Author's Note: This chapter is officially updated, hurrah! It turned out much longer than I had originally anticipated, for various reasons, but it's finished at last. I hope new and old followers alike enjoy, feel free to leave comments to help me improve upon future chapters.

Chapter Two

A Den of Winter Bears

"We came across them unexpectedly, found them collapsed on the bank. It was apparent the poor souls were caught in the storm trying to cross the river. I thought it only right to bring them back to camp."

The soldier stood erect before his commander, firm in his decision, showing no hesitation in admitting his actions.

"And what do we know of these strangers?" his commander questioned, his voice deep and gruff and his Nord accent thick. He leaned over a simple wooden table, a map sprawled open with small regiment and battalion markers scattered across it, worn with age and repeated use. "You say they are Bretons? One of them with damn elfish blood?" He turned now to face his soldier, his face pulled tight and brows furled tight with growing indignation. "They will hold no sympathy for our cause, be they Forsworn or loyal to the Empire, or to the damn Thalmor for all we know."

The soldier bowed his head.

"With all due respect, my liege, I…" he hesitated, choosing his words carefully before continuing, "I do not believe we have reason to fear these two. The boy is a Rose Knight, an esteemed member of Wayrest's court, his ties could not possibly be with the Forsworn. His only intentions seem to be guarding the young girl, for what purpose…I admit I was unable to discern. But I am confident they act alone, with no ties to our enemies."

He hoped his tone was not perceived as especially persistent, for he was speaking from mere conjecture and selfish desire. He sought only to calm his Jarl to the point of reaching a rational conclusion as to the Bretons' fates and feared he was speaking perhaps too highly of the travelers. Though he was nearly certain a knight of the boy's caliber and rank would have nothing to do with the savages in the Reach, he truly knew nothing of their intentions.

"And what of this elf mongrel?"

"A Breton of some importance I can only assume. Her attire says as much, at least, not to speak of her apparent bodyguard. I was unable to speak with her, as she is unconscious."

"All Bretons fancy themselves important," Ulfric sneered, "Not enough titles to satisfy the lot."

For a moment the soldier was silent, as the Jarl returned to studying the map and regiment positions in front of him. His large form, cloaked in a bear hide blocked most of the light in the small tent, and cast an imposing presence even when turned away and otherwise occupied. The soldier stiffened and his eyes were cast downward in distress.

"Would you have them turned away or…held?"

"The boy still has his senses about him, yes?" the Jarl asked over his shoulder, "Bring him to me."

The soldier nodded, "At once, my Jarl," then turned to leave, tossing aside the still soaking tent flap.

"And confiscate his weapons until I make such a decision as to the threat he poses," the Jarl concluded, turning his attention back to the map.

The soldier continued into the clearing, eager to leave the cold shadows of the overhanging tree line. He made his way to the Rose Knight, still guarding the young lady at his side. From what little interaction he had with the boy he knew his Jarl's demands would be met with stubborn resistance. A knight of a faraway court, holding loyalty to one master would be certain to give intense opposition. Though he had stumbled across the boy as he was nearing delirium, weakened beyond suitable service as his position required, there had been a fierceness about the knight, a passion of sorts, beyond a mere instinctual drive for survival. Even now the boy remained by his charge's side, unwavering despite his obvious fatigue, he neither left her side for food or drink, nor permitted himself to sleep.

Making his way through the throng of fires and fellow soldiers shuffling about for the last scraps of food and mead, he pondered if all Rose Knights were as such, similar to their own Nordic housecarls, devotion and determination worn plainly on their sleeves. Though he had heard of the famous exploits of the most notable of Wayrest's royal knights, those fashioned most suitably for bedtime stories and fireside tales, he'd never found himself in the presence of one to compare the boy's demeanor, for he knew they tended to stay close within reach of their native High Rock, carrying out the king's orders within his realm. A member of any foreign court would be quite the rarity for a common Nord to come across in daily travel, and he realized the oddness of his run in with such figures. Perplexed, he questioned their means of travel.

"Surely they should have been traveling in a lavish carriage of some sort, or at least have been in the possession of horses," he thought to himself, recalling what few instances of Nordic nobility he had caught sight of, kept suitably from the common rubes that crossed their path.

