Bread and ale(2)

The hall was quiet as Maesinius rose from his seat, his boots thundering against the wooden floor. A wolf pelt draped over his shoulders, its glassy eyes seeming to mirror the intensity of the stares fixed upon him. Undeterred, he met the scrutiny head-on, chest squared, pride unshaken. His gaze swept over the gathered lords, acknowledging a few with deliberate glances before taking his place at the center of the assembly.

Among the northern lords, Carl Karlsson of Threefall stood like a towering oak in a forest of lesser trees. His emblem—a crimson tree against a snowy white field—hinted at ancient rites long outlawed under imperial rule. Whispers spoke of the days before the Empire, when northern hands stained the roots of that tree red with human sacrifice. Those practices had since been abolished, though the blood that once fed the soil still lingered in legend.

Across the hall sat Murth Grennor, lord of Greenplains—though his domain was anything but green. A land of icy tundras and endless frost, its name was a cruel jest, as was often the humor of the North. Yet beneath the cold lay wealth: furs, thick and plentiful, the lifeblood of northern trade with the South.

Scattered among them were men of equal renown, each bearing their own grim tales.

Mjorn Baker, known as Break Shield—a man who had fought twenty duels in his youth, always refusing to carry a shield, for it was said his mere presence was defense enough.

Han Abelsson, infamously dubbed The Three Fucker, though Maesinius thought it best not to ask why.

And Cregan Falkar, simply called Pale Face—for his pallid complexion made him look more wraith than man.

As Maesinius stepped forward, the crisp chill of the hall settled around him, mingling with the faint scent of burning tallow. He paused for a moment, feeling the weight of the air, the subtle crackling of torches against stone. Then he spoke.

"My esteemed lords, it has been five years since the last hut was called. Five years since Swutheld Flat-Nose dared to test the might of the North, rallying his eighty hundred savages in hopes of claiming what was not his."

A ripple of amusement passed through the gathered lords.

"He came seeking pebbles, yet found himself crushed by boulders."

Laughter rumbled through the hall.

"His defeat is still sung in the taverns," Maesinius continued. "A defeat I regret not having witnessed firsthand. To have stood among you, to have forged bonds in battle—that would have been an honor beyond words."

He let his gaze drift across the room, watching the lords shift slightly in their seats, recalling past glories.

"Seven days and nights, the battle raged. Swutheld's warriors threw themselves against your defenses, battering the gates, scaling the walls, hoping to break the North with fire and steel. But you did not break. You held. And when the moment came, you struck. The garrison's sortie fell upon them like winter's wrath, their camp burned, their lines shattered. In the chaos, Swutheld was taken."

A murmur of approval spread through the lords, some exchanging knowing glances. Others smirked, recalling the fate of the would-be conqueror.

"The snow of the falling man, they call it in the taverns. A rather fine song, if you ask me," he added with a smirk.

A few lords chuckled. Others nodded, reminiscing on that bloody winter.

"And Swutheld himself? Quartered. His head adorned the gates of the Bane for six months before it was cast into the wilderness, where it belonged," Maesinius finished, his voice carrying the weight of certainty.

Smiles spread across the room, some grim, some amused. Pride hung thick in the air.

Then, suddenly, a deep voice echoed from the depths of the hall—

"What a strong child we have here."

The same booming voice filled the hall, drawing every gaze toward the towering figure of Uther Carlsson. His lips curled into a half-smirk as he leaned forward, eyes glinting with something between amusement and challenge.

"I fought in that battle myself, alongside many here," he continued, his voice like rolling thunder. "We battled through the night and day, calling upon the Empire for aid. And what did we receive? Nothing but honeyed words and empty promises."

With a disdainful snort, Uther spat onto the floor, dragging a rough hand across his mouth as if to rid himself of the taste of betrayal. Then, his piercing gaze settled upon Maesinius.

"And now, a boy dares commend us for a battle he did not fight? What do you know of war?" His tone turned sharp, each word cutting through the air like a blade. "Did you read about battles in your scrolls? Do you fashion yourself the next Vrivius the Red?"

A few lords chuckled at the jab, but the room remained watchful, waiting for Maesinius' reaction.

Uther, unbothered, reached for the thick hide draped over his shoulders, raising it with both hands. "See this beauty?" he declared, his voice thick with pride. "I slew her myself. Just a dagger and a sword, nothing else. Her name was Liliana."

With that, he pulled at the front of his tunic, baring his chest for all to see. Three deep claw marks, long healed but unmistakable, stretched across his torso—souvenirs of his conquest. "The maiden fought well," he continued, "but I took her head and fashioned this hood from her pelt."

Then, his eyes flicked to the wolf pelt draped across the prince's shoulders. His expression darkened with scorn.

"And what of your pet?" he asked, tilting his head. "Did you slay it with your own hands? Or did you buy it with your pretty jewels and gold?"

A hush fell over the hall, all waiting to see how Maesinius would respond.

The prince did not falter. His voice, steady and measured, carried through the hall. "I did not kill the wolf, if that is what you are asking. It was already dead when I took it."

He stepped forward, gaze unwavering. "It was during my maiden raid—a baptism of fire amidst the snow. I led a scouting party, a hundred strong, when we came upon a savage village hidden deep in the wilderness. We descended like a storm, our horses thundering through the night as we set their world ablaze. They never even understood what was happening until it was too late."

The flickering torchlight cast shadows across Maesinius' face as he continued. "The women were taken, as is custom, to bear our children beyond the Bane. The rest met the same fate as their fathers—swift and merciless."

He allowed a small, knowing smile to play at his lips. "Among the fallen, I found a man clad in the pelt I now wear. That is how I came to it. That day, I felled five men. Nothing to boast about. I knew warriors who slew twenty."

The silence stretched.

Then, slowly, Uther's scowl faded into a grin. He said nothing—just smirked and sat back down. For the remainder of the hut, he remained silent, simply watching.

And in that moment, Maesinius understood.

"They are testing me."

This was the first trial. If he had hesitated, if he had turned to Harold for help, the lords would have shunned him. But he had stood his ground, spoken plainly, and met Uther's challenge head-on. Few men could do that—Uther was, after all, a terrifying figure. But now, the prince had earned his smile. And that meant something.

No northerner would follow a boy. If they were to follow him, he had to prove himself one of them.

That, at least, would not be difficult. He only had to be himself.

"Now, if no one else has anything to add," Harold's voice cut through the silence as he finally interjected, "let us hear my guest's words. I am sure we will not be left unsatisfied."