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Theodotus1

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DRAGON RISING -- A Welsh AAR

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The history of Wales is the story of a Celtic people who once lived throughout the country we now know as England. They called themselves “Cymry” (meaning “fellow-countrymen), and called their homeland “Cymru” (meaning “land of fellow-countrymen”). Before the Anglo-Saxons came, Cymru encompassed all of southern Britain.

Historically, the Cymry were driven from most of their lands, first by the Anglo-Saxons (who called the Cymry “Welsh,” meaning “strangers” or “foreigners”) and later by the Normans. And eventually they were subjugated to the point that their native language became almost extinct, and their culture almost vanished from the world.

This AAR is the story of a line of rulers who attempted to change that fate.

The story begins with Bleddyn ap Cynfyn, who historically ruled Gwynedd and Powys. Bleddyn is described in the Brut y Tywysogion (“Chronicle of the Princes,” one of the most important primary sources for Welsh history) as: "the most lovable and the most merciful of all kings ... he was civil to his relatives, generous to the poor, merciful to pilgrims and orphans and widows and a defender of the weak..., the mildest and most clement of kings," who "did injury to none, save when insulted.... openhanded to all, terrible in war, but in peace beloved."

Historically, Bleddyn was killed in 1075 while trying to unify Wales. But this is a different story . . . .

Author’s Note: This AAR is being played out using version 1.05c of CK2, along with version 0.6e of the excellent SOH mod. One of the changes in the SOH mod is that the de jure Kingdom of Wales consists of the Duchies of Gwynedd, Deheubarth, and Hereford (Hereford, Shrewsbury and Chester counties in the mod). Hereford simulates the territory known as the Welsh Marches, which historically were not part of the de jure Kingdom of England (despite being under English control) until close to the end of the time simulated in CK2. The inclusion of Hereford in de jure Wales is important in recreating the historical dynamic between Wales and England, and is in my opinion a necessary modification.
 
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INTRODUCTION

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News travelled slowly in those days, and perhaps more slowly to Wales than elsewhere. But by Christmas of that year, word had come that William of Normandy had vanquished the Saxons at a place called Hastings, and claimed their kingdom for himself. And Bleddyn ap Cynfyn, Duke of Gwynedd, saw in the event both peril and retribution.

On the one hand, the godforsaken Saxons had finally been humbled. They were the ancient enemy, who had driven the Cymry out of their ancestral lands and into the mountain fastnesses of Wales. And even then they had not been satisfied – constantly they had imposed themselves to hold the Cymry down. It was the Saxons, led by Harold Godwinson, who had ended the reign of Bleddyn’s half-brother, Gruffydd ap Llywellen, the first and only King of Wales. Harold had defeated Gruffydd in battle when no one else could, and then had hounded him to his death. But now Harold himself lay dead at the hands of the Normans. Thus was God’s justice made manifest.

On the other hand, from what Bleddyn had heard, the Normans were even worse. Where the Saxons had been overbearing, the Normans were proving cruel. Already they were a scourge upon the land, taking all they coveted, driving even the lowliest peasants to ruin. And while for the moment they were preoccupied with pacifying the remaining Saxon lords, Bleddyn had no doubt they would soon shift their gaze to the lands of the Cymry.

For the good of his people, he had to act.
 
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CHAPTER I -- "The Eagle"​

Bleddyn turned first to the border with England. When the Normans came, a resolute defense there would be vital.

Two counties in Gwynedd stretched along the frontier: Powys and Perfeddwlad. Powys was Bleddyn’s ancestral home, site of castle Mathrafal, from whence his family had originally taken its name. And Powys was securely under his personal control -- Powys would stand strong. But Perfeddwlad was a problem. There, Bleddyn’s brother-in-law, Edwyn Tegaingl, held the land as Bleddyn’s vassal. And the man was a weakling: slothful, craven and deceitful. Edwyn would rather stab you in the back than punch you in the face. And when the Normans came, Edwyn would likely open the gates to them if it meant he could avoid climbing on his horse.

Something had to be done.

