, as Casavir sighed. “Just beds and baths, Madam. Tomorrow will… well, a storm will break. I found the Dragonborn.”

            Safira nodded, gaze shrewd. “Very well. I can keep my counsel. Things are tense in Solitude though. Vittoria’s wedding is tomorrow and the Penitus Oculatus have turned out in force.”

            Wonder if we could find Irkand and just take him into a back alley, Kaidan wondered as the madam rang a bell to summon an Argonian clad in livery. “If you could follow me?” the bright-hued lizard rasped.

            They were led to a cluster of rooms around a tiled bathroom, the scent of lavender and tundra cotton heavy in the air, before being left alone. Casavir counted doors, frowning. “There are three rooms,” he observed. “Two are for servants and one for nobility. Lucien, you and I will share as well Kaidan and Bishop. Jedda, you can have the solitary room.”

            “What’s wrong, Casavir, trying to protect Lucien’s virtue from me?” Bishop asked amusedly.

            “You’d need to have a good bath before my virtue would be in danger from you,” Lucien retorted, wrinkling his nose. “I, for one, welcome the chance for hot water and soap – commodities rare in the Old Holds.”

            “I’ve never had a hot water bath,” Jedda said softly.

            “We’re fortunate enough that Solitude has running water and most of the upper-class inns, houses and establishments have invested in particular enchantments, so there’s no chance of the hot water running out,” Casavir told her. “But keep in mind, we’ll need some rest before dawn, so don’t luxuriate.”

            She nodded and made her way to the bathroom. She opened the door and pointed to the seat with the small cistern above it. “What in Oblivion’s that for? Do people like to watch others take baths in the brothel or something?”

            “That’s what is referred to tactfully as the privy,” Lucien observed, sticking his head inside. “And thank the gods it’s a flushable one. I was beginning to think that Skyrim was completely void of basic civilised amenities.”

            Kaidan pointed to the brass chain hanging from the cistern as Jeda stared at Lucien in confusion. “So you sit on the toilet if you’re taking a piss or shit, do your business, then pull that chain once you’ve given yourself a wipe,” he explained. “Saw a few in Cyrodiil.”

            “Very tactful, Kaidan,” Lucien said sarcastically.

            “You know why the lesser Councillors of the Elder Council are called the Privy Councillors?” Casavir asked dryly. “It’s because their ideas generally belong in the garderobe.”

            Lucien snickered while Jedda just looked confused before firmly closing the door in their faces.

            Once washed and clad in clean garments, Casavir talking the Argonian into taking their filthy clothing to the laundry, they gathered in the sitting room onto which all the bedrooms and bathrooms met. A Breton charcuterie had been laid out, piled with food, and Kaidan took a seat next to Jedda as she eyed the meal with undisguised longing. He also smelt the black bitter scent of kaffe and tsai, knowing they’d need the stimulants to stay up all night.

            Lucien rubbed his eyes wearily. “So what’s the plan, Casavir? I was going to suggest approaching Tullius without Rikke present, given that she’s Irkand’s wife.”

            “Irkand got married?” Jedda asked sardonically. “She must be a homicidal axe-murderer or something.”

            “Legate Prima Rikke Snow-Stone is the highest-ranking Nord commander in the Legions,” Casavir said gravely. “As for decisions, Jedda and I have agreed it’s best to get Elisif’s sanction for the Moot to avoid General Tullius and Irkand trying to shut down the idea.”

            The young scholar looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard that the General has been treating her as a subordinate. I studied with Elisif and Torygg, so I can use those connections to get us into the Blue Palace discreetly. She’ll be happy to see an old friend.”

            “I know an entrance into Solitude that will bypass the gates altogether,” Bishop suggested. “Torban used it to smuggle in things that he didn’t want the guards to know about.”

            “Given the heightened security for tomorrow’s event, that would be wise,” Casavir agreed after a moment’s thought. “If we leave before dawn, we can meet with Jarl Elisif before the wedding itself. Presenting the Dragonborn and the offer of a truce-Moot at the post-ceremony celebration will spike Irkand’s wheel considerably.”

            Jedda picked up a cracker and began to pile it with bits of cheese and meat and fruit that she cut with an iron dagger. “Maybe Irkand will try to arrest me and I’ll have to defend myself,” she said wistfully. “Using that fire Shout I learned from Mirmulnir looks good right now.”

            “No, having the Companions challenge him to trial by combat for the treatment of you is better,” Casavir chided gently. “You must be very careful how you are perceived by the Imperial powers-that-be, Jedda. Using a Shout to kill Irkand will just remind them of how Torygg died.”

            “Killjoy,” she muttered, taking a delicate bite from her cracker.

            Kaidan sighed and rose to his feet. “I better check my armour. If I’m playing as the Dragonborn’s huscarl, I’ll have to look the part.”

            “I’ll present Bishop as my retainer,” Lucien volunteered. “That will get him and Karnwyr inside.”

            “And I, of course, will be Jedda’s escort,” Casavir said gravely. “Try to get a couple hours’ sleep. It will be a long day.”

            Four hours later, after much kaffe and little sleep, they left the Setting Sun for the harbourside path that Bishop knew. Kaidan kept close to Jedda, who looked wan from exhaustion, and looked out for danger. Word could spread and the Penitus Oculatus had every reason to kill her before their dirty secrets were revealed to the world.

            Bishop’s secret entrance was a little door that led under the mountain and had them emerging into the pearl-grey streets of Solitude under the windmill. They made their way as the Jarl’s servants and guards readied the city for the celebration of the Emperor’s cousin’s marriage. Kaidan saw soldiers in black leather armour with red touches patrolling the streets, eyeing them intently. Casavir, clad in his red surcoat, strode forward and ostensibly ignored them.

            Much to his surprise, Bishop found a discreet servant’s door into the Blue Palace and they slipped inside. One of the servants gasped in surprise when they walked into the main part of the building, but Lucien stepped forward and smiled at her. “Can we please speak to Jarl Elisif’s Steward?” he asked. “It’s important.”

            Moments later, they were talking to Falk Firebeard himself, who bowed elegantly on seeing Casavir. “Sir Casavir,” he greeted. “What brings you back to Solitude?”

            “I have the Dragonborn with me,” Casavir said quietly. “Lucien Flavius will vouch for her, as will I. But she is… politically problematic.”

            “Oh?” Falk’s eyebrow rose as he assessed Jedda. Then he cursed under his breath. “Since she isn’t Lia Snow-Stone or Sidgara Storm-Caller, she must be the third one that was supposedly dead. The shock of the news might just carry the Emperor off from a heart attack.”

            Jedda’s expression clearly articulated her opinion that they should be so lucky but the tight compression of her lips prevented that from slipping out.

            “As Jarl Elisif is the Imperial candidate for the High Monarchy, it seemed appropriate to bring our purpose to her first,” Casavir continued in his grave measured baritone. “I know it’s early but is she available?”

            Falk nodded. “Yes. I will take you to her.”

            Kaidan followed the Steward, shadowing Jedda protectively. If any trouble came to her, his blade was ready. No one would kill the Dragonborn on his watch, damn the consequences.

Chapter Text

It was about half an hour before Elisif arrived and Jedda’s breath stuttered at how beautiful she was. Long auburn hair fell to her waist in loose waves, framing a delicate freckled face with the biggest, saddest steel-grey eyes that she’d ever seen. But there was steel beneath the fragile veneer, steel that she suspected General Tullius had never noticed, and the poised carriage of a queen ravaged by grief but unbowed by the demands of power. Elisif the Fair was born to rule and woe betide the fools who thought her merely a lovely face. They’d done right in coming straight to her instead of dismissing her authority in favour of the Legion’s.

            Rising to her feet, feeling every inch the “shabby charity case” in her oversized gown and cloak, she gripped her spiral-carved staff of office and made a bow as gracefully as she could manage from Casavir’s brief tutelage. Not too deep as she was a Thane and the Dragonborn but acknowledging Elisif’s social supremacy. Casavir offered a shallow bow of his own, Lucien’s included a bowed head, Kaidan’s was stiff and Bishop only jerked one after an unsubtle nudge from Lucien. Elisif’s return nod was a gentle inclination worthy of a queen as she gestured silently at the chairs for them to sit again, gracefully settling herself on the grandest and arranging the skirts of her robe neatly.

            Once seated, Jedda remained silent as her tongue cleaved to her palate in awe. Elisif watched her as steadily as a candleflame in still air while Falk took his place on the stool by her right side, bright eyes assessing them in a craggy well-fed face. Their shared auburn hair, rosy-fair complexion and pale eyes spoke of kinship, which explained his status as Steward. Casavir had told her it was for the Jarl to speak first as the senior noble in the room.

            “Dragonborn.” Elisif’s soprano was light and softly accented with the crisp consonants of Cyrodiil. “I must confess I’m surprised you sought me out, given your history and the authority that General Tullius possesses over the Legion. His word – and that of his second-in-command – will fare better with the Penitus Oculatus than mine.”

