A Man of His Word

The Imperial Legion descended upon them like a flood. The thundering feet and battle cries of the soldiers drew the rebels' attention towards the front, just as intended.

On their flank, mages descended from the hills. The cold winds they had been pumping into the camp coalesced and then snapped solid. Ice crystals began to form along the ground, growing wide and high, pillars fusing as soon as they made contact with their neighbors. It was those who could not fight that were caught against it, finding the way blocked off as some attempted to flee. At the front, the Legionnaires banded together, digging their feet in and setting their shields. A captain ordered an advance and together, the Legion obeyed, pushing forward even as the Stormcloaks threw themselves against them.

A wall of shields to their front and a wall of ice, ever-growing, on their backs. The panic among the Stormcloak camp was reaching a fever pitch as all exits had been cut off. They beat against the ice with shields, hammers, axes, fists but the wall stretched to nearly the height of the trees. A voice rose above the others, hoarse with effort. It yelled for the rebels to pull back, to form up.

Even in the chaos, a ring was made quickly, swords up and forward while the Stormcloaks positioned themselves between the Legion and the defenseless. The Legion still pushed against them, shoving forward with their shields, forcing the Stormcloaks further and further back against the wall, tightening the ring.

Despite the pressure, not a single rebel broke rank, lest they expose the vulnerable. They were forced together against shattered wood and ruined tents locked in sheets of ice as the Legion pushed and pushed. But push is all they do. They did not lash out of their shield wall with blades, they did not break formation to start slaughtering the prey they had successfully corralled. At a certain point, they even seemed to stop moving. A small gap remained between the rebels and the Legion that none on either side attempted to close.

A new voice echoes out into the air, this time, from the side of the Imperials. It commanded the soldiers to step back. As a line, they did, moving lockstep and holding their formation.

The voice from before ordered them to hold position. None of the Stormcloaks take the opportunity to push into the widening gap. They watched as the shield wall rippled, soldiers shifting in a wave that slowly moved from the back towards the front. After what seemed like an era, the soldiers at the front pulled away from each other, stepping to the side and parting their shields to create an opening.

Through it strode Felwinter, armed and armored in black-gold, the clawed gauntlets and shoulder spikes making him appear more a demon than a man. He moved into the center, not so close that any panicked rebel could lash out at him but close enough that the soldiers under his command were a few paces further away.

The Stormcloaks had gone quiet before but now murmurs and terrified whispers began to sprout among their ranks. A few of the rebel soldiers facing him down wavered, shifting and firming their stances, even as their eyes followed every movement he made, wide and unblinking.

"Stormcloaks!" Felwinter's voice echoed off the ice. "My name is Felwinter Drakon. Many of you have heard of me and even if you have not, you have heard of the things I've done. In Whiterun, in Markarth, in Windhelm." His eyes slowly sweep the line. "You know what I'm capable of. That is why we are all here now."

The looks he received could burn holes through wood but none dared approach him. His hand rested loosely on the pommel of his sword. "This does not need to end how it so often does," he went on. He spoke loudly but gently, "Lay down your arms. Surrender. End this."

Even with all the blades at his throat, retaliation only came as a few shouted curses. Still, no one moved. Most don't speak. Somewhere, a mother tries desperately to calm a sobbing child. Felwinter is unsurprised that his ears focus on that above all else. Both his children had been crying the first time he met them; small things made victims by people they were powerless against. The hand on his sword tightened.

Then, the hand moved to his belt. The Stormcloak warrior that was closest when it did started violently and automatically, the Legionnaire at Felwinter's back prepared to lunge until a hand held up by Felwinter stopped him from doing so. The other hand was still on his belt, pulling it loose. His eyes never left the rebels.

Then, using both hands now, he unstrapped Zazikel, sheath and all. He lowered to lay it gently on the ground and when he rose, he used his foot to kick it behind him, towards a spot they would believe he could not reach.