Though entirely improper, given the situation, the soldier could not help but harbor a faint longing to speak with the knight further than the few tired grunts of thanks he had managed to receive as they traveled through the woods. Though the common, brutish banter shared between his comrades could easily prove entertaining for an evening, weeks had passed with little in the way of truly sophisticated conversation, beyond mere tactical maneuvers and rumors of court squabbling between the various Jarls. The exotic rarity found with foreigners, their nearly assured high-bred nature, left the Nord with desperate longing to engage with them, to hear their tales for the simple sake of his enjoyment, never mind what information he could bring to his Jarl. With a listless sigh, he hoped his Jarl would take pity on the young travelers, thus allowing him to perhaps share a few cordial words, perhaps even an exploit or two, and he came to a stop beside the resting lady and her knight.

"I will have to ask for your blade," he insisted, his hand held aloft to accept the ebony sword, sheathed at the Rose Knight's hip.

Taken slightly aback, surprised at the Nord's appearance as his senses still eluded him, Mordistair stared incredulously at the soldier before him for a moment before his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Slowly he rose to his feet, showing obvious signs of fatigue. He gripped the hilt of his sword and the small crimson tassel swayed with a jolt, discolored and frayed with age, the only ceremonial adornment he allowed on his sword.

"You understand I shall have to decline," he maintained, struggling to speak above a hoarse whisper.

"My Jarl would see you, but unarmed. Your blade will be returned. I insist that you will not be offered our continued hospitality should you refuse."

The soldier stood resolute. His etiquette and learned speech was unlike those exhibited by the uncivilized brutes that surrounded the knight, whom he was coming to further distrust as the evening waned to night. With little choice but to refuse and die, he gripped the hilt only tighter, agonizing over his lack of options. Studying the soldier's eyes, he believed to sense a degree of earnest integrity, and hoping the sincerity he saw would prove true, Mordistair scowled at his predicament and begrudgingly slipped the sheath from his belt. Faltering with a final display of grit teeth and clenched grip, he paused before placing his blade into the hands of the soldier, then kneeled to collect his charge.

"Ah! There is no need to disrupt the young lady," the soldier quickly pleaded in hushed tones, shaking his free hand at Mordistair's attempt, "she will come to no harm. She shall not be disturbed while you speak with my Jarl."

For a long moment, the young knight did not move, but did not further disturb his charge. The soldier could not help but wonder if the knight had fainted where he knelt, finally consumed by exhaustion, until at last he spoke in a strained, gruff whisper.

"Do I have your word?" was all the knight asked, now barely audible.

"My…word?"

"You ask me to abandon my charge," the knight expounded, lifting his head to stare with weary eyes upon the soldier, "Do I have your word she will come to no harm?"

He suddenly looked twice his age, tired and grim, as he waited for the soldier's response.

After pause, the soldier nodded, "You have my word."

Seemingly still unsatisfied, the knight glanced forlornly towards the young girl, tenderly smoothing a small crease of drying fabric that lay across her arm, before finally sighing with resignation. With a great amount of effort, Mordistair rose to his feet, gripping his knees for support before finally straightening, his very bones screaming for rest and comfort.

"I will see your Jarl," he muttered, resolute, with no choice before him.

Nodding with approval, the soldier turned to escort the young knight to his commander's tent. At ease among his fellow soldiers, eager to carry out the will of his Jarl, he did not seem to recognize the power he held over the young knight, for his demeanor was casual, as if he was leading an old acquaintance to his seat at supper. Recognizing no danger or ill will from his comrades, his easy manner stood in stark contrast to the withering, anxious knight that trailed him. With a last glance to his still sleeping charge, yet unaware of the monstrous cloak swathed bears that surrounded her frail form, Mordistair followed, unease setting in with every further step he took. Though he could not help but see a manner of decency about the regiment leader, his mind reeled with nearly overwhelming desire to face the consequences of returning to his lady's side, for it was the decency of the wild, rebellious Nordic bears he feared. He had no pact with those that surrounded his vulnerable charge, whom he was abandoning further with every step closer to the Jarl.

