Fantasy Guide to Replacing a Regime and Enstablishing A Dynasty
You have a claim to the throne. Sort of. Well, at least you think you do. And that kingdom or empire or city next to you is looking pretty good, it would be nice to have your own setup or just to add to your collection. So how do you do that exactly?
Reasoning
Let's be honest, everybody wants to rule the world. If you have a chance to sit on a throne or take a position of power, you would. Behind the want for a crown that isn't yours, there must be a secondary reasoning, a way to back up any claims that you're an invader and you don't belong on the throne. Most new dynasties who invade and depose the previous monarchs do have a back up claim. Either they are:
Distantly Related -> They have a blood claim. This means they are somehow related to a previous monarch. This can be a weak claim, either distantly, either through the female line (most inherited blood right passes through the male line) or even through an illegitimate line. Example, The Tudors, The Hanoverians, the Bourbons.
Invited -> Perhaps some nobles and powerful figures are disgruntled by the current regime and they decide that a figure either within the Kingdom or abroad might do a better job. Sometimes that person is asked to help in a succession crisis and decides that they are the best choice. Example: Edward I in Scotland and Henry II in Ireland. Lesson, do not invite the English over.
Dibs -> The holy concept of dibs was actually a valid claim to a throne. By 'right of conquest' essentially means I've taken it and now it is mine. Conquest is usually backed up by the idea that if there is a deity, they wouldn't have allowed the rightful monarch to be overthrown and this must be the will of the god(s). One may need a good propagandist to make this work.
Toolkit
To invade and overthrow any monarchy and establish your own regime, you will need the following things.
Army -> Military might or at very least support is paramount. You need an army to protect you, to beat your enemies and later on, establish control. Armies can be acquired either through allies or by raising them yourself from your lands or you can hire one - store bought is fine if you can't do homemade.
Allies -> Everybody needs a friend. No incoming monarch or invader has done so without an ally. This could be nobles within the Kingdom itself who want a regime change. This could be foreign heads of state who want to fuck up that kingdom by triggering a civil war or want to control that kingdom in the future through their puppet. Allies essentially put money, vocal support and military support behind their guy but this is always in hopes of a return: money, land, titles or just a favour in the future. Allies are essential.
Money -> Most importantly, you need money. Money is essential in taking over a throne. You need to pay your soldiers, buy ships, feed your soldiers, house them, buy allies, buy equipment and of course, but appropriate drip. You want to be king, spend like one.
PR and Propaganda -> To invade, kill a bunch of people, likely steal a lot of food and burn and pillage probably wouldn't endear you to the people. People will endure a lot of awfulness if the PR machine is working. We burned that village? When this new guy landed on our shores, there was this fuck ass comet that like had to have been sent by the god(s)? We murdered your King? Yeah, well he was a bad guy and we saved you all actually.
When the Party is over...
You have just successfully invaded the country and overthrown the previous monarch. They are either:
(A) Dead
(B) Your prisoner
(C) On the Run
All options are good and are a success but in any take over of a regime like this, only one option is left to the new monarch if they want to make sure there are no reprisals.
Kill them all.
It sounds dark and villainy and it is but if you want to establish a new dynasty, the old monarch must die along with any heirs strong enough to oppose you. As a prisoner, they are a rallying point for your enemies and dissidents. In exile, they could just pull an Uno reverse and pull the same crap on you. Levelling the playing field is the better thing to do in the long run. That's everyone even young children unfortunately. Any smart monarch would do this and anybpdy left alive would be married into the new royal family for two reasons: it both negates the bloodline of the previous royals and bolsters the claim of the new royals.
Not only royalty need to die. Any nobles or dissidents will have to be seen to. Executions usually follow regime change. Nobles who supported the last monarch and won't change allegiance? Chopped. Commons who riot over your ascension? The hangman will be busy. Advisers who advised against you or won't change their tune? Thrown out a window.
Secondly, a new monarch should get crowned as quickly as possible. It sort of puts a solid seal on everything especially if there's a religious aspect.
There is another list of things to do. This surrounds mostly taking control of major cities and ports. Take over infrastructure, control food supplies and anything the country needs to run. Install your own government with both some members of the old regime but also your own supporters too. One last thing your new monarch should do is to establish the dynasty by making powerful marriages with all available relatives and create a string of heirs in a very clear succession.