            Jedda swallowed to moisten her mouth and throat before speaking. Casavir and Lucien were used to this courtly fencing but her knowledge was only theoretical from books and some haphazard teaching. Korir and Balgruuf were much more direct, as only native Nords could be, while Elisif had learned her barbed words in the Imperial Court itself. There was no way that Jedda could match the Jarl stroke for stroke, so she chose honesty instead.

            “You need to make a truce with the Stormcloaks,” she said candidly, the words dropping like ingots from a mould into the rapidly frosty air of the chamber. “Dragons… they eat souls. In Sovngarde. All the brave dead, Legion and rebel. They ravage both sides equally. You are the Imperial candidate for the High Monarchy. It’s your word that will count with Nords, not Tullius’s.”

            For a critical moment, Elisif’s polished demeanour cracked as she calculated exactly what Jedda’s words meant and the Dragonborn belatedly realised that Torygg had reportedly marched to his death bravely. The Jarl glanced at Falk, who was visibly perturbed – as would almost any Nord be – and nodded to her in approval. So she was reliant on his advice, which made sense, but the final decision rested with her.

            “It matches what we’ve been told by the bards,” Falk said aloud, his expression troubled. “The thought of the High King…”

            Elisif turned that steel-grey gaze back to Jedda. “You come to speak of a truce and concern for the dead souls of Legionaries wearing the triple-spiked crown of Winterhold as your blazon. Intelligence paints you as Korir’s first Thane. By Nord blood and honour, you should be marching at Ulfric’s side. So why aren’t you?”

            “Because we all know that Irkand would damn the world by slaying me if I did,” Jedda pointed out flatly. “I rotted in a prison cell for sixteen years, Jarl Elisif. I was twelve. When Mede and Irkand die, I’ll make a special trip to their graves to piss on them. But Casavir and Lucien convinced me that political neutrality is the best option. The Empire abused me. Ulfric’s wife was my mother and she left me to rot in Cyrodiil. Korir made me Thane to make Winterhold relevant again. I took the title for the diplomatic immunity. I can’t bandy words like a courtier, so I offer honesty instead.”

            The Jarl closed her eyes, emotion flickering across her delicate features, before she opened them once more. “I appreciate your candour, Dragonborn, and I’m relieved you have Casavir and Lucien as allies. Both are good men who epitomise all that the Empire should be in different ways. My duty is to Haafingar and my loyalty is to the Elder Council because unity in the face of a waiting Aldmeri Dominion is of utmost importance. Ulfric is a charismatic thug who thinks that power is contained in a Voice that shreds flesh and armies that tear apart the weft of Skyrim. The Talos he worships is the brutal warlord, not the seasoned diplomat and ruler that Tiber Septim became.”

            “We’d have a great deal of trouble on our hands if Bjarni or Egil were to assume the Throne of Ysgramor,” Casavir observed quietly. “The former is charismatic and cosmopolitan and the latter’s a fine Stendarrite Paladin who treats all equally.”

            “Bjarni and Egil might yet be won over if we can prove that Sidgara’s trying to eliminate them,” Elisif told him candidly. “She’s the worst of Ulfric, the Stormsword and the Aurelii combined in her obsession to prove that she is the true Dragonborn heir of the Septims.”

            “I’m fucking sorry, what?” Jedda blurted in shock.

            “For twenty-six years, the Stormsword has proclaimed her daughter as the true heir of Tiber Septim,” Falk explained dryly. “The Stormcloaks, of course, assume it’s their darling Sidgara because of the ease with which she mastered the Voice. Your revelation as the Dragonborn has cut the feet out from under them rather neatly, allegiance to Korir or not.”

            Kaidan gave a low whistle. “Stormsword never named names, if you know what I mean, but she certainly implied it was the Storm-Caller.”

            “Precisely,” Falk agreed. “Don’t assume the Stormcloaks are your natural allies in your mutual hatred of the Empire, Dragonborn. There are those in the blue who’d cut you down as a false one and present your head to Sidgara to prove their loyalty.”

            Jedda watched him intently, relying on her well-honed sensitivity to the language of voice and body, and found only truth. “That’s going to make a trip to Windhelm a pain in the arse,” she finally said. “Kodlak Whitemane will only host the Moot if Tullius and Ulfric agree.”

            Elisif’s gaze went to Lucien, who was listening intently. “I’m glad to see an old friend here,” she told him warmly. “What do you think of the Dragonborn?”

            “Jedda?” Lucien’s expression became pensive. “She’s cracked, of course, from her long and patently unjust imprisonment but she’s stabler than Sidgara and more moderate than Lia. Her hatred of the Emperor and Irkand is genuine and even perfectly understandable, she’s resentful of all that’s lost, and she desires for enough power to make sure she’s never hurt again. If she’s handled wrongly, she’d be the villain that the Empire made.”

            “Well, since we’re being honest, you’re a pontificating little arsehole whose head is wedged so far up the arse of privilege and power that you can justify what was done to me,” Jedda retorted, nettled at his assessment of her. “It’s no wonder you’ve got no boyfriend – because no one can get past your ego and wilful blindness!”

            Kaidan didn’t even bother smothering his laughter, Bishop of all people coughed into his hand to conceal it, and Casavir passed a hand over his face with an exhausted sigh. Elisif’s eyebrows rose to her hairline while Falk’s mouth quirked to the side in wry humour.

            Lucien met Jedda’s angry gaze with a hot blue one of his own. “I was also going to add that you’re one of the most ferociously intelligent people I’ve ever met who’s managed to look beyond her hatred to the greater situation we’re in and isn’t above listening to those she dislikes when they make a point!”

            She gritted her teeth as she said, “You know a lot and are at least willing to agree that what happened to me was unjust. Of us all, you’re the one I trust the least, because I know you have a vested interest in the Mede regime.”

            “Enough.” Casavir’s voice was soft but firm. “Tearing ourselves apart serves no purpose but to empower the dragons. It’s natural for Elisif to ask Lucien, as an old friend, for his assessment of the situation. But the Jarl should have had the tact to wait until you were out of the room before asking for it.”

            “You are very correct,” Elisif agreed. “I’m relieved, Dragonborn, you didn’t decide to unleash your Voice.”

            “I’m descended from lunatics with a streak of cruelty and passion in my soul,” Jedda observed bitterly as she looked back at the Jarl. “But I’m aware of the damage my Voice can do and the consequences of indulging it. I want to be treated as someone worthy of respect, not an attack dog placated until it’s safe to put me down.”

            “That puts you miles ahead of Ulfric,” Elisif said flatly. Some of her veneer had cracked to reveal the vulnerable woman beneath. “I’ll support the Moot, Jedda, because of the threat to Torygg. General Tullius controls the army and has requisitioned most of Haafingar’s resources but the court isn’t without influence. My suggestion is to attend Vittoria’s wedding – it’s open to the public – and prove that you’re not a ravening hell-beast intent upon avenging the wrongs done to the Aurelii upon the flesh of innocents. She’ll welcome a truce, if only to have the trade routes free, and Asgeir will make for a powerful Old Holder ally in the Rift.”

            “I knew reaching out to you was a wise idea,” Casavir said in relief. “What time does the wedding start? We arrived after midnight and drank a lot of kaffe to meet with you today.”

            “I’m glad you’ve returned, Sir Casavir,” Elisif said with a smile. “The Katariah was seen on the headland at dawn by our coastal guards. Your father is coming to Vittoria’s wedding.”

            “Right, let’s stick Jedda in the same place as the two people she hates most in the world, and watch what happens,” Bishop remarked sardonically as Casavir blanched. “Reckon we’ll be having barbecued Emperor at the wedding feast.”

            Jedda’s fists clenched. She would be in the same room as Titus Mede, the author of all her misery. He’d look down at her like she was nothing and justify what he’d done. Assuming that Irkand just didn’t try to execute her on the spot to make the Emperor’s day.

            “No,” Casavir said quietly. “The world… Jedda. The souls of those in Sovngarde. The innocents who will die in blood and fire because you indulged in a grudge. You must not.”

            It took every ounce of willpower she possessed to drag herself from the edge of rage and bloodlust that surged in her soul. Her body shook with the physical effort of choking back her Voice as the dragon within roared for power and vengeance. Kaidan took her hand, murmuring soothing things to her, and Casavir took the other to ground her. Even then the strain almost overwhelmed her.

            By the time she returned to herself, the gold of dawn touched the windows, and Elisif was looking at her with a mixture of compassion and understanding. Of all people who understood, the Imperial candidate for the High Monarchy of Skyrim hadn’t been one she expected.

            “Dragonborn,” she breathed. “Please, for Skyrim’s sake, do not.”

            “I won’t,” Jedda choked out. It was all she could say.

