A/N: Hello. Sorry I'm a day late. Yesterday was my boyfriend's birthday, so I spent the day with him and forgot my flashdrive. Anyway, here is the third to last chapter of this thing. The only note is that since the Kingsmoot in Skyrim never actually happens, but is just vaguely talked about at the end of the war, I used the one held by the Greyjoys in A Feast for Crows as the general basis of this chapter. That being said, I did change some aspects, because none of these guys are ship's captains, and because I didn't want to write speeches for every "candidate". And that's it, so just enjoy. As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) GrowlingPeanut. Reviews are appreciated.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin. Specifically, most of Ulfric's dialogue at the Moot is adapted straight from Skyrim.
Rating: M for violence, abuse, and rape.
The Kingsmoot was held as the city continued to burn. The foul odor of blood and death carried on the wind as it blew Ulfric's golden cloak about his shoulders. He looked the very picture of grace and nobility as he stood on the balcony of the Temple of the Divines and gazed at the masses gathered below. At his side was his wife, beautiful as ever, even with evident sorrow in her eyes. Soon, he would be their king, and she their queen.
Tywin Lannister's blood was still wet upon Ulfric's blade when he came to Sansa. Bloodlust high, he took her mercilessly, seeking further conquest between her bruised and trembling thighs. He made her call him her king, and with tears in her eyes she obeyed, as she always did, no matter how much it shamed her.
As the frenzy faded from his eyes, he sighed and paced to the window, looking down at the fires that blazed in the streets. "We will wait three days," he said, more to himself than to her. Sansa curled beneath the twisted sheets, wishing he would leave so she could wash his stench from her skin. "And then we will hold the Moot, and they will make me king."
"Yes, my lord," she said hollowly.
"They will," Ulfric repeated, turning on her. "I won the war and they will make me their king."
The moment that Lannister's head had left his shoulders, a dozen couriers had run from the city with news of the Kingsmoot. The Jarls from every Hold would come as would those who had been displaced from their thrones by Stormcloak supporters. People from every corner of Skyrim would flood to the capital to have their say in the Moot, and in the end, a new king would sit upon the throne.
"And now, I present to you, hero, and liberator of the people of Skyrim...Ulfric Stormcloak!" Ralof led the cheer that followed as Ulfric stared across the courtyard, his expression stern, but satisfied.
When the applause died down, he began to speak.
"I am indeed Ulfric Stormcloak, and at my side is the man we know as Stormblade, and the woman who I have made my wife. And indeed, there are many that call us heroes. But it is all of you who are the true heroes!" He raised his arms toward the crowd below and they stared up in awe and pride.
"It was you who fought a dying Empire who sunk its claws into our land, trying to drag us down with it. It was you who fought the Thalmor and their puppets who would have us deny our gods and our heritage." His eyes found Elenwen in the crowd and he met her gaze with no remorse for his harsh words.
"It was you who fought your kin who didn't understand our cause, who weren't willing to pay the price for our freedom. But more than that, it was you who fought for Skyrim, for our right to fight our own battles…To return to our glory and traditions, to determine our own future!"
The cry that rang out from below was deafening, beginning with the soldiers and spreading like wildfire, until their chant echoed throughout the city.
"Storm...cloak! Storm...cloak! Storm...cloak!"
The first day found Sansa in the Radiant Raiment for the second time in a very short while. She had visited the Altmer sisters within for the gown which she had worn to the Thalmor Embassy, and now returned once more for a dress befitting the High Queen of Skyrim.
"Lady Stormcloak," Taarie greeted her as she entered with a heavily pregnant Gilly at her side. Though the maid was practically waddling everywhere she went, and had been forced to leave her husband's side to accompany her mistress, she insisted on remaining at Sansa's side. Sansa would never admit it, but in truth, she was selfishly grateful for the company.
"Taarie, Endarie," Sansa replied, giving the two sisters a small smile. While the younger returned it, the elder simply sniffed haughtily and began to pull out large bolts of cloth. Gilly rolled her eyes.
"Lord Stormcloak has assured us that cost is of no concern," Endarie said brusquely, setting out their finest silks and satins for the young woman. "So you may choose what you like."
