They get him drunk

Tonight, you celebrated the conquest of the Magruvak in honour of Ostgrenze and the Almain Confederation. Many of your generals, the Confederation's people and even prominent elites of the Magruvak under Dobra sat in attendance, and platters of rich food were laid out tantalisingly on the tables.

In the weeks that passed since your conquest of Pabląg, your men have taken many brides among the local widows and daughters, eagerly planting roots upon hearing the Kingdom of Ostgrenze was subsidising their marriage dowries. Fresh troops had to be brought in, to deal with the rebellious tribes, and while it was no Sunday mass, eventually Vertrix's tribe - now Dobra's tribe - became sole leader of all the Magruvak tribes.

Their elites were mercilessly purged to the last, their wives married to Dobra's and your men, their sons aged twelve and below taken as hostages. Merchants and other bureaucratic staff from Ostgrenze were brought in to help with administrative affairs. As for the other Confederation States, they washed their hands of the Magruvak affair, going as far as to plan to withdraw their troops after this celebration.

Bastards, the lot of them. They were just jealous of your success. At least they're not stabbing you in the back.

At the very front, you raised your tankard, the rest doing the same.

"My fellow Almain, my Magruvak brothers, we celebrate the end to a gruelling war against our mortal enemies, and the sacrifice of our brave brothers in arms! Hail the victorious dead!"

"Hail!" They chorused, downing their ale.

As the celebration took off, Almain and Magruvak singers filled the banquet hall with song and merriment. Nobles danced with their mistresses and new wives, or with female maids and servants eager to kiss their asses. The confederation's soldiers celebrated elsewhere, no doubt making merry to unwind after weeks of skirmishes.

Sitting beside you was Dobra, Vertrix's widow sitting suspiciously close to you and pouring you ale, as if she were your new serving wench. Misha and Shara doing the same. Technically as a chieftain's family, they had to seat beside you as the guests of honour as decorum dictated, but why were they placing their hands on your shoulders and legs, suspiciously rubbing you like women working out of a brothel and feeding you sweet words?

"Here, my King," Dobra smiled, pouring you another cup.

"My King," Shara beckoned, putting a slice of roasted fowl in your mouth.

Misha simply popped a grape into your mouth after Shara.

A part of you loved the attention they gave you. The more cynical part of you suspected some ulterior motive; most women buttered up men's egos as a way to seduce them, who was to say they were not trying that on you?

And yet, as much as you hated to admit it, making such accusations so soon after declaring them your allies? More than a few schemers might take a chance to ruin your image somehow. Best to not risk it.

"Is something the matter, my king?" Asked Dobra, "Is it not to your liking?"

"No, there's nothing wrong," You waved off, "It's just-"

"Hush, my King," Dobra smiled, "Just sit back and let us pamper you."

Before you could protest, they fed you and gave you more drink than you could handle.

As time went on, they never stopped pouring you more drinks, and you drank more as was polite. Eventually, you could not take anymore and passed out drunk, and the last thing you heard was the guards calling your title in worry.