Daylight came, and with it a knock at his door. Harold, ensconced in soft bedding, made to sit up even as Baldy barged into his room, dragging behind him a frazzled attendant. “Rise and shine!” he yelled and Harold winced as the shout echoed in the cavernous quarters and rang in his ears. But he rose, then looked about for a change of clothes. The attendant, guessing at his problem, approached, a silk bundle in his arms. Ah, Harold had forgotten. Princes didn’t dress themselves in Mercia. He had written it in for historical accuracy, but having another man dress him as if he were a doll appealed not at all.

“Leave it on the bed,” he ordered, and the attendant hesitated. Baldy looked between him and the attendant, and then clapped a meaty hand on the man’s shoulder. “Do as the prince says,” he interjected, and then dropped into a sotto whisper. “His highness has been a little cranky after we interrupted his lovemaking.”

The attendant nodded, and then backed out of the room. Baldy followed him, offering a jaunty wave before closing the door behind him. What a dick. Harold had liked Baldy at first, but undercutting Harold in public was unacceptable. He balled his hands into fists. It didn’t make sense. His main character was a prideful man, a man who despised insubordination and didn't care for excuses. Left to his own devices, he would have stripped Baldy and Castell of their positions. Perhaps even have them flogged for insubordination. So why were they still in his service?

It was a mystery that Harold was keen to unravel. Castell's existence had hinted that minute things- little details he hadn't cared to specify- might be different than he'd expect. That was the true danger of transmigrating years before his novel started, Harold conceded. World-building didn’t demand the same exacting level of precision that writing a novel did. At least he did know the broad strokes- that was already priceless knowledge.

Harold untied the silk parcel, unfolding clothes and setting them on the bed. He traded his loose robes (a Mercian nightwear staple) for thick cotton breeches. Then he slid into an elaborate red tunic embossed with delicate gold fish-shaped filigree. As he strode towards the door, he admired how each fish had a ruby for an eye, which he felt added a sense of life to the outfit. Being a prince did have its perks.

He opened the door and headed from his chambers, taking in the opulent surroundings. It was one thing to write of marble floors, of intricate mosaics laden with precious jewels. It was another thing to see it with his own eyes. Here: the Caribbean blue of lapiz lazuli- the moody purple of amethyst- the grassy hue of peridot. There: soaring Gothic arches- diptychs of varying sizes and styles- tapestries of forbidding men in armor and on campaign. Harold tried to feign nonchalance, but the curious look Baldy sent him was sure proof of failure.

Harold almost didn’t care. He looked up and down and left and right and always there was something more, some detail or artistic flourish that demanded his attention. As they approached the Sublime Porte, great statues and sculptures began to appear. Harold could see stone Nagas- wise demigods, half-man and half-snake. There were heavenly nymphs and courtesans engaged in playing stone sitars, lutes, and even tabla. Soaring above were the statues of the gods.

Mighty Surya, the Lord Sun, towered above all, His imperious face twisted in disgust as He struck down terrified beast-men. To His right was Agni, the Lord Fire, depicted purifying and banishing a potent rakshasha. Vayu, the Lord Air, loomed over a floundering fleet, His cheeks frozen in the deepest of breaths.

But Harold no longer had the time to stop and gawk. Before him was the thick wooden door that led to the Sublime Porte, the throne room. The Porte also doubled as the place where the Mercian royal family had its mandatory family meal. Priam I, Priam the Founder, had created this odd tradition. The man (now reduced to a name and a legend) had established the Kingdom of Mercia through great struggle. Fearing the ills infighting would bring, he had mandated his descendants to sup together and build solidarity. Over centuries, this commandment had devolved into daily sharing the first meal.

It had been a nice attempt. Mercia remained famous for its succession wars- the Reign was just the nastiest. Foreign observers who bet on civil war whenever a Mercian King died were often correct. Many ascribed this phenomenon to some innate Mercian failing. Harold knew the problem to be geography.

The Central Plains, the lush Indus Valley and the fertile banks of Nile were the optimal niches for the human organism. Their high capacity for agriculture and riverine travel allowed for centralization and a bureaucratic center of power that held rigid control over periphery areas. In stark contrast, Mercia was a mountainous kingdom, like the ancient Kurdish lands. Divided by high mountains and rolling bands of hills, Mercia was hard to govern.

Harold hadn’t misspoken when he had called Castell a clan. The Founder had found Mercia a land of tribes and clans and had brought them to heel. With patient wooing and strategic marriages and sword in hand, he had united all Mercia. The balance of power since had only ever tilted against the royal family.

By this era, the Mercian succession had become a chessboard for the great clans to jostle for prestige and power. Usually, princes courted these great clans as patrons. But it was not unheard of for the ducal clans to kidnap a prince, jam a crown on his head and fight a war in his name- irrespective of his actual desires.

The plan Harold had come up with the previous night was simple. Trying to play the great clan game against an array of older and more influential princes was suicide. Even if he did succeed, he wouldn’t have solved the underlying problem the kingdom faced. What he needed was fertile and productive lands from which he could levy soldiers and permanently alter the balance of power in the kingdom. He’d racked his head all last night thinking of how he could steal or usurp the lands of one of the clans in the kingdom. Then, it had occurred to him: who said that the former owners of the land had to be in the kingdom?

Now all Harold had to do was trick a paranoid old man (who’d probably poisoned his father). Joy.