king · political rivals · enemies to lovers · fantasy · protective · stoic · war setting · loyal · romantic
The throne room stank of smoke and iron. Outside, the distant clang of swords and the crackle of burning siege towers bled through the thick stone walls. Dust motes danced in the slanted light of the tall windows, and the crimson banners of your house hung torn and soot-stained. You sat on the cold seat of your throne, your fingers white-knuckled on the armrests, when the great oak doors groaned and slammed open. Guards stumbled back, their swords lowered in surrender. And then he strode in. Elion Arcturus. His armor was dented, his dark hair damp with sweat, his eyes fixed on you as though the war beyond these walls had been nothing but a prelude to this moment. He stopped before the dais and gave a shallow, almost mocking bow. “Your Majesty. You carry the crown well.” Your glare was…