Clay paced back and forth in his enormous room, nervously fidgeting every now and then with his hair, his tunic, and the crown that rested on his head. His room was large enough for him to pace, luckily; well, really, it was large enough for him to do almost anything he wanted. It was four times the size of a normal bedroom, with large windows on the eastern wall, a giant four-poster bed, a large table and desk, and enough room for him to sleep, eat, bathe, study, and nervously pace in all he liked.

There was to be an event tonight, an event that Clay had spent weeks preparing for. Camelot was hosting the kings and councils of every one of the Five Kingdoms. They were to be here, eating, talking, and strategizing, all in the Grand Hall.

Clay had paid enough attention in his history lessons to know that alliances were made and broken in the spaces of hours. And as his father had drilled into his head, he was to be absolutely perfect that night. So it had been etiquette classes, clothes fittings, and civics refreshers for days. He could probably recite the names and stations of every guest who would arrive that evening in his sleep.

Clay didn't care all that much about pomp and performance, or about his social status in the world of nobles. As the Prince, he didn't feel the strong need to jostle for friends who probably only cared about him because of his status. And he found those who enjoyed politics merely for the sake of politics somewhat disturbing. But he did care deeply about his kingdom's wellbeing, and the social politics that happened at these events had a direct impact on Camelot's ability to trade, to feed its citizens, and to defend itself.

For that reason, he felt a nervous apprehension as the dinner grew closer with every passing second. He was to be an ambassador for Camelot tonight, and one wrong word or action could throw his kingdom into jeopardy. He was no longer a child, and would be taken seriously in his father's court; an actor, not a bystander.

Clay felt anxiety start to swirl in his chest as he continued to pace, running his cues in his head over and over. His crown, which he rarely wore, seemed to grow heavier and heavier on his head.

A sudden tap at the window startled him and pulled him out of his anxious spiral. He looked at the short window closest to his bedside until the tap replicated. It was a pebble being thrown against the glass.

Failing to stifle a relieved grin, Clay rushed to open the window only to have another pebble strike him directly in the middle of his forehead.

"OH," George cried below, slapping a hand over his mouth. "Sorry, Dream!"

"You idiot," Dream laughed, rubbing his forehead and feeling a swell of relief to see his friend. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"More like trying to make sure you're not already dead," George shout-whispered, shuffling awkwardly on the ground. He was standing in the middle of the small garden that Clay's north-facing window opened up into, looking just as out-of-place as ever. "Where have you been?"

Thinking back, Dream realized guiltily that he had probably dropped off the face of the Earth in George's eyes, having been consumed by preparation for the dinner for the past week and a half, at least. Considering he and George saw each other nearly every day, he didn't blame the other boy for being worried.

"I'm sorry. I should have told you," Dream said, leaning on his elbows in the windowsill. "My father is hosting this enormous dinner tonight, and it's very important. I've been totally consumed with getting ready for it."

"Ah," George said, nodding stiffly. "Explains the crown."

"Oh," Clay said, reaching up to touch it self-consciously. "Yeah."

"Is that what happened to Sapnap and Bad, too?"

"Yeah, everyone in the castle has been busy," Dream winced.

A moment of awkward silence passed before George said, "well, okay, good then. I guess I'll leave you to it."

"I'm sorry again for disappearing," Dream said, feeling genuinely guilty for how lonely George looked by himself in the garden.

"Don't apologize," George said firmly, and Dream felt a rush of affection for how good of a sport his friend was being. "This is what a commoner like me gets for making friends with ye olde Crown Prince, eh?"

"I don't remember saying we were friends," Dream said with a smirk, and then ducked as another pebble flew into his window.

"Keep going and it'll be a boulder," George warned, his smile undermining the threat.

"George," Dream called just as the other boy started to walk away, "how about tonight. After I'm done with everything – it'll be late. We can meet by the stone pile?"

George turned around, brightening up, and nodded. "Okay! I'll see you there."

Clay closed the window just as Miriam opened up the double doors to his room.

"Prince Clay," she said as she entered, only to shriek with alarm as he straightened and turned towards her. "By the – what happened to your forehead?!"

Thanks, George, Clay groaned internally as he was pulled towards a mirror until the little red spot left by the pebble was successfully rubbed into oblivion.

The Grand Hall had never looked grander, Clay thought, as he entered it alongside his father. The engraved wood and stone of the Hall was polished to sparkling, and enormous oak tables spanned the length of the Hall so as to accommodate their dozens of guests. Through the vaulted windows, the evening sun cast bright, colorful hues over the entire assembly, the kings and nobles seated at their places as well as the servants who hurried back and forth with trays of food and goblets of ale.

The activity paused as a trumpeter announced the arrival of Clay and his father, and every guest rose in a great flurry of cloth as the King of Camelot approached his seat at the head of the great table.

