Prince George could not remember seeing his father without the crown on his head, except perhaps in bed, and even then the imprint on his temples was clear enough. But the crown could have been melted down or stolen away and it would not have mattered to King Davit’s kingship. George could see it in every movement his father made.

When the King spoke to Cook Elin, he always complimented her on her choices, how well suited her cheese was to her tart, how her salad reflected the colors of the autumn mountains in the distance. George had no idea if his father liked the flavor of the salad, of the texture of the tart. He did not know if his father knew, either. Only that the King approved.

When King Davit spoke to the scarred and muscular Lord General of the mounted army, he nodded and agreed with the choice of which mare to match with which stallion, and talked wisely of the best way to deal with the men who had been made cripples or deaf-mutes by the effects of the war at last over. George had no sense of what the war had been like for his father, whether he had been afraid of the sound of the enemy’s war cry, as had the guardsman at the gate. Or if he had vomited at the stench of the dead, as had the woman who had served some time as a waterbearer. The war was the kingdom’s war, and so it had been fought.

Even when George was alone with his father, it seemed there was no difference. The King told George the story of the baker who had made too many loaves, but at the end of the day would give none of them to the poor, and then found that in the morning, they had been eaten by mice instead.

The King also told George the story of the innkeeper who talked so much that he used up his throat and was ever afterwards trying to make signs with his hands to be understood. He told of the seamstress who left an unfinished seam in a fancy ball gown, thinking that surely it would never be noticed, who went to the ball herself to watch the gown gradually spin away from the wearer until she stood in nothing but her undergarments, and her wrath for her betrayal.

In the stories, there was always a message that was important for George to remember. For the Prince of Kendel, from the King. Never a story for fun, with magic and wildness, with adventures and threatenings and the promise of more to come. Never a story that made George want to cry, or to laugh, or to dance. Only a story to make him think.

And though George had seen the King’s servants take off their serving uniforms and play like children in the castle baths, or outside, past the moat, in throwing or wrestling games, he never saw his father play. His father smiled when it was right for the King to smile. He frowned to show the King’s disapproval. He was always right and good, but he never felt a father.