A/N: This chapter was a pain, honestly. As the title suggests, it's based directly on part of the quest from Skyrim, The Forsworn Conspiracy, and as such, a lot of the dialogue and such comes nearly verbatim from the game. Which, actually, made it more difficult to write. Weird, yeah, but it's true. So here you go. Enjoy this more than I did, please. :) Many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) GrowlingPeanut. Reviews are appreciated.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin. Specifically, a lot of the NPC dialogue and both 'Margret's Journal' and 'Weylin's Note' belong to the former.

Rating: M for language, violence and the consumption of alcohol.

Construction on the Warrens was, surprisingly, proceeding at a swift pace. At the rate that the workers were going, it could very well be finished before Daenerys even returned from Falkreath. Though he knew she would enjoy overseeing the work, Drogo hoped that it might be finished prior to her return. It would be a nice surprise for her after a no doubt tedious and taxing foray into the politics of the civil war.

The thought shifted Drogo's expression into a scowl and he crossed his arms as he continued to watch the construction process. If Viserys Targaryen thought that he could just steal his sister away with barely a moment's notice now that she had been married off, he was wrong, gods damn it. And yet, that was exactly what he had done. Angry at himself for allowing her to leave, he waved a hand to stop the workers and then walked in among them.

"You've done enough for today and you all deserve a break. Go on and head to the Silver Blood; just tell Kleppr your drinks are on me."

The rough and dirty band of men who had volunteered for the task broke into grins of relief and slapped Drogo on the back as they passed, with exclamations of thanks upon their lips. Nodding absently in reply, Drogo stood looking at the Warrens for a few more minutes before slowly walking back toward the marketplace.

Pathetic as it was, he had made a ritual for himself of buying a honey-drizzled pastry from one of the market stalls each morning. He knew that Dany loved them, and just eating them made her feel a bit closer than she really was. Drogo sighed and shook his head. It was amazing what married life did to a man.

When he got reached it, the market was a bit more crowded than most mornings, and the baker gave him a knowing smile when he approached. "A freshly baked honey treat for one of the most feared men in Skyrim?"

Drogo laughed sheepishly and nodded, taking a five septim coin from his pocket and sliding it across the top of the wooden stall. "Thank you. I trust you'll keep this a secret?"

The baker laughed good-naturedly and took the coin. "Of course. Not a word."

Moving to the next stall, Drogo absently scanned the jeweler's cart for something to give to Daenerys when she returned, but a horrified cry from the jeweler himself made him look up in alarm. "By the Gods! He's got a knife!"

Drogo's hand flew to his hip as he turned, but the jeweler's cry was too late. A woman lie dead in the center of the market, her throat slit, and above her stood a dark-haired Breton with a bloody knife clenched tightly in his fist. Drogo recognized him as Weylin, one of the many workers who made his home in the Warrens.

With wild eyes, the murderer looked at the spectators to his crime and grinned maniacally. "Glory to the Forsworn!"

Without hesitation, Drogo took his dagger from its scabbard and threw it at the crazed man. He hit his target with practiced ease and was just pulling the blade from his chest when a pair of Markarth guards ran onto the scene.

"Make way!" They burst through the crowd into the center of the market place and the one closest looked from the bodies to Drogo and the other spectators.

"What kind of madness is this?" Drogo asked them angrily, wiping off his dagger and returning it to his hip. "Are there Forsworn living within the walls of Markarth now?" What he had told Daenerys of the Reachmen he had met was true, but there were many more of them that were violent and dangerous, especially those whose allegiance remained with Madanach.

The other guard glanced up, brow furrowed in apparent irritation. "Just leave it, ser." When Drogo answered with an expression of incredulity, the guard pushed him aside and addressed the small crowd that had gathered. "On behalf of the Jarl of Markarth, we assure you that this had nothing to do with the Forsworn."

"Like Oblivion it didn't!" Drogo interjected, taking a step forward again. "He killed that woman and then said 'Glory to the Forsworn!'! We all heard it."

A few of the other onlookers bobbed their heads in agreement, but the second guard shot Drogo a warning look. "Ser, please. There's no need to spread hysteria."

Drogo stared dumbfounded at the two officials and was about to argue further when a young Breton approached and took his attention. "Gods, a woman attacked right on the streets. Are you alright, Drogo? Did you see what happened?"

The caravan master turned and was surprised to see Eltrys, the husband of the young woman employed at the Treasury House. "Eltrys?" He caught the almost frantic curiosity in the younger man's gaze and nodded. "Yes, I did see it. That man ran up, slit that poor woman's throat, and then shouted his allegiance to the Forsworn before I killed him."

Eltrys raised his eyebrows. "That man, Weylin? With the Forsworn? Strange. Well, Drogo, I hope the Eight give you more peace in the future, for what it's worth." He turned to go then stopped abruptly and pressed a note into Drogo's palm. "Oh, I think you dropped this. Some kind of note. Looks important."

