Chapter 9: The Meeting of Kings

(Hagge, Mouth of the Pontar Valley, Pontar Valley, Kingdom of Aedirn, Witcher-Verse)

--------------------------------

(Time-Skip: Four Months Later)

-------------------------------

(King Aethan I Jaenerys of Cidaris POV)

--------------------------------

Aethan wouldn't call Hagge beautiful, but rather the Castle as much as it was beautiful in its construction, what truly made the Castle beautiful was the fact that its design was able to incorporate three separate types of Castle. The Castle being at the mouth of the Pontar made it a Coercion Castle, but the design was that of a Concentric Castle and its position at the mouth of the Pontar indicates that it was a Lowlands Castle of the Valley Castle subcategory.

Didn't really matter a lot, to be honest, Aethan was waiting to get a fight going with Henselt. The old rapist hadn't been shy in glaring at him, Aethan had no desire to have anything to do with the man. But this meeting was one that he called, and it was regrettably crucial to involve him. 

''Let us not commit a mistake.'' Said King Vizimir II, the King of Redania as he slid his ringed fingers through the hair at his temples. ''We can't afford to make a blunder or a mistake now.'' He added.

Aethan watched as those around him said nothing, the assembled royals of the North not uttering a word. Not Demavend III, ruler of Aedirn, sprawled in his armchair staring at the tankard of beer resting on his belly. Nor Aethan's father-in-law, King Foltest I, the Lord of Temeria, Pontar, Mahakam and Sodden, presented his noble profile to everyone by turning his head towards the window. Neither did King Henselt I of Kaedwen, sitting at the opposite end of the table running his small, piercing eyes - glistening from a face as bearded as brigands - over the other participants in the room. Meve, Queen of Lyria and Rivia toyed pensively with the enormous rubies in her necklace, occasionally twisting her beautiful full lips into an ambiguous grimace.

Then there was him, King Aethan I Jaenerys of Cidaris. Aethan was not at the table, rather he was leaning up against the wall with his arms folded. Mostly he kept his eyes closed, but he opened them when Vizirmir spoke. He carried his Ofiri Saber at his hip, the hilt of the blade glistened with Silver Fish and Gold. Beneath the scabbard, there were runes in the blade, he had gotten his runewright.

Aethan had arrived with Prince var Attre, but var Attre had been humiliated by King Henselt and Aethan had told him to cool off. King's Niedamir and Esterad hadn't shown up, and Niedamir was never going to really rally against Nilfgaard, Esterad on the other hand would do so covertly.

Aethan wouldn't hold Niedamir's refusal against him despite the pact between them. Elliana was still as of yet unable to marry his son, so they weren't family yet. Aethan however would be taking advantage in the build-up to war as he already had.

With his economic problems at home dealt with, Aethan was able to begin to stockpile a lot of resources. Hattori was on over time as was the new Master Smith he'd recruited. But armor and weapons weren't all he'd bought, Aethan had bought an excess of Food and other goods. Wasn't cheap, but it wasn't as expensive as it could've been, since Aethan made a show of publicly taking control of Trade in his Kingdom. The Merchants were largely pissed, but because the trade league oh so conveniently didn't raise a stink over it, and in fact made a show of welcoming his presence, it calmed a lot of them down.

The price was still higher though.

Every Major Stronghold in Cidaris now had an excess in supplies. Aethan had also hired large numbers of Mercenaries, signing the groups to three-year contracts. It was worth noting that the mercenaries in question were some of the most loyal in question. Now it was admittedly strange to call mercs loyal, but Aethan had done his research and these particular groups had either neither broken a contract or they had only broken contracts because their tasks in question ended up being considered suicidal.

''Let us not make a mistake.'' He heard Vizimir repeat. ''Because a mistake could cost us too much. Let us make use of the experience of others. When our ancestors landed on the beaches five hundred years ago the elves also hid their heads in the sand. We tore the country away from them piece by piece, and they retreated, thinking all the while that this would be the last border, that we would encroach no further. Let us be wiser! Because now it is our turn. Now we are the elves. Nilfgaard is at the Yaruga and I hear: 'So let them stay there'. I hear: 'They won't come any further'. But they will, You'll see. So I repeat, let us not make the same mistake as the elves!'' Vizimir argues.

Raindrops knocked against the window panes and the wind howled eerily. Aethan observed as Queen Meve raised her head. This had more or less played out according to The Blood of Elves thus far, so she clearly thought that she thought she had heard the croaking of ravens and crows, but it was only the wind. The wind and rain.

