Chapter 22

Five days after the battle against Mirmulnir, Mull accompanies a group of men venturing back to the Western Watchtower to gather the dragon's scales and bones. He could happily live out the rest of his life without laying eyes on that tower ever again, but he's morbidly curious about the aftermath of Mirmulnir's rampage. So despite feeling some trepidation at what they might find there, he leverages his newfound importance to secure the right to tag along. He doesn't have anything better to do at the moment.

They set out from Whiterun about two dozen strong not counting the mule carts. Most of their number are common laborers entrusted with the responsibility of transporting the dead dragon back to the city. As far as Mull can tell, none of these people are aware of his supposed Dragonbornness. They seem to think he's some important representative of the Jarl being sent along to examine the battlefield with his own eyes, and as a result choose to keep their distance. That suits him just fine. He's got a lot to think about at the moment – as much as he wishes it weren't so – and for that reason the trek goes by quickly. Monsters, legends, and gods make for weighty contemplations.

When they arrive, they find the ruinous vestiges of a brutal battle. The land surrounding the tower grounds is tarnished by signs of flame, frost, and spilled blood. Very little of the tower itself is still standing, having been reduced to a scattered pile of masonry by the dragon's depredations. Coupled with the keening wind, solidly overcast sky, and overall bleakness of the landscape on this section of the plains, it makes for a poignantly sobering sight.

This place looks much different during the daytime than it had at night. The horizon is distant and the plains appear much more expansive. Endless fields of yellow grass are all there is to see, featureless and bland. Mull doesn't especially enjoy the view.

There are already a few other groups of workers busily gathering the remains of dead warriors from within and around the watchtower. It's a somber affair. A week has already passed and they're still digging up new bodies. The ruins of the tower are being excavated at a snail's pace, as the Jarl has insisted every single corpse should be recovered. He's delaying the funeral ceremonies until such a time that all of Whiterun's casualties have been accounted for.

Mull spends a while idly surveying the work crews bustling around the foundations of the tower. As he watches, several men call loudly to one another as they pull a recently-uncovered cadaver from the rubble. A woman maybe, though it's difficult to tell for certain. Rot has already set in, and that's on top of whatever other damage she suffered when she was killed. That could've so easily been him… and if Aela hadn't been there to haul his ass out of the not-so-proverbial fire, then it certainly would've.

He averts his eyes from the spectacle and trudges over to the dragon skeleton, a good fifty yards away from the collapsed structure. Not for the first time, he marvels at its sheer size. The ribcage alone could comfortably house an entire family. Even in death Mirmulnir is still plenty intimidating, all calciferous horns and sharp spurs of bone.

Laborers pace around the skeleton with woven wicker baskets as they gather up fallen scales. Others get to work at disentangling the bones, a protracted and arduous process. A handful of the mules are repurposed to assist in extricating the massive ribs and vertebrae, harnessed with thick ropes and urged by their masters to pull with all their might. Mull looks on with outward impassiveness, but he steadily grows more and more uncomfortable with the proceedings.

There's something about scavenging Mirmulnir's remains that doesn't quite sit right with him. It's like desecrating a grave or engaging in some kind of cannibalism, even though he logically knows neither of those comparisons are accurate. Maybe it's because he recently spoke to the dragon in his dream. Would Mirmulnir be upset that the men of Whiterun are currently rooting around inside his skeleton?

He scoffs at himself. That's absurd. He's dead. He doesn't have a reason to care. The other workers don't seem perturbed in the least – other than by the dragon's daunting size and razor-sharp fangs – so why should he be?

He recalls thinking something similar about the undead draugr in Bleak Falls Barrow. In that instance, he was wrong to assume their desecration of those ancient burial grounds would go without retribution. The draugr definitely cared.

In that case, I really hope Mirmulnir doesn't mind. A vengeful zombie dragon would be… yeesh. He shivers and banishes the thought. The dragon hasn't spoken within his mind ever since his most recent dream, and that would presumably change very quickly if he took issue with something.

Mull soon grows bored of standing around watching other people work and decides to join in. He's seen what he came here to see, and the sooner they get finished, the sooner they'll return to the city. If Mirmulnir gets angry, then too bad. He should've said something already.

