“You don’t let Argonians inside the city walls?” Dyce asked incredulously. “But it’s freezing out there. Admittedly it’s equally cold in here, but still.”
“No, I don’t,” Ulfric said flatly. “Isn’t it enough that I have a colony of elves within my walls? Or would you tell me how to run my city?”
Dyce shifted his jaw, clearly trying to work out what kind of answer he could get away with. “No,” he said eventually. He turned and marched back out again.
Ulfric found Windhelm was soon practically infested with the man. If he wasn’t running around in the early hours of the morning with Jorlief solving mysteries, or whatever it was they couldn’t shut up about, he was dragging Yrsarald off to go drinking.
The war progressed as wars often do, in fits and starts. Wars were won not merely against the enemy but against weather, and logistics, and Dyce clearly was incapable of sitting still for two minutes at a stretch. Not that he was always causing trouble. He tracked down dragons and bandits, and when Jorlief eventually explained what had been happening in Windhelm’s streets at night Ulfric realised he had every reason to be grateful.
And when Galmar sent him off to war he went, and more often than not came back victorious. They named him Bone-Breaker and Dyce just shrugged and laughed helplessly.
Galmar liked him. Even when he came in with a split lip and a black eye and Rolff Stone-Fist’s blood on his knuckles for the third time Galmar didn’t seem to take it personally.
“Tell your idiot brother,” Dyce said wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “That if he wants to still have teeth by Yuletide to stop shouting at the elves.”
“I think you’re telling him pretty clearly,” Galmar said, watching him spit and wince.
“Yes, but he’s not listening to me. It’s like he completely forgets who I am, and he sees a puny Breton he thinks he can beat up. On the other hand, I am making a fortune, but no one but Rolff himself bets against me anymore.”
Dyce may have been making a fortune, but he certainly wasn’t keeping it. After Dyce helped liberate a good many Stormcloak soldiers from an Imperial fort, Ulfric decided to reward some of his hard work by making him Thane. He was getting so well known that half the guards had started assuming he was Thane already. There was some risk involved by publicly supporting someone who opposed him openly on political matters, but Ulfric knew that once he worked out how to acquire Dyce’s true loyalty, Skyrim would be his.
But Dyce always floated just out of reach, even as he made friends with everyone he met. Except possibly Rolff.
“You will be allowed to purchase property in Windhelm,” Ulfric explained.
“Yeah, Balgruuf made the same offer,” Dyce said. “I couldn’t afford it though. He wanted five thousand gold for a little house. How much is Hjerim going for?”
“Twelve thousand,” Jorlief said faintly.
Ulfric pinched the bridge of his nose at Dyce’s expression. “I take it you’ve never managed to earn that much in your life.”
“Oh, I’ve earned ten times that amount, surely. I just don’t have it on me.”
“How much do you have?” Ulfric asked, out of sheer curiosity.
“Oh. Um.” Dyce patted down his pockets and weighed pouches of gold and counted gems and did sums. “About two thousand. Not bad.”
“Perhaps you could make a deposit now and pay the rest back whenever you have the money.”
“My Lord?” Jorlief looked at him with surprise. “Is that wise? It’s not usual-”
Ulfric shrugged. “It’s just sitting there empty. If nothing else Dyce can prevent it becoming a hideout for the next murderer. What do you think, Dyce?”
“I think that’s very fair of you. Here you go.” He handed over all his valuables to Jorlief and wandered out.
“But it’s empty right now,” Jorlief said. “He can’t live there. Can he?”
Ulfric shrugged. Oddly enough, Dyce did manage to get furniture and objects for his house, but he never explained where they came from. Ulfric wisely decided it wasn’t his business.
What's a Thief to a King? M!DB/Ulfric 7/??
“No, I don’t,” Ulfric said flatly. “Isn’t it enough that I have a colony of elves within my walls? Or would you tell me how to run my city?”
Dyce shifted his jaw, clearly trying to work out what kind of answer he could get away with. “No,” he said eventually. He turned and marched back out again.
Ulfric found Windhelm was soon practically infested with the man. If he wasn’t running around in the early hours of the morning with Jorlief solving mysteries, or whatever it was they couldn’t shut up about, he was dragging Yrsarald off to go drinking.
The war progressed as wars often do, in fits and starts. Wars were won not merely against the enemy but against weather, and logistics, and Dyce clearly was incapable of sitting still for two minutes at a stretch. Not that he was always causing trouble. He tracked down dragons and bandits, and when Jorlief eventually explained what had been happening in Windhelm’s streets at night Ulfric realised he had every reason to be grateful.
And when Galmar sent him off to war he went, and more often than not came back victorious. They named him Bone-Breaker and Dyce just shrugged and laughed helplessly.
Galmar liked him. Even when he came in with a split lip and a black eye and Rolff Stone-Fist’s blood on his knuckles for the third time Galmar didn’t seem to take it personally.
“Tell your idiot brother,” Dyce said wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “That if he wants to still have teeth by Yuletide to stop shouting at the elves.”
“I think you’re telling him pretty clearly,” Galmar said, watching him spit and wince.
“Yes, but he’s not listening to me. It’s like he completely forgets who I am, and he sees a puny Breton he thinks he can beat up. On the other hand, I am making a fortune, but no one but Rolff himself bets against me anymore.”
Dyce may have been making a fortune, but he certainly wasn’t keeping it. After Dyce helped liberate a good many Stormcloak soldiers from an Imperial fort, Ulfric decided to reward some of his hard work by making him Thane. He was getting so well known that half the guards had started assuming he was Thane already. There was some risk involved by publicly supporting someone who opposed him openly on political matters, but Ulfric knew that once he worked out how to acquire Dyce’s true loyalty, Skyrim would be his.
But Dyce always floated just out of reach, even as he made friends with everyone he met. Except possibly Rolff.
“You will be allowed to purchase property in Windhelm,” Ulfric explained.
“Yeah, Balgruuf made the same offer,” Dyce said. “I couldn’t afford it though. He wanted five thousand gold for a little house. How much is Hjerim going for?”
“Twelve thousand,” Jorlief said faintly.
Ulfric pinched the bridge of his nose at Dyce’s expression. “I take it you’ve never managed to earn that much in your life.”
“Oh, I’ve earned ten times that amount, surely. I just don’t have it on me.”
“How much do you have?” Ulfric asked, out of sheer curiosity.
“Oh. Um.” Dyce patted down his pockets and weighed pouches of gold and counted gems and did sums. “About two thousand. Not bad.”
“Perhaps you could make a deposit now and pay the rest back whenever you have the money.”
“My Lord?” Jorlief looked at him with surprise. “Is that wise? It’s not usual-”
Ulfric shrugged. “It’s just sitting there empty. If nothing else Dyce can prevent it becoming a hideout for the next murderer. What do you think, Dyce?”
“I think that’s very fair of you. Here you go.” He handed over all his valuables to Jorlief and wandered out.
“But it’s empty right now,” Jorlief said. “He can’t live there. Can he?”
Ulfric shrugged. Oddly enough, Dyce did manage to get furniture and objects for his house, but he never explained where they came from. Ulfric wisely decided it wasn’t his business.