A/N: I'm not an Elder Scrolls lore afficionado, so I'm taking enormous liberties beyond what the wiki site has on various subjects. Starts out with the Skyrim main quest, but hares off pretty fast. We'll see what happens, shall we? :D

The Dragonborn Comes

It seemed that Lydia had only just closed her eyes when she was roughly woken by Proventus Avenicci.

"What do you want, old man?" she grumbled.

"Your presence is required by the Jarl," the balding man said stiffly. He preferred spending all his time in Dragonsreach, attending to Jarl Balgruuf. The barracks were beneath him.

"I have only just returned from Rorikstead," Lydia groaned as she sat up. "I did not think the Jarl would mind if I caught up on my rest before returning to my duties."

"He would not, under normal circumstances," the steward said, turning his back on the warrior as she stood in her underthings. The common soldiery were certainly crude and mannerless, he thought. "You happen to be the highest ranked who is present at the moment. All the others are otherwise engaged."

"So I'm the 'lucky' one, am I?" she snorted, pulling her armor back on.

"That depends on your definition of luck," Proventus smirked. "An...interesting event has occurred in your absence. It would appear that dragons have returned."

"Dragons?" Lydia scoffed. "Children's tales. Someone has been at the mead."

"Nay," he asserted, glancing over his shoulder. Happily, she was sufficiently covered. Turning, he continued. "The town of Helgen was recently razed. A few survivors delivered news of the attack."

"Must have been in their cups," she insisted. "There are no dragons in Skyrim."

"I'm sure the families of those who fell at the watchtower yesterday will be greatly relieved by your confidence," Proventus sneered.

Lydia froze and stared at the man. "What happened?"

"It would seem that a children's tale fell upon the western watchtower and nearly destroyed it. Five guards were burned to a crisp before it was slain."

Blinking, the Nord woman almost lost her composure. How could this be?

"And that is not even the most astonishing news," the steward continued, motioning her to follow him. She did so, as if in a trance. "It would seem that one of the survivors of Helgen – a rebel prisoner spared the chopping block by the dragon's attack there, so they say – accompanied Irileth to the watchtower, and now it seems he is Dragonborn, or somesuch nonsense."

Lydia stopped in her tracks, staring at the Imperial in shock. This was too much. It would seem that more than one tale was coming to life. "The Dragonborn are not 'nonsense,'" she snarled.

"It does not matter whether his claim is valid or not," Proventus said dismissively. "Jarl Balgruuf believes him, the men who witnessed this... strange event believe him, so he is Dragonborn." He opened the barracks door and strode out into the crisp evening air. "And that is where you come in."

"What have I to do with the Dragonborn?" she asked.

"The Jarl has named him Thane of Whiterun for his service," the man said. "He bade me fetch someone to serve as housecarl to the new Thane." Glancing over his shoulder with a smirk, he said, "Congratulations."

"As long as he is not some pompous ass of an Imperial," she snapped. Proventus did not even bat an eye at her insult.

"I would not dare spoil the surprise," he replied with relish.

Not wanting to seem too curious, Lydia forced herself to follow in silence as they ascended the steps to Dragonsreach. Already, there seemed to be a crowd of people heading in the same direction, many in festive attire.

"What goes on?" she asked the steward.

"There is a celebration, of course," he replied. "One does not slay a dragon every day. Nor is one called to High Hrothgar on the wind, it would seem."

Snorting indelicately, she found herself checking buckles and straightening mail, wondering if she'd thoroughly cleaned her armor recently enough to pass at least cursory inspection. She hadn't considered the possibility that the Hold's upper classes would be rubbing elbows with the common rabble. To her annoyance, the Imperial seemed amused by her discomfiture.

Once inside Dragonsreach, Lydia was again awed by its splendor. It was always a welcome sight to behold upon returning to her home, and tonight was no different. She barely acknowledged the many Nords and other folk crowding the front hall. The intricately carved support beams, the tapestries, the protective stone walls, the comforting warmth of a place that spoke so much to heart...

"Ah, Lydia. An excellent choice, Avenicci."

The woman jerked out of her reverie at the sound of the Jarl's voice, and hastily saluted.

"I am afraid there was not much to choose from, my lord. All your men have assignments that cannot be altered on such short notice. Lydia has recently returned from Rorikstead, having presumably settled that little matter of banditry. I do believe she is at loose ends at the moment."

"Thank you, Avenicci," the Jarl said with no little annoyance at his steward. "Lydia, it is my wish that you be housecarl to the Dragonborn. What say you?"

"You honor me, my Jarl," she said humbly, bowing. "I shall not fail you."

"Very good. Thane Ashtulagal," he said, turning and beckoning the Dragonborn forward. Lydia followed the Jarl's gesture with her eyes, then bristled.

This was no invading Imperial, nor a scheming elf. It was a filthy swit of an Orc. His yellow eyes were like twin piss-pools in his face. His lips parted in a permanent scowl by the large, brutish lower tusks that jutted out over his upper teeth. The warpaint he still bore looked like someone had stuck their hand in white chalk and slapped him across the face. His thick, black hair was pulled into a ragged tail at the back of his head. And his armor... a dirty, mismatched, battered mix of iron and steel.

