A Kingdom of Dreams

His Stupid, Painted Smiles

George strode down the hallway, his dark blue cape fanning out behind him. His crown was askew on his wind-blown hair, his face flushed from the biting cold. He knew he was late, he'd known that since he'd ridden in fifteen minutes prior, freezing to his very core. His gloved hands seemed to be immobilized by the cold, making the task of putting his horse away much more difficult than it ought to have been.

As he approached the throne room doors, George gave a small sigh of relief. Flanking the entrance were Tommy and Tubbo, two of the youngest guards. While they were the youngest, they were also the most likely to let him inside without any extra hold up. Even though he was the prince, guards still had the unpleasant tradition of wringing you dry for information before letting you go anywhere.

Even as he opened his mouth to speak, they stepped aside and pushed the doors open for him. Tommy gave him a sympathetic look that made him feel no better about his current situation.

He gave them both curt nods as he strode inside briskly. Behind him, he heard a shuddering boom that indicated that the doors were once again closed. He approached the throne swiftly, having no time to pause to admire the sublime throne room around him. George's current focus was the dark-eyed, bearded king atop the throne. His eyes glittered dangerously, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

"George," he rumbled when the prince had stumbled down into a one-kneed bow, panting, "you're late. You've kept us waiting."

George, still speaking through labored breaths, shook his head apologetically, "I'm sorry, I've only just -,"

"No excuses," interrupted his father gruffly, "lateness is the epitome of carelessness. You ought to pay more attention, boy."

George nodded stiffly, standing. He knew better than to pick an argument with his father now, especially when he had no feasible excuse for his lateness, besides his own foolishness.

"Yes, Sir," he replied, standing straight with both of his arms behind his back. George knew his posture was a point his father liked to wear thin, and he'd prefer to not give him any further reasons for criticism.

The king - his father - continued speaking, "Today is the dawn of your eighteenth, George," he told George, who was obviously aware of this. George nodded shortly at his father, and he continued, "You are still young, yes, but even I am not too blind to see you have grown. With your age comes new dangers. Yes, people will envy you, and some will go to points unimaginable to us. With this new danger, I have reached a decision."

George was unsure where this talk was going. He shifted his balance as his father kept talking.

"George, it is under my decision that you are to be under the constant watch of a knight."

Before he could even consider the consequences of his actions, George was protesting. "Father, no!" he exclaimed, breaking his 'perfect' posture to run a hand through his hair in distress, crown shifting even further. "You can't - I refuse, I can take care of myself perfectly fine - I'm not a child -,"

"Exactly why," his father roared thunderously, "you should have a guard with you at all times! People in this city will go to extreme lengths to take the crown, boy!"

The throne room fell silent now. The only sound was that of the wind whistling outside, bringing with it the promise of rain and the scratching of the transcriptionists' quill on paper, keeping track of the interaction.

George was incredulous. He, for the rest of his life, was going to have a guard on him at all times. There would be no escape from this knight, no escape from their prying eye. In a shaky attempt to compose himself, George drew himself upright once more, threading his hands together behind his back.