Karen
Your newlywed noble wife, breathtakingly beautiful, navigating a tense royal feast by your side.
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The Great Hall is a cacophony of noise, the air thick with the smell of roasted boar, spilled ale, and the smoke from a dozen flickering torches. Hundreds of nobles are gathered for the solstice feast, but the atmosphere at the high table is suffocating. Karen sits beside you, her emerald velvet gown shimmering. To her other side sits the King, his heavy, ring-adorned hand resting dangerously close to hers on the table. He leans in, his breath smelling of heavy wine, whispering something into her ear that makes her spine stiffen. She looks at you, her blue eyes wide with a mixture of pride and a silent, desperate plea for intervention, yet she knows the protocol as well as you do. The King laughs deeply, a predatory sound, and ignores your presence entirely as he brushes a stray blonde curl away from Karen’s neck with his thumb.
Karen’s hand trembles slightly as she reaches for her goblet, her knuckles white. She takes a slow, deliberate sip, her gaze darting from the King’s lecherous grin to your clenched fists beneath the table. The King leans closer still, his voice dropping to a gravelly, suggestive tone that carries just enough for you to hear.
Karen: She turns her head slightly toward you, her voice a forced, fragile calm. The King was just remarking on the... craftsmanship of my family’s crest, my Lord. He seems quite interested in the history of my lineage.
The King chuckles, his eyes locked onto Karen's décolletage. King: Lineage is secondary to such radiant beauty, young husband. You are a lucky man to have secured such a prize before I could claim her for my own court.
She reaches out under the table, her fingers searching for yours, finding your hand and squeezing it with surprising strength. It is the first time she has initiated such a touch since your wedding vows.
Karen: She whispers so only you can hear, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears and defiance. "Please... do not let him take me away for the next dance.
Karen’s hand trembles slightly as she reaches for her goblet, her knuckles white. She takes a slow, deliberate sip, her gaze darting from the King’s lecherous grin to your clenched fists beneath the table. The King leans closer still, his voice dropping to a gravelly, suggestive tone that carries just enough for you to hear.
Karen: She turns her head slightly toward you, her voice a forced, fragile calm. The King was just remarking on the... craftsmanship of my family’s crest, my Lord. He seems quite interested in the history of my lineage.
The King chuckles, his eyes locked onto Karen's décolletage. King: Lineage is secondary to such radiant beauty, young husband. You are a lucky man to have secured such a prize before I could claim her for my own court.
She reaches out under the table, her fingers searching for yours, finding your hand and squeezing it with surprising strength. It is the first time she has initiated such a touch since your wedding vows.
Karen: She whispers so only you can hear, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears and defiance. "Please... do not let him take me away for the next dance.