While there were many perks to being an heir to the Jarl, the requirement to be present during tedious political meetings was not one of them. Frothar supposed he should have had more of an interest if he were to lead one day, and managed to feign attentiveness at the words that were being exchanged. He stood beside his father and uncle while being briefed by Legate Cipius, the Imperial commander stationed in Whiterun.
"Our spies have reported something stirring in the East—all the lingering Stormcloak leaders have been recalled to the Palace of Kings," Cipius explained as he pointed toward the few small, blue flags strewn across the map, tracing the paths from them back to where Windhelm was marked. "Our blockade has been successful as no aggressive rebels have broken into Whiterun for six months. Tullius expects them to call a surrender soon."
"That's what he said seven years ago after Ulfric was beheaded. He was wrong then and is now, you Imperial lot have always underestimated Nord stubbornness," Hrongar argued, blunt and contentious as always.
Legate Cipius flashed a look of annoyance at being contradicted. The point was valid though. No one expected this conflict to drag on for over two decades. It seemed as though Skyrim would never have peace again.
"They can still receive supplies through their port, though," Barlgruuf mentioned, tapping the area above Windhelm—the Sea of Ghosts.
"Who would supply to them? We hold every dock across the northern coast all the way to High Rock. Those in Morrowind are unlikely to provide aid—they are cleaning up from an invasion, and House Redoran knows how unfriendly Windhelm has been to their people."
Frothar was barely paying attention now, he felt his eyelids droop slightly before catching himself and opening them again—only because Whiterun's steward entered the room with a bow of apology for interrupting.
"'Please excuse the intrusion, my Jarl. A courier has brought you a message from General Tullius."
The Legate looked stricken, and the Jarl furrowed his brow. Frothar kept awake enough at the new development with growing curiosity—why would one of the Empire's Leading Generals be sending correspondence straight to his father and overlook the commanding officer?
Proventus handed the folded parchment to the Jarl and Balgruuf took it. His father also lifted a dagger that was laying on the map table to cut the seal. He unfolded it, seeming to glance over the writing and finally made a thoughtful grunt—not speaking to whether he took the penned words as positive or negative.
"Jarl Kraldar is dead."
There was a moment of silence before Hrongar blurted what everyone was thinking, "He left no heirs. Who is to take up the throne of Winterhold?"
Balgruuf tossed the letter onto the table at Cipius, "The Empire intends to seat Korir's son."
"Korir was removed for supporting the rebels, his son is surely to be sympathetic toward the Stormcloaks—he's been living in Windhelm most of his life! Is this your plan to make peace?" Hrongar asked, utterly puzzled as Cipius lowered his eyes from Balgruuf's steady gaze. If anything, the controlled silence of the Jarl was not an indication of neutrality, but anger. Frothar observed his father's nostrils flare ever so slightly. The letter was laying out in the open, in the middle of the table—so Frothar had no reservation plucking it up and reading it himself. His father had all but invited him to.
Greetings Jarl Balgruuf the Greater,
There's been an unfortunate turn of events in Winterold. Jarl Kralder has passed away after long suffering from Rock Joint. The Legion holds this area strategically, but it's in the best interest of the Empire that the throne doesn't stay empty. A Jarl is needed to maintain the order.
I sent a proposal to Galmar Stone-Fist to allow Assur, son of Korir, the former Jarl of Winterhold, to take up the role. He has accepted the position. I know what you must think—the boy is not an ideal choice, brainwashed have anti-Empire sentiments. Someone who could let Stormcloaks into your lands to execute clandestine raids.
This is why I also have a proposal for you.
I know your daughter was to be married to strengthen ties with the Hjaalmarch, however I and my superiors, would like to see Winterhold secured—and that can indeed happen if you betroth Lady Dagnessa to Jarl Assur.
I think it's a step toward ending the war without having to slaughter the city.
Please consider this proposal—Whiterun would remain safe and the new Jarl would easily be kept under close watch if their union was allowed. He wouldn't dare allow harm to his wife's home while she is at his side.
