AN: Family, fluff and angst. I recently found out that Ulfric's father's name was Hoag. I 'll just nope right past that and stick to my headcanon.
At the end of a long and busy day the steward finally announces the last petitioners; a pair of neighbours involved in a family feud over a pear tree that stands at the exact borderline between their lands and the question to whom the fallen fruits belong as well as whether it can be considered theft picking a pear from the tree. The matter is quickly resolved and the huge gates close behind the farmers with a hollow thud that reverberates through the enormous space of the main hall.
The man sitting upon his throne of stone breathes out a sigh of relief and slumps in the enormous seat. Finally, finally a moment of peace. He takes off his circlet, tosses it to his housecarl who catches the piece of jewellery with a saucy grin and a salute to his sovereign, and massages his temples where the metal has left red pressure marks that alternate between aching and itching.
"We are done for today," the man announces in a booming voice to his entourage and rises to oversee the dispersal of his court. The guards move from their position next to the throne and take it up guarding the palace doors, keeping out everybody who has no business being here after the official hours.
The man in charge stretches and briskly descends the steps, while running his left hand over his blond beard in thought. He is tall, even by Nord standards and his shoulders gain additional breadth by the bearskin that adorns them. The man knows well of its effect and uses it to its full potential, as he does his commanding voice and piercing eyes. One look at this imposing figure and people who have never before seen him know instinctively that he demands respect and wields great power.
To the hold of Eastmarch he is the Jarl, to his subjects Mikillinn-Björn, the Great Bear, to his lady wife and friends Hænir and to his children –
"Papa!"
"Papa!" a second voice joins in, shrill and excited.
The Jarl turns to the left where two bundles of sheer endless energy run out of the servants' quarters. His daughters. 'They must have returned through the back door', the man thinks and watches Freydís, the eldest and his heir race in front of her younger sister, Ísalind. She holds a piece of cake in each hand and he can guess straight away what the commotion is about. When Frey hides behind her father, laughing and Ísa casts her an accusing glare, face red with anger Hænir knows that now the time has come to settle family disputes. The girls start talking at the same and it is a good thing the Gods have granted men two ears because he needs both to make out anything at all.
But two children means one is missing and the father's smile fades after the initial joy of seeing his daughters, like the sun disappearing behind a cloud. The frown it is replaced with silences the girls, their quarrel forgotten for the moment.
"Where is your brother?" Hænir asks sternly, fighting the dread suddenly rising in his chest. They were supposed to watch over him!
Ísalind's eyes go wide in shock, but Frey points towards the way they had come from and indeed, their baby brother totters out of the kitchens, his plump legs too short to keep up with his sisters. Hænir pretends not to hear Ísa's 'puh' of relief or Frey sticking out her tongue. He too relaxes, the knot of unreasonable fear unravelling again and spreads his arms wide to welcome his only son.
The toddler no sooner catches up to the rest of the family than he is scooped up by his father who plants a tender, albeit somewhat scratchy kiss upon his brow. He must have made a detour through the kitchens to beg for muffins left over from their dinner. Successfully, because there are incriminating traces of blueberries on his chin and hands.
When he is set down the boy begins pull at Freydís' skirt until she hands him a wooden knight, a toy Hænir remembers gifting her with several years ago on her name day. Ulfric immediately sticks it in his mouth and begins to chew on the horse's head.
After some coaxing Frey manages to convince him to give up the toy and ruffles the boy's sandy blonde hair, lecturing him on how he, silly, cannot eat everything. Ísa uses her sister's distraction to filch the cake back from her and is chewing with her eyes closed in delight.
Hænir watches his children for a moment, unaware of the smile on his face.
Freydís is tall with her mother's brown hair and already shows promise in the training ring with sword, shield and bow, always striving to do her best. Once she fills out a bit she will be a true warrior, but it is her keen mind that convinces her father she will rise to greatness when one day she rules the city in his stead. Her tutors only have words of praise and Hænir knows from personal experience that they can be rather outspoken.
