Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80, who goes over all these chapters and helps me get them cleaned up.

-L-

Valga was doing a great deal of business, but the tavern was strangely quiet, the atmosphere tense. The Legion wasn't here to enjoy the hearth—it was simply the only place to drink—and the citizenry didn't seem happy at the overabundance of surly soldiers.

The tavern maids—now including Tekla—moved about, depositing food and drink with a kind of forced patience.

"I think Falkreath's gloom has finally settled on your house, Valga," I declared as I took my place at the bar.

"Oh, Leandra," Valga sighed, shaking her head. "Normally, I would laugh at that, so it appears you're quite right. I'm glad to see you weren't detained by that unpleasantness in Whiterun."

"They closed the city before I got into it," I answered smoothly. "So I figured, I might as well come here and enjoy the local… ambiance."

Valga snorted. "You picked a bad time, I'm afraid."

"I certainly seem to have done so."

And that was all the conversation there was. It was, perhaps, the shortest chat I'd ever had at the Dead Man's Drink.

It didn't take long, moving about and making purchases I didn't really need to make, to take the town's general temperature—so to speak. They weren't happy about the Legion camped out here, especially because the Legion straddled both the road in and the road out of town. Fearful citizens couldn't even leave town unharassed before the inevitable fighting started—how could they feel safe leaving, with the Legion demanding to know who you were and where you were going and what your business was? It couldn't be clearer the Legion assumed everyone who didn't appreciate their presence was a Stormcloak sympathizer, and while they weren't yet to the point of incarcerating suspicious persons… give them time.

The citizenry seemed to think it would make them more of a target, since the Stormcloaks couldn't just march past the town and be on their way from Falkreath. No, they would have to stop and take out this pocket of potential enemies… and they, the townsfolk, were very much caught in the middle of any fight that happened, because of how the Legion had itself positioned.

The township was in such a bad way that Runil, priest of Arkay had begun holding prayer services, morning and evening, preferring to minister to the living rather than the dead. If he had had any trouble for being an Altmer not of the Dominion, it was impossible to tell. Then again, he wasn't a pretty woman.

The Legionnaires, from what I could tell, weren't happy either. They resented the lack of pleasant welcome from the locals, and couldn't—or wouldn't—see the situation from a nonpartisan view. They were stuck on the fact that they were here to defend Falkreath from Ulfric's marauders, why couldn't these dirty peasants (my wording, but the sentiment is sound) not understand that? In fact, their sourness towards the population was regurgitated back at them, which only made them more upset and unpleasant.

I couldn't help but think that Tullius was making a mistake here in failing to take the people of the Hold into consideration when he—or, I suppose, whomever is running this debacle—sent his men here. The goodwill of the people is valuable, but hasn't been given due consideration in this case. While Falkreath might not have really taken up arms for either side, preferring to defend itself resolutely against all aggressors and not offer affront to any non-aggressors, I got the distinct impression they would throw in with the winning side… and the anticipated winning side happened to be the army on the road, no doubt marching in their general direction at this very moment, not the army defending the town.

I retreated from town around dusk, wondering how to introduce a load of bad pork—or something similar—into the camp kitchen. Call it a dry run for Markarth.

-L-

"What is the music of life?" The voice rasped like the very voice of winter darkness, cold and impersonal, strangely frightening. It was like papery skin flaking away, or that tang on the tongue warning that that which was being ingested wasn't good for the one ingesting it.

The Black Door was hidden off the road leading into Falkreath, the grass scarred from men, animals, and wagons. It was cold to the touch, leaving me shivering where I stood, despite the warmness of the evening.

Well, if I'm honest, knowing where the Dark Brotherhood keeps one of its boltholes isn't really useful. But I'll remember it, in future. You never know when knowing might come in handy… though a lot of good knowing did Cassius Maro.

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk.)

14 Sun's Height

Vorstag:

The order to execute Madanach will be given the day after you receive this letter. Please hold yourself in readiness to facilitate Ingmar's escape or, in case he fails to carry out his objective, put him out of his misery. I shouldn't like the boy to suffer if he blows his cover.

