J'zargo heard the Shout, of course. So did everyone in Tolfdir's lecture. His lectures had been more boring than usual since the Eye had been brought back, and it seemed the mage had little patience for anything that wasn't giant, blue, glowing, and floating. It pissed J'zargo off; Tolfdir's lectures had gone from halfway interesting on occasion, to rushed summaries before waving them off to practice wards or magelights or some other basic skill J'zargo had mastered long before stepping foot in Skyrim.
The floor shook, and J'zargo rolled his eyes as Onmund nearly lost his footing. "Oh, is she back?" Brelyna asked aloud. It would've been an obvious statement, but J'zargo drew back his ears slightly. It could've just been the fact that he hadn't traveled with her in months, and therefore not heard her Shout in as long, but he didn't recognize that as her Voice.
"Focus, focus!" Tolfdir called, not looking away from the Eye. "You don't want to end up with impure metal!" J'zargo glanced back down at his lump of iron ore. The edges glinted a light silver. Brelyna's ore gleamed gold and Onmund's silver ore looked to still have flecks of iron. Brelyna showed her ore to Tolfdir, who inspected it briefly, turning it over once, twice, before handing it back to her and turning back to the Eye.
"Want me to do it for you?" Brelyna said out of the side of her mouth as she passed J'zargo on the way to the Arcanaeum stairs.
"Shut up," J'zargo hissed. She snickered and left.
General Tullius frowned as he listened to Brunwulf Free-Winter's speech. The new Jarl had insisted on it, despite the whispered turmoil still flowing freely through Windhelm threatening to burst at any second. It had taken all that Tullius had to keep the man from giving his damned speech seconds after Stormcloak's surrender.
"We must stand together, now more than ever! Yes, these are difficult times, yes, we may disagree, but we must not falter!" Free-Winter continued.
Tullius found it a waste of time, really. His men had to be stationed at key locations to keep Free-Winter safe from any threats, and Windhelm seemed to be built just to give any sort of would-be assassin an excellent place to hide in the shadows or perch on a rooftop. No wonder there had been a murderer running loose not long ago.
"I will do my best, citizens of Windhelm, of Skyrim, to serve you and lead us through these troubled times." Over half the City was squeezed into the Palace's courtyard, with more glancing over the newly made holes in the ancient courtyard walls. Tullius stopped listening as he stood at rest slightly behind Free-Winter. He had other things on his mind.
Like how he was going to court-martial the Dragonborn just as soon as he got back to Solitude. Negotiating for the release of the man behind the rebellion, the most wanted man in Tamriel, a treasonous murdering war criminal, was reason enough to him. That bitch of a Legate had somehow snuck Stormcloak through negotiations and placed him right at her side for whatever agenda she had.
Stormcloak should've died during the battle. Soon after, if not that, and on his way to the Imperial City for a good old-fashioned execution otherwise. Martyr was better than figurehead in Tullius' mind. People can rally around a corpse, but a corpse can't rally anyone, and damn if Stormcloak wasn't prodigal at rallying armies behind him. It seemed Stormcloak had a certain talent of escaping death.
Free-Winter wrapped up his speech, and, unlike any politician with sense in an unstable time and place, lingered to talk and clasp hands and offer condolences with the citizens. Tullius gestured to Legate Rikke, who walked up and whispered something in the Jarl's ear. The Jarl frowned and apologized to the crowd of people he hadn't gotten to speak with-Tullius realized with no small annoyance that he was planning on speaking with every single person in the Hold individually-and headed back inside the Palace of Kings. Tullius followed, along with the security detail he had assigned to protect Free-Winter.
Tullius returned to the war room, where he had spent the last day coordinating the Imperial hold on eastern Skyrim, no small task for a region that had more than enough small townships for its size and jagged mountains making it easy for rebels to hide or ambush any passing soldiers. Quaestor Casilia sat hunched near the back of the war room next to two stacks of parchment. She had been put in charge of writing the war reports that would be sent across the Empire. The finished letters were folded almost nicely enough to be called neat, waiting for Tullius to stamp them with his official seal.
He bit his cheek, grabbing the pile of finished letters and moving to the large map table. He studied it absentmindedly while sealing the letters. A few troops had been sent to the Stormcloak camp just north of the Eastmarch border to secure the rebels and set up their own outpost to catch any fleeing Stormcloaks looking for sanctuary.
Legate Rikke walked into the war room, stopping to lean against the map table with one hand. "We've established an Imperial presence in Mixwater Mill. No resistance. Jarl Blackbriar in Riften should be sending troops to secure the south of Eastmarch as soon as she receives word of our victory." She pointed out the routes the troops would take.
"Good, good," Tullius muttered, pressing his stamp down into a pool of hot wax.
"The celebrations in the Grey Quarter are continuing, still not violent. Jarl Free-Winter wishes to participate."
"The last thing I need is a drunk Jarl making a fool of himself in front of the entire city. Increase his entourage; don't let him out of the Palace."
