Whitney Writes…

“I won’t hear of it!” Ralof roared. “He’s a boy, Ulfric! A boy!!” He rounded on his former friend, “MY boy!! And you would have him what? Thrown out of the palace?!”

“If he’ll go willingly, yes,” Ulfric said firmly. “The nobles will settle for banishment. If he, or those around him,” he added carefully, “choose to fight the decision, we are prepared for an execution.” Ralof paled at the thought of his ten-year-old son being beheaded. “No one wants it to come to that, Ralof,” Ulfric added gently, remembering the time that they had been friends. Good friends. “If he listens to reason, no blood need be shed. He can go off into the night, live a life of his choosing.”

“And he must go alone?” Ralof asked, incredulously.

“He’s ten, Ralof; I’m not a monster, he can take one servant with him.” Ulfric held his friend’s gaze. “But it cannot be you.” He shook his head to Ralof’s rising argument. “It cannot be anyone in the palace with renowned fighting prowess. On that we are firm.”

Ralof scowled. “And what about the moot?” he asked. “I suppose I shall be barred from that as well?”

“Obviously,” Ulfric agreed.

“And who is the new candidate for king?”

“That I shall not tell you,” Ufric said, “the nobles do not want you plotting and scheming. But do not worry, my friend, it is one of yours.”

“And regent?”

“No,” Ulfric said simply. “This is too massive of a move, Ralof, I’ve already told you too much. Now go, spend time with Rolund I, by this time tomorrow, we will have a new king, and he shall be gone.”

Ralof watched from an upper window in the castle as his small, ten-year-old son and his chosen nursemaid left the palace. The boy’s golden head hung low, his hand gripping the woman’s beside him. He turned back once, looking back towards his life-long home, his face mournful and his gaze slid up the exterior walls of the palace, taking it in for the last time. Ralof felt his heart break and he pressed his palm to the cool glass, watching his boy below. Rolund I’s gaze lingered over the window in which Ralof stood and he wondered if his son could see him there. Part of him hoped he couldn’t.

When the pair turned and finally continued on, slowly making their way through the main gate where they would meet a navigator Ralof had managed to hire in the local pub, Ralof let out a breath. It would be the last he would see of his son.

Some hours later, there was a knock on Ralof’s door. They did not wait for him to grant permission to enter, they just came. That was new. The servant gave a small bob of their head to him.

“Sire, the crowning is about to begin, if you wish to attend.”

Ralof grumbled to himself the entirety of the way down the stairs to the throne room. If he’d like to attend. Of course he would like to attend the crowning of one of his children. He wish he knew which child.

When they arrived in the throne room, Ralof attempted to hold his surprise that he had clearly been the last to arrive. An after thought. It was becoming clear to him that he was not to be treated as the father of the king this time around.

A trumpeting fanfare began and everyone craned to look. Through the throngs of people, Ralof could see a pale-haired head. So it was no Unar nor Ah-Hareem. It was clearly male, so not Jaga nor Sahra. And it was too tall to be Zamyad or Naveed. That left Gudstar or Rolund II. Of the two – no, of any of his children – Gudstar had always been the obvious choice. He had always been the proper choice, they had gone with Rolund I three years ago because he was the eldest capable of ruling. But Gudstar had the same temperament of his grandfather, the old king, King Rahim, that which had made him a beloved king.

Tangarion Stormcloak stepped forward, placing the golden crown that had once sat upon Rolund I’s head, upon Gudstar’s head. The crown did not tip upon Gudstar’s head, as it had upon Rolund I’s three years ago. It was interesting, the boys had been born within the same calendar year; so whilst Gudstar had just recently turned ten years, Rolund I had been a few weeks still from turning eleven. So they had traded a ten-year-old king for… a ten-year-old king. Tangarion stepped back, to the right side of the king and raised his hand into a fist above Gudstar.

“LONG LIVE KING GUDSTAR AL-ELINHIR!” Tangarion cried.