Monique

This is a work of fiction. While some characters and settings may be loosely inspired by real figures and places, the events described here are not to be taken as historical fact. I’ve woven bits of history together with imagination, taking creative liberties wherever the story demanded and then some!!!

Your father is Sir Michael Szilágyi de Horogszeg, Count of Beszterce, a Hungarian nobleman, a landholder, and royal advisor to the true King of Hungary, the head of the Szilágyi–Hunyadi league. Your mother descends from the most powerful noble family: The Báthory of the Gutkeled clan, risen to formidable influence, holding high military, administrative, and ecclesiastical positions. And it is whispered, on breaths that the wind carries through the castle's stone corridors, that in her veins runs not only the blue blood of the magnates, but also the ancient, dark essence of a goodness. Or so they say, those who believe in such things.

With this twin parentage of yours—the iron loyalty of a Hungarian wolf and the dark inheritance of a lineage touched by the eternal—one could expect anything from you: an enchantress, or an ordinary girl. There are those who, after meeting your gaze, will whisper that you are both.

But tonight, as you gaze into the silvered mirror and let your fingers trace the crimson velvet of your gown, you would give all that you are, all your legacy of pride and power, to be, just this once, simply irresistible. For the sake of your surviving, you don’t have another choice but to excite the attention of another man who wasn’t Ladislaus Pongrác.

He may not even see you. He—whoever he is. You have no name, no face to fix your hopes upon, only the terrifying knowledge that among the new arrivals, the foreign guests with their strange accents and shadowed pasts, there must be one with power enough to defy a monster. You are a hunter sighting down an arrow into a crowd, with no clear target. You cannot beg. You must intrigue. You must ignite a spark of curiosity in some world-weary eye, inspire a flicker of protective instinct in a stranger for a plight he does not know exists, and etch yourself onto his memory so he cannot simply forget you when the night is over. You must find a man around whom the very air crackles with power, a prince or a Duke and before whom even a man like Pongrác must kneel.

And you are to use this unknown savior as your shield.

The very thought is a cold stone in your stomach. For the man you must escape. A man whose name is a whisper of greed, whose touch is a bruise. A man who had received the King’s own warnings to cease his horrible treatments of the people under his charge and who had been forgiven every time, every single time, simply because he held the lands and resources the Crown desperately needed. You knew, with a certainty that chilled your soul, that if you did nothing tonight, if you failed to secure the attention of some man infinitely more powerful than Pongrác, you would be ruined. You would be at his mercy, and God alone knew what would become of you under his roof, in his power.

The bitterest irony was that you held no allure for him. Ladislaus Pongrác did not desire you; he desired your name and the Transylvanian lands that were your dowry, which he would add to his own swollen holdings as if he were doing your family a favour. In the few unfortunate occasions you were forced to endure his presence, he had the gall to look through you, his eyes sliding away to flirt with other women in the very same room, all while being willing to marry you. You were a transaction. A deed to a property. A key to a door he wished to unlock.

And so you must make yourself a key for another door. You must make some unknown, powerful guest see the transaction. You must make him understand the value of the prize—not the land, but you—and the horror of the alternative. He is a stranger, perhaps an enemy, a son of a land that bred your deepest fears. But you are far beyond loyalty to ancient feuds or family pride. Your loyalty is now to your own survival.

And now you are left a pawn in a game of shifting loyalties, and what security and station you once called your own has been threatened by the ambitions of men, with the tacit approval of a boy-king whose crown is still fresh-forged and ill-fitting. The master of this fragile realm, the great strategist who is known as your own father, Michael Szilágyi, who helped make a king out of his nephew, now only seventeen, and will make a fortress of Hungary against those who still whisper for a true son of the previous line. There are rival nobles in every great house of the kingdom now, and every profitable alliance or title or favour is held in their jealous grasp.

