AN: Hi, everyone! So, here's a new story. It's a big ole crossover of lots of Disney movies, so I don't own any of the characters you recognize. Also, the animal characters (EX: Mickey, Minnie, Donald, Goofy, Simba, etc.) are all HUMANS in this story. If an animal is an animal, I will state it. Cool? Cool. There will be more info about various realms/people/situations in the following chapters, so don't fret if you don't totally understand something just yet. Also, I'm in college, so updates will be slow most likely. Anyway… ON WITH THE SHOW!
Preface
"You will have to do something to appease them, Your Grace."
"The High King need not trouble himself over such matters as squabbling Lords and lesser Seats."
"The High King had better trouble himself over these matters or he will be High King no longer."
"Are you threatening His Grace, sir?"
"My lords, we have enough troubles at hand as is without making enemies of each other."
"Tell that to the great pup!"
High King Mickey rubbed his temples, soothing the headache that had come from listening to hours of his High Council's bickering. The shouts and squabbles echoed throughout the spacious room, marble floors and ceilings increasing the volume of the lords tenfold. Queen Minnie, her dark eyes shining with understanding, placed her hand upon her husband's. Mickey squeezed it gently, smiling at his lady.
"How long do you think it will take them to notice that I'm not responding to their queries?" Mickey whispered into Minnie's ear, sharing a secret smile with the queen.
"As long as it takes for Donald's bluster to subside," Minnie responded, smirking.
Mickey laughed softly at his wife's words. Unable to resist, he placed a discreet kiss on her neck. Her small hand began to rub circles on the top of his larger palm. The king and queen, despite nearly forty-five years of marriage, were still deeply consumed with love for one another. Mickey still saw the bright-eyed girl of twelve that claimed his heart every time he looked at Minnie, regardless of the wrinkles and gray hair that attempted to tamper with the picture.
"Your Grace," Second Lord Donald's voice called from his seat to Mickey's left. His volume was adjusted as though he were shouting to a man thirty paces beyond, and his wife, the Lady Daisy, touched his wrist to settle him. "We must address this issue, Your Grace." Donald had taken a deep breath and lowered his voice. All that remained of his volatile temper tantrum was the redness tinting his cheeks and ears. Mickey almost laughed to remember the Donald of his youth, the young lordling whose anger would overtake him fully at the slightest provocation.
"I agree with the Second Lord, Your Grace," Donald's uncle, Lord Scrooge, the Master of Treasures, spoke. He was an ancient man, the eldest on Mickey's High Council at nearly ninety years old. However, despite his deteriorating gait and eyesight, Lord Scrooge's mind was still sharp and thriving. "This matter can no longer be ignored safely."
Any other king would have ordered the silence of the men who very near told him what he should do. But Mickey simply listened. After forty years of ruling Disney, the High King had learned tricks and secrets of effectively governing men. His pride, once as volatile and massive as Donald's youthful temper, had diminished greatly, and Mickey would be the first man to admit that without the individual expertise of each High Council member he would not be able to govern Disney successfully.
Mickey's dark eyes studied the young lordlings of his High Council. The left side of the table was nearly completely occupied by House Duck, the blue and gold of their sigil contrasting brightly with their silvery-blonde hair. Their eyes, all blue and sparkling, flashed with vigor and life. They were an excitable bunch, even Daisy, the most levelheaded of them all. Donald's wards, his nephews, the lords Huey, Duey, and Louie, were a handsome sight in their sapphire-blue jerkins and sunshine-gold cloaks. The three were triplets, but they were quite different, despite the fact that they often spoke words together unintentionally.
Lord Huey was the eldest of the lads and Donald's heir, and he sat rapt with attention, his blue eyes following whoever spoke on the High Council. He was clearly trying to appear the best of the boys, as there was always some debate as to whether or not he was actually older that Duey; the two had come out of the womb tangled together. The chief midwife said that Huey's strong arm had come from his mother's loins first, but another lesser midwife said that Duey's head had come out first and that Huey's hand was just grasping it. The elder midwife was believed, however, and Huey was named the firstborn. He was a serious lad, easily the most intelligent and well mannered of the triplets, although he had the same mischievous streak that ran through all the Ducks.
Duey sat next to his brother, smirking with a casual elegance that often infuriated lords of the court. Duey was the handsomest of the Ducks, a near mirror image of his uncle in years passed. He was a lively and spirited lad, always looking for a good time or a tankard of ale or a pretty girl. But Mickey knew that Duey was actually the most politically minded of the Duck triplets. Duey's grin and charming words could win over anyone. He often wondered if Huey knew of his brother's talents, and decided that he did. There had to be a reason behind Huey's paranoia and restless striving, after all.
