Ulfric's eyes shot open and he sat bolt upright in his bed, his breathing laboured and his brow covered in a cold sweat. He looked around frantically, relaxing slightly as he realized that all was well. He was in his own bed, in the palace, and nothing had changed from when he had fallen asleep. It was still dark outside, and a weak sigh left the King's lips.

Standing from his bed, he decided to go and get a drink. Though he doubted that anyone else would be wandering the halls at such an ungodly hour, he threw on a simple fur overcoat, just in case. Silently, he made his way to the door and left.

He glanced downwards, noting that his hands still trembled at the memory of his nightmare. Trying to push it from his mind, he made his way down the hallway of the sleeping quarters. He tread lightly, not wishing to wake anyone lest they ask questions.

Shutting the door almost silently behind him, he headed in the direction of the kitchen, but slowed when he saw a number of unopened bottles on the long table. He grabbed one and opened it, taking a long drink before letting out a relieved sigh.

Still, even as he pushed the memories of his nightmare away, they haunted him. Images flashed through his mind, sounds filling his ears even though there was no plausible source around. He saw, once again, the terrifying hall that had stood ahead of him. All had been dark, and the crashing of thunder could be heard outside, the occasional flashes of lightning briefly illuminating the hall.

It had looked as though it was once a castle, filled with glory and splendor, but it had fallen into decay long ago. Windows were broken, weeds were sprouting from between the stones of the cold, hard floor, and the place had a smoky smell to it. The hall was empty, but for a faded blood red carpet and a majestic black throne that stood at the far end of the hall, opposite Ulfric.

Ulfric, in his dream, had turned and tried to leave. He had grasped the handle of the door and tried to open it, but it wouldn't budge, firmly locked and perhaps barricaded. When he had turned again to face the throne, the room had changed somewhat – dangling from the ceiling and lining the hall were dozens of lifeless bodies, hanging by their necks from ropes that seemed to be parts of the ceiling. The stench of rotten flesh was slowly beginning to fill the High King's nose, but he could not avert his eyes – not because the bodies interested or fascinated him, gods no, but because of what he saw at the other end of the hall.

Above the throne, he saw the Dragonborn. Her body was suspended in mid-air, floating lifelessly on her back with one arm dangling down and one laid across her chest. Her long brown hair tumbled downwards, the tips brushing against the top of the throne, and even though Ulfric was quite a distance away from her, he could see her blue eyes wide open. She appeared to be staring off into nothingness, as though in a trance. She was clad in a simple black dress, long and loose-fitting, which dangled elegantly from the floating woman.

Immediately, his instinct had been to go to her. He had started walking, keeping his gaze fixated on her in order to avoid looking at the dead bodies that hung all around him. His feet felt like lead, and though he tried to move quickly so as to reach her sooner, each step seemed to be moving him further and further away from her. He grew frustrated and broke into a run, but still, each step drew him backwards more. She became smaller and smaller in the distance until Ulfric had collapsed to his knees. He dropped his head, overwhelmed with stress and confusion.

When he had lifted his head, the bodies that dangled from the ceiling became skeletons, gazing towards him with an eerie boned smile. Standing before him was the Dragonborn, no longer floating in her mysteriously eternal sleep, but instead standing strong and beautiful as the day he last saw her – no, not the day that she died, but the night that they celebrated and bedded one another before she disappeared.

She wore a set of magnificent black armour, sleek and shiny. It appeared to be ebony, with matching boots and gauntlets. In her left hand was a golden sword, shining with fiery orange magic. In her right hand – her dominant hand, as he recalled – was a strange black mace that gleamed with mysterious green magic. Across her back was a white shield with gold trim, and she gazed intently at Ulfric. There was no love in her expression.

"Where are we?" Ulfric had asked her, staring up at the beautiful vision. She was a warrior through and through, clad in armour and wielding mysterious weapons.

"In your mind," she had answered, her voice still beautiful and memorable as ever. "You're dreaming, Ulfric. You need to wake up."

"I don't want to wake up, not if it means seeing you again," he had told her, but she quickly shook her head.

