Gamble King Chapter 20. Realpolitik

Max climbed down from the oak tree with considerably less grace than he'd climbed up.

The adrenaline from touching the Source was still coursing through his system, making his hands shake slightly as he gripped the branches. Combined with the exhaustion from the fight and the general awkwardness of descending a forty-foot tree while carrying a bow, it was a recipe for disaster.

He made it about three-quarters of the way down before his foot slipped on a patch of ice-slick bark.

"Shit—"

Max tumbled the remaining ten feet and landed hard on his ass in the snow with a series of impacts that sounded like a sack of potatoes being dropped down stairs.

"Ow. Ow. Oooowww."

He lay there for a moment, staring up at the branches he'd just fallen through, taking inventory of which body parts were still attached and functional. Everything seemed to be in working order, though his tailbone was filing formal complaints.

"Lord Vanheim!" Thomas Miller came running over from the sheep pen, crossbow still in hand. "Are you hurt?"

"Just my dignity," Max groaned, though he made no immediate effort to get up. One of the less pleasant aspects of the time loop situation was that his body reset along with everything else. All that weight he'd been losing through Gregory's brutal training regimen? Gone. He was back to being soft around the middle, which made falling on your ass significantly more painful than it had any right to be.

Thomas extended a calloused hand. "Here, let me help you up."

Max accepted the assistance gratefully, using Thomas's leverage to haul himself back to his feet. Snow clung to his cloak and had somehow managed to work its way down the back of his shirt.

"Remind me to practice tree climbing," Max muttered, brushing himself off.

"Good work up there, though," Thomas said, gesturing toward the scattered wolf corpses. "Seven clean kills. Haven't seen archery like that since... well, since ever."

Max looked around at the aftermath. Garrett was wiping blood from his sword while Roderick checked the wolves to make sure they were actually dead. Jorik was already making notes in his leather journal, probably documenting everything for his report to Tredor.

But something was nagging at Max. He counted the bodies again.

In his previous loop, there had been much more wolves.

"Thomas," Max said, "have you seen wolf packs this size before? "

The farmer considered this. "Usually see them in smaller groups. Three, maybe four at most. This was... unusual."

"Which means there are probably more out there," Max concluded. "These weren't the only ones."

Roderick looked up from examining one of the corpses. "You think this was just part of a larger pack?"

"I think we killed the ones that were bold enough to attack in daylight," Max said. "But wolves don't just disappear when you kill their packmates. They regroup. They adapt."

Garrett sheathed his sword. "So what do you want to do?"

Max looked around the clearing, then toward the treeline where the attack had come from. "We finish the job. Check every farm in the valley. Make sure there aren't more of them waiting to cause problems."

Thomas nodded approvingly. "That's good thinking. The Hendersons have been having trouble too. And old Willem's place sits right up against the deep woods."

"How many farms are we talking about?" Jorik asked.

"Seventeen, all told," Thomas replied. "Though some of them are just single families. Won't take long to visit each one if you're on horseback."

Max was already thinking through the logistics. "Thomas, can you get word to your neighbors? Let them know we're coming around to check on everyone? I don't want to ride up unannounced and spook anyone."

"I can send my boy Henrik to the nearest farms. He knows all the paths."

"Good. We'll start with the closest ones and work our way out." Max turned to his companions. "This might take the rest of the day."

Roderick grinned. "Better than sitting around the castle listening to Sir Aldric complain about the quality of the wine."

They spent the next four hours making a circuit of the valley. Each farm told a similar story—guards disappearing three months ago, predator problems increasing, messages to the castle going unanswered. But the details varied in ways that painted a clearer picture of what had been happening.

At the Henderson farm, they found evidence of recent wolf activity near the grain storage. Old Sam—a grizzled man who looked like he'd been carved from weathered oak—showed them tracks in the snow and claw marks on his barn door.

"Been hearing them at night," he said, spitting tobacco juice into the snow. "Howling back and forth like they're talking to each other. Never seen wolves do that before."

His wife, a sturdy woman named Marta, brought them warm cider and bread while they examined the evidence. She didn't say much, but Max caught her studying him with the kind of direct gaze that suggested she was taking his measure.

"You're not what I expected," she said finally.

"What did you expect?"

