John Damascus Westfold, second prince of Wendolan, smiled artfully at the nobles who greeted and fawned over him. They were so plainly trying to earn his favour that John could barely hold back his amusement. He knew exactly why they were doing so. They were positive that even if his elder brother Peter took the throne, he would surely be assassinated sooner or later. Nobody wanted a whoring idiot for a king, Peter's enemies would be numerous. What all of these Courtly men failed to consider however, was that Peter’s enemies had always been numerous. Alas, alive he remained.

John still remembered when he'd been young and naïve, only eleven, his elder brother thirteen. His mother, the second queen after Peter's mother had died in childbirth, had been filling his head with thoughts of one day ruling. She'd been so poisonous in her swaying of his mind and heart that John hadn't hesitated to wield a dagger against his sleeping brother. He’d found out seconds later that he had been in far over his head.

Peter's amber eyes had always appeared childish and playful, in John’s eyes. His elder brother who loved to fool around and play. But that night, when he'd caught John's hand and twisted the blade within it so that the dagger was held to John's throat instead, leaving a shallow cut there, Peter’s eyes had burned like fire. Even at eleven, John had instinctively known just how powerful the boy behind that playful mask was. Peter had then given his younger brother the most straightforward and beneficial advice John had ever received in that moment.

"Fall in line or die, little brother. I don't need pawns that scheme against me".

At fourteen, when Peter Octavius Westfold had been officially given the title of Crown Prince, the only ones among the family who'd seemed disappointed and hateful were the King and his two official wives. By then, if Peter hadn't already gotten to them, John had alerted their other siblings to the danger that awaited them should they try to thwart or challenge their eldest brother's right to the throne.

Now, a decade on, and John knew that he'd made the best decision he could on that night. He'd acted like the perfect prince in place of his brother, allowing Peter to work unhindered in the shadows as he slowly brought the Kingdom of Wendolan under his control, and in turn made preparations for what would be the greatest war effort since the establishment of the kingdom.

Peter was going to unite the continent, and John and his other younger siblings had no doubt it would come true.

"I truly do hope that the King will pull through," Lord Barrowman sighed wistfully from where he stood opposite John in their small circle, "If only so that we may discuss the line of succession more resolutely".

"The line of succession?" asked John, appearing oblivious to what Lord Barrowman was implying.

"Well of course Crown Prince Peter is the bloodline law's choice, but there must be limitations as to how…inappropriate a Crown Prince can be before he must relinquish his title," Lord Taylor supplied.

"I think most of us would be in agreement," Lord Fern added, "A Prince who can see no better use of his time than whoring his way through the capital and surrounding estates is not fit for the responsibilities and duties of a king".

John gave a small smile, "I'm sure Peter will be suitable enough for our court".

"Surely not," Lord Barrowman frowned, "Your highness, it is honourable, your loyalty to your brother, but I - we - really think you should reconsider-"

"He is my older brother," John cut in, "And as he is my older brother, he is more suitable for the throne than myself. I would not hope to take his crown from him or his descendants whilst they are alive".

"Aye, and I'm sure by now he's sired many of those descendants," Lord Fern grumbled in disapproval. Though it was not true, despite his dedication to furthering his reputation, his brother had been impeccably careful where he sewed his seed. He had two daughters via his concubines, and a third was showing signs of pregnancy, but that was all. His whoring had borne no fruits despite its scale.

An awkward silence came upon the gentleman, then the Court Attendant spoke from the main entrance.

"His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Peter Octavius Wendolan, has arrived".

The Attendant moved to the side and Peter walked in dressed in plain looking clothes. Worn leather pants, a cotton shirt barely tucked in and an unclasped jacket. Nothing like the court attire he should be wearing to such an occasion. There was mud on his boots as well, and the nobles looked on in descending disapproval at his messy and unkempt appearance.

John couldn't help but inwardly roll his eyes. Sometimes, he wondered just how far his brother would take the act he had so meticulously compiled. Peter always did seem to take every opportunity handed to home to make an utter fool of himself. John bowed his head in greeting.

"Welcome, brother, we're relieved you could spare time to attend on this sombre occasion," John spoke tactfully. Ever the perfect prince he'd been instructed to be.

Peter cleared his throat as he clapped a hand on his brother's back in greeting, "Ah, yes, of course I must attend in such troubling times. What news of father?"

"They say he is holding on for the rights, brother," replied John.

Peter nodded, "Well, we better get to it then".

John bowed his head respectfully then turned to indicate the hall at the back of the reception room that would lead through to the King's private rooms. Peter marched through the crowd of disapproving nobles, tailed by John and the King's closest Council.

Their two youngest brothers, Isiah and William, were both far from the capital, and so would be unable to make it in time. Their only sister, Isabelle, had been sent just last spring to be the wife of the Clarisse Kingdom's heir. That one had been a move suggested by John to the court, though the original idea had of course come from Peter, who wanted a pawn inside the Kingdom that would pose the greatest military threat to him upon his ascension to the throne. The East of course, did not count as they had never made any attempts in their ten thousand years of existence to expand beyond their original borders.

The Kingdom situated South of Wendolan was also the Kingdom that controlled the bottleneck-like passage to the Southern countries on the Continent. It's placement had made it rich in trade, and that vast amount of coin had meant a formidable opponent. An opponent that now sat firmly in Peter's pocket thanks to his sister. A less confident man would have been worried about betrayal. Peter had not the time or patience for such vices, and his siblings were more aware of that than anyone.

Peter and John entered the King's bedroom, where his closest council, including his Chancellor, Queens, General and the House of Faith's High Priest, all waited in silent mourning.

Peter entered with John behind him, and pretty much all of them looked at him with the same disapproval as the Lords outside had. Still, none of them could disobey the laws set down by their ancestors. The best they could do was find an opportunity to be rid of their unworthy Crown Prince.

Peter looked at those present, then rounded the bed to sit by his father's side.

His father, who was pale and weak and nothing like the warmongering warrior in his portraits, turned weakly to look at his eldest son.

Through dry lips he spat out his final words to his eldest son, "If I had a choice…you would not be sitting there".

Peter couldn't help the quirk of his lips as he looked upon his weak father, lowering his voice so only his father could hear him, "You did have a choice. Your choice was to send assassins one after another, until I honestly lost count. Don't worry though. I put them to good use. Just as I will put my kingdom to good use".

Tynore Farrius Wendolan looked at his eldest son in confusion. This was not a tone he'd heard before from his eldest son. This was not a gaze he’d seen before from his eldest son. This was not the stature or the countenance he’d seen before in his eldest son. As the old man's breath wheezed out and his eyes lost what little life they had left, the King could not help but think that perhaps he had been tricked. Perhaps, this Crown Prince would be a more terrifying existence than all of his ancestors combined.

Seeing the light leave his father's eyes, Peter placed his hands, his left over his right, onto his forehead and closed his eyes.

"Long may you live in the realms of heaven," Peter spoke. The others, who had registered the King's passing, repeated Peter's prayer.

After a moment of silence, Peter stood, turning to those in the room, he did not shed tears, but looked appropriately saddened none the less as he spoke.

"The country shall enter three days of mourning. After which the court will reconvene," Peter spoke.

"Long live the King," John spoke as he bowed. The others, though reluctant, followed suit.

Peter then ordered that the King be prepared for the Night of Passing, for which he would have to accompany his father in the Royal tomb for the entire night.

Lucas was brought to him in the King's chambers with the pale grey robes that symbolised mourning. John accompanied the court outside as he helped with preparations and made sure the word was spread of the King's passing.