A/N: Hi everyone! I decided to take down the previous version of this story, completely rewrite it, and upload it again. I was happy with the premise and general storyline, but disappointed with the execution. There have been several changes that you may notice if you have read it before, such as:

- The Helgen prologue has been removed

- Narration is now restricted almost solely to the two protagonists

- Characterisation has changed, so that character morals and actions make more sense

- Some chapters have been rearranged or cut entirely

- Hopefully, the writing is a bit better!

To those who have read this story from the beginning, I hope you glean some new enjoyment from it. To those who are new, welcome! I will be updating this story on a 1-2 week schedule, alongside my other active fic With Brains Like Yours. Please leave me a review with what you think!


Far in the north of Skyrim, winter was closing in like a noose. The encroaching cold chased away most of the larger game, leaving a Breton huntress with slim pickings that barely saw her through till spring— which was why, when she saw a deer grazing on the brittle remains of grass, she didn't hesitate. Her arrow got it straight through the eye, and it fell with a muffled splash into marshy water.

Making nary a sound on the loamy soil, she moved to retrieve her kill. It was a large buck, large enough so that she huffed out a breath as she heaved it up and over her back. It made the hunting bow she carried dig uncomfortably into her side. She could feel the hunger already sapping strength from her limbs, and had to rest for a moment at the edge of a frost crusted pond, despite wishing to make it back to her cottage before the sun had fully risen. A pale skinned, dark haired woman peered back at her when she leaned over the murky water. Come summertime she would gain a little colour, the huntress knew, running the tips of her fingers over her gaunt cheeks. But summer was a long way off, yet. There was still the winter to get through.

On a clear day, the huntress could see all the way across the marshes of Hjaalmarch, to where the Blue Palace rested atop its magnificent arch. A glittering symbol of the capital's opulence, visible for miles around; except for on days like this one, where heavy clouds hung low on the horizon and obscured the structure from sight. Her cottage was barely more than a hovel in comparison, with its rickety door and thatch covered roof that did little to keep out the cold.

It was with a practiced ease that the huntress skinned, gutted, and cut up the deer into pieces for sale, wrapping the sellable chunks of meat in a cloth while keeping a few cuts for herself. The inside of her cottage home was barely warmer than the icy marshes, so she wasn't worried about the unsalted meat going bad. She planned to be in the city for only a few days, anyway, returning with vegetables that she couldn't grow in the hard ground. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of steaming venison stew. It rumbled often, these days, but the Breton knew that after a few weeks, her body would learn to ignore the hunger.

Midday was fast approaching by the time the huntress had cleaned her hands of blood. With the whitewashed walls of her cottage at her back, the huntress began picking her way westwards across boggy terrain. Mud sucked greedily at her thick soled boots, but she had long since learned the safest ways through Hjaalmarch. Every rock and half submerged log was as familiar to her as her own calloused, scar flecked hands.

Light showers began to dampen the huntress' well-worn cloak by the time she approached the city gates. Rainwater had dislodged waste and sewerage, making the streets reek and the huntress' eyes stream, but despite the weather and the smell, there were dozens of people flocking the streets of Solitude. Finely dressed ladies gave her disdainful looks as she wove fleet-footed through the crowd, carrying several bloody parcels of fresh venison that dripped onto the cobblestones. She had to avoid groups of gossiping Imperials, who were discussing the long awaited marriage of the Emperor's cousin, and workmen who were busy stringing up banners in preparation for the upcoming celebrations.

"Cutting it a bit fine, aren't you, Laelynn?" called a cheery voice as the huntress finally stepped into the marketplace. "Everyone's packing up for the wedding. I thought for sure the vampires had got you, or the Draugr!"

"Morning, Addvar. Still got time for me?" Laelynn asked with a faint grin, while slapping her parcels down on the countertop. "This is the last deer you'll see all winter, unless you pay fifty Septims for imported meat from Falkreath."

