Ingrid had always had a special place in her heart for Windhelm. The crispness of the cold was unique to the area. It wasn't a soggy cold like Winterhold, or a windy cold like Dawnstar. Windhelm, despite its name, was a dry cold, one that seemed to kiss her skin and settle gently. Sure, with enough time it could chill you to the bone, but she was made for that kind of cold. She was, after all, a Nord.

Still, despite her attempts to take pleasure in the air as usual whenever she was in Windhelm, her stomach still tightened as her mind moved at a frantic pace. Why had she been summoned again? The war was ended a mere two weeks before. She'd barely touched her own bed in Whiterun before she was asked to come back. Ulfric Stormcloak's summons had been urgent, though, and he wasn't a man to ask for help unless it was needed. Whatever it was, it had to be important, and that weighed heavily on her mind.

The doors of the Palace were opened, creaking loudly on their giant hinges as if to announce her arrival to everyone within. She looked across the great hall - all seemed calm, no one seemed too troubled. Ingrid hoped that this indicated her first guess was wrong, that the Thalmor hadn't decided to retaliate so quickly.

"Stormblade," the familiar voice of Galmar called from across the hall, arms crossed with laughter in his tone. "Back for more already?"

Rolling her eyes, Ingrid approached him, paying little mind to the mud she was tracking across the floors. She made a mental note to apologise about that later. "Couldn't keep myself away. I just love the smell of wet bear hide." She smirked as Galmar lead her into the war room. "What's so urgent that you needed me back here?" She asked. "I'd guessed the Thalmor, but if that had been the case, you'd be breaking things, not making jokes at my expense."

"Believe me, if the Thalmor raises it's ugly head, you'll be one of the first to know." He paused. "That's if Ulfric doesn't shout so loud out of anger that even the Greybeards hear it. But, to answer your question: I don't know."

Ingrid did a double take. "What?" she asked, blinking with disbelief. "That's impossible."

"For me to not know?" Galmar shrugged as he lead Ingrid, to her surprise, straight through the war room and towards the Palace's chambers. "I know Ulfric well enough to know that he only keeps from me what he has reason to."

"So you're not curious?" Ingrid tried to count the rooms in her head as she passed them, trying to figure out where they were going. Usually they housed her in one of the guest chambers, but they'd gone well past those. She wasn't even sure she'd been this far in. "Not even a little?"

"Curious?" He repeated, "Yes." They came to a stop by a set of double-doors at the end of the hall, guarded by two guards, relaxing as though they'd been expecting her. "But if Ulfric has good reason to not tell me something, it's probably for the best I don't know." He opened one of the doors for her, gesturing for her to step inside. It was then that Ingrid noticed these were someone's chambers and felt incredibly uncomfortable.

However, she had been summoned, and hesitantly obliged, stepping into the quarters. It was warmer in there the rest of the Palace, something which was amplified when the door was shut behind her, pushing the last of the draft past her. Ulfric stood by the open fireplace, his back turned to her at first, giving her enough time to try and hide the awkwardness she felt being alone with him in what she could assume was his chambers. "I'm glad you could come," he said, finally turning to face her. "And to return so soon, too. I must thank you for that." He smiled, something she returned, of course, but Ingrid could still tell there was something serious underneath. It was the same expression he gave her when she returned with news of her campaign's' success, only to find two others had failed elsewhere.

"Well, you aren't a man to request urgency unless it's essential." She found herself glancing around, but quickly found herself embarrassed, returning her eyes to him. She was the Dragonborn, she wasn't meant to be dazzled by finery. "What do you need of me?"

"As you already know, I have not yet secured my place as High King of Skyrim, even though it is my right," he began, moving to his table and pouring some wine into two cups.

"Yes, but the Moot would only really be a formality," she paused when he lifted both the cups, reaching out to her to offer one. "No, thank you."

He shrugged, placing the cup intended for her back down. "A formality. Yes. That was the plan… it would seem, however, that there have been some developments." He paused to drink from his cup, a frustration apparent in his eyes. "There is more support for Elisif than I had anticipated."

Ingrid raised an eyebrow. "But Elisif swore fealty to you, that she wouldn't challenge your claim."

"She did. But technically, Elisif doesn't have to lift one of her dainty Imperial-loving fingers to be placed on the throne. Just because she doesn't campaign doesn't mean the Jarls can't support her of their own free will," he explained.

Crossing her arms, she smirked. "You honestly believe Elisif hasn't been secretly campaigning for herself? That she hasn't seen to it that others do it for her by proxy?"

Ulfric broke from his gaze, which had been aimed at nothing in particular, and gave a singular chuckle. "Not for one second," he smirked. "But proving that would take time, and that is in short supply."

"And why are the Jarls so quick to support Elisif?" she asked, genuinely curious and feeling a little frustrated herself. The war had been fought, Ulfric won, it was over. Or at least it was supposed to be.

