Luke Velaryon: The Last Dragonborn C16 (Patreon)

Chapter 16: A family portrait

"Ralof mentioned that his sister runs the lumber mill," Luke said as they walked.

So Ralof’s family must be well-off, then. That would help explain why, despite being only in his mid-twenties, Ralof already stood so close to Ulfric’s inner circle. He was clearly a skilled warrior, but skill alone rarely earned a man a place at the center of power.

Money, influence, and family connections often opened doors that talent alone could not. It was a lesson Luke had learned years ago while watching his grandfather navigate the politics of both Westeros and Essos.

Perhaps Tamriel was different. Or perhaps people were simply people, no matter the world and unless Ralof happened to be the finest fighter among the Stormcloaks—which he might be, for all Luke knew, though it seemed unlikely—there had to be more to it. Owning such a profitable business would certainly make him valuable. Rebellions needed funding, and having the wealthy on your side was always important. Luke knew that well; his own family had spent years cultivating alliances among the rich and powerful.

Hadvar nodded.

"Aye. Gerdur inherited it from their parents. Ralof would probably be running it alongside her if he hadn't run off to join the damned Stormcloaks." Hadvor said with bitterness in his voice. 

"Come on," Hadvar said. "My uncle's the village blacksmith. He lives just over here."

They left the main road and approached a forge.

Unlike the enclosed smithies Luke was accustomed to, this one stood beneath a broad timber roof supported by thick wooden posts but had no walls. The forge itself was open to the air, its anvil, quenching barrel, and racks of tools arranged neatly beneath the shelter.

Beside it stood a small shop marked with a blacksmith's symbol.

Near them rose a sturdy two-story house built from stone. While hardly luxurious, it was easily among the finest homes in Riverwood. Iron lanterns hung beside the doorway, their brackets forged into intricate knotwork. Behind the house lay a modest vegetable garden and a fenced pasture.

Hadvar climbed the short steps and knocked firmly.

Several moments passed, muffled grumbling echoing from inside before the door swung open to reveal a broad-shouldered man in his early forties, rubbing sleep from his eyes; he had blond hair, a thick, neatly trimmed beard, and arms that looked capable of bending horseshoes with little effort, and like nearly every Nord Luke had met, he towered over him.

The man's irritation vanished the instant he recognized his visitor.

"Boy?" His eyes widened. "Is that you?"

"Aye, Uncle."

Before Hadvar could say another word, the blacksmith pulled him into a crushing embrace.

"By Shor, lad!" He held Hadvar at arm's length, looking him over from head to toe. "What in Oblivion are you doing here? Weren't you supposed to be in Solitude?"

His expression shifted as he noticed the dried blood staining Hadvar's armor and looked him up and down.

"Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"It isn't my blood."

Alvor's eyes narrowed.

"What happened?"

Hadvar glanced toward the street.

"We should talk inside."

The blacksmith studied him for another moment before nodding, then his attention shifted to Luke.

"And who's this little pup?"

Luke held back a sigh.

He made an effort not to take it personally—Nords seemed fond of calling younger folk pups, cubs, and the like—but the addition of “little” felt unnecessary. It wasn’t his fault that every Nord he met looked like they were half giant.

"This is Luke of Dragonstone," Hadvar said. "He's a friend."

Luke stepped forward and inclined his head politely.

"Master Alvor. It's a pleasure to meet you."

The blacksmith looked him up and down.

"Hm." A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "A polite little pup." His eyes settled on Luke's armor.

"A bit young for a legionnaire."

Luke was still wearing a legionnaire’s armor and while that had been acceptable in an emergency, he could not continue wearing it, as doing so would amount to impersonating a legionnaire. Luke did not know exactly how serious a crime that was, but he was fairly certain it would not be dismissed with just a slap on the ear.

"He's not," Hadvar said, shaking his head. "It's... a long story."

"Then you'd best come inside." Alvor stepped aside, opening the door wider. "It's not too late for stories. Sigrid can warm up some stew while you tell me what in Oblivion happened."

Luke followed Hadvar inside.

This was the first proper commoner's home he had ever entered. The ruined houses in Helgen hardly counted as he had been too busy pulling people from them to notice much of anything, so he was quite curious what they looked like on the inside.

The warmth struck him first. Outside, the mountain air had been cool even in summer, but inside the house, the heat from the great stone hearth spread through every corner. The scent of woodsmoke lingered in the air, mingling with fresh bread, roasted meat, herbs, and cured furs.

