Sun's Dawn, 1 month ago
"Release!"
The legionnaire manning the catapult pulled the release lever. With a loud, cracking snap the built up tension pulled the arm, and the stone it was carrying, forwards. The stone soared through the sky, over the trees and the White River, until it crashed into the wall of Windhelm.
The sound of the impact boomed back to the Legion's siege camp. When it reached her ears, it made Legate Rikke cringe.
The decanus in charge of the catapult watched the stone's collison. "Reload!" he yelled.
Immediately two legionnaires began cranking the catapult arm down into position, while another two prepared the next stone.
Rikke turned and walked away, the decanus snapping to attention and saluting her by placing his fist across his chest as she passed.
Windhelm, the City of Kings, had existed since the 1st Era. It was an ancient and historic city, a grand symbol of Nordic heritage. To see it being destroyed made Rikke, as a proud Nord, both sad and angry. Sure, this wouldn't be the first time in history the city was put to siege, but that didn't make what was happening now taste any less sour in her mouth.
This sentiment, she could tell, was shared by a lot of the Nord legionnaires in the camp.
Civil Wars were naturally divisive affairs, and many Nord legionnaires at the start of the war were hesitant to fight against their kinsmen. Rikke had so far been successful in keeping their resolve strong. But convincing them to kill or be killed on battlefields around Skyrim was far different than convincing them to besiege the legendary city of Ysgramor. While legionnaires from the other provinces were waiting with anticipation for the coming battle, the Nords were starting to grumble, which was a bad sign.
Rikke had to do something.
She walked down the freshly trodden path towards the command tent. Work on the camp, which stretched the banks of the White River and cut off access to the city, had begun around four hours ago but was already almost done. Efficient and professional, as befitted the Imperial Legion. The camp was alive with activity, lightly armoured engineers were building wooden guard towers while steel-clad legionnaires were conducting marching drills at the command of their centurions.
Rikke walked through the rows of neatly arrayed tents that the legionnaires had set up. The off duty legionnaires were sitting with their tent groups around small campfires, cooking their dinners and talking amongst themselves. They dropped their conversations and stood to attention as Rikke went by.
The square command tent sat in the center of the camp. It was surrounded by the officer's personal tents, which were in turn surrounded by the symmetrical rows of ten-person legionnaire tents. It was much taller and wider than any of the other rectangular Imperial-style tents that made up the rest of the camp. A large black cube standing out from the sea of red-dyed animal skins.
Rikke approached, and one of the two legionnaires on guard pushed the heavy tent flap out of her way. As she entered she was hit by a wave of stale air that was much warmer than the fresh but cold outside air. Her eyes did not need to adjust, as the command tent had several small windows near the roof to let in the fading evening sunlight. Legates and tribunes were gathered around the large wooden table in the center. In the middle of the table, in his gold armour, stood General Tullius.
"Sir," Rikke said as she stood to attention.
"Legate," Tullius replied without looking up from the table.
Rikke joined the group around the table. They were studying a map of Windhelm and its surrounding area.
"We could build siege towers on the far bank of the river, approach the walls from the west," one of the legates suggested.
"That bank of the river is narrow," a Nord tribune with a scar on cheek countered, "we would probably only be able to safely fit one tower."
"Which would be a worse choke point than the bridge," Tullius said, "but it could divide their attention."
Rikke stood silently, noticeably upright compared to the hunched postures of everyone else around the table.
"What about the docks?" another tribune asked, "we could ferry a group of legionnaires over to infiltrate the city from there."
"Risky," a Breton legate commented, "we would need to build enough boats, and if the Stormcloaks saw they would know what we're planning. Our legionnaires would be walking into an ambush."
"We'll build a pontoon bridge across," Tullius decided, "it will give us a foothold the rebels can't ignore, and an avenue for escape should the worst happen. Tribune Hadvar will oversee its construction."
"Yes sir," Hadvar replied.
"Sir," Rikke finally said.
Tullius still did not look up from the table, "yes legate?"
"Sir I must protest the bombardment of the city, we're going to destroy it at this rate"
Tullius finally looked up, completely bewildered, "say that again legate?"
"Sir, this city is not like the others in Skyrim. It's the birthplace of Nord civilization in Tamriel."
"It's also the birthplace of the rebellion," Tullius said as he stood up. The rest of the table stood up as well, but did not say a word. None would dare talk to Tullius the way Rikke was talking to him.