"Someone softer. Someone who'd ride out here with a dozen guards and never get off his horse." She paused. "They call you Harek the Terrible in the village."

Max raised an eyebrow. "Do they?"

"Gambling, drinking, fighting. Stories about you throwing money around like it meant nothing while good people struggled." Her tone was matter-of-fact, not accusatory. "But you're here. On foot. Getting your hands dirty."

"People change," Max said simply.

"Some do. Some don't." Marta handed him a cup of cider. "We'll see which kind you are."

They encountered two more wolves during their circuit—lone animals that seemed to be scouting rather than hunting. Both fell to Max's arrows before they could retreat to whatever larger group they belonged to.

At the northern edge of the valley, they met a family named the Crows—a middle-aged couple with three teenage sons who'd been taking turns standing watch at night since the guards disappeared.

"Haven't slept properly in weeks," the father, Jorik Crow, admitted. (Which caused some confusion since their guard was also named Jorik, leading to a brief comedy of errors with introductions.)

"The boys are good with their bows," the mother added, "but they're not soldiers. We can't keep this up much longer."

The eldest son, maybe seventeen, stepped forward. "My lord, if you're bringing guards back to the valley, I'd like to volunteer. I know these woods better than anyone, and I can track."

Max studied the young man—tall, lean, with the kind of quiet confidence that came from actually knowing what you were talking about.

"What's your name?"

"Corvin, my lord. Corvin Crow."

"Have you ever killed a man, Corvin?"

The question hung in the cold air. The boy's parents shifted uncomfortably, but Corvin held Max's gaze.

"No, my lord. But I've killed wolves. And I've thought about what it would mean to serve."

"It's not the same thing," Max said quietly. "Killing a wolf is protecting your family. Killing a man in service to your lord... that stays with you."

"I understand, my lord."

Max doubted that, but he appreciated the boy's seriousness. "When you're eighteen, come to the castle. We'll see if you still feel the same way."

He turned away after that, but the words lingered in his mind longer than they should have. It was strange, talking like that—so serious, like he was someone who really understood the cost of killing.

Well, he did now.

Sort of.

But the truth was, he hadn't expected to take to it so easily. Killing people. Real people. Not in a game, not on a screen. And yet, it hadn’t haunted him the way he’d always assumed it would.

Maybe it was because he still hadn’t fully accepted, deep down, that this world was real. That these were actual lives. That he had taken them.

That thought bothered him more than the killings themselves.

There was something wrong in that, wasn’t there?

...Anyway.

At the Marsh farm—a sprawling operation that seemed to specialize in root vegetables—they were greeted by a woman who couldn't have been older than twenty-five managing what looked like a complex agricultural operation mostly by herself.

"Husband died in the autumn," she explained when Max asked about the unusual arrangement. "Kicked by a horse. But the farm still needs running, and I've got three little ones to feed."

She spoke about her situation with the same practical tone someone might use to discuss the weather. No self-pity, no requests for special consideration. Just a statement of facts.

"The wolves got into my chicken coop last week," she continued. "Lost most of my birds. Won't be any eggs to sell at market this winter."

Max made a mental note to discuss compensation with Tredor when they returned to the castle. If the guards had been doing their job, this woman wouldn't be facing winter without her primary source of income.

By the time they completed their circuit, the sun was beginning to sink toward the horizon. They'd visited all seventeen farms, documented complaints at each one, killed three additional wolves, and gained a comprehensive picture of how badly the valley's security had deteriorated.

The castle came into view as they crested the final hill, its towers dark against the evening sky. Torches were being lit along the walls, pinpricks of light in the gathering dusk.

Time to report back to Tredor and figure out exactly why Lord Peyter had been lying about guard deployments for the past three months.

***

"What?"

Tredor set down his goblet, his eyes fixed on Max with an intensity that made the room feel suddenly smaller.

Max straightened in his chair, still feeling the ache in his bones from the day's work. "No guards, Father. Not one. For three months."

"The Miller farm, the Henderson place, the Crow family—seventeen farms total," Roderick added. "Every single one tells the same story. The guards just stopped coming."

Garrett nodded. "We documented everything, my lord. Names, dates, specific incidents. The people have been completely abandoned."

"Tell me about the damages," Tredor said quietly.

