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There are two ways to forge an empire to last the ages. One is to create alliances by marriage, the other is in the fires of war. My father chose the latter, taking the old and ancient clans of Scotland and infusing them with the recent invasions of the Danes until his forces exploded forth from the Highlands rolling down the hills like a flashflood that's broken the dam. Fifes and smaller kingdoms were swept away in a few mere years as his forces overtook the land.
That was nearly 16 years ago now. My father now sits a beloved King, surrounded by elder councilors, upon a throne, a powerful man protected by powerful vassals. I am now of age, recently returned from one of the Church's crusades. As the heir apparent, with the blessing of the Church, it is time for my father to betroth me to solidify an alliance.
I fasten the clasp on my sword belt and strode into my father's throne room to greet the princesses and emissaries come to seek my hand. My short trimmed brown hair runs down my long handsome face only partially covered by a fierce red beard. My green eyes scan the room, trying to read the faces in the hall, always alert for hidden threats.
"Rory," my father calls, beckoning me to his side. " I make my way over and kneel before him. "Rise my son, let's see if we can find you a wife hmm? I wish to see a grandson before hell opens up to take me." He says with a dry raspy laugh.
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