CHAPTER TEN

Ulfric was eight years old when a monk approached the throne of his father. He had been learning how to handle a sword - a wooden one - in the courtyard with a young man named Galmar Stone-Fist, who was chosen to be the heir of Windhelm's housecarl from a young age. The two wrestled and trained together, although Galmar - many years his senior - was always a friend and a teacher. He was the older brother that Ulfric never had, and the bond of their friendship was strong, even at a young age.

"Your presence is required in the throne room, young lord," a servant beckoned him, and Galmar followed, never far behind his young charge.

That was when Ulfric met Arngeir for the first time, and explained that Ulfric was strongly gifted by the goddess Kynareth, and had the potential to become a Greybeard himself one day.

Their meeting was short, and Arngeir was offered a guest's quarters as Ulfric's family was given time to think on the decision and prepare their son for the journey to High Hrothgar. Ulfric's father was unable to deny his son to the ancient order of monks, even though he was his father's only heir to the throne of Windhelm, and his mother had passed away two years ago, unable to conceive more children throughout their marriage. Everyone kept telling Ulfric what a "tremendous honor" it was to be selected by the Greybeards to train with them, even his father.

Ulfric admired his father greatly and agreed with whatever he said, but privately all he knew was that this was going to force him to leave his home, his father, and his friend Galmar behind. Nevertheless, in a week he was packed up and journeyed to the monastery with his new mentor.

Although Ulfric's father was greatly pained and disappointed to let his only son go, he was comforted in the fact that his son was to join the Greybeards, an order that was greatly revered throughout the ages since the time of Jurgen Windcaller. If Ulfric had known in advance that he would have been unable to resist the call to battle during the Great War, he would have refused Arngeir in the first place to save his father a second great loss.

When Ulfric returned home to collect weapons and a set of armor, his father was enraged and embarrassed at his son's desertion. He was eighteen, and it had been ten years since he had laid eyes on his father, but their meeting had been a firestorm of an argument, one where Ulfric stormed out with Galmar to join the Imperial Legion.

That was the last time that he ever spoke with his father.

Between the resolution of the war and his personal rebellion, Ulfric and the Great Bear of Eastmarch did not have the time to rekindle their relationship. When he was captured during the Markarth Incident and heard that his father had died, he realized that he would carry with himself a lifetime of regrets.

It was snowing in the city of Windhelm.

In the essence of fairness, it was always snowing – always. Even when the sun stretched over rising dawn, the warmth never did quite manage to shake the chill free from the earth. It was never particularly sunny, either; a mottled cloak of clouds swathed the light and muted the faces of the sun that looked over Windhelm as a dull specter, casting the city in a numbing grey most days of the year.

Unlike the other Holds, the walls and streets of Windhelm were comprised of a hard, black stone, and when winter fell, the city showed its colors in black and white. The steward had a host of masons and workers on payroll to keep the city intact, well-kept, and scraped of snow and ice, but none of that snow ever truly melted – and it was impossible to keep all the streets completely cleared and salted when the snow simply refused to stop falling.

Some flakes from the dusting of powder clung to the edges of Ulfric's cloak as it swished to accommodate his gait. His pace was measured and his posture was authoritative, but his eyes were squinted as he sought his way.

Even with the sun turning its gaze from his city, the glare off the snow was intense, and when the grey light fell over the city, it was difficult to see the dips in the stone and snow, making it easy to fall. Down on the ground, the breaks in the snow coverage whispered to him that there was life in the stone, and that the world existed beneath the chill. It was hard to imagine that world sometimes when he looked out of his windows at the Palace of Kings and saw nothing but rolling plains of white; the snow and ice crushed the wild to submit under its weight and struck out at interlopers with penetrating gales and fierce winds that tore the limbs off trees.

