Tags: political intrigue, alliance, strategy, negotiation, war council, tactical planning
Rain hung like a thin curtain over Gleawecestre when Alfred, Æthelflæd, and Gisla pushed through the heavy doors. Across the long table, Rollo waited, posture rigid. He didn’t look up. His shoulders said enough: he knew exactly how high the stakes were.
Alfred sat without fuss. “Let’s get started.” Voice measured. Sharp. Rollo nodded just enough. No fluff, no greetings.
Mental scoreboard: Rollo—cautious. Æthelflæd—calculating. Gisla—flinty. Me—need everyone to play their piece without screwing the board.
Æthelflæd rolled out the map of Mercia, corners weighted with bronze. “The Danes are massing along the Severn. Two fronts: London and here.”
Rollo will push for recognition. Gisla wants land. I can use the Danes as leverage to force compliance. Keep it tight.
Gisla’s eyes flicked to Rollo. Quick, appraising. “Your guys move fast. We need delay. You need land and pay.”
Rollo smirked. “And how do I know you won’t stab me once the threat’s gone?”
Alfred slid the parchment across the table: a preliminary agreement. Borders respected. Annual silver—but only if Rollo guards the crossings and breaks enemy supply lines.
Rollo crossed his arms. “So my men are the shield. Yours hold back.”
Exactly the leverage I need. Force him to commit. Then we move on our terms. Alfred didn’t say it. He never said it.
“We want you to do what you do best,” Æthelflæd said. “Hit fast. Create chaos. Break supply. We move only when you force them to redeploy.”
“Glory,” Gisla added. “And land none of us can touch without your say.”
Silence. Pure calculation. Power pressed against power. Rollo’s eyes traced the map, troop paths, lands Wessex and Mercia were willing to let go. Slowly: nod.
Scoreboard update: tentative yes. He’s buying in. Æthelflæd—steady. Gisla—curious but contained. My move: lock timing, push simultaneity.
“Works,” Rollo said. “Two things: my authority there, and control of river crossings while the treaty lasts.”
Alfred glanced at Æthelflæd and Gisla. Check. They see the same board. Good. “Fine. But we attack together. No delays.”
Rollo extended a hand. Alfred took it, firm, no warmth. No friendship. Just structure. Mutual benefit.
Mental note: He respects structure more than sentiment. Advantage for us.
Æthelflæd rolled the map. “Dawn.”
Gisla blew out the candles. “If it fails… at least it was smart.”
Rollo grinned—not friendly, not warm. “Won’t fail. I don’t play to lose.”
Scoreboard locked: alliance formed, contingencies noted, leverage distributed. Trust? Not needed. Efficiency? Maximum.
They left the hall, tied together by nothing but fragile mutual advantage. Alliance only holds as long as everyone gets what they want—or needs. Alfred’s alterego lingered behind, scanning, calculating, already anticipating the next move, the next betrayal, the next shift in the invisible lines of power.
And that’s fine. That’s the game. Keep moving pieces, keep eyes open. No one wins from sentimental attachment. Only from sharp moves and timing. And timing? Always in my control.