[EDWARD’S POV]

August 27, 1338

Seated upon the illustrious throne of France, I couldn't shake off the unsettling feeling that this symbol of grandeur was nothing more than a gilded cage. The opulence that surrounded me, the intricate designs etched into the ornate walls, and the ostentatious decorations adorning every conceivable surface felt like an excessive preamble to the affairs of the court. As I presided over the assembly with my English commanders and a handful of influential French figures, the lavishness of the surroundings clashed with the practicality ingrained in my English sensibilities.

The throne itself, adorned with gold leaf and velvet, was an undeniable masterpiece of craftsmanship, but in the midst of the court's proceedings, it seemed almost theatrical, a prop on an extravagant stage. The room, with its towering ceilings and chandeliers dripping with crystals, echoed with the hushed whispers of courtiers and the occasional clink of polished silverware.

My gaze wandered across the intricately woven art pieces that adorned the walls, each telling a tale of battles long past and victories celebrated. However, instead of being captivated by their historical significance, I found myself musing about the practicality of such extravagant displays.

As I observed the courtiers exchanging pleasantries and engaging in elaborate rituals, I couldn't help but wonder about the value that could be derived from this excess. The golden candelabras, the glistening silverware, and the meticulously carved furniture, while undoubtedly impressive, felt like an extravagant indulgence. In my mind, I calculated the potential worth of these lavish decorations, a sum that could well fund the construction of a sturdy fort in one of England's burgeoning cities.

In that moment, the renowned throne of France, an icon of power and prestige, lost some of its luster. It became, to my pragmatic English sensibilities, a testament to the prodigality of the French court.

As I sifted through the myriad reports that had flooded my ears since the morning, a realization dawned upon me, painting the map of my conquest with strokes of both awe and strategic contemplation. Over the past month, I campaigned heavily around this region of France. The expanse under my dominion, stretching from the bustling ports of La Havre to the iconic city of Paris, and from the maritime hub of Dunkirk to the historic town of Meaux, amounted to a staggering 20,000 square kilometers, equivalent to a vast 5 million acres. It was a realm that dwarfed my initial land holdings, a monumental leap that now bestowed upon me the governance of an expansive territory.

To put this territorial conquest into perspective, it was more than a hundred times the size of my humble beginnings as a Baron of Wymondham. This newfound dominion was equal to the one-sixth of the entire kingdom of England, an expanse so substantial that it rivaled the size of East Anglia, a region I once considered sizable in its own right, now merely half the scale of this conquered land.

Yet, beyond the sheer magnitude of the conquest, it was the strategic significance of the captured cities that truly resonated. Nestled within these conquered territories were iconic names that echoed through the annals of history – Paris, the heart of France; Rouen, a city steeped in Norman heritage; Le Havre, a maritime gem; Beauvais, Amiens, Dieppe, Calais, Dunkirk, and Arras, each a jewel in its own right. The very mention of these urban centers conjured images of bustling markets, cultural richness, and historical resonance.

As my thoughts delved into the potential ramifications of this territorial acquisition, the economic implications unfolded like an enticing opportunity. The cities, strategically positioned and interconnected, formed a network ripe for trade and commerce. The bustling ports of Le Havre and Dunkirk, serving as gateways to the continent, promised maritime prosperity. Paris, the cultural and economic nucleus, held the promise of unprecedented wealth. The revenue generated from the bustling trade routes within this expansive region would undoubtedly be nothing short of astounding.

In envisioning the economic engine that now lay under my stewardship, I saw not just conquered lands, but a thriving network of opportunity. The convergence of cultural, economic, and strategic significance within these regions forged a dominion that held the potential to reshape the very dynamics of power and prosperity.

The culmination of a month's relentless endeavors saw me emerge victorious, having successfully extended my dominion over the illustrious cities that now lay beneath my banner. With meticulous care, I ensured the replenishment of my army after each conquest, fortifying the occupied territories against the potential specter of resistance. The pulse of authority resonated through the streets of Paris, where ten thousand soldiers stood in resolute formation.

Yet, I made sure to make a strategic decision, borne out of a delicate balance between dominance and diplomacy. Tomorrow morning will mark the commencement of a crucial journey, a return to the heart of England, my home nation left unguarded for quite some time. The imperative of safeguarding the homeland against potential threats compelled me to leave behind a substantial garrison, strategically distributed across the conquered cities. Each bastion now hosted a thousand garrison troops, their presence a sentinel against dissent and upheaval that could happen in this England Occupied Frace (E.O.F.).