Felwinter then held both his hands up. "Parley, that's all I ask. Send someone out so we can discuss terms."

Hesitation and silence were all they gave him for so long, dread began to take root in his chest. Then, a voice sounded out. The one from before who had ordered the Stormcloaks into formation was now ordering them to part. The command earns a few turned heads and incredulous murmurs but starting from the back, just as before, the Stormcloaks obeyed.

The man who came forward, the one whose voice had the strength to wrench them all from the panic of an ambush into a coherent defense, was not who Felwinter was expecting. Old and grey-bearded, hunched so that the crown of his head only came half up Felwinter's beard, he didn't walk forward so much as he hobbled, a crutch under his left arm. Felwinter assumed the leg beneath was broken and set but upon closer inspection, he saw that this wasn't the case. That, from the knee down, there was nothing there left to set.

Still, the old man stood strong, eyes as brown and hard as Alik'r stone while shimmering with days of missed sleep. Felwinter took him in and after a second, dared a step forward. Stormcloak scowls deepen but all remain still.

"You wish to speak? Speak," the old man said, the strength of his voice continuing to belie his age. "The day has already been too long."

Felwinter asked him, "Who are you?"

"I…am running out of patience." The man boomed with authority, the kind strong enough to send a strange but familiar sensation down Felwinter's neck. It reminded him of his mother, of Castel, of the Greybeards and Kodlak. Even Lord Drakon. "State your terms, Legate."

Even with all the leverage, Felwinter did not push and did as bade. "They're simple. Surrender unconditionally and you will be shown mercy. Resist and we will respond in kind without hesitation."

"You are hesitating now. Why?"

"What?"

The old man twisted as much as he could on his crutch to look back at the ice wall. A ray of sunlight pierced the clouds to shine off of it. "You surrounded us within seconds. You have us backed into a corner with no hope of escape, save for a mad rush. You could do whatever you wanted with us and we'd deserve it, would we not?" His gaze simmered underneath a heavy brow and grey hair that fell to his shoulders, daring Felwinter to either lie or agree.

"I am no judge."

A sardonic twitch of the lips. "Just the executioner."

"Only when I have to be."

The old man spread out his free arm. "Aren't we all?" The arm lowered. "No other commander under the Legion would be showing us such leniency. Why, Legate Felwinter?"

Felwinter sighed. "I don't need to explain myself to you. But if you really want to know…" He nodded to the people huddling behind them. "Look at your people. Tired soldiers, desperate parents. Terrified children."

The man doesn't turn, doesn't twitch. He held Felwinter's gaze with an unnatural intensity. "Look at them yourself. And keep looking at them when you order your men to cut them down because we would not bow. Soldiers, parents, children all."

Something itches almost painfully in the back of Felwinter's throat and he resists the urge to swallow. "I will not."

"Unless the Thalmor command it."

Felwinter's teeth ground together involuntarily. For the first time, the old man's expression shifted. A subtle change but Felwinter knew the look when he saw it. His pupils had been shrinking in response to his anger ever since he was a boy and those who saw it always became visibly unsettled. It took decades and a dragon slain for him to find out what it meant.

Felwinter closed his eyes and tried to rein in his emotions; his anger, his frustration, his guilt. Then, he opened them again. "Then give them no cause," he said carefully, "Stand down."

"The Thalmor have never needed cause."

"Stand down," he says again, "Not just for yourself. For them." He pointed to the Stormcloaks, the people they protected. "Just as I am here, offering terms, for them." He brought his hand back and gestured towards the Legion, still at attention behind him. "And for them. Enough is enough, is it not?"

The old man went quiet for a long time, his eyes on the ground instead of Felwinter. "Enough?" he huffed out a bitter laugh. "Now it is enough?" Felwinter noticed the hand around the crutch squeezing tighter, to the point of trembling. "My daughter was in Windhelm, Felwinter." The trembling seemed to crawl up the length of his body towards his throat and when he looked up again, his eyes were full of tears and fire. "She died defending her Jarl, her king, her home against your Imperials. Against your dragons. Against you!"