"Three dead." Said Max. "Mia Henderson, six years old. Willem's son, nineteen years old. A woman named Sara at one of the northern farms." He paused. "Dozens of livestock killed. The Marsh farm lost most of their chickens—that's a family's winter income gone."

"The wolves are hunting in coordinated packs," Jorik added, consulting his notes. "Larger groups than normal. More aggressive. They're watching the farms during the day, planning attacks."

"We killed ten of them today," Garrett said. "But there are more out there."

Tredor listened in complete silence, his hands folded on the desk before him. His expression gave nothing away, but Max could see something cold building behind his eyes.

When they finished their report, the room fell quiet except for the crackling of the fire. Tredor stared at the papers on his desk for a long moment, his jaw working silently.

The silence stretched. Max found himself holding his breath.

Finally, Tredor looked up. "Roderick."

"My lord."

"Take six men. Ride to Lord Peyter's chambers. Place him under arrest. He is to be bound and brought to the great hall immediately."

Roderick blinked, his face going pale. "My lord."

"Jorik." Tredor's gaze shifted to the younger guard. "Send riders to the farming valley. Every family head is to come to Frosthold at first light. They will bear witness at trial."

Jorik's mouth opened slightly, then closed. He nodded stiffly. "Yes, my lord."

Tredor stood slowly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. When he spoke again, his voice carried across the room like a judge pronouncing sentence.

"Lord Peyter stands accused of dereliction of duty, falsification of official records, and criminal negligence resulting in the deaths of three subjects of this realm." His words fell like hammer blows. "At dawn tomorrow, he will face trial before the assembled people of the farming valley. Should he be found guilty of these crimes..."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

"He will be sentenced to death."

The silence that followed was deafening. Roderick's face went from pale to ashen. Jorik actually took a step backward, his eyes wide with shock. Even Garrett, who'd been sitting quietly, straightened as if he'd been slapped.

Max felt the hair on his arms stand up. Well, damn. That escalated quickly.

But the reaction from everyone else in the room puzzled him. The way they were staring at Tredor like he'd just declared war on the gods themselves. Was Peyter some kind of major political figure? The shock radiating from the guards suggested this was a much bigger deal than Max had realized.

"Roderick," Tredor continued. "I charge you to bring him before me, in chains if necessary. The people of this realm have been betrayed by one sworn to protect them. That betrayal ends tonight."

Roderick swallowed hard, his face still pale. "It will be done, my lord."

"Go."

The guards left immediately, their footsteps echoing in the corridor outside with unusual haste. Max caught Jorik stumbling slightly as they disappeared around the corner.

"You did good work tonight," Tredor said. "Both of you."

Max nodded, though he was still trying to process the magnitude of what had just happened.

"There will be compensation for your efforts," Tredor continued. "Gold for the families who lost livestock. Replacement chickens for the Marsh farm. And something extra for your trouble."

Max wasn't about to refuse, and apparently neither was Garrett, who simply nodded his acceptance.

"Now go. Rest. Tomorrow will be a long day." Tredor's dismissal was polite but final.

They left the study in silence, walking through the dimly lit corridors toward their chambers. Max glanced at Garrett and immediately noticed the deep frown etched across his features. The younger man looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Max tried to approach the subject delicately. "So... that was interesting."

Garrett grunted noncommittally.

"Lord Peyter seemed like he was pretty important around here."

Another grunt. Garrett's frown deepened.

"I mean, the way everyone reacted when your father mentioned—"

"Ah, damn," Max stopped walking and turned to face Garrett directly. "Hey."

Garrett paused, looking at him with those troubled eyes.

"My head got struck pretty hard back at Eastwatch," Max said. "I forgot a big deal of things. So I need to ask—why was everyone making those faces back there? What's the big deal about Lord Peyter?"

Garrett studied Max's face carefully. "What kind of head hit leaves you without a scar yet makes you forget such important things?"

Max scrambled for an explanation. "Well, you see, sometimes when the brain gets... jostled around inside the skull, it can cause damage to the parts that store memories without necessarily breaking the skin. It's like... imagine your brain is a library, and someone shook the building really hard. All the books might fall off the shelves and get mixed up, but the building itself looks fine from the outside."

