Out of all of the Dragonborn's special abilities, Thorald Gray-Mane valued his ability to fall asleep anywhere, as the best one. He'd always had this talent, but it was only after long travels on the road that he truly started to appreciate it. Sleeping in caves or swamps didn't offer much comfort, so being unaware of that for most of the night was quite wonderful.

Ironically, when he was awake, his mind was the most chaotic place on Tamriel. At times he believed his mind wore itself out so much during the day, that by night, there was just nothing left to keep him awake. Either that, or growing up in a household as chaotic as the Gray-Manes had simply prepared him to find peace in the eye of the storm.

In any case, Thorald Gray-Mane was good at falling asleep wherever he wanted, which was quite a blessing, since at this moment he was on a rickety wooden cart travelling across the mountains. However, judging by the persistent poke to his head, his travelling companion lacked this same gift.

"I swear to the Gods, Lydia, there better be something trying to murder us. I'm trying to sleep," he mumbled without opening his eyes.

"Er… Absolutely! Much murder to be had here," she said with a bit too much cheer in her voice, "These lands are stalked with ravenous mammoths, ice wraiths, and who knows what else? Best to keep a lookout."

He suppressed a sigh. He knew Lydia too well, she was clearly just bored out of her mind.

"Mhm, if a mammoth actually manages to tiptoe up on us, we probably deserve to get trampled," he said snuggling deeper into his cloak.

Not giving up, she leaned in closer, "You know, maybe you should be worried. Where do you think Mammoth's cheese actually comes from?"

Thorald cracked open a wary eye, before closing it again. "Sounds… Delightful."

"Alright, just know that if we do get turned into cheese, I'm gonna blame you and your cute little blanket."

Thorald decided to ignore her attempt at goading him, even though he got a strong urge to clarify that he was wrapped in a cloak, not a blanket. For a moment, it seemed like his plan worked, and she would let him get some sleep. It was a small, fleeting moment.

"Thorald, are you pretending to sleep just so you wouldn't have to talk about your premature shouting issue?"

He groaned internally, desperately clinging to the fleeting thought of sleep. Just ignore her, he kept thinking.

Relentlessly, she continued, "I didn't find the accident with the bard entirely out of place, but that chicken incident in Dawnstar was pretty unexpected."

He could feel his patience fraying, but he forced himself to stay silent. Just a bit longer, and maybe she would run out of steam.

Yet Lydia knew her words were having the desired effect, and she smelled blood in the water. "You know, Thorald, ignoring me doesn't make your issues disappear, you coward. Wake up and face me. Your snoring sounds like a dying walrus anyway."

Thorald exhaled slowly, realizing there would be no sleep today. He opened one eye and glared at her. "You know… Normal housecarls don't talk to their Thanes like that. What the hell do you want, Lydia?"

She gave him a cheerful smile. "Oh, nothing much. Just a bit of an explanation about Dawnstar?"

"What is there to talk about? Our heroic adventures?" he said innocently, "Lydia, we stormed a temple, fought off Talos knows how many cultists. And saved a town from a nightmare plague. I'm just enjoying the sweet reward of restful sleep," he said pointedly turning into a more comfortable position.

Lydia nodded along with him, "Yes, all true. But the chicken…"

"Forget about the chicken," he said through clenched teeth.

Lydia's grin widened, "Oh, sure, Thorald, let's just forget about the chicken. Because it's totally normal for a grown-ass man to shout at a bird like it was plotting to steal his soul."

Thorald groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Lydia, I swear-"

She interrupted him without a trace of remorse, "I mean, it was the entire reason we had to save the town from the nightmare plague in the first place. They'd have thrown us in jail otherwise."

He sat up, feeling an inexplicable need to defend himself, "It was an accident, okay!" he reiterated, "The dragon shout just came out. "

Just days ago, he had put themselves in an awkward position by accidentally unleashing a 'FUS RO DAH' on a chicken. In Solitude a week before that, he blurted out a shout which singed the clothes of a truly annoying bard. And a bit before that, he had blasted apart a particularly unlucky bandit, though luckily Lydia hadn't taken notice of that. All of these occasions were instances where a dragon-shout had burst out from him involuntary. It was as if he couldn't turn off being the dragonborn anymore. Whenever he got agitated, or worked up about something, shouts tended to slip out.

"Besides, it was madness," he continued, shaking his head, "Dragonborn or not, one of those sleep-deprived villagers was itching for his axe when I did that."