Addvar's logbook was face up between them, and Laelynn could see the date scrawled in his messy hand. 22nd of Evening Star, 4E 209. The Nord ran a hand over his chin, which was covered in patchy stubble. He was not an old man, but the approaching winter had left him haggard, as it did most.

"I'll give you twenty for it— and no more, or the wife'll have me."

Twenty Septims clinking in her pocket sounded like food, and clothes, and nice smelling soaps. A downpour had well and truly begun by the time the coins exchanged hands, and Laelynn could see people clinging to the sides of buildings as they hurried towards the Temple of the Divines. One woman, who had jewellery dripping from every digit, emitted a high pitched squeal as her fine skirts became flecked with mud. A small, quiet part of Laelynn's mind— the one not occupied with surviving day to day— felt a glimmer of resentment. The women attending Vittoria Vici's wedding were of noble birth, or the daughters of rich merchants, and their only problems were whether their silk and taffeta would be ruined by a sudden squall. Laelynn pressed a hand to her aching stomach and trudged after them.

The rancid smell that had hit her when she first entered the city was gradually masked by the spicy scent of winter blooms. They coated the long, zigzagging path up towards the Temple of the Divines, bent against the pounding rain but not failing to add splashes of colour to an otherwise dreary world. Laelynn absently plucked a few stems as she went past, uncaring of the rain that soaked through her woollen clothing.

When she came to the Temple courtyard, it was empty. The wedding had already begun behind heavy, closed doors, leaving Laelynn alone with birds that were preening themselves in the gathering puddles. She didn't mind the solitude— in fact, it was almost preferable. It left her free to climb the walls as rain continued to patter down, without some haughty Imperial sneering at her tattered traveling cloak. Once or twice her boots slipped on the treacherously slick stone, but eventually, Laelynn was perched over the Temple courtyard with a fine view of the balcony, seats, and oaken doors.

Eventually, the rain cleared, and the city was calm and quiet. All of Skyrim was. It had been six years since the Dragonborn had defeated Alduin in Sovngarde, making way for an era of peace unlike anything the kingdom had seen; even the civil war was a slumbering beast put to rest. Laelynn watched a hawk wheel through the clearing clouds with a bitter taste in her mouth. If only the Dragonborn were alive— he would stop people from starving while others lived in excess wealth and luxury. But Skyrim's hero had long ago become nothing more than a legend of story and song. Sometimes, Laelynn questioned whether he had ever existed at all.

She had seen him, once. Eight years ago, on the golden plains of Whiterun with a great bronze dragon lying dead before him. Even from far away, young Laelynn had been able to see a maelstrom of power rise from the dragon's burning corpse, twisting in a whirlwind before embedding itself in the heart of the blond-haired Nord. Then, a great boom, like mighty wing beats, had rolled across the plains from High Hrothgar.

Laelynn's gaze turned south east, to where the Throat of the World loomed far in the distance. Its lonely peak soared above the surrounding mountains and sliced through the receding clouds, and she was seized with the sudden desire to fly as freely as that wheeling hawk.

Babbling voices brought her back to solid ground. Wedding guests were pouring out from the Temple, gushing out mindless strings of words that Laelynn couldn't quite make out. Gemstones glinted, silken skirts rustled, but the bride herself outshone them all in her finery. A long train flowed behind her like a crimson river, supported by the doting hands of maidservants as she entered the courtyard. Was that… glitter, dusting her cheeks and eyelids? Laelynn felt a spark of envy at the woman's fluid, graceful movements; she didn't seem to step so much as glide towards the podium, so that she might address the crowd whose eyes were turned towards her in adoration.

"Good people of Solitude," Vittoria began, in a refined voice that carried easily over the courtyard. "Thank you all for being here on this most happy of days."

Laelynn propped her chin up on one hand and listened. Even with such weak sunlight peeking through the clouds, the bride seemed to glow. Was this what marital bliss was like? Laelynn could scarcely remember her own parents, but she was certain that they had never seemed this happy.