Any native of Skyrim boasted of his toughness in taming her wild lands, but it was only those who were the sons of Eastmarch that could truly say they thrived in the chill. Ulfric felt that this was the bosom of Skyrim, much like their ancient homeland of Atmora – unlike the cushier lands out west, where the Jarls drank pleasant southern wines and felt the balm of the sun warm their faces throughout the year. This was a hard and a cruel land, and it knew the harsh truths of the world: it was an appropriate place for a king, especially a High King. Solitude had long held the seat of High King, but Ulfric believed that it was a hard land that made for a hard ruler. To him, Windhelm - the throne of the ancient kings - was the only place where a ruler had to constantly test his mettle: to grow soft in a place like Windhelm would mean certain death, and so all those who came before him had been tough men and women, the likes of which were worthy of sitting upon a throne. Windhelm shaped its men and women into enduring, resourceful, and hardy folk, and its rulers matched the toughness of the Nord kings of old.

The people looked to him and smiled as he passed on the same streets his subjects did, and he did his best to return their affections. As of late, he had been almost solely confined to Ysgramor's ancient palace, devoting his waking hours – and sometimes his sleeping ones – to the matters that required his attention. Although he was a busy man, he chastised himself for not spending more times in the city itself; the people, after all, had won him the war, and they deserved to see that he cared enough to walk among them rather than sitting on a cushy throne. His father had taught him such long ago.

His eyes took a moment to adjust to the grey and white, having grown too used to the candlelight of the castle, and he blinked away the bleariness that temporarily clouded his vision.

It had been too long since he'd seen his city and too long since he'd visited the crypt, although those were the people who would always wait.

Down the landing from where the walls opened to the palace was the Stone Quarter, stymied off into either direction with long, winding staircases. Ulfric took the one on the right, a long, narrow descent which could easily make a man lose his footing and join the tombstones near the cemetery. Before the cemetery was a large, heavy-handled door made of brass, sealing away the buried into the Hall of the Dead.

Death in Windhelm had some mystery to it. The cold slowed the decaying process, and oftentimes bodies could be preserved almost indefinitely – as if they refused to die and completely leave the world. In a Hold where nothing truly lived, then what could truly die?

With those thoughts, Ulfric placed his hand on the door – the chill sinking through his gloves and into his fingers – and entered the darkness.

The scent of the Hall of the Dead always made him a little nauseous; the catacombs were dry and musty, the smell of ancient decay fighting with the scents of various perfumes, oils, and fluids used in rites and preservation. There was a distinct, sickly sweet smell that wrinkled his nose, but he paid it little mind. Each Hall of the Dead was cold, but because Ulfric was out of the wind, it soon felt warmer to his senses – and the dark took the strain off his eyes as he adjusted to the candles that seemed to float from their perches. He shook the snow from his hair and followed the trail of lights father down.

Unless they specified otherwise or had their own cemetery plots, the dead of Eastmarch always had a place in the Hall of the Dead. There were family lines that went back ages and generations, honeycombing the tunnels that stretched under the city. The honored dead could be visited by anyone at any point in time, but it was almost always quiet and near-empty.

As he ventured deeper into the Hall, the silence was gradually dispelled by inane palavering.

Ulfric smiled.

Following the bounce of the old crone's voice off the walls, Ulfric sought out Helgird – prostrated in front of the Arkay shrine. For an old woman who appeared half-addled, her senses were remarkably sharp; at the sound of boots on the stone floor, she drew herself up.

"Milord," she greeted. Although priests and priestesses were mere men, they were removed from the sort of circles that impressed social decorum on normal folk. Instead of a curtsey or a bow, she merely inclined her head and brusquely inquired, "Here to see the tomb?"

Ulfric nodded, and Helgird removed a torch from the wall, using it to lead him deeper into the tomb. The flames flickered and danced, creating whimsical shadows from unseen objects upon the walls in a nonsensical puppet show.

