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[color=808080][color=455955][b]#455955[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/xoWXZnD][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [color=2d5a32][b]#2d5a32[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/FKFacz4][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]ballroom[/b][/color]
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[indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080]Maeve had tracked Lord Rhaevyn as he rounded the table, eyes following his every move although she remained poised and facing forward. A lady should never openly gawk, but she could not hide her intrigue either. He was handsome and charming, and took initiative before any other man was given the chance. Those were qualities that stuck with her and she found herself pleased with where his name landed on her list, uncontested at the top. When he lowered himself into the seat opposite her, a single brow rose but a fraction while a curious glint sparked behind her eyes. It seemed she shared her mother’s keen eye. 

No words were shared, not yet. It was only proper to wait until more Lords filled the seats around them, which they seemed to be taking their sweet time in doing so, which was inconvenient at best. Maeve had hardly eaten all day due to her nerves and obsessive over preparation. And now that the sun had set, time and the heat had made her stomach ache with absence. Thankfully, the ballroom was far too loud from the boisterous conversations and the steady hum of music, that no one would be able to hear the furious grumbles that roared from her belly. 

As she waited for the servants to make their way to everyone before her—it was as if they forgot who she was, [i]honestly,[/i]—Maeve let her gaze flit about the room, studying the various Lords and Ladies as they wandered their way toward the feast as if the food was not already growing cold at their leisure. Internally she scoffed and rolled her eyes, but on the outside she remained pristine and patient, occupying her time with silent judgements. Her attention snagged on Valerius Kenra, recalling his brazen comment and before she could stop herself, her gaze fell, dragging along the Lord’s form as her mind temporarily wandered how different their introduction would have gone if he had, in fact, chosen to arrive absent attire as a whole. 

Before she could get lost in baser thoughts, they quickly faded away as something new attracted her scrutiny, the same poorly dressed Lord sparking a conversation with Seraphina Velmorra of all people. It was almost ironically poetic, a Lord who arrived at what could very well be the most important six months of his life, dressed in tattered riding clothes, speaking with a Lady who was notorious for being [i]un[/i]ladylike. While Maeve harbored disdain for any man whose attention was not fixed on her, it was almost a match made by the Gods. If Valerius hadn’t already lowered himself in her standing, she might have considered dropping his name father down her list for simply choosing Seraphina as the first woman he conversed with openly. There was no accounting for taste. 

No longer amused, her attention drifted again until it settled on Elrik Járnbjørn. Another man handsome by his own right with a silent stoicism, which she could admire because, unlike his brother, it seemed he understood when best to be silent and when to speak, a quality often lost on men. He carried himself like a warrior, not far removed from the way Rhaevyn demanded respect by presence alone. While Ironcrag sounded like the worst possible place to live, along with the Sunderlands, Lord Elrik seemed to possess many of the qualities—

Her thoughts snagged like a carriage wheel on a rock, abrupt and jarring, jostling all other thoughts from her head in one swift motion. Her brows visibly creased and eyes narrowed as she watched the Lord pick up a wine decanter before one of the servants could. [i]Odd.[/i] She watched him shamelessly, her gaze following his every move as he glided across the room, stopping beside Rhea without ever missing a beat. In that small window of time, everything else in the ballroom melted away as Maeve’s gaze locked violently onto her sister’s. It hadn’t been a single day and one of the Lords—one of the most advantageous Lords in the realm—was talking to her sister over her… Pouring her damn wine like a servant in front of everyone. She watched Rhea’s poise and charm falter beneath her piercing glare, nearly laughing at her lack of propriety before the Lord’s body shifted, stepping between them like an unwitting barricade. 