''Do not compare us to the elves.'' Henselt said hotly. ''You dishonor us with such a comparison. The elves did not know how to fight – they retreated before our ancestors and hid in the mountains and forests. The elves did not treat our ancestors to a Sodden. But we showed the Nilfgaardians what it means to pick a quarrel with us. Do not threaten us with Nilfgaard, Vizimir, don't sow the seeds of propaganda. Nilfgaard, you say, is at the Yaruga? I say that Nilfgaard is sitting as quiet as a church mouse beyond the river. Because we broke their spine at Sodden. We broke them militarily, and above all, we broke their morale. I don't know whether it is true that Emhyr var Emreis was, at the time, against aggression on such a scale, that the attack on Cintra was the work of some party hostile to him – I take it that if they had defeated us, he would be applauding, and distributing privileges and endowments amongst them. But after Sodden it suddenly turns out he was against it, and that everything which occurred was due to his marshals' insubordination. And heads fell. The scaffolds flowed with blood. These are certain facts, not rumor's. Eight solemn executions, and many more modest ones. Several apparently natural yet mysterious deaths, and a good many cases of people suddenly choosing to retire. I tell you, Emhyr fell into a rage and practically finished off his own commanders. So who will lead their army now? The sergeants?'' Henselt says, his racism and arrogance shown clearly.

Much as Aethan would like to ridicule Henselt for his arrogance, that is not why he's there. No, he'd humble Henselt when it was worth doing, not before his business was settled.

''No, not the sergeants.'' said Demavend coldly. ''It will be young and gifted officers who have long waited for such an opportunity and have been trained by Emhyr for an equally long time. Those whom the older marshals stopped from taking command, were prevented from being promoted. The young, gifted commanders about whom we already hear. Those who crushed the uprisings in Metinna, Gemmeria, Mag Turga, Ebbing, Geso, Maecht and Nazair, young men who rapidly broke up the rebels in Ebbing. Commanders who appreciate the roles of out-flanking maneuvers, of far-reaching cavalry raids, swift infantry marches and of landing operations from the sea.

''If they have truly learned anything." Henselt shrugged, "Then they will not cross the Yaruga. The river estuary on the border between Cintra and Verden is still controlled by Ervyll and his three strongholds: Nastrog, Rozrog and Bodrog. They cannot be seized just like that – no new technology is going to help them there. Our flank is defended by King Aethan's fleet, and thanks to it we control the shore. And also thanks to the pirates of Skellige. Jarl Crach an Craite, if you remember, didn't sign a truce with Nilfgaard, and regularly bites them, attacking and setting fire to their maritime settlements and forts in the Provinces. The Nilfgaardians have nicknamed him Tirth ys Muire, Sea Boar. They frighten children with him!" Henselt Argues back, and at the mentioning of his name, Aethan shrugs off all apparent disinterest to stand beside Meve.

''Frightening Nilfgaardian children." Smiled Vizimir wryly. "Will not ensure our safety.'' He counters smoothly.

''No, it won't.'' Agreed Henselt. "Something else will. Without control of the estuary or the shore and with a flank exposed, Emhyr var Emreis will be in no position to ensure provisions reach any detachments he might care to send across the Yaruga. What swift marches, what cavalry raids? Ridiculous. The army will come to a standstill within three days of crossing the river. Half will lay siege to the stronghold and the rest will be slowly dispersed to plunder the region in search of fodder and food. And when their famed cavalry has eaten most of its own horses, we'll give them another Sodden. Damn it, I'd like them to cross the river! But don't worry, they won't.'' Henselt says apparently believing his own bluster even if none of them actually do aside from him.

''Let us say…" Meve said suddenly. "That they do not cross the Yaruga. Let us say that Nilfgaard will simply wait. Now let us consider: who would that suit, them or us? Who can let themselves wait and do nothing and who can't?'' She argues.

''Exactly!'' Picked up Vizimir. ''Meve, as usual, does not say much but she hits the nail on the head. Emhyr has time on his hands, gentlemen, but we don't. Can't you see what is happening? Three years ago, Nilfgaard disturbed a small stone on the mountainside and now they are calmly waiting for an avalanche. They can simply wait while new stones keep pouring down the slope. Because, to some, that first small stone looked like a boulder which would be impossible to move. And since it turned out that a mere touch sufficed to set it rolling, others appeared for whom an avalanche would prove convenient. From the Grey Mountains to Bremervoord, elven commandos rove the forests – this is no longer a small group of guerrilla fighters, this is war. Just wait and we'll see the free elves of Dol Blathanna rising to fight. In Mahakam the dwarves are rebelling, and the dryads of Brokilon are growing bolder and bolder. This is war, war on a grand scale. Civil war. Domestic. Our own. While Nilfgaard waits… Whose side do you think time is on? The Scoia'tael commandos have thirty- or forty-year-old elves fighting for them. And they live for three hundred years! They have time, we don't!"

