Ulfric had to give this "Bryn" a small amount of credit- almost a fortnight imprisoned in his dungeons and the man still hadn't cracked. Brynjolf refused to tell any of the torturers or guards sent anything about himself- he would only talk to Ulfric directly. And so, the Jarl of Windhelm was begrudgingly paying his prisoner a visit.
The red headed Nord was seated cross legged on a pile of dirty straw when Ulfric approached the bars of his cell. His blue eyes flickered to the new intrusion with passing curiosity, and his mouth twisted into a smirk. "Well, well. It's about time I finally get to meet my illustrious host."
"You're my prisoner," Ulfric snarled. "And you'd do well to remember that. My patience only extends so far."
"You won't kill me," Bryn chuckled with a wet cough. Blood smeared the side of his mouth. Apparently he had mouthed off to the guards. "You know she'd kill you if you did."
Ulfric felt his fists clench within his pockets. "I don't know whom you're referring to. I take orders from no one. I will be king."
"Oh drop it," the prisoner sighed loudly. "And calm down. The war's not won yet, and you know exactly which lass I'm referring to. I saw you with her in Ivarstead before she climbed the 7,000 steps." Bloody spying bastard.
"She's a member of my ranks, an officer." Well, even if she wasn't currently, he'd be quick to change that when (if) she returned to Windhelm.
"Whom you're in love with." Bryn finished flatly for him. His eyes had taken on a dangerous glint, making Ulfric glad he had him behind bars. "But see...here's the rub in that, Jarl Ulfric. She's my lass. And see, I've never been very good at sharing."
Ulfric stepped closer to the cell, gripping the iron bars. "Oh? I didn't happen to see any rings or amulets on her last," he sneered with a smile. "But then again, she wasn't wearing anything at all, and the way she was screaming my name was rather distracting."
If his words stung the prisoner, he hid it well. "That's Little Lala," he laughed bitterly, spraying more blood across the cell. "Always wanting what she can't have. See, Jarl Ulfric, I know her better than she probably knows herself. And I know that it ever truly came down to it? If she was ever pressed against the wall? She'd choose me. Every time."
The idea of killing him was still quite tempting to Ulfric. But then, when Svala chose him (as she undoubtedly would) it would feel like a hollow victory. "Are you sure? It's been almost a fortnight and I haven't seen her coming to rescue you."
For the first time, he saw a flicker of doubt pass over Brynjolf's face. "You wouldn't tell me if she had come."
Ulfric snorted. "For one that claims to know her so well, you forget that even if I tried to stop her, were she even here, she'd somehow find a way to defy me."
A genuine smile spread across Brynjolf's lips. Ulfric couldn't help but notice the way his bruised, swollen face lit up as he thought of her. Damn woman. Damn stupid, impulsive, brave, beautiful woman had ensnared them both. "Aye. I also know what she'd do to you if you killed me. Tell me, how attached are you to your bollocks?"
"Quite," Ulfric smirked. "Which is why I'm not going to kill you." Truthfully, he had no idea what he was going to do to Brynjolf. He couldn't set him free; he would run back to Svala and poison her against him, but keeping him in chains wasn't ideal either. Luckily, the prisoner didn't have to be dealt with immediately- there was still no word of Svala (much to his chagrin).
"I've committed no crime," Brynjolf reminded him in a sing song tone. "And you can't keep me here forever- my associates will come calling."
The Jarl laughed. The thief certainly had high regard for himself, that was certain. "In time, I will have control of all of Skyrim. I have an entire army of fierce and loyal warriors. You think a few thugs and thieves will intimidate me?"
He shook his head, lank red hair falling in front of one blackened eye. "No, Jarl Ulfric. But I think losing her would. Tell me," he licked his split lip. "Do you think she'd be happy as a queen? Lording over this country of yours, only Nords welcome? Being responsible for all those people? Having to stay in that cold palace day after day?"
Each word felt like a blow. He knew Brynjolf was right, he knew that she would never want to stay with him in Windhelm when the thief before him could offer her a life full of adventure. "Well," he said, smiling tightly, trying to chase the thoughts from his mind. "Let's see how you like it first."
Ulfric spun on his heel to leave as his prisoner called after him, "You can't just keep me here forever. I promise you, I swear to Nocturnal I will get out!"
He didn't dignify it with a response- a bloody Daedra devotee? Pathetic. Besides, he had more important things that needed his attention- he had been negotiating Wuunferth's release with Elenwen through correspondence (because, quite frankly, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stomach seeing the Altmer bitch in person) but Lydia was another story entirely. The Thalmor were tight-lipped about Svala's stoic housecarl which meant one of two things: either Svala had paid the embassy another visit or Lydia was already dead. He could only be grateful that Wuunferth was in the process of traveling back to Windhelm, alive.
Ulfric still remembered vividly what being tortured by the Thalmor felt like. When Elenwen had him during the Great War, he had been sure he would never make it out alive. The Mer had kept him on the very edge of his sanity, toying with him sadistically until he finally broke. She kept him unfed until he collapsed, barely hydrated, alone in the dark all day and night, and took flaming blades to his skin. "That hairy pelt of yours would look so charming above my mantle," she'd sneer at him. "Only the best for the Bear of Markarth."
