Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warnings for death, violence and fantastic racism.

The Road to Helgen

Hands bound and mouth gagged, Ulfric Stormcloak was robbed of his power, if not his dignity. Riding a swayback piebald gelding 'liberated' from the Stormcloaks, Gytha would have happily traded places with one of the prisoners on the carts because even with the makeshift hose she'd fashioned from Stormcloak armour wrappings, her thighs chafed painfully and her legs protested. But once they were at Helgen and Ulfric's head on a pike, she could return home to Solitude and figure out her future from there.

She shifted on horseback uncomfortably, wondering when Solitude had become home to a vagrant who had none. Gytha was still half a fraud, not nearly as skilled as the bards and Jarl Elisif made her out to be, yet she had become Elisif's supporter in the weeks since she wore a borrowed outfit to the Blue Palace to run an errand up there. The truth of her past was more or less revealed, though many still believed it hadn't been cowardice but a long plan to see the Stormcloaks pay for the Markarth Incident. She wished she were that good, if only for Elisif's sake, because once Ulfric was executed the real games would begin, everyone wanting a slice of the pie in Skyrim.

Tullius, riding a magnificent blood bay stallion from the West Wealde, dropped back to ride alongside her. "Even when Ulfric is executed, the real work will yet to be done," the General noted with a sigh. "Stormcloak supporters will need to be rooted out, new Jarls appointed…"

"Most of the Jarls who support Ulfric are fairly toothless without him," Gytha pointed out. "By all means replace the dangerous ones – Skald controls a major port for all Dawnstar's small size and Laila Law-Giver needs to be replaced by her son Saerlund, who's ballsy enough to support the Empire in a Stormcloak Hold openly – but unless the people want them gone, keep the Jarls there. It'll make the Imperial victory easier to swallow."

"I didn't know that about Saerlund Law-Giver," Tullius admitted with some surprise. "Our pick was Maven."

"No. Gods no. That woman's bad enough as Thane and I've only half-defanged her," Gytha told him with a shudder. "Riften's awful, but she makes the city worse."

"Hmm, perhaps marry Ingun Black-Briar to Saerlund. Gives us a loyal Jarl and rewards Maven for her loyalty without actually giving her any more power…" Tullius ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. "I admit, I trust honest ambition over Nord honour any day."

"You mean 'lowlander Nord honour'," Gytha said wryly, unable to believe she was speaking to the military governor as an equal. "Reach Nords tend to be a little more pragmatic."

"So I'm beginning to understand," Tullius agreed, just as wryly.

The agent fell silent, looking away from the General to enjoy the crisp, mountain flower-scented breeze coming from the Jeralls. It lacked the familiar fragrance of juniper to remind her of the Reach, the grass too green and lush, too much snow on the iron-grey stone and the mountains themselves not the silver-grey with blue striations of the Druadachs, but still a pleasant trip, made the more so by their destination. With Ulfric soon to be dead, the Stormcloaks should hopefully fade into obscurity, allowing Skyrim and the Empire to prepare for the next conflict.

She glanced at the scar-faced Jarl in his fine chainmail robes, sea-green eyes glinting like shards of broken wine bottle glass above the gag. She wondered if he recalled the purge of Markarth and the massacre at Karthwasten or whether they were merely moments in a long and bloody career. No god, be they old or new, was worth the blood that soaked the Reach's soil.

"Is it necessary the horse thief die?" she asked Tullius softly. "He's no Stormcloak."

The General sighed. "Even if he hadn't stolen Legion property, I performed the carnificina for a reason. I have to put the Stormcloak rebellion down hard."

Gytha avoided the pleading gaze of Lokir from Rorikstead, a vagrant she sometimes met on the roads of Skyrim. "Die well," she told him. "And you will never starve nor freeze again in Sovngarde."

It was the only help she could offer him.

"What would an Imperial bootlicker know of Sovngarde?" asked the handsome albeit bedraggled blonde lowlander Nord who sat next to Lokir, his tone rich with scorn. "Tell me, what price your honour?"

Gytha met his blue eyes in a flat gaze. "I lost family in both Markarth and Karthwasten, lowlander."

"Don't dignify him with an answer," Tullius advised before he nudged his horse into a canter. "The Black Wolf of Solitude answers to none but Jarl Elisif and the Empire."

"More to Jarl Elisif than the Empire," Gytha murmured under her breath. The Jarl had given her trust where none was deserved and raised her to Thane, after all.

Murmurs broke out amongst the Stormcloaks as several, including Jarl Ulfric, looked in her direction. To hear half of the rebels tell it, she singlehandedly helped the Empire capture Ulfric, which was bullshit when all she did was give the General the intelligence and accompany him on the ambush that took the Jarl.

It was better than going back to Markarth, though Gytha knew she'd have to face that particular set of demons soon before the Silver-Bloods managed to entrench themselves so tightly into the Reach not even the Empire could winkle them out.

She felt a measuring gaze upon her; a side glance revealed Ulfric was watching her intently. Pointedly looking away, she watched the walls of Helgen near and felt relief that it would soon all be over. Elisif could become High Queen, marry Hrongar and have Jarl Balgruuf as an advisor, and they could all get on with their lives.

Fate, of course, had other plans. But that was for another story.