"Up and about Alaric." Fabric rustled and light poured into the chamber a moment later. A fox of a man, tall, sinewy and lean despite his old age, stepped away from the red and gold curtains. 

"Go. Away..." A groan erupted behind, wood creaked as the small figure in question, a boy, scrawny and fair skinned, raised the silk sheets over his head. To the boy's dismay the elder man didn't leave, instead he came over. Scuffing his boots against the polished stone floor, each infernal footstep louder than the last until the boy bore it no longer. 

"I'm the prince, blast it!" He roared, snatching a pillow beside him, "Leave me!" The misued pillow was flung like a javelin, enough strength behind it to give someone an unpleasant day. Fortunately, he missed. The pillow burst into a cloud of feathers, colliding with the wall, no where near it's intended target.

"Good morning, prince." The spry fox didn't have the decency to even flinch. Ridiculous. 

"What in the seven hell's are you?" Alaric complained as he slid himself off the bed. 

"Not a servant." The grandfatherly looking knight tutted. Entirely true considering the gold ornate plate armour he had on. A short cape, white, and spotlessly clean, hugged his shoulders. The uniform of his father's Oathsworn, a brotherhood of knights sworn to serve as royal bodyguards. 

"Yes, yes, you're my father's knight." Alaric said, exasperated. "But Sir Careridan, I am his son." He smiled triumphantly, "You serve the royal family. Me."

"Correct, His Majesty, Her Highness, Crown Prince Jordan, Prince Trevelyn, Princess Nurelia—and you." The knight added as an afterthought. 

Alaric's smile disappeared. "What's that suppose to mean?"

"It is as you said my prince, I serve the royal family." Sir Careridan clapped his hands, "Now, dress yourself. The time we waste talking, means more time spent training." He paused, "With me." 

"God's no..." Alaric covered his face, falling back onto the bed.

"I'll see you outside." The old man bowed his head respectfully before exciting the room.

"Have mercy!" Prince Alaric hollored as the door shut. Today wasn't going to be an easy day, then again, "When is it ever?" Alaric muttered, dragging himself out of bed. He shuffled over to the wardrobe piecing together an outfit for the day; a loose fitting linen shirt and trouser. The entire process, switching from nightwear to day clothes.  

Normally, a servants job (he felt comfortable doing himself), took no more than a minute. 

After brushing his teeth and a splash of water to the face, he didn't bother taming the uruly mop of black hair atop his head. It'd be soaked with sweat soon enough with the torture Sir Careridan had in store. Alaric steeled himself and took one brave step foward to the door, then another, reaching for the handle.

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He ventured a peak outside.

Servants scurred in and out the hall, the tail-end of their stiff buttoned jackets flapping behind.  A few carrying buckets for bathwater whilst others toted baskets full of fresh laundry. One gaunt, stern-faced man held a platter that caught Alaric's attention. The contents were sealed under a silver dome, but by the god's! It's aroma is what drew his nose.  Food from the royal pantry was nothing to scoff at. Alaric drooled, he should know—he raided it plently of times. 

"Breakfast is downstairs." A voice, gruff and dry, said beside him. "Best get on with it my prince." Alaric nearly jumped out of his own skin, right there. It took an enormous effort not show; not to give the sly fox the satisfaction of sneaking up on him. 

"Thank you, Sir Careridan." The prince responded dryly. "Though I must say," he turned, "A man of your age sneaking up on children is unbecoming, especially a knight." 

"Apologies, prince." Sir Careridan said, leaning against the wall, not an ounce sincere. "Enjoy breakfast." He nodded, taking his leave. 

"Bastard." Alaric muttered under his breath. 

"Pardon?" The knight turned around, stopping in his tracks. But the prince had already dashed away, rounding the corner.

"Nothing!" The boy called behind, nearly bumping into a servant as he clamboured down the wood-railed staircase.  

"I'm screwed. Royally."

The old knight didn't know what 'going easy' meant, especially in weapons practice. Sword, spear, dagger, battle-axe, it didn't matter. Alaric was always on the receiving end, bruised and battered. This only being the days his teacher was in a good mood. On the bad, well, he couldn't  remember them afterwards. 

"Once again, this mouth mine. Flapping without thinking, always bringing me trouble." Alaric groaned, though the blame was his alone. A group of girls, perfumed, with perfect hair and flowery dress, handmaidens (his sister's no doubt), looked at him funny. They whispered to each other, hunched, secretive, a few even laughing in his direction. 

Alaric's brow twitched, it pissed the hell out of him. The fact they did this in front of him as if he was not even there. His mouth was already open, barbed words at the tip of his tongue. 

"Yes, I talk to myself! So what?" He glared with an intensity comparable to the sun, "At least I don't strutt around like peacocks, vying for my sister's attention." Suddenly, Alaric smiled, "Then again, peacocks is too generous. You have the brain of the bird but none of it's beauty." 

Five slit of eyes stared at him viciously, the owners outraged, shocked, wishing to say more than, "Good day your grace." But such behavior was unladylike, and reputation meant a great deal down the line. 

"Cat got your tongue?" Alaric laughed, watching their scowls darken as they lifted their noses and turned tail.