"The city isn't a rebel, sir," Rikke said, crossing her arms, "you should know by now catapults aren't going to make the Stormcloaks surrender. We need only destroy the gate to take Windhelm, nothing else."
"Sir, like you said this city is the seat of the rebels," the Breton legate abruptly said to Tullius, "it should be sacked to send a message to the rest of the province."
"You'll have another rebellion on your hands if you do that," Rikke countered.
Tullius looked around the room. The Breton and Imperial-born legates and tribunes around the room looked at him with indifferent expressions. But the Nords looked at him the way Rikke was looking at him, with determined and slightly hostile faces.
During his command in Skyrim, Tullius learned a begrudging respect for Nord tradition. Even if their stubbornness to adhere to it was frustrating at times.
"Very well," Tullius conceded, "we'll stop the indiscriminate bombardment. But we'll still use the catapults to destroy military targets, on the walls or in the city."
Rikke smiled. "Thank you, sir," she said.
Tullius just grumbled in response.
A commotion was heard outside the tent, as was the sound of a fast paced hoofbeat and the heavy breathing of a large animal. A legionary courier burst in. His red cloak and light leather armour was covered in a layer of dirt from riding hard along the road, and his face was red and sweaty.
"Sir!" he yelled as he saluted. He took a second to catch his breath, then held up a small envelope stamped with the seal of Solitude, "I have an extremely important letter for you, general."
"Thank you soldier," Tullius said, "you can give it to my aide."
A young man in studded imperial armour stepped forward and extended his hand, but the courier did not move.
"I'm sorry sir, it's for your hands only and must be opened immediately."
Tullius sighed and extended out his hand. The courier approached the table, handed him the letter, then saluted and left the tent.
Tullius grabbed a small dagger and used it to open the envelope. He took out the letter and read it in silence. It was a small letter, no more than 30 words, but he stared at the letter for nearly five minutes. Rikke watched as Tullius' face got more and more tense the longer he read and reread the note.
A trickle of sweat ran down his cheek. He suddenly put the letter down and clenched his fists.
"Clear the room. Now. Everyone except the legates," he calmly ordered.
Despite their surprise, everyone else immediately saluted and filed out of the tent, whispering in confusion to each other. Only Rikke and two other legates remained. After about 10 seconds of silence, Tullius spoke up.
"The emperor has been assassinated."
Present day
Ysmir and Inigo slowly rode on top of their horses down the road. It was early in the morning, the sun had only just risen and the air was still cold. Today was the day they would finally reach Windhelm.
"Are you worried?" Inigo asked as they rode.
"What do you mean?" Ysmir said.
"About the Stormcloaks?"
"No. I know I can beat Ulfric in a duel, and my mastery of the Thu'um far surpasses his."
"Of course you can beat him, I meant after the duel. Aren't you worried the Stormcloaks will just slaughter us as soon as it is over?"
"They wouldn't dare, it would be an affront to Nord honour."
"Ah, of course."
The two continued down the path in silence.
"You're not worried, are you?" Ysmir asked.
"Me? No, of course not," Inigo replied, "you're the one who has to do all the work. I just have to stand there and look handsome."
"Exactly."
"Stand there by myself. Surrounded by racists and fanatics. As my friend tries to kill their beloved leader. What could possibly go wrong?"
Ysmir shot a look at Inigo, who simply smiled dismissively.
"Come on," Ysmir said, "we can make it within the hour if we hurry."
There was an eerie silence that Ysmir and Inigo did not expect as they approached the siege camp. They expected to see catapults, siege towers, legionnaires drilling, maybe even the walls being stormed. Instead they saw what looked like a ghost town, a mass of tents nearly devoid of activity. A few legionnaires stumbling about the camp, and two on guard near the gate, were the only signs of life.
As they approached the camp, the guards spoke up.
"Halt!" one of them yelled, "by order of General Tullius, this area is off limits to civilians."
Ysmir and Inigo brought their horses to a stop just in front of the gate.
"We're here to see the general," Ysmir said back.
"We weren't told to expect anyone," the other guard said.
"We aren't expected," Inigo replied.
The two guards looked at each other. One shrugged his shoulders.
"I'm sorry, but this is a military camp, we can't let you in."
"I understand," Ysmir said, "but it's very important we speak—"
The gate opened up, and a man wearing an imperial officer's helmet stepped out.
