Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Skyrim story with absolutely nothing to do with the Aureliiverse or Ysraneth's Tale. Trigger warning for violence, death and fantastic racism.

…

A New Dress

Gytha Bark-Shod pulled the last of the potatoes from the Lylvieves' garden as Azzada chopped firewood nearby. Technically her labour wasn't needed – Michel and Clinton were more than capable of harvesting vegetables even with Julienne working at the Four Shields – but Azzada, an orphan of Markarth, had a soft heart and paid her a pittance in food and sometimes septims to do the heavier, more unpleasant chores. Horgeir, the local lumber mill owner, let her keep one out of six firewood pieces she cut when Lodvar was in Solitude and in return for sweeping out the ashes, scrubbing pots and other dirty tasks, Faida allowed Gytha to sleep on the floor of the inn. Even before the war, there was little enough charity to be spared in Dragon Bridge, and with the Stormcloaks rebelling and a Penitus Oculatus outpost being set up here – well, every day carried the risk of being told to move on as Lodvar repeatedly suggested.

At least it was late summer. When she was done with the potatoes, Gytha would be able to venture close to the Karth River and tickle fish out of the water with her bare hands, gather juniper berries and hanging moss from the trees up near where Horgeir concealed his mead stash from Olda, and find pine bark to dry-roast on a flat river stone for her winter food cache. When summer bled into autumn, the nights lengthening and the wolves slinking nearer to the village in hopes of food, it would be time to craft woven-bark shoes from the middle layer of the birch tree, the footwear which gave her the byname everyone in Dragon Bridge knew her by.

She scrubbed the dirt from her hands with the tattered skirt of her plain brown dress, it and the dirty beige shift beneath castoffs from Faida, and wondered if her small store of septims would soon stretch to a better one when the peddler came through next. Though just over an hour's walk from Solitude and the legendary Radiant Raiment, Gytha knew there was more chance of dragons returning than her ever having the septims to patronise the Altmer-owned shop. That was assuming she wasn't run out of Skyrim's capital city as a vagrant, which she admittedly was.

Azzada looked up from cutting firewood and smiled sympathetically; his paucity of charity didn't come from a lack of kindness but rather few resources, as General Tullius took half the crops for his Legions so they could fight the Stormcloaks who lurked in a camp just off the road to Solitude. "How many potatoes?" he asked quietly.

"Six," she replied, holding up the dirty root vegetables.

The Redguard nodded, jerking his chin at the door to his small cottage. "Give them to Michel. They'll thicken up the stew a bit and there'll be enough for a bowl for everyone."

Gytha couldn't help the grin which spread her lips, earning a matching one from Azzada. Michel's vegetable stew was the best in the village and with the wind blowing cold off the Druadach Mountains which held the Reach, it would warm the belly nicely.

Azzada's wife accepted the handful of vegetables with a brief smile, washing and peeling them with the ease of long skill before cutting the white potatoes into the stew and thriftily saving the peelings for spring's compost. In Dragon Bridge, meat was saved for the rare feasts or when the Jarl of Solitude sent down a couple goats every year on their birthday. Faida had to get her beef and venison from Solitude and her salmon from Gytha, who kept the little fish for her own meals. Protein generally came from dried beans, which made for… fragrant winter evenings when everyone was huddled in their houses. If stink was gold, Dragon Bridge would be richer than Solitude and Whiterun combined.

Gytha left the Lylvieves' cottage and walked over to the Four Shields, noting the fine bay horses stabled outside. Most likely Penitus Oculatus or Legion officers' mounts as merchants only stayed at the Four Shields when they knew they wouldn't reach Solitude by the time the gates were locked for the night. If there were more than three, Faida would tell her to scrub up, don a spare apron, and help Julienne serve them in return for half of the tips. She certainly hoped so.

Inside, a pair of handsome Imperial men in Penitus Oculatus uniforms lounged at the bar, the younger charming Faida into giggles with a lightly gravelled voice. The elder, a hard-eyed man with a neat goatee, eyed Gytha dismissively before turning back to his tankard and bowl of beef stew.