Louie, the last of the Duck lordlings, was not one that many on the High Council concerned themselves with. He was an absentminded sort of boy, more content to be romping through forests and stargazing in fields than sitting on High Council. In fact, Mickey noticed that Louie was sketching on the corner of the royal petition they had been debating the past two hours. But Mickey could not appoint all of Donald's wards but one, so he had given Louie a place beneath his brothers, as befitted their ranks and stations. It was customary to seat the sons of High Lords on the High Councils next to their fathers, and since Donald had no sons, his nephews and heirs would have to do. Their tempers and youthful follies would fade with time, just as Donald's and Mickey's had done, and they would be fine High Council Lords. As they were, they were brash and opinionated, although they had been silent during the rather heated discourse of the older lords.
On the other side of the table, however, sat another vastly different young High Council member – the Third Lord's only son, Sir Maximus of House Goof. Max was older than the Duck triplets, and far wiser. He was a young man knighted three years past with a handsome, strong face. The Goofs were tall and gangly, but Max was more muscular than lean. He resembled his father a great deal, with the same black hair and big smile, but there was a sturdiness and calm about Max that his father had never been able to embody. He had been forced to grow up quickly as the butt of many courtly jokes and jibes, being the son of a former nameless fool and an unknown mother. But Max had worked hard to earn his honor, just as his father had done, and earned it he had. He was the Head Commander of the King's Men, the most elite brotherhood of knights in Disney, at the tender age of twenty.
Goofy, the Third Lord and Max's father, was seated directly beside Minnie. He was watching Mickey with dark eyes large with concern. His customarily wide smile was absent. Much like Max, he had been silent throughout the ordeal, except for jibing at Donald close to the beginning of the Council session. His laugh, contagious and loud, had been a missed presence in Mickey's opinion. But the rarely serious fellow, the man who had been a constant fixture in Mickey's life for as long as he could remember, had adopted the visage of the loyal father and friend, and he would not soon don another face. Despite his comical nature, Goofy was stubborn, especially in the regard of one particular faction: love. He was viciously protective and possessive of those he truly loved. He had been such for the entirety of Mickey's relationship with the gangly comedian, from the time he had first been presented as a present for the young prince when they were both just seven years of age to the day his only son was born. Goofy was not just Mickey's friend, nor was Donald; they were his brothers.
Lord Peter of House Pete and his son, Sir PJ– the boy had been unfortunately named after his father, so the nickname had been mercifully adopted– occupied the remaining High Council seats. PJ, a quiet and kindhearted lad, was nearest to Max. The two boys had been inseparable for their entire lives, despite Pete's obvious efforts to keep his only son from associating with such illegitimate riffraff in their childhood years. However, once Goofy's rank rose above Pete's own, he was all too happy to allow Max his son's acquaintance. Goofy had smiled and shook Pete's hand, brushing aside the years of abuse and humiliation Pete had doled out upon Max and the former fool. Many deemed that pure, naïve foolishness on Goofy's part; Mickey knew better. Goofy knew the truth, and Pete knew that he knew. Oh, the head of House Goof laughed and bantered with the head of House Pete just as much as he did the rest of the High Council, but those large eyes that could not lie… They spoke volumes that Goofy would never speak. He loved Max and PJ– the two men of House Goof had become the stout boy's true family after the death of his mother and the deportation of his younger sisters to relatives, a refuge against the tyrannical and iron rearing of his father– far too much to be so selfish.
Over the years, Pete had performed feats of loyalty and valor, but no one completely trusted him. That was why he sat farthest from the king. Sometimes, the only thing stopping Mickey from ordering Pete from his chair and out the doors was the dear, silent, nervous knight leaning as far away from his father's meaty, clenched fist as possible. Leaning toward Max.
Max… Max would be a good candidate. The musing surprised Mickey. Max was a good boy, a fine soldier and knight, but… No. That cannot be. But oh, how I wish it could…
And then, standing always at Mickey's side, was Pluto. The man was no knight, nor was he technically a member of the High Council. But he was Mickey's bodyguard, his chief protector. He had saved the king's life more times than any soldier or friend Mickey had ever possessed. Pluto was constant. Pluto was fierce. Pluto was safe. He was more a father to Mickey than his own had ever been, despite how much he knew the late King Walt had loved and treasured him. Pluto was about eight years Mickey's senior, just enough to place him in the mysterious realm of older. But despite the silver in his brown curls and the lines on his brow, Pluto was still as vigorous and hardy as ever he had been. And he was still just as loyal and protective over Mickey as the day he had been given to the Crown Prince– the same day Goofy had stumbled into Mickey's life; the king sometimes marveled at his good fortune.
