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Moments prior, Imperial Legion stormed the gates of Windhelm.
Unahzaal, they called her. That witch, spells and curses guard her like armor, sapping strength from men, mer and beast alike. Legion hit a jackpot, those baneful words can bring down a dragon. Unahzaal - "unending", in their tongue. Marks of devourers painted across a fair face, like some grim flush of colour, a blush and a smile. But those eyes betray everything. Cold and empty like a shark, that one.
She sat there, on the throne, Ulfric's blood still dripping from feathers scuplted onto her polished armor. War was over. Good riddance, a grim affair that was.