Sincerely,
General Tullius
Provincial Governor of Skyrim
"Dagny is going to love this," Frothar quipped sarcastically, leveling the same frown of his father at the Legate.
His sister was spoilt but even she didn't deserve to be sentenced to a lifetime of misery in the cold waste of Winterhold. She had already suffered enormous embarrassment when the Thane of Hjaalmarch didn't show up for her first wedding. Having her married to a Stormcloak sympathizer was just adding insult to injury.
"You aren't going to do it, are you?" Frothar asked in alarm when his father didn't outright refuse.
"Jarl Balgruuf, please consider the good of Skyrim," Cipius pleaded, "Joric Ravencrone is nowhere to be found, this is an opportunity left open by fate."
Frothar's anger lashed out at the presumptions of the Imperial, "Dagny isn't a game piece you can just push around!" his palms hit the table and he leaned forward with tension building in his shoulders, "She's a person with dreams and feelings like the rest of us!"
"Son, calm yourself," Balgruuf commanded and made a gesture indicating that Frothar was dismissed from the meeting. He should have been thankful he didn't have to endure more boorish politics but he wasn't finished with smaking his point.
"If you go through with this, she'll hate us forever. You might as well be signing her up to join the Stormcloaks because she will surely turn against the Empire for this slight."
"Frothar, leave us. Now," his father commanded firmly. Frothar did turn and take is leave, marching up the steps to the private quarters, but not without slamming the doors behind him. He leaned against a wall and took a few deep breaths. Perhaps he was so riled on behalf of Dagny because his father had done the same to him only a year prior. With no say, and no room to argue, he was told he must wed a complete stranger.
Not that he disliked Livia. She had a cheery disposition for being in the same set of circumstances. She was lovely, in both looks and demeanor, she came from a respected noble house, and there was actually very little to dislike about her. He had grown quite fond of her over the months they had been married. He just wished he had a choice in the matter.
Other people were free to determine who they loved—it wasn't fair that because they were children of nobility, they were denied it.
He would never forget the day of their wedding feast, when they were dancing close and Livia pulled at his neck so he could lean over to hear her whisper something.
"Be honest, could you ever love me?"
He didn't know how to reply. Luckily his heart hadn't been taken by anyone else prior but he knew he didn't love her. She knew it too. They both knew she didn't love him either.
"I could, someday," he finally admitted, "Could you love me?"
"We'll see," she smiled in that pleasant way of hers, and maneuvered herself into a twirl.
Just because he didn't love her, didn't mean he didn't care for her. She was always shivering, even when sitting in front of the hearth, even with multiple, thick, woolen shawls covering her from shoulder to waist. She was from the Gold Coast of Cyrodiil, used to balmy summers and warm sea breezes—not the ceaseless and bitter cold of Skyrim.
Not long after they were wed, he presented her with a gift, wrapped in leather.
"What is this?" she inquired taking her hands from in front of her mouth, where she seemed to continuously blow her hot breath into them.
"Open it and find out," he held in a grin of anticipation. He'd been on a hunt a few days before and had slain a snowy sabre cat. The creatures had thick hides, and thicker fur. They could traverse the icy mountains of the Pale in winds well below freezing temperatures. If they could stay warm, surely the fur from one could keep his wife warmer than ever before.
She delicately untied the string the leather was bound in, and her eyes widened with joy at the pelt before her. She unfolded it and held the soft side to her cheek, relishing the warmth of it. She hadn't thanked him, but he knew he had her thanks in the way she looked at him a moment later—with a new sense of adoration for considering her struggle and his effort to help alleviate it. Her 'we'll see' from months before was finally an unspoken but resolute 'yes.'
He doubted his sister would slip as easily into arranged wedded bliss. She had accepted Joric but not without ultimatums from their father, which he would use again if he decided Assur should have her.
The question was, would Dagny rather give up the privileges of life she had been used to in order to have a choice in her groom? She would have tolerated Joric for those comforts, but he doubted she would do the same for Assur and Winterhold.