Ulfric punched the nearest stone wall, feeling his knuckles split in protest. He despised when those particular memories would resurface, making him feel dizzy and helpless. The fact he had subjected Wuunferth to that same treatment, remembering the betrayal and judgement in Svala's eyes as he stopped her from interfering...it still haunted him. He may have not caused Markarth to fall, but he was still a coward, which was equally as unforgivable to him. The chance of being discovered by the Thalmor that day in Whiterun terrified Ulfric more than he cared to admit, but he knew there wouldn't be any room for fear with all of Skyrim under his command. He couldn't afford to be soft.
"You alright?" Galmar asked him gruffly, sidling up to him. Ulfric snorted, punching the wall once more. "Take that as a no."
"Why do you fight, Galmar?"
Galmar laughed. "You know I'd follow you into the depths of Oblivion, Ulfric. Just say the word."
"I know," Ulfric pressed his head against the cool stone of the wall, feeling his own blood cling to his beard. "But other than me, why do you fight? There must be something deeper."
"I'll die before I let elves dictate the rule of men," his friend growled. "Are we not one in this?"
Ulfric sighed, his eyes closing. He thought of Ralof, wide eyed and eager to please in Helgen. He thought of Wuunferth, laughing and instructing Sofie. He thought of Svala, sauntering into the palace with the Jagged Crown on her head. "I fight for the men I've held in my arms, dying on foreign soil. I fight for their wives and children, who's names I heard whispered on their spare breaths. I fight for we few who did come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces. I fight for my people impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them, yet brands them criminals for wanting to rule themselves! I fight so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing. I fight...because I must."
Galmar's large hand clapped him on the back. "Your words give voice to what we all feel, Ulfric. And that's why you will be High King. But the day words are enough will be the day when soldiers like us are no longer needed."
"I would gladly retire from the world were such a day to dawn." He thought of building a house in the woods for Svala and Sofie and a few blonde haired, green eyed children...perhaps even a dog...
His general laughed sadly. "Aye. But in the meantime, we have a war to plan. Damn Imperials multiply like roaches- no matter how many we wipe out, twice as many more come to take their place."
The last thing he wanted to talk about was the war, not when his thoughts were still lingering on a peaceful life with his Dragonborn. Still, his people needed him, and Skyrim only grew more and more unstable with each passing day. "There is a growing Thalmor presence in the Rift and Whiterun Hold. That should be our current concern."
"They're looking for her, you know," Galmar frowned. "Give them what they want and get them out of Skyrim. Then we can take the fight to them, when we're victorious."
Ulfric tensed at Galmar's suggestion. "No." He said shortly before leading the other man into the war room. He would not hand her back over to the Thalmor, he would gladly die before he would betray her- but Galmar did not need to be reminded of the depths of his affection for her. "You forget she is the Dragonborn and our best hope at solving the dragon problem. Would you willingly hand over such power into the hands of our enemies?"
Galmar's grey eyebrows knit together in an obvious answer. "A dragon would be something," he pondered. "Do you think we could get one to fight for us? Do you think Bone-Breaker could control it?" His eyes gleamed with bloodlust. "Think of the advantage! We could turn the Embassy into ashes!"
"I don't think dragons care much for the affairs of men," Ulfric answered dryly, though the thought of a char roasted Elenwen was rather tempting. "What about High Rock? Is there news?"
"Not a peep," Galmar spat. "Those pissy Bretons can't be made to lift a finger to help their neighbors."
The Jarl sighed. Damn. He had been hoping the Bretons would join him; the truth was, it was as though his army was the size of a rabbit and trying to down a saber cat. Even with Svala's instrumental help in battle, she was only one woman and currently missing in action. The simple answer was that he needed more bodies. "I suppose we shouldn't be surprised. They've never had many problems with the Empire."
"Those milk drinkers? Might as well be elves. Think they're better than us."
He waved Galmar's words away with a hand. "Regardless. It appears Skyrim must stand alone. Again." He stared hard at the map in front of him, dotted with its little blue and red flags. "Didn't Torsten bring up the idea of a navy?"
"The farmer?" Galmar snorted. "Can't even do his ancestors proud by sailing. What, he's going to supply you with a navy? I bet he wants the helm too."
Ulfric scratched his beard, deep in thought. At first he had agreed with Galmar's sentiment that a navy was unnecessary. But if there was a way he could stop the influx of troops to Solitude in the north... "It wouldn't need to be a fleet. A few ships, perhaps, just enough to choke the northern supply lines."
His general grunted, pacing around the length of the table. "It could work," he said after a moment. "But I still don't trust a farmer to lead a warship. What about Lonely-Gale?"
"It would be a grave insult to take ships and men provided by the Cruel-Seas and give another man command." Ulfric shook his head. Talos be good, all he needed was the ire of a local, noble family on top of the rest of it all. "No, Torsten had the idea for a navy, so he will have the honor of command."
