Ulfric passed his hand over his eyes and almost hoped that whatever test Galmar set for the Dragonborn, he wouldn't pass it. But as much as he wasn't looking forward to meeting the Breton's unwavering blue gaze again, Ulfric had paid his price for the Dragonborn and now he was damned if he wasn't going to make him earn his keep.
He did return, and was duly sworn into the Stormcloaks. He looked grave and pale, but he cheered up a bit when Galmar explained about the crown. Ulfric wasn't convinced, but while they waited for Balgruuf to make up his mind, it would be a good test for their new recruit.
Dyce, for his part, seemed relieved and even somewhat delighted by the idea.
"I'm always fetching things from tombs," he said brightly. "This will be easy." Ulfric was nonplussed by the response but couldn't fault his enthusiasm.
He was less impressed when the news came back that Dyce and the crown had been captured by Imperial forces, but almost as soon as the messenger had caught his breath a second one arrived to say Dyce had managed to escape with the crown.
Indeed he had, and he strode into the Palace of the Kings with it on his head, although at least he had the sense to hide it under his hood. Ulfric accepted the crown, and turned it over in his hands; he honestly had never expected it would still exist, and his heart quickened slightly to hold it.
A crown didn't make a king, he knew, but still, it was something.
He put it aside and looked at Dyce.
"They told me you'd been captured."
"I was. But not for long."
"No Thalmor? They didn't interrogate you?" Dyce was now the holder of too many secrets for comfort.
"The Imperials don't like the Thalmor much more than you do. They didn't have any with them. I was interrogated by one Legate Rikke," he smirked. "Luckily I didn't have anything useful to tell her. She was interested in troop movements and why would I pay attention to that stuff?"
"Rikke? She's not a torturer. She'd never..." Ulfric trailed off.
In answer Dyce started undoing the catches on the strange, sleek armour he wore, and Ulfric could only stare as he revealed a lean, muscled chest and pale skin blotched with darkening bruises.
"To be fair," Dyce said. "She seemed to prefer less crude methods, but bloody hell if she didn't near break me in half anyway." He straightened his back and winced.
Ulfric didn't know if the squirming feeling in his gut was jealousy or despair. Rikke a torturer? He stared at the bruises that Dyce was gingerly prodding. He knew Dyce had no idea how lightly he'd got off, and he hoped he'd never know. No one should know. The intelligence was that Imperial forts now commonly had torture chambers; the influence of their golden-skinned allies.
"This war has to end," he said. "Rest tonight. I'll have more orders for you tomorrow."
"Yes, my Jarl."
"Would you do your armour up? You look untidy."
Yrsarald came in at the sound of voices and his concern for the bruised recruit was unfeigned. Dyce smiled at him with genuine affection and Ysarald herded him upstairs and told him he'd find some food. By this point the Jagged Crown had lost its novelty and Ulfric went upstairs himself to sleep before the sight of one of his generals playing nursemaid made him feel worse.
The next morning, thankfully, Galmar had returned from the tomb, and was most approving of Ulfric's new sense of purpose.
"The peace treaty is no longer in effect. The matter of Whiterun must be settled one way or another; delaying it only needlessly prolongs this war." When Ulfric handed Dyce his axe to get a final answer out of Balgruuf, the Breton looked deeply worried. But he didn't argue. He bowed his head and strode out.
"What do you think?" Ulfric asked his old friend.
"Yrsarald seems to think highly of him."
"I'd noticed."
"He did kill the dragons. But his heart's not in this war. He doesn't think it's his; he's just obligated to fight it."
"Maybe that will be enough."
"Maybe. We'll see how he goes on the battlefield. If his Thu'um is anything like yours, Jarl Ulfric, we will turn the tide."
Dyce was gone for two weeks, and he returned empty-handed.
"I told you Balgruuf would come around," he said to Galmar.
"Not so fast," Dyce said sharply. "There are conditions attached to Balgruuf's co-operation."
"I told you to deliver an axe, not to open negotiations." Ulfric never knew how much Balgruuf actively suspected about his contact with the Thalmor, but ever since the Great War, the other Jarl had barely tolerated him. Easy for him to say; he had his family safe under his own roof.
"I am a Thane of Whiterun," Dyce said. "Balgruuf is both my friend and my Jarl. Besides." He took a deep breath, "If we can't provide Whiterun with what they ask for we won't be able to persuade anyone else, either."