"What do you suggest, my lords?" The words were tired and almost weary from Mickey's lips. He was tired. He was weary. Any man would be…
"You cannot simply please one Seat or House, Your Grace," Donald chimed in first– Mickey had known he would. "You mustn't concern yourself with all of their cries and whines." Donald did not have a very high regard for the lower Seats of Disney; he had an even lower regard for the royals who occupied them.
"Well, tell us, Donald," Pete boomed, causing PJ to flinch a bit more towards Max. Pete was the only one on the High Council who refused to call the other lords by their titles. He constantly explained that he simply forgot, seeing how intimate he was with all of the High Council. Everyone knew he was lying. When he spoke Donald's given name, his tone spoke of the wild lordling from years passed whom Pete had beaten relentlessly during their childhood. When he called Goofy, "The Goof," explanation was not necessary. Pete was a brute… But he was still a political brute, a clever brute. "How are we to choose which of the Seats' alliance we desire less? Which product would you like to cease receiving, fish or apples? Books or weaponry?" He leaned forward, his meaty arms resting on the table. "Or did you not think about such matters at all?"
Donald's face was tinged with red. Huey and Duey were both watching their uncle attentively. Huey looked as though he were praying that Donald would not attack Pete; Duey looked as though he hoped that his uncle would flay him. Even Louie was paying attention. Daisy was cleverly masking her calming whispers with her fan, but her own clenched fists, tight with rage at Pete's disrespect of her husband, gave away her emotional state. Thankfully, although he was also incensed, the Master of Treasures spoke before his nephew could shout.
"Lord Pete is right, Your Grace," Scrooge admitted with only a touch of irritation in his ancient face. Years of practice and living had tempered his Duck fury. "We must find a way to satisfactorily appease all the Seats… If not, the results could be most disastrous."
Usually, whenever Scrooge spoke of disasters, they were always of the coin variety– matters that had never much concerned Mickey. However, something in the icy blue eyes of the Duck patriarch betrayed another fear, a word that not even been whispered in the High Council, though Mickey knew that all of them had felt its reverberating, undeniable presence in the chamber: war.
A war between all the Seats, stretching across all the realms of Disney… Such a thing would be disastrous. Worse than the revolts and anarchist movements during the transition from King Walt to King Mickey, worse than anything Disney had yet seen. All the innocents… Innocents always suffered the most. Mickey would sever his right leg to avoid war.
There was silence for a long while. The Ducks eyed the table and the walls, not really seeing them as they searched their minds for answers. Pete brushed the tip of his thumb over his dagger blade, having unsheathed it a few moments earlier– not out of any malicious intent; Mickey knew that the large lord used his weapon to think. PJ seemed to be trying to shrink, staring into his clasped hands as they sat stiffly on his lap. Max and Goofy never removed their black gazes from Mickey's face, but they did reach to easily comfort the one who needed it most: Max rested his hand quietly on PJ's forearm; Goofy rested his on Max's hand, soothing his son's tight grip on the hilt of his sword. Sometimes Mickey forgot that Max was still a child, a boy trapped inside the muscular and capable body of a man, but Goofy never forgot. Minnie never removed her hand from Mickey's, and Pluto's breath was even and audible from behind Mickey's chair. It was, oddly enough, the most comforting and soothing thing in the chamber for the distressed, troubled king. He felt as though he were a small boy again, waking up from a nightmare in his dark nursery, sweat coating his brow. Pluto would be at his side in seconds, his breathing audible and steady even then.
"Steady now, Prince…" Always the same words, always the same results. "Steady now."
"I dr-dr-dreamed of the b-bears again… Th-there were dr-dr-dragons th-this time, too."
"How many dragons?"
"… I-I c-can't rem-m-member."
"Try to remember, Your Highness. Try. Count them aloud if you must."
Mickey always did. "One, two, three, four…" He never stuttered when he counted.
