Galmar Stone-Fist roared with laughter, banging his fist on what had once been their strategy table. With the war over, it had since become home to tankards and the stories of Stormcloaks, and Galmar still gave it the respect it deserved.
“Ah, Yrsarald,” he chortled. “That story gets better every time you tell it.” Across the table, Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced laughed in agreement, hunching over the same table and looking down at the map that had been left there.
“Oh, that it does,” he chuckled. A glance out the door caused the soldier's smile to fade, however, and he leaned in. “Galmar, my friend, I have to ask. The Jarl's been...out of sorts, these past few weeks.” Galmar suppressed an eyeroll, looking over his shoulder at the Jarl in question. Ulfric was slouched on his throne, looking around the main hall with admittedly disinterested eyes.
“Don't worry about him just because he won't join us for drinks, Yrsarald. He's tired. He was a busy man before we won the war, and it hasn't gotten easier,” the Jarl's second-in-command said. Yrsarald frowned, unconvinced.
“Rumors are going around in the city. They say he was involved with Thane Finn. She hasn't been in Windhelm for a while, has she?”
“What, have you been listening to Viola Giordano? You never struck me as a gossip, my friend,” Galmar retorted. He swept past his fellow Stormcloak to look out at their Jarl. “I'll talk to him. You just make sure a certain old maid keeps her nose where it belongs.” With that, he approached the throne, raising an eyebrow at his old friend. “Well now, Ulfric. You look like a sulky child without a sweetroll.” Ulfric grinned despite himself.
“Charming as ever, Galmar,” he fired back, straightening up in his seat. “I thought you and Yrsarald were drinking.”
“You always think that. And if that was the case, why not drink with us?” Now the Jarl leaned back on his hand, amused nonetheless.
“I have a city to keep, my friend. You know that.” He paused, eying the gruff man. “Unless there's something else you wanted to talk about? You have that look in your eyes.”
“People are talking out in the city,” Galmar remarked. “Yrsarald tells me that the Giordano woman--”
“--is as lively as ever?” Ulfric interjected. “Does she remember that the fiasco with the Butcher is resolved? Calixto Corrium died at Finn's hand. What more does she have to talk about?”
“She has Finn to talk about.” The Jarl sat up once again, his brow furrowed. Galmar smirked slightly, noticing the fire in his eyes. He had him now.
“Finn?”
“Anyone who's seen you knows you're restless, Ulfric. On edge, as you are before a fight. I happen to remember your mood changing the day that little Breton walked out of Windhelm.” Galmar crossed his arms now, looking smugly up at his old friend. Ulfric shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. It had been weeks since he had last seen Finn or their dragons, and the prospect of not being with them made him unusually anxious.
“I hadn't assumed you noticed.”
“Please. I've noticed it, Yrsarald's noticed it, Jorlief's noticed it...by Talos, I think Sifnar's noticed it, and he's not the sharpest knife in that kitchen.” The Nord nodded sagely. “For all your subtlety in the strategy room, you're still a clumsy lad with women, aren't you?”
“I've had more pressing matters to worry about, but I suppose,” Ulfric replied, rolling his eyes. “What are you getting at, Galmar? What do you want to say?” Galmar grinned openly, planting himself on the first step of the throne.
“You love her.”
“You think so?” When the housecarl nodded firmly, Ulfric closed his eyes, not wanting to betray his emotions to his closest friends. “...Interesting.”
“That's really the best you can do?” Galmar asked, amused. The Jarl stood abruptly, and he took a step back, wondering exactly what his punishment would be this time. Ulfric merely clapped a hand on his shoulder and nodded.
“Go make yourself useful, friend.” With that, he returned to his seat, leaving his housecarl to level him with an exasperated glare before retreating to the strategy room.
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timeasmymeasure
"Something Like Parents" 24/?
Date: 2013-08-25 09:30 pm (UTC)“Ah, Yrsarald,” he chortled. “That story gets better every time you tell it.” Across the table, Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced laughed in agreement, hunching over the same table and looking down at the map that had been left there.
“Oh, that it does,” he chuckled. A glance out the door caused the soldier's smile to fade, however, and he leaned in. “Galmar, my friend, I have to ask. The Jarl's been...out of sorts, these past few weeks.” Galmar suppressed an eyeroll, looking over his shoulder at the Jarl in question. Ulfric was slouched on his throne, looking around the main hall with admittedly disinterested eyes.
“Don't worry about him just because he won't join us for drinks, Yrsarald. He's tired. He was a busy man before we won the war, and it hasn't gotten easier,” the Jarl's second-in-command said. Yrsarald frowned, unconvinced.
“Rumors are going around in the city. They say he was involved with Thane Finn. She hasn't been in Windhelm for a while, has she?”
“What, have you been listening to Viola Giordano? You never struck me as a gossip, my friend,” Galmar retorted. He swept past his fellow Stormcloak to look out at their Jarl. “I'll talk to him. You just make sure a certain old maid keeps her nose where it belongs.” With that, he approached the throne, raising an eyebrow at his old friend. “Well now, Ulfric. You look like a sulky child without a sweetroll.” Ulfric grinned despite himself.
“Charming as ever, Galmar,” he fired back, straightening up in his seat. “I thought you and Yrsarald were drinking.”
“You always think that. And if that was the case, why not drink with us?” Now the Jarl leaned back on his hand, amused nonetheless.
“I have a city to keep, my friend. You know that.” He paused, eying the gruff man. “Unless there's something else you wanted to talk about? You have that look in your eyes.”
“People are talking out in the city,” Galmar remarked. “Yrsarald tells me that the Giordano woman--”
“--is as lively as ever?” Ulfric interjected. “Does she remember that the fiasco with the Butcher is resolved? Calixto Corrium died at Finn's hand. What more does she have to talk about?”
“She has Finn to talk about.” The Jarl sat up once again, his brow furrowed. Galmar smirked slightly, noticing the fire in his eyes. He had him now.
“Finn?”
“Anyone who's seen you knows you're restless, Ulfric. On edge, as you are before a fight. I happen to remember your mood changing the day that little Breton walked out of Windhelm.” Galmar crossed his arms now, looking smugly up at his old friend. Ulfric shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. It had been weeks since he had last seen Finn or their dragons, and the prospect of not being with them made him unusually anxious.
“I hadn't assumed you noticed.”
“Please. I've noticed it, Yrsarald's noticed it, Jorlief's noticed it...by Talos, I think Sifnar's noticed it, and he's not the sharpest knife in that kitchen.” The Nord nodded sagely. “For all your subtlety in the strategy room, you're still a clumsy lad with women, aren't you?”
“I've had more pressing matters to worry about, but I suppose,” Ulfric replied, rolling his eyes. “What are you getting at, Galmar? What do you want to say?” Galmar grinned openly, planting himself on the first step of the throne.
“You love her.”
“You think so?” When the housecarl nodded firmly, Ulfric closed his eyes, not wanting to betray his emotions to his closest friends. “...Interesting.”
“That's really the best you can do?” Galmar asked, amused. The Jarl stood abruptly, and he took a step back, wondering exactly what his punishment would be this time. Ulfric merely clapped a hand on his shoulder and nodded.
“Go make yourself useful, friend.” With that, he returned to his seat, leaving his housecarl to level him with an exasperated glare before retreating to the strategy room.