A/N: Shalott by Emilie Autumn and well as the original 'The Lady of Shalott' poem are what inspired a lot of this character's backstory, past, and personality. They are worth checking out if you have the time. :)

And without further ado...

And the wind, I know, it's cold
But there's willow trees
And little breezes, waves, and walls, and flowers
And there's moonlight every single night
As I'm looked in these towers
So I'll meet my death

But with my last breath, I'll sing to him I love...

-Shalott, Emilie Autumn

She realized, belatedly, that it was rage that had brought her here. Rage seemed to be her driving force behind everything these days; red-hot anger as bright as her hair, as thick, and as long. This world was so full of broken dreams, backstabbers, and yet so devoid of love. The only thing she could do would be to deliver it justice. Justice for all it had done to her.

Would he remember her? She wondered, looking up at the towering stone walls, ancient and engraved. The words that blazed upon the plaque, Palace of Kings. As though it could possibly hold anything else, looking like that, and if it did- well, it wouldn't be a palace, would it?

The Breton turned up her nose, ignoring the stares of the soldiers as she passed. She knew she was beautiful. It was her curse in this world, to never be able to travel anywhere un-noticed. To never be taken seriously. To be auctioned off as a prize to the highest bidder.

She ignored them; fuck them all. She was here for one man, and one only: the rightful High King, Ulfric Stormcloak, the man who would finally give her a way to quench her rage and desire to mete out justice, once and for all.

Without further ceremony, she pushed open the doors.

How she had met him had been rather...un-orthodox. Ironic, really, that all the open doors in her life were the ones she found escaping from the ones that were closing. She had finally escaped that vile place, that prison, that tower that those users that posed as family had trapped her in. She had finally escaped and made it across the border, but directly into a camp of soldiers that imprisoned her and many others, hauling her unceremoniously by the hair and beating her into submission, stealing her belongings and clothes, and forcing her into the cold prisoner's garb that exposed her body to the frigid, unforgiving wind of Skyrim.

So I am to die here, she thought, as they rode into the Imperial town of Helgen, the walls crawling with fleas of soldiers, and frogs masquerading as knights. The town full of people loyal to this Empire she'd been hearing so much about, this Empire that had sentenced her to death for nothing other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She had been forced into this cart with other prisoners that talked too much, and forced upon her their names when she didn't desire them. All in all, the ride and capture had been a more unpleasant, and more regrettable experience than what awaited her. She was to die here.

And that suited her just fine.

What didn't suit her, however, was the man to her right- Ulfric Stormcloak, the blonde, talkative Nord had been all too happy to inform her-. He kept staring at her, at her hair. Finally, she snarled at him. "We are to die and all you can do is stare at me? All you men are exactly the same. At least face your death like a warrior, eyes forward and unafraid."

"How dare you speak to him like that," The blonde Nord had snarled, "He is the true High King!"

"I don't give two septims whether he's the High King of Skyrim or a horse's ass," She said bluntly, far past formality by now. "We are to die and I will say whatever I want. No longer will I have my voice silenced. I'll die saying whatever I want."

She could have sworn she heard the man to her right chuckle, but she didn't care enough to look back at him. Despite her bold words, her outburst had called a blush upon her cheeks.

So the Empire got them out of the carts, and called their names, and started the executions. She couldn't help but laugh. She supposed it was morbid and dramatic, but once they called her name, she was happy to sit on the chopping block and die, finally. She had come to this land seeking freedom, hadn't she? And what was more freer than death?

But that too, was taken from her in the form of something she didn't know, nor understand. All she knew is that before the blessed axe was to fall upon her neck, instead, a dragon fell upon the tower. The dragon caused the headsman to fall over, and then everything was blurry. She heard the blonde Nord from before shouting to her, but she was too busy still awaiting her death- either by the axe or by dragon, she cared not- she stayed there on the ground and waited for the end that she knew would come.

"Drag her," Said a deep, no-nonsense voice. "We don't have time to wait. Drag her, let's move!"

Then she was dragged, her prisoner's clothes covered with dirt and gravel, and dragged into the cursed safety of a dimly lit tower, where she firmly believed she had no idea what was going on.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" The blonde Nord asked, kneeling in front of her, his expression angry. Ralof, she remembered. His name was Ralof. "Don't you see what's going on out there? The gods gave you a chance to escape and you laid there like you were already a corpse!"

"Ralof," The same no-nonsense voice from before said, "Enough. Let me see her."

Then he knelt before her, and she saw that the deep voice belonged to the one who had been staring at her before. He took her wrists gently and cut the binds, before looking into her face. "A Breton," He observed. "How interesting. What's your name?"

She didn't answer, just flexed her hands, thankful to get some feeling in them.

"It's not every day someone calls me a horse's ass," He says, "I don't know why you're here, and I don't particularly care. But if you don't live to see the end of this day, and seek me out after all this is over, I will be very, very disappointed."

She looked at him, and her deep forest green eyes looked into his. His eyes were deep as well, but in a light blue, the color of water struck by sunlight. Suddenly, she felt a strange fire burning within her, as if his very presence was arousing within her something she thought she had lost- the will to live. "And why should I care if I disappoint you?"

