The Palace of the Kings was colder than she had imagined, and the Jarl of Windhelm warmer than she had expected.

"Octavia," he greeted her from where he stood on the dais, arms wide and welcoming. "Welcome to Windhelm," he announced as a couple of his Stormcloak guards escorted her into the throne room.

Octavia smiled and nodded her head. "It has been a long time, Ulfric," she agreed. And, indeed, it had been years. He had fought alongside her older brother Trajan in the Great War and had been a common guest in her family's home in Falkreath before he was captured by the Dominion. The only time she'd seen him since then had been Helgen—when she'd been terrified that the Empire would kill them both—but his cheerful reception of her soothed her nerves and relaxed her hunched shoulders. Yet, she still shivered in her light Imperial armor. Unfortunately, this was not a social call.

Her fingers tightened around the axe the Jarl of Whiterun had bidden her offer the Jarl of Windhelm. She was here not only as Balgruuf's thane, but also as a soldier of the Imperial Legion. Ulfric stepped down from his throne as if to embrace her, but Octavia held Balgruuf's axe out in front of her. He stopped in his tracks, the steel weapon between them draining the warmth from his countenance. Both of them stared at the blade, at the sudden barrier that had sprung up between them.

At the same time, they drew their eyes from Balgruuf's challenge and looked at each other. Neither one of them spoke, and his guards bristled uneasily.

He cleared his throat, the sound egregious in the quiet hall. "You are quite brave to carry such a message," he said finally. He shook his head sadly. "It's a pity you've chosen the wrong side…"

Octavia frowned. "Ulfric—,"

The sharp, dangerous look in his eyes silenced her. She bit her lip, and he went on, "You can return this axe to the man who sent it, and tell him he should prepare to entertain… visitors. I expect a great deal of excitement in the city of Whiterun in the near future."

She gulped, seeing it in her head—his Stormcloak army swarming through the quiet streets of Whiterun, burning the Bannered Mare and the homes of innocent people as it swept its way up to Dragonsreach, where they would corner Balgruuf, Irileth, Hrongar and the rest of the court. With the power of her thu'um, she might be able to hold Ulfric's men off for a time, but she doubted that Whiterun had the strength to stand against the Stormcloaks for too long, not without Imperial support.

Now, the axe seemed too heavy for her to hold aloft, and she let her arm fall to her side with the weight of it. "Ulfric," she said quietly, afraid that he might snap at her after all. "You don't have to do this."

He growled at her, every bit the bear his father was. "There is no progress without sacrifice," he insisted. "No wheat without threshing the chaff. The Empire and the jarls who back them must be swept away. The people demand it. I demand it."

She merely lowered her head. She knew better than to argue with a man as stubborn and haughty as Ulfric Stormcloak; he and her brother had been so much alike, and she had never won an argument with either of them. She stared at her dirty leather boots and her long, dusty legs, wishing that she had come under better circumstances. She wanted to rebuke him, to point out that there was more at work here than his little war—that Alduin the World-Eater had returned—but Balgruuf's warning was still fresh in her mind: keep your wits about you and you won't be harmed.

Suddenly, Ulfric clasped her on the shoulder like an old friend. She looked up to see him smiling at her with that jovial, slightly lopsided smile that had rendered her speechless so many times when she was a girl. He was still just as handsome as she remembered, and she suddenly felt very self-conscious about the tangled, knotty state of her long dark hair. Without thinking, she smiled back girlishly.

"Tonight," he said. "Tonight, let us pretend that you are not my enemy. Let us feast and talk of happier, easier times."

And feast they did, but not until after Octavia had had a nice bath to wash away the filth of the war torn road. She brushed out her long dark hair, letting it fall loose around her face and shoulders, and set aside her armor in favor of a much more weather appropriate, much more feminine, fur-lined robe. When she was finished, she discovered that Ulfric had had a marvelous meal prepared—delicious venison, salted pork, roasted vegetables and buttery potatoes. Warm Nord mead helped them both to conveniently forget that he had become the leader of a rebellion and she a staunch defender of the strength of the Empire as they sat across from each other, prattling aimlessly about nothing of import… until she told him the biggest news that Skyrim had heard in centuries.