He swipes an empty basket while nobody's looking and starts filling it with scales. Hundreds if not thousands of them are strewn around Mirmulnir's bones. They're each about the size of his hand and are unexpectedly heavy, nearly the weight he'd expect from a hunk of stone. The texture is similar to tree bark, but much more dense and inflexible. He gives one of the scales a few taps with his fingernail and notes that it doesn't leave a mark. No wonder my arrows didn't do anything. This would make for some good armor.

As he continues gathering more scales, he's on the receiving end of a few startled glances from the laborers who recognize him, still thinking him to be one of Balgruuf's lackeys – which isn't technically wrong anymore. But rather than question him, they merely shrug and go about their business. There's still more work to be done, and the eccentricities of the Jarl's men are none of their business.

His decision to participate in the hunter-gathering proves to be surprisingly fortuitous. In a stroke of pure luck, he discovers his lost spangenhelm resting in a bed of waist-high grass a short ways northwest of Mirmulnir's corpse. The thing looks beat to Oblivion and back, but a cursory inspection confirms that it's still serviceable despite being covered in grime and a hint of rust from the elements. He must've dropped it sometime after Mirmulnir died, but everything is so jumbled that he can't remember when exactly it happened. It might've been when he woke up from that dream about flying.

He gives the helm a gentle pat as he ties it off to dangle from his belt. Maybe it's silly, but he feels something like kinship with this abused piece of armor. They both survived Mirmulnir's onslaught worse for wear but still in one piece. There are a lot of people for whom the same can't be said. You're one lucky helmet. What did you do to get on Sai's good side?

Other than that, the excursion proves to be uneventful. They gather up the rest of the bones and scales, sort them by size, shape, and thickness, and load them neatly into the carts. It's dull and mindless work, but Mull doesn't have a problem with that. It's nice to be doing something that doesn't require much thinking. It's a bit of a respite.

At one point, while standing atop a bone-laden cart and helping guide an absurdly large femur into position, he peripherally catches a glimpse of something moving on the horizon. He stands, wipes a layer of sweat from his brow, and peers intently.

A pale-skinned giant wrapped in a cloak of spotted pelts is in the process of herding three lumbering, brown-wooled mammoths in the far distance. The giant is carrying a long tool of some kind, maybe a walking stick or a shepherding crook. One of the mammoths veers away towards a blanket of purple lichen growing on the bank of a nearby pond, but the giant calls out and guides it back in the right direction. From here, the giant's exclamation is barely perceptible over the keening wind, like an echo of distant thunder.

Now there's something you don't see every day. I've never laid eyes on a mammoth before, and that's the first giant I've seen since Aela killed the wild one at the cabbage farm. There's something oddly peaceful about the sight. It's a reminder that life goes on despite all the crazy things going on in Skyrim at present. The giants are still caring for their mammoths just as they've done for hundreds of years.

Though I wonder how much longer that'll last, he thinks grimly. I'm sure some of 'em witnessed the battle against Mirmulnir. It must've been visible for miles. We gave them a hell of a lightshow. I hope it wasn't a sign of things to come, but… we already know there's more than just one dragon in Skyrim. If more decided to crawl out of the woodwork, then we might be in for some serious trouble. All of us.

On that pleasant note, he cuts short his lollygagging and returns to the task at hand. He's trying to avoid thinking about these things, dammit.

It isn't much longer before they begin the return journey to the city, their train of carts now filled to the brim with Mirmulnir's earthly remains. This time Mull decides he doesn't feel like walking the whole way back. He scales the rear of one of the carts and hitches a ride, pointedly ignoring the driver's hooded glare and muttered invectives. But despite the man's obvious displeasure at having an unwanted passenger to further weigh down his beasts of burden, he takes no further action.

Mull repositions his helm to rest next to his thigh, makes himself comfortable, and drapes an arm over his eyes to shield them from the noonday sun. Underneath the cotton sleeve, his lips curl upwards. If he'd tried to hitchhike on a caravan two weeks ago, he would've been immediately thrown off and given a beating by the guards as something to remember them by. From what he's seen in the past, caravan hands rarely mess around when it comes to the safeguarding of their goods.

Now however, it seems he doesn't have to worry about such things. These men know he's somebody important, and even though they don't know the specifics, they're still giving him a free pass. It's a strange and entirely unfamiliar feeling, to be untouchable in this way.

The perks of being a Thane, he sneers.

-x-

The next day is less enjoyable. According to Avenicci, a commoner raised to the rank of Thane would usually be sat down for days on end to receive in-depth instruction about the particulars of Whiterun's domestic affairs. As an outsider, this should be doubly true for Mull.