''Wrong actually, the Dryads are not the problem, it's King's Ervyll and Viraxus.'' Aethan speaks up. Catching Vizimir's and everyone else's attention.

''Explain.'' Foltest orders and Aethan ignores the fact Foltest demanded instead of asking because his father-in-law like Queen Meve and that fat fuck Henselt was a rather blunt individual.

''Viraxus is deeply in debt to the brotherhood of sorcerers, his wife was his lover before her arranged marriage to Viraxus's father. In exchange for helping him take over, he was indebted to the mages because my father and King Ervyll would not back him as it had little to do with Cidaris and even less to do with Verden. Ervyll likewise is a racist and pedophile and is the mortal enemy of Queen Eithne. Both men are behind the recent uptake in Dryad attacks and according to my spies within their intelligence services, are largely the alleged Dryads attacking people. Trying to frame it to initiate a prolonged and bloodstained race war. I have warned both men to stop, my warnings have been ignored. '' Aethan explains.

''That does certainly explain more than a few of the reports, I've been receiving from the Blue Stripes located on the border.'' Foltest notes.

''And as for the Scoia'tael? That's a wound of your own making.'' Aethan adds, even though such a sentence flies against his pragmatism.

''The Scoia'tael.'' Admitted Henselt. ''Have become a real thorn in the backside. They're paralyzing my trade and transport, terrorizing the farmers… we have to put an end to this!''

''If the non-humans want war, then they will get it.'' Threw in Foltest of Temeria. ''I have always been an advocate of mutual agreement and co-existence but if they prefer a test of strength from us, then we will see who is the stronger. I am ready. I undertake to put an end to the Squirrels in Temeria and Sodden within six months. Those lands have already run with elven blood once, shed by our ancestors. I consider the blood-letting a tragedy, but I do not see an alternative – the tragedy will be repeated. The elves have to be pacified.''

''Your army will march against the elves if you give the order.'' Nodded Demavend, before turning solemn. ''But will it march against humans? Against the peasantry from which you muster your infantry? Against the guilds? Against the free towns? Speaking of the Scoia'tael, Vizimir described only one stone in the avalanche. Yes, yes, gentlemen, do not gape at me like that! Word is already going around the villages and towns that in the lands already taken by the Nilfgaard, peasants, farmers and craftsmen are having an easier life, freer and richer, and that the merchants' guilds have more privileges… We are inundated with goods from Nilfgaardian manufactories and guilds. In Brugge and Verden their coin is ousting local currency. If we sit and do nothing we will be finished, at odds with our neighbors, embroiled in conflict, tangled up in trying to quell rebellions and riots, and slowly subdued by the economic strength of the Nilfgaardians. We will be finished, suffocating in our own stuffy parochial corner because – and understand this – Nilfgaard is cutting off our route to the South and we have to develop, we have to be expansive, otherwise there won't be enough room here for our grandchildren!'' Demavend says harshly.

Those gathered said nothing. Vizimir of Redania sighed deeply, grabbed one of the chalices standing on the table and took a long draught. Rain battered against the windows throughout the prolonged silence, and the wind howled and pounded against the shutters.

''Hehe, I think you'll find Demavend that such concerns do not concern me. Since taking out my saboteurs, gaining control of the Trade League, and forming a super bank with Cianfinelli and Vivaldi Banks, I'm in a far better position economically. My Kingdom is the only one to now benefit more heavily from Ofiri goods, and my fortresses and keeps are overflowing with supplies. My Castle houses a Master Swordsmith and Master Armorer, both of whom are churning out more weapons and armor of higher quality than Cidaris has ever seen, my elite troops are outfitted with swords that will never dull, armor that will never be penetrated by an arrow. I foresaw this conversation and prepared accordingly.'' Aethan says, and again a silence falls on the room.

