Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for death, fantastic racism, violence, misogyny, sexual harassment and fat-shaming, and mentions of child neglect. I got a little tired of canon!Lia and decided to write up one who wasn't so innately badass. Some bits of lore come from Michael Kirkbride's Tumblr.

Burnt Cakes

There were worse jobs in the world than being the cook at a Legion border outpost. Lia knew that from experience. So despite grabby hands and contemptuous gazes, she transformed military rations into edible meals for the garrison in Helgen and considered herself lucky to be so employed. Commander Tauria Julia kept the soldiers under control and the Thalmor passing through on their way to and from Cyrodiil, paid the civilian staff standard wages for skilled servants in a patrician household (two sets of clothing and new shoes every year with fifty septims every quarter in addition to bed and board), and ruled the town with the sort of benevolent corruption that benefited the Empire since Tiber Septim made it his own. If not for the Jerall Mountains being to the south instead of the north, she could pretend she was still in Bruma.

Life in Helgen was surprisingly slow for such a strategically important border town, one day bleeding into the next until Lia turned around and realised the air was a bit nippy in Evening Star, making it time to wear a thick shawl around her shoulders when she gathered snowberries and other wild herbs. A Nord mother, born and bred in Falkreath, gave her the ability to shrug off cold that had the Imperial and Redguard Legionnaires wearing heavy cloaks – but to hear the Skyrim soldiers tell it, her plump figure shielded her much like a horker's rolls of fat. From what she'd observed, the horker would be more pleasant company than a good many of the Legionnaires from the north.

So it wasn't until later she discovered the day that the world changed forever was the 17th of Last Seed in the 201st year of the Fourth Era, almost two hundred years to the day that Uriel Septim VII was assassinated by Daedric cultists. Lia recalled it being a slightly chillier than usual late summer's day with the only break in routine a command to cook up some pheasant in snowberry sauce for Commander Julia and break out the garum sauce for General Tullius, who slathered it on everything like the West Wealde plebeian that he was. Then one of the Legionnaires entered the kitchen, stole one of the cakes that were baking on the hearthstone, slapped her arse and informed her that Ulfric Stormcloak was being wheeled into Helgen for immediate execution.

Lia's attitude towards the Stormcloaks was… complicated. In a past that she dared not acknowledge or recall too clearly, she was the daughter and granddaughter of Blades, descended from the Hero of Kvatch herself. Her mother was a true Nord who worshipped Talos with every fibre of her being to the point of ignoring her Akaviri-eyed, Imperial-nosed offspring. Her uncle and stepmother had been assigned to rescuing the Jarl of Windhelm from Falinesti because he was a Tongue and the Blades' last Tongue, Master Wulfgar, had walked out in disgust when commanded to use his Voice as a weapon against the Thalmor. Five months after their disappearance, Cloud Ruler Temple fell to the goldskins.

She should be screaming "For Talos!" as she ran headlong into the thick of battle. Her mother would certainly expect it of her and her grandfather too. Uncle Irkand would have advised poisoning Legion mead instead. He had been a very good assassin.

Instead, Lia would rather be left alone. Let her bake cakes and slather garum on pheasant, therefore ruining it utterly, for Legion officers. The Emperor's soldiers had the unofficial policy of protecting those they considered their own from the Thalmor, which suited Lia just fine.

But rumour painted her mother as one of the Stormcloaks' senior officers. That was, of course, if Sigdrifa Stormsword acknowledged the relationship. Kyne knew that she had enough reason to try and forget her time at Cloud Ruler.

Lia sighed and left the kitchen after putting one of the servers in charge. Whatever he was, Ulfric deserved to have a descendant of heroes watch his execution. If he died well, maybe he could go to Sovngarde.

General Tullius, a stocky Colovian short even by Imperial standards, was giving the bound, gagged Ulfric Stormcloak a tirade that no doubt had been written beforehand. A great master of preparation was Tullius but very poor to think on his feet.