His voice echoed off the ice wall. He was screaming by the end. Felwinter brought up his hand once again when he heard the sound of armor clinking behind him. He never took his eyes off the old man, refused to shield himself from his rage, his grief. He simply waited.

The mask fell away. Feverish anger broke when a single tear escaped his eye and he said, "Enough was enough long before now."

With that, the old man turned to face his people. He looked over them all and they looked back, hanging off every word he had to say. "Listen, Stormcloaks and listen well," he said in a voice that went over the crowd. "Know that you have been brave. Braver than any man, king or god has the right to ask of you. You have indeed all earned your place among your ancestors and heroes when the time comes." He paused and faint whispers filled the silence. "Now I ask you to be brave once more, for that time is not yet now. Lay down your arms, Stormcloaks. This…this is all over."

No one moved at first. Anger was clear and the potential of defiance was so palpable, Felwinter could feel the agitation in the Legionnaires behind him. But nothing happened. No rebel breaks formation to charge at the Legion. None even speak openly against the old man's words, to accuse him of weakness, of cowardice. Few do move but only to look behind them, at their young, their weak and injured. The first rebel to turn to face Felwinter and the Legion again was a woman, young but aged by scars and battle. Her eyes squeezed shut, her lips curling and trembling with a hundred different feelings all at once.

Then, it all stopped. She straightened up, out of her fighting stance and then she tossed her sword onto the ground, shoulders slumped, clattering echoing in every ear.

After a few seconds, the man beside her tossed his axe over her blade. And then the man beside him. Three soon became five. Five became ten. Steel clattered against the ground for what seemed like an eternity but there were only twenty who had taken up arms to defend their camp. A minority, compared to the total.

Felwinter tried to keep his voice as even as he could, even as his heart thundered with relief. "You will all be taken into custody and transported to Windhelm," Felwinter told the crowd. "Comply and no harm will come to you. Any of you." He breathed. "You have my word."

"What is a Thalmor dog's word worth?" A voice rings out into the air and Felwinter's heart thunders, only for a new, terrible reason. There was rustling among the Stormcloak ranks and a figure broke through the line.

Ralof. The only man still holding a blade.

He stopped once he laid eyes on Felwinter. Then, he continued to approach until the older man's outstretched arm stopped him. The clink of metal behind Felwinter began to grow agitated again.

Ralof was younger than Felwinter by half a decade. War and death had taken their toll. Scars both old and new lined his face, his hair and beard had grown longer, shaggier in the two years since Felwinter had last seen him. He wasn't the handsome young man Felwinter had left behind in Riverwood, waving him off and happy to be alive after Helgen.

"How dare you show your face here."

"Ralof…"

"How dare you pretend to be a friend, to any of us!"

"Ralof, please…" Felwinter felt as if there was not enough air. As if he was being cooked alive in his own armor. "I am trying to end this as peacefully as I can."

"By what? A trial?" Ralof tried to take another step closer, pushing against the arm at his chest. "Do you remember the last 'trial' we endured? Do you?!"

Felwinter swallowed. "Every gods-forsaken day."

The man's teeth grit with unbridled anger. "I saved you while Helgen burned. Not because I ever wanted you to join us but because what they were doing to you was wrong! You were an innocent man and they were still willing to put your head to the block. I saved you. I took you in. Brought you into my home…and you do this!"

"Yes, Ralof. I do this. I offer you a chance to live at least for another day. Even to ensure the innocent make it to safety. I'm doing all I can and I will keep doing so, regardless of whether or not you believe me. But I need you to stand down."

"You are being offered mercy, traitor." Felwinter's head turned behind him, towards one of the Imperial captains who had stepped forward. "You'd be wise to take it."

Ralof pointed at Felwinter with his blade. "His mercy is the last thing I want! His or yours, dog!"

