Even the best laid plans take time to throw themselves into motion. Each piece has a part to play, and each movement is pre-determined. They dance themselves around an elaborate board with calculated purpose to the tune of their manipulator, none the wiser to the grander scheme of things. Their final destination and purpose is unknown even to them.
Ingrid is nothing but a pawn on her father's chessboard.
Raffi Green-Kettle didn't really expect his daughter to succeed in the task he gave her; however, he thought that he'd at least give her the chance to try to make herself useful. It also served a purpose: to get her out of the house and help him get things started.
Several weeks ago, he received the strangest but most serendipitous letter. He did not see who delivered it, and it came with no indication whatsoever of who the correspondence was from. The flowing script only revealed that he had a friend with similar goals.
Make good on your end of the bargain, and you will be paid handsomely in gold.
Despite the fact that the offer would be tempting to begin with, the gold only sweetened the pot for him. Their objectives could not align more perfectly. The request enclosed was rather simple, but the execution might prove to be a bit more of a challenge for him. Exactly why his mysterious benefactor wants Dahlia gone is of no consequence to him. He will ask no questions, just fulfill his end of the deal with a mirthful grin on his face. With her out of the way, he will be free to finally marry his daughter to the Jarl.
Everything is falling into place, but not quickly enough for his taste. He can feel his desperation gripping him impatiently as if it were a noose slowly tightening around his neck, ready to hang himself at a moment's notice. It would take him alive if he allowed it, so he must continue dancing along his pre-determined path.
Raffi moves to the doorway of his study to check that Ingrid is still abed, and finding the hallways silent, closes the door, and slinks back to his desk. The last thing he needs right now is for someone to interrupt him or see what he is doing.
If they're going to get things accomplished efficiently, he's going to have to move quickly. After all, he has no idea how long it will take for his new contacts to carry out their job.
Lord Kettle-Green begins by opening his desk drawer and taking out some of the objects his friend's letter specified: white wax candles mixed with the ground bones of an ancestor, nightshade petals harvested under the light of a new moon, and a ceremonial dagger which must be bathed in the blood of an innocent. However, there is one thing which is missing that he has yet to collect and which he has had trouble procuring. Getting into the Temple of Arkay has been a problem to say the least. Ever since the incident with the Butcher, the security patrolling the streets in the area has doubled, and the one time he sought an appointment, that old crone Helgrid followed him everywhere, eyes fixed on him strangely as if she knewsomething. But how could she? He had not whispered one word of his plan to anyone and has been careful to lock the correspondences he has received tightly in his desk.
Down the hall, he suddenly hears the creaking wood of the floorboards, bending under the weight of someone coming slowly this way. He quickly shuts away his precious items. Even to those with no knowledge of the darker arts, it should be abundantly clear what he is trying to do, and he would be stopped before he even got started.
Soon, a head pokes its way around the corner and the wispy grey hair of the maid he hired, one of the last pieces to his puzzle, makes an appearance. They do not have the money to keep all of their hearths lit, let alone pay her, but he is making an investment in hopes that she will pay dividends later on. At least she had better, or they will soon be out of a house. It is a calculated risk he is willing to take to make sure he has access to a warm body-the blood of an innocent.
There is no turning back now. The wheels of fate are already in motion, and he is not inclined to stop them-only to push them along further.
"Excuse me, my Lord Kettle-Green." Janna, the maid, asks as she opens the door to the room and drops the bucket of sloshing grey water she is carrying at her feet. She should have been retired long ago, her old bones creak almost as loud as the skeletal floorboards of his old mansion. However, this also made her a relatively cheap hire.
"Yes? What is it that you need?" He snaps. He had asked her never to bother him in this room. It is strictly off limits.
"I was wondering if you should like me to clean this room." She gestures meekly at the space inside his study, but doesn't dare enter without an invitation. "In the time since you have hired me, it has not seen a broom nor mop. I am sure it is filthy in here."
Raffi throws her a hardened stare, but he stops himself short of displaying any true malice. After all, it would do no good for him to scare her off, or worse, for her to take to gossiping about them. They still have their reputation to maintain outside even if they can no longer afford to do so in their own house. "Are you calling my house dirty, peasant?"
