Author's Note: Thanks for all your great reviews! Keep them coming! I tried to make this chapter a little bit longer, hope you enjoy it! And remember, any questions or anything, all you gotta do is ask!

Buttered Angie

A Thousand Miles

Long Live the King

"The king is dead. Long live the king."

The entire court at arms bowed their heads, and there was silence. Tristan looked to his mother for comfort, but saw that her face was fixed into a firm grimace, and knew not to bother her. Tears were silently flowing down his cheeks and he wiped them away quickly, embarrassed.

Tristan approached his father's dead body, quietly. Nobody moved to stop the new king. He saw his father's eyes closed, his father's skin waxen and pale, and his hair still dark with the colour of youth. For the first time in his entire life, Tristan saw his father without a crown on his head, and was surprised to find that without the dominating, excruciatingly heavy ornament, his father just looked like everyone else. Tristan wondered if the crown was the only thing that separated royalty from peasants, but knew that he was to find out soon enough. For Tristan was to be the new king. This realisation hadn't fully sunk in until that exact moment and Tristan suddenly felt his knees become weak. His strength then faulted and he fell to the floor weeping, not as much because he was saddened by his father's death, but rather because he was fearful of the prospect of becoming the next king. None of the guards moved to comfort the skinny, blonde-haired boy who was sobbing despairingly on the ground, the boy who was going to become the next king.

* * * * *

Rory walked in between Sookie and Jackson, holding both of their hands and observing the interesting chaos that surrounded them. They were walking down a huge, outdoor aisle, which on each side was packed with different stalls that sold every kind of thing imaginable. Fruits, vegetables, cakes, ice creams, candy, chocolate, hats, bags, baskets, animals, birds, bird cages, silks, shoes, pots and pans (Sookie was most interested in those), potions, fireworks, books, candles, lamps, and musical instruments. Rory even saw a stall that was selling blue and pink striped stockings.

"It looks more like a birthday party then a funeral procession" Rory complained to Sookie, only to find that she had disappeared off to a nearby stall to inspect a huge soup tureen.

"She's going to be there awhile." Jackson smiled down at Rory, squeezing her hand. Rory smiled back and rolled her eyes. Jackson sighed. They all knew Sookie.

Rory looked around at all the people laughing and smiling, in their colourful clothing munching on cakes and candies. "Why is everyone happy?" she asked. "I thought the king just died. Shouldn't they be sad? Or are they all happy that he died? Was he a bad king?"

Jackson attempted to explain things to the wide-eyed, innocent child. "Rory, the people are happy because they're remembering all the good times the king had in his life. People tend to dwell on the happy things rather than the sad. They look at his accomplishments, not his defeats." Rory nodded, and, as an afterthought, Jackson added. "He wasn't a bad king."

Rory and Jackson were silent for a moment, and then Sookie trundled up to them, lugging a whole cart of copper pots, in assorted sizes and shapes. She was beaming, and Jackson swallowed tightly, wondering how many extra days he would have to work to make up the money his wife had spent.

"Look what I bought!" Sookie squealed, as excited as a child, and she promptly began showing Rory and Jackson each and every pot, naming its qualities, its failings, and, what Jackson dreaded most, it's price.

"Twenty silvers! Bargain!" Sookie would cry with joy, and Jackson's face would drain of colour. Sookie was halfway through showing Rory and Jackson the contents of the cart when a large horn sounded, followed by a trio of trumpets, playing the king's melody. The crowd in the streets separated, Sookie frantically lugging her cart along with her. Rory watched with interest.

"The king's procession," Jackson whispered to her.

First there was nothing but the sound of the trumpets. Then came the soldiers. They were in ten groups of seventy two, twelve rows and six abreast for every group, each soldier's armour glinting smartly in the sunlight. They kept their perfect formation for the duration of the entire procession. The crowd watched in silence, at awe with this show of power and organisation. Then came the cavalry. Knights rode strong and proud on their horses, and their squires followed behind, viewing the crowd over their upturned noses. Rory blinked, surprised at the strength of the king's armed forces. And this was only a small portion of the armed forces of the entire monarchy. Rory edged closer to Sookie.

Then came the carriages of the families' who were part of the royal monarchy. Each carriage was decorated with ribbons and decorative ornamentation, and each carriage bore a family's crest. Rory looked with interest especially on the Gilmore crest; a sword crossing over a book on a background of royal blue. Inside the carriage Rory could see a sophisticated looking lady and an educated, formal gentleman, both quite aged. They were dressed in ceremonial garments and fitted in seamlessly with the royal atmosphere. Rory supposed that they were her grandparents, and she wondered briefly if they even knew of her existence.

