The court was alive tonight — laughter, music, and conversations filling every corner of the hall. You moved gracefully through the gathering, exchanging polite words with ambassadors, kings, and queens. It was a scene you had become accustomed to. But tonight, something felt different.

As you chatted with a young envoy — a charming representative from another Iberian realm — you felt a heavy gaze burning into your back.

You didn't need to turn to know who it was. Aragon.

He was standing by one of the massive stone pillars, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. But you could feel it. The tension radiating from him like a storm held just beneath the surface.

You dared a quick glance. His jaw was tight. His brows lowered ever so slightly. It wasn’t rage — no, Aragon wasn’t that obvious. It was something deeper. Darker. Possessive.

You smiled gently at the envoy, excused yourself politely, and crossed the room toward him.

When you reached him, Aragon didn’t speak. He simply stared down at you, the coldness in his eyes sharper than usual.

— "You seemed... displeased," — you said softly, testing the waters.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, in a low, dangerously calm voice, he answered:

— "I find it foolish... how easily some dare approach what is not meant for them."

You blinked, your heart skipping a beat.

— "What do you mean?" — you asked, voice almost a whisper.

Aragon leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a tone only you could hear.

— "You belong under my protection." — "And if anyone forgets that..." — he paused, his gaze darkening — "they will be reminded."

It was not a threat in the traditional sense. It was a promise — cold and absolute, as only Aragon could make it.

You felt a shiver run down your spine, but it wasn’t fear. It was the sheer weight of how deeply he cared — even if he could only show it through control, through possessiveness, through the silent fire in his veins.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The music, the chatter, the whole world faded into a distant blur.

Slowly, Aragon lifted a hand — rough, calloused from years of leadership and battles — and brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, his touch uncharacteristically gentle.

— "Stay close to me," — he said, almost gruffly. — "Tonight. Always."

You looked up at him, your heart hammering in your chest, and nodded. Without another word, he offered you his arm — not as a demand, but as a silent request.

You accepted it, feeling the strength and quiet fury burning beneath his stoic exterior.

From that night on, everyone understood. You were no longer just an allied kingdom. You were Aragon’s — claimed not by chains, but by a bond fiercer and more enduring than any crown could bestow. (⁠>⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠<⁠) ♡