They passed many alcoves of lit candles hovering over urns and coffins where the bodies of his fallen Stormcloak brothers rested. The Imperials liked to burn the dead in their own fashion, but Ulfric demanded his men retrieve any and all slain soldiers in the civil war from the battlefield to be brought home to their native Holds - many of which were from Eastmarch - where they could be laid to rest in Nord custom. For those who had given their lives in fraternity with him and his cause, no measures were too extravagant or inconvenient to ease their passing; they were buried as heroes in the deep underground catacombs of his city. The comfort of that thought only took the edge off of the burden it placed on his mind, as despite their graveside laurels, they were all still men he had lost. The walls of flickering candles that illuminated their coffins and urns reminded him, yet again, of the price of freedom that he had paid to liberate Skyrim, and the ensuing toll it would exact in the coming war with the Thalmor. Those thoughts troubled him deeply, and he tried to keep his eyes forward with every step.

The chill of the tomb increased as they drew nearer to the halls where the former Jarls of Windhelm slept. Ulfric freed a torch for himself, familiar with these portions of the catacombs, and he drew himself near a twin pair of coffins, where a Jarl and his wife were seated in stone upon chiseled thrones.

Helgird nattered away, as was her custom. Ulfric didn't mind; it filled the silence as he stared at the stonework. At some point in his thinking, however, he interrupted her.

"How did my father die, Helgird?"

Helgird paused with a sharp intake of breath, which she let go slowly into a sigh. It was as she expected: it was the same question that Ulfric asked every time he visited his father's tomb. She didn't know why he always asked the question, as the answer remained the same; perhaps the Jarl simply liked the knife twisted in deeper each time for his perceived faults.

Dutifully, with an oft-repeated ring, the priestess said, "No one is sure how your lord father died, child."

"But you examined the body, priestess, before laying him to rest. Surely there is something you must have seen. Perhaps there is something more you remember."

Helgird drew closer to the Jarl of Windhelm's side, holding up her torch with his so that the flames passed over his father's carved face.

"In this war, I have seen the bodies of countless dead. When I prepare them for the grave, their bodies can tell me a short story of their lives and an indication of how they died. I have seen evidence of sickness, of lacerations, of exsanguination, and all deaths quick and clean or slow and excruciating. Your father's death was not like these men - he was much older, and carried a greater burden. One day he simply fell asleep and did not rise the next morning."

"You once told me his body showed great sign of strain."

"Well, yes…. but considering that the Empire was waging a war, and his only son was fighting in it, it is easy to see how such stress might have contributed to his condition. And then when the Thalmor took possession of you again in Markarth…"

"Are you saying I killed my father by being captured?" Ulfric asked.

Helgird looked him frankly in the eye, without the caution that most common folk would exhibit, "I'm saying that an age where sons bury their fathers is an age that is just, my Jarl. Not like the other way around - not like now, where fathers send their sons off to war and they never return to them in this life. There are worse things."

Ulfric considered her words, and conceded on that point. He started this war and he finished it. He did not regret that. What he did regret is that it took so much bloodshed to make it so. As much as he lamented the losses incurred, he could not imagine how a priestess to the god-shepherd of dead souls reconciled with all the bodies that were sent her way, as it was her who washed their bodies, dressed them in their death shrouds, and sent them on their way to the next life. She tended to them as dutifully as she had to his own parents; each person who came to her was equally important in her eyes.

Ulfric pressed on. "If he died in his sleep, do you think he found his way into the halls of Sovngarde, then?"

"Well, you father was a great warrior in his time. He earned his name, 'The Great Bear' for his skill in battle, not his table manners. He may have died on his sickbed, but his housecarl handed him his axe before the passing." She paused. "I have no doubt that your father proved himself to Tsun and is with his forefathers in the halls of Shor's warriors."

It filled Ulfric with a sense of peace that his father and mother laid beside one another in death, and that their likenesses were impressed upon the stone by skilled masons, their marble effigies seated beside one another. It filled him with great bitterness, however, that he was not the one to oversee the task himself, having been imprisoned and only able to deliver his father's eulogy by a letter he smuggled out of Markarth. The stonemason that carved their figures knew their faces well, however, and Ulfric couldn't say that he didn't do an accurate job. His father's likeness was bearded and coarse; his mother was an image of loveliness, soft features and a kind expression, even through the cold of the stone.

"And my mother?"