"Yes, sir. And Galmar Stone-Fist has requested to speak with you."
Tullius paused briefly. "We don't grant the requests of war criminals."
"Sir, he refuses to speak to anyone but you."
"What could he possibly tell me? The Stormcloak presence might as well be gone across Skyrim. The Reunification is proceeding on schedule, without any Rebel interference. Any intelligence he has is useless to us." Tullius pressed his stamp on the last letter. "I'll speak to him before his execution. What about the other rebels?"
"They still refuse to swear loyalty to the Empire."
Tullius inspected the finished stack of sealed letters and glanced back over to Quaestor Casilia's pile of blank pages. "Kill them, then. In front of Stone-Fist, and leave the bodies in his cell until they swell. It might take a while, in this chill." He handed Legate Rikke the letters. "And deliver this to whoever's in charge of the couriers, Legate. Dismissed."
J'zargo preferred to study in his bedchamber. Lounging on his bed with a spell book was far more comfortable than sitting in the hard Arcanaeum seats and Urag staring at him as if he was going to make off with the entire library. Besides, he could use a nap after turning iron to silver to gold.
He padded into the Hall of Attainment almost silently, save for the creaking of the heavy door. Nariilu was standing at the entrance to the Thalmor's chamber, for whatever reason. Probably working herself up over the way his quill scratched against the parchment or something else inconsequential. She turned at the noise, and her face lit up when she saw him, not that J'zargo was paying attention.
"Later," she said to the Thalmor. Her tone was much less murderous than it usually was when talking to the Thalmor. Nariilu walked over to J'zargo, clasping his hand in greeting. "I trust it's been boring?"
"Dreadful," J'zargo replied, leading them both to his bedchamber. He set his bag down too fast; the gold ore inside thudded hard against his desk. "Nothing but the Eye. Still blue, still boring. A new apprentice, today."
"Oh?" Nariilu smiled. "And you've already given whoever it is a dangerous scroll, I assume." She chuckled.
"You survived, my friend. J'zargo has worked on them, and they should no longer explode. Hopefully."
"You'll end up expelled before Midyear."
J'zargo smirked. "If you do not Shout down the College first. You almost knocked over the Nord boy! What were you Shouting for, my friend? I have not heard the roar of a dragon in a month of moons."
The smile on Nariilu's face faded. "A very, very long story, J'zargo. But that's a tale for later, when I have enough time and enough wine to tell it. I'll be leaving in the morning."
"For Whiterun?" J'zargo's tail flicked rapidly. "Is it time?"
"No, no, not quite yet. Within a few days. I have to stop in Riften first." Nariilu held up a hand when J'zargo's mouth opened. "The same long story." She sank into his desk chair. "It has been nothing but long stories since I left. Please, for my own sake, tell me of the daily monotony here."
Ulfric half-listened to J'zargo's gossip, putting actions with names and thinking up motivations behind actions. He got the sense that the Khajiit didn't care for the mages much and cared for the students even less. Ulfric also figured that each anecdote was told with exaggeration that was by no means small.
He let their conversation fade into a background hum as he flipped through Ancano's journal. The unfamiliar letters blurred together quickly; he let his mind wander freely. The road to Riften was one of the calmer areas of Skyrim, if one managed to avoid the thieves that patrolled for merchants and nobles without guard.
Ulfric had made the trip from Windhelm to Riften often; the road was short, the weather was much more pleasant, and trade was simple and abundant between the two Holds. Trade was so abundant that Maven Blackbriar had sent a note with Jarl Law-Giver after the Imperial takeover of Riften that didn't even bother to disguise her intentions to completely ignore the Empire's sanctions on Windhelm and continue trade as normal.
But the Thieves Guild was another story. Anybody with sense in Skyrim knew that they based themselves out of Riften, but Ulfric had never gotten the impression that Jarl Law-Giver was particularly concerned with the Guild. On the few occasions that he outright asked her about the state of organized crime in the city, she would shrug and wave her hand, at best. Sometimes he wondered if the Jarl was in an alliance with the Guild, but seeing as she was in charge of her own city as he was of his, Ulfric had no jurisdiction to confront her about his suspicions outside of hypotheticals, which Jarl Law-Giver always denied with a laugh and a firm assertion that she was the only authority in the Rift.
The new Jarl, Maven Blackbriar, was not someone Ulfric had gone unaware of. The woman practically controlled the mead trade in Skyrim, and she was good friends with Jarl Law-Giver; Maven had often been present at meetings between the two Jarls, though she rarely spoke at them, save when economics were discussed. She was a brilliant businesswoman, one had to be to obtain her level of success.
"Stormcloak."
Ulfric jolted up, taking a second to come to his senses. He rubbed at his sore cheek, realizing he had fallen asleep on the desk. The Dragonborn placed a bundle of cloth and a bottle of ale in front of him.
"Salted venison and bread," she said. "Make it last, but there's more for when we stop at dusk. I hope you slept well; we've got a long day ahead of us."