Farkas starts collecting his work in the spare room at Breezehome. Materials on one side, finished pieces on the other. It's not long before all the inventory starts spilling out into the main room, piling up under the stairs. He begins to wonder how he's going to carry all this on the road. He can carry about 300 pounds without slowing himself down too much in a fight—but he figured that out in training, with the weights distributed well. If 100 of those pounds are shields he has to try to attach to his body somehow, that'll be harder. Maybe he should stick to selling out of the house, or a cart if they'll be staying in another city for a while, or carry a limited stock on the road.

"So much for putting in an alchemy lab," Lydia comments while he's piecing all this together.

Matilda, who has a cupboard crammed with pressed flowers and troll fat but no intentions of learning alchemy as far as Farkas can tell, shrugs. "We still have a kitchen."

"Please don't get nightshade near where we prepare the food, Thane."

"Oh, Lydia. Where's your sense of adventure?"

"There's adventure, and then there's convulsions and delirium followed by death."

The two of them go on bantering, but Farkas stays quiet and considers. Alchemy. Should he learn that? He'll use a potion when he has to, but he doesn't particularly trust the people who make them. Usually mages.

On the other hand, they taste terrible. How hard could it be to add a few grapes?


The answer is very, Farkas learns after his first few attempts leave him with a fever and an hour of shooting chest pains. It is very hard to make potions taste good.

It turns out that you can't just mash up grapes and toss them into everything. It's not that no one has thought of doing this before; it's that almost anything you add has its own effects. He gags on a succession of powdery, chunky potions before he catches on that some ingredients have to be ground or melted or heated to combine the right way. That's why they use the labs. It quickly becomes obvious that he can't do it without a lab, so he throws up his hands, pushes everything into one corner of the spare room, and goes to Dragonsreach to buy one.

He's lived in its shadow all his life, but he's never been inside the Jarl's palace. Never had reason to be. The walk up isn't quite seven thousand steps—more like seven thousand guards. Seems like he passes one every ten paces, all the way into the keep. Have there always been that many?

Inside, the keep is reassuringly like Jorrvaskr: long tables and a great central fire and wooden pillars, with other wings jutting off the center. What's different is the high ceiling and the tapestries and rugs woven in Whiterun's white and gold. His boots sink in when he crosses, as though he's moving over snow.

The Jarl's throne is at the extreme opposite side of the massive room. Balgruuf is talking with two silver-and-red-clad women—Imperial soldiers. He's slumped over on one arm of the chair, but he's watching the soldiers intently as they talk. Looks like a serious discussion. He files the knowledge away for later, to tell Matilda when she gets back from her job tonight.

One of the guards is at his side now. "What do you need, honored Companion?"

Farkas turns back from the throne and answers, "I'm here to talk to the Jarl's steward."

"Why?"

"I want to buy an alchemy lab."

"Wait here. I'll ask if he can meet with you."

The guard walks off. Farkas continues to stand around and watch. It's like Jorrvaskr, people milling around everywhere. Two old women sweeping who look like they could be Tilma's sisters. The Jarl's children whining about how they like their meat. Guards patrolling. The court wizard and Balgruuf's brother taking their places at the table for a few minutes even though it's not mealtime and then wandering off in some other direction. Maybe there's just nothing else for them all to do. Once in a while you used to see the Jarl down at the Mare or even in Jorrvaskr—but not since the war started. Unlike Farkas, the Jarl's people can't start a shop.

It doesn't take too long before an older man wearing a quilted jacket and more hair on his eyebrows than anywhere else on his face appears and says, "Welcome to Dragonsreach, Companion. I am Proventus Avenicci, Jarl Balgruuf's steward. How may I assist you?"

Farkas studies his features to see if he looks anything like his daughter. Other than maybe their complexions, the answer is not really. "I want to buy an alchemy lab," he repeats.

"For your wife?"

"No. For me."

"Pfah. The arcane arts are not a toy for any simpleton who gets bored of hacking and slashing," a new voice says behind him. Farkas turns to see the court wizard in his dark hooded robes.

