Ulfric found his first gray hair that morning. Thorunn had been the one to cut and style it, so it had grown a few inches past his shoulders and was looking less than tidy. He wouldn't let his servants touch it even if there was time to donate to such frivolities. Even putting something on other than his bedclothes had become a chore.

Stress was eating away at him. Still no word came from Thorunn and his army. Winterhold was in dire need of crops, Windhelm's Dark Elves had finally had enough of segregation and were erupting a new realm of Oblivion for the guards, Riften's Thieves Guild was making a comeback, and Markarth was lost. The Dominion was spreading and Solitude was weakened due to Ulfric sending most of everyone to battle in the Reach.

Two weeks had passed since he'd seen Thorunn. He wondered if her stomach had grown any, if she yet breathed. On the third day, he caved and sent four scouts forth, but they had yet to return. And they probably won't.

For Winterhold, he tasked Whiterun and Ivarstead with transporting crops. For Windhelm, he could do nothing but send a letter vowing that he would return soon and restore order. It wouldn't be long before they were forced to go to Windhelm, with or without Ulfric's queen. He gave Riften full power to deal with the Thieves Guild however they see fit, and did nothing for Markarth as he sat in the dark regarding the circumstances.

He sat slouched in his throne, pinching the bridge of his nose, when a peculiar ebony-skinned bearded man approached the dais. He wore a tagelmust over his head and beaded red finery. Ulfric straightened up in his seat, his attention piqued. He hoped...

"I am Nazuin of the Alik'r," spoke the Redguard, hands clasped behind his back. His accent was almost so heavy Ulfric couldn't understand him. "With me I bring word from my leaders regarding your want for our help in the war you wage against the Aldmeri Dominion."

The king held his breath.

"Hammerfell has agreed to assist Skyrim on the condition that you assist us when the need arises. Assuredly, the Dominion is not finished with us. When the day comes where their unworthy feet grace sand, the mighty Alik'r will stand ready alongside the worthy Nords, yes?"

"Yes," Ulfric said without hesitation. Relief surged through him so thick he had to fight back hysterical laughter. "I accept your terms."

"King Amran and Queen Ahleen will be delighted to hear so," said Nazuin. "Her Grace will arrive with fifteen-thousand men, while His Grace remains in Hammerfell. Expect the might of the Redguards to arrive in three weeks time."

Three weeks was too long, but it was all they had. Ulfric nodded. He'd heard of the esteemed rulers of Hammerfell. They had three daughters together; Trevah, Rami, and Sulehana. Rumor had it that Queen Ahleen had the king in her pocket, and she was the real weight behind the throne. To boot, she was a renowned warrior, never having lost a tourney duel or battle. Ulfric was pleased that she was coming and not her husband. His reputation regarding warfare was sketchy at best. Better that he remain in his lane of politics.

At Ulfric's dismissal wave, Nazuin departed with a blessing from his Satakal and Onsi, his long red cape sweeping behind him. Ulfric had reiterated with a blessing from Talos.

"Sire, perhaps you shouldn't have so readily agreed to assist the Redguards," said Jorleif after the Redguard had left.

"And why not?"

"This war will leave us weakened and bloodied. It will take us centuries to recover wholly. There is no way we will be able to pledge fifteen-thousand men to the Redguards as they have done us. When they realize that, who knows what they will take from us as compensation?"

"Then I suppose we hope it takes the Dominion centuries to attack Hammerfell," Ulfric responded. Outwardly, he was all cool smiles and confidence. Inwardly...

Jorleif knew better than to argue when Ulfric became as strained as he was.

Deserters had been lining up over the past few weeks. Twenty-two men Ulfric had executed, some willing and some begging. Some of the prisoners he'd had to execute as well, for lack of space more than anything. The old Imperial he'd arrested at Vittoria Vici's wedding had died in her cell, but had she not, she would have been the first one Ulfric grabbed.