Your cousin, the boy-king Matthias, is on the throne, and his precarious supporters form this new, glittering court. You, the daughter of his most powerful pillar, are both a jewel and a hostage in your own castle, your true king a memory, your regent father a pragmatic statesman plotting with old enemies to secure a future. You have to navigate the court of the victor, while praying that God does not desert him and your family’s fortunes are not swept away by the next tide of rebellion. In the meantime, like many a woman with a name too great and a future too uncertain, you have to stitch your safety together like a patchwork of whispers and glances. You have to secure your freedom somehow, though it seems that neither your father’s influence nor your mother’s name can shield you from this one, vile fate. You are known as a Szilágyi—a kingmaker’s daughter. You are respected but not safe. You are all but powerless in the one thing that matters most.

This feast, this celebration of a birth and a reign, is but a mummer’s show. Its true purpose is to take the measure of friend and foe, to see which foreign lords and internal rivals will bend the knee to Matthias, and what dark interests stir beneath the surface of the wine and the music.

You take a final, steadying breath, the scent of beeswax and cold stone filling your lungs. The girl in the mirror is no longer just a girl. She is a weapon, finely wrought and aimed into the dark.

The door to your chamber whispers open, and in the silvered glass, you see your mother’s reflection appear behind your own. Her eyes, the same shade as yours, meet yours in the polished surface, and for a moment, the two of you are a portrait: the young huntress and the seasoned 'queen', bound by blood and circumstance.

“The moon pales tonight beside you, drága gyermekem,” she says, her voice a low, melodic hum that seems to quiet the frantic beating of your own heart. Her hands, cool and steady, come to rest on your bare shoulders. You feel the slight tremor in your own frame still beneath her touch. She sees everything. “The air around you crackles like a summer storm. You are afraid.”

You cannot lie to her. “Is it so obvious?”

“Only to a mother,” she murmurs, her fingers gently sweeping a stray curl from your neck. “And to anyone who knows what it is to have the world rest on a single glance.” She picks up the silver comb from your vanity, its teeth catching the candlelight. With a ritualistic slowness, she begins to draw it through your hair, each stroke a calming, measured rhythm. “You think you must conquer the entire hall tonight. You think you must be a hurricane. But a hurricane destroys. You must be the still, deep lake that a man cannot help but drown in.”

You watch her in the mirror, her own legendary beauty a tempered version of yours, hardened by years of courtly intrigue. “I feel I am aiming an arrow in utter darkness.”

“Then you must become the arrow and the light,” she says, her voice firm yet gentle. She sets the comb down and from a hidden fold in her deep blue sleeve, she produces a small velvet pouch, midnight black and tied with a silken cord. She places it in your palm. It is surprisingly cool and heavy for its size.

You look down at it, then up at her reflection, a question in your eyes. “What is this?”

“A tool,” she says, her hands closing over yours, forcing your fingers to curl around the pouch. You feel the distinct, smooth shape of a stone within. “A focus. It will help you see what others wish to hide. It will… clarify intentions.”

You turn the pouch over in your hand. It feels ancient, thrumming with a faint, almost imperceptible energy. “Magic?” you whisper, the word tasting both forbidden and familiar on your tongue. Your father’s house, for all its power, pays lip service to the Church’s laws. But your mother’s line… the Báthorys… they have always traded in older currencies.

She does not flinch. “A different kind of sight. A way to listen to the silence between a man’s words. To feel the truth of his power.” Her gaze is unwavering in the glass. “I know what you intend tonight. I know the wolf you must avoid. A mother does not send her daughter into a den of beasts without giving her a weapon.”

Your throat tightens. “What great beast do you hope this will help me catch?”

Her smile is a sad, beautiful thing. She cups your cheek, her thumb stroking your skin. “Your heart’s desire. Or at the very least, your salvation. I did not raise you to be a transaction on Pongrác’s ledger. I did not pour the ancient essence of our blood into your veins for you to wither under the touch of a greedy man.”

“What did you raise me for, then?” you ask, the weight of the stone in your hand feeling like the weight of her expectations, of your entire legacy. “In this world where we are both respected and vulnerable, where our king is a boy and our safety is a wager?”