How dare she try to imply that he cannot keep his own house? Sure, it has seen better days, but soon, sooner than anyone knows, their great house will be back in favor once again.
Janna sputters as she is taken aback. But what did she expect from a nobleman? "No, no. Of course not, m'lord. Only that I wanted to-"
"See that it does not happen again. You're dismissed for the day." He turns from her coldly, not even bothering to offer her the day's pay for her services. He has other things to worry about.
The last thing Dahlia Wintersnow will see is a void of darkness, and he will be her undoing.
Gathered around a large table for lunch, Galmar, Dahlia, and Ulfric sit comfortably in the Jarl's quarters, or as comfortably as they can with the letter they have just received.
Jarl Elisif and her new husband Jarl Balgruuf have sent them a particularly annoying correspondence.
Jarl Ulfric,
It has been brought to our attention recently that you have not sent the help and resources you have pledged to rebuild the great Hold of Haafingar and its greatest gem, Solitude. The havoc you and your soldiers wrecked in your war has left us in a severely vulnerable position, and you have promised money and more soldiers to all the the Holds, yet none have come to us , as the people of Skyrim and those who have suffered by your war, demand that our needs be met unless you are not capable of doing so.
"It's barely been two months since we took Solitude, and they're already requesting resources!" Galmar spits indignantly. "They don't even need them, and they know very well that there are other Holds which could use more of a hand than they do. Where do they get off..."
Ulfric only sits in silence, a hand scratching at his slightly-overgrown beard, as he listens to his housecarl rant about the audacity of Elisif and Balgruuf to ask for handouts. He is also irritated as well, but it is quieter, building in waves as he breathes steadily in and out to ride out its tides. It would not do anyone any good for him to speak in anger. Instead, he looks down at the paper before crumbling it up tightly in his fist and throwing it casually into the fire.
The note is really rather clever, surely a creation of Balgruuf himself, in that not only do they request the assistance he promised after the war to help rebuild Skyrim, but also it puts into question his competency as a ruler: It's a challenge and a threat to his claim to High King at the Moot. He'll have no choice but to fulfill their request despite what Galmar says being completely true.
It annoys him to no end like a splinter under his fingernails, and he can't wait to pull it out.
Ulfric interrupts Galmar's tirade, turning to Dahlia to make a sudden request. "Will you get me a piece of parchment and a quill from my desk?"
His general does not take his decision well. "You can't be serious Ulfric. You're going to give in to them and this horseshit demand?"
Dahlia, despite also agreeing that the entire situation is rather ludicrous, does not say a word. She only quietly moves to Ulfric's desk, doing what he has asked of her without question and dropping the requested items onto the table in front of him before taking her seat again. She doesn't want to get in the middle of this, and she is certain that Ulfric has a reason for this. He always does.
"You're just going to do as he asks?" Apparently, Galmar is going to drag her into it anyway. "You can't truly agree with this!"
"Yes." She answers simply. It is better for her not to give him more ammunition to use against her. It will only encourage him.
"If we give in now, it will look like we will give in to every whim and demand and soon all of the other Holds will follow."
She takes in a deep breath. Truly, she doesn't like it any more than he does, but she can see the sense in it. "And if we do not, we will look like we are incompetent and cannot follow through on our plans. How do you think that would look to a Moot?"
Ulfric glances over at Dahlia for a moment, a slight upturn on his lips. They are on the same page. She's always a quick study.
"This is what we planned for, friend." The Jarl continues as he picks up his tankard of mead. "We all knew that eventually this time would come, and we would have to pay the consequences of our actions."
"And how exactly do you expect to pay for all of this as well as a wedding and the daily operations of Windhelm?" Galmar crosses his arms over his chest like a petulant child. He knows that Ulfric is right. Now, he is just being stubborn and contrite.
"We will find a way. We always do."
Ulfric puts the quill to paper, scratching over its surface with quick yet neat strokes. It has always fascinated Dahlia how his handwriting is so neat. Her own is rather plain and at times hard to decipher. Tolfdir used to complain about her putting more "care and calm" into her essays when turning them in at the College. She didn't see a point. At long as it was legible, there shouldn't be a problem, right?
"I have some chests of gold that Lydia is sitting on in Hjerim. I can have some of those brought over. I'm willing to give anything that will help."