And then Mickey would wake up, tucked in tightly underneath his covers with not a recollection of the night's terrors, but a warm remembrance of the ever-present Pluto and his steadiness. The steadiness that helped him overcome his childhood stutter; the steadiness that eased his father's passing; the steadiness that encouraged him on his wedding day; the steadiness that helped him through the tumultuous months following his ascension to the throne… And the steadiness that kept Mickey sane after he and Minnie lost their sons.
Another dark night, another nightmare… But Mickey could not wake from this one. He was alone in the throne room, Minnie finally having collapsed in sleep. The bloody sheets had been burned and changed, the physician had come and gone with his news and prognosis, and the little bundles, Mickey's unborn boys, had been taken to await their burial. The steady breathing had announced Pluto before his words, just as always.
"S-so much b-b-b-blood…" The stutter. That damn stutter… "M-m-my b-b-b-b… M-my b-b-b-b-b-b…" Mickey gave up, burying his face in his hands with a muttered curse. Tears burned his dark eyes and ran down his young face, prematurely aged just by that one night. He would have gladly died in that moment… But then a hand rested on his trembling shoulder, solid and still and firm.
"… Steady, King. Steady."
And Mickey had steadied. Fortunately, no other children were lost. Unfortunately, no other children were conceived, hence the troubling predicament assaulting the king and his High Council forty-two years after that wretched, bloody night. The question of Mickey's heir to his crown… He could still hear the lower kings of the lower Seats, he could still see their faces as they feigned tact and diplomacy before his throne just hours earlier…
"You can understand our concern, I am sure, Your Grace, considering the anarchy and debauchery resulting from the last tumultuous time in Disney…"
"You refer to when I ascended the throne, King Hubert?"
"… Your Grace… I never meant that-"
"What King Hubert means, Your Grace," King Edward interrupted. He was a short, stout man, but he was fierce and solid, always speaking directly to the point. King Hubert was a man of similar build and temperament, but he was not such a wordsmith, "is that we fear for the kingdom if there is the possibility of war. Without an heir, you place all of the realms, and the kingdom altogether, in jeopardy."
Always blunt, Edward… Always sharp. Mickey remembered the man telling him fairly consistently to "speak through" his stutter, adamantly sure that his remedy could overcome the young prince's abnormality. He had hated King Edward as a child.
Mickey said nothing for a moment. But then he turned to King Simba, a man he was surprised to see before him.
"Do you share their fears, King Simba?" Part of Mickey hoped that he did not. He had known Simba since his birth, and the king was a good man… Please, have enough of your father in you to trust me, Simba.
"… I am sorry to say that I do, Your Grace." Mickey's heart fell. Simba seemed to sense this, for he stepped forward. "Hear what I say, Your Grace: I have personally been witness to the atrocity of revolt and rebellion." Darkness clouded the brown orbs of the fairly young man– those old, old eyes… Mickey could see the visages of Mufasa and Scar in Simba's eyes. He could see the Pride Lands where Simba ruled, dry and desolate and utterly devastated after Scar's eight year reign of terror. "Even now, we in the Pride Lands still feel the repercussions of that ordeal… We always will. I would not wish such a thing on anyone, much less an entire kingdom that Your Grace has striven so hard to prosper and grow."
Mickey could not help his small smile. Mufasa… But Simba. It was a rather interesting and often disconcerting phenomena. King Eric, the youngest king in the throne room, stepped forward. His dark curls were windswept, and Mickey could smell the salty-air from five feet away emanating off the King of the Land-Ocean Alliance. Despite his relative youth, wild appearance, and leisurely demeanor, sitting upon the Sea Rock Seat suited Eric well.
"I agree with King Simba." And then, almost as an afterthought, accompanied by a barely-concealed smirk: "And with King Hubert and King Edward."
Mickey had then been presented with a formal petition, pleading with him – demanding of him was more accurate – to choose an heir for himself. He was no longer young, and the kingdom would need a strong, young leader upon his death; they were very particular about that fact.
"I tell you, it's a ploy to get control of the kingdom!" Donald exclaimed. His fist slammed down upon the table, causing all to snap to attention in the chamber. The silence had stretched on for ages… Clearly, too long for Donald's taste. Fire leapt from his eyes as he blustered. This time, he would not be deterred. "A young ruler… I tell you, they want a child on the throne. They want a puppet!"
"Well, gosh, Donald," Goofy interjected, obviously feeling the need to temper their friend… Either that, or the opportunity to ruffle Donald's feathers further was too great to pass aside. "Maybe the kings just want someone who won't die within a few years on the throne."
"Damn, Goofy!" Donald shouted, banging his fist on the table once more. Pete rolled his eyes, sheathing his knife after the disturbance of the table settled. "I am being quite serious!"