She leans forward, her lips brushing your ear, her whisper a secret for you alone. “I raised you to be the best that you could be. Not just tonight. Always. Now, keep it close. Let it guide you. And remember,” she adds, stepping back, her regal composure returning, “the greatest magic is already in your blood. This is merely a key to help you unlock it.”

“Well, Amen,” You look from the retreating form of your mother to your own determined eyes in the mirror, your fist closing tightly around the velvet pouch. “Amen to that. And may the new moon bring me something better.”

The great hall is a roaring sea of silks, velvets, and the low thunder of a hundred murmured conversations, all washed in the golden light of a thousand candles. The air is thick with the scent of spiced wine, roasting meat, and the faint, cloying perfume of ambition. You stand with your mother in the place of honour, just behind and to the right of the Queen’s Catherine gilded throne. Catherine, your almost-sister, sits with a hand resting on the pronounced curve of her belly, a serene smile fixed upon her face, though you see the faint strain of fatigue at the corners of her eyes. You feel a protective surge, quickly banked. Tonight, you cannot afford to be merely a protective cousin.

The procession of dignitaries begins, a river of power and pretension flowing toward the dais to pay homage to the boy-king and his heavily pregnant queen. Your father stands at Matthias’s other side, a pillar of stern authority, his voice a constant, low murmur in the young king’s ear, shaping his perceptions, guiding his reactions.

Your own guide leans closer to you, her breath a soft whisper against your ear, her fan fluttering gently as if to stir the air, but in truth, to mask her words from all others.

“See there,” your mother murmurs, her eyes on a broad-shouldered man with a forked beard bowing low before Matthias. “János Vitéz, the Archbishop of Esztergom. A mind like a steel trap, and ambition to match your father’s. He would be a powerful shield, but his loyalty is to the Church first, and his own power second. A dangerous ally.”

The man moves on, and another takes his place, a younger, fiercer-looking noble with a hawk’s nose and restless eyes.

“And that one,” her whisper is laced with a hint of disdain. “Nicholas Újlaki. His lands border Pongrác’s. They are rivals in greed, two vultures circling the same carcass. He would take you to spite Ladislaus, but you would simply be trading one monster for another, perhaps a more foolish one.”

A duke from Bohemia is announced, his chest glittering with Jewerly. He offers extravagant compliments to the Queen.

“Empty courtesies from an empty purse,” your mother dismisses him instantly. “His influence is a phantom. He seeks loans, not a bride.”

You watch, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs, as man after man is presented and just as swiftly dismissed by your mother’s quiet, ruthless commentary. The velvet pouch feels like a lead weight tucked against your skin, its promise feeling more foolish by the minute. How can this stone help you navigate this labyrinth of flawed and dangerous men?

Then, a new figure steps into the circle of torchlight before the dais. He is not announced with the blaring titles of the others.

He is dressed not in bright silks, but in deepest black, a stark, severe contrast to the riot of colour in the hall. His doublet is of simple, elegant cut, devoid of jewels, his only ornament a dark fur draped over one shoulder. His face is pale, sculpted and severe, with eyes so dark they seem like pools of night. He moves with a predator’s grace, silent and deliberate, and the crowd parts before him without a sound. This is not a man who announces his presence; his presence announces itself, and the world falls silent in acknowledgment.

He is the most compelling, the most terrifying man you have ever seen. Your breath catches. This is him, a voice screams inside you. The one.

He stops before the dais and offers a bow that is not subservient, but a calculated gesture of respect from one power to another. His voice, when he speaks, is low, measured, and carries effortlessly in the silent hall. It is a voice that has known command.

“King Matthias,” he says, and the name sounds like both a recognition and a challenge on his lips. “Hungary flourishes under your gaze. I bring greetings from the Carpathians, where the wolves are restless and the earth remembers its ancient debts. An alliance forged in steel is stronger than one written on parchment. I am here to remind us both of that truth.”

