=== Godrick, Age Fifteen — Seven Years After the Death of Gorfyddyd ===
Once again, Godrick and Mordred knelt before the throne of Camelot, their heads bowed as Artoria Pendragon looked down upon them from her seat.
Seven years had passed since Godrick had slain King Gorfyddyd on that rain-soaked battlefield.
In the years that followed, the memory of taking a life had become neither easier nor more difficult.
It had simply become familiar.
He had killed many more men since then, each death another burden carried in silence as he and Mordred rode beneath Sir Lancelot’s banner through countless campaigns across Britain.
Time had shaped them both in different ways.
Mordred had grown ever bolder, her temper burning hotter with each passing year, while Godrick had become quieter and more measured, learning to master the immense strength that had once ruled him.
Even so, there remained one fire within him that refused to die.
Every day he watched his mother and sister hide behind the masks of men, forced to deny who they truly were for the sake of the kingdom, and each passing year made that injustice harder for him to bear.
Still, he endured it, hoping that one day Artoria would finally allow the three of them to lay aside the deception, even if only in private among the Round Table.
“My sons.”
Artoria rose from her throne, her distorted voice carrying effortlessly through the great hall.
Godrick felt Mordred stiffen beside him and, without lifting his head, gave her arm the slightest nudge.
She settled almost immediately, though he could still feel the tension radiating from her.
“Over the past five years, both of you have served Camelot with devotion.” Artoria’s gaze settled first upon Mordred.
“Mordred, I have been pleased with the leadership you have displayed and the courage you have shown upon the battlefield. Sir Lancelot speaks highly of your command, and I would expect nothing less from my eldest son.”
A brief silence followed before her attention shifted to Godrick.
“And you, Godrick.”
“You have demonstrated remarkable discipline, both in battle and in yourself. Your skill has grown beyond even my expectations, and your willingness to place yourself in harm’s way for your comrades does you great credit. Yet I would offer you this warning: know your limits. Valor is admirable, but I would not see you throw your life away through needless sacrifice.”
Though her voice remained as impassive as ever through the enchantment of her helm, Godrick understood the concern hidden beneath it.
Artoria turned from them and looked toward the assembled nobles and Knights of the Round Table.
“My sons have come of age.”
Her declaration echoed throughout the chamber, silencing every whisper.
“It is now time for them to prove themselves worthy of joining the Knights of the Round Table. Each shall be given a trial. Should they succeed, they will earn their place among Britain’s greatest defenders. Should they fail, they will be denied entry until such a time as the Round Table deems them worthy of another opportunity.”
Descending the steps of her throne, Artoria came to stand before Mordred.
“Mordred, my firstborn.”
“You shall govern the Kingdom of Powys in my stead. You will oversee its administration, judge disputes brought before you, and rule as any lord of Camelot must. Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain shall serve as your advisors. Listen well to their counsel, for they seek only your success. This trial has been chosen because you are heir to my throne, and it is your character, wisdom, and temperament that must now be tested.”
She allowed those words to settle before turning toward Godrick.
“As for you…”
“You hold no claim to Camelot’s throne, nor do I desire one for you. Instead, I would have you stand where every great king requires. At his right hand.”
Her gaze never left him.
“I intend for you to become Mordred’s strongest knight, his closest confidant, and the shield upon which the enemies of Britain shall break.”
A faint murmur spread through the hall.
“To that end, your trial shall be the destruction of Aberrheidol Castle.”
The chamber erupted as Nobles exchanged alarmed whispers while several knights glanced toward one another in surprise.
Aberrheidol Castle was renowned throughout Britain as one of the strongest fortresses ever constructed, its towering walls having withstood generations of warfare.
Many considered it all but impregnable.
There was, however, another reason for the outcry.
The fortress belonged to one of Camelot’s own nobles.
“W-Why, Your Majesty, you cannot be serious!”
Marquess Grasso lurched to his feet, his considerable bulk causing his ornate chair to creak in protest.
“My family has held Aberrheidol for generations! Why would you order its destruction?”
The outburst drew more than a few dark looks from the gathered knights.
Sir Lancelot stepped forward, one hand settling upon the hilt of Arondight as his cold gaze fixed upon the trembling noble.