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Unfortunately, Edwyn had so far committed no offense that gave Bleddyn the right to strip him of his lands. And Bleddyn knew that Edwyn would never relinquish them out of any sense of duty to the Cymry. But it did occur to him that a man of Edwyn’s qualities would not be beloved by the Church.

The bishop of Llangollen in Powys was named Cain. He was a good man: brave, honest, charitable and just. He was also Chancellor of Gwynned. And when Bleddyn broached the subject, Cain answered in no uncertain terms.

“Edwyn is a pig,” he said. “And Cymru should not be a pig sty.”

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Thus it was that a letter bearing the seal of the bishop of Llangollen made its way to Rhuddlan castle, where Edwyn held court. In the letter, Edwyn was informed that the magnitude of his sins had exceeded even the ability of St. David, patron of Wales, to intercede in heaven on his behalf, and that if he wished to avoid hellfire he should decamp himself immediately and make pilgrimage to Jerusalem, there to beg forgiveness where Christ had died. It was also stated that if he chose not to, the Church would no longer consider him the rightful Earl of Perfeddwald.

Meanwhile, Bleddyn prepared his forces.

It is said that when Edwyn read the letter, his face turned shades of purple never before seen in Cymru. In any case, his rage was apparent in his reply: He retorted that he would sooner burn in hell than take orders from a “leprous priest.”

After Edwyn’s response had been announced in Llangollen, Cain stood at the alter in the bishopric and ceremoniously washed his hands in holy water. And he proclaimed that, clearly, Edwyn must no longer be a recipient of God’s grace.

Bleddyn struck quickly then. The men of Gwynedd and of Powys were ready -- they routed Edwyn’s forces at a place called Llanelwy, and then swept on to Rhuddlan. And the siege there was quick. True to his character, Edwyn escaped the castle, lowered over the walls by a rope in the dead of night. Then he fled south, to the court of Caradog ap Gruffydd in Gwent.

After the garrison surrendered, Bleddyn granted his sister safe passage so that she could join Edwyn, though why she would want to surpassed his understanding.

That spring, on Saint David’s Day, Bleddyn knelt in the bishopric of Llangollen and gave thanks for the victory, and prayed for God’s blessings upon the Cymry.

And as time went on, it came to be said that the speed of his descent upon Rhuddlan had been like an eagle swooping down upon its prey. Eventually, he was spoken of simply as “The Eagle.” And it was known that his talons were sharp.

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Good luck with that one. Wales is one of my favourite items on the list of interesting starts I hope one day to have the time to do. It would be great seeing a resurgent Wales, especially with some apt historical narrative like you gave in the post above.
 
I've yet to read a good CKII AAR and this one looks promising! :)

Subscribed and will follow!
 
Excellent!! I'm a big fan of Wales, always have been. In the Rise of Power mod by dauncosony, I managed to create the Kingdom of Wales (primary) and the kindom of England from one county in.... 150 years? I love Wales. The best. Anyhow. Definitely following this. Well written :)
 
CHAPTER 2 -- All Along the Watchtower
“All along the watchtower, princes kept the view.”

Thus it was that all of Gwynedd was brought under Bleddyn’s hand. But to the south, the Cymry remained vulnerable.

South of Powys, the county of Gwent was ruled by Caradog ap Gruffydd. And he was a man without redeeming qualities: envious and craven, and an absolute idiot both on the battlefield and in managing his lands. Nevertheless, he seemed possessed by delusions of grandeur; he required members of his court to address him in terms usually reserved for kings or emperors. And it was rumored that he plotted endlessly to expand his holdings, though his cowardice had so far prevented him from acting on any of his schemes. Bleddyn had no doubt that he would resist when the Normans came, because Caradog would never tolerate even the thought of someone taking what was his -- but he was such an incompetent that he would effectively be worse than having no commander at all.

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Once again, something had to be done.

But Bleddyn had no claim on Gwent, at least none that was commonly recognized. The reach of the Mathrafals had never extended so far south. Nevertheless, perhaps a solution could be found in the law.