The mantle of governance, however, required a nuanced approach. Recognizing the delicate nature of cultural identity and the potential for unrest, I decided to bestow a title upon the subdued realm. This conferred title imbued the region with the status of a ‘principality’ and "Louis, Duke of Bourbon," a 59-year-old scion of French nobility, emerged as the appointed Prince of France. It was a calculated move, a symbolic gesture designed to quell any aspirations of rebellion among the French populace.

While the Prince of France would not command a personal army, the protective shield of the five thousand-strong force I’ll leave behind would stand as a bulwark around him. In addition to this safeguard, a royal stipend of £1000 per annum was earmarked for the princely figurehead. This generous provision served dual purposes – a means to appease the appointed ruler and a gesture of financial stability aimed at fostering cooperation rather than dissent.

Louis's historical lineage intricately wove through the complexities of French nobility. Originally ruling from his paternal county of Clermont, an enclave that now stood among the cities that willingly capitulated, Louis had ascended to the title of Duke of Bourbon in the year 1327. His territorial dominion also extended to the county of La Marche, although its geographical distance and placement from the heart of French territory has temporarily allowed Renaud IV de Pons to assert control.

The intricate dance of territorial dynamics unfolded as I, driven by the conviction of reclamation, harbored the certainty of reconquering the county of La Marche.

Designating Louis as the Prince of E.O.F. (England Occupied France) or simply France, served not only as a diplomatic move but also as a means to pacify the simmering discontent within the French populace. The symbolic act of appointing a French figurehead to preside over the newly formed Principality held the potential to quell rebellious sentiments and foster a semblance of continuity in governance.

As the chessboard of politics unfolded, the presence of Rufus, a trusted aide and overseer, assumed paramount importance. Entrusting him with the responsibility to remain by Louis's side ensured a watchful eye on the dynamics within the occupied territory. The role extended beyond mere observation; it sought to mitigate any potential ambitions or subversion that the puppet prince might entertain.

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As I set sail with a contingent of five thousand troops towards London, leaving the fate of the Principality in the hands of the named prince, a sense of strategic finesse intertwined with diplomatic acumen guided my actions. The delicate dance between conquest and governance demanded not just military might but an understanding of the human elements at play, a realization that power could be wielded not only through force but also through the subtle artistry of political maneuvering.

—---------------

August 30, 1338

The frigid kiss of the Thames danced against my skin, a stark contrast to the inferno of cheers that erupted as the ships steered through the heart of London. Applause, thick and vibrant, painted the air, a tangible wave washing over me and the weathered deck. But it wasn't just the noise. It was the intent, the raw, unbridled joy that pulsed through every clap, every "Huzzah!" and "Long live the Conqueror!"

My lips twitched, a smile tugging at the corners. Conqueror, huh? The word felt foreign on my tongue, a crown I hadn't yet tried on. It shimmered with the glint of victory, of battles hard-won and mountains scaled.

I glanced at the throngs lining the banks, a kaleidoscope of faces contorted in a shared, ecstatic grimace. Mothers hoisted babes, their eyes shining with a pride that transcended their own struggles. Shopkeepers, their aprons dusted with flour, leaned out windows, fists clenched in triumphant salute. Even the grizzled boatmen, their faces etched with the city's grime, cracked smiles, their weathered hands chopping the air in a rhythm of shared victory.

The cheers seemed to weave themselves into the fabric of the city, climbing the spires of St. Paul's and snagging on the tips of the White Tower’s turrets. The very air vibrated with a collective sigh of relief, of a burden lifted, a promise kept.

I wasn't just a conqueror, I realized. I was a symbol. A testament to the indomitable spirit of a city that had stared into the abyss and refused to blink. In that moment, I wasn't just a man on a ship. I was the embodiment of England’s resilience, the living proof that even in the darkest hour, hope could rise like a phoenix from the ashes.

The opulence lining the palace corridors couldn't quite mask the creeping chill that followed me like a specter. The royal palace, once bustling with vibrant life, felt curiously muted, draped in a pall of uncertainty.

Reaching the gloomy chamber, I paused. The oak door, intricately carved with scenes of revelry long past, stood like a sentinel, blocking access to the pestilence within. The stench, a vile cocktail of decay and despair, seeped through the cracks, a noxious tendril reaching out to ensnare my senses. It was the smell of sickness, of battles fought and lost within the confines of flesh and bone.

My stomach churned, but defiance steeled my spine. I inhaled deeply, drawing in the crisp air of the hallway, anchoring myself against the miasma. Then, with a resolute hand, I rapped twice on the heavy door. The sound, sharp and resonant, broke the heavy silence, a herald of my arrival.

