It had started with land, as these things do. A comparatively insignificant piece of land, but land all the same and someone had wanted it. But what could you do with land? You could live on it, farm it, raze it to the ground for a laugh. Or you could think big. You could become king.
It had had to be official, of course, with ceremonies and jewelled ornaments and pretentious words. A god or two would have been nice. And the throne. The throne was important.
Over time, those ceremonies and jewelled ornaments and pretentious words had become tradition. Tradition was the backbone of the land, tradition gave kings legitimacy. Substance. Right. Some could argue power, but power was for nobility and what was nobility but very old money?
And so the land became a kingdom, for now it had a king, and those with money and an eye on the future, followed and took their titles with them. Time, as it does, passed.
Fast forward a few centuries. The crown has passed from hand to bloody hand down the generations of the royal family. Their name is House Aleathon.
A king now sits on the throne. Old and grouchy, he has little time left. He knows this, and though his doctors skirt around it, he will die in a week. And the kingdom will fall into chaos.