Chapter Text
It was a quiet morning in Camelot, or at least, as quiet as any morning could be when the castle kitchens were in uproar and servants bustled through the corridors with trays, candles, and thinly veiled panic.
In the Great Hall, a single scroll unrolled with a ceremonious crack, and a court servant began reading the daily announcements, his voice droning like a distant bee.
“Grain shipments from Wincott have been delayed. The outer eastern walls are scheduled for re-grouting—”
Arthur, crown prince of Camelot and recently self-declared master of enduring boredom, stood beside his father’s throne, arms crossed. He hadn’t been listening for a while, and no one blamed him. Uther was perched like a hawk on the gilded chair, expression carved from stone, while Arthur looked more like a restless hound.
“And lastly,” the servant continued, “the castle prepares to welcome ten esteemed princesses from noble houses across the realm, who will arrive at Camelot next week to be received by His Royal Highness Prince Arthur, as part of courtship proceedings arranged by His Majesty.”
Arthur blinked. Then straightened. “…What?” he said, sharply enough to make half the court flinch.
His voice echoed through the Great Hall, high-vaulted and stone-cold. It crackled in the air like a lightning strike, brittle with disbelief. Even the servant paused. Around them, the council stiffened, every neck turning toward Arthur like hounds scenting blood. The moment shivered with tension, not just because of the prince’s reaction, but because everyone knew, knew this had been planned for months and they were now facing the consequences.
“You heard him,” Uther replied, calm and immovable. “It is time you married.”
The Great Hall, in that moment, held its collective breath.
“I just returned from fighting bandits on the western border, and now I’m to entertain an army of powdered ladies waving their fans at me?” Arthur snapped. “I’m not a prize at a village fair!”
“Of course not,” Uther replied, already bored of the protest. “You’re the future king.” He rose from his throne and waved a hand to the servant who quickly followed, launching into details about foreign arrivals and bedding arrangements. Before the doors could fully close behind him, they opened again with a reluctant creak. Uther stepped back into the hall, his expression already laced with regret at having returned.
“And Morgana,” he said, barely glancing in her direction, “you’ll oversee the preparations. The castle mustn’t look like a training yard when the princesses arrive.”
Though sunlight streamed weakly through the stained-glass windows, it brought no warmth. The spring air hadn’t yet breached the castle’s thick, battle-scarred walls. It still felt like winter in here, war-winter. The heavy tapestries couldn’t hide the cracks. This wasn’t a hall that had seen celebration in years. There were no signs of a queen’s touch: no warmth, no life. Just echoing footsteps, smoke from torches, and the smell of old iron.
Uther gave Arthur another pointed look. “Make sure it feels like a place where a woman might want to live.”
Then, as if even that much emotional labour had drained him, he left again – this time for good.
Morgana sat alone on her wide throne, the only woman in a chamber of aging lords and stony silences. Her presence had always been a statement, a contradiction in a room shaped for men. She arched a perfectly shaped brow, amusement flickering behind her dark eyes.
"How generous of him," she murmured, the corner of her mouth twitching.
Though she made light of it, something in her shifted. Ten princesses, fluttering into Camelot in silks and perfume: company, conversation, laughter. For a moment, Morgana imagined it. A castle with women in its halls again, with warmth, colour. Not just steel and strategy and in every corridor. She leaned back in her seat, eyes drifting to the tapestries lining the hall. Even they looked worn. Everything here did.
The doors had barely closed behind the king when Arthur spun around. The council had remained — not by accident. They lingered like smoke after a fire, hoping their presence might soften the blow. Or at least contain the fallout.
Arthur stood motionless at first, then drew a sharp breath. His fingers dug into his arm as though holding himself together. His gaze flicked toward the council. Slowly, as if unwilling to betray just how rattled he was, he stepped forward. His knuckles whitened as his hand found the edge of the throne.
“You all knew this was going to happen?” Arthur’s voice cut through the silence, sharp with disbelief. His eyes scanned the room — but when they landed on Lancelot, they lingered a fraction too long.
Lancelot held his gaze only briefly before nodding, his eyes dropping in quiet apology. There was no excuse, and he didn’t offer one.
Arthur then turned, suddenly, to Merlin.
“You knew?” he demanded, voice sharper than he meant it to be. Anger covering something softer.
Merlin met his eyes and shook his head. “No,” he said quietly.
Arthur looked at him a moment longer (long enough to see it was true) and turned away again, the tension in his shoulders only barely easing.
