The Prince & The Page

Vows

Emyr had spent a month convalescing, the magecraft had really taken a toll on him, physically. But Caryl visited him almost daily, as did her father, Lord Llewelyn, who attended to the prince with healing herbs, explaining each potion as he prepared and applied it; the antibacterial nature of these leaves, the binding juice of these stems, the strength-summoning syrup of this flower.

Emyr had heard that his father had been displeased by the outcome of the mission, particularly the creation of a new waterfall which had wreaked havoc in the local community, flooding valleys and displacing farmers. The King had not attended his bedside, and Emyr was anxious. He was to meet the King this afternoon, in the privy council.

Emyr had been taught plenty of times about the destructive price magecraft could put on the practitioner's body, but he had never accomplished anything as far-reaching as his connection to the cave. It was, he realised, likely the first time in his entire life that he had been in actual, palpable danger. He had been unprepared for the length of time it had taken him to recover.

Rheon had visited weekly, to give updates on the nation, he had become, in Emyr's stead, a member of the privy council, and had proved himself highly adept and advantageous to the King.

Rheon had said that Tomos was soaking up the glory of the dragon-slaying, but the experience seemed to have bonded him and Owain, who were now drinking, hunting and training buddies. Emyr could tell this bothered Rheon somewhat, as that had formerly been the nature of his relationship with Owain, and he did not appreciate being passed over for Tomos Morgan.

Owain, Rheon explained, was being credited with killing the baby dragon, and had fashioned a convincing tale which focused on the quick-witted teamwork between himself and Tomos. It made more sense, to let this lie bloom, than to tell the truth. It let Owain protect his knightly honour, and placated the disharmony between the two noble houses. Tomos had even given Owain the young prince's water pouch full of dragon venom, a notorious poison that, distilled and decanted, could be turned into a powerful infertility cure. The Prince still had his tiny poppy milk vial, Rheon noted, though this was not much of a consolation.

The three knights had agreed in secret never to insult one another's exploits in their joint adventure, and Rheon relayed this promise to the prince, urging him to make the same vow. He decided he would do so, in the private presence of all three knights, seizing on the high spirits to bind them as a team for future quests, and he would throw a feast in their honour. That feast would be held this evening.

Caryl has set about making preparations, as the Mage's Daughter, she had no official role, but as a friend and close confidant of the Prince, she had settled into a position not unlike Lady of the House. This pleased the King, for she was very good at it, and trustworthy, and he knew Emyr's late mother would have approved.

King Carwyn invited guests from all the other noble houses, for the slaying of a dragon was a perfect cause for celebration. Politically, there was no quarrel in sending the best knights and the young prince to battle the monster, and a dead dragon was an enemy everyone could unite against.

Rheon shared some news in the morning as he dressed the young prince.
'You are to meet your new betrothed.' He said.
'My new betrothed?' Asked Emyr.

He had originally been promised to Princess Eirlys of Dyfed, but her House had revolted against the King around the time of his fourteenth year, a revolt that was crushed viciously. And when the King saw no political gain in the marriage any longer, he ordered the complete extinguishing of the Dyfed lineage.

Princess Eirlys was executed, alongside her rebel father, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandmother, and nephews. She had been in her sixteenth year, and so was trialled with the adults, and burnt at the stake. The children had been killed with a dinner laced with milk of the poppy, that put them into a deep sleep which stopped their hearts. The family had been laid to rest in an unmarked grave, deep in the Dyfed forests, and the Dyfed castle had been awarded to one of King Carwyn's long-term allies, Lord Penn.

The fate of his first betrothed had made securing a second betrothal for Emyr challenging to say the least, as any father who offered forward his daughter now seemed untrustworthy and power hungry.

Emyr had assumed, given his age and circumstance, that he would now be able to select his own bride, but it seemed his father had other ideas.

'Who is she?' Emyr asked, as Rheon knelt in front of him, lacing up his trousers. He had a beguiling compulsion to draw the page's face into his crotch, but ignored the urge.

He supposed if it were the other way around, Rheon would not hesitate to tease him. It was an uncomfortable difference between them, try as he might, Emyr could not convincingly mimic his page's swagger of masculine confidence.

'Her name is Lady Gwyneth Griffiths, from a small Northern house.'
'A small house?'
'Your father met her on his tour of the kingdoms last summer,' Rheon continued, 'and she greatly impressed him.'

Rheon knelt up and placed his hand on the small prince's chest. The young boy gasped, horrified that his page had remembered his sudden moment of desire. Rheon's expression was unreadable, but he seemed to be teasing. Rheon stood and turned to the bed, fetching the prince's shirt, and continuing as nothing had happened.

The page finished clothing Emyr in silence, standing close to ensure the garments were properly fitted. Emyr could feel Rheon's powerful physique towering over him, and he shivered involuntarily. His breath caught in his throat. He could smell Rheon's sweaty, musky scent, and he closed his eye, imagining himself bathing in it.

Rheon finished the final touches, smoothing out his tunic, and for a moment his fingers brushed across Emyr's nipple and seemed to squeeze it gently, which Emyr was sure could be no accident, yet the page's expression betrayed nothing.

'It seems she is the political advantage,' said Rheon, folding his arms and leaning against the bed. Emyr's eyes followed his rolled up sleeves to his giant biceps, then down to his big, brawny forearms. Rheon seemed to chuckle, and flexed, his sinewy ribbons of muscle showing his mighty strength. 

Emyr lost all sense of the conversation. 'Um, what?' He asked, dazzled by the handsome hulk in front of him.
'Lady Gwyneth is considered a political advantage in herself.' Rheon repeated. 'She is a fantastic archer, a great stateswoman, and a leader of her people. She has led campaigns in battle, and she shows much promise. She would be a brilliant Queen.'
Emyr nodded, peeling his eyes away from his page's forearms.

'Summon Tomos and Owain to my bedchamber after breakfast, and I will make my vow to the three of you.'