As the heir to the throne, Travant is given the very best education possible.
In particular, the young prince has a keen interest in history, although in truth he takes to all of his subjects with admirable vigour. After all, his duty to the country is to be the very best he can be.
His studies of music and literature give him a great appreciation for the Thracian culture. Masterful composers reside in Luthecia, he is taught. When he hears their work, he knows it to be true. A troupe of incomparable performers hail from Kapathogia, and Travant swears there is no better sound than the marriage of these Thracian virtuosos- the finest works of the composers combined with the musicians at the peak of their performance. If anything could rival these triumphs of the arts, it would be Thracian literature. Again, he knows it, for he has read the Thracian masterpieces, and no classic from the rest of Jugdral comes close.
So why is it, the young prince wonders, that these wonderful artists struggle? As far away as Agustria, barons and dukes hire minstrels from Alster and Leonster. There is a market for these works, and geography is apparently no object. So why is it, Travant asks himself, that Thracia is overlooked? It is not for lack of quality, of course, and it is not for the long distance or for a lack of demand.
There must be something wrong, then. And there is. The winds whisper to him the answers, served up in the form of palace gossip from across the continent. It is because the Thracians are savages, a land without culture, or so it is said in the distant Dominion of the Lords. They regard it as no different to Verdane, even though they obviously could not be more different. Thracia's royal family is descended from the crusader Dain, for pity's sake! Is that not a sure sign of sophistication? Thracians are a proud people with much to be proud about. And so the prince rejects these rumours, the myth that other nations regard his this way.
King Travant regrets having done so, because he has now seen it. Thracia, in the eyes of the rest of the world, is good for only one thing.
Travant does dedicate additional time to his study of history. And so he knows the story of the Gáe Bolg by heart. And it is true, he thinks, that the world has known no greater tragedy. Jugdral has seen its share of horror, but not even the Sorrow of Miletos can compare to the story of siblings and friends, killed by the smallest of disputes, and the resulting divide of a peninsula once united in purpose and glory.
The north of the peninsula is, to southern eyes, a golden plain of prosperity. Fertile soil and fine conditions allowed the four kingdoms of the north to develop and grow yet mightier. Contrast to such areas as Mount Violdrake. The mountains that mark the border between north and south seem to perfectly mark the divide in quality of the land- the peninsula is divided in such a way that Manster seems to have everything worth having. Just south of the border, where Mount Violdrake lies, there is nothing to be grown. The rolling green fields come to an abrupt end, replaced with cruel rocky mountains where not even a single flower might bloom.
The people try to eke out a living. They pretend that the soil can be worked, that it was just a bad harvest this year. They tell themselves these lies, all the while knowing that their suffering will not end. To rival the yield of his northern neighbour a Thracian will need five times more land. This will require more work, and this will mean more mouths to feed. So while the northerners grow fat on their produce, Travant's subjects starve. Their only crime was failing to grow anything where not a thing could be grown.
Merely to survive, the women take "whatever work they can get." Everybody knows and understands the euphemism, but they do not ever say the truth, for if the Thracian farmers did not deny these tragic realities, they would lose their will to continue. By never facing how miserable their lives are, they hope to maintain the pretence that they are happy.
Why is it that nothing is done to correct this unfairness? Before the tragedy, there was no difference between north and south, for they were all Thracians. Why, now, are the southerners worth so little? And why, when they travel just a few miles in the direction of Manster, are they always turned away?
There must be something wrong, then. Again, there is. The rumours spread again, and once more find the prince's ear. The Thracians are savages, a people without worth. Of course, when they say Thracians, they mean southerners. Why should we admit Thracian farmers into our land, ask the people of Manster, when they are so beastly? And why should we care about their struggles when they are- that word again- savages? This seems backward to Prince Travant. When Thracia attempts the use of force to seize just a few of those coveted verdant farms, this is seen as the proof- the actions of an uncivilised nation. In truth, all diplomatic option are exhausted; the north simply has no interest in helping the Thracians who face famine. But nonetheless, the north is called noble by the world at large, and the south's famines are ignored.
