A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1463 - 1463: A Struggling Heart - Part 2

He'd caught wind of some of the plots Ferdinand had started, in an effort to win his competition with Oliver Patrick, and he'd come down with such a force of fury that Ferdinand thought his head would end up on the chopping block, alongside those of his men. In the end, his father had only executed one man – and it was done quietly, without public knowledge. But it was enough to bring control to a Merchant Guild that had got out of hand, and to Ferdinand as well, whose men had fallen down the same traps, in going far further than their posts ought to have allowed them.

It was hard not to feel bitter about the affair. Even now that Ferdinand was working alongside Ser Patrick, he couldn't help that bitterness from rising up on more than one occasion. He had to constantly restrain himself as the crowd – a crowd, in large part, of peasants – pressed against him, and threatened to sully his dress. He didn't like being so close to so many people, and he certainly did not like the mud that clung to his boots, and threatened to rise up all the way to the knees of his trousers. He hated the cold more and more.

But here he was, watching, and taking everything in, because it was his duty, and because there was a particular problem that he wished to solve, but could not voice. Naturally, he had a duty to watch his father in an important battle, and obviously, Lord Blackwell had performed as impressively as was to be expected of him, despite the pressure that had been put on, with so many people watching, and with the new heights of his reputation, that no doubt suffocated the man.

It was to the point that Ferdinand was almost disappointed that his father did not show more weakness. For such a man of overwhelming achievement seemed to expect the same things from his son, and in that regard, Ferdinand had done little to appease him. In truth, the competition with Oliver was his attempt – he recognized now – to win back some of that approval that he knew to be lacking in his father.

He'd asked Oliver in the past, half-jokingly, to teach him skill with the sword. Because, he knew, that was what his father respected above all else. He was a man of the battlefield. Matters of governance, he looked down on, and then somehow carried out his own duties of governance with such a contemptuous ease that it made a trained diplomat like Ferdinand frown. He'd recognized quite early on that he'd have no talent for the martial, and had put all the time he could into training his skills as a negotiator, knowing that would be what the future held for him. And somehow, even that was not enough. Oliver Patrick somehow outstripped him in that.

But that wasn't the problem. The problem hadn't come in losing the competition, though that indeed was a problem. The problem had come before he'd even accepted the competition. Or perhaps it was in the fact that his acceptance was given in the first place? He'd done it in a sudden rush of passion, not recognizing his own psychology, and not recognizing his inability to see straight when it concerned Oliver Patrick.

Thomas had not realized, but every time Ferdinand heard him insult the young head of the Patrick House, his disdain for the older man only grew. It was to the point that he was not sure whether he would snap at him – it was a problem that genuinely worried him, for his public position was so far in the opposite direction of where his head actually lay, that it functioned as something of an impossibility.

"Are you well, my Lord?" Thomas asked him, seeing that Ferdinand was standing in one place, as the crowd dispersed, staring absentmindedly at Oliver Patrick, and the red-headed girl that he proudly put a hand on the shoulder of, so he might present her to Queen Asabel.

"Hm? I'm fine," Ferdinand said, forcing himself to turn around, though he did so reluctantly. He recognized the girl – Nila Felder. She'd made a name for herself as a trader and a hunter, and at a rather young age too. She was an impressive little thing. "…But I wonder is she good enough for the Lord Patrick?" He muttered under his breath.

Five retainers surrounded him, and most knew to hold their tongue. Only Thomas had the gall to try and make his Lord repeat himself.

"Pardon?" Thomas asked.

"Nothing. A slip of the tongue," Ferdinand said, waving away the question, and trudging back to one of the wider paths that had been established – it was a track that had been dredged by the many people passing in between the tents, and had become muddy to such a point that they'd had to throw a bed of wood chippings down on top of them. A solution, of course, that one of Oliver's staff, in the form of Greeves, had quickly proposed. That was another matter that had earned Ferdinand's frustration. For, it was a problem that he likely cared about more than any other, and yet he had been unable to solve it himself. The blessed paths of wood chippings were another thing he had to thank Oliver Patrick for.

He caught himself and his slipping of the tongue with a mild degree of worry. He glanced around at his retainers and his guards. None of them showed the slightest look of confusion, so he supposed that to mean that they hadn't heard him. His public opinion of Oliver Patrick was far too away from what he had expressed that they could not hear it and not express surprise.

Ferdinand's opinion of the man was far from lowly. It was quite the opposite, to an almost unhealthy degree. He tried to imagine in his head what sort of woman he would have been more comfortable with Oliver Patrick standing next to, but he found himself unable. Next to Queen Asabel, he'd seemed more in place of where he ought to be, but despite her achievements, he could not help but feel that Nila Felder was beneath him.