“Of course he didn’t,” Lord Hargrave sneered from the back, venom coiled in every word. “The boy has your ear,” he muttered, dry as dust.
Arthur shot him a glare, but said nothing.
“We’ve tried before,” said Lord Elric, stepping in smoothly to fill the silence. “You’ve been... unmovable. The court can’t wait forever.”
Arthur clenched his jaw. That word — unmovable, like he was a problem to be pushed past.
“They’ll only stay a week or two,” offered Sir Leon, lying, while nervously scrutinising Arthur’s clenched jaw.
“It’s an excellent opportunity for diplomacy,” Morgana added with a faint smirk, lounging in her seat. “The Princess of Volturnia is very accomplished in embroidery and falconry.”
“I don’t care what she’s accomplished,” Arthur snapped. “I haven’t asked to marry anyone.”
“We’re aware,” muttered Gaius from a corner, not looking up from a scroll.
“This is not a request,” said Lord Elric, voice low. “It’s policy. Alliances, heirs, legacy.”
Arthur stood like a statue ready to break, not unmoving, but barely holding. His arms crossed so tightly they might splinter. A muscle jumped in his cheek. When he finally spoke, his voice was clipped, too tight in his throat.
“I know what it is,” Arthur shot back. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
In the shadows, Lord Melius shifted but stayed silent, lips pursed as though the entire exchange was beneath him. Beside him, Lord Hargrave was itching to complain, but even he knew better. The matter was already settled. The princesses were coming. The matches were being arranged. Whether Arthur liked it or not.
Arthur stood still, fists on his hips, shoulders rising with each breath. Then, abruptly, he turned away — fury still boiling, but now laced with something colder. Resentment.
“I’m speaking to my father,” he declared, already striding toward the door.
Morgana raised a brow. “Please do. He loves interruptions.”
Merlin, who’d been extremely still by the fireplace, sighed and followed him out.
Arthur stormed through the stone corridors, the clink of his boots echoing with purpose. Merlin trotted behind him like a reluctant shadow.
“Are we storming or striding?” Merlin asked. “Just so I know how fast to limp.”
Arthur didn’t answer. He pushed open the doors to the royal council chamber, where Uther sat reviewing maps and parchments, a goblet of watered wine by his hand and the look of someone deeply uninterested in whatever complaint was about to land at his feet.
“I’m not doing it,” Arthur announced.
“Yet,” Uther didn’t look up , “You will choose.”
“It’s madness,” Arthur snapped. “This whole charade—ten strangers shoved into the castle like a travelling show! What does that even prove?”
“That you are capable of choosing a queen,” Uther replied, still not meeting his son’s eyes. “Camelot cannot be ruled by bachelors and bloodshed forever..”
Arthur took a breath. “Father—”
Uther finally looked up, and there was frost in his gaze. “Must I repeat myself?”
Arthur opened his mouth to argue again, but Uther turned as if the matter was beneath him.
“Merlin,” he said, stopping beside the prince’s utterly unqualified manservant, “have a word with him.”
Merlin, who had spent the last half-hour trying to remain invisible by blending into the tapestry, looked up in horror.
“Me?”
“You’re the only one he listens to when he’s behaving like a child,” Uther said, already walking away again.
Merlin blinked. “I… thank you?”
Merlin followed Arthur in his chambers, where he began pacing again, and groaning.
“So,” Merlin said, ducking in. “Ten royal suitors. Lovely. What’ll you wear? Can I pick the boots?”
Arthur glared at him. “Don’t start.”
“I’m only saying,” Merlin continued, breezing in as if he didn’t fear royal wrath, “you could look at this as a diplomatic banquet. Like… courtly mingling. Strategic tea-sipping. You’re not being auctioned off, just, you know… politically admired.”
Arthur groaned and sat down, rubbing his temples.
“I’m not ready for this.”
“No one is,” Merlin said, sitting beside him. “But think of it as… meeting interesting people from powerful places. Allies, not wives. You won’t be forced to marry by Thursday, promise.”
Arthur gave him a look. “How do you always make the worst ideas sound reasonable?”
“Natural talent,” Merlin said with a smug little smile.
And for the first time that day, Arthur exhaled, not with relief, exactly, but with something close to surrender.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Tell the servants to prepare my schedule.”
“You want the velvet cloak or the brooding knight look?”
Arthur rolled his eyes, but didn't protest.