Galmar only blinks incredulously as Ulfric watches the movements of Dahlia's face, but he finds nothing but plain sincerity. A sigh leaves his lips, and he doesn't bother to argue with her. She has offered and even given over some chests of random trinkets from her adventuring days to the war efforts. Reluctantly he accepted them and put them to use even if he did not want to take them. Ulfric still does not want to take them. However, sometimes it is not about what he wants but rather what is practical-what he needs. It would be idiotic of him to continue to turn her down.
His pen only continues to glide smoothly over the parchment, dark ink forming careful words. He does not even bothering to look up as he responds. "That would be very helpful. Thank you."
"Of course. What is mine is yours." She smiles at Ulfric fondly and then narrows her eyes slightly at Galmar in warning.
He shakes his head as he should have known better. They're going to be impossible together. Silently, he prays for both his and Jorleif's sanity.
When Ulfric finishes with the letter, they go back to their lunch, picking slowly at the offerings the servants brought up from the kitchens. Ulfric did make good on his word to offer Narile a position with Sifnar, and since then, the cooking has improved drastically. Today, they are dining on ash yam stew, a specialty of hers from the Gnisis. They casually slurp on the contents as they stew on what other new political situations will bring themselves to their attention in the near future. It would be naïve to think that this will be the only letter they will have to deal with; It is only the first of what will surely be many soon.
While they eat, Galmar's thoughts drift slowly to Rikke. She is still down in her cell and still not eating very much. Only the bare minimum to keep herself functioning. Since his first visit to see her, he has been down at least three other times to check on her. Call him a glutton for punishment, but he cannot find it in himself to stay away. Every time he goes down, neither of them say much, only keeping things business-like and down to the essentials: how are you, are you eating, is there anything you require?
She answers in the negative every time.
He had been meaning to mention something to Ulfric about her and perhaps have him move her to somewhere more comfortable. There isn't much that she could do to them, not only because of her current state but also due to the amount of guards and the Dragonborn being around.
"Ulfric..." Galmar starts hesitantly.
"What is it Galmar?" The Jarl knows his best friend well and could tell from his silence that he was pondering something. He may as well just spit it out instead of dancing around it.
"What do you think about moving Rikke?"
The spoon stops halfway to his mouth, and he puts it down with a clang as he looks Galmar over. This is truly a bold request.
"And what do you think will happen if I do that?" He quips, testing him.
Galmar furrows his brow. He knows what Ulfric is doing. "Gain a valuable ally who can give us insight into what the Empire is doing or what camps are left here in Skyrim. Maybe even add another valuable head to help us when it comes time to take the fight to the Thalmor."
Ulfric hums non-commitally. "I guess you could say that is true. What do you think Dahlia?"
She looks between both of the men, thinking about what would be the best way to continue with this situation. Forget her time on the throne while Ulfric was incapacitated, this is the true test of her diplomacy. Things have been tense whenever Rikke has been mentioned between the two of them. Ulfric is still very much hurt by her betrayal, and Galmar, well, she can tell he still holds a candle for her. She would have to be blind not to see it, and Ulfric is blind not to notice.
"I could go down and speak to her. Feel her out." She shrugs.
"Good. See that it's done." Ulfric tells her with finality. It is more for Galmar's benefit than anything else. "Would you also deliver this to Ralof on your way down? He has been staying in the guard's barracks. I think he's our best choice for an envoy, and it would do him good to get out of Windhelm." He holds out the now complete and neatly folded letter for Solitude.
"Of course, I'm finished anyway." As she gets up, she places a quick kiss to his stubbly cheek before giving a small wave to Galmar and leaving her and Ulfric's room.
When she steps out into the hall, Dahlia lets out a sigh of relief. Things had been tense between the two of them, and she isn't sure what the outcome of all this is going to be. On one hand, Ulfric is right and exercising some caution in regards to Rikke is critical. However, on the other, a bit of compassion goes a long way, and the legate is a human being.
Thoughts of hundreds of possibilities whirl around her mind while she makes her way down to the first floor and over to the door to the guard's barracks. At least she will have something proper for Ralof to do now. Ever since Hadvar's death, he has been lost, spending most of his nights drinking at one inn or the other; he isn't picky. Even once or twice she picked him up off the street after the patrol reported seeing him passed out in some dark corner or the other. The first spot of light she was able to see in him was at Lydia and Narile's wedding. Perhaps, giving him a purpose will help him to heal and move on.