"Thank you, soldiers, I'll take it from here," the officer said.
"Tribune," the two guards said in unison.
The officer beckoned Ysmir and Inigo. They rode their horses through the gate and tied them to one of the hitching posts. After they dismounted they joined the tribune who had let them in.
"Thank you for your help," Ysmir said.
The officer took off his helmet, and Ysmir instantly recognized him.
"You're welcome Dragonborn," Hadvar said, "do you remember me?"
"Of course I do Hadvar," Ysmir replied. He looked over to Inigo, "we escaped Helgen together. Feels like a lifetime ago."
"Indeed," Hadvar said.
"Why'd you let us in?" Inigo asked.
"I received a letter last week to expect you guys sometime soon, and to take you to the general when you got here."
"A letter from who?" Ysmir asked.
Hadvar looked around, "from… a mutual acquaintance of ours."
A wave of understanding washed over Ysmir. Hadvar was part of the Path of Whispers.
"Follow me," Hadvar said.
He led Ysmir and Inigo down one of the paths of the camp. The interior was how it appeared from the outside, quiet and inactive. Legionnaires lazed about inside and around their tents wearing just their tunics, not even bothering to put on their armour. Some legionnaires patrolled the camp, but they seemed sullen and disinterested.
"For a military camp this place seems rather… laid back," Inigo pointed out.
"General Tullius has most of the camp confined to their tents," Hadvar said, "we've had some moral problems of late."
"Oh?" Ysmir asked.
"It varies from legionnaire to legionnaire," Hadvar explained, "but it all began when we heard the Emperor was dead. Most of the Cyrodilic legionnaires want to return home and make sure their families they left behind are safe before the province starts tearing itself apart. They can sense trouble coming, like the calm before the storm. The Nord and Breton legionnaires have lost faith in the fight. Many of them feel like the Empire they've been fighting to protect has already fallen. Add to that the Forsworn burning the Reach down, and the news that the Kingdom of Wayrest in High Rock was destroyed. It seems like all we hear these days is bad news. It's taking its toll on the camp. Surprisingly, the Dark Elf legionnaires are holding themselves together the best. Probably because there's a lot of Dunmer refugees still trapped in Windhelm that they feel they need to rescue."
"I'm guessing the Stormcloaks are taking out their frustrations on the Gray Quarter," Inigo darkly asked.
"From the little we've heard," Hadvar said, "it's not good. The Argonians at the docks were smart enough to make a break for it as soon as we started setting up the camp. The Dark Elves weren't as lucky."
The group walked past an open field in the camp, where 11 legionnaires wearing nothing but their undergarments were tied to posts. They were exhausted and weather beaten, their heads were dropped and the only thing keeping them from falling were their shackles.
Ysmir stopped in his tracks, disturbed by the sight. "Who are they?" he asked.
Hadvar stopped and looked. "Deserters," he grimly said, "caught by our patrols. This is their punishment."
"Poor bastards," Inigo said.
The group continued on towards the towering black command tent. The two legionnaires on guard duty, one Dunmer and one Breton, were confused by what they saw. Nevertheless, they saluted Hadvar and opened the tent.
"Here you are Dragonborn," Hadvar said.
Ysmir and Inigo thanked Hadvar, then entered the tent. It was dank and musty, the smell of wine hung heavy in the air. General Tullius was seated at a small wooden desk covered in loose papers and opened envelopes, each one bearing the seal of the White-Gold Tower.
"I asked not to be disturbed," Tullius said. He looked up from his desk and towards the entrance, "who in Oblivion are you?"
"My name is Ysmir, this is Inigo," Inigo gave a little wave which Tullius did not return, "we've come to talk to you."
"Ok…" Tullius replied with a confused voice, "well I'm very busy. Whatever this is, it will have to wait."
The tent flap opened up again, and a Nord woman walked in. By her armour and heraldry, which Ysmir had learned in a book about Imperial Legions, he could tell she was the legate of the 9th Legion.
"Legate Rikke I asked not to be disturbed," Tullius said, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice.
Rikke did not reply, instead she stared at Ysmir with disbelief.
"Shor's Bones," she said, "what's the Dragonborn doing here?"
"The Dragonborn?" Tullius asked. He looked back at Ysmir, suddenly very intrigued by his surprise visitor. "Oh yes, now I recognize you. From the truce we brokered at High Hrothgar."