Speaking of the brat, Frodnar caught sight of her leaving her room, still a rarity as of late. Had she run out of wine?
"Dagny!" he called out, causing her to turn around quickly in alarm.
She held something clutched in her fist but he couldn't make out what it was.
"Brother, you need something of me?"
He knew it would sour relations with his father, not to mention the Legate if he spoke to her about the pending decision of her fate. Dagny was intelligent though; he could merely mention indirectly what he was meaning to and she could draw her own conclusions.
"Take a walk with me, I want to share an interesting development."
She seemed impatient the way she glanced down at her hand and back up to him with a furrowed brow but gave a slight nod before saying, "I thought you hated those meetings."
They ambled down the corridor and he shrugged, "They are rather dull but hear me out."
Dagny sighed with disinterest.
"The Jarl of Winterhold has died and the Empire wants to place Assur on the throne."
"Who?"
He quickly searched his mind for a reference. He remembered the lad from a one-time meeting in their childhood, though had forgotten the reason. Dagny was a year younger than he so maybe she had forgotten entirely.
"Assur was the lad who liked to play a game about hunting elves. I recall you refused to play, he poked you with a stick and it made you cry."
Dagny stared at the floor in front of her as she walked, trying to recollect and then seemed to remember, "Oh that little shite...wasn't his father deposed for siding with the rebellion? Why would they want him to lead anything?"
Frothar shrugged again, "He has the bloodline for it, and the position has a vacancy."
But that wouldn't be the only vacancy.
She stopped walking, clutched her fist even harder, and closed her eyes—taking a sharp breath through her nose. She understood. "He'll be a young Jarl in need of a wife," she said in a disgruntled exhale and then mumbled something softer, probably a curse.
"I didn't tell you anything but the political development," Frothar reminded her.
"Father marrying me off to a hoarking traitor is a political development and if you don't do something to dissuade them, I will," she frowned, a threat laced within her voice which had turned cold. He couldn't imagine how. She could throw an epic public tantrum but that would hardly stop the Empire for using her to further their agenda in the civil war.
"It might not be so bad," Forthar found himself smiling.
Dagny gave him an incomprehensible look until she realized what he was smiling about, then barked out with scorn, "Lucky for you, they forced upon you someone who was pretty and kind, and came to live in your home. Don't pretend I will have those luxuries."
"You may end up liking him."
"The son of a disgraced Jarl that lives in the frozen arsehole of Skyrim? I'd rather take vows of chastity and spend the rest of my days tending the ill at the temple, and you know I'm not the charitable sort."
"What would you have me do, Dagny? I'm not the Jarl."
She stopped her pace and glowered, "Just you wait."
There was something terrifying in her tone that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. She continued walking briskly, to her intended destination—wherever that was. He watched his sister take her leave of the private quarters with the slam of the door.
He didn't see her again until supper and she looked no different than the past few nights where she sat slouched in her chair, her expression filled with sullen disdain.
This wouldn't do, they actually had dinner guests that evening.
The Jarl had seemed to give up on chiding Dagny for her ill manners and welcomed members of the Battle-Born clan cordially, nonetheless. The clan boasted an ancient legacy, was respected, wealthy, and did a great service for the hold by way of farming. It was especially invaluable in the years the civil war had ravaged the province.
Nelkir had his own curious, guest as well. Frothar didn't believe anyone to be able to tolerate his younger brother's unpleasant personality yet there sat a girl at the end of the dining table, the same one that had visited Dragonsreach a week ago. He only remembered her because Nelkir escorted her out—something so very out of character for his introverted brother.
Livia joined the table, at her place setting next to Frothar as she had been since she joined the court of Whiterun. She gave him a warm smile and he returned it but for some reason felt slightly more endearment for her than usual, perhaps because of his thoughts earlier in the day. His hand found hers where it rested in her lap underneath the table, and he gave it a squeeze.
"What was that for?" she raised a curious brow. He hardly ever showed his affection in public settings.
