The great hall of Camelot was alive with warmth. Long tables were set with bread, venison, and wine, the crackle of the hearth giving the evening a comfortable glow. My knights spoke freely, laughter and sharp remarks bouncing back and forth in the easy rhythm of comrades at peace.
Mordred was busy once more telling everyone about how she killed the witch calling herself Morgana.
Everyone else had heard the story dozens of times already and got enjoyment out of messing with her, which always worked, as Mordred quickly got worked up, much to the amusement of the others.
Away from the main table where my Knights sat, the maids and squires sat and had their own meals. The women and children saved from the Red Room had mostly recovered. While the nightmares and torture they had undergone could never fully be erased, they no longer hung over them.
Right after coming here, they had been quiet, clearly still unsure about their future. Shortly after that, the nightmares began.
In the Red Room, such weakness wasn't allowed, so it wasn't until they became a bit more comfortable here that they allowed themselves to be vulnerable.
Thankfully, life in Camelot was so very different from what they had experienced before that they could draw a line in the sand and start anew.
Though I believe the fact that the physical wounds inflicted on them were healed helped greatly in healing the scars on their minds and souls.
"Father!" Let's see who can eat a whole roast pig first!" Mordred yelled a challenge.
Everyone instantly froze, mouths filled with food, not one person said anything for a long moment, and then.
Laughter.
Bellowing table-smashing laughter.
Some choked on their food before joining in with the laughter, but without exception, everyone laughed… well, except a few… but they were always the exception, so none counted those in.
Mordred immediately grew embarrassed and angry, jumping up on the table and shouting at everyone. "Hey!? What's so funny? What are you all laughing at?!"
I couldn't help but laugh myself, even as Mordred's eyes darted toward me in betrayal. Her cheeks were red, her fists clenched, and her boots stomped hard against the wood of the table as though volume alone could restore her dignity.
"Father!" she barked again, pointing directly at me, "you're supposed to take me seriously!"
"Come on, Mordred, none can beat the king when it comes to eating, not all of us together, much less you alone." Sir Gareth tried to soothe her, but she had been laughing as hard as the others just before.
The table roared louder at that, even Lancelot smiling faintly into his cup.
"Shut up!" Mordred snarled, kicking over someone's bread trencher before jumping down. "You'll see — one day I'll eat all of you under the table and then we'll see who's laughing!"
Her bluster only stoked the flames of amusement. Squires whispered bets to each other, and Gawain very solemnly declared he'd happily be referee when the day came.
I was about to intervene — to grant Mordred the dignity she was so fiercely clawing for — when the great hall doors creaked open.
The noise fell away, not into silence but into the curious hush of expectation.
And then, like an actor entering on his own cue, Tony Stark strode in.
His shirt was open one button too many for decency, his jacket slung over his shoulder as though it were an afterthought. The man radiated swagger, every step proclaiming that he belonged here simply because he had decided he did.
At his side, Pepper Potts followed, tall and graceful but visibly mortified. She carried herself with dignity, but the slight tension in her jaw and the flush in her cheeks betrayed her feelings. It was not every day one arrived late to a banquet in Camelot, and certainly not in the company of the King of Knights herself.
"Sorry we're late," Stark announced, voice carrying with no hint of remorse. "Turns out your city doesn't have GPS. I had to follow a guy with a sword. Very retro. Three stars on Yelp, by the way, would not recommend."
Pepper shot him a sharp look and then turned immediately toward me, bowing her head. "Your Majesty, please forgive us. We meant no disrespect. The fault is mine—I should have ensured we left earlier."
I inclined my head, noting how the knights shifted in their seats. Mordred leaned back with an unrestrained grin, Agravain stiffened like a man insulted in his own home, and Lancelot raised one brow ever so slightly, amused in that quiet way of his.
"I know well enough, Lady Potts, with whom the fault lies, and I assure you, it is not with you." I greeted her gently before shooting Stark a hard look. "Few people would dare to show up late to dinner with the King of Knights."
"Well, I like to think myself unique, so surely I'm among the few who dare." He said, not at all reading the mood.
"Tony!" Pepper hissed.
Stark dropped into the nearest empty chair as though it were his rightful place, swinging his jacket over the backrest. "Besides, being fashionably late is still a compliment. Means I thought this was worth showing up for."
"Some would call that arrogance," Agravain muttered, his tone cold as winter steel.
"Some would call it charm," Stark countered, pouring himself a goblet of wine without waiting for permission. He took a sip, winced. "Okay, maybe not charm. Definitely could use an upgrade. You know, a little refrigeration, some carbonation. Get me a few hours in your cellars, I could work miracles."
The knights stared at him, varying degrees of scandal and bewilderment playing across their faces.
Lancelot was quick to rise, his movements as fluid as a dance. With courtly grace, he pulled out the chair beside Stark and guided Lady Potts into it, offering a bow so polished it might have belonged at a coronation.