''All the worries of which we talk.'' Said Henselt finally. ''Are the work of Nilfgaard. It is Emhyr's emissaries who are inciting the non-humans, spreading propaganda and calling for riots. It is they who are throwing gold around and promising privileges to corporations and guilds, assuring barons and dukes they will receive high positions in the provinces they plan to create in place of our kingdoms. I don't know what it's like in your countries nor do I particularly care, but in Kaedwen we've been inundated with clerics, preachers, fortune-tellers and other shitty mystics all appearing out of the blue, all preaching the end of the world…''

''It's the same in my country." Agreed Foltest. ''Damn it, for so many years there was peace. Ever since my grandfather showed the clerics their place in Temeria and decimated their ranks, those who remained stuck to useful tasks. They studied books and instilled knowledge in children, treated the sick, and took care of the poor, the handicapped and the homeless. They didn't get mixed up in politics. And now all of a sudden they've woken up and are yelling nonsense to the rabble – and the rabble is listening and believes they know, at last, why their lives are so hard. I put up with it because I'm less impetuous than my grandfather and less sensitive about my royal authority and dignity than he was. What sort of dignity or authority would it be, anyway, if it could be undermined by the squealing's of some deranged fanatic? But my patience is coming to an end. Recently the main topic of preaching has been of a Savior who will come from the south. From the south! From beyond the Yaruga!'' Foltest complains

''The White Flame.'' Muttered Demavend. ''White Chill will come to be, and after it the White Light. And then the world will be reborn through the White Flame and the White Queen… I've heard it, too. It's a travesty of the prophecy of Ithlinne aep Aevenien, the elven seeress. I gave orders to catch one cleric who was going on about it in the Vengerberg marketplace and the torturer asked him politely and at length how much gold the prophet had received from Emhyr for doing it… But the preacher only prattled on about the White Flame and the White Queen… the same thing, to the very end.'' Demavend says.

''Careful, Demavend.'' Grimaced Vizimir. ''Don't make any martyrs. That's exactly what Emhyr is after. Catch all the Nilfgaardian agents you please, but do not lay hands on clerics, the consequences are too unpredictable. They still are held in regard and have an important influence on people. We have too much trouble with the Squirrels to risk riots in our towns or war against our own peasants.'' Vizimir counsels.

''Damn it!'' Snorted Foltest. ''Let's not do this, let's not risk that, we mustn't do this, we mustn't do that… Have we gathered here to talk about all we can't do? Is that why you dragged us all to Hagge, Demavend? Aethan? To cry our hearts out and bemoan our weakness and helplessness? Let us finally do something! Something must be done! What is happening has to be stopped!'' Says Foltest with vigor.

''Agreed, but there must be a consensus here among us.'' Aethan says.

''I've been saying that from the start.'' Vizimir says pulled himself up. ''I propose action.''

''What sort of action?'' Asks Henselt.

''What can we do?'' Asks Foltest

Silence fell again. The wind blustered, and the shutters banged against the castle wall.

''Why…'' said Meve suddenly. ''Are you all looking at me?''

''We're admiring your beauty.'' Henselt mumbled from the depths of his tankard.

''That too.'' Seconded Vizimir. ''Meve, we all know you can find a solution to everything. You have a woman's intuition, you're a wise wo—'' Vizimir tries, and Aethan begins to form a small smile for Meve's response.

''Stop flattering me." The Queen of Lyria clasped her hands in her lap and fixed her gaze on the darkened tapestries with their depictions of hunting scenes. Hounds, extended in a leap, were turning their muzzles up towards the flanks of a fleeing white unicorn.

''The situation in which we find ourselves.'' She said after a while, tearing her eyes away from the tapestry. ''Reminds me of long, winter evenings in Rivian Castle. Something always hung in the air. My husband would be contemplating how to get his hands on yet another maid-of-honor. The marshal would be working out how to start a war which would make him famous. The Court Mage would imagine he was King. The servants wouldn't feel like serving, the jester would be sad, gloomy and excruciatingly dull, the dogs would howl with melancholy and the cats sleep, careless of any mice that might be scuttling around on the table. Everybody was waiting for something. Everyone was scowling at me. And I… then I… I showed them. I showed them all what I was capable of, in a way that made the very walls shake and the local grizzly bears wake in their winter lairs. And any silly thoughts disappeared from their heads in a trice. Suddenly everyone knew who ruled.'' Meve said resolutely.

No one uttered a word. The wind howled a little louder. The guards on the buttresses outside hailed each other casually. The patter of drops on the panes in the lead window frames grew to a frenzied staccato.

''Nilfgaard is watching and waiting.'' Continued Meve slowly, toying with her necklace. ''Nilfgaard is observing us. Something is hanging in the air, silly thoughts are springing up in many heads. So let us show them what we are capable of. Let us show them who is really king here. Let us shake the walls of this great castle plunged into a winter torpor!''

''Eradicate the Squirrels.'' Said Henselt quickly. ''Start a huge joint military operation. Treat the non-humans to a blood bath. Let the Pontar, Gwenllech and Buina flow with elven blood from source to estuary!''

