Nariilu cursed to herself for not taking at least a minute to ask Stormcloak what in Oblivion she should expect in Sovngarde. She prided herself on being relatively prepared for most situations; she wasn't one to lead soldiers into battle recklessly, and usually knew enough of her opponents to keep herself a step or two ahead. A plan, no matter how loose, would take one further than sheer, dumb luck, but over-developed contingencies for every possible minutia were distracting and just as good as no plan at all.

A general overview of a plan allowed for improvisation in the case of the completely unexpected, whilst still providing enough guidance to prepare and overcome. And so even though her planned outcome of challenging Odahviing had very quickly gone far off the path of simply finding Alduin's location, Nariilu couldn't say it was a failure. In fact, by some degree it was much more successful than she'd expected. No long detours and dragon-hunting to reach his lair required, it had only taken a jaunt through the most packed barrow she'd ever seen to find the damned dragon, right where Odahviing said he'd be.

And, even better, Alduin had fled from her again. She was closer than ever to killing him, even with him at his most powerful yet, and her half-blind and half-dead after that last Shout of his. Nariilu refused to even consider that Alduin was playing with her like a saber cat with a skeever. He feared her, feared her power. If he were not a coward, she perhaps could've taken him down once and for all. Once she managed to convince some of the warriors inside the Hall of Valor to join her in one last, grand dragon hunt, Alduin would be nothing more than a memory.

That is, if she could get past the mountain of a Man guarding the grand bone bridge to the golden Hall.

He knew she was there, just off the path and sizing him up, he'd locked eyes with her since probably before she even noticed him, not letting up since. Nariilu couldn't make out the details of his features from this distance, save for his towering height and the nasty-looking battleaxe strapped to his back. But there was something challenging in his stare; he wouldn't let her pass with a simple wave and a nod.

Nariilu bit her cheek and tapped her hilted swords before standing and approaching the final hundred yards. With each step, the man seemed to grow taller, and the throbbing pain in her back from where Alduin Shouted her into the rocks grew sharper, blood warming further down her torso. She ran a hand along her back, feeling her shoulder strain against her movement. Her fingers found a solid dent just below her left shoulder, drawing her hand away as even the soft pressure against it sent a numbness through her back. She prayed to Shor that whoever this was would let her pass without trouble, then prayed to the Divines that Shor would hear and answer her prayers.

She stopped far enough back that she would have enough time to roll out of the way if the man decided to make a strike for her, but he stared through her with no apparent malice. No, the only expression Nariilu could find was a strange sort of sorrowful pride, almost reminding her of the look her mother had given her when she left to join the Legion.

"What brings you, wayfarer grim, to wander here, in Sovngarde, Shor's gift to the honored dead?" The man spoke with a gravity that turned her stomach.

"I pursue Alduin, and seek entrance to the Hall of Valor in search of assistance," Nariilu answered. Her voice cracked, but otherwise met his firm speech in turn.

"A fateful errand," he replied. Nariilu noticed he had none of the subtle sway to his stance, not even the most experienced and trained guards could stand without their breath or heartbeats giving them away as living. "No few have chafed to face the wyrm since he first set his soul-snare here at Sovngarde's threshold. But Shor restrained our wrathful onslaught." The man took a step to the side to stand in the middle of the bridge. "Perhaps, deep-counselled, your doom he foresaw."

Nariilu froze. Her doom. You spiral towards your own destruction. That's what the Augur of Dunlain had warned her. And now this giant of a man was implying the same thing, from Shor, no less. "Are you Ysgramor?"

A twitch of his eyebrow told her no. "I am Tsun, Shield-Thane to Shor. The Whalebone Bridge he bade me guard and winnow all those souls whose heroic end sent them here, to Shor's lofty hall where welcome, well earned, awaits those I judge fit to join that fellowship of honor."

"Judge?" Nariilu eyed his battleaxe, still strapped to his back, easily taller than her.

Tsun nodded. "Living or dead, by decree of Shor, none may pass this perilous bridge until I judge them worthy by the warrior's test," he said. Nariilu sighed and rested her hands on her swords, shifting her weight to be ready to strike the second Tsun reached for his battleaxe. If he had the agility of an average man, which she found little reason to assume was true, she'd have a few precious seconds to do her worst before he had the upper hand. Tsun continued. "And yet,

no shade are you, as usually here passes, but living, you dare the land of the dead. By what right do you request entry?"

