𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖉𝖎𝖌𝖆𝖑 𝖘𝖔𝖓

“Birds have only two legs though,” Ginevra pointed out, the hint of a teasing smile on their face. “As do bats. Anything with four legs and two wings would have six limbs all together, and that seems like far too many limbs to have.” They covered their mouth, laughing out loud at the idea of the poor, waddling dragon. “On this, I will defer to the Englishman. Just this once, though. I wouldn’t get used to being right.”  They nodded, quite in agreement. “They’d certainly be hard to miss, if they were real at all. “I do not think that either of us will ever come face to face with a dragon in our lifetime. Or in anybody else’s, no matter the country. I’ve read in the East they have found the most curious bones though, large enough to belong to a dragon. Perhaps they all died out long before our time.” It was the most reasonable explanation Ginevra could think of, but something about it still seemed wrong. 

“What did you do to her?” Ginevra placed their hands on their hips, shooting him a look of faux-disapproval. They suspected there was more to his words than he was letting on, but they would not pry. If he wished to joke about it, they would follow his lead. “This is the perfect time to win her over though, no? Let us find her a present that you can give to her, and see if that wins her over.” 

Gin took the book back, and mimed swatting him over the head with it, though they stopped before making contact. “As honoured as I am to be your personal librarian, I beg you not to tempt me. I’ve been told I talk about books far too much, so unless you have trouble sleeping, I’d avoid the subject entirely.” 

✘

ℭharles paused, tilting his head to the side in thought. He imagined his mastiff Warrick, who could be quite frightening when he wanted to be, but acted like a bumbling fool most of the time, with two wings. The poor dog would likely trip all over himself and his two extra limbs. ❝ You're right, ❞ he finally conceded. ❝ I suppose we'll just have to imagine that our dragons are moving around almost entirely through flight then. ❞ 

❝ Really? ❞ Charles asked, bemused. ❝ Bones in the East, ❞ he muttered to himself, mulling over the words. ❝ Did the books say where in the East? ❞ Charles queried. He'd make a note of whomever he knew from the country, and ask them about it later.  ❝ How long ago do you think? Because is the world not only a few thousand years old? I do wonder what happened to them. ❞ There were many unsolved mysteries of the world that piqued his interest, though he usually didn't spend much time trying to decipher them. He might've once, years ago. He might've pestered his father and his eldest sister about it, gone to his tutors, but he was different now. His pride had closed those doors long ago.

❝ I am, as you know, a man of wit. Which some appreciate more than others. ❞ This was, once again, a non-answer. The kind of non-committal response that meant everything and nothing at the same time. It was, he supposed, less than Ginevra deserved, but they were clearly teasing him, and this was what he was comfortable with. ❝ Finding a present? That sounds like quite a bore. ❞ He spun around slowly in a circle, to get a look at the stalls around them. ❝ Do you drink as well as you read? ❞

Her expression was kept perfectly neutral, but there was a… shiver creeping up her spine as he leaned in closer. Arching an eyebrow in mild amusement ( at least she made it look like amusement, but only thanks to her years long practice in keeping all her facial expressions mysterious and neutral. it was dangerous for a man to show his… interest. and for a woman? it was absolutely fatal. ). “I would reckon deadly as well.” She cooed, lip curling upwards, tone bordering on conspiratorial.

If this was the prince’s way of flirting, it was working pretty well. But, she was always easy to seduce. Keeping her interest, though? Now that was a herculean task. Still, Cihangir never attempted to woo her like this - and she was more than aware that this was exactly what the prince said it was ; a display of power. But, that did not mean she can’t entertain it, or enjoy it ( so long as it doesn’t get to her head. suhan would never approve of it - his eyes are set on a much more… elusive prize. and a much bigger empire. ). It was an interesting way to start this… tour around Rome - every girl dreams of keeping a prince’s company, and one could never be sure just when those connections could come in handy. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a horrible idea to play along with him, maybe strike a friendship. Esra had always been the kind who liked keeping all of her options open. What if the situation with the Ottomans change? What if it doesn’t? It was always wise to have more than one friend in a different country - even if it is of the opposing alliance.

