The Tyrant's Queen

1: The aristocrat

The sky was a windless blue, the air crisp and cool, and the capital of Aesna touched with a long forgotten taste- of excitement.

All cliche signals of hope were present. The birds were twittering, winter gales pacified and even the transactions in marketplaces had started off without fistfights.

It was the perfect morning for the arrival of Aesna's new king.

"I hear he's still wet behind the ears," a shoe merchant mumbled, bowing down to the ground like the hundreds of commoners before the passing royal carriage. "Twenty...something year old."

"That's not the problem," groan-sighed his fellow merchant, wriggling his toes from under his bent knees. "He lived in Shahark most of his life. Was practically given up to Shahark by the goddamn past king. Good riddance that devil was taken back by the gods."

"Ha!" A woman, with a bag of keys at her hips, scoffed onto the ground, stealing a glimpse at the passing carriage. "I'd rule better than he, then. What'd he know?"

A man still discreetly chewing his mouthful of breakfast spoke, smiling thinly. "Anyone would be better than his bloody brothers and father. Let us have hope. Perhaps this is the arrival of a new era."

Scratching his itching cheek, a child raised his head off the ground, peering up. "Is the king getting off?"

The carriage had stopped short. Its door was opened by one of its many surrounding armed soldiers.

A bare foot- followed by another- landed on the dirt.

"First time in my life I'm seeing the bare feet of a royal," whistled the merchant. "What honor. Should I buy lottery at the inn tonight?"

"What's he doing?"

It was the king-to-be, a young man with his hands grasping both sides of the carriage. With sleek, ice blond hair and cool, ice blue eyes, there was no doubt he was the son of the late monarch.

"Don't know about lottery, but he seems quite very handsome."

"And kingly. I wonder what he's thinking, looking at us-"

Sitting in the carriage, his bare feet out, the young man soon to be crowned king of Aesna, threw up onto the ground.

As the soldier who'd opened his door watched in proximity, unable to close his slack jaw or help his frozen, wide eyes, the future monarch threw up for quite a while.

Then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked up at the crisp winter horizon.

"All the bloody shaking of the carriage. My brains are rattled. Are we here? The capital of Aesna?" In his grasp was a nearly empty wine bottle.

At the young king-to-be's voice, some of the commoners raised their heads further, pricking their ears.

It was a soft, calm and low voice- but one heavily laced with a strange, foreign accent.

"Yes, sire." Contemplating whether he should hand the king-to-be his handkerchief, the soldier responded distractedly.

"The capital, hm. What's it called again?"

"G-Geram, sire."

"Ah, yes, yes." The young soon-to-be-king's eyes were glazed, and his voice, slurred. "Are we arriving at the palace soon, soldier? I'm famished."

Furtively stealing a glance at the hundreds of eyes of commoners who'd turned to them blankly, the soldier replied, closing his slack jaw.

"Yes, sire. Please forgive us for the delay. We will escort you to the palace as soon as possible."