Drogo watched him go, even more confused than before. Shaking his head in a feeble attempt to clear it, he peeled apart the folded piece of parchment in his hand and read the hastily scrawled note within. Meet me at the Shrine of Talos. –Eltrys

Trying in vain to understand what he had been dragged into, Drogo stared at the note for a few moments longer before sighing heavily and heading in the direction of the Shrine of Talos. If Eltrys was the only one in the gods damned city who cared, then it would be worth it to meet with him, no matter how suspiciously he was acting.

When he opened the door to the shrine, it was dark inside, the statue of Talos lit only by a few candles that burned at its feet.

"Eltrys?"

The young man appeared from the shadows as Drogo descended further into the shrine, then pulled his companion back with him so as to hide them both.

"Listen, Drogo. I'm sorry to drag you into Markarth's problems, but after that attack in the market, I'm running out of time. And you're the only one who seems to care."

I thought the same about you, Drogo mused to himself before furrowing his brow. "What are you talking about? Running out of time for what? Eltrys, what in Oblivion is going on?"

He looked about with the air of one plagued with paranoia before lowering his voice to a whisper. "You want answers? Well, so do I. And so do a lot of others in this city. A man goes crazy in the market and everyone knows he's a Forsworn agent, yet the guards do nothing; nothing but clean up the mess and pay off the witnesses."

Drogo found himself nodding. What the Breton was saying rang true. "Go on."

Eltrys looked relieved that the caravan master was hearing him out and his breath rushed from his lungs in a hasty sigh before he continued. "This has been going on for years and all I've been able to find is murder and blood. I need help. Please. You find out why that woman was attacked, who's behind Weylin and the Forsworn, and I'll pay you for any information you can bring me."

Drogo considered the proposition for a moment then shook his head slightly and laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Keep your money, Eltrys. I know you'll need it, with Rhiada and the babe to care for. But I will do as you ask. The people of this city deserve better."

Eltrys nodded and sighed in relief. "Thank you, Drogo. We'll all be in your debt." Relaxing visibly, he continued. "Let me tell you all I know. Some detail that may seem trivial to me could help you in your investigation."

Drogo nodded.

"This all started when I was a boy," Eltrys began. "My father owned one of the mines, which is rare for anyone who isn't a Nord. But then..." He paused for a moment before continuing with obvious reluctance. "One day, he was killed. The guards said it was just a madman that did it, but everyone knew the murderer was a member of the Forsworn. Ever since that day, I've been trying to find out why they had my father killed.

"As you know, I've gotten nowhere so far, and then when I got married, and I found out that Rhiada was pregnant, I swore I was going to just give up, for our child's sake, but...it's like my father's ghost is haunting me, asking me...'why?'." He trailed off then looked back up at Drogo. "So you see why I need you to help me with this."

Drogo nodded in understanding. Even if wasn't for the young Breton and his family, he was curious to find out why some of his wife's people were the mindless madmen that the tales painted them out to be. "Aye, I understand. Tell me what you know about this...Weylin?" He continued when Eltrys gave a gesture of affirmation. "And the woman that was murdered, and then go back home to your wife and let this trouble you no more."

Eltrys briefly smiled his thanks and then frowned slightly as his thoughts turned back to the issue at hand. "Weylin was one of the smelter workers. You know I used to have a job down there myself, but I never knew much about Weylin. Just that he lived in the Warrens, like all the other workers. And the woman, Margret, she's not from Markarth. The air about her all but screamed "outsider"...I suppose the Forsworn could see that too." He shrugged then added, "I think she had a room at the Silver-Blood Inn."

"Thank you. I'll go speak with Kleppr then. You've been a great help, Eltrys."

The young Breton smiled. "It's I who should be thanking you, but regardless, if you find out what's going on in this city, I will be forever in your debt. If you have any information to bring me, meet me back here. Now that Talos worship has been outlawed, this is the safest place in the city."

Drogo nodded in acknowledgment and left the younger man beside the shrine as he ascended the stairs and walked back out into the city. The Silver-Blood was crowded when he arrived, and it was with a hint of regret that he remembered he had sent all of the workers from the Warrens to get a drink. At least information about Weylin and Margret was likely to be in the same place, though there were a few too many ears about the bar for him to feel safe discussing the supposed Forsworn "conspiracy".

"Kleppr, an ale please."

The barkeep glanced over and nodded curtly in greeting before drawing a tankard of ale and moving to stand on the other side of the counter from Drogo.

"Here. On the house, since I hear it's your gold that's paying for all of my customers."

Drogo smiled and nodded, taking a long pull of the frothy drink. "Aye. Not my best idea." Kleppr snorted in agreement and was turning to go when Drogo stopped him with a hand to his arm.

"Wait. I have something to ask you. It's about Margret."

