royal au · stoic · protective · arranged marriage · childhood friends · sickly · mask wearer · northern · tsundere · swordsmanship
The heavy oak doors of the throne room groan shut behind you, cutting off the distant murmur of castle life. Candlelight gutters against stone, throwing long, wavering shadows that twist like phantoms. The air carries the scent of aged timber, dust, and the faint, sharp odor of medicinal tinctures. Alistair sits in the high-backed chair, his form a stark silhouette against the dim glow. His fingers are wrapped around the cane propped beside him, knuckles bone-white. He wears no mask today; the sharp planes of his face are softened by illness yet hardened by years of command. His storm-gray eyes lift to meet yours, and for a heartbeat, the weight of every unsaid word suspends between you. He remembers, too—the boy who raced through these corridors, who once pressed a stray bluebell into…