Kings and Queens/Nathalan I

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Nathalan

His hair stuck to his neck, he felt the sweat trickling down his forehead and down the bridge of his nose. He licked his lips, his throat ached with a thirst. He had been sword dancing with his opponent for the past ten minutes, yet it felt like it had been going forever. *The last of the Siegel Stronghold, and this is what I have come to. Fighting a drunken trader for something that doesn't even matter.*

In retrospect, Nathalan could see where the trader was coming for. He did call him a drunken slob, but in his own defense, he had hoped that the trader wouldn't hear him. Nathalan underestimated his hearing. After throwing a few insults at each other, the trader's companion suggested that they settle their dispute like men. The trader agreed almost immediately, but Nathalan hesitated. He wasn't good with a sword, he preferred a good bow and arrow. Sure, he practiced swordplay with Ser Jerome Rowell, but he wasn't good enough to beat a Knight. Out of the three Knights his Queen Mother hired to take him away from the battle, Ser Jerome was the only one who remained alive. Ser Javier Cabb was the first one to go, dying only seven moon cycles after the four of them escaped Fantasica. Ser Alan West was killed in a tournament, only four moon cycles ago. He was fighting in Lady Dorothea's tourney, and was beat by the savage Lord Byron Nori of Mahkari. It was just Ser Jerome and Nathalan now. Of course, they still lived with Lady Dorothea, but she was hardly a gracious host. Nathalan had refused all three of Dorothea's daughter, simply because he found her daughters truly hideous. She didn't take that too kindly, yet, due to his "loyal blood", she still allowed him and Ser Jerome to live in her compound.
Nathalan shook his head, returning his thoughts back to the swordplay with the drunk trader. His opponent was staggering and mumbling, but he was still able to hold his sword, despite how drunk he was. Nathalan took a deep breath and swung his sword, jabbing the trader in his stomach. The trader growled and returned the spar, but Nathalan was quick, he dodged it perfectly, causing the trader to stumble and fall on his stomach. As he fell, he hit his head off the hilt of his sword. He cursed sternly. Nathalan saw his chance. Using his left foot, Nathalan rolled the drunk trader over onto his back. The trader squirmed miserably, but Nathalan was stronger than him.

"Do you give up, you drunk fool?" Nathalan asked. He couldn't help but feel sorry for the old slob.
"Yes, Your Majesty." He spoke lowly, not looking at him.

"I'm no King. Now, get out of here."
Nathalan moved his foot off the trader, who got up immediately, running, forgetting his sword. His companion bowed obediently, then walked quickly, trying to catch up to his friend. Nathalan looked up to the crowd, who were all muttering and slowly breaking away from him. Nathalan shrugged and walked back across to Ser Jerome, who had a flagon waiting for him. He didn't blame the crowd for complaining. They expected him to kill him, but he didn't want to kill a trader. Especially a fool. He took the flagon from Ser Jerome, nodding his thanks. Jerome bowed. Unlike others who bowed their whole head, Ser Jerome only moved his head, ever so slightly. Not a proper bow, but close enough.

"You thought cheaply, but in a good way, Your Majesty." Jerome always spoke with a low voice. He had a thick accent, he was born and raised in Veran, a small town located in The Farmlands of Woesien. Yet, Ser Jerome always tried to hide his heritage. His own family rid themselves of him when he expressed an interest in joining King Mondrew's service as one of his loyal Knights. Jerome learned that his own mother, father and younger sister were murdered by Lord Clent, of Clanton Gardens, being deemed as traitors to the Great King Mondrew. Ser Jerome showed no distress in learning of the news, which further supported Nathalan's opinion on the Knight.
"I've told you not to call me that. I'm not a King of anything. I'm just a simple banished young Prince." Nathalan responded, dryly. He thrusted his sword back into the old felt scabbard which once belonged to Ser Javier, and began to walk away from the market. He wanted to get back to Lady Dorothea's little homestead, he badly needed to clean himself, and was growing quite a large hunger.
Ser Jerome easily caught up to him. "And *I've* told you, that you are not a Prince. Your King father is deceased, the Daughters that aren't His Kin but Heiresses, are deceased too. Leaving you the final member of Siegel Stronghold. Therefore, you are a King. Your Majesty."

