Still-Born Shout [#wattys2017]

Chapter Six

Weeks after Ulfric had returned from High Hrothgar with Galmar, the Stormcloaks had evenly spread across the southwest. Markarth and the Reach were theirs for the taking. Of course, they had to withdraw their troops from Dawnstar and Winterhold, but they could be easily retaken in a matter of months. Perhaps even weeks.

Things were looking well for Ulfric. It was all thanks to the Dragonborn. He could've taken the territory on his own, sure, but that didn't matter. It was his, now.

His thoughts went back to the Dragonborn. He had come to terms with the fact that she was a woman. He had plenty of loyal female warriors on his side that fought just as well as the men did. What he couldn't understand was her breeding. A half-blood, posing as the ancient Nordic hero of legend?

She wasn't posing, Ulfric reminded himself. The Greybeards called her to High Hrothgar. They already recognized her as the true Dragonborn. And if she had seen Alduin, and lived to tell the tale...

Ulfric had to put it from his mind. Now, the Dragonborn was the least of his concerns. Only days ago, Galmar had left Windhelm with a host of troops. They were going to find the Jagged Crown in some bleeding ruin, near Whiterun hold. Ulfric had wanted to join Galmar, for the sake of motivating the men, but Galmar had talked him out of it.

He was glad that he had allowed himself to be persuaded. His other generals still needed orders, if they were to begin preparations to retake the Pale. He had only been hosting Jarl Skald for about a fortnight, and he was already growing tired of the old man's constant demands.

Skald was his guest, staying in his palace. Why did it feel like it was the other way around?

Ulfric sighed, stretching his legs. Despite all that he had to deal with during his days, he always enjoyed the nightly comforts of his own bed and the nights he spent, buried beneath warm furs, alongside a low flame. For the past few nights, however, his sleep hadn't been as restful as he wished it to be.

Damn this war, he thought to himself, as he rose from his bed and pulled his cuirass over his underclothes. It's with me always.

He heard a brief knock at his door, followed by the entrance of a palace guard.

"My lord. Galmar has returned. He is waiting in the war room."

Ah, the Jagged Crown. He nodded to the guard and thanked him. He pulled on his coat of dark furs, followed by his thick trousers and his leather boots. Before he left, he clipped his axe-belt around his waist. He wouldn't allow his people to see him as anything less than he was; the Jarl of Windhelm, and the leader of the Stormcloaks.

He was glad to see his friend again, but there weren't good tidings. Galmar had lost the Jagged Crown to the Imperials.

"We almost had it, Ulfric! It barely escaped our clutches," Galmar growled, bringing his fists down on the map table. Several of the flag pieces that were mounted on the map fell over, and he sighed with frustration as he began to pick them up.

"It is of no consequence," Ulfric said, shaking his head and gesturing towards the main hall. "Come. Let us share a meal and you may tell me of your travels."

The two sat at the dining table in the main hall. One of the cooks brought out a plate of steaming beef, with stewed carrots and fresh bread. Galmar tore into the beef as he began to speak.

"It was the strangest thing," he said, with a mouth full of food. He chased it with a gulp of ale from a nearby tankard. "We set up an ambush because we knew they were coming, but they ended up losing more men than we did." He took a bite from the bread; it smelled deliciously sour. "The Dragonborn was with them."