Garrett's confusion only seemed to deepen with every word Max spoke.

"The important thing is that the soft tissue inside can be damaged even when the hard tissue outside appears—" Max caught himself as he watched Garrett's expression grow more bewildered. "You know what? It is what it is. Just tell me about Peyter."

Garrett sighed heavily. "Lord Peyter Wynmont of House Wynmont. They've been our most loyal bannermen for fifteen generations."

Max felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. "How important are they?"

"They control the eastern passes. The trade routes flow through their lands." Garrett ran a hand through his hair. "With everything that's happened..."

"What do you mean, everything that's happened?"

Garrett stared at him. "You really don't remember anything, do you?"

"Pretend I don't."

"House Vanheim isn't what it used to be, Harek." Garrett's voice was heavy with worry. "We backed House Caelthar during the succession crisis three years ago. They had the most powerful fleet in the realm, around fifteen thousand war ships. They controlled half the sea trade routes. So when they fell..."

"We lost our most powerful ally," Max finished.

"Along with their wealth, their ships, their political influence. House Marrix absorbed everything—the fleet, the trade contracts, the naval dominance." Garrett shook his head. "Your father did it for honor, because Lady Caelthar was in the right. But politics doesn't care about honor."

Max was starting to understand the scope of the problem. "So we went from having the strongest land army and a powerful maritime ally to just having the land army."

"And since then, we've had to deal with rebellions. Skewl's uprising at Eastwatch. Other houses testing our strength, seeing if we're still the power we used to be." Garrett's expression grew grimmer. "Some of our own bannermen are suspected of considering betrayal. They're watching, waiting to see if we show weakness."

"And executing one of our most loyal bannermen would definitely count as showing weakness."

"Or madness. Either way, it gives every ambitious lord in the North an excuse to break their oaths." Garrett stopped walking entirely. "House Wynmont has stood with Vanheim for fifteen generations. If your father kills Lord Peyter, even for cause, it sends a message that loyalty means nothing. That even the most faithful service can end with your head on a block."

Max felt the implications crashing down around him like an avalanche. "How many other houses are already looking for reasons to rebel?"

"A lot," Garrett said quietly. "We're still the strongest military force in the realm—no one can match two hundred thousand soldiers. And that's without counting the hundred thousand barbarian warriors in the deeper North. But if enough houses unite against us, if they coordinate with outside powers..."

"We could be overwhelmed."

"Or isolated completely. Cut off from trade, from alliances, from everything that makes a great house great." Garrett resumed walking, but his pace was slower now, more thoughtful. "Your father knows all this. He has to. But he's also seen what happens when lords ignore their duty to protect their people."

Max understood now why Tredor had looked so grim when he pronounced sentence. This wasn't just about justice—it was about choosing between protecting his people and protecting his house's political position. And there might not be a way to do both.

"Well," Max said finally. "Shit."

"Yeah," Garrett agreed. "Shit."

"I need to go talk to him," Max said suddenly. "Convince him not to do this."

Garrett grabbed his arm. "Don't. Don't try to meddle in this, Harek. Your father knows what he's doing."

"Does he? Because it sounds like he's about to start a civil war over one corrupt lord."

"And what would you have him do? Let children die so he can keep his political alliances?" Garrett's voice was sharp. "Sometimes there's no good choice."

Max pulled his arm free. "There has to be another way. Some kind of compromise, or—"

"Are you doing this on purpose?" Garrett interrupted, staring at Max with a mixture of confusion and frustration. "Or did you really forget everything?"

"Why the fuck would I be doing this on purpose?" Max shot back. "If I'd known reporting the valley situation would lead to this, I would have... I don't know, handled it differently."

"No," Garrett said firmly. "You did good today. It would have been great if you'd been the person you are right now all along."

"What do you mean?"

Garrett stopped walking and turned to face Max fully.

"House Vanheim has ruled the North for two thousand, one hundred and thirty-four years. The most ancient Great house of all Hommenor. All the others collapsed, or reformed into something else over the centuries."

"That's... a lot."

"Yes. A lot." Garrett's expression was grave. "Do you at least remember why?"

Max thought hard, searching through his memories of the novels. But nothing came to mind about the ancient history of House Vanheim. "No."

