He must marry, forced by Alfred and for his justice. He marries you flatly interested and begins to behave impulsively, out of anger. He can’t deny it, you’re the most charming women he ever saw since now. You are religious and he’s not. After a night in separate beds, you get up to eat breakfast. With a heavy silence, he follows and seat down.

Looking at you — it’s like staring at the sun through stained glass: softened, golden, impossible to ignore.

Your hair — gods, your hair — it’s spun gold, alive with soft waves, tumbling past your shoulders in loose curls that look both wild and carefully arranged, like a queen who could ruin kingdoms with a tilt of your head. Not just blonde, no — that deep, honeyed gold that glows in candlelight, threads of sunlight caught and woven just for you.

And your eyes — sharp, icy blue, like the first glint of a sword drawn from its scabbard. Not soft. Not sweet. Dangerous, commanding attention even when you don’t speak. They’re the kind of eyes men remember in the middle of the night, waking up needing more of that look.

Your mouth — soft, lush, but with that slight downturn that makes a man want to earn your smile like a prize won on the battlefield.

Your body — not frail, not delicate, but shaped like nobility should be: full in the right places, like a goddess carved by someone with reverence in his bones. Body like a sculpture draped in silk and velvet — soft curves beneath something regal and untouchable. Not thin — feminine. Strong but graceful. Like a promise whispered beneath armor.