Too many Nords in this town have been listening to Ulfric's narrow-minded words. He's tough, loyal to his men and a good leader, but if you're not a Nord, Ulfric will never trust you.– Brunwulf Free-Winter


1 Second Seed, 4E 202, The Palace of the Kings, Windhelm

Cecilia Varo walked back into the Palace of the Kings while Ulfric was sitting down to supper. Was interrupting his meals was going to be a regular thing then? Jorleif icily pointed out to her that while she could dine when she liked, they did observe a regular schedule in the Palace. Cecilia nodded and sat down at the table. Ralof hovered behind her.

She was wearing what looked like a brand new leather cuirass, and was covered with grime. "I won't touch anything," she promised Jorleif. "We already ate anyway. But since you're here, my Jarl, I'll let you know how things went in the Gray Quarter."

Ulfric braced himself for a litany of complaints filtered through her overly sympathetic point of view. Instead, she continued, "Honestly, I'm having a hard time convincing anyone to take me seriously. That shouldn't be surprising; I think I'm a mature enough adult woman, but older elves think we're all silly children playing at being grown-ups."

"And yet the children of Skyrim pack more into their short years than most of them have managed in two centuries," said Ulfric bitterly.

"That's for the good, though, isn't it?" asked Cecilia. "If elves lived at the same pace as us, they'd run everything. I met someone today who's been deciding whether or not to move to Raven Rock for forty years. Can you imagine?"

"Unfortunately so. Was your day a failure, then?"

"Too early to tell. We talked to a lot of people, not just the Dunmer. And putting our heads together, Ralof and I do have an idea but it's not going to be a popular one."

"Go ahead."

"We think this city needs a curfew."

Ulfric was surprised. "A curfew?"

Cecilia turned to Ralof. "You're better at explaining. Tell him."

"Ralof, take a seat," Ulfric ordered.

"Yes, my Jarl." Ralof sat down beside Cecilia. "We heard a lot of people's complaints, Nords and elves'. We even went out and helped plant crops at Hlaalu Farm. And we came to the conclusion that it would take years to mend this rift and we certainly couldn't do it in a day, especially with a war on."

Ulfric nodded. They were both showing very good sense. Maybe he should get Ralof to go explain this to Brunwulf next.

"The immediate problem is preventing a riot," Ralof continued. "Everyone told us the fights so far have been started at night. And they involve hot-heads and drunks who wander the streets looking for trouble. If there was a strict curfew – say nine o'clock - there wouldn't be any opportunity for fights to start."

"I don't care to lock my people up in their homes for convenience's sake," Ulfric objected. "This is a city of free Nords, Ralof."

"I did say it wouldn't be popular," Cecilia put in. "The tavern owners would be up in arms. But if it was just for a short time? While the guard's stretched thin?"

"No." Ulfric would not budge on this point. Well-intentioned though Cecilia and Ralof were, they were both outsiders to Windhelm. Cecilia was too used to the meek citizens of Cyrodiil, while Ralof came from some quiet little town in Whiterun Hold. One couldn't manage a city of proud Nords and touchy Dark Elves with such a heavy hand.

"Something needs to be done done about these trouble-makers," Cecilia insisted. "Rolff Stone-Fist wanders around the Gray Quarter every night, trying to start a fight."

"If I may, my Jarl," Jorleif interrupted. "I've investigated this myself, and while he's an annoying drunk, he's never thrown the first punch. If we were to arrest people for insulting each other, we'd have half the Gray Quarter in our cells as well."

"Why isn't Rolff in the army anyway?" asked Cecilia. "He sure sounds like he wants to be."

"Galmar kicked him out," Ulfric explained.

"His own brother?"

"Would you trust Rolff Stone-Fist at your back?"

Ralof began coughing. He was obviously trying to hide his laughter.

Cecilia pursed her lips. "Well, someone should do something about him. He challenged me to a fistfight my first day in Windhelm, did you know that, my Jarl?"

