Ulfric first caught a glimpse of the walls of Windhelm a few hours later, and even a quick glance send a cold heat of shame through his body. He forced himself to stare at the city, just barely visible over the low peaks of the mountains. He knew that passing the city was the quickest route to Riften, and the route would likely be crawling with Imperial soldiers, and his own citizens.
The Dragonborn suddenly made a right turn just as the White River Bridge came into view. He could see the bright red of imperial tents and banners dotting the bridge, dusted gently with snow. The road to Whiterun and Ivarstead, he recalled. The Dragonborn halfheartedly explained her detour as something about the conditions of the road through the hotmarshes. Ulfric knew that it was to avoid the Imperial army.
The sun had begun to disappear behind Shearpoint when the Dragonborn pulled out a map and a leather bound and strapped book. "Mixwater Mill is up ahead; we'll stop there for the night." She flipped through the book, briefly scanning each page until she found what she was looking for. "Owner is…Gilfre. I killed a bear that managed to get in her worker's house."
Ulfric frowned. Mixwater Mill was once the largest mill in Eastmarch, until their shipments had nearly stopped months ago. It was a devastating blow to the regions' economy; Mixwater Mill sent lumber and firewood across Eastmarch in addition to both Dawnstar and Winterhold. Anga's Mill wasn't able to keep up with the demand; arrows had been in remarkably short supply, and report had come in that soldiers were blunting their battleaxes by cutting their own firewood. A bear attack would certainly explain the sudden drop in production.
Sounds of the saw reached Ulfric before the mill could be seen, even though the shadows were lengthening and the sky was a deep evening purple above them. The red of imperial tents caught his eye before anything else, contrasting against the dark pine wood and white snow around them. The Dragonborn cursed under her breath.
"Don't do anything rash," she warned. "This camp is new. I wouldn't've planned to rest here if I'd known about it." The Dragonborn tried recall the post-war maps that she had been to distracted to intensely study in Winterhold. Small mills and mines were often ignored directly after sieges in the area in favor of more fortifiable settlements. It was a basic Imperial tactic; it was easier to control a majority of citizens with a camp in a populated area than with resources on the edge of civilization.
Tullius must have his reasons, she thought. Mines and mills generally weren't sites of camps or any permanent presence unless there was a high potential for turmoil in the region. Nariilu didn't know of any potential in the area; the small mill was the only settlement around for a few hours' march. Likely, the soldiers were like them: just stopping for a night before moving on.
"I'll stay out of sight in your wardrobe, don't worry," Ulfric mocked.
Gilfre had never considered herself to be testy, but that was before all this civil war nonsense. The past year had been one disaster after another, starting with her workers leaving not even a week after the request for more lumber had come in to support the Stormcloaks in addition to the usual increase in demand due to the cold winter months. At least that war was over now, if the Imperials' word was worth their salt.
Gilfre prayed that the Divines had kept all five of her workers alive just so she could beat them to Oblivion and back herself.
At least these soldiers kept to themselves, though she would've liked them a bit more if they had offered to help her haul lumber, though she felt the twenty Septims they gave her in exchange for the night on her land weigh down heavily in her pocket. She normally charged five for each night, enough that the average traveling farmer could afford, and enough to purchase a nice sized side of meat when she traded with a hunter. Half a week's wages, just from having a few Imperials keep to themselves for the night. There was no reason to expect anything else out of them other than trampled plants and maybe some more news.
She pulled the lever to the side of the saw and listened to it grind to a halt. Gilfre pulled her thick gloves off and rubbed her shoulders; picking the logs up to put them on the saw was always much harder on her than dragging them back from the forest.
Travellers were often seen passing through the Mill, seeing as how it was situated right off the main road from Whiterun to Winterhold. Seeing two horses approaching, one with a Dunmer in mage's robes and the other with a Man in finer clothes, was not something that particularly caught her attention most days. Gilfre still approached the pair of travelers; perhaps they needed a bundle of firewood for the evening, or somewhere safe to camp.
"Welcome, travelers!" she called, walking over to the pair dismounting their horses. "Anything I can help you with?" Gilfre stopped in her tracks when the man turned to face her; Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak was standing in the middle of her mill with Imperial soldiers not thirty paces away.
"Hello, Gilfre," the Dunmer woman spoke, already counting coins out of a pouch on her belt. "We've met before; I killed that bear in your worker's house for you. My traveling companion and I are looking for safe rest tonight, if you'd be willing."
"I want no trouble," Gilfre replied, dropping her voice low. She remembered the bear, of course. Who wouldn't remember a bear that managed to get into a locked building? She remembered the Dunmer Companion less; there hadn't been much talking beyond an exchange of pleasantries and the location of the bear. "I've already got Imperials here for tonight, and corpses to clean up is the last thing I need."
"We'll be staying far from them, I can assure you of that, and I'll pay you extra for the trouble."
Gilfre frowned, thinking for a long pause. "No. I'm sorry, Jarl Stormcloak, Companion, but the war's already been hard enough on my mill. I can't have your death and others' on my hands."
"No one will be dying," the Companion responded. "It's nearly dark, and we have been traveling all day. We simply want a place to set up our tents and sleep. We'll be gone before dawn."
"Not on my mill," Gilfre said, "But just down the road, there's an old wolf den in the cliffside. It's been abandoned for years, but it should offer some shelter if you can't get your tents up in time."
"That should do," the Companion said, stepping forwards and placing a handful of Septims into Gilfre's hands. She wasted no time counting them; thirty Septims total.
Gilfre opened her mouth to protest such a high payment for not even staying on her land, but Jarl Stormcloak spoke faster.
"Thank you, Gilfre," he said, mounting his horse. "I'm pleased to see Mixwater looking so well; I'd been worried for you these past months. Your help is much appreciated."