''Send a penal expedition to smother the free elves of Dol Blathanna.'' Added Demavend, frowning. ''March an interventionary force into Mahakam. Allow Ervyll of Verden a chance, at last, to get at the dryads in Brokilon. Yes, a blood bath! And any survivors – to the reservations!''

''Set Crach an Craite at the Nilfgaardian shores." Picked up Vizimir. "Support him with King Aethan's fleet, let them go ravaging from the Yaruga to Ebbing! A show of strength—''

''Not enough.'' Foltest shook his head. ''All of that is still not enough. We need… I know what we need.''

''So tell us!''

''Cintra.''

''What?''

''To take Cintra back from the Nilfgaardians. Let us cross the Yaruga, be the first to attack. Now, while they don't expect it. Let us throw them out, back beyond the Marnadal.''

''How? We've just said that it's impossible for an army to cross the Yaruga—''

''Impossible for Nilfgaard. But we have control of the river. We hold the estuary in our grasp, and the supply routes, and our flank is protected by Skellige, Cidaris and the strongholds in Verden. For Nilfgaard, getting forty or fifty thousand men across the river is a considerable effort. We can get far more across to the left bank. Don't gape, Vizimir. You wanted something to put an end to the waiting? Something spectacular? Something which will make us true kings again? That something is Cintra. Cintra will bind us and our rule together because Cintra is a symbol. Remember Sodden! If it were not for the massacre of that town and Calanthe's martyrdom, there would not have been such a victory then. The forces were equal – no one counted on our crushing them like that. But our armies threw themselves at their throats like wolves, like rabid dogs, to avenge the Lioness of Cintra. And there are those whose fury was not quelled by the blood spilt on the field of Sodden. Remember Crach an Craite, the Wild Boar of the Sea!''

''That is true." Nodded Demavend. ''Crach swore bloody vengeance on Nilfgaard. For his uncle, Eist Tuirseach, killed at Marnadal. And for Calanthe. If we were to strike at the left bank, Crach would back us up with all the strength of Skellige. By the gods, this has a chance at success! I back Foltest! Let us not wait, let us strike first, let us liberate Cintra and chase those sons-of-bitches beyond the Amell pass!''

''Slow down.'' Snarled Henselt. ''Don't be in such a hurry to tug the lion's whiskers, because this lion is not dead yet. That is for starters. Secondly, if we are the first to strike, we will put ourselves in the position of aggressors. We will be breaking the truce to which we all put our seals. We will not be backed by Niedamir and his League, we will not be backed by Esterad Thyssen. I don't know how King Venzlav of Brugge will react. An aggressive war will also be opposed by our guilds, merchants, nobles… And above all, the mages. Do not forget the mages!''

''The mages won't back an assault on the left bank." Confirmed Vizimir. ''The peace agreement was the work of Vilgefortz of Roggeveen. It is well known that his plan was for the armistice to gradually turn into permanent peace. Vilgefortz will not back a war. And the Chapter, believe me, will do whatever Vilgefortz wishes. After Sodden he has become the most important person in the Chapter – let other magicians say what they will, Vilgefortz plays first fiddle there.''

''Vilgefortz, Vilgefortz.'' Cridled Foltest. ''He has grown too large for us, that magician. Taking into account Vilgefortz's and the Chapter's plans – plans which I am not acquainted with anyway, and which I do not understand at that – is beginning to annoy me. But there is a way around that, too, gentlemen. What if it were Nilfgaard who was the aggressor? At Dol Angra for example? Against Aedirn and Lyria? We could arrange that somehow… could stage some tiny provocation… A border incident caused by them? An attack on a border fort, let us say? We will, of course, be prepared – we will react decisively and forcefully, with everybody's full acceptance, including that of Vilgefortz and the entire Chapter of Wizards. And when Emhyr var Emreis turns his eyes from Sodden and Transriver, the Cintrians will demand their country back – all those the emigrants and refugees who were gathering themselves in Brugge under Vissegerd's leadership. Nearly eight thousand of them are armed and under the banner of Cidaris. Could there be a better spearhead? They live in the hope of regaining the country they were forced to flee. They are burning to fight. They are ready to strike the left bank. They await only the battle cry.''

''The battle cry…'' Bore out Meve. ''And the promise that we will back them up. Because Emhyr can command eight thousand men at his border garrison; with that strength he won't even have to send for relief troops. Vissegerd knows this very well, and though he may serve you Aethan, he won't move until he has the assurance that your armies Aethan and those of Foltest, are reinforced by Redanian corps and will disembark on the left bank at his heels. But above all, Vissegerd is waiting for the Lion Cub of Cintra. Apparently, the queen's granddaughter survived the slaughter. Allegedly, she was seen amongst the refugees, but the child mysteriously disappeared. The emigrants persist in their search for her… Because they need someone of royal blood to sit on their regained throne. Someone of Calanthe's blood.'' Says Meve.