The question left her with a soft purse of her lips. How did she find Italy? Well, she hadn’t seen much of it to truly judge ; “What I have seen of it so far? It is intriguing. The architecture is so… sharp. I think I like it.” She replied, before she turned her soft smile towards him. “And how do you find it, Charles?” It was a dangerous game indeed, courtesy flying out the window - but it was so entertaining.

Oh, how fun! A gentleman, as well as a flirt! “Hm. Perhaps you could accompany me to the Forro Romano? I heard it is spectacular, especially the Temple of the Vestas.” She offered.

ℭharles raised an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised that the maharani was returning his flirtations, even if it was couched in subtlety. If she truly was unmarried, she had the most to lose by playing along with his little game. And that just made this exchange all the more exciting. This afternoon was turning out to be far more tantalizing than he'd initially expected. The danger of such a liaison thrilled him far more than maps and discussions of warfare ever could. This was his religion, his creed. 

❝ Yes, ❞ he agreed, with a smirk, teeth skimming his bottom lip, his implications crystal clear. ❝ Dangerous in the right hands. ❞

He nodded along as she gave him her opinion of Italy. ❝ Intriguing indeed, ❞ he replied, eyes never leaving the woman in front of him, ❝ though the people I've met have been even more so than the city itself. ❞  

He briefly and inexplicably wondered where his betrothed was, and what she was doing. If she was being bored half to death by his mother dearest or if she'd gone in search of her own brother. And what she would think of him now. He quickly dismissed this thought. When had it ever mattered to him what Isabella thought of him? Why should it now? 

It was miraculous how the prince managed to infuriate her time and time again. Forcing her to repress her raging desire to finally raise her voice, break free from her compliant role, and spit the truth into his face with little to no restrain. Oh, how her Spanish temper flared as he snapped at her unjustly so. For once, emotion did in fact reach her eyes. Her gaze lit up with dangerous flames that were to ignite into a bonfire that could burn the whole of Rome right down had she not managed to find composure a few moments later. “Perhaps one should commend, to raise moral amongst their soldiers for example and possibly turn the tides .- Though of course warfare does not come as natural to me as it does to your highness.” she bit back the venom and somehow managed to make her voice sound almost pleasantly quiet once more. Topping it off with yet another forced smile that served no other purpose than to mask her true feelings. 

There was so much raw emotion buried deep inside of her, pure and untamed. She did not have a clue what would pour out if she dared to open the floodgates. What she did know was that the moment she would open her mouth to let her emotions free, she would blame him for everything and all that went wrong in her world. Rightfully so perhaps, but as insufferable as he was he did not deserve get blamed for months of misery and pain. After all, they were not that different from one another. One just as trapped as the other in the courtly web. - It did not matter how her mind could reason though, for part of her could never commit to it. Hence his half-made apology fell on deaf ears. 

She had refrained from drinking excessively in his presence. As a matter of fact, he deprived her of any appetite. The one for liquor in particular. She simply could not afford to lose her focus for a single moment. Fearful it could be the end of her, if she would only let it all slip for a single second. - But as the prince offered the pocket flask to her, as well as the prospect of not being so gravely terrified for just a moment, she accepted the offer more readily than expected.  Whatever the Italian air did to her she couldn’t quite say, but her decisions seemed much less calculated. Not slowed down by her constant overthinking. “Let’s pray to the Lord that you are right, because I do not quite like the way my stomach twists by the thought of it alone.” The Spanish Infanta purged her lips, debating on how to drink from the flask, before simply deciding to put it against her lips en take a large sip. An unwise decision, as the strong liquor hit her so hard that she started coughing. “Santa Madre de Dios” she cursed under her breath as the vodka brought a warm sensation to her throat. Briefly she debated on taking another sip, but chose wisely to return the pocket flask to him.

As she was still recovering slightly from the vodka blow, the English prince had already started making his way to the gentleman who assisted to nobility with their skates. She followed a few steps behind, close enough to hear the remarks he made on her worries. Though she attempted, Isabella failed to keep a straight face once more. A smile of amusement, though weak, softened her features. “I believe I finally begin to see why your loyal subjects consider you to be jocular man.” 