Before she could approach the innkeeper to see if help was needed, Gytha was intercepted by Julienne, the waitress wearing a slight frown. "Faida told me to give you a few septims and send you on your way," the eldest daughter of Azzada reported softly. "Seems Commander Maro's son has taken a liking to her and she doesn't want him to think her place is a refuge for… ah…"

"Beggars?" Gytha asked bitterly, stung by Julienne's words. She expected Lodvar or Varnius Junius to move her along, not Faida – but when a wealthy-looking nobleman was showing interest, she supposed the innkeeper was only too happy to see the vagrant gone.

The Breton girl looked stricken. "I'm sure you could stay at our place until the Penitus Oculatus is gone!" she protested softly. "Father feels sorry for you."

Gytha felt guilty. It wasn't the Lylvieves' fault. But she knew that the friendly offer would eventually turn sour as winter closed in and meagre resources stretched thin. Best to be gone now, in late summer when food could be gathered, than turned out in winter. So she shook her head, took the handful of coins pressed into her hands and thanked Julienne for the kindness.

Outside, she approached Azzada and told him what happened. The Redguard sighed and repeated the offer his daughter made, only to be met with a similar shake of the head and hearty assurances that she would be fine. Gytha saw the quick flash of relief, followed by guilt, in the Redguard's eyes and knew that Faida wasn't the only one tired of supporting a penniless vagrant in return for work anyone could do. Definitely time for her to leave Dragon Bridge.

It was a clear, relatively warm day and Gytha made her way to the bank of the Karth, selecting a particular stone and digging it up. Beneath were her meagre food hoard and a small bag of coins; with the ten septims from Faida added to it, she had a grand total of twenty-three septims, enough for a night and meal at the Four Shields. She tucked it into her ragged beltpouch, the one always strapped to her body beneath her clothing, before stripping down and giving herself a scrub. She might as well head to Solitude and hope that someone needed a pot girl and maid-of-all-work.

The sun was at the peak of its journey in the sky as Gytha walked through Dragon Bridge for what would be the last time for a good while. Azzada intercepted her, a slightly guilty expression on his face, and handed her a bundle of wrapped linen. "Michel and Julienne put this together for you," he told her. "A dress, shift and boots Julienne outgrew two years ago. Not much, but…"

Gytha found it in her to smile at the Redguard. "Thank you. It's better than Faida's farewell gift," she told him honestly.

The farmer sighed. "It's rough, I know, but in these days a person's got to do what they must to get ahead. Commander Maro and his son will be stationed here for a good long time what with the Emperor's cousin getting married and the civil war, so it helps Faida to be on their good side."

Gytha shrugged indifferently. "I expected to be moved on sooner or later. Better now than winter."

Azzada nodded sympathetically. "I know. I wish I could help you more, I truly do."

"You've helped me more than some." Gytha smiled at him again. "I should get going if I want to be in Solitude by dusk."

He nodded again. "Gods go with you, Gytha. I hope you find a stroke of luck similar to the one that brought me to Dragon Bridge."

"Gods watch over your battles," Gytha responded automatically before turning towards Solitude. There was plenty of cover beside the road where she could change into something better than her current garments.

The trip was uneventful, Gytha passing by Varnius Junius along the way as he muttered something about unhelpful Solitude bureaucrats and giving her only the briefest of looks. She supposed that the strange lights out of Wolfskull Cave hadn't bothered the Jarl's court enough to dispatch a guard or two to investigate it.

Now clad in a purple overdress and leaf-green shift with soft, shapeless boots on her feet, Gytha walked gingerly up the steep hill towards Solitude's main gates past the camp of Khajiit merchants who never stopped in Dragon Bridge. The guard at the first archway told her to watch herself or she'd end up like Roggvir, whoever he was, and if she wanted to join the Legion she should speak to Legate Rikke.

Joining the Legion, now there's a laugh, Gytha thought wryly as she passed through the open gates. I wager the Legion tunics are tougher and stronger than me.