"You know how us Nords are, we don't care about fancy titles. You of all people, should know that," she said referring to his almost snow-colored locks which all Gray-Mane's were marked with. To emphasize her point, she brushed said hair out of his face. The touch sent a lurch through Thorald's stomach, which had nothing to do with the bumpy cart-ride. He quietly wrapped the cloak around himself more tightly.

"Well, let's hope it doesn't happen again," Lydia said, crossing her arms. "Do you know how ridiculous it is trying to explain to the villagers why their prized chicken is now a goddamn feather duster? And don't even get me started on the bard incident. You're lucky he didn't shove that lute up your-"

"I said I was sorry!" he yelled, exasperated. He was about to turn on Lydia, but then their eyes met and they both just collapsed into laughter. They enjoyed giving each other a hard time, but they really did make a good team. For the past year, they had been chasing leads to get stronger and defeat Alduin, and in doing so, they had gotten a lot closer.

He admired her, really. Whereas Thorald kept overthinking and over-strategizing each and every move they should take, Lydia moved purely on instinct, so sure who she was and where to be at all times. That was something he wished he could channel into more often. Then at other times, he didn't think he could ever afford to act so freely.

Sighing, he moved back to his previous position, deciding to feign sleep with the dedication of one of Solitude's finest bards. But then the cart, as if conspiring with Lydia, jolted over a particularly large stone, eliciting a grunt from his lips.

Lydia took that as a sign to continue the conversation, "Seeing as you have this issue. Maybe this is a good time for that break. Are you excited to see them again? Your family, I mean."

"In the same way that I miss visiting a vicious dragon"

"Ha, it can't be that bad. The Gray-Mane clan looks as snug as a bug whenever I see them," Lydia chuckled, unfazed.

"Snug as a skeever in a squeeze, more like," Thorald grumbled through the layers of fur, by this time he had dropped onto the floor of the carriage to find a less lump-ridden spot. "We are close, I suppose. But they can be a bit much."

"Chin up," Lydia stretched, accidentally (or so she claimed) using his back as a footrest, "I can already imagine the inevitable barrage of 'where the hell have you been' and 'why didn't you write' from my family. But hey, it's the holidays. It beats dealing with this chicken-shouting madness."

"It'll only be for one day, remember." He gave her a guilty look. "Sorry about that, by the way. We really need to keep moving towards the next dragon-lair, there's reports of another dragon wall."

She shrugged it off, "I'll take my thanks in the great tales that bards will sing about me. Maybe they'll sing some about you as well, when you stop sleeping all the time."

He rolled his eyes, turning the question back to her. "How about your family reunion, eager or terrified?"

She looked thoughtful. "I'd say, eager, until dessert that is, then it becomes terrified."

He gave her a side-ways glance, "What the hell happens at dessert?"

Lydia shifted uneasily in her seat, as if she didn't want to talk about it. "It's a stupid yearly tradition. At the end of the feast, our family holds a baking competition to see who can create the best dessert."

Thorald raised an eyebrow. "Baking competition? That doesn't sound so bad."

"It's just that everyone gets ridiculously competitive. Last year, my aunt Gertrude tried to sabotage another cake by swapping the milk with Falmer blood. The whole thing was a disaster."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Sounds charming. So, did you ever win?"

Lydia sighed, "No, I don't bake. It's bad enough being a spectator, let alone a competitor. It's just awkward since we're judging our own family members' desserts. You wouldn't believe how touchy some cousins can get when you don't vote for their stale cake as the winner. Last time, I gave my cousin's dessert a low score, and she didn't speak to me for months. Over a damn cake."

Smirking at the thought, he turned his attention to the passing landscape. The snowy mountains had gradually been giving way to familiar hilly plains, with a bit of greenery here and there.

"In any case, I'll be happy to be in more temperate weather," he said from his woolen fortress, remembering the chill in his bones from the northern blizzards.

"To warmer days, and warmer stews!" Lydia said raising an imaginary cup, a wide grin upon her face.

"And a normal, soft bed!" he added, eyeing the cart's unforgiving planks.

"Without serenading wolves keeping us up at night," she said dreamily.

"You mean, without your snoring serenades?"

"Better my snores than your blanket-hogging tyranny," Lydia shot back testily.

Thorald made to protest, but seeing as he was in a bundled state, he had to concede the argument.

Luckily, he was saved by the voice of the driver from the front of the cart: "We're nearing Whiterun, folks!"

Thorald reluctantly crawled out of his labyrinth of cloaks and rugs, the sight of home coaxing a genuine smile, even as Lydia's laughter echoed off the cart's wooden sides.

