"Dragon's teeth," he said, his voice a growl. "They might have been torn from the worm this afternoon."
Athene, who had seen dragon's teeth in a living dragon's mouth, wasn't so sure. But she agreed that the crown did appear well preserved, and impressive with all its sharp edges. If nothing else, it was certainly jagged.
And though she ached to make a flippant comment and show her disdain for the relic they'd retrieved, she thought she understood what fascinated Ulfric so. A vibration that thrummed in her belly when she held the crown, reminding her of what she was supposed to be.
Dragonborn.
She had tried it on just once, in privacy, on her way back from Korvanjund. The sensation of immense power and promise had settled down to her shoulders. She'd torn the thing off before she could do real damage to her reputation by proclaiming herself High Queen to the first person she saw.
Or before she Shouted her birthright and brought the Greybeard's attention upon her again.
"Perhaps this will sway the Moot," Ulfric said. "And perhaps it is time for all Nords to decide where their loyalties are. I'm sending you to Whiterun."
"Why me?"
"You have to ask? There you slayed the dragon and showed Skyrim your potential. There, from what I'm told, Jarl Balgruuf called you friend. I want you to take him my axe and bring me his reply. We will know his mind when he sees his choices demonstrated to him by the Dragonborn herself."
Athene was quiet. There was more in Whiterun than an indecisive Jarl, and she wasn't sure she wanted to face it.
Ulfric set the crown on his map of the country and walked over to her.
"Do you fear this deed? So far your actions have been kept to our sight. Do you fear proclaiming your loyalties to the rest of Skyrim?"
"No," she said, which was the truth. "I don't care that they see where I'm allied. But I have… friends in Whiterun."
"Are they Imperial sympathizers?"
"No. In fact most of the people I know in Whiterun support you, which I'm sure Galmar has pointed out. There's one vocal family, the Battle-Borns, who will die before they see you High King, but as I'm sure you're about to say, that means they'll die." She thought of Jon Battle-Born, who'd warned her about the werewolves and told her he mourned his country's obsession with death. Would he live through the coming battle, if it did come to battle?
"And can they fight?"
"The Battle-Borns? The name sort of gives it away, doesn't it?"
Ulfric chuckled. "I meant your 'friends.'"
Could Farkas fight? Athene had a vivid image of him cutting through a troll with his two-handed sword, his thick arms bunched with muscle, face determined.
"Some of them," she said.
"Then perhaps they will fight. As for the others, those who cannot, if you love them then tell them to go. Tell them to come here and I will protect them as I do all those who swear their allegiance to me. I won't look on you poorly for warning them against the coming war. But I hope it won't be necessary, and Balgruuf will see how things must be be."
"And if my friends are Dunmer and Argonians? Will you protect them then, and take them to the warmest corners of your city, within the walls?"
It was the first time she'd mentioned his treatment of other races right to his face. Galmar had an earful every chance she got, but she'd never dared tempt fate with Ulfric, to give him any reason not to trust her loyalty.
He disappointed her with his reply.
"If your friends are Dunmer they will find many kin within Windhelm's walls. If they are Argonian they will find haven and employment as so many others have.'
"At the docks," Athene said.
Ulfric nodded. "Which is more than I can say for Whiterun, which at last census gave safe harbour to no one but humans and elves. Is it not true?"
She couldn't disagree.
"I let it go because I was weary, but I did notice you didn't answer my question the other night." Ulfric turned back to the crown and left his back to her. "Did you walk the 7000 steps? Have you strayed now from the Way of the Voice?"
"I haven't walked them. Not yet."
"Ah. So this is merely a stop on the way to your destiny, as Arngeir would say."
"Arngeir?"
"One of the Greybeards. The one who welcomed me to High Hrothgar and turned me away when I misstepped."
Athene sent a rare prayer to Talos, questioning why the man she was going to murder was also the man who seemed to have all the answers she desired.
Maybe it was a gift. His back was still to her. And his own axe was in her hand.
"Good," said a voice behind her, and Galmar joined them in the room. "I'd hoped she brought it to you right away."
He and Ulfric began admiring the Jagged Crown again, and Athene considered herself dismissed.
Whiterun waited.