date / time: mid-spring, 1458. early evening. location: Princess Yicheng’s private quarters within Lisbon status: closed starter for @yinjianjun​

- &&. DAYS IN LISBON HAD their way of merging into one lump sum. A continuously rolling wheel that still hadn’t decided its destination. Yicheng was along for the ride, her best efforts spent in an attempt to keep up momentum for fear of being left behind in the dark. How long had it been since The Empress departed the familiar sight of Tianjin landing in the stony shores of Portugal. Those long grueling months at sea where behind her now, but Yicheng still carried their weight around, ball on chain. 

Since arriving in Lisbon, Princess Yicheng had thrown herself into her work; attending pageants, galavanting with courtiers and fellow ladies, anything that enabled her avoidance of her husband. Their relationship was seemingly without any semblance of love or affection, after their last alteration aboard their ship, in which Yicheng was humiliatingly reduced to tears, the Princess had taken to extreme lengths to evade his presence. Dinners were ate in a sullen silence, their quarters were kept separate, and the two lived out an existence without one another almost entirely. It was a lonely, wasteful existence, but Yicheng convinced herself that silence was better than screaming.  She had been returning from yet another leisurely stroll through the gardens of the Palácio dos Estaus. As fond as Yicheng had become of Lisbon, the seemingly never ending walks through those particular gardens were beginning to drive her insane, the scorching heat of the European summer did little to raise her dwindling spirits. Her mind was occupied with thoughts of home, dreams of familiarity. Her quarters were her safe space, decorated to the extreme with Chinese murals and a sense of sentimentality only China could give her. 

He was sat in the middle of the room, a candlelit table stood between them, a freshly prepared meal balanced atop the dark mahogany wood. ❝ Jianjun.. ❞ Visible confusion highlighted both Yicheng’s face and tone, she was not expecting his company, nor was she expecting any sort of meal for at least a little while longer. Her dark eyes studied the scene in front of her; the servants had all been dismissed, his would be the only gaze that would meet her own, ❝ What is all this? ❞

   Yielding to the Emperor’s influence and request, a meal was laid in honour of the day which marked their union. Dutifully Jianjun had the meal supplied, the room set; he guarded himself for mockery, stealing his heart away from any chance of provocation if she were to attack. He alone was the beast in her mind - any forthcoming blow from her lips, which was dutifully returned in equal measure, was a vicious, unwarranted accost. The Emperor had a shadow of the treatment they offered one another and deemed it no longer tolerable - ever the dutiful son in law, he obeyed the command with a seconds resistance.

  Seldom had she regarded him with a look that was neither mocking nor ill-humoured. He shrugged his shoulders as she addressed him, light and contradictory expressions playing rapidly over his countenance. Her often unmanageable disposition and vehement dislike for his being irritated his temper and inspired him with strong apathy; a feeling he was too apt to express in venomous terms. Hence it had resulted in almost daily drawn battles, the pair flitting between disgust and impatience; silence, had fallen between them these past weeks, to quell the bloodbath . It was very seldom that other feelings prevailed; yet when they did, Jianjun showed a phase of character which had its softer hues. His aversions and attachments were alike in vividness - Yicheng fell on neither side, though he was motivated firmly by the latter that eve.

He allowed her to flourish, thriving beneath his gaze like a blooming flower as Jianjin repeated honeyed words; but she believed him nonetheless. Without doubt of mind, Mihrimah knew she was special. She was the second born daughter of Nehir and Iskender, the greatest love affair the Ottoman Empire knew off — she was the prettiest, too. And yet, she stammered and blushed, her colour only hidden by her veil as she moved to look instead to the tips of her slippers that peeked from beneath her skirts. It was new, and his gaze allowed her to feed from him — stripping off the cocoon that had been built to emerge powerful, in control and most of all, wanted. Lifting her head to meet him, Mihrimah smiled and brushed at her veil, to allow the material to ripple against her like the first layer of a lake’s surface. “You are keen to make me grow pink,” she cooed, laughter teetering on the edge of her tongue before she turned rightfully back to the mares and stallions. She watched quietly as he spoke of them, her hands kept to herself or to the roses in fear her hands would reach for him with an immature wish. 

