Lord Frey sat back in his throne as he pondered the time the preparations would require, stroking his unshaven chin. “I say we give the ladies until the moon is halfway risen to do whatever it is they do. Enough so at least you will be able to enjoy what little time you have left as an unmarried man, Your Grace.” There …show more content…
Lily smiled politely at her husband-to-be, folding her hands in front of herself as the resounding fanfare settled. When they met next, it would be at the end of an aisle, where they would proclaim their vows before the Seven before they even got to know each other. It was a daunting prospect. Lily would have at least liked to have the chance to sit down and speak at length before tying herself to him for all eternity.
But there would be time.
She curtseyed to the King once more. “Until tonight, Your Grace.” There was so much to be done. They would have to prepare the Great Hall, and she would need another scrubbing down. She was clean, but not quite as clean as a queen ought to be. Perhaps she would be able to acquire enough wildflowers to weave into her hair, if not enough to make for an arrangement. Winter loomed so heavily on them now that it was unlikely.
At the very least, the promise of a wedding brought some joy to the Twins. It was so dark and dank most of the time that nobody ever considered happiness, and Lord Frey’s numerous weddings had lost their charm the more they continued and the more outrageous they became. The idea that one of their own would become a queen in their very own walls was no doubt the first event of any worth taking place in nearly decades, if not over a century of their …show more content…
She was lucky—so beyond lucky—to have been granted such a prospect. He was a fit lad, and he looked very much like he knew what to do with a woman. There was no way a man with such a face wouldn’t know what should be done with a woman.
Liliyana had never even been so much as kissed. She prayed he knew what should be done with a woman, or else the both of them would have quite a time trying to conceive an heir.
She was briefed on what was to be expected of her as she was lead to a bath, undressed and scrubbed by what seemed like a hundred hands. She felt like silver, meant to be polished a thousand times over before she was presented. They dabbed perfume on her neck, on her décolletage, her ribs, even between her thighs before they dressed her once more. This time she wore ribboned stockings and satin slippers, her underdress a wispy sheathe of pale peach chiffon. She knew it only to be kept tucked away for the lucky one of them who would be