"No, Jimmy, I told you – I can't."
"Aw, c'mon Beth, just this once. For me, c'mon."
Beth ducked her head and hid her smile in the bale of hay. He was so persistent it made her smitten down to her toes. Ridiculous, really. She'd known him since they were mere children, and here he was insisting she accompany him on a date tonight, to the stream out past the meadery, no less! Folk called it Mara's Pride, and not without reason. The thought of going out there with Jimmy made her blush furiously. She hacked at another length of twine, watched the bale fall apart as she opened her mouth to protest. "Jimmy, the Bannered Mare, I-"
"I'm sure they won't miss you terribly," he teased.
Her popped in a disbelieving 'o'. She sheathed her baling knife and rounded on him, a smile on her face despite her best effort. "You watch it, or you'll be the one missing me!"
His face lifted with renewed hope as he took a cheeky step forward. "So that's a yes, then?"
Beth lifted her chin, hoping to look a little less bashful than she supposed she did. "Just for that, it's a maybe."
Jimmy laughed, already knowing she'd meet him at the crossroads after sundown. "I'll see you round, then."
"Maybe." She quirked an eyebrow.
He grinned. There was a moment's hesitation before he darted forward and placed a kiss on her cheek.
Beth released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding when he turned his back and hurried away. One second more and he would have seen her cheeks bleed a humiliating shade of red. She glanced around for her father before remembering he'd be in a court council at this hour. When he found her sister with a boy for the time, Beth was sure the folk down in Riverwood had heard the yelling. By the Eight, if he saw their exchange she'd be running for the hills, Hershel hot on her heels.
With Jimmy gone, and the bustle of the city muffled behind the walls of Whiterun, an unsettling silence fell over the yard. Over the week, there'd been a few bandit raids, one even resulting in a death on Chillfurrow Farm up the road. The Jarl had put a bounty on their heads and posted a few extra guardsmen around the Hold but the lack of company still unnerved her.
The eerie silence continued to build until midday. Beth was mucking out the stables when she heard it. A screech that was more a sensation of unbearable dread than a sound – it tore at the soul and shook the earth beneath one's feet.
No one had heard the cry of a dragon in years. All the seasoned soldiers boasted about the days they'd wielded weapons against one of the great scaly beasts, some even telling tales of fighting beside the legendary Dragonborn. The dragons lived on in songs sung in every inn across Skyrim but there hadn't been a sighting since Beth was a young girl.
Anxiety settled in the set of her shoulders. She tried to shake it off, told herself it was naught but her imagination. All the same, her hand went to her dagger, sheathed at her hip. What good it would do against any hostility, she didn't know – sometimes it struggled to cut baling twine.
Silence fell once more, and in it Beth heard the sudden jingling of chainmail.
Beth froze, save for the grip on her dagger, her knuckles turning white over the leather hilt. When a hand touched her shoulder, she whirled, and in the only defence her body could conjure, thrust the blade out and wide.
And straight into the yellow doublet of a Hold guard.
There was a second that stretched itself into hours as the man drew a choking breath. Beth felt his body pulsate around her knife as her fist turned red with foreign blood. Gaping, she looked up to find wide eyes beneath the half-helm and watched as the light died in the young man's eyes. She drew the blade from his chest and gave a small cry, stumbling back into the hay.
As the body hit the ground, a great shadow swept over the earth, blotting out the sun. Before Beth could think to run, a dragon's cry thundered so loud and close her ears rang. She screamed once before the roof above her head turned to splint and cinder.
Daryl cursed.
He'd been after a horse, now he had a goddamned dragon riled for a fight, five guards riled for a fight, and to top that off, was witness to murder.
Whiterun was nice enough, sure, but he'd been sitting around for too long, growing a little too complacent in the city, so much so it made him uncomfortable. He had missed this, the thrill of a job, the taste of danger a little more potent than half-drunk brawls and hunting on the plains. What he didn't realize is that he'd not only missed it but he'd also gotten a little rusty at it. Well, he was realising it now, and was horrified at the little voice in the back of his head telling him to get back inside the city gates and go sulk with some mead. A couple of years ago Daryl Dixon would've had his crossbow up that dragon's nose, screaming bloody murder. Now he was wary, stealth and silence his weapon of choice. His crossbow still hung at his back, but a few years of sitting on his ass made him reluctant to charge into battle. That, and the guards forming messy ranks not a hundred yards from him.