“Mind your tongue, Marquess,” he said evenly, though there was enough menace in his voice to chill the room.
“Or I’ll open you from groin to throat before you utter another word.”
Grasso paled instantly, his outrage faltering beneath the knight’s murderous stare, but before either man could speak again, Artoria’s distorted voice cut through the growing tension.
“Enough.”
“I’m certain the good Marquess is merely confused as to why one of his castles has become the target of a royal campaign.” Artoria’s distorted voice echoed through the hall, carrying just enough amusement to offer the nobleman a path to recover.
“Isn’t that correct, Marquess Grasso?”
“O-Of course, Your Majesty!” the corpulent noble blurted, eager to seize the lifeline she had thrown him.
“I would never dream of offending my King.”
Attempting a respectful bow, Grasso leaned forward only slightly before his considerable weight forced him to sink awkwardly back into his chair.
“Indeed,” Artoria replied, the faint disdain beneath her enchanted voice impossible to miss.
Her gaze lingered on him for a long moment before she spoke again.
“Tell me, Marquess Grasso… are you aware that Aberrheidol Castle has been infiltrated by agents of the Warlord?”
The chamber fell silent.
Grasso’s jaw slowly fell open as he stared at her, blinking in utter disbelief.
“Y-Your Majesty… there must be some mistake.” He shook his head frantically.
“My family has served the Pendragon line faithfully for generations. Surely your information is false.”
“It is not.”
The simple reply struck him hard.
“Sir Tristan has spent months tracking four of the Warlord’s most notorious headhunters.” Artoria folded her hands behind her back as she descended another step from the throne.
“Would you care to guess where their trail ended?”
Grasso swallowed and his shoulders sagged.
“…Aberrheidol Castle.”
“Precisely.”
She allowed the answer to hang over the room before continuing.
“And I presume you had absolutely nothing to do with this?”
“No, Your Majesty!” Grasso exclaimed, nearly rising from his seat again.
“I swear it upon my life!”
“Good.” Artoria nodded once.
“Then what is said within this hall will remain within this hall. Should anyone flee Aberrheidol before my son arrives, I shall have no choice but to conclude that someone warned them.”
Grasso’s face paled.
“But… Your Majesty… I would never betray you.” His eyes darted anxiously around the assembled nobles.
“Others could leak the information and place the blame upon me. A man does not rise to my station without making enemies.”
“That, Marquess, is not my concern.”
Her voice remained perfectly calm.
“It would seem you have several grudges to settle before the day is over.”
Grasso lowered his head, his fingers tightening around the jeweled cane until his knuckles turned white.
Humiliation burned in his chest, and behind his lowered gaze resentment quietly took root.
===
Once the audience had concluded, Godrick and Mordred followed their mother through the winding corridors of Camelot until they reached her private chambers.
The heavy doors shut behind them with a dull thud, shutting out the noise of the castle.
Artoria reached up with both hands and removed her lion-shaped helm before letting out a slow breath.
Her long golden hair spilled freely down her back as she shook it loose, while Mordred followed suit a moment later, removing her own helmet with a relieved sigh.
“My… how the two of you have grown.”
The unfamiliar voice drifted through the room.
All three turned toward the darkened corner where a familiar figure stepped effortlessly from the shadows, his white robes immaculate despite the dust that should have covered them.
“Merlin?” Artoria breathed.
The disbelief on her face lasted only a heartbeat.
“Merlin!” She shouted, crossing the room in three quick strides.
“Where in the hell have you been?”
The old mage merely smiled, utterly unbothered by her tone.
“Temper, Artoria.”
His youthful voice retained the same easy confidence she remembered.
“I have been… here and there. Wandering Britain. Watching. Searching.”
Artoria stared at him.
“…What in God’s name does that even mean?”
Merlin clicked his tongue softly.
“Really now.” He folded his arms inside his sleeves.
“Is that any way to speak to your teacher? I was certain I raised you better than that.”
“I don’t give two damns about your lessons,” Artoria shot back.
“You vanished without a word. We deserved an explanation.”
For the first time since entering the room, Merlin’s smile softened.
“I suppose…”
He looked from Artoria to Mordred, then finally to Godrick.
“…I do owe all of you an explanation.”
The anger drained from Artoria almost immediately.