Helgird had little contact with people - the living, anyways. She placed sprigs of snowberry in his father's lap. This question seemed to puzzle her. "Milord?" she asked.

"I asked about my mother." Ulfric cupped the stone's cheek, his thumb stroking over its cold smoothness. In this tomb she looked no older than the last day he saw her - the day that the fever took her from the world, back when he was a young boy who hadn't yet answered the call of the Greybeards. "Do you think she is with my father in the afterlife?"

Helgird's hesitation dragged onto into a silence. Stiffly, Ulfric turned to her, feeling her shrinking away from the question and challenging her to answer it.

"Well?" he demanded, brooking no room for retreat.

Helgird's old and weathered face furrowed into a frown, before she released a surrendering huff. "Your noble mother was no warrior, my lord," she said simply.

Ulfric turned from the priestess and took a hard look at his mother's face, immortalized in stone. Although his lady mother was no warrior, those words didn't quite chill him to the bone, as he knew a secret that she didn't: his father taught her how to fight with a sword so that she might find her way before Shor's hall and give Tsun such a surprise that they would be able to spend the afterlife together in Sovngarde. Such was the magnitude of their love, and their devotion to each other. Although nothing was certain, and he would only know for sure when he joined his ancestors in the afterlife, he hoped that one day he would be greeted by both of his parents in Sovngarde, and that his father would look upon him with pride.

"You still mourn them deeply, Jarl Ulfric," Helgird observed.

Ulfric closed his eyes, trying to remember their faces in flesh, rather than stone.

"As does any son who loses their parents too soon. Throughout the war, I looked for guidance wherever I could find it: from Talos, from my parents, and from my memories of the Skyrim that once existed, and could exist again. Perhaps my heart will be at peace when I find myself worthy of the throne of my father, and the throne of Ysgramor."

"Do you think you haven't, Jarl? The people rejoice in your victory."

"All my life, I have been running away from my responsibilities," Ulfric said simply. "At least, that's what my father told me: when I ran away from the Greybeards to join the war and when I ran away from the throne he was aging upon to start a rebellion. In the end, all I hope is that he will have the forgiveness to watch over me and give me guidance, so that I can uphold his memory in honor and rule in a way that will finally make him proud."

—

Ulfric spent the morning paying his respects to his ancestors and brothers in arms in the Hall of the Dead, before consulting Talos in his temple for greater guidance. He missed Jora, the priestess there, and hoped she was fairing well in Solitude. Although he was often reticent to share his private thoughts, wishes, and deepest fears with her out loud - as Windhelm's confidence had teetered since his father's death, and it wouldn't help for him to show weakness to anyone, even a priestess - she would often simply sit beside him on the benches in silence and offer wisdom in intervals, oftentimes her words striking very close to the mark. He missed that about her; the Temple wasn't the same in her absence, and he was eager for the day that she might return. It was with a heavy heart that he initiated her journey to Solitude, but he knew that the high priest and priestess there scoffed at Talos's godhood, and if anyone could inspire the fierce love of their hero-god, it was the sharp-tongued Jora.

Her return depends on Solitude, I suppose, he thought, and his expression darkened. He rose from the bench in the Temple of Talos and inclined his head politely to the other supplicants in the room.

The dim lighting upon the stone of the main hall of the Palace of Kings was welcome compared to the grey veil hanging over Windhelm outside. His guards hailed him upon his return, and he acknowledged their greeting with a nod of the head. The banners at the end of the massive hallway were embroidered with the sigil of the bear, after his father, and hung right above the throne. It felt as if all the stones of this ancient castle were watching him, and he hoped to add to its honorable history.

"Ahh, Ulfric. Out for a stroll?"

Ulfric's eyes focused on the source of the noise, and he greeted its owner with a grin and a clap on the shoulder.

"Galmar," he praised, "Vigilant as always."

"I may be general of your armies, but I am still your housecarl, first and foremost," Galmar reminded him.

"You think a future High King shouldn't walk amongst his people?" Ulfric questioned.