Chapter Text

Lucien was relieved they’d managed to have a nap because the wedding of Vittoria Vicci, the Emperor’s cousin, to a Nord businessman named Asgeir Snow-Shod who had ties to the Stormcloaks, promised to be… eventful. He stopped by the court wizard’s workroom and purchased a motheaten copy of the Calm spell to peruse hastily to make sure that Jedda maintained her cool around her greatest enemies. Casavir and Kaidan mightn’t be around to soothe the savage beast, after all, and he was far from a bard. Elisif had been grateful for them acknowledging her as a power instead of deferring to General Tullius and asked him to try and mediate the situation. So here he was, quickly memorising the Calm spell and hoping it’d be powerful enough to mollify the Dragonborn herself.

            The Jarl of Solitude had given them rooms in the guest wing to recognise Jedda’s status as both Dragonborn and Thane of Winterhold. Lucien was sketching the last diagram of the spell with his fingers when someone knocked on the door; it was Bishop, well-groomed for a change, clad in a white shirt, embroidered black vest and tight leather pants that made him look quite dashing. “Ceremony’s about to begin,” the ranger drawled. “The Steward insisted on putting us all in fancy clothing like we were important or something.”

            “We are,” Lucien assured him, putting the book aside. Illusion wasn’t his best skill but he’d have to try for the Empire’s sake. “I’ve learned Calm to try and head off any… incidents.”

            “Yeah, lot of people are going to be pissed that the Dragonborn’s not a fan of the Empire,” Bishop observed. “Kaidan’s on a hair-trigger and Casavir will try to run interference. That spell of yours might be needed.”

            “I know.” Lucien stood up. “Let’s go. Hopefully we’ll be at the back or something and can sneak out during the post-ceremony reception.”

            They joined the others in the foyer and Lucien was relieved to see that Kaidan wasn’t visibly armed. Casavir wore his favoured charcoal-grey and black with his scarlet surcoat over it while the bounty hunter was clad in garb similar to Bishop’s but with a red shirt. Jedda had been given a dark teal dress that fitted her better with an iron-grey mantle pinned by her triple-spiked crown brooch. Her magical staff was left behind but Lucien recalled she had a fire Shout from the Whiterun dragon. If proving the Dragonborn wasn’t a lunatic hadn’t been so important, he’d have suggested she beg out of attending.

            “Don’t provoke anything or anyone… and try to maintain calm no matter the provocation to you,” Casavir advised as he reached for the door. “The Penitus Oculatus will be there in force as the Emperor’s attending the wedding. Let’s not give them an excuse to act.”

            From the Blue Palace to the Temple of All Gods was a straight line through the residential district of the city and Lucien was impressed at the bright banners, floral wreaths and bunting hung to celebrate Vittoria’s wedding. It was obvious that the Mede family had gone all out for the occasion as every crossroads had a cauldron of meaty stew, table heaped high with bread and bottles of wine, mead and ale for the commoners to feast. Solitude knew nothing but the Emperor’s munificence and he wondered how Jedda would feel to see all of this.

            Because of the attending crowds, the wedding ceremony itself was being held outside in the Temple’s courtyard and while it was open to the public in theory, in reality the Penitus Oculatus were checking everyone for weaponry at the gate. Two hard-faced Colovians did a quick visual check, ordering each guest to lift their tabards, surcoats, mantles and cloaks to show a lack of arms, before allowing them in. Lucien suspected that both Kaidan and Bishop had smuggled knives into their boots in case of an emergency while Casavir would rely on his muscled bulk and the spiritual warrior he could call from Aetherius. Jedda, of course, had her Voice and he had a few spells. Hopefully it wouldn’t be needed.

            Each guest was guided to pews by servants in Company livery and they were given seats about three rows from the front. Two thrones for the happy couple were set under an arch of flowers while an ornate chair was set aside for the Emperor and a stool next to it for Elisif herself. The crowd seemed cheerful, though the Vicci and Snow-Shod families were sniping at each other about the civil war. So much for the wedding bringing everyone together.

            Once everyone was seated, a trumpet sounded and a weary old man with shaggy silver hair and ornate robes of scarlet, purple and black entered, accompanied by two Penitus Oculatus agents, and made his way down the aisle. One of the agents was a stocky round-faced Redguard with grey-shot curls and a thin band of gold on his scarlet cloak while the other was a handsome young man that Lucien recognised as Gaius Maro the Younger. He quickly leaned back, snaked his arm around Bishop – earning a surprised and pleased look from the ranger – and quickly cast Calm on Jedda. They didn’t need her exploding into fury at the sight of her two most hated foes on Nirn.

            Titus Mede turned to face the crowd, his expression grave, and everyone rose. Casavir pulled Jedda up and kept a tight grip on her shoulder to make sure she didn’t do something regrettable while the Emperor surveyed the crowd. He looked old and worn beyond anything Lucien had ever seen, as if he’d been scraped so thin the light could shine through him, and it was clear he was holding on for dear life. No wonder he’d dispatched his various heirs, bastard or otherwise, to prove themselves worthy of the Ruby Throne.

            Mede nodded once in satisfaction and sat down, freeing everyone to return to their seats, and Elisif’s party was next to arrive. She sat demurely by the Emperor’s side, expression sombre, and Lucien knew she was recalling her own wedding to Torygg. It was a shame that Ulfric had destroyed so bright a light in the world as the High King who wanted to do the right thing by his people.

            The bards struck up the wedding march but a tall athletic woman with long black hair whose white bearskin robes were resplendent with ivory totems and the silver staff in her hand crackled with lightning as she marched down the aisle. Accompanying her were a blond Nord that Lucien recalled from Helgen and a tall flame-haired one, both in the bearskin mantles and steel scale of Ulfric’s personal guard. Mutterings followed her passage and the word that he heard most was “Sidgara.”

            Irkand and Gaius stepped in front of the Emperor, drawing their weapons, and the stepdaughter of Ulfric Stormcloak regarded them scornfully. “I could call such storms upon this place as to leave none standing,” the Nord woman said in a husky contralto not unlike Jedda’s. “But I’ve come in peace to celebrate such a significant wedding.”

            Vittoria, who’d entered on Sidgara’s heels, nodded. “If you come in peace and leave in peace, I have no quarrel with you. This day is to heal the rent in Skyrim, after all.”

            “Let her stay.” Mede’s voice, cracked and worn, echoed through the tense silence. “We’ve enough manpower to take her if she tries anything.”

            Sidgara smiled and took a seat at the front row, her disarmed guards standing by her side.

            “Mightn’t be Jedda who brings the storm,” Kaidan observed quietly. “This will get ugly if we’re not careful.”

            Vittoria made her way to where a weathered Dunmer Priest in Mara’s saffron-gold vestments stood calmly, Asgeir already there. Lucien readied another Calm spell as the wedding hymn began to bind man and woman, Nord and Cyrod, Stormcloak and Imperial together. It was the Nord rite, not the Cyrod, at the insistence of the bride. He wondered what the Emperor thought of that.

            Once the ceremony was complete, the two utterly and totally man and wife, Asgeir kissed his wife and led her to the balcony overlooking the courtyard to make a speech. The crowd murmured as they spoke of unity and goodwill, pretty words that meant nothing to the conflict raging outside the city walls.

            Lucien saw it from the corner of his eye, a mote of scarlet light that floated like a poisonous butterfly to strike Asgeir in the chest. The Nord’s face contorted with rage while the unknowing Vittoria thanked everyone for coming and he sensed danger. Standing up, he countered the Frenzy spell with the Calm one he’d spent all morning learning before anyone realised something was wrong. Asgeir’s expression eased back into placidity as he stared ahead like a cow chewing cud.

            “What the fuck just happened?” Kaidan demanded in a hiss as voices started to tell Lucien to sit down.

            “Someone cast Fury or Frenzy on Asgeir so he’d kill Vittoria,” Lucien said in a low voice, turning to face the balcony whence the spell had come. A lithe Dunmer womer in plain black robes stood up there, fingers twisting in arcane gestures that boded ill for the married couple, and he saw the black hand pendant on her chest. An assassin of the Dark Brotherhood!

            “’Ware, assassin!” he called out, pointing to the balcony. “Dunmer. Female. Dark Brotherhood!”

            Everyone looked up at the balcony, causing the Dunmer to swear and vanish into nothingness as the sound of grating stone drew Lucien’s attention. Someone had destabilised the stone gargoyle near Vittoria and it was about to fall on her and Asgeir. “Watch out!” he yelled to them.

            The stone began to fall… and then stopped as Asgeir shoved his wife out of the way. Lucien chanced a glance to the side and saw Jedda, the veins in her neck and forehead protruding at the effort, using Telekinesis to halt the stone together long enough for them to escape. Once they were away from it, she let the rubble fall with the grinding of stone, panting in exhaustion.

