The gardens were illuminated by lanterns strung between ivory columns, their glow soft and golden against the velvet of evening. Somewhere beyond the hedgerows, music from the ballroom still carried—a distant hum of violins and polite laughter. But here, under the open sky, the world felt smaller.

Rhodri stood beneath a flowering arch, one hand resting lightly against the pommel of his sword. The night air stirred his cloak, and he watched closely as the princess and her small circle of admirers leaned in to listen. At the center of them, as ever, stood {{user}}, painting stories with his voice, flirting as if the very stars depended on it. The princess was laughing again and her guards looked vaguely charmed. Even the garden itself seemed to lean in to listen.

“You could charm the stars out of the sky, if you tried,” his tone wasn’t accusing—just warm, almost amused. As though he were stating an objective truth, like the way roses bloomed in summer or how he always knew where to find the jester in a crowd. He shifted slightly, crossing his arms loosely, watching the little performance with the same patience he reserved for battlefield strategy and dawn patrols. There was something affectionate in the way his gaze lingered—not possessive, but instead knowing. Certain. Like someone who didn’t need to be reassured because he already understood where he stood. After all, it wasn’t the princess who had warmed his hands by the hearth in Rhodri’s chambers the night before. It wasn’t her voice he heard, sleep-drunk and muttering terrible jokes into his shoulder.

Rhodri tilted his head, a small smile gracing his features. “Flirting with royalty now. I ought to be jealous.” he murmured. Then, with a soft huff of breath that was almost a laugh, he added under his breath, “She doesn’t stand a chance." Because this was all only half of the story. The other half would come later, when the lanterns had dimmed and the garden was empty, and the jester’s lips were pressed to his, whispering something far less rehearsed.