DYNASTY: House of Habsburg
CHAPTER 1: Origins
Dawn breaks over the Rhine Valley, and a cold mist clings to the turrets of a stone fortress perched above the river. The year is 1020, and the world is a patchwork of fiefdoms and loyalties, all shifting with the whims of fortune and the sword. Within the newly built Habsburg Castle, Radbot, Count of Habsburg, stands on the battlements, his cloak snapping in the wind. Below him, the land is suspended in a silver haze—dense forests breathing mist, meadows glazed with dew, the Rhine glinting in the distance like a blade. The air is sharp with the scent of pine and wet earth—a land waiting, restless, for its story to begin.
Radbot is not born to royalty. His hands, calloused from a youth spent more in the saddle than at court, grip the cold stone. He is a minor noble among many, but within him burns the most crucial of all gifts: vision. The castle he raises is not merely stone and mortar; it is a declaration. Each block laid, each timber set, is a message to the world: here stands a man who means to endure. Within these walls, flickering torches cast trembling shadows across faces deep in conversation—nobles, retainers, even the blacksmith and his apprentice—all drawn by Radbot’s magnetic will.
His wife, Ida of Lorraine, moves through the halls like a queen in waiting. She is sharp-eyed, her laughter pealing over the clatter of cups and the scrape of knives in the great hall. Her bloodline brings not only prestige but also delicate threads of alliance, weaving the Habsburgs into the fabric of greater houses. In the warmth of the hearth’s glow, Radbot and Ida share whispered councils, the low timbre of his voice met by her quick wit.
One night, as rain lashes the arrow-slits, Radbot sits at the end of a long oak table, his sons arrayed before him. The fire pops and crackles. “Remember this,” he intones, his gaze fixed on his eldest, Werner. “A castle is built by hands, but a dynasty—by choices.” The boys nod, uncertain, the weight of legacy settling on young shoulders.
But vision breeds suspicion. The first risk comes early. Across the valley, neighboring lords eye Radbot’s ambitions. The air grows tense, as if the very forests sense the coming strife. One autumn evening, the castle is thick with the scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat when a messenger arrives, mud-caked and breathless. He bursts into the hall, disrupting the laughter and song.
“My lord! Riders from the east—there’s been a skirmish near the border. Werner is hurt.”
A hush falls; Ida’s hand flies to her mouth. Radbot’s face hardens, his knuckles whitening around his cup. He rises abruptly, the bench scraping against the flagstones. In the smoky gloom of the castle’s chapel, Radbot kneels, the flicker of votive candles trembling on the stone walls. His whispered prayers are less for mercy than for strength. He is a man caught between love for his son and the cold demands of destiny.
Later, Werner is carried into the hall, blood staining his sleeve, eyes glassy with pain. As Ida tends to him, Radbot stands silent at the threshold, the shadows deepening around him. He understands now: the future he dreams of demands not just vision, but sacrifice. The unintended consequence of his rising power is the enmity it breeds—a lesson carved by the sword into the family’s memory.
That night, thunder growls over the valley. In his candle-lit chamber, Radbot dictates his wishes for the succession, his voice low but resolute. “Remember the power of alliance,” he instructs, meeting each son’s gaze in turn. “War is the folly of lesser men. Marriage—” he pauses, letting the word hang in the air, “—is the battlefield where empires are truly won.” His words are not just advice but a commandment, the first whisper of a motto that will echo through centuries: “Let others wage war; you, happy Austria, marry.”
The consequences of these choices ripple outward. In the years that follow, the Habsburgs’ relentless drive to expand brings both fortune and peril. Through deft marriages, they entwine their fate with the great houses of Europe. The title of Count of Aargau is secured not by the sword, but by a parchment sealed with wax and a trembling hand offered in union. The family crest—a red lion rampant—adorns banners and shields, becoming a symbol both of ambition and warning.
At feasts, the great hall swells with music and boasting. Minstrels sing of Habsburg cunning, of how the family turns every setback into opportunity. But beneath the laughter, anxiety simmers. Every alliance is a wager; every guest, a potential rival. When the fires burn low and only the embers glow, Radbot walks the ramparts alone, the weight of legacy pressing down upon him like the gathering dark.
The years pass. The sons grow into men, hardened by the lessons of their father. The night before Radbot’s death, a violent storm lashes the castle. Lightning flashes, illuminating the faces of his heirs in stark relief as they gather at his bedside. The old count’s breath rattles, his eyes fierce even in weakness. He gestures for silence, thunder crashing outside.
“Never let the line falter,” he commands, voice thin but unyielding. “Guard what we have built. Let the world remember our name.”
Outside, the storm passes. Dawn creeps over the valley, painting the castle’s silhouette in blood-red hues. The fortress stands not only as a home but as a statement—here, on this hill, a family will shape the fate of Europe. The first act closes with the castle looming against the sunrise, a beacon for generations to come.
But as the first rays of light strike the tower, the Habsburgs’ eyes are already turning outward, to lands beyond their valley, to crowns yet unclaimed. The age of expansion is about to begin.