Thracians are a proud people with much to be proud about. And so the prince rejects these rumours, the myth that other nations regard his this way.
King Travant regrets having done so, for now he has truly seen it. The Frieges and Chalphys allied themselves with Alster and Leonster; no one allied themselves with the Kingdom of Thracia. In the eyes of the world, Thracians were of no worth- except in the case of one task.
Travant learns also of strategy and tactics. In Grannvale they teach these things to instil discipline, and in part as a mere formality. The military straightens up the more unruly young heirs, and most otherwise enjoy the ceremonies and pageantry. For Travant, it is not like this.
If the land is too poor to even pretend it can be worked, something else must be done. The men of Thracia take on a risky job, and leave their home behind to die in a foreign land. These are the famous Thracian mercenaries, the dragon knights. In the eyes of the world, this is Thracia's only strength; indeed, her only purpose.
They are an honourable force, Travant thinks. They are not fighting for glory or power; if they were they would not be fighting for foreign dukes, whose successes they have no stake in. They fight only so that their families may live to see another day. They endanger themselves without end to put food on the table at home, so far away from them now.
Every war on the continent ends up seeing the Thracians hired by one side or the other. And so with every land dispute, every power grab, every self-righteous crusade, more Thracians die. Often, they are sent on what are effectively suicide missions, and though they rarely fail to get results, many do not escape alive. Why is it, Travant wonders, that the Thracians are expendable?
Something is wrong and he knows it. They may be mercenaries and so would never be treated as well as native armies, but all the same, there must be something wrong. He never expected preferential treatment, but seeing his countrymen thrown carelessly away incenses him. Why are these honourable men so mistreated?
It is the rumours again. The Thracians are savages, say all people across the continent. They are not worthy of the respect that any other force would receive. They kill for money, and the people of Jugdral disapprove most highly of this. There is no effort to understand- their deeds are not sinful but merely necessary. Thracians would not stoop so low as they are said to have done, relishing the kill, travelling the world to douse their weapons in blood and to profit from it. In truth, they are risking their lives so their sons can live on... He repeats himself to find no-one listening.
The Thracians are proud, but not vain. They know how they are spoken of, but they pay no mind to it. The people saying these things are the people paying their wages. Their families back home can not afford them to take these things personally.
But Travant is distraught at these rumours. Why? Why should all the precious Thracian lives be so disregarded and disdained, when they are nobler than any Agustrian lord? Why should all the great people of Thracia be cast aside? And why- Lord, why- should they be so permanently stained with the label of savages? Travant ignores these rumours too.
King Travant has learned much since he took the throne. He has moved on from his education, and all those rumours he so long denied have since been proven to him by the harsh realities of the world- a world that has no room for Thracians. He now knows that he cannot allow the disparagement of his men to continue. He now knows that he has no way to make the disparagement of his men end.
If the Thracians will be labelled savages no matter what they do, he asks, why should they not be savages? If respectable Thracia is not being respected, then something must be done. And if nothing can make them respected, they must be feared. In the past, the word savage has been a mockery of his people. In the future it will be a byword for terror- Thracian terror.
An anonymous source gave him the information. Quan was travelling through Yied. He had his spies confirm it, of course; Travant had given up on trusting other people. A little background research revealed this anonymous source's origins- the Loptyr Church. No doubt they had ulterior motives. But if helping Loptyrians was the only way to bring Thracia to glory, then it could not be avoided. Nothing could be allowed to supersede the needs of Thracia. Thracia needed power, glory, respect- and above all, it needed the fertile lands of the north.
Quan would die at the hands of an ambush, far from his home, and this would precipitate the fall of the entire Manster District. It was a horrible way to die, the sort of death that only a savage would inflict on anyone.
So be it. Now could be the end of Thracia's era of humiliation. To better the lives of Thracians forever, to end the unrelenting abuse of his people, to spread Thracia to all corners of the world... all Travant needed now was Quan on the end of his lance. He thought it would make a fitting symbol of the new Thracia.
It was time to show just how savage Thracia could be.