[BERNARD’S POV]

September 5, 1338

On the battlefield, the weight of impending victory and the toll of relentless struggle hung thick in the air. The resplendent walls of the royal castle, once a bastion of the Plantagenets, now bore the brunt of our assault. The rhythmic thud of wood against stone echoed through the air as logs relentlessly pounded the castle gates. Our valiant archers, perched strategically, relentlessly dispatched volleys, consigning several enemy archers to their eternal slumber.

The Royal Castle, revered and glorified, stood as a symbol of power and legacy, but now it teetered on the brink of its final resistance. A weeklong campaign had brought us to this decisive moment. We had systematically severed their access to sustenance—cutting off their food supplies and severing their access to water. Their situation grew more desperate by the hour, and the castle's walls, once formidable, were now the last vestige of their fading hope.

Our forces, resolute and driven by the certainty of victory, pressed on with relentless determination. The siege engines tirelessly battered the fortified gates, threatening to breach the final barrier between us and the castle’s interior. Each strike brought us closer to our ultimate triumph, an imminent conquest fueled by the unwavering persistence of our troops.

The siege had transformed the battlefield into a theater of attrition, every action and maneuver calculated to hasten the enemy’s defeat. We maintained an unyielding hold, suffocating the castle's defenses, tightening the noose around their resistance. The enemy’s fate was sealed; it was only a matter of time before they succumbed to the inevitable.

Our plans are unfolding as intended, exacting a retaliation that echoes the humiliation we endured at Sluys, albeit multiplied manifold upon our adversaries. Yet, it weighs heavily on my heart that it required chests brimming with gold and silver to persuade those insignificant Welsh rulers to grant us passage. I proposed to my liege a direct assault on the capital, believing it would yield the same result, but our king’s judgment was swayed by the lone survivor of Sluys. This lone survivor, a youth, possesses a silver tongue, swiftly ascending to the king's favor within a few months, swaying numerous decisions in his favor. Not that I object, for his schemes have significantly favored our cause.

This plan, the siege of London, stands as yet another testament to his strategic prowess. It demanded months of meticulous study and espionage to craft this scheme, and our part was merely to follow his detailed guide. However, I must admit, it imposed a strain on our already scarce resources to appease and bribe the village officials and leaders along our path to the capital. The city guards remained unsuspecting, oblivious to an invading force disguised as traders—how could they suspect in a capital city seemingly shielded from direct enemy threats? It proved to be their most critical oversight. Our forces arrived discreetly, staggering their entry over two weeks, ensuring the officials remained oblivious to our true intentions.

We lingered in the capital for weeks, biding our time until that bothersome lad, Edward, was granted the title of Duke. Then, he promptly retreated to his own territory, which led us to evade our most formidable adversary—the ducal army. That force exceeded 3,000 strong and posed a significant threat, capable of decimating our ranks of five hundred men if pressed. However, the self-proclaimed 'Dawnblade' failed to anticipate our invasion, choosing to withdraw his troops in tandem with his departure. It seems news of his father's demise might have addled his judgment. A wry chuckle escaped me at the thought.

“Monsieur!” The urgent cry pierced the air, snapping my attention towards one of my commanders sprinting toward me, his countenance fraught with shock, perspiration glistening on his face.

He halted abruptly before me, executing a deep bow before conveying his message in a breathless rush, "They’ve arrived!"

A mix of confusion and irritation swept over me. Who on earth was he referring to? I suppressed my annoyance and addressed him, "Who precisely has arrived, Jules?"

Observing him closely, I noticed the tremble in his frame. My impatience grew as he struggled to respond between panting breaths. "Out with it!" I exclaimed, my tone now urgent and forceful.

"T-The Plantagenets. The Plantagenets of Norwich!" he gasped, his words strained and fearful.

My shock matched his as I grappled with this unexpected revelation. "But that’s impossible! We ensured no messenger or informant could escape the castle. How did they gather such information?" My voice escalated as I neared the end, drawing the attention of those around me. Recognizing their glances, I hastily commanded, "Continue the siege, all of you!"

Conscious of my rising agitation, I forced myself to take deep breaths, seeking to regain composure.

Attempting to quell the rising tension, I turned to Jules with a calmer demeanor. "How many of them are there?" I inquired, hoping for a more manageable number amidst this unexpected turn.

"Approximately three thousand, Monsieur," he replied, keeping his gaze lowered, perhaps to avoid provoking my ire. A gasp escaped me, marking the gravity of the revelation.

"Within a week of the siege's commencement, he returns with the bulk of his troops. How did they manage to communicate?" My words rushed out, tinted with panic. The whirlwind of thoughts seized my mind. Could it be a traveling merchant who informed him? No, I enforced a strict exclusion zone around the city walls. Could a soldier have escaped from the siege? Impossible. I meticulously inspected and accounted for every fallen guard the night prior.

Shaking off these unsettling thoughts, I redirected my focus to the pressing issue at hand.

"I'm heading to the city walls," I announced, instructing a nearby soldier to prepare my mount. Turning to Jules, I urged him to do the same. His response was a reminder that his mount was tethered a brief stroll away; he dismounted earlier, unaware of the hidden traps concealed on the ground.