Were Elves not allowed inside? "By right of heritage. My grandfather was High King Erling," she answered. Nariilu never hoped more than now that her grandmother hadn't lied to her dying breath about her grandfather's identity. She squared her shoulders, as if that would make her more obviously a part-Nord.

"Heritage means nothing," Tsun replied. "Many a fool rests on the deeds of hallowed ancestors, idle in worth stolen from the womb. I deny you challenge on the right of heritage."

"What about worth given in the womb by the gods themselves?" Nariilu asked, her stomach dropping at Tsun's refusal. "I seek entrance by right of birth, as the Last Dragonborn."

Tsun's face brightened, his steely expression shifting to almost a smile. "Ah! It's been too long since I last faced a doom-driven hero of the dragon's blood."

There it was again. Doom. "What does that mean, 'doom-driven'?"

"Prove worthy by the warrior's test, and cross the bridge to the blessed hall," was the only answer Tsun gave her. And then he charged, quicker than she could keep track of, swinging his axe. Nariilu dropped to the ground to dodge his blade, feeling the cold wind from Tsun's strike. A chunk of rock fell from the mountain where she had just been standing.

She threw an rune beneath them, chunks of ice growing up Tsun's legs as he instantly triggered it. He stepped free of them far too easily, shards falling like glass as he moved to strike again. "Wuld, nah!" Nariilu Shouted, putting enough distance between them that she had time to draw her swords before he was bearing down with another devastating strike.

She caught his battleaxe on both swords, knees buckling beneath his strength. Nariilu cursed to herself; it would be a damned shame if she came all this way, had Alduin fleeing from her two-two and a half-times, only to be killed by a random Thane. A Thane of a god, but still, she'd much rather go at the hands of an actual god on the off chance she ever died.

Tsun pulled his axe back, keeping it close to his chest and ready to block the attack he was waiting for. There was a glint in his eyes Nariilu would've matched if she didn't have much bigger things to worry about, like living to die. She struck back with strike after strike, all of them meeting the long handle of Tsun's battleaxe, each coming quicker than the last. She twisted around him, looking for any weak point in his defense and not finding any. He moved faster than she, and Nariilu decided she rather enjoyed being quicker than her opponents, but the dent in her armor pressed painfully each time she moved her left arm.

It was infuriating how not even the forbidden knowledge she held was helping her against Tsun. She switched to striking with one sword, spraying frost at him with her left hand to keep her shoulder comparatively still. He slowed ever so slightly, and Nariilu took advantage of it to feint towards his knees and change to strike his arms, high above where she should've been able to slice without telegraphing her aim.

Tsun bled golden from his wound, just below his elbow. Nariilu jumped back, pride swelling in her stomach that she was able to hit him. Tsun glanced at his wound with a nod. "Let the joy of battle burn in your heart," he said, ghosting his free hand over the cut; it healed by the time he returned to a two-handed grip on his battleaxe. He charged again, Nariilu twisting free in time to avoid an overheaded sweep. Tsun chuckled as an ice spike connected with his leg, opening another golden wound.

And then it hit her. That was the key; enjoying the fight for the sake of fighting, not for winning. Nariilu grimaced against the dull pain in her neck as she holstered one sword, knowing it would fade soon enough. Instead, she raised her newly free hand ready to cast any spell the fight required of her, just behind the guard of her sword for easy access to two-handed attacks. The same stance they taught each recruit on the first day of Battlemage training, the same stance that led her to victory time and time again; agile, adaptable, sturdy. Something changed in Tsun's stance as well. It was less guarded in the subtle way that most adopted for training, but few noticed enough to correct.

Nariilu charged, sliding between his legs to slice at his ankles with one hand and leave another rune behind with another. Tsun broke the ice easily, but stumbling as his blood froze through the open wound. She twisted up, taking advantage of his misstep to aim for his legs again. Nariilu missed her mark; Tsun pushed his battleaxe handle into her, throwing her to the ground.

He swung down at her. The blade broke through her hasty ward and clipped at her right arm as Nariilu rolled away. From this close range, Tsun blocked a quick ice spear on his bracer instead of attempting a dodge. The ice shattered and stuck into his bare chest like thorns. Nariilu cast another spear in his direction as she jumped up to a low crouch, swiping towards his calves. His height was to her detriment; not only did Tsun have probably triple her reach with his long weapon, he was well armored from his ribs down, save for around his knees.

