Sybille says some *very* disturbing things, but there is no doubt Torygg was dear to her.
The day the boy is born the bells toll loudly in the city of Solitude. People gather to celebrate this joyous occasion, crowding in front of the Blue Palace; and they sing and light candles, holding them high above their heads.
The king has an heir!
She is allowed to hold the babe, after he is cleaned of blood and swaddled. It is a great honour, that Istlod would entrust her with his firstborn, if only for a few minutes.
She smiles at the wrinkled brow and red face even if the child cannot see it, being fast asleep. For the first time in decades though she feels something warm fill the cold space where her heart used to beat.
"Torygg," the High King says with all the pride of one who has just become a father.
She tries it, lets the word roll off her lips ad decides that she likes it. "A good name, my liege."
The baby squirms and makes a soft, wailing sound and she quickly hands him over to the man beside her.
Long after the royal couple has adjourned to their private quarters she stands under the starry sky, looking out over the dark city from one of the balconies.
"Torygg."
She would watch over him too, she decides, that no harm would befall him.
xxxx
He is four years old when he runs away from his governess and out into the courtyard, past the startled guard and beneath the horse tethered to a pole, as fast as his short, pudgy legs can carry him.
She is already racing after him as the animal shies and kicks and misses him by a hair's breadth. The boy runs on, oblivious, and slips on the gravel and then he is falling and she arrives a fraction of a heartbeat too late to catch him.
Torygg is wailing, palms and knees skinned and bleeding and she lifts him and places him on her hip. Her cool fingers pass over his cuts, alight with a golden glow and the skin knits itself back together without a blemish left.
He cries in, more from shock than pain now and she makes soothing noises, running her hands through his auburn hair until, worn out by the day's events, he falls asleep.
And she tilts her head back to the heaven, accepts the pain and thanks the Divines for their protection.
xxxx
He is a reckless child, but clumsy and breaks a leg when jumping down stairs. Torygg is confined to the bed and she reads him stories, of mighty heroes and ancient Tongues, and gallant lads and gracious ladies. Sometimes she sings, softly, because unlike her he loves the sound of her voice.
"Be careful, little lord," she chides when he is fit to walk again.
xxxx
Torygg is introduced to the art of swordsmanship at the age of six-and-ten, and her heart swells pride to behold him thus, no longer a child, but soon to be a man.
xxxx
He comes to her often, when happy or sad, troubled or in need of advice. When his mother, the High Queen passes away, they grieve together.
xxxx
Torygg is eight-and-ten when his father dies. The Moot is called, the Jarls gather in the capital to remember High King Istlod and to choose his successor. She sits at her lord's side, as his friend and trusted advisor. What she has awaited and feared throughout his entire life comes to pass then; her Thorygg is named High King by Skyrim's rulers and a jewelled crown is placed atop his unwrinkled brow.
Ulfric Stormcloak is openly talking treason later on the very same night and with rising dread she watches Torygg's eyes gleam and notices his rapture; he is enthralled by the man who is almost a legend himself.
They toast the new king's health and wish him a long, prosperous rule and the Jarl of Windhelm fixes Torygg with a hard, calculating stare and though she is the dead one, she briefly wonders if there is a living man behind those cold emeralds.
xxxx
A year later, Torygg is married. He had little say in the matter, as everything was arranged years prior, but if he has any misgivings, he does not let his feelings show. He has always been a happy child of summer.
Elisif, his bride-to be is called 'The Fair' by her subjects, even at the delicate age of six-and-ten. She is a timid girl, polite to a fault and visibly nervous as she curtsies before the entire court.
Torygg bows and offers her his arm and brightest smile and leads her out for the first dance. But she, who watches them both closely, notices how their gaze never strays from one another and hides her smile behind a cup.
xxxx
The feasts are splendid and the parties talked about months later and the young couple dazzles the citizens. They are well loved, not ruling long enough for the lavishness to take its toll on the treasury, or for the people to grow weary of them. They never have the time to make mistakes, either.
The missive arrives first and when winter holds the land in its icy grasp so do the sons of the snow, one after the other. The Jarl of Windhelm is last, and he lets them all wait for him.
"Jarl Ulfric," Torygg greets the blond man with one of his charismatic smiles and not a trace of antipathy. "You arrive just in time for the feast. Come, let us eat and drink!"
Ulfric Stormcloak does not spare a smile for him in return. "Will you cast aside the yoke of a corrupt Empire that thrives on the suffering of our people?" he asks, quietly at first, but then his voice rises in volume with anger and he is heard by all. "Will you rally our warriors in the name and for the glory of Talos, our rightful god, to fight against those who would see us enslaved? Will you, Torygg, stand up for Skyrim!?"
Torygg blanches, totters as if struck by a physical blow, but remembers his training and gives the other man the same rehearsed reply like two years prior. Their best chances are with the Empire. They rely on their troops and trade and protection. With every word Stormcloak's face closes a little more, but his eyes burn all the more brighter for it.
"Then no," Ulfric declines and reveals the deadly purpose behind his visit. "I will not break bread with you, nor will I share mead. You are no High King. I name you traitor to all Nords and challenge you, Torygg Istlodson, to prove my claim wrong by means of combat. Krif wah dinok. To the death."
AN: Short and messy, written on my knees during a lecture on corporate law. I am too tired to apologize for that, but I hope you liked it nonetheless. To be finished tomorrow.
This story is a part of the Blacktyde Chronicles!