Princess Valerie

“Sir Wriothesley, I understand you have my best interests at heart, but I do not take kindly to being treated like dead weight.”

“Forgive me for overstepping, my Lady, but your father ordered…”

“My father ordered you to keep me safe, not dote on me like you would a child.” Valerie cut the poor knight short. “He never did understand me, did he?”

“He never really knew me. Still doesn't. I might as well still be six in his eyes.”

At this point she was an arm's length away from Wriothesley. He'd been standing in place the whole time, stiff as a board. Valerie reached for his sword sash in one quick maneuver, unsheathing his blade. 

“My Lady…”

She gestured for silence and his lips snapped shut.

“Did you know, Sir Wriothesley, when I was twelve, Marcus and I would sneak off to the stables and we'd spar for hours. My brother was the only person who ever saw value in a woman wielding a sword.” 

Clutching the overskirt of her velvet dress in one hand, she made some practiced swings and slashes at the air, drove with a forward thrust then circled back to face the knight, his visage a blend of shock, amusement and praise. 

“I am no stranger to the sword, Sir Wriothesley,” she declared, her gait steady toward the elevated seat at the corner of the room, “and you'd be foolish to mistake grace for weakness. I, too, know very well what it means to take a man's life.”