"Who won?" asked Ulfric.

"Lydia."

Ralof lost it. Even Ulfric had to smile.

"I thought she might have set him straight," Cecilia continued. "But she didn't. There's only one man in town who could do that."

"Are you suggesting I talk to him?" Ulfric asked.

"No, I think you should punch him."

"Jarl Ulfric is far too busy to deal with the local drunks," Jorleif insisted.

But Ulfric was now thinking about it. It was appealing, the idea of going out on the streets and dealing directly with this problem. The Stormcloaks were out there shedding their blood for him, and he was stuck in the Palace. Although he accepted the necessity of his role, it palled.

"Ralof. Get me four guards, and we'll go out tonight," he ordered. "There should be some consequences for causing disorder on my streets."

"I'll come along too," said Cecilia.

"No, you won't,' he told her. "This is my business to settle." If he had to bash in some Nord heads tonight, they should think of it as their Jarl's justice, rather than a favour he was doing for his Cyrodiil bride.

Cecilia frowned. "So, I do all the boring stuff, you do all the fun stuff, got it." Which was a ridiculous thing to say to a man who'd spent his entire day going over supply route logistics, but he didn't dignify the accusation with a response. Instead he turned to Jorleif. "We may bring back guests, so have the cells ready."

Cecilia left the table in a huff, leaving Ulfric in peace to finish his dinner. He was still unsure where exactly he stood in her estimation: grudgingly respected, barely tolerated, or what? It was probably safer not to pry there for now.

At sunset, he left the Palace with Ralof and his guards. His people knew not to bother him when he was out on business. There were a few cheers, and some folk doffed their hats, but most of the people just got out of his way.

At the entrance to the Gray Quarter, he signed a halt. "Now men, keep your mouths shut and your footsteps light. Ralof, we'll follow your lead."

Ulfric had not set foot in the Gray Quarter for five years, but he could not see it had changed any. The faded, frayed banners still hung upon the stone walls: emblems of the proud stubbornness of their owners, as well as those owners' inability to mend or replace them. Their boots squelched in the mud and splashed through dark puddles he hoped were rainwater. The local residents fled into their homes at their approach.

Ralof led them to the door of a shop: Sadri's Used Wares, he said. Ulfric recognized the name. Revyn Sadri had been brought up in front of the Jarl a few times, accused of selling stolen goods. Ulfric had settled each occasion by fining him, but the last time he had warned Sadri that he would be facing a lengthy stay in the Bloodworks if it happened again.

Ralof knocked on the door several times before Sadri at last answered. The elf's eyes went wide when he saw Ulfric and his men.

"This is all a mistake," he started off. "You know how Viola is. Probably knocked it behind her dresser and now she's blaming me –"

"What in Oblivion are you talking about?" asked Ulfric.

"You're not here about the ring?" Sadri asked. His face fell, realizing he'd let a secret slip. "Ah, my Jarl, please step in. There's a special discount for local government and military officials."

Ulfric and his men followed him in. The shop's front room was tight for seven people. Behind a counter were shelves packed with oddities, including one shelf completely covered in dragon bones. Moving behind the counter, he picked up a vertebra to examine.

"That's from your lady," said Sadri quickly. "I daresay she's my best supplier. And in turn, I've sold her the gear for many of her expeditions. It's been a true honour serving her."

"Indeed." He put the vertebra back. "What do you do with the bones, Sadri?"

"People want souvenirs," Sadri explained. "Probably sold as many as I will in Windhelm, but foreign merchants are looking for dragon bones as well."

"If it brings money into the city, well enough," said Ulfric. "But the rest of this," he waved his arm at the nearby shelves. "How much of it comes from Nord graves?"

If Dunmer could pale, Sadri surely would have. "My Jarl, I don't loot graves. I merely buy beautiful and interesting items that are brought to me. And truly, if it's the Dragonborn who's selling, should I refuse to take her goods?"