Sansa's eyes lighted on a simple grey wool still mounted upon the wall and she sighed heavily, wishing that she could wear the colors of her house once again.
As she surveyed the options before her, Gilly wandered over to a bolt of pale blue cotton and she rubbed it between her fingers. "This is very pretty, my lady," she said with a smile. "It would bring out the color of your eyes."
Before Sansa could respond, both sisters gasped, and Endarie shook her head vehemently. "Cotton? At the Kingsmoot? My dear child, Lady Sansa will be on display for half of Skyrim, and she cannot be seen wearing cotton. We will make her a gown so fine that every woman gathered will ask her where it was made, and the name of the Radiant Raiment will not go unheard."
Flushed with embarrassment, Gilly shrank away from the fabric and returned to her mistress' side, accepting Sansa's sympathetic gaze with a meek smile.
"I'll take this one, please," Sansa said, redirecting the dressmakers' attention. It was a smooth silk the color of the blue butterflies that she and Arya had tried to catch as children. "And this." She pointed to a thick sabre cat pelt, golden in color to match the Stormcloak sigil she knew she would be forced to wear.
Endarie nodded in approval and gathered the others before returning and beginning to measure out the fabric. "Very well, my lady. Come back on the morrow, and it will be finished." When Sansa nodded, she added, "I promise you, my lady, it will be a gown fit for a queen."
The wind was sharp and bitterly cold, for winter had come, as the Starks had always warned. Sansa was grateful for the fur about her shoulders, for the thin silk of her gown did little to ward off the chill. As Endarie had promised, it was an impressive creation, detailed in the finest gold thread with the Stormcloak bear snarling proudly on her breast. Rather than loosening its shape, the sisters had kept the dress tight so the fabric hugged her frame, easily accentuating the slight swell of her growing belly.
"We will begin the Moot with the Jarls which currently control each Hold," Ulfric ordered. Jarl Elisif, the widow of the late High King, stood silent at Sansa's side. Though the Kingsmoot declared that she too should have the chance to speak, she made no move to do so, nor would Ulfric have allowed her to if she had tried. She knew as well as he did that the Moot was a farce, merely held to appease the people. There were no doubts about what the result would be.
"Jorah Mormont, of the Reach, speak, and you shall be heard."
The balding, middle-aged warrior stepped forward. "I call for Ulfric Stormcloak to sit upon the High Throne."
Ulfric nodded as he receded into the crowd once more, the slightest smirk tugging at his lips. He knew that he would be king, and having it so clearly displayed in the faces of those who had betrayed him made the victory all the more satisfying. Sansa simply wished for it to all be over.
"Vignar Grey-Mane, of Whiterun, speak, and you shall be heard."
"I will see none but Stormcloak as High King," the Jarl called out gruffly, raising his sword. "To Ulfric!"
The Jarls of Winterhold, Falkreath, Hjaalmarch, and the Pale followed suit, all declaring Ulfric as High King. Jon Snow was the only one who did so with any hesitation, for he would not easily forget his half-brother's death, or the abuse that Sansa had suffered.
"Let it not be said that I hear only from those who rule this land in the Stormcloak name," Ulfric continued. "The cities' former Jarls may speak, and I swear to all the gods that their voices will be heard."
Even among those displaced by the supporters of the Stormcloak cause the call for Ulfric as High King was heard. Siddgeir of Falkreath spoke his name with obvious disdain, but spoke it nonetheless, as did Idgrod Ravencrone of Hjaalmarch. Only Balgruuf stood his ground against the rebel leader, speaking clearly and without fear.
"I call for Lady Elisif the Fair as High Queen. My city fell to the Stormcloaks because I chose to support the Empire, and it is a decision that I do not regret. This war has fractured Skyrim to her core, and only beneath the Empire can we find the stability to survive the rising threat of the dragons. I once fought alongside you in battle, Stormcloak, and I once called you friend. But there is no place in Skyrim for your bigotry and hatred. Too many died to give you the crown you seek, and though I know it will be yours, I will not lend it to you blindly as many of my fellow Nords have done. Take your bloody crown, Ulfric, but know that I did not help to place it on your brow."
