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Nov. 6th, 2024 06:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
princesswifeSericaea hadn't had a chance, in the end. For centuries, their kingdom of traders and seafarers had been protected from land invasion due to the Varnas mountains on their northern border. They hadn't expected two things: One, that the soldiers of the Morkvald Empire would be so acclimated to hostile conditions in the north that they'd invade over the damn things, and two, that the Morkvaldans' allies in Allemya would provide them with an armada of airships.
The Morkvaldans' army had practically been at the capital before the king had even put out the alarm to raise an army.
So, to prevent destruction, the Serican king had done the only sensible thing and surrendered. The price was not, all told, that steep. He would retain his crown and governance, but he would ultimately answer to the Empress far to the north, their people would pay tribute, and would be obligated to serve alongside the Morkvaldans' warriors if needed.
And his youngest daughter would need to come to the capitol - as a hostage, they had all assumed.
But almost immediately after the airship had touched down in the cold, brutal yet somehow majestic capital of Morkvald, Princess Eirene learned the truth. She was not here to be a hostage.
She was here to be a bride.
That had always been the plan, of course; there is little in the future of the youngest daughter of a king other than a political marriage, but Eirene had always expected, well, to marry a man, not an Empress. The next week remains a kaleidoscopic blur in her memory. Measured for a wedding dress. Instructed in the wedding customs of Morkvald. Pondering, at great length and great confusion, why on earth the Empress wanted a bride. Had she no desire for heirs?
Then the wedding had happened. And she had met her bride - her groom, it seemed - the tall, imposing Empress. She was not without beauty, but her beauty was like this land, cold and rugged and menacing. The ceremony had been brief. The banquet had not.
And now, her head buzzing from all of that strange honeyed wine they made her drink in multiple toasts, Eirene is being escorted into one of the palace wings where she's not yet been: The Empress' personal quarters.
To her wedding chamber.
The Morkvaldans' army had practically been at the capital before the king had even put out the alarm to raise an army.
So, to prevent destruction, the Serican king had done the only sensible thing and surrendered. The price was not, all told, that steep. He would retain his crown and governance, but he would ultimately answer to the Empress far to the north, their people would pay tribute, and would be obligated to serve alongside the Morkvaldans' warriors if needed.
And his youngest daughter would need to come to the capitol - as a hostage, they had all assumed.
But almost immediately after the airship had touched down in the cold, brutal yet somehow majestic capital of Morkvald, Princess Eirene learned the truth. She was not here to be a hostage.
She was here to be a bride.
That had always been the plan, of course; there is little in the future of the youngest daughter of a king other than a political marriage, but Eirene had always expected, well, to marry a man, not an Empress. The next week remains a kaleidoscopic blur in her memory. Measured for a wedding dress. Instructed in the wedding customs of Morkvald. Pondering, at great length and great confusion, why on earth the Empress wanted a bride. Had she no desire for heirs?
Then the wedding had happened. And she had met her bride - her groom, it seemed - the tall, imposing Empress. She was not without beauty, but her beauty was like this land, cold and rugged and menacing. The ceremony had been brief. The banquet had not.
And now, her head buzzing from all of that strange honeyed wine they made her drink in multiple toasts, Eirene is being escorted into one of the palace wings where she's not yet been: The Empress' personal quarters.
To her wedding chamber.
