#stonerose

Galmar, never one to back down from a challenge, asks Ulfric what the Hell he did to the Dragonborn. He waits only for them to return to Windhelm and the privacy of the war room.

"What?" "Don't tell me you didn't notice the girl wouldn't look you in the eye." ". . .and so I must have done something to her?" "She has some kind of problem with you."

Ulfric grimaces.

"Galmar, if you were any one else, I'd clap you in irons for such an accusation." "If I were anyone else, I'd have actually accused you of something instead of asking."

The thing is, Ulfric doesn't know. The few times he's met the Dragonborn, she's shied away from him. This doesn't help Galmar.

What made someone so sacrificial so skittish?

When news comes that the World-Eater has been defeated and the Dragonborn is once again wandering through Skyrim, helping the needy on both sides of the war, this question burrows deeper into Galmar. He doesn't understand her.

When he voices his wonderment to Yrsarald, the other general just scoffs with a shake of his head.

"You'll want to keep an eye on her. I don't trust her." "Hmm."

The thing was, even if the Dragonborn didn't seem to trust Ulfric or the Stormcloacks or, perhaps, anyone, Galmar found himself trusting her. Her every play seemed to be for the betterment of Skyrim and her people. Yrsarald's musings that she was a Thalmor plant didn't sit right with Galmar. Even if that explained her neutrality at High Hrothgar and her aversion to Ulfric, the Dragonborn was too giving to be under the thumb of the Dominion.

At least, Galmar didn't think she was.

Then she sweeps into Windhelm like a spring wind, still cold from the death of winter but breathing new life in her wake.

Galmar is in Candlehearth Hall when the Dragonborn appears at the end of the bar, wearing a blue dress not dissimilar to the one she wore during the peace council. She offers him a smile.

"I don't think we were formally introduced: Leara Ormand."

Galmar gives her a nod, greeting her as he takes in the wide eyes and curling red hair. All the power of a dragon inside such a frail woman. But she defeated Alduin.

What was she afraid of?

Galmar is aware of Leara in the peripheral as she inserts herself into the investigations concerning the recent string of murders in the city. Ulfric is distracted by the war effort and the guards are spread thin as it is. Yrsarald advises they keep an eye on her, and Galmar agrees, though he thinks it is for a different reason than Thrice-Pierced. Yrsarald is thinking of the safety of WIndhelm and her Jarl. Galmar, Housecarl though he was, was thinking of the fear and frailty that seemed to shroud Leara.

This point is driven home when Leara catches the Butcher and recieves a knife wound in thanks.

Galmar visits her at Candlehearth, finding her reclined in a chair by the fireside. A plate with a half-eaten apple tart sits on the table nearby, but she's more engrossed in the cup of tea he helps her pour.

"I'm all right, General, though I thank you for your concern." "Thank me by not dying while in Windhelm. The Imperials will start pointing fingers."

Leara laughs, and Galmar finds himself chuckling with her.

After that, Galmar finds himself visiting Leara as she recovers. It isn't as if he didn't already leave to go to the bar, but now that dropping in on Leara is a part of that routine, Galmar becomes hyperaware of Ulfric and Yrsarald watching him. One night, over a week after Galmar first visited Leara, he turns to Ulfric.

"You could come with me."

It wasn't as if Ulfric never came with him to the bar. Maybe some housecarls got ornery about their Jarls visiting the local taverns, but Galmar never saw the harm in it. Actually, it was good for morale for the people to see the Jarl out amung them.

Ulfric frowns, his hand on his beard.

"I don't want to impose on the Dragonborn. She won't want to see me."

Galmar scoffs.

"Just say hello to her and then find us a table. That's hardly bothering her."

Galmar almost regrets asking Ulfric to come when Leara's eyes find the Jarl across the room and instantly widen into saucers. The fork in her hand, speared with apple tart, quivers before she sets it back on the plate.

(Why did she always have sweets when he came to visit? From what Galmar had seen, she never seemed particularly interested in them.)

Leara makes to stand, but Ulfric holds up a hand.

"Jarl Ulfric!" "Good evening, Miss Ormand. I want to thank you for the services you've rendered my people. Galmar has told me how you're recovering." "Oh, it was my pleasure. I, I'm just glad to have prevented any more deaths."

Ulfric offers Leara a soft smile. Galmar blinks as a rosy hue stains Leara's ears.