"Elisif is widowed," he explained, "but she is still the age of a maid. She has plenty of time to remarry and produce a heir, and one of the points of a moot is to try and prevent holding another one in 30 years."

Apparently, this was so ridiculous to Ingrid that she lost all control of herself, giving a loud snort of laughter. "That's the reason?" She asked. "That doesn't make any sense. You've got just as much time as she does to-"

"I've seen 50 winters," he interrupted. This effectively sent Ingrid silent, the silence between the two lasting far longer than was comfortable.

She cleared her throat, trying to will her face into not turning red. During the two day's ride to Solitude, he accidentally walked into her tent while she was changing and saw her in nothing but her smallclothes. This was somehow worse. "You… seem younger."

"I suppose I can take that as a compliment," he reassured her with a small smile. Ingrid couldn't help but feel she wasn't really at fault here. She'd fought beside Ulfric, and even men in their prime hardly compared. "I need to at least show the Jarls that I'm in the process of producing an heir of my own. At the very least," he paused, giving a long, slow exhale, "I need to take a wife with solid political claims of her own."

"I see," Ingrid replied with a nod. "If you want me to find you a wife, I think that, just this once, you've called on the wrong person." She silently thought over the women she did know who might be suitable, but couldn't get past the utterly bizarre image of Aela in a wedding dress. "It's not as though I surround myself with women of nobility."

"That is not what I need," he began, setting down his cup. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes as he spoke. "What I need, Stormblade, is to wed you."

Ingrid inhaled expecting to laugh, but the moment she realized Ulfric was not joking, all that she could let out was a long exhale that emptied her lungs as though she had been kicked in the gut. "What?" She gasped, eyes wide with disbelief. "Are you drunk?"

"Believe me," he sighed, shaking his head, "I explored every option I could. When Galmar suggested it, I asked him the same question."

"Galmar suggested this?" Ingrid asked, her jaw dropping for a moment. "He knew?" Of course he had. Of course. It took every inch of her willpower to not storm out of there right now and shout him out of a window.

"I know, I know," the way Ulfric spoke made it sound as though he was as baffled by this as she was. "But the more I thought about it, the more weight Galmar's idea had. You would be perfect."

Ingrid found herself walking to the table without meaning to and reaching for the wine, almost as if something was taking over her body. "I can't. I'm not nobility. Surely one of the Jarls have a daughter or a sister or… something. Why not just marry Elisif? Stop the problem at the source!"

"And have her kill me in my sleep to rule as a regent?" He asked. "You are well known throughout Skyrim. Most of the Jarls respect you and you've even been named Thane of Windhelm and Whiterun. You're the Harbinger of the Companions, you were instrumental in bringing down the Imperials…" he paused. "And you're the Dragonborn. A Skyrim with the Dragonborn as her High Queen would even send fear into the hearts of the Thalmor - if they had any. You would make Skyrim stronger, not even the most corrupt of Jarls could argue that."

"By the gods…" she stammered, her cup shaking in her hand. "You're actually serious about this." She quickly threw back her wine, drinking all of it in one movement before gasping for air and wiping her mouth unceremoniously with her arm. "You're proposing."

Ulfric frowned at this, a quiet growl emerging under his breath. "I suppose I am, if not purely by definition." There was silence for a moment as he watched her, the mighty Dragonborn, struggle to fill her cup again without accidentally spilling the wine. He wasn't sure if her tremors were caused by shock, anger, or a sudden case of ataxia. Either way, he didn't want to be on the receiving end of what it was building up to. "I don't expect you to answer right away, I'm aware that what I'm asking of you is extreme. Go back to Whiterun, think about it. But consider what this will mean for Skyrim."

Ingrid opened her mouth to protest, but she stopped herself. As insane as this might have felt, Ulfric had a point. In fact, he wouldn't have even proposed the idea to her unless he felt it was the best option. "How long do I have to decide?" she asked.

"If you can send word within two weeks, we'll have enough time to make arrangements depending on your decision before the moot." Ulfric watched her as she stared into the fire, as if he wasn't there. He could tell she was deep in thought, she was the same way before they rode into battle. "For what it's worth, Stormblade," he began, averting his own eyes, "I trusted you beside me in battle, and I would ride with you to Sovngarde and back."

Not even knowing how to respond to what she knew was supposed to be a compliment, Ingrid placed her cup back on the table and made a beeline for the doors. "I'll send word before the fortnight is through," was all she said as she pushed the doors open and vanished down the halls.

Ulfric watched as a confused guard closed the door once more, leaving him alone with the remainder of the wine. He had learned enough about Stormblade during the war to hazard a guess at her reaction to this - either he would receive a rejection from her first thing in the morning, or he would have to wait a very long and very painstaking two weeks for an outcome he couldn't predict.