            “Protect the Emperor!” Irkand yelled. “Penitus Oculatus, find them!”

            The agents scattered out as the crowd began to panic, looking every which way as the hubbub rose, and Bishop leapt out of his seat and began to leap from pew to pew, shoving nobility and gentry out of the way without regard to rank. Lucien realised that the ranger had spotted a second Invisible assassin near the stairs to the balcony when he tackled a lizard that shimmered into view.

            That ought to win us some goodwill! He took a deep breath and began to cast Calm on various people so that they didn’t crush each other trying to escape. Casavir rose to his feet and gestured, unleashing a Harmony spell that rippled out with serenity in its wake to ease the crowd. Between them, they averted a panicked rush for the gates that could have killed people.

            “We found her!” screamed someone, grabbing a hapless Dunmer female in yellow who tried to plead her innocence. Before Lucien could tell the agent he’d gotten the wrong womer, he’d run her through and left her dying on the ground as the crowd roared its approval. Any hope of healing her was lost when Irkand grabbed her black hair and slit her throat to make certain of her, expression grim.

            Lucien retched at the senseless killing he’d provoked by not giving a more detailed description in his panic and looked wildly around for the true assassin but she’d evidently escaped. Why would the Dark Brotherhood attack the bride at her wedding when the Emperor made for a far better target?

            The reception was in a shambles as Casavir’s Harmony spell wore off, everyone accusing each other, and Sidgara was screaming obscenities at Mede as the Emperor – his face a dangerous puce – retorted in kind. Jedda cursed under her breath and climbed to the top of a pew, uttering a primal scream that echoed throughout the whole city like the crack of thunder. Even the mere force of her Voice was enough to rumble earth and sky.

            “My name is Jedda and I am the Dragonborn,” she said after a long shocked silence. “My friend Bishop has an assassin in custody. Ask him what’s going on instead of accusing each other.”

            Titus Mede II, Emperor of Tamriel, clutched at his chest and collapsed.

Chapter Text

Jedda looked down at the convulsing body of Titus Mede from her perch on the pew, watching the Emperor’s face turn an unhealthy shade of blue, and fought to keep her glee from showing in her expression. She didn’t know how much the Penitus Oculatus knew about her identity, but once Irkand was aware, he’d find a way to blame her for it. That poor Dunmer womer had learnt the hard way about how quick he was to kill in the name of the Empire. It had taken all of her energy to stop the gargoyle from crushing Vittoria and Asgeir, then Speak loud enough for everyone to hear. Now she waited for the axe to fall even as she rejoiced in the hopeful death of the author of all her miseries.

            Casavir helped her down from the pew as the Dunmer Priest who’d officiated the wedding rushed to Mede’s side, kneeling and sinking golden healing magic into his flesh. The Emperor was now the hue of a Dunmer and making choking sounds, one hand still clawed against his chest, and Irkand was openly weeping as he begged him to survive. Watching her tormentor break down was almost as sweet a cup as watching Mede die in front of her and the dragon part of her soul exulted.

            Kaidan stood beside her, a dagger drawn from his boot, as the handsome young man with a marked resemblance to Mede ordered Penitus Oculatus agents to secure the Argonian assassin that Bishop captured. The Vicci and the Snow-Shods were arguing with each other as Vittoria and Asgeir held each other in shock at the shambles their wedding had become. Elisif was calm but pale, talking worriedly to Falk, and the crowd murmured among themselves as they waited for news on the Emperor’s condition.

            Lucien wiped his mouth, having vomited at seeing the Dunmer womer be butchered, and made his way to their side. “Someone will need to take control soon or it’ll fall apart,” he said worriedly.

            “I’ll see to it,” Casavir said, catching Elisif’s eye by dint of being taller than many of the guests and nodding significantly to the crowd. The Jarl of Solitude nodded in acknowledgment and said something to Falk, who nodded himself in agreement. If Elisif could take command of the situation before Tullius, she could gain some of her power back.

            With a final rattle and convulsion, Mede’s body went still and a murmur of dismay came from the Penitus Oculatus. The Emperor was dead and not before time. Jedda managed to throttle the surge of triumph that swept through her and kept her gaze downcast to conceal her emotions.

            Elisif rose to her feet, wan in her mourning black. “People of Solitude,” she said, her voice clear and carrying. “What should have been a day of rejoicing has become a day of tragedy with the passing of our great Emperor Titus Mede II.”

            “He’s not my Emperor!” Sidgara called out, her words echoed by the Stormcloaks in the crowd.

            Asgeir exchanged glances with Vittoria before raising his voice. “Politics be damned, Sidgara! The Dark Brotherhood tried to kill me and my wife today!”

            “That’s enough.” Elisif’s voice was hard and clear. “The Penitus Oculatus has one of the assassins in custody. I’m sure they’ll be able to extract answers from him.”

            “Given that Irkand killed the wrong Dunmer female, his competency seems to be in question,” remarked a rich but aged baritone with a slightly odd accent. “I knew this would be a wedding for the ages but I wasn’t expecting Mede to give us all a wedding gift by meeting his maker so soon.”

            The Stormcloaks snickered and Jedda swallowed her own chuckle.

            “Duke Beroc, that joke is unbecoming of you,” Elisif chided the speaker.

            “So was selling half of Hammerfell to keep his rump on the Ruby Throne but Mede did that anyway,” retorted the Duke dryly. “We of Hammerfell don’t subscribe to the notion that the dead must be spoken well of.”

            Irkand, pale with fury, rose from Mede’s side with his hand on his hilt. “You speak treason,” he grated in that hateful oiled-silk tenor. “Your life is forfeit.”

            “Don’t be more of an idiot than you’ve already proven today, Irkand ibn Setareh al-Bruma,” Beroc shot back, the roll of his eyes audible in his voice. “Hammerfell’s an independent nation, so to speak the truth of Mede is hardly treasonous for us.”

            “Convenient for you and your Stormcloak friends that the greatest Emperor of this century died today,” Irkand said in a low deadly voice. “Perhaps… too convenient.”

            “If Titus Mede’s the best we can do two years into the third century of the Fourth Era, we’re in big trouble,” Beroc observed, drawing open laughter from the Stormcloaks and even Asgeir, who hastily covered his mouth.

            Casavir stirred, still keeping a hand on Jedda’s shoulder. “Gaius!” he called out to the handsome young man. “Secure that Argonian and take him to Castle Dour. I’ve got ways of making him talk that are less invasive than Irkand’s preferred methods. Someone put a cloak over my sire, for Akatosh’s sake, and start searching the city for the other assassin. Gods know that Irkand managed to butcher that poor innocent womer because he just heard ‘female and Dunmer’.”

            “Yes, Uncle,” Gaius said, saluting, before issuing rapid-fire orders that had two agents dragging the unconscious lizard-man out and throwing his own cloak over his grandfather, first closing the old man’s eyes. The Dunmer Priest made a gesture of blessing as he gave last rites that Mede didn’t deserve.

            Bishop rolled his neck and leaned against the wall as the crowd looked at each other, murmuring. “Memorable wedding,” the ranger drawled sardonically. “Is dinner still on? I’m starving.”

            Elisif collected herself visibly. “No one is to leave until they can be questioned by the Penitus Oculatus but I’ll have food and drink brought to the courtyard.”

            Jedda glanced at Casavir. “Where’s Tullius and Rikke?” she hissed.

            “I don’t know,” he said, frowning. “And that concerns me. If the assassins struck Castle Dour first, the Imperial Legion will be headless.”

            “I’ll come and go as I please,” Sidgara was telling a Penitus Oculatus agent. “None of you dare hold me against my will, for I am the Storm-Caller and one Word could lash Solitude with thunder and lightning that will kill so many of you Imperial milk-drinkers like fish in a barrel.”

            “There’s a Shout that can call storms?” Jedda asked, surprised.

            “Yes. And Sidgara knows it. Has used it too,” Kaidan said grimly. “I was on the edge of one and it was ugly.”

            “But… that could kill hundreds of people!” she exclaimed. “Thousands!”

            “It’s the biggest arrow in her quiver and she threatens it whenever she doesn’t get her own way,” Kaidan said bleakly.

            “I’m the one with a dragon’s soul but she’s a bonafide psychopath,” Jedda observed acidly. “Maybe Irkand’s her father.”

            The Penitus Oculatus shoved Sidgara back when she tried to leave and the Storm-Caller retaliated by whirling her silver staff around, which crackled with lightning, to catch him in the stomach. Arcs of electricity erupted in his flesh as he screamed in agony until a wash of energy passed over the area and cancelled the spell. Sidgara, cursing, raised her staff against and was promptly Paralysed by a tall Altmer in blue robes, toppling over with a look of shock on her face.

            “No one leaves until they’re questioned,” he announced in a haughty voice.

