A/N: Yes, noncanonnical followers ahoy! There were plenty of NPCs I would have liked to take along, but alas I wasn't given the option. Also, these things just keep getting longer for some reason.
Ulfric knew Drade Hlaren could be as quiet as a cat. He also knew when she wanted attention she could walk like a giant. She was doing that now. He hadn't had to look up from the diplomatic missives that were now flooding in before the planned moot to know it was her; no one else flung the double doors of his hall open with such noise, and no one could make leather boots ring on cold stone the way she could.
He'd been waiting for this. When Solitude had fallen, she'd said hardly a word, accepted his thanks, and rode out while the city was still burning, but he hadn't believed himself lucky enough to have seen the last of her. Her loyalty had proved to be solid, but he hadn't liked the fact that the Dunmer was famous among his Stormcloaks, and that the history books would record her race, if not her name. But there was little he could do about it now, and he didn't like to consider what might have happened if she'd sided with the Legion.
And here she was, not two months later, just as imperious and fire-eyed as always, blades on her back, and Thu'um curling at the back of her throat. He let her wait for a while, after her footsteps had fallen silent a respectful distance from his throne.
He looked up, "Welcome back, Thane."
"Jarl Ulfric." She bowed her head, just far enough to be polite. "I am in need of aid."
An underling came up and collected the papers he'd signed before scurrying off again. At least one thing could be said for Drade; she wasn't boring, unlike paperwork.
"Speak, what would you ask of me?"
"That you ride with me, fight with me, one last time, for Skyrim."
"Have you started another war, Drade?" He wouldn't have put it past her.
"No." She looked faintly amused at the idea. "This war is ongoing. I need your voice, Ulfric."
Ridiculous; he was negotiating for the throne of the High King. He couldn't just ride off somewhere.
"I am somewhat occupied," he said.
"I would not ask you if I had any choice," she said. "I rather like having you in my debt. I won your war for you, the least you could do is help me win mine."
He narrowed his eyes. He didn't like the way she spoke to him; few Nords had the courage to address him so casually, and to have a Dunmer presume such familiarity. No, he'd been fooled by those sullen-faced rats in the Grey Quarter. He'd forgotten that Morrowind had been the home of the Great Houses, and living gods. She was a throwback to a more glorious past; or she had lived it – she had streaks of grey in her otherwise ebon hair but he had no idea how old she really was.
"Where would you have me ride, Thane?"
"Not far. Whiterun. I have dusted off Dragonsreach, and it once again serves its original purpose."
"By the Nine. Those rumours were true?" That stirred his blood. A dragon, alive and captured.
"You should know most rumours about me are true by now."
Ulfric didn't think she'd heard all the rumours about her. And him. He'd rather keep it that way.
"I would speak with this dragon," he said. Nothing less would have tempted him to follow her. "Do we need soldiers?"
"If it would make you feel safer, my Jarl." She managed to make that phrase into a subtle insult, every time.
They tried to persuade him to take someone, but after that barb he refused all offers of help, and ordered his horse saddled and made ready. It took longer than he expected; ever since the battle for Solitude everything was taking longer than expected. His political enemies stalled for time – pointlessly – and suddenly his opinion was sought on everything.
He knew where she'd be; deliberately losing large quantities of coin in the New Gnisis Cornerclub, which her fellow dark elves would then spend the next week spending and enjoying their sudden, if temporary, rise in status. It irritated him greatly, and he sent someone off to fetch her. The messenger was no sooner out of sight than she stepped from the shadows of the stables, which irritated him even more, although he kept his face impassive.
"Shall we?"
The night was cold and clear, the moons above flooding the landscape with such radiance that it might have been daylight, the shadows sharp and black and the fallen snow pale and luminescent. Ulfric breathed in air sword-sharp with frost and smelling of pine. It made a change from the smoke and heat of the Hall, and he felt the cobwebs in his mind swept away. He realised, no matter what lay at the other end, he would enjoy this ride.
Drade draped herself in a wolf-skin travelling cloak, and without a further word between them, they took to the road. Their horses' hooves rang on the cobbles and Ulfric slitted his eyes against the slipstream.
"Is there a hurry?" he called.
"Oh yes. The souls of your countrymen are the stakes."
Nevertheless, they had to slow and let their horses pick their way more carefully as the road grew steep.
"You should do something about the Grey Quarter," Drade said. "It's a slum. Riften does better than Windhelm and it's run by criminal gangs. It's not a good look, my Jarl."
"Perhaps it is the Dunmer who thrive naturally in a city run by criminal gangs."
She canted her head and fixed him with a cool, appraising stare. He was passingly familiar with it and could never work out if she was mentally undressing him or putting his head on a pike. Given the context, he suspected it was the latter.
At least she didn't press the point.
"You don't make friends, do you?" he asked.
"Why should I?"
"Someday Skyrim is going to decide you're more trouble than you're worth."
