"Move aside! Out of the fucking way!" Ulfric shouted as he sprinted back towards camp, though the weight of the body he was carrying slowed him down. Any reason he he could use to get as far the fuck away from the battle as possible was welcome. The added weight of King Robb Stark was a slight inconvenience. Though Olyvar Frey carried half the weight, the King's armour was considerably heavy. A stud on the pauldron of the armour bit into the thin layer of hardened leather Ulfric wore, causing him to swear in pain.
"For fuck's sake, how heavy is this armour?" Ulfric groaned. The King had been struck by an arrow from the battlements, luckily the arrow didn't hit anywhere vital as the King was able to carry on fighting, living up to his nickname "the Young Wolf". However, as the battle drew to a close, His Grace slumped back on his horse, visibly exhausted from the battle. Ulfric snatched this chance to excuse himself from the battlefield as he made an impromptu decision of taking up the role of the King's stretcher, carrying His Grace with the royal squire Olyvar Frey shouldering half the burden.
"Just shut up and hold up your half." Olyvar hissed back at Ulfric, not a hint of effort on his face as the King's leg plates rested on his broad shoulders, His Grace's... magnificence a tad bit too close to his face.
Torches illuminate the path back to camp. Shadows danced and flickered and elongated, inhuman, yet captivating, occasionally casting twisted forms of men and horses on the well-trodden ground. Pools of muddy water dotted the land, created by the constant abuse from the hooves of the six thousand horses that came with the host of angry Northmen out for Lion blood. The Stark banner flew high and proud on the entrance of the camp, grey and white, like the mens' gear. A snarling Direwolf greeted Ulfric as he passed underneath the banner, its fangs bare, ferocious and noble. Further in the camp, the Twin Towers of the Freys stood resolute, its blue battlements a welcoming sight, serving as a safe harbour for the Stark wolves. A couple of Frey men bickered with the Umbers, who towered over the Freys with their giant, on their banner, that is. The King's pavilion was in the centre of the camp.
"Call for a healer, the King is wounded!" Olyvar bellowed as they entered the encampment, "call for a healer, NOW, you fucking dimwit." A scrawny boy no older than thirteen was the the target of this abuse. He abruptly snapped to attention and darts into one of the tents, emerging with a middle-aged man who was balding in the back of his head.
Horns sounded from the castle, signalling a quick end to the Westerlings' resistance, its garrison of a hundred odd men fell to the Starks' overwhelming six thousand. Thank the gods. Ulfric thought to himself, congratulating himself for his quick thinking that helped him avoid the chaos of battle.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Ulfrick's clicks his boots together out of boredom. He risked his own life (not really) last night in order to rescue the King from harm, and this is what he gets? Guard duty? The battle has already been won, and yet Ulfric was here standing guard instead of getting a rest. It's not as if he would make a good guard at all. He is lean and of medium stature, hardly an intimidating figure to dissuade any shady business going on around him. His black hair fits uncomfortably in his helmet, which was always a slightly tilted no matter how many times he tries to adjust it. His hardened leather armour fits him snuggly, covering a slightly toned torso. Hardly a fighter, Ulfric's short arming sword hangs from his belt, though it was more for show than anything else. He misses the lazy days back in the Smoking Log where he would help his father run the cozy alehouse, occasionally playing the lute for the customers accompanied by Mya's pretty singing. He misses learning about the world from the patrons, picking up bits and pieces of everything as he worked. He misses the drunk fights that would sometimes break out between the alehouse's patrons, way less violent and results in less deaths. He misses the feeling of sleeping in his hammock, humming a tune to himself and teased by Mya on his tone-deafness when it comes to singing. Most of all, he missed Mya, his cute little sister and her antics.
"When I grow up, I'll tour the the Seven Kingdoms. And you'll come with me, Ulfric! We'll sing and perform for all the lords and ladies in their feasts." She used to say when she was about eight or nine, with a dreamy look in her eyes as she imagines the grandeur and splendor of the aristocratic life. Ulfric smiled, wondering if she still dreams of singing for the lords and ladies. He wonders if the scribe boy Willem is treating her right and whether she had bore him a child by now. She was wedded shortly after the Starks called their banners, and Ulfric felt a tinge of regret as he was not able to attend her wedding. It has been over a year since Ulfric marched south with the Stark army of twelve thousand men, yet it felt as if he has been on the march for a millennium. The Young Wolf and his pack took the Riverlands and Westerlands by storm, swiftly sweeping across the land like his Direwolf's name "Grey Wind". Not a single loss as of yet, the campaign seems to be going strong, yet Ulfric could not feel any progress towards their end-goal: the independence of the North.
