Look, see a world that holds more wonders than any since the Earth was born. And of all who reigned o’er, none had renown like the boy who pulled sword from stone. But this is not that king, nor is this his song.
Let me tell you instead a new tale. I’ll lay it down as I’ve heard it told. Its letters sent, its history pressed, of an adventure brave and bold. Forever set, in heart, in stone, like all great myths of old.
Oh, Greatest Of Kings, indulge me in this friendly Christmas game. Let whichever of your knights is boldest of blood and wildest of heart step forth, take up arms, and try with honor to land a blow against me. Whomsoever nicks me shall lay claim to this, my arm. It’s glory and riches shall be thine. But thy champ must bind himself to this: Should he land a blow, then one year and Yuletide hence, he must seek me out yonder, to the Green Chapel six nights to the North. He shall find me there and bend the knee and let me strike him in return. Be it a scratch on the cheek or a cut on the throat, I will return what was given to me, and then in trust and friendship we shall part. Who, then, who is willing to engage with me?