Ulfric sighed. It was becoming clear that he was marrying the worst tomb robber in Skyrim, and he still had no idea how to deal with that. "You're saying I should settle my own house before I meddle with yours? I take your point. Rest easy, Sadri. We are not here on your account. We need a place to lie in wait tonight, and Ralof thought your shop a good location for it."

"Ah!" Sadri relaxed. "Of course, my Jarl. You're welcome to stay here as long as you wish. Would you like anything to drink?"

"No thank you." It'd be sujamma or flin or some other nasty foreign liquid from one of the dark jugs Sadri had stashed on a high shelf. "Ralof, you ready to head out?"

"Yes, my Jarl." Ralof went back to the door and let himself out. Their plan was for Ralof to wait outside, listening and watching for trouble, while Ulfric and his men kept out of sight in the shop.

"You can go to bed," Ulfric told Sadri.

"Am I allowed to ask what you're waiting for out there?" asked Sadri.

"Trouble," said Ulfric shortly.

Their vigil lasted a few hours, but Ulfric was an old soldier and used to such tedious watches. About half past midnight, there was a crash outside. Ulfric moved quickly to the door and opened it a crack. Ralof was running towards him. "Time to move," he called out to Ulfric.

Ulfric led his men out into the street, followed by Revyn Sadri who'd raced out from his bedroom at the sound of the crash. They could hear shouts further down within the Quarter. Curses in Dunmeris, and someone's idea of a Nord warcry.

"Rolff?" Ulfric asked Ralof, after hearing the latter.

"I think so. Just around this corner."

"Swords out," Ulfric ordered his men. He laid his hand on the axe at his belt, but did not pull it out. "Announce me, Ralof."

Ralof saluted, then bounded around the corner. They followed hard after.

"On your knees, all of you!" Ralof shouted. "For the Jarl of Windhelm, Ulfric Stormcloak!"

Rolff Stonefist let go of the stone he was about to chuck through a window. With treacherously bad luck, the stone hit Ralof right above his left eye.

Within seconds, Ulfric had grabbed Rolff by the throat, picked him up and slammed him into a wall. Everyone else in the street had sensibly fallen to their knees in the muck. There were three Nords beside Rolff, and a few more Dark Elves.

Rolff was crying out some apologies. Ulfric ignored him and turned to Ralof who was leaning on another guardsman. Blood was streaming from his brow.

"'m all right," said Ralof. "Seen worse, haven't I?" He put his hand up to his brow, then brought it down sticky with blood and stared at it.

"Take him inside one of these houses," Ulfric ordered a guard. "Clean that wound out and lie him down."

"The Atherons have lots of room," said Revyn Sadri from behind. "Hey, Suvaris, where's your key?" He called to one of the elves kneeling in the street.

The female elf pulled out a purse from her skirt and held it out to him. "Here you are."

Having settled that, Ulfric turned his attention back to the troublemakers on the street. Rolff was lying back against the wall, sobbing. One of the guards kicked him in the ribs. "On your knees, didn't you hear the Jarl?"

"I wasn't even part of this!" wailed one of the elves. "I was just walking up the street-"

"Did the Jarl ask you?" snapped a guard. The elf fell quiet.

Ulfric's eyes fell on one of the men before him. "Angrenor," he named the man, and in turn Angrenor raised his bowed head. "My Jarl?" he asked in a quavering voice.

"You rode with me from Solitude with the hounds of the Empire upon our heels," said Ulfric.

"Yes, my Jarl. It was an honour."

"How have you come to this?"

"My Jarl . . ." Angrenor faltered. "I was cut down in your service, do you remember?"

"I do," Ulfric confirmed. "And honourably discharged to live on as a proud son of Skyrim. You shame yourself carousing in this Quarter."

"I – I …" Angrenor broke down and began sobbing. "Forgive me, my Jarl."

In truth, Ulfric pitied the man. Angrenor was just one of many soldiers who'd returned home wounded in both body and spirit. If he'd since descended into wretched poverty, relieved only by drink, the responsibility was surely his Jarl's. And yet, Ulfric could not save all the wretched of Skyrim; instead, he daily offered up Skyrim's children to war.

