He hadn’t realized just how large the castle was until he was being guided through it. The council chamber was on the third floor, Oliver had told him as they walked. It took an embarrassing amount of time to reach it with having to tackle two flights of stairs. He didn’t know why he had expected them to spiral upward through towers; he supposed that was just another common misconception shared among baseborn folk. Instead the stairs were broad and, thank God for him, not very steep. They were carved of the same stone as the castle, and he had to swallow back his pride as Oliver took singular steps with him, one hand hovering in case he needed help.

Finally they reached the large double doors to the chamber. He felt his heart kick up and his mouth go slightly dry as he spotted two guards stationed on either side. Their armor was elaborate, but what he noticed first were their swords. Finely made and well-honed, he recognized the craftsmanship anywhere. A quiet sense of pride filled his chest as he clocked the signature notch in their pommels: his father’s mark.

One of the guards readily opened their side of the door as they approached, giving a small nod of customary respect. The droning of multiple conversations wafted towards them, and he felt his limbs suddenly grow heavy. Sensing his hesitation, Oliver took a step closer to him.

“All you have to do today is listen and observe. Familiarize yourself. You don’t need to prove anything to these pompous fucks,” he murmured quietly.

He chuckled through his nose, unable to fight the slight uptilt of his lips as his nerves began to settle. They passed through the doorway, and as his wooden crutch tapped rhythmically on the stone floor, the droning hushed. In a disorganized wave, they all eventually turned to look at them, at him. His skin flushed hot, and these ridiculous new clothes felt utterly too tight, too constricting. He could see it in their faces, their eyes, all collectively agreeing upon one thing.

I don't belong here.

A hand clasped him on the shoulder, and he turned to look at Oliver confused.

“I’ll come back for you when the meeting is done. We’ll debrief.”

His brow furrowed, heart beginning to race again. “You’re not staying?”

“I’m not on the council, Percy. You are.”

The faint sound of whispers and snickering echoed quietly in the chamber, and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek. Oliver’s expression shifted as his gaze sharpened, his hand squeezing him tighter.

“I’ll see you in a little while.” He leaned in closer to him, by his ear. “Don’t let them silence you.”

With that, the nobleman pulled away and strode out the door. The dense wood slammed shut with a reverberating boom as he turned around to face the men in the room. It was a sea of strange, judgmental faces, and he couldn’t seem to calm his heart. That was until Prince Philip removed himself from the crowd, striding towards him with a warm, handsome, clearly practiced smile.

“Percy! Am I glad to see how well you’re doing,” he started. “We were just about to get settled in. Come, let’s find you a seat.”

“It’s good to see you, Prince Philip,” he smiled back curtly. “Where’s the King?”

“My father will be joining us in just a moment. Here, follow me.”

A ridiculously large table occupied the center of the room, and as they drew closer, he realized it was not only a table but a map. Simple figurines decorated the surface in various positions, and it did not take him long to know that it was a map of Westgarde. His crutch continued its rhythmic tapping as Philip guided him to a chair. He couldn’t help but clock the way that the other men gave him a wide berth as he approached or passed by.

Good God, peasantry isn’t a disease, you cunts.

He sat as gracefully as he could before sliding the crutch beneath his chair, readjusting his clothes. As he looked around, a small sense of relief washed over him while he observed what the other men were wearing. Aryn, in all of his anxiety-driven foresight, had procured him a small wardrobe with some basics for the house, and as he had stood in the master bedroom panicking about what to wear, the prince had put together what he was dressed in now. The clothes were simple yet elegant: well-tailored dark olive breeches, a matching vest, and a white shirt with loose sleeves to allow his arms to breathe. The sleeves tapered at the wrists so as not to look unfinished or sloppy.

Philip had quickly disappeared back into the small crowd of men, but he wasn’t complaining. The less conversation he had to make, the better.

“Percy, correct?”

He turned to face the direction of the voice. A young man, maybe a few years older than himself, had approached his chair. His smooth, uncalloused hand grasped a goblet of what he assumed was wine, judging by the two cupbearers present.

“Yes sir, Percy Lancaster. And you are?” he asked politely, reaching out his right hand.

His arm protested, the skin and muscle painfully tight, but at least it had begun to heal enough to be semi-functional. His expression faltered for a split moment as he spotted the man’s hesitancy, as if he were unclean or unworthy to touch him. Nevertheless, whether it was genuine or not to cause a stir, he eventually took it.

“Lord Benjamin Poulter.” He removed his hand a bit too quickly. “My apologies for the awkwardness. Such friendliness is simply not custom among this crowd.”

Prick.

“I understand. Your customs are just as alien to me as mine are to you. I certainly have much to learn,” he smoothed over, giving him a curt smile.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Lord Poulter took a drink of his wine. “Mm, would you like a drink? The cupbearers can fetch one for you.”

“Oh no, that’s quite all right. I’ve been staying away from alcohol. The maester says it impedes the healing process,” he denied politely.

“Ah, I see. I heard about what happened,” the nobleman started. “Thank the good Lord Prince Aryn is alive and well. But it must be very difficult for you.”

He cocked his head. “How so?”

“What with being so worthless now and all.”

The muscles in his jaw twitched.