Jerome had the truth of it, which Nathalan hated being reminded of. His Queen Mother, Astoria, was first married to Randyll Knox, of House Knox, an old and great House, which were notably known for being the more advanced in their ways. Yet, his father, King Mondrew, the Fourth of His Name, had murdered Lord Randyll, to spite him, and took Astoria, along with her daughters, Princesses Mena and Beatrice. Nathalan was born two years before his father had his throne taken from him, by the Dainty King Maurice. The commuters of the Summer Isles called him so because he was from the House of Winchesters, who prided themselves on jewels. Nathalan had another name for the Dainty King, yet it was quite a rude name. Nathalan turned around to face Ser Jerome.
"Alright then, Ser, if I'm your King, then heed my next words; be silent." Nathalan warned, heavily.
Jerome did heed his words, making the walk back to Lady Dorothea's homestead quiet. Her "homestead", was actually a quiet little villa, with twelve expensively designed bedchambers, along with several rooms for comfort and company. Her villa was surrounded by a jagged fence, made of the thickest silver and iron of the City of Quar, a beautiful city located exactly three hundred leagues from the current city they were walking through. Nathalan had lived on the Island of Quinnityl since he and his three Knights fled Woesien and Fantasica. Yet, they have lived in about a dozen homes. Nathalan had only the memories of Dorothea's compound, having lived their for four years now.

They approached the gates of Lady Dorothea's compound. Ser Jerome spoke to one of the guards in the Old Tongue of the Summer Isles. Nathalan had been learning the Old Tongue for a while now, with Ser Jerome teaching him, yet he was a slow learner. The guard grunted to the man in the Gate Tower, who was tasked with opening the gates. The man turned the dial, revealing Lady Dorothea's villa. Nathalan and Ser Jerome nodded up to the man and to the guard, before entering the compound. It was a short walk from the gate to the villa, yet it seemed quite shorter to Nathalan. Perhaps it was because he was desperate for a wash. They were greeted by Lady Dorothea, who, as always, was a marvellous sight.
With long and curly blonde hair, and the bluest of eyes, Lady Dorothea was a wonderful host, yet a horrible woman. She had three daughters, and four sons, all baseborn and born out of wedlock. The sons were nice enough, they exchanged pleasantries to him, and the eldest son, Princeton, would tell him of the news from Fantasica, as he was a man with his own ship, almost like a trader. Her daughters, however, took after their lady mother, all just as cruel and horrible as she was. The only difference between them was that Dorothea was actually a pretty sight, the others weren't so much.

Lady Dorothea smiled down to him, as she sat on her steed with a great and shiny black hair. "And the Young Prince returns. Been fighting another poor unfortunate soul, have we?" She teased, cruelly.
"My Lady, I apologise if my stank displeases you. I shall wash it all away as soon as we have finished this conversation." Ser Alan taught him his pleasantries, always telling him to thank and apologise the nobles, as well and best as he could. Nathalan enjoyed being polite, it was one of his best qualities.

"Yes, yes, stop your pleasantries right there, I have no time. I'm off to sup with the High Lord of Quinnityl, which reminds me - my son, Princeton, was looking for you. Be sure to treat him pleasantly. Ta-ta!" And with that, Lady Dorothea was off. Nathalan waited until she had left the villa and compound, before heading to his own bedchambers, with Ser Jerome close behind.
Upon entering his bedchambers, he removed his scabbard from his waist and placed it over a oak chair. He sighed and poured himself a mug of fruit wine. He could feel Ser Jerome lingering, not far behind him. He waited until Nathalan drained his first mug before speaking.
"Should I call Princeton for you, Your Majesty?"

