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Chapter Text

It was a quiet morning in Camelot, or at least, as quiet as any morning could be when the castle kitchens were in uproar and servants bustled through the corridors with trays, candles, and thinly veiled panic.
In the Great Hall, a single scroll unrolled with a ceremonious crack, and a court servant began reading the daily announcements, his voice droning like a distant bee.
“Grain shipments from Wincott have been delayed. The outer eastern walls are scheduled for re-grouting—”
Arthur, crown prince of Camelot and recently self-declared master of enduring boredom, stood beside his father’s throne, arms crossed. He hadn’t been listening for a while, and no one blamed him. Uther was perched like a hawk on the gilded chair, expression carved from stone, while Arthur looked more like a restless hound.
“And lastly,” the servant continued, “the castle prepares to welcome ten esteemed princesses from noble houses across the realm, who will arrive at Camelot next week to be received by His Royal Highness Prince Arthur, as part of courtship proceedings arranged by His Majesty.”
Arthur blinked. Then straightened. “…What?” he said, sharply enough to make half the court flinch.
His voice echoed through the Great Hall, high-vaulted and stone-cold. It crackled in the air like a lightning strike, brittle with disbelief. Even the servant paused. Around them, the council stiffened, every neck turning toward Arthur like hounds scenting blood. The moment shivered with tension, not just because of the prince’s reaction, but because everyone knew, knew this had been planned for months and they were now facing the consequences.
“You heard him,” Uther replied, calm and immovable. “It is time you married.”
The Great Hall, in that moment, held its collective breath.
“I just returned from fighting bandits on the western border, and now I’m to entertain an army of powdered ladies waving their fans at me?” Arthur snapped. “I’m not a prize at a village fair!”
“Of course not,” Uther replied, already bored of the protest. “You’re the future king.” He rose from his throne and waved a hand to the servant who quickly followed, launching into details about foreign arrivals and bedding arrangements. Before the doors could fully close behind him, they opened again with a reluctant creak. Uther stepped back into the hall, his expression already laced with regret at having returned.
“And Morgana,” he said, barely glancing in her direction, “you’ll oversee the preparations. The castle mustn’t look like a training yard when the princesses arrive.”
Though sunlight streamed weakly through the stained-glass windows, it brought no warmth. The spring air hadn’t yet breached the castle’s thick, battle-scarred walls. It still felt like winter in here, war-winter. The heavy tapestries couldn’t hide the cracks. This wasn’t a hall that had seen celebration in years. There were no signs of a queen’s touch: no warmth, no life. Just echoing footsteps, smoke from torches, and the smell of old iron.
Uther gave Arthur another pointed look. “Make sure it feels like a place where a woman might want to live.”
Then, as if even that much emotional labour had drained him, he left again – this time for good.
Morgana sat alone on her wide throne, the only woman in a chamber of aging lords and stony silences. Her presence had always been a statement, a contradiction in a room shaped for men. She arched a perfectly shaped brow, amusement flickering behind her dark eyes.
"How generous of him," she murmured, the corner of her mouth twitching.
Though she made light of it, something in her shifted. Ten princesses, fluttering into Camelot in silks and perfume: company, conversation, laughter. For a moment, Morgana imagined it. A castle with women in its halls again, with warmth, colour. Not just steel and strategy and in every corridor. She leaned back in her seat, eyes drifting to the tapestries lining the hall. Even they looked worn. Everything here did.