"I'm here to talk to you about the siege and the war," Ysmir said, "I can end it. Today."
"I beg your pardon?" Tullius asked.
"If you let me into the city today, I will challenge Ulfric to a duel. After I defeat him I'll order the Stormcloaks to surrender the city."
"And what makes you think they'll listen to you?"
"No," Rikke suddenly said, "that could work. Don't forget, sir, Ulfric's claim to High King was his duel with Torygg. If he loses a duel, the entire rebellion would lose all its legitimacy."
"It's a rebellion," Tullius said, "it has no legitimacy."
"You know what I mean, sir. Whoever beats Ulfric in a duel would, in the Stormcloaks eyes, be the true High King."
Tullius looked at Ysmir, "you're sure you can win?"
"It would be no contest," Inigo confidently said on behalf of his friend.
Tullius scratched his chin. "Interesting, and what's to stop Ulfric from denying your duel?"
"My reputation as Dragonborn precedes me," Ysmir said, "him denying the duel is worse than being defeated. He has no choice but to accept."
"And once you become the 'High King of the Stormcloaks', what will you do?" Tullius asked.
"On my honour," Ysmir said, "I will order them to surrender to you and to the Empire."
Tullius sat in silence, weighing his options. Ysmir knew, whether Tullius trusted him or not, he would let him into the city. The legions in Skyrim were in rough shape, fires were popping up across the provinces, and dark clouds loomed in the future. The longer the siege dragged out, the worse it would be for the Empire. Ysmir's offer was one Tullius could not afford to refuse.
"Very well," Tullius finally said, coming to the conclusion Ysmir knew he would, "we'll do it your way. You go do what you have to, I'll prepare the camp to occupy the city."
"Thank you, general," Ysmir said. He looked over to Inigo and gave him a quick nod. Inigo returned the nod.
"There are some conditions I have that will make this ordeal easier," Ysmir said.
The wooden gate of the camp opened, and two companions exited. Tullius, Rikke, and a few legionnaires in the guard towers watched with anticipation as the two approached the foot of the great bridge of Windhelm.
One, a Nord, was clad in armour made of dragon bones with an ebony battleaxe on his back and a long Akaviri katana on his hip.
The other, a Khajiit, was wearing grey leather armour with a matching cloak, and armed with a bow, arrows, and a curved Redguard scimitar. His furry hands held a tall flagpole with a white pennant at its peak.
"I bet a Septim they don't make it to the gate," one of the legionnaires whispered.
"I bet three they don't make it past the first barricade," another one snickered.
"Stow it, soldiers," Rikke snapped.
The legionnaires quickly stopped talking and straightened their posture. "Yes, mam," they said.
The two companions crossed the bridge, dodging the remains of wooden barricades and the remains of the first of the two stone gatehouses. They passed through the second, still intact, gate house unimpeded, coming to a stop just in front of the gate to the city itself.
They stood at the gate for several seconds, and the legionnaires saw eight Stormcloak soldiers appear on the battlements of the wall, looking down at the two guests. Words were exchanged for several minutes, and another soldier wearing the armour of an officer appeared. After about 30 more seconds the gates of Windhelm opened up. The two companions entered through the gates, disappearing from sight.
With a loud crash the gates once again closed, and the legionnaires looked at each other in disbelief. Tullius smirked to himself.
"Alright," he said, "legate, rouse the camp."
"Yes, general."
The main square of the city, just beyond the gate, was packed. The Stormcloak garrison had been called up and ranks of soldiers surrounded the square, looking at Ysmir and Inigo with distrust and hostility. Several of the buildings around the square were damaged. Scorch marks could be seen where fires had been put out, and large rocks launched from catapults littered the area. Elevated on the steps above the square, just before Candlehearth hall, Ysmir saw four dark elves locked in iron cages suspended above the ground. Each one looked on the brink of death.
Disgusting, he thought to himself.
The soldiers behind Ysmir and Inigo finished closing and barring the gate.
"Wait here," one of them said, "the Stone-Fist is fetching the Jarl now."
Without turning around, Ysmir nodded. Beside him, Inigo put the white flag he was carrying down and leaned it up against his shoulder.
"Who are they?" Ysmir asked, pointing in the direction of the dark elves.
"Spies, saboteurs, and defeatists," one of the soldiers said, his voice venomous with hate.
Another soldier spat on the ground, "who's the blue cat? Your pet?"