"Come in," echoed the feeble voice from within, its vulnerability cutting through the air.

As I gently pushed open the door, the scene that greeted me was a poignant tableau of faded majesty. There, upon the bed, lay a king—a once-mighty sovereign now reduced to a mere specter of his former self. The room whispered with the heavy stillness of muted grandeur, now eclipsed by the inexorable march of time.

The feeble glow filtering through the room's solitary window cast a somber light on the regal figure, who seemed to have weathered the storms of rule only to face the frailty of mortality. My king, my cousin, lay half-shrouded in shadows, his once-commanding presence now muted by the weight of infirmity.

A discarded plate, a silent witness to the struggle of the regal figure, rested on the cold floor. Its contents spilled haphazardly around it, a testament to the poignant reality that the man on the bed could no longer master the simple act of returning the plate to its designated place. The room bore the scars of an unspoken battle, where the clash of dignity against the inevitability of physical decline had left its mark.

Approaching the bedside, I took in the tableau of diminished royalty. A wooden stool, humble and unadorned, stood nearby. I lowered myself onto its worn surface, the creak of aged wood adding a melancholic note to the room's muted symphony.

"Who is it?" croaked the king, his voice frail, a mere echo of the once-commanding tone.

"It's me, milord," I replied, the words tinged with a profound sadness that seemed to permeate the air.

"Edd! Cousin! Are you back!?" The feeble excitement in his voice was palpable, and despite the evident struggle, he attempted to rise from the bed. His eyes, unable to open fully, betrayed a flicker of hope. Moving swiftly to his side, I gently guided him back to the bed, a silent plea for him to conserve his waning strength. "It's alright, milord. Keep still."

As he reclined, a pair of teardrops glistened at the edge of his eyes, silent emissaries of the unspoken grief that gripped his soul.

"You must have heard the news, haven’t you?" he asked, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

"Aye. Your family, no, our family, it’s gone. First father, and now all the young ones. We are the last of us, milord. The last of us."

A heavy silence settled between us, the room bearing witness to the shared agony of familial loss. He, a king bereft of his kin, and I, a cousin mourning the shared bloodline that once thrived. There were no words to fill the void left by the departed, only the echoes of a lineage extinguished.

He didn't reply. He couldn't. How could one find words when their wife and children rested in silent graves while they endured the cruel solitude of Earth? In an attempt to shield his dignity from the ache of vulnerability, I knelt on the floor. With a somber determination, I began to collect the scattered remnants of a meal—bread crumbs and spilled stew—symbols of the mundane realities that persisted even in the face of profound loss. As I gathered the fragments, each motion seemed to carry the weight of unspoken grief, a silent communion with the remnants of a life once shared.

"You know, Edd, I do not wish to live now. I know I’ve got you, but I am sure you are very much capable of living on your own. Neither am I fit to rule this kingdom and the territories you’ve won for me. I am pretty much blind, my emotions are a chaos of their own, and my heir is dead," the king uttered, his words carrying the weight of resignation and grief.

"But, milord, you—" I began, my protest cut short by King Edward's somber interruption, "Aye, aye. I’m still young, I’ve people who follow me and what not. But, Edd, sometimes, you know that this is it for you. It’s been ten years since I’ve obtained the throne at the cost of the life of my own father, but not a single year has passed by without the challenges burdening me. I am still twenty-six, and I’m sure you can see the gray in my hair clearly. And I know, Edd, this is it for me."

As he spoke, I methodically picked up the remnants of the scattered meal, placing them back onto the plate. The room bore witness to the quiet despair that hung in the air, the king's admission casting shadows that lingered in the corners of the dimly lit chamber.

I glanced around, taking note of the neglected state of the room. The residue of spilled food lay scattered on the floor, a stark contrast to the regal trappings of the chamber. A sense of indignation welled within me, and a resolve formed to address the lack of care shown to the quarters of a king.

"Edd, how about you bring Henry, Osbert, and Walter to me?" the king's request echoed through the room, cutting through the heavy silence.

"As you say, milord," I replied, cradling the plate in my hands. As I stepped towards the door, my thoughts swirled with a mixture of duty, sorrow, and a burgeoning determination to ensure that the king's final days were met with the respect he deserved.

—--------

That fateful night, with three witnesses by my side, King Edward III relinquished his crown to me, his fifteen-year-old cousin, Duke Edward of East Anglia. The following morning, news spread of his demise, and his funeral became a solemn affair attended by tens of thousands.

As the echoes of mourning lingered, the very next day after his funeral, I ascended to the throne, proclaimed as the new monarch of England and its overseas territories—King Edward IV of England.