ℭharles arched an eyebrow in surprise at the flash of rage in his betrothed's eyes; rare indeed was the moment where she showed anything besides the demureness he'd come to know and expect. It was exciting; he was excited, for this briefest of moments where her guard dropped, even if that instance was one of anger. He hated the courtly demeanor she used as a shield, hated the insincerity associated with it and the other nobles and hangers-on who brandished etiquette as a weapon, which was far worse. ❝ You're quite right, though I do believe we're quibbling over semantics at this point. ❞ He'd already lost interest in their argument, and wanted to push on. 

He accepted his flask back from the infanta, twisting the cap back on and carefully returning it to its proper place in his doublet. ❝ I'm always right, ❞ he replied with a dry smile, joking somewhat but mostly serious. ❝ Especially when it comes to matters of the bottle. ❞ He tapped the silk of his doublet, from which emitted a hearty, trustworthy clink.  

Even as Charles found himself preoccupied with negotiating with the man in charge of distributing skates, he did not miss the brief smile that graced Isabella's features. He couldn't prevent himself from smiling as well in reciprocation, on instinct. ❝ I am flattered, though I do not know if you entirely intended that to be a compliment. ❞ It usually wasn't. Not in terms of the manner in which it was said; polite upfront but really with disastrous implications.   

Closed Starter for @charlestudor

Location : The Ice Rink

Family meant little to Alix. She had turned her back on her parents years ago now, but in her heart, there was a certain fondness for Prince Charles. Her maternal cousin from England, he was everything she imagined a brother of her own would be like. Charlotte was dear to her, in some ways, but there was nobody who could bring out the child in her as he could. Although there were moments when he drove her up the wall, and she felt no qualms in letting him know exactly this, there were also days where they were, essentially, the best of friends, and this day was one of them. 

“Oof!” She cried out, tumbling to her knees and throwing out her hands to break her fall. They hit the ground with a hard smack that made her eyes water, but she barely reacted, instead whipping her head around to shoot Charles a furious look. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, Charles Tudor,” she spoke in her most ferocious voice, but that lasted all of a few seconds before she was dissolving into giggles. “Oh, don’t just stand there like a fool. Help me up, before someone sees me down here.” 

✘

There was something so freeing about being out on the ice. Even some of the more guarded, cautious nobles had found themselves testing their mettle by the river bank, and ruffled hair, crumpled clothing, sudden falls, breathlessness, and even laughter was no longer quite as frowned upon. Just for this moment. 

❝ I don't think I will, ❞ Charles replied, returning his attention to his cousin before him, splayed as she was on the ice. ❝ I much prefer you this way and I believe the embarrassment will do wonders for your massive ego, ❞ he said, quickly retreating a step or two in case she tried to smack him. ❝ Besides, ❞ he added, glancing all around them. ❝ Everyone else is far too pre-occupied with not making fools of themselves that I hardly think we warrant their attention. ❞

He still skated back towards his cousin anyway, holding his hands out for her to grab.

“ Oh, how could I forget my manners. ” Atike’s hand flutters to her chest in mock shame, and she dips into a belated curtsy as she’s seen European women do, laughter smothered behind pressed lips. “ Are you now? I hadn’t realized I’d made such an impression, ” she quips with a honeyed smile, a lock of hair twirled around her finger. It’s all theatrics, but if Ferhad would find her now, she’d hardly care—perhaps it might even sour his opinion of her further. Sultan’s daughter she may be, but what good is a pawn you can’t keep in line? ( A plan to get rid of a fiancé has too many steps, all of which Atike improvises. ) “ My deepest apologies, my lord, ” the title is said with facetious reverence, for neither of them care for propriety, “ I was mistaken. I’d never think of you than anything other than one of the bravest, most valiant men I’ve ever met. And of course! ” She picks out a chili of her own, and though she’s never tried this particular kind before, she can’t say she’s really playing fair. Saliha has trained her well. “ Who would I be, leaving you to face this challenge alone? ”  

✘

Charles' eyes twinkle appreciatively as Atike matches his jests, tit for tat. Though she hails from the Ottoman Empire, a place so very different from his homeland, she is one of the only other royals whose antics truly complement his own. The two haven't seen much of each other, but whenever they meet, it's as if they've known each other their whole lives. ❝ Well, ❞ he says, raising his pepper to mimic a toast of sorts. ❝ To health, long life, and tomfoolery galore, I suppose. ❞ He brings the pepper to his lips, biting down with a crunch. The spice hits his senses immediately and his eyes begin to water. 

