THUMP! A loud slamming sound of flesh on wood sounded next to Grimvar Cruel-Sea's ear. Sofie had driven her palms down upon the bar in a motion that told the mercenary that it was time to wake. His head whipped up, feigning alertness but when he saw it was just Candlehearth's barmaid, he laid it back down.

"The bar isn't a bedroom. If you don't pay coin for lodging, you should get back to your own home for sleep!" she admonished him. It wasn't the first time he was caught falling asleep all night at the bar of Windhelm's inn.

He had an unpleasant taste in his mouth, of hops that had soured. His tongue felt heavy and dry and so he tried opening his mouth and closing a few times to rid it.

"Your breath is awful too," she waved her hand rapidly to fan away the fumes of Grimvar's exhale. He pulled a few gold coins out of his pouch and laid them on the counter while popping his aching back from the position it had been in. He felt the tiniest start of a headache coming on as well.

"Mead."

"You haven't even had breakfast!"

"Mead," he repeated in a gravelly voice but did manage a smile. Sofie was very serious and he liked to throw her off-guard every once and while by flirting but rightfully he was in no form to impress her that morning.

She knew better than to argue with a Cruel-Sea over their drink. So, she reluctantly pulled a bottle out from under the bar top and uncorked it. It was Honningbrew, golden and thick – frothy as she topped off a new mug and took the old one away for cleaning.

Home wasn't very far, just north in the Stone quarter in Valunstrad, but Grimvar didn't like keeping residence there because he'd eventually fight with his father about his life choices, causing his poor mother to suffer even more stress. Besides, there was just more opportunity to pick up jobs while staying around Candlehearth Hall since that's where all the potential clients came to. Well, the little amount that did since the Legion had made it difficult for causal travelers in and out of the hold. Stormcloacks camped outside the walls all the way up to Kynesgrove, guarding their last beacon of hope—Ulfric's City.

Though Ulfric was long dead, and the Empire and their ilk had thought his war would die with him but they very much underestimated the will of a pious, stubborn, Nord. Some would say Ulfric's death strengthened the Stormcloack's resolve to fight. However, the forces ebbed and flowed through numbers, replenishing the fallen with what they could take. Many, too many had died and Grimvar had seen friends leave Windhelm to never return alive, that were now stacked underneath the temple in the hall of the dead.

Maybe that was another reason he drank himself to sleep at night. Numbness was far better than the emotional pain of sobriety. Also, the guilt.

His stomach gave an intense rumble and he sighed, dug out a few more gold coins and had Sofie fetch him a fresh sweet roll that Nils had baked. The man was stooped in age now but refused to retire from his job cooking in the middle of the city with a target on its back.

"I'll rest when I'm dead," Nils always cackled in response to anyone suggesting he should take leave and get out of the city while he could. No, he would probably die there just like the rest of them. Penned inside the stone walls and waiting for the inevitable slaughter from the Legion.

Death was a subject Grimvar found himself thinking about a lot between drinks. He didn't consider himself a morbid individual, but maybe his parents were onto something by having his name start out with 'grim'. If he wasn't thinking about the death of persons, he contemplated the death of concepts such as hope and optimism. He remembered when he was a boy the world didn't seems as bleak. He had the dream of being a fighter and he would have joined the Stormcloacks if it wasn't for the advice an old war veteran gave him:

There was no glory in war, it was something told to soldiers so they would risk their lives.

Grimvar wasn't a coward but he wasn't about to stick his neck out and die on the command of someone sitting pretty behind the walls of the Palace of Kings either. He was happy enough being paid for mercenary work.

The door to the inn creaked open and a line of morning sunlight spilled onto Grimvar, he squinted and turned his attention toward the intrusion. A scrawny man wearing a bag stuffed with parchment stepped forward, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the dimness.

"Grimvar Cruel-Sea, I've got a message for you," the courier said when his sight landed on the mercenary. Grimvar only nodded while he chewed on a piece of sweet roll. The courier picked through the folded parchment and finally pulled one out, extending it forward. Grimvar took it, but left the main portion of the sweet roll in his mouth as he unsealed the letter and scanned the writing.

Grimvar Cruel-Sea,

Your services are reqested.

At your earliest convenience, please meet Galmar Stone-Fist at the Palace of Kings.

Signed,

Jorleif,
Steward of Windhelm.

He bit through the sweet roll which caused the remaining piece not in his mouth to fall. He knew Sofie would only chide him again if it hit the floor and caused her extra sweeping so he deftly caught it and held it while he continued to chew.

