A King must be strong: Side with the Marshal

It becomes hard to think clearly as hundred of pairs of eyes settle on you, waiting with baited breath or nervous, indecipherable whispers for your decision. You try to look at the ground, ignore them as you weigh your merits of each route, but each time find yourself looking out at the peasant's gallery out of the corner of your eye. Many were wearing a simple, brown cloak: common enough farm-wear but with the hood conveniently covering the tops and sides of their head, and some seemed to be watching far more attentively then the others. Could there be... spies? A paranoid corner of your mind thinks, narrowing your eyes as the reality slowly sets in. Of course people; neighboring monarchs, the merchent-princes, even the distant relatives of your dynasty, would have an interest in seeing what the temperment of last branch of indisputable Itherian royalty was... so they could know if and how to prepare for a succession crisis. No doubt they were listening carefully for weakness, any sign that might lead powerful factions to declare the Kingdom saddly needed a new royal family. You can almost feel Vessa's practiced gaze piercing the side of your head as you shift uncomfortably in your seat, trying to pressure you to see things her way. But...

"Oliver, your ancestors have defended my family's honor and domain with their swords countless times. It woulden't be right if I diden't do the same for Vismark in its hour of need." You assure the Duke, the ghost of an approving smile forming on his face. Sitting up and gripping your throne powerfully, you turn your head towards Garret and nod curtly. "Marshal, how much of the cavalry do we have stationed in the capital?"

You notice his expression brighten, smirking smuggly to the side at a purse-lipped Vessa. "I can have 200 Guard lancers and 1000 mounted skirmishers prepared for a march within the day, my King." He spoke excitedly. "All brave and swift men... alongside whatever household forces the noble Duke will be able to provide upon arrival."

Counter Erwin slowly raises an arm, demanding to be heard. "Do not forget this is only a raid, Sir." He warns. "Some border-fighting is all well and good... but attacking with such a large **** would imply much, much more... and I believe the enter point of this was to avoid a general war?"

"A third of our forces should be more then sufficent for the cause." You quickly broker a compromise, all your advisors sans the elven mage nodding in acceptance. "Garret, I expect they'll be ready by morning. And Oliver..." You hold out a welcoming gesture to your guest. "I'll have the servents prepare rooms for you and your attendents. The journy north is long... and it woulden't do to have you ill-rested."

"Your generosity is admirably, my Liege." The Duke took a step back with his bow this time, slowly opening up the petitioner's space "You have my and our mutual subjects' deepest thanks for you consideration." With that, he made his way back into the galleries, retiring respectfully before you issued the call for the next in line to come forward and present his case...

The hours wind on tediously, struggling to keep your eyes open and thoughts focused at the endless petty complaints. Some of the issues seem so minute, your mouth drops slightly seeing that the law even considered them worth your attention. Thankfully, just as you felt you coulden't stiffle your yawns any further, the appointed hour was reached; the ring from the castle bells echoing through the chamber. The remaining petioners grumble, but obey the guard's directions and file out of the throne-room in a disorganized mob; lords and launderesses rubbing shoulder to shoulder in the chaos. Soon, nobody but your advisors and guards remained; finally giving you time to let out a sigh of releif.

"Don't fret, Your Majesty," Gilbert calmly assures you, resting a wrinkled but comfortingly familer hand on your shoulder. "You take after your father in your attitude towards the open court. Give it time, and you two will grow acustomed to it." You respond with a shallow, disingenious smile, standing up out of the throne and streching your stiff arms and legs, remaining in place as Glibert, Erwin, and Garret stand before you: bowing and asking to be excused as was the custom.

"You may leave," you say to each of them in turn, Gilbert and Erwin head out into the halls and Garret marching in the opposite direction, towards the castle barraks. Your temple aches, reaching up to rub it but finding your hand gently intercepted mid-movement by something... soft and warm.

"Lady Vessa," your voice echos over the vaulting ceiling, the elf-kin standing a fair bit closer then was the custom. "What is it you're doing?"

Her lips form into a pout, moving away yet still holding your hand in hers, gently rubbing a finger across the back. "Your Majesty," despite the akward position, her voice remains surprisingly dignified. "I apologize for delaying you but... I have one last piece of council for you. Something your other advisors woulden't understand." There's something about the look on her face that causes your pulse to quicken, though she dosen't seem to react. She had been one of your adolecent crushes, true... one of the foolish fantasies every boy had on his path to manhood, and still looked the same as she'd done then. But you'd thought you'd outgrown that... and knew that undue feeling for any councilermember wasen't acceptable for a wise and fair King. Yet, not matter what you brain said, your body wasen't quite as obedient.

"I can understand what makes Sir Garret's recomendation appeals to you. Men of your ages have such... intensity, a drive for action." Her voice seems to grow lower, whispering like she was sharing some deep secret. "Leave that energy bottled up, and it can cloud his judgement. Perhaps if you found some kind of... outlet, you'd be more inclined to see the true wisdom of my approch." She bats her long lashes once, slowly tightening her grip around your hand, the excitement sending the blood rushing through your body...