❝ Water, ❞ Charles signs to his closest retainer, thankful just this once that as a crown prince, he's always being tailed by at least one attendant. He drinks a sip and it helps initially, but soon enough, the chili's kick reemerges even stronger than before. ❝ You win, ❞ he chokes, grinning despite his reddening face, tingling lips, and need to gasp for air. ❝ I've been thoroughly vanquished. ❞

Ginevra couldn’t help it. They laughed, a look of bemused amusement on their face. “You English and your dragons,” they teased, though there was no malice in it. “Anyone would think you were simply crawling with them.” They paused for a moment, tilting their head in thought. “Of course, it does beg the question; how many legs should a dragon have? I’ve certainly never seen an animal with wings and more than two legs, myself. Maybe they have such strange creatures in The New World or something, but certainly not England.” It was a banal, pointless question, but they couldn’t help themselves. They took far too much pleasure in talking circles around him, even with the most pointless of conversation. 

“At my beck and call?” Their brows raised. From most men, the statement would have them running for the hills. Not Charles, though. He was betrothed. They had read the announcement themself when digging through Cosimo’s personal correspondences. Betrothed, and a prince besides. If he wanted anything from her, it certainly wouldn’t be Medici money, and that made him a relatively safe companion for the time being. Instead of running, they flattened a palm to their chest, raising another hand to press the back to their forehead in a mockery of a swoon. “I shall be the envy of all in Rome. Pray your fiancee does not find out, or she may scratch my eyes out.” 

Chuckling, their attention returned to the book. Ginevra shrugged, closing it and holding it out for him to survey. “I’ve read it before. I just didn’t know some of the words and thought I would ask while I could. It’s enjoyable, but not really very realistic. You can borrow it if you like. I don’t have you down as the reading sort, though.” 

✘

Ginevra certainly raised a good point. ❝ One would think a dragon should have four legs about it, shouldn't it? ❞ Charles pondered. ❝ I fear I find the idea of a two-legged dragon quite ridiculous; it'd certainly have to waddle around if it were to travel anywhere on foot, would it not? And that would quite defeat the purpose of it being a menacing, formidable creature. ❞ He frowned slightly, lost in thought. ❝ I must say, I don't think I believe such an animal could exist. Mayhaps in the New World, as you said. Although it is indeed curious that so many different peoples believe that dragons exist. It seems to be a recurring theme from England all the way to China. ❞ Though he'd never admit it out loud, Charles relished these conversations with Ginevra, who made him think about things beyond the bottle or petty court life. 

Charles chuckled at Ginevra's response to his flattery. ❝ I think my betrothed would actually be quite enthused to hear it, and beg for you to rid her of me. ❞ He spoke pointedly in jest, but his jokes usually contained a nugget of truth to them. They were his only way to acknowledge things out loud, without jeopardizing anything that hadn't already been jeopardized.

Taking the book from Ginevra's hands, Charles examined it glibly, flipping through its thick pages. ❝ You're right, ❞ he replied, as he finally handed the book back to them. ❝ I'm not the reading sort. ❞ And to prove he wasn't speaking out of anything akin to glumness, he added, teasing, ❝ Why should I read a book when I can just have you tell me about it? ❞

The English crown prince returned the gesture of bowing before her. A movement so endlessly practiced by the nobility that they could probably manage to perform it on one leg with hands tied behind their back. Yet, by the level of grace with which he moved his body in and out of the position she could tell that the feint scent of alcohol that lingered in the air came from his direction. The Infanta wandered if she was the only one who noticed anything out of the ordinary, or if what she noticed was even considered to be such. The English always seemed oblivious to all that her prodigal bethrothed did. Perhaps they had grown just comfortably accustomed, as the prince did not stray far from the image of his father. Or perhaps she simply had her eyes set on these negative little details like a hawk. Time and time again just trying to prove to herself the image she had created of him in her head. God forbid there could be a side to him that was less than despicable. 

