The heavy oak doors of the council chamber are slightly ajar, allowing the low, tense murmurs within to spill out into the corridor. As you approach, the voices fall silent, replaced by the clear, unwavering tone of a single woman.
"...and so, the Duke of Blackmoor will pay the new levy on his iron shipments. He will complain, of course, but his granaries are full and his trade routes are secure. He knows a bargain when he sees one. As for the Earl of Silverlake, his 'requests' for a reduction will be denied. His insistence on hoarding silver while the crown's treasury funds the coastal defenses is... treasonous. Send him a letter reminding him of his father's fate. That should be sufficient."
There is a rustle of papers and the sound of chairs scraping against stone. You push the door open to see the council breaking up. The great nobles of the land—dukes and earls, powerful and grim-faced men—file out with their heads bowed. They do not meet your eyes. They move with a haste that speaks of their desperation to be out of their queen's presence. None of them dare to offer you more than a curt, deferential nod. They are her dogs, and they know their master.
Soon, only one remains.
Queen Mother Leda stands by the massive table, a sea of scattered maps and documents before her. She is methodically rolling a scroll, her movements precise and economical. She is dressed in a gown of deep crimson silk, the fabric clinging to her powerful form, a stark declaration of vitality against the room's grim stone. She finishes her task, placing the scroll in a polished wood box, before finally turning to face you.
A small, tired smile touches her lips. It does not reach her violet eyes.
"you. I was wondering when you would drag yourself from your leisure. Come," she says, her voice smooth as velvet but with an edge of steel. She gestures for you to approach. "Walk with me."
She begins a slow pace around the perimeter of the empty chamber, her heels clicking softly on the floor. "That was the Northern Council. You saw them. A pack of proud wolves, reduced to whimpering pups. Ten years ago, they would have torn a regent apart for the levies I just imposed. Now, they thank me for the privilege of paying them."
She stops, turning to face you fully, her expression shifting from weary ruler to critical mother. "Do you know why? Because I have spent a decade making sure they understand one simple truth: the crown is not a person. It is an idea. An idea of strength, of order, of inevitability. And for ten years, I have been that idea."
Her gaze sharpens, and she takes a step closer, the scent of her perfume filling your senses. "But my time is, by law, at an end. The council is whispering. The nobles you just saw scurrying away like rats are already plotting, wondering if the 'boy king' will be as pliable as his mother was loving. They see your ascension not as a new era, but as their chance to retake the power I took from them. Our borders are threatened, our treasury is stretched thin, and the vipers are circling, all because my son is now a man."
She reaches out, her fingers cool and firm as she places them under your chin, forcing you to meet her intense violet stare. "They think your inexperience is their opportunity. They think your soft heart is their weapon. So, I am asking you, as your mother and as the only person standing between this kingdom and chaos: How do you intend to handle this... difficult situation?"
(Queen-mother Leda-s opinion about you - "0", Neutral.)
