Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 137

Chapter 137: Unsavory welcome(2) Chapter 137: Unsavory welcome(2) As the evening wore on, a steady stream of nobles came forward to pay homage to their new liege, each bowing deeply before Jasmine and offering compliments for the lavish feast and the fine drinks.

Many praised the cider, marveling at its rich taste and thanking her for the hospitality.

But beneath the pleasantries, their true intentions were clear.

Nearly as many lords as came to praise her subtly pushed for a reconsideration of her engagement to Alpheo.

They presented their sons as worthier matches, emphasizing their houses’ strength and the advantages a union could bring to the crown.Not knowing that they were offering crumbles against someone that was bringing in a cake.At a certain moment Alpheo just closed his ears and focused on the food.

None of them had a disciplined and well-equiped army to back them up, and none of them had the secrets to produce , the very same things they were praising in front of their liege, so Alpheo had no worries about his position.  Jasmine, however, remained poised, her expression calm as she acknowledged their compliments and suggestions without committing to anything.  “I thank you for this fine feast, Your Grace…” Lord Gregor of Aratum began, his voice carrying the weight of someone accustomed to speaking with intent.

He subtly pushed his son forward, as if presenting an offering.

“But, if I may be so bold, might I suggest there are stronger alliances to consider than the one proposed with ….Ser Alpheo?” His words hung in the air, and he gestured to his son, who stood stiffly beside him, clearly uncomfortable with the attention.

“Your Grace, my son is loyal and strong.

He would make a fine husband for a ruler as glorious as yourself,” Gregor continued, his tone growing more eager, almost pleading.

“A union with my house would strengthen your rule in ways no mere sellsword could offer.

You would have our fleet at your command whenever required-” “Does this mean you would withhold your naval might unless bound by marriage, my lord?” came a sharp voice.

Lord Shahab, seated near Jasmine, had finally reached the end of his patience.  “Of course not, my lord,” Gregor stammered, taken aback by the sudden interjection.

“My loyalty is to the prin-” “Speaking of loyalty,” Shahab interrupted, his gaze hardening, “I do not recall seeing your banners among those called by Her Majesty’s father when the Prince of Oizen raided and besieged our lands.

Where were you then?” Lord Gregor visibly faltered, his face flushed.

“My lord, I was unfortunately struck by illness at the time, which prevented-” “Illness, you say?” Shahab’s voice was cold, almost mocking.

“Strange, how sickness seems to befall you so often.

I seem to recall another bout of it three years ago when the Prince called for his sworn lords once again.

You have proven your loyalty enough times, my lord-no need to test it further.” Gregor’s face drained of color as he fumbled for words, but before he could respond, Jasmine raised her hand, her voice steady and clear.

“What has passed may be forgotten, my lord,” she said, her tone carrying the weight of authority, “as long as your loyalty remains steadfast to me from this day forward.” “Of course, Your Grace, of course,” Lord Gregor muttered, bowing hastily.

He stepped back, his son following him in awkward silence, their ambitions momentarily quelled.

With a final, fumbling nod, they retreated to the far end of the hall Alpheo sighed deeply, his eyes sweeping over the gathered nobles.

A sneer curled at the corner of his lips as he watched them, bowing and scraping, each of them maneuvering for advantage, their thinly veiled ambitions barely hidden behind false smiles and polished words.

“Pigs.

Craven pigs,” he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with contempt.

His hand gripped the goblet before him, knuckles white.

“If it were up to me, their heads would all be on pikes for refusing their liege’s call.

We have no need for bystanders, no room for cowards.And this hall is fattening them up…” Jasmine, sitting quietly beside him, said nothing, though her eyes flicked briefly in his direction.

She studied him for a moment but chose to remain silent.

She understood he had drunk a bit too much Shahab, noticing the tension, leaned closer and raised a brow.

“Alpheo,” he said dryly, “you should slow down with the drinks…” Alpheo smirked, his eyes dark and glinting with a kind of dangerous amusement.

He lifted his goblet and took a deliberate sip, savoring the taste before setting it down.

“Nothing else to do, my lord,” he replied, his voice calm but edged with a quiet menace.

“Besides, I need something to hold me back from cutting the neck of the next one who badmouths me.Seems like they all think they can walk over me, not knowing that I just need one word to turn this fine feast into a slaughterhouse.Their pretty blood gushing out from their chest, with just an order from me…” “We can’t very well let you do that, Alpheo, no matter how tempting it may be.” Alpheo sighed, his frustration barely masked.

