As soon as he'd escaped the terrors of Helgen, Ulfric set for Windhelm—for you. He couldn't bear to be away from you any longer.

Of course he'd lashed out when he'd returned home only to find you missing. His guards informed him that not too long ago Imperials raided his city in his absence and captured whom matters to Ulfric most: his beloved spouse. The lot of them now lay in dungeons for what he's chalked up to be treason.

The reason for their jailing isn't entirely truthful, but it's true enough. They aren't real Nords if they let the Imperials take you. They should've resisted more, protected you better, fought harder.

The map he's holding tells him the Imperial camp should be ahead, somewhere through the thick snow storm. He doesn't care about the weather. He'll drag himself and his soldiers through acid rain just to get to you.

Ulfric squints into the white abyss, and then there's a flash of orange light. A flame. His heart jumps, the biting cold immediately forgotten. The camp. You.

He draws his sword from its sheath and holds it out to his side. The small army of men behind him freeze in their footsteps. They all seem to be holding their breath, anticipating, waiting, until finally, Ulfric moves. He darts ahead, and with lightning reflexes, the men follow into awaiting battle.