At the high table were the finest wines and freshest meats. Their platters arrived in a splendor of precious fine metals. Cupbearers busied themselves amongst the trenchers to ensure those lords who had made the trip had full flagons and glasses. Laughter and loud voices rang out through the largest great hall that was known to the nine kingdoms and that land. Fine marble would do for flooring; flooring in which men were sure to take a lady of their choosing to dance with once the stout and the ale had begun to have its way.

A chandelier big enough to crush half the great hall hung high above. Paintings lined the walls where mosaics were not. Paintings and drawings of the kings past took the right side. The left was composed of the realm’s greatest heroes and legends of the past. Lord Aymon stared upon these paintings, noting to himself which ones he thought to be true heroes, and which were false tales told around a fire.

Lord Aymon’s host had arrived lastly, having had the longest journey of all the House bar the Malarins. The farthest house south, only Lord Ryn Malarin had travelled with a few of his guard—no doubt needed to spur his carriage on—a horse would not do for such a large man. Lord Aymon found Ryn Malarin sitting at a trestle nearest the high table. It came as no surprise to Aymon, knowing full well that Lord Malarin had every intention of being served first once the high table had been served. He sipped on barley now, laughing his deep bellow that he so often did on these occasions. He always requested a king’s jester at his table, Lord Malarin’s great bellows had been evidence enough that the jester’s jokes were worthy of his grace.

House Dalrind sat opposite the high table from House Aymon. Lord Aymon’s bride sat at the far end in a beautiful, pearl white dress. Her orange hair was still down and unadorned, yet soon to be braided after the marriage was consecrated. At the other end there was room for a fair few guests to be had. Lord Aymon had only brought himself and his sister Sarin. The King sat upon the dais behind the high table, resting on the seat of his throne. His crown was a light one, resting easily across his forehead and around his wisps of gray clumps that some would call hair.

In the middle of the high table sat the king’s wife, the king’s hand, and the king’s eldest son. Lord Aymon pitied the king’s son. He was a measly boy of twelve, but he had the Green Gule and not like to recover from it. His face was ghostly white, his body startlingly skinny. The roasted boar had just been placed on offer at the high table beside buttered rye bread and flayed swan, as it were. The appetites quickly diminished after Prince Harys coughed up a green ball of mucus and soon fell ill for the night. He was taken to his bedchambers and Lord Aymon could smell nothing but vomit and Green Gule. It took all his might to keep his own food down.

Music soon replaced much of the busy chattering that had filled the great hall for the majority of the evening. A singer and a violinist approached the dais and began to play beside the king, much to the dismay of his squire who no longer had room to stand without getting in someone’s way—eventually leaving the dais and staring at his master incessantly from afar. Lord Aymon had watched the whole thing unfold, thanking the one true God he believed in for his own squire, Qavrin.

Lord Aymon’s eyes drifted along the great hall now, catching glimpses of various lords and knights and courtiers. He found Qavrin after quite some time speaking to a shy girl at a lower trestle. He watched amused, wishing it were not he who was to be married this day. Yet, he was loyal to his king. He always had been and that was the way he preferred it. The king had suggested his marriage to the Dalrinds, desiring to keep their House in his favor. A good relationship with House Aymon suited King Eyowen well, he had come to learn.

As the final dishes began to arrive from the serving wenches and cupbearers, Lord Aymon came into conversation with the man to his left whom he had not acknowledged until this point.

“Greetings, Lord Aymon. It is a pleasure to dine with you at the high table.” He held out his hand for a handshake. “I am Ser Godfrey Guildsworth—the king’s sword. Consider me the, ah what shall we call it…hidden knife? Anyways, it is an honor, truly.”

He is well spoke, but I sense ill-intent. “The honor is all mine.” Lord Aymon gave a side nod. “I must say, you may not be as hidden now that you say so yourself.” Lord Aymon gave his best attempt at a jape, but Ser Godfrey only gave a forced smile for his troubles.

“Well then consider it a privilege that I enlighten you on this. For most folk, I am simply known as the king’s hand.” Ser Godfrey curled the ends of his mustache.

