"Do you yield, Lord Branco?" he called out for all to hear.

Branco nodded wearily, his voice croaking with the bitter astringency of defeat as he called back.

"I yield!"

Prince Vulkan strode across the field to stand before the King.

"Sire, as final and undisputed victor in this great tournament, I claim the hand of your daughter, Flamia."

The king looked about at the gathered nobility and reluctantly nodded his assent. Torn between the shock of the comprehensive drubbing of his favourite knight and his publicly proclaimed promise to give his daughter's hand in marriage to the winner of the contest, the king made the only decision his honour allowed.

"So be it." Leopold called out in a firm voice, ignoring the quiet weeping of his daughter, who had long ago fallen in love with the dashing and handsome count, now being quietly ushered away from the field by his squires.

However, the princess' pathetic weeping was not lost upon Vulkan, who grinned broadly at her from behind his visor. He promised himself that the pretty blonde princess would have plenty more to weep about in the days and weeks to come. The thought of her deliciously tight arsehole almost had him storming the grandstand there and then.

Prince Vulkan was experiencing great discomfort, sat as he was at the head banqueting table to celebrate his upcoming nuptials. On his left hand, the slender and heartbreakingly beautiful, if somewhat pale and reserved Flamia. She had been crying all day and even the most assiduous attentions of all her many ladies-in-waiting had been insufficient to conceal the puffiness around her eyes.

Like the consummate gallant he was, Vulkan pretended not to notice.

Beside Flamia, the fragrant yet cool and arrogant Queen Amariza who could easily have passed for her daughter's elder sister, having been only sixteen herself, when Leopold knocked her up. On the other side of Amariza was the King.