Trying my hand at an omake, don't mind me.
----Be at Peace----
It could be stated that in some form or fashion, the Reconquista has always existed. Not always in the form of a rebellion backed by commoner and noble alike, but in the form of angered bar conversations, in meetings in alleyways where sedition bred; even in the hallowed halls of the nobility did words of malcontent grow. The Reconquista could have happened at any time, had the right connections been made.
But one day, they were. A commoner with desires to cast aside mere kingship, spitting on the thrones bestowed by the Gods and Brimir and rise as the Emperor-Commoner of Albion, had reached out by chance and struck an accord with some like-minded nobility. Between alliances and recruiting of more like-minds, the group grew into the mighty Reconquista. With a decisive strike, they lashed out, battling the Loyalists at every turn, and in time they had slain even the King of Albion in the halls of Newcastle. Victory had been achieved, and there was much rejoicing... but the Gods were swift to show their displeasure.
Misfortune fell on the forces of the Reconquista, happening so swiftly and so bizarrely that none understood, but in their hearts they did. They quaked in their boots, knowing in their hearts that the Gods were striking them down for their hubris, and some even whispered that the legendary Familiars of the Void had come to strike them down. Key figures in the army vanished, were struck down, or seemed to fall on their own swords overnight, causing the loyalties of their beasts and mercenaries to sway. It was at this moment, the Emperor-Commoner of Albion decided to repent, and beg for forgiveness to the Gods.
It was Brimir who showed mercy.
Gallia, truly the most blessed of the Kingdoms, had offered peace. It's very own Prince-Consort striking the accord that folded Albion under its territory, releasing the people of Albion from the faltering rule of the Reconquista, and sparing them from the might of the Tristain-Germania alliance. In short order, the Reconquista had ceded control over the lands to the Gallian Army, the Tristain-Germania alliance left, and all seemed to be at peace.
But the seeds of malcontent are hardy indeed; Ever still, in the bars and alleyways people spat angry words, claiming that they merely traded one dictator for another, citing the incompetence and failures of the nobility for their woes. Many held fear in their hearts, worrying that the army might ransack their villages, or that they would starve to death as the nobles ate their fill and more.
But it was not to be.
The Crown- no, the Prince-Consort of Gallia saw to it.
Where the masses feared starving, all goods, food the least of which were given at a fair price. Where they had feared poverty, work was offered. Where they feared freezing or the dark of night, warmth and light were given. Where no hope was thought to be found, it came in the form of the Gallian banner.
For the first time in a long while, there were no angry words in bars. No seditious discussions in alleyways, or grumbled grievances against the Crown. For the first time, in a long time, the Reconquista was truly gone.
For the first time in a long time, Albion was at peace.