Disclaimer: TES:V and related characters belong to Bethseda; spoilers abound. The title is from Horace's Odes, "dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" or "how sweet and fitting it is to die for one's country".
This is a dream she has.
She wakes up, face pressed to the grass. It is soft, beautiful, thick; it smells like sweet spring, something so unlike the tough grasses of the tundra-lands. And she is loath to lift her head, the grass is so soft, so sweet, but there is a beating in her soul. She must get up. She must stand. It is hard, the grass is so soft, so different from the stiff grass of the tundra-lands, she wishes to sleep just a little longer. But the beating does not stop, does not weaken, almost intensifies and she knows she must rise.
When she rises, the soft imprint of summer grass still blooms across her face. Green grass, blue skies, white clouds. A foreign place, she doesn't recognize it at all. A soft chuckle, and there is a flash of brown in the corner of her eyes, priest robes? But when she turns what she sees is not a priest. It is not even a man.
The dragon is there. A great golden dragon with deep blue eyes and –
The dream ends there.
Snapped back to reality, she finds she is on a wagon. Sleep has made her eyes heavy but the roughness of the wagon as it passes over the stones and dips has made her neck sore. Sitting upright, she rubs the back of her neck, blinks twice before the world comes into focus.
"Hey. You've woken up."
The man speaking to her is blond and bearded, she finds his blue and silver cuirass rather fetching. The other occupants of the wagon are a haggard man and a noble one. She knows he is noble, if not of blood then at least of demeanor, because he has this air. He had the air of a noble. Sometimes, she just knows things and it bothers her a little because she doesn't know why she knows these things but. That is a matter for another time.
The haggard man clad in rags is a horsethief. He mutters prayers to the Gods when he finds out that the noble man is Ulfric Stormcloak. She is pretty sure that he'd been muttering prayers earlier too, but now the Horsethief takes to his task with much greater enthusiasm as if his Gods could save him. Turning her attention to the noble, the first thing she thinks is that his bear-pelt must be warm. She is not sure who the blond man is, but clearly he is the kindest of the three. Horsethief is much too busy begging Gods for help and it seems Ulfric does not deem her worthy to speak to. He speaks of honor, of Sovenguard and a lot of Nords, but nothing else. Blond man flashes her a kind smile, which she returns, before directing her attention to the mountains in the distance.
Those, she recognizes. Slightly. They are the mountains of her homeland, rugged and steep and covered with snow. She is not quite sure which mountains they are, but it doesn't matter. The surrounding pine forest and the dirt road, not yet frozen solid, suggests they are in the South. She lifts her head to the sky and takes a deep breath. Crisp autumn air, and the slightest stirring of the wind. Suddenly, she has the feeling that something is going to happen. Sure enough, their wagon approaches the gates of a village. Men, dressed in red and leather, open the gates, eyes wary as their wagon rolls through slowly. Horsethief starts chanting prayers faster. Ulfric stops talking, to stare at them. She thinks that some of the soldiers must be quaking in their boots, it is a heavy thing, the stare of a noble. Blond man smiles again at her, weaker this time. She turns her head forward as they proceed through the town.
The wagon comes to a halt. Ulfric steps off first, surrounded by four men. Next goes the blond man and then the horsethief and finally it is her turn to step out of the wagon. A man clad in leather and iron chainmail all with red accents is clucking his tongue. Perhaps it is because she is a girl. Perhaps it is because she is young. Perhaps it is because she is innocent. Perhaps it is all three or none of the reasons at all.
"You picked a bad time to come to the border, kinsman."
"Liesel," she offers.
He shakes his head, repeating the words under his breath. But he says nothing more and motions for her to stand to the side where the others were already lined up.
The man, Ulfric, is the first to be dragged away, two soldiers at his side, wrists tied with burly rope. They force him first to his knees, then they seize his broad shoulders, force him towards the block of wood. She suddenly understands the meaning of the groove in the block. It's a perfect fit for a head. For all their pushing and shoving, Ulfric still goes down with dignity, even as they press his head to the block, hold it there, he still maintains that air of pride. She is impressed.
A solider lifts the blade, the cold steel catching the sunlight, and for a moment time seems to stop. There is a great shout. She watches as the soldiers whirl and turn, and she looks up. Atop a tower, the only stone tower in a town of wood, sits a dragon. She stares at it, and it turns its head towards her. Her breath catches in her throat, feels fear for the first time, and then a jet of flames erupts from the dragon's mouth. Acrid smoke and flames. The soldiers stop holding Ulfric down, too busy chasing after the dragon who spews fire and smoke. It doesn't even acknowledge them, simply spreads its wings and leaves.
Liesel watches the great black dragon rise, and knows her destiny has taken flight.