To his credit, Kleppr didn't look surprised at Drogo's sudden interest in the woman. "I had a feeling you might have a few questions. Heard you were right there when it happened." Drogo nodded and the barkeep absently began wiping down the bar as he continued. "Didn't know much about the girl. Just that she rented one of the nicest rooms I've got—second only to the one you and the lady have—and paid on time. It's down the hall to the left of the entrance if you want to check it out." He took a key from the pocket of his apron and slid it across the bar before excusing himself to help a new customer.

Finishing his ale, Drogo stood and slid the key into the pocket of his trousers. Once he was sure that no one was watching, he made his way back toward the room Kleppr had indicated and glanced once more over his shoulder before unlocking the door and slipping inside.

The room itself was clean, though it was obvious that it had been lived in prior to its occupant's untimely demise. As for anything that may have had a clue as to why she had been targeted by the Forsworn, nothing was immediately apparent. A second glance around, however, revealed a worn journal on the table beside the bed, and he silently marveled at how fortunate it was that she was the type to keep a diary.

Picking it up, Drogo flipped through its pages for a moment before turning to one toward the back and reading the words that were written neatly across it.

Meeting at the Treasury House later today. Took them long enough. These people act like they own everything.
Thonar Silver-Blood is the younger brother, but he's obviously the one in charge. Makes all the deals, bullies local landowners into selling to him. Even employs that wispy girl at the door to deter "trouble-makers" like me.
General Lannister is growing impatient, but I'll bring back the deed to Cidhna Mine. On my life, I won't allow a group of Stormcloak sympathizers to own the prison that houses the most notorious criminals of the Reach. They say no one escapes. Why? Is it really that secure?
Maybe I've played my hand too soon by rushing the confrontation with Thonar. There are shadows around every corner in this city, and I know I'm being watched.

So she had been a spy for the Empire. For General Lannister himself. And had decided she would cross Thonar Silver-Blood. Drogo knew the young man well enough to know that that in itself was dangerous enough to warrant a possible order for one's death.

Making a mental note to visit the Treasury House after he had asked around about Weylin, he tucked the diary beneath his belt and covered it with his tunic before making his way back into the common room. Unfortunately, Mulush was not drinking along with his men, and if anyone knew what Drogo was hoping to find out about the Forsworn agent, it would be the Orc.

Nodding at Kleppr when the barkeep raised an eyebrow, Drogo pushed through the crowd around the bar and walked briskly through the streets of Markarth toward the smelter that stood beside the Warrens. Every few steps, he cast a nervous glance over his shoulder and he had to force himself to breathe deeply in order to dispel the feeling of paranoia that was swiftly taking hold of his mind. Perhaps he had been a fool to help Eltrys, but, if Dany were serious about her claim to retake the throne of High Rock, Drogo was determined to learn all there was to know about those she had begun to call her people.

As anticipated, Mulush was standing moodily beside the smelter drinking straight from a bottle of what looked suspiciously like skooma, but he looked up as Drogo approached.

"So the mighty Khal returns, eh?" He scoffed and spat into the dirt. "What are you here for now? Planning to take the rest of my workers for some other foolish project to 'help the city'?"

"No," Drogo replied, frowning slightly. "That I will leave to my wife when she returns. Do you perhaps know anything about a man named Weylin? He worked the smelter until this morning."

The Orc nodded. "Aye. Heard about what happened in the market. I may know a thing or two about him; what's it worth to you?"

Drogo sighed and dug a hundred septim coin from his pocket. "This good enough?"

Mulush inspected it carefully before nodding in acceptance and handing Drogo a note in return. "Here. One of the men found this in his room when we cleared it out for your wife's little endeavour. Got it the last time we handed out pay and took it right to his room." He shrugged. "Just take it and get out of here. I don't want anyone to think that I had anything to do with what happened."

"Thank you," Drogo muttered absently, already opening the note and scanning the message inside.

Weylin,
You've been chosen to strike fear in the heart of the Nords. Go to the market tomorrow. You will know what to do.
-N

If Margret had believed it was Thonar that sent Weylin to kill her, it seemed she was wrong in that, though who 'N' could be, Drogo wasn't sure. He knew most of the citizens of Markarth, but no one who might go by that name came immediately to mind.

Turning away from the smelter, Drogo prepared to return to the inn and write to Dany about what had happened before meeting with Thonar Silver-Blood, but he stopped when he found a burly Breton blocking his way.

"May I help you, ser?" he asked, crumpling the note in his fist and shoving it deep into his pocket.

The other man snarled and audibly cracked the knuckles of both of his hands. "You've been digging around where you don't belong. It's time you learned a lesson."

Before Drogo could prepare for the attack, a meaty fist flew toward him and hit him square in the head. The last thing he heard before slipping into unconsciousness was a threat in the gravely voice of his assailant.

"This is your last warning, you mangy piece of pit-bait. The Forsworn are not to be trifled with..."