#heartofchivalry

THE NOBLE TYRELL PRESSED THE CLOTH DOWN FIRM before trusting himself to raise his gaze. his dark locks fell loose over his brow, and his eyes — narrowed — traced the healing scars of the kingsguard as he spoke.

❝ a knight should obey, but if he never lifts his eyes to see where he is being led, he is like to end his journey face - first in the mud [ . . . ] or so my brother tells me. ❞ not that he needed to, of course, as garlan’s eyes move still as swift as the sword he wields in battle. he lowered them there, however, easing his grip upon the wound. the cloth came away dark — heavy, and he frowned, the calm he had worn through battle pale before the anger wrung forth by the indifference of the kingsguard. ❝ if your men cannot see wounds so plain, i would sooner reevaluate whether they are men i would wish beside me in battle. a battle can endure the loss of good men, ser baelor, but it rarely survives the loss of the mind that holds it together. ❞

he reached, then, for the wine, tipping it slow over the broken skin — a small mercy poured with no more ceremony than the pouring of a cup, and a touch so gentle it belied the warrior he was. as though the hands that held a sword could not possibly be the same that tended, now, to this.

❝ I WORRY, ❞ he admitted, at last, the words stripped of both the anger he felt and the ease he usually wore. ❝ i worry, for there will be fields where you shan’t find me among the ranks — battles which i cannot fight with you. ❞ he rose from the bedside to sit on the bed itself; to be heard [ . . . ] to be near. ❝ you cannot spend yourself so freely, baelor, for even if you are seen, I FEAR THERE IS NONE WHO SEES YOU AS I DO. ❞

𓂅⠀ ⠀ @heartofchivalry⠀ asked ⠀ ❛ i’ll do anything you ask of me⠀ .

SHE LIFTS HER FACE FROM HER HANDS, tears tracing bright and wordless down her flushed cheeks — from her eyes, where the shame sits as heavy as a breath held.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ ❝ you may think it rather silly but i [ . . . ] ❞ she swallows, her hand trembling as she reaches for something to steady herself as she gets to her feet. ❝ [ . . . ] i would rather my brother not hear of [ . . . ] of this. ❞ she pulls at her robes as she says it, drawing the fabric tighter around herself, and looks away. ❝ things between me and THE KING are already complicated enough without AEMON being drawn into it. ❞ should he confront THE KING over this, it would do nothing but lend weight to the rumours their brother has been perpetuating, and so, ❝ i trust you will keep your men from speaking of it. ❞ she could see to it herself, of course, but [ . . . ] her braid hangs half-undone, loose tendrils curling soft against her BRUISED cheek, and she thinks of how it must look [ . . . ] how small she must seem to him. there were plenty at court who pitied her, and yet, ❝ please don’t look at me like that. don’t look at me like [ like a bird whose wings have been broken. ] ❞

𝖆 𝖙𝖊𝖒𝖕𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖇𝖊 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖉, a stag must run free ... it was the unspoken truth that haunted them from the very beginning. the weight of it hanging over their bond like a dark shadow. only now, years later, did the reality of the world finally raise it's ugly head ... duty & responsibility. the storm lord belongs in storms end, that is 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔱𝔥 𝔬𝔣 𝔦𝔱 ... not summerhall, not dragonstone, and certainly not king's landing .

... they were 𝔡𝔬𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔡 from the start ...

baelor's words hit him like a tidal wave ― cold, 𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔠𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰, knocking the breath right out of him ― they hurt, twisting like a dagger in his chest, and lyonel freezes mid-step. shoulders locked, fingers curling into fists at his sides as the thunder inside him gathers. when the laughing storm turns back to face the other it's ... slow. 𝔪𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔲𝔯𝔢𝔡 ― a man holding himself together by sheer force of will ... underneath it all he's crumbling . his voice, when it eventually comes, is low enough to press the room into stillness, turning the air heavy enough to choke on .

❝ is that what you want ... ? ❞ no shout. no tremor. just a seething, 𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔢𝔱 𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔢. amber eyes, burning hot enough to rival dragonfire, fix baelor with a look that could split stone . ❝ I have devoted years of my life to you. years of secrecy. years of hiding in the shadows. years of being the part of your life that can't be written down, can't be spoken aloud, cannot be acknowledged !! ❞

❝ no one else. I chose no one else ... ❞ with a single step forwards as the winds of the storm lord change, strengthening into a 𝔥𝔬𝔴𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔤𝔞𝔩𝔢. what was a muted anger begins to swell, fuelled by the raw, rising panic of losing something he cannot bear to. and yet, undercut with an outrage ... the sheer audacity of it. the insult. as if lyonel's devotion made him something to be kept and not trusted .

