Hi everyone!

I'm dipping a toe back into writing again, this is a character I've treasured for years. This is the start of Kjoric's life before the chaos of Skyrim descends upon him, a chance encounter with Ulfric before both their lives are torn upside down - I have a lot of little oneshots detailing his life and adventures. I might start posting bits and pieces of it here and there; and hopefully one day I might get my act together and write a full story.

Here you go! Hope you enjoy!

'Duck, parry, duck, slide to the left, drop, and roll, slash' was all that was running through Kjoric's mind as he tried to spar with Owain, but the Breton was unrelenting in his training. Months of harsh and demanding exercise were molding his body into that of a warrior. All of the training his mentor was putting him through felt worth it, he was faster and stronger than the children they would meet at villages they crossed when they needed supplies. But even so, his training was involved in his everyday life. The older man had apparently found him after his parents had been killed, but Kjoric could scarcely remember a thing about his parents. Sometimes, he would have flashes of memory, intangible but so real. The comforting smell and feel of wood fire, a fleeting glimpse of a lopsided smile and golden hair, and that was all he had. Owain was the closest thing he had to a father, and Kjoric secretly loved him, not that he would ever tell the stuffy old fool.

"Focus!" A sharp bark brought him out of his reverie, accompanied with Owain's blade catching him across his knuckles. Yelping and taking a step back, Kjoric had to admit that retreating was the best possible thing he could do at the moment.

"Sorry." He grunted, swinging the blade in a fast circle with one hand and wiping the sweat off his face with the other.

"You're going to be killed, boy." Owain had narrowed his eyes as he studied the lanky child. "That's enough for today." He said gruffly, running a gloved hand across his bearded jaw. Kjoric couldn't help but wince at the disappointed look on the older man's face. He lived off the small praise that was afforded his way once in a while, but the half smiles and the twinkle that would light up Owain's eyes was something that made his chest puff up in pride. But, he had high expectations. Not that Kjoric complained, he lived and breathed what he was doing. Fighting and training were in his veins, and he could feel it in his heartbeat as he trained and fought alongside Owain.

Meanwhile, Owain's thoughts were in a completely different direction as he studied the boy. If he was being perfectly honest, which he would tell himself, he always was; he would say that he was impressed with the boy. But he couldn't help feeling an unsettling feeling as he watched Kjoric's face. As drenched in sweat as he was, the boy was a fine example of a Nord. He was still growing, and, being in his early teens, Owain could see that he would become an even finer young man. A sense of despair was settled in the deepest corner of his heart when he thought of the future that the boy was foretold to face, it was why he was so hard on the boy. No one could expect the Dragonborn to be a weak-willed idiot who could barely lift a sword, and so he would prepare the boy. He was his own. The heir to the Septim throne and the savior of the known world, yet, Owain would dare to call him his son. He had the right, he had the only right. He had raised him from when he was a babe, from when his father had sacrificed himself, and his mother had died alongside him.

"Owain?" A soft voice called out to him, unsure and curious, and it brought him out of his reverie.

"We're done for the day, go wash up. You've done well." The small praise lit up the boy's face, and he nodded before darting off to their camp, already starting to unbuckle his leather braces. Owain only shook his head and the corners of his mouth tugged upwards in his version of a grin.

"Was there a moment where I needed to focus on?" Kjoric asked, now only clothed in his pants and a shirt.

"You block well now." Owain nodded, starting to unbuckle his armor. "You should focus on either striking fast or striking hard. We will find a dagger for you so you can get used to using two weapons."

"I can go bandit-hunting?" Kjoric asked, tugging his shirt off and throwing it haphazardly into his backpack.

"Not today, you're too young to go on your own still."

"I've reached my fourteenth summer!" Kjoric protested, before snapping his mouth shut after a sharp look from Owain.

"You're still dependent."

"I can fight on my own."

"Wolves fight in packs, cub."

"Dragons are independent."

"Dragons were nearly wiped out." Owain retorted with a raised eyebrow, curious that he would mention dragons now. He had never mentioned it to the boy about Dragons, yet. He was nearing an age where he should be told about his 'destiny', but Owain didn't want to burden him anymore.

"They'll come back." The boy said serenely, before giving him a grin and tugging off his sweaty shirt. "Have you seen my cord?" Kjoric was ruffling through his pack, pulling out a clean shirt and pants as he did so.

"Underneath your pillow." Owain rolled his eyes before sitting in front of his tent, legs crossed in front of him. The boy's statement was bothering him, how did he know? Surely he couldn't know anything, even the villages they passed through, though it broke his heart, children were weary of him. Imperials were small frail things when they were young, most of them timid and meek. But, Kjoric nearly fit in with the odd Nordic child close to the north or some of the Orcish strongholds they had visited. Sure, they would have played games and mentioned them. Though, the boy was incessantly curious about everything.