Alastair sits behind the precariously swaying piles of books and paperwork on his desk, hunches over the logs he’s scribbling dates in. It’s tiresome work. Painstaking. He’s been staring at the same paper for so long his eyes are starting to dry, the numbers blurring together. His back aches, neck cramps. He’s sore, the chair underneath him unbelievably stiff and uncomfortable. It was made without care or account for the amount of long, hard hours he would have to persist under, glued to his seat. He bites his lip, squirming a little. He could really use a break.
It must be well past noon by now. He’s been at this for hours, forced himself out of his bed before he’s sure dawn had hit, restless, a cramp in his shoulder from a night of bleary-eyed tossing and turning. He’s drowning in his work. The hours tick by and not one dent has been made through his growing pile, nevermind whatever else Father Julius will have ordered for him. He’s tired. It was a simple mistake, really. A careless mistake. To have dared be caught by another person, Father Julius no less. Smiling at Jeremiah so casually, so foolishly. As if he deserves to ever. It’s punishable on its own, to abandon his work, no matter his own desires. Worse, to be caught. He’s lucky it was not worse for himself. He’s lucky Father Julius still trusts him with this. Why, he’s proven time and time again as to why he shouldn’t. Why he doesn’t deserve even this. He’s selfish.
Despite the insistent urge to crash back inside his room, to curl up and stay there, unmoving, he pushes on, one hand fisted in his hair, the other gripping his pen with a tightness that makes his forearm cramp. There are only so limited hours in a day. He’s squandered enough of the hour simply entertaining this, the idea of rest. He cannot risk a break. If he wasn’t able to sleep last night, it’s not as if he would be able to now. If that even mattered. He can’t afford to even try — he doesn't have the time.
It is agonizing, nevertheless. The print upon the paper is small, forcing him to squint, bow his head so low upon it his nose is practically brushing against it. Most of what is upon these files he can’t make out. It’s beyond difficult to remember, various time logs ordered in a very specific, needlessly complicated format. The elders designed much of this Archives like this. Outdated, complex. Too much for him to comprehend, most days. Much less on so little sleep. An outsider wouldn’t be able to understand these without the proper tools, secrets encrypted within the pages. Boring stuff, mostly. Supply orders, recruitments. But vital information to the church’s core, despite.
He yawns, scrubs quickly at his eyes. This is terribly boring. As always. Maybe he really should take a break—
“Boo.”
The sudden hands that grip him and the voice, whispered, from behind him cause Alastair to yelp and jolt in his seat, whirling around instantly. Though he recognizes the voice subconsciously — he always would, how could he not — it’s not until he sees the grinning face of Jeremiah that his shoulders relax. He grips his chest, heart pattering against his ribcage uselessly, desperate to escape, his breathing heavy. “Goodness, Jeremiah,” he pants, shooting his brother a playful glare. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Jeremiah laughs, shoving at his shoulders lightly. Alastair sways easily at the touch, huffing; he shoots his brother what attempts to be a glare, but quickly wavers. Jeremiah pays it no mind, laughing it off with ease. “Busy busy I see.” He says, leaning over Alastair’s shoulder to more closely peer at the paperwork. “What’re you working on?”
Alastair sighs, a half-hearted sound, only audible against the pure silence buried inside the walls of the Archives. Echoing. It’s always quiet down here. Most nights, even the slightest rustle of movement manages to wake him from his slumber. The silence is all-consuming. It was here, before he was around, when the Archives were not even a concept inside his childlike mind. And it’ll be here afterwards, when he has long passed on. The Archives know all. If not for Jeremiah, he thinks he would have lost his speech by now; he would have no one to talk to. The idea swells a strange sadness from within his chest. What a lonely thought.
He slumps back in his chair, spinning back towards his desk, the exhaustion falling over him again in waves. He’s bone-tired, though he always is. That doesn’t change anything. It isn’t new. Unimportant, in the grand scheme of things. Pushing his glasses up, he runs a hand down his face, attempting to shake off some of the fatigue. It’s worse when he fixates upon it. “I’m transcribing these time logs. They’re so old some of them are barely legible. The Archives needs a fresh copy,” he explains, tapping his pen against the edge of the dark wood of the desk. Father Julius always wants something restored, a file reorganized. It’s become a daily struggle, at this point.
Jeremiah hums. “Sounds tedious.”
With a groan, Alastair nods his agreement. “Oh, it is. I’ve been working on this since yesterday morning.” He says, now pointing with his pen to a steadily growing pile of papers to his left. Just staring at it forces another grimace out of him. He has so much work left to do. He really shouldn’t even be entertaining this conversation. He’ll have to work more hours tonight to make up for it.