Thankfully, when she walks into the open space of the sleeping quarters, she sees Ralof which means she won't have to track him down somewhere else and waste valuable time or energy worrying about him.
"Ralof," she greets him with a smile and a nod as he scrambles out of his chair.
"Dahlia," he returns her smile, if weakly. He must be nursing quite the headache. "What are you doing down here? Shouldn't you be up with Jarl Ulfric doing something important or being spoiled senseless?"
She laughs. One thing that Ralof has not lost yet is his sense of humor, or rather, his need to tease her.
"Perhaps." She makes her way closer to him and gives him a light hug. It is good to see him where he should be. More than once, she has had the conversation with Ulfric about expressing her worry for her comrade and friend. She wouldn't be able to forgive herself if something truly awful happened to him.
"So, that brings the question of what the queen is doing here, daring to visit all of us riff raff." He jokes, but she can see in his eyes that he is concerned. Normally, she doesn't visit this level anymore. Not since they returned from Solitude.
"I am no queen yet, Ralof. But you are at least half right. I do need something...from you actually."
He raises his brow in surprise as if he cannot believe that she could possibly want him for anything. Lately, he has only been causing her and Ulfric trouble.
"Then, it would be my honor to serve you."
When she hands over the letter, she recalls the last time she pulled him out of the Candlehearth. She ran into her old friend Andonato Leotelli, and she remembers him telling her about some new manuscript he was finishing up. Unfortunately, she doesn't have the time to take the document over to the Bard's College, but perhaps Ralof could make a quick stop there on the way to the Blue Palace.
"Before you take this to Elisif and Balgruuf, could you also stop at the Candleheath and see Andonato?" She looks him over seriously, silently conveying to him that he is not to spend any more time than necessary at the inn. "He has something for the Bard's College, and I'd like for you to take it as well. After that, make your way to the Blue Palace and make sure this letter is delivered." She places a small bag of septims in his hands.
"I will not let you or Jarl Ulfric down." He sweeps into a small clumsy bow.
With Ralof receiving his new orders, Dahlia continues on her way down towards the darker lower floors where the Bloodworks is located. She has never been down here before, and from the looks of things, she doesn't want to come back any time soon. No wonder Galmar wants Rikke out of here. Standing here for more than a few moments is enough to make her depressed.
When she eventually makes her way down to the bottom, the Bloodworks is cold and damp in an intimately familiar way. A shiver involuntarily rolls down her spine as the hairs on the back of her neck prickle ominously to life.
Cidhna Mine. Cidhna Mine. Cidhna Mine.
No one escapes Cidhna mine.
And Dahlia is there. The hopelessness, desperation, and pain all come flooding back to her. Suddenly, she sinks to her knees, unable to stand anymore as she curls onto herself. Her arms come out automatically to wrap around her stomach as if it could keep the bile in her throat on the inside. It comes tearing out forcefully, tears streaming down her face, as it burns all the way up.
Talos take them all.
She is left shaking with exhaustion, the side of her clothes which touches the floor wet with Gods knows what. But she cannot bring herself to care.
Breathe in. A whip to her back. Breathe out. Men leering salaciously over her exposed body as they prod her to see what she will do-what she can do.
She had kept it in for so long, and despite talking about it all those months ago with Ulfric, it still haunts her on occasion. Nightmares plague her sleep, circulating as if taking turns in some sick game as to which one of them will make her break first. What is worse is that the memories are still fresh, blinding as the snows which come in Evening Star: overwhelming as they continue to dump more of the cold, wet flakes onto the ground, freezing any unfortunate enough to be spending their nights on the street. Now, she is frozen. She cannot move. If she moves, they'll punish her and-
Dahlia gulps down air as if she cannot get enough of it, until she starts feeling light-headed. Panic is a dark, ugly thing. Dragons do not panic, yet here she is, the Dragonborn balled up on the floor pathetically laying in her own sick. Maybe she is not as strong as she thought. After all, she failed their unborn child. Her heart clenches painfully, and she forgets how to breathe again as she struggles to keep everything in.
