Whitney Writes…

The next day, the bells throughout the city were chiming continuously, marking the death of a sovereign. Ralof stared out the window, watching the streets below. For Rahim’s day of mourning, the people had lined the streets, dressed in black. He and Fadiya had witnessed many a small folk crying for their murdered king.

The streets, now, stood largely empty. They were draped in black crepe, the same as they had been for the old king. Flowers adorned every streetlamp post. Tables laden with free foodstuff were on every corner. And yet, none had come. This had been Fadiya’s fear: to be forgotten, unconcerned about.

In this one, singular moment, Ralof was glad his wife was dead.

“Ahem,” a voice cleared itself from behind Ralof, announcing their presence so as not to startle him. “Erm, your highness,” came the meek voice, “the moot is gathering to crown the next ruler.” When he did not move, they added: “You… you are required, sire?”

Ralof sighed, following the servant to the council room where the other members had already gathered. There were parchments strewn all across the great war table. He caught the sight of all eight of his children’s names. Even though most of them were not fit to be a ruler, it pleased him to see them all included fairly. He was not surprised to see Fadiya’s two younger brothers, Prince Galiel and Prince Taranal, also in the mix. He was surprised at seeing the five children King Rahim had had with the commoner Khajiit, Murdan, following the queen’s death included. Ralof’s vision turned to red and his blood began to boil when he spotted a few sheets with ‘Stormcloak’ listed as the surname.

He snatched them up, riffling through the others for more, and held them aloft. “What the bloody hell are these?!” he spat. He glared at the members of his wife’s former council. “Tangarion Stormcloak?” He threw the parchment down. “Lorin Stormcloak?” He glowered across the table at Ulfric. They were friends, but he would not abide a friend attempting to supplant his children. Ralof’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Jorunn Stormcloak?? Are you bloody mad?!” Ralof roared. “An infant as king?! And a bastard?!?!” He scoffed incredulously, tossing down the parchment. This his brow furrowed in fury and he crumpled the remaining sheets in his hand. “You would mean to offer up your bastards with the old queen as potential rulers over my wife and I’s children?”

“Now, Ralof,” Murdan was saying calmly, his hand resting on his shoulder.

Ralof shrugged him off, irritably. “Don’t you ‘Now, Ralof’ me,” he growled, “I noticed your own children on this list.

“We have to consider all possibilities,” Murdan continued, not rising to Ralof’s bait. “These are uncharted waters, nearly all of the potential heirs are minors. And most of them are unfit to reign.”

“Speak for your lot,” Ralof hissed, bristling at the implication. It didn’t matter that he had thought the very thing not long before, it was entirely different to hear someone else say it.

The next morning, after the council had been up arguing most of the night, one of Ralof’s children sat upon the throne. He stood to the right-hand-side of his son, looking down at the seven-year-old boy’s golden head. It struck him how small the boy looked, sitting there, his crown constantly tipping to sit lop-sided upon his golden curls. Once everyone had sworn their fealty to their new king, Ralof stepped forward, raising his arms. “Long live the king!” he cried.

“Long live King Rolund the First!!” the gathering of people called back to him.

It had been a long day. A grueling day. Ralof was not certain who the crowning ceremony had been more painful: his son, Rolund I, having to sit through the ordeal at only seven-years-old, or Ralof, having to watch his son attempt to sit through it. Towards the end, the boy had barely been able to keep his eyes open. His little golden head bobbing forward, his crown nearly toppling from his head. The courtiers would have had a field day with that. The Divines this… The Divines that…

Rolund I had been so tired, he had only protested the tiniest of bits when Ralof had redirected him from heading towards the nursery he’d shared with his siblings, to the bedchamber off the throne room.

“You’ll sleep on your own, from now on,” Ralof had said gently. “A king needs his rest and no distractions.”

“But… won’t they miss me?” Rolund I had asked softly.

“Oh, to be sure,” Ralof had replied, “but they will understand, you’re king now.”

“Even… even Unar and Ah-Hareem?” Rolund I asked hesitantly.

So, there it was. The boy was worried his two older brothers would be upset with him for surpassing them as king. In truth, only his sister, Jaga, had sulked. Unar and Ah-Hareem were so self-absorbed and could scarcely see past their own noses, that they didn’t even realize they were being bypassed. They had never wanted the responsibility, they had seen what it did to their mother. They had simply wanted to enjoy being princes. And now they could.

