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- One post per week
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- Cyberpunk, Sci-fi, Fantasy, and other low-tech/fantasy.
King
still sounded unfamiliar on Garrett's lips. Though he had mouthed the word over and over again, nothing made the sound of King Garrett III sound proper. Men and women he had known for years - even his own brothers - were now bowing and calling him Your Grace. He recalled the words his late father had shared with him about his own coronation.
"Becoming a King from a Prince is like donning a new set of clothes - it will feel uncomfortable at first, but soon you will come to slip comfortably into it and barely begin to notice it just like how you do not feel the weight of your clothes right now."
Garrett hoped he was right, for now the outfit of King tugged and snared and weighed on his shoulders. It was a pleasant garment, to be sure, but one he felt woefully unprepared to don. That had not stopped the Arch Priest from conducting the coronation, nor had it stopped his brothers from calling him Your Grace. Prince Garrett had been able to attend Court and charm nobles and woo young women without a care in the world. King Garrett was expected to offer counsel and resolve squabbles, to remain impartial and fair no matter how petty the request or how empty the words became.
And the crown was heavy. Garrett now appreciated the slouch his kingly father had developed after years upon the throne, and a part of him wondered how the old man had managed to seat himself in the throne for so long. Perhaps worse than all of the discomfort that came with adorning himself in the outfit of King was how much Garrett's ass had come to hurt after long days hearing out his lords and vassals and knights and smallfolk and councilors. The throne was stone, and no matter how he sat or for how long it was cold and hard upon his cheeks.
Garrett stood in front of a mirror that had once been his father's, standing still with his arms outstretched as one of his many handmaids draped a cloak over his shoulders embossed with his family's sigil - an eagle clutching a pair of thunderbolts in each talon. The cloak was made of pure wool dyed a faint blue grey, fringed with gold at the edges in a decorative weave. Below he wore a tunic of the same shade, decorated with a swirling pattern of gold thread work weaving into a shield etched with a crown in its center. The tunic flowed out beneath a leather belt adorned with golden tassels, the remaining cloth splitting into two halves that lined his thighs. His legs were clad in cream-colored trousers of fine cotton, tucked into leather boots.
He nodded his thanks to his handmaiden as another clasped the cloak together with a length of gold chain. Another laced his boots. His clothing donned, they stepped back and awaited his gesture to dismiss them. He gave it with a flick of his wrist, retrieving his sword from its rack upon the wall and sliding it into its sheath of glossy brown leather, detailed with gold. Garrett clasped the sheath to his belt and retrieved his crown from its case beside his bed. It was a simple thing, made of plain, burnished steel with an obsidian eagle clutching bolts of brilliant copper and gold in its center.
Simple, but oh is it heavy, Garrett mused as he donned the crown, fumbling with it until the sigil lined perfectly with the center of his face.
The walk from his quarters to the throne room was a short one through spacious, well-lit and carpeted hallways. The throne room stood in the center of his family's castle, elevated to the second floor, granting the king views of the courtyard below through archways left open in the halls. Below he heard steel clatter on steel as his eyes lingered on the knights drilling in the yard and spied young ladies and their mothers strolling through the yard's meager gardens. The wind was chill, rushing Garrett to the warmth of the throne room.
"All kneel before His Grace, King Garrett, Third of His Name, King of the Iron Steppes and Lord Commander of the Storm Eagles!"
All in the throne room knelt as Garrett strode to the throne, unclasping the sword sheath from his belt and placing it leaning against the side of the throne. Rather reluctantly, he seated himself in the stone chair, already feeling its cold stone painfully rubbing against old soreness along his thighs.
"All may rise," he declared.
His voice was a reedy one, though it carried through the halls well enough. His late father had often tried to coach Garrett as a boy through how to speak properly as befitted the future king but to no avail. His brothers had teased him for it, calling him Prince Wheeze for much of his childhood. The moniker had stuck, and Garrett knew many of the knights and foot soldiers still referred to him as Prince Wheeze behind his back. Ruefully, he wondered if they called him King Wheeze now.
"You have my thanks for coming," Garrett continued after a brief pause as his guests rose.
His guests were all matters of folk - there were emissaries from other kingdoms and fiefdoms, knights with their squires, suitors and their fathers, commoners seeking an audience. Most important of all were those that would be his sworn shield, something he suspected had contributed to the large portion of men carrying steel in the throne room this morning. His father's bodyguards had all perished upon the battlefield with him, leaving the new king without such a kingsguard.
"Before matters of State may be addressed, first may those seeking to be my sworn shield and captain of my kingsguard step forward and present yourselves."
The lords and ladies, commoners and emissaries, all stepped back as the fighting men lurched forward in a hasty line of gleaming steel and banners before him. He spotted familiar ones such as the twin lions rampant of the knightly household of Anderclair, the sly golden fox of Foxworth Hill, the twin towers of the Lords of Smallguard. And more still were the ones he could not recognize, likely from holdings outside his own or knights of little renown attempting to make themselves known. He saw bears and fish, swords and crowns, stags and owls. After a while all the sigils and colors blurred into one massive rainbow lined in grey steel.
"May each step forth and proclaim themselves, their titles, and their deeds so the King may deliberate!" Declared his seneschal.
Garrett smiled and looked on to the warriors with eager interest, as was befitting of a king, but all he could seem to focus on was the cold stone digging into his thighs and how his neck already felt stiff from the weight of the crown. And, more than it all, how uncomfortable his outfit was.