Thick beams supported the ceiling, while sturdy wooden furniture surrounded the fireplace. There was a basket filled with firewood beside the heart, animal pellets covered parts of the wooden floor, a few shelves held clay pots, neatly stacked dishes, several well-read books, and a few other trinkets. 

Above the heart hung a family portrait. 

A younger Alvor stood beside a broad-shouldered man and a red-haired woman. Behind them stood an older couple whose resemblance made their relation obvious, and in the woman's arms rested a laughing infant.

"My parents and grandparents," Hadvar said, noticing where Luke was looking. "A traveling painter passed through Riverwood years ago."

"Aye." Alvor smiled faintly at the painting. "Hadvar wasn't even walking properly yet."

Sadness flickered across his face, and he headed towards the stairs. 

"Sigrid!" he called. "We've got company!"

Hadvor and Luke watched him go. 

"My parents died during the war," Hadvar said in a low voice.

Luke turned toward him.

"My father served in the Legion. My mother..." He hesitated. "She happened to be traveling the wrong road at the wrong time."

"I'm sorry."

Hadvar shrugged.

"It was years ago." He said the words easily enough, yet Luke noticed his eyes drift toward the portrait again. "I barely remember my father."

"And your mother?"

"A little." He answered. "My uncle raised me."

Luke glanced toward the staircase where Alvor had disappeared.

"He seems like a good man."

Hadvar smiled.

"The best."

A moment later, a woman descended the stairs. She looked to be in her late thirties, with fair hair tied back and an apron hastily thrown over her nightdress.

The instant she saw Hadvar, her eyes widened.

"Hadvar!" She hurried across the room and wrapped him in a fierce embrace. “We’ve been so worried about you. You have not written in months.”

"I'm alright, Sigrid." Hadvar smiled a bit sheepishly.

“Come, you two must be hungry.” She pushed Hadvar towards a chair and gestured for Luke to sit down as well. “I will get you something to eat.”

Neither Hadvar nor Luke argued and sat down while Sigrid went to another room.  

Alvor pulled out three cups and filled them before setting the heavy earthenware jug on the table.

“Now then, boy, what’s the big mystery?” He looked at Hadvar. "What are you doing here looking like you've lost a fight with a cave bear?"

Hadvar exhaled slowly.

"I don't know where to begin."

"The beginning usually works."

"You know I was assigned to General Tullius's guard"

“Aye,” Alvor nodded. “Quite the honor.”

 “We ambushed a group of Stomcloaks near the border.”

“Something went wrong? Is the general alright?” 

“I-I don't know. Haven't seen him since- Well, that is not it. The ambush went well, and we captured Ulfric Stormcloak” 

“Ulfric?” Alvor grinned, “Then the damn rebellion is over? About time, thanks Talos.”

"No." Hadvar shook his head.

"What do you mean, no?"

"We brought him to Helgen."

"And?"

Hadvar swallowed.

"We never carried out the execution."

"Why not?"

“Before executing Ulfric, the town was attacked by a dragon.” Luke cut in, getting straight to the point. 

“A dragon? That is ridiculous.” Alvor dismissed Luke. “Did you hit your head, boy? Or are you up your drinks?” 

“No, no.” Hadvar shook his head. “He is right, a dragon attacked Helgen.” 

 “That cant be! They've been dead for thousands of years!” 

“Tell that to the people of Helgen,” Luke said, tired and wanting to get this over with. “Most of them are dead.” 

The blacksmith looked between the two of them, and he paled. 

"What... happened?"

Hadvar recounted everything. At some point, Sigrid returned and set steaming bowls of stew and fresh bread before them. Luke accepted his with a grateful nod. For the past two days, he had lived on dried meat, cheese, and whatever fruit and berries they had found along the road. He enjoyed such fare well enough, but now the rich scent of hot stew felt almost heavenly.

"The Jarl has to know," Alvor said at once, all traces of disbelief gone. He ran a hand through his beard, visibly agitated. "If there's a dragon loose, Riverwood's defenseless."

His gaze drifted toward the staircase where Sigrid had disappeared only moments before.

"You need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf. He has to send whatever soldiers he can spare."

"That's exactly what I intend to do," Hadvar replied. "But I'll need two good horses and enough supplies to reach Whiterun."

"Two?" Alvor looked at Luke. "You're taking the little pup with you?"

"He is already heading to Whiterun. "Hadvar said. "And besides, I doubt I'd have made it out of Helgen without him, might need his help again on the road."