❝ I have a duty, same as you ― a house, a name !! you have secured your legacy. you married, you fathered children, you did what was expected of you with no complaint from me― NONE !! now it is my turn ... my lord father, and my bannermen, expect an heir, my house demands a future. and I. I― I cannot― ❞

... I cannot stay by your side forever ...

the words falter in his throat ― choke, stutter, die ― crumbling on his tongue. pressure climbs his troat; tears threaten, 𝔥𝔬𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔲𝔪𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤, and he forces them back with a sharp breath through gritted teeth ... a hand reaches out for baelor ― desperate for the grounding touch of the man he loves. one final plea, trembling at the edges .

please don't do this, my love. please don't make this harder than it already is.

❝ you may be my prince. you may have my heart, always ... but you do not own me. you cannot have me ― not like that. ❞ not in the way either of them want. not in the way it matters .

HECK IT - ANGST STARTERS !

-----  𝐡𝐞𝐫  𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝  𝐢𝐬  𝐤𝐞𝐩𝐭  𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧  𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞  𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬.  gods  know  that  queen  cersei  keeps  a  watchful  eye.  if  it  is  not  cersei,  it’s  varys.  if  it  is  not  either  of  them,  it  is  lord  baelish.  she  has  learned  quickly  how  to  perform.  how  to  walk,  how  to  speak,  how  to  do  everything  correctly  lest  she  face  the  wrath  of  joffrey.  she  is  not  in  as  much  danger  as  sansa.  sansa  is  still  joffrey’s  bride.  there  is  little  beatrice  can  do  to  stop  it.  she  cannot  even  stop  her  own  destiny.  the  rumor  mill  grows  with  whispers  of  a  marriage  to  ser  gregor.  the  thought  of  it  makes  her  stomach  churn.  she  prays  to  the  gods,  old  and  new,  that  it  is  only  courtly  gossip.  

darkness  has  fallen  upon  the  courtyard.  beatrice  feels  little  desire  to  retire.  even  in  the  safety  of  her  chambers,  she  feels  as  if  she  is  being  watched.  perhaps  it  is  mere  paranoia,  or  maybe  there  is  some  truth  to  this  feeling.  how  she  wishes  to  return  to  winterfell…

she  hears  the  clacking  of  armor  as  she  gazes  upon  the  stars.  she  drops  her  gaze  on  the  kingsguard  before  her.  she  is  relieved  that  it  is  ser  baelor,  and  not  ser  meryn  trant.  (  how  she  loathes  that  toad  faced  prick…  )  

“  seven  blessings  be  upon  you,  ser  baelor,  “  she  smiles,  politely.  “  i  can  only  guess  that  you  are  here  to  return  me  to  my  cage.  “  she  does  not  say  this  bitterly.  she  always  found  ser  baelor  to  be  more  agreeable  though  she  is  disappointed  at  the  prospect  of  returning  to  that  dreaded  room.  

she has delivered children born of love, and she has delivered children born of fear... small babes swaddled up warmly in her linens while they took their first breaths and made their presence in the realm known with their sharp, shrill cries. THEY ALL SOUNDED THE SAME. were all loved by her gentle hands the same. and some were welcomed with smiles and kisses ━━ while others were hidden away before the break of dawn, and she'd never known how hers would one day be thought of. spoken of. ( some thought house ashworth ought stop having children at all. ) that they should end their uncanny bloodline once and for all [ ... ] lest another daughter grows into a lady with one foot in the grave and one hand in the Stranger's.

and yet when he speaks of it now...