Ísalind, smaller and chubbier than her elder sister is a little minx. She shows no interest in politics or governance or the arts of war. Her passion is alchemy. And sweets. And her greatest hope to combine the two one day. Already her family and the entire household are weary of the innocent looking confections that appear throughout the keep and tempt her unsuspecting victims. All except for Ulfric who ended up being put to sleep, stayed awake for three days in a row and, on one occasion, his hair had turned blue. Ísa had blamed the blueberries.
There is not much to be said about the boy, the youngest of the trio by far, except that he likes to chew on everything he can get his hands on and sleeps with his favourite blanket made from soft rabbit fur.
And on that topic, it has become quite late and the days start early for the family. "Time for bed," the Jarl says and is met with an unhappy moan from Ísa. Managing a hold is nothing compared to handling two wilful daughters and a toddler, but Hænir makes do, striving for a balance between his two roles as Jarl and father. Thankfully Freydís is responsible beyond her years and helps out.
"Whoever gets to the room last has to read," she shouts and turns to run, but is grabbed by her younger sister who manages to win their wrestle for first place thanks to her robust stature, no small amount of determination and a general dislike of reading.
Their father lets them get a head start before he gives chase with a roar that would stagger many an enemy, but his children only squeal in delight as they are pursued through the keep and up the stairs.
Little Ulfric just barely makes it to the doorway where he stands rubbing his eyes, too tired to play further and gets snatched up first. Ísa runs ahead, light-footed as a trampling mammoth and casts panicked glances back every now and then to her athletic sister who could easily overtake her. But Freydís lets her win and pretends to be too old for such games - until her father catches up and begins to tickle her mercilessly. She squirms and kicks and finally gives in and plays along to the amusement of servants and guards alike who listen to the shouting and laughter with indulgent smiles. They are used to their lord's antics.
"You are last, papa," Ísa points out unnecessarily when the sisters reach the safe haven of their room.
The Jarl looks around with mock disbelief and puffs out his cheeks in fake outrage. "So I am," he finally concedes.
"It means you have to read," Frey lectures him with a cheeky grin. There is already a book in her arms.
"Let me just put your little brother to bed," Hænir says with a small nod at his son who has fallen asleep in spite of the recent excitement. There is one tiny fist clenched in his father's beard and Ísa helps him untangle it saving the Jarl from the danger of having all his hair ripped out.
The Bear of Eastmarch finds his lady wife asleep after he enters their bedchamber with a soft knock. It never fails to make his chest constrict painfully, the sight of his once beautiful and proud woman wasting away. She has been like this ever she gave birth, but when he kneels next to her she wakes for a brief moment.
"Look who's here," he tells his wife quietly and she blinks and takes the sleeping child from him, cradling him against her chest.
Ulfric is the joy and light of her life, Hænir knows, even as her own light is fading. They both love their daughters but Líf had always felt like she had failed her husband for not giving him a son, despite the man's best efforts to convince her otherwise. Ísa's birth had been long and complicated and the healers attending the Jarl's wife had counselled against another pregnancy. So the couple had waited until they deemed it safe again for Líf to bear another child and there was much joy when her womb quickened. Until she lost the babe. Three more miscarriages followed the first one, each worse than the last and finally the midwife said that Líf would remain barren.
Five years later a miracle happened and their only son was born. Hænir remembers that day as clearly as hardly another. The waiting, the anticipation, the constant nagging fear that something surely must go wrong, all ended when a servant comes running to announce that both mother and child are safe and sound. The babe is small, born too early and Líf is tired, but she greets her husband with a smile as bright and joyful as a clear spring morning.
"It's a boy," the proud mother announces and the Jarl thanks the Gods for granting his wife this gift she had so long prayed and hoped for.
"Did you think of a name?" Líf asks the enthralled father with a knowing tilt of her head.
Hænir shakes his head, but answeres nonetheless. "Ulfric. If I am to be a Great Bear, my son shall be a Mighty Wolf," he decides. "A child's legacy should always surpass that of his parents," the Jarl quotes one of his father's sayings.
"A good, strong name," his wife agrees.