Before Merlin could react, she stepped forward and wrapped him in a firm embrace.
“…Gods above, I’m glad you’re alive.”
Merlin chuckled quietly, returning the embrace with one arm as he gently rubbed her back.
“You’ve done well in my absence, Artoria.”
There was unmistakable pride in his voice.
“I’ve been watching… and I couldn’t be more proud of the king you’ve become.”
===
Over the next few days, Godrick devoted himself to preparing for the siege of Aberrheidol Castle.
Whenever his duties allowed, he also made an effort to spend time around Merlin.
Artoria clearly held the old mage in the highest regard, speaking of him with respect and genuine affection, and Godrick wanted to understand why.
Yet every attempt he made to approach Merlin ended the same way.
The mage was always courteous enough not to be openly rude, but there was an unmistakable distance between them.
Conversations would abruptly end whenever Godrick entered the room, and Merlin would excuse himself soon afterward, offering little more than a polite smile that never quite reached his eyes.
Godrick couldn’t understand it.
He had never done anything to offend the man, yet Merlin seemed almost…
uncomfortable around him, as though simply sharing the same room weighed on him.
“Hey, don’t take it so hard,” Mordred said as the two of them sat together atop a grassy hill overlooking Camelot.
A gentle breeze rolled across the countryside, rustling the short green grass around them while a lone oak tree stood some distance away, casting a long shadow over the hillside.
Godrick rested his forearms on his knees and stared toward the distant castle walls.
“I just don’t understand it,” he admitted quietly.
“Mother and Merlin can be talking for hours, but the moment I walk into the room, everything changes. He just… looks at me. Like I make him uncomfortable.”
“Have you talked to Mother about it?” Mordred asked as she lay back in the grass with her hands folded behind her head.
She wasn’t wearing her usual armor.
Instead, she had disguised herself as one of the castle’s servant girls, her plain dress and tied-back hair making her nearly unrecognizable to anyone who didn’t know her.
Godrick shook his head.
“No. I guess…” He hesitated before letting out a quiet sigh.
“I suppose I’m afraid to. She respects Merlin more than anyone. I don’t want her to think I’m accusing him of anything.”
“Well…” Mordred replied, watching the clouds drift lazily overhead.
“It is Merlin we’re talking about. If anyone’s allowed to be strange, it’s probably him.”
Godrick chuckled faintly, though the unease remained.
Before either of them could continue, movement near the road below caught his attention.
A lone rider was making his way toward them from Camelot at a steady pace.
He nudged Mordred with his elbow.
She immediately understood, sitting upright before slipping effortlessly into the timid mannerisms of a peasant girl.
Her shoulders lowered, her confidence disappeared behind practiced humility, and within moments she looked nothing like the fiery prince of Camelot.
“Sir Godrick!” the rider called as he approached.
“The King requests your presence. You and Prince Mordred are to depart for your trials tomorrow morning.”
Godrick recognized him immediately.
The rider was the son of Marquess Grasso, every bit as overweight as his father.
His poor horse looked thoroughly miserable beneath the burden of carrying him, its sides heaving with every step.
She accepted it, allowing him to pull her upright before carefully dusting off the frills of her borrowed servant’s dress.
The young noble glanced toward her with open contempt, dismissing her as little more than another common maid.
Mordred looked him up and down before smirking.
“I can’t believe that poor horse can carry you.”
The nobleman’s face flushed crimson.
Instead of replying to her, he turned toward Godrick.
“Control your whore before I cut her tongue out,” he snarled.
Mordred’s eyes widened.
“Son of a bi—”
She never finished.
Godrick had already crossed the distance between them.
Grabbing the nobleman by the front of his tunic, he ripped him clean out of the saddle and sent him crashing onto his back with a heavy thud that knocked the wind from his lungs.
Without saying a word, Godrick took hold of the reins and swung himself smoothly into the saddle.
He guided the horse around before extending a hand toward Mordred.
She grinned from ear to ear before taking his hand, hopping up behind him, settling onto the rear of the saddle before turning back toward the sputtering nobleman.
She spat directly at him.
The glob struck him squarely across the cheek.
Then, with a grin full of childish satisfaction, she raised her middle finger.
“Get back here!” the young noble screamed, scrambling to his feet.