Garrett was quiet for a long moment, as if deciding whether to continue. Then he spoke again.

"The first Vanheim, Rome Vanheim, came from a kingdom called Acaen, across the eastern sea. A proud realm of warriors and honor-bound knights that fell to shadow and plague before your ancestor was twenty years old." Garrett's tone grew somber. "The survivors scattered to the winds. Some say the very continent sank beneath the waves, consumed by the same darkness that destroyed the kingdom."

Max remained silent, not sure where the young man was going with this.

"Rome arrived in the North with nothing but his sword, his horse, and a handful of loyal men. He found a land torn by endless war—petty kings slaughtering each other while their people starved, bandits roaming freely, ancient powers stirring in the deep places." Garrett stared at Max. perhaps to see if he remembered anything. Whatever he concluded made him continue. "But this land was also home to beings older than memory. The Aspects."

"What kind of Aspects?"

"Powers that shaped the very nature of the North. Not gods, but something close. They watched Rome Vanheim for seven long years as he fought to bring order to chaos. They saw him unite warring clans, establish laws where there had been only bloodshed, stand between the innocent and those who would prey upon them."

Max now listened intently.

"When the Aspects finally revealed themselves, they offered Rome a choice. Rule the North as their champion, bound by sacred law, or face the same fate as every petty king who had tried to claim these lands through force alone." Garrett's eyes were serious. "He knelt before them and swore the oath that binds your family still."

"What oath?"

"So long as House Vanheim protects the people and leads with justice, the North shall be theirs. But should they grow cruel or neglectful, the land itself shall turn against them." Whoo. Tough words. "It's not just tradition, Harek. It's a pact written into the your very flesh and blood as a Vanheim."

Max still wasn't sure why Garrett was telling him all this. "That's... impressive history, but—"

"For over two millennia, your family upheld that pact," Garrett continued. "House Vanheim became the moral foundation upon which the entire North was built. Honor, justice, protection of the innocent—these weren't just ideals, they were sacred obligations. The barbarian tribes in the Deeper North respect your house even when they raid everyone else, because they recognize that ancient authority flowing through Vanheim blood."

Ah. Understanding began to dawn on Max, cold and unwelcome.

"But with you..." Garrett's voice trailed off, then he squared his shoulders. "Harek, your actions over the past few years have tarnished House Vanheim's name to the point where potential traitors use it as proof that your family has lost the Aspects' favor. They whisper that the heir has fallen so far from Rome's example that the pact is dissolving."

Max felt the full weight of the situation crash down on him. "They think the oath is breaking..."

"They think it's already broken," Garrett said quietly. "Every scandal, every drunken brawl, every act of cruelty—it all feeds into the narrative that House Vanheim is no longer worthy of the North. And if that's true..."

"Then the land might supposedly turn against us."

"And two thousand years of unbroken rule ends in our lifetime." Garrett ran a hand through his hair. "Your father executing Lord Peyter for negligence—that's exactly what Rome Vanheim would have done. Justice over politics, protection of the innocent over personal gain. It's proof that House Vanheim still honors the pact."

"But if the execution destabilizes everything politically..."

"Then you need to be the man Rome Vanheim was," Garrett said firmly. "Because if civil war comes, if houses rebel, if the North fractures—I think the only thing that might hold it together is proof that the heir to House Vanheim has remembered what it means to be worthy of the Aspects' trust."

"...Okay," Max stared at Garrett, wanting to gauge the damage Harek's done. "Just how big is this problem?"

Garrett was quiet for a moment, as if considering how to explain something enormous. "Do you know why the North can field two hundred thousand men at a moment's notice when the other realms struggle to raise half that number even with months of preparation?"

"Good leadership?"

"Unity," Garrett corrected. "The North spans from Frosthold to the Frozen Ocean—the civilized territories alone stretch roughly three thousand miles east to west, two thousand north to south."

Max did quick mental calculations. If he wasn't being stupid, that was roughly the size of Canada. Massive.

"And that's just what we directly govern from Frosthold," Garrett continued. "The Greater North, including the tribal lands and the Deeper North, extends another two thousand miles beyond that to the Frozen Ocean."

Hmm. Still confident in his math, Max estimated that put the territory at roughly the size of Canada and Russia. Combined.