How's the weather in Markarth? I imagine it's rather uncomfortable this time of year. Have they had many problems with meat spoiling?

Yours,

Lady Grey

-L-

(Left at Ingmar's dead drop.)

The time is now. Kill him and come home. An agent is poised to cover your escape.

-L-

(Delivered by courier.)

14 Last Seed

Master Hemming Black-Briar,

I'm delighted to find we can work together so smoothly. Please find enclosed a rewritten contract concerning our partnership in the Black-Briar Meadery. I think you will find the terms quite generous.

As to your brother, I'm sure justice will be done, and look forward to the day that the Black-Briar name becomes something more respectable than it currently is.

Yours very truly,

Lady Grey

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk.)

14 Sun's Height

To Madame Ashlynn,

I'm so glad you and Ysolda are getting along! I'm most certainly not in Whiterun which, I understand, has fallen completely. I'm quite safe, and appreciate your concern.

Please tell Ysolda that our fortunes in that city have changed a little: the Battle-Born family has recently vacated their home within Whiterun's walls and it has come to me. Tell her, from me, that I would consider it a great favor if she would manage the property for me, since I spend so much time away. It doesn't do for a nice house like that to be empty and neglected overlong.

Yours,

Lady Grey

-L-

If I felt a little guilty about taking advantage of a private room at Pinewatch, because I was sending Ralof and his men back into the field the next morning… well. The guilt didn't go away. Every time he touched me, every time he kissed me… it was exactly what I always knew would happen: it was… perfunctory… he wasn't really there.

"Ralof… stop. Please." I stepped back, slithering free of his arms, unease and nausea roiling in my stomach. "If you're not interested, please just say so." I had to wrap my arms around myself, bracing for something unpleasant.

Ralof winced. "…is that the impression I was giving?"

I nodded.

He sighed, then dropped to sit on the edge of the bed, running his hands through his hair. "I'm sorry. I've got… I've got something on my mind and it's just going round and round," he declared, the words forced, as if he didn't really want to talk about it… or as if that was what he told himself.

Well… better than what I assumed. "Is it something I can help with?"

He looked up from his hands, clasped as though in prayer. "…maybe." He unclasped his hands and beckoned me over. When I let him have my hand, he drew me into his lap and held me close. "How do you tell a ten year old girl her father is dead?"

Ah, that makes sense. I knew he lost a man at Whiterun, but I didn't stop to wonder if the man had family—it's that degree of removal I'm able to maintain with my lads' men: I don't know the men, just my lads. It's easier to lose someone you don't know, or send them into a bad situation.

"You don't. Her mother does."

"Sofie's mother died years ago," Ralof answered heavily.

"…I see. Who looks after her now?"

Ralof shook his head. "Ald never said, just seemed to think she'd be okay in his absence. I suppose, I'm worried for her, not just about telling her her father's dead."

"I see." I wrapped my arms comfortingly around him. "I'll go with you, if you like. The next time you're in Windhelm. Or, if I get there first, I'll check on her. Make sure she's alright."

"Would you?" Ralof looked up, somewhat relieved.

"Of course." It's likely I'll be in Windhelm before he is, after all. "It's no trouble at all."

"Thank you. Now, I'll just have to figure out how to tell her the bad news."

I kissed his forehead. This time, when he kissed my throat, he was completely focused.

-L-

The ideal time to sneak into the Imperial camps was in the wee hours of the morning, between two and three. That was when the fewest sentries were awake, and when they were most lax. Anyone moving around in Imperial uniform was unlikely to be questioned, and in the darkness all faces looked alike under a helmet.

The real trick in all this was having my bad pork ready to introduce into the camp kitchen in such a way that no one really noticed it happening.

However, one doesn't just walk around carrying a side of pork and expect no one to ask questions. One could, theoretically, poison the ale in barrels, however.

But if you want to buy a pig from one of the homesteads, depending on the homestead, that's neither here nor there, and I eventually found one, a big creature that, even if it only appears before the officers, will have the necessary effect once treated.