He did not seem to care for the small talk she proposed. The words that left his mouth were direct and a tad bit tactless. She could only pray that there was no one from the Italian court nearby to listen along. All this effort and yet again it failed to meet the strandarts of the Englishman. The Spanish princess managed to repress the urge to sigh deeply. Instead attempting to nod understandingly at his complaint. “The English would not fail to host events perhaps even more grand, naturally, but one must simply appreciate they effort they have put into hosting, do you not agree?” It was an endless game of tug of war between them. Whenever together, they pulled at each other’s ends in hopes the other would meet the middle ground which they had in mind. However, it seemed the expectations were never met. 

When he turned back to face her again, it was as if there stood yet again a different men. Slightly less forced and stiff like the puppets they had been made to be. His request caught her off guard, which resulted in genuine surprise that broke the mask of propriety that had settled on her fair features. ”Skating..?” what followed her words was a small chuckle of disbelief. Her caramel eyes gazing up into his blue hues to check if he was not playing her. - When his request even ended with an attempt to speak her beloved mother tongue, no matter how poor the accent, he managed to briefly break the stone wall she had build around herself.

‘I…’  Isabella hesitated to even speak. Her gaze shifting between the frozen surface and Charles, as she debated her choices. “Charles... you must know that I am quite unfamiliar with this winter activity. I fear I might embarrass myself, as well as your highness, if I do dare to step on that ice.” 

ℭharles could feel the chasm between him and Isabella widen with every word they exchanged, with every second they socialized. She didn't appreciate his humor, his performances, and he didn't appreciate her fastidiousness nor the cloud that always seemed to hang over her whenever he approached. He knew of her immense grief, the fate of Spain resting on her shoulders, but these were not things he could even begin to comprehend or empathize with. Not yet, at least.

He bristled at her remark, despite just being a gentle reminder of the social decorum and courtesy they were both beholden to. It was something a courtier or a governess would tell him when he was younger, molding him into the king he was supposed to be one day, stifling everything that made him him until he burst at the seams and became the amorphous man he was now.

❝ I do not, my dear, for effort is meaningless, ❞ Charles snapped. ❝ Do we commend the losing army in a battle for their efforts? I think not. ❞

He sighed, knowing he'd gone a step too far. ❝ Apologies, Isabella, ❞ he said as sincerely as his pride would allow. He very, very rarely addressed her by her given name, so he hoped this would add weight to his apology. ❝ The Russian vodka must be affecting my humours. ❞ It was a weak joke, but the best he could do in the circumstances.

❝ Would you like to have some, actually? ❞ Charles asked, already reaching into his doublet to pull out his pocket flask, which traveled with him, wherever he went. ❝ It'll make skating far less terrifying. ❞ 

To say Esra was amused by the man’s apparent display of wealth and importance, would be a colossal understatement. The ‘why bother?’ was truly a remarkable thing to say - and it only goes to show how some people are vastly underestimating the situation they’ve all currently found themselves in. She was no better, though ; she tended to overpay for things as well, but this was a new and shiny country, and she couldn’t really go out of her budget on the first day. Suhan would not be very pleased if she came back to their shared quarters with an entire chest overflowing with baubles she’s purchased - and the baubles she didn’t really need. “Sometimes, bartering around the price is not only about the price itself. It’s an equal play of power like any witty remarks made during councils. If I can get a desired item at a cheaper price, why should I pay the full sum?” It was more of a retort than a question, but she wondered if the man would answer.

The maharani averted her eyes to the objects in display - rings, earrings, necklaces, all varying in antiquity, colours of precious gems and metals they were made of - while he made his purchase. It was impolite to stare and she wasn’t one of the ladies who could be easily wooed by the peacock-y display of wealth. Lord Himself knew what was it that wooed her in the end, but it was equal parts amusing and interesting to realise what it was, in the end.