“I see, Ser Godfrey. It is must be a great honor to have such a position with the king. I have known him my whole life and he has never once invited me to serve in that way.” Lord Aymon took a gulp from his cup of ale.

“You are a lord with great land and a mountain of wealth, as I understand it. What lord that lives so lavish would relinquish his titles to become the king’s hand?” questioned Ser Godfrey.

“You make a good point, Ser Godfrey.” Lord Aymon paused, picking his next words carefully. “I must ask you, Ser Godfrey…what brought you into such close council with the king so suddenly? I was at Creppenhal not more than a fortnight ago and I did not see your face inside these walls.”

“Like I said, Alaric. I am the hidden knife of the lord King. I come and I go. The people do not see me often. But for the wedding of the king’s closest brother? I could not miss it.”

A cupbearer approached Ser Godfrey upon his beckoning and filled his cup to the brim. Lord Aymon noted it was his third cup. A couple more cups of this stuff and he’ll be stumbling to find his way to his chambers tonight, thought Aymon. His own head was swirling from his fourth cup.

“I like you, Lord Aymon. Perhaps we will speak again sometime. But for now, I mean to take your lady for a dance.” Ser Godfrey made his way down from the high table and approached the bride, Lady Kallee of House Dalrind. His held out his hand and bowed deeply. Lord Aymon watched wearily from behind his cup. Lady Kallee smiled with a twinkle of those blue eyes. Her burgundy hair flowed behind her as she rose from her seat to accept Ser Godfrey’s dance. The musicians took note, switching their song from Rains That Never Stop to the more familiar upbeat tune of If Your Bride Was Mine. Lord Aymon couldn’t help but chuckle.

Songs came and went but Lord Aymon had only been watching one lady. He watched from his position at the high table as Aslay danced with a young man with quick hips and a mop of yellow hair. She looked happy. At least he seemed to think so. He had been around her enough at a feast to be able to tell when she was having a good time. He knew that smile of hers—the one where her eyes would follow yours as you danced, not a care in the world what she did with her feet as long as her hands were intertwined with his. Yet, it was not his hands that held hers, but that boy with a mop on his head. Lord Aymon took a final swig of ale before making his way down to the marble floor. More trestles had to be cleared by cupbearers and serving wenches to make room as many were dire to get a dance before they the booze got the better of themselves.

Lord Aymon pushed his way through the dancers. Dresses twirled before him and men slid their boots along the polished floor. His eyes met Lady Kallee for a moment. His bride to be. He had not liked what he saw. Apprehension? Nervousness? It was only one quick glance, and all knew it was cursed to dance with the bride before the ceremony. He kept moving, glancing off shoulders and sucking in his chest to avoid bumping into other couples who sprawled themselves carelessly. He could Aslay now. Her eyes were focused on her counterpart who just as they had been on his before. Lord Aymon hesitated. The boy she danced with was almost half his age, but twice as menacing it had seemed. He had not even chanced to see the boy’s face and yet he could not bring himself to offer his hand to Aslay. He turned away, making way for the high table again. He passed Lord Malarin who was wolfing down a pastry with both hands. He tried to say something but instead crumbs spilled from his mouth. Lord Aymon had taken no effort to stop and hear him out. The fat lord never had kind words to say—especially to him. Their lands were opposite of the Splitter’s River.

Lord Aymon felt a tap on his shoulder after he was seated. He turned to find King Eyowen standing over him. “Come with me,” the king strode quickly from the great hall. Lord Aymon followed him as quickly as he could. He attempted to remind the king he had a ceremony due to start in a few moments time, but the king had walked ahead so quickly that there was no time for speaking. There are no guards. If something were to happen to the thing…his worries were dashed away when the king led him into a secret chamber that had blended seamlessly into the walls carved of stone.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“How many of these do you have?”

“Hundreds. I have not counted.” The king wasted no time, “There is something we must discuss, Alaric. Something very troubling.”

Lord Aymon looked all around the room as if something conspicuous were to attack them at any moment.

“Calm, Alaric. I have not seen you this shaken in a while and I have not even spoken yet. What troubles you?” asked the king.