In the span of the next ten minutes, we stood positioned beneath the towering wall. I hastened inside the wall's structure and commenced my ascent up the stairs. The climb was brief, a mere minute to reach the pinnacle. Stepping out onto the wall's summit, an astounding sight greeted me—a panorama of soldiers, a multitude numbering in the thousands, flanked by an array of formidable siege engines. Among them stood contraptions I'd only read about, including the colossal siege tower, reminiscent of designs from the Eastern Roman Empire. To possess such weaponry... an extravagant display of resources!

Yet, what truly startled me was the abundance of armor. Nearly half of the soldiers were clad head to toe in iron armor—proof of significant wealth. But hold on... where was the Duke? That aged gentleman at the forefront, he wasn't the Duke. Where in the Lord's name was he?!

—-----------------

[PHILIPS VI’S POV]

September 13, 1338

Within my vast court, opulence reigns supreme. Ornate tapestries, rich in hues, grace the walls alongside draperies of grandeur, while sizable banners proudly bear the royal coat of arms, the Fleur de lis. The towering ceilings, embellished with intricate designs, weave tales of legendary battles and regal lineage, an artful affirmation of my rightful place upon the throne.

Surveying the scene from my elevated platform, the courtiers, nobles, and advisors gather below. Each seat, a meticulously carved wooden chair or bench, serves as a symbol of hierarchy and standing. The strategic layout highlights the king—myself—positioned upon a raised dais at one end, flanked by the highest-ranking nobility in closer proximity to the throne. This arrangement, a visual tableau, reflects and reinforces the established order of prestige and power within the court.

The hall exudes an air of sophistication and majesty, illuminated by torches and candlelight. The fragrance of incense lingers in the air, and music from minstrels provides a melodic backdrop to the proceedings.

The throne itself is an imposing structure made of ornate stone, embellished with gold leaf, gemstones, and intricate carvings. It is elevated and adorned with cushions. Behind the throne, a richly embroidered canopy is further emphasizing my regal status.

As the steward concluded his report on the royal treasury and returned to his seat, my thoughts drifted back to the days of yore. Once a mere nephew to the king, I wasn't even considered in the line of succession. My uncle, Philip IV, held the throne and had three adult sons at the time of his passing.

The future of the Capetian dynasty appeared secure, destined for continued reign over France for many years. Yet, fate dealt a cruel hand, casting an unknown curse upon the lineage. Within a mere twelve years, all three of my cousins perished, unexpectedly catapulting me to the helm of this kingdom. However, young Edward III, aged sixteen, initiated a claim to the French throne based on his lineage through his mother, my cousin, who held the title of princess. The lords and nobles universally acknowledged that maternal lineage couldn't supersede the legitimate paternal line, thus cementing their agreement against his claim.

The issue of succession appeared resolved, yet his actions persisted in defiance of my directives. He brazenly launched an attack against the Scots despite our standing alliance with them. Exhausted by his recurrent defiance, I took the decisive step of confiscating his lands within my kingdom. Initially, the situation seemed resolved, but he escalated matters further by declaring war against me without considering his own limited strength.

The war initially tilted in our favor, buoyed by support from Italian banks that aided in constructing numerous ships within the Sluys port. We meticulously fortified the port, concealing our preparations from prying eyes. However, on a chilling morning last year, the sunrise illuminated a devastating sight: a blaze engulfed hundreds of our ships and thousands of soldiers, leaving behind nothing but charred remnants.

Amid this tragedy, an unexpected turn of fate emerged as a lone survivor emerged from the ashes. His presence in the royal court a week later after the event, carried the weight of unspeakable suffering and a burning desire for vengeance. I merely added fuel to that already raging fire, igniting a conflagration that engulfed the English kingdom.

Swiftly appointed as my spymaster, he orchestrated the establishment of a formidable network spanning the capital and select coastal towns. This intricate web required a substantial allocation from my treasury, yet its dividends far outweighed the initial investment. The hired assassin group, an integral part of this network, successfully eliminated the self-proclaimed king’s uncle and marshal, Thomas of Brotherton. To my chagrin, this individual turned out to be the father of the heroic fifteen-year-old from the Battle of Sluys, named Edward. Oh, the vexation this name 'Edward' brings!

He forged an alliance with the Welsh kings, a costly arrangement that depleted a significant share of our precious metals. Nevertheless, this setback is one we anticipate recovering from within the span of a decade or so.

As I am seated in this hall, my soldiers are sieging their city of London, the capital of England. It's only a matter of time before that king and his devil spawns meet their end; I've issued orders for their immediate execution.

But now that I think about it, I should’ve gotten a messenger from London by n-” Let me in!” A voice screamed from beyond the hall's doors, demanding entry.

Summoning a guard, I was informed of a man outside seeking to convey some urgent information.

"Allow him entry," I commanded in a composed tone.

The man rushed in and swiftly knelt before me.

"Speak," I instructed, acknowledging his presence.

"Your Majesty, I am a farmer from Coulogne. I fled when I beheld the banner of three lions upon a crimson-golden field, where the gates of Calais should display golden flowers on an azure field, as they always do when I travel there to sell my season's harvest."

A palpable shock gripped the court, an eerie silence falling upon us. Doubt crept into my mind as I grappled with the implications of the crimson-golden banner—the emblem of the Plantagenets!