AN:This may or may not be finished, cause I'm a fickle bitch and rarely get around to the end of story, but unlike The Red Dot or Taxidermist, I have an idea where this is going.
I had to chop it up into segments since holy crap it's kinda long and it's only gonna get longer. Forgive any spelling mistakes, most of the time I write at like three in the morning and I'm kinda out of it /
The belly of the Dragonsreach dungeon was damp, the stone floors chilled to the touch when Winter swept over the mountains and stirred the city. The air was thick and stifling in the confined space, making a prisoner feel constantly on the edge of choking, or freezing to his chains when the snows came. This year they had come hard. Not even the soldiers who were prone to torturing the inmates would subject the prisoners to this cold.
A guard, enveloped in boiled leathers of red and brown, crossed the great stone hall to the cell at the very end, glancing under his helmet to the man in black rags leaned against the far wall..
"Wickhart," the guard said, close to a snap just to get the prisoner's attention, "I've brought another blanket. You're going to need it tonight."
Mael looked up, struggling to find even the strength to lift his head, and smiled at the guard through his unkempt beard, "Ah, and a good evening to you, son of snow. So kind of you to think of me." His sharp black eye settled on the bundle of cloth under his arm, then flickered up to the soldier himself. Even in darkness, his gaze was piercing, like two dots of white flames beneath his dirty and matted mess of graying hair. He weakly outstretched his left hand, but couldn't move too near the guard for the shackle around his throat that kept him close to the wall. And the deflated sleeve on his right side suggested his other arm had been severed, just below the elbow.
"Come closer then, I don't bite."
The young Nord was pensive for a moment, eying the prisoner suspiciously. His reputation as a silver tongued deceiver and his underhanded tricks were well known to guards of Whiterun. His venomous and honeyed words had proven the bane of many of the other loyal men, and they had been warned time and time again to be careful how they approached him.
When he took too long to respond, Mael laughed, motioning for him to come near.
"You're not afraid of an old cripple are you?" he sighed, "Hurry up, will you? I can't stand this cold a moment longer."
Not wanting to be made a fool of, the guard unlocked the metal door and swung the bars open, tossing the thick blanket over the weathered man, but never daring to step within arms reach of him. Mael gave an amused smirk as he pulled it over his shoulders, chuckling, "I'm such a terrifying sight. I must be, the way you boys react when someone so much as mentions my name. Afraid I'll slit your throat while you sleep?" He laid his head against the bricks of his cell and closed his eyes. The guard was thankful to not have the two dots scrutinizing him any longer.
"How is that Legate of yours, what's his name?"
The guard narrowed eyes on him."You know his name."
He snapped his fingers. "Yes, yes, Legate Ulrer. Another son of snow. There are so many sons and daughters of snow falling in line with the Imperials these days. Never used to be. I wonder how many waited until Ulfric's body was cold before defecting. I'm sure more simply caught a glimpse of the Imperial army and pissed themselves, swearing fealty to whatever King would give them a fresh pair of pants and a pardon."
"The Nords under Ulfric's banner fought bravely," the guard huffed, "They were smart enough to know when to accept defeat. Only more bloodshed would follow if they continued to fight."
"A true son of snow would never accept defeat." he said solemnly, a smile betraying his voice.
Blood rushed angrily to the soldier's face and he pressed himself against the bars.
"What would a backstabbing Breton know of a true Nord?" he shouted, clutching the metal of the cell.
"How long after Ulfric fell did it take you to lick General Tulius' boots? Did his banners still fly? No, I'm sure it was sooner. Was Ulfric still choking on his own blood when you dropped to your knees and started sucking Imperial cock?"
The guard rushed forward, red faced and about to scream himself hoarse when a clattering and creaking halted him. Down at the head of the dungeon a voice called, "Legate Ulrer, look sharp!" and the guard forced himself to peel his fingers from the bars and take a step back. Mael gave a soft chuckle of triumph, and the guard felt a fool for letting the Breton get under his skin, though he was hardly the first to fall prey to this pitfall of a conversation. Mael was fond of pestering the men. One guard had nearly gutted him after he told him his recently deceased Mother was sharing a bed with the Dread Father.
