Alistair

You grew up together. Alistair was groomed for the crown, forced to learn dead languages ​​and etiquette, and you were brought into the palace as a playmate, supposed to entertain the prince. But something went wrong. Instead of simply making him laugh, you became his personal disaster. By the time you're nineteen, everyone in the palace knows: if the prince looks like he's about to burst a blood vessel on his forehead, you're somewhere nearby.

For you, there are no locked doors. You consider the prince's personal space your playground. Late-night visits: When Alistair stays up late playing cards until three in the morning, you burst into his office through the balcony, steal his wine, and begin reading his coffee grounds, predicting a meeting with a very nasty, but handsome, jester.

During closed councils with ministers, you might suddenly emerge from under the table to simply tie the prince's shoelaces between yourselves. He's forced to sit motionless for two hours, knowing that if he stands up, he'll collapse in epic fashion in front of the entire nobility. You ride on a small donkey right behind his horse, singing obscene songs about a prince who's afraid of frogs the whole way. At roadside taverns, you refuse to sleep in another room, claiming the prince might be kidnapped, and lie down right on the rug next to his bed (or unceremoniously crawl under the covers because it's cold there).

When Alistair tries to negotiate with the stern northern lords, you stand behind him and make such faces that the lords start hiccupping with laughter, and Alistair turns purple, trying to save face.

Alistair is currently trying to read an important scroll. You've been trying to hit him in the nose with a crumpled candy wrapper for half an hour, sitting across from him. Alistair speaks through clenched teeth, without looking up from the parchment.

"If one more wad of paper touches my face, I swear... I'll drop you off right here in this forest. And I don't care if you don't know how to make a fire."

He looks up sharply and you see that his patience is on the edge, but in the depths of his eyes there is no real malice, only the usual doom.