The Jarl of Windhelm wore chainmail robes with bearskin trimming that likely weighed half of Lia's body weight but he stood proud, wine-bottle green eyes glaring defiantly at Tullius. He wouldn't be going alone to Sovngarde – several Stormcloaks would accompany him, including a tall, sinewy woman in middle age with a too-familiar profile. Lia swore under her breath and tugged her shawl up to cover her head, hoping that no one noticed the resemblance between her and the Stormsword. Then she flushed with shame because her first instinct was to hide.

You've been hiding for the past twenty-five years, she reminded herself grimly as Tullius gave the command for the Priestess of Arkay to grant the Stormcloaks last rites.

Of course, one of the Stormcloaks interrupted the woman's prayers and marched up to the headsman's block, taunting the Legionnaires on the way. Lia was sure he'd get toasted by Ysgramor when he got to Sovngarde. One swing of the axe and he was drinking with the gods.

Her mother was next, Arkay be merciful. Once she laid her head down, however, something swooped down and landed on the tower. Then it unfurled black wings… and Shouted.

Despite Tullius' command to see the townspeople to safety, it swiftly degenerated into everyone for themselves. Lia bolted for the Keep as the fucking World-Eater decided to start his multicourse feast with a Helgen entrée. Running probably wouldn't save her in the end but if she died bravely, she'd wind up in Sovngarde with her soul as Alduin's dessert. She'd take her chances with a coward's death, thanks.

Lia reached the kitchen, the stench of burnt cakes filling her nostrils, and ran smack-bang into a couple Stormcloaks – including the very last person on Nirn she wanted to see. They were looting her cache of healing potions and the blond male spun around on seeing her. "Who are you?" he spat.

"Someone outrunning that big black bastard out there!" Lia retorted.

Sigdrifa Stormsword stiffened as she spoke and then turned, turquoise eyes that matched Lia's own widening dramatically. Front-on, her mother hadn't aged much, only gaining a few crow's feet around her hard eyes and harder mouth, with some streaks of silver in her long black hair. Anyone who looked between her and Lia would see the family resemblance in the high cheekbones, square jaw and thick, arching brows.

The too-familiar urge to look at her feet in shame hit Lia as the Stormsword took in her daughter's softly curved figure, well-mended coarse shift with a thick canvas skirt, and heavy grey goat's wool shawl. But instead she found the courage to look up, meet her mother's eyes with something resembling defiance, and dare her to make a comment when the world was dying around them.

"You might as well come with us," commanded Sigdrifa curtly. "I'm sure we can find some use for you."

"I love you too," Lia observed bitterly.

The blond Stormcloak grunted sourly. "Can we continue the family reunion once we've escaped the dragon?"

"Of course, Ice-Veins." Sigdrifa turned for the door that opened onto the corridor which led down to the interrogation chamber. Lia let her go first with the blond Stormcloak called Ice-Veins behind.

The sounds of fighting soon reached their ears as Sigdrifa swore. "Troll's blood, a torture chamber!" She ran down to help her Stormcloak friends, Ice-Veins on her heels. Lia took her time because if she escaped here, she didn't need to be executed for treason.

As she'd mused before, her relationship with the civil war was complicated.

Her mother was wiping blood off a Legion-issue gladius when Lia entered the torture chamber. "I suppose you're on the Legion's side," the Stormsword observed disgustedly.

"The Imperial Legion protects its people from the Thalmor," the cook retorted flatly. "So yes, I worked for them because I like breathing."

Heroes die, Mother. I don't have the luxury of a martyr's death. Not with the reality of the World-Eater doing his best to bring the Keep crashing down on them and somewhere, a Dragonborn ignorant of their destiny. Her grandfather had impressed the need for her to survive, no matter what.

"Do you worship Talos?" Ice-Veins asked suddenly.

"I acknowledge His divinity," Lia answered carefully. "But I give my worship to the Hearth Gods."

"Let it go, Stormsword," the blond advised the visibly seething Sigdrifa. "Not all women are meant to be shieldmaidens, eh?"

Sigdrifa sheathed her borrowed gladius forcefully, almost slicing her leather belt into pieces. "With her ancestry, I expected better," the last Shieldmaiden of Talos said grimly. "Her ancestors must be spinning in their graves."

