“I know not what you intend on by providing him this generosity, sire. I should inform you that the people will demand the very same if you grant his wishes. If these very demands are not met the people will revolt!”
Crowthorn had never been this excited. If the king was about to grant this man his wish, he would be far too easy to manipulate in the years to come! King Arder would be another to have his head sliced off in his sleep. Crowthorn had ceased keeping count of how many Kings he had thus beheaded, not to gain the throne but to satisfy his near-carnal desire to have royal blood spray onto his face when the blade pierced the veins. Also for the fortunes he received for appointing a new ruler from the formidably gigantic family of Drastrok. (People had spread rumours that it was the doing of an evil spirit: Harrnolok, a ghost of a royal ancestor. It started as a tale mothers told children at bedtime in hope of later having their husbands force their attentions on them. The children spread the stories further. People believed in it more faithfully than in their gods.)
Arder had always been childish. Never cunning. Innocence was what made the public smirk at him and what made Crowthorn smile every time he pictured the night when he would have the blood of this boy king shower his wrinkled skin. He was nothing like his father. It had taken Crowthorn the kingdom’s sharpest sword to cut past King Romkrah’s skin. The king’s life fluid was warm, every spurt as powerful as the blow of his axe.
“The people truly are revolting, my friend”, laughed Arder. “The man will get what he has demanded. As king it is my duty.” The boy’s voice was quite deep for such a young age. Ten days had passed since he had risen to this seat of power. Anybody would expect a change. He always possessed a grace and charm impossible to resist, and impeccable speech. He could have been a great orator, thought Crowthorn. “He wants to be showered with gold and so he shall be.”
“But sire this man has been of no service to you, or the kingdom! Merely, a beggar wandering the streets stealing and drinking all his life! How could you even consider this? I believe imprisonment would be more prudent, than giving him gold.” The minister half laughed.
The change in the boy’s expression gave Crowthorn gooseflesh. The boy had inherited his mother’s eyes. Those grey eyes, which gleamed like silver. (Crowthorn remembered them quite clearly. They had snapped open when he had stalked into their chambers hovering over her like the very embodiment of death. He remembered feeling the breath leave her body when he plunged the dagger through her heart: those eyes... those beautiful eyes. When she had died, he’d kissed those eyes, the gentle caress of feathers. And with all the skill experience had provided him, he slashed the golden sword across her husband’s throat). Those very eyes now quickened his heartbeat. Something was wrong. Something had gone terribly wrong. The boy...
“Do not question my decisions Crowthorn!” (The boy dared to use his name! His damned father wouldn’t dream of it. Rage boiled within him. Never had the urge to kill been this powerful. He wanted to do it now, in front of the other beggars, whores and scoundrels who thought it would be easy to manipulate this boy king into granting their wishes). The eyes were on fire, their burn made him feel cold and hollow.
“BRING THE BASTARD HERE!” roared the boy. His eyes never left Crowthorn.
The minister averted his gaze to the beggar being dragged into view. He gasped, as did the rest of the assembly congregated in the room. He was no longer drunkenly smiling. His naked form was covered in red welts and scars, some deep down to expose bone. Blood dripped from his wounds, staining the white velvet carpet. The minister jumped to his feet. “Sire—
The boy stood up. He walked toward the man, taking his time, seemingly floating on the carpet. When the boy stopped just behind a particularly ugly stain, Crowthorn saw his lips curve upward.
The whisper seemed to echo across the hall.
“M-My Lord—please...” The beggar was weeping. Blood and tears stained his eyes. Arder noticed he was cockeyed.
“Don’t you want me to grant your wishes, peasant?” the boy continued. “Bring his gold. Give it to—
“Sire, I must insist this is most sadistic! You could have imprisoned him; why th—
“Interrupt me one more time Crowthorn and I will cut off your tongue and feed it to you.” The boy didn’t as much as turn around to face the minister. Crowthorn felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time: fear. The boy...
“If I hear so much as a rustle of cloth from anyone... Give him his gold!”
Five guards emerged from a door on his left. The boy stepped back up to his throne as he watched the beggar writhe. The stain had stopped spreading. The guards, each wearing dragonshide gloves, were carrying a large, steaming, black cauldron over their shoulders. They walked up to the beggar. When they stopped, the silence threatened to deafen Crowthorn. He wouldn’t dare... he thought, he’s just a boy...
The guards began to tip the cauldron over the beggar’s body. The minister was unaware of his mouth hanging open when he saw the liquid spill out, shining bright and steaming hot. The beggar screamed louder than before: not for long though, the liquid had gushed into his mouth. The guards didn’t care where the liquid fell as long as most of it fell on the beggar. The chill of the winter air did little to cool it down. Steam soon filled the hall and the minister began to sweat, unsure of whether it was due to the heat or this new emotion of fear. Not a soul spoke. Even the cold winds outside seemed to be too shocked to make any sound. When the cauldron had been emptied the guards turned around and disappeared from where they had entered.
“You’re welcome, beggar”, Arder smiled. “Does anybody else require anything?” The boy’s eyes skimmed through the crowd almost hopefully. “Tut tut, what a pity! We have so much more gold left! Very well! Crowthorn, once my sculpture has set have it put up on a pillar in the centre of the town market with ten men guarding it. We cannot let our dear beggar friend take all this gold without a guard or two!” Laughing, the boy stood up and walked out of the hall. Crowthorn did not stop him.
Note: I realised there’s an obvious reference to GoT here, but I know for a fact I had neither read a single book of the series, nor seen a single episode of the adaptation until a year after I wrote this.
Let me know what you think :)