"Honored guests," the King spoke, his voice carrying to the furthest corners of the hall. Clay glanced at him nervously, feeling fortified just by his father's presence. As terrifying as it was to be on his father's bad side, it was equally relieving to feel protected by him. His father was formidable, severe-looking yet fair, his light hair and eyes matching Clay's. His body was lined and hardened, evidence of the many wars he had fought and won. The respect he commanded reverberated throughout the silent hall as the kings and council members of the other kingdoms attended closely to his words.

"We are honored to host you in Camelot tonight," King Daniel said. "Our kingdom has been blessed with abundance, which we hope to share with you, our friends and allies. Please, eat, drink, and be well. I hope to speak to each of you in turn tonight."

With that, he took his seat, and everyone sat down alongside him, the hall erupting into a low murmur of conversation.

Clay sat to the left of his father and was immediately provided with a plate full of food and a goblet of wine. He picked up his fork hesitantly, suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling that every eye in the room was trained on him.

"You are old enough now to speak to these men as equals, Clay," his father said, and Clay turned to the King quickly. His father looked at him seriously, and Clay shivered with the weight of his gaze. "You should do so, even if they attempt to treat you as a child."

Clay nodded and drew himself up where he sat.

Throughout the night, several men approached the head of the table, taking their turns to speak to the King and make their various reports, offers and requests. Clay watched carefully as his father discussed and dispatched each conversation in turn, noting with interest how he never let a man leave feeling spurned, but made clear his intentions to those he was truly interested in dealing with. Clay's father was a master of social politics, and Clay sat enraptured, soaking up everything he could learn.

At one point, Clay was introduced to Prince Andrew, an arrogant, self-aggrandizing fellow about his age who talked his ear off at length about the various shortcomings of Camelot's castle.

"The mutton here is really quite nice, we don't get it half as nice in Essetir... but I have to say I'm disappointed with the wine, I thought it'd be a bit sweeter? You should really try the wine from Essetir, our winemakers really know how to get a man drunk... I had to fire my useless manservant the other day for drinking too much of it on the job! You understand how that goes, I'm sure, it's hard to find a decent manservant these days..."

"I don't keep a manservant," Clay managed to jump in during Andrew's brief pause for breath, smiling politely and attempting the kind of patient diplomacy his father was displaying to his right.

Andrew gawked at him and then shrugged. "I suppose you are a bit young," he said loftily. "You'll get one soon, I'm sure, it's only customary, and heavens, the time you save, on chores and cleaning armor and what not.... actually, if your Highness would allow me to offer some advice?"

Clay dipped his head, taking a sip of wine to hide the way his lips had thinned in annoyance.

"Make sure your servants know you can use the stick as well as the carrot, eh?" Andrew said, raising his eyebrows conspiratorially. "Nothing like a bit of roughing up to get something through a thick skull, you know what I mean?" he chuckled, downing the last of his goblet.

The suggestion was so abrasive to Clay that he had to struggle for a moment not to raise his voice. "That is not how we treat our servants in Camelot," he finally managed, unable to keep the disgust out of his tone.

Andrew looked taken aback, but tried to shrug it off. Soon, though, he finally picked up on Clay's unhappy expression and took his leave.

There was no quicker way to lose Clay's respect than to say such a thing, he thought as he picked angrily at his food. As though it weren't enough to order your servants around day and night, lording your superior wealth and power over them at every turn; but to also find it necessary to abuse them? Nothing could go more against the purpose of royalty, in Clay's view, which was to serve and protect the people of Camelot, and especially those within the castle walls. He tried to stop himself from stewing over the conversation for the rest of the night, but Prince Andrew had firmly embedded himself as the worst kind of nobility in his mind.

Near the end of the night, as well-fed and slightly drunk guests began to slowly filter out for their various chambers, King Daniel and Prince Clay were approached by a tall, broad-shouldered man with a dark beard and hair which fell past his shoulders. Clay identified him as King William of Mercia, one of the five major kingdoms in Albion, and perhaps the most powerful next to Camelot.

William spoke quickly and fluidly, with a style that put Clay off nearly immediately. It felt as though William was constantly trying to pass something by without their noticing, a suspicion which immediately felt true as William said:

"... and we've been mightily successful with our crops this year, and would be happy to strike a trade agreement, King Daniel, if you find yourself short this winter. Our newly operational magic guild has ensured that our crops stay free from blight and locusts, and we feel confident..."

The background noise seemed to grind to a halt, and Clay narrowed in on the words William had just spoken, wondering if he had perhaps misheard. He felt his father doing the same thing as Daniel leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the table.

"Excuse me, William," Daniel said, and the timbre of his voice would be enough to send many lesser men running. "Did you just speak of sorcerers in your kingdom?"

William hesitated as some of his council members glanced at him nervously. "Daniel," he said in a saccharine, placating tone. "I know of your... distrust of sorcery, but you should know that magic can be used for any number of things, as a tool, for good or for -,"

"And you've brought them into your government?" Daniel interrupted, his voice as cold as ice.

William faltered again, but drew himself up. "Yes, Daniel," he said, "and I don't regret it either. Like I said, our crops have –,"

"I certainly hope, William," Daniel said, and Clay felt certain that the same wave of anger he was starting to feel in his own chest was rising in his father's, too, "that you have not actually brought one of these sorcerers into my kingdom today."