He pushed his chair back, the sound of its legs scraping against the floor causing a few heads to turn.

Jasmine, seated beside him, widened her eyes, startled by his sudden movement.

“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice tinged with a mix of surprise and concern.

“To my people, no to my friends…” Alpheo responded coolly, glancing toward the far end of the hall where his companions, the rough mercenaries who had fought alongside him, sat at their own table, far from the nobles’ view.

”Seems I am not welcome here..” As he strode toward the far end of the room, a wave of whispers rippled through the hall.

Nobles exchanged looks, murmuring in disbelief and disapproval.

Alpheo’s actions were seen as a blatant show of disrespect, deserting his privileged seat beside the princess and lords to sit with common men.

For many, it was unthinkable that someone in his position-having just been honored with a proposal of marriage to royalty-would abandon the seat of power for ones so lowly.

Alpheo reached the far end of the hall, where the atmosphere was far more relaxed, the air thick with camaraderie rather than the stifling etiquette of noble courts.

His eyes swept over his companions-men who had shared battles and hardships with him, bound by loyalty rather than birthright.

“Is there a seat for me here?” he asked, his voice steady but edged with the frustration still simmering beneath.

Egil stood up at once, a broad grin breaking across his face.

“Of course there is, brother,” he said, grabbing Alpheo’s shoulder with a firm, brotherly grip before guiding him into his own seat .

As he settled, Clio, always watchful, poured him a generous chalice of wine without needing to be asked.

As Alpheo took the cup, Jarza leaned in, her voice cautious.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have done that, leaving the high table like that…seems like it is something bad to do even for me” Alpheo merely smiled, a dark, satisfied grin, and raised the chalice to his lips, taking a long drink.

The tension in him seemed to ease as the wine slid down his throat, warming his chest.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he turned his gaze back toward the hall of nobles, his eyes meeting each of theirs in turn.

The whispering among them hadn’t stopped, and Alpheo felt their judgment.

But he cared little for their disdain.

“Who cares about their opinions,” Alpheo said, his voice carrying just loud enough for those near him to hear, “when my brothers are with me.” Asag, seated next to him, gave a small smile at Alpheo’s words, his weathered hand coming down to pat his back in quiet support.  As Alpheo sat among his companions, the whispers and murmurs from the noble tables across the hall continued to hum in the background.

He caught the sideways glances, the quiet smirks of those who believed they were above him.

To them, he was still an outsider, a man with no noble blood to anchor his position, a man they could mock because they assumed their lineage made them untouchable.

But Alpheo, staring into the deep red of his wine, let his thoughts drift elsewhere.

Laugh now, he thought, but when my army marches upon your gates, we’ll see who laughs then.

His hand tightened around the chalice as he imagined the proud banners of these lords fluttering in surrender as his soldiers stood before their castles, siege engines ready to tear through stone and pride alike.

They could belittle him with their glances, whisper behind their cups, but they had never faced the steel of his resolve in the field, nor had they seen the fierce loyalty his men had for him.

The nobles at their high tables, with their titles and wealth, knew nothing of the strength that came from commanding respect on the battlefield.

They hadn’t built alliances forged in fire and blood.

Alpheo took another drink, the thought almost soothing.

In their arrogance, they could not see that they were simply giving him all the more reason to prove them wrong.

Alpheo turned toward his companions, the simmering disdain for the nobles evident in his gaze.

He took a deep breath and muttered under his breath, loud enough for them to hear, “Every noble that’s come to greet her… every single one of them tried to break the engagement right in front of me.

Like I’m invisible.” His voice dripped with contempt as he recalled the endless stream of self-important lords who paraded their sons, subtly hinting that their house would make a better match.What did they have to offer, that made them so arrogant?

Jarza, always the hot-blooded one, gritted his teeth, his eyes narrowing with fury.

“If I’d been there,” he said through clenched teeth, “I’d have caved their pretty faces into the cold stone.

Let them sneer through broken jaws.” Alpheo chuckled and patted Jarza’s back firmly.

“I know you would,” he said, amusement flickering across his face.

“And who knows?

Maybe one day, you’ll get the chance to do just that to one or two of them.Just to straighten the rest….”  Here, with his brothers-in-arms, he could be himself-direct, unapologetic, and unconcerned with the delicate sensibilities of those who had never fought for their place in the world.