Ulfric sat atop his new horse and let the sheer absurdity of his predicament fade to disdain. He'd always figured his ultimate defeat would end in Sovngarde, not with him traveling on an Imperial horse with a saddle and blanket both emblazoned with the Imperial insignia behind a Dunmer legate who happened to be the prophesized Dragonborn.
He sat silently for the hours they'd been riding, cursing her name and the Old Laws that she held him by. He cursed her humming more than anything; it was some obnoxious little tune that cut through what wind she let pick up before Shouting it away again. And her coinpurse jingled in time with every step of the horse, clinking in an even rhythm to the Dragonborn's humming.
Any bandits waiting to ambush travellers would have an easy time sneaking up on them, if not an easy time taking her Septims, and whatever was in her bulging saddlebags.
"Do you have a favorite song, Ulfric?"
"Don't call me that," Ulfric snapped. How dare she let his name into her mouth.
The Dragonborn turned her head to look at him. Ulfric hoped he looked significantly murderous. She knew he could Shout her off that horse, get the jump on her any time he liked. If he was quiet enough about it, he could probably slip from the horse's back and disappear into the wilderness. But he couldn't think of a reason to. He had…he had nothing.
"Alright, then, do you have a favorite song, Stormcloak?"
Ulfric didn't answer.
"I'm rather partial to The Dragonborn Comes, myself," she continued as if he wasn't ignoring her, taking a second to laugh at her own bad joke. She rambled on about Nordic songs for a while. "What, Kyne got your Tongue?" The Dragonborn finally asked. "Have you no words to speak?"
How could she even ask that? As if he would be silent on his own capture, his own defeat, the defeat of everything he stood for! "I have many words for you, Elf," he spat.
"Speak then!" The Dragonborn dared. "The road to Winterhold is long, and silence is boring." Ulfric fumed, not sure where to begin with his grievances. "Well?"
"You are not worthy of my words," Ulfric finally said, turning up his nose. "You only bested me by outnumbering me and using your dirty Elven Magic."
The Dragonborn laughed. "Outnumbering you in skill, perhaps! Please, half the Mercenaries in Skyrim could best you in swordsmanship." She laid the pelt over her horse's neck, allowing it to dry.
"I'd like to see them try."
"Of course you would," she snorted, drawing one of her Daedric swords. "Surely, you are the best warrior in all of Skyrim." Ulfric kept silent, knowing that anything he dared say would be used against him. "I have no doubt that you could best any challenger that has the gall to think themselves worthy of your battle prowess. Your blade would run them through before they could even get a single word out! Obviously that was why I was able to defeat you sword to sword whilst General Tullius and Legate Rikke were occupied with your second in command.
"Oh but wait! I forgot to address my use of 'dirty Elven Magic!'" The Dragonborn took a second to turn and shrug at Ulfric. "My armor must be what you speak of, since besides casting a simple paralysis spell-after your defeat, I might add-I refrained from magic or the Thu'um in our duel! I'll excuse your use of the Voice, since it occurred before our swords clashed. But, regardless, these shameful enchantments gave me quite the unfair advantage. How could anyone be expected to win against a cheating Dunmer with armor enchantments? You're right, Jarl, my swordsmanship was certainly influenced by spell-enhancing enchantments on my cuirass. I should've worn regular, unmodified clothes as you do, that is the best attire to wear in a war."
There was a pause, and all was silent, save for the regular trot of the horses. "Are you finally finished?" Ulfric finally asked. If the Dragonborn was always this talkative, Ulfric decided he would rather fall on his own sword than listen to her nasal Cyrodiilic accent at all hours of the day.
"For now," she replied, "but you will be getting armor. And not that worthless hide and iron your soldiers are so fond of wearing." Ulfric bit his tongue. His armor was hardly worthless; it was ceremonial and ancient and passed down through generations and…he'd never need it again. The Dragonborn continued, "My children could cut through it. I'll forge you a nice set of ebony as soon as we reach Winterhold."