Max tried to keep his expression neutral while processing the sheer scale.

"When Rome Vanheim arrived, he didn't find empty wilderness. There were dozens of tribes, hundreds of minor houses, petty kings ruling from hill forts and ancient strongholds. They'd been at war with each other for generations—blood feuds that stretched back centuries, territorial disputes that had turned entire regions into graveyards."

Garrett gestured toward a tapestry hanging in the corridor, depicting what looked like a battle scene with dozens of different banners.

"The Ironwood Clans in the east, the Wolfsbane tribes along the western mountains, the Ravencrest houses controlling the river valleys—all of them had legitimate claims to their territories, all of them had legitimate grievances against their neighbors. It was complete chaos."

"And Rome somehow united all of them?"

"Not through conquest. Through the pact." Garrett said. "When the Aspects blessed House Vanheim's rule, it wasn't just political authority they granted. It was spiritual legitimacy. Every tribe, every house, every clan in the North recognizes that authority because they believe the land itself chose your family to lead."

"So the North's unity isn't based on military might."

"It's based on faith," Garrett confirmed. "Faith that House Vanheim serves the will of the Aspects, that your family's rule is ordained by powers older than memory. The moment that faith breaks..."

"Two hundred thousand men become dozens of separate armies."

"Each with their own goals, their own enemies, their own claims to territory and resources." Garrett's expression was grim. "The North is the richest realm in Hommenor—iron ore, gold, silver, precious stones, timber, furs. Every tribe and house knows exactly what their lands are worth. The only thing keeping them from carving up the North between themselves is their belief that House Vanheim has the divine right to rule it all."

Max felt like slapping himself out of anger for Harek's actions. That idiot. If that's how big of a deal his actions were..."And if they stop believing that..."

"Then the largest, richest, most militarily powerful realm in Hommenor tears itself apart," Garrett finished. "And every neighboring power moves in to claim what they can from the wreckage."

Max stared at Garrett, finally understanding the impossible position his family was in. Damned if they acted with justice, damned if they didn't. And somehow, the fate of two thousand years of history rested on whether Max could convince everyone that Harek Vanheim had truly changed.

"Fuuuuuuck," Max muttered.

"Are you scared?" Garrett said.

Max looked down at his hands and was startled to see them trembling. Actually trembling. This had never happened to him before—not in his old life, not since arriving in this world.

He'd chosen to be good, to try to redeem Harek's reputation, because it seemed like the right thing to do. But now he realized he didn't actually have a choice in the matter. If he wanted to survive, he had to prove himself worthy of the Vanheim name.

That felt like shit. Even when you were going to do something anyway, learning you had no choice in the matter was... frustrating didn't even begin to cover it.

"I am terrified, actually," Max said quietly, still staring at his shaking hands.

Garrett's smiled as he observed Max's reaction. "Good."

"How is that good?"

"It means you're not an idiot." Garrett's smile widened. "I'd much rather follow a lord who knows what needs to be done, understands the scale of it, and does it anyway, than an idiot who doesn't measure the lives at risk."

Max forced himself to meet Garrett's eyes. The young man's expression was earnest, almost relieved.

"You're the heir to Frosthold, Harek. By tradition, by blood, by the ancient pact itself," Garrett continued. "And if anything happens—if this all goes wrong—neither you nor your brothers would be left alive by our enemies. The Vanheim name means too much, carries too much weight. They'd have to kill every last one of you to be sure the threat was ended."

The trembling in Max's hands intensified. "So I better keep walking this path."

"You better keep walking it even harder now," Garrett confirmed. "Because there's no going back. There's only forward, and proving that Rome Vanheim's blood still runs true in his heir."

This escalated so fast. Yet, when looking at Garrett and his hopeful smile...

"Hey," Max said suddenly. "Can I call you Bubbles?"

Garrett blinked, confusion replacing the smile in his expression. "Why?"

What he was feeling right now—this stress, this crushing weight of responsibility—was a bit like his old office life. The endless pressure, the knowledge that failure meant losing everything.

Yet there had always been that one guy who smiled and made it seem like life was only as serious as you decided to let it be. Garrett, with his earnest grin even in the face of potential civil war, reminded Max of him.

"Because you look like someone who should be called Bubbles."