⊱ ░ 𝕭AELOR ₍ ? ₎ i never wished to father bastards, but now that i look at the swell of your stomach each day, i cannot wait to be a father again.

one hand rests instinctively over the gentle curve of her stomach, lithe fingers spreading there as though to shield the precious life tucked safely beneath her ribs. the gesture is unconscious now ━━ one she has begun making without realizing. FOR A MOMENT, SHE SAYS NOTHING. outside, rain taps softly against glass, and somewhere in the quiet of the chamber, a candle crackles low [ ... ] and her gaze falls until lashes are shadowing her pale cheeks. ❛❛ when i was a little girl, i thought babes came into the world already carrying all the grief they would ever know. ❜❜ her thumb strokes slowly over the swell beneath her gown, and a smile as fragile as flowers pressed between pages touches her lips. ❛❛ i think perhaps it was because so many were placed into my arms crying. ❜❜

only then does she look up at @heartofchivalry. there is something terribly soft in her expression now; affection, certainly ━━ but also a kind of disbelief. ( the quiet ache of someone unused to being chosen without hesitation. ) ❛❛ i never thought mine would be spoken of with such joy. ❜❜ nor did she think something that has brought so much shame to noble houses could sound so gentle in his voice... though she does not voice the latter. instead her hand slips from her stomach, reaching for his; where cold fingers curled gently against the prince's palm as she drags it forward. the faintest trace of girlish amusement finally ghosts through her quiet melancholy.

❛❛ i think they know your voice now. they grow restless whenever they hear it... can you feel it? ❜❜

𝖎𝖙 𝖜𝖆𝖘 𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖘𝖔 𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖈𝖐𝖑𝖞 ... brutally, almost indecently so. the tourney grounds still hummed with the ghosts of the battle, with the fourteen men who had just thrown themselves into legend — air thick with the metallic tang of blood, the musty scent of churned earth and trampled grass — lyonel still stumbled through the carnage as each in his own right was escorted back to their respective tents and healers ... armour cracked, ribs aching, and a strange twisting pain in his leg that left him limping ( must have been when he'd fallen from his horse ). his breath came in 𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔤𝔢𝔡 𝔭𝔲𝔩𝔩𝔰 .

he should be 𝔢𝔵𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡 ... it had been the first trial of seven in more than a century, for fucks sake !! the ache in the stag's muscles, the ringing in his ears, the taste of iron on his tongue, these were things that usually made him feel 𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢. but not this time. this time something heavy hung over the glory of victory. there was only one thing on his mind, chanting to the rhythm of the blood in his veins, to the beat of his heart thumping away like a war drum .

baelor. baelor. baelor. baelor.

the storm lord had seen it — or thought that he had — mace meeting helm with an almighty 𝔠𝔯𝔞𝔰𝔥. the way the crown prince had stumbled, the way lyonel's own traiterous heart stuttered in his chest . he had felt fear before ... real fear ... but 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰. this was the kind that crawled under his skin and hollowed out his chest. the kind that made the world tilt, the air too thin, and wrapped around his gut like a tourniquet. he felt sick with it .

a squire tried to catch his arm, a healer called after him, someone reached for the dented plates of his armour, trying to pull him aside to tend to him. the storm lord shoved them all away with a growl of — ❝ fuck off !! ❞

❝ WHERE IS HE !!?? ❞ the stag thundered, moving like a man possessed. a barely contained storm. a 𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔢𝔰𝔱 in human shape. dark amber eyes narrowed, blazing with a wild fire, as he barrelled past startled servants and stiff-backed guards ... boots pounding relentlessly against the ground as he marched, ran, flew towards the chambers where the maester's had taken his lover the prince .

he didn't slow. he didn't breathe. he didn't think. the laughing storm slammed through the final set of doors—

—and 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔷𝔢 .

baelor ... there he lay, paled and bloodied and beaten. but 𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢 — thank the gods !! thank the fucking gods !! — the sight did little to calm the storm lord. instead it poured oil on the fire. his whole body trembled. adrenaline still screamed through his veins. rage and terror curled together into something sharp and unbearable .

how dare he ?? how dare he risk his life like that. ... I almost lost him !!

OURS IS THE FURY ... those were the baratheon house words, and 𝔰𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔰 was lyonel living up to them . the heavy door slammed behind him as the stag marched into the room, words tearing out of him before he'd given them thought. 𝔯𝔞𝔴 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔢𝔵𝔭𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔦𝔳𝔢 .

❝ WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING !!?? ❞

𝖍𝖊  𝖜𝖗𝖎𝖙𝖊𝖘  𝖆𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖊  𝖎𝖓  𝖍𝖎𝖘  𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗𝖘,  parchment  illuminated  by  a  single  candle.  it  is  late.  the  feast  he  had  thrown,  celebration  of  a  successful  hunt,  has  long  since  ended.  he  has  probably  had  one  too  many  glasses  of  wine,  and  yet  his  penmanship  is  remarkably  steady   …   the  winds  howl  restlessly  as  the  rain  batters  the  castle.  AND  HE  YEARNS.

