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theroyalhouseofwindenburg · 2 days ago

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The Reaving: Part 2

The following morning was Christmas Eve, and snow fell lightly outside of Windenburg Castle. King Edward and his mother, Queen Cordelia, sat down for a meal in their private dining hall. Cordelia seized this opportunity to share her unsettling revelation from the previous night. The air in the chamber was quiet but heavy as she sat across from Edward at the long wooden table, where a simple spread awaited them, accompanied by warmed cider. Cordelia’s gaze was distant, her brow furrowed, lost in thought—a sight not unnoticed by her son.

Edward looked up from his empty plate, arching an eyebrow.

“Mother, you’ve barely touched your food. Is something troubling you?”

Cordelia glanced at him, her lips pressed into a thin line. She seemed to weigh her words carefully before speaking, her tone measured but edged with tension.

“I am troubled, Edward,” she admitted. “Last night, I witnessed something most unsettling.”

Edward, mildly intrigued, turned to her.

“And what might that be?”

Cordelia paused, gesturing toward the staircase before continuing.

“I saw Lady Adelaide in a most… distasteful display. She struck our maidservant Philippa, someone who has been with our family for years. She slapped her straight across the face, in fact. Then, in a voice as bold as sin, she announced that she would be queen and that Philippa should ‘remember her place.’”

Edward’s face softened, and he laughed, dismissing her words with a wave of his hand.

“Mother, surely you must be mistaken. Adelaide? A violent hand? She wouldn’t hurt a soul.”

Cordelia’s expression darkened.

“Are you calling me a liar, Edward?” she asked, her voice low and steady, simmering with hurt and indignation.

Edward jolted, taken aback.

“No, I only meant… she doesn’t seem the type.”

“Then I urge you, my son, to open your eyes,” Cordelia replied, her voice stern but laced with pleading. “Adelaide is more than you think she is, and not all of it is for the better.”

Edward looked down, considering her words. The flicker of doubt she’d planted deepened as he drifted into a silent, pensive gaze, the weight of his mother’s warning settling upon him.

The bitter winter winds cut through Bagley as Prince Harold fought alongside his men, his face bare and exposed to the frigid air. His helmet had long been given to a soldier who’d lost his own, but Harold moved through the chaos undeterred, his resolve fierce. Snow spiraled from the dark, brooding sky, mingling with the smoke of battle that billowed over the frozen fields. Amidst the frenzied clash of steel and cries of the wounded, Harold’s gaze fell upon a figure he recognized: Ser William Mason, one of his closest friends and fiercest fighters, lay motionless on the ground, his helmet lost.

A chill beyond winter’s reach settled over Harold as he raced toward him, his heart pounding with dread. He reached William’s side, fear gripping him as he pulled him up, throwing the weight of his friend over his shoulder. Shielding him from the blows of the enemy, he carried him to the edge of the battle and lowered him carefully behind the cover of a low stone wall.

William’s eyes fluttered open, his face ashen and dazed.

“Harry…” he murmured, a weary smile flickering as he recognized his friend. “You mad fool… you’ll get yourself killed for the likes of me.”

Harold knelt beside him, gripping William’s shoulder.

“There’s no way I’d let you die in the snow like a forgotten ghost,” he replied firmly. “You’re stronger than this, William. Hold on just a little longer.”

But before William could respond, his eyes widened, terror igniting in their depths.

“Harold—behind you!” he shouted, his voice raw and desperate.

Harold whipped around, his heart seizing as he saw the glint of steel—a soldier of Henford’s, sword raised, bearing down on them with murderous intent. Both men’s voices tore through the cold as they shouted, raising arms to shield themselves against the deadly blow as the shadow loomed over them.

That same night at Windenburg Castle, the royal family gathered in the Great Hall, feasting and celebrating the eve of Christmas. The hall was alive with laughter and lively conversation, candlelight casting a warm glow over tables laden with sumptuous dishes and the finest wines. Seated beside King Edward was Lady Adelaide, her gaze resting attentively on him as he spoke of his kingdom.

Their conversation drifted towards Edward’s alliances and the pressing matters of Windenburg’s security, each word a reminder of the weight that sat on his shoulders. As Edward spoke, his voice softened with rare vulnerability.

“When I see the toll this war has taken, the sacrifices made, it haunts me. These soldiers—they aren’t nameless pawns. They’re husbands, fathers, sons, all fighting for a land they call home. We, too, have a duty to shield them from such suffering.”

Adelaide’s brow arched, a faint trace of impatience flickering across her face as she sipped her wine.