Just inside, an execution was being carried out, the Stormcloak laid upon the headsman's block called Roggvir by a tall, dark-haired guard in captain's uniform. It seemed like the man had let Ulfric Stormcloak out after he'd killed High King Torygg, igniting the Civil War, and so Solitude bayed for his blood because the Jarl of Windhelm had so far escaped the Redguard executioner's heavy axe.

"On this day, I go to Sovngarde," Roggvir murmured just before the axe descended with the thunk of iron meeting solid wood.

The guard sighed as the crowd issued a few last imprecations in the dead Roggvir's direction. "Damn shame Roggvir, you were a good man," he observed quietly.

Gytha walked through the crowd, keeping her head down. Her stomach was growling and politics meant nothing to her.

The Winking Skeever, a finely appointed inn that made the Four Shields look like the dingy village tavern that it was, had no need of pot girls or waitresses as Corpulus Vinius and his son Sorex handled the inn, though the younger man pulled her aside, asked her to run up a bottle of Stros M'kai rum for Falk Firebeard and suggested that the Blue Palace might have need of an extra serving woman. Gytha agreed, lacking other options, and found herself walking through the residential part of Solitude where the houses were all built from stone with grey-blue slate roofs.

"If you're heading to the Blue Palace, you might want to rethink your outfit," observed a passing Altmer woman in fine garments snidely.

"What's wrong with my outfit?" Gytha asked confusedly. Yes, Julienne's old dress was a little worn, but it wasn't patched.

"Nothing, if you're hoeing crops in some little village," the Altmer woman said dryly.

"What should I wear to the Blue Palace then?" Gytha countered acidly.

"You… really are going to the Blue Palace?" The Altmer woman sounded more than a little surprised. "This presents an opportunity, hmm…"

She rummaged around in a finely embroidered linen satchel and pulled out a soft robe of gold-embroidered elf's ear-green goat's wool, a bear-fur shawl with a brooch of gold-washed copper, an ankle-length dress of leaf-green linen that was finer than Gytha had ever seen, and a heavy garnet-and-gold pendant. "I was going to wear these garments myself up to the Blue Palace and see if Jarl Elisif wanted to put in an order, but seeing you made me realise that she would get a better idea of how they would look upon a Nord. Put on these and when you're up at the Blue Palace, ask the Jarl what she thinks of them. When that's done, come back to Radiant Raiment and let me know what she says."

Gytha nodded, absolutely stunned that she was being asked to wear something from Radiant Raiment, and followed the Altmer to a discreet corner where she could change into the dress and robe. Once dressed, the gold-skinned woman pursed her lips thoughtfully and pulled out a comb and scissors.

"Your hair needs to be a little neater to pull off the look," she said critically as she gestured for Gytha to sit down on a nearby low stone fence. "You're remarkably clean for a Nord…"

The Altmer, whose name Gytha didn't yet have, chattered along in the same vein as she combed and clipped the Nord woman's hair into order. It took longer than she expected, the sun westering by the time she was finished, and when it was done she nodded in satisfaction.

"Take a look," she ordered, handing over a small silver mirror – worth more septims than Gytha had ever seen in her life – so that she could examine her reflection.

Instead of straggling messily around her face in a loose ponytail that hung at the side, Gytha's brown hair fell straight as a blade to her shoulders but for a single braid hanging at her left temple. Just the simple act of trimming her tresses made her thin, heart-shaped face look less haggard, the facial scars, tanned flesh and creases around her wide, slightly downturned green eyes the signs of a noble warrior, not a wandering vagrant. 'Beautiful' wasn't an adjective to be granted to her, but this woman in the mirror looked striking, perhaps even noble.

"I see the reputation of Radiant Raiment is exceeded by the reality," Gytha finally said.

"Of course it is. My sister Endarie and I are the finest ateliers in Skyrim," the Altmer woman said haughtily. "Now go and dazzle the Jarl. I expect at least one order from her by the end of the week."

Gytha rose to her feet, dusting off the robe gingerly and marvelling at its softness. She smiled awkwardly at the Altmer woman and obeyed.