Breathe in. She heaves as she cracks one eye open and sees nothing but darkness. Breathe out. She is alone just as she deserves.
Or she is until she feels the cool metal of something touch her chest. Something she had nearly forgotten about. Up until this point in time she had taken it for granted as a part of her. Desperately, she scrambles to reach down underneath her tunic until she touches the soothing metal of Ulfric's Amulet of Talos. She still wears it, even after all this time, and she has no intention of ever taking it off. It grounds her to the reality that she is not in Cidhna Mine.
She is free. She is home. She is loved.
When she comes out of her panic attack, she realizes she was biting down on her fist to stop herself from screaming and her hands are bleeding. Slowly, she rights herself to lean her back against the rough stone of the walls and casts a low-level healing spell to seal up what feels like a hundreds of tiny cuts. She only wishes that her Restoration magic could heal the other hundred that mark under the surface.
She isn't sure how long she sits there. It could have been hours for all she knew, but eventually she tells herself that she must put on a brave face and get up off the ground. Times flows ever onwards.
Breathe in. She stands. Breathe out. She pushes off the wall, and with unsteady feet, makes her way to Rikke's cell.
The Legate is standing at the bars and waiting for her when she arrives. Her dark eyes follow her cautiously as Dahlia stops directly in front of her. For a moment, neither of the women say anything, as they both size each other up.
Loss of muscle tone and weight speaks vulmes about Rikke's severe malnourishment, and in turn, the dark circles made more prominent by the sickly pallor of Dahlia's skin tell a story of sleepless nights along with her trauma.
"What happened to you?" Rikke breaks the silence between them first.
The Dragonborn blinks furiously, still trying to steady herself as the room spins around her. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."
The Legate scoffs. "I know that look."
"Yes, well, you'll excuse me if I don't quite feel like talking about it to you."
A fragile silence permeates the room as both women are too stubborn to give the other any more information than they already have: Rikke, the minuscule amount of concern she has shown, and Dahlia, her vulnerability. Perhaps under other circumstances the two could be friends, but friends do not betray their own nor do they not lock the other behind bars. Bridging that gap will take more time than either of them have at the moment.
"Ulfric sent you down here, didn't he? Right after Galmar went running to him like a dog with his tail between his legs. Are you always doing exactly what he asks, and will you bother to tell him about your little episode other there?" The Legate nods her head back towards the dark corner she came from.
Rikke has basically confirmed that she saw the whole miserable display Dahlia put on when entering the Bloodworks.
"And do you always follow orders blindly from those who would sooner see your entire system of beliefs cut down along with those who practice than fight for you?" Dahlia throws back cuttingly.
Rikke's lips try to crack themselves into an amused smile. "At least you're more fun than Galmar is."
"I'm not here to be fun."
"Then why are you here if not to verbally spar with me or make yourself sick?"
Dahlia breathes in deeply, finally somewhat settling her nerves and her stomach. It will do her no good to continue carrying on like this. Normally, she has more of a level head on her shoulders but her unease is causing her to lash out against someone else she also knows to be suffering, even if she won't show it.
"I'm here to check on you, see if you're okay, maybe heal a few bothersome wounds, and have a chat."
"I don't want your help nor your charity. I'm fine here."
If Dahlia were not consciously trying to swallow her irritation, she would have snapped back with a smart remark and turned to walk away. But she promised she would do this for Ulfric and by extension for Galmar.
Why is she so damn noble?
"Listen, I have no misguided visions of you and I becoming best friends, and believe it or not, I am actually here to help. You can swallow your pride and take it or I can leave and you can continue to sit here alone."
Rikke frowns as she straightens herself up and stretches out her sore muscles. She is pretty sure one or more of her ribs are cracked and could use a good healing spell or two. Maybe then she could get a decent night's sleep or stomach more than a few spoonfuls of the gruel they're feeding her.
"Fine."
"Good." Dahlia nods and makes her way up to the bars. "Tell me. Where does it hurt? It will go faster if I have an idea of what I am dealing with."
Reluctantly, the Legate indicates the many places where she is blackened and blue, but later she is grateful for it. As Dahlia's Restoration magic pours through her system, she feels better than she has in months. Maybe even years.
"You're pretty good at this." She begrudgingly tells her as a sigh of relief slips from her lips involuntarily."