But for some reason or another – the Dragonborn Bullshit, maybe – Jarl Balgruuf apparently doesn't think it's necessary to subject Mull to such torture, and intercedes with Avenicci on his behalf. The length of the lectures is greatly reduced, although that still means Mull spends several hours languishing in one of Dragonsreach's antechambers while listening to the Cyrod steward drone on and on about the city's historical and present circumstances.

After about two hours of abject boredom and intermittent naps, his attention is finally piqued when the steward begins discussing how a Thane should best conduct themselves to avoid lighting the tinderbox that is currently Whiterun. It's plain to see that Whiterun is dealing with a plethora of issues, but as Avenicci continues, Mull grows more and more incredulous that the city isn't already a pile of smoking rubble.

The city of Whiterun is economically and politically divided between the interests of numerous aristocratic clans, most of whom are self-aligned with either the Stormcloak Rebellion or the Empire along cultural lines. Some of the city's wealthy residents are descended from Cyrods who can trace their lineage back to Whiterun's glory days as the Imperial City of Skyrim, while others are the scions of exceedingly ancient Nord kin-groups. This division forces Balgruuf to constantly walk a tightrope to maintain his Hold's neutrality in the Civil War. The pro-Imperial families want to provide weapons and armor to the Legion, the pro-Stormcloak clans want to send their young men to fight for the Stormcloaks, and the few individuals who support Balgruuf's neutrality simply want their way of life to continue for as long as it possibly can.

Add to the mix an abundance of refugees in need of resettlement, uncommonly harsh taxes, and no small amount of religious tension – all issues to which the Civil War is intrinsically linked – and you're left with a city that the Jarl must work day and night to keep from going up in flames. In some ways, his policy of religious and political tolerance has circled back around to bite him directly in the ass.

Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen. I'm glad it isn't my problem to fix.

Avenicci's tutoring lasts throughout an entire day, though at least it's only a day instead of several in a row. It isn't fun, but once evening arrives and the Cyrod steward releases him from his bondage, it's officially done with and out of the way. He's now a Thane in both word and deed.

He can snark all he wants about not having to deal with Whiterun's problems, but the truth is that he already has a few issues of his own to worry about. For starters, the aristocrats of Balgruuf's court have made their distaste for him very clear from the outset of his stint as Thane. They seem to dislike the fact that an upstart ruffian has so rapidly garnered a position of favor with the Jarl.

One of the more noteworthy of Whiterun's elite is a functionary named Nazeem. Gods above, Nazeem is the worst of them by a landslide. He's a Redguard landowner who dresses and acts like a jumped-up Cyrod. "Do you get to the Cloud District very often? Oh, what am I saying? Of course you don't."

Before Mull could fire off a response to that provocation, the Redguard had waltzed away with a smug smirk, exuding a viscid aura of self-righteousness and indolent wealth. Though their interaction was brief, he already hates that man with a passion.

But he's ultimately fine with that. The aristocracy's opinions of him are meaningless as long as they leave him alone, and he has no desire to interact with those milk-drinking sycophants any more than necessary.

Unfortunately, that isn't always his choice to make. One of Balgruuf's nonnegotiable requests was that he needs to attend sessions of court at Dragonsreach whenever he's in the city and unoccupied with other matters. He didn't want to agree to that condition – the feeling of being subservient to the Jarl is… extremely grating. However, Balgruuf stated in no uncertain terms that he doesn't much care for petty politics either, so Mull decides in the end that he might as well humor the man. At least he won't be suffering alone.

Mirmulnir remains blessedly silent during this time. No more whispers at the edge of his hearing, no voices he can barely understand, no lucid dreams of talking dragons. Maybe that overgrown lizard has learned some manners. It's about time.

But despite the dragon's absence, Mull's dreams continue to be a constant companion in the twilight hours. They mostly consist of fire and darkness at the foot of a crumbling tower, similar to the ones he's been having about Helgen, though the precise flavor of desperation is slightly different. Not so much witless terror as it is the lingering anxiety that often follows a tough battle, which itself is nothing new for him.

But as of late, some of the dreams have begun taking on a more esoteric quality.

They used to be simple. Morven screaming into his face? Normal. Not surprising.

