One

Windhelm was chilly and bleak, as usual. Svala wasn't particularly fond of Skyrim's oldest city, but as of late her preference meant little to nothing in regards to her travels. Adjusting her knapsack, she turned to make her way into the local inn, Candlehearth Hall, but soon found herself distracted.

"Damn grey-skins! Get out of our city, filthy Imperial Spies!"

She could feel the anger bubbling up within her. A Nord herself, Svala was intimately familiar with her peoples' idea of what a perfect Skyrim would contain: Nords, and Nords only. However, she wasn't like most Nords- she bore no ill-will towards other races living within her land, and would not tolerate any form of injustice. It just wasn't within her to walk away.

Besides, she was itching for a good fight.

"What did you say?" She growled, staring at the source of the shouting; a drunken, dirty man stinking of mead.

"You heard me," He slurred, narrowing his eyes at her. "As far as I'm concerned, if you're a lover of that filthy lot, then you're an Imperial Spy too."

Svala snorted incredulously, smirking despite herself, before winding up her punch and clocking the imbecile hard across the jaw. He stumbled backwards, falling hard onto the cobblestone street. "For your information, I'm no spy. I'm the Dragonborn, and you'd do well to remember it."

The man glowered up at her, spitting blood. "Dragonborn? Bah. I don't remember hearing that the Dragonborn had a cunt in any of the old legends."

Svala rewarded him with a swift kick in the ribs. She was about to continue when, from behind her, she heard, "Halt! By order of the Jarl!"

She turned, groaning at the appearance of the Windhelm Guard. She had been trying to be discreet, but once again, her temper had gotten the better of her. "Let me guess- I've 'committed crimes against Skyrim and her people', yes?"

The guard floundered for a second, caught off guard by her mimicry. "Well..yes...what say you in your defense?"

Svala snorted. "I'll come quietly. I was on my way to the palace anyway."

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Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak was a busy man, and not a very patient one by his own admission. So when the city guard had the audacity to bring a minor criminal in front of him, as he poured over plans with Galmar in his war room, he was less than amused. "I trust you have a good reason for this interruption," he growled without raising his head.

"Sir, this woman was attacking Rolff Stonefist in front of Candlehearth Hall."

"And?" Ulfric drawled, his thoughts turning on how to effectively capture Whiterun. Perhaps if he sent Balgruuf his axe, it would spur the man into action... "Throw her in a cell. I don't have time for this."

"She also claims to be the Dragonborn."

Both Ulfric's and Galmar's heads shot up, swiveling to stare at the prisoner. She was a Nord, with fiery auburn hair and intense green eyes ringed with black streaks of war paint. A long, jagged scar ran from the corner of her right eye down to the corner of her jaw. Her body was thick with muscles and more scars, from what he could see outside of her plain, hide armor. A glowing battle axe was strapped across her back. "Is that true?" He addressed the woman now. "You're the Dragonborn of legend?"

"Jarl Balgruuf and the Greybeards seem to think so," she grumbled with an eye roll. "But that's not why I'm here."

"No, apparently you're just here to beat my brother," snorted Galmar with a dark laugh. "Though I'll admit, I'd have liked to see him get his ass handed to him by a woman."

"Watch your tongue," spat the Dragonborn, her eyes flashing dangerously. Was it Ulfric's imagination, or did they glow for a moment? "Or I'll cut it out."

"Enough," Ulfric sighed. "I suppose I should ask why you are here, Dragonborn. I'm sure you're quite a busy woman, as I am a busy man myself."

"Actually, I think you'll find our interests are about to collide," she said with a smirk, that mischievous, angry glint still within her eye. "I'm here to offer you my services in this little rebellion of yours."

"You...you want to fight?" Ulfric was stunned. The Dragonborn of legend was within his palace, willingly offering to fight, for him? Her presence alone could mean the turning of the war, not to mention the affect it would have on the morale of his troops...still. He recovered quickly, keeping his face cool and impassive as always. He would not let this Dragonborn know how badly he wanted (or needed) her as an ally. "Galmar is in charge of the new recruits. Ask him."

"I'm asking you," she growled, impatience seeping into her voice. "This is your war, is it not Jarl Ulfric? And given the intelligence of the man I just bested, forgive me if I don't have the upmost confidence in that particular familial line."

Ulfric's eyes widened in shock as Galmar let out an indignant shout and the (seemingly forgotten) guard tried to stifle his own laugh by turning it into a cough. "You are bold, to speak to your Jarl this way, woman."

"Woman, eh? Not Dragonborn anymore?" Something about her face changed, then, a softening if Ulfric was being honest. Her scarred lip quirked upwards in what resembled a true smile. It wasn't an unpleasant sight, if Ulfric were to be honest with himself. "I have an actual name, you know."

"Then present it to Galmar," Ulfric countered with a smirk of his own. "He can give you your uniform and show you to the barracks." With that, the Jarl of Windhelm turned on his heel to retire to his chambers for the night, ignoring the escalating argument between Galmar and his newest recruit.