He was so intense, this little Breton. Ulfric had missed it at the peace conference, but when he actually had something to say he said it clearly and forcefully, and left no doubt that he was behind every word he said. It was irritating in one way but refreshing in another, and Ulfric could picture him browbeating Balgruuf into letting him cage a dragon above his palace all too easily.
And now he was repaying the debt. It was a useful insight that Ulfric filed away for later.
"What would you have us do, Dragonborn?"
"Defend Whiterun. The Imperials don't know that Balgruuf has given his answer, but once they do they'll try and take Whiterun back. Prove we can hold Whiterun on the way to holding Skyrim!" He threw his words down like a challenge.
Ulfric glanced at Galmar. "Well?"
"If the choice is defending Whiterun or laying siege to her, I think we'd all prefer the former. Holding the plains won't be as easy as holding the city, but inflict enough losses the Imperials'll cut and run eventually. We need to show them they're wasting their resources against us. That's where the Dragonborn comes in. His Thu'um will send them packing with their tails between their legs."
He could tell Galmar was champing at the bit to test his army in a full battle against the Imperials and it was time to see what Dyce was like on the battlefield.
"Very well. Mobilise our forces. Whiterun will be ours in two days." Galmar left to start giving orders, but Ulfric called Dyce back. "Balgruuf would have sided with the Imperials?"
"He has no love for the Thalmor, but he believed the Imperials were the only ones capable of defending his city. He trusted I could prove otherwise."
"Hm." Ulfric dismissed Dyce and he hurried off with that strangely noiseless tread of his.
The battle for Whiterun lasted two days, but in the end the Imperials cut their losses, as Galmar had predicted, and the news that the Stormcloaks had struck the first decisive blow crossed the country as fast as men could ride.
The title of Ice-Veins was bestowed on Dyce for his part in the battle. He didn't take it well.
"What?" He laughed. "Wait, are you serious? Um, my name is Dyce, I'm quite happy with it, really."
"Just go with it," Yrsarald prompted him.
"But. I don't have icy veins. People say I'm hot-headed. I mean, um, thanks. It's an honour. Although know I do want to know why you guys call him Thrice-Pierced-"
At this point Yrsarald hauled him off and Ulfric could hear him laughing delightedly from the hall.
"He already knows, doesn't he?" Galmar said. "He wouldn't have mentioned it if he didn't."
Ulfric really didn't want to think about it. "How did he fight?"
"He hired a dark elf to watch his back."
"I never took him for a coward."
"He didn't shirk the fighting. He was going through the motions the first day, but he got the hang of it."
"So it's worth putting up with him for now."
"I don't think he realises what he's capable of, but he will. You did well to get him on our side. I'd hate to face him in battle."
Ulfric didn't say anything, but he wondered if the smiling Breton might someday be a rod for his own back. Still, the man couldn't be immune to a dagger in the ribs if it came to that.
When Ulfric retired to sleep that night, one image stayed with him, of Dyce, jaw set, eyes flashing, demanding that Balgruuf's city be defended. That was loyalty, pure and unwavering. And what could he do to earn that?
"You don't let Argonians inside the city walls?" Dyce asked incredulously. "But it's freezing out there. Admittedly it's equally cold in here, but still."
"No, I don't," Ulfric said flatly. "Isn't it enough that I have a colony of elves within my walls? Or would you tell me how to run my city?"
Dyce shifted his jaw, clearly trying to work out what kind of answer he could get away with. "No," he said eventually. He turned and marched back out again.
Ulfric found Windhelm was soon practically infested with the man. If he wasn't running around in the early hours of the morning with Jorlief solving mysteries, or whatever it was they couldn't shut up about, he was dragging Yrsarald off to go drinking.
The war progressed as wars often do, in fits and starts. Wars were won not merely against the enemy but against weather and logistics, and Dyce clearly was incapable of sitting still for two minutes at a stretch. Not that he was always causing trouble. He tracked down dragons and bandits, and when Jorlief eventually explained what had been happening in Windhelm's streets at night Ulfric realised he had every reason to be grateful.
And when Galmar sent him off to war he went, and more often than not came back victorious. They named him Bone-Breaker and Dyce just shrugged and laughed helplessly.
Galmar liked him. Even when he came in with a split lip and a black eye and Rolff Stone-Fist's blood on his knuckles for the third time Galmar didn't seem to take it personally.
"Tell your idiot brother," Dyce said wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "That if he wants to still have teeth by Yuletide to stop shouting at the elves."