Donald always cursed more when he flew into a rage. His silvery-blonde hair was wispy and fluttering, almost like feathers as his body rose and pulsated with energy and agitation. His skin, always pale and ivory and noble, was red once again. His blue eyes were hot with rage, and he seemed to grow a foot taller in his anger. Donald, the Donald of Mickey's youth, had returned.
"The Second Lord's concerns do bear consideration, Your Grace." Max spoke up for the first time that session. His voice was calm and collected, devoid of amusement. Quite unlike his father's. "I also find it… disconcerting that such a specification was placed upon the youth of Your Grace's potential heir."
Minnie and Daisy's soft smiles of approval did not escape Mickey's notice. Max had handled the situation beautifully, cleverly, and altogether befitting the Head Commander of the King's Men. For the second time that session, Mickey wished that Max could be declared his heir… But the boy was a soldier, not a king. No one would accept him, and Mickey half-expected that Max would not accept the crown himself.
"Well," Pete stretched his arms behind his head, almost yawning, "I agree with The Goof." Despite his earlier anger with Goofy, upon hearing the derogatory nickname for the hundred-thousandth time, Donald's icy gaze fixed Pete with a stare so severe that Mickey was half-surprised Pete did not weep. But it was Pete. Pete wept over nothing. "I don't think the age specification is much to consider. All of the potential heirs presented are young. Why worry about what is inevitable?"
"Why only choose from the heirs presented?" Huey and Duey spoke simultaneously. They shared a quick glance with one another– well, quick on Duey's part; Huey's gaze lingered frighteningly on his "younger" brother for a short while longer before Duey alone continued. "Clearly, these heirs listed are the choices of the lower Seats and realms." He snatched up the petition from in front of Louie's seat, stopping his brother's sketch mid-shade. "Why place a crown on their chosen puppet, Your Grace?" He smirked, leaning back in his chair, the leisurely playboy returned. "You would do better to choose your own puppet."
PJ laughed a bit at Duey's words, but stopped at a hard glare from his father. Max never smiled at the middle-Duck's jest. He held the younger lad's gaze. A moment of incredible tension passed, the sort that makes you wonder how anyone could not notice it. Mickey knew that Lord Duey and Sir Maximus, two strong and fierce men, would clash in future. Hopefully, although he doubted it seriously, their clash would not amount to anything more than the clashes of Goofy and Donald had done over the years.
"Mickey…" Minnie's voice was soft, ethereal. She was lost in her thoughts; she never would have called her husband by his given name in Council if she were not. "… That's an idea."
"My queen?" Mickey placed a hand over Minnie's. His eyes met hers. He saw her wake from her moment of fogginess.
"Your Grace," Minnie began again. Her lilted, queenly tone was returned. But the passion in her dark eyes, lighting up her face that had previously been drawn and almost dreary, did not depart. If anything changed, the passion only grew. "I am not suggesting you choose a puppet as Lord Duey jested… But choosing aside from the proposed list might prove profitable." She reached for the petition. Duey sent it to Daisy, who handed the paper to Minnie's outstretched hand. She unrolled the parchment, drawing Mickey's attention to the rather short list of names scratched in at the bottom of the yellow page. "All of these candidates are either children or relatives of current lower kings. With the exception of King Simba, all the kings have proposed an heir for Your Grace with unquestionable loyalties towards them, their realm, and their Seat. Look: King Edward's son, King Hubert's son, King Eric's nephew, the list goes on, Your Grace." Minnie's eyes met her husband's once again, this time with a renewed fervor and urgency. "Choose an heir from this list, my king, and you choose which Seat you favor."
Silence fell again, heavily. Minnie's words hung around Mickey's neck like a weight. They hung about the entire chamber like a weight. Mickey ran his hand over his chin, pondering the list before him and the advice of his counselors. All were waiting Mickey's words… And finally, they came.
"Who then?" He looked about his High Council – his friends. In that moment, the dark-haired monarch was no longer the king. He was simply Mickey, the stuttering, frightened little prince cowering in corners while he waited for Goofy to make him laugh, Donald to speak for him, and Pluto to make him feel safe. "If not these young men, who? We must choose a lad of noble birth and suitable claim, or no one will accept him as king. All of the Seats have sent forth their claimants…"
"… King Simba?"
Mickey thought of Kopa, the little son of Simba's killed before his seventh year. He shook his head to Huey's suggestion. "Simba has no son or male relatives."