In fear of her devouring him, swallowing him whole as she used to do at meal times, Mihrimah rose her head and looked not to him but rather the horizon — setting her eyes on a place she did not know or may never know. To think that he may pay such respects out of their loss to see her very visage left Mihrimah almost breathless; without thought of refined expression her lips parted to gasp — allowing him to see her almost speechless. Putting her hands together, Mihrimah laughed; a joyous, girlish laughter that echoed through the empty halls. “Are you after the jewels of the Ottoman Empire, my lord? I should warn you, they do not come cheaply.”

   “The hue is subdued by your veil, but your flush has become my dear friend all the same. To the admirers that seek the distinction of this theme upon your visage, I may be persuaded to offer advice.” She was the solitary, symbolic flower that sprouted without the phantom of competition; the rose amongst a bed of weeds, possessed by only the purity of bloom. Jianjun honoured her with with his honest affection; he pursued her sweetly, with lighter exchanges of word then he fathomed his own lips could earnestly pronounce. He could not conquer her heart, nor would he wish to claim fervent domain over it - she was young, impossibly good, beauteous; blessed with magnanimity that evaded him at every avenue. Too good for he, certainly. Mihrimah was beautiful like her famed mother, but her eyes were own - a sweetness, sensuality and sympathy - warmed them with divine light. Jianjun was possessed by a curious mixture of emotions, some of them self-reflective, some so fluttering and strong, that he lacked brilliant soliloquies to describe them. A voice urged him to consider feelings beyond the filial bounds of friendship; another urged him to let instinct and reason, deter him from examining what was foolish and nonviable. 

- &&. HER LIPS PRESSED TOGETHER into a thinly veiled line, before pursing again. Yicheng would have to choose her next words carefully. She did not allowed herself to betray any look of hurt across her features, Jianjun was not honoured with such things, for he only knew the stone cold, dismissive persona she allowed him to see. Yicheng refused to show any signs of weakness in front of a man like him; a strong, military man, who laughed in the face of danger and spat in the face of death. Jianjun was right. She would not give him the satisfaction of admitting such allowed but they both knew he was, at some point the unrest between her brothers would ultimately erupt and they would have to choose a side, show their cards, but as long as her father remained on the throne, Yicheng did not have to confront such feelings, instead she could push it to the back of her mind, secluding it deep below.  ❝ If you wish to belittle me, allow yourself to do so in a private setting, for the sake of our people who believe our union to be a blissful one. ❞  When she speaks, there is a silent submissiness to her tone. On the surface, to their people, their union was a grand gesture of love and peace, a marriage that calm the rising waves of a potential civil war, Yicheng was not about to let that mirage fade and allow her people to suffer because of it. She had learned to put her people first, above her own needs, tolerating this relationship enabled her country to be happy, her father to be proud. It had to be worth it. Yicheng stands still, eyes closing as she breathes out a slow breath, one that is intended to be calm but instead draws out shakier than the wind that rattles their sails, ❝ This is not a conversation we should be having in front of our crew, they do not want to hear the so-called esteemed General of Yin speaking to his wife in such a way. Crown Princess. ❞ It a childish, mocking tone that signals none other than her own defeat, she has proved his point, but in this moment she no longer cares - if she goes down, she will drag Jianjun down along with her, with all their sorrow and disdain alongside. ❝ Speak no more of my father, for you know him only through me, but it was he who made me, it is his blood that flows in my veins. I love His Imperial Majesty, and he loves me too…it wouldn’t be so hard for him to do so if his attentions were not shifted by your constant requirements his ‘respect’.  ❞

    “As you wish, for I would not wish to expose your wits and their shortcomings, to our people. Shall we continue to remark upon the weather, or turn to lighter prospects: Lisbon’s courtiers, the pride of the West, eager to sink their hooks into our treasures.” Unable to fetch a response to savage disavowing of his judgements, Jianjun’s eyes rolled so sharply towards to back of his skull, that the action stung seconds after its completion. “Strange, is it not? That verbal accosts should be made private, only when I am no longer the subject of degrading lashings.” He dabbled in childish chiding when allowed refuge in the presence of his wife; little stimulant to his desire to perform, rivalled the presence of Yicheng, silken and lovely, her nose curled towards the heavens. Despite all recourse taken to appear vexed, Jianjun was slightly enamoured with his current state. A dark cloudy hand hung above the sky, to be proclaimed an omen by his departed grandmother, of the universe’s displeasure at acrimony.  His savage eulogies were abandoned by Yicheng in all responses, as if his words were verbal atrocities against her person, built of solid reason and sanity.