"I think that a future High King should especially walk amongst his people," he emphasized, returning the clap on his shoulder with his own. "It does the people good to see their leader - you know that. Only when it doesn't interfere with this gods-damned paperwork we have piling up in our conference room."

"Forgive me, old friend," Ulfric chuckled. "I was up all night with stationary. I needed to see the light of day. If I had known that being High King meant so much paperwork, perhaps I would have just let Torygg keep the damned crown," he joked.

"We're soldiers, Ulfric. It is not in our nature. We wield swords and axes, not quills."

"It is necessary, unfortunately," he lamented. "But I suppose that my break is at an end. Tell me, how goes the training and recruitment, Galmar?"

With a hand on Galmar's shoulder, the two amicably made their way to the room where they used to hold their war council. The map on the giant table in the center had been moved to one of the walls, each Hold now pinned with blue flags: it was a trophy of sorts that reminded them of their victory. The table the map used to occupy was now surrounded by chairs, and stacked with letters both finished and half-completed, as well as correspondence from other Holds coming in every day. Ulfric swore that the couriers would become the next lords of Skyrim if they weren't careful, for they were certainly facing even greater employment now as Ulfric was beginning to assume his duties as High King, the official title notwithstanding. Most High Kings of Skyrim honored tradition and allowed the other Holds to live in autonomy, but with a war against the elves somewhere on the horizon, Ulfric needed to centralize his power like few other High Kings in history had before in order to strengthen his country as a whole. Fortunately, all the current Jarls supported him, and even if they didn't like him looking over their shoulders, he had armies in every city to ensure that his will was carried out.

Both Ulfric and Galmar tended to think better on their feet, but that was with war; as soldiers, they both took a seat at the table to brace themselves for the paperwork that was inevitable.

"We are finding able-bodied recruits in every Hold, Ulfric," Galmar answered, grunting as his backside hit the low chair. "Save for Haafingar, of course."

Ulfric relaxed as casually into the chair as he did in his throne, and he rubbed his fingers together thoughtfully as he considered this. "I imagine Elisif and her court are desperately drowning in the demands we gave her," he shrugged, unconcerned. "I do not expect her to succeed in finding the same number of recruits as the other major Holds, considering Haafingar's longstanding ties to the Empire. I'm not worried about Haafingar supplying all of their own troops. Still, we need enough men to replenish and strengthen our fighting force, in case the Empire sends some skirmish parties to test the strength of our determination. If Haafingar fails to conscript enough men, we need to have a force in the event that the Empire attempts to take back Solitude."

Galmar shifted through a stack of papers beside him and cackled, laughing from deep within his belly. "I would agree with you on that point, but the Empire might be a bit more preoccupied with internal matters. I imagine every nobleman in Cyrodiil with even the most marginal relation to Titus Mede II is championing his right to succeed the poor, assassinated Emperor right now. Imperial successions have a nasty history to them; I doubt Skyrim is high on their list of priorities at this current time, and it might take some time for the in-fighting to subside long enough for them to consider issues abroad. I'd say we've earned a reprieve on that front, and for that I would like to buy the man or woman who killed that damned Emperor several drinks."

Ulfric's brow furrowed. "The assassination of the Titus Mede may be fortunate in timing for us, Galmar," he chastened, peering over the desk in greater seriousness than his comrade, "but if the Dark Brotherhood can kill an emperor, it means that they can certainly kill me - and I have many enemies. I would be a bit more concerned if I were you."

"Are you talking about Elisif?" Galmar asked, incredulously.

Ulfric thought for a moment before shrugging once more nonchalantly. "No…" he thought aloud. "Putting aside her hatred for me in her oaths of fealty was certainly a lie, as I have no doubt she still harbors a grudge. However, I think our sanctions against her have frightened her enough so that she is not a threat. She has no power in her own court, and those that do are divided amongst themselves. My enemies could live secretly here, or far afield in other lands - and Solitude will be the city they aim to reclaim."