He relented, crouching in the shadows behind the horseman's house as he watched the open stables collapse, that girl lying unconscious inside. He'd been surprised when she'd sunk that pig-sticker in the guard's chest. If he'd been the only witness he'd be on a horse by now, gunning it for the mountain pass. But no, there'd been one other – that prick Walsh, Captain of the Guard, had stood open mouthed as his buddy fell dead on the ground. He'd had to turn his back to draw his bow on the dragon – now returning to the sky with planks of Greene's stables still in its clutches – but Walsh had seen enough to send that girl to prison for manslaughter.
Daryl darted forward into the quickly deteriorating building and made for a saddled horse, capturing the reins as the animal tossed its head around in wild fright. The fray of dragon-fire was a better distraction than he could have hoped for. Through the crackle of flames and protests of charred and splintering wood, he heard one of the at least three sounds he had hoped not to. He glanced around for the origins of the groans of pain. The Greene girl was slumped in the dirt, bloodied and bruised, pinned at her waist beneath the weight of a fallen support beam. He cursed – if he left her there unchecked, she'd either burn in the attack or live to go to prison. The image of that pale skin melting off the bone was enough to bring his stomach to the back of his teeth and he'd seen for himself what prison did to even the strongest men. Daryl wasn't a man of high morals but leaving the farmer's daughter to the jaws of fate didn't sit right with him, to say the least.
Tying his mount's reins to the nearest thing that wasn't on fire, he weaved through the debris to reach the girl. With the roof torn away, he was a sitting duck for an attack so he moved like a man possessed. The midday sun caught the blood glistening on Greene's forehead, made her skin look translucent. He felt for her pulse and gave her a brief once-over for any serious injury. Finding naught but a less than steady heartbeat and a swelling gash in her hairline, he assessed the pillar situation.
With a length of hardwood that size, he took a second to wonder how she hadn't been flattened, then saw that the long end of the pillar had landed on the edge of a burning bale, preventing it from crushing her completely. She'd been saved by the sheer length of it, and not an inch too short. With some difficulty, he hefted the beam out of the way, and scooped her up and over his shoulder. As he turned to his horse, a glint of steel caught his eye from the dust. On a whim, he grabbed the bloody knife and pocketed it. Be nice not to leave a murder weapon in his wake.
Praising the horse's mild manner in a crisis and Greene's slight frame, Daryl slung her over the front of the saddle. Once he'd swung himself into mount, he sat her up best he could before snatching the reins. With the screech of the dragon coming for a second time to urge him on, he kicked the horse in the gut and high-tailed it out of the burning stables.
Sitting atop a stolen mount in his Thieves Guild armour with a murder suspect slumped between his knees; Daryl smiled to think of his collective bounty. He spared a glance over his shoulder and saw Walsh shouting to three or four men, pointing in his direction. Daryl brushed it off. That dragon would keep the entire Hold busy long enough for him to make an escape. They wouldn't spare men for a horse thief at a time like this.
He was proven wrong, though, when the first arrow whizzed past his ear, followed by half a dozen more. He didn't look back this time, but spurred the horse on. The animal thudded with every hoof-fall beneath him and the Greene girl, wilting forward and bouncing around awkwardly, clung to its mane even in unconsciousness. He felt a little fear at the prospect of her being thrown off but couldn't entertain the idea for long.
With arrows chasing him on like a cloud of angry bees, Daryl rode east. Five years in this skeever hole of a city and now, without the damnedest idea what he was going to do with Greene, he was finally heading home.
If you didn't pick it up, this fic is very AU, very much a crossover over with Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. Firstly my reason for not listing it as an official crossover was because whose going to go looking for Walking Dead/Skyrim fics, right? Secondly, if you're not familiar with Skyrim, don't panic. I'm completely avoiding the main storyline for the game, just borrowing the universe. Just think Lord of the Rings, maybe a bit of Game of Thrones. For those of you who have played Skyrim, if you didn't pick it up, it's been several years since the fall of Alduin for the characters.
Anyhow, I was reluctant to actually post this now. I would have preferred to have a couple more finished chapters up my sleeve but I think I'd like to actually see if this has any potential interest for readers.
Hmu if you've got any questions, either here or on tumblr (user iampala). Reviews make me super happy.