Alvor raised an eyebrow.

"The little pup's that good with a sword?"

"For his age?" Hadvar nodded. "Aye. Better than most."

He paused before continuing.

"But that's not why."

Luke looked up from his stew.

"Back in Helgen," Hadvar said, "Ralof and I nearly killed each other while that dragon was tearing the town apart."

Alvor frowned. 

"It was Luke who knocked some sense into both of us. He reminded us what actually mattered." Hadvar met his uncle's eyes. "The people trapped in the town."

"He convinced you and Ralof to work together?"

"Aye."

Alvor looked at Luke with open surprise.

"Well now." A grin spread beneath his beard. "Quite the little miracle worker, aren't you, pup?"

From "little pup" to "pup", Luke supposed that was progress. Alvor's eyes drifted down toward Luke's armor once more.

"That gear won't do."

Luke looked down as well.

"I've got a padded gambeson somewhere that should fit you. Might even have a mail shirt if you're lucky. You can keep the sword—Imperial steel's good enough, and half the Empire carries blades made in the same style—but the armor has to go."

Luke nodded. He does not need any more problems with the Legion. 

Before Alvor could continue, Sigrid returned carrying another loaf of bread. She took one look at the pair of them and wrinkled her nose.

"Absolutely not." The three men looked at her. "You both smell like you've been sleeping in a skeever nest."

Luke sniffed his sleeve.

...

She was right. Hadvar did the same and grimaced.

"I've smelled worse."

"Only because you've spent too much time around soldiers." Sigrid folded her arms. "You're not leaving this house looking—or smelling—like that."

"We're in something of a hurry," Hadvar tried.

"And you'll still be in a hurry after a bath."

Alvor snorted.

"She's got you there."

"You can't appear before the Jarl covered in soot, dried blood, and whatever else you've picked up over the last days," Sigrid continued. "Go wash."

She pointed toward the back door.

"Both of you."

Neither argued and marched outside. 

Luke discovered that bathing in Skyrim differed considerably from what he was accustomed to. The bathhouse stood behind the house, separate from the main building. Inside was a broad wooden room with plank flooring and a massive rectangular tub large enough for half a dozen grown men. Connected to it by another doorway was a smaller chamber lined entirely with wooden benches.

"What is this place?"

"The sauna," Hadvar answered as he began removing his battered armor.

"Sauna?"

"A room where we heat stones until they're near red-hot, then pour water over them." Hadvar shrugged as though that explained everything. "Good for sore muscles."

Luke stared at him and shrugged. That is not the strangest thing he has heard today.  They stripped off their armor and stained clothing before climbing into the bath.

Only then did Hadvar's gaze settle on Luke's bare chest, more specifically, on the necklace hanging around his neck.

His expression softened.

"Ralof gave you that."

"Aye."

"What did he say?"

"He asked me to show it to his sister."

Luke repeated the words exactly as he remembered them.

"'Tell Gerdur I'm alive... and that I'll come home once Skyrim is free.'"

Hadvar closed his eyes for a moment before letting out a quiet sigh.

"What a damned fool."

Luke glanced toward him.

"You've known each other long?"

Hadvar smiled faintly.

"Since we were pups." He leaned back against the side of the tub. "We got into more trouble than I care to remember back in the good old days."

His smile became tinged with sadness.

"We were thick as thieves."

"What happened?" It was probably the war. 

"The war."

Yep.

Neither spoke for several moments after that. 

After washing, Luke dried himself and dressed in the clean spare clothes he had taken from his backpack earlier. He looked for his dirty clothing and did not find them. 

"Sigrid took them," Hadvar explained. "She's probably washing them already."

That was incredibly thoughtful of her. Luke made a mental note to thank her and perhaps give her something as a small token of his appreciation.

When they returned to the forge, Alvor was waiting beside a workbench. He tossed Luke a thick padded gambeson.

"Try that."

Luke slipped it on and it fit well enough.

Alvor nodded approvingly and disappeared into his workshop, muttering about straps, buckles, and finding something; meanwhile, Hadvar rolled out a map across the workbench.

"Gerdur's house is here."

He pointed toward a building near the lumber mill.

"Go tell her Ralof’s message."

"And you?"

"I'll borrow the horses and finish gathering supplies."

He rolled the map back up.

"We'll meet at the bridge on the north side of the village."

Luke nodded.

"I'll be there."

With that, he adjusted his newly borrowed armor, slipped Ralof's pendant beneath his gambeson, and headed toward the lumber mill.