The Blue Palace was a place of grandeur, once home to Jarls who became Emperors. She passed by two men sitting in the front antechambers – one a robed Altmer man and the other a hardened warrior in iron plate – and entered the Great Hall, looking at the indoor garden in awe. Of all the buildings Gytha expected to enter in Solitude, this was the last.

She climbed the stairs, noticing a woman in plain brown linen nodding respectfully as she passed, and found herself confronted by the Jarl of Solitude's court. Elisif the Fair, a slight redhead in fine red and brown robes, sat straight-backed on her late husband's throne as a bearded man with close-cropped hair and more than a little resemblance to her stood to her left. He had to be Falk Firebeard. A heavy-bodied man in fine steel plate and wearing Orcish weapons stood to Elisif's right – he had to be her huscarl – while the robed Breton woman with strangely glowing eyes next to Falk had to be the court wizard. Two finely dressed individuals – a brown-haired woman in fur-trimmed robes and a leather breastplate and a man in fine blue coat and breeches – sat off to the side, watching Gytha intently.

The beggar, certain she would be discovered as a fraud any moment, stepped forward and saluted Elisif by banging her fist to her chest in the old warrior's style. "Greetings, my Jarl," she said formally.

"Welcome to the Blue Palace," Elisif greeted, looking uncertainly in Falk's direction. "How may I help you?"

Oh shit what do I say now? Gytha swallowed, betting that the court would throw her out before she could fulfil her errands, and pasted a smile on her face.

"Jarl Elisif, it is customary to ask the names of those who come to court if they are unknown to us," Falk murmured into the young woman's ear.

"Oh, of course! My apologies, honoured guest." Elisif's smile was shy and if Gytha didn't know any better, she'd swear the Jarl was begging her forgiveness with her eyes.

"The fault is mine," the woman said hastily. It never hurt to butter up the nobility by taking the blame on herself. "Court usually isn't somewhere I go unless I have business there and… well, my manners have been compared to that of a goat's more than once by those who hold such things important. My name is Gytha-" She quickly swallowed her byname, no need to embarrass the Radiant Raiment sisters by revealing a homeless vagrant wore their fine garments. "-And I've come to deliver Falk Firebeard's rum."

"Ah!" Falk's eyes were full of questions as he held out his hand for the bottle, which Gytha gladly delivered to him. "Thank you. I picked up a taste for it on a fair-weather journey to Hammerfell."

Gytha shrugged. "No need to thank me. I was coming up this way anyway and when Sorex asked me to do him the favour, it was little enough trouble to agree."

"A well-dressed errand girl," the man in blue observed blandly to the woman with the leather breastplate.

"Some people aren't so arrogant as to refuse to perform a simple favour without wanting something in return," the woman retorted coolly. "Some people understand that it is their duty to serve Skyrim and its folk, not wring out every last septim they can from them."

Oh shit, do they think I'm a noble? Gytha smoothed down the robe, hoping that her sweaty palms didn't leave marks upon the fine wool. Radiant Raiment wouldn't be pleased if she ruined their clothing, after all.

Falk's eyes swept towards the two as they bickered before looking to Gytha. "Please accept a small token of my appreciation," he said smoothly, handing over a purse of fine brown leather he produced from his maroon coat.

Gytha accepted it, feeling the weight of the septims within. "Thank you," she told him quietly, trying to keep the raw gratitude from her voice.

Elisif cleared her throat. "Perhaps you would like to join us for dinner? I see the marks of a long journey on you and I'm sure a traveller like you must have many questions."

Oh shit, Gytha thought for the third time. Elisif's voice, light and sweet, had a pleading tone to it.

"I'd be honoured," she said carefully. "Though I have warned you some say I have the manners of a goat."

The woman in leather laughed as she rose to her feet. "Only the career courtier thinks less of a fighter who has less than polished manners. I am Thane Bryling and I always have time to share a word with a fellow warrior."

The man in blue regarded Bryling scornfully. "And only a warrior dismisses the wisdom of those who raise the wealth which pays for her kind."

He looked to Gytha, eyes running up and down in an assessing manner. "I'm Thane Erikur, the richest man in Solitude."