Gilfre watched as the Companion mounted her own horse and the pair began traveling down the road once more. "Wait!" She suddenly called out, barely hearing her own voice. The 'travellers' stopped and looked back at her. "Jarl, are my boys alright? My workers, five of them; Karl Trollbeard of Ivarstead, Jorgi Blackthorn of Falkreath, Famor Windstone of Riften, Honmir Halfhand of Kynesgrove, and Torvid the Younger of Shor's Stone; left to join your army months ago and I haven't received so much as a letter in all that time. Are they…did they make it?"
Jarl Stormcloak was silent for too long. "The war has just ended, with no punishment towards any of the Sons and Daughters of Skyrim. If they are on their way back here, or to their hometowns, I have no way of knowing. Be assured, I will ask Talos to guide them wherever they are." He smiled down at her; Gilfre could see the fatigue just slipping through his bright eyes.
She nodded. "I'll do the same, for them and for you. Safe travels." Gilfre let herself watch the horses walk away for as long as she thought would appear normal to the Imperials, in the off chance they were watching.
Nariilu had trained herself to wake up before dawn decades ago. It was simply the best time to get things done, with few others awake to bother her. The shallow cave had been more than ample for a hasty camp, and with the dim grey light of the early morning she got to work tearing down the simple lean-to tents covered in sewn furs.
Stormcloak stirred soon after she began making noise. He moved from lying in a sleeping roll to crouching on top of it, reaching for the sword next to him in one smooth motion. She recognized the move as one that foot soldiers often adopted near front lines, when one second's hesitation meant an early grave.
"Easy, Stormcloak," she said, keeping her voice low. No use for excessive talking before the sun could be seen. "Not quite dawn, go back to sleep." Nariilu kicked dirt over the fading embers of the fire from the night before. She knew he wouldn't; even though Stormcloak seemed calm enough and had even sat down and relaxed his shoulders, Nariilu had seen the flash of apprehension in his eyes.
"You didn't wake me up for my watch."
Nariilu reached down and grabbed a small stone, tossing it towards the mouth of the cave. When the rock hit the ground, it exploded in a bright blue flash and left a circle of frost over the packed dirt ground. "Didn't need to," Nariilu replied. "Wards." She pulled out a cloth sack and rummaged around inside before presenting a wrapped cheese wedge to him. "We'll reach Riften just after midday."
Ulfric took the cheese, watching her as she methodically folded the furs and bundled the sticks they had found and used as tent frames against the back wall of the cave. He felt the nag of drowsiness behind his eyes that hadn't been chased away by his initial panic upon waking.
He hadn't slept on the ground like this since the Great War, and the memories of doing so were not fond. Ulfric had imagined that the dreams, the memories would fade with the years, but, over twenty-five years later, he could still remember everything, whether he wanted to or not.
The memories always came in the stillest of moments; when not even footsteps could be heard in the Palace of Kings, when not even the first morning birds had begun to sing. Noise in life, in war, was normal, safe. With noise, one could figure the position of almost anything, even with a blindfold.
Silence, silence was otherworldly, dangerous. Corpses were silent, predators were silent at their most deadly. One cannot prepare for the unexpected, the unknown, the undetectable.
Ulfric watched a few of the unsmothered embers glow a dim orange, suddenly aware of the flint and steel in his pocket. The Dragonborn had refused to use magic to start the fire the night before, insisting that he 'prove himself outside of a castle' while she finished draping the furs over the tent frames. As if she believed he had spent every second of his life being waited on hand and foot instead of losing years to bloody battlefields and Thalmor prisons.
She might, he realized. Ulfric knew almost nothing about the Dragonborn, aside from the occasional updates that messengers had brought in from the other holds: the Dragonborn led the defense of Whiterun, the siege of Dawnstar, Windhelm, Riften; the Dragonborn was named Thane of Eastmarch, the Rift, the Pale; the Dragonborn was seen single-handedly defended Kynesgrove from a dragon; at least twice a month since Helgen, something outlandish about the elf made its way onto his reports.
He wondered how much of it was actually true. There were multiple witnesses placing her at every major battle in the war, but to kill a dragon alone? She had nearly died yesterday, and that was with his help. Ulfric had decided months ago that such reports were greatly exaggerated; his personal experience with her confirmed it.
"Do you think we'll encounter more dragons?" Ulfric asked. He winced at the volume of his own voice, cutting through the silence of the morning.
"No way of telling," the Dragonborn replied, "but, don't try and ride it again if we do." She chuckled. "You're likely the first person in history to ride a dragon. You're either the bravest man I'll ever meet or the most foolish."
Ulfric had almost forgotten; riding a dragon hadn't even been the second closest to death he'd been in two days. He certainly would never try it on purpose. Ulfric ate to avoid responding, then set to rolling his bedroll and tying it to his horse.
"When we get to Riften," the Dragonborn said, securing her saddlebags to her horse, "I have a house you can stay at, and a Housecarl, Iona, to keep you safe. I'll find a Guildmember and get everything sorted out. We'll be out of Riften next dawn, if I can make contact."
"I'm not staying hidden away while you consort with your thieves," Ulfric protested. He expected as much; of course she wouldn't want him to know how deep in with the Guild she was. Ulfric figured he would still have at least some influence, and being publicly ousted as a member of the Thieves Guild would at least strip her of Thanehood, if not more.
Even if he never revealed her status as a thief, it was still a good bargaining tool to have. A small shred of power to have over the Dragonborn, even when she held many magnitudes more over him.
"Alright," the Dragonborn sighed. Ulfric blinked; he had expected her to protest against his demand. "You'll hate the Ratways, and watch your pockets, obviously. It's called the Thieves Guild for a reason. Come on, no use in wasting daylight."