"Stand down, captain," Felwinter ordered sharply. He held a placating hand to Ralof, the look he held pleading. Ralof hurled his insults, tried to go around the old man to reach the captain, who continued to issue threats thinly disguised as warnings. The back and forth went on, tensions rising ever higher. Legionnaires were starting to advance. The Stormcloaks were reaching for their weapons."

"Enough!" Felwinter shouted. "All of you enough!" He continued to go unheeded until the last thread of his patience snapped like a rotting twig. "I SAID ENOUGH!"

The ice wall boomed. A thick crack erupted along it from its base to its head. The Legion meekly shuffled back into formation. The Stormcloaks quickly retreated from their discarded blades. Fear was the most palpable feeling in the air right now. Fear of him.

To his credit, Ralof remained where he was though he was huffing through his teeth, shoulders heaving, jaw flexing rhythmically. His hand adjusted and readjusted around the hilt of his dagger.

Then, he let it fall. Felwinter couldn't hold back the sigh of relief that left him. As soon as his dagger hit the ground, the captain gestured for two soldiers to apprehend him. Felwinter allowed it, too tired to speak for himself.

Ralof's eyes never left him and they were iced over with hate. The Legionnaires retrieve his knife and roughly force him to his knees. "If none of my people were here, I'd take an axe to your face until there was nothing left," he snarled, "Consequences be damned, as long as I took you with me."

Once his wrists were bound tightly behind his back, Ralof was pulled to his feet and away. "I should have pushed you in front of Alduin when I had the chance! Faithless traitor!"

Felwinter could say nothing. He set his eyes back onto the crowd, who continued to look at him in fear. His eyes then went up the wound he had inflicted on the wall. He tried to force himself to relax. Shouting without meaning to and without Words of Power. He was coming undone and the true war hadn't even started. He resisted the urge to run his armored hand down his face, knowing he looked as tired as he felt. "Your weapons will be taken and then you will be secured. The lookouts you posted are alive and have already been apprehended." More astonished muttering from the crowd. To the old man, he leaned in slightly and said, "Thank you for this. I promise-"

"The only thing you can promise me is a quick death," he snapped, "And even then, I doubt you would be able to keep it."

Felwinter closed his mouth and sighed through his nose. Then, he stepped back and gestured forward. "Mages, retrieve the weapons."

The shield wall parted in several places, Imperial battlemages slipping through the cracks. Hands outstretched and eyes closed, their magic filled the space around them all. The assorted swords, axes and other arms the Stormcloaks had grabbed in their panicked rush to either defend themselves or die a valiant death began to rattle and slide across the grass, towards and then past Felwinter. Some of the rebels watched their last line disappear before their eyes. Others watched the soldiers and him. When most reached the line of mages and had been picked up, Felwinter gestured again. "Secure the prisoners."

Several soldiers were already moving when Felwinter sharply said, "Unharmed. Am I understood?"

A few unenthusiastic murmurs of "Yes, Legate" was all the confirmation he would get. Felwinter remained in place as the soldiers passed, watched as they closed in on the rebels, forcing the soldiers to their knees and wrapping thick ropes around their arms and wrists, listening to growls and oaths and cries of terror breaking out, barely restrained.

When his eyes land on a tall, broad Nord Legionnaire approaching a young boy and roughly taking him by the arm, he could watch no more. He rubbed the crooked bump of his nose on instinct and turned. He needed to find Elenwen.

He twisted to take one last look at the crowd. His eyes latch onto them so quickly, he wondered how he could have missed them before. Avulstein and Thorald, the man, the rebel he braved a Thalmor encampment to save.

He refuses to think about them further than that. Or of their parents, who he will have to look in the eye as the news is broken. He doesn't wait for them to catch his gaze. Felwinter turns and departs into the trees, faster than he originally intended.

"Lady Emissary." Recognizing the voice, Elenwen brought her horse around. A group of black-robed mages began to filter out from between the forest trees, lowering their hoods as they entered the clearing and mixed with the group surrounding her. The one at their head nodded his greeting.