The steward folds his arms and turns a cold stare on the mage. Ah, Farkas thinks, there's the resemblance to Adrianne. "Please ignore Farengar's rudeness. He's convinced that anyone who can't conjure up their own sweetrolls is beneath him. But I must ask—do you have any experience with alchemy?"

"Aye," he answers, slightly offended.

"Successful experience?"

"Well, no," he admits.

"Ah." Proventus bows his head apologetically. "In that case, I'm afraid…."

He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. Vilkas would probably challenge them both to a fight to the death to defend his honor. Matilda would probably make some clever argument that would convince them. Farkas is drawing a blank on the second and doesn't care enough about these people for the first, so he shrugs and turns to go. No point in arguing. He can probably get Arcadia to let him use hers, just carry all his ingredients and bottles over. But then an idea hits him. "You probably don't need the coin anyway."

Jarls always need coin. Behind him, he feels Proventus freeze. He looks back to see the steward with his head still bowed—or bowed again—and his brow furrowed. Proventus is looking at the gold and white rug, but he seems to be seeing something else.

"You'll have your lab," he says. "If you can pay now. Five hundred septims."

The wizard snorts and wanders off again. For a second Farkas wonders if he can negotiate this price too, but the slump of the man's shoulders urges him just to accept and be done with it. Given how his recent attempts have gone, he'd be lucky if he didn't end up agreeing to more than five hundred anyway. "Aye," he agrees simply, sifting out the coins and handing them over.

Proventus counts them again and pockets them. "I'll send a carpenter and Arcadia to Breezehome to set it up for you. They can have it ready by nightfall."

"Thanks," Farkas says.

"If there's any more I can help you with, just let me know." The steward's voice sounds distracted. He's still jangling the coins in his pocket when Farkas turns again and sees himself out.


"You've seen the extra guards on the streets? And in Dragonsreach?" Matilda asks over dinner by way of explanation. He nods. "People are saying the Jarl barely has enough money to pay them all. Whiterun needs every septim it can get."

"It's true. I've heard stories from my friends in the guard. They think it might only be a few weeks before they start getting promissory notes mixed in with their pay," Lydia says.

Farkas drops a bone for Meeko, who chomps it greedily. "Looks like the Imperials still want to help out. There were two more of them in there today. Balgruuf actually seemed to be listening to them this time." Like everyone else in the city, he's watched the envoys troop in and out of Dragonsreach for months. They haven't made any obvious progress in getting Balgruuf to declare for the Empire yet, but if Whiterun doesn't have the coin to stand on its own anymore, it'll have to choose a side. You don't have to be an expert in politics to understand that much.

Lydia and Matilda glance at each other. "Jarl Ulfric would want to know that," Lydia says.

Matilda spears another three grilled leeks and piles them onto her plate. "Ulfric has his sources. He doesn't need to wait for intelligence like this from us, trust me."

"This city can't stay out of the war forever, Thane. No matter how much you might wish it."

"By Talos, Lydia," Matilda says, which she only does when she's serious. It's a dangerous thing to say. "I'm newly married—"

"—it's been weeks—"

"—and I have dragons to slay, and Farkas might like to sell something before the economy shuts down. Can you blame me for not wanting to rush things?"

"No." Lydia is pushing her own vegetables around now without picking them up. If she doesn't want them, he wishes she'd pass them over instead of mashing them like that. "But good people are dying in skirmishes day by day while the Thalmor grow stronger. Maybe it's time someone like you urged the Stormcloaks to bring things to a head so we can finally push the Imperials out and get on with the real fight."

"It's all the real fight. The Legionnaires outnumber the Stormcloaks two to one in some holds," Matilda argues.

Lydia puts the fork down and looks at her. "But the Legion doesn't have the Dragonborn."

Matilda falls silent, thinking. He sets a hand on her arm in an effort to be reassuring. But it makes her look up at him, as if she's expecting him to offer some wisdom. "I don't have a dog in this fight," he reminds her gently. "Other than you." That came out wrong. He tries again. "What I mean is, I don't have the right political solution. But even if I did, this has to be your decision. You're the one whose name is gonna be in the history books, so you're the one who needs to decide what they say underneath it."