On that Saint David’s Day in Llangollen, after Bleddyn had beseeched God’s blessings upon the Cymry, he met with Cain in the rectory of the bishopric, where a fire blazed on the hearth to fight off the chill in the March air. Now that Mass was over, Cain was wrapped in a blanket -- he was sick that day, afflicted yet again with the mysterious illness that had plagued him for years, coming and going unpredictably, with no more warning than the cold breeze in early springtime.

“Do I not have a claim on Gwent?” Bleddyn asked, hoping there was some legal doctrine he did not know. “I am Duke of Gwynedd because Gruffydd was my half-brother. And Gruffydd ruled in Gwent also. Do I not have a claim that flows from him?”

Cain looked dubious. “You have always valued honesty,” he said, “so I will remind you of the hard truth. You rule in Gwynedd only because Harold Godwinson -- may he rot in hell -- placed you there. He could have picked anyone, given that he had the upper hand after Gruffydd’s death; but your bloodline was convenient, in terms of keeping the peace. And he saw you as the smallest risk. He disinherited Gruffydd’s sons because he thought you were more pliable and less ambitious.” Cain smiled at Bleddyn then. “On that point, both you and I know he was mistaken.”

Bleddyn sighed. There was no arguing with the accuracy of Cain’s assessment. And the thread of events was too recently woven into the memory of the Cymry to be spun now into something other than what it actually was -- Gruffydd had lain in his grave for only a little more than five years. “So is there nothing on my side in the law?”

“Not that I can think of,” Cain said. “Besides, Gruffydd ruled in Gwent by right of conquest. Do you really want to remind the Normans of that precedent?”

Bleddyn doubted that they needed any reminding. He pursed his lips in frustration. “So I should just sit on my hands when they come to take Gwent?”

”No,” Cain said, frowning momentarily, as if disapproving of Bleddyn’s insistence. “I have no doubt that when the Normans come, Caradog will welcome your help, just as I have no doubt that he will claim credit for your victories.” He looked away then, staring into the fire as if he could see the future there. “But I do not think that will happen quickly. The Saxons are restive. They will likely keep the Normans busy for some time.”

Bleddyn didn’t disagree. Even now, Morcar of Northumbria sat chained in a dungeon for having rebelled against the Normans the previous spring. And there were rumors of unrest from York to Northampton. The Saxons seemed no happier now with the Normans than they had been with the Danes, generations ago. Perhaps they might even eventually prevail against their new enemies, just as they had against the Danes. Only time would tell -- though to Bleddyn it seemed that the Normans were more ardent about their conquests than the Danes had ever been.

They talked for a long time then, plotting the way forward, examining all possibilities. Fundamentally, one thing was clear: if the Cymry were not somehow united, they would be vulnerable piecemeal. But unity had always eluded the Cymry, except during the seven years when Gruffydd had ruled. And after Gruffydd’s death, Harold Godwinson had made certain that the land was splintered once more, by returning the constituent holdings to the families that had traditionally ruled them. In the south, Cymru was once again split into three parts: Gwent, Glamorgan and Dyfed. And divided it seemed likely to remain.

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To the west of Gwent, Cadwgan ap Meurig ruled in Glamorgan. Cadwgan was a contradiction: kind, temperate and charitable, a competent leader on the battlefield, but also foul-tempered and slothful. Cadwgan had never been known to maintain an alliance with anyone -- negotiations tended to break down in a storm of shouting and thrown wine cups. And he hated Caradog ap Gruffydd with a passion, given that most of Caradog’s schemes were focused on conquering Glamorgan. When the Normans came to Gwent, Cadwgan would likely stay home, and would probably consider them to be doing him a favor by removing a rival he was too lazy to get rid of himself.

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Further west still, Maredudd ap Owain ruled in Dyfed as Duke of Deheubarth. Maredudd was Bleddyn’s second cousin, though they had never met in person. From what Bleddyn had heard, Maredudd possessed the perfect temperament for a monk -- shy, chaste, patient and kind -- which probably explained why he was still childless at age 58. It was said that Maredudd made a habit of washing the feet of beggars each year during lent. And Bleddyn thought that when the Normans came, Maredudd was apt to try turning the other cheek. Which only meant that he wouldn’t see the blow coming until it struck him in the face.