      Seldom did Jianjun ever smile with his lips; it is his eyes that shine instead. Round and dark, they presently brimmed with adoration - Lucrezia was the benefactor of his geniality, his companion in the salon. By invitation of some Duke, a gathering for patrons of the arts had been proposed - occupied with little and lacking much, Jianjun attended.  Some grand tragedy made anew by feverish reading - the ardent audience, fiery with inflamed passions , listened on. The Greek’s tragedies were said to inspire the highest passions in ones breast; but Jianjun’s mind had fled the scene, filled with his native verses, enchanting tales which had awakened dragons and placated emperors. The room had been begun the reading as still and silent as devoted nuns, until words simultaneously broke from every lip; leaving the room split, between those who listened and perceived it was a gift, and others who fell into honeyed conversation. He knew not what possessed him to be the latter, or how he chose his company with unwavering confidence - Jianjun knew his spirit to be consummately unpleasant, a man who his wife derided as being wholly impossible to cohabitate with on friendly terms. The lady in waiting, obvious to her rendering as witness to a miracle, had been seated at his right hand - Lucrezia, dressed in handsome silks,  though no jewel could command a beauty that pronounced itself a rival to hers.

- &&. ❝ I WAS NOT AWARE you had developed such an interest in my character, you have always seemed more interested in forging pleasantries with my father. ❞ Her tone is stiff, rigid, Yicheng is unable to mask the clear disdain in her voice. Had they not been in front of such a crowd, Yicheng likely would’ve antagonised him further, it was all too easy for her to do, and he her. Jianjun was a famed military general, no doubt there would be at least some welcome for his arrival in Europe, but for her? Likely there would be no such thing. Princesses were such fragile things in the eyes of Lords. General Jianjun and his beautiful wife, the Chinese Princess. Yicheng hated how her name was always carried alongside his, like an accessory, and she hated how he allowed it, marvelled in it even, using her position in court to gain favours with her father, stealing his affections and turning them into his own. 

❝ You ask me what I want? You who marched into the palace along with your family, your men, claiming me as your prize in the name of uniting our country together. ❞ Yicheng turns herself away from his gaze, lest her emotions take control of her and he is able to see the sadness, the disappointment, the rage screwing up her pretty face. He taunts her just as she taunts him. An endless game of cat and mouse that began to moment the two laid eyes on one another. Who was the cat? Who was the mouse? She stands still, like stone, collecting herself before she returns to him, emotionless once more,  ❝ Communicate to me then, voice them to me, what can I give to you now, that I haven’t already? ❞ Yicheng takes a challenging step closer to him, they are of similar height, but Jianjun stands much broader and commanding that her petite stature ever could, call her brave or foolish, she does not back down, ❝ You wish for my affections yet you have done nothing to earn them. You want me placid, submissive, serving you like I am some sort of common lady, but I am not. I am the Crown Princess, perhaps you forget that. ❞     

     “Your father is an honourable, good man; his respect and good graces, are priceless.” I  He had long accepted that he would endure their marriage, in the absence of hers; whether he craved her tenderness, had long died, with the pitiful look she had offered, upon news of their nuptials. Yicheng regarded Jianjun as the settlement of business - he could not deny the semblance of appeasement in the match, but believed himself deserving of such a prestigious gift. “We would do well to think of the dark day in which he leaves the throne - your brothers are restless, and our alliance will seal our fate at court.” He saw nothing in their personal affairs, to hinder them from one day being fused in alliance. The discord between her brothers was not a matter of if, or if who, but merely when - when, would they be forced to declare loyalties. Yicheng darkly stigmatised he and his kin, revealed in this frank fashion. Reminiscing of their proposal summoned what was truthful, but ardent in its bitterness. Jianjun had fixed his resolve to not quarrel publicly with his wife, but he could not betray his nature - nor, the slighting of his family name. “Your regard my acceptance of your father’s offer with such venom - I do not know, how your tongue supports it weight. It is you then, who regarded our match as a diplomatic failure from the outset, not I. If you are the Crown Princess, and I your lapdog, then it is your lead, I am bound to follow.” 

