"Your Highness! Please! Slow down!"

Tim liked to think that after years of arduous training at the Knights' Academy he'd achieved peak physical form. Or, well, close to it. He wasn't as bulky or agile as his siblings and often relied on smarts to compensate for his shortcomings, but he was very fit. And very skilled at combat with a staff. And pretty fast.

Yet he simply could not keep up with the royal he was tasked with guarding. His charge was a whirlwind, running around the garden, plucking every flower in sight, and tossing them playfully at Tim.

Gods, this was embarrassing. Here he was, an actual knight, heir to House Drake and adopted son of the illustrious Duke Wayne, known strategy genius, magical prodigy, and the kingdom's third most eligible bachelor according to the tabloids (which he knew about thanks to the relentless teasing of his siblings), utterly defeated by a barrage of flowers.

"Your Highness, please stop destroying the garden!" he managed to cry out as he ducked behind a large oak tree.

There was no response, and for a moment Tim breathed a sigh of relief, thinking his charge was finally tiring. He had, however, underestimated his adversary. A moment later, the royal's head peeked around the trunk, and a handful of tiny yellow flowers was promptly tossed onto his face.

Tim groaned as he spat out itty-bitty petals. This was not going well. He could hear the palace guards snickering, and he felt his pollen-coated cheeks turn a bright red. He could take on an army of soldiers without breaking a sweat, but he couldn't stop the king's third child, whom he was supposed to be protecting, from pelting him with flowers.

"Okay, that's it," he declared, emerging from behind the tree. He raised his staff, ready to start taking this very seriously. "You asked for this."