"I haven't seen you all day," he replied.
"I was resting."
She had done that the day before too. His brows knotted together slightly, "Are you ill?"
"No, no, nothing like that. I'm in good health." Something in her features flickered with emotion and she clutched his hand tighter, "You are sweet to be concerned for me."
"You are my wife," he stated, as if that was an obvious answer for his concern. Then he did something he'd never done before and brought her hand, still held, above the table and set it there for anyone to witness. He saw his father take notice, but didn't make any change of his neutral expression. Nelkir didn't seem to care. Dagny's brow furrowed even deeper.
The remainder of the dinner was a pleasant affair, even when Lars, the absent son of the Battle-Borns turned up later in the meal apologizing for the interruption. In some respect, Frothar was envious of the Battle-Born clan—they all seemed to adore one another like a proper, loving family.
He couldn't imagine he, his siblings, and their father embrace each other in that sort of familiar fondness. They tolerated each other at best, speaking of which—the only activity that marred the otherwise enjoyable meal was Dagny's unceremonious exit after Nelkir had taken a jab at her status as a rejected bride.
Nelkir had never been an admirable sort. He was strange, cynical, and downright mean in his words. Frothar wasn't above exchanging hurtful words with his sister, especially when they were children but he thought he'd at least outgrown it by now. Nelkir had not—he seemed to gain a perverse enjoyment in causing others misery.
After the meal, Frothar and his uncle retired to the great porch to drink wine. The men of the Battle-Born clan were also invited but declined politely, eager to catch up in the privacy of their own home. The rest of the court had been dismissed for the evening.
The night was calm. Frothar leaned on the stone edging, gazing out toward the Pale and set his goblet on its surface.
"Do you think father will agree to General Tullius's proposal?" Frothar asked without looking behind him.
He heard his uncle sigh, "He very well may. Dagnessa is a very demanding force on attentions and resources. I am impressed we even have this bottle of wine left for our enjoyment."
The remark made Frothar chuckle, but he also felt sad for his sister to have to resort to drinking so much to cope with the undesirable things in her life. Nords didn't shy away from a good, hearty, beverage but drinking oneself into a stupor was embarrassing. Her life also wasn't as bad as she thought it was, if she'd just gain some perspective.
Hrongar continued, "Besides, General Tullius had a point about keeping the young jarl of Winterhold under close watch. I've never known my brother to pass up taking advantage of a situation—he's always been keen that way, which is why he makes such a fine Jarl. Hopefully someday, you will carry on his legacy."
Yes, hopefully.
When he entered his room, it was dark. The candles had been snuffed for the night. But he didn't need firelight to ready himself for bed—there was light from the moons that leaked through the windows that was enough to keep him from bumping into furniture. He undressed himself, throwing his clothes over a chair for the servants to gather in the morning, and replaced them with a long linen sleeping shirt. He saw his wife's figure, huddled underneath the quilts and furs like usual—he smiled, thinking of how he could warm her once he joined her, hoping she was well despite her assurances she was.
"You know, I had a thought of you today," he said as turned down the blankets and crawled next to her. "Remember what you asked me on our wedding day, when we danced?"
He slid his arm around her midsection and curled it, pressing her closer. She felt like a ragdoll, small and limp. She was cold. Colder than he could ever recall.
"Livia?" he whispered, and gave a light shake to her shoulder and felt no resistance. His fingers touched something wet, sticky and congealed. His worry heightened to abject panic and he felt for the sabre cat fur around her, pulled at it, and dragged her into his arms. He managed to get them out of the bed and out of the room, stumbling into the hall of the private quarters to his knees with her still in his grasp.
He could only stare in disbelief and horror at what the dull light from the overhanging torches revealed.