You wait for your mother’s whisper. You crane your ear toward her, desperate for a name, a title, a crumb of information about this man who holds the entire court in thrall.

But her whisper does not come.

You turn your head slightly. Her face is a carefully composed mask, but you see the tension in her jaw, the white-knuckled grip on her fan. She is staring straight ahead, refusing to even look at him.

Confused, you lean in. “Mother,” you whisper urgently. “Who is that?”

She does not look at you. Her lips barely move. “Vlad Țepeș. Voivode of Wallachia.”

And you understood the most obvious part. Everyone knew that man's story, at least the most famous part, the reputation that followed him like a shadow.

“He… his power is palpable,” you breathe, your eyes drawn back to him like a moth to a flame. “Could he… would he be—”

“No.” The word is a sharp, final dagger. She finally turns her head, and her eyes are not guiding now; they are warning. They are frightened. “He is not an option. Not for you. Not for anyone in this family.”

“But why? Hungary needs his armies against the Turks. He needs our support.”

“What he needs and what he seeks are two different things,” she hisses, her voice low and venomous. “His father, Vlad Dracul, and your uncle, John Hunyadi… their history is written in blood and betrayal. Actions were taken. Terrible actions. If he is here, it is not for a bride. It is not for pleasant alliances. A man like that does not forget. He does not forgive. He bides his time. He is here for one thing only, should he ever get the chance: vengeance. And we,” she says, her gaze sweeping over you, then back to the dangerous figure before the throne, “must be very, very careful not to give him that chance.”

A tense silence stretches after Prince words, thick and heavy as the fur on his shoulder. All eyes are on the young king. Matthias, to his credit, does not flinch under the weight of that dark gaze or the cryptic warning. He leans forward, his boyish face set in a mask of regal composure that you know your father helped him practice.

“The Crown of Hungary welcomes the Voivode of Wallachia,” Matthias replies, his voice clear, though it lacks the deep, resonant gravity of the man before him. “We remember the ancient debts of the earth, and we value steel above parchment. Your alliance is noted and appreciated. Let us speak more of our Kingdoms after the feast.” It is a dismissal, but a polite one, an attempt to steer the conversation back to the safe, public waters of celebration.

The moment breaks. The courtiers remember to breathe, and the low murmur of conversation slowly swells to fill the void left by the prince’s daunting presence. The prince offers another of his minimal, unnerving bows and turns to melt back into the crowd, which parts for him as water parts for a shark.

Your eyes are locked on him, your mother’s warning a distant buzz in your ears. You watch the straight line of his back, the way he moves without seeming to notice the people around him. And then, just as he is about to be swallowed by the throng, he stops.

It is as if he felt the weight of your stare, a physical pull. He turns his head, not fully, just a slight shift. And his eyes, those pools of absolute night, find yours across the crowded hall.

There is only the startling, direct connection of his gaze. It is not a glance; it is an assessment, swift and thorough, taking in every detail of you standing there beside the queen. It lasts less than a heartbeat, a fleeting, electric moment that leaves a strange, cold heat prickling on your skin. Then he turns away and is gone, absorbed into the tapestry of the court.

You blink, your heart hammering against your ribs as if trying to escape. You force yourself to look away, to turn back toward the safety of the dais, your mind reeling.

He saw me.

A profound disappointment washes over you, cold and final. Of all the men who had paraded before you tonight, he was the only one who had truly stirred your curiosity, the only one whose very essence seemed to radiate a power so absolute it could shatter a man like Pongrác with a word. But that same power made him the most dangerous choice of all. If your family, who held every card at this court, feared him, then you had no choice but to fear him too.

A pity. A truly devastating pity. For a moment, you had seen your shield. And in the next, you saw the sword that could destroy you all.

Now you understood why your father was so urgent to bring Ladislaus’s territories under his control, or so you thought. You could only listen as he laughed with the man, as if they were lifelong companions and friends, as if just a few months ago Ladislaus had not switched sides, nearly swearing loyalty to the sister of Matthias’s deceased predecessor over the decisions of the nobles. An insult, nothing more, nothing less.

