Chapter Text
A high, warm sun shone down upon the verdant lands of his kingdom. The liminal time betwixt summer and autumn brought with it temperate weather, a boon to peasant and noble alike. The harvest this year promised a most bountiful yield. Many from foreign lands displayed open envy at the often thriving fields that weathered storm and blight with nary a significant loss. The scribes and chroniclers, those revered and learned historians of the court, had not recorded a bad harvest or rampant starvation since before his great-grandfather’s reign.
John eyed the serene landscape with a wistful sigh from atop the battlements. Since he’d been informed of his upcoming nuptials, he’d not been as successful in his ventures down to the village. It was one thing for Prince John MacTavish to drink and sing and dance among their own when he’d no one to claim his hand. The peasants had welcomed him for it. Endearing themselves to the commoners was one of the many reasons why their kingdom flourished so much.
Word of his betrothal only added to the high spirits of the smallfolk. A royal wedding meant an influx of visitors, which in turn meant new business and more coin for everyone’s coffers. With so many royals from near and far bringing their entourages, the merchants following their retinues, the wedding was bound to be a splendid occasion. As such, preserving not only the prince’s honor but looking after his safety was a shared objective by his harried guard and citizens alike. The young prince was engaged, no longer to be a public commodity. What leniency a fourth-born son was granted was stripped away, left to the mercy of his soon-to-be spouse.
All his life, he’d known this day would come eventually. That he’d not been married off prior to his twentieth birthday was a miracle. Suitors aplenty paid homage and offered sons and daughters alike for his hand (and the alliances and prestige that accompanied his name) but his astute father and shrewd mother declined them all. It had been the same with his older brother and sisters. Finding a suitable match for each child hinged not only on the illustrious gain achieved by both parties, but their parents sought happy marriages for them all. John’s would be the first where no prior courting took place. Maybe after three other children, his parents simply went with the best viable options. Not an untruth, but not accurate. A plethora of suitors still vied for his hand despite not being a direct heir to the MacTavish throne (that honor fell to his eldest brother).
John watched as the procession wound its way up to the castle. He should present himself, make his way to the throne room and stand ready to receive their glorious guests alongside his mother and father. In an act of rebellion, he’d shorn the sides of his scalp, leaving only a thick hawk down the middle. Even his mother, loathe as she was, had been forced to admit there was a certain charm to it when his royal circlet adorned his head.
And if rumor was to be believed, John MacTavish was being wed to the fierce Simon Riley.
Prince Simon, the Ghost of the battlefield. A scourge in the darkness. Great, terrible, merciless killer of a man said to be devoid of feelings. A scarred husk of a man, existing only to lead armies. A mastermind capable of besting hordes twice the size of his own. Prince John found himself curious.
By all accounts, John’s father found Prince Simon’s father to be ‘a rather detestable sort'. Garish and flippant, ill-humored and uncouth. So why, then, did he agree to such a match? They had no shortage of allies and their own levies were formed by some of the most powerful warriors in all the kingdoms. The drab procession marched ever closer, looking more like a funeral than dignitaries celebrating the union of two storied houses. Pleading a wistful sigh to the winds, Johnny shook his head. It was time to meet his guests.