These new ones though, he has no idea what to make of them. Case in point, the dream a few nights ago where he spoke to Mirmulnir. That was easily one of the weirdest he's ever experienced.

And it doesn't stop there. Dragons continue to visit his dreams, and each apparition is less comprehensible than the last.

.

.

Two enormous beings clash above a field of eternal snow, their titanic struggle punctuated by furious snarls and booming roars that shake the foundations of Nirn's highest pinnacle.

Fibrous wings beat, spiked tails lash, tooth and razor-sharp claws pierce scaled flesh. Words of unfathomable power thunder across the storm-laden sky, ice and flame intertwined in a whirling dance.

Their forms are illuminated by flashes of lightning, towering silhouettes in the darkness, but there are none by whom their battle might be witnessed. They are alone together, both striving for absolute supremacy as they soar above the crown of the world.

-x-

Seven days after the battle against Mirmulnir, the newest Thane of Whiterun Hold departs from Dragonsreach. His business with the Jarl is finally concluded. And it's about damn time.

He takes a moment to appreciate the cool evening breeze, refreshing in stark contrast to the stuffiness of the great hall, as he looks over the bustling city spread out beneath him.

Pillars of smoke rise from hundreds of chimneys. Tile-roofed temples and towering grove-trees are situated directly below him, beyond the Cloud District's broad stone staircase and a few decorative pools of water. Off to the left, the great eagle statue of the Skyforge is presiding over the city with majestic wings outstretched, the reflected cherry-red light of forge fires gleaming against its otherwise grey features. A short distance southwest of the forge, he spots the distinct timber construction of Jorrvaskr nestled among other buildings at the edge of the residential and market districts. Further beyond, endless rows of houses, taverns, and shops form a repetitive expanse of twinkling firelight that stretches all the way to the southern walls, standing in all their dilapidated glory. Some sections of the outer walls are encased in scaffolding due to the Jarl's recent push for much-needed renovations, though they're still in the earliest stages. All told, it's a magnificent view.

After indulging in sightseeing for a while longer, he descends the stairs to the Temple District and continues down to the lower eastern districts, passing through the center of the sacred grove. His rich attire and high-quality equipment draw a few more stares than he's comfortable with. He would've been perfectly happy to depart from the Cloud District in his usual weather-stained garb and patched cloak, but Thanes are evidently expected to maintain a particular image, and certain elements of Dragonsreach's staff – read, that bastard Avenicci and his gaggle of maids – refused to let him leave without accepting some permanent alterations to his wardrobe.

He has a few new items in his possession now that he's a Thane, several of which are combat-oriented. First among them is a sturdy steel blade sheathed at his side, the Jarl's gift from the armory of Dragonsreach. The quality of the weapon and the horsehead emblem engraved prominently onto the pommel clearly mark him as a Thane, or so he's been informed.

Other men might be proud to bear this symbol of personal importance, but not him. It could be problematic to have a weapon that makes me stand out like this. I might need to scruff it up a bit to hide its worth. At least it isn't Skyforge Steel – from what I've seen, that stuff is outrageously expensive. Though if it was, I might be able to sell it for a small fortune…

Additionally, he decided to trade his heavier hauberk for a good set of leather-backed steel lamellar procured from the Cloud District's blacksmiths. At the Jarl's expense, of course, as he couldn't hope to afford something like that with his own money in a hundred years. The lamellar is much more expensive than the old hauberk and he spent hours arguing about the purchase with Avenicci, but it was worthwhile in the end. The good stuff ain't cheap. This armor is light enough to be worn while traveling and still provides exceptional protection for the front and back of the torso, the shoulders, and the thighs. What's there not to like?

Less conspicuously, his reclaimed spangenhelm dangles from his belt in all its maltreated glory, beaten and battered but still perfectly functional. Maybe not a helm befitting a Thane, but he insisted on keeping it. He's grown attached.

And last but not least, there's the latest addition to his newfangled arsenal – his housecarl. Every Thane has one, a freeman sworn to their service as a personal bodyguard, servant, and manager of their properties all rolled into one. Receiving a housecarl is part of a Thane's job description, so to speak.

He expected to be provided with a hulking brute of a warrior, a battle-scarred veteran who's proven his worth in service to the Hold through a slew of vicious battles. That's what Nord housecarls are usually like according to the stories he's heard.

So, he's understandably surprised that his housecarl turned out to be a fresh-faced young woman who can't be much past her twentieth year. Her name is Lydia.

