Arthur's breath was labored, and he was sweating freely as he worked out in the practice yard. He had been out there since the early morning, training so that he could master the skills that would allow him to one day become the leader of the Knights of Camelot.

Arthur could feel the weight of his father's gaze on him as worked with his sword. He knew that he was good. In fact, he knew that he had the potential to be the best swordsman in all of Camelot. However, at this particular moment in time, it looked as if Arthur had never held a sword in his entire life.

For the dozenth time that day Arthur found himself knocked to the ground, his sword out of reach, and one pointed down at his chest. Arthur groaned in frustration, trying to get the breath back that had been knocked out of him.

He glanced to the side and saw the look on his father's face. Father and son held each other's gazes for a brief moment before Uther broke eye contact. He shook his head in disappointment and then turned away, heading back in the direction of the castle.

The man Arthur had been training with offered him a hand up, but Arthur refused it. He pushed himself to his feet, roughly reached out for his weapon, and readied his stance once again. He locked gazes with the man in front of him, instantly regretting that decision as he looked into a set of eyes filled with pity.

Arthur would prove to his father that he was worthy of not only his title of Prince, but also the title of Knight of Camelot. He would do whatever it would take.