"Justiciar Eryon," she returned, "It is done?"

"The wall was built and the Stormcloaks were forced against it, yes." She could see the stains of frost still clinging to his gloved fingers. "We didn't bother to stick around after that."

Elenwen hummed and turned her eyes to the trees. "What was he doing when you left?"

The Altmer crossed his arms. "Same thing he was doing at the war meeting with Tullius. Talking." He scoffed and crossed over to where her horse stood. "Making peace with weaklings and traitors."

"Disregard him. Talking is what he is good at. Is everyone accounted for?" she asked, grimacing at the grey sky, "I wish to be rid of this place."

"This is every-" Eryon stopped, his head snapping towards the trees. The voices murmuring around them had shifted and had caught both their attention. The Thalmor nearest the treeline were parting as if something was forcing them apart. Elenwen tightened her grip on the reins. "Eryon, leave us for a while," she said.

"His threats are as ineffectual as he is," the Altmer spat, "I am not afraid of him." He was too close now so Elenwen spurred her beast forward and at an angle, positioning herself between her subordinate and the new arrival. Felwinter didn't make idle threats.

"Legate Drakon," she greeted, loudly and sweetly, "I heard the news. I congratulate you on yet another victory."

Felwinter continued to push towards her, mages stepping out of his way to avoid being shoved aside. He reached her and looked at her with eyes so cold, they nearly burned. Then, he said, "Your people told me this camp had the potential to take Windhelm." He was careful to keep his voice as low and neutral as possible. "I was told that most of them were soldiers and that this group would be twice as big. None of that has been true. What happened?" His anger was clear, not just in his voice and eyes but in the restless twitch of his fingers, the stiffness of his neck.

"Some were soldiers, as you've seen. Regardless, all are traitors." Elenwen refused to dignify his question even further, even as her mages were hoping that she'd set him alight or give one of them the honor. Eryon had melted back into the crowd, out of Felwinter's sight. Elenwen spurred her mount. "Step aside, Legate Drakon."

The horse bucked and started forward again. Felwinter remained in place as the horse trotted towards him but when it came mere inches from bodily shoving him out of its way, his hand came up and landed on its snout. Everyone around could feel the magic wafting off him, like plumes of invisible smoke. "Why was I lied to, Elenwen?" He asked again. His pupils were pinpoints in a sea of white. A vein throbbed rapidly along his head.

Now, it was Elenwen's turn to start feeling her anger well within, bubbling up from some deep and terrible part of her mind. She stared at him, wide and unblinking, almost in awe at his nerve. "The information I give you is whatever I want you to hear and nothing more," she sneered, trying and failing to force her mount onward. Felwinter's magic was like a wall and it would require using her own to bring it down. "When it comes to fulfilling our goals here, we owe you nothing."

Elenwen shook her head. "With the way you've been going on, you've forced me into duplicity, I'm afraid. Your ridiculous penchant for granting mercy and leniency to traitors who tore this land apart, it is baffling." She leaned down slightly and almost imperceptibly, the mages surrounding them seemed to close in. "You are no emperor, king, general and you are most decidedly not one of us. Your job is not to think, Legate, or to dole out mercies on a whim. It is to do as you are told and win the battles you are given. Can you be trusted to do this? If not…" she gestured to the trees, "Then, I cannot emphasize how much you are welcome to leave. I have no problem handling the rebels on my own and in any way I see fit."

His eyes widened. Felwinter was trembling now but after the gravity of her threat truly set in, his magic faded and his hand fell back to his side. "Wise choice, Legate," she crooned, her smile returned. "The prisoners are to be contained in Windhelm and prepared for transport to Solitude. It is there, after the Moot, that we will put an end to this war once and for all and with hope, stave off another. A task, I suspect, you and your dragons will be needed for."

Felwinter grimaced and broke his eyes away from hers. "The Legion can handle the details. Just see that it is done." Elenwen raised her voice, speaking to her people. "Make yourselves ready," she ordered, "We soon depart."

