jesterthcmas:
Closed for @olethrosx
“Have you heard?” “No what is it?” “The king is coming here! Our lord is going to be entertaining the King and Queen!” Thomas watched, in a slight daze as the maids scurried down the hallway. The entire manor was in an uproar. Lord Fargus, one of the Iron King’s vassals was in a complete tizzy, shouting orders at everyone he passed.
His high pitched voice and snooty accent punctuated each word, his voice shacking with his nerves. Thomas could hear the small round man from three halls down. “I want the finest plates and tableware in the dining room now! Make sure these floors are spotless! Thomas!” Oh no. He’d been spotted. “Thomas, my boy! There you are! I’m going to be calling upon you to entertain for dinner! I expect you in top form!”
The jester of course knew exactly how to answer. “You’ve nothing to fear tonight, my lord. I’ve got tricks by the bundle and jokes by the hoard! Haha!” He struck a pose and grinned with confidence to his Lord Fargus. Fargus was an odd and silly man. But kind and intelligent. Thomas wouldn’t let him down.
A few miles away, the Iron King rode center a large company of knights, atop a great ashen warhorse fitted in black iron armor. The man towered above all others, his standard flying high as they made their way to the small town, descending from his mountain keep. Behind him rode his faithful Sir Alonne, accompanying an extravagant carriage carrying his Queen. King Charon was oddly silent. This visit a formality he would have rather avoided. But a King must be seen by his subjects, so he suffered the inconvenience.
She wore an impractical gown that pinched at the pit of her arm and snagged against her stockings when she moved too quickly---but, she had quickly learned to live with the discomfort. Her Lord father had always said, the more disagreeable the dress, the less chance that she might flee. As a rambunctious youth that might have been a worry, but she’d given up on any misgivings or urges to take to the wind. In truth, she felt sanctimonious in the confines of her sleek attire, ever ready to be more beautiful, even at the costs of her propriety. Mytha outwardly blamed her bad temper on the ill fittings of her beautiful dress, rather than the true culprit; the fact that she had been wearing her stunning gown for going on 9 hours and her good Lord King had yet to take a single moments notice. The once she caught his eyes stray to her it was but a moment, and she realized quickly after that he was staring beyond her and into the void. It was as they stopped to water the horses and she was allowed to stretch her legs outside of her bejeweled carriage. She thought it was a shame to be so horribly beautiful and yet so terribly invisible. More than a shame, a direct mockery. As they enter unto the halls of yet another benefactor, someone to lick the boots of her good Lord King (as they should she figured, and they should lick hers as well though no one ever did it until she resentfully threatened someones life), she was quietly fuming. Only Sir Alonne seemed to heed her dark eyes, stiff posture and teeth grinding back reproach at anyone who dare look her way. She wasn’t in the right mood for a party, not for entertaining any groveling coin purse, even if it would gather more funds for her Lord King, which he liked to inform her (only while alone, in the deepest dark of their bed chamber when he didn’t have to look at her or risk hearty interactions) was very imperative to his rule. Still, despite her rancid mood, she peered around the castle, thankful at least, that it was not sweltering hot and yet, painfully cold and hard all at once, like her Kingdom Alonne was.