“Edward, you’re their king, not their keeper. Worrying for those who choose to fight is… sentiment wasted. Our resources are better spent on Windenburg itself, wouldn’t you agree?”

Edward’s eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of unease flashing in his gaze, though he spoke patiently.

“And yet, their choice to fight is born of loyalty, of a desire to protect the lives they hold dear. Should we not, in turn, do what we can to honor such loyalty?”

Adelaide’s gaze hardened, her voice lowering to a tone as cold as the winter winds beyond the castle walls.

“Why waste resources on Bagley?” she said slowly, almost dismissively. “Their suffering is insignificant to us. We should focus on our own prosperity. After all, history remembers those who rise from the ashes, not those who save the fallen.”

Her words hit like a shockwave. The table fell silent, as though all the warmth of the hall had been smothered in a single breath. Even the distant laughter and music from the adjoining rooms faded. Heads turned, and all eyes locked on her.

Edward’s face turned ashen, anger burning beneath his steely gaze.

“You would speak so callously about a war that threatens the very bloodline of this family?” His voice rang with disappointment and fury. “My mother is of Bagley blood, and the royal family of Bagley is here at this table! You forget that these ‘insignificant’ lives are not just numbers; they are my people, and I refuse to turn my back on them. If you can’t see the humanity in this struggle, perhaps you should take some time to reflect.”

Adelaide’s face drained of color as she absorbed the weight of his words. Rising abruptly, she glanced around to see the unyielding stares of the court fixed upon her, their judgment heavy and unspoken. Her composure slipping, she turned and swiftly exited the hall, her footsteps echoing through the silence that lingered long after her departure.

In the early hours of Christmas morning, snow blanketed the battlefield, an eerie hush enveloping the war-torn landscape. The ongoing conflict had quieted for the night, and within the confines of his tent, King Henry lay in restless slumber. Arthur Cromwell, a trusted advisor to King Henry, entered cautiously, the chill of the night clinging to him like a shroud. He paused, letting his gaze settle on the sleeping king, before addressing him in a hushed tone.

“Your Grace,” he began, his voice a gentle summons piercing the stillness. “I apologize for waking you at this hour, but I’ve received a parcel of… unusual nature. It’s from Lord Rodrick.”

Henry blinked awake, confusion etched on his features as he adjusted to the dim light filtering through the canvas.

“Lord Rodrick? He sends gifts now?” A trace of suspicion laced his words, his gaze drifting to the chest resting by Arthur's feet.

Arthur nodded, a grave expression settling on his face.

“Indeed, Your Grace. It came with a note, but I thought it best to deliver it to you directly. Lord Rodrick is not a man given to idle gestures; this is either an offering of some kind or something meant to unnerve us.”

Nodding, Henry's expression darkened as he looked toward the note, his hand trembling slightly.

“Then let us see what Rodrick has deemed fit to share on this sacred morning.”

With a steady hand, Arthur opened the note, his brow furrowing as he read aloud:

“To The Illustrious, King Henry of Bagley, On this Christmas morning, I extend my warmest wishes for peace and reflection in a season devoted to family and the bonds that hold us. In the spirit of the season, I offer you a gift and, I hope, a source of clarity. True understanding often comes wrapped in unexpected forms, revealing the depths of what we hold dear. May this gesture serve as a reminder of the ties that bind, even in times of struggle, and bring you insight on this sacred day. With utmost sincerity, Lord Rodrick Henford.”

Both men stared at the note in silence, an icy dread filling the tent that no fire could dispel.

Henry's hands shook slightly as he crouched down, resting his fingers on the cold iron latch of the chest. He took a breath, steeling himself, and lifted the lid.

The lid creaked as it opened, and then—a stillness, followed by the sickening realization.

Henry’s face paled as his eyes fell on the contents, horror twisting his features. He stumbled back, gasping, his voice breaking. “No… God, no!” His scream shattered the silence, a cry of pure, guttural agony.

Arthur took an involuntary step forward, eyes widening as he glimpsed what lay inside. “Your Grace!—” he shouted, his own voice hoarse with shock.

Henry collapsed, hands clutching his hair, shaking uncontrollably. “My son…” His voice faltered, choking on the words. “They’ve taken him from me, Arthur. My boy… my only boy…” Henry cried, He sank to the floor, clutching his knees to his chest, his body trembling as despair overtook him. The world around him faded, leaving only the cold emptiness where his son had once been. Arthur knelt beside him, a hand resting on Henry's shoulder, trying to anchor him to reality. “Nothing matters now,” Henry whispered, his voice hollow. “Nothing can bring him back.”

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