The spear had a similar effect to the one prior. Golden blood dripped down over his armor as he caught her downward swing on his battleaxe's handle. Nariilu stepped onto the horizontal pole, pushing herself up to Tsun's eye level before he could react. She pulled her blade up with her, letting it drag through his skirt of furs and leathers, scrape over his metal stomach armor, cut through his chest. She held her sword to his neck for almost a second before she fell from his axe handle as he twisted in one smooth motion, stepping back until she was out of her own range but still well within his.

She would've thought that move was particularly flashy enough to satisfy his demand for 'joy of battle', but the way he swung his axe in a neat side sweep proved otherwise. Nariilu caught the axe head with her sword, slowing it down before it crunched through her armor right where her left shoulder guard met the leather padding beneath. Nariilu cried out in pain, feeling her blood rush out in time with her racing heart.

"I've waited long for such a worthy opponent!" Tsun exclaimed, already pulling back for another strike. Nariilu moved in close again, preventing him from doing anything but blocking and slamming her with his weapon. As long as she kept him on the defensive, or at the very least from using the axe blade, she had some chance. She fought with strike after stab after sweep, dodging knees and that long handle, her blood dotting the snow and dust beneath them with every move.

Her blood warmed her arm in time with racing heartbeats as she let loose a spray of frost from her hand, arm aching with the effort of raising it to aim at Tsun's wounded chest. From this range, he could do little more than take advantage of her divided concentration to attempt to break her string of attacks. "Fus, ro dah!" Nariilu Shouted, almost hoping she would send Tsun flying off the cliff into the void.

Instead, she found herself stumbling back away from him. Nariilu steeled her footing and managed not to topple over, looking up at the towering Tsun standing firm in front of the Whalebone Bridge. Judging from the lack of Tsun-sized footprints in the dirt around him he hadn't moved from her Shout. She allowed herself to take a second to hiss in pain and annoyance before charging, her left side dulling into a low throb with battle fury.

She stepped to the side at the last second, dodging two quick swipes of Tsun's battleaxe; he wielded it as quickly as an assassin handled a dagger. Nariilu ignored the feeling of her back grinding against damaged armor, of her open wounds stretching as she moved, grabbing her hilt with both hands. She pulled her sword above her head and pushed her weight into forcing the blade into his ribs, right below his shoulder.

Tsun stopped, slamming the hilt of his battleaxe to the ground and looked down on her as if she were a stray dog begging for scraps. "You fought well," he said. Nariilu pulled her sword from his chest and the wound instantly closed. The blood on his chest and armor and her sword dissolved away. "I find you worthy. It is long since one of the living has entered here. May Shor's favor follow you and your errand."

Nariilu tried to control her breathing as Tsun stepped to the side and gestured for her to pass with a tilt of his head. She felt like collapsing, and would much rather fall into a pile of exhaustion where she couldn't slip through wide gaps between whalebones. "Can you heal me, too?" She asked, sheathing her sword and pressing her hand to staunch the blood soaking her left arm and staining the snow. She looked around the battlefield; splatters of crimson and ice decorated snow and dirt.

"Here in Shor's Hall, we honor the Clever Craft," Tsun answered. "You will find many of your comrades throng this hall, mage-warrior."

Of course not. Nariilu did what little she could to her wound, figuring another scar or four wouldn't make much of a difference.


Lydia was right; returning to Whiterun from Korvanjund took much longer than the trip there. They arrived at sundown, with Lydia insisting on transferring the crates and chests from the carriage to carts that fit through the city gates. By the time they arrived at Breezehome and had all the crates stacked in the main room, the moons were high in the sky. Ulfric could've sworn each crate was heavier than the last.

He sent blessings to the Nine when Lydia decided to postpone pulling up the floor for proper storage until the morning, pulling off his heavy ebony and collapsing in his soft bed, still nestled between crates that likely held their own untold riches. The feather mattress was a far cry from the cloth-covered straw in Jorrvaskr, and a silence came with it that couldn't be found sleeping in the same room as a dozen others. He drifted off to sleep almost without thinking about how this bed was softer than his had been in Windhelm.

The next morning was spent counting coin and estimating weights of gems for Lydia's long scroll of finances. She neatly wrote the worth of little pouches of wealth before tying them off and setting them aside, doing the same for when they finally made it through all the small divisions and to packing mid-sized crates for shipments all over Skyrim. Ulfric found it amazing that she had the thoroughness to write down the exact worth of each crate down to the smallest garnet, given that she was a Housecarl, not a banker. Even more so, the cozy home was by no means a base of operation, but Lydia ran it as efficiently as Ulfric drilled his recruits.