"Skyrim's weathered worse than I. Why, Jarl Ulfric, are you going to decide I'm more trouble than I'm worth?"
"No," he said, after a few moments thought. "You don't cause me trouble. My objections to you are entirely personal."
"I'm honoured."
Their conversation ended then, as they crested a rise and saw Whiterun and Dragonsreach rising up from the plain below. Despite the late hour, Dragonsreach was ablaze with light. It was all downhill from here, and they dug their heels into their horses' sides.
Drade drove her animal hard, and Ulfric was obliged to also, just to keep up. When they arrived at Whiterun's gates, both horses were streaked with sweat, their flanks heaving great gusts of steam into the cold air. The guard pulled the gate open for Drade and nearly let it swing shut again in sheer surprise when he recognised Ulfric. Somehow the news of their arrival preceded them, and they were greeted by a small crowd.
"I'll fetch the Jarl," someone offered.
"No need," Drade said. "Just take us to the dragon."
Ulfric was grateful; he wasn't interested in politics or formalities tonight; the ride over had roughened the edges which had become smoothed since his victory, and something of Drade's urgency had infected him. Her boots rang as they were led into the presence of the dragon.
"You return." Ulfric had never heard the dragonspeech from a Dov before. He refused to look awed.
"Odahviig," Drade said. "This is Ulfric Stormcloak, soon to be High King of Skyrim."
The dragon could barely move in its restraints, but nevertheless it turned its head and regarded Ulfric with one eye.
"Why should I care for a mortal king? A mortal not yet king?" the dragon asked.
"Because I know your tongue, Dragon," Ulfric said.
"Two Dovahkiin?"
"No," Drade said. "He learned your speech the hard way. A worthy second, I should think. Will you take us both to Sovngarde?"
Odahviig shifted slightly, indifferently, "It matters not to me, Dovahkiin."
"Sovngarde?" Ulfric asked, in mortal speech this time.
"Alduin hides there, growing fat on the souls of your honoured dead. So I will hunt him there, Odahviig will take us to where he gains entry."
"You're proposing we ride a dragon into Sovngarde?"
Drade looked slightly put out for the first time, "Well, yes. More or less."
Ulfric pretended to think about it, but as soon as the words had left her lips, his duty was clear. A High King would defend Skyrim; in this world or any other. He would not be worthy of the throne if he turned back now.
"And if we fail," he said, "Our spirits will not have to travel far."
"Yours won't maybe," Drade pointed out. "But I don't intend to die." She raised her voice. "Release the dragon! Do it!"
There was hesitation, shuffling and worried looks.
"She gave you an order," Ulfric said calmly.
The ropes were severed and Odahviig shook himself free of his bonds.
"Are you ready?" Drade asked him.
"I'll never be ready for something like this. Let's go."
Drade climbed up onto Odahviig's back, and Ulfric followed, grabbing the at the creature's spikes as it started to move. Drade glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes alight with excitement, and a smile on her lips entirely free of cynicism and superciliousness. He grinned back.
The sun was cresting the eastern mountains when Odahviig took to the air. He heard Drade gasp as the ground and Dragonsreach fell away beneath them, and they spiralled up into the clouds. The sun shone brightly on the highest peaks, and Skyrim spread out beneath them like a patchwork quilt, some parts still deep in the shadow of the mountains, the lakes and streams shining like silver.
His heart ached from the sheer beauty of it, even if he'd left his stomach back in Whiterun. If he died, he would still be grateful for having lived to see this sight.
Odahviig banked, and the great wings beat down on the cold morning air.
Drade spread her arms and laughed.
Ulfric rather wished it would never end.
But it did, and they landed, and once more he drew his axe in anger, and Drade breathed fire and her blades danced, and Sovnguarde and Alduin awaited them.
When they stumbled onto the snow at the Throat of the World, he watched Drade talk to the dragons as they said their farewells. When they had gone, their voices echoing among the clouds, he stepped forward.
"I have misjudged you," he said.
"I doubt that," she said, turning her gaze from the sky to him. "Don't make me into something I'm not."
"You are Dragonborn. You saved everything."
"I had some help."
He shook his head, "You will walk among the heroes of Sovngarde."
"Will I? I didn't see too many Dunmer there." A shadow fell across her face, and her smile looked forced for once. "I'm not sure I'd want to spend eternity drinking Nord mead anyway."
"Drade," he put his hands on her shoulders. "Should the day come when you find yourself at the gates of Sovngarde and you are failed to be recognised, call for me. I swear I will not let them deny you your rightful place among the dragonslayers."
She raised her eyebrows in surprise, and nodded, apparently struck speechless.
He dropped his hands and sighed, "I shall do something about the Grey Quarter. You are always welcome to return and make sure I've kept my word."
"Let's worry about getting back down first, Jarl Ulfric."
"Lead on. You know the path better than I."