Hey guys! Since constantly playing Skyrim, I felt absolute adoration for Ulfric Stormcloak and decided to do the impossible: Write an Ulfric/Elisif story. So hopefully it goes well! And I wanted to give big thanks to my Beta Croatin for having to go through this and fixing my terrible grammar. Thanks!

And I feel like I should confirm before I even start that "Storm-Blade" is not Dragonborn in this story. I always figured Dragonborn would have more to worry about than the Stormcloaks and Imperials like, I dunno, fighting dragons?

Summary: Ulfric and the Stormcloaks succedes in taking Skyrim, and takes Elisif as prisoner.

Chapter 1: Victory

Ulfric's beloved blade rested in his clutched hand, stained with the blood of his bitter long-time adversary, Tullius.

The man he considered the unseen tyrant of the Empire was nothing more than dead weight, lying motionless at Ulfric's feet. Tullius' severed head was resting on the other side of the room. The aroma of blood filled the air, and no doubt the walls were covered.

Galmar Stone-Fist boasted victory while their prospect, Mortan, stood silent with Ulfric. Mortan eyed his mentor, but Ulfric dared not to make eye contact. He knew the shame Mortan was feeling, for he felt it, too.

To Ulfric, this wasn't a victory. Too many people died. Children's innocent lives had ended on the streets, and honorable soldiers such as Rekke died for doing exactly what Ulfric had been preaching through out the war; they stood up for what they believed in. Ulfric knew they weren't right, but how much different were they from him? Ulfric Stormcloak quietly sheathed his sword.

Galmar jumped at the metallic sound. "Ulfric?" He was confused. Sheathing your sword was a sign of defeat. There was no reason Ulfric should put it away after killing Tullius before raising his sword to his men in victory. He looked at his comrade, hoping for a visual answer. Mortan, the level-headed, quiet, and discerning Nord, looked back, saying nothing. Galmar watched in marvel as his dear friend Ulfric began to march outside with his boots splashing in the puddles blood.

Outside, thousands of Rebel soldiers cheered at the sight of their leader, joyous that it was he who walked out the doors alive. Ulfric placed himself in front of the crowed. While his face stood calm, his nerves shook with excitement. The pain in his heart was being lifted by the sound of every live Stormcloak that shouted. They cheered for freedom. They cheered for him.

Galmar stood by his friend and nudged him on the shoulder. "I think they're expecting a speech, eh?"

Ulfric smiled, and glanced over to Mortan, who smirked awkwardly and nodded. Their leader took a step forward to face his soldiers. The rebels weren't getting any quieter, the very fashion of a true Nord.

"Stormcloaks!" He bellowed with his rough hoarse voice, "I am Ulfric Stormcloak. By me is the one we call Mortan Stormblade. Others call us leaders... heroes... and the very arms of righteous! But they are wrong. We're nothing without the true arms of every one of you, who fought to protect our land and scour it from the men who wished to take away everything that made us who we are. They wanted our freedom, you denied them! They wanted our religion, you challenged their rights to do so. When the Thalmor broke the Empire to pieces and had them take away our gods, you strived to make them regret and understand. You let them know that this is our land, and we're her children!

You only have to thank yourselves. You didn't fight for me. You fought for yourselves! You fought for your culture, and your lives. You fought because you had to! And because of your dedication, we are free to decide our own fates!"

Every soldier became frenzied. He tried hard to match his voice above theirs. Before he could continue, a single shout from an unknown soldier caught his attention.

"What about Elisif?"

Ulfric's heart stopped. His eyes darted to the center of the crowd, searching. There, her eyes, her hateful eyes, caught him.

Elisif. How could he forget? Looking straight at her, he felt every jab of guilt in the world. He dreaded this moment, walking toward her, ignoring the suggestions of lynching and beheading from the crowd itself. She stared at him, never blinking, her face covered in dirt and blood of her people. The woman that people have called "Elisif the Fair" now stood before him, tired and broken. Her eyes brimmed with a hatred more powerful than she had ever felt before with this man. Ulfric kept a stern face. He never made a plan what to do with her. He loathed the moment he had to face her.

"Yes," He repeated, "What do we do with her. Do we kill her? Punish her for her late husband's crimes? Chastise her for her undying love to the Empire?"

Elisif's face was stern, and she tried hard not to cry out in tears. Even as the people around her clearly enjoyed the idea of her torture and demise.

"Or," Ulfric continued "would we stoop to her Empire's level?"

