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They hail him King. They hail, they cheer, the Great Dragon Slayer!
Uther finds smug satisfaction at the first of his titles, newly gushed and pleased courtiers singing his praises. The second title only brings him displeasure. He had half a mind to send those people to the stocks for mockery before catching himself.
Ah. Maybe those more treasonous whispers were right about him turning mad with grief. But those were awful sorcerers besides, and have been since burned in a pyre similar to the plight of dragon fire that had been infecting the whole of Camelot.
"Sire," the new servant, Ingrid, appears at his side perfectly quietly and with all the subtlety he requires of those subservient to him, "the prince, Arthur, has been asking for you."
Yes, that's right. She was also acting as the boy's nursemaid.
"Is he ailing at all?" Uther frowned with disapproval. It does not bode for a future King to show such weakness. (Ygraine would have rushed to their son's side in a heart beat, a treacherous voice inside him whispers. It is quieted by another sip of his wine.)
"No, sire, he fairs well," Ingrid explains with the appropriate haste, "he was only mighty worried about you, as we all were, with your battle in exterminating the last of the dragons. As he is not of age to join in the feasts yet, for the excitement might overcome him, he is waiting outside of the banquet doors for you."
"I see." Uther turns back to his food, picking at it with his fork. "It is of no concern to me at the moment. Ensure that he returns to his chambers for the night and then you may be dismissed."
"Of course, sire. Thank you, sire." Always the right amount of deference, that one, though she persisted with unnecessary reports of his son's wellbeing. In Uther's own early childhood, he had not seen much of his own father, and he had turned out completely whole and hale. Such a boy that is his son should not need to be fussed over so.
But then, Uther mulled, that is the role of women.
"I will be going to the dungeons," Uther stands up from his chair, watching as the manservant behind him deftly sweeps in to slide it back into place. "I mightn't be a while, but even so, I do not wish to be disturbed."
"Of course, sire." The manservant bows his head in acknowledgement, unquestioning of the fact that all prisoner's have been executed already. "Shall I prepare anything for your walk, or to be set for your return."
"Ensure my nightgown and fire is stoked in my chambers as usual, that is all," he does not look back as he sweeps out of the banquet hall, bejewelled fingers easily sliding into his pocket to grasp the key that will now be his burden.