"I'll send a courier," she says after a long pause. "Underscore the gravity of the situation. But if Ulfric responds with an axe instead of a diplomat, it will be on our heads."

"And the gods'," Lydia answers.

"Lucky for them they don't have to live in Whiterun," Matilda mutters darkly.


When other things—jobs to be done, the floor to be swept, furs to be washed—don't need his attention the rest of that week, he turns his attention to alchemy. Arcadia gives him a few tips, and he works his way slowly through a dog-eared copy she lends him of Herbalist's Guide to Skyrim (the pages that aren't too stained to read, anyway), but mostly he has to learn by trial and error. Mix things and drink them. He has to start taking notes on what he's tried so far. He doesn't know the proper names of most of the ingredients, so he just writes down what they look like: tasty brownish egg + spiky purple flower. After he remembers that hard way that nightshade is also a spiky purple flower, he starts adding drawings too.

By Middas he thinks he knows what he's doing. He has a basic formula for a potion to restore health that he knows works; now he just needs to find something to add that will make it taste better without altering the effects.

He grabs a basket and goes to the market. Picks up two green apples; two red apples; milk; bunches of jazbay grapes, juniper berries, and snowberries; sugar; honey. Practices haggling, though still not too far. If he ever wants to get good at bargaining, he'll have to do it away from Whiterun, somewhere he doesn't know how many mouths everyone has to feed.

"What brings you to the market for so much produce, Companion? Is Tilma sick?" Carlotta Valentia asks.

"No," he answers. "I'm making potions."

For a few days he'd managed to convince Lydia to try them out by threatening to tell Matilda about that time he caught the housecarl sitting in their bedroom eating bread when she thought they were both out ("I like the light in there!" she still insists). But one little incident when he mistook a red flower for purple ("It's hard to tell by firelight!" he still insists) and she refuses to test one of his potions ever again. Some of the Companions are willing, but not any more help: they all have cast-iron stomachs. Torvar drinks half a bottle of one that turns out to be poisonous and never even breaks a sweat.

Loredas morn, he becomes convinced that apples and honey are the secret.

"This is why people hate mages, brother," Vilkas complains when he brings a new batch to the Mare that evening and starts trying to pass them around to his shield-siblings. It's the third time in as many days. Suddenly they all seem to have their hands too full with drinks to take one.

"The healing potions?" Matilda asks, all innocence as she signals to Saadia for their drinks and slides onto a bench by the fire. "I'd always thought it was the predilection for going mad with arcane knowledge and the lust for power and slaughtering everyone around them."

Vilkas folds his arms and makes the same face he's made ever since he was a pup every time some minor thing he doesn't like happens. "I'll drink when the Harbinger does."

Farkas has been trying to avoid using his wife as a test subject—partially because she needs to be at her full strength in case of a dragon attack and she can't risk getting poisoned; mostly because she knows where he sleeps. But she plucks one of the bottles out of his hand before he can stop her and holds it up to the light. Swirls it around. Uncorks it and sniffs. "It smells fine."

"You're going to drink it? Voluntarily?" Aela asks.

"If this is the toughest beast I conquer this week, I might as well hang up my axe."

"All right, ice brain, give me one of those. Can't back down after someone says that." Aela holds out a hand and he passes her a bottle. A few seconds later, Njada does the same, then Ria and Athis. Even Sinmir comes over and takes one, and Ysolda and the bard gather around to watch. Farkas puts the last bottle into Vilkas's fist before his brother can say no. Vilkas grumbles but uncorks it anyway.

"Companion or no, you poison all these people in my tavern and you're cleaning it up," Hulda calls, leaning against the bar.

"I do my killing with a blade," Farkas tries to reassure her. "Or my fists."

"A chair leg, that one time," Matilda comments.

He shrugs. "Don't make a habit of that, though."

Saadia brings their mead. Farkas drinks; Matilda sets hers on the bench next to her (dangerous move). "On three," Aela says. "Last one to finish buys the next round. Bard, count us off."