Had Ulfric been walking, he would've stopped in his tracks. "You, an armorer? Don't humor me." He ignored the comment about children. Ulfric could only imagine the hell of meeting her family. They were probably just as headstrong as the Dragonborn.
"Yes, I learned the trade back in Cyrodiil. I apprenticed before the Great War," the Dragonborn said, eyeing the peaks of the cliffs lining the road, "and ran my own shop after. I like to think I've improved quite a bit since my youth. I've dealt with ebony a time or two before."
Ulfric whispered a small prayer to the Nine to keep him safe with this overly confident elf.
"Speaking of, I'll have to enchant it, too. Can't have unenchanted armor."
Ulfric rolled his eyes. It was bad enough she'd already captured him using the ancient Nord traditions, which she'd no doubt learned through desecrating a barrow. She had the look of those adventurer types to her. Her wealth was stolen from the dead. How disgraceful, not to mention her blatant disregard for any actual tradition. If the Dragonborn had paid any attention in the past months, she would've learned that Nordic warfare had evolved from 'capture and humiliate your enemy' to 'take no prisoners'. As if Nord culture mattered to an Elf. And now she felt the need to to ramble on like some gossiping noble.
"Have you ever fought a dragon before?" The Dragonborn mused, changing the topic. Perhaps she sensed Ulfric's annoyance. He doubted it was hard to sense; he was still weighing the pros and cons of killing her. If only he could get a weapon, somehow.
"Not everyone goes around hunting for death as you do," Ulfric replied.
The Dragonborn smiled. "When one attacks, aim for its stomach. Its scales are weakest there."
"Dragons can fly," Ulfric pointed out. "I don't have a bow."
She huffed. "Well, we can't do anything about that out in the middle of the wilderness, can we? Please, try not to die until we reach Winterhold. Getting eaten by the first dragon you encounter will not be good for whatever reputation you still have."
"I've fought dragons before," Ulfric protested.
"I don't count Helgen," the Dragonborn replied. "Neither one of us did much fighting. Lots of running away, though. No shame in staying alive to fight another day."
Ulfric scowled. He remembered Helgen very differently, without all the cowardice she described. He was distracted from his thoughts by a loud screech, echoing off the mountain faces. "By the Nine, what was that?"
"A dragon," the Dragonborn answered, drawing one of her swords. "There's a lair somewhere in those mountains that I just can't find. Every time I travel this road, I get attacked around here." Ulfric noticed the large bones at the side of the road. The Dragonborn stopped the horses and hopped off, motioning for him to do the same. "Let's hope it's a weaker one."
Ulfric dismounted his horse, and the Dragonborn led both of the horses behind a rock formation, tying them both to an outcropping. The dragon roared again, and Ulfric drew his steel sword. The Dragonborn wordlessly offered him one of her Daedric swords. Ulfric took the cool blade. It was perfectly balanced, light and long and comfortable in his grip. The guthooks looked beyond deadly, and he eyed the Dragonborn. It would be so simple to cut her down right now, while she scanned the sky and listened for another roar.
"You remember how the Greybeards always stressed meditation and peace with Shouting?" The Dragonborn asked, drawing her second sword. Ulfric nodded. He'd lost his chance. She was armed and alert. "Rip the dragon apart with your Voice." The two flinched against the latest roar; it was so loud snow fell off the sparse vegetation. The horses whinnied behind them.
A dragon circled overhead once and landed on the peak of a cliff overlooking the road. It's scales were the color of dried blood, a deep coppery brown that reflected light in a pure shining gold. It stopped to stare down the two with a gaze that sent a shiver through Ulfric's spine. Beside him, the Dragonborn sighed. "It's one of the powerful ones. Stay behind me," She announced.
"Dovahkiin," the dragon hissed, leaning off its perch. "Hi fen dir." (You will die)