''Nonsense.'' Said Foltest coldly. ''More than two years have passed. If the child has not been found by now, she's dead. We can forget that myth. Calanthe is no more and there is no Lion Cub, Aethan has the royal blood to whom the throne belongs. Cintra… will never again be what it was during the Lioness's lifetime. Obviously, we cannot say that to Vissegerd's emigrants, but the fact remains, only one of us here right now has a true blood claim on Cintra, and he is the one that Vissegerd has chosen to serve!'' Foltest asserts, and all eyes turn to Aethan.

''Be that as it may Foltest, I could only ever legitimately claim Cintra if a body was procured, and Vissegerd - who will undoubtedly be able to determine if it's the real Cirilla - can say he's completely certain it's Princess Cirilla.'' Says Aethan.

''And is it you who is going to send Cintrian guerrillas to their deaths?'' Meve narrowed her eyes. ''In the line of attack? Not telling them that Cintra can only be reborn as a vassal country under your protectorship? You are proposing, to all of us, an attack on Cintra for your own gain? You have suborned Sodden and forced Brugge to pay tribute for yourself, are you sharpening your teeth on Verden and now you have caught a whiff of Cintra, is that right? Even when your own daughter's husband - who is with us here today and called this meeting - is the true person that Sodden and Brugge should be paying tribute to?" Meve demands.

''Admit it, Foltest!?'' Snapped Henselt. ''Is Meve right? Is that why you are inciting us to this affair?''

''Come on, leave it.'' The ruler of Temeria furrowed his noble brow and bristled angrily. ''Don't make me out as some conqueror dreaming of an empire. What are you talking about? Sodden and Brugge? Ekkehard of Sodden was my mother's half-brother. Are you so surprised that following his death the Free States brought the crown to me, his relative? Blood, not water! And yes Venzlav of Brugge paid me homage as a tribute for protection– but without coercion! He did it to protect his country because, on a fine day, he can see Nilfgaardian lances flashing on the left bank of the Yaruga!'' Says Foltest.

''And we are talking about the left bank.'' Drawled out the Queen of Lyria and Rivia. ''The bank we are to strike. And the left bank is Cintra. Destroyed, burned out, ruined, decimated and occupied… but still Cintra. The Cintrians won't bring you their crown, Foltest, nor will they pay you homage. Cintra will not agree to be a vassal state. Blood, not water!''

''Cintra, if we… When we liberate it, it should become our joint protectorate.'' Said Demavend. ''Cintra is at the mouth of the Yaruga, in too important a strategic position to allow ourselves to lose control over it.''

''It has to be a free country.'' Objected King Vizimir. ''Free, independent and strong. A country which will be an iron gateway, a bulwark to the north, and not a strip of burned ground over which the Nilfgaardian cavalry will be able to gather speed!''

''Is it possible to rebuild such a Cintra? Without Calanthe?'' Foltest asks.

"Don't get all worked up, Foltest.'' Pouted Meve. ''I've already told you, the Cintrians will never accept a protectorate or foreign blood on their throne. If you try to force yourself on them as their lord the tables will be turned. Vissegerd will again prepare his troops for battle, but this time under Emhyr's wings. And one day those detachments are going to assail us in the vanguard of a Nilfgaardian onslaught. As the spear point, as you just vividly described it.''

''Foltest knows that.'' Snorted Vizimir. ''That's why he's searching so hard for this Lion Cub, for Calanthe's granddaughter. Don't you understand? Blood not water, the crown through marriage. It's enough for him to find the girl and force her to marry—''

''Are you out of your mind?'' Choked out the King of Temeria. ''The Lion Cub is dead! I'm not looking for the girl at all, but if I were… It has not even occurred to me to force her to do such a thing—''

''You wouldn't have to force her.'' interrupted Meve, smiling charmingly. ''You are still a strapping, handsome man, cousin. And Calanthe's blood runs through the Lion Cub. Very hot blood. I knew Cali when she was young. When she saw a fellow she liked, she leaped up and down so fast that if you put dry twigs beneath her feet they would have caught real fire. Her daughter, Pavetta, the Lion Cub's mother, was exactly the same. So, no doubt, the Lion Cub has not fallen far from the apple tree. A bit of effort, Foltest, and the girl would not be long in resisting. That is what you are counting on, admit it.''