"Obviously the most humble too," Gytha noted under her breath.

Erikur regarded her patronisingly as he stood. "I don't believe in false modesty. And besides, not all Nords are brainless sword-swingers. Some of us have a head for business."

"Pity you lack an appetite for honour," Bryling retorted.

"Honour is a quaint notion. Stormcloaks have 'honour' and they're rebelling against the Empire." Erikur's tone was blatant in its arrogance. "Business is good for the Empire, which is good for Skyrim."

"I would like to remind you that we have a guest to the court," Falk told the two Thanes severely.

"My apologies, Falk," Bryling responded, her eyes and voice softening as she looked on the man.

"Yes, yes, mine too," Erikur muttered as they were led into the dining room.

Much to Gytha's further shock, she found herself sat next to Elisif herself, who looked almost pathetically grateful to have a conversation partner who wasn't the two sniping Thanes. "I must ask, who made your dress?" the Jarl asked as the servants brought in the first course, which was more food than the homeless woman had seen in a few days. "It's really quiet lovely and suits you."

"Endarie at Radiant Raiment," Gytha responded quickly, recalling the name that the Altmer woman who'd given her the clothing mentioned. "But her sister chose it for me."

Elisif smiled. "Taarie is a woman of elegant taste. I see you're wise enough to listen to those with greater expertise in certain matters than you."

"Thank you," Gytha murmured as shreds of smoked salmon on pieces of flatbread smeared with a greenish paste were served by the servant in brown linen who'd nodded respectfully earlier. "Taarie definitely proved that the clothes can make the man – or in my case, the woman."

The Jarl of Solitude nodded sagely. "Indeed. If I could ask a small favour of you, please let Taarie know that I will contact her in regards to a significant order in a few days."

Can you afford it? Gytha thought a little waspishly but nodded. She waited for Elisif to thank the Divines for the meal before picking up one of the pieces of flatbread and nibbling it.

The salmon was flavoured faintly with honey, the sweetness mingling with the cool bite of the paste on the flatbread, and Gytha resisted the urge to devour it though her stomach screamed for food. She nibbled at it delicately as Erikur and Falk discussed the state of Solitude's trade, something about the East Empire Trading Company being hit by pirates out of Dawnstar.

The second course was venison smothered in snowberry sauce accompanied by a side of mashed potatoes sprinkled with garlic and goat's cheese. By now the conversation had progressed to Wolfskull Cave, Erikur cracking a joke about 'peasant superstitions' when the strange lights and noises came up.

"I've seen them," Gytha said flatly. "You should send someone up there to check it out."

"Gytha is right," Bryling said approvingly. "Potema the Wolf Queen used that cave for dark rituals – who knows what spirits could lurk there? At best, it will just be wind and foxfire. But if it's something worse…"

Falk sighed. "I was going to let it slide, but if our honoured guest has confirmed Varnius' report, then I have no choice."

Cutting into her venison, perfectly pink-rare with a reddish-brown exterior beneath the blood-red sweet-sharp sauce, Gytha used her iron dagger to eat the pieces of meat. It was perfect salty-sweet, easily the finest venison she'd ever eaten – until now served up as too-old roast, indifferent stew or cut from a dead deer at the side of a road and roasted briefly over the fire – and she savoured every bite.

"Our honoured guest looks like a seasoned adventurer," Erikur noted blandly, eyes gleaming maliciously. "Perhaps she should be the one to deal with it."

Only years of experience kept Gytha from choking on her food and even then, it was several moments before she could swallow and speak. "Why is it always the last to draw a sword that is the first to send others to do their fighting for them?" she asked of the air, recalling a priest's passing comment in Dawnstar – or was it Winterhold? She couldn't remember.

"Hear, hear," Bryling agreed with a disdainful glance in Erikur's direction. "I see you have some experience with people like that."

"Don't we all?" Elisif's huscarl, who'd been introduced as Bolgeir Bear-Claw, agreed dryly.

Falk nodded after flashing an annoyed look at Erikur. "Indeed. Though… I would appreciate if you, or someone trustworthy, could investigate the cave for us."