To Felwinter, she gave little but a dismissive wave. "Return to your rebels, Felwinter. I have no use for you at the moment."

Felwinter remained still for a second longer than what would have been deemed a threat before twisting around and making his way back into the forest. In and out, he breathed, feeling the air stretching his lungs, the muscles in his chest, ribs and back. Anything to relieve the storm he was just barely retaining. On his way, he could hear voices in the trees. And sobbing.

"Legate Drakon."

The accent drew a crack in the walls he had been building up around his temper. His head flicked up, blazing eyes settling on an Altmer man. But when he took in the youthfulness of his features and the red and silver of his armor as opposed to black-gold, his anger subsided. The Legionnaire only needed to look into his eyes once to decide to keep his distance. Remembering himself, the Altmer quickly saluted. "Apologies, sir. Most of the prisoners have been secured. We will be ready to march within the next hour."

"Has anyone been sent ahead to Windhelm?"

"Yes sir. A rider departed as soon as you left."

"Have the mages start bringing down the wall and relay to the captains that they should subdue any who attempt escape without harming them. But if any present themselves as a threat…"

"Understood, Legate Felwinter."

Felwinter trudged forward and the young elf seemed to scramble to get out of his way. Felwinter stopped again and turned. "What's your name, soldier?"

He blinked. "Um…Dandos, sir."

Felwinter nodded. "Thank you for telling me, Dandos. Keep up the good work."

Felwinter continued on his way. The Altmer only remembered himself when Felwinter was several paces gone, thanking him profusely to the back of his head. Felwinter smiled, half done and hidden by the storm in his eyes and his beard but it was there.

The march takes up the rest of the day. By the time the Legion arrived at Windhelm's Gates, most of the sun was beneath the mountainous horizon. Going against his original decision, Felwinter decided to accompany the group, hoping that his presence would quell any violence or attempts to escape. None are made, though Ralof is pointedly kept to the back of the group, with two guards assigned to shadow his every move. If there was anyone here likely to lose their heads, it was him.

Though he was offered a horse and could have called on Arvak at any time, Felwinter chose to walk alongside the soldiers and the prisoners. The horses were saved for prisoners unable to walk, as long as there was a Legionnaire there to hold the reins. By the time they crossed the bridge and the threshold into Windhelm, every part of him ached.

The city gates had been opened to the square, filled with guards, Legion and the occasional civilian watching from behind the lines the soldiers had formed to shuttle the prisoners towards the dungeons. There, their fellows awaited them. Most had been survivors of the Battle for Windhelm, others had been found and captured in the wilds. Organization and transport of groups to Solitude were already underway, if only to relieve the strain. It would be there where Elisif would preside over trials of treason, with Elenwen and Tullius whispering in her ear from behind. A sham trial. The Legion did those very well.

Felwinter broke off from the procession and climbed the steps of the Palace of the Kings to watch the long line of people move slowly past. He hadn't been there long when he heard his name called from behind. The voice was low and the wind sharp but still, it was clear. He twisted to see Brunwulf approaching, wrapped in a Jarl's thick furs for the cold. The prisoners would have no such luxury when the night's chill set in. "This all of them?" Brunwulf rumbled.

"It is." His eyes turned towards the back of the line when it became visible. Ralof glowered as he was dragged past. He had been moving easily before with the soldiers escorting him and the old man to keep him calm but when he came to the bottom of the stairs, to the spot before Ulfric's murderer and Ulfric's usurper, he stopped.

The soldiers promptly grabbed him by both arms and dragged him onwards, his feet dragging in the stone and snow, twisting to stay on Felwinter. The further along he went, the more he resisted until the old man hobbled up beside him and muttered something in his ear. Only then did he seem to relax and let himself be led away until he disappeared into the alley. The old man never spared Felwinter a glance.