He gave another nod to the courier, signaling he didn't plan on returning correspondence and the scrawny man took his leave. Sofie, not above sticking her nose in another person's business, leaned over the counter and seemed to try to read what Grimvar was holding while maintaining the façade she was just cleaning the surface. He tossed his sweet roll at her and held the parchment closer to his chest. She had no choice but to catch it if she didn't want to do that extra sweeping after all.

She glowered at him and took a bite of his sweet roll to spite him since he had the audacity to throw it at her.

He returned the glower, "You can't even read, so what do you think you'll see?"

She was affronted and snapped back, "Don't think I didn't see the seal of the Bear. Someone at the Palace is sending you messages."

She had a quick eye, he looked down and ran his thumb over the embossed, unsealed wax of the bear head. It had once been the Jarl's symbol, representing Ulfric's rule of the city, and now the Stormcloaks used it—that was his legacy and it was fighting tooth and nail to stay alive. Nobody wanted to be a footnote in history, much less forgotten from the world.

"No matter, it's none of your business wench."

He suddenly had a smear of icing across his cheek from being pelted with the same sweet roll. He didn't deign to catch it that time and it rested on the wooden floorboards, crumb trail and all. He then swiped up his mug and swiftly gulped down the remaining mead before slamming it down with a look in his eye that made Sofie let out a startled shout. He maneuvered himself around the bar and began to corner her with a predatory smile; she had no way out from behind the bar without jumping over it, but he could easily pluck her off the counter if she tried that route.

"No, Grimvar...please," she begged as she backed against the wall, trying to evade his outstretched hand, "Don't do it, I take it back!"

Her pleading had no effect as his fingers tried poking through her clamped arms, wriggling like a salmon but he made it through her defenses and she ended up shriek-laughing to the high heavens.

"You started it."

"Stop! Stop! I'm s..s..sorry! Stop tickling me, you savage!" she managed to demand as she crumpled against him and to his surprise, managed to pinch him good right underneath his armpit which made him yelp but more determined than ever to render her a ball of quaking laughter. They'd had this manner of confrontation before, usually when company at the inn was low as it was now so early in the morning. It had been days since any guest had rented out any rooms.

In a risky move, she opened her arms which protected her most ticklish areas and grabbed his head, forcing his gaze off of her, and to his ultimate surprise, licked the sweet roll icing off the side of his face.

The intimate action certainly cooled their scuffle as he took an abrupt step backward as his smile faded to puzzlement. She didn't look so stern with him anymore. Maybe he had taken his flirting a bit too far because he'd always counted on her to repudiate him. Her smile actually grew wider before she cleared her throat, rendering her expression back to its staunch seriousness, "Never figured the likes of you to taste so sweet."

He held back a scoff, and wiped at the wetness on his cheek, "You are really unprofessional, you know that?"

She shrugged as she grabbed a broom, and swatted him out of the way so she could clean up the remnants of his breakfast off the floor.

"If you didn't provoke me so much, then maybe I would be a better at my job."

He didn't like being blamed for something she took equal part in. He grabbed up his summons and bid her a good day, feeling out of sorts at the whole encounter. Maybe it was good advice to stay home for the coming nights after all. He stepped outside and into Eastmarch's cold air, adjusting the furs he wore over his leather armor for warmth. The morning was bright and he had to squint a bit, watching his steps as he descended the steps of Candlehearth Hall so he wouldn't fall. It didn't help he was still a bit hungover from his drinking the night before with added effects of the Breakfast Mead.

He reached out and steadied himself against a stone wall, his mind bouncing back and forth between the sensation of Sofie's tongue on his face and wondering why the current commander of the Stormcloak rebellion needed to meet with him.

"Drinking againl?" he heard a voice from behind him and glanced over as the noble, Assur passed him. Assur was a slight arrogant lad—and had no right to be. Exiled from Winterhold when the Imperials overtook it, he was more of a refugee than anything—lucky enough to be born a Nord and not a Dunmer else he'd be sleeping in the Gray Quarter and not Hjerim.

Grimvar grunted in affirmation and pulled himself away from the wall in order to keep pace with the man. "You should join me for a drink sometime," he offered, the thought of Assur drunk off his arse amused him greatly.

"No thank you, I don't really enjoy the taste of mead."

"What kind of Nord are you?" Grimvar nearly spat. Blasphemy! Most Nord children could even drink watered-down alcohol.

"Drinking mead isn't a pre-requisite to being a Nord, Cruel-Sea," Assur replied disdainfully, "Anyway, where are you headed? The temple?" They were past the corridor that lead to the graveyard so any destination left on their path was the Temple of Talos or the Palace of Kings.