Gytha didn't get the undertone of his voice but she realised that she was caught in a neat box. If she refused, the court would know her as the fake she was but if she accepted, she was probably dead. "I'll go myself and take someone to watch my back," she finally said carefully.

"Belrand," Bryling said promptly. "The man's a spellsword – a little long in the tooth and light of hair, but one of my preferred mercenaries as he's tough, stalwart and stays bought."

The vagrant nodded in relief. If she was going to go through with this – and if she didn't, she suspected she'd be driven from Haafingar by an unhappy Falk and Elisif – she might as well take a mercenary who actually knew how to fight. "I'll hire him in the morning," she promised.

"Thank you." Elisif's voice was raw with gratitude as dessert was brought out. Sweet rolls covered in juniper and jazbay sauce, sweet and bitter all at once. Gytha ate until she was almost full, knowing that if she stuffed the last mouthful into her stomach, she'd puke it up again.

The Thanes left shortly after, citing the late hour and need to return home, and Gytha found herself alone with Elisif – as alone as a Jarl could be with huscarl and servants in the room – as Falk departed to use the privy and Sybille Stentor, the court wizard, went to scry the seas for signs of Stormcloaks.

"I'm sorry Erikur put you on the spot like that," the fine-boned redhead apologised sincerely. "He's an ass, but he's a wealthy ass who understands trade."

"I know how that is," Gytha agreed fervently. "I've been screwed over by folk like him for most of my life."

Elisif grimaced sympathetically. She seemed like a nice enough woman, if painfully naïve. "Thane Bryling means well but her line is almost as old as my late husband Torygg's and she seems to think that makes her more suitable than Erikur to be my chief advisor when Falk steps down."

Gytha shrugged. "I think she's loyal to you, if only because she loves your Steward."

"You saw that too?" Elisif giggled like a girl sharing a confidence with a friend. "Erikur holds a bit of a grudge for her because she refused his suit. Just goes to show the woman has excellent taste in men, because if not for Falk, I would have been lost in grief and Haafingar a shambles after Torygg died."

"I saw Roggvir kissing the headsman's bride as I entered Solitude," Gytha said slowly, noting that Elisif's eyes shone with unshed tears.

"I would have been there to watch it but Falk felt it was beneath my dignity as Jarl and rightful High Queen of Skyrim," Elisif observed bitterly. "Ulfric Shouted my husband to death in front of the entire court and I couldn't even watch the execution of the gate guard who let him escape!"

Gytha patted her forearm awkwardly. "I'm sure General Tullius will give you a front-row seat at Ulfric's execution, my Jarl."

"He won't even meet me whenever I ask him to," Elisif said sadly, sniffling. "'Too busy with the war', he said."

"Maybe you could try the Penitus Oculatus?" Gytha suggested cautiously. "I know that Commander Maro and son have set themselves up in Dragon Bridge."

Elisif's eyes brightened. "That's brilliant! They answer directly to the Emperor – and Commander Maro is almost as closely related to Titus Mede as Vittoria Vici."

"Let me guess, you'd like me to carry word to them," Gytha noted ruefully.

"You are heading that way," Elisif pointed out dryly just before Falk re-entered the dining room.

"I've taken the liberty of arranging quarters for our honoured guest," he announced calmly.

Wait, what? I'm going to sleep in the Blue Palace? Gytha coughed awkwardly and said, "That isn't necessary, but thank you."

"Don't be ridiculous," Elisif told her. "You're a guest of the Jarl of Solitude, one who has agreed to undertake a possibly dangerous task. The least we can do is provide a comfortable bed."

And so Gytha found herself chivvied to a guest room in the Blue Palace by Erdi, the servant in brown linen who'd served them, and put into a nightgown of soft Whiterun cotton after being bathed in lavender-scented water. The woman tsked over Julienne's old boots and provided calf-high ones of black leather trimmed with wolf's fur as Gytha watched bemusedly from the copper bathtub brought into the bedroom.

Before exhaustion claimed her, her last thought was What the fuck have I gotten myself into?