𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖌𝖆𝖗𝖞𝖊𝖓 𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊

Lucille recovered from her position with as much grace as she’d dipped into it. “I have no intention of being presumptuous enough to assume your time is not best spent on more important matters,” she said before looking at others around them, “As you said, your grace, we are here to socialize,” she agreed turning back to him and smiling just a bit. “And it seems you’re about as happy to be here as I. Not to say speaking to you is unwelcome.” she was doing her best not to ramble anxiously as she was prone, but well, he was a prince and tall enough to make her look a toddler next to him.

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲,               a   small   crease   forming   between   his   eyebrows   as   he   did.   “my   idea   of   more   important   matters   would   mean   that   i   would   not   be   here   in   the   first   place,”   he   said   finally.   “but   i   am   here,   so   i   shall   relegate   my   time   to   the   matters   at   hand   that   come   with   the   social   season.”               if   he’d   had   his   way,   he   would   be   home,   with   his   brother   and   sister,   but   that   was   not   an   option   afforded   to   him.               “i   am   not   a   social   person.   pleasantries   have   never   been   my   strong   suit.”   he   lacked   patience   to   niceties,   which   was   not   the   only   reason   he   hated   it   all   -   not   that   it   mattered.   “i   won’t   hold   it   against   you.”

                  𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆... 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐄𝐃𝐘𝐒

                            next in line to the throne   //   thirty two years of age

Draedys Targaryen had never planned on being King. His older brother was well liked by the people, and so he’d accepted his future as a Duke before he’d gotten too old - but then the tragedy had happened. In one night, the King and Queen, his brother, and his brother’s young family, were gone, and it was Draedys’ head that the crown come to rest. Young and still unmarried, it was decided that he would hold the title of Prince until the event of his marriage, but as years passed, it seemed less and less likely that a wedding was on the horizon. That is, of course, how Draedys came to be in England, participating in the social season, with the hope of his advisors that he may find a suitable wife there, if he can’t find one in their own country. That is, of course, a somewhat lofty hope for them to have - at least in Draedys’ opinion, it is.

Someone known for trysts between the bedsheets but no formal courtships, being linked to the prince is something of a social scandal for any young lord or lady, though he seems not to care much for what others think. The only ones who have truly gotten to experience the prince’s kind side are his younger brother and sister, who were nought more than small children when their parents died.

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒...

𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐞𝐝𝐲𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬.           he’s been receiving them for what would amount to - most likely - his entire life, and there isn’t a part of him that remembers what it’s like to not be stared at. to be watched. he’s grown to ignore it now, tuning it out whenever he feels a lingering stare, but he doesn’t ignore it either.          𝘩𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑘, 𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝘩𝑒𝑟, 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑠.           he is nothing if not intimidating, but he does his best not to appear cold. there are customs to uphold - he needs to be introduced in order to speak to her, at least properly, and as a man of few words he doesn’t quite know who could make the introduction. it is, perhaps, something he leaves in her hands, to do with as she pleases, now that she knows that he is aware of her gaze.

𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐑𝐨𝐛𝐛 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐞𝐝𝐲𝐬’ 𝐥𝐚𝐩,           and it’s not an unwelcome position. his hands settle on the other male’s waist, tugging him closer until he can lean against his chest, lips already searching out the spot where the stark man’s neck meets his shoulder.          𝑤𝘩𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝘩𝑖𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑜𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝘩𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝘩𝑖𝑠 𝘩𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑓𝑓 𝑜𝑓 𝘩𝑖𝑚,           and he makes no secret of just how truly entranced by robb he is. “have the scavengers left to their beds for the night?” it’s what he’s taken to calling the lords that hover around them now, likening them to nothing but vermin who hover, looking for scraps as they make the real kill. he keeps his disdain for them no secret from his young lover, though he doesn’t let them know his opinions. the question is more for robb than another else, a question to if he should allow his hands to wander, to drift beneath fabric and search out skin.