If everything had gone according to a well-crafted plan, Sir Egilhard's defection should have marked the beginning of a strategic and calculated ascent to power. Young King Aurelius Rodrik, through patience and foresight, would have gradually dismantled the barriers placed by the royal council, securing his authority step by step.
Over the course of months, he would have outmaneuvered the scheming nobles and priests, consolidated his rule, and, before the Moorish general Tariq ibn Ziyad could march north, taken full control of the court. With Iberia united behind him, he would then fortify Corduba, wage a brilliant campaign of attrition, and lead his people to a stunning victory.
At least, that was how an epic tale of kings and conquerors might have unfolded.
Reality, however, proved far less dramatic.
There was no arduous battle for political control. No grand scheme. No slow-burning court intrigue.
The moment Rodrik made his first decisive move, his rivals—whether true patriots or opportunistic pragmatists—came rushing out of the shadows before he had even spoken a word.
Sir Egilhard, at the very least, had offered his loyalty with a solemn declaration of "For the kingdom, for vengeance." But now, Rodrik hadn't even uttered a command before a new figure had stepped forward to disrupt the carefully constructed balance of power.
"Chancellor Sancho," Rodrik began cautiously, addressing the man who had boldly called for the removal of Bishop Julian and Count Oppa, "on the matter of Duke Gundemar, you were among the most relentless in opposing his policies…"
Across the grand hall, the accused—Count Oppa—had collapsed onto his knees, his face pale and drenched with cold sweat.
Until this very moment, he had believed himself a powerful figure within the kingdom, one who could navigate the shifting tides of royal politics with ease. And yet, now that his enemies had struck, he realized with horror that he had no means of defense.
Rodrik had been a mere figurehead for weeks, isolated and weakened. Yet with a single shift in the court's atmosphere, the king had suddenly become the unchallenged authority, while Oppa—once a formidable schemer—had been reduced to nothing more than a helpless petitioner.
He did not doubt for a second that, with a single order from the king, Sir Egilhard would drag him out of the chamber and leave his fate in the hands of the executioners. If he was lucky, he would be exiled to the distant fortresses of Asturias. If not, he would be silenced before nightfall.
But the most terrifying realization of all was that this sudden reversal of fortune had occurred without Rodrik even needing to raise his voice.
"Circumstances have changed," Sancho of Corduba declared, unshaken by the king's scrutiny. "Your Majesty, some may see my past actions as proof of personal grudges or inconsistency. They might say that my opposition to Duke Gundemar was born of rivalry, and that my current plea for his return is hypocritical…"
Silence gripped the hall. No one spoke. No one dared to breathe.
"But let it be known," Sancho continued, his voice ringing with conviction, "that my stance has never wavered. My decisions were never about personal disputes but about the well-being of the realm. I was but a child when I lost my family. I grew up in the shadow of war, and I have always spoken my mind, whether in the academies of Corduba or in the royal court. If I denounced Duke Gundemar before, it was because his failures in battle cost us dearly. I spoke not out of hatred, but out of duty."
The audacity of his words stunned the court. Even the usually reserved Count Theodemir exchanged wary glances with Bishop Julian.
"I have seen enough," Sancho pressed on. "I have spent years studying our enemies, watching their strategies, learning from our mistakes. And I have come to three conclusions:
First, the Moors are treacherous and relentless. No treaty with them will ever be honored.
Second, Andalusia and the lands of the south are the heart of our kingdom. If we abandon them, we will never reclaim our throne.
Third, the north, rich though it may be, is a trap. If we fall back behind the Ebro, we will be forever trapped in a defensive war, doomed to slow decay and eventual submission. Only by securing our strength in the central lands—by controlling both the people and the resources—can we forge a path toward true resistance."
Rodrik listened, speechless.
"And so, Your Majesty," Sancho continued, "I plead not for Duke Gundemar as a man, but as a symbol of what is needed. You seek to restore the kingdom's authority? Then summon him. Summon General Rissal. Bring back the commanders who will not cower behind empty treaties and false promises."
The words carried across the chamber with the weight of a divine decree. Even the ever-composed Bishop Julian tensed, his fingers tightening around the rosary beads he always carried.
A long silence followed. Then, at last, Rodrik spoke, his tone measured but firm.
"You are telling me," he said slowly, "that all this time, your opposition to Duke Gundemar was never personal?"
Sancho held his gaze. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"And yet you now claim that bringing him back is essential?"
"Absolutely."
Rodrik exhaled, letting his gaze drift across the assembled nobles and priests. "Fascinating," he murmured.
He had expected resistance. He had anticipated a long and grueling battle for control. Instead, in the span of mere moments, the court was already shifting beneath his feet.
And just like that, the storm had begun.