…besides, in such a in unfriendly Hold—when the Legion expected more grace from the locals—a brother and sister bringing said hog, butchered and beautifully prepared to augment their rather sad rations, as instructed by their kindly mother back at the homestead, on behalf of their late father who was of the Legion himself… well. None of the Legionnaires were locals, were they? Another mistake made by Legion leadership: locals in the Legion might have been able to smooth things over a bit, since they had their duty in one hand, while family and friends were in the other. Ambassadors, of a sort. But no, that hadn't been done, if it was even considered.

I think Geirlund's lad—the baby of the group, barely eighteen and still not grown into all his limbs—had a little trouble holding his breakfast down at the pro-Legion flattery, but he managed. I did most of the talking and explanations, sweet as pie… and wearing my identity-blurring necklace as a safeguard.

It was exactly the kind of goodwill from the locals the Legion felt so entitled to. After all, they hadn't antagonized the locals by 'appropriating' whatever they felt was needful… except in the case of the Thalmor agent, who was apparently living in Dengeir's house after turning Thadgeir out… and the Thalmor weren't really part of the Legion, anyway.

I think it was this, since it was the first real clash between locals and non-locals, that really set the stage for the current civil unrest. But you can't tell these Thalmor anything; they've surely got dung between their ears.

Well, he was in there, alone, by himself—no need to share tent-space with the smelly sub-Altmer filth—which means it won't be as hard to sneak in and deal with him, when the time comes.

So those I dealt with flirted a little with me, tried to soften up Geirlund's lad for recruitment, and let us go about our business. Because, of course, there were no papers to verify identities. Just names on a paper, and anyone can lie about a name.

-L-

"And no one suspects this is here?" Ulfric asked, turning slowly in place to take in the Pinewatch complex, and the soldiers manning it—Irileth was conveniently out of sight, though something she said to me earlier makes me think that while she doesn't know where she is, she believes she remains in close proximity to Balgruuf's children.

Well, I suppose there was room for conjecture on that point. At the very least—and I don't believe it on principle—she seemed prepared to endure her confinement. Oh, she had a few nasty things to say, don't get me wrong, and she watched everyone and everything with sneaky observing eyes, but I thought I recognized someone already set to work massing patience. Her ears are open though, so the lads will need to watch what they say while in earshot.

"No one but those I've brought into the secret," I answered. "Did that problem ever show up?"

"Oh, yes," Ulfric grinned smugly. "Unfortunately, the revelers they thought they were attacking were significantly less drunk than expected. They thought they were crashing our victory celebrations, you see."

"As you suspected."

Ulfric chuckled, pleased with himself. "I've been a soldier long enough to make some accurate predictions. Your suggestion of Brunwulf Free-Winter for Thane was inspired. He sends me messages every third day, and seems to know his business. A little too well, maybe, but that's neither here nor there."

He sends me duplicates of those messages, which were in the satchel of correspondence Svana brought to me—most of it is in the vein of a journal in brief, major points so that the reader knows what's been going on, what decisions have been rendered, what problems have cropped up. It's very organized.

We aren't more than cordial, but as Thane, he spends a great deal of time at the Palace of the Kings. As the one who invited M. Roche-Guyon, I spent a lot of evenings there, too. So although we aren't friendly, we definitely can work together. And I think he's heard a little about me from Suvaris, because there was very little awkward sounding out of an ally.

"Now, tell me about the situation here." Ulfric settled into one of the comfortable chairs in Geirlund's office space, Galmar perching in the other chair which he'd dragged to the side of the desk.

"I'll be slipping in tonight to topple the leadership, but the Legion is already doing your job for you: they're sowing discontent with the status quo. In fact, if Valga thought she could get away with it, I expect she'd send them packing. How long until the army marches?"

"They'll be here in three days," Ulfric answered promptly. "Is that enough time?"

"Oh, I should think so." Three days for the locals to lose their Jarl (and his Thalmor handler); three days for the locals to get frustrated with the Legion and the lack of leadership; three days for the situation to come to a head.