Her distaste must have been apparent, for his scowl seemed to deepen as he returned her stare. The Jarl cleared his throat and leveled an expectant, and slightly admonishing, glare in her direction.

"Thane...," she began, then faltered as a shuddering grimace rippled across her face, "Ashtulagal. My...liegelord. I pledge my sword to your service." Sinking to one knee, she lowered her gaze and presented her sword.

"You take her sword, if she is satisfactory," the Jarl prompted when the Orc just stood there stupidly.

"She is," the new Thane said simply, his voice deep, almost like the thrum of a large drum. Taking her sword, he held it awkwardly for a moment, then gave it back into her hands. She tried hard not to sneer at his confusion, she really did. She wasn't particularly successful, if his look of disgust was any judge. But then, maybe he looked like that all the time. He was an Orsimer, after all.

The evening's charms were soured by the Orc's brutally inept presence, and Lydia found her mind wandering as she dutifully followed him about. Jarl Balgruuf led him around like a trained dog, introducing him to all the most important people, and he chafed visibly under their haughty scrutiny. The new housecarl sneered; he can't have been what they expected either, and now they were clearly uncomfortable in their efforts to treat him with courtesy under the watchful eye of the Jarl, when they likely wanted to cast him out of the city like the bit of filth he was.

Dragonborn, my ass, she thought. It was embarrassing to be standing on the same side as that Imperial fool, Proventus, on any subject.

Eventually, the Jarl set the creature loose, allowing him to mingle with the aristocracy on his own. Lydia looked about, hoping none of the other guards would see the abysmal duty she'd been assigned. When she turned her annoyed attention back to the Thane, he was gone.

Sighing deeply, she went in search of the Orc. It shouldn't be too hard to spot him, she thought. After all, there weren't that many Orsimer roaming freely about Skyrim these days, at least not outside the protective walls of their strongholds. Certainly, none called Whiterun Hold their home. She wouldn't care what became of him if she wasn't his sworn housecarl. That duty required a certain amount of giving-a-damn-about-his-welfare.

A quick circuit around the hall did not flush the Orc out of hiding, so Lydia began asking around. Eventually, she found a guard sober enough to have remembered seeing the Orc slip out a side door into the gardens. Exasperated, she stomped after him.

There were people milling about in the gardens as well, for it was a lovely night. The moon was full and hanging low in the sky. If the Thane was trying to get away from the crowds, he can't have stayed here. Now she was getting annoyed. He may be a worthless Orc, but the position of housecarl was a tremendous honor. She had pledged her life to his protection, something she could scarcely do if he was wandering around she knew not where.

Taking the path down to the stairs, she headed down, occasionally asking a tittering woman or guffawing man the whereabouts of her quarry. Their unsteady hands directed her down into the village, and eventually to the Bannered Mare. He couldn't have taken himself farther from Dragonsreach if he tried, without leaving Whiterun altogether.

The tavern was not so crowded as it usually was, perhaps due to the competition of the party in the Cloud District. Lydia maneuvered around the patrons, scanning faces, until finally she found him, seated in a dark corner nursing a mug of ale.

"You are a difficult... person to track down," she said stiffly as she sat in the chair opposite him at the small table.

"I did not wish to be found," he snarled. "Not by anyone." His tone clearly included her in the 'anyone.'

"I did not ask to be your housecarl, and you did not ask to be Thane," she snapped. "We must make the best of it. I am sworn to your service, and by the Nine, I will serve."

He fixed her with an angry glare. "I do not need your service. I do not want your service. I do not want... any of this." He waved his hand absently. "I release you. Go back to your Jarl. Leave me in peace."

"That I cannot do," she said, shaking her head. "Once given, the title of Thane cannot be discarded, nor can the housecarl that goes with it. We are stuck."

He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "They say I must go to the Greybeards. Climb the millions of steps or somesuch."

"Seven thousand," she corrected through clenched teeth.

"Millions or thousands, what difference does it make?" he snapped harshly. His eyes flashed in the dim light. "I do not want to go."

"Why not?" she demanded. "It is an honor to be called by the Greybeards. You must go, if you are truly Dragonborn."

"I did not ask for that either," he hissed. "I wish only freedom. I thought I had it after Helgen. Deliver news of the dragon and go my way." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, eyes fixed on the contents of his mug.

"Stop being a child," she snapped. "A great honor has been bestowed upon you. Do make an effort to be worthy of it. Difficult as that may be for someone like you."

He glared at her over the rim of the mug. A growl rumbled deep in his chest.

"Ah, how delightful," Lydia smirked, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms over her chest. "You even sound like a beast."

Ashtulagal quickly drained his mug, slammed it down on the table, and stood. Leaning over her, one hand on the table and the other pointing a thick finger in her face, he snarled, "Mind your tongue, bitch. Follow me, and the beast will bite." Turning on his heel, he stomped toward the door.

Lydia rolled her eyes, undaunted by the new Thane's threat. She'd sworn an oath. Honor may be a foreign concept to the Orsimer, but to her, it was sacred, even if distasteful at the moment. She sauntered determinedly after him.