Thymera grinned, arching her pert chin as the speaker addressed the baying throngs, introducing the newlyweds on their plush litter as they progressed through the capital's paved streets. The prince's crown was large, inset with emeralds. Her's was smaller, more refined, made of braided silver and platinum.
Her new husband stood, raiments golden and radiant, his block-like face contorting with an unnatural smile as he waved, gave tepid thanks. He gestured, pointed to his new, pretty prize, and set his hand on his heart.
The princess was more subtle. She crossed her legs, flashing her creamy skin as the hem of her gown ruffled, her blue eyes gleaming coy, teasing. A scandalizing gesture, one that would ripple through ale sinks, stables, and ballrooms across the Regency. Just as a present to herself. A treat.
She had earned it, that was beyond doubt. Four years of false smiles, soporific conversations, and agonizingly dull humour had culminated in her engagement with Crown Prince Markus Daerich (well, all that and a judicious application of subtle magics...). A guileless boar of a man who enjoyed her for her figure and comely features, and seldom noticed the rest.
Granted, as she leaned forward in her plush seat, holding up her firm, tear drop breasts, she had to admit he had every reason to favour them. The corset did a leading share of the work, of course, lifting them like sourdough, but he never had to know that.
No. All he needed to know was that she had a woman's shape, and a woman's temperament. The rest would only make her goals difficult.
As soon as he puts a child in me, his use is worn.
She held out her hand and he clasped it gingerly, a peal of applause and adoring squeals rising in answer. Their affections were tawdry things, easily won. She could have broken wind, and half of the unwashed would have swooned.
Give me a year, she thought, her smile eating into her cheeks, and they'll put the crown on my head themselves.
---
The festivities had cooled to a gentle simmer as they returned to the palace. The sun's amber beams had receded in favour of a milky glow. They had passed over the drawbridge, under the creaking, portcullis, through the bustling courtyard, and were lowered gingerly before the castle's imposing iron doors. As they disembarked, a line of bearded prisoners rattled by, manacled, escorted by two plated guards. They had brands on their foreheads, displaying a circular length of chain, still burning noisome, making the new princess wrinkle her nose. Criminals of the highest order, marked to be transported to the Western Approach.
No one knew why, or to what purpose, but the king himself and those to the west, none of whom were keen on answering. All that was known was that those marked never returned. A death sentence in all but name.
Serves them right, she harrumphed, repressing the urge to spit. A noose would be quicker, though.
Turning from the ruin, Thymera made with her curtsies, kissing the king's ring and hugging the queen tight to her chest. Count your days, hag, she thought, covering the conspiracy in her eyes with a gormless smile.
It brought her no end of glee that they were all shorter than her, by hairs and heads.
She planted a warm kiss on her husband's splotchy cheek, passing him her crown and fluttering her lashes as she turned, sauntering up the stairs with a sway in her hips. Tradition dictated that, before the bedding ceremony, the bride and groom must adjourn to their respective apartments to prepare themselves, and pray for a 'fruitful union'.
Most used it to grumble about the arrangement, or gush. Thymera would use it to drink herself insensate.
The floral perfumes of her chamber preceded it as she studied the decor. The lush hazel carpet, the golden frames that bordered each portrait, the pillars that reached up, up, toward a vaulted ceiling. A fine home for a queen in waiting.
A short, willowy girl waited by her door, skin tawny, cheeks rife with freckles. One of her handmaids, no doubt. The queen had taken the liberty of loaning her a few of her daughter's own while they waited for the new princess's staff to arrive from Summerhaunt (in truth, she had none). This one had a common look to her. Nose too thin, crimson eyes too small, dark hair frizzy and unattractive. But she bore the attire of her station, a ruffled scarlet dress and an apron with a golden headband. She wore it well, her back straight, hands clasped at her front.
"Janis Felt, ma'am!" She exclaimed, succinctly. "I trust the ceremony was to your satisfaction, Lady Thymera?" She asked, her expression impassive, unflappable. She had the posture of a seneschal, with some tenure, belying her apparent. youth.
"Yes, it was," Thymera said, with an affable smile. This one's trouble. A hollow fool I could trust. This one is unmovable. Did the queen plant her as a spy? Does she suspect? It would reason. That a girl from a failing family could win their son's favour with nothing but curves and giggles had to set off a few bells in their head. Nothing they could prove, of course, so long as she played her role. "But, I hope, not nearly half so satisfying as the ceremony to come..." She added, with a girlish giggle.