"And what name will you give him?" Hænir had come up with Freydís and his wife with Ísalind. They had long ago agreed that if they were gifted with a third child it would bear two names.
Líf laughs and does not tell him. "You will find out soon enough, husband."
Not a long time after it becomes evident that something is wrong with the Jarl's wife. She does not recover from her pregnancy, remains weak and listless and complains of pain and dizziness. The doctors do not know what ails her, and neither do the healers or priests. Líf is dying slowly. She may only have a few years left and the task of looking after their children, the household and matters of state fall to Hænir.
The Bear of Eastmarch casts one last look at his sleeping wife and son, wishes nothing more than to join them and gets up again. He will be back shortly and until then he has a story to read. His daughters are already waiting for him and Freydís impatiently thrusts her book into her father's arms the moment he crosses the threshold. Hænir looks at the cover and chuckles. He knows why Frey chose this book; it has dragons in it and Tongues and sly villains that shall be vanquished in the end, their evil plans destroyed by the mighty heroes of old.
The Nord clears his throat and begins the tale in a deep, staged whisper that makes his eldest giggle and her sister wiggle under the covers with anticipation.
When the Jarl leaves his daughters' room he sees Thorsten's silhouette at the end of the corridor as the warrior patrols through the keep. He always sleeps better knowing that his housecarl watches over his family.
oooo
Ulfric is six years old when the letter arrives.
"What troubles you, my love?," Líf asks her husband during one of her clear moments that are becoming rare as the medication she is taking robs her of most consciousness.
"Our son is being summoned to High Hrothgar," the Jarl replies with a deep frown gracing his noble brow.
"It is a great honour," his wife says and only the tightness around her eyes shows the sadness that lingers behind them. "We always knew he was... different."
"He is too young," Hænir protests and notices her slump in relief.
oooo
A summons like this cannot be ignored, however. That evening the Bear of Eastmarch walks the battlements of the Palace of Kings and looks over his city in thought. His best friend and housecarl is, as usually, at his side.
"I would have your son as húskarl to my boy," the Jarl breaks the silence between them with an unexpected pronouncement.
Thorsten inclines his head in immediate agreement although he is visibly surprised. "Galmar or Rolff?" the warrior asks, recovering his composure quickly.
Though his professional facade Hænir can see the man's pride shine through at having a second son chosen as housecarl for his Jarl's family. "Galmar," he decides. Thorsten's middle child takes after his father in all aspects. He is already renowned amongst the guards for killing his first ice wraith at the age of only fifteen and the men all think that one day he will be an outstanding warrior, and maybe even best his father in combat. "Let's see how the boys get along," the Bear suggests.
"He's quite a bit older than Ulfric," the housecarl points out with slight unease. He knows Galmar will be ecstatic at the announcement and of course the boys already know each other, though they have not had the chance to form any bonds of friendship yet.
"Ten years," Hænir agrees. "It will matter less as they grow up."
"It is an honour." Thorsten turns to his friend who pretends not to notice his somewhat glassy eyes and the men embrace, doing away with all formality.
The Jarl of Windhelm shakes his head. "I would have nobody else," he tells his friend and slings an arm around the other Nord's shoulders as they proceed on their route. "Your Hamvir is already sworn to Frey and I have promised the position of housecarl to Ísa to Erna."
"A good choice." Thorsten nods his head in approval of the choice. "She comes from an old, noble family. I hear they have another child."
"A son, Calder. He's just a babe." Hænir leads them to a stairwell and point towards the courtyard. "Shall we go tell them?"
oooo
Galmar is, as always, on the training grounds behind the palace and he comes running when his father calls for him, saluting the Bear. Together they walk out of the city and Jarl and housecarl share chuckles over how hard Thorsten's son is trying not to show any curiosity what their meeting is about. It is not every-day that one gets an invitation to walk with the Jarl, after all.
They find Ulfric racing his pony across the paddock while his riding instructor shouts orders in a voice that carries over the big field. Hænir would never admit to the fact that the very sight makes his heart stop. Despite its small size that pony easily weights a full nine hundred pounds and should it slip or the boy fall...