Her cheeks flushed from beneath her veil as he mentioned something as intimate as her mouth; her eyes hooded with something daunting as she fixed her garment to keep herself hidden from the naked eye. Lost within the laps of material, she almost shudders, walking alongside as she rocked forward onto the tight jump of her toes, balancing with each hop despite not knowing who the sir before her even was. With her nose proud against the sheer drape, Mihrimah lost herself within surreal lappings of imagination — he was certainly the very visage of a man described to her in those stories repeated by governesses, her father’s wives and her mother’s gentle whispers. With the shift of her veil, Mihrimah went to continue, her fingers flexed here and there to reel him in as if she wished for him, desired him, needed him. But she didn’t for she was the Sultana — the beautiful, the historic, the very kind poems and art would depict. With her smile, the kind lost behind her veil, Mihrimah listened and ran her tongue against her lower lip; the very action hidden despite her tip toeing around him, manic and needy as she moved closer — her ladies yet behind her, like a shadow. “You sound as if you know me, as if you can read me here and now.. Are you often so familiar?” She asked, a finger tapped gently against her chin before releasing, turning instead to look to the other. “I like to watch them run, I do not ride,” she admitted, pausing beside the blossom of rose petals, as to reach out and touch. “We must sit together at the next banquet, I wish to learn more… You are an interesting soul, sir.”

Adalsinda unfortunately knew precious little about the man before her, but looking at her, she would never let it show - well-mannered as she had been bred to be, and kind with him, she knew enough to be graceful, bowing her head with a warm smile. “Thank you - we have called her Vasilisa. In honor of my husband’s dear mother. I never had the pleasure of meeting my daughter’s namesake, but - she is regarded with great reference in Moscow. That my child should share her name is a great honor.” She paused, studying him for a moment. “It’s quite alright. I admit that even I grow clumsy with the French language, from time to time. I use it precious little, though I find that changing since our arrival here.”

She nodded, a cup of tea warm in her hands as she regarded the general quietly, smiling at his perhaps unintended flattery. “That you should trust me with such a task is a great honor too, General. I would be very happy to help you in any way I can. I have not visited Lisbon before, but - it is familiar, in some certain ways.” She sipped from her cup gingerly. “How is your family taking to the new surroundings? It is certainly quite a distance that you have crossed to be here. It is lovely to share your company.”

      In a most friendly spirit, greetings had been exchanged - left upon the shores of his beloved China, was the ego born out of the strength of one’s family name. Jianjun suffered from no outraged sense of justice, over his near anonymity; better to seek power in mystery, then to suffer beneath its weight. “Vasilia, a beautiful name - what is its meaning? Being the name bestowed upon two remarkable women from a noble house, I have faith in only an elegant origin.” Jianjun bent to a smile over this dose of maternal tenderness, displayed faithfully by the Tsarina. He lent his ear to her willingly, pleased by her polished tact; the veneer which coated her mannerisms in a sheen of grace, served to guard her true reflections, from him. “To grow distant from one’s mother tongue, is a fascinating prospect - though I have no doubt, that you humble yourself too much, and lack no skills in any area of study you seek. The prospect of reunion with your kin, must be a gift within itself.”

a song that reflects your character : 27 hours by banks // malamente by rosalía 

a quote that reflects your character & why? : If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: in love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are. while romantic love alludes jianjun, he is devoted in familial affection to his family; he aspires to be the greatest man, to be an apt reflection of their love. but it is in battle, when one is faced with the realities of their character, and find no avenue to run from what is ugly, vain and selfish about oneself, 

how do they characterize their childhood : jianjun characterizes his childhood as incredibly happy and stable - his family is a tight-knit, duty bound clan, that will always put the family name and reputation above inner squables. he was raised amongst fineries, maids, with access to an education and the emperor’s court. he is the first born son and thus adored by his parents; a strong, healthy and intelligent boy, he never lacked praise nor attentions - though the pressures of carrying the family name rested fully on his shoulders, jianjun never felt it as a burden; rather, a given, acceptable honor and duty. 

how does their childhood self differ from their current self? : jianjun is stronger, more confident in himself and married to the path in life he’s chosen (military, over the toiling of a scholar). he’s no longer naive about the pressures of duty to one’s family and one’s country - but he has lost faith in romance or the prospect of marriage being anything but a union (a contract) that binds two individuals, and not shared passion or love, driving the union. in short, he’s become sobered by reality - not embittered, and certainly content, but he doesn’t day dream like most. he’s a pragmatic man, through and through. 

describe a fond memory of theirs : being invited by the emperor to a meeting of his generals and advisers for the very first time - it was the first step in being acknowledged as a worthy member of the chinese court, and allowed jianjun to prove his worth to the beloved general, in front of an audience; giddy with excitement, he nearly skipped there. the meeting not only went exactly to jianjun’s liking, but brought forth the idea to the emperor’s mind, of binding the young general of yin to his family. 

one in-game character, not directly related to yours, they are envious of : the sultan - he manages to have so many wives and children, with happy relationships and maintains unquestioned authority over his household/kingdom. jianjun can only aspire to half the amount of respect from his own wife, and has no direct claim to any throne - the best he can hope for, is a pivotal role in supporting the emperor (and backing the correct prince who rises to power). 

one in-game character they would FIGHT : his wife, not physically, but a good throw-down, screaming match, where every word he’s held back finally comes spitting out; secretly, jianjun would like to see it. he’s also willing to fight richard neville, purely because something about that face makes him angry. nice fellow, though. 