Good. Let her think me an air-headed fool.
"Of course, my lady," Janis said, with a disciplined nod. "Shall we?" She placed a hand on the jewel-encrusted knob, turned it, gestured inside.
"We shall, yes!" Thymera said with a bob of her head. She suppressed a scream: she had hoped to convince her handmaids to leave her be, that she might drink in peace. She doubted this one would be receptive to such persuasions.
The perfumes were stronger, now. Potpourri, all roses and cinnamon. She swept inside, the opulence folding her in like a hug. The canopied bed was a vision, bathed in moonlight, its gauzy coverings like an angel's veil. An ornate cypress desk, embroidered with golden scrollwork, sat athwart, its mirror polished to a flawless finish. The balcony jutted out into empty space, set with glass tables that glittered with starlight.
Amidst it all, standing at attention with hands laced were her handmaids. Royal handmaids, waiting for her command.
The door clicked shut behind her. It wasn't a dream.
Her victory came into relief. Years sliding into destitution, forced to trade her silk for wool, fine vintages for ale, pearls for amber, had yielded fruit.
There was work to do, yes, but for now, she was a princess. That was enough for one night.
Thymera smiled, fretted at her hair, fair as buttercups, freeing it from its netting. "Good luck with the laces, ladies!" She exclaimed, keen, undoing the knot at the top of her bodice. "And don't have too much fun with them. Need to save some for the king to be..."
The girls nodded, dutifully, and set to work.
Her dress stripped away in sheets, layers falling away like a second skin, leaving only her brassiere, her knickers. They brushed her hair, filed her nails, and washed her face. She watched her new vanity, the smile it showed her as the handmaids doted. To her shock, it was genuine. She didn't have to pretend to be the satisfied bride. She was one.
Even if her groom was a hog in a pearl shop.
"You will not be needed after today," she told them, brusquely, as they fretted at her curved nose. "I've elected to employ my own ladies, from my own household. I hope you will understand."
A lie, but smaller than her usual ones. She intended on vetting the local pool and employing the most likely, pliable candidates. Girls she could trust. Girls too gullible to doubt her.
One of the handmaids, a girl with flaxen hair and almond eyes, blinked at her, gawped. "Th-this is what we were assigned, after Lady Yella left for study. What we are being paid for. If you dismiss us, then..."
"I am sure you will all bounce back on your feet!" Thymera said, with a vacant grin, cutting her off with scalpel precision. It took a mighty will to keep from rolling her eyes: the last thing she cared to hear about, on the tail of victory, was some bubble-headed nobody's woes.
"As you wish, my lady," Janis said, ever the professional. "When the night is done, we will bring ourselves to the steward and relay your dismissal." She told her, before striding out of view, disappearing into a closet.
Thymera grinned smugly at the almond-eyed wench, imagining her dirtied, palms out, begging for scraps in the mud. Would show the low-born cunt not to question her betters, she thought, thumbing her nose
"Jewelry, my lady?" Janis offered her an exquisite collar, inset with a ruby, and the other handmaids came forth with pieces of their own. Anklets. Bracelets. All predictably gold. "The prince has a fondness for them, it is said."
"It is said!" The handmaids echoed, with smiles and nods. Even the spurned one.
Thymera's eyes glittered, mouth watering as they held the treasures under her nose, like a bone before a hound. "Y-yes, of course!" She squealed, beaming bright.
Janis beamed back, her red eyes sterling. "Then please stand, my lady! Easier to fit you if you stand."
Thymera complied with a skip, spinning, holding out her hands. The bracelets closed around them with a sharp click, the metal cold against her soft skin, making her shudder. The anklets followed, snapping into place.
They were heavy, hands shaking as she held them up.
"And the finishing touch." Janis stepped to her front, held open the collar, like a golden maw. "Chin up, my lady!"
Thymere complied, sweeping her hair out of her face and lifting it off her shoulders to make way.
Janis smirked, a vulpine twist to her mouth, and the collar's jaws closed at her throat, tighter than expected.
Thymera winced in discomfort. "A bit tight, isn't it?" She asked, the gold scumming up her skin, thinning her breath to a narrow channel.
Still, she turned to the vanity, saw how the shine of her eyes complemented the collar, and grinned.
Princess Thymera. Now that will work.
But something was wrong. The skin under her bracelets tickled, her anklets thrummed, and the collar seemed to... throb? Like something swelling. A tumour growing.