The doors had barely closed behind the king when Arthur spun around. The council had remained — not by accident. They lingered like smoke after a fire, hoping their presence might soften the blow. Or at least contain the fallout.
Arthur stood motionless at first, then drew a sharp breath. His fingers dug into his arm as though holding himself together. His gaze flicked toward the council. Slowly, as if unwilling to betray just how rattled he was, he stepped forward. His knuckles whitened as his hand found the edge of the throne.
“You all knew this was going to happen?” Arthur’s voice cut through the silence, sharp with disbelief. His eyes scanned the room — but when they landed on Lancelot, they lingered a fraction too long.
Lancelot held his gaze only briefly before nodding, his eyes dropping in quiet apology. There was no excuse, and he didn’t offer one.
Arthur then turned, suddenly, to Merlin.
“You knew?” he demanded, voice sharper than he meant it to be. Anger covering something softer.
Merlin met his eyes and shook his head. “No,” he said quietly.
Arthur looked at him a moment longer (long enough to see it was true) and turned away again, the tension in his shoulders only barely easing.
“Of course he didn’t,” Lord Hargrave sneered from the back, venom coiled in every word. “The boy has your ear,” he muttered, dry as dust.
Arthur shot him a glare, but said nothing.
“We’ve tried before,” said Lord Elric, stepping in smoothly to fill the silence. “You’ve been... unmovable. The court can’t wait forever.”
Arthur clenched his jaw. That word — unmovable, like he was a problem to be pushed past.
“They’ll only stay a week or two,” offered Sir Leon, lying, while nervously scrutinising Arthur’s clenched jaw.
“It’s an excellent opportunity for diplomacy,” Morgana added with a faint smirk, lounging in her seat. “The Princess of Volturnia is very accomplished in embroidery and falconry.”
“I don’t care what she’s accomplished,” Arthur snapped. “I haven’t asked to marry anyone.”
“We’re aware,” muttered Gaius from a corner, not looking up from a scroll.
“This is not a request,” said Lord Elric, voice low. “It’s policy. Alliances, heirs, legacy.”
Arthur stood like a statue ready to break, not unmoving, but barely holding. His arms crossed so tightly they might splinter. A muscle jumped in his cheek. When he finally spoke, his voice was clipped, too tight in his throat.
“I know what it is,” Arthur shot back. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
In the shadows, Lord Melius shifted but stayed silent, lips pursed as though the entire exchange was beneath him. Beside him, Lord Hargrave was itching to complain, but even he knew better. The matter was already settled. The princesses were coming. The matches were being arranged. Whether Arthur liked it or not.
Arthur stood still, fists on his hips, shoulders rising with each breath. Then, abruptly, he turned away — fury still boiling, but now laced with something colder. Resentment.
“I’m speaking to my father,” he declared, already striding toward the door.
Morgana raised a brow. “Please do. He loves interruptions.”
Merlin, who’d been extremely still by the fireplace, sighed and followed him out.

Arthur stormed through the stone corridors, the clink of his boots echoing with purpose. Merlin trotted behind him like a reluctant shadow.
“Are we storming or striding?” Merlin asked. “Just so I know how fast to limp.”
Arthur didn’t answer. He pushed open the doors to the royal council chamber, where Uther sat reviewing maps and parchments, a goblet of watered wine by his hand and the look of someone deeply uninterested in whatever complaint was about to land at his feet.
“I’m not doing it,” Arthur announced.
“Yet,” Uther didn’t look up , “You will choose.”
“It’s madness,” Arthur snapped. “This whole charade—ten strangers shoved into the castle like a travelling show! What does that even prove?”
“That you are capable of choosing a queen,” Uther replied, still not meeting his son’s eyes. “Camelot cannot be ruled by bachelors and bloodshed forever..”
Arthur took a breath. “Father—”
Uther finally looked up, and there was frost in his gaze. “Must I repeat myself?”
Arthur opened his mouth to argue again, but Uther turned as if the matter was beneath him.
“Merlin,” he said, stopping beside the prince’s utterly unqualified manservant, “have a word with him.”
Merlin, who had spent the last half-hour trying to remain invisible by blending into the tapestry, looked up in horror.
“Me?”
“You’re the only one he listens to when he’s behaving like a child,” Uther said, already walking away again.
Merlin blinked. “I… thank you?”