"That is a very good question. Why do you care?" He stands up, and turns to Ralof. "Ralof. You and the Breton get out of here, and meet me in Windhelm."

"But Jarl Ulfric," The Nord protested, "What will you do?"

"Don't worry about me," He instructed, "Go!"

Inexplicably, she found herself doing what he said. That day she escaped with Ralof, who seemed to like her a lot better by the end of it.

"You're not bad, you know. A good fighter, as firey as your magic."

"You talk too much," She says, "But I suppose you're not bad either."

He grinned sheepishly. "If we are to go to Windhelm, it would be a good idea to head to Riverwood."

"Why." She asked, more a statement than a question. She was incredibly annoyed with these Nords, always with their plans and titles.

"My sister, Gerder, lives there. She can help us out, give us some supplies, get us on our way to Windhelm."

"And what makes you think I'm going with you?" She asserts, starting on the path down the road.

"But-" He hurries after her. "But...aren't you?"

"Your King seemed to assume this, but I'm under no obligation to follow his orders."

"You're not. But we could really use someone like you."

"And 'we' is?"

"The Stormcloaks! True sons and daughters of Skyrim!"

"Oh, you Nords and your bloody civil war." Her left nostril turns up in annoyance.

"You don't have to be a Nord to fight for Skyrim," Ralof presses. "And the Aldmiri Dominion won't stop with Skyrim, you watch. They will try and spread through all of Tamriel."

"I don't care," She says, burning a wolf alive that was stupid enough to try and attack them.

"Not even after the Empire tried to kill you?"

She stops a minute. "The Empire. What does this have to do with..."

"The Stormcloaks are fighting against the Empire," Ralof explained slowly. "Did you really jump the border without knowing what was going on here?"

"I was in a bit of a hurry," She said, irritatedly. "So the Stormcloaks are fighting against the Empire."

"Yes! The Empire has banned the worship of our sacred hero-god, Talos-"

"I don't care why." She said, and started walking again. "If I get to destroy those people, then I'll do it. I don't appreciate being taken advantage of."

"Taken advantage of?"

"I wanted to die and they took advantage of that."

Ralof has an expression of intense confusion, but she couldn't care less about that. Because he talks too much, however, and because he is needlessly annoying, he presses on. "I don't understand- took advantage?"

"If someone wants to die, and you promise to grant them that, do you expect that someone to struggle? No, and I did not, and I should have. I did not come into this land to seek death, I came to seek the life I could not lead elsewhere. As such..." Another wolf falls to her hand. "...As such, they will pay. I will serve your Stormcloaks, not because I believe in your ideals of Justice or your Talos or whatever it is...but because above all, I despise those that prey upon the weak."

Ralof is finally, blessedly quiet for a while.

And so it went. She of course, against her will, was dragged into doing one ill-fated quest or other, because, she supposed, no one in Skyrim could get things done on their own. She ended up retrieving some golden claw or other, some dragon stone or what have you- and actually coming face to face with a dragon again. This time, however, the fury in her bones at the sight helped her strike the horrid thing down without fear, and she muttered to its dying body,

"I will decide the time and place of my own death, and from here on out, I swear that I will be the one to choose my own life."

The words were spoken softly, but with venom and anger, and when she saw the glow from the dragon's skin, she assumed it was just something that happened when dragons died. But when she felt the warm wind and rush of air, and the sensation of power flowing through her- an ancient knowledge and warmth, and a brilliant joining, like the blessed union of lovers- she threw back her head and gasped, feeling her skin glow with power. And then, deep in her heart, she understood the meaning of that word she had happened upon in the barrow. Force.

"Dragonborn," They named her, but she couldn't care less what they called her, or what they wanted to label her. She had power, now. And power was freedom, and she would use it in whatever way she saw fit.

Upon completing her training with the Graybeards, upon understanding what she truly was, where she came from, and what she was meant to do, she knew exactly what she would do with this power of hers.

Force, Unrelenting Force.

To destroy those that would prey upon the weak.

They were arguing about something. It was not, as she would have assumed, why the stout one was wearing a dead bear on his head. Funny, she thought, because that's what she would have wanted to know.

No. They were arguing about Whiterun.

"Balgruuf is a good man. He'll come around."

"Tullius is already pressuring him. I-"

She didn't give a rat's ass about Whiterun. What she really wanted to know was,

"Why are you wearing a dead bear on your face?"

The stout one turned around sharply, his face filled with anger. "And who are you, woman, to barge into the Jarl's palace unbidden?"

"Define unbidden. I'm fairly sure Ulfric, or whatever, is expecting me."

"You rude-"

"Galmar...easy. She is correct, I have been expecting her." Ulfric smirked at her, still lounging on his throne, couth as ever. "It seems you didn't want to disappoint me after all, woman."

"You probably don't have half the sense you were born with, man," She fires back, "Is it not the essential function of all creatures to want to live?"

"Not you, and not that day."