Lord Rhaevyn, however, had remained silent and observant, his gaze pointedly following the Princess’s attention around the ballroom. He watched the microchanges in her expression as she judged and scrutinized in her mind and he couldn’t help himself from wondering what truths lived behind those piercing eyes. He imagined the disgust that twisted in her stomach at the sight of Lord Valerius’s inability to replace his attire in time for the feast or the superiority that bloomed through her chest while looking at a Lady like Seraphina who rejected what it meant to [i]be[/i] a lady. But it wasn’t until Lord Elrik ignored her entirely, focusing his attention solely on the younger Princess, that Maeve’s true fire burned bright when she thought no one was looking. If he wasn’t sworn to Aelyria—mind, body, and soul—Maeve’s venom would have been an intriguing prospect. 

A sly smirk carved across his pale face when the Princess’s gaze was severed and she was forced to turn her attention elsewhere. The Lord adjusted in his seat, reclining against the back of the chair with a bit more ease than was proper, but not enough that it would draw any attention. [color=455955]"It seems as though the games have begun,"[/color] he commented quietly, his words just loud enough to drift across steaming platters and empty plates to reach Maeve. His arm extended along the silken table cloth, pinching the stem of his empty goblet between his finger and thumb, spinning it idly as he held her gaze. [color=455955]"If you would grant me a moment to be candid with you, your Grace,"[/color] he added, slowly leaning forward to sever some of the space between them so that his words did not carry beyond the two of them. [color=455955]"If a man does not set his gaze upon you [i]first[/i] above all others, then perhaps his attention is not worthy of your time."[/color]

Maeve’s expression softened, if but a fraction, at his words. He was correct, of course he was, yet she could not stop her gaze from jumping to the corner of her eye, crossing the table to where her sister was hidden behind the broad back of Elrik Járnbjørn. [color=2d5a32]"Wise words,"[/color] she conceded, looking back toward the man across the table from her. [color=2d5a32]"[i]Although,[/i]"[/color] she added with a smile that grew more charming and cunning as she spoke. [color=2d5a32]"I am aware enough to know that your sentiments are also selfserving."[/color]

[color=455955]"Of course you are,"[/color] Rhaevyn replied plainly, his words landing certain and surefooted, lacking any sort of sarcasm or innuendo. [color=455955]"Only an idiot would be daft enough to think they could out wit you."[/color] Empty flattery, nothing more, because he was also cunning enough to know when someone was far too enraptured with themselves to see anything beyond it. Maeve was vain, disgustingly so. She had qualities that could make for a good partner or wife, but they all paled in comparison to Aelyria. But, unfortunately, alliances were bred from more than love alone. Power begets power. He simply needed the power that came from a smart match, perhaps an heir if he could stomach bedding the woman… Then there could be an accident. It was simple. 

The knot that had tightened along Maeve’s shoulders eased just before Lord Elrik came into view, making his way around the table toward his seat beside her. While Rhaevyn’s words were in fact true, she was also not naive enough to remove someone entirely from her list… [i]not yet.[/i] Perhaps the Lord’s judgement, or tastes, were misguided, but this went beyond a slight from a suitor. Her sister was now competition when the thought had not crossed her mind until that moment. [i]That[/i] would not do. Lord Rhaevyn had been correct about one thing, the games had begun and Maeve intended to win. 

The Princess sat up straighter, following the Lord of Ironcrag out of the corner of her eye as he drifted closer with the decanter in his hands. Her attention fell to her empty goblet, watching and waiting, but then his voice cut through the silence before she ever saw the dark bordeaux pour. [color=5b90b5]"Good evening, your Grace,"[/color] Elrik offered with practiced etiquette while lowered in a deep bow. 

Maeve’s expression did not shift, almost frozen entirely rather than letting her mask slip, revealing the wave of emotions that stirred behind it. Every ounce of self control went into measuring the steady cadence of her breaths and keeping a welcoming enough smile across her lips. The decanter was gone from his hands making it obvious in an instant that the Lord had no intention of offering the same consideration to her that he had for her sister. Her eye might have twitched, small, brief and easily missed, but she quickly hid it behind the show of delicately wiping sweat from her brow, sweat that did not exist. [color=2d5a32]"Good evening, Lord Elrik,"[/color] she offered in response, because it was proper and expected… and she had to say something. 