I think Valga would 'invite' the Legion to go somewhere else, if she had the chance to do so. No hard feelings, but Siddgeir made the invitation and once he's gone… no invitation remains. It will be interesting, one way or another.

-L-

Dear Father,

We're writing this, Dagny, Nelkir and me, to let you know that we're alright, and that we got your letter. We were very scared when we woke up here, wherever here is, but Master and Mistress Battle-Born explained it for us. I do wish you'd warned us. But Rannild is here, too, and she looks after us, like always.

It's a very nice place where we are. (CENSORED: It's on the shores of a lake, and there's a ruin on the far side!) I don't think it appropriate for us to be made to grub in the dirt, but Rannild says that Mistress Battle-Born is right: it's good to know how to grow food, if only so I appreciate it when it comes time to tax during a bad season. Dagny likes it, though.

Are you sure you can't come here with us?

Yours,

Frothar (and Dagny and Nelkir)

P.S: It's very boring here. I'm pretty sure I like the city better.

-L-

I checked to make sure the line describing Lake Ilinalta was properly obscured, then set the letter aside to dry. Personally, I agreed with Rannild and Olfina: let the children learn what it takes firsthand to coax food from the earth. Teach them a trade. One never knows in these uncertain times: they may not be heirs and heiress if Balgruuf never recovers Whiterun.

I think he will, sooner or later, although if I was going to resurrect the Empire of the Septim Dynasty, I would prefer to keep Balgruuf close at hand as an advisor or a member of my Elder Council. They're almost exclusively Imperial these days—partly due to the way the Empire fractured—but there's an argument to be made for leadership not understanding the different peoples they govern. That creates friction, which leads to further fragmentation.

I shook myself, shouldering the bag of equipment I would need tonight. Two assassinations, and I can't be connected to either. Of course, I can't be seen trooping around in Imperial Legion regalia in my own camp, either. In the dark, no one would realize it was me until I was stuck so full of arrows I'd resemble a pincushion.

The bad pork, while not disabling the army so the Stormcloaks could take advantage of the weakness, nevertheless made my job easier. Not only was the Legion—and that Thalmor pig—doubled up with the runs, but their tempers were even more out of sorts. So much the better: they can alienate the locals even more. Their pitiful condition, I might add, left them less watchful than they might have otherwise been.

And the reek around the camp was astounding. Such ailments never smell reasonable, but multiply that by the fifty-odd men there were, and the sour unpleasantness increased more than just proportionally.

Some cast imprecations about the homesteader who sent the meat; others blamed the kitchen crew for not getting it prepared quickly enough; some thought it was an honest mistake, and yet others didn't seem sure whether to pray to the gods to let them live… or to strike them down and get it over with.

In my Legionnaire's garb, I made a show of knocking—while making very little noise—then entering the house that formerly belonged to Dengair, which was rightfully Thadgeir's, and which had been appropriated by that Thalmor pig. From a distance, if anyone was watching, it might be a bit odd, but it might be some poor private dispatched by her superiors to make sure their handler hadn't died horribly.

Or to let the cleanup crew know if he had.

The interesting point, for me, was that the Thalmor was more than happy to partake of the porky bounty. To the point, I might add, that he was dead to the world when I slipped into the house. The sour reek of a chamber pot in need of emptying laced the air, and I could only suppose he'd reached the point of 'why empty it now? It's not full yet, and I'm just going to need it again in a minute…'

The Thalmor himself lay curled on one side, seeming to huddle in on himself with misery. He was asleep, and the jug of water by the bed suggested he'd been working hard to keep himself hydrated.

Moving softly, thinking shadowy thoughts, I wrapped one of his discarded robes around my hand to keep him from biting. My protected hand descended over his mouth to muffle any noise he might make, but the knife slid smoothly into his back between his ribs, once, twice, a third time for surety. He was certainly dead by the second stroke.

I undid the protective cloak from my hand, cleaning my knife on it before putting the garment back where I found it. The next step was to investigate his belongings, particularly any papers he might have. This did not take long. Then, I withdrew from the house. "Yes, sir. I'm so sorry for interrupting… no sir, I'm sure it's nothing." I pretended to listen, then inclined my head as if enduring the fellow's bad temper. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir." Shutting the door firmly behind me, I muttered 'troll-bait' before stomping off wearily, as if on a new assignment. As I walked, my fingers found my pendant of identity-blurring. "Suscito."