The landscape gave way to rolling hills of green and gold, and on the horizon the familiar silhouette of Dragonsreach towered over the plains like a crown. The city shimmered gold in the late afternoon light, it was a beautiful sight to Thorald's worn spirit. Although not as beautiful as when the sun would actually start to set. He remembered how the landscape would catch the last, amber-colored light of the day, and how the fields would look like they were covered in honey.

"When you come home to a sight like this, it's hard to imagine ever leaving again, isn't it?" he said. Lydia merely hummed in agreement, lost in her own thoughts. He knew she understood, though. After all, she had grown up in Whiterun, just like him. It was like an embrace from an old friend, a silent language they both knew fluently.

They both sat in silence, taking in the sight of the city growing closer and closer. Lydia leaned her head against the cart when she finally spoke up. "So, what'll you do once all of this is done? What's the plan when you've defeated Alduin?"

Thorald shifted uncomfortably, "Haven't plotted that far. Strategy ends at the dragon."

"Not going to hang up your magical helmet and settle into a nice, quiet life? No little Thorald Jr's to inherit the Gray-Mane scowl, running about, shouting at chickens?" she teased, nudging his side.

He grimaced at the imagery, "Sounds dangerously loud to me." He sighed, not really wanting to think about anything besides Alduin. "I might just turn into a grumpy, old man like my uncle. I've only ever seen him wear two different shirts. Seems like a good life"

Lydia chuckled, shaking her head. "Well, that's the saddest thing I've heard all day. Trading dragon slaying for shirt rotations? You've got ambition, Thorald."

"Look," he scoffed, "Maybe I'll take over the blacksmithing business from my father. Who knows?" He hoped she would drop the subject, but Lydia wasn't satisfied yet.

"But seriously, I can't imagine you ever turning-" she continued, but then a voice from the front interrupted them.

The cart driver, a grizzled Nord who had been unabashedly eavesdropping, chimed in, "What's the point in worrying about the future, anyway! Chances are, you'll be long dead by then. You especially!" He indicated to Thorald with a toothy grin.

"Right," Thorald said somewhat taken aback, "Thanks for the motivational advice, strange old man."

"What?" the man exclaimed surprised, "Nothing wrong with dying, is there? We're all going to be dead in the end."

"Let's focus on keeping us alive on this road, yeah?" he said pointedly to the cart driver.

The cart driver snorted, flicking the reins with a casual air. "Ha! With the way you two yap on, death might be a bloody relief."

Thorald pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture that had become all too common when interacting with the people of Skyrim. "He's got a real way with words, doesn't he?" he said to Lydia under his breath.

Lydia laughed, her elbow finding his ribs, "Well, wherever you end up, don't forget about your loyal housecarl, will you?"

He managed a strained smile, not trusting himself to speak. If Thorald was honest with himself, he had more than a little admiration for her, an admiration that extended well past her warrior skills. There had been many unspoken words, and hidden glances over campfires, more than he'd like to admit. And not only from his side.

Bonding on the road wasn't unusual, especially when survival depended on mutual trust in battle, but this felt deeper. He had a hunch that the thought of forgetting her was as absurd as forgetting that mudcrabs were menaces.

She had become a constant in his thoughts, and that terrified him immensely. Because his mind needed to be focused on preparations against Alduin. There was no room for anything else, as there's only so much energy a person can shift their focus on. Between going on dates and the end of the world, there had to be one correct priority, right? So, he tried to maintain a cautious distance. With that in mind he tore his eyes away from Lydia, and tried to focus on the city he grew up in.

Maybe, just maybe, once Alduin was defeated, that was something he could think about. But first, he had to deal with the present. And for Thorald, that meant a family dinner to get over with. The sooner that was done, the quicker he could return to ending Alduin's threat.

Thorald really did feel nervous about seeing his family again. Most people didn't understand why, until they actually spent a night at the Gray-Mane abode.

His mother was the biggest gossip in the entire city, and she had absolutely no problem in making your business, her drama. And whenever anyone needed to be taken down a peg, she was the first in line to volunteer. One time, she even brought Skjor, one of the famed Companions, to the brink of tears after he became the focus of her sharp tongue.

That was probably also the reason why his father, who was the best blacksmith in all of Skyrim, seemed so damn humble. A man of few words, unless the career choices of Thorald came up. Growing more brooding whenever the topic of Thorald being the Dragonborn instead of a blacksmith arose. Like a disappointed parent wondering why his child hadn't become a healer, or a lawyer. As if Thorald had a choice in that.

