Bread and ale(1)

Before the imperial subjugation, the North was a land of scattered duchies, each ruling its own domain. Yet in times of dire peril—whether from imperial armies marching on their lands or tribes gathering behind the Bane—these duchies would unite. Their unity was symbolized by the calling of a hut, a great assembly where all the dukes set aside their rivalries, put down their axes, shared ale and bread, and convened under one roof to face the common threat.

Tradition dictated that huts were most often called at North's Bane, the heart of the northern lands. There, beneath the shadow of ancient mountains, lords would gather to confront whatever danger loomed before them. Be it marauding warlords, the savage clans of the wilds, or, in times long past, even the towering giants that once roamed beyond the Bane.

And now, just as before, a hut had been called.

The stronghold of the North once more stood as the gathering place for its rulers. At the high table, Maesinius sat to the right of the hall's master—Harold Helklund. For three years, the prince had dwelled in Harold's house, earning not only the respect of its lord but of the North itself.

The flickering firelight cast long shadows over the hall, illuminating Harold Helklund's imposing figure. Despite the weight of his years, he remained unbowed—his frame still broad, his presence undiminished. He was a man who had known war, and war had known him.

His beard, a wild cascade of white, flowed like a snowy river down his chest, framing a face marked by the passage of time and the scars of battle. His hair, thick and untamed, was the same color—reminiscent of a lion's mane, spilling in waves over his broad shoulders.

A jagged scar ran across the bridge of his nose, an old wound that he often laughed about. Whenever asked, he would grin and say it was a gift from his lady wife on the night of their first bedding. "She always said she would come home to a lioness," he would chuckle.

Despite his age, Harold had not withered. His arms still held the strength to wield a sword, his shoulders still bore the weight of leadership, and his calloused hands told the tale of a lifetime spent in war.

But Harold and Maesinius were not alone. The other lords had arrived, as tradition demanded, and together they filled the hall with their voices, their presence heavy with expectation.

Maesinius turned his gaze around the structure, taking in its vastness. It was one of the largest halls he had ever seen.

The walls and ceiling were hewn from solid oak, the beams stretching high, disappearing into the darkness above like the branches of some great ancient tree. Beneath them, the floor was covered with a dark, worn carpet—soft underfoot, though familiar to the boots of lords who had walked its length for generations.

There were no banners, no sigils of any house upon the walls. This was no man's hall, nor any family's claim. It belonged to the North itself. And since its founding, no banner had ever been raised within these walls.

Ninety years ago, Emperor Verinius—mockingly remembered as The Misguided—had commanded that the banner of the Empire be placed within these very halls. He sent a man to deliver it, yet before he could reach the stronghold, he was met by bandits. The unfortunate envoy was quartered, and his banner was cast from the cliffs.

When news reached the Emperor, he roared with outrage, vowing to raise an army and force the North to kneel 

Before war could come to pass, Verinius was overthrown by his younger brother, Veron The Kind, sparing the Empire a costly folly.

Maesinius turned, studying the nobles around him. He could feel their eyes upon him, sharp and unyielding, like hawks watching a hare. Their gazes dissected him, measuring his worth. Yet he did not flinch. He met their stares with steady resolve—without arrogance, without fear. A test, he realized. And as their scrutiny lingered, he saw something in their expressions shift.

Approval.

Then, Harold rose from his seat. His white beard swayed as he scanned the congregation, his sharp eyes sweeping over every face. Silence followed, thick as winter's frost.

It did not last.

"You like what you see, Harold? I got more if you'd like staring at !"

The voice was a thunderclap, booming through the chamber. The scrape of wood against stone followed as a man stood—a giant among men, his hand resting crudely on his crotch, drawing both amusement and disapproval in equal measure.

All eyes turned to him.

Maesinius did as well, marveling at the sheer size of him. The emblem of the White Fox of House Falstaff marked his gray surcoat and chainmail, while a bear's hide draped over his back—its gaping maw forming his hood. He carried no weapons, as was custom among the nobles, yet Maesinius could feel the raw power emanating from him. His forearms were thick as tree branches, his hands large enough to crush a man's skull.

If he wanted to, Maesinius thought grimly, the giant could stride across the hall, grab any man in his path, and bash his head against the wall—while the rest of the lords sat powerless to stop him, like lambs before a wolf.

How strong would he be with an axe?

"Sit the fuck down, Uther!" Harold's voice cracked like a whip.

"I would, if the chair didn't bloody well break!"

Laughter erupted as Uther Carlsson hoisted the shattered remains of his chair for all to see. The sound that had echoed moments before had not been the shifting of wood—but its collapse beneath his weight.

"These chairs are as sturdy as your arse, Harold. Fetch me a proper one before I sit on you!"

More laughter followed, and Maesinius noted the smirk playing at Harold's lips. Old friends, he realized, and with that, the tension in the hall melted away.

With a flick of his wrist, Harold summoned a servant, who promptly arrived with a larger, sturdier chair.

"Try not to break this one with your fat arse," Harold muttered, drawing another round of chuckles—even from Uther himself.

The moment of levity passed, and Harold raised his calloused hand before clapping once.

At the sound, two rows of servants emerged, carrying trays laden with bread and ale. The air filled with the scent of warm grain and spiced mead as the offerings were set before the gathered lords.

"As is tradition, we now share bread and ale under the watchful gaze of the gods," Harold intoned solemnly. "May they bear witness to our unity—and guard against treachery within these walls."

With that, he tore off a piece of bread, chewed thoughtfully, and drained his cup of ale to the last drop.

One by one, the other lords followed suit—breaking their bread, drinking their ale.

Then, Harold's gaze fell upon Maesinius.

"From now on, you are my guest. No harm shall come to you while you reside under my roof."

With those words, he lowered himself back into his chair.

Maesinius inhaled deeply, feeling the weight of the moment as he rose to his feet. Before him sat the most powerful lords of the North, waiting. Judging. He was no fool—he knew what they desired.

He took his first step forward.