Vilon went to his knees, head bowed down, eyes fixed on a pair of boots.
Royal boots.
How exactly a pair of boots managed to look royal was well beyond his understanding. Fine leather was fine leather, whether it sat on a king's foot or a hedge knight's, or so he'd always assumed. And yet there was no mistaking these for anything ordinary.
"I greet his majesty," Vilon announced, exactly as the Prince had coached him to say it. He rose slowly afterward and stepped himself off to the side, as instructed.
He raised his gaze, tentative at first. The Prince had left his side entirely by now and stood instead beside his father. When Vilon's eyes finally settled on the King himself, the first coherent thought that fought its way through his skull was simply: Holy shit, that's an actual king.