Jeremiah pats Alastair’s shoulder sympathetically, shifting to the side to lean his weight against the desk. His smiling face blocks the reminder of Alastair’s endless to-do list from view. “Well then it seems to me like you could use a break.”
A dangerous suggestion. Punishable, if it were to come out of anyone else’s lips. Alastair raises a brow and sets his pen down, folding his hands in his lap politely, back perched. Something heavy settles along his shoulders. If anyone else were to enter, he would be the epitome of respect, worthy of his title. But the double doors leading into the Archives and out to the rest of the world do not swing open. No one is here to see it, nor are they here to see his expression waver. He purses his lips. Rather than respond to Jeremiah’s suggestion, he taps his loafer against the side of Jeremiah’s own boot. Meets his gaze, hesitant. “Does Father Julius know you’re down here?”
Jeremiah eyes the door and then glances back to his brother, biting the edge of his lip. A coy smile worms its way across his face. “Maybe.” He says quite unconvincingly.
Alastair sighs and gives him a small, nervous smile. “You’ll get us in trouble again,” he mumbles, angling his head down and looking up at Jeremiah.
He huffs, defiant. “What Father Julius doesn’t know won’t kill him.” He says, sharp, shoulders rolling back. His expression splits away to another grin. Mischievous. “Plus, I’ve got plenty of free time to spend with my little brother. They’ve got to let me take a break every once in a while.”
Alastair regards Jeremiah for a moment, glancing towards the door to the Archives nervously. He then eyes the taunting stack of unfinished paperwork in front of him, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. Had he not just been thinking of taking a break? It’s not like he’s going to get much work done like this, bored out of his mind, counting the minutes down the to hour. Was there really that much harm than spending a few minutes with his brother? He so seldomly was given the chance to. Surely it would not be so unforgiveable.
He obliges. “What did you have in mind?”
“We should do something fun together.” Jeremiah says, glancing around the Archives — notoriously filled with what are not fun items. Alastair grimaces. He has nothing to offer up; although, he never does, and neither does he think he ever will have. This has always been the fate to befall their relationship. Jeremiah, with cards in hand; Alastair knelt at his feet. His belongings are minimal, room small. Cramped. Jeremiah surely has something better to do. Going over Bible verses is his best idea at a good time, something his brother must have had enough of for the day. He can’t think of a suggestion. Yet, Jeremiah doesn’t appear discouraged. The opposite, actually.
He smiles. “You could show me some of your origami, maybe.”
“Oh!” Alastair brightens instantly. Of course. His origami. He perks up in his spot, sliding to the side and yanking open one of his desk drawers. “I got that coloured paper I mentioned. I could teach you.”
“Ooh, that sounds fun.” Jeremiah says, bouncing on his heels. His fingers tap the fabric of his uniform lightly, as if playing out a song upon musical keys. Magical. His eyes are sparkling as they sweep over the variety of colours splayed out inside the creaking drawer. “Maybe show me how you made that dog one. Or a paper fish, that one was cool too.”
With an excited nod, Alastair pulls out the stack of coloured paper and sets it on the desk between them. “Let’s do that dog,” he says, nudging the chair he keeps for his brother, gesturing for him to sit. The time logs are forgotten. With it, Father Julius’s wrath. He can never find it in himself to tell his brother no.
“Pick a colour.” He instructs, plucking a light green paper from the pile for himself. Jeremiah plops down in his own chair, getting comfortable before picking up a piece of paper that’s a nice, soft shade of purple for himself. His nails tap against the surface.
“Where do we start?”
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Alastair hums contentedly. The Archives are quiet, his work pushed off to the side. Jeremiah leans in close, hunched over the desk. His eyes flit from his paper to Alastair’s own, fingers twitching as Alastair sets out the steps for him. His face is scrunched up in concentration, a crease between his brows. And yet, his shoulders are relaxed. Calm.
Alastair speaks in low tones, a soft guiding hand. He walks him through each crease and fold, each flip of the paper; his lines are clean and crisp, his hands gentle with the material. His glasses slipping slightly down his nose, head downturnt, there comes no bother. He does not even feel to urge to reach to fix them. The rustling of paper provides all the calm he could ever need. It works its way through his body, warm, softly buzzing. From the tips of his toes to his ears. Washing over him, serene. “Don’t grip it too tight now,” he warns, gaze upon his own work. “You’ll crinkle it.”
