Being back home was… boring.
Nilfgaard was a place that offered a very refined, cultural experience, if such a thing was what one desired. The man sitting behind his desk, going over reports that detailed things like a marginal increase in grain prices, the projected revenue from each vassal state, and minor outbreaks of Catriona inching ever closer to the heart of the Empire, did not value such a pretentious lifestyle.
It was true that Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, Lord of Metinna, Ebbing, and Gemmera, Sovereign of Nazair and Vicovaro, Conqueror of the Northern Realms, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, The White Flame Dancing on the Graves of His Foes, was capable of impeccable decorum. One had to be, in his position. It was like a suit of armor: useful for keeping one alive, but hardly comfortable when worn for long periods of time. And he had been wearing his armor for far too long.
As much as a man of his stature should not crave war, he missed it greatly. Everything was more simple when one's opponents were from other lands and could be relied upon to hate you in interesting ways. Political battles were far less stimulating, and his opponents were so much easier to crush.
There were occasional bandit troubles, of course. It should have been easier to deal with now that the war was over, but most of the standing army had returned to whatever professions they had held before being called upon to serve the Empire. In most places, the number of guards had actually been reduced. A large military presence during peacetime only cost more money.
Besides which, it was often more pragmatic to reach agreements with the larger hanses and let them do the work of keeping the smaller ones in order, only taking action when they stepped too far out of line to be ignored. It was only when the nobility and merchant guilds started complaining that the army was obligated to do something about it. As always, the poor either suffered at their hands or joined a gang themselves.
But that was only one problem among dozens, which came with trying to salvage a post-war economy on top of all the domestic issues he'd had to set aside for the sake of his Northern campaigns. Individually, the problems were not impossible to solve, but the small things added up to the point where he hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in several months. But then that wasn't exactly new.
A knock sounded at the door of his study, and he sighed, putting away the quill and leaning back in his chair.
"Enter."
Chamberlain Mererid obeyed, opening the door and entering the room with a swift, formal bow. "Your Imperial Majesty. I beg your pardon for disturbing you, but an important letter has just arrived."
"You are forgiven." In truth, the chamberlain had nothing for which to apologize. But the man's dedication to courtly etiquette ran so deep that Emhyr had long ago abandoned the idea of disabusing him of that notion. He beckoned with his hand. "Bring it here."
He did so, not making eye contact with the Emperor as he handed the letter over. It smelled faintly of salt, suggesting the courier had arrived by ship. The seal depicted three longboats in a red and black circle, a symbol with which he was intimately familiar.
"Has it been opened?"
"The mages have checked it for enchantments," said Mererid. "But the seal has not been broken. The courier said it was for your eyes only."
"Hm." Retrieving a small dagger from one of the drawers, he slid it along the seal, cutting cleanly through it and unrolling the letter. He took a minute to read it, and released a slight chuckle. "Well, well. I must say, this was the last thing I expected from her."
"What is it, Your Majesty?"
"A marriage proposal," he answered, skimming over the letter again. "From Cerys An Craite."
"The Queen of the Skellige Isles?"
"The very same. What do you make of it?"
He bowed, his eyes beholding only the floor. "Your Majesty, I would never dare to presume…"
"I am not asking for your presumptions, merely your opinion. You may speak freely."
"In that case, Your Majesty, it seems very much like a trap, one which ends with her cutting your throat on your wedding night. Skelligers are not to be trusted."
Emhyr smirked. "Have you ever been to Skellige?"
"Personally? No. I was not present during your campaign there, as I was ordered to remain at the Royal Palace in Vizima."
"I lived there for several years," he revealed. "Before returning here to claim my throne. Whatever else you might say about them, that sort of treachery is not in their culture. They'd rather charge you head on with an axe than stab you in the back."
"My apologies, Your Majesty, I never meant to offend…"
"You didn't. Thank you for your input, Mererid, but I know exactly what this means."
The Chamberlain said nothing, waiting with bated breath as he hung on the Emperor's every word.
"Send word to the port authority, as well as the fleet," he said. "They are to allow a royal envoy of Skelligan vessels into Nilfgaard, where Queen Cerys will be received with full diplomatic privileges. That is all. You may leave now."
"At once, Your Majesty." Mererid bowed and left the chamber, closing the door behind him.