            “Thank you, Meloran. Given the way she was yelling at the Emperor, she’s not in the clear.” Elisif turned towards Casavir and beckoned him over. Jedda, Kaidan and Lucien joined him. “Casavir, what did you see?”

            “Little. It was Lucien who detected and countered the first attempt, which was a Fury or Frenzy spell on Asgeir to slay Vittoria,” Casavir told her candidly. “Jedda, using Telekinesis, was able to stop the gargoyle from crushing them.”

            “So the Brotherhood was foiled by Lucien and the Dragonborn,” Elisif said, sighing.

            “Everyone’s remarkably calm for seeing the Emperor drop dead in front of them,” Kaidan remarked, nodding at the murmuring crowd.

            “I’ve had Sybille Stentor casting Harmony repeatedly,” Falk said grimly, joining them. “The last thing we need is a riot.”

            “Has someone been sent to retrieve Tullius and Rikke?” Lucien asked weakly, still wan. “Until… well. They’re the highest-ranking Legion officers and he’s military governor of Skyrim.”

            “Gaius sent someone, I think.” Elisif pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, sighing. “Why would the Dark Brotherhood target Vittoria and Asgeir unless they wanted to disrupt the peace process? Who would gain from their deaths?”

            “Particular individuals in black and gold,” Casavir growled grimly. “And with my sire’s death, unless the succession is sorted out quickly, they’ll have chaos in Cyrodiil.”

            “But Ria’s the Imperial Heir,” Lucien pointed out. “She’s next in line.”

            “It’s not so simple when she’s the daughter of a bastard son,” Falk told him bluntly. “Maro the Elder, Maro the Younger and Casavir have claims that are just as good. On the outside we’ve got Motierre and even Vittoria.”

            “I bet Motierre puts himself forward as a husbandly candidate for Ria,” Lucien said sourly, exchanging glances with Elisif. “Gods know he’s a minion of the Thalmor.”

            Elisif snorted despite everything. “Ria will cut him into collops before wedding him.”

            “I have no desire for the Ruby Throne,” Casavir said, ashen-faced. “Not with… all I’ve done. I’m a fallen Paladin and oathbreaker.”

            Jedda couldn’t help but laugh. “That puts you a few moral steps above Mede, that’s for certain.”

            “You.” Unnoticed, Irkand had come within earshot, his voice raw with rage. “Why are you still alive?”

            “Because Akatosh decreed that she be the Dragonborn.” Casavir stepped between Jedda and Irkand as Kaidan joined him. “Give me an excuse, Irkand. Just one. For your crimes, I’ll be happy to send you forth to meet the gods for judgment.”

            “Ah yes, the Butcher of Anvil thinks he’s better than me. I suppose going berserk and hacking your lover and her Sanguinite coven to death didn’t erase your self-righteous streak,” Irkand said grimly. “I suppose you think that little bitch is some sort of victim? She wished Mede and I dead at the age of twelve.”

            “I’ve known you for five minutes and I want you dead already,” Kaidan said flatly. “Think it’s a perfect reaction to your personality.”

            Jedda’s gut roiled with rage as Words came to her teeth. She wanted to tear Irkand apart until the whole courtyard was bloody. She wanted to pulverise him until nothing but wet meat remained. She wanted blood and vengeance and the life fading from his eyes. She wanted-

            “Father!” A husky contralto, well-educated and pleasant, cut through her reverie. “What in Oblivion is going on?”

            Irkand throttled back his rage to address the mirror image of Jedda who appeared. Well, one that was stunningly beautiful and well-fed, clad in a fine red dress with the Legion sigil embroidered on it. This had to be Lia, the daughter he kept. She realised that they were identical twins. Why did he believe she was irredeemable? “The Emperor was assassinated by the Dark Brotherhood and the Dragonborn doesn’t seem too cut up about it.”

            “That, Mistress Lia, is a barefaced lie,” Casavir growled. “My sire had a heart attack provoked by an attempt on Vittoria and Asgeir Snow-Shod. Jedda saved their lives.”

            “Jedda, like the cheese?” Lia asked wryly. She looked to her father. “We better find Ria so order can be restored. I heard Sidgara was here. The Stormcloaks are preventing anyone from taking her into custody and Gaius won’t press the issue.”

            “Where’s your mother?” Irkand asked.

            “That’s what I came to tell you. Ulfric’s stolen a march on us and attacked Whiterun. Balgruuf’s holding but…” Lia shrugged. “When we retake the city, we should replace the Jarl with someone more amenable. The Battle-Borns are loyalists.”

            “Your mother knows war more than me,” Irkand said warmly as Jedda exchanged glances with Casavir. “I’ll just bring the Dragonborn and her friends in for questioning. I’m sure they’ll be cooperative with a little encouragement.”

            Elisif shook her head. “No, Irkand. Lucien and Casavir’s loyalty is above reproach and Jedda saved Asgeir and Vittoria today. Having seen your ham-handed attempts at competency today, I wouldn’t let you question a goldfish.”

            “Shut up,” Irkand told her bluntly. “You’re a pretty, useful little puppet for the Empire, so don’t get above yourself and act like you’ve got authority. Until General Tullius relieves me, I’m taking command as Captain of the Penitus Oculatus.”

            “That’s interesting,” Casavir said flatly. “Because as an Imperial Knight of the Emperor’s Household, I rank you. I recognise Jarl Elisif’s authority. So slink back to Dragon Bridge before I take your head.”

            Lia smiled. “I like me a man in armour. Looking for a wife, handsome?”

            Casavir regarded her flatly. “I’d sooner take Jedda to wife. At least I know she’s not entirely motivated by power and greed.”

            Elisif and Falk exchanged speculative glances. “Marrying the Dragonborn to Mede’s natural son?” the Jarl mused. “That’d stabilise the succession and win over the moderates.”

            Vittoria, ashen-faced, quickly nodded. “Elisif, that’s fucking brilliant.”

            “She’d bring in the Stormcloaks too as the Stormsword’s daughter,” Asgeir agreed quietly.

            “Wait, so everyone’s taking my idea?” Bishop asked incredulously. “I was only telling Jedda the best way to get some power! I wouldn’t wish marriage to Casavir on her. I like her too much.”

            Jedda stared at them. “You’re joking, right? Somebody tell me this is a joke!”

            “Ria is the Imperial Heir,” Irkand said flatly. “To countenance otherwise is treason.”

            “Interesting how you’ve always ridden that horse,” Vittoria mused.

            “I… hate to say this but Casavir and Jedda marrying mightn’t be a bad thing,” Lucien said slowly. “She’s fairly sane and stable, she’s got the ties to the Kreathling bloodline, and she’s got the legitimacy of the Dragonborn.”

            “But I hate the Empire!” Jedda wailed.

            “See? She’s a traitor!” Irkand exclaimed triumphantly.

            “Oh, fuck off already,” Kaidan told him disgustedly. “You’re just pissy that more people like her than you.”

            Lia was silent for a long while. It was strange seeing similar eyes to hers. But finally she nodded. “Think it’ll work.”

            Elisif smiled. “Then all we have to do is get Tullius on side and it’s decided.”

Chapter Text

“Where were you when the Emperor died?” the hard-faced Cyrod demanded, attempting to intimidate Bishop while being about six inches too short. He had a notebook in hand and was questioning everyone, but seemed intent on proving that somehow Jedda and her friends were to blame for it. Probably because Irkand wanted to make them responsible so he could get rid of the Dragonborn (and by extension Casavir). Bishop wasn’t in the mood to oblige them.

            “I was sitting on the lizard that tried to kill Vittoria and Asgeir,” he drawled, taking a swig from the bottle of wine he’d snagged from a passing servant. Elisif’s people were circulating around the abnormally calm crowd, offering food and drink while various parties questioned them, and the Jarl was standing with Falk, Vittoria and Asgeir discussing the political ramifications of marrying Casavir to Jedda. “You know, while your glorious leader was stabbing some poor womer to death because they can’t tell the difference between black and yellow.”

            The Penitus Oculatus agent, like Queen Mother Bertilde, was not amused. “Just what is your connection to this so-called Dragonborn?” he asked flatly. “It’s convenient that the Emperor’s heart attack occurred right after that scream of hers.”

            Personally, Bishop had noticed that Sidgara winding up the old bastard put him into prime heart attack territory and the Battle-Cry was the final straw. “I’m Lucien Flavius’s personal guide to the wonders of Skyrim,” was his dry reply. “We got roped into fighting the dragons because she needed someone competent on her team.”

            “Skyrim has wonders? You could have fooled me,” the agent said snidely. “Is it true that the Dragonborn has uttered treasonous sentiments in your presence and why didn’t you report it to the Penitus Oculatus immediately?”

            “What is treason?” Bishop pondered rhetorically after another swig of wine. “If disliking something was treasonous, then half of Skyrim would be rotting in a prison cell. I don’t think much of you and Mede didn’t exactly shine for the hour or so I knew him. Irkand’s death will probably improve the Empire by about forty percent and I think Casavir’s an absolute twat.”

