Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 130

Chapter 130: King of Snow(2) Chapter 130: King of Snow(2) The feast roared on, the tent filled with the sounds of boisterous laughter, clinking cups, and the occasional shout from a drunken soldier outside .

Servants hurried through the crowd, their trays heavy with pitchers of ale and platters piled high with roasted meats and freshly baked bread.

They moved swiftly, their steps quickening as drunken men reached out, clumsy hands grazing against their backs and brushing too close to their breasts.

The women skillfully dodged these advances, well-practiced in the art of avoiding unwanted touches,while letting those that caught their eyes linger on.

Around the tables, men gorged themselves on the feast, tearing into slabs of pork and downing mouthfuls of bread between swigs of strong ale.

The food, though plentiful, was being devoured at an alarming rate, with chunks of meat and bread disappearing into the greedy mouths of lords and their close companions.

Wine spilled from overfilled goblets, drenching the tablecloths and mixing with the grease from the meat, but no one seemed to mind.

As the night dragged on, the revelry began to take its toll.

More and more men slumped over in their seats, their faces flushed from drink, eyes half-lidded as sleep began to claim them.

Some collapsed where they sat, heads resting on the wooden tables, snoring loudly amid the chaos.

Others, too drunk to hold themselves upright, slid to the floor, their legs giving way beneath them as they succumbed to exhaustion.

The number of unconscious bodies scattered across the tent increased with each passing moment, leaving the few still standing to step over the fallen or drunkenly nudge them aside.

Yet the feast continued, unabated by the growing pile of sleeping men.

Suddenly, Harold rose from his seat with a sharp movement, grabbing a cup and smashing it against the floor.

The loud crash cut through the noise of the feast like a blade, silencing the laughter and conversation instantly.

Heads turned toward him, startled, as the clattering of the cup fragments echoed through the tent.

Harold stood tall, his eyes scanning the room.  ”I still remember the first day the prince came into my hall, high on his beatiful brown horse, silk cloths and red velvet cloaks.A real Royal Prick…” People laughed as they threw their open palms at the tables, the prince himself cheering as he emptied the cup while swaying .

”The first winter hit him hard and well , never leaving the room where his fire was burning and demanding his meals to be brought to him, as it was too cold to leave the fire” Harold let the laughter die down, a wry smile playing on his lips as he looked around the room.

He continued, his voice louder and more serious now, cutting through the boisterous atmosphere.

“But I’ll tell you something,” he said, raising a hand.

“That same soft princeling, who stayed wrapped in silk and never left his fire during that first brutal winter…

he grew.

He grew into a man.A fine one…” His words hung in the air as the men quieted, listening intently.

“He faced the cold, he fought against the savage beasts and the wild men beyond our halls.

And in doing so, he grew a pair.” The room erupted in cheers, fists pounding the tables.

Harold continued, his voice swelling with passion, “He opened his heart to the pain of our people!

He saw the suffering, the hunger, and the cold that gnawed at our bones, and instead of retreating behind his velvet cloaks, he fought to help us.

Not as some royal demanding service, but as a leader who stood among us.

He gave what he could, when he could.

And now look at him!

A prince no more-our ruler, forged by hardship, and tested by battle.” The crowd roared again, cups raised high, as Harold’s eyes locked with the prince’s.

There was pride in his gaze, but also a hint of something deeper-respect.

He spoke, knowing his words carried the weight the prince needed.

Harold’s voice rang out again, louder now, filled with pride and fervor.

“When he saw the chance, when opportunity knocked on our frozen doors, it was he who led the North forward!

He took up the sword and didn’t look back.

He defeated our enemies, crushed their armies, and brought their lands under our banner.” The crowd cheered wildly, the northern lords pounding their fists against the tables in approval.

But amid the celebration, the defeated lords-now sworn to the prince-rose their cups weakly, their faces tight with forced smiles.

Harold cast a glance toward them, his eyes sharp, but continued without pause.

“And now, because of him, our lands are stronger than ever.

Our enemies bend the knee or fall at our feet.

This is the prince who will carry the North forward, and we will follow him!” As the thunderous cheers of the northern lords filled the hall, all eyes turned expectantly toward Maesinius.

The air was thick with anticipation, every lord-both northern and Messenian-waiting for the prince to rise and deliver the speech that would cement his claim as the only first king the north would see Slowly, Maesinius began to rise from his seat, swaying slightly.

His hand gripped the edge of the table for support, and as the room quieted down in reverent expectation, he steadied himself.

Then, without warning, he leaned forward, grabbing a nearby urn and threw what his stomach held onto it .

The room fell into a stunned silence as Maesinius heaved and vomited aganed.

The Messenian lords looked on in shock, their faces filled with disbelief at the unceremonious display.

Their eyes darted nervously to one another, appalled by what had just unfolded.

But the northern lords-who had seen their prince endure far worse-reacted in the opposite manner.

After a brief pause, they burst into raucous laughter, their voices booming with amusement and pride.

The laughter quickly turned into roaring chants as they began shouting, “Here is our Snow King!

King of the Snow!” with fervor, their voices rising to a fever pitch.

The tent echoed with their wild cries, the northern lords pounding their fists on the table and stomping their feet.

Maesinius, despite the spectacle, was one of their own-a man forged in the harsh winters of the north, and this display of raw humanity only seemed to solidify their loyalty.

Maesinius, now hailed as king by his loyal northern lords, blinked in confusion as he lifted his head from the urn.

The cheers and chants of “Snow King!

King of the Snow!” echoed around him, but he seemed disconnected from the moment, lost in a haze of drink and fatigue.

He glanced around, his eyes unfocused, clearly not understanding the roaring celebration unfolding before him.

His body, still weakened from the night’s excess, lurched forward again, and he retched once more into the urn, oblivious to the wild support from his lords.

Harold, watching with a knowing smile, rose from his seat, casting a quick glance at the rowdy northerners who were completely undeterred by the prince’s state.

“Enough for tonight,” Harold said with a warm chuckle, turning to the nearby servants.

“Take the king to his tent.

Let him rest before he rules.” The servants quickly moved forward, lifting Maesinius gently from his chair.

He stumbled, still dazed, as they guided him toward the exit.

The northern lords continued their cheers, raising their cups to the man who would now be king, while Harold watched with amusement.

The next morning, the newly crowned King Maesinius would awake to a pounding headache and the vague remnants of a night blurred by excess.

And as he groggily stirred from his bed, with the events of the previous evening were little more than fleeting images of raised goblets, roaring laughter, and the unmistakable sensation of nausea.

It wouldn’t be long before a servant would address him with a title unfamiliar to his ears.

“Your Majesty,” , breaking the news to the young king.

 He had been made king, not through a grand proclamation, a regal ceremony, or a stirring oath – but in the chaos of a drunken feast.

And to his dismay, the moment his title was bestowed had been marred by the undignified act of vomiting into an urn, in full view of his newly sworn lords.