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“They will never stand together,” Bleddyn said finally, with a sigh. “When the Normans come, the three of them will fall one by one. The Normans may even be able to turn them upon each other, and then simply pick up the pieces.” For a moment his temper got the better of him, and he glared at Cain. “And yet you still say there is nothing I can do now!”

“We have always been our own worst enemy,” Cain replied, glaring back at him just as ferociously. “We have always been more interested in fighting amongst ourselves than in standing together. Thus were the Saxons able to defeat us, time and again.” He turned his eyes back to the fire then, as if the flames were a window on the past. “Even when Gruffydd ruled, when the Cymry were supposedly united, we were our own greatest foe.” He glowered at the memory of it. “As you well know, the Cymry killed Gruffyd, not the Saxons. Godwinson defeated him in battle, yes -- but it was Gruffydd’s own men who actually cut his throat. They decided he’d become more trouble than he was worth, and they did not suffer him to live.” For a moment, then, Cain’s tone waxed philosophical. “It is just in our nature to be unruly. The Cymry are like wild horses, and any man who presumes to bridle them risks being trampled. That may well be our undoing, but it is apparently God’s will, for we are as He has made us.”

Cain stared for a moment more into the flames. Then he locked eyes with Bleddyn again, grimly. “Tread carefully, Bleddyn ap Cynfyn. God may yet grant you what you seek, but until that day you must bide your time. Because if you overreach, you’ll get your throat cut, too.”

It was after dark by then, and growing late. As the hours had lengthened, Cain’s acolyte had kept the fire stoked, and made sure their cups of warmed mead did not run dry, and had helped Cain stand and walk when he needed to relieve himself. Nevertheless, Cain’s face had grown more and more pale. But when Bleddyn suggested he should rest, Cain shook his head. “Only God knows the number of my days,” he said, “but I feel that few remain.” He took a sip from his mead, holding his cup in both hands, and Bleddyn saw that he was afflicted with tremors. “Since your victory at Rhuddlan, I have been sick more often than not,” Cain said. “And while I have prayed for healing, that prayer has not been answered.” He set his cup back down on the table beside him, very carefully, so as not to spill it. “Perhaps my letter to Edwyn was a sin, and this renewed illness is my penance.” For just an instant, a shadow of anxiety passed over his face. Then he smiled wryly. “I prefer to think that your victory is part of God’s plan, and that my work here is nearly done. But that could just be pride on my part.” He sighed, and stared back at the fire for a long, silent moment. Then he shrugged. “In any case, anything more that should be said between us should be said tonight.”

Bleddyn reached over and put his hand on Cain’s shoulder. He felt then just how frail the man had become -- even wrapped in the blanket, Cain seemed more bone than flesh. And it sank in to Bleddyn that this might indeed be the last time they spoke.

“What you have done, you have done for the Cymry,” he told Cain. “And that cannot be wrong in God’s eyes.”

Cain smiled slightly, as if he hoped that were true but was afraid it was not. Then he stared fiercely back at Bleddyn. “When the Normans come, they will come with more men than can be found in all of Cymru. You cannot hope to match them as things now stand. And it takes almost a score of years for a boy to grow into a man fit for battle. But I do not think the Normans will wait a score of years. So you cannot rely on the sons of Cymru to stop them.” He paused, and then the dire tone lifted from his voice. “But there is another way.”

He reached inside his robes, under the blanket he was wrapped in, and pulled out a silver Saxon penny. He held it up for Bleddyn to see. “This is the answer. Coin can be grown far faster than men, if it is tended well. And coin can be used to hire men from other shores. And with those other men you can match the Normans. Perhaps even overmatch them . . . .” His voice trailed off for a moment, as if he were imagining things in some future time. Then he snapped back to the present, and his eyes blazed with enthusiasm for what he was saying. “This can be your advantage. The Cymry are not a mercantile people, but you must do your best to make them so. You must encourage commerce at every turn, until there is a market within reach of every village, where the people can trade what they produce. And then you must tax every transaction, because otherwise they will just waste their profit on drink, or on trinkets for their women, or horde it under their beds. And with those taxes you can build up your strength, until the Normans are no longer a threat.”