            “Answer the question!” the agent snarled. “Or I’ll arrest you for treason!”

            Bishop studied him for a long moment, smirking when he realised what was going on. This agent was a minion of Irkand’s. Possibly even a lover by the way he’d arced up at the insult to the Redguard. “So you’re the Captain’s boy-toy, huh? I hope dealing with his pathetic tool and questionable sanity was worth the promotion.”

            The agent was now absolute puce as two others, both in earshot, smothered laughter behind their hands. It seemed like Irkand and his boyfriend weren’t held in high esteem by the rest of the Penitus Oculatus. Mede’s patronage was probably the only reason they rose so high in the service.

            “It’s okay, I’m not going to judge a man – or any other gender, for that matter – for fucking their way to the top. Prostitution is a perfectly valid occupation after all.” Bishop examined his nails as the agent choked in utter rage. “I’d think a guy with a nice tight arse like yours would charge a little more for renting it out though. Irkand strikes me as the kind of guy who’s done in two thrusts. He… goes off early if you know what I mean.”

            “You-fucking-Nord!” The agent was barely coherent now. “I’ll-fucking-“

            “Yes, I am a Nord who fucks, but I’d rather not have Irkand’s sloppy seconds,” Bishop said blandly, delivering the thrust home with precision. “Now run along and see if Irkand’s still crying over losing his sugar daddy. I imagine he’ll need some comforting.”

            One of the other agents was almost hyperventilating as he struggled to choke down laughter while the other, an old scarred Argonian with one eye, wasn’t even bothering to try. “You shouldn’t refer to the Emperor as Irkand’s sugar daddy,” he advised with a big shit-eating grin. “Mostly because it could be construed as treason by the wrong people.”

            “Fine, I retract my statement,” Bishop said with a smirk. “Only because I wouldn’t want to be mistaken for a traitor.”

            “Wise choice, Nord.” The Argonian looked down at his claws idly. “Questioning the Brotherhood assassin you captured will be interesting. He’s a Shadowscale.”

            With those words, he took off to question someone else as his compatriot collected himself, taking deep breaths. “Get yourself together, Arcturus,” he ordered the red-faced agent trying to question Bishop. “The Emperor’s dead and someone tried to murder the bride today. Stop indulging your lover’s grudge because he’s about to find out how much we respect him.”

            He grabbed Arcturus by the shoulder and shoved him in the direction of some fat merchant, leaving Bishop to smirk viciously and toast the retreating agent with his wine. This wedding was turning out to be more entertaining by the minute.

            “Not a lot of people hung up about Mede’s death,” Kaidan noted as he joined him. “Says plenty, doesn’t it?”

            “Yeah.” Bishop gave the bounty hunter a sidelong glance. “So you reckon they’ll marry Jedda to Casavir?”

            An odd expression crossed Kaidan’s face, confirming Bishop’s suspicions that he had feelings for the little Dragonborn. “I don’t think they’ll let her get away otherwise,” he murmured. “At least they get along. Seen plenty of others where they didn’t.”

            “Well, our trip to Solitude certainly went to the dogs,” Bishop drawled, offering him some of the wine. Kaidan took it, drank two gulps, and handed it back. Karnwyr was circulating the crowd, making puppy eyes at people until he was fed tidbits of meat and cheese. His wolf’s ability to inveigle food out of people was impressive. Bishop never could do cute, even as a kid.

            “You can say that again,” Lucien agreed, joining them. “Can I have some? I think I need alcoholic fortification.”

            Kaidan handed him the bottle of wine and Lucien drank a largish mouthful, swallowing it like a professional drunk, before giving it back to Bishop.

            “Good job on countering that first assassin,” Bishop told him with a smirk. “Pity you weren’t trying to put your arm around me though.”

            Lucien blushed brightly. “Dreadfully sorry about that. I was trying to keep Jedda calm. If you’re wondering why we’re all so very calm, it’s because Sybille Stentor, Elisif’s court wizard, is casting Harmony every so often. The last thing we need is for the grandees of Solitude to panic.”

            “Makes sense. Elisif’s got a good head on her shoulders.” Kaidan sighed and sheathed his dagger back in his boot. Bishop had never removed any of his knives. “What’s this about Whiterun I hear?”

            “Ulfric’s besieging the city because Balgruuf hadn’t picked a side,” Lucien explained. “That’s why Tullius and Rikke sent Lia to find out what’s wrong. I was rather disconcerted to realise she and Jedda are identical twins.”

            “Whereas Sidgara looks more like the Stormsword,” Kaidan noted. “Has anyone secured her?”

            Lucien nodded to the woman slowly being helped up by her two Stormcloak guards. “There’s an archer on her. If she so much as breathes deeply, she’s going to sprout an arrow. Her threats haven’t won her any friends today.”

            “Right.” Bishop drank some wine. “How’s the marriage negotiations going?”

            “Elisif and Vittoria had the idea of doing it now while we have witnesses and a Priest of Mara handy,” Lucien answered with a sigh. “Jedda’s on the verge of panic and Casavir’s insisting that she doesn’t deserve to be shackled to a murderer.”

            “Murderer?” Bishop’s curiosity was piqued. “You can’t tease me like that and not tell me more, Lucien.”

            “I don’t know a lot,” Lucien said, casting a glance at the Knight. “I only know he was seduced by a Sanguinite into breaking his vow of celibacy outside marriage and when he realised she was part of a Daedric coven, he… went berserk. Several civilians killed and the Relics of the Crusader rejecting him. Mede, of course, was happy to quash the matter and appropriate his natural son for the Imperial Knights.”

            Bishop snickered. “Fornication and murder? Oh, this is too rich.”

            “You know, Bishop, all the effort you put into hating him, I’ve got to wonder,” Kaidan mused. “Would you really prefer to fuck him instead?”

            The only correct response to that was a raised middle finger. “Casavir’s not my type. Sanctimonious sorts piss me off.”

            “A lot pisses you off,” Kaidan observed with a smirk. Then he sighed. “Better make sure Jedda’s okay.”

            The bounty hunter took himself off, leaving Bishop and Lucien alone. “So you and me saved the day,” the ranger drawled, smirking at the scholar.

            “I suppose so. Doesn’t feel like a victory when one got away, an innocent girl was killed and the Emperor had a heart attack in front of everyone,” Lucien said glumly. “I owe Jedda an apology. She saved Vittoria and Asgeir when she didn’t have to. And… Irkand really is an unstable son of a female canine.”

            “Please don’t refer to Setareh bint Sura-Char al-Dragonstar as a ‘female canine’,” drawled a rich but aged baritone as a withered old Redguard, clad in fine purple and scarlet robes, arrived with a big bald Redguard with bright blue eyes in tow. Atypically, given their preference for one-handed weaponry, the bodyguard had the build of a pikeman. “Today’s certainly been entertaining.”

            “Duke Beroc,” Lucien said softly. “You certainly didn’t mince words about the Emperor today.”

            “And why should I? He betrayed Hammerfell with the White-Gold Concordat,” Beroc observed blandly, sipping from a goblet of wine. “Mede will be remembered as an absolute mediocrity of a man who oversaw the disintegration of the Third Empire.”

            Lucien opened his mouth to speak but Bishop nudged him in the side. “You don’t seem surprised by any of this,” he noted.

            Beroc buffed his nails on his robe as the blue-eyed Redguard smirked. “One of the Emperor’s cousins got some money from his Thalmor backers to arrange the demise of everyone between him and the Ruby Throne,” he said in a low sensuous baritone that did bad things to Bishop’s libido despite the man being in his sixties. “We’ll give you lot the evidence that we found.”

            “Why on Nirn wouldn’t you warn us beforehand?” Lucien asked, aghast. “You could have prevented the Emperor’s death!”

            “And deny Mede the chance to prove himself in a struggle for his throne?” Beroc asked quietly. “If he was fit to rule, he would have handled the revelation of the Dragonborn far better. Now he’s gone, perhaps the Ruby Throne will fall to a better candidate.”

            Son of a deep-fried bitch, Bishop thought in awe. It was the fucking Redguards who arranged this.

            But he knew that he couldn’t prove anything and Lucien didn’t have the worldliness to figure it out. Undoubtedly the Redguards had buried their tracks too well.

            He met Beroc’s brown eyes and saw that the Duke knew he’d figured it out but couldn’t prove anything, receiving a sardonic smirk and a salute of the goblet in return.

            “Old man, you better wade in there and protect the Dragonborn before she gets pushed into a corner by the Cyrods,” the blue-eyed Redguard observed. “You’re the only kinsman who can stand in her interests.”

            “Yes, of course.” Beroc drained his goblet and set it on a passing servant’s platter. “I’ve danced enough on Mede’s grave today. Time to discountenance his Elder Council by marrying his bastard to the last Aurelia.”