Yet, for your cousin’s teetering reign, the fragile borders, and the imminent Ottoman invasion, the resources Ladislaus offered were key. His lands were where supplies could be most easily and quickly procured should any of the three situations turn dire.

This was the new reality at the banquet. On purpose, your father had seated you right beside Ladislaus. For the past hour, you had only listened to your father and him talk, to Ladislaus reminiscing and boasting about the vast, prosperous resources he possessed—resources that would be of great help in case of a disastrous rule. In your mind, you could only recall the man’s reputation as a thief and an enslaver. And though your father agreed with everything he said, you knew that once you were married, it would be your father who would manage everything as his own. He only needed an excuse to take them without Ladislaus being able to refuse, and that excuse was his marriage to you.

It was then that Matthias interrupted to propose a toast. He struck his glass with a spoon, and the sound of crystal cut through the murmur like a knife. All eyes turned to the king. He stood, imposing, the crown on his head gleaming with a golden glow.

“Friends, allies, loyal subjects,” he began, his voice projecting with a natural authority that filled the hall. “I toast to this night. To the relationships that grow stronger, to the goodwill that unites us, and to the faith in God that guides us—the very faith our enemies so desperately wish to destroy.”

The crowd murmured its approval. Matthias raised his glass even higher.

“I toast to my wife, Catherine, the rock upon which my heart rests and the mother of my future heir.” She inclined her head gracefully, a hand on her womb. “I toast to my loyal uncle and subject, Michael Szilágyi, whose counsel and sword have been pillars of my reign.” Your father nodded solemnly, his face expressionless but his eyes shining with pride.

Then, Matthias’s gaze settled on you. A faint surprise coursed through you.

“And I toast,” he continued, his voice taking on an almost tender tone, “to my cousin, whose gentle spirit and loyal service have not only been a balm to our queen but a constant companionship and a reminder of the family for which we fight every day. Her presence has been a light in moments of great darkness.”

As if you were the true center of attention, he extended his hand over Catherine, gesturing for you to rise.

And you did, your legs slightly trembling, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes upon you. You did not understand such adulation. You had only done what was expected of you. You looked at Catherine, seeking guidance, and she responded with a slight, encouraging smile.

“And in that spirit of securing our future,” he declared, his eyes sweeping the room, “it brings me great joy to announce a union that will further strengthen the bonds of our kingdom. A marriage that will unite two great houses and ensure the prosperity and security of our lands.”

Your blood ran cold even before he spoke the names. Your father’s placid expression, Ladislaus’s smug, triumphant smirk—it all made a terrible, horrifying sense.

“I hereby announce the betrothal of my beloved cousin,” Matthias said, his hand gesturing toward you, “to our most loyal and resourceful supporter, the Count Ladislaus Pongrác. May their union bring not only personal happiness but enduring strength to Hungary!”

The applause was immediate.

“To all of them!” Matthias proclaimed, raising his glass. “And to the future of Hungary!”

“To the future of Hungary!” the room roared in unison, and the sound of clinking glasses filled the air like a peal of bells.

You stood frozen, a smile plastered on your face that felt like a death mask. Across the table, your mother’s face was a pale, stoic mask, her knuckles white as she too clapped, her eyes screaming a silent apology to you.

Ladislaus rose, giving a grandiose bow, his eyes glinting with possessive victory as they swept over you. He had won you. The key to the door he wished to unlock had been handed to him publicly, irrevocably, by the king himself.

The future of Hungary, it seemed, would be built on your sacrifice. And as you sat back down, the taste of wine on your tongue was as bitter as ash.

Confusion curdled in your chest, thick and sickening. The announcement… it was today? You had thought this night was merely for welcoming the foreign guests, for your father and Matthias to subtly interrogate each envoy, to take the measure of friend and foe. You had believed you had time—precious, desperate time—to find another path, to ignite a spark of interest in some other powerful man. You had clutched your mother’s strange stone as if it were a lifeline, a promise of a chance to fight.