And that didn't even begin to describe his sister, his cousins, or his uncle… whose mere presence could clear a feast hall. All-in all, his family was a lot.

Thorald didn't have time to ponder this any further, because Whiterun's walls finally rose to greet them, and both of them were forced to break up their silence and gather their belongings. As the cart rolled to a stop, he stretched his limbs, each crack and pop a testament to the 'luxury' of their ride.

"That'll be seventy septims for the whole trip," the cart driver announced, his hand outstretched.

Before he could say anything, Lydia sprang from the cart, her eyes set on the cart driver. Thorald sighed, he had learned a few things about Lydia from travelling with her. If fighting was passion number one for her, aggressive haggling came as a close second.

"Lydia, perhaps it's the holiday spirit talking, but should we not-"

But Lydia was undeterred, advancing on the driver like a duck on a piece of bread. "So, since you were eavesdropping just earlier. You must know that my friend here, is the Dragonborn."

The old Nord just leaned back and stared at her.

She continued, "I think that merits a… Dragonborn-discount? He's practically a king."

"I charge double for transporting royalty."

Thorald groaned, "Lydia, let's just pay the man and-"

"No, no," Lydia interrupted, waving a dismissive hand at Thorald while never breaking eye contact with the driver. "This man," she gestured grandly towards Thorald, "has vanquished more dragons than you've had hot dinners!"

The driver snorted. "And yet he can't vanquish the cost of transport, eh?"

Thorald shuffled awkwardly, he felt stuck in between the unstoppable force of Lydia's will and the immovable object of the driver's indifference.

But Lydia was in full swing, hands on hips, head held high. "We could even throw in a signed sweet roll!"

The driver's eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. "Signed sweet roll? What the hell use do I have for something like that?"

"It's... a collector's item?" Lydia offered, her confidence unshaken.

The driver, now clearly thinking about it, stroked his beard. "Make it fifty, and I'll consider it a fair trade."

"You drive a hard bargain, sir, but you've got yourself a deal!"

Thorald resigned himself to his fate and fished out a quill, preparing to sign whatever makeshift memorabilia Lydia conjured up from her bags.

When they were finally through the first gatehouse and out of earshot, he glanced at her in bewilderment, "What in the nine gods was that all about? I thought you said Nords didn't care about fancy titles like 'Dragonborn'. And now you're demanding special discounts?"

"They don't," she said, nodding, "Nords care about deeds, not titles. And you've helped this city fend off multiple dragons, the very guard tower we just passed wouldn't even be standing if it weren't for you."

Thorald felt embarrassed at the praise, but before he could deflect, she cut him off, "Don't downplay it, you're a hero. You've earned some respect… and an occasional sweet roll discount."

Their boots clicked against the cobblestones as they walked in silence, letting those words sink in. Yes, he had miraculous survived countless fights in the past year, but in truth he was never doing it all by himself.

He nudged Lydia gently as they approached the second gatehouse. "If I remember correctly, Lydia, the housecarl, came along with many of those battles as well. She probably deserves a reward as well, huh?"

She gave him a small smile, "I think that Lydia, the housecarl, will be pleased as long as she can continue to harass greedy business men. Consider it a public service."

Their eyes met grinning, both smiling warmly, and he had to tear his eyes away from hers or else he would've found himself staring into those forever. The remainder of their walk was quiet and uneventful, leading them to the Gray-Mane homestead in the heart of the city.

The house stood in the center of town, surrounded by other grand mansions and temples. Yet Thorald knew they lived in this neighborhood not because of wealth, but only because the Gray-Manes had simply been here first. Theirs was one of the ancient families that had been in Whiterun for hundreds of years, too stubborn to ever leave.

Ancient as their family may have been, they weren't rich. So, they took great pride in keeping the state of their house in good condition while making ends meet. Its presence was a testament to sheer stubbornness rather than affluence. With ostentatious decorations made from mismatched wood, and constructed from the same sturdy stone that formed the city's formidable walls.

The Gray-Mane homestead was a bit lobsided, but enduring, just like the people inside it.

He turned to Lydia dramatically, "Tomorrow, here, at dawn? I don't think I can survive being here any longer than that."

Their farewells were brief, the air between them filled with unspoken assurances.

"Try not to kill any chickens in there," she said with a wink.

"Try not to choke on your aunt's poison cakes."

With a final nod, Thorald turned to enter the fray of the Gray-Mane gathering, while Lydia behind him strode to her own battlefield, her steps much lighter than his. Silently he wished she could face this by his side as well.

And so, he stepped into the Dragonborn's den…