You nod to Finnigan and scratch the brown bush on your head that's sadly your hair. You're so accustomed to your hair being let down and grown to your shoulders that this is driving you absolutely insane. You wonder how you're father ever put up with things like this. The again, you always had that feeling your old man wasn't the type of father that raised his son well, if at all. "Finnigan, let's be honest. My father only bred and trimmed me to be his heir. You and Brock have been fathers to me more than mine own."
The trusted servant bows low and shakes his head. "You must not say that, my lord. Your father truly had your interests at heart and his decisions were made for the benefit of you and the kingdom."
"I have seen the outside world Finnigan. I see boys no older than me doing jobs that cause them to cough and wheeze, black ash that covers their face and kills them!"
Finnigan chokes. "K-kills them? Well I never! My lord, if I may, our kingdom does not allow boys of your age downwards to be employed. All of them are adolescents that have taken the job by choice. No one forces the job upon them, correct?"
You open your mouth to argue and tell of the corrupted employers, but choose against it. The captain of the Royal Praetoriat Guard, Brock MacBrock, taught you to stow your tongue in some situations rather than raise it. He is a man of war and a veteran of battles with warriors from the freezing north to the shrouded and scimitar wielders of the south. Sometimes, my prince, one must choose to combat a man not with a blade or a lance or a bow. Rather, you must fight with your tongue, strike with your words and charge with knowledge of politics, important royalty things that I, unfortunately, am cursed with never learning.
As you squirm in the massive oak throne the door bursts open and a pair of guards hold a prisoner in their hands. He is a gaunt figure dressed in a torn coat, the cowl hagging by threads. His eyes are bloodshot and watery, as if he's on the verge of tears.
"My king," one of the guards says as his partner and him bow. "This vagabond has attempted to cause disarray and rebellion in the Market Square, spreading blasphemy of how you and your father have damned us all."
"In fact, he has openly sworn to kill you himself, with the help of his fellow assassins." The dirt faced and greasy haired man opens his mouth to speak but his silenced by a punch to his stomach. As he gasps for air, you guards beg of you to let the interrogate the man. Finnigan looks at you expectantly, waiting for your decision.