He could catch their questioning gazes and blatant contempt now, could spot the undoubted criminals and mongrels that padded the ranks, eager for food and shelter, for purpose and coin. Such evident disdain stirred the growing unease within him, and he was increasingly fraught with ensuing panic for his charge. Though a capable knight, his recent years of court life had best prepared him to parlay with quick words and defend with tireless machinations, to avoid sneers not sword blows and to repel vicious rumors rather than wild ravagers. His journey through Skyrim's wild border territory was beginning to illuminate for him just how quickly he would have to recall his earliest training in order to survive in the growing savagery of the decaying and languished Nordic lands. Biting his tongue, he chastised himself for allowing such a dangerous situation to culminate for he and his charge, allowing such an extravagant degree of gallivanting to occur under his watch, as if Skyrim was the marketplace of their native Wayrest. He had been too tolerant and catering to his lady's whims and wishes, too eager to see her made content, only for his folly to have them trapped deep within a den of winter bears.

"So tell me, what is a little Rose Knight is doing in my country?"

Ulfric stood with arms crossed, his imposing figure blocking the small amount of lantern light in the tent, cloaking both he and Mordistair in dark shadows. Even leaning against the worn wooden table that claimed the space, shoulders hunched, he towered over the young man in front of him, his girth alone made the knight appear almost childlike in comparison.

"Though my lady is unable to at this time, I offer thanks in her stead for the aid and comfort we have received from you and your men."

He spoke calmly but cautiously, and his face remained expressionless.

"If you would direct me towards Falkreath, we would leave immediately," he continued, his eyes never breaking contact with the Jarl, "I, nor my lady I'm sure, would desire to consume your provisions and take shelter from your men any longer than necessary."

As the Jarl's eyes bore down on him, Mordistair pursed his lips and steadied his gaze with creased brows, every fiber in his being wanting nothing more than to take his lady and flee the rebel camp. His hand, clad in a black leather glove, twitched, anxious to have possession of his ebony blade. He could feel the cold steel of his dagger brush against his calf, hidden deep in the pressed folds of his leather boots, but only felt an equally cold sense of comfort for the small blade would not overcome a den of bears.

"Such a silver tongue for one so young," the Jarl finally scoffed, "but you shall not leave this tent by evading my questions, little knight."

"I guard my lady, and ensure her safety as she travels," Mordistair continued, ignoring the repeated insult.

"And for what purpose does she travel? Rose Knights do not guard mere travelers. Rose Knights do not deign to leave that stinking excuse for a capital you call Wayrest," here he paused to sneer, looking down upon the representing knight before him, "You carry arms like warriors, yet you skulk about, safe and soft in those manors and castles, rotting away in clouds of perfume. Your king must be quite interested in Skyrim's affairs to send one of his petal encased clodhoppers to guard an emissary," he adjusted his crossed arms, and with a disgusted grimace, continued, "You Bretons can't just fight and squabble amongst yourselves like you always have, you have to come to my country to build alliances with those occupiers and their bastard Thalmor masters. Is that why your king sent that mongrel here, a foot firm in both camps, in bed with those wretches that stain these lands?"

"We have no connection to these Imperials you face," Mordistair began to contest, clenching his fist, growing agitated at the slurs cast against his charge, "we are but two visitors to Skyrim, with ties to none."

"A curious choice, to visit a country in the middle of a war," the Jarl mocked, finally stepping forth and lifting himself from the table edge to stand mere inches from the Rose Knight, sneering as he gazed down into the young man's eyes, hissing contemptuously, "Do you stand here expecting me to believe one of Wayrest's royal knights is here to simply make casual pilgrimage during a Nordic winter with a woman in tow?"

"We did not anticipate the scope and severity of your rebellion," the knight retorted, "I intend to keep her far from this war."

"And yet you are here, eating my meat, drinking my mead, sitting in front of my fires."

"We shall leave as soon as my weapon is returned, as I have already promised. Your soldiers offered us aid and I accepted, but if we are not welcome, then we shall leave for the nearest town at once," the knight asserted, becoming further irritated with the Jarl's assumptions and discourteous tone. He debated whether to begin crafting an assuaging narrative for the northern Jarl, or to simply remain aloof, for her feared any details whether true or false would displease him; his bearish captor seemed determined to despise him.