Inigo didn't say anything, as was part of their plan, but Ysmir saw him tense up out of the corner of his eye.
Ysmir turned and looked the guard right in the eye. "He's my housecarl," he said. Looking at the guard, Ysmir could see the bones in his cheeks and the paleness of his skin. The Legion blockade was slowly starving the city.
The Stormcloak spat on the ground again in response.
In the distance, towards the Palace of Kings, Ysmir and Inigo heard cheers erupting. The cheers slowly approached, getting louder and louder. They reached their crescendo as the ranks of soldiers parted, making way for Ulfric Stormcloak and his personal guard to enter the square, strong and well-fed.
Ulfric approached Ysmir. He was clad in layers of black bear skins on top of heavy steel plates etched with Nordic runes and motifs. He raised his arms, and cheers erupted from Stormcloaks around the square and on the walls. He put them down, and silence instantly fell.
Ulfric spoke up, his voice booming across the stones. "What brings you, stranger, to my city uninvited?"
Ysmir stepped forward and took off his helmet, holding it at his side. He responded, his voice booming as well.
"I am Ysmir, the Dragonborn. By the ancient customs of Skyrim I've come to challenge you to an honourable duel, as is the way of our ancestors."
"And what cause do you have to challenge me?"
"We stand as two Nords with different views on the future of Skyrim. I can not abide by your view, just as much you can not abide by mine."
The Stormcloaks around the square began yelling.
"Traitor!"
"Lapdog!"
"Skyrim is for the Nords!"
"You don't deserve that name!"
Ulfric raised his hands and hushed the crowd.
"Very well, Dragonborn, I accept your challenge." Ulfric held out his right arm, and Galmar Stone-Fist, a hulking brute of a Nord and Ulfric's second-in-command, handed him his axe. Rikvard, the axe of Windhelm. He stepped forward and swung Rikvard around a few times, and took his place across the square.
Ysmir put his helmet back on and took his place across from Ulfric. He reached behind him, grasping the handle of Wuuthrad. With one motion he hefted the battleaxe over his head and held it so all could see. A murmur rippled through the Stormcloaks as they saw the axe of Ysgramor for themselves.
The significance of the legendary battleaxe did not escape Ulfric. "It will be good to return Ysgramor's axe to his city," he said, trying to boast. But a hint of worry in his voice betrayed his confidence.
Ysmir did not respond. He got into his fighting position, widening his base and gripping Wuuthrad with both hands.
Ulfric matched his stance, but held the smaller Rikvard with only one hand.
The square was overfilled with spectators, more soldiers and inhabitants had entered to watch. Even some Dark Elves had come up from the Gray Quarter to bear witness to the event, looking far more malnourished than anyone else. Everyone waited silently with baited breath.
Ysmir stood up straight. He spoke loudly and clearly, so all could hear him.
"Let the Nine judge whose cause is more righteous."
Inigo smiled.
Ysmir looked around the square, the words had their intended effect. The Stormcloaks were mumbling in awe amongst each other. By calling on the Nine Divines to judge them, including Talos, Ysmir and Ulfric's duel took on a whole new level of significance. Ysmir openly acknowledging the Divinity of Talos, one of the cornerstones of Ulfric's rebellion, was no small part of that significance.
Everyone waited to see who would take the first step of the duel.
Ulfric moved first, the pressure breaking him. He ran forwards five steps then came to a sudden halt. He stood up straight, filling his lungs with air, and leaned forwards. The Thu'um left his body with a thunderous force.
FUS RO DAH
The power of his Voice shot across the square, straight at Ysmir. The shout, composed of three Words of Power, shook the stones of the streets themselves as it passed overhead, and soldiers around the square steadied themselves so as to not fall over.
Ysmir took a deep breath of his own.
MUL QAH DIIV
The aspect of a dragon formed around Ysmir with a flash of light. A glowing armour of spikes, talons, and scales encased his body. Raw power and energy resonated through the armour with an ethereal hum.
The force of Ulfric's shout collided with Ysmir, and dissipated into nothing.
The entire crowd gasped in disbelief.
Ulfric looked at Ysmir with astonishment and suppressed fear. "What power is this?" he cried out.
Ysmir made a small gesture with his hand. Inigo saw it and dropped down to one knee, bracing himself using the flagpole he was carrying.
Ysmir looked to Ulfric, and uttered a single word.