Ulfric's expression was dark as the former Jarl returned to the masses below, and Sansa couldn't help but shiver. Though the crown would still be his, he would not take kindly to such a sentiment, and Balgruuf was a man who was well respected, and whose voice would truly be heard. She feared for his life, and prayed to the gods that her husband would not act rashly against him.
Elenwen likewise gave her support to Lady Elisif, but her words meant little, for even those who supported the Empire had only wavering trust for the Thalmor.
As she turned back, Ulfric looked to Elisif, and she calmly met his gaze.
"And what of Solitude's Jarl?" He asked, a hint of mocking in his tone. "What of the fair widow of the late King Torygg? Will you put aside your personal hatred for me, and your misplaced love for the Emperor and his coin, so that the suffering of our people will end? Will you acknowledge that it is we Nords who will determine Skyrim's future? Will you swear fealty to me, so all may know that we are at peace, and a new day has dawned?"
Elisif's words held only calm resignation, and she nodded. "I will."
The people of Skyrim began to flood through Solitude's gates on the morning of the Kingsmoot. Among them were the cities' Jarls, with stewards and housecarls at their sides. Civilians came to the streets as well, and though they would not be able to speak for or against Stormcloak, their cries would be heard in the final moments of the Moot, declaring the crown for their future king.
Living in the capitol as a child, Sansa had met many of the Jarls as a young girl, and they had always brought with them kind words and sugar-coated sweets. Now all they had for her were eyes filled with pity, or for some, scorn. She knew that her love for Sandor had not been erased as easily as Ulfric had hoped, and those who were in strong support of her husband did not think too kindly of her. Many thought her a traitor as well, though she wanted to scream at them that she had been forced to support Ulfric in more and more terrible ways than any of them ever would.
Jorah Mormont of Riften had kindness for her still at least, and Sansa remembered that he had only reluctantly been named Jarl after the death of Viserys Targaryen during the events at Helgen.
Though Sansa had wanted to resist, Ulfric had ordered her to the party at the Thalmor Embassy, hoping that she could convince the Thalmor to give him their support at the Kingsmoot. There, she had met the young Lady Targaryen, sister to the late Jarl, and though Sansa had never made her acquaintance, the older woman regarded her as though she knew her.
When the pretty highborn woman had asked her to provide a distraction, Sansa had been more than willing, for she was tired of the angry stares and whispers behind her back. In truth, she wished that she was more like Daenerys. Though still young, and having been raised a lady, Sansa could sense a strength within her that she wished she had. Absently, she had thought that Sandor would have liked the Lady Targaryen, for it seemed she had already discovered that life was not the song that Sansa had always believed it to be.
"They will all forget why they called Lady Elisif 'the Fair' when they see you seated on the throne beside me," Ulfric said as he stared longingly at the High King's throne. "You will make the most beautiful queen that Skyrim has ever seen."
"Thank you, my lord," Sansa demurred. "You are too kind." The marks on her wrists told a different tale, and a festering bitterness settled in her stomach.
"Do you know how important you are, my sweet?" He asked, his hands moving to cradle her cheeks. "You will be High Queen at my side, and you carry the heir to Skyrim inside you. Did you ever imagine such a fate for yourself?"
She fought to remain still in his grasp, and she nodded tightly. Once, she had indeed imagined herself as Ulfric's queen, when she was but a foolish child. If only then she had known what she would have to endure to live such a life.
The only solace she had to hold onto was the truth, that the child within her was no heir at all, and that it would never be forced to sit upon a throne. In time, the world would know the truth, and when that day came, she would see that everyone knew Ulfric for the fool that he was.
Ulfric's grin was feral as Torygg's widow declared her support, and Ralof once again spoke to the crowd below. "People of Skyrim, let your voices be heard! If you speak for the Lady Elisif, do so now!"
A few scattered cries echoed from those gathered below, but even those who spoke knew that their cause was a doomed one.
"And if you speak for Lord Ulfric, do so now!"
A roar of approval shook the ground below, and with steady hands, Elisif handed her murdered husband's crown to the man who had taken his life.
"Behold," Ralof yelled. "The new High King of Skyrim, Ulfric Stormcloak!" The crown was placed atop his head and Ralof bellowed out a cry of victory. "Long live the king!"
"Long live the king!"