20th day of the Red Wolf Moon 1168 b.i.c
Blaiddyd Royal Palace, Crown City of Fhirdiad
Holy Kingdom of Faerghus

Sylvain Jose Gautier, the eight year old crested son and Heir to his Father's Margravate, considered himself to be quite lucky. He had friends in Ingrid, Felix and the Crown Prince Dimitri, and was even on first name terms with the latter! He had many cousins (and even a few he actually liked rather than merely tolerated) thanks to his Mother's extensive family.

But more importantly than that (As important as that. He could hear Miklan gently chide him in his mind in the same patient tone as always) he had perhaps the best elder brother in the Kingdom. Whether it was telling him stories, or training with him, or letting him sleep in his room during the great winter storms that battered the Gautier Estate and their actual seat at Gauldheri Redoubt every year, Miklan was always there, and willing to help anyone with almost anything. It had even received some side-eye when he even helped the servants with mundane things like cooking and woodcutting and fixing armour and-or clothing.
Sylvain didn't understand. They had servants for that sort of thing. He had asked his brother why he'd bothered to learn such things. The only response he'd received was a knowing smile and nothing more. As though there was a joke Sylvain wasn't in on.

It still bothered him even now, some months later. Standing in the centre of the sparring rings at Dimitri's Palace, even though this should be a happy occasion.

This was the first time that he had travelled to the Royal Capital to celebrate the Founding of the Kingdom. If he was being truly honest, it was in fact the first time he'd really, truly travelled. True, he'd toured the towns and villages of his family's territory on occasion. But he had always kept within the territory. Even his friends came to him, rather than the other way around. Father said it had to do with the fact that their land was right next to a nation that was not afraid to launch 'unofficial' raids on them, and thus not safe for young children.
The white cloak of winter had settled in the Margravate, and he privately hoped that they'd stay at the capital for a while. His mother had remained behind and for that he was glad. Much as he knew it was wrong to have a favourite parent, but Sylvain loved his stern but fair father more than his distant and disinterested mother.

The journey down from the Gautier Estate and territory to the Crown City of Fhirdiad had taken just shy of ten days, and he had been utterly exhausted at the end of it.
He had not ridden all the way, unlike his father and brother, the latter of whom had even at twelve proven he could manage it from atop his own jet black Palfrey. He himself had taken to the saddle when they rode into the Crown City for the sake of appearances of course, but for most of the journey he had remained in a carriage so he could take his lessons as they travelled. He still slept in a tent, like the rest of the party however. He'd even had time to help settle Miklan's oddly named Horse for the night. He'd been told the story behind the name once (or some of it, at any rate). Of a monster hunter from a far off land beyond Great Almyra, and his faithful mount and closest companion. And the more that Sylvain heard of this 'Geralt the Wolf', the more he could understand why his brother named his steed after the ever loyal Roach.

They were staying at the Blaiddyd Royal Palace, a great and sprawling complex in the heart of Fhirdiad. With its mighty walls, sprawling gardens-slash-farmlands and well-manned barracks, the seat of the Royal Family was almost a city unto itself, easily dwarfing Gauldheri Redoubt. Its sparring rings were filled with a constant ting-ting-ting of practice sword clattering against practice sword.
Like most Gautier men, both he and Miklan primarily trained with the lance and the shield, although Miklan was considerably more skilled thanks to being a few years older. His brother had found himself a sparring partner in Glenn Govan Fraldarius, elder brother of his friend Felix. They'd been evenly matched, and Miklan had even got the upper hand until Glenn had made use of his crest. Defeat had been swift for his brother after that.
Sylvain had feared that his brother might have taken his defeat poorly, but Miklan had laughed it off. "I forced him into using his crest, Syl." He had said with a grin. "..That means chances are high that he can't beat me without it."

He had thought about what Miklan had said for far too long. Crests were not just a blessing from the Goddess Above, but they were what gave Nobles their right to rule. Crestless children of Crested Families faced open (and all but sanctioned) discrimination for 'having the Goddess' gift withheld'. And he had seen servants and relatives both treating Miklan like-

"'Ey Syl!" Miklan's voice dragged Sylvain out of his thoughts. "Get outta your head. We're training."

"O-Oh." He smiled sheepishly. "Sorry Miklan."

"It's fine. Just remember to keep your shield up." Miklan grinned. "Or I'll ring your head like a bell."

Sylvain shot him a grin of his own, and lifted his shield again, ready to train.