After a moment of tense silence, Galmar nodded once. He had become more taciturn since Ulfric had returned, often brooding when the two disagreed and constantly storming away from meetings. As much as Ulfric loved and respected him, he grew nervous that Galmar's behavior would only encourage the notion that he had grown older and was too weak to rule. After all, wasn't it at Galmar's behest that he remain away from the battlefield? A sickening, niggling thought in the back of Ulfric's mind suggested that perhaps Galmar was planning to usurp him. He disregarded it immediately, but the unease was hard to shake.
"He'll be here tonight for dinner," Galmar sneered. "Damn fool is anywhere there's free food to be had."
"He does grow most of it," Ulfric reminded him, clapping him on the back. "I'm retiring until then. I don't want to be disturbed under any circumstances."
"What if the wench comes back? Should I send her right up to your room?" In the name of diplomacy and friendship Ulfric didn't dignify Galmar with an answer, not even turning to see the (likely) smug expression Galmar wore. Once he was safely inside his chambers, he let the door slam shut and drove his axe into one of the posts of his bed. He grabbed the nearest bottle of mead and downed it greedily.
He needed rest.
Whores had lost their interest to him, since the cave. She came endlessly for him that day, around his fingers and his tongue and his cock. As the alcohol began to make his thoughts grow hazy, Ulfric weakly captured an image of Svala within his mind. However, instead of the ill-fitting mage robes he had last seen her in, she was wearing the skimpy pelts and skulls of the Forsworn. As much as thinking of The Great War put him off, he wouldn't soon forget some of the tribal, warrior women he had bedded in his youth.
Ulfric collapsed onto the luxurious bed, finishing his first bottle of mead, starting a second, and removing his hardening cock from his trousers. His eyes fluttered closed as he took himself in hand, imagining Svala on her knees before him, her bright green eyes wide and playful as her lips stretched around his length. He hissed at the spike of pleasure that shot through him, gripping the sheets as his hips slowly began to thrust.
She would cup his balls in her rough, calloused palms- warrior hands- and hum as his speed increased. In his mind, he could feel the light graze of her teeth, the slickness of her throat constricting around him. Now they were in the dungeons, and he was looming over the cage of her ex lover, locking eyes with the pathetic thief as he spilled into her mouth with a roar. He'd take her there too, plunge into her dripping cunt until she cried his name like she did that first time when she made the walls shake...
Ulfric came with a strangled grunt; spilling himself over his fist and thighs. He finished the second bottle of mead and went to reach for a third when an odd, numbing sensation began to lick at his toes and creep up his legs like wildfire. However, his head was too warm and fuzzy with alcohol and orgasm for him to really question it, and he quickly fell into a dreamless sleep. It wasn't until much later, when the fire had burned low in its hearth and he could feel a rag shoved in his mouth, that he began to worry.
Blearily, his gaze focused on a figure crouched at his desk, wearing the armor of his guards. He tried to call out, but the obstruction in his mouth made it nearly impossible, resulting in muffled grunts. "Shut up," the intruder answered flippantly, waving a gloved hand in his direction. "I'll see to you in a minute."
Ulfric noticed two defining features- the gloves the figure was wearing were black and red, and the way the man pronounced his s's came out more defined, like a slither. Argonian. Well, at least he could be sure it wasn't actually one of his guards, and that this was likely not a coup. He tried to thrash his arms and legs violently, only to find his body as stiff and unresponsive as a board.
"You've been paralyzed," the Argonian drawled, unlocking his chest and slipping its golden contents into his pockets. "Don't worry, you won't feel it. Be lucky for that- if it were one of my brothers, I dare say he'd draw it out so you felt every...agonizing...second."
He felt fear pool low in his belly. Ulfric couldn't see a way out of his room alive. His own orders had demanded he remain undisturbed, and he was paralyzed and gagged. He could only hope Galmar would sense the danger, as he always seemed to, and come running...
...if he died he'd never see her again...
The door flew open suddenly and an arrow soared through the air quicker than Ulfric or the assassin could react to. The Argonian gave one last shuddering breath before slumping onto his face, blue blood painting the walls. An arrow jutted out of the back of his skull, pierced clean through the thick steel of the helmet. In the doorway stood a figure in buckled brown armor, armor he had seen in Svala's own wardrobe...
Thieves Guild. Of course.
The thief was a dunmer besides, as if to add insult to injury, he could tell by the pallid grey complexion she had. Her eyes, however, were a startling violet rather than the usual crimson. It gave her willowy frame an ethereal quality, which only made her all the more terrifying to him. Brynjolf stood behind her, still battered and bloodied, his mouth hanging ajar. "Karliah, I told you to leave it."
"I won't have him become a martyr," Karliah spat, her bow pointing at Ulfric, who was still paralyzed. "Let's not give the racists a champion, now." She made full eye contact with him and swirling within her violet gaze he could see the pure hatred she felt for him. Briefly, he wondered if she had taken out the assassin only to have the pleasure of killing him herself. However, she lowered her bow and helped to support the man at her side. "Now let's go before the rest of them wake up."
He tried to shout at them through the gag, slowly feeling sensation creep back into his feet. He wiggled his toes violently, helplessly, as he watched the two thieves slip away, undetected, as quickly as the blood pooling on the floor.