After the carriages had moved out of view, there was only one thing left to see- the king's coffin, carried by members of the royal family. There was silence as the coffin approached. Rory's eyes opened wide when she saw it, and a gasp ran through the crowd. The coffin was made out of pure gold, encased with sapphire gemstones. It was lined with red velvet and the Royal Crest was engraved with great skill and accuracy on all sides of the coffin. The lid was open so Rory could not see the design on the front, but she was sure that it must be grand.

Inside the coffin itself lay the king, his hair softly framing his face, his skin pale, and his hands folded across his chest, completely lifeless. Carrying the coffin was the king's own personal adviser, the chief at arms, the head knight and his squire, and the king's younger brother, Marcus. The Queen was at the left of the coffin, dabbing her eyes slightly with a silk handkerchief, but Rory noticed that her eyes bore no tears. It wasn't any of these people that drew most of Rory's attention though. It was rather the person standing on the king's right that she watched the closest - the king's son, the next in line to the throne. Rory saw that he was a boy no older than she was, with messy blonde hair and a pained expression on his face. His intriguing, stormy grey eyes were filled with sadness and loss. Rory felt her heart soften towards the boy, and it seemed to her for just a second he shifted his gaze so that it fell on her, but she couldn't be sure. Then he was gone. The crowed stood silent for a moment, the echo of the trumpets playing the king's tune still resounding in their ears. Then they slowly began filtering back into the stalls, and soon the crowd was loud, busy and chaotic once more.

* * * * *

Tristan threw off his expensive ceremonial cape and sighed, falling back onto his bed. Now that he was in the silence of his own bedroom, away from the disgusting crowds of people, the suffocating relatives, and most of all his father, in the ominous, large golden coffin, he could finally think.

He had nothing to think about. All of the thoughts that had been running through his mind mere seconds ago were now non-existent. Tristan blinked, staring up at the hand-carved ceiling. There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Tristan called, slightly annoyed. It was his mother. She floated rather than walked into his room, her head held high despite the heaviness of the crown she wore. Placing herself on a petite stool beside his bed, she waited for his attention. He refused to look at her. Out of all the people, the peasants, the crowds, and even the nobles, it was his mother that frustrated him the most. She acted like nothing had happened. Like it didn't hurt her at all that her husband had just died. And what made him even angrier with her was that it seemed like she didn't care about him and how he was dealing with the death of his own father.

"Tristan," she said to him, her voice sharp, crisp and formal as always.

"Yes, mother dearest," he said sarcastically.

The Queen pursed her lips, leaned over and struck Tristan's cheek with a flick of her wrist.

"I shall have none of that!" she barked.

Tristan remained silent and glowered at the ceiling.

"Now, in a few days you shall have your crowning ceremony. You shall become king," she said.

"Oh, like I didn't know that already," he rolled his eyes.

"Tristan" she said in a warning tone.

Tristan gazed at her sullenly. "What?" he asked her.

"I want you to hand over the crown to your uncle, Marcus."

"What!" Tristan yelled, sitting up. "No!"

"Listen Tristan," his mother said calmly, but he cut her off.

"No, I wont!" he shouted.

"Tristan, really, keep your voice down." His mother whispered harshly. "You wouldn't want any of the guards to hear, would you?"

"I couldn't care less! I'm not ashamed with anything I'm saying, are you?" he retorted.

"Now, Tristan, be reasonable,"

"I don't have to be! I'm the king, or I'm going to be anyway, and nobody is going to stop me." Tristan crossed his arms and glared at his mother. "Not even you. Now leave!"

"Tristan!" his mother scolded.

"I said leave!" Tristan bellowed into his mother's face. She stared at him for a moment with a shocked expression on her face, then her gaze turned poisonous and she swept up her dress and walked quickly out the room, slamming the door behind her.

Tristan lay back on his bed, cold sweat dripping down his forehead, his body shaking. Now he'd really gotten himself into it. He had a chance to get out of being king, but he didn't take it. Why? Perhaps it was because he had never trusted his uncle. Perhaps he just wanted to disobey his mother. Perhaps he had been even temporarily insane. He just had a hunch that it was the right thing to do at the time, even if he didn't feel that way now. Covering his eyes with his hands he rolled over onto his tummy and tried to shut out the world, gradually falling into a deep, uncomfortable sleep.

His last thought before he drifted off was long live the king