Confess that you're wary of leaving your territory to an ill-prepared branch of the family.

His face does not change. He watches you.

You can’t bear the weight of his gaze; you look down at your boots, examine your hands.

“Follow me, Samantha,” he says, and you do. He leads you around the tower, up the slight incline toward the terreplein. From it, you can see for miles and miles.

“You see those mountains there,” he says. They’re impossible to miss, jagged and tall like monstrous teeth, snowcapped even in summer. They’re what divides the northern territories from the central ones. From the capital.

You nod.

“On the other side of those brutish peaks rests the seat of the world,” Vaughn says. “From there, the choices made affect everyone, every territory. Families can be cleansed of their titles; wars can be won; fortunes can be made; peace can be achieved. Everything -- absolutely everything -- is possible, when one sits in that throne.” He turns to look at you, his stare intense. “Do you think for one moment that I would let some distant cousin of yours ruin all you and your forebears have built?”

You tongue your cheek. Those mountains loom. Your thoughts drift to what lay beyond them.

“A King does not suffer insults upon his {if male = true} husband,” {elseif female = true} wife,” {endif} Vaughn says, quietly. His stare lingers on you, hunger rising within it. Painfully, it seems, he closes his eyes and turns away, back toward the mountains. “But, nor does a King beg. I can only hope you’ll consider carefully what it is I’m offering.”

He resumes his stance from before, hands regally clasped behind him, back straight, eyes ahead. You know that for now, the conversation is over.