- &&. ❝ There are many traits I have inherited from my esteemed father, perhaps more than the Emperor himself - and you - realise. ❞ There was almost a sorrowful tone to her words. Yicheng longed for her father’s affection and approval. Whilst she had become accustomed to it growing up in the palace, the apple of her father’s eye, but Emperor Xizong’s attentions soon drifted to grooming her elder brother for the throne, once she had been married off to the man she now found herself standing next to. Perhaps, if she had been born a boy, then things might be different - her father would praise her for being the perfect prince, instead of pleading for her to be a good wife, dutiful wife. ❝ But yes, the Europeans will no doubt be beguiled by our great nation’s glory. You and I both need to play our parts in maintaining this legacy. ❞

They had been married for three years. Three long years of tolerance and dismissal. It was clear that the two did not enjoy one another’s company. Yicheng dreaded the long journey ahead of them, she dreaded the inescapable feelings of entrapment she was now forced to confront. The stale feelings between the two of them were the least of her worries; truthfully Yicheng was scared, terrified even of their upcoming journey. The Princess had not left comforting familiarity of home before and there were many daunting questions racing at the back of her mind - what if she was disliked by the foreign people? What if she couldn’t prove herself? Secure alliances and forge friendships? The very thought of returning to China ‘empty handed’ was a dreaded prospect for the young, ambitious princess. Yicheng dared not confined in Jianjun, she would not let him see her worries for what she believed they were: weakness. 

❝ Can a wife not bestow her husband gifts? ❞ She turns to face him now, eyes stone cold, face expressionless; there is no smile bestowing her pretty face. Fondness? Dare he speak of the subject; Princess Yicheng was under the impression that there was a mutual understand of their lack of affection for one another, but perhaps this is what her father meant when he asked her to be a good wife. Yicheng courtseys, head dipping low with feigned respect ( he is, after all, now a Prince of China, no thanks to their union ) ❝ I wish to appeal to all your heart desires. It would be dishonourable of me to not think of you fondly. You are my husband. ❞

   “You afford me so little of your character beyond formalities; I appreciate, the little you lay bare.” The slight annoyance she had betrayed lingered sore on his mind; he deemed it impertinent to interrogate her further on the subject, but bristled nonetheless. To evince sentiments of frustration with one another required either a deeper comprehension of one’s motivations, or their usual, blind digging into each other’s character. The sea was as fine a setting as any for Jianjun’s verbal accosting of his wife; yet he retracted, levelling his gaze upon her face with a passive expression colouring his countenance. “I hope for nothing less, though I have heard much of their sneering pride and disregard for the East; I shall be pleased, to undermine their expectations, if such is the case. As for duty, I shall not fail in my part, nor would I believe you anything less, then perfect for yours. We shall always find accord, in that regard.”

“Only once or twice, my friend.” Abuzar Beg’s reply was brief and concise, a failed attempt to curb his amusement at the General Yin Jianjun’s remarks. A sly grin, however, could not be contained by the Delhi exile, and so he resorted to looking down towards the floor to hide it, a momentary respite from public view. 

It was, perhaps indeed, a boon to himself and those whose interests he served that he was not allowed to drink. Even if he was, however, the shahbanu’s trusted advisor had no true interest, not even a single curiosity, regarding the taste of rum or the feelings one ends up having after too many glasses of it. Drinks such as this were only ever useful as tools, weapons, to retrieve the truth behind guarded lips, nothing else. 

“I go where the shahbanu needs me, where my services are required. Lisbon appears to be a beauty, and I am quite thankful to make its acquaintance.” Abuzar offered his companion a warm if not playful smile. Although it was his duty to befriend as many as he could in order to improve if not simply strengthen the relations of Persia, he has truly grown to care for this man’s wit and presence. “I am looking forward to partake in that grand feast, as I hope you are as well? Being left with…enthusiastic Europeans may become too dreadful for me to bear, General.”

