=== Godrick, Age Seven — One Year After Beginning His Training Under Sir Lancelot ===
Godrick and Mordred knelt side by side before the Throne of Camelot, surrounded by the gathered Knights of the Round Table and the assembled nobility.
The great hall was filled with silent anticipation, every noble seated within the stone alcoves built into the walls while the knights stood in orderly ranks along the crimson carpet that stretched from the massive entrance to the King’s dais.
The towering doors behind the Throne slowly swung open.
Without a word being spoken, every man and woman in the chamber dropped to one knee and lowered their heads as the King entered.
Artoria strode toward the Throne with the calm confidence expected of Britain’s sovereign.
Her long white cloak billowed gently behind her before settling across the steps of the dais as she took her seat, brushing the heavy fabric aside with a practiced motion.
For a few moments she simply observed the two children waiting below, allowing the silence to settle over the court before her deep, magically distorted voice echoed throughout the chamber.
“You have both performed admirably in your training.”
Her gaze first settled upon Mordred.
“Mordred, your skill with the sword continues to improve at an astonishing pace. You possess both determination and courage in equal measure, and I am proud of the knight you are becoming.”
Mordred beamed despite herself, struggling to keep her excitement hidden as she bowed her head.
Artoria then turned her attention toward Godrick.
“And you, Godrick, have demonstrated remarkable discipline. Few grown men could wield the strength you possess without becoming slaves to it, yet you have learned restraint where others would rely solely upon force. Sir Lancelot speaks highly of your progress, and I confess that I am eager to see what manner of warrior you will become once that strength is finally turned against our enemies.”
Several of the gathered Knights of the Round Table exchanged amused glances before quiet laughter spread among them.
They had all witnessed the young boy during training, and more than one of them had watched him accidentally dent weapons or crack practice dummies with blows he had believed to be gentle.
If he was already this formidable as a child, none of them wished to imagine what he might become as a fully grown knight.
The laughter quickly faded as Artoria rose from her Throne.
Her armored hand rested upon the pommel of Excalibur while she surveyed every noble and knight gathered before her.
“For too many years,” she declared, her voice carrying effortlessly through the hall, “Britain has suffered beneath the shadow of the Warlord. She has burned our villages, butchered our people, and spread fear across lands that should know peace.”
Her gauntleted fist rose, pointing beyond the walls of Camelot itself.
“Our enemy waits beyond these walls.”
The hall became deathly quiet.
“And now King Gorfyddyd of Powys has cast aside every oath he once swore to this kingdom. He has chosen treachery over honor and stands beside the Warlord as her ally.”
The announcement sent murmurs rippling through the assembled nobility, many exchanging uneasy glances while others whispered angrily among themselves.
Artoria raised her voice above them all.
“Therefore, I have ordered the beginning of a campaign that shall shake the foundations of Britain itself.”
The murmuring vanished.
“Sir Lancelot!”
The Knight of the Lake stepped forward from the line of Round Table knights and knelt.
“I entrust the conquest of Powys to you.”
Lancelot lowered himself before his king.
“I shall not fail you, my King.”
A wave of applause and cheers erupted throughout the throne room as the famed knight rose once more.
Artoria allowed the celebration to continue for a moment before raising one hand for silence.
“My children shall accompany Sir Lancelot on this campaign.”
The room quieted immediately.
“They will not march as warriors, but as squires. Under Sir Lancelot’s guidance, they will continue their education and witness firsthand what it truly means to be Knights of Camelot. The fires of war temper more than steel, and when the day finally comes for them to bear arms in Britain’s defense, they shall do so with wisdom earned through experience rather than stories.”
Many of the knights nodded in approval, while the nobility responded with renewed applause.
Godrick barely heard any of it.
Beside him, Mordred quietly reached toward him until her hand found his.
He squeezed it without looking at her.
Although neither child spoke, he could feel the slight trembling in her fingers, and he realized with some embarrassment that his own hand was shaking just as much.
The cheering slowly died away as Artoria descended the steps of the dais and stopped before the two of them.
Though hidden behind her helmet, her voice softened enough that only they could hear.
“Do not be afraid.”
She placed a gauntleted hand upon each of their shoulders.
“You will remain well behind the front lines for some time yet. For the next several years, your duty is not to fight, but to learn.”
Godrick felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.
Mordred let out the breath she had been holding.
Artoria gave each of them a reassuring squeeze before straightening once more, once again becoming the unshakable King that all of Camelot looked to for guidance.
=== Godrick, Age Eight — One Year Later ===
“Release me!”
King Gorfyddyd of Powys stumbled through the mud as Camelot’s knights dragged him into the center of their encampment before throwing him to his knees.
Rain poured from the dark sky without mercy, turning the battlefield into a mire of blood, filth, and churned earth where the corpses of men and horses still lay scattered from the day’s fighting.
Only a week earlier, Gorfyddyd had declared war upon Camelot, believing Artoria too occupied with the Warlord’s relentless campaign to the east to answer another invasion.