            The two Redguards left, joining the discussion about the nuptials. Lucien watched them leave, shaking his head.

            “Today has been the most dramatic day of my life,” the scholar remarked weakly. “And it only bids fair to get worse if they can actually wrangle this wedding into existence.”

            Bishop casually put an arm around him. “Don’t worry, if anyone kills you, I’ll steal your gold before they can.”

            Lucien snuggled into him, which was rather nice. The poor Cyrod was a lost little lamb who was tender prey for the wolves of the world if he wasn’t careful. Good thing Bishop was here to protect him… and enjoy the show.

Chapter Text

Jedda was silent as Elisif and Vittoria tried to wrangle a reluctant Casavir into their plan for an arranged wedding. Bishop’s half-joking idea had grown into a likely reality and she herself was wrestling with the possibility of being married to the son of her primary tormentor’s patron. Mede was half-forgotten, two Penitus Oculatus agents standing guard over his cloak-draped corpse while the others chased leads fruitlessly, and Falk Firebeard was discussing something with the Priest of Mara and Asgeir Snow-Shod. Sidgara was silently fuming, keenly aware that someone had an arrow trained on her, and Lia was offering helpful suggestions as to why the Emperor’s bastard son should marry the Last Dragonborn. Irkand looked at her like she’d betrayed everyone he held sacred and the crowd was half-drunk, supernaturally calm from Sybille Stentor’s Harmony spell, and speculating on the potential future of the Empire now that the Emperor was dead. Her goal of bringing everyone into a truce just seemed dead in the water.

            A hand fell on her shoulder, making her start until she realised it was Kaidan, returned from checking on Bishop and Lucien. “How are you doing?” he asked in his low voice. “It’s been a… difficult day.”

            “You don’t say,” she said ruefully. “And I can’t see a way out of it.”

            “Nor can I, unless you renounce everything,” the bounty hunter agreed gravely. “But given someone paid a lot of coin to try and stop the wedding from happening and robes of a particular colour are absent from this gathering… Well, makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

            Tullius and Rikke’s absence made sense with the siege on Whiterun but Jedda realised that aside from about four well-dressed Altmer who looked like civilians, there was no sign of the Dominion’s agents. The Dark Brotherhood assassins had been intent on butchering Vittoria and Asgeir even while Mede was a viable target, making her wonder if disrupting the peace overtures had been the intent to begin with. Skyrim bleeding out from a civil war suited them, as would Cyrodiil becoming destabilised due to a succession crisis. Without a strong centre to hold, the Empire would crumble into petty fiefdoms, even in Cyrodiil, and they’d have a political landscape as chaotic as the Three Banners War.

            Kynareth’s winds, all it would take is a Frenzy spell on Sidgara or one of the mages to slaughter half of Solitude and blame the Stormcloaks, she realised with a growing sense of horror. I better speak to that… to my… to Ulfric’s stepdaughter. She can’t be so stupid as to not understand that, surely.

            Taking a deep breath, she detached herself from the group surrounding Elisif quietly and made her way to where Sidgara was fuming with a handsome blond man and a flame-haired sentinel who watched everyone like a hawk. As opposed to her and Lia’s oval faces and rounded features, their sister had a delicately square face with high cheekbones, her black hair lustrous and wavy despite its barbaric braids. Turquoise eyes, stained with gold, fixed on her with a frightening intensity that made her almost step back. The Storm-Caller was not happy.

            “For someone who hates the Empire, you’re certainly cosy with them,” Sidgara observed sharply. “Or are they winning you with the promise of power and glory?”

            “I was coming to warn you that the only winners of a general slaughter in this courtyard will be the Thalmor,” Jedda responded in a low voice. “Since you announced that you’ve got that storm Shout, one good Frenzy spell could have you wreaking havoc.”

            Sidgara’s eyebrow rose and she glanced to the blond, who nodded grimly, before her expression hardened. “I am a Nord. I know how to shake off battle-rage. But I suppose there’s some hope for you if you thought to warn me.”

            “Fancy this, all three girls in the same room. I’m sure the gods are having a good laugh,” Lia said dryly as she joined them. “So you’re my barbarian sister.”

            “And you’d be the Imperial slut,” Sidgara said snidely. “But I suppose Irkand’s treachery would run in your blood. I am the daughter of one who defied the Empire.”

            “Is it even possible for two fathers to sire triplets?” Lia asked in surprise.

            “Rarely, but it has happened,” an aged but still rich baritone interjected. Jedda glanced to see the old man everyone called Duke Beroc arrive, accompanied by a blue-eyed Redguard whose head was newly shaven. “Arius, you see, wanted to maximise the chance of the Stormsword conceiving an heir. So… your mother lay with both Rustem and Irkand. You three resulted.”

            “Pity that I wasn’t the Dragonborn,” Sidgara said sourly. “We’d have arrived at Solitude with an army ready to liberate Skyrim from the Imperial yoke.”

            “Gods, you even sound like a bad play,” Lia said amusedly. “Without the Empire, you’d be slaving away in a Dominion mine as a slave while Altmer ruled the world. What is one god compared to the chance to rebuild and prepare for the next war?”

            “Mede betrayed Hammerfell,” said the blue-eyed Redguard softly. “He’s answering to his maker now. What matters is the future that is threatened by the return of the dragons.”

            The Duke bowed slightly. “Jedda – a good Yokudan name, my girl. It means both ‘sister’ and ‘to be strong’ as well as ‘little wren’ – I am your step-granduncle Beroc ibn Sura-Char al-Dragonstar. Your grandmother Setareh was my beloved cousin and I can see you’ve inherited her intelligence.”

            “Call me Pervyn,” said the blue-eyed Redguard.

            “Pervyn ibn Hoorin?” Kaidan asked amusedly. “I didn’t recognise you without your greatsword and armour.”

            “Old Beroc needed someone with a cool head to protect him during today’s proceedings because the tealeaves told us it would be… interesting,” Pervyn said as Jedda realised what his name sounded like. “That it’s been a day of joy for me is a bonus.”

            “Let me guess, you go drinking with Ilak Tossinoff,” Sidgara said acidly.

            “I have, in fact,” Pervyn confirmed. “He’s a good kid.”

            “Behold, did somebody say my name?” bellowed a deep baritone that ranged into the basso. “It is I, Ilak Tossinoff, and I am here to meet the Dragonborn!”

            A pudgy Nord with long sable hair, a bushy beard and fine garments pushed his way into the conversation. There was something familiar in the rugged planes of his face, but the beard concealed it, and his blue-green eyes twinkled with good humour.

            “Hello Ilak,” Pervyn said humorously. “I’m surprised you were able to get out of Windhelm.”

            Ilak buffed his nails on his tunic. “The Jarl is disappointed that I sell my furs freely to all and sundry. I make friends for Windhelm and he is ungrateful.”

            “You’re a milk-drinking traitor,” Sidgara told him bluntly. “A true Nord wouldn’t truck with Imperials.”

            “Yet Asgeir’s married the Emperor’s cousin today,” Ilak said mildly. “Come, Beroc, let us represent the Dragonborn at the negotiation table. She has need of a dowry, of connections, of wealth!”

            “I was planning to arrange that as her nearest available male kinsman,” Beroc said with a smirk. “Strike while the iron’s hot, my Nord friend. Come and I will show you how it’s done.”

            “I, Ilak Tossinoff, know how the game is played!” protested the pudgy Nord as he followed Beroc to Elisif’s group. “But I can always admire a master at work.”

            “Why is everyone assuming I’ll marry Casavir?” Jedda asked.

            “Because if you don’t, the Empire will keep you around long enough to slay the dragons, and then kill you… and you mightn’t have enough time to get to Hammerfell,” Pervyn said grimly. “I bet Lia’s already considering it. She’s definitely Irkand’s daughter.”

            “I’m a little less prone to violence than my father,” Lia said wryly. “But yes, if you can’t be used by the Empire, I do think it’s better we eliminate you. A Dragonborn Aurelia is too dangerous to let go.”

            “You’re a nithing whore,” Sidgara said in an almost pleasant tone. “My mother was right to reject you.”

            “I’ll make it clear to both of you,” Kaidan growled suddenly. “Either of you try to eliminate the Dragonborn, you’ll be getting through me, and I bet I could kill both of you without breaking a sweat.”

            Pervyn was looking at Kaidan with narrowed eyes. “Who raised you, kid?” he asked suddenly.

            “Brynjar Lodbrok,” Kaidan replied automatically. “Froze to death on the stairs of the Temple of Talos in Windhelm.”

            “Oh, I recall that milk-drinker,” Sidgara said scornfully. “What kind of Nord freezes to death?”

            “The one who taught me the fighting arts of the Akaviri,” Kaidan said darkly. “Brynjar fought wars that you can only imagine and you foul his name by speaking it, you loudmouthed daughter of a-“

            “That’s enough,” Pervyn said shortly. “Son of Meixiu and Keenan, you are the first of a new Dragonguard. Hearken to it.”