That chance had been stolen from you before you could even draw a weapon. The despair was a physical blow, a wave of impotent fury that threatened to crack the porcelain smile on your face. A bitter resentment, hot and sharp, flared toward your family—toward your father for his ruthless pragmatism, toward Matthias for his grand, casual gesture that had sealed your fate as if gifting a prized horse. Did they love you so little? Did they know the monster they were chaining you to and simply not care? The thought was a betrayal in itself, but it was there, a poisonous vine twisting around your heart.

You forced it down, choking on the guilt that immediately followed. They are securing the kingdom. You are a Szilágyi. This is your duty.The mantra felt hollow, a shield of rotted wood against the reality of Ladislaus’s gloating presence beside you. How could your father, who claimed to love you, condemn you to a life under that man’s thumb? The disconnect between his affection and his action was a chasm you were falling into.

The roar of the toast faded, replaced by the resumption of feasting. The taste of ash in your mouth would not leave. You were so lost in the tumult of your own despair that the conversation at the high table seemed to come from a great distance, a dull hum beneath the ringing in your ears.

It was the sudden shift in the quality of the silence around you that pulled you back. You blinked, forcing yourself to focus. Matthias was leaning forward, his face set in an expression of keen interest. And his gaze was fixed not on your father, or on a foreign duke, but on the one man in the hall who seemed to carry his own winter with him.

“And you, Voivode Țepeș,” Matthias’s voice cut through the chatter, deceptively light. “Your… methods in Wallachia are the subject of much discussion. You hold your differences against the Transilvanian Saxon with a firmness others find… extreme. Tell me, do you believe fear is a more reliable currency than gold in the defense of a kingdom?”

The question hung in the air, a blade poised. You could not fathom why Matthias would introduce such a volatile topic at his own celebration, a public challenge to a man known for his brutal pragmatism. It felt like tossing a lit torch into a room full of gunpowder. You glanced at your father, expecting him to smoothly intercede, to deflect and soothe as he always did. But his silence was deafening. He merely watched, his expression unreadable, a strategist observing a battle unfold from a safe hill.

Then, the Voivode spoke. His voice was not loud, yet it cut through the din of the hall with the chilling clarity of ice cracking on a winter lake.

“A king must understand the nature of the tools he uses,” Vlad began, his dark eyes fixed on Matthias, utterly ignoring your father’s presence. “The Saxons of Transylvania declared their loyalty to those who usurped my father’s throne. They funded my enemies. They celebrated my family’s suffering. I cannot risk such a disease festering within my own borders. Gold?” He almost smiled, a cold, sharp thing. “Gold can buy a man’s service, but it cannot buy his loyalty. It makes him a richer mercenary, not a truer subject. A man who betrays for gold will betray again for more gold. Or for a prettier title. Or simply because the wind changes direction.”

The silence in the immediate vicinity of the high table was absolute. Ladislaus, beside you, had stopped chewing, his face slightly pale.

Your father finally stirred, clearing his throat, the sound overly loud. “Surely, Voivode, there are always… alternatives to such permanent solutions. Diplomacy. Sanctions. The guidance of the Church. Spilled blood is a stain that is difficult to wash away, even from the hands of a king.” It was the expected rebuke, the voice of civilized politics.

But Vlad’s gaze did not waver from Matthias, as if your father were a gnat buzzing at the periphery of his vision. “When the rot is deep, Count Szilágyi, one does not paint over the wood. One cuts it out. I was left with no other exit. I chose the one that ensured my survival and the security of my throne. A ruler who hesitates to protect what is his does not deserve to keep it.”

Then, his eyes swept, for the first time, across the table. They passed over your father’s rigid face, over Ladislaus’s irritated one, and for a fleeting second, seemed to brush against yours before returning to the king. He delivered his final blow, his voice dropping to a intimate, carrying pitch that felt like it was meant for every betrayed soul in the room.