[color=5b90b5]"The Princess’s first, and then Lord Rhaevyn’s."[/color] His voice drew her attention a second time, but when she glanced back over her shoulder she saw some servant with a familiar decanter held in his hands. Maeve clenched her jaw as she turned back around to face forward. The muscle beneath her cheek tensed and pulsed, betraying her attempted resolve as she waited on her wine to be poured. 

Meanwhile, Rhaevyn bowed his head toward the Lord while the man settled into the space beside the Princess. [color=455955]"Gratitude, my Lord,"[/color] he offered, simply because it would cause more problems ignoring him rather than play the part. 

Somewhere in the middle of the servant making his rounds, Lord Raelan materialized in the seat beside Rhaevyn, silent and unassuming, not demanding attention but rather settling in the space like he had always been there. Maeve reached for her freshly poured wine and took a drink, because by the nine did she need one. When her goblet settled back down against the navy tablecloth, a smile had curled along her rouged lips as she looked between the three Lords currently in her presence. [color=2d5a32]"My Lords, I must thank you all for making the arduous journey to be here,"[/color] she began, because someone needed to start the conversation, and if not her then who? 

[color=2d5a32]"I must confess, I have never left Thornvale,"[/color] she continued. Her gaze fell briefly, bashful and coy in some well practiced performance to make herself appear meek and docile, because men needed room to feel important and like their words had meaning. [color=2d5a32]"But I’ve always wished to travel."[/color] [i]A lie.[/i] Nothing sounded more miserable than spending weeks stuck aboard a ship or confined to a carriage, just to arrive somewhere with a less agreeable climate. [color=2d5a32]"What are your homelands like?"[/color] she asked with all the necessary enthusiasm of a woman who actually cared. Her gaze landed on Raelan first before carrying to Rhaevyn, then landing pointedly on Elrik… because if he was too busy humoring her useless questions, then he couldn’t waste anymore time on her sister.[/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]

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[indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080]Rhea, having forgotten everything her mother had been drilling into her since she was a young child, was unable to find words before Lord Elrik left her where he found her, silent, bewildered, and entirely out of her depth. He spoke to her, several times even, and she said nothing. He professed his intentions to earn her love before seeking her hand in marriage… and she said nothing. Maeve would have had an answer, some response that would beguile any man, something charming and witty, or if nothing else she’d tell Elrik he was too familiar—the more she thought about it, that seemed the most likely. And to be fair, her sister wouldn’t have been entirely wrong. Her and Lord Elrik had never spoken before that moment, and yet there laid his confession, honest and unbidden, set gently before her like the wine he poured. He [i]was[/i] too familiar, and Rhea had absolutely no idea how to handle that. 

Still… Her gaze followed him as he walked around the table. She watched as he handed off the decanter rather than offering to pour her sister’s wine, and something strange stirred inside her. Was it embarrassment or something darker, like quiet, unspoken pride, because for the first time in her life, Rhea received something that Maeve didn’t. She could have laughed at the way she saw the rage burn bright across her sister’s face, as if everything she had been working towards for months was thwarted in a matter of minutes. Rhea’s lips curled inward, pinned in place by her teeth, just to keep herself from drawing more of her sister’s ire.

In an attempt to distract herself, her gaze swept across the table as chairs slowly began to fill. Many of the seats around her still remained vacant, but as her attention drifted to where her brother helped a Lady into her seat, her eyes snagged on one of the few familiar faces. On the opposite side of the table and down a setting or two sat Emil. When their eyes met, he straightened like he was caught beneath a harsher gaze than her own. For a brief moment, it tugged at something raw beneath Rhea’s ribs, like the scene her mother made might have soured any kindness that could have blossomed between them. But then he smiled. She sighed, releasing the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding in. Then her hand lifted, just barely visible above the edge of the table, and waved subtly in a small greeting just for him, like an olive branch from one black sheep to another.