            “Meixiu and Keenan…” Kaidan’s voice trailed off. “How… my parents?”

            “Yeah. They were true Blades, loyal to Talos,” Pervyn said quietly. “Your father was of Clan Duadeen, born of Du’an, and your mother was of Clan Mishaxhi, born of Khim. In the Akaviri, you are Kaidan Khim no Mishaxhi, born on Northwind Summit in the Rift, for it’s the mother’s blood which counts with them.”

            Kaidan stared at him, poleaxed, as Sidgara scowled.

            “Akaviri?” Lia asked, awed. “I thought they were all wiped out!”

            “Mede authorised it, even though it was only a couple Cyrod clans that joined Arius’s damnfool rebellion,” Pervyn said grimly. “Some got away. There’s Akaviri in you, Sidgara and Jedda as well through the Carvain line.”

            “It’s irrelevant,” Sidgara said.

            “It’s very relevant.” Pervyn gave her a bone-chilling look. “But you’re very much the Stormsword’s daughter. Ulfric did you no favours, that’s for certain.”

            “Have a care how you speak, Redguard,” warned the blond darkly.

            “Ralof of Riverwood.” Pervyn smirked. “I’d demonstrate why old age and experience can beat youth and enthusiasm any day of the week but I think Beroc needs me. Try to advise Sidgara more and kiss her arse a little less. You’ll be both better for it.”

            He bowed mockingly and left them.

            “Kaidan Khim,” the bounty hunter said softly. “Northwind Summit.”

            Jedda rested a hand on his shoulder. “It suits you, Kaidan Khim no Mishaxhi.”

            His hand raised to cover hers. “Jedda, I am your sword and shield, first of your Dragonguard.”

            They stood there for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes, before she realised that Elisif was calling her over. Reluctantly, she joined the group, feeling oddly guilty as she looked up at Casavir.

            “It’s worse than we realise,” Elisif said bleakly. “Casavir was right about the Thalmor being involved, as the Redguards have confirmed. Jedda, if you want this Moot to happen, neutrality isn’t an option. Akaviria’s location is unknown, neither Maro has the rank or connections, and Casavir can’t hold any claim on his own. We need a Dragonborn Empress but I need your consent to present it as a fait accompli to General Tullius.”

            “We would rule as co-rulers,” Casavir said softly. “The Redguards… also provided evidence that the Aurelii were telling the truth. Julius Martin was the natural son of Martin Septim. I come from a Remanite line. Both, together, when combined with my sire’s status as Emperor…”

            “Ria’s not going to be thrilled, but I think I can sway her,” Lia said confidently. “Of course, that’s in return for a seat on the Elder Council. I’m happy to apprentice to Chancellor Salvian in return for the eventual promise of his seat. And Lucien will make for an excellent Imperial Arcanist.”

            “You want an ex-prisoner whose only education came from popular novels to be Empress?” Jedda asked incredulously. “Have you lost your ever-loving minds?”

            “You can refuse. And hundreds can die when the Empire disintegrates,” Vittoria said grimly. “The Elder Council wants, above all else, stability. You’re saner than the other choices. And Ria… well, she’s not suitable for certain reasons.”

            “Kaidan could be Imperial Champion,” Lia suggested coaxingly. “I’m sure we could find something for that guy with the wolf as well.”

            “I don’t get a say in this, do I?” Jedda asked in a small voice even as her dragon soul roared at the possibility of power and dominion.

            “You do, but people will die.”

            She bowed her head to the inevitable. At least Casavir wasn’t like his father. “So be it.”

Chapter Text

Casavir started the day as the bastard son of an Emperor and ended it as the wedded candidate for the Ruby Throne. Elisif and Vittoria were beside themselves with glee, General Tullius had been reluctantly wrangled into approving it when presented with particular evidence, and since the Priest and witnesses were already to hand…

            It was necessary, he thought as he sat on the bed he’d been given in the Blue Palace. But was I persuaded too easily?

            Titus Mede II, Emperor of Tamriel, was cremated by the Priest of Arkay after the wedding ceremony. Very few attendees wept, as his sire wasn’t beloved by even the loyal, and some openly gloated. Casavir had set the torch to the pyre himself, unable to articulate the melange of emotions that afflicted him, and stayed until only the embers remained. He said nothing of his new wife’s spiteful spit, only shielded her from public view so that she wasn’t judged for venting her spleen. Jedda, despite the leaps and bounds she had made in the two weeks since escaping the prison, was still semi-feral and entirely bitter at heart. It would be a thorny partnership, even if they were to be equals, and his heart ached that she couldn’t be bound to one who loved her.

            Now the crowd had dispersed after the questioning was done, the Dunmer assassin escaping the Penitus Oculatus, and they’d retreated to their homes to mourn and celebrate. Casavir had gone to the Blue Palace with his new wife and endured an ad hoc feast gathered from what was meant to be Vittoria and Asgeir’s celebration before retreating to his room. Jedda had remained behind, fortifying herself with alcohol, and he ignored the guilty looks she was giving Kaidan. The blue-eyed Redguard that he suspected was Rustem ibn Setareh had revealed the Akaviri’s lineage and confirmed him as the first of the Dragonguard. Kaidan Khim no Mishaxhi. A lineage of heroes who’d kept their oaths until the bitter end. The same couldn’t be said for Casavir himself.

            He’d washed and donned a nightshirt. Royal expectations notwithstanding, consummation of the marriage was unlikely tonight. For Casavir, a strong emotional attachment was required to even perform as a man, as Ofalia had exploited, and he didn’t yet have that rapport with Jedda. That gave them time to learn about each other, he hoped, so they could make a functional partnership of this semi-forced marriage.

            A potential Emperor of Tamriel… I will need to be careful so that I’m not eclipsed by Jedda as she comes into her power. This marriage was only the beginning as the dragons still roamed freely, a truce needed to be made with the Stormcloaks (if it was still possible after the attack on Whiterun), and the Greybeards consulted. So they’d be leaving their “court” behind and travelling as a group of five once again. Except now they could call on Legionaries all over the country to fight the threats.

            Jedda had been silent since repeating her vows when prompted by Erandur. He hadn’t pressed her to speak.

            The Thalmor plot, the Stormcloaks rebel, and the Redguards manipulate. He knew that the evidence of the Aurelii’s Septim ancestry, Motierre’s plot to murder the Emperor, and the advocacy of Beroc tied into some greater plan of Hammerfell. But they needed every ally they could get and the Duke seemed to think the matter finished with Mede’s death. Not that the Redguards were going to return to the Empire. They were powerful enough to remain independent in their own right.

            So much that he didn’t understand. Thank the Eight that Jedda had an instinctive knack for court politics where he didn’t and he understood war where she didn’t. Hopefully they had enough of a rapport to work well together… or they’d be the last rulers of an Empire torn apart by the Aldmeri Dominion and the dragons.

            Casavir buried his face in his hands, allowing himself the release of weeping. His family had no idea that he’d ascended to become the frontrunner in the race for the Ruby Throne. His mother would be Dowager Imperial Mother, his stepfather an honoured adjunct to his glory. His siblings would become valued marriage assets. They would be catapulted into power whether they wanted it or not. Colovia itself would rejoice that the Emperor was one of their own.

            He raised his face when the door opened. It was Jedda, clad in a thin robe, looking very awkward and slightly drunk. She’d intimated she was a virgin in a conversation with Bishop once and…

            “No, not tonight,” he told her, too exhausted to be anything other than blunt. “I… can’t.”

            “Okay…” she said slowly. “Is it because I’m thin and ugly?”

            “No!” he said quickly, sensing that even implying that would cause a deep rift between them that wouldn’t heal well or easily. “I… can’t. Not yet.”

            “Why not?” she asked, almost belligerently. She’d drunk enough to make her words careless.

            “I need…” Casavir chose his words. “A strong bond. I need… to know you better.”

            Jedda sighed in exasperation. “So you just can’t get it over and done with?”

            “No. That would be unbelievably crude and rough on you.” Casavir tried to smile but it came out bitter. “Ofalia taught me that much.”

            “Well, I’m staying the night,” she said half-defiantly. “Because if I don’t, they’ll ask questions.”

            “That… is fair,” he conceded. He could manage to share a bed for the night, right?

            She sat down next to him. “So now what?”

            “I don’t know.” He laughed ruefully. “A very awkward night, I suppose.”

            “Yeah, you don’t say.” She uncorked the bottle she was carrying and drank deep. “Want some?”

            He didn’t but he sensed refusing her offer would make her feel uncomfortable, so he took the bottle and drank some of the Alto wine within. It was bittersweet. Rather like this moment.

            Neither of them slept much that night but the silence was almost a conversation. Maybe there was some hope yet for them both.