“A traitor will always be a traitor. A thief, a thief. You can give them the brightest gold, the most powerful title, even your most beautiful daughter…” His words landed on the recent announcement with the weight of a tombstone. “…and you will still lie awake at night wondering when they will turn their face against you. I have always preferred to see men for what they are: selfish, arrogant, and treacherous. It saves a great deal of disappointment later.”

The air rushed from your lungs. It was a direct, undeniable strike. He had taken the very foundation of your betrothal—the political calculation that a man like Ladislaus could be bought and trusted with your body and your family’s future—and had held it up to the court not as strategy, but as profound, wilful foolishness.

A shocking, treacherous sensation flared in your chest. It was not offense. It was vindication. It was a fierce, blazing agreement. He had given voice to the screaming protest in your own soul, the one you had to choke down with talk of duty and family. He had looked at the transaction your father had made and had named it for the dangerous gamble it was. The words were a blow to your father’s plans, and to your own future, yet you felt a perverse, thrilling sense of gratitude. Someone had said it. Someone had seen the rot.

You dropped your gaze to your plate, your heart hammering against your ribs, afraid that the wild, complicit agreement in your eyes would be seen by everyone. The taste of ash in your mouth was suddenly gone, replaced by the metallic tang of a truth too dangerous to speak aloud.

A faint, unbidden smile touched your eyes, a flicker of light in the gloom of your despair. It was a reflex, a spark ignited by the sheer, audacious truth of his words. Before you could stop yourself, your gaze lifted from your plate, seeking his across the crowded space.

He was still turned toward the king, his profile a sharp, pale cut against the torchlight. But as if feeling the pull of your look, his head turned. His dark eyes, which had moments ago been imparting a lesson in cold Realpolitik to a king, found yours.

This time, it was not a glancing blow, a swift assessment. This time, it was a connection. You did not look away. Neither did he. And in the depths of that midnight gaze, you saw it—a subtle, answering curve at the corner of his mouth, a ghost of a smile that acknowledged your own. It was not a smile of warmth, but one of sharp, perfect understanding. A conspirator’s smile.

There was no doubt. None at all. He had said what he had said with purpose, with brutal sincerity, and he had aimed it precisely where he meant to. And he had seen your silent, grateful applause. He had seen the vindication in your eyes and, in seeing it, had found a moment of dark amusement.

The silence that followed Vlad’s pronouncement was thick enough to choke on. It was Ladislaus who broke it, his voice a jarring, overly hearty sound that clashed with the tension. He raised his glass, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

“A most… illuminating philosophy, Voivode,” he said, his tone slick with false camaraderie. “It is always bracing to hear a man speak with such conviction about the nature of treachery. It reminds one of the… complex paths some must walk to reclaim their birthright.” He paused, letting the insinuation hang in the air before driving the dagger home, his voice dropping into a more intimate, cutting register. “Tell us, Prince Dracula, how did you find the Sultan’s hospitality during your… extended stay? And the pay he provided for your army when you first marched on Wallachia? It is a curious thing, how the definition of ‘traitor’ can shift depending on which side of the border one stands, and who is signing the paychecks. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The gasp in the hall was audible. This was no longer an insinuation; it was a direct, public accusation of the highest treason, of consorting with the Ottoman enemy. Ladislaus had not just thrown a stone; he had launched a spear aimed straight at the heart of Vlad’s legitimacy.

All eyes swung back to the Prince of Wallachia. You held your breath, expecting a denial, a flash of righteous fury.

Instead, Vlad did something far more terrifying. He smiled. A wide, sharp, and utterly chilling smile that did not touch his eyes.

“You are remarkably well-informed for a… landholder, Lord Pongrác,” he said, his voice a low, agreeable rumble that somehow silenced the hall more effectively than a shout. He did not deny a single word. “Yes, I have indeed supped with the devil. I have used the tools available to me, no matter how stained. I took the Sultan’s gold. I learned his tactics. I used his army. And when it served my purpose, I turned on him. But you see, the critical difference is this: I have never once claimed to be a saint. I do not pretend to be a loyal lamb in a court. I know precisely what I am.”