When his attention fell, Rhea leaned forward and curled her fingers delicately around her goblet. She paused for a second, staring at the dark crimson liquid before looking up and over at Elrik. The questions started to form again, but before they could take root she pressed the cool metal rim to her lip and drank, hoping that the alcohol would either give her clarity or dull her senses enough that she no longer cared. She found solace hidden within that silver bowl, taking a second or two to calm her breaths and ground herself anew. 

As she went to set down her cup and her gaze lifted from dark liquid poured by a noble’s hand, Rhea found the seat opposite no longer empty, but occupied by Lord Imran Ganasen. She watched as he lifted his goblet expectantly, waiting for one of the servants to scurry up to the table and fill it promptly. Her gaze lifted to meet that of the overwhelmed servant, giving him a small, sympathetic smile before he hurried off to help the other Lords. 

[color=ba8f1a]"I see Lord Járnbjørn has put the rest of us suitors at a disadvantage, Your Grace."[/color] Rhea’s attention snapped back to Lord Imran as he spoke. Her eyes widened slightly, breath catching in her throat as if she were caught redhanded. Which was completely ridiculous because she did absolutely nothing wrong, yet the heat returned to her cheeks, flooding her pale skin with a deep flush nearly as red as her hair. She did her best to return his smile, but it never quite reached her eyes as her gaze focused on the golden filigree that decorated the edge of her plate. Her hand seized her goblet a second time, bringing it to her lips and taking a sip, if only to stave off the need to scramble for words when her mind was glaringly absent them. [color=ba8f1a]"I cannot blame him, I must admit. Your laugh has brightened the arduous journey to your lovely home."[/color]

Her eyes traitorously drifted to Imran’s left where Lord Elrik’s attention was drawn by Maeve, who very intentionally sought to prove that he had wasted his time on the lesser sister, no doubt. Rhea lightly tapped her finger along the side of her goblet before looking back over at the Lord across from her. [color=10636f]"I am sure that Lord Elrik was simply trying to be amiable,"[/color] she offered, assuming—[i]praying[/i]—that the Lord of Ironcrag’s confession traveled no farther than her own ears. 

While Rhea was never the best at accepting compliments, she accepted it as a convenient distraction—alongside one of the Tyrcell daughters’ incessant whining—to redirect the conversation, lest she melt into a puddle of embarrassment beneath the table. [color=10636f]"Do they not have laughter on the Lost Coast?"[/color] she mused with a quiet chuckle, her smile growing into something slightly more sincere as she found comfort in gentle banter like she often did with her brothers. [color=10636f]"I hate to be the bearer of ill tidings, my Lord, but court often lacks laughter."[/color] Her thumb lightly ran along the ornate engravings in the handle of her fork as she studied the man opposite her. [color=10636f]"Although my father does try to make things as merry as he can,"[/color] Rhea added as a warm affection sparked behind her eyes. The love she had for her father was apparent in the way she softened at the mention of him, and just the thought of his presence brought a calmness she had been lacking a moment earlier. 

In that moment she found herself wishing to be seated with her father and brothers, for their laughter to roar wild and untamed throughout the ballroom. But even as the nobles settled into the ease of casual conversation, the tension still remained beneath the surface, poised like a blade just out of sight, waiting for the moment anyone stepped out of line… because beneath all the pleasantries, they were all there for one thing and none of them were willing to lose.[/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]
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[indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080]Dorian remained standing by the far end of the table after helping a handful of ladies to their seats. And while there were still unfilled chairs and nobles leisurely making their way into the ballroom, he also felt a pull to take up his own place and greet those seated around him, rather than making them wait longer. He gave it a few more moments before finally pulling out his chair and joining those who sat patient, and silent around him. 