Clanking of metal on wood sounded throughout the room, and suddenly everyone stood and turned their attention to the door. The red slowly faded from his vision as he hoisted himself from the chair and followed suit. The King entered the chamber, not caring to greet or even make eye contact, but every single person in the room bowed deeply. He had to brace himself on the table in front of him to bend even remotely that low, and as he unintentionally stood out from the rest of the men in height, he could feel holes being burned into him.

Not until Aleksander was seated did the men in the room sit up, each taking their own respective places at the table. Thankfully, Lord Twat had chosen a chair far from him. He didn’t think he would have been able to stand looking at his weasley little face for the next however long they were trapped in this room.

They all waited in palpable silence, no one daring to speak before the Imperial King of Westgarde did.

“So, who has brought me something of actual importance today?” he prompted.

The way he spoke elicited an unprovoked quiet anger from him. His tone was one of the most pure self-arrogance, and each word carried a silent threat behind it that said ‘do not disappoint me’. And yet he couldn’t help but feel his heart kick up and palms begin to sweat at the idea of speaking in his presence, at him.

“There has been more trouble in Janisport, Your Grace. Several fights have broken out over the last fortnight, resulting in the injury of our men,” Poulter started.

Of course he wanted to be the first to speak up.

“And what has been done to quell these spats? It seems the village folk have grown bolder, seeing that the frequency has increased.”

“An extra thirty men with previous townsguard experience have been dispatched to the village to keep control of the area,” the nobleman explained proudly, like he had done something.

“Yes, that will surely not cause more resentment towards the Crown’s authority,” he mumbled sarcastically as he stared down at his lap, anxiously picking at the skin around his fingernails.

It had slipped out unconsciously, but every head at the table turned towards him as his words cut through the conversation. The back of his neck heated up, and his heart sank as the King narrowed his cold brown eyes at him.

Benjamin chuckled patronizingly. “Do you expect us to just let them attack our men?”

He fought with himself on whether or not to answer or concede. But while Lord Poulter looked at him condescendingly, Aleksander had a very different expression on his cruel face. He took a leap of faith.

“No. But what you’re failing to ask, Lord Poulter, is why there have been riots.”

The King’s eyebrows twitched with thought.

“Because they are commoners, and all commoners crave for is violence and depravity,” he spat in his direction.

“Benjamin be quiet.”

His gaze shot over towards Aleksander, who now stared at him with unnerving intensity. There was a challenge within his eyes, and he knew what was happening. This was a test.

“Why do you suspect there have been riots at Janisport, Mr. Lancaster?”

He swallowed dryly, sitting up more in his chair. “Janisport was previously a border town of Farmond, if I am not mistaken. I surmise they are unhappy about being seized and occupied.”

“They are now citizens of a far richer, more resourceful kingdom. Why would they be unhappy about that?”

“Because if I know anything about war, I can guarantee that village was razed. Am I correct?” he prompted the room, his gaze never leaving the King’s.

He saw several reluctant nods out of the corner of his eye.

“Then you know that that is simply how war is, Mr. Lancaster.”

“And what of all their destroyed property? Lost businesses, livelihoods? Burned fields? You expect them to be compliant, but they have lost everything and not at least been given the basic resources they need to rebuild, Your Grace. That is why there are riots.”

Poulter scoffed incredulously. “Your Grace, this boy knows nothing of how–”

“I told you to be silent. Unless you do not value your tongue, Lord Poulter, you will let this boy speak.”

The chamber went absolutely silent. The King looked to him, waiting for him to continue. He did so hesitantly.

“You say Westgarde is rich and resourceful. Then we must use those resources to win over the people we have, frankly, forced to bow to us. Janisport is small, as are most of the other border towns that have been seized. It would not hurt the Crown to supply them with materials to rebuild their homes and replant their fields.”

No one dared to say a word as uneasy eyes flitted between him and their King. Aleksander folded his hands together on the table.

“We cannot afford to lose the border towns,” he stated, addressing the room. “The Crown has sacrificed enough just to gain them. Some lumber and grain is a minimal expense. Lord Hollis, I am tasking you with overseeing this distribution.” His cold, hard gaze swept across the council. “Unless anyone has something else, this meeting is adjourned.”

As he stood, the irritating symphony of chair legs scraping across stone followed. The council bowed deeply once more and did not rise until he exited the room. Gathering his crutch, he turned to spot Philip making his way towards him.

“You have some balls, I’ll tell you that,” he stated with raised eyebrows.

“I just said what I thought was right.”

The crown prince studied him briefly, and he couldn’t quite discern the look that occupied his handsome face. “Well, I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other in the future. I look forward to getting to know you, Percy.”

Strangely, the statement seemed genuine. He gave the young man a brief smile. “You as well, Philip–Your Highness.”

Something shifted in his rich brown eyes, and he could tell that thoughts raced through his mind. He had to hide his shock as the prince suddenly reached out a well-manicured hand. “Just Philip.”

Hesitating briefly, he grasped it. The air seemed to shift.

“Just Philip then.”

Their hands separated, and the prince plastered on his endearing smile again as he turned and went to join a different conversation. As he limped out of the council chamber, he couldn’t help the shit-eating smirk that grew on his face when he caught Benjamin glaring after him.