The soldiers silenced. Elisif looked up at Ulfric, in much confusion as everyone else. His smug expression made her body burn with disgust.

"Elisif, Jarl of Solitude. You can end this war. You can understand our cause, and submit to me and these soldiers."

The Jarl, beaten and bruised, answered quickly by spitting on his boots.

"I'll never surrender to you or your murderous barbarians!"

Ulfric Stormcloak raised his eyes from the spit on the ground. "What a waste." He came closer to her, closer than she would have liked, and if it weren't for the restraints she would have moved. He got to her ear, and talked soft so only she could hear him.

"Think about what you're doing, Elisif." He spoke calm. "People are dying over this. Tullius is gone. You have no one to depend on. You. Can't. Win."

The Jarl said nothing. Her heart sank to the floor at the thought of her people, the innocent people who got caught in the silly conflict. Tullius was suppose to be her last hope. Without him, the people would surely suffer. She breathed heavy, trying her hardest to keep everything in. She bit her tongue hard, but she couldn't stop the steady flow of tears. Elisif looked into the evil man's eyes. The man she hated more than anything in world. Her body shook with rage.

"F-fine." Elisif choked, "Fine, I surrender. You win. Just let my people be."

Ulfric smiled, and the Stormcloaks roared. He motioned to Mortan, who walked hastily to his Jarl. He whispered in his ear, much like he did with Elisif. "Prison her in her room. Keep her there until I decide what to do with her. Come down afterward for the feast."

The Blue Palace, once occupied with well-mannered nobles, was now filled with boasting Stormcloaks who seemed to have never learned table manners. They belched out songs, pounded their tables, and shouted with mouth's full, spitting food all over. While they sang the song of victory, Ulfric took his place, sitting at the end of the long-table. The soldiers were not only finding it miraculous that they had just taken over a whole capital city, but now their own "stone-faced" Ulfric was smiling and drinking himself.

"What a fine time, eh Ulfric?" Galmar nudged his superior with his mouth half full of chicken.

"Indeed," Ulfric agreed, and held his cup high in a toasting-manner, then downed it all at once. He wiped off his mouth and continued. "It better be a fine time to drink tonight, at least. Tomorrow we might not have this luxury once the Elves find out about this."

Galmar Stone-Fist swallowed his food. "Maybe. Why worry about it now?" He watched as Ulfric nodded, but could tell he pondered at the thought. "Still, I wonder about you."

Ulfric looked up. "Ey?"

"I wouldn't have let the lassie go so easy."

Stormcloak sighed. "And what would you have me do? Kill her like I killed Rikke and Tullius? The whole Empire would be at us more than they already are. Even the people seem to love her. They would surely revolt over her death."

Galmar nodded slowly. "Aye...I get it. She's the city's Icon. Maybe even the whole country. But that doesn't explain why you're holding her up as "Prisoner" in her own room. I'd expect you throwing her in the dungeon, at least.

Ulfric sat silent, no longer smiling. With as much pride as he had, he couldn't admit that he had no plan for her. He couldn't kill her, not like the Stormcloaks think he could. His ruthlessness had a limit. Although he would never say so to anyone, he could never kill a woman after taking her husband and city.

Not without a reason to do so, at least.

"Let me go!"

Mortan Storm-Blade struggled while he kept the woman in binds and dragging her across the hallway. He was known to be anything but nice. He was quiet and humble towards his superiors, but to enemies, he was ruthless. Elisif was his number one enemy now, especially after Tullius' demise. So it was no wonder that he was rough with the former Jarl as he grasped her bind hands tight. When he opened the room door, Mortan threw her in like a rag doll, watching as she grunted when falling to the ground.

"Stay in," He ordered.

Elisif coughed. The wind was knocked out of her. Even then, she had enough to cough up another insult in his face. "I suppose barbarians like you never heard of Chivalry? Manners, perhaps."

"Get off it. You're lucky my king placed you here and not in the pit." Mortan wouldn't dare look at her, instead helping a soldier fiddle with the door to lock it from the outside. "Now do whatever you princess' do while others fight your battles." He stopped to look at her, and added quietly, "As usual."

Elisif was speechless. She stayed silent as Mortan left, giving her no time to snap back. Instead, she was by herself, listening to him bar in the room so she couldn't get out. She looked around. Her room had everything a noble would want. Even so, Elisif the Fair, once Jarl of Solitude and former High Queen, was a prisoner.