Dragon's Conquest

Traditional Aid

Fralia offered him a drink as she led him to a once-plush couch in the main hall around a grand firepit. Her grip was iron and only let him go once he was firmly sat in the center. "What would you like to drink?" Fralia asked. "Ale? Wine? Oh, we have an excellent cider from last--Ysvaar! Avulund! Come bring the good cider!" Fralia smiled and sat across from him. "You haven't met my grandchildren, have you? No, they were too young to attend your last banquet. Some of them weren't even born yet!" She chuckled.

Ulfric half expected Vignar to appear in the shadows with a bow drawn and aimed at his face. Fralia carried all the delight that her husband and brother-in-law lacked. She sat upright with a cheerfulness that belied her age and wealth; the war hadn't been kind on the clan. Aged, faded quilts and tapestries decorated the walls, displayed silver hadn't been polished. The once-proud clan-hall had a film of gloom throughout it like a draft from a window.

A young boy ran down the stairs, his hair already the color of iron, and disappeared into a back room. Ulfric nodded in agreement with Fralia. The banquet in question had been nearly five years ago. It was a test of loyalty, not a celebration the late High King Istlod's life as the invitations claimed. He flexed his wealth, trying his damnedest to show that Windhelm was every bit as prosperous as Solitude, only without the Emperor's allowances, as if that would sway the Moot in his favor rather than Torygg's.

In hindsight, perhaps he should've been more open about his intentions since the beginning rather than masquerade behind politics. Politics were the ways of men that couldn't back up their words with a strong sword arm, but politics were the ways of men who laid lifelines of gold throughout Tamriel. Windhelm was nothing without its port and only the truly self-sufficient could grow past the constrains of those cowards in their castles of gold and silver.

"Congratulations," Ulfric said, forming each word carefully before letting them pass his lips. "May they be blessed with Shor's favor."

"Oh, they're just like their parents when they were little," Fralia said. The boy returned from a different doorway--no, a different boy--holding a mismatched selection copper and quartz goblets in both hands. He dumped the half-dozen or so goblets on a table pushed to the wall, most of them tipping over and one crashing to the ground. Fralia inhaled, but kept her face cheerful. "Thank you, Avulund. Go help your brother with the jug."

Avulund nodded, but stopped to stare at Ulfric before hurrying to the stairs. "And you've already made such stewards of them," Ulfric joked, trying to lighten himself up to meet Fralia's mood. He tried to recall her not brightening up a room, though he supposed that compared to her husband and brother-in-law, it was hard not to be the most cheerful of the bunch.

Fralia gave a quick laugh. "We were so worried when your letters ceased," she continued. "Of course, you've always been a busy man, even more so with the war." Ulfric watched the two identical boys carry a jug of golden cider up the stairs and over to the table. One of them stood on a chair to guide a sloshing amount into two goblets, the other boy standing beneath and supporting the jug from the bottom.

"And I thank you for your support," Ulfric said.