  ❝   𝓶𝔂  𝓭𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽  𝓫𝓪𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓻,  

ℐ  𝒶𝓂  𝓃𝑜𝓉  𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽  𝓅𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝒾𝒸𝑒𝒹  𝒾𝓃  𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒶𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝑜𝒻  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉,  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌  𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈,  𝒶𝓃𝒹  𝓎𝑒𝓉  ℐ  𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹  𝓂𝓎𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻  𝓊𝓃𝒶𝒷𝓁𝑒  𝓉𝑜  𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓋𝑒  𝒸𝑒𝓇𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃  𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈  𝓊𝓃𝓈𝒶𝒾𝒹.    𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒  𝓂𝓎  𝒸𝒶𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓇;  𝒷𝓊𝓉  𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒  𝒽𝒶𝓈  𝒶  𝒸𝑒𝓇𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃  𝓌𝒶𝓎  𝑜𝒻  𝓊𝓃𝓈𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝓂𝑒,  𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽  𝓃𝑜𝓉  𝒾𝓃  𝒶𝓃𝓎  𝓂𝒶𝓃𝓃𝑒𝓇  ℐ  𝓇𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓃𝓉,  𝒶𝓃𝒹  𝓎𝑒𝓉  𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝒾𝓃  𝒶  𝓌𝒶𝓎  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉  𝓃𝑜  𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝒽𝒶𝓈  𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇  𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒶𝑔𝑒𝒹  𝓉𝑜  𝒶𝒸𝒽𝒾𝑒𝓋𝑒  𝒷𝑒𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒.

𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒  𝒾𝓈  𝒶  𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈  𝒾𝓃  𝓂𝑒  𝓃𝑜𝓌  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉  𝓃𝑜  𝒽𝓊𝓃𝓉,  𝓃𝑜  𝓇𝒾𝒹𝑒,  𝓃𝑜  𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓂  𝒸𝒶𝓃  𝓆𝓊𝒾𝑒𝓉.  𝒾𝓉  𝒾𝓈  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓈𝒶𝓂𝑒  𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈  ℐ  𝒻𝑒𝓁𝓉  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉  𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉  ℐ  𝒻𝑒𝓁𝓉  𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝓁𝒾𝓅𝓈  𝑜𝓃  𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑒,  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉  𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉  𝓌𝑒  𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓇𝑒𝒹  𝓉𝑜𝑔𝑒𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇,  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉  𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝓉𝑜𝓊𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒹  𝓂𝑒  𝒶𝓃𝒹  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹  𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓂𝑒𝒹  𝓉𝑜  𝓃𝒶𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓌  𝓉𝑜  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓈𝓅𝒶𝒸𝑒  𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓃  𝓊𝓈.   𝓌𝑒  𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒  𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝒹  𝒾𝓃  𝓈𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓈  𝒶𝓃𝒹  𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓁𝑒𝓃  𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈,  𝒶𝓃𝒹  𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝑔𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓈.  𝒹𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒  𝒽𝒶𝓈  𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇  𝒸𝓊𝓇𝑒𝒹  𝒾𝓉.  𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒  𝒽𝒶𝓈  𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇  𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓃𝑒𝒹  𝒾𝓉.  𝒾𝒻  𝒶𝓃𝓎𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔,  𝒷𝑜𝓉𝒽  𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒  𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎  𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓋𝑒𝒹  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓉𝒽  𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓅𝑒𝓇  𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜  𝓂𝑒   …

𝒾𝓉  𝒾𝓈  𝒸𝑜𝓁𝒹,  𝒾𝓃  𝓂𝓎  𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓈.  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓂  𝓇𝒶𝑔𝑒𝓈  𝑜𝓃𝓌𝒶𝓇𝒹𝓈  𝑜𝓊𝓉𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒,  𝓂𝓎  𝑔𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉𝓈  𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒  𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔  𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒  𝓇𝑒𝓉𝒾𝓇𝑒𝒹,  𝒶𝓃𝒹  ℐ  𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒  𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝓉𝑜  𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅  𝓂𝑒  𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓅𝒶𝓃𝓎  𝒶𝓉  𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈  𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓂𝑒𝓂𝑜𝓇𝓎  𝑜𝒻  𝓎𝑜𝓊.   𝒶𝓉  𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒𝓈  𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒  𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒  ℐ  𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹  𝓂𝓎𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻  𝒸𝓊𝓇𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎  𝒹𝒶𝓂𝓃𝑒𝒹  𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉  𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓈  𝓊𝓈  𝒶𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉.  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓃  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉  𝒸𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓂𝓈  𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈,  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓌𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈  𝑜𝒻  𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔'𝓈  𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉  𝓈𝓌𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝓌𝒽𝑜𝓁𝑒.  𝒹𝓊𝓉𝓎  𝒶𝓃𝒹  𝒽𝑜𝓃𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝒹𝑒𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒹  𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃,  𝓈𝓉𝑒𝒶𝓁  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓎  𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂  𝓂𝑒,  𝒶𝓃𝒹  𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒  𝓌𝑒  𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒  𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓁𝑒𝓃  𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝓂𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈  𝒷𝒶𝒸𝓀,  𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓋𝑒𝒹  𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂  𝑜𝓊𝓉  𝑜𝒻  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝒿𝒶𝓌𝓈  𝑜𝒻  𝒹𝓊𝓉𝓎,  𝒾𝓉  𝒾𝓈  𝓃𝑜𝓉  𝑒𝓃𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽.