"Could I enter and tend to His Grace?" A gentle voice pulls Ulfric away from his thoughts. He straightens and turns towards the owner of the voice. A young, slender girl with chestnut coloured curls stood in front of him, followed by another girl who seemed to be her handmaiden.
"May I ask who seeks audience with the King?" Ulfric asks, glad that there was at least someone here to alleviate the boredom of guarding the bedroom of the Young Wolf as he recovers from his wounds.
"Jeyne Westerling, daughter of Lord Gawen Westerling." She answers in a shy voice, throwing a glance behind her, as if pleading her companion for some assistance. Ulfric follows her glance at the handmaiden behind her and notices a basket carrying some cloth and herbs.
"Milady's uncle, Ser Rolph Spicer, suggests that she should help tend to His Grace's wounds since she is very knowledgeable in the arts of healing. Perhaps she could assist in King Stark's recovery." Her handmaiden says in a pretty voice that conveys more confidence than her lady and shows the basket to Ulfric, almost as if to assure him there are no weapons concealed inside.
Ulfric nods, seeing as there was no direct order forbidding the Westerling ladies from contact with the King. Perhaps King Robb would like a pretty girl tending to His Grace's wounds. Ulfric knows that he would. Stepping aside, Ulfric lets the young Lady and her handmaiden enter the King's bedroom. As the doors close, Ulfrick couldn't help but snicker. Damn it, Your Grace, you fucking lucky bastard.
As soon as the two girls head into the room and the door closes behind him, Ulfric was left to himself again, though this time slightly happier to have been able to meet (and she also talked to him! What a day!) a pretty lady. This new enthusiasm, however, quickly burns away as the mind numbing monotony that is guard duty takes over once again. He sighs, resigned to the fact that he was probably going to miss the victory celebration some of the men planned in the camp. A couple of his mates in the barracks apparently found a whorehouse in a nearby town, and are going to smuggle some of the whores into the camp for the celebration. Not that I'm interested. Ulfric reassures himself. I'm not so desperate as to enjoy cheap whores. He redistributes his weight to the right, relaxing his uptight posture and slouches a little. The helmet on his head seems to become more constricting by the minute.
It seemed like a century, but Ulfric's torturous guard duty was finally ended as King Robb called from inside the room, "You, standing out there, escort Lady Jeyne back to her chambers. The soldiers tend to get a bit rowdy after a battle." His voice still weak from his wound, but still as commanding and clear as ever. Stepping into the room, Ulfric nods.
"As you wish, Your Grace."
A flash of loneliness danced across Lady Jeyne's face, but she quickly hides it with a smile. "Thank you for your concern, Your Grace." Her eyes twinkles with a hint of adoration as she moves her glance reluctantly from King Robb's handsome features to Ulfric.
"I'll be in your care until the East Wing, good ser." She bobs her head slightly in a show of gratitude. Her handmaiden follows closely behind her, the contents of her basket disappeared by a considerable amount.
Wishing to end his shift as soon as possible, Ulfric notifies another guard down the hallway to take over his position. Keeping a respectful distance from the Lady, Ulfric leads her through the castle keep.
"Are you one of the King's knights, ser?" Suddenly, Lady Jeyne asks with a curious voice.
Surprised that the Lady mistook him for a knight, Ulfric replies, "No, milady, I'm just a levy."
"You carry yourself differently from the other levies." The sudden compliment caught Ulfric by surprise. She was not wrong, however. The Smoking Log is no stranger to some of the retainers in Winterfell. Ulfric enjoyed observing them while he served in the alehouse, picking up some of their quirks along the way. It took quite a bit of willpower, but Ulfric knew how to act around nobles as long as he concentrated.
"You are too kind, milady." He thanks Lady Jeyne before falling back into silence in an conscious effort to steer the subject away from his graceful conduct as he walks down the dilapidated halls of the Crag.
The rest of the "scenic walk" was conducted in silence, as Ulfric's mind wandered to the celebrations in camp. Not wanting to stay a second long than necessary, Ulfric leads the two girls back to their chambers before bowing slightly and leaving with a slight skip in his step. The party called to him and he was afraid he'd be literally late to the party.
(Hope you enjoy this story! It's my first story and if you have any suggestions and/or criticism, please feel free to leave a review. I'd love to hear your voices on the matter.)