Merlin followed Arthur in his chambers, where he began pacing again, and groaning.
“So,” Merlin said, ducking in. “Ten royal suitors. Lovely. What’ll you wear? Can I pick the boots?”
Arthur glared at him. “Don’t start.”
“I’m only saying,” Merlin continued, breezing in as if he didn’t fear royal wrath, “you could look at this as a diplomatic banquet. Like… courtly mingling. Strategic tea-sipping. You’re not being auctioned off, just, you know… politically admired.”
Arthur groaned and sat down, rubbing his temples.
“I’m not ready for this.”
“No one is,” Merlin said, sitting beside him. “But think of it as… meeting interesting people from powerful places. Allies, not wives. You won’t be forced to marry by Thursday, promise.”
Arthur gave him a look. “How do you always make the worst ideas sound reasonable?”
“Natural talent,” Merlin said with a smug little smile.
And for the first time that day, Arthur exhaled, not with relief, exactly, but with something close to surrender.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Tell the servants to prepare my schedule.”
“You want the velvet cloak or the brooding knight look?”
Arthur rolled his eyes, but didn't protest.

Chapter Text

Camelot had never looked so... pretty.
Where once the wind howled against stone and the smell of boiled cabbage lingered in the halls, now wildflowers bloomed in every windowsill, perfumed candles burned in ceramic dishes, and sunlight poured through polished windows like honey. Even the dust had been banished: scrubbed, swept, and chased out by an army of servants dressed in their very best. Cloaks had been mended. Hair had been oiled. Even the horses had been brushed until they shone like polished chestnuts and moonlight.
The transformation was so dramatic that Arthur, watching from a high balcony, felt like he’d woken up inside a bard’s romantic hallucination.
“If it didn’t mean I was about to be thrown to the noble wolves,” he muttered, “I might actually enjoy this.”
He looked down at the blooming courtyards, silk banners fluttering in the breeze, and the nervous energy that gripped the castle like a held breath. For a moment he wondered if this was the kind of beauty his mother had known. The sort of joy that had vanished with her. Maybe, if she had lived, the castle would’ve always been a little more like this, and he wouldn't be so terrified of marriage.
Then Merlin’s voice interrupted his thoughts like a rock to the head.
“Try not to look like you’ve been sentenced to death,” he said, appearing with a box of mysterious objects. “You’re supposed to be dazzling.”
Arthur turned. “What’s that?”
“Your face,” Merlin said brightly.
Arthur squinted at the array of powders, creams, and questionable brushes. “You’re not painting me.”
“It’s just a touch!” Merlin said, already poking at something rosy. “Uther said to do whatever it takes to make you look — his words — ‘not like you’ve been living in a forest.’”
“I was living in a forest,” Arthur said flatly.
“Exactly.”
Merlin held up a tiny mirror, then started checking all the containers like a surgeon preparing for battle. Just as Arthur was beginning to accept his fate, four servants entered, escorted by Morgana and Gaius, carrying a copper bathtub steaming with bubbles.
The scent hit him immediately: petals, lavender oil, and something vaguely citrusy that churned his stomach.
“Is this necessary?” he asked, already regretting it.
“Yes,” said three voices in unison: Gaius, Morgana, who were preparing Arthur’s clothes on his bed, and Merlin, who had rolled up his sleeves and was testing the water like a smug little toad.
Arthur stared. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Oh, not at all,” Merlin said, grinning. “It’s not every day I get to help turn a war-hardened prince into a walking invitation for diplomatic marriage.”
Arthur ducked behind the screen and began peeling off his clothes. “Can I have some privacy, or do I have to bathe in front of the entire kingdom?”
Morgana rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She waved the others out with imperial flair, leaving only Merlin and two maids behind.
The maids and Merlin began their work, while Arthur was being moved like his body didn’t even belong to him. They scrubbed his skin until it glowed, shaped his nails with quiet precision, and removed any ‘unnecessary’ facial hair. One maid held his head steady while the other trimmed his short beard and plucked his eyebrows. Merlin, meanwhile, worked soft cream through his hair like it was a royal heirloom.
Once he was dried, the oiling began: ylang ylang and lavender.
“To calm your nerves,” Merlin explained, massaging it into Arthur’s arms with way too much delight.
Arthur was muttering curses to the gods under his breath, hoping the goddess of marriage might be listening, and mercifully curse him with a life of eternal bachelorhood. He was now standing in the middle of his chambers in nothing but his underclothes. Merlin and the maids were deep in discussion over the clothes prepared on the bed, when they finally reached an agreement and turned toward him with theatrical purpose.
First came the shirt, a deep blue, soft as silk. Then the trousers, fitted and elegant. The jacket followed, embroidered with golden thread and flanked by twin dragons. A crimson cloak, the colour of Pendragons, was fastened at his shoulders. The crown was simple, refined, beautiful, but not gaudy.