"Found it!" Kjoric beamed at him, the simple leather necklace in his hand, and the relatively large tooth dangling next to steel beads. Owain only responded with a grunt as he continued to strip off his armor meticulously. He paused slightly and looked up. He could hear sounds, it was like a distant drumming. In the corner of his eye, he could see Kjoric striding towards the small creek that they had camped close by. A tendril of panic crept slowly up his back. Horses. They were in danger. The boy could - "Kjoric!"

"Owain?" Kjoric skidded to a halt as he almost collided with a very large bay horse. Slowly looking up, he gulped before unsheathing his dagger and taking a step back.

"Kjoric!" Owain had already drawn his longsword and was running to reach him before something could happen.

"Easy!" A strong voice broke through the murmuring of stomping hooves and talking men. A young man called everyone's attention.

"State your business," Owain said calmly, pulling Kjoric behind him and pointing his sword at the horse.

"We mean you no harm." The man said as he took off his helmet, "Unless you threaten us."

"Who are you?" Kjoric tried stepping around Owain and facing the small contingent of men, but he was held back by Owain.

"I am Ulfric Stormcloak, and this is my company. I am the son of the Jarl of Windhelm." Ulfric spoke clearly, and almost in a persuasive manner. Owain sheathed his blade almost immediately, but Kjoric was still unsure and remained wary of the newcomers.

"My lord Ulfric, I apologize for the threat, I was worried that you may have meant harm." Owain gave a shallow bow as Ulfric and his small party of men dismounted their horses. A company of Nords on destriers was something anyone would fear.

"It is anyone's right to want to protect themselves and their blood." One of Ulfric's men spoke up, his voice was gruff and his features were hidden by the bearskin cloak that he wore.

"He isn't my father." Kjoric snapped almost immediately, at the same time as Owain's protest that he wasn't his son. Ulfric strode forward, offering his hand.

"I have heard a great deal about you Owain Karlsson." Ulfric stood proudly in front of the Breton, standing a good seven or eight inches taller. Kjoric couldn't help but be spellbound at that moment. The wind was fluttering gently and the sun was filtered through the Great Forest, causing Ulfric's hair to flow and shine as if made of gold. Kjoric didn't understand what he was feeling but his mouth had gone dry and he couldn't take his eyes off of the taller blonde warrior.

"I didn't expect you to recognize me, cub." Owain raised an eyebrow, regarding the offered hand in distaste, before grinning and taking his forearm and bringing Ulfric into an embrace.

"Galmar! This is my old mentor, the one I told you about." Ulfric ushered one of his men forward, the one who had spoken, to meet Owain.

Meanwhile, Kjoric was still mesmerized by Ulfric's presence, his eyes soaking in the image of him. He had gone very quiet and very still as his mentor spoke animatedly to the other men before one of Ulfric's men went down on his knees beside him. Owain being relaxed around these men meant that they weren't in danger, but Kjoric was still tense. He didn't like strangers much.

"He's quite a sight, isn't he?" The man said quietly, mirth sparkling in a pair of blue eyes. Kjoric could only nod as he continued to stare. "I'm Ragnar, I hail from Riverwood."

"K-Kjoric," He stuttered out, redirecting his attention to the leaner warrior next to him. "Hullo."

"Have you lost any teeth yet, lad?" Ragnar said, a grin on his face as he motioned towards Kjoric's open mouth. "My little lad just lost one of his teeth before I set out with Ulfric, you look about the same age. "

"I'm fourteen." Kjoric stared at the other Nord,

"Aye, he's a little bit younger than you then. Ulfric's only seven years older than you." Ragnar nodded wisely as if he'd just confirmed something profound. "Ralof was very excited about it."

"Is your son like me?" Kjoric asked curiously, "A Nord, I mean."

"We're all Nords here laddie, of course, he would be a Nord." Ragnar looked at him with confusion, hadn't the boy met others? In truth, Kjoric hadn't met many other Nords, like him, apart from a few drunks or farmers that milled around Cyrodiil, which wasn't often. He had always been larger than other children his age, his hair too blonde, and his eyes too strange. Not that they picked on him, he usually won fights that were instigated. But, he was still intensely curious. Usually, he played with children who were smaller than him, apart from the rare Orc, who could beat him easily.

"Oh." That was all that Kjoric could get out at that moment. He turned around, continuing to stare at Ulfric, who had now noticed him, and took a step forward before settling down on the ground next to him.

"Hello there." Ulfric smiled warmly at the younger boy.

"Hullo," Kjoric said, looking at Owain for confirmation, but finding he was distracted by the others in Ulfric's company. Growing nervous, he tried to catch his mentor's eye again, but he was too busy catching up with old friends.

"He's a bit shy, sir." Ragnar stood up, brushing off the grass on his leathers.

"Am not." Kjoric shot at the other Nord, who simply laughed and held up his hands in mock defeat, before moving off and greeting Owain.