Upon being introduced earlier this morning, the first thing he noticed was that the girl's pale skin and solemn sky-blue eyes granted her a striking resemblance to Jarl Balgruuf – to a suspicious degree in fact. Her hair was the only incongruous feature, being chestnut brown rather than Balgruuf's greying gold, but the arrangement of her braided and beaded locks was oddly similar to the Jarl's own high Nordic style. Being a naturally skeptical individual, he artlessly commented on these unusual similarities during the girl's introduction.

The Jarl seemed to find his complete lack of tact incredibly amusing. Once he was done chuckling, he divulged that Lydia is actually Hrongar's daughter, and thus his own niece.

Mull then asked the logical question of "Why in Oblivion would a princess be my godsdamn housecarl?"

As it turns out, the girl isn't quite a full-fledged princess due to the illegitimacy of her birth. While Nords don't typically care about such trivialities, it does matter to the Imperialized elements of Whiterun's aristocracy. Balgruuf didn't seem pleased as he disclosed that last bit of information.

From there, it wasn't hard for him to put two and two together. The Jarl is obviously trying to bind him to Whiterun in some tangible fashion, with naming him Thane being the most expedient way to do so. Appointing his own niece to act as Mull's housecarl is just the icing on the sweetroll. Even if he does feel a little insulted by all the political maneuvering, he has to admit that if he were in charge of Whiterun's defense, he would also want a Dragonborn on hand in case a dragon decided to show up. Not that I am Dragonborn, but… you know. Speaking hypothetically.

And he guesses it must be a high honor for the Jarl's niece to be assigned as Thane to the legendary and all-powerful Dragonborn, not to mention an opportunity for her to improve her prospects beyond remaining just another warrior in Balgruuf's household.

According to her, this isn't technically the first time she and Mull have met. She was present during his initial arrival in Dragonsreach, though she was merely one face among many. He doesn't recall seeing her.

Shortly after their mutual introduction, Hrongar had pulled him aside and gave him a stern talking-to. "It's now my daughter's sworn duty to ensure your safety, but you will take good care of her as well. If you don't, you will answer to me. I recognize your status as Dragonborn – you have earned my respect as a Nord – but I value the life of my daughter more than my honor. Do not forget this."

The one-armed man's threatening tone had riled up Mull at first, but then he remembered the battle at the watchtower. I watched this bastard go toe-to-toe with Mirmulnir, even if only for a few seconds, and come out of it alive. Sure he might've lost an arm in the process, but still. I know my own limits. I couldn't have done that. With that sobering though, he got ahold of himself and responded with a simple "I won't."

Though she's only been with him for a few hours, Mull already has a decent grasp of his housecarl's personality. Lydia is a quiet girl and rarely speaks unless spoken to, but she also takes her responsibilities very seriously. Even now, as she resolutely marches two steps behind him like a second shadow, she remains straight-backed in a way that exudes dignity and earnest dedication. He can tell she's got some steel in her. She's definitely had formal training as a warrior. He sees it in the way she moves comfortably in her chainmail hauberk – well, as comfortably as someone realistically can while wearing thirty pounds of armor. But if that's all it took to make a capable warrior, then the world would be a much simpler place. Alas that it isn't.

He hasn't yet decided if being saddled with this girl is going to be a hinderance or not. The initial signs indicate she won't be, but you never truly know somebody until you've been through a life-or-death situation alongside them. He can't fully trust her until such a time as that. The mind can be a fickle thing, and Lydia is young. Not younger than he was when he took his first life – not even close – but then, his life has probably been much different from her own.

He sighs. At some point I'll need to see how she handles herself in a fight. For now though, I've got someone else I need to see.

-x-

He shoves open the rickety front door of the White Whale and strides across the uneven threshold. Just behind him, Lydia flinches and wrinkles her nose at the shouting and raucous laughter emanating from within. They're assailed by the stench of unwashed bodies, sour ale, and stale piss, further contributing to her disgust.

Mull shrugs it off, accustomed to such things by now. He's spent more than a few languorous evenings inside this establishment, as has Torgen – this place has already become the Nord bandit's favorite. If he's laying low somewhere, the White Whale is the most likely choice.

