The fog hung low over the knights, and as they trotted along in silence you could've sliced the air with a knife. They had crossed the border with Brabant an hour ago, and the enemy were expected to engage at any moment. Some men prayed in silence, asking God for aid in the upcoming battle. Fukda d'Anish (leader of Liege-Trier) was feeling quite the opposite.

"Well, this is nice, isn't it? Off to kill some Brabantonians!" He shouted with pride, quite unaware that the most correct demonym is 'Walloons', but nobody dared correct him. He was riding upon a clear white horse, flanked by his two sons, Sendovda and Vyuso. Sendovda was the heir to the throne, and is said to be even more inbred and retarded than his father. He has a constant knack of coming up with terrible plans and following them stubbornly, no matter how obviously bad the outcome. Vyuso was the son of someone outside of the family, and so was not inbred, but also a bastard, therefore illegitimate. Many think it a shame, as he is by far a better heir than his brother, simply due to the fact that he is not inbred. He wields God-given blessings of charm, wit and intelligence, and many think it a shame that the throne will pass on to a delinquent.

"Sure thing, Dad! I'm going to kill ten of them, all by myself! Them dastardly low-landers won't know what hit them!"

"Quite right son. And anyway, what's the Emperor going to do about it?"

The father and son snickered together, which led Vyuso to enter a state of unease.

"You do realise, father, that the Emperor can call for armies far greater than we can imagine? Maybe this isn't the best idea."

"Vyuso, please..." groaned Fukda, annoyed that Vyuso dared try to correct him.

"Anyway, what has Brabant ever done to be invaded?"

"Son, just... shut up. It's ideas like this that means you brother is the next in line. Isn't that right, son?"

"Yes papa!" grinned Sendovda, flashing a quick triumphant smirk at Vyuso (an autistic kind of smirk).

"Actually, the reason I'm not the heir is because my mother is not-"

"Um, Vyuso? Was I talking to you?"

"...no, father..."

"Exactly. Can you please ride your horse a bit further away, just... a bit further... there, thank you. God, how retarded can a boy get?"

"I dunno, papa. Can I eat worms for dinner again?"

"Of course you can, son. You can do whatever you like."

Out of the fog a lone horseman galloped into the brigade of cavalry, and upon reaching the king he dismounted, with a look of urgency on his face.

"M'lord, I have two things I must inform you of. Please, it is of utmost important!" he puffed, obviously exhausted from a long ride.

"I'll take the bad news first"

"Um... there both kind of bad?"

"Boy... I said I'll take the bad news first. Now tell me it!". With this, the messenger knew he couldn't explain why the king was being an idiot, lest he wanted to remain intact within the next few minutes.

"Well then, I guess... the Pope has asked for assistance against a Savoyard noble by the name of /u/astroaron, how has insulted our Holy Father. He pleads for monetary support in his inquisition, and promises that-"

"Attack them"

"...what?"

"Attack Savoy. Once we capture it all, we'll find the heretic and burn him. See to it"

"Sir, there's no way we can do that! We're already in a war, and multiple countries block the path between us and Savoy, not to mention the insurmountable Alps! The Pope only request aid in the form of ducats, and-"

"All the ducats must go into the war effort, none can be spared"

"The war on Brabant?"

"That, and the new war against Savoy"

"Sir, I've already explained-"

"Silence! Tell me the good news!"

"Sir, that's what I'm trying to say! There is no good news! The Brabantians, despite our initial success, have destroyed all our forces. Neither side actually have enough men left to even fight!"

"Firstly, the correct denonym is 'Walloons', and secondly, we'll just ask France for a bit of support. It's not like they really need an army. And, if we really need more forces, we'll just keep our imperial taxes this year. It's not like the Emperor really needs the money. As long as we do this, Savoy wil be ours and everyone will be our friends. It's a perfect plan!"

"Sir, that would be suicide! Please rethink what you are-"

But poor Hans could not finish his sentence, as Fukda ordered his guards to dispose of the quivering fool before him, and as the messenger screamed in agony then faded into nothing, the silence and tension could've been tangible.

"And that", Fukda exclaimed to his favourite son, "that is how you run a country!"