She wasn't ashamed of the rare smile that brightened her lips as her father stopped breathing. It was hardly a difficult death to plan, in fact it took her much longer than she would've liked to make her father come to a proper end. It simply wouldn't do if she was caught, then her sister would receive her father's lands and lordship, and that would set her plans back quite a bit. But she had executed his murder truly flawlessly, and now she was that much closer to her empire.
As a child her and her father were as close as a child and parent could be, with her father teaching her to hawk and hunt; to fish and swim; to skin an animal and how to haggle at the Salt Markets as well as any fishwife. But a good father is not always a good leader, as she had learned as she grew. The Lord Aksel was too weak, too forgiving for the small folk to retain any respect for their family, giving thieves jobs in their household and letting traitors continue saying what they would about him.
Freja, however, would have no such reservations. She already had plans for war. The Silver Cliffs had as much gold as any other country in the world, and a better army. The world was ripe for the picking; for any of those brave enough to take it.
She stood from the wooden stool next to her father's deathbed, and bit her lip hard enough that tears sprung out. She ran into the hall, crying out in angst. A blonde haired service maiden held her as she cried, trying to comfort her as she tried to hold in a laugh. The maid whispered about how her father died painlessly, quickly. When Freja's sobs subsided, the maid ran to get her Lady Mother and a gravedigger.
Standing, she walked into her father's apartments, taking note of the decor. It was richly decorated, as fit a man of his station, but it seemed almost feminine. The walls were covered in dark orange fabric, and tapestries depicting their kingdom and continent lined the walls. But where there should be hunting trophies and weapons and ornaments of war, there were flowers and silks and wooden carvings of songs.
Her mother walked into the room, accompanied by her own serving girl, already clad in the blacks required for mourning. She gave the Lady Victorie the hug that was required in such situations, and noticed that her mother's icy eyes showed no more grief than Freja's own. It was no secret her mother had no love for her husband, but it was odd seeing her so indifferent to Father's death. Victorie was not beautiful by any means, but her face haunted anyone who gazed upon her. Angular in a way that called to mind a starving child, her eyes were the color of ice, a chilly grey that pierced your soul. Her nose stuck out rather like a hawks, and her hair was raven black, as straight as a stick, and fell in a strict line to her waist. She came from a group of half noble people who lived on a rock in the middle of the Salt Bay, and had a harsh disposition that was unsettling in one too many ways.
"We must send for your sister", Even when she spoke, her voice was hard and rough like stone, "She cared for the man".
The words unlike either of us hung in the balance between the women, and Freja nodded.
"Karine will be most distraught by the news", she mused, thinking of the girl. She had been no more than thirteen when her father had sent her sister away, a girl of nine to be betrothed to some prince in a neighboring kingdom. Even as a child she had understood that her sister was more a hostage than anything else, and considering their relationship with the Bay of March and its people, she presumed her sister would be coming home in a body bag, and as such had never sent her letters or gifts. But the Lord of the Saltwater Keep had died, leaving a completely inept son behind as a leader who even Lord Aksel was able to manipulate, and Karine had married his son years ago. She fished a quill, ink, and some parchment out and began pouring all the emotion she could muster into the letter, describing how some half-witted cook had prepared Father's food only halfway, leaving some parasite that took over his body in a matter of hours, leaving him comatose and seeping blood from his pores. She assured Karine the cook had been punished justly for what amounted to murder. She gave the letter to the fastest rider in the Cliffs' employ, and sent him riding for Saltwater Keep with extra horses, shortening a twelve day ride to a seven day one, if he was as fast as promised.
She started to think of her father's last moment. The poison she had used caused a nasty shutdown of the body, bursting the veins at the moment of death. It had cost her a fortune to purchase, but it was worth it for her empire. She has slipped a few drops into the ale he was draining all too fast, and hadn't had to do anything more. Within 15 minutes he was ill, his tanned skin turned to a sickly yellow. After an hour he was comatose, and in three Freja had her own kingdom.
She would be an excellent leader, a conqueror the likes of which the world had never known. She wasn't afraid of any of the Gods weaker folk followed, and she certainly feared no men. She imagined herself, red hair braided and topped with a golden crown, with all people, men and women, warriors and farmers bowed to her, and anyone who spoke against her or her family would be silenced. The people don't need freedom, Freja knew, the people need safety, they needed food, and they needed a strong leader who could kill their enemies and secure their trades.
She was nearly lost in her glorious fantasies when the blond handmaiden returned with a gruff man with silver hair, probably five-and-forty at the least. He was huge, hulking over Freja's tall frame by at least a foot, and walked over to her father's corpse and threw it over his shoulder with a cruel fascination. He dumped his former lord into a splintered wooden wagon with no care at all, and turned to her expectantly. Her hand held up a single golden coin, which he snatched away, roughly. His huge hands grabbed the wagon and started pulling her father down the path, and she watched, the wagon illuminated by the moon's silvery glow, as her empire began.
