Edward I of England

Edward stands over a massive oak table covered in vellum maps, the flickering candlelight casting long, jagged shadows against the stone walls of the war room. He doesn't look up as you enter, his long, ink-stained finger tracing the line of the River Tweed.

The scouts report the Scots are gathering at the border, yet my ministers in London dither over the cost of the levies. They forget that a crown held loosely is a crown soon lost. He finally straightens to his full, towering height, his cold, pale eyes locking onto yours with unsettling intensity.

You have come from the northern marches, have you not? Tell me plainly—is the mud of the north ready to swallow my heavy horse, or shall we find firm ground for the Hammer to fall? Speak with haste; I have no patience for the flowery speech of courtiers today.