ℐ  𝒶𝓂  𝓉𝒾𝓇𝑒𝒹  𝑜𝒻  𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓉𝑒𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝒾𝓉  𝒾𝓈.   

𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓉𝒽  𝒾𝓈,  ℐ  𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝓈𝑜  𝒻𝒾𝑒𝓇𝒸𝑒𝓁𝓎  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉  𝒾𝓉  𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁𝓈  𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒  𝒶  𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹.  𝒶  𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓅,  𝒶𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝒾𝓃  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝒸𝑜𝓇𝑒  𝑜𝒻  𝓂𝓎  𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓈𝓉.  ℐ  𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓈𝓉𝑒𝒶𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈  𝑜𝒻  𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹  𝒾𝓃  𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑒.  ℐ  𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓌𝒶𝓎  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀  𝒶𝓉  𝓂𝑒  𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃  𝓌𝑒  𝒶𝓇𝑒  𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑒.  ℐ  𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓌𝒶𝓎  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁  𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓉  𝓂𝑒.   ℐ  𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉  𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒾𝒷𝒾𝓁𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓈  𝓌𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽  𝒻𝒶𝓇  𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓋𝒾𝑒𝓇  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃  𝓂𝓎  𝑜𝓌𝓃  ... 

𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉  ℐ  𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹  𝓈𝓉𝑒𝒶𝓁  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓎  𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇,  𝓅𝒾𝒸𝓀  𝑜𝓊𝓉  𝒶  𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅  𝒶𝓃𝒹  𝓈𝒶𝒾𝓁  𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓎  𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂  𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒  𝒻𝓊𝒸𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝒸𝒶𝑔𝑒𝓈  𝓌𝑒  𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁  𝒸𝒶𝓈𝓉𝓁𝑒𝓈.  𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉  𝓊𝓈  𝓉𝓌𝑜  ... 

(   the  last  lines  are  hastily  scribbled  out.  as  if  second-guessed.  perhaps  admitting  them  aloud  would  reveal  too  much  about  the  depth  of  his  feelings,  perhaps  he  doesn't  want  the  embarressment  of  rejection,  perhaps  it's  a  foolish  request  to  ask  of  a  prince.  the  following  lines  are  scribbled  quickly,  almost  abruptly, as if he doesn't trust himself to continue voicing his desires any futher.  )

...   𝒷𝓊𝓉  𝒾𝒻  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝒸𝒶𝓃  𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒  𝓉𝑜  𝓈𝓁𝒾𝓅  𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓎  𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂  𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝒶𝓅𝓅𝑜𝒾𝓃𝓉𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈,  ℐ  𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹  𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎  𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽  𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒  𝓉𝑜  𝓈𝑒𝑒  𝓎𝑜𝓊.  𝒾𝒻  𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎  𝒻𝑜𝓇  𝒶  𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉.  ℐ  𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹  𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒  𝒻𝑜𝓇  𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈  𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔,  𝑜𝓇  𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓈  𝒶  𝓃𝑒𝓊𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓁  𝓁𝑜𝒸𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃  𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒  𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓌𝒾𝓍𝓉  𝓊𝓈,  𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽  𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈  𝓅𝓇𝓎𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓈  …   

𝓈𝒶𝓎  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹  𝒶𝓃𝒹  ℐ  𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁  𝓇𝒾𝒹𝑒.   

𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈,  𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈.  𝒶𝓃𝒹  𝑒𝒶𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓁𝓎  𝒶𝓌𝒶𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝓇𝑒𝓅𝓁𝓎,   

-ℒ  𝓍   ❞

WITH KIND REGARDS ...