Softly chuckling, the maharani inclined her head in a court bow. “Governesses tend to do that. They expect us to wear our entire family lineage pinned to our chests.” Yes, the horrors of having a tutor whose only purpose in life was to recite the names and connections of all the monarchs in the world - no doubt such creatures were always daft to more savvy subjects ; since all the space in their brain was taken up with names and lineages dating back to the antiquity. “A pleasure to meet you, your highness. I’m Esra Gukani, maharani of the Mughal empire.” The introduction felt more like a recital of tedious and, quite frankly, pointless courtly etiquette.

❝ I suppose, ❞ Charles reluctantly conceded, ❝ though, ❞ and this he said slowly with a smirk, ❝ there are other ways to demonstrate power that I, for one, much prefer. ❞ He took an elaborate step closer, close enough to scandalize his mother, his sister, and the entire Roman Catholic Church, close enough to lean in and whisper, ❝ And that are far more... entertaining, to boot. ❞

This was, he supposed, his speciality. If seducers made the best kings, the entire continent of Europe might one day be his. But he knew that this was, more likely than not, all for show. The woman standing before him seemed far too high-born and was clearly unmarried, a group less likely to be fooled by his machinations. But there was always a chance.

❝ 'Tis truly a pleasure to meet me indeed, ❞ Charles replied with a wink. But inside, he was reeling. This was the kind of moment that made him feel an inkling of something akin to regret, for missing all of his diplomacy lessons as of late. He knew next-to-nothing about the Mughal Empire and their social customs. He wasn't even entirely sure what a maharani was, and he'd never dream of asking. 

❝ How do you find Italy- ❞ he paused, unsure of how to address the woman before him. He frowned slightly, thinking fast, and decided that the best bet was to use her name, courtesy be damned. ❝ Esra? ❞ 

Closed starter for @charlestudor

Location: Winter Festival

It was per the queen’s request that Isabella had taken the carriage ride to see the festivities along the River Tiber. The princess would have much rather stayed in the inner part of the city, where it felt warmer and the chances of a fireplace nearby were higher. Instead she now found herself on frozen terrain, where jesters played and artists were hacking away to create sculptures out of ice. One more beautiful and magnificent then the other. It was the though of it melting when the cold passed though which made it feel like quite a waste of craftsmanship and time. 

Isabella was observing one of the artists at work near the riverside, when her ears picked up on a family sound approaching. She was told that the Prince Tudor of England was skilled in many things but she had yet to discover any who could ever benefit a state. One thing the man could not do, was catching a person by surprise. His footsteps were as loud as ox hooves on paved roads and the noise that left from his lips could be heard almost across the pond. The Spanish infanta pursed her lips and directed her gaze briefly upward to the heavens, finding the strenght to face her fiance. Who by the sound of it, had failed to leave the bottle on the shelve once more. 

With a smile that would never reach her caramel eyes, she turned around to face Charles. Dipping down into a small curtsy before the future king to formally greet him. “Your Highness. - I hope the entertainment the Italians have provided us with suits your needs as well as it does my own. It seems they have truly spared no expenses ” she spoke, the simple small talk rolled off her tongue as easily as any other lie did the past year. 

✘

Facing his betrothed was the one thing Charles had been dreading about the Winter Carnival. Nothing ever came easy for them. Every conversation, every public appearance, was duly paid for, in gritted teeth and engulfing silences. He couldn't ever get a word in, couldn't get her eyes to dance and easy laughter to spill out from her lips, and her disappointment in him was a knife pressed to his neck, one he couldn't wrestle away, try as he might. 

To prepare, he'd lingered at a Russian stall, buying swig after swig of vodka until the prospect of spending time with the infanta no longer seemed so daunting after all. One of his retainers gently nudged him in her direction. As he trudged over, he realized he was more inebriated than he'd originally thought. He clenched his jaw and kept his focus on the ground and making his way to Isabella in one piece. Upon arrival, he bowed, a feat requiring much concentration in his current state. ❝ Your Highness, ❞ he mimicked, but the Russian liquor blunted the edges of his usual acrimony. ❝ In truth, I've grown quite tired of most of what the Italians have to offer. ❞ He looked out at the river, at the people skating across the ice, and then back at the shore, where their attendants hovered expectantly, a couple paces back. Neither option seemed particularly attractive to him at the moment, given he was barely standing on solid ground as is, but he'd rather take his chances out on the ice and away from prying eyes and ears.

