Bread and ale(3)

The air in the hall grew thick with tension as Harold's words settled over the gathered nobles. A charged silence followed, heavy with expectation. Maesinius could feel the weight of their scrutiny pressing down on him. He drew a steady breath, forcing down the turmoil roiling within. 

"It may come as news to many of you," he began, his voice steady despite the pounding in his chest, "but my father met his end on the battlefield in Arlania."

A ripple of shock coursed through the hall, as if a stone had been dropped into still water. Whispers flared into murmurs, murmurs into hushed exclamations. The northern lords had no spies in the south, no reliable channels of information. Their knowledge of the empire's affairs came only from the occasional grain merchant willing to trade more than just wheat. And now, here was Maesinius, offering them a revelation that shattered what little they thought they knew.

"In the wake of my father's passing," he pressed on, his tone unwavering, "my stepmother wasted no time in seizing power. She crowned my younger brother—the third prince—as emperor and reinstated the Council of Two Hundred, with herself as regent. She has summoned the lords to the capital, demanding they swear an oath of loyalty—"

The hall erupted.

"Despicable!" a noble roared, his outrage reverberating off the stone walls.

"Cowards and snakes!" bellowed another, his voice thick with loathing.

"To swear fealty to a child?" a grizzled warlord snarled. "I'd sooner cleave off my own cock and balls!"

The room was a tempest of fury, voices crashing against one another in unbridled indignation. Maesinius let them rage, let their anger take shape and swell—like a storm gathering strength before the strike of lightning.

Then, above the storm, a single voice rose, commanding yet calm.

Murth Grennor, Lord of Greenplains, pushed to his feet. Though young for a man of his station, he carried himself with an authority beyond his years. His thick brown beard cascaded over his chest, and his long hair, dark as storm clouds, fell past his shoulders. Standing beside the towering figure of Uther, he seemed almost small—like a sapling beside an ancient oak. But when he spoke, his voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

"We begged them for aid against Swutheld," Murth declared, his words like hammer strikes upon an anvil. "We warned them—warned them!—of the thousands of warriors marching to burn our lands, to butcher our people. And how did they respond?" His piercing gaze swept the room. "With laughter. With contempt. They spat upon our very beards!"

A chorus of agreement erupted from the assembled lords, their rage rekindled, fanned to new heights.

"And now," Murth continued, his voice thick with scorn, "that crimson-hued whore dares demand our fealty? She expects us to abandon our fiefs, to kneel on her polished marble floors, to grovel at her feet like whipped dogs?" His voice rose with each word, each syllable dripping with fury. "But tell me, what has she—or her whelp—ever done for us?"

A silence, taut as a drawn bowstring, stretched over the hall.

"Should we bow to those who care nothing for our suffering?" Murth's gaze burned as it met theirs. "No!"

The word cracked through the air like a war drum.

"I say we stand firm!" he roared. "United in loyalty to the one who has stood beside us, who has shared in our struggles and our triumphs. Two winters past, when famine gripped our lands, it was he who ensured that grain reached our people, while his father turned a blind eye!"

As Murth's impassioned speech reached its zenith, he dropped to one knee before Maesinius, his head bowed in a solemn gesture of allegiance.

"I will serve only one of our own as emperor," he proclaimed, his voice ringing with defiance. "May death claim that wretched woman and her child!I raise my axe to the oldest of the three"

His words struck like a hammer upon iron, sending a ripple of resolve through the hall. A murmur of agreement spread through the gathered nobles, some nodding, others clenching their fists. One by one, they followed Murth's example, bending the knee in a show of unity.

It was as if a dam had broken. The room swelled with unspoken oath.

But just as their fervor threatened to consume them, Maesinius raised a hand.

The hall stilled.

He let the silence stretch, his gaze sweeping over the kneeling lords. His face betrayed no emotion, but inside, his mind turned like a millstone. This was the moment they expected him to seize—to call for war, to name himself emperor, to raise his banner against the South.

Instead, he took a slow, measured breath and spoke.

"The empire has long been a burden upon the North," he said, his voice steady yet weighted. "Time and again, you have sought aid, only to be met with indifference and disdain. When famine threatened your people, did they send us grain? No. When Swutheld marched upon your lands, did they send soldiers? No. Yet, despite this mistreatment, the North has remained subservient." His eyes swept over them. "Why is that?"

A brief silence followed before Karl Carlsson, Lord of Snowmirth, rose to answer.

"We rely on the trade of pelts for sustenance," he admitted, his voice tinged with resignation. "Our lands cannot produce enough grain to feed our people, so we are forced to turn to the merchants of the South."