She was a leader, and one that knew to keep her head on her shoulders, unlike her Thane. Ulfric supposed that someone had to keep the Dragonborn in line, and who would've guessed that it would be a twenty-something Housecarl who seemed to know as much about logistics as swordsmanship. "Where did you learn all this?" Ulfric finally asked. His mind swam with numbers from divvying up coin into piles of a hundred Septims all morning.

Lydia shrugged. "I learned to handle my family's money from a young age. And I have a list of more or less what to send where." She tapped the scroll with her quill. "My Thane is peculiar about her wealth."

"What family?" Ulfric asked. She'd mentioned being from a noble family off-handed before, but never provided details of her own. "Graymane? Battleborn?" He tried to remember any other well-off family in Whiterun and found his mind blank.

"Neither," Lydia replied. She shifted in her seat. "I serve the Dragonborn, now. Anyways, all the pouches are for you. To distribute around the city, that is. The little ones are for the residents from the Plains District, the bigger ones are for the Cloud District."

So she didn't want to discuss her heritage. Ulfric wasn't sure if he smelled a scandal or just a case of a woman making her own way in the world, but at the very least it would be something to keep him occupied. His mind immediately jumped to Lydia being an illegitimate child, then to her family suddenly being left destitute. Or murdered by a rival family, maybe even fleeing Skyrim after…a bear attack.

"Plains District comes first. All you have to do is knock on doors, thank whoever answers, give them the gold, and move on to the next house," Lydia said. "

"No apology?"

"Do you really want to invite people to forgive you?" Lydia asked. "No, just thank them. People like being thanked and handed money."

"And if no one's home?" He still thought it was a horrible idea. Ulfric recalled the feeble old woman who pulled a knife on him not two weeks ago, thinking of all the citizens of Whiterun that were in their prime of life.

"Leave it by the door. Word gets around; everyone'll know where it came from by midnight."

Ulfric left Breezehome with a sack full of pouches full of money. He felt uncomfortably like a robber hauling coin purses, even more so as he knocked on the door of the first house, just behind Breezehome. Charred scars ran up the right of the building, giving it a worn look in contrast to the obviously new thatch on the roof. Ulfric winced as he inspected the door; it didn't fit quite right in its frame, leaving a large gap towards the top. He knocked twice. The door swung open an inch.

He bit his cheek, reaching to pull the door closed when it opened fully, a tiny old woman standing before him, her smile quickly turning to a venomous scowl when she recognized him. Ulfric forced himself to stand still and didn't give her a chance to pull her dagger on him again before he thrust a pouch in her hands. "Thank you for your resilience in these difficult times. May this gift help you prosper."

And Ulfric turned and walked away, stopping when the old woman grabbed his arm with an unexpectedly firm grip. "Why?" The woman stared up at him with…not quite anger, not quite confusion, not quite gratefulness.

"Does there have to be a reason, ma'am?"

The woman narrowed her eyes and, with one hand, deftly untied the pouch to look inside. When she looked back up, her face softened, but remained guarded. "You should stay for a reading, dear. I'm a seer, a good one."

Ulfric didn't believe in seers. Nobody but the gods could see one's destiny. "I'm sorry, but I can't-"

"You'll be back," the woman said. She holstered the dagger Ulfric hadn't noticed she was holding at a guard. "Enjoy your dinner."

The door slammed in Ulfric's face, popping into its frame with no gaps to let in a draft.


Delivering Septims went quicker than Ulfric thought it might; most people were stunned speechless when he handed them the money, but he wasn't quite sure if it was because they recognized him, or the money itself, or both. Any hurled insults were silenced, and sometimes even replaced with thanks and well wishes. By the end of the day, he had finished delivering to much of the Plains District. His dinner of a simple roast, while filling, left his mind wandering to the seer's words earlier. Perhaps she was just being polite, or underhandedly warning him of a poor meat that would leave him sick. He put his fork down.

And the next day found him delivering pouches to people waiting outside their homes for him to arrive. Lydia had been right; word traveled fast around Whiterun. Finishing the Plains District a short time after noon, Ulfric picked up a sack full of bigger pouches of money and headed towards the Clouds District.