A weary sigh came out from behind him and then a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. "Come, let us speak inside. Get you warmed up." Brunwulf began walking back towards the castle doors. Hesitantly, Felwinter followed.

"We'll be readying another group for the journey soon," Brunwulf told him, setting down a ceramic jug on the table at their back. In front of them sat a fire, brilliant and crackling. One Felwinter didn't have light or maintain himself, he was being spoiled. Brunwulf filled a mug with the jar's contents and held it to Felwinter, who took it in frozen, stinging hands, gripping it tightly.

"Are you over-capacity?"

Brunwulf poured his own cup. "We will be with this new group you just brought in."

"Are you having trouble keeping them warm? Fed?"

"No more trouble than was already expected." The older man lowered himself into the chair next to him, the firelight dancing across his eyes and silver beard. "It's a struggle, Felwinter. Repairs and renovations have almost come to a halt."

"What of the former Jarls?"

"House arrest, as per the General's orders. They've been scattered about the palace. They only leave their rooms under supervision and are not permitted to speak to each other. Prisoners with nicer quarters."

Felwinter grunted and took a sip of his drink. He blinked and looked down at it in surprise. Brunwulf chuckled, already pouring his second cup. "Mulled wine, freshly made. Thought you might like it."

"It's…familiar."

"Thought as much. Some of the spices were imported from High Rock. Northpoint, I've been told."

Felwinter huffed in amusement. "That explains how weak it is. You want a slight tang, you get from the north. You want to get kicked in the teeth, you head south."

Brunwulf's chuckle evolved into a rumbling laugh. "You ever been there, Felwinter?"

"Northpoint?" He shook his head. "No but someone I knew was from there." Felwinter drained the mug, feeling the burn crawl down his throat and spread all over. Brunwulf reached for the jar again and Felwinter let his cup be refilled.

"The Moot approaches, Felwinter." Brunwulf's eyes returned to the fire. "For the life of me, I can't imagine an event so pointless and yet so pivotal to the future of this land."

"You know…" Felwinter drank before continuing, "I've often wondered how Elisif would go about producing an heir. I mean, her only claim to the throne is that she was married to the last person who had it. Even Ulfric's taking it by force would have been stronger. How strong would her claim remain if she went and took another husband? Had that man's child?"

Brunwulf coughed and beat his chest with a fist after trying to swallow. Felwinter smiled. "Nords and northern Bretons. You all deserve each other."

"Quiet," he snapped without heat. "And I was just remembering a thought I had some time ago." He looked at Felwinter from the corner of his eye.

Felwinter waited. "Would you like to share with the class?"

"It was about you," he said, "How, if you weren't already married, what would the chances be that she would ask you to provide her an heir."

Now it was Felwinter's turn to hack, a mouthful of spiced wine nearly draining down the wrong pipe. "Ha, more north in you than you want to admit, boy," Brunwulf crowed, beating his back.

"Why in Oblivion are you thinking about that?!"

"You mean to tell me, it's never once crossed your mind?"

"No, Brunwulf. It hasn't. I'm not that arrogant."

A snort. "No, surely not. I don't see why not though. You're a big man, a powerful warrior and mage. You have the muscles and scars to make any shield-maiden swoon."

"Brunwulf…"

"And quite a few men, by your own word."

Felwinter shook his head and slumped in his seat. "You aren't serious."

"And you are Dragonborn. That alone would give the child legitimacy, no matter how little Elisif had to pass on when the crown was placed on her head." His tone grew somber. "The crown prince or princess. Child of the High Queen, sired by the Dragon of the North himself. Half of Skyrim would be on their knees in adoration, including the rebels."

"And the other half would be on their feet, axes in hand, another rebellion underway." Felwinter finished another mug. "Dragonborn or not, I'm still a foreigner."

"I haven't forgotten." Brunwulf leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Idle thinking, Felwinter, that's all. Though it comes from a place of concern for her position. We wouldn't have to worry about it if we knew she would prove herself a capable ruler."

Felwinter sighed roughly at that. "She will have help."

