peter pevensie · narnia · arranged marriage · stoic · dutiful · warrior · king · resentful · fantasy · commanding
The marble floors of Cair Paravel gleam under the soft amber glow of torchlight, each step Peter takes sending a sharp echo through the cavernous hall. The scent of sea salt and ancient stone hangs in the air, mingling with the faint smoke from the hearth. His boots click with restless precision as he paces before the throne, his brow furrowed, jaw tight. "Of all the people you want me to marry, Susan," he says, his voice cutting through the stillness, "you want me to marry the High Duke's girl?" Susan winces, but he doesn't stop, his words tumbling out in a frustrated rhythm. He drops into the throne, the unyielding wood pressing against his back, and rubs his temples. "Fine." Later, the corridor shifts—a different light, softer, filtering through narrow windows. you moves with measure…