Jeremiah is hunched over his own little paper craft, squinting as he fumbles with the folds. His foot taps against the floor, impatient, and he lets out a sharp huff of air. Alastair glances toward him, checking in with his progress; he cannot help himself from laughing quietly. He has to bring a hand to cover his mouth at the sight of his brother’s large hands squishing the small, somewhat deformed dog, the poor thing bent in wonky angles — looking like more of a giraffe or a cow than anything else. Snickering, he leans over, biting at his cheek. “Maybe pull the tail a little bit and make a new crease?” He suggests. “I think you can fold the head in a bit more to help it look smaller.”
Jeremiah snorts, struggling to follow Alastair’s lead. A strand of hair falls in front of his face, tickling, and he blows it away. “I don’t know how you’re so good at these things.”
“You’re holding it too tightly.” Alastair smiles softly, scooting his chair closer, elbow-to-elbow, and placing his hands on Jeremiah’s, forcing the man’s to loosen up. “Don’t try to force it into shape, bend the paper and let it decide where the natural crease will be and then flatten the crease when you find it to make a tight fold.”
Jeremiah grunts, not resisting the help. Hands repositioned, he folds it again, his leg shaking from within his chair. The patter of his heel against the stone echoes throughout the cavern, a distant sound. Not unpleasant — why, its actually quite comforting. Jeremiah’s presence does everything to soothe his nerves. It is all he could wish for, all he ever wishes for. The feeling of another body besides his, pulling him out of his own isolation. Warm and present and alive. It is like feeling the sun upon his face, tickling his skin. Sweets melting upon his tongue, undeniably delicious. All he has ever missed. He relishes in it.
Alastair tilts his head, shaking a curl from out of his own eyes. His own piece finished, he takes in his brother’s as he pulls at the last folds. Jeremiah’s dog could almost be described as sloppy. The creases aren’t neat, with little wrinkles and worn-down bits from the aggressiveness of where his fingers were pressing down too hard, and the shape is certainly not dog-like. Some parts are too thin; the legs are all different lengths; the head drooping down at an awkward angle. Why, compared to his, it appears to be made by a child. Yet Alastair cannot help the smile that crosses his face. “It’s pretty good for a first try.”
Jeremiah stares down at his very wonky looking dog, and then to Alastair’s perfectly folded one. He laughs and elbows him. “Uh, it is not.” He scoffs, amused. His eyes twinkle. “But thanks anyways.”
Alastair carefully plucks the “dog” out of Jeremiah’s hands and places both of their sculptures on the desk side by side. Purple and green, opposites on the colour wheel. Contrasting with each other perfectly. They stay upright for a moment before Jeremiah’s tips sideways and knocks Alastair’s over with it. He bites back another laugh. “Can I have it?”
“Really?” Jeremiah blinks, taken aback. His mouth quirks into what is not quite a smile.
Alastair doesn’t turn to meet his gaze. His eyes are on the two knocked over origami sculptures as he nods. “Yes.” He says, voice solemn. “You worked hard on it. I think it’s nice. You can keep mine if you’d like. I know you already have a dog but this one is green.”
“I mean, mines not as good as yours. But if you’d really like it, of course.” Jeremiah shrugs. He reaches over, picks up the two paper dogs, placing his own in Alastair’s palm. The sculpture shakes, threatening to tumble over again. “You can keep it.”
Alastair looks down at the crumpled little paper dog now in his hand and then looks to Jeremiah again, beaming with warm cheeks. “Thank you.”
Jeremiah smiles back at him, softer this time, something intrinsically genuine, and for a moment, Alastair is able to forget who he is. He forgets everything he will spend his life trying to make up for. This curse that no apology will ever amount to. Where he is doomed to live out the rest of his days. It is the shortest moment of bliss, and yet, it is all he has to cling onto. It is his lasting hope.
I know for a fact that Sarah J. Maas is far from the only big name author whose (highly popular) books lack representations of marginalized groups.
Yet all this vitriol homing in at her? Going as far as baselessly accusing her of being a Zionist, a queerphobe, a racist, a white supremacist? As a queer woman of color here, I'm not getting any of that from her.
Is this all because she's 1) a woman and a successful one at that and 2) Jewish?
By no means do I consider myself a fan of Sarah J. Maas. I read her books out of curiosity and intrigue, doesn't mean I'm crazy about them. But I can't help but feel like the sheer amount of hate she's getting is uncalled for. She's no J. K. Rowling. And if she keeps her political opinions to herself, that's not a crime.
What about I'd live for you? characters that drag themselves out of the gutter and learn how to change because they know that's what the other deserves. the slow, barely noticeable healing until one day they look at their partner stirring their coffee and sitting down across from them in the golden morning light. that realization of "Oh. Oh. This is why I stayed."