Arthur looked like he was being offered poison when Merlin approached with the makeup containers.
“No.”
“Just the lips,” Merlin said, grinning. “All the best warriors wear it.”
“Name one.”
“Me,” Merlin said proudly, dabbing some strawberry-coloured cream on his own mouth.
Arthur sighed, long, loud, theatrical, but tilted his chin anyway. “Fine. But if anyone says anything, I’ll blame you.”
“They always do,” Merlin muttered, stepping closer.
He rested a gentle hand beneath Arthur’s chin to steady him, the pad of his thumb brushing the edge of Arthur’s jaw. With the other hand, he dipped into the little pot and brought the colour to Arthur’s mouth, tapping the colour with his annulary.
The moment Merlin’s fingers touched his lips (careful, warm, delicate) something shifted. Arthur stilled. Arthur was used to Merlin’s touch, being patched up, scrubbed clean, half-dragged to bed after long days. But this felt different, less familiar. He was aware of every inch of Merlin’s hand on his face, how gently he held him still.
When their eyes met Arthur dropped his to the ground; Merlin pretended not to notice and focused on the task with exaggerated seriousness, though the tips of his ears had gone pink.
“There,” he said finally, stepping back. “Perfect. Very kissable. The princesses will swoon.”
Arthur blinked.
Merlin turned, grabbing the cloak from a nearby chair. “Right. I’ll just... cloak.”
When Arthur finally stood before the mirror, he blinked.
He looked like, well, he didn’t quite look like himself. He looked like something out of a painting.
“I look ridiculous,” he muttered.
“You look beautiful,” said three voices in unison behind him, Merlin and the two maids were looking at him, satisfied with their work.
Arthur blushed before he could stop himself.

By evening, the castle no longer resembled a fortress at all. It was something out of a dream, or perhaps a nightmare. The largest hall had been repurposed into a grand ballroom and feast chamber, with rows of tables dressed in linen and covered in trays of delicacies from across the continent. Cooks from distant lands had arrived earlier in the week, bringing with them everything from Volturnia honey-cakes to the peppered rice of Zareen, the almond pastries of Ashalim, and coastal stews from the eastern isles. The air was a blur of languages, laughter, and the subtle panic of trying not to burn the court’s reputation to the ground.
Even the knights had been drafted into service, as if, now that there was no war, Arthur’s future had become everybody’s battlefield.
Sir Leon, the oldest of the lot, had been tasked with charming the visiting parents. Sir Gwaine had been assigned the equally dangerous job of ensuring the families were enjoying themselves. Sir Percival’s role was to ensure Gwaine didn’t make them enjoy themselves too much, and that not too much wine flowed before the first night was over. Sir Lancelot, the only one taking his job seriously, was making polite conversation with every servant within a five metres radius.
Uther, seated on his throne and wearing his full ceremonial crown, looked like a man both triumphant and quietly exhausted. He clutched his handkerchief, and when his body was gripped by the spasms of coughing, he took a sip from the cup before him.
Earlier that morning, he had summoned the servants and issued a challenge: “Whoever brings me the best gossip by sunrise gets a promotion.” He claimed it was to protect Arthur from being deceived, but truthfully, his greatest fear was that Arthur wouldn’t be interested in any of them.
The hall hushed as a trumpet sounded softly, and a herald stepped forward. “May I present…”
The doors opened, and the procession began.
“Princess Nyah of Dorlain.
Princess Amara of Tafari.
Princess Leila of the Norrhem.
Princess Elidia of Volturnia.
Princess Awen of Eire.
Princess Zahra of Ashalim.
Princess Saanvi of Zareen.
Princes Rin of Yunlan.
Princess Imani of Kalyaan.
And Princess Meilin of Lianhe.”
The princesses arrived in a blur, names were announced, countries he half-remembered from council maps, and yet it all passed like wind through battlements.
Arthur nodded when expected, smiled politely, and tried not to think about how bored he already felt. A voice in his ear (Merlin, of course) was whispering commentary, half amusement, half warning.
“Careful, that one’s could beat you with her sword.”
Arthur didn’t bother asking which.
Uther gave Arthur a barely perceptible nod before lifting his fork.
The feast had begun.