"I'm not the praying type," Grimvar admitted and nodded toward the dominating structure past the narrow walkway that lead to the courtyard.

"You're going to the Palace then? Whatever for?" Assur asked, it seemed as though he thought Grimvar had no business there. To be honest, the only business the Palace seemed to conduct anymore was the war. Afterall, it was the Stormcloak headquarters.

Grimvar held up his parchment, "Galmar Stone-Fist wants to meet with me."

"Odd. He wants to meet with me as well," Assur pulled an identical parchment from his sleeve and held it up.

That caused Grimvar to raise a curious brow, "You don't think he's going to ask us to fight for the cause, do you?"

"Divines no, he should know men from our families don't do that unless..."

"Unless our heads are filled with notions of glory," Grimvar interrupted, thinking of the same veteran who had once lived in Windhelm, "and glory is just a concept they tell soldiers to risk their lives."

"Exactly."

That was one thing they could agree on.

Soldiers on guard duty regarded them with cordial nods and opened the heavy doors for the two young men. Assur was younger than Grimvar—at least smaller in build which made him look younger. Grimvar remembered when Assur and his family arrived to the city, with only a cart full of belongings to beg for sanctuary after his father, the Jarl of Winterhold was deposed. Grimvar felt sympathy for the lad back then, but he soon found out rather than being humble, Assur still maintained that air of superiority that Grimvar felt all nobles wore at the end of their nose. Grimvar himself came from a well-off, respected clan of the hold so it always annoyed him when Assur treated him as if he were somehow less.

The hall was filled with soldiers. What had once been a relatively quiet room decorated with fine blue rugs and dining tables was now a barracks of sorts with sleep rolls in every corner, not for the common soldier though, there was a higher command here. Men in full armor and cloaks, wearing spiked bracers and boots, mulled about with their steel weapons sheathed at their backs or to their sides. Assur was certainly out of place as he was dressed in finer cloth, and carried no weapon. Grimvar was less so – but still stuck out as he was not uniformed in the blue sash that the Stormcloaks wore to honor Ulfric.

Windhelm's steward greeted them, poor Jorleif was running the civil matters in the Jarl-less city and had been for the last seven years. There were no suitable candidates to replace Ulfric, and even if there were, Galmar would never let anyone take the throne of Windhelm, not while the Empire still had hold of Skyrim.

"Boys! Good, good—you received my letters!"

Assur and Grimvar cringed a bit at being referred to as boys. Both over eighteen now, they could grow whiskers which was a sure sign of manhood in Nordic culture. Assur had a shadow but remained clean-shaven. Grimvar's rough, dark blonde stubble was enough to get the point across he was no longer a boy.

"What is this about Jorleif?" Grimvar held up his parchment, "What services of mine could Galmar be interested in?"

Grimvar had received jobs from Jorleif before—mostly to dispatch aggressive wildlife that pestered the Stormcloak camps.

"He will tell you in time, please both of you proceed to the war room, over there to the left of the throne," the Steward indicated.

Assur and Grimvar exchanged a look but did as they were told, weaving between groups of the Stormcloack high command, through a small corridor, to arrive in a smaller wing of the palace. There were less men in this area – Galmar Stone-Fist, and two other Stormcloak soldiers of high ranking surrounding a table with a map of Skyrim laid out across it.

"This cannot be true, he has always been a good soldier—to commit treason and abandon his brothers-at-arms is not something of his character!"

"You've read the writing of your own charge, Head-Smasher—the Honor-Broken scum must be caught and brought to justice," the strikingly dangerous-looking Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced rebutted in a growl of disapproval, "Put your own feelings aside and face that fact."

"Stone-Fist, you requested our presence?" Assur inquired, breaking up the argument.

A Grizzled man wearing a bear-skin over his head, turned his gaze toward them and nodded in greeting, "Aye, lad. We received a message this morning that Jarl Kraldar of Winterhold had passed away from a bout of the rattles late last week."

Grimvar studied Assur's face and no trace of remorse even flickered across his stone expression. His silence prompted the general to continue, "The vacancy needs filled—the damned Imperials would never let your father re-take the throne while it's under their control..."

"So which peasant will they raise to that honor?" Assur grumbled bitterly.

"They suggested you should return, as a sign of good will. I think they are up to something—they know you are still young and impressionable, can be swayed or bought to support them..."

"Never!" Assur nearly spat in offense, his voice rising with anger, "They forced me from my home, they broke my father's mind, and now they want me to take up the throne of Winterhold just so they can try to puppeteer me as they have rest of the Jarls across Skyrim? I shall not!"