"And you mustn't forget, Your Grace," Lord Scrooge said, "that King Simba, despite his loyalty and unwillingness to submit a candidate for your inheritance, has signed this petition. He backs this document. If you lean towards him and the Pride Lands, you will incur the consequences the queen detailed."
Silence again.
"What about daughters?"
"I am afraid that would be impossible, niece. Perhaps in another fifty years or so, but now? Impossible."
"But King Simba's daughter, Princess Kiara, is Crown Princess of the Pride Lands. She will sit upon Pride Rock."
"If she has not given birth to a son by King Simba's death. That is the law of the Pride Lands. Each realm is at liberty to make their own laws regarding succession... And realm rulings upon lower Seats are quite different than sitting upon the highest Seat in Disney."
Silence. More silence. And then…
"What about Queen Grimhilde?"
All eyes turned towards the absentminded, offhanded suggestion of Lord Louie. He was busy working on another drawing, this time on the back of a census scroll. Scrooge removed the parchment, causing the boy to look up at the astonished Council. Louie never spoke in sessions, much less actually made a suggestion.
"… S-she did not sign the petition," Louie continued. His face reddened a bit at the attention, but he proceeded without much hesitation. "She is the recognized holder of the Gilded Mirror Seat, although only through marriage. She has a stepson who is the child of the late King Wilhelm, but not the heir of the Gilded Mirror." He glanced about the room again, blue eyes unsure. "… Right?"
It took everyone a moment, but finally Scrooge responded slowly. "… Yes… Queen Grimhilde's stepson is noble… And he is not the heir of their Seat… King Wilhelm left the Seat to his eldest daughter, Princess Snow White." He looked to Mickey. He agreed with the suggestion of his great-nephew. Mickey could see it in the old man's eyes.
"But we know nothing about this boy!" Pete threw up his arms in the air, exasperated… And more than a little confused by the turn the session had taken. "No one has seen him or his sister in years. How do we know that he's a fit ruler for Disney?"
"And there is always the matter of Grimhilde herself." Daisy's distaste of the queen was evident. "The children have been raised by her. What if they are like her?"
There was a reason that Grimhilde's realm had not been asked to sign the petition. They were still part of the Disney kingdom, but they were almost an entity unto themselves. Grimhilde had made it that way. No one had seen her or her stepchildren in over seven years. She still sent her realm's taxes, and she always sent the yearly realm report with a messenger to the palace in Disney's capitol, detailing to King Mickey how sorry she was that could not, once again, attend the annual Summit of the Seats. She had ostracized herself from the rest of Disney, and the rest of Disney had obliged Grimhilde's desires. No one had ever much liked the beautiful, harsh woman, anyway.
"There's only one to find out, isn't there?" Goofy turned to Mickey. He smiled, but his honest eyes were piercing. Mickey nodded. He then stood for the first time in over two hours of session. Everyone quickly rose from their chairs, muffled groans from Scrooge's seat echoing to Mickey's end of the table.
"I have not made a solid decision as of yet," he spoke, his kingly voice reverberating off the marble floors and high ceilings. Mickey often had to suppress laughter to think of the stuttering child he once was every time he gave a stern, firm, and utterly steady royal proclamation. "But I mean to investigate this newly suggested claimant of Queen Grimhilde's realm." Mickey turned his gaze upon Max and PJ. "I would like the two of you, Sir Maximus and Sir Pete, to seek out this prince."
"Yes, Your Grace," Max and PJ immediately answered, bowing their knightly bows. Ironically, these were the times Mickey had no trouble remembering that they were boys.
He nodded his head to the knights, and then continued. "Until we have assessed this prince further, we will deliberate on this matter. I will personally pen a reply to the Seats' petition, assuring them of my willingness to find a suitable heir." Mickey's eyes turned grave. "But I will not tell them of my plans regarding Queen Grimhilde's stepson… And none of you will tell anyone of them either." Mickey's eyes lingered for an extra moment upon Pete. Usually, the lord would have made a comment regarding the stare, but Mickey was far too serious and stern for such a thing currently.
There were murmured acquiesces to Mickey's order, then a soft, small question from PJ. But, oh… How big of a question it actually was.
"… What is the prince's name, Your Grace?"
"The prince's name, Sir Pete, is Eugene."
AN2: Thanks for reading! I hope ya'll like this so far because I do. And yeah. That's our Eugene. I told ya'll this would be a big ole crossover. Anyway, please R/R! Love ya'll bunches.