"Of course he's counting on it.'' Chuckled Demavend. "Our king has thought up a cunning little plan for himself! We assail the left bank and before we realize it our Foltest will have found the girl, won her heart and have a young wife whom he will place on the throne of Cintra while her people cry for joy and pee in their knickers for happiness. For they will have their queen, blood of the blood and flesh of the flesh of Calanthe. They will have a queen… albeit one who comes with a king. King Foltest.''

''What rubbish!'' Yelled Foltest, turning red then white in turn. ''What's got into you? There's not a grain of sense in your prattling!''

''There is a whole lot of sense.'' Said Vizimir dryly. ''Because I know that someone is searching for the child very earnestly. Who, Foltest?''

"It's obvious! Vissegerd and the Cintrians!''

''No, it's not them. At least, not just them. Someone else is, too. Someone who is leaving a trail of corpses behind them. Someone who does not shrink from blackmail, bribery or torture… While we are on the subject, is a gentleman by the name of Rience in any of your services? Ah, I see from your expressions that either he isn't or you won't admit it – which comes to the same thing. I repeat: they are searching for Calanthe's granddaughter, and searching in such a way as to make you think twice about their intentions. Who is looking for her, I ask?''

''Hell!'' Foltest thumped his fist on the table. ''It's not me! It never occurred to me to marry some child for some throne! After all, I—''

''After all, you have been secretly sleeping with Baroness La Valette for the past four years.'' Meve smiled again. ''You love each other like two turtle doves and just wait for the old baron to finally kick the bucket. What are you staring at? We all know about it. What do you think we pay our spies for? But for the throne of Cintra, cousin, many a king would be prepared to sacrifice his personal happiness—''

''Hold on.'' Henselt scratched his beard with a rasp. ''Many a king, you say. Then leave Foltest in peace for a moment. There are others. In her time, Calanthe wanted to give her granddaughter's hand to Ervyll of Verden's son. Ervyll, too, might have caught a whiff of Cintra. And not just him…''

''Hmm…" Muttered Vizimir. ''True. Ervyll has three sons… And what about those present here who also have male descendants? Huh? Meve? Are you not, by any chance, pulling wool over our eyes?''

"You can count me out.'' The Queen of Lyria smiled even more charmingly. ''It is true, one of my offspring is roaming the world – the fruits of delightful abandon – if they have not been brought to the gallows yet. I doubt that either of them would suddenly desire to be king. They were neither predisposed nor inclined that way. Both were even stupider than their father, may he rest in peace. Whoever knew my deceased husband will understand what I mean, with luck Princess Atthis will prove a suitable influence on the older one.''

''That's a fact.'' Agreed the King of Redania. ''I knew him. Are your sons really more stupid? Damn it, I thought it wasn't possible to get any more stupid… Forgive me, Meve…''

''It's nothing, Vizimir.''

''Who else has sons?''

''You do, Henselt.''

''My son is married!''

''And what is poison for? For the throne of Cintra, as someone here so wisely said, many would sacrifice their personal happiness. It would be worth it!''

''I will not permit such insinuations! And leave me alone! Others have sons, too!''

''Niedamir of Hengfors has two. And is a widower himself. And he isn't old. And don't forget Esterad Thyssen of Kovir.'' Demavend says.

''I would count those out.'' Vizimir shook his head. ''The Hengfors League and Kovir are planning a dynastic union with each other between one of Esterad's daughters and Niedamir's youngest son. They are not interested in Cintra or the south. Hmm… But Ervyll of Verden… It's not so far from him.''

''There is someone else who is just as near.'' Remarked Demavend suddenly.

''Who?''

''Emhyr var Emreis. He is not married. And he is younger than you, Foltest.''

''Bloody hell'' The King of Redania frowned. ''If that were true… Emhyr would bugger us without grease! It's obvious that the people and nobility of Cintra will follow Calanthe's blood. Imagine what would happen if Emhyr were to get his hands on the Lion Cub? Damn it, that's all we need! Queen of Cintra, and Empress of Nilfgaard!''

''Empress!'' Snorted Henselt. ''You exaggerate, Vizimir. What does Emhyr need the girl for, what the hell does he need to get married for? The throne of Cintra? Emhyr already has Cintra! He conquered the country and made it a province of Nilfgaard! He's got his whole butt on the throne and still has enough room to wriggle about!''

