THE SPARE

  The nights weren’t nice. After dinner, all Siron had to do was stay in his room all alone and hope he fell asleep. He didn’t have anyone, the same as all of his siblings. Father and Mother both could sleep with each other, and both of them could do whatever it is that they do in there.

  Dinner was basically a dreadful time, especially big feasts of a dinner. Tonight he was dreading when he would have to go to bed. Ten lords were in attendance, mostly minor lords of the Crown’s own lands.

  Some of the greater lords were the likes of Lord Colem, Lord Serly, and Lord Volamir. All who had children, all who sat with Siron.

  The food at least was nice. Roast boar swelled in gravy and honey, an apple stuffed in its mouth. Three chickens were distributed per table, all grilled over an open flame, and it still dripped with its juices. A few baskets of fruit were distributed as well, and even some duck and geese as well, that were prepared similarly to the chickens. Although, the Imperial Family’s table held a great big northern deer as well.

  Siron preferred the geese to the boar, and stuffed his entire plate with the legs of every goose he could get a hold of. He tore into them like a ravenous beast, juices flowing down his mouth. After, he picked them into little pieces, and broke them to get any morsel of flesh he could. And then suckled the bones for juices.

  “Are you being starved?” Allisane joked , she was the daughter of Lord Serly and was one of the only ones Siron liked.

  “Clearly not,” her brother joked, “you seen the size of his stomach?” Siron looked down, and he could admit that he was getting even slightly fat, yet that was still a bit unneeded.

  “Prince’s do tend to get fat, especially when all they do is sit in a Palace and read about noble battles.” Criston was lord Colem’s son and was the only one at the table to have ever even seen a battle. “Unlike I, our Siron doesn’t like to go and see the true fighting of the war.”

  “Oh please, you saw one battle!,” Siron said, chewing the meat off another piece of chicken. He pointed at Criston with it, chewed, and swallowed. “And you turned and ran with your tail between your legs.”

  “Didn’t your grand sire declare for Lanvar at first?” Allisane asked, her eyebrow raised and her voice was laced with sarcasm. Lord Colem did indeed declare for Lanvar, before his son overthrew him.

  “Either way, I've at least fought in a tourney, you haven’t,” Criston said, tilting his head, a victorious smile on his face. “Have you ever held a sword even, My Prince?”

  Siron sighed and replied in a flat tone, “I have.” Siron was the proud owner of a Rammsteel sword, a personal one. It was called Dragon’s Bane, and was said to be the very sword of King Renval I. It was supposedly used to slay a Dragon even.

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  “And how many have you killed with it?”

  “None,” Siron answered, “I want to protect the weak, and the innocent. I do not take pride in killing, and I never will.” A Custodiaus Knight, serving his brother. That was the greatest dream Siron ever had.

  “Have you ever swung or even used your sword?” Criston’s face was wrinkled into a smile as he brought up a cup of watered down wine, and took a sip.

  “If you don’t regard me as, My Prince, or Your Highness,” Siron said, grabbing his own cup, “I’ll use it to cut your tongue out.” He took a sweet sip, a smile washing over his face as the wine slipped down his throat.

  The two stared at each other, both of them were gulping down their drinks. And Siron-at least-was thinking of the next line. Seems like Alissane was the one who got it first, as she spoke up, “Enough drinking.”

  Siron looked to his right, the cup was still at his lips, and surprisingly, it was still filled with sweet red wine. Criston had put his cup down and spoke in a cool voice. “Of course, my lady.”

  Siron put his cup down as well, and swallowed the remaining wine in his throat. “Of course, my lady Alissane.”

  “Siron,” Alissane said, Siron snapped his head towards her. “Where’s your Father, the Emperor?” Siron quickly turned behind him, and looked at the grand table that was behind him. And to his curiosity, the High seats were empty.

  “Alissane,” Criston said in a hushed tone, “All of our Fathers are absent.” He was right. Every Lord was absent. Siron didn’t know what to say. He whispered, “The hell?” to himself.

  The feast was still lively, no one seemed to notice anything though. The rest of the soldiers, ladies, and city men were still eating, the cooks were still bringing out many many courses.

  Only the Lords seemed missing, at least the liege lords were. A few lords were still there, Lord Corbarey was one of them, yet he was drunk and fooling around.

  “Try and get a steward over,” Siron orders, looking around for someone, but everyone is rushing back and forth, their hands full with plates of meat, and fish, and fruits, and vegetables and desserts and every food you could imagine.

  It’s almost like they are trying to distract us, Siron thought. It's almost like…the thought struck him like a bolt of lightning, War Council. Father called the liege lords to discuss war…

  “Don’t call anyone,” he says, his hand almost hitting Alissane in the face as he stretches it out. “I know what’s happening.”

  “Which is?” Alissane asked, her eyebrow raised.

  “War Council,” Siron answers. “My Father’s probably called a War Council and they probably snuck off over to the Throne Room and are probably holding court.”

  “Of course they did.” Alissane sighs

  “Should’ve guessed it.” Yeah, you should’ve.