The beautiful Imperial had just begun with another bout of gratitude when Laelynn noticed something… off. A gargoyle on the opposite parapet was tipping precariously, the grinding of stone against stone barely audible in the quiet of the temple courtyard. Her eyes flicked downwards, to where Vittoria was just concluding her speech, and Laelynn swore that she saw a shadow move in her peripheral vision. There was nothing there when her attention returned to the gargoyle, too late to shout a warning.

It fell, grotesque face first, onto the bride's head.

"Vittoria!" someone shrieked, before the entire courtyard erupted into chaos.

Laelynn watched a fat Breton wrestle other guests in his rush to the exit, trampling anyone who got in the way of his hamlike feet. The others were no better— tearing at other, screaming, while the assembled guards shouted to one another above the din. A black-clad figure beat a hasty retreat, weaving between the castle's upper towers before dropping out of sight.

Laelynn raced after them. Leaving her wilted winter flowers behind, she jumped from the wall to a lower balcony, with a jarring impact that sent jolts of pain through her legs. The figure had already leapt to the city's outer wall, and was running with alarming, catlike balance along its slippery masonry. One glance over the side had Laelynn's stomach swooping unpleasantly. It was a sheer drop, with the earth so far below that it was shrouded in swathes of mist.

"Hey, stop!" she cried, but the figure— an assassin, Laelynn realised numbly— did not miss a step. They nimbly vaulted over a garden wall, sending a flock of birds into the bright grey sky. Sparrows, a voice whispered. She ignored it, landing and rolling on the wet soil below before launching into a full sprint along the main street. There was nothing in her mind except red, lichen-speckled stone, and Vittoria's weakly twitching hand. Her wedding ring had been slick with blood.

Up ahead, someone let out a surprised squawk. Laelynn rounded a corner just in time to see the shrouded figure bound over a fallen washerwoman and try to lose themselves in the city's back alleys. Blood was pounding in her ears, loud enough to drown out her own footfalls as she veered around a house in close pursuit. Together they flew through a small graveyard, trampling flowers and trinkets for the deceased, before breaking out onto the street again. This assassin was possessed of an almost inhuman swiftness, Laelynn would give them that— but she knew the city of Solitude almost as well as she knew the marshes at its base.

While they cut back into a tight alley, Laelynn raced through a vegetable garden until she reached the alley mouth, just a few heartbeats before the shrouded figure. She darted forwards and grabbed ahold of their wrist, but the assassin wrenched free with a startled grunt, leaving Laelynn clutching nothing but a red and black leather glove. With no warning they darted leftwards, towards the south gate, leaving Laelynn to scramble after them into a narrow corridor. Her boots slipped, and in the half second it took to right herself, the assassin was right in her face.

SLAM.

Laelynn's back hit unforgiving stone, and she found herself pinned to the wall with a dagger at her throat. Choking on a strangled grasp, her hands instinctively shot up to close around the figure's bare wrist and keep the blade as far as possible from her fluttering pulse. Dimly, she registered the faint, spicy scent of winter flowers.

"Do you want to die?" The assassin ground out in a gruff Nordic tone. "Because that can be arranged." Merciless blue eyes narrowed themselves on Laelynn's own, and she felt blood begin to well beneath the sharp blade.

"We have no time," came a voice at the mouth of the corridor. Even cowled, Laelynn could tell that this one was Argonian. "Leave her, and come quickly. The guards won't stay distracted for long."

The Nord shoved her roughly against the stone, but heeded his companion's words— she could hear their feet on the spiral staircase, taking them down, down, down to the distant shoreline. Her fingers came away bloody when she touched her throat but… by the Divines, she was alive. A breath that she didn't realise she had been holding wheezed out between Laelynn's teeth, and she allowed herself to slide down and sit against the wall.

In one hand there were droplets of her own blood. In the other, that black and red glove.