With death came whispering. He knew what people said of him and his decree, that he was losing control, unable to keep order, unfit to rule. People who said these things openly went to the block. In times of war, there was no room for doubt in the leadership, nor for borderline treason. Ulfric had no patience for these rumors. The people of Solitude quickly learned that.

"Majesty... perhaps... perhaps you are being too harsh..." Jorleif confessed one day, when it was past dinner and only the two of them remained.

Ulfric was pouring over letters, sifting through them quickly, occasionally signing his name before tossing it to the pile of other read letters. "Perhaps the people are being too harsh," he bit back. He pointedly straightened the three-page letter in his hands and tossed it to the pile with an unnecessary amount of force before moving onto the next.

"Undoubtedly," Jorleif agreed. He was nervous. Ulfric could smell it. "But it is a king's duty to understand. The people are frightened, sir. Their home was just ravaged and many of them lost loved ones during all the fighting. They need something to blame."

"Then let it be the Dominion!" Ulfric barked, slamming a fist into the table as he stood up. His chair fell over with the force of his stand and Jorleif flinched. "Do you not see the weight I bear for these people? Are the burdens of the world not etched into my graying hair, the dark circles beneath my eyes, the slouch in my shoulders? I am giving my whole for their protection, and they give me treasonous whispers in return. I will not have it."

Jorleif was stunned into silence, his mouth agape. He was leaning so far back into his chair that its legs tipped dangerously. "I... I am sorry."

"As you should be," Ulfric snapped. "I'll hear no more of 'too harsh.' If my best is too harsh, these people still won't deserve it." Regaining his composure, he picked the chair up and slid it back into place, sitting back down. He returned to his letters, but had a hard time focusing.

After a while of silence, Ulfric grew restless and decided sleep was his best bet. As of late, sleeping off his temper had been his only hope. Come morning, he woke feeling as if he hadn't slept at all. He went through his same, lonely routine of forcing himself to dress presentably and brush his hair. He had headaches so often he forgot what it was like to not feel pain.

He wasn't even surprised when two soldiers were waiting for him in the throne room, both Nordic and both looking worse for wear. Ulfric took his time on his way to the throne. He sat, got comfortable, and gave the two Nords a wave of admittance.

"Your queen lives, Majesty," said the male. He wore College of Winterhold robes and a hood. A mage, by the looks of it, while his female counterpart wore blue hauberk and carried a two-handed sword.

Ulfric sighed with relief. If he hadn't been sitting, his knees would have gave out on him. "She lives," he repeated, "but is she well?"

"She has... seen better days, perhaps. When we left, they were heading to Whiterun to take down some Thalmor scouts." The man started fidgeting nervously. "But before then, when we returned to the field to rescue any surviving Stormcloaks, one of the Aldmeri generals left a letter for the Jarl of Markarth - this general, Arelon Highlock, I recall, enclosed the letter with your queen's Altmeri handmaiden. They have Thongvor Silver-Blood's son in captivity. They want Thongvor's swear of fealty in exchange for the boy's life as well as Markarth's smallfolk's lives."

"Unacceptable," Ulfric declared. "A few civilian lives and the life of a murderous assassin is not worth an entire hold. What was Thorunn's decision?"

"The same as yours, sire."

The corners of Ulfric's mouth twitched into a faint smile. "Good." He remembered what Freya Gentry had said to him about Thongvor and Vikkesia, and the possibility of the two conspiring against Skyrim. "Do you recall how Thongvor reacted to this?"

The man looked surprised that Ulfric would ask that of all things. "I... He was quiet, sir. We were all very exhausted. Had we been well rested, I'm sure he would have been more vocal."

Ulfric hummed in acknowledgement. His eyes fell unto Freya herself, who was seated at a table to the left of the dais. She exchanged the slightest of nods, expression deliberately unchanged. "Thank you. Jorleif, give these two enough gold for a night at the Winking Skeever and a hefty dinner." The steward nodded and followed his orders.

Ulfric leaned back in his throne, running his index finger over his chin calculating as the two messengers took their leave and their gold. "Sir?" prompted Freya, standing up and approaching the foot of the dais.

He nodded. "Do it."