The Emperor's Bastard (1)
Iberia's southernmost tip. The Gibraltar Rock, once called the Pillars of Hercules, loomed close by.
"Welcome to our lands, my lord Count."
"Thank you, Military Governor."
With the military governor's help, I had reached the farthest corner from the Empire's heart—a place dubbed the end of the world. Of course, armed with modern knowledge, I knew this wasn't truly the edge... but with the random map generator spinning, I had no clue what lay beyond this sea in the New World. Only someone like Cortés, iced out by his father, might know. No maps existed in this era, so it was hardly surprising. What a blunder, claiming I'd achieve ironclad feats. I never imagined it would spiral this far.
The land my father had bequeathed to me. I gazed upon Malaga County.
"This is a historic site of the Reconquista."
"I see."
A bit farther off lay Granada, one of the few places in Iberia where you could still feel the Moors' lingering traces. The Reconquista, driven by the Catholic monarchs, had swept away the Muslims under the banner of "reconquest." Thanks to that, the kingdoms of Castile and Aragon had forged an allied front, and their lands had passed to our father, Charles V, by inheritance.
My nominal father. Charles V—Carlos I in Spain—was no great dad. Cursed with a slew of genetic diseases from inbreeding, he'd managed in his youth, but as years wore on, his malocclusion worsened to the point he could barely keep bugs out of his mouth.
My brother took after him perfectly. His jaw was so bad he struggled to eat. Still, he'd looked out for me in his way—shielding me from our three sisters in childhood, showing real brotherly bond.
Unlike that noble-blooded brother of mine, I was Don Juan de Austria, the bastard. That's why the sisters often scolded me, only for him to step in. The trouble started after we grew up. He became King of Spain but botched securing the Low Countries inheritance. One reason? The Luxembourg claims had gone to me. Our uncle, the Holy Roman Emperor, following tradition, chipped away at my brother's consolidated power by divvying up imperial fiefs—pure scheming to weaken him.
In the end, that uncle's plots drove a wedge between me and my brother. Put simply, that's why I was holing up in Iberia's southernmost Malaga County. My brother had me marked.
"You seem lost in thought, my lord."
"No, let's head to the castle first."
"As you command."
And so the military governor and I rode toward Malaga Castle. Along the streets, I spotted throngs of elves. The skin patch I'd applied. Bedouins, Moors, Turks, Persians from North Africa, the Middle East, and Asia Minor—all rendered as elves. This region had been Moorish turf just decades ago, so plenty of converted Muslims lingered as elves.
"Heathens abound here."
The governor nodded at my words, eyes scanning for threats to my safety. A bastard scraping the bottom of the succession list, but still son to the late emperor Charles V—any harm to me spelled disaster. That's why the governor had led troops himself to escort me.
I sighed at the sight. No matter what I did, dragging soldiers around meant eyes on me from my brother. Right now, it felt like sitting on a bed of nails.
Misreading my discomfort as frustration from blocked streets by these heathens, the governor drew his sword and bellowed.
"Elf scum! Make way for the Count!"
His blade out, the soldiers followed suit. I shook my head.
"Governor."
"Fear not, my lord Count. I'll see you safely to the castle."
"Sheathe your sword."
"…"
He stared, hesitant—we'd only met hours ago, after all.
"Governor, that's an order."
"…Understood."
The soldiers sheathed their blades. I sighed and spurred my horse onward.
Hibralfaro Castle. Built by the Phoenicians, steeped in history. Ferdinand of Aragon, who led the Reconquista—my great-grandfather by blood in this game world, though I wouldn't claim him as such—had ties here. Still, I had to play the part.
"An honor to serve you. I am the steward, Isabel Gomara. A pleasure."
A stunning blonde elf, no hijab, black dress hugging voluptuous curves—a converted Muslim, clearly. Iberia's customs aside, a female steward? Rare even for Catholics. I blinked, staring.
"A Moorish woman as steward must surprise you."
"I've lived my life in the Empire's heart, Vienna. A beauty like you as my steward? Utterly shocking."
Her speech had that translation-engine awkwardness. I sighed inwardly, cursing this setup. Vienna had drilled noble etiquette into me, but with only Italian, French, and Flemish at my command, my crash-course Castilian hit its limit.
"I am…"
Isabel launched into her tale. Sole heiress to Sabta Wilaya—the barony of Ceuta. Catholics allowed female inheritance sans heirs; Islam forbade it outright. Fearing forced marriage to the governor would strip her rights, she'd fled here after her father's death.
The previous count granted asylum on conversion. Her claim lapsed, but eyeing her future value, he'd made her steward. My guess: seize Ceuta across Gibraltar, reconvert it, and her rights revive. Like Crusader kingdoms in Israel—now Ottoman pasha turf, claims dormant but Rome still nodded. And as sole, fully converted Catholic heir? Viable. A hedge against that day. I silently thanked the shrewd predecessor.
"Quite the story, Señora."
"Just 'steward' or Isabel, please. I swear by God to serve Count Don Juan."
She crossed herself—Father, Son, Holy Ghost—and pledged. Son of Charles V, Christianity's champion (Carlos I in Spain), I had to martyr it up. I mirrored the sign.
"I accept your oath."
"Thank you, my lord Count."
With steward Isabel guiding, I toured the castle, gauging my domain. Two fiefs under the county: Nerha city, ruled by my military governor Jermi Walli; and Motril Temple, under the Seville Bishop. Excluding Hibralfaro, they gripped real power. How to handle them? Luxembourg full inheritance? No such luck. Brother loomed, hand outstretched to lop my head. Play safe for now. But let them puppeteer me? Wither on the vine. Tough spot.
"All well?"
"This vast fortress tires me. A place to rest?"
"To the office, my lord."
"Good."
The office. Predecessor, father's vassal, had decamped to Holy Roman lands after Uncle Ferdinand I took the imperial crown. No handover for me. Felt like my first convenience store gig at twenty—no training, sheer void. Silver lining: gorgeous vassal babe. Thank God for pre-rebirth skins. Orcs swarmed southwest Africa, dwarves Siberia—starting here was a win.
"The maps?"
"Of course. Summoning the chancellor."
"Thanks."
Chancellor—chanceller or chamberlain in English. Not some Eastern power broker, just handled diplomacy. Post-centralization, imperial or island or Frankish chancellors outranked counts, but me? Mere county count, so his power matched: neutered by the governor and Catholic bishop lackey, especially with heathens next door. At least he held the maps—lordship's symbol. A glimmer.
Waiting in the office, a knock. I eyed the door.
"Enter."
In came an elderly man with Isabel. I rose, approached.
"Forgive this wretched old servant's delay. I am Sancho Núñez, your overpromoted chancellor. Call me Sancho."
"Señor Sancho, a pleasure. I am Count Don Juan de Austria, taking charge of Malaga County from this day."
Our hands clasped. I met his eyes, will unmasked.