FUS
Unrelenting Force surged out of Ysmir. Despite the shout being directed at Ulfric, ripples of its power resonated in all directions. With just one Word, everyone in the square was knocked off their feet. The foundations of the entire city shook, and the sky itself seemed to crack as the sound of Ysmir's voice echoed through the air.
Ulfric, and the Stormcloaks standing behind him, were sent flying away. Their armour doing nothing to weigh them down. They smacked into walls and houses, or flew down the cobblestone streets.
The Jarl of Windhelm hit the wall of a house, and with a heavy thud of steel hitting stone he fell down onto the ground below.
The shout had kicked up dust and snow into the air, making it impossible to see more than a few meters. The people who bore the aftershock of Ysmir's Thu'um slowly started to pick themselves up and wipe themselves off. Some needed help getting up from others. Some had light injuries like scrapes and bruises. Many of them needed to lean on nearby walls or their comrades to stay standing up, as they couldn't stop their legs from shaking.
When the dust cleared Ysmir was standing over Ulfric, Wuuthrad sheathed on his back, his armour unscathed.
Ulfric tried to stand up, but he fell back down into the pool of blood that was forming on the stones beneath him. With all his strength he managed to prop himself up on all fours and look up at Ysmir.
The light of the sun shone behind Ysmir, adding an even greater glow to his Dragon Aspect. His breath was calm and steady, very different from the raspy breaths of Ulfric.
Ulfric closed his eyes, and bowed his head. "Send me to Sovngarde then, Dragonborn."
The crowd watched silently as Ysmir moved into position beside Ulfric, giving him a straight line to his neck. In one quick motion he drew the katana on his hip and grasped it with two hands. With a deep breath he lifted Dragonbane above his head. Right before he swung, Ysmir spoke softly to Ulfric. Too quietly for anyone else to hear.
"Talos guide you, kinsman."
Ysmir brought the blade down with all his might. It passed cleanly through Ulfric's exposed skin. His body collapsed, and his head rolled on the cobblestones.
Ysmir sheathed Dragonbane, then walked back to the center of the square.
"I have defeated Ulfric in a duel witnessed by the Divines," Ysmir said, his voice booming with draconic power, "by our traditions, and by your own claims, I am now the rightful High King of Skyrim. I, Ysmir, the Dragon of the North, order you to lay down your arms. If you are truly sons and daughters of Skyrim, then you'll surrender to her Empire. The Empire of Tiber Septim, of Talos, who you've all betrayed with this bloody rebellion that has left Skyrim wounded and her people suffering. Stand down and your punishment will be imprisonment, but I promise your lives and your city will be spared. If you refuse, your punishment will be death."
Ysmir's Dragon Aspect finally dissipated. The sight of him returning back to normal roused the Stormcloaks from their silence and inaction. Someone yelled, and they all drew their weapons. Ysmir carefully looked around, watching the crowd. Every soul stayed still save one.
Galmar Stone-Fist charged Ysmir when his back was turned, holding high his great warhammer, Foe-Breaker, and letting out an angered and mournful war cry. Before Galmar could cross half the distance between him and Ysmir, an arrow shot out of Inigo's bow. It found its mark, embedding itself straight in Galmar's throat. The Stone-Fist fell, choking on his own blood.
Neither of the guards to the left and right of Inigo made any move to stop him. Instead, they dropped their weapons. This caused the guards beside them to drop their weapons, and so on until a wave of weapons dropped to the ground around the square.
Some cried, some fell to their knees. All of them surrendered.
The Legion entered the city through its open gates.
Although they were triumphant, there were no horns blowing, there were no songs being sung. A respectful and disciplined silence was maintained by the legionnaires.
The Dunmer prisoners in cages were quickly released, they were given water and brought to healing stations back in the Legions camp, as were those Stormcloaks who had been injured by Ysmir's Shout.
In accordance with Ysmir and Tullius' agreement, trains of wagons carrying food and supplies entered the city after legionnaires. The starving people of the city were given food equally, regardless of race or rank. Dark Elf refugees were fed just as well as Nord nobles.
Also as part of the agreement, Ulfric's body was brought to the Hall of the Dead to prepare it for a Nordic burial. The remaining Stormcloaks around the city were rounded up and divided into groups to be moved to the many Legion forts and camps around Skyrim for incarceration. They would be treated fairly and with dignity.
Windhelm was occupied.
The Stormcloaks were defeated.
The Civil War was over.