The Jarl's face grew tighter with frustration and building ire as he closed the distance between he and the knight. A full two head's taller, casting cold blue eyes down upon the young Rose Knight he warned between gritted teeth, "I will know who you are, who this elf mongrel is, and where you are traveling to boy, or the neither of you shall leave. I will not ask again."

Staring with equal determination, Mordistair curled his lips in hostility, exhausted and quite finished with the bear clad warrior's lack of civility.

"Our names will mean nothing to you, our anonymity is necessary for my lady's protection. We travel north, but I am permitted to say nothing more," he quickly maintained, and with a steeled voice, avowed, stressing every word, "We have no interest in this war."

The Rose Knight had intentions of securing freedom and what promise he could procure of safe passage through the Jarl's freshly claimed forest territory for he and his charge, but realized too late the degree of insult caused by his continuous aversion to the Jarl's questions. His ability to negotiate and plea his case had been hampered by his exhaustion, by the pain that racked his body, by his intense hunger, by the overwhelming desire to simply fall where he stood and let sleep or death claim him, whichever came first. With nothing more to say that would not reveal that which he was bound to keep secret, he bit his tongue again in chastisement, nose wrinkling slightly at the motion, noting the Jarl's growing fury. His fingers twitched desperately for his blade, for he knew he had spoiled his only attempt to come to terms with the Jarl amicably.

The two stared at one another for a moment, their frustration and contempt now equaled, the impasse leaving no space for further discussion. The bearish commander simply sneered in contempt, his face twisted to the point of showing teeth.

"I am not satisfied."

Gwynayne sought out the warmth of the fire and weakly turned her head toward the flames. Still asleep, she moaned quietly, her face crossed with distress.

"Papa!"

She rushed forward and jumped into her father's open arms, colliding eagerly into the soft velvet robes that quickly encircled her. Her feet dangled off the ground and the aging man spun her about twice, laughing manically, utterly overjoyed, before a final tight embrace. With a single content sigh, he tenderly patted his daughter's hair, setting her back to the floor after a few long moments.

"Oh my dear little Gwynii, you shall break my back someday," he teased with a soft chuckle.

Giggling, she took a step back to let her father regain his composure as he pretended to massage his back.

"I won't apologize, Papa! I missed you far too much!" she exclaimed, beaming. Her arms swung excitedly at her sides, with far too much pent up energy she did not know what to do with herself. Though gradually her smile faded and looking toward the floor she softly, forlornly continued, "I haven't seen you since the harvest, Papa…I haven't seen anyone."

The King's smile fell, and for a moment, he only started at his daughter. Tucking a stray white strand of hair behind her ear, he rubbed her cheek and bowed to look her in the eye, his free hand resting on his knee to support his aging frame.

"I…I know, my dear. And I wish I could explain-"

"Mordistair never let me leave the cottage!" she suddenly interrupted, her fists balled at her sides and her cheeks blush with indignation, "I couldn't speak to anyone, I couldn't see anyone! You needed me Papa! Why did you send me away?"

Angry tears were now trickling down her cheeks and neck as she stared expectantly into her father's eyes, demanding answers. Her shoulders quivered and lips trembled until, with a great cry, she thrust herself into his arms once again, sobbing into his chest, overwhelmed with confliction and confusion.

"Oh my Gwynii," he sighed, wrapping his arms around her shaking figure in a tight embrace, rubbing her back, "I know these past months have been difficult for you, my darling. I have missed you more than I believe you shall ever realize. These halls have lost such color and light since you left."

"Then why did you banish me?" she sobbed, heaving on the words.

Suddenly the King chuckled softly.

"Oh, Gwynii, it seems you have not lost your sense of theatrics. I hope you have not thought yourself a criminal all this time?" he teased with mock incredulity at his daughter's talk of banishment, "Surely Mordistair did not treat you like a prisoner? No, he was the perfect nursemaid, fretting about like a mother hen as usual, yes?"

Her crying quieted as she peeked above her father's robes, trying to stifle a small but growing smile through waning tears. The mere thought of her knight garbed in her nursemaid's wimple and veil, chasing her about with lifted skirts as he crooned and chastised in the crone's horrid voice finally brought her to laugh. Imagining a similar likeness of the knight as his daughter, the King too began to share a hearty chuckle.