No one said anything. No one tried to stop me. So, unhampered and untroubled, I made my way to the Jarl's longhouse.

The longhouse was full of sleeping officers, most of them fitfully asleep. "Got a message for the Jarl from that pointy-eared milk-drinker," I announced disgustedly. "He says it won't wait."

The guard's eyes slid over me as if trying to isolate my identity, then he nodded. "Message?"

I shrugged. "He was acting like a wounded daedroth. I wasn't going to ask questions, sir."

"Well, let's not give His Majesty a reason to make himself an annoyance to us." He nodded me to proceed.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

A little surprised that he didn't draw out the exchange further, I almost made for Siddgeir's room, before an alarm pinged in my head. I took a single step forward, covering my sudden prudence with a show of confusion. "Uh, sir? Which room…?"

Whether the watchman harbored suspicions about me or not, he pointed me to the correct room. "That one, there."

"Thank you, sir." Ugh. With that, I made for it, and knocked, quietly so as not to wake the whole longhouse, but loudly enough to wake Siddgeir… I hoped.

A muffled grunt. "Go away!"

I opened the door, shutting it firmly before me.

Siddgeir, not fully awake, glowered at me. "I should have you executed," he growled.

"I'm sorry, but—"

"You'd better be sorry!" Siddgeir threw his blankets aside.

Huh. He really is a small man.

"You Legionnaires come here as my guests… and now you're picking out carpets and drapes! It's intolerable!"

"I'm sorry, my lord, but—"

Siddgeir stomped up to me, grabbed me by the shoulder—as best he could, considering my armor—then settled for grabbing my arm as if he meant to march me to the door. "Come back in the morning," he snarled.

I began to struggle, less to get away and more to gain a good position. "But, sir, the Thal—"

"Well, that's your problem, isn't—" He didn't finish the sentence. His wrangling had let me turn enough to put power behind a thrust, and that thrust went unerringly under his chin, the blade of the knife sliding up through his mouth and into his brain.

It took a hasty scramble to take his weight, so as to avoid a dull thud that might be overheard.

"Yes, sir, it is," I said, as if to Siddgeir as I wrangled him back to his bed. "But I'm afraid he's in charge as far as the Legion goes. He did stay it was important. Can I at least leave the message here?"

The blankets went back over him, drawn up as high as I could get them.

Carefully, I pulled the knife free, the bedlinens immediately blossoming with blood. Fortunately, not much got onto me, which could have been awkward to explain.

"Thank you, sir." Hopefully, anyone listening will assume he'd simply dropped his voice to answer me. A quick check for blood, which I blotted off as best I could on a discarded tunic, then I stepped out of the room, withdrawing.

"Nasty little shit, isn't he?" the watchman asked companionably as I passed.

"Why do we want him, again?" I sighed, rolling my eyes.

"Politics, honey. It's just politics," the watchman answered, patting my shoulder.

I nodded morosely, then withdrew, working my way out of Falkreath to the place I'd left my regular clothes. Changing into them, I made the trip to Pinewatch, to find Ulfric dozing in Geirlund's office, giving every impression of waiting for someone. He woke up when I cleared my throat.

"Is it done?" he asked.

"It's done. Neat, clean, and effective. Now, we let them stew. I'll be keeping an eye on the situation myself, henceforward."

"We need to talk about Markarth, soon."

"I've got a plan starting to come together."

Ulfric nodded, pushing himself out of the chair and stretching until his bones began to pop. "No trouble?"

I found myself smiling. "No trouble at all, my Jarl." I hadn't had to wade through any overwhelming hatred, hadn't risked the mission for the sake of sending a message of my own, hadn't been unable to think coolly and rationally, even when faced with someone I hated so much. He died like he lived: ignominiously. It wasn't satisfying, but he was dead. And that was the point, really.