That assumption appears to be correct. Even among the dense crowd and murky candle-smoke, Torgen isn't too difficult to spot. He cuts an impressive figure, sitting at a low table tucked into a dim corner of the common room and surrounded by no fewer than four women, two of whom are serving girls wearing obscenely short-skirted dresses. One of the women leans across him lasciviously and whispers in his ear. He responds with booming laughter and a raised mug.

"I don't know why I was expecting anything different," Mull grumbles as he shoves through the throng of patrons. Lydia does her best to follow in his wake but isn't quite as successful, being noticeably shorter than the average Nord. The same can be said for Mull, but even he has a few inches on her.

The sizable roundshield strapped to the girl's back doesn't help matters, nor does her armored raiment. She stomps on some unfortunate man's foot by accident, eliciting a wheeze of pain and a string of breathless curses. Mull internally laments the girl's lack of discretion. Having someone so unobtrusive following him around all the time will require some adjustment.

His apprehension mounts as he approaches Torgen's table. He planned out this upcoming conversation to the best of his ability, but social niceties have never been his specialty. Let's see how this goes.

He nudges one of Torgen's female acquaintances out of the way, pulls up a vacant chair, and takes a seat across from the older man. Numerous scabbed cuts and swollen bruises are visible around the bandit's cheekbones and jaw. Must've had himself a fight or two. I guess he had to stay entertained somehow.

When Torgen lays eyes on him, he flashes a toothy grin and waves for the proprietor to bring over another mug of whatever he's drinking. It's clear that he's already had quite a bit for himself. "Kid! I was wondering where you'd gotten to. It's been almost a whole week. I thought you'd gone off and died in a ditch somewhere. Or maybe you'd been eaten by that dragon everyone's been talking about!"

He guffaws and takes a swig of his beverage – probably a darker ale, by the aroma – but Mull doesn't miss the man's hard, calculating eyes as they gleam beneath his bushy brows.

Since I was gone without explanation for so long, he thinks something isn't right. He's on edge. I can't blame him for that. He has a bounty in this Hold and he already knows I work for the Jarl, even if he isn't aware of the specifics. "It's been an interesting week," he hedges. "A lot's happened."

"Aye? Like what?" Hidden from view, Torgen's free hand drifts to the hilt of the long dagger at his belt. Mull can tell what he's doing by the minute shifting of his elbow. "And… who's this pretty lady you've brought along?"

He half-turns – keeping Torgen on the edge of his sight just in case he does something stupid – to see Lydia standing resolutely at his side, having finally weaved her way to their table. Her face is flushed scarlet, though he isn't sure if it's from exertion or embarrassment at her tardiness. She had more difficulty with the crowd than he did.

He gives Torgen an inscrutable look. "She's my housecarl."

Torgen chuckles darkly and sets aside his mead. Sensing the adverse shift in the atmosphere around their benefactor, the assembled tavern wenches hurriedly back away. Neighboring patrons fall silent as they crane their heads to catch a glimpse of the disturbance.

"You never told me you were a full-fledged Thane, kid. I wouldn't ever have guessed it. You don't seem the type. I really bought your story about working for the Court Wizard, you know. You can spin a good tale."

He leans forwards, dagger half-drawn and an ugly sneer on his face, like a wolf baring its fangs. Never underestimate the willingness of a Nord to go down fighting.

"I bet you've got some men waiting outside to nab me and claim that bounty. Am I right?"

Mull accepts his mug of ale from an extremely nervous serving girl and takes a sip before deigning to answer. "Now why would I do something like that?"

Torgen snorts. "Gold. Currying favor with your Jarl. Making the world a better place. You've got your reasons."

He grunts noncommittally, drinks a little more, and glances at his housecarl. She's trying to act aloof but isn't quite pulling it off. The current discussion is occupying her full interest – those keen blue eyes are darting back and forth between him and Torgen. She must have an idea of what this is about. Hmm. I wonder how much Balgruuf told her.

He refocuses on the man of the hour. "For what it's worth, no, I don't have an army of goons ready to beat you into a bloody pulp. It's just me and the girl. You see, as far as I'm aware, you're the embodiment of a law-abiding man. An upstanding citizen," he asserts with a faint smirk. "I can't imagine why anyone would waste their time dragging somebody like you off to a dungeon."

The fair-haired man scowls angrily but settles back into his seat, the tension gradually draining from his shoulders. "And what exactly does that mean, kid?"

"It means you don't have a bounty on your head anymore. What do you think?"

Torgen blinks rapidly. "I what now?"