Posted guards came rushing as they heard Frothar's involuntary wail at seeing the slash across his wife's throat. A sheet of Blood sullied the front of her night dress, and spotted her pelt. The worst was her haunted eyes, open and unblinking. There were a few more moments of disbelief before Frothar broke down into sobs, curling his fists into the clothing where he had hold of her. He pulled her close to him and cradled her, not minding the blood that was soaking into and staining his own night shirt, and smoothed her mussed hair away from her face. His cries rang through the Keep—the guttural, pained, sounds of a man in mourning—waking all who heard.
Guards tried to speak to him, and attempted to remove her from his arms in vain as he clutched desperately to her body.
"Stop," they heard the Jarl's command.
The Jarl was wearing a dressing robe over his nightshirt, and his head was absent of the circlet that signified his authority but all obeyed nonetheless. His gaze over the scene was controlled as usual. His father had always been a beacon of calmness in any scenario.
He looked up at his father, tears in his eyes—glaring, "How could this happen? Who would do this? Who would want to hurt her?"
He scanned the room, to all who stood and gawked—seeing the maids, the guards, Irileth, Proventus, Hrongar, Farengar, and Nelkir. Even Nelkir seemed struck at the scene before them; Nelkir who never could be bothered to be decent toward his family looked to have felt a sting of sadness at the loss of Livia. Yet his father's expression told nothing. Frothar peered down and swallowed, lightly brushing his unsteady fingertips over her eyelids so she could have the dignity of resting. Though resting in peace was out of the question.
"She's gone, son," Balgruuf said evenly, but gently and outstretched his hand for Frothar to take.
"How can you just stand there and say it without feeling? Do you even have a heart?" Frothar shouted in belligerence. He set his wife down gently to the floor and did not take his father's hand, but stood against him.
Balrguuf ignored his son's questions, and instead he directed his attention to the others, "Farengar, please fetch the priest of Arkay to preform last rites and clean the body. Irileth, have the guards do a sweep of my son's room for any clues as to what happened tonight. Proventus, wake Captain Caius and instruct him to start an interrogation of those in the keep to see if they heard or saw anything before the incident. Also have him wake those in the barracks and ask them to secure the perimeter. Frothar, follow me."
The firm hand at his back led Frothar away from Livia. As he was guided forward, he looked over his shoulder and saw a few of those who had gathered around the private quarters, bend down touch her in unison—it was a gesture of mourning and respect. Livia had been well-liked by most, which was why he couldn't fathom anyone wanting to hurt her.
"Proventus," the Jarl added. The steward turned with wide eyes, seeming overwhelmed but showed appropriate decorum, "Bring the alchemist to the great hall within the hour, I have urgent questions for her."
Everything had happened so fast that Frothar didn't realize where they were until Balgruuf closed the doors of the Jarl's quarters. He hardly ever went into these rooms as his father liked his privacy. He didn't have much time to dwell on that privilege however, as his thoughts turned back to Livia.
She's gone.
And he didn't even get to tell her...that he did actually love her.
Emotion caught in his chest, only to be sucked back by the dark void his heart had seemed to collapse into at realizing the finality of it all. He would never again hear her laugh nor see her smile. She would never again spend her nights curled into his side and relish in his warmth, listening with amusement at his retelling of the days' events, and he in turn would hear her stories from a warmer place so very far away.
She didn't deserve this.
He choked on a fresh sob at the thought and felt his father encase him in his arms—holding as strong and hard as Skyforge steel.
He didn't understand why his father was embracing him. His father hardly ever had hugged him, even as a child and Balgruuf had been so unmoving a moment ago—dismissive of Frothar's emotions, and of the fact his daughter-in-law was slain in her own bed. No matter, Frothar let his sadness and anger out through his tears, causing his whole form to tremble violently.
If he stilled long enough, he could feel his father shaking too.
"Father?" Frothar wiped at his eyes to see that the Balgruuf's face had broken as well. Tears reflected in both their visions and the Jarl cleared his throat.
"I would have suffered cuts by a thousand swords to protect you from this feeling. Losing a beloved before their time is enough to turn a man into a hollow husk. I wish I could tell you it gets easier but...a piece of you will seem like it's missing forever."
