wanna be king in your story

He's been dreading this for weeks.

Oh who is he kidding, years.

Ever since the lawyers of their respective countries finally came to an agreeable solution regarding the marriage contract of Crown Prince Matthias Helvar of Fjerda to Princess Antonia Zenik of Ravka. Before that, even, the thought of marrying a faceless stranger and inviting her into his life and bed for the sake of his country has terrified him.

Choosing his own happiness over his duties has never been in the cards for Matthias. Still, this match is the only chance he’ll ever have at romantic love or even a pleasant physical relationship for the rest of his life – he isn't one to cheat. He’s hopeful to get someone who he can at least share companionship and raise children with. At this point, he's built up so many horror scenarios in his head that he isn’t sure he believes in a happy ever after anymore.

Now, though, the moment is here and he can avoid it no longer.

He's seen her official pictures, heard all the rumours of Princess Antonia’s beauty, that she is witty and vibrant. She is drüsje, a Heartrender, talented and well-learned, though of course those stories are tinged with fear in Fjerda where superstition still runs deep. Matthias has heard and read countless accounts of her many achievements: she has headed charity work and established a hospital for the mentally ill with her brother the crown prince, she speaks seven languages fluently, she is apt at chess, dancing and horseback riding. She loves to golf and she's been to university. She does not play an instrument or sing (the whispers say her singing is atrocious), which makes her feel a bit more human).

They've exchange polite letters under the watchful eyes of their parents: stiff, formal and boring. Her script is flowing, beautiful. Her words are always perfect, greetings and descriptions of her favourite activities, well-phrased questions and the occasional anecdote. She once sent him careful pressings of two flowers: a blue iris and ivy. Thankfully, he remembered an old etiquette lesson that mentioned that flowers have meanings, and cracking open a dusty book left him slightly stunned. Princess Antonia had sent him flowers symbolizing faith, hope and a bond of trust and affection between married couples. Resorting to age-old courting methods is perhaps a bit dramatic, but that's the only unscripted contact they've had. He's not even met her formally, as they've never attended the same events before, an oddity considering the small royal circles.

Still, he feels those pressings are the only personal or tangible evidence of her character he has. Royalty are good at managing images. The picture they paint isn't likely to be the truth.

Maybe that's why it surprises him so when she enters the banquet hall on her brother Prince Fedyor's arm.

She is stunning.

Grace with a hint of mischievousness. A swishing, modestly cut gown, but in an eye-catching deep red that is almost indecent. The elegant curves of her brows, slightly raised as she evaluates him in turn. A pink, delicate mouth curling into a courtly smile.

He bows automatically in response to her curtsey, catching her gloved hand in his and kissing the air above it, as custom demands. He rises before her – he is of slightly higher rank, after all – and she follows so naturally. Her advisors and her younger brother have flared out behind her, letting her approach alone, and they all regard her respectfully and calmly. Clearly the Princess is the one calling the shots in their delegation.

"Your Royal Highness," she smiles, "it is a pleasure to finally meet you."

"And you as well, Your Royal Highness," Matthias answers, and feels slightly ridiculous in echoing the title back to her. Still, he must respect her rank publicly.

"I hope we will get to know each other better over the next few, oh, the rest of our lives," she says, not stumbling over her words but delivering them with meaning and weight.

"That is my dearest wish, Princess Antonia," Matthias manages, instantly regretting the word dearest, too familiar as it is, the thought of years beside this woman filling his head with useless fluffy clouds. It pleases him like it never has before – she seems formidable, and her subtle humor and twinkling eyes are to his liking. It does not hurt that she is beautiful. Some say Matthias relies too much on the first impression, but his instincts have never steered him wrong before.

"Well then, I shall start by confessing that I hate my name, and would prefer to be called Nina."

She ducks her head, a conspiratorial grin on her face, and he lowers his volume to match hers so they are speaking more privately.

"It's good to meet you, Nina. I like to be called Matthias."

"Matthias," she nods, and takes his arm when he offers it in a courtly bow, leading her towards their assigned seats next to his parents – they'll have to deal with that greeting too, he supposes. Behind them, the crowd murmurs as young Prince Fedyor – 5 years Matthias' junior – offers Matthias' sister Embla his hand, and the delegation pairs off into a smooth wave of people passing through the aisle. The weight of Nina's hand on his arm is slight, but somehow it replaces all the burdens he's been carrying about this marriage for years.

Yes, Matthias thinks. I believe we can make this work.