The bard bows. "Anything for you, beautiful." Aela chucks an empty mug in his direction. He ducks and comes up with his smile still in place. "One—two—"

It's only when the bottle's halfway to her lips that Matilda thinks to stop and ask, "What are we about to drink?"

"Health potion," Farkas answers, a little put out that she couldn't tell. He put them in red bottles and everything.

"No, I mean what are we about to drink?"

"Better if you don't know." The ash hopper jelly doesn't taste bad boiled down, but he thinks it probably gets a little worse if you think about what you're drinking.

Matilda shrugs. "I'll start again," the bard says loudly. "One—two—three." The competitors lift their potions in a toast, and toss them back. Aela finishes first and slams her bottle down in triumph so hard he's worried the glass will shatter. Athis is next, then Njada, Matilda, Vilkas, Ria and Sinmir, all within a few seconds of each other. Sinmir glumly waves Saadia over and hands her the coin.

There's a fateful moment while Farkas watches his wife's face carefully to see if she's about to collapse and need to be caught. "It's good," she pronounces finally.

He's suspicious she's just saying it to be nice, but then the others start nodding in agreement. That convinces him. Njada never said anything in her life just to be nice. "Really?"

"I wouldn't switch it out for mead, but it's a lot better than a normal potion. I think you can sell as many of those as you can bottle, love."

"You think?" He considers. "Maybe I should learn to blow glass."

She chuckles and reaches for her drink. "Maybe one thing at a time."


They head for home a couple hours later, flush from his success and several rounds of drinks. Keeps the chill off. The night's still young in the Bannered Mare, but Matilda has to get up in the morning to ride to Solitude in time for some party he only dimly remembers her mentioning a while back. She's supposed to sneak in to steal information about what the elves are doing, which he knows has something to do with the dragons but can't remember exactly what. Whether they're behind the dragons returning, he thinks.

If he needed a reminder of how weak human senses are compared to the beast's, he gets it in how long it takes him to notice the man standing in the shadows outside Belethor's shop. They're almost within striking distance by the time he sees the figure under the eaves right by the door, where he's hardest to spot from the street. Farkas nudges Matilda as subtly as he can manage and watches her gaze turn toward the man, who's openly looking at them now. Dressed like a laborer, not armored like a bandit—but then, maybe that's just what a bandit would want them to think. Farkas brings his hand up so he can draw his sword quickly if he needs to. But when they get close, the man just drops something and walks off toward the Wind District.

"Hey," Farkas calls after him, but Matilda lays a hand on his arm and quickly scoops the object up as they pass. Then she walks on as if nothing happened, nodding at a passing guard. But her pace quickens as they get close to Breezehome, and she's three strides ahead of him in getting the door open and ducking inside.

"Lock the door," she orders as soon as he follows her in. She waits until he does it, holding Meeko off with his free hand, before she unclenches her fist to look at what she's picked up. It's a folded piece of paper. "Very subtle," he can barely hear her mutter as she unfolds it. Her eyes skim quickly over the lines, and her brow furrows further with every one. As soon as she finishes, she tears the paper in quarters and throws it on the fire. They watch as it blackens and disintegrates like the corpse of the dragon they killed.

"What was it?" he asks when it's gone.

"Ulfric." She looks absolutely sober now. "He wants me to come to Windhelm. Right now."

"Are you going to go?"

"I can't. If I lose this chance to find out what the Thalmor know about the dragons, I might not get another one. Whatever he needs, it will have to wait."

The firelight in this room casts strange shadows on people's faces. Usually they laugh about it. Tonight, though, the way the light plays over her features makes her look—worn down. Like an iron shield scuffed and scarred from battle.

"You all right?" he asks.

"Fine," she says. She kicks the firelogs to rearrange them while she says it. "Go ahead and get ready for bed. I'll be up soon; just need a minute to clear my head."

He gives Meeko a quick scratch behind the ears and then starts up the stairs. At the top, he leans back over the railing to watch his wife. She folds her arms and stares into the fire for a long while, looking lost in thought. Then she grabs the half-bottle of ale Lydia left sitting out on the table and downs the whole thing.