Nine jarls gathered, and the other eight are content to discuss Torygg's ascension to High King as if it is of any political consequence whatsoever. As if the Moot truly has the power to name Skyrim's king, when the Jarl of Solitude and its Imperial interests has filled that position for centuries. Ulfric is not interested in foregone conclusions, nor in scraps of ceremonial power from the Empire's table.
Torygg is painfully young, dressed in a prince's finery, fresh and bright as Solitude itself. But Ulfric mistrusts this jewel of a city, with Imperial gold lining its pockets the way nightshade lines its streets. He is a child of ice and snow and old stone halls; he much prefers Windhelm. And he doubts the resolve of this boy to rule as Skyrim needs him to. He means to test it.
"The Moot is charged with determining Skyrim's future," he says. "Surely the succession is only a small part of that."
Idgrod looks at him shrewdly. "And what did you have in mind?"
"We all know what he has in mind," mutters Igmund.
Ulfric chooses his words carefully. "Upon his ascension, every High King of Skyrim renews the alliance and pledges loyalty to the Empire," he says. "In this case, that means swearing to uphold the White-Gold Concordat."
"If you've something to say, man, out with it," says Balgruuf.
Ulfric folds his arms. "It may be time to reconsider old alliances."
Laila Law-Giver frowns. "Skyrim has always been a loyal friend to the Empire."
"A friend, or a slave? Friends stand as equals. Did Titus Mede ask your permission before signing away our country to the Dominion? Did he ask any of you?" He turns to Torygg. "Did he ask your father?"
"Here, here!" says Skald.
Igmund shakes his head. "What you're suggesting is treason."
"Treason? My allegiance is to Skyrim and her High King, not to the Empire."
"Enough games, Ulfric. You know the High King swears fealty to the Emperor," snaps Balgruuf.
Ulfric locks eyes with Torygg. "Does he?"
The table dissolves into bickering. "The Empire loathes the Concordat as much as we do. But it is wise to move cautiously when dealing with serpents," says Idgrod.
"For how long? The people are impatient."
"You are impatient!" Igmund growls. "Do you not remember how this ended last time? We have sacrificed too much for the current peace to throw it away."
A flare of rage skips along his veins. "Oh, I remember. And what would you know of patience, Igmund son of Hrolfdir? You seemed less certain of our beloved Emperor's timely aid when it was your throne at stake. And you sit upon it now because better men gave their blood and freedom to win it for you - you and Titus Mede are alike in that, oathbreaker. Do not dare to talk to me of sacrifice."
It's more than enough to provoke a duel; Ulfric half-hopes the man will offer to defend his honor with his blade, but Igmund only grinds his teeth.
"Enough," barks Balgruuf, with a quelling look at both of them. Ulfric ignores him.
"Tell me true," he presses Torygg, aggressive now. "What do you think?" Torygg looks at his advisor. "Not your nursemaid - you."
"Leave the boy be."
"He's man enough to be a king!" Ulfric thunders. "Or are we still undecided?"
"Istlod ruled well for more than twenty-five years--"
"Yes, and his father before him, and his father before that," says Ulfric. "But now I want to hear from his son."
Torygg swallows. "We still rely on the Empire for trade," he says, tentative.
Ulfric is not surprised, unless it is at how utterly furious he still has the capacity to feel. High King! I could rule better, he thinks, in disgust. And then: I could rule better.
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timeasmymeasure
True Need 3c/3
Date: 2013-06-07 07:28 pm (UTC)Torygg is painfully young, dressed in a prince's finery, fresh and bright as Solitude itself. But Ulfric mistrusts this jewel of a city, with Imperial gold lining its pockets the way nightshade lines its streets. He is a child of ice and snow and old stone halls; he much prefers Windhelm. And he doubts the resolve of this boy to rule as Skyrim needs him to. He means to test it.
"The Moot is charged with determining Skyrim's future," he says. "Surely the succession is only a small part of that."
Idgrod looks at him shrewdly. "And what did you have in mind?"
"We all know what he has in mind," mutters Igmund.
Ulfric chooses his words carefully. "Upon his ascension, every High King of Skyrim renews the alliance and pledges loyalty to the Empire," he says. "In this case, that means swearing to uphold the White-Gold Concordat."
"If you've something to say, man, out with it," says Balgruuf.
Ulfric folds his arms. "It may be time to reconsider old alliances."
Laila Law-Giver frowns. "Skyrim has always been a loyal friend to the Empire."
"A friend, or a slave? Friends stand as equals. Did Titus Mede ask your permission before signing away our country to the Dominion? Did he ask any of you?" He turns to Torygg. "Did he ask your father?"
"Here, here!" says Skald.
Igmund shakes his head. "What you're suggesting is treason."
"Treason? My allegiance is to Skyrim and her High King, not to the Empire."
"Enough games, Ulfric. You know the High King swears fealty to the Emperor," snaps Balgruuf.
Ulfric locks eyes with Torygg. "Does he?"
The table dissolves into bickering. "The Empire loathes the Concordat as much as we do. But it is wise to move cautiously when dealing with serpents," says Idgrod.
"For how long? The people are impatient."
"You are impatient!" Igmund growls. "Do you not remember how this ended last time? We have sacrificed too much for the current peace to throw it away."
A flare of rage skips along his veins. "Oh, I remember. And what would you know of patience, Igmund son of Hrolfdir? You seemed less certain of our beloved Emperor's timely aid when it was your throne at stake. And you sit upon it now because better men gave their blood and freedom to win it for you - you and Titus Mede are alike in that, oathbreaker. Do not dare to talk to me of sacrifice."
It's more than enough to provoke a duel; Ulfric half-hopes the man will offer to defend his honor with his blade, but Igmund only grinds his teeth.
"Enough," barks Balgruuf, with a quelling look at both of them. Ulfric ignores him.
"Tell me true," he presses Torygg, aggressive now. "What do you think?" Torygg looks at his advisor. "Not your nursemaid - you."
"Leave the boy be."
"He's man enough to be a king!" Ulfric thunders. "Or are we still undecided?"
"Istlod ruled well for more than twenty-five years--"
"Yes, and his father before him, and his father before that," says Ulfric. "But now I want to hear from his son."
Torygg swallows. "We still rely on the Empire for trade," he says, tentative.
Ulfric is not surprised, unless it is at how utterly furious he still has the capacity to feel. High King! I could rule better, he thinks, in disgust. And then: I could rule better.
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