   “I’m certainly blessed, to be privy to a wondrous banquet such as this - my children’s bedtime stories shall never lack fodder. “He would wrongfully be accused of cruelty, if another paid mind to the remarks delivered onto his Persian companion; no malice lay in the continuing remarks. Evidence lay in the poorly masked countenance’s of he and Abuzar, visibly teeming with glee and amusement. He felt a prolonged sense of ease and enjoyment in his new found friend. 

  However blunt and boisterous the courtiers were under influence of drink, they still seemed to possess the art of appearing graceful; perhaps it was ones innate charms, brought forth by a gala, that humoured Jianjun to them. He was content to entreat his fellow in a low voice for the rest of the evening - finding the companionship more full of interest and life, then amongst others. “The call of one’s duty — I salute your endeavours, being bound to marching orders of similar purchase. Should the moment arise, would you be to content to remain in Lisbon for quite some time?” Lisbon was a dizzying spell, a fever dream of some elusive concoction; Jianjun’s recollection of the days were strong, yet time moved so differently here. Did he long for home? Certainly — as certain, as the violent reaction in his heart to departing. “I would not dream of being absent from such .... rich events such as this - nor, would I abandon you to the whims of our hosts. However esteemed they may be, they are most - unique, would one say? They continue to fascinate me, certainly. Have you enjoyed as may garden walks and tea parties as I?”

𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹 + OPEN TO ALL. 𝑳𝑶𝑪𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵: lisbon stables. 

         despite the fact that rainclouds were drawing ominously overhead, dilşah had found a moment of freedom from her obligations as cariye –– moments that, as of late, had become sporadic bursts, given to the intemperate whims of her mistress, the sultan’s mother –– and sought refuge in the stables. relishing in the quiet yet contemplative company of mahidevran’s cherished steed, an impressive turkoman of over seventeen hands, the horse’s coat of silk ripped beneath her touch; both soft and brilliant to behold. the metallic sheen to its muscular body hadn’t yet been replicated in any european horses she’d seen in portugal thus far, and given the swagger with which this particular beast strutted, it was as if he knew how remarkable he truly was. 

upon hearing footsteps in the stable, dilşah hardly flinched, merely noting: “although refined in appearance, this breed is one of the mightiest in the world.” as her dark head canted to the side, a wave of obsidian curls cascaded down her slight frame. “the ropes are a precautionary measure, nothing would truly stop this beast from wreaking havoc if he so desired.”

removing her hand from the horse’s throat, dilşah glanced to the incoming visitor with the slightest dip of her chin. “i’m afraid i have exceeded my welcome –– the rain is only moments from violently down-pouring on us both. have you an escort back to the palace or shall i fetch someone?”

      To be still was not within Jianjun’s power; his lady wife simpered and was soothed in tea rooms and gardens, but he found himself immune to leisure’s influence. Leaving his wife’s inhospitable salon, he betook himself to the stables — pure black clouds threatened rain, but he paid no mind. His figure was safe guarded by the shade, offered by the clouds; he expected and sought none amongst the animals. Jianjun was thus, surprised as he alighted upon a lone figure; the silken curves of a woman. Revealed by a clearer light, was a lady with whom he lacked acquaintance — a member of the Sultan’s party, he could confidently assume. Jianjun’s eyes followed the horse of which she spoke in such strong terms, a specimen of unquestionable faculty. “It is a fool’s habit, to mistake demure appearance’s as a reflection of one’s character; it is a remarkably handsome steed, regardless.” Her lithe fingers traced the steed’s coat gently; certainly, there was no excellent beauty, without concealed ardor. “To what name does your fantastic beast answer to? I am bound to inquire further, the name of his mistress; it is piteous, I cannot address you with the full weight of your deserved respect, whilst lacking it.” 

Have a decent conversation

  Spend some time in each other’s company that isn’t either constricted by formal niceties or endless bickering; for however much she detests him and snubs the union, Jianjun knows he’d be bettered by a more fruitful alliance - children aside, a solid marriage is known to be a powerful foundation for a man’s career. 

   If he were to confess - Magdalena’s beautiful face, intelligence and amiable nature have endeared him to her, lately; she’s also kind and interested in him ...  a far cry from the usual amount of attention he’s given at home. 

    He’s also a fan of the sweet Mihrimah (love you queen)