Kjoric couldn't tear his eyes from Ulfric in general, his eyes were almost like his. One was a light blue, a color that reminded Kjoric of the winter sky, and the other eye was a darker blue, like the lake that he liked to swim in close to camp. Owain had explained that people usually had a different eye color if they were descendants of royalty, which was peculiar because none of the Counts that he had seen so far had had eyes of a different color. Kjoric continued to assess the other man, he looked young, and couldn't be older than twenty at the most, as he only had a scruff of a beard, and no worry lines on his face. His hair was like a mane, but it was held back very much the same way as his hair was, a braid ran down the left side of his face, holding back the straw-colored hair. Kjoric knew this man was dangerous, no matter how young he looked, he had more muscles than Owain did and he had a scar along his pale jawline.

Meanwhile, Ulfric was assessing the boy much the same as he was. Except he was more surprised at what he found. It wasn't common for eyes to be a different color, it was more of a mishap in those that had royal bloodlines, and Ulfric noted that even his own eyes weren't as starkly different as the boys were. One was as green as the grass around them, whilst the other was a warm brown, the color of mead when it was held up against the sunlight. White war paint was messily applied to the left green eye, bringing out the color and bringing attention to it. If Ulfric wasn't paying such close attention, he would have missed the other eye color, just because of the startling green. But, he realized, that this boy was what most would call, blessed by Diabella herself. A sharp jawline with golden skin, and a mane of white-blond hair. He was finely muscled, most likely due to Owain's harsh training. All in all, Ulfric could say he was impressed, and a strange feeling stirred in him as he continued to stare at the other young man.

A cough interrupted the two from their reverie and caused them to jerk towards the one who had made a noise.

"Are you two finished having a staring competition?" Owain asked as Galmar raised an eyebrow next to him. The other men had headed towards Owain's camp, intent on setting up for the night as their leaders made the small talk.

"Owain?" Kjoric said, very unsurely as he shifted on his feet. Owain only patted the boy on his head as he walked past, engaged in a conversation with the oldest Nord there.

"He's distracted, pup," Ulfric smiled warmly at the boy, he was deeply curious about him.

"I'm not a pup." Kjoric fired at him, furrowing his brow as he tried to scowl at the older Nord. It failed, as his usual attempts of scowling usually did. At best, the tavern maids cooed at him more and called him cute.

"Ulfric is my cub, is there a problem?" Galmar grumbled out, before shooting a snooty look at the 14-year-old and walking to join the others. Leaving Ulfric and Kjoric on their own, and Owain watching them out of the corner of his eye.

"No…" Kjoric grumbled back mockingly.

"Come pup, you're not much younger than I am." Ulfric sat down next to him now, motioning for the boy to sit next to him. The horses had been moved and tied to the trees, but Kjoric still watched them curiously. "Magnificent, aren't they?" He only looked at him curiously, trying to raise an eyebrow at the older Nord. "Some of Skyrim's finest horses. Not like the long-legged devils that the High Elves favor."

"They're a lot fatter," Kjoric said bluntly, causing Ulfric to chuckle in appreciation.

"I think our breeders prefer the term 'stocky' or 'muscular.'" He leaned back into the grass, letting out a small sigh of relief.

"Doesn't look like it…" Kjoric muttered under his breath,

"They may not be the fastest, but they're the strongest." Ulfric retorted sharply, more in defense of anything Skyrim.

"Why are you here?" The boy's curiosity had gotten the better of him, and why wouldn't it? A small band of Nordic warriors was enough to rouse anyone's curiosity.

"We've come from the Imperial City, about the Great War." That should have been more than enough to sate the boy's curiosity, Ulfric thought solemnly, not that he was going to say the particulars. He had been a part of the High King's group, before he had been sent home after his party had ventured further south, to investigate rumours of supporters in Valenwood.

"Why?" Not then, Ulfric sighed, trying to think.

"I was with the High King and his men," Ulfric said softly, half-surprised at his own words.

"Wow! Actual royalty?" Kjoric's eyes gleamed in excitement, forgetting about the War the moment the High King was mentioned.

"Kjoric!" Owain barked, calling the boy to his side. Scrambling up, he darted to stand next to him, waiting quietly in front of him for orders. "Get changed, wash up by the creek, then we can eat." The boy nodded obediently and headed towards his tent to grab his pack.

"He looks like a good lad." Ulfric had got up to stand next to his old mentor, noting that he was a good head and a half taller than the Breton.

"He is. He reminds me of you sometimes, but that would be his Nord blood." Owain leaned against the tree, watching as the boy in question walked out of sight and towards the creek.

"Stubborn and foolhardy?" He asked, surveying his men quickly.

"Curious and intelligent."

"That would be just me then."

"Brat."

"Old man."

"Milk-drinker."

"That would be my insult!" Ulfric pouted slightly, before smirking at the Breton, "So, who is he?"

"What do you mean?" The Breton responded slyly, oh yes, Ulfric had known that there was something different about the boy. But only what?