“Nothing, lord king. Nothing at all. It’s just…I have my wedding ceremony due to start soon and I don’t mean to appear missing when it starts.” Lord Aymon had recovered some of his usual manner back.

“The wedding will not start until a say it does. You know this. Tell me what troubles you and I can make it right. I am the king of the nine kingdoms. I have all the power to make your troubles go away.”

“With what? Coin? Drink? It is not these things that troubles me. Respectfully, lord king, I am concerned about your hidden knife, that is, Ser Godfrey Guildsworth whom I just met. Seems a fair man, yet, I have not known a king to appoint a hand whom he hardly knows.” Lord Aymon was perplexed.

“Who told you I do not know him? There are many men I know. Many men that I have not spoken of.” The King paused, bringing a fist over his mouth as he belched. “Do you what it is to be a king, Lord Aymon?”

“I know some things. But I am only a lord. I am not of royalty,” came Lord Amon’s reply.

King Eyowen took some time to pause before speaking, choosing his words carefully.

“I have run into some bad men. I think they mean to kill me.”

Lord Aymon froze for a second. Then laughed. His face returned to cold when King Eyowen remained still faced.

“You’re serious,” said Lord Aymon. “Well who is it? Tell me and I will have Blight take care of them. He always does—”

“—there is no one who can stop these men.” The king was stern now. His face had darkened.

“You must explain lord king, I cannot—”

“These men cannot be stopped!” The king shouted at the top of his lungs now. The room was empty except for two flickering torches. The one nearest to them flickered at the wind of his breath.

Lord Aymon took a deep breath and stepped away. He brought a palm over his mouth as he paced. “What would you have me do about it? If there is nothing to be done, and you cannot tell me anything further, what shall I do?”

“Take care of the throne while I am gone.”

“Gone? You can’t just be gone suddenly. What will the people think?” Lord Aymon was incredulous now. “Just tell me who these men are, and we can deal with them. Goodness sakes my king, we’ve got a majority of the realm’s lords under this roof tonight, and with them come their knight’s guard. Now is the time to take care of it.”

“It does not work like that, dear friend. I cannot tell you more of these men, but I can tell you these things.” King Eyowen cleared his throat, tears welling in his eyes. “I am leaving Creppenhal to you. You are the only lord I hold dear to me. I knew your father before he was even sick, and we joked that one day both of our children would marry and rule the nine kingdoms. My son is near death and he is my only heir I am leaving behind. Please, take my place lord Aymon. I will not name any other to take my place.” He was on his knees now, sobbing a king’s cry. It came in short, sharp breaths.

Lord Aymon felt his own eyes watering. “I…I do not know what to say lord king. I cannot accept this. Let me protect you. Let me follow you until your death! I don’t want to live in your shadow, I cannot!” Lord Aymon was in tears now too. The men embraced. Their bodies trembled and shook.

The King held Lord Aymon in front of him by the shoulders. He had composed himself.

“If you do try to protect me, you will doom the nine kingdoms and I swear by it. I am a free man as I speak. Later it will not be so. Heed these words, King Aymon, the first of his name.” The king bowed before Lord Aymon, lowering his head in respect.

“My brothers? What about my brothers? They are older and they will surely lay their claim as the oldest heirs of House Aymon.”

“You are the King, not them. Banish them if you must.” The King moved for the door. Lord Aymon was at a loss for words. He had so many questions—too many. And yet, he could not think of a single one to ask as the king departed.

The two men arrived back at the great hall just in time for the gathered court to have the wedding ceremony prepped and ready. The king took his seat at the throne and Lord Aymon inconspicuously snuck his way into the midst of all the dancing so that as he emerged, he would not be trailing the king.

The music died away and lords and ladies, men and women, and cupbearers and serving wenches returned to their seats amongst the great hall. Those too drunk to function were forced to sit noisily and clumsily as the high priest entered the hall. He bore a magnificent ring upon a finger that carried his One Book and a necklace with all sorts of bright gems along it. His face looked none too pleased to see drunk men disturbing the pious ceremony that was to take place.