He turned back to Isabella, dropping any facade of propriety he still clung onto. ❝ Come skate with me, ❞ he beseeched, ❝ confía en mí. ❞

Closed Starter for @charlestudor

Location : The Winter Fair

Ginevra’s English was not the best. They could speak and understand it with relative ease, occasionally hiccoughing over a mispronunciation or mistranslation every now and again, but found it complex to read. It didn’t stop them trying though, holding the book in their hand, tilting their head from left to right in order to try and make sense of what was in front of them. 

The book was one they had picked up from a stall, decorated in shades of red and white. A sturdy thing, with the gold illustrating elaborate patterns. From what they had already deduced, it promised to be a good read, a tale of ghosts and fantastical creatures. They preferred stories a little more grounded in reality, of grisly deaths and unfolding mysteries, but this was still something that sparked their curiosity.  

Of course, there was no way they could actually enjoy the read if they were spending the whole time trying to figure out what the blasted thing said. Ginevra squinted their eyes at a particularly troubling word. If they were going to make it through the chapter, they would need help. “This word,” they thrusted the book toward the red-haired prince, jabbing their finger to the paper so he could see what they meant. “Wyvern?” They tested it tentatively, somehow knowing they had gotten the pronunciation wrong. “What is this? What does it mean?” They glanced up at him, a questioning look on their face. “English is a difficult language to read. It almost feels like whoever wrote this is just playing a trick on me.” 

✘

Spending time with this particular Medici always felt like a splash of ice-cold water to Charles, like blinking awake from a daze. They always seemed to be two steps ahead of him, always knowing just a little bit more about any given subject than him, something he had come to ❪begrudgingly❫ respect. The only area Charles had the greater expertise in was his own language, which he didn't really consider to be anything to be proud of anyway. He was supposed to be knowledgeable in English. He was the crown prince of England after all.

He squinted down at the book placed before him, a book that was printed not handwritten. He'd come to appreciate printed books, for text was more standardized and he didn't have to squint at some long-dead monk's script to try to decipher what they were trying to say. ❝ A wyvern? That's a two-legged dragon, I believe. ❞ He looked up at the stalls around them, all English, and grinned, pointing to a tapestry nearby. It featured all sorts of mythical beasts, with the wyvern as its centerpiece. ❝ That's one right there. ❞

❝ English is a difficult language, ❞ he affirmed, ❝ but thankfully you have a dashing English prince at your beck and call who can come to your aid in these moments. ❞ Charles teased, before turning back to the book at hand. ❝ Is this one worth the read? ❞  

@charlestudor

As Atike bids the Mughal merchant goodbye, she catches sight of a flash of red hair belonging to a certain English prince too similar to her in too many ways to count. A friendship formed quickly after their initial meeting over a card game new to Atike, and one can only imagine the headache they’d cause ten times over with their shared love for irresponsibility and shirking propriety.

“ Prince Charles! ” she calls out with a grin, walking briskly to meet him. “ This wonderful man was just telling me about these peppers, ” she starts when she reaches him, pointing at the stall she’d just purchased from, “ and they will warm you up quickly—in this weather, I would sorely need it—but they’re rather spicy. I’ve heard the English are not so used to flavors like this, so would you like to try one? ” Her eyes glimmer mischievously as she shows him the small pouch of dried, red chilis. “ Though if you don’t dare, I understand… ” she trails off teasingly with a pout, tone erring on the side of goading. 