Ignoring "Your Majesty", he shook his head. "Allow me to wash and make myself presentable. Gather him, but stall for a few minutes." Nathalan responded, enjoying the taste of the fruit wine.
Ser Jerome nodded, tilted his head into a bow, and left to gather Princeton. Nathalan called for a fresh bowl of warm water and washed himself in it. Within seconds, the water was filled with the specs of dust from the fight he had with the trader. Luckily, he hadn't obtained injuries, but his swordplay wristed ached with a pain, like it always did. He remembered once asking Ser Jerome why it ached, he told him that he was probably using the wrong hand. When Nathalan told him that he used his right hand for writing and almost everything else, Ser Jerome, in response told him, "It's different for everyone, Your Majesty. Your uncle, King Leo Siegel, was left handed in almost everything, yet he had to swordplay with his right hand."

After cleaning himself, he rubbed some floral smelling oil under his pits, and went to his wardrobe. He chose dark blue kecks, and an orange tanker with a purple patch on it. Purple and Orange were the two colours that represented the Siegel Stronghold. As he laced up his long boots, Ser Jerome returned with Princeton. Ser Jerome returned back to his side, as always. Nathalan stood to greet Princeton.
"Good day, Princeton, your Lady Mother informed me that you wished to speak with me." Nathalan looked Princeton up and down as he spoke. He was wearing formal clothes, like always, and donned a miniature image of his ship's blazon on the right of his chest. He also had a scabbard around his waist, with a double-boned crabstick dagger tied to it.

Princeton nodded. "Your Majesty, I must be frank with you. For the past two moon cycles, I have been travelling with a caravan tribe, known as the *Iitiri*, under Ser Jerome's orders." Princeton spoke ever so quickly, but Nathalan was able to catch it.
Nathalan heard Ser Jerome shuffle out of nerves. He didn't know how to respond. "Your Majesty, I can explain."

"Yes, you had better explain this, Ser." Nathalan spat.
"Yo... You are a King, whether you like it or not. We have been stuck in this Island for too long. It it time for us to move on, to move home, back to your birth rights. Tell him your findings, Princeton. Your Majesty, I beg of you to listen to him."
Nathalan could feel the anger rising up, inside him. He forced him to look over to Princeton, who looked quite uncomfortable. Nathalan nodded him to continue. Princeton sighed and spoke.

"Your Majesty, the *Iitiri* are an infamous tribe, lead by Tri Bono and Tritress Roo, his wife so to speak. Tri Bono has a caravan of over three thousand soldiers who only serve him. Yet, he his old, Tri Bono is very old. It is expected of him to die in a few moons, perhaps more or less. But, when Tri Bono passes, he is willing to give you the tribe, in exchange..." Princeton suddenly stopped, yet Nathalan had a feeling why. He urged him to continue.
Taking a deep breath, Princeton finished his sentence. "When Tri Bono passes, you will have command of his tribe, only if you marry his daughter, Viona. And, Your Majesty, before you refuse, let me tell you, that I have met her, and she truly is nice to look at. Unlike my half-sisters."

Nathalan hushed them both, taking a few minutes to think. For once, he finally thought about Ser Jerome's words. Nathalan didn't think himself much to be a King or of high birth. His Queen Mother had sent him away from the battle, to protect him, yes, but in Nathalan's own views, as soon as he left Fantasica, he lost all rights to hold it. Ser Jerome told him that was folly, always reminding him that his step-sisters, Princesses Mena and Beatrice weren't off royal blood, so their claims were false. He felt sad, thinking about his sisters. After they witnessed Queen Astoria being murdered by Lord Keaton Winchester, the Dainty King's younger brother, they decided to jump from the tower. Beatrice's husband, Vincent Siegel, had died trying to defend his wife, her sister and mother. Mena and Beatrice both died together, and were found by Winchester Knights, splattered on the courtyard, yet their hands were still clutched to each other.
Nathalan took a deep breath and swallowed, wishing he had a goblet of fruit wine in his hand.

"Where are they now, Princeton?" Nathalan asked, curiously.
"They are a day's march outside the city, Your Majesty. We must move quickly, however. If we not with him in three moons, he will take his offer to someone else." Princeton explained, exhaustingly.
*Well then*, Nathalan thought to himself, *I better begin learning this new language*.

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