"All of you, weigh your words well before you speak, for I will return falsehood with blood," Ulfric warned his audience. "Who will tell me what happened here?"

There was silence, then Angrenor spoke up. "My Jarl, we were spending an evening at the Candlehearth: Rolff Stone-Fist, I, Arvid, and Tristan Medard here. A while ago, Dame Elda sent us on our way, so while we were walking this way, we met a suspicious person-"

Ulfric interrupted him. "Walking this way? Do you live in the Gray Quarter now, Angrenor?"

"No, my Jarl," said Angrenor quickly. "But we come through from time to time, patrolling for spies and the like, you could say."

"Did you secure this suspicious person?" asked Ulfric.

"Err . . . well . . ." Angrenor didn't seem to have an answer to that.

" I believe I was the suspicious person." The elf who'd given Sadri her housekey now spoke up firmly.

Ulfric knew her. "You are Suvaris Atheron who manages Clan Shatter-Shield's shipping, are you not?"

"Yes. I am she."

Ulfric burst out laughing. "Angrenor, You took Torbjorn Shatter-Shield's most trusted employee for an Imperial spy?"

"It was Rolff who said she probably was," Angrenor replied quickly.

"Rolff Stone-Fist. I've not forgotten him. Guards, take Master Rolff up to his own cell. He can cool his heels there, give some thought to what the punishment is for attacking the Jarl's armsman."

"I didn't mean to do it!" cried Rolff.

Ulfric ignored him. "The rest of you, listen now, and burn my words in your memories. I have no interest in sorting out the rights and wrongs of your squabbles before this moment. But there will be no more of this. On your honour, Angrenor, if you've not forgotten what that is, you will not set foot in the Gray Quarter again. The same for your companions. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, my Jarl." The three Nords replied in chorus.

"Suvaris Atheron," he turned the kneeling Dunmer. "Torbjorn Shatter-Shield speaks well of your reliability, so you must show me the same here. If these men harass you again, send word to the Palace. But I also expect that you and your fellows do not take such matters into your own hands, or pick fights of your own with my people. The Jarl's law holds on the streets of the Gray Quarter as well as on the Valunstrad."

"I understand and have always obeyed that law," said Suvaris. She spoke softly, but anger burned in her red eyes. He could read her mind clearly: she had done nothing and yet was being upbraided for being victimized by Nords. But tonight, she stood in for every elf listening, and every elf that would tomorrow hear of the Jarl's visit to the Gray Quarter.

So Ulfric simply nodded to her, not bothering to soften his speech. He spotted Revyn Sadri in the corner of his eye, standing by the Atheron residence's door. His shirt was soaked in blood, Ralof's, Ulfric presumed.

"How is my man?" he asked Sadri.

"He's all right. We had to force him to sit down, but Faryl's washing out the cut, and I checked that he knew his name and the date, so I don't think he's concussed."

"Good. Show me to him. The rest of you," he turned back to the kneelers. "Disperse."

Ulfric entered the house, followed by his two remaining guards and the sullen-faced Suvaris. It smelt strangely inside, of foreign herbs and spices, but not unpleasantly. They had stepped into a sparse dining room with bare wooden walls and more of the tattered old banners. Ralof was sitting on a bench beside an elf who was busy bandaging his head.

Ralof tried to stand up when Ulfric entered, but Ulfric laid his hand upon his shoulder and told him to sit still.

"When I get my hands on that Rolff-" began Ralof.

"Didn't smash him into that wall hard enough for you?"

Ralof's face brightened. "Exactly hard enough, my Jarl. I enjoyed it."

"He's bound for a prison cell tonight. The rest I lectured and sent on their way." He turned to the elf doing the bandaging. "Thank you for your aid . . . "

"Faryl Atheron," the elf said.