"You heard me."

"No, I don't think I did. It sounded like you said my bounty's gone."

"That is what I said."

"Oh. Huh."

The older man frowns and scratches his beard.

"…How in Oblivion did that happen?"

"You wouldn't believe the things you can do with the right amount of money. And for the record, it wasn't a small bounty. The Jarl's steward demanded a pretty septim for the privilege of keeping your head attached to your shoulders. You're welcome."

The glint of suspicion returns to Torgen's eye. "You're really starting to make me wonder what I did to get on your good side. That kind of generosity never comes without a price of its own. Why the sudden favoritism?"

"That right there. That attitude is exactly why." He thumps his tankard against the table for emphasis. "There are too many Nords in this province with the self-preservative instincts of a mudcrab. You're a bunch of strawheaded idiots at the best of times. How you haven't already gone extinct is honestly beyond me."

Lydia shuffles uncomfortably next to him. He pretends not to notice.

"But you're different," he continues. "You're like me. You know how to stay alive. If that weren't true, then we'd both be rotting corpses back in Bleak Falls Barrow."

"The same as Harknir and Bjorn," the Nord rumbles.

"The same as a lot of people. Either of us could've been killed by those draugr a dozen times over, but we weren't. We made it out of the barrow with all our bits still attached because we're good at what we do, and because Sai decided he liked us on that particular day. But I'm not looking for experience, skill, or luck. I'm looking for survivability."

"I know a recruitment pitch when I hear one, so hurry up and get to the point. What do you want from me, kid?"

Deciding on a whim that a little levity might make the Nord bandit more willing to hear him out, Mull sets his mug on the table and pushes it away with a grimace. "Torgen, this ale is terrible. Who in Shor's name brewed this shit? A skooma-doped goblin?"

"It was Maven Black-Briar herself, preparing this keg just for us. No doubt about it." Despite the tense situation, the man's sarcastic reply makes Mull smile. "You'll find none better in the whole city."

"If you're that much of an adoring fan, then here. This swill is all yours. I'm not sure how much more I can stomach." He nudges the lackluster ale towards the center of the table. He considers himself to be an avid drinker, but Torgen's preference in beer is horrendous even by his standards.

Not one to let cheap alcohol go to waste, Torgen reaches over and swipes the mug. He swirls it once, nods approvingly, and takes a long draught.

Mull wraps up his discourse while the man drinks. This has already gone on long enough, and they're attracting more attention from the other patrons than he'd like. "If you're interested, I've got an opportunity for gainful employment with your name on it. The pay will be above average, room and board will be fully covered, and it'll be a good chance to change things up – for both of us. Back in Riverwood, didn't you say you wanted to do something different? This right here is your lucky break."

With that, he pushes back his chair and stands, casually tossing a coin onto the table to cover his tab.

"A week ago I was just another bandit down on his luck, the same as you. But now I can do just about whatever I want. I have unrestricted access to the Cloud District, writs to purchase quality armor and weapons at a pittance, and even a commission to become a mercenary straight from the Jarl himself. Being a Thane is a pain in the ass, but it comes with its fair share of perks too. You should try it sometime."

Torgen slowly lowers the mug of ale, revealing a beard laden with creamy foam. His brows rise as his distrust morphs into puzzlement.

Mull turns to leave and gestures for Lydia to follow. He calls over his shoulder. "Come on, I'll show you what I'm talking about. We can have ourselves a chat on the way there."

-x-

Lydia walks through Whiterun's winding streets in the company of her new Thane and his… unusual acquaintance, stepping briskly in order to keep up with the two men's longer strides. As she scans their environs for potential threats with a practiced eye, her mind wanders back to their introductory meeting just this morning. It's already been an eventful day.

.

.

"And this is to be your new housecarl, Lydia."

She swallows the lump in her throat and takes a firm step forward, just as she's practiced countless times. As she raises a fist to her chest in salute, she curiously analyzes the strange man's features even as he examines her own.

He's taller than herself, but not quite as tall as the average Nord male and certainly not as well-built. His russet hair and copper beard have been given professional care recently, though not nearly comprehensive enough to disguise its underlying dishevelment, like what she's seen from courtiers returning to the Cloud District from long expeditions across the Hold. He could still use a good trimming in her opinion.