The princesses began to whisper, heads tilted close, their hands shielding their lips so their words wouldn't carry across the hall. But they didn’t need words. Their glances and barely contained smiles said enough: Prince Arthur was beautiful.
Arthur shifted in his seat; shoulders tense.
Uther looked at him and scoffed, catching the soft chorus of giggles from the princesses' table. “Anyone else in this castle would call themselves fortunate to be in your place. Every single one of them would marry those girls without question.”
“I’m not interested in looks alone,” Arthur muttered, eyes fixed on his untouched plate.
“Then go over there and start talking.”
“You didn’t prepare me for this part.”
Uther turned toward him, incredulous. “I didn’t think teaching you how to speak to girls was one of my duties. You were instructed to learn about them this week, you were given the notes.”
Arthur winced. “I discarded them.”
Uther rolled his eyes and rose to his feet, giving the signal that everyone was finally allowed to move about the hall—to mingle, to converse, to make themselves known beyond polite table talk. He gave a small nod to Merlin, who immediately approached Arthur.
“It’s your moment,” Merlin said, offering him a chalice of wine.
Arthur took it and inhaled deeply.
“May the gods be in your favour,” Merlin said.
“Do not leave me,” Arthur said sharply. “I can’t face them all by myself.”
“How is it,” Merlin began, raising a brow, “that you show no fear on the battlefield, dancing with death—and a couple of girls scare you?”
Arthur groaned, but stood anyway, stepping down from the dais and walking into the crowd. Within seconds, he felt himself swallowed by silk and perfume, a sea of beauty and ornamentation. The ten princesses turned to face him, all smiling.
His father had been right—they were all stunning, each in their own way. And they smelled incredible. He was suddenly grateful he’d been scrubbed down and scented before the feast; the last thing he wanted was to smell like a man fresh off a horse.
Their gowns were breathtaking: layers of silk, embroidery that shimmered in the candlelight, gems and pearls nestled in their hair like tiny stars. His own ceremonial garb, which he’d thought overly formal an hour ago, now felt plain in comparison, almost like the attire of a servant.
One of them drew his gaze more than the others: olive skin, warm eyes, and a golden hairpiece shaped like olive leaves twisted through her dark hair.
They were all smiling at him, gracious and expectant, and before Arthur could say a word, Merlin stepped forward and did what Arthur could not: he spoke.
He asked them about their journey, their impressions of Camelot, and joked that the castle had never looked this splendid. “Perhaps we should’ve started this ceremony long ago,” he said, grinning, “just for the décor.”
The princesses laughed. Arthur exhaled.
Merlin leaned in slightly as one princess approached, murmuring, “That’s Princess Amara of Haldora.”
Arthur gave a small nod, eyes flicking toward her as she walked toward him. He didn't remember her (he barely remembered any of them) but he wasn’t worried about it. That’s what Merlin was for.
Amara was not the most ornamented in the room—no dripping jewels, no exaggerated silks. But her butter-yellow gown brought out the deep warmth of her brown skin, and the fabric, soft and expertly cut, followed the generous curves of her figure like it had been made to honor them. She didn’t glide or flutter toward him like the others had. She simply walked, steady, upright, head high. A perfect performance for the onlookers.
Including her parents.
Arthur greeted her with a polite smile, the kind he had reserved for these sorts of things. “Princess Amara.”
She dipped her head with regal precision, though her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Prince Arthur.”
She wasn’t flirtatious. Didn’t giggle or reach for his arm. She didn’t need to. Confidence rolled off her, not born of charm, but disinterest. That, it turned out, could be just as magnetic. Arthur noticed that, at least.
Amara, meanwhile, gave him only half her attention. The rest remained trained on her parents across the room, catching their approving nods as she conversed with Camelot’s crown prince. That was the goal, the assignment. Nothing more. She asked Arthur a question or two—pleasant, proper—about the wine, the string quartet, how delightful the spiced cheese had been. He answered with just enough interest to be polite.
Soon enough, Amara’s eyes slid past his shoulder, spotting Nyah in the crowd. Her real reward for the evening.
“Excuse me,” she said, not waiting for his response before stepping away with graceful finality, fleeting to meet her friend.
Arthur watched her go, mildly impressed.
“Well,” he said quietly to Merlin. “At least that one didn’t try to serenade me.”

