A Dragon-kin Raid on the Northern Border

"Now, are there any matters which are particularly pressing?" You turn to face your advisors, doing your best to sit straight and attentively in the comfortable cushions of the royal throne. Of course, as soon as you say that there are a few angry or pleading shouts from the galleries: merchants demanding compensation over claimed overcharges on their goods, minor landowners disputing the border-stones between their properties, old widows in their mourning blacks crying out for their soldier sons to be excused from the army to take up the farm work; peasant concerns that were quickly silenced by a few hard looks from your guards and thumps of their spears on the ground. Not that you don't feel their raw emotion tugging on yours, but you **** your feelings down and keep a stern expression. After all, without some sense of order you'd be here all day.... and that was the last thing you desired to do.

Thankfully, your question answers itself a few moments after a respectable amount of quiet has been restored. A young, slight boy, dressed in the colorful garb of a page, clears his throat before loudly announcing "Presenting to His Majesty, Duke Oliver Medden of the Duchy of Vismark." As he said this, the Duke himself: a tanned man on the cusp of his middle ages and dressed in a fine red jerkin, stood up and walked sternly towards the throne. You breifly recall having seen him at your corination ceremony, though not speaking with him. Not that you doubted his loyalty; The Meddens had a long tradition of honor and loyalty, one of the few houses you coulden't recall from your extensive studies as ever having been discovered conspiring against the throne. It was because of that loyalty that they'd managed to grow so powerful; be rewarded with bits of this or that's treasonous noble's domains over the centuries until their demesne extended over a third of the northern border. You stepple your fingers as he rised up from his deep bow, nodding for him to go on; after all, with your family's tenious situation, you'd need to keep your vassals happy.

"My King, my greatest congratulations on your assention." He solomly addressed you, keeping an expression that made it impossible for you to read his emotions. "Though, I wish I had come before you with happier news. There is a grave matter that requires royal attention." You glance to either side, seeing Sir Garret clench his jaw and Gilbert shuffle his feet across the floor... feeling your own heart skip at beat at their nervious reactions.

"Well," you clear your throat, looking down into the Duke's eyes and trying to focus despite the constant noise from the other petitioners. "If its really such an important matter then please, Oliver, explain it to me." You sit still, gripping the armrests of the throne tightly as you await his news.

"At your command, your Highness. Though... it might be easier just to show you" The duke reached downto his belt, popping upon a scroll tube and delicatly unwinding the crude parchment within, its edges singed. "The garrison from one of our watchtowers sent out a messanger two weeks ago, reporting large plumes of spoke rising from Adam's Well... one of our newer mines." He clarrifies after seeing your eyebrows rise in confusion. "However, this was not the work of ordinary brigands. At least, if this proclaimation found nailed to the mine door is to be believed." You take the parchment from his outstreched hand, squinting as he tried to read the incredibly crude and sharp-edged words written on it.

"This... no, these settlements are to render tribute in the form of 10 war-drakes' weight in strong iron, to be put in service of loyal thanes of Her Emenance, Warlady Burtrexx the Red, High Warlady of the Kisten Crags and... Empress of the Arxkesttelgdn Empire?" You trail off in disbelief, finding yourself unconciously tightening your grip as the room falls into a deathly silence at that word.

Except for Sir Garret, it seems, who after a moment scoffs dismissively while resting a hand on his sword-hilt. "So what you're saying is the old lizerd Gyrsh finally met his maker, and the Kisten cluches have gone to squabbling again?" He shrugs, as if sloughing off the terror that seems to have struck the others, turning to address you. "With all due respect, your Majesty, you don't believe in such posturing, do you?"

"Of course not," you answer defiantly as the inital shock fades, finding yourself calming down quickly, receiving an approving smirk from your Marshal. "I was just... slightly shocked to see somebody use that title. Casually, you pass the parchment to your council, allowing each of them to see the Warlady's crude message herself, before the Duke continued.

"... their posturing aside, Sir Garret is correct. High Warlord Gyrsh the Blue, who has kept the half-dragons of the Craigs in line since the time of my grandfather, passed away not too long ago. As you can imagine, its a bit... difficult to get an unbiased report on the subject," He bit his lower lip, taking a short pause to gather his nerves. "But as always happens, his heir's right to rule was contested, and the Craigs have once again decended into civil war. A war, it seems, which has lead to a violation of your sovergien dominion. Of course, such things are clearly the responsability of the king, as the feudal contract..."

You stare forward at the wall, thinking deeply back to your lessons and trying to pull up what you knew about the dragon-kin of the Craigs as Oliver went on with all the formalities. On one hand, their were the words from the old books: the histories of the the Empire of the Dread Dragons, which reigned over Itheria... most of this half of the continent, in fact, for over 700 years from their great city of Arxkesttelgdn, atop the highest mountain in the Craigs. The illuminations of the thousand dragons that once occupied the range, so dense in their war-flight they blocked out the sons, sent shivers down your spine as a child. However, there was also the almost... pitiful reality you'd learned from your tutors, the cautionary tale of the Empire's collapse that was told to you as a child. How the last Emperor had ignored, abused, and insulted the other great dragons, causing their families to dissolve into a brutal civil war which left none of the true dragons alive, and the once fertile vallies of the Crag places of ash where the still-feuding clutches of half-dragons scraped out a bare, barbaric existance.

"... so, to avoid any pretensions, I submit this matter to your attention." You hear as you come back into focus, the Oliver rising up from his bow. "Though... if I may, I ask you don't let this lie. The rumors have already begun spreading, and I fear the mountain settlements will be entrely abandoned if nothing is done."

"Coulden't we just treat with this 'Burtrexx'?" Lady Vessa suggested, brushing away some stray hairs. "The northern border has always been a bit hazy... perhaps there was just some kind of misunderstanding. Besides... if she does manage to claim the throne, having angered the new High-Warlady could very well make the problem worse. The dragon-kin aren't exactly known for their forgiving nature,after all."

"Of course they aren't... but they don't treat weaklings much better," Sir Garret snorts back, glaring at you sternly. "Your Majesty, I know you've read the histories well. The dragon-spawn only bow to strength and glory... allow this false Emperess to strike our kingdom without fighting back, and do you think she will respect our sovergenity? You must lead a punative strike into the Red's territories... only then will she see you as her equal." Soon, Vessa is looking into your face as well; her expression softer, but just as determined.

You swallow deeply, considering both their words carefully. After all, this would be your first true decision as King... it would be foolish to make it in haste.