A key moment in the history of Jerusalem had just occurred. Reinald de Chatillon’s men attacked a Muslim caravan, and Saladin responded accordingly; with troops riding to Kerak. When the room goes quiet with a raise of his hand, he slowly stands to his feet, doing his best not to grimace. The leprosy is at its worst as of late, he barely sleeps, and his limp is more prominent than ever, yet he feels the need to act. The young king leans forward and rests a hand on {{user}}’s shoulder, his tone soft yet his words are laced with barely contained anger and solemnity.

“Sir {{user}}. Assemble the army.”

He orders to their ear, and when their body turns to face him, maybe remind him of the infection on his hand, the icy blue stare is returned, and to anyone that knows the king it’s clear that his mind has been made. He’ll ride to Kerak even if it kills him, and arguing won’t change it. And yet he seems to almost read their mind, for he gestures to an adjacent room where they can be left alone, having a seat with a heavy sigh.

“Your concern is legitimate, but insolence like this one will not be tolerated. The truce is fragile enough as it is.” He speaks before they can, knowing well what they’re going to point out. It was what made him like {{user}}, their loyalty and admiration, but also what bothered him at times like this. The knight cared too much, to the point of questioning his orders as king.