"Dragonborn?" he repeated in astonishment, almost spitting out his mead. "You? You are the Dragonborn soldier my men fought at Korvanjund?"

She smiled coyly. "I am."

He shook his head slowly in disbelief. "To think… you are certainly much more than the little girl I knew in Falkreath, always following on her brother's heels. Tell me, what did Trajan have to say about that?"

Instantly, her smile faltered, and she looked down at her drink instead of at the man at the table with her. It hadn't occurred to her that he wouldn't know… that she would have to tell him. As much as she had loved her brother, remembering him brought her pain. The last time she had seen him, grinning at her as he left home for the last time, heading south with the Legion, was burned into her mind. She could still see the threads that had come loose in his boots, still wanted to make him take them off so that she could fix them…

"Trajan's dead, Ulfric," she whispered. "He fell with the White Gold Tower."

Silence. A long heartbeat, then another.

"I am sorry," he said finally. His voice, usually so proud and haughty, almost like a dragon's, had been knocked off its feet by her news. "He was a dear friend to me."

"I know."

His servants swept in to clear their plates from the tables and refill their goblets. Neither one of them spoke for a long moment after the maids left again. Neither one of them needed to.

Eventually, Ulfric cleared his throat. "Fight with me, Octavia," he said.

She look up at him sharply, staring at him with a blank look on her face. When she said nothing, he went on, filling the room with his zeal, "Avenge your brother. The Empire is weak. Without it, Skyrim can free itself of the Aldmeri Dominion. We can reclaim our homeland, worship whomever we choose. Skyrim can be strong again."

For a moment, she was almost convinced—she wanted to be convinced. He was so sure of himself—so sure that his cause was noble and true. But she could not join him. There was more at stake than a jagged crown and the government of Skyrim's nine holds. "My brother served the Empire, and, though I have always lived in Falkreath, my family is from the Imperial City. I am not a Nord, Ulfric. I am loyal to the Empire, and there is so much that you do not understand…"

"Loyal to the Empire?" he scoffed, sipping from his cup. "The Empire would have killed you at Helgen—or have you forgotten how close the headsman's axe came to your thin, white neck?"

"How could I forget?" she snapped. Every now and then, as she laid down to sleep, she felt the sharp steel on the back of her neck, warm with the blood of the poor rebel they'd executed before her. Her body had been paralyzed with panic, with the terrible, gray realization that her end had finally come. And then… then she remembered Hadvar, whom she'd thought would be the last man she'd ever lay eyes on. "But it was one of the Imperials who helped me to escape. Where were you, Ulfric? You were already gone. He saved me when I couldn't find you—despite the fact that his superiors wanted my head."

He merely looked at her, stricken by her words and unable to defend himself. He opened his mouth once, then closed it quickly as he thought better of whatever he had been about to say. "I am sorry," he said at last.

"You had more important things to worry about," she went on. "After all, what would the Stormcloak Rebellion be without Ulfric Stormcloak?" She mocked him as she asked the question, sitting up straighter and puffing up her chest. With a sigh, she relaxed a little and sipped her mead. "Hadvar was there for me when no one else was. He brought me into his home and made sure that I was all right. I owe him my life." Briefly, she met Ulfric's gaze, then blushed and looked away again.

"He loves you, doesn't he?" he asked quietly.

Octavia nodded slowly. "He does," she admitted.

"And you?"

She didn't answer right away. Had anyone else asked, at any other time, she would have confessed to it instantly. He was an excellent fighter, strong of mind and of body, and his kindness and honor knew no bounds. There was the way he could make her laugh without even trying and the way he laughed at her when he first saw how she held a bow all wrong. And of course, there was the way he could make her feel like the most beautiful woman in Tamriel with just one warm smile. She certainly had feelings for him, but now she was speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak—the charismatic boy who had grown into the larger than life Jarl who had murdered the High King of Skyrim. As a girl, she had worshipped him like Talos reborn, and, as an adolescent, she had imagined all the grisly ways she could get rid of the other young women who fawned over him. He was nothing like Hadvar, but maybe that was what she had always liked about him.