“I’ll find you, you filthy wench! Do you know who I am? My father will hear of this!”
Godrick simply urged the horse into a relaxed trot as he and Mordred rode away together.
Behind them, the young noble stood trembling with fury.
He knew better than to challenge Godrick directly, but that insolent maid…
whoever she was…
would pay dearly once he found her.
“Son of a bitch!” he shrieked, hurling his riding gloves into the grass.
Some time later, the doors to House Grasso’s estate slammed open with enough force to rattle the hinges.
“FATHER!” the young noble bellowed, his outraged voice echoing through the manor.
===
Godrick and Mordred once again stood before Artoria, though this time the meeting was held within the privacy of her office rather than the grandeur of the Throne Room.
Stacks of scrolls and reports covered her desk as she worked through the endless affairs of the kingdom.
Without looking up immediately, she finished reading the document in her hands before setting it aside and lifting her gaze to her two children.
“Now,” she began, folding her hands atop the desk, “the two of you must prepare. You leave for your assignments at first light.”
Her eyes settled on Mordred first.
“Mordred, you will travel with Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain to Powys, where you will begin governing in my name. Listen carefully to their counsel. They have served this kingdom faithfully for many years, and their experience will prove invaluable.”
She then turned to Godrick.
“Godrick, you will accompany Sir Agravain and Sir Galahad to Aberrheidol Castle. I expect you to complete your objective… while keeping the damage to the city itself to a minimum. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Mother,” they answered together, bowing their heads.
Artoria gave a small nod before continuing.
“Once your task is complete, Godrick, you will travel to Powys and remain there for the rest of the summer. I expect you to assist Mordred however you are able. When autumn arrives, the two of you will return to Camelot, and the Knights of the Round Table will determine whether you are worthy of joining their ranks.”
Silence settled over the room for a moment before Artoria stepped away from her desk.
She stopped in front of her children, studying them quietly.
When had they grown so much?
Mordred now stood nearly eye to eye with her, while Godrick towered over both of them, standing well over six and a half feet tall.
It was difficult to reconcile the imposing young man before her with the frightened little boy who had once clung desperately to her cloak after she found him in that ruined village.
A faint smile crossed her lips before she opened her arms.
“Come here.”
The siblings exchanged puzzled glances but obeyed, allowing Artoria to wrap both of them in a firm embrace.
“Be safe,” she whispered, her voice softer than either of them had heard in years.
“Both of you.”
Godrick and Mordred hesitated for only a moment before returning the hug.
It felt strangely awkward, not because either of them disliked it, but because their mother had become far more reserved as they had grown older.
Affection like this had become increasingly rare, making the moment feel almost unfamiliar.
For several quiet seconds, none of them spoke.
Eventually Artoria stepped back, the warmth fading behind the composed mask she wore as king.
Her expression settled once more into its usual calm professionalism as she folded her hands behind her back.
“Now, off to bed. Both of you.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
“You have a long journey ahead of you tomorrow.”
===
“What do you think?” Agravain asked as he stood beside Galahad, both men looking down from the hillside toward the great gate protecting Aberrheidol Castle.
Galahad studied the thick timber doors reinforced with iron bands, his gaze lingering for a moment before a grin spread across his face.
“I’d say gates can always be rebuilt.”
Between the two knights, Godrick remained crouched in the grass, clad from head to toe in polished plate armor.
A moment earlier he had asked the simple question of whether the gate needed to remain intact for his assignment.
Apparently, it did not.
Hearing Galahad’s answer, the young man slowly rose to his full height before making his way to his horse, the same unfortunate beast he had “borrowed” from Marquess Grasso’s son.
He gave the animal an affectionate pat along its neck before unhooking the massive halberd secured to the saddle.
Resting the weapon across one shoulder, he returned to stand between his two instructors, looking down toward the distant fortress one last time.
“Guess I’ll get to it then,” he said with an easy smile.
“Wish me luck.”
Without waiting for a response, he started down the hillside toward the castle alone.
Galahad cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Restraint!” he shouted after the retreating figure.
“Remember your restraint!”
Godrick simply raised a hand over his shoulder in acknowledgment without turning around, while Agravain watched him go with folded arms and a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“For all our sake,” Agravain muttered, “I hope he remembers.”