The priest took his place at the top of the dais in front of the king and summoned Lady Kallee of House Dalrind and Lord Alaric of House Aymon. The priest went on reading through his One Book and finished only an hour later. Lord Aymon’s legs were restless and he had not heard more than a word or two as his mind was quite preoccupied with other things. Lady Kallee had been smiling through the first ten minutes, but that smile slowly faded once the ceremony dragged on for a while.

At an hour past midnight, the two were finally wed. They kissed, and Lord Aymon took her hand as he followed King Eyowen’s squire up to their chambers for the night where their room was to be full of roses and sweet smells. It would be dressed up for the occasion, Lord Aymon knew, for it was meant to encourage their first bedding—and the Lady Kallee would finally wear her hair up to show that she was wed and bed.

The night could not have felt longer for Lord Aymon. He had hardly allowed a smile, even when Lady Kallee planted kisses all along his face and leading down his body. He knew she found it queer, although she did not say as much. The two arrived at their chambers, bed, bathed, and then slept. Well, at least the Lady Kallee slept. Lord Aymon lay wide awake, unable to find sleep as he knew wouldn’t.

The next morning arrived and Lord Aymon’s eyes eased open. He did not remember falling asleep, but he lay on his stomach, his wife was no longer beside him. Sunlight streamed in from the terrace where the curtains had been cleared. He squinted as sunlight met his unsuspecting face. He turned onto his back when he heard a voice matched with twelve aimed crossbows. It is written in the stars for me to die by a crossbow, isn’t it?

“You’re under arrest for the conspiracy of involvement with the king’s disappearance.” A man light mail but no helm stood closest to him with his crossbow aimed ten feet from his face. He clicked the bolt into place. “I do not suspect any man deserves to die the night he is wed, but perhaps you will have to decide that for yourself. If you do as I say, you will live. We are placing you in the dungeon until your trial or until another comes forward.”

“I had nothing to do—”

“—you were spotted by Ser Vratkos entering and leaving a secret chamber with the king. Do you wish to deny this accusation?” The man still had his crossbow locked and loaded.

The Rat. Of course, it was The Rat, Lord Aymon was seething although he appeared cool as ice. “I do not deny it. Arrest me then, an innocent man has nothing to fear.”

“Very well. Arrest him,” ordered the guard.

It had taken Lord Aymon a good, hard look to recognize the man who ordered his arrest. But amidst his drunken state the night before he remembered the man from their brief conversation. Ser Godfrey Guildsworth.

The Rat stepped forward first from the other side of the room, a dark grin spread across his face. Lord Aymon did not acknowledge him, he did not deserve as much.

“No one speaks to him except me. Take him below the dungeons. We have a special place reserved for king killers.” Ser Godfrey lowered his crossbow and stared upon his prize.

“I did not kill the king. It was someone else, but he would not tell me,” protested Lord Aymon. It was a halfhearted attempt for he knew they would not believe him. Ser Godfrey twirled the ends of thick black mustache.

The air was cold, and the smells were foul wherever they were taking him. The stairs did not seem to end. It spiraled down and down, further than Lord Aymon had ever known possible. Finally, they reached the last step. The guards had refused to follow him down the last thirty steps and so they stood at the steps with their crossbows aimed to ensure that Lord Aymon went all the way down. A rusted, green door was before him at the bottom.

“Open it and do not return this way. Ten iron tips will pierce your body before you take your second step this side of the door.” Ser Godfrey began to ascend back up the stairs, but his guards remained. The Rat was one of them.

Lord Aymon did as he was bid. The door creaked open slowly and then slammed shut behind him. He was in. The guards gave nervous glances. The Rat held his dark grin he so often had. He kept his crossbow aimed in case he should happen to come back through the green door. Minutes passed, and he had not returned.

“Either he is already dead, or he is soon to die. Either way, there is no return.” Came the words of one of the guards.

The Rat replied, “No one knows what lies beyond that door bar the prisoners themselves. It could be anything. Some say a man made of bones with flail awaits those who enter, possibly even the dark king of the underworld himself.” The Rat was enjoying the looks on the faces before him.

“Has anyone returned from there?” asked another.

The Rat paused, lowering his crossbow finally. “No. And no one ever will.”