“Don’t you worry about your brothers,” Ralof said, “they will always love and support you. Just as Uncle Galiel and Uncle Taranal supported your mother.” As soon as he’d said it, Ralof realized it had been the wrong thing to say. He sighed, “Well,” he added limply, “try to get some sleep, my boy.”

“Papa,” came Rolund I’s tiny voice from the big bed, “can’t you stay and tell me a story?”

Ralof gave pause; he would have to remember that even though his son was still king, he was just a little boy. This roll would crush him if Ralof did not protect him. He turned away from the door.

“Very well, Rolly,” he said returning to the big bed. “What shall it be?”

“The Argonian rhinoceros!” Rolund I cried without hesitation. Ralof chuckled, it had always been one of Rolund I’s favorites. So, he settled into the bed beside his son to tell him the tale of the Argonian who fell in love with a mythical rhinoceros.

Rolund I sat upon the massive throne, his small little body looking tiny there above his subjects. Ralof stood off to the side of his fourth child and third eldest son, there to lend him a helping hand should he stumble in his daily rulings.

The boy had been fidgety that morning, his nerves were clearly getting the better of him. Stacked upon the grief of having lost his mother. But, if Ralof were being honest, he had always been around the children far more than Fadiya ever had. Nevertheless, she had still been his mother.

“Next petitioner!” Rolund I called out.

Ulfric stepped forward. “My King,” he said, kneeling down before the small boy. “My uncle’s farm has been besieged by a pack of bandits from a nearby camp, can the crown spare some materials to help them rebuild and to get by?”

“Of course!” Rolund I agreed eagerly. Ralof cleared his throat loudly. His son turned to look at him, and he shook his head a fraction. “Umm…” the king continued hesitantly. Ralof bent forward to whisper in his son’s ear. Rolund I scowled, and then said: “Our coffers are nearly empty, our food stores are running dry, all the crown can offer you is some wood to help rebuild.”

Ulfric’s once please face turned murderous as he glared from the king to his father. “You just gave Gorbak extra rations for a lantern festival,” hissed Ulfric. “How is there now not enough to spare for those who are actually suffering?”

“The king shall be attending this festival,” Ralof interjected, “it shall be his first public appearance for the people.” He waved his hand dismissively to his once-friend. “Move along, Ulfric. Move along.”

It had been three months since Ralof’s son had been crowned king. It had been three months since Ralof’s wife had suddenly fallen into madness and died. And somehow, his armor sat on it’s stand, beginning to rust. He stared at it in wonder. The things that had changed in a month. His wife gone. His little son eager to please – too eager to please – as king. His once tight-knit friendship with Ulfric deteriorating before his eyes.

The proud Nord had always accepted Fadiya as his queen. He had always been a staunch defender of the queen. Even when she misstepped. Which, Ralof knew had been often. The man had never indicated feeling inferior to being ruled by a woman. Did he now feel inferior to being ruled by a child?

Ralof rubbed his beard absent-mindedly. He could feel it in his bones: Ulfric Stormcloak was going to be a problem.

The throne room was empty. Save for the boy king, his father, his step-grandfather, and his siblings. Rolund I still sat upon his throne, but he was leaning heavily to one side in order to watch his siblings playing across the room. Jaga was screeching as Ah-Hareem gave her golden ponytail a tug. Unar was bossing around Gudstar and Rolud II – yes, the King Rolund had a younger brother, also named Rolund; no one had been quite certain what their mother had been thinking, nor why their father hadn’t overruled her.

His father was snapping his fingers at him. “Pay attention, my boy,” he said sternly, “we need to figure out a plan to keeping the Stormcloaks in check.”

“It may not be possible, this one thinks,” Murdan was saying softly. “He had your wife’s entire reign where he was free to do as he pleased. She never attempted to control him, and he’s used to it.”

“It makes him dangerous,” Ralof growled.

“It means you cannot be soft,” Murdan said. “I know he was your friend before, but you let him get away with things with Fadiya that Rahim would have never allowed.”

“Why can’t we just plan an expedition?” Rolund I asked with a wistful sigh, leaning his cheek against his small fist. He was watching his brothers hunting their sisters from across the room, wishing he could play, too. Because he was so enamored with watching them all, he missed Ralof’s and Murdan’s eyes meeting above him, the wheels churning in their collective minds.

“What if we send Ulfric on an expedition?” they both said.