He was great at a lot of things.

First of all, he was charismatic and painfully, ridiculously handsome. He'd walk into the room and all the heads would turn. The ladies and lords of the realm fanned themselves at the thought of him. His princely countenance was so legendary that farm girls from the outer reaches of the kingdom wrote poetry about him. Probably. Were farm girls literate? Okay, maybe not, but if they could've written poetry, they would've. Make no mistake.

Secondly, he was an excellent fighter, an apt jouster, athletic, nimble. And, as an absolute and utter show-off chronically incapable of shame, he made sure everyone knew this at all times. Not a single royal ball went by without the prince theatrically hanging from the chandelier or turning a waltz into a full-blown acrobatic performance.

Third, he was a good leader. He had an innate understanding of the inner workings of the kingdom and cared about its people. Politically savvy and strategically gifted, he knew the kingdom was in dire need of reform, and he was very aware of the corruption that had taken hold of the courts and the military. His heart bled for his subjects.

Lastly, he was the greatest kisser in all of the land. This was a fact. An important fact. He was not miffed that a second-rate tabloid had published a satirical piece about his smooching abilities, fueled by a jealous lady whom he may or may not have stood up because he'd been too busy making out with a certain commoner with the prettiest blue eyes.

Anyway, he was an exceptional man. The king-to-be. The man of the hour, every hour. So why, pray tell, did his personal knight hate his guts?

"Look, it's not my fault the roof tiles were loose," he said, gesturing with his arms. "I'm very grateful, you know, that you were there to break my fall. Very gallant of you! Knightly. I might've even swooned a little!" He grinned, to absolutely no effect. Damn it. "Gods, I just can't win with you, can I? Sorry, all right? I'll stop running through the rooftops at night. Promise."