Instead, the King of Knights had marched west with terrifying speed, shattered the armies of Powys in a single decisive battle, and captured its king before sunset.
To Artoria, it had been little more than another interruption, as the Warlord still ravaged Britain.
Gorfyddyd had simply become an inconvenience that demanded a swift conclusion.
Artoria stood before the defeated monarch clad in her familiar armor, the lion-faced helm concealing every trace of her expression.
Even so, Gorfyddyd recognized the King immediately.
A bitter grin spread across his bruised face.
“So…” he laughed through bloodied teeth.
“The whore-lover has come to pass judgment.”
Lancelot moved before anyone else could react.
His gauntleted hand struck Gorfyddyd across the face with such force that the king toppled sideways into the mud before coughing blood onto the ground.
When Gorfyddyd looked back up, the smile had never left his face.
“How is the whore, my lord?” he sneered.
“Still warming one of your knight’s beds?”
Another blow sent him sprawling.
“You will not speak of Lady Guinevere again,” Lancelot said quietly, though the fury behind his voice was unmistakable.
Gorfyddyd spat another mouthful of blood into the mud.
“And why not?” he laughed.
“She did not seem offended when she lay beneath—”
Lancelot raised his hand once more.
“Enough.”
Artoria’s command stopped him instantly.
The Knight of the Lake lowered his arm with obvious reluctance while Artoria stepped forward until she stood directly before the kneeling king.
“You have made a grave mistake, Gorfyddyd.”
Her voice echoed across the silent camp.
“I neither possess the time nor the patience to indulge your ambitions while Britain burns. Therefore, your little war ends today.”
Gorfyddyd looked up at her and laughed.
“You bluff.”
He slowly rose to one knee despite his bindings.
“Kill me, and Powys will never submit. You’ll have opened a second front while you’re already bleeding against the Warlord.”
Artoria simply reached toward one of her attendants who handed her a rolled parchment.
She dropped it into the mud before him.
“I know of your agreement with the Warlord.”
The man’s laughter died immediately.
“I know what she promised you.” She said as his face paled.
“I also know your council begged you not to march against Camelot.”
She folded her hands behind her back.
“Once you are dead, your eldest son will inherit the throne. Unlike his father, he has neither desire nor reason to continue this war.”
For the first time since his capture, Gorfyddyd said nothing.
He merely stared at the parchment lying in the mud.
“…Fine.” He said as his shoulders sagged.
“What now, Arthur? Will you execute me?”
“Yes.”
Artoria turned.
“But I will not be the one to do it.”
She raised one armored hand.
“Godrick.”
A young boy stepped through the ring of gathered knights.
Though only eight years old, he already stood remarkably tall for his age, his long blond hair tied neatly behind his head with a simple leather cord.
Rain ran freely across his bare torso after he removed his soaked shirt, revealing a physique that was lean rather than bulky, yet already carried the unmistakable strength that had astonished every knight who had trained beside him.
Among the Round Table there were few who had not witnessed him accidentally bend steel during practice.
Even fewer doubted what he would someday become.
Gorfyddyd stared in disbelief.
“…You would have this whelp fight me?”
“If you kill young Godrick,” Artoria replied calmly, “you and every surviving soldier of Powys shall leave here alive.”
Hope flickered across Gorfyddyd’s face.
“But… If Godrick kills you, your army will still return home alive. They shall simply do so unarmed… after each man has had his sword hand broken.”
The defeated king slowly rose as the chains were removed from his wrists.
“I am a king,” he growled.
“And you insult me by placing my fate in the hands of a child.”
Artoria met his gaze without emotion.
“If he is only a child, then your freedom should be easily won.”
At her signal, two knights tossed swords into the muddy circle.
The blades landed between the two combatants.
Godrick gestured toward them.
“You may choose first.”
Gorfyddyd snorted before grabbing the nearer weapon to Godrick, convinced the remaining blade must be inferior.
Godrick merely smiled.
He stooped, lifted the second sword from the mud, then turned it upright so the rain washed the dirt from the steel before giving it an experimental swing.
He rolled his shoulders loose before lazily lowering the point toward the ground.
“Come then, little piggy,” Gorfyddyd sneered.
Godrick smiled.
“Here the pig stands.” He rested the sword across one shoulder.
“I’m just waiting for your fat arse to come get him.”
With an enraged roar, Gorfyddyd charged.
His sword flashed downward.
Godrick stepped aside so effortlessly it almost appeared accidental, the blade slicing through empty air before his own weapon casually redirected the next strike.
Another slash followed, then another, and another, each one slipping harmlessly past the young man as though Gorfyddyd were swinging underwater.
Before long, the older man was breathing heavily.
Godrick wasn’t.
Rain dripped from the boy’s hair as he continued circling with infuriating calm.
“My…”
He knocked another attack aside.
“…you’re…” Another effortless sidestep.
