The House of the Red Wolf crouches against the mountain, its timber walls groaning beneath the wind. Ulfric’s soldiers carry the Wounded Survivor into a shadowed chamber, leaving the iron chain at their ankle intact.
Esbern
Set them by the brazier. Carefully. That blue mark has drawn more than dragons to this pass.
An elderly Nord waits beside shelves of worm-eaten scrolls. Esbern studies the manifest without touching it, his lined face tightening as the blue seal pulses beneath the fold.
Esbern
This dispatch is forged, yes, but not merely to condemn you. The hand behind it is searching for an older door, one the returning dragons may already be opening.
A floorboard creaks above. Before Ulfric can signal the guards, a hooded figure drops from the rafters, landing between Azritha Stormborn and the chamber’s only exit with a drawn dagger.
The Hooded Intruder
Give me the manifest, Dragonborn. I came for the marked parchment, not blood. Force me, and this sanctuary becomes your grave.
Ulfric Stormcloak
You entered my house armed. Lower the blade, or learn how quickly a jarl can turn a trespasser into a prisoner.
The Hooded Intruder
Your house is already watched, Stormcloak. The forged order was bait, and she is the hook. The ones pulling the line will burn this place before dawn.