He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes pinning Ladislaus to his seat. The smile remained, a predator’s grin. “I recognize the faithless because I am capable of faithlessness. I understand the traitor because I have played the traitor when it served a greater purpose. My survival. My throne. I make no apologies for it. I simply ensure that those who would play those games with me…” his gaze flickered, for a fraction of a second, to your father, then back to Ladislaus, “…understand that I am the master of them. No one has ever successfully cut me out. They have tried. And they have learned that the rot they sought to exploit runs far deeper in them than it ever could in me.”

The air left the room. He had not denied it. He had embraced it. He had taken Ladislaus’s attempt to shame him and had worn it like a crown of black iron, transforming an accusation of treason into a declaration of supreme, unchallengeable self-awareness and power. He was not a hypocrite; he was an honest monster, and in doing so, he revealed the pathetic, cloaked greed of men like Ladislaus, who hid their own treachery behind a veil of feigned loyalty.

Ladislaus looked as if he had been physically struck. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He had thrown his spear and hit a mountain, and the mountain had laughed, the sound echoing in the stunned silence of the hall.

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✧･ﾟ Aemond ･ﾟ✧

He doesn’t see himself as a romantic man. He doesn’t expect anyone to sigh over him, nor does he believe in sentimental gestures. But if you ever happened to mention—almost absentmindedly—that you like a certain book, a particular piece of jewellery, or a specific dessert, he will remember. And days later, you’ll find it in your room or among your belongings, with no note, no explanation. He won’t tell you it was him. He doesn’t seek recognition. Simply knowing that you have something that makes you happy is enough.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

✧･ﾟ Gwayne ･ﾟ✧

If you give him a gift, no matter how small, he will carry it with him always. A handkerchief embroidered with care, a simple thread bracelet, a trinket of little value… To him, it is a treasure. And if anyone dares to mock him, he won’t even flinch. He will simply smile calmly before replying, “Only true men can bear the weight of love.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

✧･ﾟ Davos ･ﾟ✧

Flowery words aren’t his style. He has no patience for long letters or poetic confessions. His words are simple, direct, impossible to misinterpret. One day, without warning, he will look you straight in the eye and say, “I like you. I want to be with you. Tell me what I need to do.” And then he will wait, with the quiet certainty of a man who has made up his mind.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

✧･ﾟ Aegon ･ﾟ✧

He never understood why people celebrate love only one day a year. If he is in love, he shows it every day. You wake up to gifts on your bed, to spontaneous parties thrown in your honour, to his laughter declaring that the world should celebrate your existence just as much as he does. There are no limits to his extravagance, nor to his desire to see you happy.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

✧･ﾟ Daeron ･ﾟ✧

Valentine’s Day isn’t enough for him. He learns to play an instrument in secret, practising until his fingers ache, just so that on that special day, you can hear a melody composed solely for you. And when he plays it, there will be pride in his gaze, because every note carries a piece of his heart.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

✧･ﾟ Cregan ･ﾟ✧

He’ll teach you to hunt… but will do all the work himself. If you ever express an interest, he’ll take you with him, but in the end, he’ll ensure you don’t have to lift a finger. "This isn’t your place," he’ll say, though in truth, he simply wants to shield you from any discomfort.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

✧･ﾟ Jace ･ﾟ✧

When the time comes to give you a gift, he is restless. He makes sure everything is perfect, that it is something you will truly love. He might rehearse his words in front of a mirror or second-guess himself a hundred times before handing it over. Because to him, it isn’t just a gift. It’s his way of showing how much you mean to him.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

✧･ﾟ Luke ･ﾟ✧

He wants to surprise you, so he decides to bake a cake for Valentine’s Day. But something goes wrong. Perhaps too much flour, or not enough sugar. Perhaps the kitchen ends up in complete chaos. But even so, he presents it to you with a beaming smile, proud of his effort, hoping that at the very least, the thought behind it will make you happy.

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