''Firstly.'' Noted Foltest. ''Emhyr grips Cintra by law, or rather by an aggressor's lawlessness. If he had the girl and married her, he could rule legally. You understand? Nilfgaard bound in marriage to Calanthe's blood is no longer Nilfgaard the invader, at which the entire north bares its teeth. It is Nilfgaard the neighbor whom one has to take into account. How would you want to force such a Nilfgaard beyond Marnadal, beyond the Amell passes? Attacking a kingdom whose throne is legally occupied by the Lion Cub, granddaughter of the Lioness of Cintra? Pox! I don't know who's looking for that child. I'm not looking for her. But I declare that now I'm going to start to. I still believe the girl is dead, but we can't take the risk. It looks as if she is too important. If she survived then we must find her!''

''And shall we decide now who she will marry when we find her?'' Henselt grimaced. ''Such matters should not be left to chance. We could, for that matter, hand her over to Vissegerd's guerrillas as a battle standard, tied to a long pole – they could carry her before the front line as they attacked the left bank. But if the recaptured Cintra is to be useful to us all… Surely you see what I mean? If we attack Nilfgaard and retrieve Cintra, the Lion Cub can be put on the throne. But the Lion Cub can have only one husband. One who will look after our interests at the mouth of the Yaruga. Who of those present is going to volunteer?''

 ''Not me." Joked Meve. ''I waive the privilege.''

''I wouldn't exclude those who aren't present here.'' Said Demavend seriously. 

''Neither Ervyll, nor Niedamir, nor the Thyssens. And bear in mind that Vissegerd could surprise you and put the standard attached to a long pole to unexpected use. You've heard about morganatic marriages? Vissegerd is old and as ugly as cow's dung but with enough decoctions of absinthe and damiana down her throat, the Lion Cub might unexpectedly fall in love with him! Is King Vissegerd included in our plans?''

''No.'' muttered Foltest, ''Not in mine.''

''Hmm…'' Vizimir hesitated. ''Nor in mine. Vissegerd is a tool, not a partner, that's the role he is to play in our plans for attacking Nilfgaard – that and no other. Besides, if the one who is so earnestly seeking the Lion Cub is indeed Emhyr var Emreis, we cannot take the risk.''

''Absolutely not.'' Seconded Foltest. ''The Lion Cub cannot fall into Emhyr's hands. She cannot fall into anybody's— Into the wrong hands… Alive.''

''Infanticide?'' Meve grimaced. ''An ugly solution, my kings. Unworthy. And surely unnecessarily drastic. First of all, let us find the girl – because we still don't have her. And when we have found her, give her to me. I'll keep her in some castle in the mountains for a couple of years, and marry her off to one of my knights. When you see her again, she will already have two children and a belly out to here."

''Leading to, if I count correctly, at least three future eventual pretenders and usurpers?'' Vizimir nodded. ''No, Meve. It is ugly, indeed, but the Lion Cub, if she has survived, must now die. For reasons of state. Gentlemen?''

The rain hammered against the windows. The gale howled among the towers of Hagge castle.

The kings grew silent.

''Fuck that!'' Aethan speaks up, stabbing his dagger into the table. ''I refuse to sit here and just listen to each of you old fuckers plan to murder my blood! The next man who decides it's a good idea to murder my family will taste the steel of my lionors a'baeth.'' Aethan threatens.

''Then let's see how sharp that blade really is, boy! I've more than a few bones to pick with you!'' Henselt says coldly, rising up, his façade slipping and showing a hidden anger.

''With pleasure you old mangy Goat!'' Aethan snaps.

-------------------------------- 

Author's Note:

-------------------------------- 

Chose to cap it there as much for suspense as time, I do have other projects to do and not a whole lot of time. See you next chapter, just be advised one-on-one pure sword fighting is not my Forte, so I may or may not skip the fight with Henselt. We'll see what ends up happening but whatever happens will happen for a reason one way or another.

-------------------------------- 

Join my Discord via this invite link:

https://discord.gg/4TTZkVMMnq

-------------------------------- 

Special thanks to Lewis Wilson, Mitchell Howard, David Martinez, Ken Harris, Axlii, ROGUE505 Saver, Morgan Sinn, Nathan Just, Dragonslayer29, Mathew T Linderman, and Luck George for their support on P-atreon.

And also a big thank you to Cody, Luci Alarra, TJ Cruz, Beastmode2003, Kunta, Availon90, and Gavin Barclay for their past support on Patreon.

The next Chapter is currently available on my relaunched and rebuilt P-atreon, to access simply search the following link, but without the dash between the P and A, Two tiers with the same benefits but different contexts. The chapters on P-atreon will be published when the chapters following them are done and dusted and ready to publish over here on this site.

p-atreon.com/TheRagFromTheCragCorner22