"I hope you were not too cruel to the poor boy, my dear," he chided, still a teasing sense about him, "he seemed quite weary when you two arrived."

"Mordistair was boorish and loathsome, like he always is," she glowered, "he sought only to torture me! And he exceeded his station! He stole my letters, papa! He would tell me nothing of you, no matter how much I worried, he would lock me away, he made me eat horrid pottage," here she began to sniffle again, fighting back another wave of fresh tears, "I didn't know what was happening, he stole me away before I could see…Dyv…oh, Dyv!"

She bawled, remembering the true source of her sorrow, and her father gripped her tight at the mention of his lost son's name, biting his lip to hold back tears of his own.

"I never got to say goodbye!" she cried out, shoulders heaving against her father's mighty frame as she shook, weeping.

Deprived of a funeral she would never witness, snatched from the side of the brother she would never send off, she now could only just recall her last visit to the young boy's quarters, nearly two weeks before her guardian had fled with her under the last of the cover of waning night, as morn's first light broke across the distant Bjoulsae river, before even the first calls for preparations for the ensuing ceremony could be declared.

Though it was now many months past, she would forever recall his gentle smile, the eagerness shown in his eyes upon her final visit to his dreary, secluded quarters. As always, he was propped against the many pillows that surrounded his fragile, tender frame, head askew, his neck too weak to keep himself properly straight and stout. But his smile remained, and he beamed when she had rushed through the doors to his bedchamber, giggling over some silly tale she shared with the Rose Knight that followed her. Her pace quickened, for she adored his smile, innocent and sweet, framed with soft curls of mouse brown hair that touched his cheeks, as tender and soft as he. She and her knight had only to burst into his chambers, smiling and laughing amongst themselves, and he would come to life, gripping his quilts in anticipation of their stories and treats.

And now what remained of his body was forever entombed in the family crypt, cold and unmoving, never to be seen or touched by the sun's light again, as he always longed for in life.

"I know this must all seem quite confusing. I…" the King's voice, already faint with grief, trailed, unable to continue.

Silent, he gazed out the open doors of the balcony. The sun had begun to set, and the room was now bathed in rich hues of gold, copper, and wine. Still clutching Gwynayne close to his chest, absentmindedly stroking the hair that lay across her back, his eyes crossed the line of paintings that span the whole of the room, massive oil and canvas works that stretched from floor to ceiling, entombed in grand gold frames that poured over with roses and vines, an exhibition of the now long deceased faces of his ancestors. It was the last one that he solemnly lingered upon with a wistful longing. The waning evening light disappeared from the farthest edge, leaving it eclipsed in spreading shadow. Though he'd held his composure, the joy of seeing his long absent child still fresh, he finally cried out, a raw wail, and held his daughter closer, touching his forehead to her own.

"Papa?"

"Papa?"

Everything suddenly felt strange. Though her senses were muddled and dull, Gwynayne felt as if she were being tossed about the deck of a ship amidst a storm. With a sickening turn, she felt her head lurch, and her body forcibly pulled in an unnatural manner, a blossom of pain erupting in her joints from the jostle.

"Papa?" she called out with a groggy slur, still in the last clutches of sleep. As her eyes gradually began to flutter open, she moaned in weak protest as she felt her arms being wrenched behind her back, thick fingers digging into her soft forearms with brute callousness.

"Don't you dare touch her!"

With a gasp, Gwynayne finally awoke, at last coming to her senses.

At first she could see only shadows dancing across the ground before her, shifting and shaping, bordered by the faint glow of a nearby fire. As the grip about her shoulders and wrists tightened, she regained her faculties and immediately began to struggle. Straining her head to the side she caught sight of fur clad soldiers as they began to tightly wind a rope about her arms. Dazed and confused, she could only thrash about as panic overwhelmed her. Crying out, she urgently tried to pull away from the foreign grasps and grips, but was quickly overcome and forced to the ground, gauntleted hands crushing her back into the moist and muddy ground, pressing roughly against her spine as she continued to squirm in protest.

"Stop it!" she shrieked, trying in vain to pry her mouth away from the sopping ground, disgusted by the mud and filth, still attempting to again wriggle away from the hands that now began to bind her legs.

"Mordistair! MORDISTAIR!" she screamed, desperate and begging, her voice still freshly raw from the river's attempts to drown her.