Ulfric does not leave to find a table. Leara invites them to sit with her. By the end of the evening, Galmar is reassessing everything he thought he knew about Leara's perception of Ulfric. There was a certain wariness in her shoulders when the Jarl was around, but she appeared somehow softer as she spoke to him.

Something twisted in Galmar's stomach.

Less than two weeks later, Leara is gone.

"Not for long, I think I'd like to come back."

But when Leara smiles at him. Galmar can't help but remember the smiles she gave Ulfric. No, she wasn't afraid.

She's . . . Galmar couldn't acknowledge it.

Not yet.

Galmar can't devote all his time to the Dragonborn, however. There's still a war on, and dragons about, though they seemed less troublesome since Leara defeated the World-Eater. It was wishful thinking that she would bring that same canny peace to the war that she did to the dragons. But Galmar could dream.

And he did, often. Out in the camps, strategizing with the commanders and coordinating movements, Galmar found himself pinpointing missions that the Dragonborn would excell at. He could almost see her flitting through the camp, a Stormcloak blue cloak with the bear insignia thrown over her silver armor.

Damn it, Galmar missed the elf.

He could see Yrsarald shaking his head.

Fort Snowhawk is a strategic position in Hjaalmarch. Seizing it would give them a launching point to take Morthal and seize the hold, bringing them right to Solitude's doorstep. But the winter is settling in and with it, storms.

Galmar is tired of the cold.

"General, someone to see you." "Who is it?" "Says she's the Dragonborn."

Galmar nearly knocks his half empty bottle of ale off the table in his haste.

There she was, a brown hood barely containing the riot of dark hair.

"If you're here to help, then it's about damn time."

She laughs. Galmar missed her laugh.

"I'm afraid this isn't that kind of call, General Stone-Fist."

Then Leara hands him an old leather wrapped scroll. Galmar stands at it.

"Forgive my ignorance, but I believe this is something you're looking for."

Galmar's mouth is dry as he unravels the scroll. And there it is. The map to the Jagged Crown.

"I knew those pointy ears of yours were good for something." "Listening is one of my special talents."

Leara's smile is coy. Galmar wants to ask her about her other talents, but this wasn't the time (if the time ever even came).

"Has Jarl Ulfric seen this?" "No? He wasn't the one searching for it." "He'll need to be told." "Surprise him."

Leara's smile widens a fraction. Galmar swallows.

Leara is there at Korvanjund when they retrieve the Jagged Crown. Galmar can't say he's not glad she's there: She always seems one step ahead of the Imperials, bandits, and draugr that dog their path. But by Talos, until she joins the Stormcloaks formally, she's a liability.

Just as quickly as Galmar recalls her blush and downcast eyes when meeting Ulfric in Candlehearth, he recalls her iron hand at the negotiation table that held both sides in check. Trusting her was easy when she didn't insert herself in the middle of Stormcloak special operations, moving through them like a needle through thread.

. . . even if Leara was uncannily helpful.

"I hear Leara has been instrumental in a few of your recent ventures." "It would seem so."

Ulfric's jovial tone does nothing to raise Galmar's spirits.

Why won't she commit?"

"You seem troubled." "The Dragonborn troubles me." "She didn't before. What's changed?" "Does it not bother you that she hasn't sworn loyalty to the cause?"

Ulfric's face falls into thought.

"She won't betray me." "That's not my concern."

Surprise colors Ulfric's face.

"Then what are you worried about?"

Galmar shakes his head. But in his gut, he somehow knows that an oath of fealty isn't needed to bind Leara and Ulfric together. That more than anything ticked at him. She wouldn't betray the Stormcloaks—Ulfric—to the Empire or the Dominion. Galmar knew that all too well.

Leara's aquisition of Hjerim only strengthens his certainty.

"Do you want to come over for dinner?"

Galmar stares at her.

Leara is in another blue dress, this one a cool blue like frost. A basket of produce is hooked at her elbow.

"Galmar, would you like to have dinner tonight?" "That depends, can you cook?" "Yes, and I can bake too!"

The smile and laughter together. Golden blue and morning birds. She reminded him of Cyrodiil, or at least the parts he'd seen that weren't burned in battle.

He watches her stroll away through the market before realizing he never asked who else would be at Hjerim that evening. Well, he knows for sure at least one person . . .

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Clenching his jaw, Galmar crosses his arms.

