Assemble the Army
I returned from the northeast. My vacation had been short, but I'd gained something from it nonetheless.
The moment I stepped back into Winter Castle, I realized why the ministers and nobles had sent me on leave. They'd been rushing preparations for the wedding behind my back.
As Daniela and I entered, the people's reactions seemed oddly subdued.
"What's going on?"
"Yeah, right?"
"They've decorated everything so nicely, too."
"Looks like everyone wanted our marriage after all."
"Eh, we knew that already."
We entered the Hall of Winter. The ministers and nobles bowed their heads in greeting. I took my seat at the head of the table, and Daniela sat in the chair behind me.
But the atmosphere was strange. Even Alfredo, who usually swung his axe around like a madman, was sitting quietly. It was the wedding, after all. No need to kill the mood.
"Thanks to your efforts, I was able to rest in the northeast. I truly couldn't survive without your loyalty."
"Your Grace!"
"That said, there must be a backlog of work. So why does the mood feel so off?"
Ahem—someone cleared their throat. Everyone avoided my gaze. Hexon did the same, and so did Bildo. The de Wintergard family in particular looked terrified of something.
I scanned the room, trying to read the mood. Had the nomads invaded or something? If so, I'd have gotten a report from the northeast. What was it?
"Y-Your Grace! A letter has arrived from the Dalafont family in the south."
"Oh, right. That marquis family. Bring it here."
"B-But, Your Grace, it's too vicious to show you."
What kind of letter could it be? Hexon handed it over with a stiff expression that made me uneasy. I examined the letter, sealed with the Dalafont crest. Slowly, I opened and read it.
To the so-called Northern Grand Duke Theodore von Ardorno Iphera Wintergard,
We, the Dalafont family, have learned of your illicit union with the disgraced Daniela von Bart. Such a match insults the noble bloodlines of the Empire.
Know this: Andrea Wintergard, true heir of the Wintergard lineage, lays claim to the North. Neither descendant of Walter Wintergard nor your father, yet bearing the sacred name—imposter that you are.
Submit, or face the consequences. The south will not tolerate barbaric pretenders.
— Marquis Dalafont
"Y-Your Grace. That letter..."
"Your Grace, please don't take it to heart..."
The more I read the Dalafont letter, the clearer it became. What insolence was this? No, it went beyond insolence. They were mocking the North. And who the hell was this Andrea Wintergard? As far as I knew, all other Wintergards had been confined to the most remote corners of the North. Not a descendant of Walter Wintergard, nor of my father. How dare they call themselves Wintergard?
"Hoo..."
"Your Grace, please don't get too worked up. It's just the ravings of an ignorant fool..."
"Hexon. Did the Dalafonts really say this?"
"According to the envoys..."
"Bring them here!"
My voice echoed thunderously through the Hall of Winter. One servant hurried out. Rage choked me. I'd always valued justification, strived to know what mattered most—for fighting the nomads, for bringing happiness to the northern people.
"Your Grace, please focus on the joyous occasion first."
"I'll follow your lead on that."
"Your Grace, those southern idiots..."
"You think I'll let this slide? Bring them now!"
The Dalafont envoys entered the Hall of Winter. Quite a large group, but the man at the center stood ramrod straight, his face brimming with arrogance. It was revolting.
"Are you the envoy from the Dalafont family?"
"I am, Your Grace."
"You fucking bastard."
The curse flew out. I leaned forward from my half-reclined seat on the chair. What gall. The letter's intent was hard to parse, but someone was pulling strings behind it—treating the now-sovereign North with such disrespect.
"I don't care where you crawled from, but your life ends here."
"As expected, Your Grace."
"Oh? So that nobody sent you here expecting death. Fine, I'll oblige."
"Killing envoys must be northern etiquette. Proceed."
So brazen. But that didn't mean I couldn't kill them. The intent was clear: abandonment bait. A dead envoy would spark war. That's what they wanted.
"Hahaha! You're good at playing the abandonment game. Fine, I won't kill you."
"As you wish."
"Instead, your homeland will burn to ash. Your family will be torn apart before your eyes. That alright with you?"
"...Do as you please."
"You must not know what you're dealing with."
I took a deep breath. Good things were coming soon; I felt it. Honoring the Wintergard spirits in the northeast had been nice. Now, with Daniela, I'd plan our future and handle Northern Grand Duke duties.
But what? Andrea Wintergard? Who the fuck was that?!
"Leor! James! All noble houses and ministers, listen up!"
"Your command, Your Grace!"
Tension filled the Hall of Winter. The ministers and nobles were already bracing for war, though they couldn't imagine the scale.
Leor Reward burst forward from the center.
"Y-Your Grace! En-entrust the army to m-me, Leor!"
"Your Grace! Entrust the army to I, James de Wintergard! I'll annihilate them all!"
"Your Grace! Entrust the army to me, Targus!"
It wasn't just one or two. Veteran generals and fresh young commanders alike surged forward. Since pacifying the nomads, the army had been itching for action. Many were eager to clash with southern forces.
"If the Dalafonts wish it so, I have the proper response. You know that, right?"
"We feared as much."
"You lot aren't afraid to die, I see."
"We've been prepared since setting foot in the North."
"Even in wartime, envoys aren't killed."
But I'd decided. No moving troops before the wedding. Perfect timing—all ministers and nobles gathered for the marriage. Fate, perhaps.
"But you have to die for them to get their excuse to fight us. That's why you're here."
"We have nothing more to say."
"Understood. We'll handle it northern-style."
The Royal Guard rushed to seize the envoys. It didn't take long to bind them all. I didn't want it barbaric, but no choice. They wanted a fight.
"I commend your courage. Tear them apart."
"As you command!"
"I don't even want to see it. Handle it underground. No graves—just scatter them on the plains!"
"As you command!"
War had begun. The Dalafont envoys vanished from the Hall of Winter. They'd die without heads sent back, without any burial. And the Dalafont family would follow.
"Assemble the army."
"How many shall we muster, Your Grace?"
"Assemble every army in the North."
"Your Grace?"
The North's entire army. Ministers and nobles murmured in shock. Some might say it was overkill—like slaughtering a chicken with a cattle knife. Others worried about the time. The wedding was priority, yet the Dalafonts had to poke the bear.
"Your Grace, mustering the North's entire army will take time. Perhaps..."
"It will."
"Instead, grant me permission to handle this."
"...Dorgon, you?"
Dorgon was no field commander. He'd need someone competent beside him. That's why he stepped up. Wedding first; let Dorgon deal with Dalafont.
Hm...
"How many do you think you'll need?"
"Mobilize the troops ready to deploy now, and those stationed with the Bart family."
"Hm, those troops?"
"A two-pronged attack to end it swiftly."
The ministers and nobles nodded. Of course, Dalafont plans were unknown; intel was needed. But a blitz could wrap it up fast.
"Supply lines, water—there'll be issues, and more besides?"
"With provisions from the Bart family and no mad mountain crossing, we can manage."
True. Wars aren't won with swords alone. Victory is decided beforehand. Maybe now wasn't the time.
"Dorgon and James de Wintergard handle this."
"As you command!"
"It'll take time, I fear."
"Worry not."
"War is won before blades clash."
"Victory is already ours. Pay it no mind."
"I trust you. Take my seal. Dispose of the traitors."
War talk ended. The wedding—a joyous event—was upon us, yet faces were grim.
"When's the wedding set?"
"We prepared to hold it the moment you returned from the northeast..."
"Do it."
"Truly, Your Grace?"
"The sooner, the better. Ideally..."
This month!