There, no one waited for him. The well-off had little need for handouts, even though their homes had been some of the most damaged in the Dragonsreach Gambit. And they looked at him with suspicion and confusion, closing doors or, on one occasion, throwing back the money in his face. Ulfric placed the purses by doors and in windows when they weren't accepted by hand.

He wondered if they knew where he'd gotten the money. Or if they thought he was taking it from their popular Thane. Maybe they concluded Ulfric was giving them a bit of his own personal wealth, as if all of what was left after the war hadn't all been passed to Freewinter, or seized by the Empire.

Still, a crowd gathered around him as he worked his way up the Cloud District, past the large homes of landwealthy families and merchants, towards the halls of the great Clans of Whiterun, some of them dating back to the founding of the city, just as ancient as Jorrvaskr and the Gildergreen. The Clans all held some allegiance to either the Graymanes or Battleborns, but Ulfric couldn't tell as much as the Clan names from the maids and stewards that answered the doors, much less where their loyalty laid. Or had laid; Ulfric doubted many would stand behind the Graymanes after…well, after he disgraced them.

And when he finally made it to the grand Clanhalls of the Graymanes and Battleborns, each on opposite sides of the main road to the city center, he couldn't decide which to visit first. Graymanes, and get it over with? Vignar had openly stated his disgust with him at Jorrvaskr, and the entire family had misplaced their trust. He'd failed them just as much as he'd failed every warrior that fought under his flag and his false promises.

On the other hand, the Battleborns hadn't any of that to apologize for. They'd answered his letters on revolution with terse refusals. They'd held loyalty to the Empire closer to their hearts; they ran deep roots to Solitude, swearing a distant relation to Torygg, and an even deeper relation to the Mede Dynasty. Ulfric was sure they'd claim relations with the Septims, if someone asked. Still, they owned half the farms in the fertile plains, and the Empire dealt with money more than most Nords. No wonder they'd shirked his requests for aid and loyalty.

Even better, the Battleborns would likely accept the money with no questions. They'd expect no apology, unlike the Graymanes who deserved one. He knocked on the Battleborn's door after a glance behind him towards the Graymane's home. It loomed over the street with ancient stones, looking ready to swallow him whole. He turned back around towards the warm pines of the Battleborn home.

The door opened, a child of around ten or so half-hidden behind the door. Ulfric bit his cheek; he was never good with children in the best of circumstances. "Hey, son," Ulfric said, pulling around the sack of gold and gems, much more than he'd given any other household. The Graymanes would get the same amount down to the weight of the garnets. Ulfric continued, kneeling down to the boy's height. "Your Grandda's Olfrid, right?" The child nodded. "Give him this and thank him for his resilience in these difficult times, alright?"

Ulfric held out the sack, waiting for the boy to take it. He looked on the verge of tears, poor boy. "Wh-what's resilience mean?"

"It means to be strong when things are tough," Ulfric answered. "You're strong, aren't you?" Ulfric bit back a frown. Here he was drawing out his time at the Battleborn hall. Every second in front of this door increased the chance that Olfrid would come out and give him some swill about progress being more important than liberty, or, Divines forbid, the Graymanes seeing him speaking with the Battleborns.

The boy shook his head. "I can't fight good, not like my Da. I'll never be a soldier like him." He sniffed, opening the door a little wider. Ulfric fought against himself. He didn't have the heart to simply walk away from this kid like he had with so many others who questioned him when he brought money. "You're a soldier, right, mister?"

"Not anymore," Ulfric said, pushing the sack a little closer to the boy, urging him to take it. "You remember what I said to tell to your Grandda?"

A voice called from inside. "Lars, who's at the door, dear?" Ulfric winced as the door swung open fully, an old woman standing above him. She frowned down at him, then up at him as he stood to nod towards her. "You've got some nerve knocking on my door, after all you've done to us."

Ulfric opened his mouth to acknowledge as such, and to hand her the sack of money and be on his merry way across the street to the Graymane's, but the woman continued. He tried to recall the name of Olfrid's wife to no avail. Lars hid behind his grandmother's legs.

"You've gone and made a rift here in Skyrim! Can't neither magic nor the passing of time make it right!" She put her hands on her hips, looking absolutely shrewish as she chewed him out. "Look what you've done! There was love between us Battleborns and Graymanes, and now? Nothing but hatred, you fool of a Nord. Evgir Unslaad has wormed its way into Skyrim, and into my own home. Your war may be over, but you've destroyed generations of trust and friendship across the land. Haven't you anything to say for yourself?"