"My brother," put in Suvaris. "He works for Bolfrida at the Brandy-Mug Farm."

Her intention was plain and somewhat pitiable. She was emphasizing how respectable and hard-working her family was, hoping that Ulfric wouldn't hold any of this against them. He had no quarrel with the Atheron family, of course . . .

"Revyn Sadri." The shopkeeper jumped at Ulfric's voice.

"Yes, my Jarl?"

"That ring you were blabbering about." Sadri flinched. He must have hoped Ulfric had forgotten. "You said it belonged to Viola Giordano?"

"I didn't say I had the ring," Sadri replied cautiously.

"Do you take me for a fool? Give the woman back her damn ring, and if I ever catch you with stolen property again, you can walk back to Morrowind and leave your goods behind."

Sadri looked conflicted. He was probably weighing the risks of continued denial. But he at last nodded. "I certainly had no intention of buying stolen goods, but I was not careful enough. I'll return the ring to her with an apology."

"See you do."

Ralof insisted he was well enough to walk back to the Palace, so once Faryl Atheron was finished with the bandages, they departed the house. Despite the late hour, the Gray Quarter was now buzzing with excitement. Gray faces peered out from behind shutters and, people huddled in archways talking softly, only falling silent when Ulfric passed. He wondered idly what they were saying; Cecilia would probably try to find out tomorrow. He was looking forward to telling her about their adventure.


2 Second Seed, 4E 202, Morthal

The road to Labyrinthian passed through Morthal, but Junius Varo did not intend to stop there. To bring the Thalmor upon a small Skyrim town was a near unforgivable sin. Elenwen and her cronies would have no time to interfere with the townsfolk, but he knew they were always watching, marking useful potential victims for later. Fortunately, Elenwen agreed with his suggestion that they ride through the night and camp in the wilderness. Probably she didn't want to be seen with him in town.

Yet, when they came to Morthal in the dead of night, there were two men with torches waiting on the road.

"By the Nine, she was right!" one of them exclaimed.

Varo heard a sharp intake of breath from Rikke beside him, but Elenwen said nothing.

"Of course she was right," said the other man. "Hail Friends! Jarl Idgrod is waiting for you in Highmoon Hall."

"Waiting for us, Aslfur?" asked Rikke. "We sent no word of our coming."

Aslfur laughed. "And yet she told us that men and elves were riding here to brave the pass. Come in, Legate, and bring your friends." He turned to Elenwen. "Madame Ambassador, you are as welcome within as my wife has been within your own walls."

"Thank your gods I am a better-behaved guest than your wife," said Elenwen sharply.

Varo's ears perked up. There was a story there he had to hear.

Highmoon Hall was a small rustic wood building. Varo had never been inside a traditional Nord longhouse, and he was surprised how well this one matched the illustrations in his childhood picture books, down to the great hearth at its center.

"Welcome, travelers." An older woman with a shrewd weathered face and dark hair sat upon the Jarl's throne. "I see faces both familiar and strange to me."

Elenwen took a step forward. "Idgrod, I did not think we would meet tonight, but I will take this opportunity to give you a message. The Thalmor do not forget."

"Are you still upset about the party, dear?" asked Idgrod. "I can't help them, you know, these odd turns. Just ask my people here. And I do so dislike snakes in all forms."

Elenwen didn't reply. Rikke then spoke up, "Jarl Idgrod, I present to you Junius Varo, a battle mage of the Imperial Legion and his comrade Emilin of Silvenar."

"Now that's a familiar name." Idgrod stood up from her throne, her eyes fixed on Varo. "Yes," she said, nodding to herself. "The father of the Dragonborn comes to our Hall. How may I help you, Junius Varo?"

"If you're an acquaintance of my daughter, I'd like to talk privately," said Varo.

Idgrod nodded again. "We'll speak in my chamber. Gorm, take care of the other travelers."

Varo followed Idgrod into a small room off the main hall. The man called Aslfur brought up the rear. With a shock, Varo realized that this simple room was the Jarl's bedroom.