“…old.” Gorfyddyd stumbled past him.
“…and slow.”
Laughter rippled through the gathered knights.
Rage consumed the King of Powys.
Only then did he finally understand that this had never been a duel.
It was an execution.
Artoria had already won the war.
Now she intended to create something even more dangerous than victory.
She was creating a legend.
The boy who slew a king before reaching manhood.
His name would spread across Britain before the corpse was cold.
“Damn you…” Gorfyddyd snarled toward Artoria.
She regarded him without sympathy.
“This is the price of betrayal.”
With a scream of desperation, Gorfyddyd rushed forward one final time.
The steel in Godrick’s hands exploded through Gorfyddyd’s blade, shattering it into glittering fragments that scattered through the rain.
Without breaking stride, the young knight slid past his opponent before planting one foot in the mud and spinning smoothly back around.
Gorfyddyd had only enough time to turn as Godrick’s sword drove through his chest to the hilt.
The boy stepped close until only the dying king could hear him.
“How dare you speak to my mother that way.”
Gorfyddyd’s eyes widened.
“Moth—” The word never finished.
With a violent twist, Godrick ripped the blade sideways, cleaving through flesh and bone alike.
The stroke tore across the king’s chest, severing his sword arm before splitting his torso nearly in two.
Gorfyddyd collapsed soundlessly into the mud.
As the fury that had carried him through the duel slowly ebbed away, he remained standing over Gorfyddyd’s corpse, rain cascading from his hair and soaking through his clothes while crimson rivulets ran from the tip of his sword into the churned mud below.
Around him, the battlefield erupted into cheers as Camelot’s soldiers celebrated the death of the enemy king, yet every sound seemed strangely distant, muffled beneath the steady rhythm of the falling rain.
His eyes never left the body.
The king who had mocked his mother only moments before now lay motionless in the mud, his blood mingling with the filth beneath him as though he had never been anything more than another man.
Godrick slowly loosened his grip on his sword, only to realize that his fingers refused to obey him.
They remained locked around the hilt until he consciously forced them apart one by one, and when the weapon finally slipped free, it struck the ground with a heavy splash.
His gaze drifted across the battlefield, but he no longer saw soldiers or banners.
He saw another village consumed by flames.
He saw bodies strewn across blood-soaked streets, heard the screams of men and women begging for mercy, and felt the biting lash of the enchanted whip tearing into his back while chains held him helpless against cold stone.
A gauntleted hand rested gently against his shoulder, turning him gently.
Artoria turned him away from the corpse, her grip firm but reassuring as she guided his eyes toward her lion-shaped helm instead.
“Mother…” he whispered, his voice barely audible beneath the rain.
“Was… was there another way?”
For a long moment, Artoria said nothing.
She looked past him toward Gorfyddyd’s lifeless body before answering with the honesty she believed every knight deserved.
“For him… no.”
Godrick lowered his head, his soaked golden hair falling over his eyes.
“Does that make me a bad person?”
Artoria placed both hands upon his shoulders and waited until he finally looked back at her.
“No,” she said quietly.
“It makes you a knight.”
He continued staring at her, searching for certainty where he could find none within himself.
“There is a difference between taking life because you delight in suffering, and taking life because innocent people will suffer if you do not.” Her voice remained calm and unwavering as she spoke, carrying the same conviction with which she had ruled Camelot for years.
“Gorfyddyd chose this path. He chose war. He chose to send fathers, mothers, and children to die for his ambition. Today, you ended the suffering he would have continued to inflict.”
She squeezed his shoulders gently.
“Never rejoice in killing, Godrick. Never seek it for its own sake, because the day you begin to enjoy taking life is the day you cease to be worthy of carrying a sword.”
Godrick swallowed hard before giving a faint nod.
“But if innocent lives depend upon your blade, then you must never hesitate. A knight who cannot bring himself to strike down evil abandons those he swore to protect.”
He looked past her once more toward Gorfyddyd’s corpse, though this time his expression was thoughtful rather than horrified.
“I… understand.”
“I know you do.”
Artoria drew him into a brief embrace, resting one armored hand against the back of his head before stepping away.
“What shall we do with the prisoners, my King?” Lancelot asked as he approached, glancing toward the defeated army of Powys that stood bound beneath the watchful eyes of Camelot’s knights.
“They fought because their king commanded it,” Artoria answered.
“Break the thumb on each man’s sword hand, then send them home. They will not raise steel against Camelot for many months.”
Lancelot bowed deeply.
“As you command, my King.” He turned and began issuing orders to the surrounding knights.
Artoria watched him for a moment before placing a hand upon Godrick’s shoulder once again.
“You’ve followed Sir Lancelot for a year without complaint,” she said, a hint of warmth hidden beneath her distorted voice.
“I think you’ve earned a day’s rest.”
Godrick managed a small smile.
“I’d still rather train tomorrow.”
A faint chuckle escaped Artoria as she gazed upon her son.
“I had no doubt you would.”