Of course, it was only when he was properly seated that he was able to recognize the true gravity of his position. He was surrounded by all the first born ladies of every house, each one beautiful and captivating by her own right. Dorian was never one to feel overwhelmed when surrounded by the company of beautiful people, but this was different than whores and attractive young lechers that wandered into his room at the Black Rose. These were women born, bred, and raised for moments like this. Women that were taught to be ladies, to bolster their husbands, and maybe, if they were lucky, one of them would ensnare the future King… [i]him.[/i]

As if his thoughts needed emphasis, a whine echoed down the table from the youngest Tyrcell daughter who was seated by the other undesirable daughters and secondborn sons. [color=38AAC7]"It's so unfair. Why does Bran get seated so close to the prince? She doesn't get things. [i]I[/i] get things."[/color] Dorian leaned forward slightly, looking down the table toward Lady Junia who complained with all the spoiled righteousness his sister Maeve possessed, but lacked her tact to know when to be silent and when to speak. [color=38AAC7]"She must [i]hate[/i] it there."[/color]

The Prince let out a strained chuckle as he spared a glance toward the woman’s sister in question, who had muttered something about… [i]mice?[/i] Perhaps not all of the ladies came from the same breeding, nor had the burdens of expectations placed upon their shoulders. It was hard to tell if it was their nerves making them act so, or perhaps they were simply mad. There were worse things, he supposed. He gave the women nearest to him a sympathetic smile that lacked some of his usual charm. [color=846d49]"Well… I did not realize, until this moment, that my mother’s machinations would be so thinly veiled."[/color] 

He reached for his goblet, bringing it to his lips to enjoy his first drink out of countless throughout the night. Just as the rich, and overly expensive wine drifted across his tongue, the complaints returned tenfold. [color=38AAC7]"Well, whoever it was, hates our family, clearly, and I must give my retort."[/color] The liquid caught in his throat just as he noticed the scrutinizing gaze of his mother peeking around the silver hair of Lady Varrow, trying to catch a glimpse of whomever complained so loud and brazen. The wine burned his esophagus as it slipped down the wrong pipe, and a cough roared free from his chest at the same moment Lady Branwell found herself in similar distress, although entirely oblivious to her sister’s ramblings. 

Once he managed to regain control of himself, along with downing the entirety of his goblet of wine, Dorian accepted a refill from one of the servants while his other hand pressed gently against his chest. [color=846d49]"My apologies."[/color] He spared them each a weak smile and fleeting glance, finding himself feeling more like an idiot that cannot drink rather than a Prince or whatever other wild fantasies his mother had. [color=846d49]"I must confess I am not much for court. It is far too formal for my liking and I waste no time making a fool of myself."[/color] He cleared his throat and took another sip of wine, being certain to look nowhere besides the silver bowl before him, wishing to avoid another choking catastrophe. 

After setting aside his goblet, Dorian lifted his napkin from the table, draping it across his lap before looking down at the arrangement of food on the plate before him. He was becoming acutely aware that he had absolutely no idea how to carry a conversation with so many women waiting on him to start it. What did he talk about? The weather? The ballroom? There were plenty of things he would like to discuss, but he was also vehemently aware of the lingering glances and bated judgments that waited for him to show the kind of man he was. So, naturally, he defaulted to vanity before he could think better of it, not knowing what to comment on beyond their unanimous beauty. [color=846d49]"You all look radiant in your family colors."[/color] His fork pierced a piece of meat and lifted it toward his mouth, pausing just before taking a bite. [color=846d49]"Or so I presume. I never quite mastered my lessons,"[/color] he confessed with a guilty chuckle that slowly tried to find his usual warmth and charm before taking his first bite. 

He chewed his food slowly, taking the time to try and gather his thoughts or senses. [color=846d49]"It would appear that I have no idea how to hold a conversation with so many beautiful women."[/color] Apparently his senses were on leave.

[i]It was going to be a long night.[/i][/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]
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