Idgrod pointed out a chair, then sat on the side of her bed. Aslflur stood on guard by the door.

"I do know your daughter, Cecilia," she explained. "Indeed, I made her a thane of Hjaalmarch for all she has done here in Morthal."

"I've awakened late to my daughter's fame," said Varo. "She's accumulated a whole list of new titles since she left home."

"So she has. And may soon take on another one, if rumour tells true?"

"Lady of Windhelm, you mean? Not if I have anything to say about it."

"How much do you have to say about it?" asked Idgrod seriously. "Cecilia has her own mind and will, Master Varo."

"If it were a love match, I'd be powerless to forbid it, no matter how much it galled me. But I will not see my daughter sacrifice herself for the schemes of a power-hungry traitor nearly twice her age."

"So that's how it is," said Idgrod. "It was too much to hope Ulfric Stormcloak might have softened with the years."

"Do you know him?" asked Varo.

"Somewhat more than I wish, and less than might have helped. I last saw him at the moot, where we Jarls confirmed Torygg as High King. An unbending proud man he was, who did not listen easily to any counsel, and certainly never to mine."

"Do you have counsel for me, Jarl Idgrod?" asked Varo.

Idgrod's eyes lit up. "What sort of counsel do you think I could give you, Master Varo?"

"You knew we were coming from Solitude. You knew we were men and elves, though we ourselves did not know the Thalmor would join us. And you knew we would attempt the pass, although that was not our original plan. You strike me as a woman of foresight. Am I wrong?"

"You have the wit to see things as they are. Very well, I will tell you what I have seen in my visions, and perhaps I may help you on your journey. Aslfur, bring me that book Falion gifted me."

Aslfur went to a chest in the room's corner. Idgrod continued, "I have seen your attempt of the Pass. The snow lies heavy on the mountains, and you will face the frost trolls who prowl the ruined city. You hardly need a seer to tell you that. But the real danger you bring with you; the hearts of mages are easily led astray. You seek now only to pass through the mountains, but I have seen you and her standing in a dark maze together."

"Elenwen?" Varo's eyebrows shot up. "I'd never enter anything dark with her."

"And yet that is what I have seen," replied Idgrod.

"Do these visions come true?" he demanded.

"In time and in their own fashion. But I see what will be. I do not see what it means."

"This one won't come true, sorry." He felt terribly agitated now. He didn't believe in fixed fate, but he couldn't dismiss this woman who'd already proved her foreknowledge. "There's a maze at Labyrinthian, right? That's where the name comes from?"

"Aslfur, give him the book now."

Aslfur handed him a brown leather book with gilt binding.

A Minor Maze: Shalidor & Labyrinthian, he read the title. "Shalidor," he mused. "Of course, how could I forget? He was one of yours, back in the days when Nords didn't run from magic."

"I've no use for the book, but it may aid you. Take it with you."

He slid the slim book into his leather jerkin. "I hope I'll have no need of it, but either way, I'll come back to Highmoon Hall some day to tell you how it went."

"Our door is always open to you and your daughter," Idgrod assured him.


Notes:

Revyn Sadri tried to get Cecilia to plant the ring for him. She told him he should just drop it down a latrine. If the in-fic solution for Sadri's problem strikes you as less than ideal . . . yep, but Ulfric thinks he's being fair and even generous there. I am not an Ulfric apologist, and he strikes me as the sort of person who thinks they aren't racist, but totally are. (Though being racist is like default mode in Tamriel.) I don't really buy a lot of the justifications people make for his (mis)management of his city. I love this guy because he's a flawed, shortsighted, depressed mess who rises to moments of grandeur.

Next chapter will probably be all Ulfric's story, as we finally tackle the Thalmor Dossier. It's not pretty. (Tanulvie continues to be locked up in a storage room in the Blades' Temple. Since I'm trying to tell the three storylines chronologically, and not as much is happening in the Reach right now, she may be there for a while.)