Skyrim: reborn

as they descended the stone steps of Dragonsreach, the chill evening air sharpening as they neared the city gates. Edla walked stiffly, the weight of the Jarl's words clinging to her like armor.

You could run," Gilgamesh said, nodding to the shadowed plains beyond the walls.

"And go where?" Edla muttered. "Every fool with a sword would hunt me for the title."

Outside, the wind bit sharper. Gilgamesh stretched, his new strength humming, when a small voice piped up: "Uncle Gill ! Your sword's *sparkly*!"

A girl—no older than ten, her hair a nest of brown tangles—stood clutching a rag doll. Lysia. Her cheeks were smudged with dirt, but her eyes gleamed like polished septims

Lysia tugged his sleeve. "Did you *really* kill a dragon? Can I see its teeth?"

He rolled his eyes but tossed her the fang he'd pried from Mirmulnir's jaw. "Here. Try not to stab yourself."

She clutched it like a treasure. "I'll name it *Toothfire*!"

Edla stared. "You're… raising a child?"

"*Raising*? No. She's a stray. Like a skeever, but louder."

Lysia stuck out her tongue. "You *promised* to teach me sword tricks!"

"When you're taller than a mudcrab."

Edla's icy mask slipped—just for a breath—as she watched the girl. "Why?"

Gilgamesh shrugged. "She's useful. Distracts bandits. Steals sweetrolls."

Lysia beamed. "I stole *three* last week!"

---

The trio walked toward Whiterun's gates, Lysia chattering about dragons and dolls. Edla walked stiffly, her mind still reeling.

In the next day

The morning sun filtered through the smoky haze lingering over Whiterun, its light glinting off the dragon skull mounted above Jarl Balgruuf's throne. Gilgamesh slouched in a carved wooden chair, boots propped on the war table, while Edla stood rigid beside him, her arms crossed. Lysia, the orphan girl trailing them like a persistent skeever, poked at a plate of honeyed treats.

"Stop fidgeting," Edla hissed.

"But I'm *bored*," Lysia whined, flicking a sweetroll crumb at Gilgamesh.

He caught it midair and popped it into his mouth. "Lesson one of nobility, pest: boredom means free food. Enjoy it."

The doors to the hall groaned open, and Jarl Balgruuf swept in, flanked by his steward, Proventus Avenicci, and housecarl Irileth. The Jarl's gaze settled on Edla, his voice booming. "You've done Whiterun a great service. The dragon is slain, and the people are safe. For this, I name you *Thane* of Whiterun."

Edla blinked. "I don't want a title."

Proventus sniffed, adjusting his robes. "It's not a request, girl. Tradition demands—"

Gilgamesh cut him off. "Tradition demands you throw in free mead. Just saying."

Balgruuf ignored him. "As Thane, you are entitled to purchase property in the city. Proventus will arrange the sale of Breezehome, a fine house in the Plains District."

Proventus stepped forward, ledger in hand. "The price is 5,000 gold. A *steal*, considering its proximity to the market."

Edla's eyes narrowed. "I don't need a house."

Gilgamesh leaned forward, his grin sharp. "*I* do. How's 3,000 sound?"

Proventus recoiled. "Outrageous! This isn't a flea market!"

"Fine. 3,000 gold…" Gilgamesh dumped a clinking pouch onto the table, followed by three rusted iron daggers. "…and these *rare historical artifacts*. Recovered from a dragon's gullet. Very sentimental."

(these are lysia dagger's ^-^ thanks for overseer123 reminder)

Proventus picked up a dagger, eyebrow twitching. "These are covered in mud."

"*Dragon* mud. Adds value."

The steward sighed, glancing at the Jarl. Balgruuf waved a hand. "Sold. For the sake of Skyrim."

**[System Alert: Breezehome Acquired!]**

*Gold Spent: 3,000*

*Rusty Daggers Spent: 3*

*Perk Unlocked: Master Haggler (Merchants now offer 10% lower prices)*

Edla pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is absurd."

The Jarl continued. "Additionally, as Thane, you will be assigned a housecarl. Lydia!"

A woman in steel armor stepped forward, her expression as lively as a mannequin's. "My thane. I am sworn to carry your burdens."

Edla stared at her. "I don't need a babysitter."

Lydia's face didn't change. "As you say, my thane."

Gilgamesh circled her, smirking. "She's got the personality of a wet sock. I love her."