"Aye, I'm sure Tullius and Elenwen stand ready to give any and all aid to the new Queen." Brunwulf spat into the flames. "I have little faith in the general, Felwinter and none in the Thalmor."

"She has other Thanes."

"And compared to the Imperials and the Thalmor, they are nothing. The two of them would rule Skyrim in truth but they would never go against her in public. She would be the face, the voice that spoke to the people, just with someone else's words."

"And you think they should be mine?"

"I do." He put a gentle hand on Felwinter's knee. "Unlike the others, you've earned her respect, her friendship, even her trust. You could stave off their influence just by being there for her. She already knows you would lead her down the right path."

Felwinter said nothing and neither did he turn away from the fire to meet Brunwulf's eyes. A knock on the door drew the Jarl's attention. He patted Felwinter's knee. "Just think on it, Felwinter," he said, placing his cup down and standing.

Brunwulf Free-Winter was more right than he realized. Regardless of the threat Miraak presented, Tullius would follow whatever orders his Emperor gave him, at the pace the Emperor gave them, regardless of whether or not it helped to stave off what was coming. Elenwen would be the same, though her ambition would be central to all. The elf would sit the throne herself if she didn't view such a seat, position and people so far beneath her.

Felwinter's hands squeezed around the mug. Miraak's forces grew by the day and he was busy playing politics. He felt as if he were going nowhere.

Hushed voices caused Felwinter to turn from the fire and towards the door. The visitor wore the uniform of a Windhelm guard. Brunwulf stood close to her, whispering while holding a tightly folded piece of paper between his two fingers. The guardswoman soon saluted and departed, Brunwulf pushing the door closed behind her.

Felwinter's mind went to Ralof. "Something the matter?"

Brunwulf looked up from the paper he was unfolding. Silently, he gestured for Felwinter to approach. He held it out once he was close enough and Felwinter saw on the sheet columns of names, written in both a neat and hurried hand. Some names were marked.

"What's this?"

"Names of the prisoners. Obtained in exchange for food and water. Tullius' orders, not mine," he said quickly when Felwinter shot him a look. "These ones have been in Windhelm for a while. I don't expect the first list of new prisoners until tomorrow morning."

Brunwulf pointed to a marked name. "What I wasn't ordered to do, however, was divide them. The marked ones are those who did not fight at any time during the rebellion. I plan to petition Tullius personally for their release. They have never been a threat. They were simply swept up into all this."

Felwinter handed the paper back. "Many will be labeled traitors anyway, through aid provided." The "aid" he referred to could have been patching wounds, giving food to a starving and pitiable soldier, taking them in and out of the cold, even if it was just for a night. Even if it was a family member. On those terms, Ralof's sister and her family were traitors. Danica Pure-Spring was a traitor. Jarl Balgruuf was a traitor. Felwinter himself joined the war as a traitor several times over. "It likely wouldn't happen until after the Moot and even then, you'd have a hard time convincing him. Or the Thalmor."

"I know," Brunwulf said and with that, he held out the sheet.

Seconds ticked by. Felwinter took it again. "How complete is it?" he asked, his voice lowering just as theirs did.

"The best we've been able to manage."

"Bring me every list you have. I'll copy them down."

"Good and though I trust you, Felwinter, I would feel better if these did not leave the castle walls. I can go speak to the steward about arranging you a room for the night."

He was never going to get much sleep tonight anyway. "That's fine. Let me know when it is ready," he replied, already distracted by the names before him.

Brunwulf beamed, patted him on the shoulder and squeezed. "Good man. Thank you, sword-brother. When the time comes, I wish you luck." He moved away and pulled open the door. Before he could pass through, Felwinter called him back.

"He pointed to the half-empty wine jar. "Arrange another one of those while you're at it. Double the spices."

The older man huffed out a laugh. "I will see it done."

"I'm serious, Nord. I want to feel it in the morning."

"Aye, Felwinter. Whatever you say."