"I think you're telling him pretty clearly," Galmar said, watching him spit and wince.
"Yes, but he's not listening to me. It's like he completely forgets who I am, and he sees a puny Breton he thinks he can beat up. On the other hand I am making a fortune, but no one but Rolff himself bets against me anymore."
Dyce may have been making a fortune, but he certainly wasn't keeping it. After Dyce helped liberate a good many Stormcloak soldiers from an Imperial fort, Ulfric decided to reward some of his hard work by making him Thane. He was getting so well known that half the guards had started assuming he was Thane already. There was some risk involved by publicly supporting someone who opposed him openly on political matters, but Ulfric knew that once he worked out how to acquire Dyce's true loyalty, Skyrim would be his.
But Dyce always floated just out of reach, even as he made friends with everyone he met. Everyone except possibly Rolff.
"You will be allowed to purchase property in Windhelm," Ulfric explained.
"Yeah, Balgruuf made the same offer," Dyce said. "I couldn't afford it though. He wanted five thousand gold for a little house. How much is Hjerim going for?"
"Twelve thousand," Jorlief said faintly.
Ulfric pinched the bridge of his nose at Dyce's expression. "I take it you've never managed to earn that much in your life."
"Oh, I've earned ten times that amount, surely. I just don't have it on me."
"How much do you have?" Ulfric asked, out of sheer curiosity.
"Oh. Um." Dyce patted down his pockets and weighed pouches of gold and counted gems and did sums. "About two thousand. Not bad."
"Perhaps you could make a deposit now and pay the rest back whenever you have the money."
"My Lord?" Jorlief looked at him with surprise. "Is that wise? It's not usual-"
Ulfric shrugged. "It's just sitting there empty. If nothing else Dyce can prevent it becoming a hideout for the next murderer. What do you think, Dyce?"
"I think that's very fair of you. Here you go." He handed over all his valuables to Jorlief and wandered out.
"But it's empty right now," Jorlief said. "He can't live there. Can he?"
Ulfric shrugged. Oddly enough, Dyce did manage to get furniture and objects for his house, but he never explained where they came from. Ulfric wisely decided it wasn't his business.
"So he's an Imperial," Dyce was explaining to Yrsarald. "But he was raised by Nords in the true Nord fashion. It's actually a bit of a mystery, I'm sure he'll tell you."
"Uh huh. Does he want to join the Stormcloaks?"
"I don't know." Dyce winked, "You should ask him."
"Look, I know you mean well, but I really don't need a date-"
"Can you just please tell him I'm here? I don't want him to go home. I'll be there in a few minutes. Go on."
Yrsarald relented, shaking his head.
"Perhaps you should concentrate less on matchmaking and more on strategy," Galmar suggested.
"Be honest," Dyce said. "Which would you prefer to be doing, matchmaking or strategy?"
"Strategy!"
"Well that's great," he grinned. "You handle the strategy and I'll handle the matchmaking and everyone's happy. Anyway, here are the reports, have fun. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Well, he got you there," Ulfric observed, as Galmar tried to marshal some defence to Dyce's logic, all far, far too late.
Galmar didn't have time to argue about it, as he was making last minute decisions before he left to begin the next offensive. Yrsarald returned several hours later, grinning and slightly drunk and he had to confess Dyce hadn't stayed very long and he didn't know where he was.
When a guard eventually reported that Dyce was at the New Gnisis Cornerclub, Ulfric wasn't entirely surprised. His Thane clearly loved slumming, even by the standards of Bretons, and was often seen sitting around the fire with the Khajiit who sometimes camped outside the city walls.
"Well, go and tell him he's needed here," Ulfric said.
The guard returned alone. Ulfric sighed, "Well, let's hear it."
"He said uh, that if you wanted to talk to him, that uh, you're welcome to join him. At the New Gnisis Cornerclub..." the guard trailed off.
"Right. Dismissed. I'll deal with him and his doubtlessly massive hangover tomorrow morning." Ulfric looked out down the hall. Galmar had gone, and Yrsarald had stumbled to bed. Jorlief was sitting at the table, looking tired and dutiful. It was very quiet. "Go to bed, Jorlief," Ulfric said, rising from his throne. "We all need rest."
He felt old as he ascended the stairs to the sleeping quarters. His palace was full of old men, he realised. Save for Dyce. He took off his armour and fur and sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall.
"It's my city," he murmured. "Why the hell not, if he can?"