When she looked up at him again, she found him leaning over the narrow table towards her. He was so close that her nose almost brushed his as she raised her head. His eyes held her spellbound for a long moment, and her resolve wavered. Abruptly, she took a deep breath and leaned back. "Yes," she replied. "Yes, I do."

His face was unreadable, but Octavia got the feeling that he didn't exactly believe her. His eyes skimmed what remained on the table between them—a few stray pieces of silverware, a forgotten cloth napkin, and their empty goblets—before sliding up to her face once again. "It is late," he observed.

Automatically, she sprang to her feet. "You're right," she said quickly. "I should go. Get a room at Candlehearth Hall. I have a full day of traveling back to Whiterun ahead of me tomorrow. I should leave at dawn…"

"Stay with me," Ulfric said suddenly, watching her curiously as she stammered on and on.

"What?" she asked dumbly.

"Stay with me," he repeated. "Save your gold. I can even have your armor cleaned and give you supplies for the road."

She stared at him blankly, taken aback by his suggestion. He made sense, of course… she didn't want to have to pay for a room when he would offer her a bed free-of-charge, along with supplies and a clean set of armor to wear in the morning. Yet, she was reluctant to accept his offer. There was something about the look in his eyes that caused her to wonder where he would have her sleep. Of course, the mere thought was enough to excite her—to make her heart beat faster and her cheeks blush wildly. Had the circumstances been different, she wouldn't have even thought about refusing, but there was Hadvar to think about. Besides, they were on opposite sides of the war…

"No, no," she insisted, flustered now. "I couldn't impose on you. I'm your enemy now. It wouldn't be right for me to stay."

Swiftly, Ulfric rose from his seat at the table and approached her, chuckling at her in that low, seductive purr of his. "Octavia," he smiled, "you will never be my enemy." He stopped just in front of her, and she had to lift her head to look up at him in the candlelight. "Where is the girl who laughed at everything I said? Who was once overheard telling her mother that she would one day be called Octavia Stormcloak?"

It was amazing how he could make her feel like that girl again. When she was younger, every fantasy she'd ever had about growing up and being happy had included Ulfric—though they'd always moved to Falkreath because Windhelm was too snowy for her taste. Now it seemed as if he had always known that she'd been in love with him since childhood, and, whereas he'd spent his youth treating her like a sister, he was prepared to indulge her. It was too good to be true.

"She was tired of waiting for a dream," she said quietly. "She grew up and learned how to stick up for herself. She discovered she was Dragonborn, and the Greybeards and the Blades and the Empire all plucked her head out of the clouds and drove her feet into the earth."

"I think you're lying," he whispered back. "I think she's still here." He brought his calloused fingers to her chin and smiled down at her. "I think I saw her tonight, and I want her to stay with me. She is the only warmth I've felt in a long time—and Windhelm has been very cold."

"And what happens in the morning?" she dared to ask. "When we wake up and realize that we're on opposite sides of a war you started?"

He kissed her gently on the mouth. "Then, you will go back to Whiterun, and I will send my army after you. There will be a great battle, and there will be many battles after it. And, one day, either you will march on Windhelm or I will march on Solitude. And when enough blood has been spilt and one of us is victorious, then perhaps we can have peace."

How could she refuse him? He was the man she'd always wanted to be with, and her feelings for Hadvar, while real, were eclipsed by the love and desire she had always had for Ulfric Stormcloak. "At least for tonight," she breathed, and, when he brushed his lips against hers again, she returned the kiss. He wound his bear-arms around her and effortlessly lifted her off her feet.