Dahlia shrugs. Healing seems to come second nature to her, right after Shouting. However, she has noticed that since her stunt with Ulfric the magic almost feels...different. Even the light of her spells has changed. No longer are they a stark white, but have taken on more of a distinct cool blue tinge. She isn't sure what to make of that yet, and she isn't about to send Colette a letter to ask her. Knowing her, she'd march right down from the College and demand a demonstration along with an explanation. While she and Ulfric have done a lot of healing both physically and mentally over the last few weeks, she doesn't think she is quite ready to talk about it with others just yet.
At Dahlia's non-answer, Rikke takes it upon herself to fill the awkward silence. "I take it you were trained at the Mage's College then. Not many Nords go there."
"No, they don't." Dahlia responds thickly before letting the subject drop. She doesn't want to talk about it anymore. In fact, she doesn't really want to talk about anything at all anymore. She'd much rather be curled up in Ulfric's bed with one of his arms draped safely around her. "Is there anything else you need before I go?"
The Legate shakes her head. "This was more than sufficient."
Still stubborn and not even a word of thanks. She should have expected as much. Dahlia huffs. She'll make sure to stop by the kitchens on the way back and ask Narile to have some hot soup sent down for her.
With no other reason left to linger, she nods curtly at Rikke and turns to leave.
However, in the fading light of the illumination spell Dahlia has tethered to her, Rikke spots a dirty piece of paper crumpled near her cell. This was not here before. How long has it been there? She picks it up quickly and reads its contents. What is enclosed shocks her, particularly the end of the note. There is no way this came from Dahlia herself.
Your deep sense of duty and loyalty to the Empire calls you to action. Out of anyone, you should know that the Dragonborn will not be any good for Skyrim. She will only continue to tear it apart. She must be silenced.
Make good on your end of the bargain, and you will be paid handsomely in gold.
The moment she is finished reading it, it dissolves into nothing but dust. There must have been some enchantment placed on it so that no one could read it after she did.
What is she to do with this information?
Is it this week or next that the financial council is meeting? Next, definitely next. And where did Hilde put all the new linen for the upper chambers?
Jorleif rushes around the Palace trying to make sure the daily operations in the Palace are running smoothly. However, on top of everything else on his already heavy plate, he has now been put in charge of planning a royal wedding. He sighs as he takes a moment to himself and grabs an apple from the Great Hall's table.
If only he could find where Dahlia is hiding.
Ulfric had seen the steward this morning and instructed him to talk with his wife-to-be about flowers, guests, and other important necessities, but he hasn't been able to locate her as of yet. To be quite frank, he likes the woman. She keeps Ulfric in line and makes him happy, but sometimes she also has a penchant for locking herself up and brooding just like he does. Apparently, they really were made for each other.
After combing through the upper levels of the Palace, checking in with Wuunferth, and going down to the library, he eventually finds her inside of Ulfric's study. Why she is hiding there is beyond him, but he is glad to have finally tracked her down.
"Lady Dahlia, pardon my interruption, but I was told by Lord Ulfric that we are to talk about preparations for the wedding."
When she looks up at him, he almost wishes he had never entered the room.
Her eyes are red and shining with unshed tears. For some unknown reason to him, she had locked herself away in this room and decided to have herself a good cry.
What is he to do in such a situation such as this? He has no idea how to deal with crying women. Personally, he has a husband, but sometimes he's more trouble than he is worth. Perhaps he should go get Ulfric and...
Dahlia quickly wipes at her eyes before straightening herself up awkwardly. It has been not two hours since her encounter with Rikke in the Bloodworks, and she is still trying to settle herself. Once she made it out of that awful space, the distraction of speaking with Rikke was not there anymore to hold her attention, so she went straight here to be alone. "How can I help you Jorleif?"
"Are you sure you are up for this now, Lady Dahlia. I could go upstairs and fetch Jarl Ulfric if you'd prefer or get Hilde or even send for Lydia..."
"No, no." She sniffs. "It's fine. I'm fine." She shuts the book about trade agreements she is reading and throws him a quick watery smile. "I could probably use the distraction if I am honest."
Jorleif looks at her warily for a moment before nodding his head and crossing the room to her. Who is he to argue with her as long as she isn't crying anymore? "The Jarl wanted me to get your opinions on some of the arrangements for the wedding. The date has been set to Fredas the 6th of Sun's Dusk."