He supposed that's why his father seemed so unattached and cold with them, forever reminding him of her. His mother had died when he was but a child; he could barely remember Balgruuf before then but did know his father had smiled often long ago.
The Jarl let his son go, backing away and shaking his head with regret.
"What's the matter?"
"If I told you, it would only break your heart further."
Frothar clenched his teeth angrily at his father for treating him as if he were nothing but a fragile vase to be kept safe on a pedestal. Especially concerning information about his wife.
"I must know."
He stared hard at his father, refusing to back down. After a moment, the Jarl sighed, and wiped a lingering tear from his cheek. He picked up a silver goblet that was standing on his table and poured what looked like alcohol into it from a matching pitcher. He handed it to Frothar but his son pushed it away, adamant on hearing the information the Jarl held regarding Livia.
"A few days ago, it came to my attention that dear Livia had been visiting Arcadia—wanting to obtain aloe vera leaves. Apparently, on the Gold Coast they are used in potions for health, to reduce fatigue...and to ease morning sickness."
The Jarl took a drink.
"You mean...?"
The Jarl nodded somberly and swallowed, "I believe she was with child."
A chill swept through him, prickling his skin with a combination of numbness and despair—there were not enough tears left in him to spill befitting this added tragedy. It felt like he had lost everything in a blink of an eye—robbed of being a husband and a father. He felt pathetic for not realizing sooner, not being able to protect them. Only a dull lump formed in his throat, rendering his voice dry, "Why didn't she tell us?"
The Jarl shook his head at a loss, trying again to offer his son the goblet. Frothar did take it that time and threw his head back to welcome the beverage, not caring if it rendered him fuzzy. He'd rather forget. Sadness was still consuming every fiber of his being, but a shard of anger cracked through it and his knuckles clenched the goblet stem harder, "Whoever did this to her will suffer a fate worse than death. I swear upon her soul they will beg for mercy before their end."
A few raps on the door sounded, but Frothar barely heard them. He was staring forward and continued sipping the remaining wine that his father offered him. Balgruuf moved past him to see who needed their attention. Frothar took pause when he heard Nelkir's voice.
"We can't find Dagny."
Both father and sons' alarms were raised, as Dagny was not one to be far from her room nor her alcohol. For a moment Frothar feared the worst, that his sister had suffered the fate of Livia and was another victim, lying somewhere in the Keep and bleeding out.
Nelkir didn't seem to think the same as his voice remained calm, a trait he and Balgruuf shared in the face of adversity.
His father's housecarl appeared behind Nelkir with her ever-present frown of disapproval, "My Jarl, there was nothing to be found in the heir's bed chamber. However," she held out a book, wrapped and bound in old, browned, leather, toward the Jarl, and her expression transformed to concern, "a guard did find this in your daughter's room."
Balgruuf took the book in his hand and read the title page aloud, "A Kiss, Sweet Mother."
Frothar's eyes widened, realizing at what the book was. He remembered it from his youth when he was bored and was looking to annoy Farengar, loitering about the bookshelves in the court wizard's wing of the palace. The book had been there. He asked about it and Farengar's usual smug look transferred to that of alarm—and told him to stop being a pest. The next time he looked for it, it was gone. He later learned what its true purpose was.
Dagny may have been the only one who didn't get along with Livia, to be fair Dagny didn't get along with most people. Livia had tried many times to get Dagny to warm up to her but Dangy hated change, and Livia being there meant just another woman to compete with for any attention—it was no secret most of the court preferred Livia's company to Dagny's.
But even for all her abrasive tendencies, Dagny would have never turned toward...them...to solve her problems. Would she? Frothar thought he knew his sister better than anyone else but now he was having doubts. His wife was assassinated, the book of how to summon the Dark Brotherhood was, apparently, in his sister's possession, and these clues led to a grim conclusion.
Was he being punished for leading her to the truth and then being dismissive of her sad fate at the hands of the Imperials?
He didn't want to believe it was even possible, but he knew Dagny was more than capable of great malevolence.