"Leave her alone!"

"Mordistair?"

Again she screamed out to her knight upon the sound of his voice, terror consuming her as she furiously searched for her guardian companion, eyes darting about every direction she could manage to seek him out. With a sudden heave, she was pulled from the ground and a pair of soldiers gripped her arms as they began to drag her across the clearing, her arms and legs now bound with thick and biting ropes, damp and smelling of rot. In the dim light of a distant fire, she at last caught sight of her beleaguered knight, set upon as she had been, vigorously trying to fight off the multiple soldiers that were attempting to bind and contain him. She could see him gasping for breath, back hunched as he struggled to stay upright, much less retain proper form, and the cold air before him was plagued with constants huffs of his warm breath as he struggled. For every soldier he subdued, two more rushed into the thrall, their tall hulking forms quickly cloaking his own, until there was only a mass of swarming Nords, eager for a quick jeer or punch.

Utterly confused, having been unconscious since being pulled from the river, she looked to her captors and again began to squirm and struggle, demanding with impatient cries to be released at once. The more she pulled, the tighter the soldiers gripped her, and as she began to drag her feet, they simply lifted her from the ground, as easily a simple sack of potatoes.

"Stop struggling and this will be easier for us all," one of the soldiers warned, expressionless and tired, "call out to your friend, tell him to surrender before he's beaten to a bloody pulp."

Worried, Gwynayne sought out to discern the ongoing struggle between Mordistair and the surrounding circle of soldiers, noticing a beastly man overseeing the affair with arms crossed standing just outside a nearby tent. The Rose Knight swung at the soldiers, shoving and punching at those who tried to overcome him, nearly flailing as he continued to grow tired, and his body jostled from one edge of the fray to the other as the rebels began to land further more strikes against his failing body. Suddenly, the bear clad man watching the fight drew his sword. The men carrying her stopped as they noted his intentions, only a few paces away now, and he marched quickly to their side. Swift and callous, with great impatience and little fanfare, the bear cloaked man lifted his sword to her neck, firmly holding the cool blade against her throat.

"Enough, boy!" he shouted, pushing the blade against her throat hard enough to raise her chin, making her wince in fear and pain as it pressed against her soft skin.

Without hesitation, Mordistair paused his assaults, his arms now poised before him with still clenched fists, and he stared at his now terrorized charge. Panting and gasping, shoulders shaking, his eyes wide and despairing with helplessness, he held her gaze as she began to tremble, on the verge of shedding tears. Wasting no time, the soldiers keenly beat him to the ground, thrusting his face into the cold, damp earth. Some began to kick his prostrate body in retaliation, laughing as he began to gasp and cough.

"No! Stop! STOP!" Gwynayne pleaded, looking to the man who towered above her, his face cloaked in shadows.

With a look of derision, tiring of the whole debacle, the Jarl sheathed his sword and waved his hand, ordering his soldiers to take his prisoners to the edge of camp.

Gwynayne cried out as she saw Mordistair lifted to his feet, being dragged now as she. Blood dripped from his forehead, nose, and lips, staining his face and cravat as it pooled at his neck. His hair, once tightly pulled into a crisp ponytail now lay disheveled across his face and hung limply across his shoulder, matted with blood and sweat. He no longer struggled and would not meet her gaze as he was dragged along beside her, for he kept his face turned aside, eyes cloaked in shadows, so she could not read his expression. To hear no words of comfort or even resistance from her knight was disconcerting, his apparent surrender to the situation so at odds with his usual manner. To see him in even a remotely unseemly fashion, much less suffering from actual wounds, even more so. Too see that he could not even face her caused her to worry even more than his fresh wounds, and she called out to him, to coax him from whatever distant loathing spot he had carved for himself within the recesses of his shielded thoughts. At the sound of her initial call, confused and pleading, she thought she spotted the knight grit his teeth, wincing from pain or shame she did not know, but still he did not reply, tucking his head further to the side.

Heart racing, she trembled from frost and fright as the soldiers brought them to the edge of camp, where the faint glow of the camp's dwindling fires would not reach. With rough heaves, they were dragged into the grasping embrace of the cold shadows and creeping cold, into the dark of the fresh Nordic night.