At this, William's advisors truly started to devolve into nervous chatter, backing away from the table and trying to whisper in William's ear while he stayed still, narrowing his eyes at Daniel.

That was answer enough. Clay felt himself standing only to realize that his father was standing as well, booming, "leave this castle immediately. As long as sorcerers hold power in your government, William, Camelot will never be open to you, not for trade or for protection. The choice is yours."

William tried once more to hold up his hands, venturing, "come now, Daniel-,"

"He said leave," Clay shouted this time, and he drew his sword. With pleasant surprise, he heard his father's knights, who sat on all sides of them, follow his lead as they drew their weapons alongside him.

The motion shocked William, who stared at Clay in astonishment, but it worked. Narrowing his gaze, William turned with a billowing of his cloak, followed by his council of advisors as he took his leave of the Great Hall.

Clay's heart pounded in his ears as he sheathed his sword and sat again at the table. His father's hand rested briefly on his shoulder, and he glanced at Daniel, his heart leaping to see a hint of pride in his eyes.

"You did well, Clay," the King said solemnly as he waved for the rest of the festivities to continue. "There is no room whatsoever for sorcery in any honest government. You give them an inch, and they will take root before you have a chance at stopping them. That includes forging alliances with them."

"I know, father," Clay responded, meeting his gaze. "I will never let that happen to Camelot."

Clay was practically falling over his own feet in exhaustion by the time he was permitted to return to his chambers, but he remembered his promise to George, and after changing and grabbing a few items from the kitchens, he made his way across the castle grounds, illuminated by moonlight and the dying torches flickering in the castle windows.

The pile of flat stones in the quiet grove of trees was lit up by the moon so that they almost glowed, and as Clay grew closer, he could see the slight figure sitting cross-legged at the top of the pile.

"Miss me?" he called as he climbed up the stones, and saw George leap to his feet.

"Dream!" George said, grinning. "About time."

"Have you been waiting long?" Dream asked with a yawn, collapsing onto his back on the top of the highest rock. George said no, he hadn't, and Dream didn't have enough energy to tell whether or not he was lying.

"Brought you food," he mumbled, holding out the cloth bag he had lugged all the way from the kitchen. George would never ask for Dream to bring him food, but he always looked slightly starving, just a little malnourished, and Dream liked to do it. Tonight, George started immediately digging in, letting out little noises of delight at the food items considered delicacies even for nobles: spiced mutton, sweet cakes and all kinds of fruits, figs and nuts.

"Is this how you dickheads eat all the time?" George asked through a full mouth, and after a full night of etiquette and manicured politeness, the brashness of the question was such a relief that Dream wheezed with laughter over something that was not all that funny.

"I'm serious," George said, his voice muffled, but laughed along with him. The moonlight illuminated him softly, bringing out the angles and shadows of his face. Dream felt overcome by fondness for him, and for the fact that he could just sprawl out on the rock in front of him instead of having to appear poised and proper at every moment.

"No, not all the time," Dream responded. "Tonight was a special occasion." Full to the brim of thoughts from the night, he started launching into a full account of everything that had happened while George kept eating. He talked about the various kings and nobles he had met, mentioned what an asshole Prince Andrew had been, and gave a play-by-play of his confrontation with King William. His story of seeing Sapnap accidentally spill his goblet all over the ground made George snort with amusement.

By the time he had finished rambling, though, he noticed George looked a little conflicted. He was staring down at his hands as he turned an apple over and over in his palms.

"What's wrong?" Dream asked, folding his hands over his chest and turning his head to look at George.

"It's nothing," George said guiltily, and Dream raised his eyebrows.

"You know I can see right through you," he said, and George laughed and rolled his eyes.

"I don't know, Dream. It's... you know I have no idea what you're talking about, right?"

"What do you mean?" Dream asked, propping himself up on his elbows.

"You and Sapnap and Bad, you all belong to this totally different world," George rushed, and by the quickness of his words Dream realized he had probably thought this conversation over before. "And of course I don't blame you for it, it's who you are. But we're getting older, and I just – I guess I don't know how I fit in here. It was one thing when we were kids, but everything is changing now, and I just... I dunno." He kept turning the apple nervously in his hands, refusing to look at Dream.

Oh. Dream sat up all the way, crossing his legs as he felt his heart sink. "I understand, George," he said. "I know it can't be easy being friends with me, when I'm... with everything. If you don't want to come around anymore," and wow, this was really hard – "then I understand."

"No," George said in frustration, "that's – that's not what I'm saying at all!" He hit his forehead with the heel of his palm in exasperation.

Dream was confused. "Then what are you saying?"

"Dream, you're literally the Prince of Camelot and I'm just some random commoner," George said, gesturing emphatically. "You're so important and I am so... not. I'm just saying, you don't have to waste your time with me if you don't want to, okay? I'll be fine," he ended on an entirely unconvincing note.