"No, I don't," Ulfric answered. He handed her the sack. She stumbled under its weight but stood firm. "Thank you for your resilience and firm convictions. May this gift help you prosper and heal the wounds of the past." Ulfric turned and walked away, even as she opened her mouth to reply. He walked past the Graymane's home behind him; if the Battleborn woman saw that she'd instantly accuse him of flighty loyalty from one clan to the next.

Instead, Ulfric made a lap around the temple district, circling the Gildergreen and almost turning towards Jorrvaskr to hide in for an hour or so before returning to the Graymanes. He turned at the last second, noticing a small crowd formed around the Talos shrine. He hadn't prayed since he first entered Whiterun, not to the shrine proper, at least. He joined on the edges of the crowd of a dozen or so. The words of an enthusiastic priest rose above the crowd, just barely reaching his ears above the whistle of the winds.

"…as Man, you said, 'Let me show you the power of Talos Stormcrown, born of the North, where my breath is long winter. I breathe now, in royalty, and reshape this land which is mine. I do this for you, Red Legions, for I love you.' Aye, love. Love! Even as Man, great Talos cherished us. For he saw in us, in each of us, the future of Skyrim! The future of Tamriel!" The priest said, raising his arms to the heavens. The statue of Talos loomed behind him.

Ulfric looked around for any guard ready to pull down the priest; what he was saying was heresy, illegal. And yet, no Thalmor killed him on the spot. The town guard patrolled past, not even seeming to notice that there was a man quite literally shouting a sermon of Talos just feet from them.

"And there it is, friends! The ugly truth! We are the children of Man! Talos is the true god of Man! Ascended from flesh, to rule the realm of spirit!" The priest continued, gesturing wildly towards the crowd. A woman walked up to kneel before the shrine. The priest placed a hand on her shoulder, pausing briefly to bless her before continuing his speech. "The very idea is inconceivable to our Elven overlords! Sharing the heavens with us? With Man? Ha! They can barely tolerate our presence on Nirn!"

Two soldiers in Imperial armor joined the crowd opposite from Ulfric. He swallowed thickly as a couple went up to the shrine, hand in hand. One of the soldiers followed them, kneeling by the shrine briefly and leaving a handful of coins before returning to his partner and walking away from the scene. Even Imperial soldiers openly supporting Talos, in the Empire? They'd be put to death if they were discovered by a higher-up. Ulfric had wondered what in Oblivion Balgruuf was doing with the shrine weeks ago. He'd assumed the Jarl was waiting for the Thalmor to take it themselves, probably citing some obscure passage in the White-Gold Concordat about proper destruction of shrines.

"Today, they take away your faith. But what of tomorrow? What then? Do the Elves take your homes? Your businesses? Your children? Your very lives? And what does the Empire do? Nothing! Nay, worse than nothing! The Imperial machine enforces the will of the Thalmor! Against its own people! So rise up! Rise up, children of the Empire! Rise up, children of the Stormcrown!" The priest called. Ulfric could've died on the spot. He was still advocating for revolution, even well after the war had ended with nothing of the sort. At least the crowd was focused on the priest and not him. "Embrace the word of mighty Talos, he who is both Man and Divine! Trust in me, Whiterun! Trust in Heimskr! For I am the chosen of Talos! I alone have been anointed by the Ninth to spread his holy word!"

"Aw, he never says anything new," someone in the crowd muttered nearby. She tossed a coin to Heimskr, who caught it easily with a short blessing her way.

Ulfric turned quickly, keeping his face away from the crowds around the temples. Here was a priest, a priest of Talos, openly telling the citizens of Whiterun to fight back against the Empire, with zero repercussions from anyone. No wonder Balgruuf had been so nonchalant about letting him stay in Whiterun. He made his way back to the two grand Clan halls, watching from afar to see if anyone waited outside the Battleborn house.

Seeing no one, he hurried to the Graymane's door, knocking quickly and praying that no one would answer, that he could just leave the sack and hide in Breezehome. Or, if someone did, it would be a servant.

But, of course, his luck had run out. The door opened almost instantly, Fralia Graymane standing before him, her face warming up with recognition. "Ah, Ulfric, come in, come in! It's been far too long!" She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him inside the hall with a surprisingly strong grip, despite Ulfric's attempts to stand firm outside the threshold.