"Indeed," Maesinius affirmed with a nod. "But this reliance has come at a cost—a cost borne by the North itself." His gaze sharpened. "The merchants exploit our dependency, setting exorbitant prices, knowing full well we have no alternative. And why? Because the emperor himself sold privileges to a handful of merchant families, granting them a monopoly over grain. They dictate the price, and we are left to beg."

His words landed like stones thrown into a frozen lake, sending deep cracks through the nobles' resolve.

"You look to me for change," Maesinius continued, his voice edged with something dangerously close to scorn. "For salvation from this cycle of exploitation. But I tell you now—that hope is misplaced."

Then, without warning, he spat upon the ground.

A sharp intake of breath swept through the hall. Some nobles recoiled, eyes wide with astonishment and disbelief. Even Harold, his most stalwart ally, regarded him with a gaze that bore into his very soul. This was not the rallying cry they had expected. This was not the speech of a man grasping at a throne.

"The North's plight runs deeper than mere neglect," Maesinius proclaimed, his voice rising with fervor. "Do you truly believe a rebellion to put another emperor will free you? That war will be the answer?"

His words sliced through the air like a blade.

"The numbers are against us!" he thundered, his voice reverberating through the great hall. "The second prince will raise his banner, and the East will rally behind him. They can field 10,000 men with ease, hardened warriors who have known war since birth. And the third prince?" His eyes narrowed. "He will sit in an even stronger position. He needs only to hold the mountain pass. Behind it lies a wealth of grain, a sea route for trade, and a fortress that has never fallen. He will have everything he needs to outlast us."

His piercing gaze swept over the assembled lords, daring them to argue.

"And in comparison?" He scoffed. "At most, we can muster 6,000.Six thousand against an empire!" His voice hardened. "What do you expect to achieve with that? You curse the South for ignoring your suffering, yet you would bring war upon your people—bring death to your sons, your fathers—for a lost cause?"

The nobles fell into a heavy silence, their eyes fixed on Maesinius as he spoke. With each word, his resolve seemed to strengthen, and a flicker of determination ignited within him. "To place me on the throne, we would need to defeat both my brothers," he declared, his voice ringing with conviction. "But such a victory would come at a cost, a cost that the North cannot afford to bear. Why would I willingly sacrifice more of my people for my own ambitions?"

As he spoke, Maesinius gestured emphatically, his hands extending outward. "All I hold dear is the well-being of the people who have welcomed me, who smile when I ride through their villages. This sense of belonging, this connection—I cannot find it in the capital . Why would I abandon this place for the sake of a throne sorrounded by snakes?"

His words echoed through the hall, penetrating the hearts of those assembled. "All you speak of is of how the South neglects us, how they would sooner see us starve than offer aid. And yet, here you are, discussing talking about putting a man onto the very throne that abused the lots you. Do you truly believe things will change? No, they will only worsen!It is but a lost cause and we shall find the fields red with our blood "

"From here, we have few choices," he declared, his piercing gaze sweeping over the assembled nobles. "You could bend the knee to the red bitch in the South."

With these words, he spat onto the stone floor, the gesture one of unrestrained contempt.

"Then there is bending the knee to Mavius," he continued, his voice dripping with scorn, "who will be too busy shoving his prick into the first whore he can find."

Again, he spat, as if the very thought left a foul taste in his mouth.

The tension in the hall was thick, the nobles hanging on his every word. Some looked to each other, gauging their thoughts in silence. Others simply stared at Maesinius, waiting for the next blow to fall.

Then, his tone shifted—no longer mocking, no longer filled with derision, but resolute.

"I will not allow my people to bleed for my ambition," he said, his voice carrying the weight of an oath. "But I would gladly shed my own blood to see them prosper. I refuse to fight a war that will cause them to suffer needlessly."

The hall remained deathly silent as Maesinius took a step forward, his presence commanding.

"It is time for the North to break free from the Empire, to forge its own path as an independent kingdom." His voice rang with conviction. "The cold is coming, and with it, famine will follow. We cannot afford to be shackled to the whims of an empire that has never cared for us, that has never answered our cries for aid. The only way the North will survive is to take a road not walked in 120 years."

His hands clenched into fists.

"It is time for the North to stand alone!" he thundered. "No more shall we bow our heads to the South. No more shall we be bled dry by merchants who grow fat on our suffering. No more shall we send our sons to die in wars that bring us nothing!"

He raised his chin, his gaze burning with purpose.

"From this day forward, every decision shall be made by us, not for us."