"I'm keeping my boot on Elisif's throat and pressing down as often as I can," Galmar rumbled, and to emphasize his point, he squeezed a fist tightly as if wringing the neck of a bird, "and I am not the type of man who will relinquish that pressure. Even if our enemies do try to penetrate Solitude's defenses and manipulate it for their own ends, she will be too weak to be another puppet - and our spies in the city and within her court have their eyes and ears open to anything and everything."

Ulfric stroked his beard, thinking of the simpering Lady Elisif in the golden city of Solitude. The last time he saw her was the day of the Battle for Solitude, when she quaked with fear as she swore fealty to him. He never bore a grudge against her; he never wanted her death. She was like a songbird without talons, beautiful to look at but never dangerous; he preferred her in a gilded cage rather than with a wrung neck, as Galmar once suggested.

Even though Galmar had long since abandoned the Legion, he was solely a soldier at heart: seek and destroy was his sole prerogative as a strategy to confronting his problems. If it were up to him, all the Jarls that backed the Empire during the war would be dead.

Ulfric, on the other hand, had other things to think about: he was a Jarl seeking to be High King, and he had to calculate each of his moves for an intended effect, ones that would look favorable to him in order to succeed. All of Skyrim knew his strength as a warrior, but that didn't mean he enjoyed killing everything and everyone that stood in his way; displacing the Jarls and leaving them in disgrace was a more powerful message than any other he could think of.

"Elisif is the least of our problems, Galmar," Ulfric repeated. "I specifically gave her those list of impossible demands to keep her so occupied that you need not waste any energy on her, but here you are, throwing away precious spies and resources monitoring her every movement. Focus your worthy energy on our defenses and armies instead."

"I understand your feelings, Ulfric. I am not forsaking my other responsibilities in order to keep the throne of Solitude in line. Nevertheless, I will keep applying pressure to the Jarl of Haafingar. As your housecarl and general, it is my job to manage your armies and identify any and all threats that could harm you. You may not believe Elisif is a threat, and perhaps she isn't currently, but if there's even the slightest chance that she might be some day, it is my job to crush her. As I have ever cautioned you," Galmar reminded, in words he had heard all his life, "don't be so sure of yourself."

Galmar retrieved a specific stack of papers and shoved them across the heavy wooden table toward his Jarl.

"To prove my point: here, Jarl. Recent news from Haafingar."

Curious, Ulfric sifted through the papers and glanced at their contents. When he was finished, he tossed them back to the table.

"So? What of it?"

"Did you even read the other letters?" Galmar sighed heavily. "One of my finest officers, Istar Cairn-Breaker, is keeping a close eye on her and sends me frequent reports of his own observations and that of his personal spies. You think that she is powerless and that her court is divided, but in the past few weeks she has shown a remarkable change in her rule. Her court is rallying behind her, and she is forming friendships with neighboring Holds, making new businesses and intending to establish trade routes with them to rebuild."

"So, she is finally learning how to manage a Hold," Ulfric rolled his eyes. "Gods help her, it is about time. When I need Skyrim to finally unite against the Thalmor, a resourceful Solitude will benefit Skyrim as a whole."

"And what if she decides to use her wealth and connections to turn those Jarls against you?" Galmar grumbled, annoyed that his Jarl was not taking her nearly as seriously as he did.

Ulfric stroked his beard thoughtfully once again, but still dismissed the notion.

"It will not happen," Ulfric insisted. "The Silver-Bloods are old friends and comrades of mine from the Forsworn uprising after the Great War. They will not stray, especially not now that they hold all the strings of wealth and political power in the Reach. As for Sorli the Builder, she went from a miner to a Jarl in one battle - she has far surpassed her station than most people can ever hope for in one lifetime, and it is all thanks to my authority."

"Perhaps for now. But what happens in a month? Two months? Six months? A year? Two years?" Galmar asked. "Who is to say that they will not fatten themselves on Solitude's coin and raw resources, and begin to suckle at the teat of Haafingar in lieu of continuing their loyalty to you? That damned girl was raised in Cyrodiil, Ulfric! It could become another war to purge the Jarls whose interests have shifted."

"Or, her resources could benefit all of Skyrim."