Arthur leaned back against the stone pillar, eyes scanning the room, watching the knights, who usually donned armor and swords, now twirling with the princesses in a dance. His arms were crossed; he observed in silence, his expression carefully neutral.
“When have they learned how to dance?” Arthur asked, trying to suppress a laugh in his teeth. His gaze shifted to Gwaine, whose wild movements had taken on an unexpectedly graceful turn.
Merlin, standing beside him with a knowing grin, raised an eyebrow. “The things they’d do for a girl, my lord,” he replied with a playful tone, glancing at Arthur out of the corner of his eye.
Arthur’s lips quirked slightly, but he quickly regained composure, the humor of the situation not enough to draw him out of his reserved shell. “Gwaine,” he muttered, shaking his head, “I would never have imagined him dancing.”
Merlin chuckled, his amusement more open than Arthur’s. “Well, you know what they say, love makes you do strange things.” He paused before adding, “And I think Gwaine’s just found his true calling.”
Arthur shot Merlin a sidelong glance. “You think he’ll keep this up once the dance is over?”
Merlin’s grin widened. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he starts practicing in the barracks. Just wait.”
Arthur shook his head, the corners of his lips twitching again in an almost-smile. “That, I’d like to see.”
Merlin noticed the subtle change in his demeanor and leaned in. “You know, Uther would have liked to see you dance with some of them.” Merlin’s voice was light, but the words carried a touch of wistfulness. “Maybe even all of them, in a group dance. It’s typical at feasts like this.”
Arthur’s brow furrowed slightly as he continued watching the knights, the idea of his father’s wishes lingering in the air. The thought was both foreign and unsettling to him, but he dismissed it almost instantly. “Not tonight,” he said, his voice firm, but carrying a quiet finality. He was already feeling the weight of the evening’s festivities, the endless smiles, the social expectations.
There was a long pause before Arthur finally broke it. He turned slightly toward Merlin, who had been watching him with an almost knowing look in his eyes. “It’s late,” Arthur murmured. “I’ll retire to my room.”
Merlin hesitated for a moment, clearly about to offer some gentle protest. “You should—”
“My father has gone to bed,” Arthur cut him off, a little sharper than he intended, but his tone softened immediately afterward. “Means I’m free to go.”
Merlin opened his mouth, then closed it again. He nodded, and followed him through the crowd.

