(From Möngke Tngri Khan’s perspective)
My advisors cursed while I refrained from hitting the table before us where all the maps and accounts were spread out. I didn’t want a repeat of my brother’s tantrum at the palace, where I split the stone table in two by slamming a hand on it, trying to make him shut up. It had the desired effect, but I had liked that table, being a present from my father when I was named Khan in his stead. “You will need a long, sturdy table.” He had said, and he had been right. I had asked our best craftsmen to repair it, but it just wasn’t the same.
Just like me. I wasn’t the same anymore.
My generals were noticing it, too. Like vultures, they circled the throne, wanting to remove my crown from above my shoulders, not genuinely caring if they took my head too in the process.