"Allow me, my lady," he said smoothly, his voice velvet over steel. "A guest of Camelot deserves more than hurried apologies. You bring light to this hall simply by being here."
Pepper flushed, caught between politeness and discomfort. "That's… very kind of you, Sir Lancelot."
"Merely the truth," he replied, leaning just close enough for his smile to reach her eyes. "Your presence redeems your companion's tardiness a hundredfold. Were it only you arriving, we would not even mark the hour."
Stark, halfway through tearing a piece of bread, froze. His head turned slowly, brow furrowed. "Excuse me? Did you just—are you hitting on my assistant?"
"Assistant?" Lancelot echoed, feigning surprise, though his eyes glinted with mischief. "Surely not. A queen, perhaps. Or at the very least, a lady worthy of a throne of her own. If she is your 'assistant,' Stark, then I suspect she is the one holding the crown."
The table erupted in laughter again, knights pounding their fists against the wood, delighted to see the arrogant foreigner bested at his own game. Even Mordred leaned forward, eyes gleaming with wicked enjoyment.
"Sir Lancelot," I said, my tone cutting just enough to remind him of his place, though I did not hide my amusement. "Do not torment our guests too cruelly."
"Of course, my king," Lancelot answered, bowing his head with exaggerated gallantry before retreating to his own seat. Yet the smirk he wore as he lifted his goblet left no doubt the strike had been intentional.
Pepper, caught in the center of it all, pressed her hand briefly to her forehead. "This is already more complicated than a board meeting," she muttered under her breath.
"Given the fact that you dare turn up this late, it seems that the rumors that you have made yourself at home here in my city weren't incorrect. Should I expect your oath or loyalty soon?" I said, changing the suspect.
Stark paused. "You know, moving to Albion did sound tempting… right until you reminded me about the whole oath of Loyalty stuff you do around here. I think I'm quite happy being a US citizen still."
"Oh, right, because making an oath to some dumb flag is way better than to do it towards our king!" one of the younger maids shouted, bringing another wave of laughter about.
"Hey! At least I don't have to worry about the flag suddenly asking me for that loyalty." Stark quickly defended himself. "Wait… don't tell me that the flag is also somehow alive? And a hot chick?" he just couldn't help but crack a joke.
Pepper covered her face with her hand, her composure straining under the weight of it all. "Tony…"
But Stark was already grinning wider, sensing the room's attention fixed on him. "Come on, not long ago everyone thought King Arthur was just a legend, and well, look at us now? So I'm just asking a question here."
"No, Stark, as far as I know, your flag is nothing special, at most… no, I shouldn't say that." I stopped myself before saying more.
Something that just made a man like Stark all the more curious about it. "No, no, I got to know now, you can't just stop like that!" he caught on hook, line, and sinker.
"I was just going to mention that Thomas Edison had the head of a lion, though I am unsure if you can handle such a thing." I answered his question, and delighted in the look of shock on their faces. Not just him and Pepper, even the girls were the same.
Only my knights didn't care, as they had no idea about what that even was.
"No fucking way, now you are just fucking with us." Tony was quick to dismiss me.
I just raised my glass and sipped some wine, neither agreeing nor denying.
Pepper lowered her hand from her face, but her eyes remained wide, searching mine. "I… can't tell if you're serious or not," she admitted softly.
"Trust me," Stark said quickly, "if she says Edison had a lion's head, then the Wizard of Oz was probably a documentary. Next she'll be telling me Ben Franklin shot lightning out of his eyes."
Laughter rippled again, but Pepper shook her head, her gaze turning to the vaulted ceiling, the great banners, the knights laughing freely around the table. Her voice lowered, earnest. "Jokes aside… this place is something out of a legend. I've been here a month and it still feels unreal. Camelot doesn't just look different — it feels different. Safer. More… human."
Her words caught the attention of the hall in a way Stark's barbs never could. The laughter softened to murmurs. Even Mordred tilted her head, considering the truth in them.
"Of course it feels unreal," Stark said, waving a hand dismissively. "No cell towers, no cars, no internet. I'm amazed you all function without Wi-Fi. You've basically time-traveled backwards a thousand years, and you're calling it 'human.'"
Pepper shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel. "That's exactly what I mean. Here people talk, eat together, laugh together. No distractions. No one's rushing to answer an email at the table or take a phone call in the middle of a meal. I didn't realize how much we'd lost until we stayed here."
I inclined my head toward her. "That was the intent. Camelot is meant to be pure, free, a place where you can just be you, just a human, not having to worry about things happening half a world away, for those living in here. They can worry about their own lives, and let their king worry about the rest."
Pepper smiled faintly, almost reverently. Stark rolled his eyes and tore another piece of bread.
"Yeah, well, nostalgia is one thing," he said. "But don't pretend your knights wouldn't kill for air-conditioning."
"Not all of us are as weak as you, Stark!" Mordred declared proudly, slamming her mug down.
"—and yet you complain the loudest in summer," Gawain interrupted smoothly, to another round of laughter.
(end of chapter)
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