He carried her to his bedroom, where he savored every minute it took to remove her clothes, and she reveled in the solid planes of his warrior's chest and the scratchy tickle of his beard on her smooth skin. For that night, it didn't matter that he was Ulfric Stormcloak, synonymous with rebellion and patriotism, or that she was the Dragon of the Empire, sworn to serve his enemies. They fought a tender war between his sheets, and finally signed a wonderfully sweet treaty of peace in the early hours of the morning, after which she laid cuddled in his arms and he held her close. And they both dreaded the rising of the cold winter sun.

When it came, Octavia stirred from the light sleep that had taken her only hours before. Ulfric let her slide away from him, feeling her absence as a cold breeze where her body had once been. He watched with sad longing as she strapped on her armor and pulled on her boots. The previous night, he'd insisted that she take a pair of his fur gloves instead of wearing her Imperial bracers—at least then her hands would be warm. She turned back to him after pulling her hair back into a high ponytail, and he almost pulled her back into bed with him when she kissed him goodbye.

She left after that, heading straight for Whiterun and the great hall of Dragonsreach, where she relayed her ill news to the grim-faced Jarl Balgruuf the Greater. The city was prepared for an attack, and, when it came, Ulfric Stormcloak was not among his men. The Dragonborn drove the Stormcloaks back, though among the many who perished that day was Lydia, her housecarl.

In the months to come, the Dragonborn advanced through the ranks of the Legion as she led the Imperial soldiers to victory after victory. Hadvar fought at her side, never leaving her. He truly loved her, and she loved him too, but she thought often of Ulfric Stormcloak, who never once met her in battle. He seemed content to remain Windhelm and his great stronghold of the Palace of the Kings.

And one day, the Dragonborn led the Legion in the battle for the city of Windhelm. Behind the power of her thu'um, the Imperials pressed far into the city, and the Dragonborn shouted open the doors of the Palace of the Kings. Backed by General Tullius and Legate Rikke, she slew Galmar Stone-Fist and the last of the guards of the Jarl of Windhelm. As the General prepared to end the war with a single stroke of his sword, Ulfric Stormcloak, cornered, made one last request:

"Let the Dragonborn do it. It will make for a better song."

So Tullius deferred to the Dragonborn who nodded and stepped forward. She held her bloodied blade over Ulfric's neck, but she did not lower it. "Leave us," Octavia ordered her companions, who regarded her skeptically and made no move to go. She repeated herself with the strength of the [i]dov[/i], and, reluctantly, they obeyed.

Even now that they were alone, Ulfric did not speak to her, did not even look up to see her face. He fully expected that she would kill him, but she had known from the very start that she would never be able to raise a sword to him, would never even be able to use her thu'um against him. "Get out," she said quickly. "Ulfric, get out. Hit me and run. Go somewhere far away from Windhelm, where the Empire can't find you. You have lost, but you do not have to die."

He turned his head slowly, finally finding the courage to look her in the eye. He seemed more haggard than he had been the last time she'd been with him. His hair seemed less brilliant, his eyes more haunted, and his skin much paler. "I can think of no better death than one at your hands, dovahkiin," he replied stonily.

She shook her head in frustration and dropped her sword. It clattered on the cold stone floor, startling him. "We don't have time to argue. If you love me at all, do not make me kill you," she pleaded.

He stared at her sadly for what seemed like an eternity. With his cause destroyed and his city fallen, he had little left to live for, and he yearned for heroic death and the eternal feasts of Sovngarde's Hall of Valor. Yet, he straightened slowly, rising stiffly to his feet, and considered her curiously. "Will you find me?"

She had no time to consider, as she could heard Rikke's impatient grumbling on the other side of the broken doors to the courtyard. "Yes," she agreed rashly. "Yes, I will find you. But, please—go. Now."

He smiled at her then, with that lopsided grin that she was so fond of, and open his mouth to use the power of the Voice. She fell, unconscious, beside the bodies of his soldiers, and, when Tullius and Rikke rushed in seconds later, with Hadvar close behind, Ulfric Stormcloak was nowhere to be found..