The only sound in the city was the cutting wind. It carried the whimpering of young boys and men at the prospect of battle. There was no respite except for restless sleep and Jorwen couldn’t even get that. He walked the streets alone, wrapped in his cloak with his seax kept pressed to his side. He looked up to see three big men in mail and fur standing in his way, their cloaks billowing in the wind as they stood wordless. It didn’t help at all that their helmets covered their faces. The man in the center was the tallest and the thickest, as big as Jorwen himself. They stood like that, staring at each other for a long set of painful moments. His legs wanted to run away, his arms wanted to draw his weapon, his heart seemed to want to burst from his chest. Then the man in the middle spoke, “You Red-Bear?”

“Aye.” Jorwen wasn’t any more comfortable hearing the man’s voice. It was cold and flat like winter. Reminded him of someone, way back. “How’d you find me?”

“Ain’t hard.” He said. That wasn’t a lot to go on, really. It was true, but it didn’t answer his question. He could tell there was no love here for him, but if they wanted to kill him, they could do it right now.

“True. Why you looking for me?” Jorwen asked, his palms getting slick. He rubbed his fingers against his palm and took a breath, readying himself to run at any moment. Three men against one aren’t good odds at all.

“Someone wants you.” Jorwen frowned and his grip on his seax tightened, only one man had the tastes for introductions like this and he wasn't set on meeting him again. “Alive, though. You know him from way back.”

“Black Sutt wants you to hug me for him, eh?” Jorwen still wasn’t any more comfortable, with Black Sutt, how long he wanted Jorwen alive all depended.

“Black Sutt don’t hug.” That much was true. He’d known the man, fought against him and with him for a time, and he was the most evil shit ever.

“What about you, Mire?” Jorwen asked, casting a glance at Mire’s two men, or Black Sutt’s, anyway. The man just slowly shook his head. “Fair enough. So, what’s to do?”

“We keep you from dying.” Mire shrugged, “Help me help you though, eh.”

“We’ll get along nice then. What about my daughter?” Jorwen asked.

“Black Sutt didn’t say anything about her.” That was both a blessing and a curse. They wouldn’t be throwing themselves on spears for her any time. Not that they’d do Jorwen the kindness, but Sutt was Sutt. “I hear there’s a siege on.”

“Where were you for it? You’re in this city too, should get yourself on the docks and fight for something.” Jorwen frowned at Mire.

“Black Sutt didn’t say anything about Windhelm.” He shrugged as if it was beyond his control, “Just you.”

Jorwen shook his head and growled, “Will you at least stand with me?”

“Long as you’re standing on the walls, I’ll stand right alongside you.” Mire said, no hint that he was trying at humor. Though, he probably wasn’t, knowing Black Sutt and the company he kept.

“Always were a pack of fucking cowards, you lot.” Jorwen hocked something up and spat on the ground.

“Maybe. White-Eye’s a hero, I’m here.” Mire stuck his arms out and let them drop helplessly, “You tell me who’s better off.”

Jorwen drew in a breath to say something but thought better. Just because it held more than a little truth. He sighed and all of him sagged at once as he spoke, “I’ll stand on the walls, then. We’ll at least dump salts and oils on them or some such.”

“Salt?” Mire asked.

“Fire salts, you’d know if you were on the docks.” Jorwen sneered.

“Aye, maybe.” Mire said, “But I’ve got better sense’n that.”

The battle horns and clanging bells were heard as men shouted to move to the walls. The ships were spotted again then, and it was time to get back to work. Jorwen's gut did the familiar flips and cramping as he worked to put the old battle lust in himself. To think there was a time where men reckoned him something worse than Black Sutt when he was in the Reach all those bloody years ago. But nothing good ever came of that, any of it. “To the walls, eh?”

“If you say so,” Mire sniffed and spat something of his own onto the ground, “Chief.”