Ulfric rubbed his fingers together again, and stared out the window of the council room as his friend neglected to answer. His city lay beneath him, and beyond that, the great expanse of the white plains. His brow lowered heavily over his eyes, and his lips pressed together.

"Galmar," he asked flatly, his eyes still to the window, "what have you done?"

Galmar's face tightened into a mask of harsh seriousness, although the corners of his eyes glimmered with satisfaction.

"Merely pressing the boot down a little bit harder," he said snidely.

Ulfric closed his eyes and sighed heavily.

"Galmar, I am not in the mood."

"Fine, Ulfric. I send a warrant for her arrest bearing Windhelm's seal to our Officer there to arrest her and bring her to her own dungeons. I don't want her to get too comfortable in her new power and authority. It has been some time since our troops have given her a hard time, and she needed a reminder of that we are always watching."

"You sent her to Castle Dour?" Ulfric's eyes narrowed, annoyed. He demanded so incredulously that his voice echoed off the stones of the walls, "On what charges?"

"We have enough intelligence to bring her in on suspicion of conspiracy alone," Galmar pounded that same clenched fist on the table. "She'll be there long enough to give my men time to adequately comb through her records, letters, and correspondences to ensure there is no sinister undertone to her new political moves. A lot of correspondence is moving between her Hold and her neighbors, and we have to be sure that it is all legitimate in business, especially since they are starting high up in the mountains and could hide a lot of men there. It should also give us enough time to scare her into being a compliant little puppet once more. I need to check her growth before she feels too big for her throne, which could lead to some complications for us down the line."

The muscles in Ulfric's jaw jumped, and the scar on his face rippled with displeasure. "I never knew you were a sadist, Galmar."

"This has nothing to do with that!"

"You are spending an awful lot of time on Torygg's widow," Ulfric accused. "She swore fealty to me, and with my army in her city, in their homes, and in her palace, she will continue to uphold those vows of loyalty. Until you have something tangible, your efforts are better spent elsewhere."

"They are, Ulfric. My energies are focused everywhere. But do you think that just because the war is over and she swore fealty at knifepoint that she will not act in her own interests? Elisif just happens to be one little bird I'm keeping my eye on in case I need to pluck her flight feathers. Or perhaps the more apt analogy: she married to the throne of Solitude, the throne of the wolf, and wolves mate for life. You and I both know the wrath of a woman scorned, and the loss of her husband will not readily abate in her mind."

"Do not let Elisif linger long in Castle Dour, Galmar. That is an order," he said sternly. "I do not approve of your actions, but since you have put this in motion without asking me first, then carry it out quickly. I want your man in Solitude to know that as well. For now, a successful Jarl is of more use to me than a jailed one. No more than a few days, Galmar."

Galmar rose from his chair and threw his hands up in the air. "Bah!" he huffed. "Ulfric, let me remind you that you put me in charge of managing the Jarls - to establish the legitimacy of the new ones, and to keep an eye on the old ones to ensure that they fall in line long enough for the Moot. If you want to take charge of this duty, then you let me know - otherwise, let me do my work for you!"

"I am not gainsaying your ability to lead and control, Galmar," Ulfric countered, firing him a look that urged him to sit down. Although they were close, both had tempers, and though they were far too old to wrestle it out like they did when they were children, the occasional argument did occur. "I am merely asking you to leave Torygg's widow be. I heard about the riot that happened many weeks ago at the speech Elisif was supposed to deliver, and I have no doubt her and her supporters think it was us. A little pressure is fine, but if you press too hard, you'll break her neck - and then all of her supporters might find cause to rise up again. I don't have the time to spare on fallout from your actions."

Galmar sat, and a growl rumbled from deep within his chest. "Hmmph." Galmar narrowed his eyes. "Your soft spot for women might unseat you one day… that is, not if I have something to say about it."

"I do not have a soft spot for women. I have killed women on the battlefield, and I have unseated women here in Skyrim."

"Yet you feel guilty for Jarl Elisif, because you killed her husband."