"Do not say that. This is no dream, it's a nightmare. My presence doesn't make it a good dream any more than my aid in the war made it an easy victory. It was a difficult war, and this is a terrible dream. You need to wake up before anything more can happen," she had said, and though he listened, he didn't understand.

"No, no," he said. "I don't want to wake up. You're here. What could possibly be so bad?"

"Ulfric, I can't stay here for long. I came only to warn you that you must wake up. The daedric prince Vaermina is the cause of this nightmare. You can wake up now, but if you allow yourself to be drawn further into the dream, it will be harder."

Ulfric didn't listen. He protested and fought, and outside, the thunder grew louder and the rain grew stronger. Finally, she had given in, telling him to open the door behind him.

"But it's locked?" he had asked, turning around. When he grasped at the handle this time, the door opened with ease – and when his head had turned to glance behind him, she was no longer where she had been standing before.

So, alone and uneasy, Ulfric had proceeded through his dream. He thought that perhaps, if he made it far enough, he would see her again, and so he had walked out the door. He had walked into every mortal man's darkest nightmares – it was exactly as the books had described, horrors that no sane human could even imagine let alone bear witness to. He had felt himself growing weak, he had knelt and cried and pleaded, but nothing had worked.

And then, there had been silence. Once again, he heard the Dragonborn speak to him. Her disembodied voice simply whispered, "I loved you…"

Ulfric took another drink of the mead. It was at that point that he had woken up, and now he was here, drinking mead in the wee hours of the morning. He was certain that the Dragonborn's words to him had been the truth – it was a dream conjured up by none other than the wicked Vaermina herself, but why? What had Ulfric done that led the daedric prince to take an interest in him?

"Ulfric?" came a voice from behind him, and the King turned his head and frowned at seeing Leola there. She wore a long white nightgown and her blonde hair was tangled and messy. There was a bleak sleepiness in her blue eyes, as though she had only just woken.

"Leola? What are you doing up so early?" he asked, taking another gulp of mead.

"I could ask you the same thing," answered the young woman with a small smile, and Ulfric nodded.

"That is true," he said, shaking his head. "I was just…restless."

"Did you have a bad dream?" she asked, and Ulfric frowned.

"No," he said quickly. "Did you?"

"Yes," she admitted, moving to sit beside him.

"Do you want to…talk about it?" Ulfric asked, unsure how he should approach the topic. He was sure that a father would ask something like that. His father never had, but then, he was rarely plagued with nightmares as a child.

"Not really," Leola said with a slight shudder. "I just…don't want to go back to sleep yet."

Ulfric was silent for a moment. He suddenly looked up, a thought coming to mind.

"Stay here," he said to Leola, standing. He hurried off, leaving the young blonde confused as she watched him go. Minutes later he returned with something in his hands. She couldn't tell what it was, only that it was wrapped in brown cloth.

"What's that?" she asked softly.

"I was given this by my mother as a boy," he said to her, setting down the item on the table. He left it wrapped. "I had hoped to one day give it to my own son, but my chance for a son has come and gone."

"No, it hasn't," Leola said softly, her eyes widening as she realized that he was implying he give it to her. "You can still have children, you just need to find someone."

"The only women in Skyrim who would have married me are either dead or married already," Ulfric muttered, shaking his head.

There was a long silence as Leola looked curiously towards Ulfric, while he remained completely unaware that she'd caught what he said.

"My mother?" she asked, and he nodded, still unaware what he had said. He suddenly paused as it dawned on him, and he slowly turned his head to look at her, seeing her awestruck gaze.

"Yes, Leola," said Ulfric, seeing no other choice than to admit it to her. "Your mother almost certainly would have married me if I'd asked."

"Why didn't you?" she asked in a soft voice. "I'd much rather be your child than have some random, unknown man as my father."

Ulfric sighed, shaking his head. "I… I don't know. I suppose I was afraid. She was wonderful, worth far more than I deserved…"

"You should have," Leola said softly.

"Yes," Ulfric agreed with a nod. "I should have."