Set before the Assassin’s competition…

The smell of hound, was quite overwhelming in the morning. Despite it being Yulemas Eve, Dorian had rose early, and went to the hounds areas, and fed them all a generous portion and sat down between scuffling paws, and brushed fur, a few of the larger dogs barking and demanding to go out and play in the freshly fallen snow.

Albeit with a sigh, he let them out, and couldn’t smother his grin as the hounds blurred into a wave of black, white, brown and golden over the white fields. He crossed his arms across his navy tunic, his cloak catching on the splinters of the fence. His dark hair looked as flawlessl as usual, as though he’d run his hand through it once or twice, the pull of his lush lips only widened when he caught sight of her.

“Aren't you supposed to be sitting through fittings?” He called, watching her come to him, the same way they all flocked to him.

But she was never eager, she never had been intent of living behind a fluttering fan, or blushing wordlessly. No, she used her voice, she smirked, not smiled, she swore, not cursed the heavens, and she was clever. And so gods-damned pretty.

Her hair was in a ponytail at the bottom of her head, in loose waves, curling at the ends, her cloak a deep navy and her blouse a pristine white. She was clad in jodhpurs too, and dark leather riding boots. “Don’t remind me.” She shook her head, and leaned beside him on the fence.

“My mother is going to kill me, but I already have my dress sorted.” She said, as if that were her excuse for being out, in the snow, just past dawn.

Dorian imagined the sight of her behind some vanity, being powdered and only enhanced. “What colour is your dress?” He asked, eyes on the hounds, because he knew if he looked at her he wouldn’t look away again.

“Blue.”

The first image that came to his mind was one of an extravagant deep blue gown, embroidered with pearls, matching silk gloves and crimson painted lips. The second was far more illicit; a barely there scrap of silk, dropping low between the valley of cleavage he knew was there, coupled with fine lace, that hugged the narrow curve of her waist, and fell just enough to cover her womanhood.

He swallowed.

She was the one he wanted to marry; out of all the Ladies-In-Wait. It was her. She was the one he wanted to be beside him.

“I’m sure you will look lovely.” He saw her blush, a light pink that only added to her whole windswept look. Her cheeks were already slightly rosy. “You always do.”

“So charming, Dorian.” She sighed, with a smirk and looked back to the stables. “Will you join me?”

He should’ve said no - he had countless conversations he needed to have today: few with his mother, a handful with ladies in wait, and a few meetings to organise his final fittings and when he would train today..

“Of course. I’m not too busy.”

They mounted identical and wholly different stallions. His a deep onyx, so dark it could pass for a navy night sky, hers was a stallion as white as snow, and as tall as his own. They started in an easy walk through the crisp snow, before she declared a race; and Dorian never lost those. Not to anyone.

Their horses stampeded against the snow, unrelenting as they strives to pass the two trees, marking the entrance of the pine forest, and at the last moment she overtook him. He didn’t even need to let her win.

“Congratulations. And your prize is..” He bowed at her on her stallion as he mounted. A moment it was all fine, but the angle her ankle just hit definitely was not. There was a stubborn root beneath her, and she rolled her ankle. “..fine, it’s fine. It’s just a bruise.”

He knew that wince. He had learned it from a young age. He also learnt that now, he would do anything to prevent that wince. “We’ll go to the hunting lodge and look at it there. It has healing ointments there,”