✘

Charles smirks when he hears a familiar voice call out to him. He'd been keeping an eye out for Atike as he visited stalls, imagining that she couldn't be far, but finding the crowds too densely packed to actively search for her. ❝ Your Imperial Highness, ❞ he greets her, as he drops into an over-exaggerated bow. ❝ I am so deeply moved and honored by your presence. ❞ He pops to his feet with a wink, plucking a red chili from the pouch she holds in her hands. ❝ Indeed, it's different than our usual fare, but I'm mortified and terribly aggrieved that you think I'd ever fear anything. ❞ He puts both hands ( one still clutching the pepper) over his heart, in mock injury. ❝ Will you try one with me, or will I have to commit to this endeavor alone? ❞ Charles asks, eyeing the chili in his hand suspiciously.

location : Rome, Italy. the winter’s fair. closed for : @charlestudor·

No one could say that the brisk air was anything other than refreshing ; or bone chilling. There was something clean about it, the icy breeze which froze even her hot temper and downright burned her nostrils whenever she’d inhale - it smelt of deep, dark forests and snow capped mountains ; there was certainly something romantic in it, in the imagery which suddenly fluttered before her eyes, embedding itself in her brain. It was a pretty picture - maybe she could pick up painting again, if only to capture it on canvas ( she didn’t trust others to do it well, and so must be the one who brings her imagination to life. she’s always had an eye for details ; and no one could do it to be as perfect as she could ) - lord knows she could use a hobby.

Meandering through the stalls, the maharani watched with obvious interest at the items carefully put on display, to draw in customers ; jewels aptly placed to shine just right under a certain light, sliver and gold polished to almost blinding perfection, fabrics strewn across the tables, the silver and gold threads in them accentuating the vibrancy of the colours… it was a good trick. Excellent marketing. Shame it did not work on her - mainly because it was quite difficult to please her keen eye and her standards ; the pricier the object, the usually it was tackier - and, believe it or not, less sturdy and with a much lesser quality to price ratio. But, while she was hard to please, she still had her vices - and this particular vice came in form of a leather bound notebook ; undoubtedly veal leather, with old, parchment pages rather than the usual paper. It was undoubtedly expensive - and it was absolutely perfect for her herbarium. She had been meaning to start pressing flowers and plants, scribbling down their healing properties ; she had loved and tended to her garden since she was fifteen… but, now it was the time for her to expand her knowledge on herbs.

Bartering with the merchant, Esra has managed to lower down the price of the leather bound book by almost a half - her wits and endless dedication to either flirt or annoy men into submission, paying off to a fault every time. Well… almost every time. She tried to flirt Cihangir into submission. Maybe she should change tactics and annoy him into marriage. Hm. Perhaps.

A glint of copper drew her attention from the book in her lap, and to a man - lord, or prince, or something equally dignified, given his pristine looks - to her right, eyeing a, frankly speaking, absurdly overpriced item.

Snorting in what was undoubtedly amusement, Esra arched her eyebrow in his direction, a tender smile gracing her lips ; violet eyes sparked up with amusement. “Surely, you are going to lower the price of that trinket if you’re determined on buying? Cut the price in half and it’s still more than it’s worth.”

𝓣he stalls set up at the winter carnival were an opportunity for both the people of Italy as well as their esteemed guests to explore and discover the treasures and cultures of the world's wide variety of kingdoms and empires. Charles had... his own interpretation of what that meant exactly, as he went from stall to stall, trying Japanese sake, Korean soju, French wine, and finding himself particularly fond of Russian vodka. A group of his father's advisors soon encircled him, chittering nervously as they steered him subtly towards more sober stalls. Charles was in a good mood, so he played along. He was to go skating later after all, and it was best for him to remain at least somewhat sober, in case the opportunity for some kind of competition arose.

In particular, he found himself drawn to a set of rings at one stall—Roman rings by their style. He picked up the shiniest ring on display—a gold band with a dark ruby inlaid and swords, eagles, and crosses carved all around. A woman spoke to him, a woman with dark hair and an accent he couldn't quite place, whose haughty countenance gave away her social standing to him immediately.

❝ Why bother? ❞ Charles quipped, in response to her suggestion. From his cloak, he brandished a drawstring bag, dumping out some of its contents rather unceremoniously in front of the merchant standing before the both of them. ❝ Even? ❞ He asked the merchant, who glanced down at the pile of coins before him before nodding vigorously.