Still-Born Shout [#wattys2017]

Chapter Three

                  

Only days after Ulfric was safely inside the walls of the Palace of Kings, all of Skyrim was shaken by the Greybeards' Shout. But that was months ago. Though Ulfric's best scouts hadn't found the Dovahkiin yet, he would be found.

Ulfric was actually surprised that he hadn't been the one to be recognized as Dragonborn. He had trained with the Greybeards, he had made the pilgrimage to High Hrothgar as a child, he knew the Way of the Voice more intimately than anything else he'd ever known. Even Arngeir, the leader of the Greybeards, had said that Ulfric showed great promise.

Ulfric himself was meant to be a Greybeard. And that required training. From all that he'd heard, only the Dragonborn could shout without training. Ulfric wasn't interested in the responsibility, no, the burden of being the Dovahkiin. He had much, much more to worry about.

While dragons ravaged the land and roosted on mountaintops, Tullius was moving his forces forward. Word had it that more troops had made it over the border from Cyrodiil. Ulfric would've thought that the little mishap at the Thalmor Embassy would've cut off the Imperials' internal support, at least for a little bit. It sure seemed to piss Elenwen off enough. Maybe she and her damn elves would take their ships back to the Summer Isles.

Jorleif, gods preserve him, had also been kind enough to inform Ulfric that the Dark Brotherhood had apparently been causing quite a bit of turmoil in Falkreath Hold. He was glad to hear it. The more disorder there was, the easier it would be to invade and unite the southerners against the Empire.

All this news about the Brotherhood and the Thalmor Embassy, but nothing about the Dragonborn? It troubled Ulfric. It troubled him more greatly than he wanted anyone to know. He wanted to find the hero, and convince him to join the Stormcloaks. His cause would be much more legitimate if he had the Dovahkiin fighting beside him.

"Ulfric, the Jarls are upset. They don't all support your claim," Galmar said, suddenly, capturing Ulfric's attention once more. He rose from his throne and descended the steps, following Galmar to the war room.

"Should I expect them to, Galmar? Damn the Jarls," Ulfric said, as they gathered around the war table.

"They demand the Moot," Galmar said, raising an eyebrow.

"And damn the Moot!" Ulfric replied, putting his hands on the table. "We should risk letting those milk-drinkers put Torygg's woman on the throne? She'll hand Skyrim over to the elves on a silver plate! Our cause will be lost!"

"That's all the more reason to find it, then. The Jagged Crown will legitimize your claim to the throne," Galmar said, crossing his arms in front of him. Damn him, Ulfric thought. He's certain that he's right.

"A crown doesn't make a king," Ulfric retorted, turning to the window.

"Yes, but this one..."

"If it even exists," Ulfric added, before Galmar could finish.

"It exists!" he shot back. "And it will be the symbol of the righteousness of our cause. Think about it! The Jagged Crown. It heralds back to a time before jarls and moots. Back to the time when a king was a king because his enemies fell before him, and his people rose because they loved him!" Galmar paused for a moment when Ulfric turned around. "Skyrim needs that king. You will be that king, Ulfric. You must be."

Ulfric paused. Galmar was passionate enough to have faith in his own words. "You're certain you've found it?"

"When have I ever been false with you, my friend?" Galmar said, his eyes lighting up like a young boy's. Ulfric paused for a moment, then sighed. He began to walk back to his throne room.