Ok, I definitely have no chill about this book. Here is current version of the opening scene. Does it get your attention enough that you would like to read more?
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Arthur came to Camelot at the age of twelve. He stood before the castle gates, and he did not ask for hospitality, which would have gained him immediate admittance. He stood with his head held as high as a person of his stature could manage, and he requested an audience with the king.
By some miracle, the guards allowed it.
He presented himself as Art Artur, son of Ygraine, and he just missed seeing the amused glint in the eyes of the large knight beside the throne. Uther Pendragon studied the boy before him in silence for a long while, too long, as though daring his son to fidget. Then he sent for the sorcerer Merlin.
“Do you think another’s son would have this audacity?” muttered the big knight. Only when the king nudged him did Art realize that they both struggled against laughter. He felt his cheeks burn. Would they shame him and cast him out? Or would they content themselves with this mockery?
“The Lady Ygraine should have mentioned if she bore me a son.”
It was not an invitation to speak, but Art did so anyway. “I was sickly. I spent the better part of ten years on the brink of death. What good would it do to give Your Majesty a son, only for you to lose him?” To his own ears, his words sounded rehearsed. He had spent days deciding what to say to this man, his father, and now he wondered if he should have come at all.
Uther Pendragon gave a nod of strained gravitas. The knight beside him fought for composure. Art wanted to shout defiance, to yell that yes, he knew he was small for his age, and perhaps he was too bold, but they had no right to laugh at a boy who only wanted a father. His fists clenched at his sides. How could his own father laugh at him?
The door opened, and Uther’s face broke into a broad grin. “Ah, Merlin, here you are! Did you know I have a son?”
The sorcerer Merlin seemed neither old nor young, but when his hazel gaze scrutinized Art, he had the look of a man who had lived for centuries. “I can’t say it surprises me,” he said to the king, not taking his eyes from the boy before the throne.
Suddenly serious, Uther Pendragon leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees, his stare boring into the depths of his son’s soul. “Tell me, Art Artur,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, “what is it you seek here in Camelot?”
Art drew a deep breath. “Home,” he said before he could let fear stop up honesty. “Family. A new life.”
Uther settled back again, satisfied. “Good,” he said. “From this day forward, you shall be known as Arthur Pendragon.”