Galmar nodded with a grin, seeming to understand—but more importantly grinning as if the young noble had passed a test. "It is ultimately your choice, but I wanted to let you know of the opportunity—because with you as Jarl, a blind eye could be turned to the Stormcloaks re-forming camps, and give us the chance to re-take the hold."

Assur seemed to consider the advice but Grimvar was growing impatient and his headache was only getting worse, "What does this have anything to do with me?"

Galmar turned his concentration to the mercenary and smiled broadly, "If Assur decides to take up the throne, he will need protection on the journey to Winterhold—which you are more than capable of providing. I don't have resources to spare, and even if I did, that area has the presence of the Legion, so it'd be less of an issue if a private citizen accompanied him."

"So, you want me on body guard duty?" Grimvar asked with reduced enthusiasm. Making sure Assur wasn't eaten by an ice wolf didn't sound as fun as getting him drunk.

"You'd be paid fairly, and it's just until he's safe in Winterhold, if he wants to be Jarl." Galmer returned his attention back to Assur, "What say you?"

"Let me think on it," Assur set his chin in his hand, all arrogance lost in his look, replaced with the same confusion of a young boy deciding what he wanted between a boiled cream treat or a honey nut one. Grimvar narrowed his eyes, because Assur was not a leader and the only reason the Empire considered him was because of who he descended from, that, and probably no one wanted to rule the bleakness that was Winterhold.

Assur met Galmar's sight, "Is this information I can share with my parents? Could my family come with me if I returned?"

Galmar shook his head, and put a regretful hand on Assur's shoulder, "Your father would have to stay here, they won't trust him around you—think he would encourage you to resist them after all that's happened. Your mother could probably join you but she would have to leave your father behind which is probably not in his health's best interest. I understand if you need to discuss this with them before making a decision."

Assur nodded, "Is that all then?"

Galmar inclined his head and both young men turned to leave but Ysarald cleared his throat quite loudly which prompted Galmar to halt Grimvar, "Cruel-Sea, a word?"

Grimvar shrugged with ambivalence and turned around to hear what the man had to say but his interest piqued when Galmar leveled a concerning gaze at everyone in the room—which caused them to shuffle out, leaving only the general and the mercenary.

"What's the issue?" Grimvar asked, obviously something very selective was about to be spoken.

"I have an additional task for you, my boy," Galmar spoke, and Grimvar frowned at being called 'boy' again. Could Glamar not see the whiskers on his face? He supposed to those elder than he, he would always be a boy.

"Does it pay well?"

Grimvar curled his lips in disgust, "Is that all you can think about? Money? You're so much like Torsten, always evaluating an action or object with a price in mind. Glory isn't enough for the Cruel-Sea clan-"

Grimvar felt his teeth clench, hating to be compared to his father, "Coin is tangible, Glory is what you tell to soldiers to risk their lives."

"Don't repeat Brunwulf Free-Winter's traitorous words in my presence, boy!" Galmar warned, his brow plunging low. The tone of venom cuffed Grimvar to silence but he continued to frown nonetheless, tense his jaw, and didn't apologize. Brunwulf was the one who taught Grimvar to fight, and even though the man had been an Imperial sympathizer, and no longer resided in Eastmarch, Grimvar held the old war veteran in high esteem and respect. He took in a calming breath before asking, "So what is this task you would have me do?"

"Two Stormcloack soldiers stationed in the Whiterun camp recently left their posts, abandoning their duties. I want you to hunt them down and give them the ends of oath breakers."

"What are their names? What do they look like?"

"I've never laid eyes on them but you should speak further with the Head-Smasher, he is the officer charged with Whiterun's forces and he will give you that information. It is vital that you apprehend them and remove them from Nirn—we shall not have other soldiers getting the idea to abandon Talos without going unpunished."

Grimvar nodded in understanding, but internally wondered why Stone-Fist wouldn't have them brought back to Windhelm to made an example of. "And my pay?"

"You'll receive it in full once you bring me their heads."

That satisfied him. If he were untrusting of Galmar's honor, he would demand half the coin up front. He'd been burned before by iniquitous clients. He had been sent on bounties before too, but never was asked to kill the targets in question. That was a job for an assassin. The worst Grimvar ever did was rough them up a little, and threaten them before ultimately taking them back and leaving their fate to the Divines. Grimvar figured the general was too honorable to perform the Black Sacrament, otherwise many Imperial commanders would have been found inexplicably dead over the years.

"It will be done," Grimvar promised solemnly and took his leave, his head now pounding with pain.