Ulfric did not have an answer for that. He did not regret killing Torygg - he did not love the act of killing, but Torygg's defeat in a challenge in the old way was a necessary step in showing Skyrim - and indeed, all of Tamriel - that it had strayed from its old ways. Torygg was a message to the Jarls and to the Empire that he was ready to challenge their authority over Skyrim and its culture, and prove that Skyrim was strong enough to rule herself.

No, Ulfric did not regret killing Torygg. But he did remember the screams of his wife as his sword pierced his heart.

"I thought as much," Galmar muttered. "Jarl, you will be High King very soon. You need as few stones in your heart as possible. What you did was right, and you have an entire country now that supports you to show for it. And here, this might change your mind as well."

Ulfric took the offered letter, and read it carefully. He frowned once more.

"This says…"

Galmar nodded. "Exactly."

"I suppose it is unlike the Jarl of Solitude to suddenly have such a burst of inspiration."

"Now you must see my concern, Ulfric." Galmar took Ulfric by the arm and gave it a slight shake. "Those Jarls that fled to the Blue Palace after you unseated them are still there, and they are acting as her advising council! They are all still there, save that boy from Falkreath!"

Ulfric tore his arm from Galmar's grasp.

"I told you that you should have executed Balgruuf and all the rest after the battles," Galmar hissed.

"Leave it, Galmar," Ulfric warned. "We have gone over this many times before. I do not wish to speak of this again."

"Then do not speak - listen! I told you to kill the former Jarls to eliminate them as threats! Now you have all of your enemies concentrated in one place, discussing and planning who-knows-what! You are a warrior Ulfric, and soon to be a king, and yet you always have hesitated to give the order for bloodshed when it was necessary. Would you have killed Torygg had I not encouraged you to follow your instincts? Would you have mustered your army to attack Whiterun had I not pressed so hard after Balgruuf returned your axe to you?"

"Remember yourself, Galmar," Ulfric warned again. "Recall that it was I who conceived of these ideas. The war has been won, and decidedly."

"I am remembering myself! I am remembering how I was always your biggest supporter and the source of your encouragement - you may have dreamed of the war, but I am the one who has always given you the push to make it a reality! I am your housecarl, charged with preventing your enemies from harming you! Yet you refused to heed my council on the matter of the deposed Jarls, and now you have all of them comfortably in the same palace as Elisif. They are advising her on ruling her Hold for now, but what happens if they decide to teach that little girl how to wage war against her enemies? Do you see now what the seeds of your overconfidence has reaped?"

This Ulfric considered more deeply, despite his heating temper. He did not fear Elisif, but he was wary of each of the Jarls he unseated, despite their dishonor. They may have been softened by their love of Imperial coin, but many of them had long careers in their own Holds, and they all bore him a grudge. Even without their former resources, they were clever and experienced, which itself he recognized a resource. As long as they merely advised Elisif on matters of her own Hold, they were not a problem, but if they decided to use her to take their revenge…

Ulfric laid the letter down on the table, this time with more consideration.

He chose not to respond to Galmar's questions, sending a scorching glare to his housecarl. "Keep an eye on this situation," he ordered lowly, "but for now, just focus on checking the loyalties of Haafingar, Hjaalmarch, and the Reach. I do not have any regrets. I will bet there is nothing to find, and when you discover this, make sure she is released. The reason I did not kill or replace Elisif is because I need her, just as she is, on the throne of Solitude."

"And if not?" Galmar questioned. "Will you let me do as I will?"

Ulfric breathed out a small chuckle, dispelling some of the tension in the conference chamber. "If I know Elisif, there will be no 'if not'. Rest easy, Galmar. Leave the Widow Queen alone. And focus on getting more gods damned troops!"

—

A/N: I've been working on this chapter for a while, now. I'm not entirely sure if I am satisfied with it yet, but I'm hoping it gives you all what many of you wanted: insight into what is going on in Ulfric and Galmar's mind.

Again, my review section is an open forum - I am always interested in your thoughts, comments, questions, and concerns. I hope you enjoyed this chapter.