The trouble didn't start until after the sparring session. It was after Glenn had departed. And with hindsight, Sylvain understood that it was so there were no other witnesses. But in the moment, he had merely hoped that Glenn would come back and prevent what was about to happen.

Because his Uncle Hector Rowe strolled into the yard, and headed straight to his brother. Sylvain honestly hated the man. He hated the way he schemed. Hated the way he laughed. Hated the way he carried himself with an air of smug superiority that was wholly unearned. Yes, Sylvain hated his mother's youngest brother, and only called him Uncle because he had to.

"I see you're taking the chance to beat on your brother." Hector addressed Miklan in a snide tone.

"Merely sparring." Miklan explained. "As we do everyday, Hector."

"You will address me as 'Sir Rowe' or merely 'Sir', boy." Hector replied. "Nothing else."

"As you wish, Sir Boy." Miklan grinned. "My apologies for being so very rude."

"Funny. House Gautier might have some small use for you, but House Rowe doesn't require you alive, boy." His Uncle Hector sneered at his brother. "Be grateful we have tolerated your existence so far. The day you aren't needed anymore, I'll slit your throat in your sleep, and send you off to your dead mother to rot like she did."

Something flashed in his brother's eyes then, and Sylvain could only watch as Miklan merely smiled a strained smile, and made to walk away. Only for Uncle Hector to roughly grab him by the shoulder, and slammed his fist into his brother's face. Miklan was sent tumbling to the ground in a heap.

"You will face me when I am speaking to you!"

His brother tried to stand, only for his Uncle to send a brutal kick into his ribs.

"Stay in the dirt, Crestless." Hector spat. "It is exactly where you belong."

Before Sylvain could try to help his brother to his feet and point out that Uncle Hector too was 'Crestless', the absolutely frigid voice of his father silenced the entire sparring yard. "I do hope you are not threatening my son, Hector Rowe."

Uncle Hector kept his cocky smile, even if the rest of his body betrayed his sudden nervousness. "The boy needs to know who he serves, Margrave. And who he will serve in the future. I was merely giving him a firm reminder."

"Then why.." His father's voice was calm, masking the storm that was quite clearly brewing within. "...Is he on the ground?"

"It's not my fault his Gerth blood means he's so weak he can't take a punch." Hector shrugged, and Sylvain had to stop himself from gasping. No one he knew had ever dared to so openly insult his Father's first wife, especially not to his face. Even Mother knew never to do so after Father made it clear as crystal what the consequences would be, even for her.
Clearly, his Uncle had grown confident enough to not only mock the memory of Cynthia von Gerth, but to do so to Father's face without fear of reprisal.

But before his Father could respond, his brother did. Sylvain could only watch as Miklan leapt to his feet, and swung his fists in a hammer blow to Hector's stomach. The man stumbled, and almost fell over. When he regained his balance, Hector advanced on Miklan in a rage.

"You little cu-"

Then it was Father's turn to strike, launching a hammer blow of his own into Uncle Hector's jaw. This time, he did collapse onto the ground. When he tried to stand, Father planted a foot on his stomach, and crouched down.
Sylvain couldn't hear what his Father murmured to his Uncle, but judging by how fast the latter's face turned ashen, it was likely a pronouncement of banishment from Gautier territory, and back to Rowe lands. But Count Wenceslas Rowe, the elderly Head of his house and ruler of the Fortress City of Arianrhod would likely be displeased with his actions too. His alliance with House Gautier was perhaps the most important that Rowe had, and for it to be jeopardised by a family member that wasn't even the tenth child of the Count was something that could not be accepted. In all likelihood, Uncle Hector would be banished and disowned.

Or worse.

"Leave." The command was simple and blunt and carried the full weight of a Margrave's authority. Hector couldn't scurry away fast enough.

Father turned his attention to Miklan, and looked him up and down. "Are you harmed?"

"Worry not father." Miklan told him. "The man cannot even break my nose properly. It speaks poorly of him that he has to beat on a damn twelve year old in order to feel superior."

Father gave a snort of something close to amusement. "Regardless. Go and see a healer Miklan, just to be certain."

"..Of course, Father."

"And son?" Father called after Miklan as his brother headed off.

"Yes Father?"

"...That was a good punch. Well done."

Miklan smiled broadly and gave their father a jaunty salute, before heading off. Father then turned his attention to him.

"Come, Sylvain. You have lessons."

"O-Of course, Father."