Boots stiffly clacked against the stone floor as Legate Ulrer marched briskly to the only occupied cell, one hand tipped against his longsword and the other wrapped around the iron helmet perched on his hip. A tall bulk of a man, still relatively young to be in the position of power he was in. He wore his reddish blonde hair tied back with two thin braids, the rest falling to chin length. Three perfectly straight scars of varying length ran from the tip of his left ear to the other side of his square jaw, the blow that inflicted it clearly quick and clean, breaking deep enough into the skin to leave a red trace of a reminder. He stopped at Mael's cell, excusing the still steaming guard.
Mael gave the young Nord a weak wave goodbye before he turned to his attention to Ulrer.
"Well met, son of snow. We were just talking about you and your brothers."
"I guessed that by the look on Fenren's face," he replied flatly as he unfurled a scroll from his side. Keeping his helmet pinned to his hip, he began to recite what was penned on the thin parchment in a steady, clear voice, "Mael Wickhart of Falkreath, it is on this day, the second day of Frostfall, that the honorable Jarl, Balgruuf the Great, has moved to release you. Jarl Balgruuf has decreed that you have served your debt to the city for your trespasses and you will be returned to your home, on the condition you are to never return to the city of Whiterun as long as you are considered a threat to her people." He looked up to him momentarily, adding in his own, "And I doubt there will come a day when you aren't considered a threat to us, so consider it a permanent banishment."
"Oh dear, I can never return? But where oh where will I get your charming Pig's Swill wine?" Mael mocked, feigning hurt.
Ulrer ignored the remark and continued, "Your possessions -with the exception of the stolen goods confiscated at the time of your arrest- and lands will be returned to you upon your arrival in Falkreath. I will be personally escorting you back there. To make sure you cause no further trouble."
"You do know how to cut a man, Ulrer. I'm pained you think me a trouble maker. I've mended my ways, haven't I?"
"Highly unlikely that you have, if it were up to me I'd let you rot here, but the Jarl has a kinder heart than I. That pup of yours came crawling in here, shed a few tears, and the next day we have this." He waved the flimsy parchment, "Your boy's as gifted a wordsmith as you, I'll give him that. He spoke in quite moving terms, even I would be convinced if I didn't know your family's talent for manipulation."
"I like to think of it as coercement."
Ulrer rolled up the scroll again and tucked it into his belt, the cell door once more swinging open as he stepped inside and ordered the Breton to stand. Mael braced his crooked back against the wall and pushed himself up, every muscle moving stiffly and with no small amount of discomfort, but in the end he staggered into obeying the command. Ulrer unshackled the chain tying him in place, and the two walked out into the bowels of Dragonsreach, the Legate with his arm around Mael's shoulder to keep him steady as the prisoner was uneasy on his feet. And you never could keep a tight enough hold on the Breton. Even on the day of his release, there was every chance he'd try and take out a soldier or two.
They trudged up the steps, past the guards' quarters- Mael offered the guard he had been talking to a smug grin, the Nord clearly surprised that he was being released-into the main hall of the keep, where the heat from a roaring bonfire at the heart of the room made the Winter months bearable. Two long tables sat on either side, with a throne at the head of the room where Jarl Balgruuf would usually sit, now empty for the moment. Just as well, Mael wasn't eager to see the man anyway. Their last interaction was when Mael had fatally stabbed his court mage and tried to murder him whilst he slept, and he had been paying for it ever since.
The two made their way past this to the great doors of wood and cast-iron bolts. Ulrer rolled them open with a great groan seeping from the rusted hinges and a heavy sigh of the wood, and suddenly a huge burst of wind rushed forward at the two men, whipping a sheet of powdery snow past them, the torches lighting the hall behind them shuddering with the force of the gust. Far beyond them, the roofs of the city were dusted in a thick blanket of blinding white, it crunched beneath their heels as they walked forward onto the streets, caking their shoes, and within moments after exiting the roof of Dragonsreach they too were covered in snow.
It clung to Mael's hair and beard, but he was smiling widely even as he shivered from the biting cold. He was, after all, dressed in little more than ragged robes and the blanket he'd been offered. But this was also the first time he'd seen sky in nearly three summers. His overwhelming happiness at being freed from his chains was more than enough to keep him warm during the walk.