Dahlia turns her hazel eyes on him, subdued and not at all filled with the light they normally carry, before reluctantly pushing herself up from the desk. "Very well, Jorleif. Let us talk about flowers, silks, and fancy desserts." She knows better than anyone that the steward's time is very valuable, and he probably has more important things to do. She doesn't want to waste what little he has.
"If that is your wish, my lady." He states with a bow as he leads her out of Ulfric's office and into the hallway. "I thought that perhaps we could import some lily-of-the-valley and goldenrod from Falkreath." Jorleif continues as they walk through the Great Hall. "They have some lovely varieties which are normally only found in the more temperate areas of Cyrodiil."
She shakes her head emphatically. "I would much prefer to have native plants of Eastmarch. Dragon's Tongue, Blue Mountain Flower, and Snowberries. I feel like that would be much more appropriate."
Jorleif stops to scratch out a few words on the parchment she notices he is holding. "Wise choice. I am sure Lord Ulfric will also be pleased."
"What about the priests? Have we received an answer from the Temple of Mara?"
This is the item she is most worried about. They are planning on marrying in the Temple of Talos, their God and patron of Windhelm, but neither of them were sure that Maramal would come.
"I received a letter just yesterday. It seems that he would much prefer to have you married in the Temple of Mara; however, the generous donation for the priests seems to have persuaded him. He will come."
She lets out a sigh of relief. Under other circumstances, she would also prefer to be married under Mara's roof, but this is a different situation. Perhaps later she can convince Ulfric to make a special trip with her, just the two of them.
"Do you have anything else arranged, or are there any requests which Ulfric has made?"
"None whatsoever, my lady, other than that you are made happy."
Just as Jorleif had imagined, that finally brings a smile to her face along with a shake of her head. "Of course, he would say that. I guess he decided that he'd like me to make all of the important decisions." She thinks for a moment before telling him of her next thought. "I'd like Ilse to make the traditional honeycake."
More scribbling across the parchment. As she looks over his shoulder she can see that he has several other things already written on the paper: orders of fine wine, mead, venison, wild boar, and many more things which would be fit for a royal feast. There is even the start of a guest list.
"Have any invitations been sent out already?" She asks with nervous curiosity.
"All of the ones to the Jarls, especially those in the farther Holds. It will probably take them the longest to get here if they're coming at all. There are also invitations being made up for the council members and prominent nobles of the Hold. I have also taken the liberty of already adding Lydia and Narile to the list. Is there anyone else you'd like to add? Lord Ulfric doesn't have any family left of which to speak," Jorleif awkwardly stammers, "but I now realize that I should have asked you as well."
Dahlia pauses for a moment, her thoughts sloshing around in her head. She had completely forgotten about her parents. While she had sent a few letters to her mother since coming back from Solitude, she has kept much of what happened to herself. It's better that way so her mother doesn't ask so many questions. If she had known what happened to Dahlia, she would have quite probably marched her way directly to Windhelm, and she isn't sure she could have handled that at the time. As for her father-she bites her lip in discomfort. She really should get in contact with him.
"Both of my parents are still alive, but I have no siblings to speak of. My mother resides on the outskirts of Kynesgrove, and my father in Riften. They should both receive an invitation."
Jorleif nods his head, moving onto the subject. "And about a dress, mi'lady-"
"I'll take care of that." A very familiar voice states from behind them before coming into view: Lydia. "Thank you for entertaining Dahlia for the time being, but I'll take things from here. After all, we want Jarl Ulfric to be surprised, don't we?"
It shouldn't surprise Dahlia that her most-trusted housecarl makes an appearance and tries to take over Jorleif's job. Normally, she would protest, at least a little, but from the look on the steward's face, she knows that it's best not to fight the tides, but rather roll with them.
"Thank you very much for all of your help, Jorleif, but Lydia actually is right for once." She smiles at him before turning to her best friend. "Where exactly do you propose we go?"
"I know just the place." Lydia takes her arm, linking it in her own as she waltzes her out of the Palace. "Freya's shop, where you got that fantastic birthday dress last year. Ulfric won't know what to do with himself when he sees you."