**Breezehome, Plains District**

The house smelled of dust and fresh paint. Lysia sprinted upstairs, claiming the largest bedroom by hurling her stuffed troll doll onto the bed. Edla lingered in the doorway, her distaste palpable.

"It's a hovel."

Gilgamesh flopped onto a moth-eaten sofa. "*Our* hovel. Look—" He kicked open a chest overflowing with stolen sweetrolls. "—pre-stocked."

Lydia stood in the corner, arms folded. "Shall I inventory your assets, my thane?"

Edla massaged her temples. "No."

"I'll inventory them anyway, my thane."

Gilgamesh tossed her a rusted sword from his inventory. "Start with this *family heirloom*."

**Whiterun Gates**

As the trio exited the city, the Greybeards' thunderous shout shook the valley:

***"DOVAHKIIN!"***

Lysia clapped her hands over her ears. "Make it *stop*!"

Edla stiffened, blood trickling from her nose. Gilgamesh grinned. "Mountain time, Frostbite. Try not to freeze solid."

The morning sun clawed its way over Whiterun's walls, gilding the plains in weak, winter light. Gilgamesh leaned against the city gates, tossing a dagger into the dirt and yanking it back with a flick of telekinesis. Lysia sat cross-legged nearby, stacking dragon teeth into a wobbly tower. Edla stood a few paces away, her new housecarl Lydia hovering behind her like a steel-plated shadow.

"You're *not* coming." Edla's voice was flintier than usual, her eyes narrowed at Gilgamesh.

He caught the dagger mid-air, grinning. "Aw, Frostbite. You'll miss my sparkling wit."

"I'll miss the *silence*," she snapped. "Why the sudden change?"

Lysia's tower collapsed. She scrambled to rebuild it, but her hands shook. "Don't go, Edla," she whispered, too quiet for anyone but Gilgamesh to hear.

He sheathed the dagger, his smirk fading. "Kid needs someone who isn't a walking icicle."

Edla scoffed. "Since when do you play nursemaid?"

"Since you decided to chase fairy tales up a mountain." He nodded to Lydia. "You've got Grumpy here to babysit. The pest? She's stuck with me."

Lysia abandoned her dragon teeth and latched onto Edla's cloak. "Take me with you!"

Edla stiffened, her cold mask slipping for a heartbeat. "No."

"*Why not?*"

"Because I'm not dragging a child into a war with dragons." Edla pried Lysia's fingers free, her voice softening despite herself. "Stay. *Learn.*"

Gilgamesh crouched, tugging Lysia back. "Listen to the living snowbank. You'd hate the mountain. No sweetrolls. Just monks who shout your ears off."

Lysia sniffled, tears streaking her dirt-smudged cheeks. "But… but you'll come back, right?"

Edla hesitated. "I don't know."

"*Liar*," Gilgamesh said, rising. "You'll be back. Heroes always come back—right before they die tragically."

Edla's hand flew to her sword. "You're insufferable."

"And you're predictable." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "But the kid's not. She needs someone who *isn't* chasing glory. So go play Dragonborn. We'll be here, burning your share of the loot."

Lysia fumbled in her pocket and thrust a dragon's fang at Edla. "Take Toothfire! So you don't forget!"

Edla stared at the tooth, then at the girl. "I don't need trinkets."

"Take it," Gilgamesh said, "or she'll cry louder. Trust me—you don't want that."

Edla snatched the fang, tucking it into her belt with a scowl. "Sentiment is weakness."

"Says the woman keeping a souvenir."

Lydia cleared her throat. "The Greybeards' call grows faint, my thane. We should depart."

Edla turned toward the road, her back rigid. "Don't burn down the city while I'm gone."

"No promises," Gilgamesh called after her.

Lysia lunged forward, hugging Edla's leg. "*Come back.*"

Edla froze, her fingers brushing the girl's hair—brief, awkward, the closest to affection she'd ever muster. "...I'll try."

Then she strode north, Lydia trailing like a dutiful ghost.

Gilgamesh watched until they shrank to specks on the horizon. Lysia wiped her face on his sleeve. "You're staying because of me, right?"

"Don't flatter yourself," he said, flicking her ear. "I'm staying because Whiterun's got better ale."

She glared, tears still glinting. "Liar."

He hoisted her onto his shoulders, the city gates groaning shut behind them. "Yeah, well. Keep it to yourself, pest."