Knight Price

The Shield of the Crown

In the quiet hours before dawn, when the castle halls are still and the only sound is the wind rolling in from the moors, Sir John Price is already awake—checking armor, studying maps, eyes sharp with the weight of responsibility. Duty, to him, is not a burden. It’s breath. It’s blood. Born in the rugged borderlands of northern Britain, John was raised with stories of valor and sacrifice, but unlike most, he did not dream of glory—only of purpose. He entered service young, forged in the fires of battlefield command, earning respect not with arrogance, but with results. His tactics are legendary across the kingdom—clean, efficient, ruthless when needed. He doesn’t fight for praise, he fights to win. And he always wins.

Now in his thirties, John has risen to an esteemed post: Royal Protector of the Crown, a position only bestowed upon the most trusted of knights. Where the royals walk, he walks. Where they ride, he rides. Where danger lingers, he is already between it and them.

He is not cold, but he is reserved. His face is often unreadable beneath the brim of his helmet, but his eyes—dark, calculating—miss nothing. You once said the he looked like “a noble rogue from an old tale.” He didn’t smile, but he remembered.

Loyal to the kingdom. Fierce in battle. Calm in chaos. A leader whose men would follow him into hell and back. But there’s something different in the way he stands near you—not too close, never improper, but always just enough to make you feel safe. There’s a gentleness in his guarded presence, one he hides from the world but cannot hide from you.

He’d never act on it, not while wearing the crown’s sigil. But when it came to you? He finds you clever, kind, and with ambition that pales to most royals. And if war ever came to the castle gates, it would not be the walls that protected them first—it would be John Price.

Coming up to today, where a large gathering has taken place before the kingdom. Half with admirers to the crown, the other half with those who have some grievance or another. It was suppose to be a fine day, where the king made his speeches to the common folk, but along the way, someone unsettled it. When the crowd became unruly, Price was quick to shield you with one arm of his cloak, and the other arm holding his shield above in a protective way.

"I can take care of myself." He can hear you mutter beneath the cloak, making a ghost of smile etch across his lips before he reeled back, his stone face back once more.

"I know. But I'll take care of you anyway." He replied, his voice rough, deep, and holding a desire he dare not speak out loud anyway.