"You mean she didn't invite you to dinner?"

Ulfric shrugs, clearly just as baffled.

Women. Who could understand them?

When he shows up at Hjerim, there is literally no one else there. Except Leara, of course. And her housecarl from Whiterun. But the dark-haired woman just smirks at him before disappearing upstairs with a bottle of ale and a tray of shortbread.

What was going on?

"Won't you sit down?"

Galmar sits down. Leara wasn't kidding before when she said she could cook: There is a lamb roast, potatoes and carrots, hot bread, butter, several sliced cheeses, and braised cabbage. In her hands, Leara cradles a Breton vintage he can't place.

"There's a custard in the kitchen. I couldn't get any lemons, so I bought some snowberry jam and swirled it in."

His throat dry, Galmar can only nod. There is an honest, earnest light in Leara's eyes that he can't quite face.

He would.

"Jarl Ulfric doesn't like snowberry jam." "And? What does he have to do with our dinner?" "It's something to keep in mind before you serve him the real meal." "The real meal? What are you talking about?" "This is a practice dinner before you ask Jarl Ulfric to come here."

The yellow-white bottle makes a soft thud as Leara deposites it on the table. Her eyes fix on Galmar, her mouth pops open.

"Is that . . . are you serious? No, of course you are!"

Ah. She was upset. Before Galmar can puzzle out how he's upset her, Leara sinks into a chair, her head in her hands. Galmar braces himself for either crying or some other hysterics, but no, Leara only sighs. Sitting beside her, Galmar clears his throat.

"Look, you don't get where I am in life without being able to admit you're wrong. This isn't some test run for a fancy meal for Ulfric, is it?" "Not at all."

She props her chin on the heel of her palm, a vaguely amused quirk to her otherwise tired mouth.

"It's for you." "I see that now, Ormand." "Do you?"

Then Leara is facing him, a hard set to her pale gold face. She looks far too Altmer in that moment, and Galmar only just refrains from shifting in agitation from the abrasive moonstone in her gaze.

"It was all for you."

This admission is so sudden, Galmar can't hold back the stunned,

"What?"

that escapes him.

Nodding, Leara squares her shoulders.

"The Jagged Crown? The field work? The brawl in Dawnstar—" "The what." "Oh, never mind that! Don't get distracted!" "You got into a brawl—" "For you!" "Why would you do something so stupid?!"

Reflectively, other women might have slapped him or screamed at him. If he were very lucky, they might only vocalize wordless frustration and then storm off.

Leara is not other women.

A slender hand reaches up and pats Galmar's cheek, before settling to rest on his jaw. Galmar's insides churn, heating. Leara's smile is accommodating and amused.

Oh.

Then she pinches his sideburns, not quite gently.

"You drove me to foolishness."

Then Leara is kissing him, and Galmar is very glad that this is not a practice dinner for Ulfric because after this, he isn't letting Leara run off to another man, even if that man is his Jarl and oldest friend. And then all thoughts of Ulfric and of Leara and Ulfric together disappear. Everything is Leara, her warmth contrasting the taste of frost and winter on her tongue.

He pulls her into his lap so he can wrap his arms around her. Blue skirts fall like glacial water over his knees as Leara presses into him, her arms winding around his neck.

The bear helm hits the floor.

Galmar growls and stands, arms full of Dragonborn. He trails kisses down her jaw, hoisting her up to better access her neck.

"Galmar . . . dinner . . ." "We'll have dinner, don't worry."

And they do. And then they have the lamb for dessert. If it's a bit cold, Galmar doesn't complain. He's warm enough, laying on the hearth rug with Leara. Tomorrow, he would feel it in his back, but tonight, he was quite content where he was.

However, when Leara rouses him at half past three to come to eat custard with her in her bed, Galmar doesn't regret following her somewhere more comfortable

The next day, when Ulfric discovers just what dinner with Leara had led to, Galmar can only laugh at his friend's slackjawed face. Later when he tells Leara about it (mercifully nested in her bed), she finds it as funny as Galmar did.

There's still a war going on and dragons are still terrorizing innocent farmers and travellers. Talos help him, but he's got to get Ulfric through the Moot and on the throne without any idiotic heroics or ill-begotten assassination attempts. It's all a bit daunting, but Leara's there, and if there's one thing Galmar knows, it's that he can trust her to be there when he needs her. And she'll be there, iron fist and all.