He quickly turns away before such dark images set root in his mind and rests a hand on Galmar's shoulder. "How goes your training?"
"Very well, Jarl," the youth replies with a brash grin. He has every reason to brag, but today his eyes wander to the rider instead.
"You know my son, Ulfric," Hænir says, stalling, only to watch the warrior squirm from the suspense. "Your father and I are of the opinion that you will make him a fine housecarl. What do you say?"
Galmar does not say anything; he is so overcome with emotion. Only when his father cuffs him on the head he manages to stammer many a 'thank you'.
"The title will be a formality until you complete your training," the Jarl reminds him, but smiles at his obvious joy. The Gods willing, Ulfric would never be in need of a housecarl.
Their little gathering has drawn the young rider's attention, who reins in his pony next to Hænir and waves at Thorsten and his son, too out of breath to greet them properly.
Galmar quickly kneels and, swearing his undying loyalty, presents his battleaxe to Ulfric who looks towards his father in confusion and discomfort, not sure what to do now. When his pony takes advantage of its rider's inattentiveness and begins to eat Galmar's hair, mistaking the dark blond tresses for hay both grownups guffaw at the young warrior's long face until they are out of breath and tears leave streaks across their red faces.
oooo
That evening there is a small feast and afterwards the Jarl sends Thorsten home to spend some time with his son and family. He deserves it more than anybody and yet his duties keep him away from his own home too often.
Hænir uses the gathering to announce the news of the Greybeards' summons and with a heavy heart tells his son of his imminent trip to the Throat of the World.
Ulfric does not take the news well, but he pretends at being brave and despite the tremendous honour it is, his father wishes to never have received that damned letter.
"Why are they called the 'Greybeards'?" the boy pipes up hoarsely, lower lip trembling from restraint.
Ísalind leans over to her younger brother and whispers in his ear, "Because when you go there you will become an old man and grow a long, grey beard."
They all hear little Ulfric bawl his eyes out upstairs after he has fled from the dining table.
oooo
Freydís finds her brother a while later, hiding under his bed. "What are you doing there?" she asks, pretending not to know.
"I don't want to go," Ulfric mumbles and she can see him wipe at his face. "I don't want to be old and a Greybeard and– " The rest of the sentence is lost in a noisy sniff.
"Your evil sister was just being mean," Frey tells the boy and manages to get hold of a bare foot and to drag him out from under the bed. There are dust bunnies sticking to his clothes and hair. "Did you know that Hakon One-Eye was a Tongue?" Frey asks and manages to get her brother to sit down in front of the fireplace with her.
She feels Ulfric shake his head when she rests her chin on top of his head. "He was. And so were Derek the Tall and Hoag Merkiller and Jurgen Windcaller and of course Hjalti Early-Beard. Whom we know today as– " Frey lets him finish the sentence.
"Talos," Ufric replies without thinking. He is just as eager for tales of heroes and their mighty deeds as she had once been.
"Don't you want to go to High Hrothgar and find out how Talos lived?" Frey enquires and lets longing seep into her voice. Listening to her father make tales come alive with his voice and a few gestures made her very good at telling them herself. Now she makes the monastery sound like an exciting place and the trip like an adventure. "Maybe we'll even find something of his."
At her words Ulfric squirms around in her grip until he can look at her. "Are you coming too?" the boy asks, his voice and green eyes full of hope.
"Yes," Freydís says in a conspiratorial whisper. "But it's a secret; you must not tell your sister."
oooo
The Jarl has his children sent for into the throne room a few days later and watches them line up, eldest to youngest. He has made up his mind and it is time to tell his family. "I have decided," the Bear of Eastmarch proclaims, letting his gaze wander over his daughters and son. He is sitting on the throne today. This is official business, after all. "To send all of you to High Hrothgar."
"Oh, papa!" Ísalind calls out in dismay, the horror of having to drag her plump self up seven thousand stairs etched into her face.
"This is my final decision," her father declares and there is no arguing with his tone.
"You will look funny with a beard, Ísa," Freydís remarks snidely and Ulfric dissolves into peals of laughter that infects the rest of the family in no time.