"I changed my mind."

Ulfric's smirk widens. "And for that I am grateful. You never did give me your name."

"No, I didn't."

There was a pause.

The dead-bear-wearing man cannot stand it. "Address the Jarl with proper respect! Tell him your name!"

"My name is my own, and my own business, Nord," She said, turning her eyes to the rather annoyingly loud man.

"You are right," Ulfric said, "But what shall we call you?"

"That's for you to decide."

"I know what I'd like to call you," Galmar muttered angrily under his breath.

"Firemane," He said, "It suits you."

"I'll need a proper first name."

"I can't be the one doing all the work, now." Ulfric was clearly enjoying the exchange, and perhaps, so was she, but she was much more discreet about it.

"I got here, didn't I?"

"And so did I. Without Ralof's help."

Point to him. "Fine. You win this round, but don't get used to it."

"No? Do you believe winning is not something I achieve often?"

"It's not something you'll achieve often with me."

"Very well. Well, since I've won this round, I believe my terms must be met. You will choose your own first name."

She thought for a moment, then smiled, walking a little closer. "Gaella," She said, "Is it Nordic enough?"

"I would not have come up with it myself. But is a strange name, but beautiful in an exotic way. It suits you."

"Ugh, don't flirt with me."

Jarl Ulfric had a good laugh at that. "Galmar, do you hear this girl? Such honesty..."

"Any other Jarl would have thrown her in jail for disrespect by now," Galmar growls.

"And there is no other Jarl like me, or else I would not have been leading the rebellion. I am quite sure she's aware of her words as she speaks them."

"You got that right," She scoffs, "Balgruuf doesn't like me much."

"...Is that so? Tell me, what did you say to him?"

"That unless he could magically become two people, he wouldn't be able to stand on both sides of the fence forever. Soon, he is going to fall and explode, and all that hot air will come rushing out."

Galmar grinned. "Maybe I'll come to like you after all, girl,"

"I wish I could say the same," She says, "But you are still wearing a dead bear on your face, and it's hard for me to get past that."

"Get used to it girl, this is the outfit of a high-ranking Stormcloak officer."

"I assumed as much," She said, "And about that..."

"What did I tell you, Galmar? She's come to enlist. See to it that she does."

"Not so fast," Galmar says, eyeing her up and down. "She's a mage."

"And?"

"And I don't trust mages on principle. You'll have to prove yourself to me."

"I'm not sleeping with you."

There is an awed, awkward silence. Despite himself, Ulfric covers his mouth and bursts into laughter, though he had tried his hardest not to. "Galmar, you ought to see your face."

Indeed, Galmar's face was completely stricken with disbelief and revulsion.

"I don't know how it works in Skyrim," She says, feeling slightly embarrassed for the first time, "But I don't work that way. Where I come from, such propositions are not so uncommon."
"No," Galmar finally growls, "We prove our might by defeating foes here. Whether you are female or male, beautiful or ugly- these things matter not for the Nords. All that matters is how fiercely you can fight."

"Good. That's something I've never doubted my ability in," She says, grinning, "Just tell me what to do. I'll get it done and be back before dinner."

Galmar grinned back. "Now that's what I like to hear," He said. "Here. Take this map." He pulls a map out of his pocket, and circles an area located far to the north. "Kill me an ice wraith."

"Just one?"

"Kill more if you like, but at least one."

"Fine," She says, and turns to go.

"Wait!"

She looks over her shoulder. "What, bear-man?"

"Galmar," He says grumpily.

"Whatever."

"Take these." He tosses her some potions, and she catches them. "..Poison?"

"Just in case," He asserts. "You carry a blade, right?"

"Besides your tongue?" Ulfric adds.

"Of course," She says, and then is gone, not looking back this time.

Galmar shakes his head, sighing, and turns back to Ulfric, who is still chucking to himself.

"Galmar, have you ever met such a girl?"

"No, and I believe it's a good thing."

"My friend, as rude as she is, I cannot help but admire such a rare quality of honesty. Never will I have to wonder what she thinks of what I ask her to do."

"Surely there is a point in which it must stop," Galmar attests, "She is insulting."

"Not to us, she has not been."

"Ulfric, you can't be serious."

"Name one insult she threw."

"She said you didn't have half the sense you were born with."

"And that is true," Ulfric said, "I have more now."

"You know that's not what she meant."

"Perhaps not, but it is not an insult, not in my book. Not when it is so easily refuted. Any warrior with that fire might just give us the edge we need to win this war."

Galmar looked up at his King then, into his face. He looked as though years of his life had been erased- and he was doing something incredibly rare, something Galmar hadn't seen him do in years.

"You're smiling," He says with wonder.

"I know," He said, "I have been for a while. I knew that she was special the minute I saw her in Helgen."

"That is the woman you met in Helgen, looking defeated and ready to welcome death?"

"Yes," He said, "But all she needed to reignite was a little spark, which I was more than happy to give."

Galmar shook his head, looking back to the door. "A miracle."

"No," Ulfric said, "A blessing. The dragonborn."