His nose is crooked and slightly misshapen – it must have been badly broken at some point in the past. His weathered face is marked by fresh scar just above his left eyebrow, still red and irritated, as well as a collection of older ones. She remembers her father once said that a man who bears many scars is either reckless, stupid, or lucky. She wonders which this man is.

She's never been good at guessing the ages of men, but she'd place him somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five. Somewhat young, but still older than herself by a fairly wide margin.

His thin lips are curled into a frown. She can see confusion, surprise, and dare she say displeasure in his piercing dark green eyes. Her trepidation redoubles.

Her father and uncle have both informed her of this man's status as Dragonborn. As a result, she had envisioned him to be an archetypical Nord warrior towering above even the tallest of men, unrivaled in strength, blue-eyed and fair of hair, all in the manner of the Dragonborn heroes of old.

She can't say that this man is what she'd been expecting. Still, she has a duty to perform, and this opportunity to greet one who is a recipient of the gods' blessings is an extraordinary occasion no matter their appearance.

"Honor to you, my Thane," she softly intones as she dips of her head. "By the oath-blessed appointment of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, I am sworn to guard you and your possessions with my life. My sword is yours to command."

Seconds stretch in silence. Will he reject my service? she wonders. She isn't sure if she wants that or not.

Finally, the man speaks. "Is she yours?"

It takes a moment for her to realize that he's addressing her uncle. Rather than taking offense at being addressed so brusquely, the Jarl instead chortles with hearty laughter. "No, that she is not. Although you aren't far off the mark. She's Hrongar's, actually."

"Ah."

She begins to fidget awkwardly as her uncle proceeds to explain her exact familial circumstances. No matter how many times her father has told her that it shouldn't be a source of shame, it always bothers her when this particular subject is discussed. Her illegitimacy is hardly something she wishes to be bandied about.

While the two men talk, she subtly continues to study the Dragonborn from beneath her lashes. He has a different air about him than the men and women of her uncle's court, or even any of the city folk that she's ever interacted with, and not in the way you might expect from a supposed Dragonborn.

Wild. Unrefined. Unpredictable. He really isn't a good-looking man, in the sense that he doesn't appear to be the kind of person you'd want to meet in a narrow alleyway on a cloudy night. He lacks the aura of a warrior or a patrician. In that way, he's singularly out of place in the stately setting of Dragonsreach.

She recalls her father and uncle's directive to keep a close eye on this man during her tenure as his housecarl. She now thinks she understands why. Some of the gold that the Jarl awarded him was used to pay off the bounty of one Torgen Jafnarrsson, formerly wanted in Whiterun Hold for committing the crimes of arson, brigandry, assault, and murder. Frankly, the fact that the Dragonborn did such a thing has raised suspicions about his character and intentions going forward. A man who consorts with such roguish individuals is not one to be let loose into her uncle's lands without supervision, and certainly not when that man is a Dragonborn of legend.

Her musings are cut short when the man addresses her directly for the first time, his conversation with her uncle having drawn to a close. "Lydia, aye?"

She nods. "That is correct, my Thane."

He regards her with those peculiarly intense eyes, still not looking especially satisfied. "Call me Mull. I'm leaving Dragonsreach in a few hours, so gather your things before then."

With that, he makes passing eye contact with her uncle before wordlessly taking his leave, heading towards the staircase that descends to the great hall.

.

.

Lydia purses her lips as she finds herself falling behind her Thane and the bandit. Townsfolk instinctively make way before them, as if recognizing they aren't men to be heedlessly trifled with. Unfortunately, she isn't afforded the same courtesy. Despite being the Jarl's kin, she's only rarely recognized as such on sight. Skyrim is full of brunette women with blue eyes – her features are hardly extraordinary.

She releases a quiet breath. Her uncle and father are not unduly worried for her safety as she accompanies these men on… whatever it is they'll be doing between now and the journey to High Hrothgar. She can take care of herself and is more than confident in her ability to guard against potential attackers, or even her Thane and the bandit should they attempt something untoward. She did slay two brigands during a clan raid the previous spring, and that's not to mention the fact that her father, an accomplished warrior, has trained her from childhood in the way of the sword.

But even so, she still feels some consternation about this turn of events. She watches the two men slow to a halt a short distance ahead, their armor and weaponry jingling discordantly with each movement – and the latter of which they possess in almost excessive abundance.

What will the future hold for me, I wonder?

She doesn't know, and that uncertainty fills her with worry.