Bleddyn stared at the coin in Cain’s hand. The idea did not sit well with him. There was a reason the coin was Saxon -- the Cymry did not mint their own coins. As Cain had said, they were not a mercantile people. They lived primarily by barter and payment in kind; cattle were a common medium of exchange. And now Cain would have him change that. But Bleddyn doubted such a change was even possible. The Cyrmy had always been warriors, not sellers of goods. He frowned. “So you would have me be ‘Lord of Merchants’?”

Cain nodded. “Better that than ‘Lord of Slaves’.”

There was no denying it. But the idea still did not sit well.

Bleddyn rose from his chair then. It was time to go; Cain’s face was looking grey in the firelight, probably from fatigue, but Bleddyn knew that Cain would continue the conversation for as long as they sat there together. He knelt down in front of Cain to take his leave; for he was, after all, a pious man. “Bless me, Father,” he said, taking a long look at Cain’s face, in case it was the last time they met. “I can see I’m going to need it.”

Cain smiled at that. Then he grew solemn. “God go with you, Bleddyn ap Cynfyn,” he said, tracing the sign of the cross on Bleddyn’s forehead. “Keep watch on our enemies, always. And use every moment God grants you to build up your strength.”
 
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Nice update! :)

How are you going to manage building holding improvements before the Normans come knocking on your door?
 
Can I just say you are doing an amazing job? If you ever write a novel, I'd buy it. You are honestly looking at this in a fun and realistic way, rather than, "rawr i eetz minurz".

The last bit about making a Welsh currency was also very interesting, and very much so in-depth. I am impressed.
 
Can I just say you are doing an amazing job? If you ever write a novel, I'd buy it. You are honestly looking at this in a fun and realistic way, rather than, "rawr i eetz minurz".

The last bit about making a Welsh currency was also very interesting, and very much so in-depth. I am impressed.

I second.

Theodotus, your writing style and detail is very impressive! Most AARs that I read that aren't completely centered on gameplay (quite a rarity anymore, sadly), are so bogged down with boring text and hardly anything related to the game that I never can finish one. This is quite different. For not being a gameplay AAR, you balance the storyline and gameplay very nicely.

I get the hint also that Cain already died as of your current progress in the game, and you wrote this with that knowledge.
 
Can I just say you are doing an amazing job? If you ever write a novel, I'd buy it. You are honestly looking at this in a fun and realistic way, rather than, "rawr i eetz minurz".

The last bit about making a Welsh currency was also very interesting, and very much so in-depth. I am impressed.

Many thanks for the kind words, everyone. :p

I did some further research on Welsh history before writing this section, and the lack of Welsh economic development at the time was slightly surprising to me. But it works well in terms of the story.

I have to credit both the game and the mod I'm using (the excellent SOH mod) for providing the raw material for the story. It's amazing to me just how much flavor flows out of the gameplay. (Having Bleddyn gain the nickname "The Eagle" in the game was a turning point for my enthusiasm level -- after that I knew I was into it for the duration.) And the SOH mod is the best for a Wales playthrough, because of the way it handles the Welsh Marches. Now if I could just convince Sleight of Hand to incorporate the Cantrefi mod into SOH . . . .

I second.

Theodotus, your writing style and detail is very impressive! Most AARs that I read that aren't completely centered on gameplay (quite a rarity anymore, sadly), are so bogged down with boring text and hardly anything related to the game that I never can finish one. This is quite different. For not being a gameplay AAR, you balance the storyline and gameplay very nicely.

I get the hint also that Cain already died as of your current progress in the game, and you wrote this with that knowledge.

I actually got about 30 years or so into the story before Sleight of Hand convinced me to write an AAR. (I was recounting to him by PM what was happening as I played using his mod, and he liked the developing storyline. The game has been on hold since then, in order for me to catch up with the story before my memory fades or is overwritten by further game events.) So I've had a bit of a look at what's to come. (Some amazing plot points lie ahead -- I find it hard to believe that a computer game can generate the story that I've seen unfold while playing.)
 
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Update? I need something to take my mind off the rugby. :D