A new power had begun to coalesce in the drawing rooms and back offices of Copenhagen. It was a strange and unprecedented triumvirate. Christian, the strategic architect; Baron Fievé, the industrial engine; and Admiral Løvenskiold, the moral, patriotic shield. They met in a private room at The Royal Club, the air thick with purpose.
"The first lever has been pulled," Christian began, laying a revised proposal on the polished table. "Gyldenfeldt will vote with us, but his fear will not inspire others. We need a public display of strength."
"The Admiral will provide the honorable justification," Fievé said, a predatory smile on his lips. "And I, in turn, will provide the context. It is amazing how financial uncertainty can broaden a man's perspective. I have received three dinner invitations this week from nobles who wouldn't have given me the time of day last month. Their concern for the nation's economic stability is suddenly quite acute."
"They will see our motion not as a threat, but as a lifeline," Christian finished. "Admiral, the floor will be yours. They will not dare to disrespect you."
"They will not be expecting me," Løvenskiold grunted, his gaze firm. "They think of me as a figurehead to be toasted on naval holidays. They have forgotten that I still know how to fight."
The pressure campaign Fievé had initiated was subtle but brutally effective. In the smoking room of The Royal Club two days before the next Landsting session, two lesser barons, both land-rich and cash-poor, spoke in hushed, worried tones.
"Did you hear about Gyldenfeldt?" the first one whispered, swirling his brandy. "I heard the National Bank of Commerce is reviewing his notes. All of them."
"The war is making them nervous," the second replied, chewing on his lip. "If they call in my notes… I'm ruined."
"They say the new Count Eskildsen has a plan," the first one murmured, leaning closer. "A committee to fund the war with new bonds, guaranteeing grain prices… Fievé is backing it. Perhaps it's worth a closer look."
The day of the Landsting session arrived. The chamber was thick with tension and rumor. Count Ahlefeldt and his allies sat in a tight, grim-faced bloc, confident in their ability to shut down the upstart Count Eskildsen. They were looking at the wrong enemy.
After the opening procedural matters, Admiral Løvenskiold, in his full dress uniform adorned with the medals of past victories, rose to his feet. An expectant hush fell over the chamber. They anticipated a speech about the navy's valor.
"Mr. President, members of the Landsting," the Admiral's voice boomed, filled with a parade-ground authority that had been absent from the chamber for years. "I have sat in this hall and listened to our nation's leaders debate taxes and talk of honor while our men die with inadequate tools in their hands. This is not just a failure of policy; it is a failure of our sacred duty."
He paused, his eyes sweeping the room. "Therefore, I move that this body immediately authorize the formation of a National Armaments Committee, endowed with the power and the funds to modernize our nation's defenses on land and, most critically, at sea."
A wave of shock rolled through the room. Ahlefeldt's jaw dropped. This was Christian's proposal, but it was coming from the mouth of Denmark's most revered naval hero.
Before Ahlefeldt could even formulate an objection, Baron Fievé stood. "I second the Admiral's motion," he said, his voice crisp and business-like. "A nation's strength is not measured solely by the courage of its soldiers, but by the output of its foundries. A robust domestic arms industry is a matter of urgent economic and national security."
The one-two punch left the agrarian faction reeling. This was no longer just the ranting of a radical boy; it was a formal motion proposed by a war hero and seconded by one of the kingdom's most powerful industrialists.
Ahlefeldt rose to object, his voice sputtering. "This is… this is irregular! The proposal is a reckless industrial scheme masquerading as patriotism! It subverts the traditional authority of the ministries!"
His arguments about tradition sounded weak, defensive. He was being outmaneuvered.
Finally, Christian stood to speak. His tone was no longer incendiary. It was calm, measured, and statesmanlike. He methodically laid out the logistical and financial details of the proposal, reinforcing the Admiral's call to duty and the Baron's appeal to economic sense. He was no longer the lone attacker; he was the reasonable architect, explaining the brilliant design his powerful colleagues had just endorsed.
"The Admiral has spoken of our duty," Christian concluded. "Baron Fievé has spoken of our capacity. I have merely provided the framework to unite the two. The only question before you, gentlemen, is whether you will vote for victory, or continue to finance our defeat."
He sat down. The trap was sprung. The President, seeing the powerful coalition before him and the palpable division in the chamber, had no room to maneuver. He pounded his gavel, the sound cracking through the tense air.
"A motion has been made and seconded! A vote will be called on the formation of a National Armaments Committee!"
Christian leaned back in his chair, his face a mask of calm control. He had done all he can. He saw the conflicted, panicked face of Count Gyldenfeldt. He saw the fury in Count Ahlefeldt's eyes. He saw the calculating expressions of dozens of other men, trapped between their old loyalties and the new, undeniable force that had just revealed itself.
The clerk stood up, holding the roster. "The voting will now commence," he declared. "Count Ahlefeldt."
"Nay!" the old man boomed.
"Baron Fievé."
"Yea," Fievé said with a thin smile.
"Count Gyldenfeldt."
There was a moment of agonizing silence. Gyldenfeldt looked pale, his hand trembling slightly. He closed his eyes. "Yea."
A quiet gasp went through the chamber. The first domino had fallen in public.
The clerk continued down the list, each name a judgment, each vote a brick being laid in the foundation of a new Denmark, or a stone on the grave of Christian's ambition. He waited, his heart beating a slow, steady rhythm, as the future of the kingdom was decided, one voice at a time.