OOC:
Welcome to King of Engleshire, Lord of the Englemen!
In this RP, your characters will react to the death of King Fraser I, King of Engleshire, and the subsequent coronation of his son, Prince Fraser II. Our story will begin with the King's forces gathered in Aldoren, a puppet kingdom North of Engleshire that has seen rebellion and backlash against Engleshire in recent months. Those houses present at the encampment will react to the king's passing accordingly, before we fast forward to present day, where our new king will be making arrangements for his coronation. This RP will be closed to Heroes and Foes nations only. For those interested in joining us, check the sign up thread or join our discord server.
Welcome to King of Engleshire, Lord of the Englemen!
In this RP, your characters will react to the death of King Fraser I, King of Engleshire, and the subsequent coronation of his son, Prince Fraser II. Our story will begin with the King's forces gathered in Aldoren, a puppet kingdom North of Engleshire that has seen rebellion and backlash against Engleshire in recent months. Those houses present at the encampment will react to the king's passing accordingly, before we fast forward to present day, where our new king will be making arrangements for his coronation. This RP will be closed to Heroes and Foes nations only. For those interested in joining us, check the sign up thread or join our discord server.
King Fraser I’s Camp
13th Day of the 1st Moon
1002 AE
It was a cold, bitter morning the day the king died.
The first moon of the year was always the worst, especially in Aldoren; the countryside wasn’t nicknamed the Galelands for no reason. The snows had already started on the long trek North, but in recent days they’d picked up ferocity, accompanied by a shrieking, biting wind that cut the marching army to their core.
At first, the journey had been all songs and swordplay. After all, it was the old king lion Fraser I himself on the march. How many times had they stormed Aldoren to squash a rebel uprising and come back victorious?
But as the days grew colder and the march longer, the King had taken ill. A man in his sixth decade should not have been camping in a tent in the dead of Winter. It had started as just a mild cough and had developed into something much more insidious as the weeks wore on.
The bloody flux.
Once a man of considerable stature, standing well over six foot and weighing nearly sixteen stone, King Fraser was currently a husk of his former self; frail, gaunt, disheveled, and ill-tempered. He hadn’t even had an appetite the night before. “Take it away,” he’d rasped irritably when the servants tried to bring him a plate. “Gods please, TAKE IT AWAY.”
High Justiciar Osgood Manly, lord of Amroth and right-hand man to the king, had looked on with grave concern in that moment, privately counting down the days to the king’s demise in his own head.
If only he’d known how right he would be.
* * *
It was still dark out when Lord Manly awoke, cold and confused as to why he was cold. The answer of course was immediately discernible; his campfire had begun to wane in the wee hours of the morn. Sleep be damned, the High Justiciar resigned himself to getting ready for the day’s march. He was a military man at heart, after all. The early bird gets the worm, or so they said.
He awoke his squire abruptly and chastised him for letting the fire sputter out. “Every hair on my head would be froze if I had any,” he’d scolded, rubbing his smooth bald cranium in exclamation. “Which makes things all the worse considering.” He sent the teen scrambling for some boiled wine while he put on what pieces of armor he could by himself, none too thrilled at what the day would bring.
Lord Manly remembered strictly advising his king against this so-called Northern campaign. “Winter is nipping at our heels, your majesty,” he’d argued, while Fraser half-scowled half-smirked at him from his seat on the throne, his mind already made up. “And respectfully, my king, you are not as young as you once were. The Aldorenian winters can freeze a man’s blood.”
“And so what do you propose, Osgood,” the King had leered, pulling his great white beard furiously. “We let this rebel scourge permeate and call it a night? HA. Over my corpse, SER. OVER MY CORPSE.”
And that had been the end of the discussion. Now here they were, on the doorstep of a frozen hell, marching on some insolent Aldorenian lordling or other and freezing their balls off. Of course, Lord Manly wouldn’t have had it any other way regardless. It was his duty. The High Justiciar’s position was to directly serve and advise the king in ALL capacities, whether one agreed with him or not.
When the squire returned, Lord Manly let the hot spiced wine the teen had brought with him warm his chilled bones, before instructing his squire to finish armoring him.
Once the boy had finished, the High Justiciar fastened a cowl around his neck and stepped out into the military encampment, his first intention to check on the welfare of his king. “Wake the cooks. I’ll break my fast with his majesty before sunrise,” Lord Manly instructed, before trudging off towards the king’s pavilion.
The sun hadn’t risen yet indeed, and the wind was howling. A thousand campfires in a thousand tents flickered and danced in the snowy Aldorenian hills, and the military encampment was deathly quiet save for the shrieking gusts and the creaking of war wagons. The sentries looked miserable, even bundled in furs and flanked by fires, and the horses much the same.
“A mistake. A bloody mistake,” Osgood muttered to himself, though truth be told, Lord Manly knew his king was ultimately right in one regard. The Aldorenian uprising did need to be put down, and put down viciously if the Kingdom of Engleshire was going to continue to grow and prosper. They needed the taxes and levies from the hilly North, especially with the King growing older and the prospect of his son’s ascension on the horizon.
While Prince Fraser II was a man grown, he didn’t always act the part. Arrogant, childish, naive, selfish…these traits did not bode well for a prosperous reign. Not to mention the queer rumors concerning Fraser II’s choice in bedside companions…though who knew how much truth there was to those. For all Lord Manly knew, the stories could be sinister lies planted by enemies of the crown.
No, Osgood didn’t always see eye to eye with his king, but he respected him and he followed his lead. The alternative was less promising. That much was certain.
When Lord Manly arrived at the king’s pavilion, he exchanged a curt nod with the two sentries at the entrance. “M’lord,” they both chattered with misty breath. “His majesty sleeps I hope?” Osgood asked, pulling on his frosty pointed black goatee. “Like a rock, m’lord,” replied one, while the other quickly clamored to elaborate. “No coughin’ tonight, m’lord. First night in a week it’s been quiet. Might be the maester’s potions are finally doin’ their work.”
Thank Esion, Lord Manly thought to himself as he entered the pavilion.
Only to find the king slumped over face first in front of his chamber pot.
Dead.