Lia's mouth quirked to the side humourlessly. "I don't know. The Hero of Kvatch would appreciate the madness of her last descendant working as a cook."

As she expected, the mention of the Madgoddess silenced Sigdrifa and she stalked towards the deeper cells, which also led to the escape tunnel. That she knew it existed meant that the Stormcloaks had critical information on Legion facilities. If Tullius survived, he'd want to know that.

I'm half-tempted to bolt south for the border, Lia thought as she followed, Ice-Veins at her back. Tall and stereotypically handsome in the blond Nord way, he carried his iron war axe with the ease of a lumberjack and didn't seem particularly awed by Sigdrifa.

"I'm Ralof," he finally said as they passed the cells.

"Lia," she responded with a sigh. She wasn't giving him more than that.

She had to turn a little to squeeze through a passageway meant for lean, fit Colovian bodies instead of heavy Nord ones, and they entered a cavern where three Imperial soldiers were discussing orders. One of them was Hadvar, a newly promoted Quaestor with a soft voice and kind eyes who could always rustle up some venison or pheasants for the pot.

The broad-shouldered, brown-haired man finally commanded the other two Legionnaires to scout up ahead. Knowing her mother, Lia pushed past the Stormsword and called out to the Quaestor to spare his life – or at least save him from a dishonourable death. Both Stormcloaks were wounded where he was relatively fresh – and he had mentioned a childhood friend named Ralof.

"What are you doing with the Stormcloaks?" Hadvar asked, his hand flashing to the hilt of his gladius.

"One's my mother, much to both our regrets, and the other is your childhood friend Ralof," Lia answered as she walked out to join him.

"You little-" Sigdrifa hissed, only to be quelled by Ralof putting a calming hand on her shoulder.

"We're leaving and he won't be able to stop us," the Stormcloak announced flatly. "Our mission is to get to Windhelm and warn Galmar about the dragon."

"That wasn't just any dragon," Lia said grimly. "That was the World-Eater himself."

Hadvar sucked his breath in sharply. "How do you know that?"

"Short story is that my father's side of the family can trace their ancestry back to the Akaviri Dragonguard and I grew up hearing the prophecy for which they crossed the sea," Lia answered, meeting her mother's furious eyes. "I know you probably don't consider yourself a Blade any more, Mother, if you ever did – but you need to prepare the Stormcloaks for what's coming. Maybe the Dragonborn will come from their ranks."

"Or he could be a Legionnaire," Hadvar added quietly. "I can't stop you two from leaving, so just go. I need to warn Legate Rikke of what's going on."

If a Legionnaire had to be Dragonborn, Lia rather hoped that it was Hadvar. He was patient, steady and in command of his temper, something many pureblood Nords had trouble with.

And if a Stormcloak, Ralof isn't entirely stupid from the looks of it. Lia sighed inwardly, wishing that she was somewhere else.

"Fine," Sigdrifa said after a tense silence. "Lia, you're coming with me-"

"No, I'm not," the cook interrupted. "I have other duties."

The Stormsword snorted contemptuously. "And how is a soft, fat milkdrinker going to do more than the true children of Skyrim?"

Lia smiled mirthlessly. "That's none of your business, Mother. If you don't trust me, kill me here and now."

Since kinslayers were rarely permitted into Sovngarde, Sigdrifa swore vilely and stalked up ahead. Ralof regarded Lia thoughtfully before he joined his commanding officer.

"I hope that the auxiliaries got out before those two find them," Hadvar said softly. "Are you alright?"

Without regard for modesty, Lia waded into the little stream that burbled at the bottom of the cave and washed a skirt wet with more than water as best she could. "I'll live," she replied with a sigh. "Quaestor-"

"I won't say anything if I can help it," Hadvar finished. "I won't send anyone to the Thalmor."

"Thank you." Lia wrung out her canvas skirt and the bottom of her shift before climbing out of the stream. "We should split up. You need to get to Solitude and I… need to find someone."

"Who?"

"Someone who will know how to kill a dragon."