21 Last Seed, 4E 201, Whiterun
As a small child, Ivar had once played in the streets of Whiterun. Now he returned as a grown man. Everything seemed half strange and half familiar. Also smaller.
He was pleased to find a smithy right inside the city gates. He introduced himself to the smiths, a burly Nord and his petite-but-sturdy Imperial wife. Once Ivar showed them his journeyman's mark, dropping his father's name and that of Alvor of Riverwood, they welcomed him gladly. They sold him steel with which to improve his weapons and armor, and talked shop while he did the work.
The woman, Adrianne, clearly took the lead in their partnership. Ivar found her attractive enough, but he stayed carefully respectful in her presence. A fellow smith, after all. Not to mention daughter to the jarl's steward. Not to mention married to a very big man, with a battle-axe close at hand. Ivar smiled politely at her and resolved to treat her solely as a professional colleague.
To be sure, the city had other attractions. Ivar strolled along the road toward the jarl's palace, window-shopping as he went. A hot-tempered Imperial woman, selling produce from a market-stall. A red-haired huntress in revealing leathers, her face marked with a flagrant slash of war-paint. A slim, sweet-faced Nord girl, carrying on a conversation about the merchant's trade. A strapping blond barmaid, leaning against the inn's porch railing and catching his eye with a challenging glare.
I could grow to like it here.
The sun stood in the west before Ivar finally reached the jarl's palace. The door-wardens seemed reluctant to admit him, but the mention of dragons soon persuaded them.
At the far end of the great hall, Jarl Bulgruuf slouched in his throne, listening to a debate among his counselors. As the smith approached, one of them saw him, a Dunmer woman in armor. She drew a weapon and strode forward.
"What's the meaning of this interruption?" she demanded. "The jarl is not receiving visitors."
"I have news from Helgen," said Ivar calmly. "About the dragon attack."
"Well, that explains why the guards let you in," she said, putting away her weapon. "Come, then. The jarl will want to speak to you personally."
The smith followed her up to the throne. Balgruuf was a tall man, strong and well-built, with sky-blue eyes and an impressive beard. He examined the smith with keen interest.
"So," said the jarl at last. "You were at Helgen? You saw this dragon with your own eyes?"
"Yes, my lord." Ivar sighed. "I had a very good view, while the Imperials prepared to put my head on the block."
"Really?" Balgruuf snorted in amusement. "Not many would admit to that."
"I'm no criminal. I was only in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Well, that's none of my concern. What I want to know is exactly what happened at Helgen."
"The Imperials captured Ulfric Stormcloak. They were about to execute him, some of his men, a few like me who got caught up in their sweep by accident. Then a dragon swept down out of the sky. Big and black. Perched on top of the highest tower and started leveling the whole place."
"I should have guessed Ulfric would be mixed up in this."
"I don't know if he had anything to do with it, my lord." Ivar stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I was close to him for a few moments, after we all ran for cover. He seemed as surprised as anyone."
"I see." Balgruuf turned to an Imperial standing at his right hand. Ivar looked closely at the man, saw some resemblance to the smith at the city gates. The jarl's steward, no doubt. "What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?"
The steward frowned and said nothing.
"My lord," the Dunmer interrupted, "we should send troops to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger, if that dragon is lurking in the mountains."
"The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation!" objected Proventus. "He'll assume we're planning to join Ulfric's side and attack him."
"Enough!" Balgruuf rapped sharply on the arm of his throne with the knuckles of one hand. "I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people! Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once."
"At once, my lord," said Irileth, immediately turning to issue the orders.
Ivar smiled to himself. I think I like this jarl.
The steward shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line, but he made no outward complaint. "I'll return to my own duties, my lord."
Balgruuf nodded curtly, watching Ivar once more with a calculating stare. "You have my thanks, stranger. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it."
Ivar made a small bow, remembering his Imperial courtesies. "Thank you, my lord."
"How may I reward you?"
"I ask no reward." Ivar thought for a moment. "Other than permission to take up residence here for a time, perhaps. I was born in Whiterun, and now that I've returned I'm searching for honest work."
"You were born here? Who was your father?"
"Ragnar Sigurdsson, called the Smith. I follow his trade."
The jarl's eyes went wide with surprise. "I remember your father well! My first real sword came from his forge. If you're half the smith he was, I'm sure you'll find plenty of work here. I gladly grant you permission to live in the city for as long as you wish."
Ivar thanked the jarl once more.
Balgruuf rose to his feet. "Come. There's something else you might do for me. Let's go find Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter, related to these dragons and rumors of dragons."
"You've a loremaster here at your court?" Ivar nodded. "I would very much like to speak to him, my lord."
"Good." The jarl clapped him on the shoulder. "This way . . ."