Under his scrutinizing stare, admit that moving to the capital would indeed suit your interests.

He smiles slowly, pleased. “Come with me, Samantha.”

You follow just behind him as he leads the way to the northeastern tower, where normally your Captain of the archers manages their affairs. Vaughn’s honorguard trails a little behind you, following their King. An attendant garbed in crimson opens the tower door, and you see right away that the capital man has made himself at home.

Where much of your castle is adorned with your family’s stag sigil and emerald color, the tower has been completely overhauled to look like a royal war room. Gold and crimson drape the walls, flags flashing the pure black sigil of the bared-teeth wolf demarking the royal family. Cabinets and desks have been pushed aside to make room for one large table, upon which is pinned a map of Demys. Wolf statues loom all around it, casting a wide lookout over the foreign western seas.

“The dealings of the kingdom do not cease,” Vaughn explains, resting his hands on the table, “even when far from the throne.” He nods to a bundle of papers on the table’s edge, looking at you to grab them.

You do. Right on top is a declaration of marriage. For Vaughn. And you. At the bottom, his signature is already present.

“There is tradition,” he says, “and decorum. You’ll announce your choice of partner tomorrow, in the face of your council. But I want you to know that I did not come here to gaze at you and dawdle thinking the matter over.”

Underneath the marriage declaration are deeds, titles. He’s researched who your land should go to, should you marry him; he’s figured out the progression of heirs. He’s drafted a new law, giving you, specifically, more sway over the order and trade of the northern territories. You are well-loved. The north would support it. You know it would.

“There are two dozen suitable contenders for my {if male = true} partnered King. {elseif female = true} Queen. {endif} But I am not looking for suitable. I’m looking for perfect.”

You look up from the papers to see him staring at you, much like a wolf at a deer, indeed. His nostrils flare sucking in a heavy breath, and he stands straighter, as if he’s regained himself. “Those are your copies,” he says. “I look forward to hearing your thoughts at the fete tonight.”

With that, he looks down at the map with all the focus of a chess master, and begins to reconfigure the pieces. Feeling as though you’ve been dismissed, you leave, papers in hand.