Arthur’s room was quiet now, save for the faint sounds of laughter and music that still echoed from distant chambers. But as Arthur entered, the silence felt immediate, pressing in on him. The low hum of the banquet was still in his ears, a ringing echo that clung to him like smoke after a fire. It was the same feeling one had after leaving a crowded hall or a noisy tavern, only this was a quieter, cold and empty, rather than warm and hazy.
He’d done his best to speak to them all, favouring no one, clinging to the scraps of information that had been thrown at him over the past week. He’d been trained (somewhat) to make polite conversation, to walk, to dance, to move with grace. But he still felt like a heart torn straight from the chest, slick with blood and still twitching, laid bare in the centre of the room for everyone to prod with jewelled fingers and decide if it was worthy of love.
In these long seven days, he had learned more about what he didn’t know than anything else. He knew nothing of diplomacy, nothing of courtly games. He had grown up in a Camelot on the edge of war: divided, unstable, poor. Strategy and swordplay were his languages, not etiquette or flirtation. The treaty his father had recently signed with the surrounding kingdoms had brought peace and prosperity, but to Arthur, peace was a foreign country.
He didn’t know how to live without an imminent threat pressing in on all sides. He didn’t know what it meant to not be surviving.
And now he was expected not just to thrive, but to charm. To court. To choose.
Training to become a husband, he realised, was far more complicated than training to be a knight, a prince, or even a king. In matters of war, he had his code, his council, his knights—he was never truly alone, even when the weight of leadership rested on his shoulders.
But a wife? Love? That was a campaign no one could plan for. There was no strategy to rely on, no battle formations to fall into. He couldn’t bring his knights into a courtship. Only Merlin was permitted to follow him through the next few days, as he entertained each princess in private. And even Merlin, ever present and ever loyal, was only allowed to observe, silent and unseen.
Marriage, he realised bitterly, felt far lonelier than war.

Chapter Text

The council had gathered in the smaller chamber reserved for extraordinary matters, this one called not by the king, but by Morgana. A council for marriage, she had declared, and so it would be run by her rules. Arthur, of course, had refused to attend. Merlin was there in his place, slouched and watchful by the hearth, while Gwen kept to the wall, quiet as ever.
“There are too many men here,” Morgana muttered, surveying the long table with a bored expression. “And not one of them knows anything about marriage.”
She turned to Gwen. “You’ve seen more of love and heartbreak in this castle than any of them. Speak, if you have something worth saying.”
Gwen blinked, unsure, but inclined her head. A few heads turned toward Uther. He scowled, bringing a handkerchief to his mouth as a wracking cough shook his chest. When he lowered it, his voice was hoarse but sharp. “Servants do not advise the council.”
“Good thing this isn’t your council, Uther,” Morgana replied calmly, eyes never leaving the documents spread before her.
She gestured without looking. “Merlin, I trust your instincts more than most of this room. If you’ve got thoughts, keep them ready.”
Merlin shifted, then nodded once. No seat was offered, but he moved closer to the table.
Morgana tapped the name at the top of the parchment. “The first will be Princess Zahra of Ashalim. Let’s begin.”

Morgana began reading from her notes. “She is the oldest of the lot, which gives her an advantage. She knows how these matters go. My hope is that she’ll make Arthur feel at ease. I spoke with her last night, she’s very pleasant, and conversation flows easily with her. Arthur shouldn’t have too many problems.”
“My worry is she may be too old. Why hasn’t she married yet?” asked Lord Hargrave, one of Uther’s oldest councillors. Morgana had never liked him: stern, rigid, and always ready to pass judgment. Zahra was Morgana’s age, and he’d been trying to marry her off for years.
“I already asked her that, Lord Hargrave,” Morgana replied coolly. “She believes marriage shouldn’t be rushed. She’s weighing her options. Her family agreed to consider Arthur, but she has others, perhaps even better. Believe me, Arthur would be lucky if she chooses him.”
“It is not her place to choose,” Lord Hargrave snapped. “That decision lies with Arthur and her father.”
“Not in her case, my Lord,” Morgana said, voice tightening. “She and her mother are seasoned in matters of court and marriage. Everyone in their family has married well. Zahra holds more power in her house than you think. She isn’t some puppet waiting for orders, she’s the one pulling the strings.”
She lowered the parchment, eyes thoughtful, and murmured mostly to herself, “I’d love to pick her expert brain on all this.”

The morning of the first date, Arthur found Merlin in his room, elbow-deep in a tray of teacups and bread.
“You have a way with girls,” Arthur muttered, arms crossed. “What do you even talk to them about?”
Merlin blinked up at him. “Are you complimenting me?”
“No. I’m pointing out you’re closer to a girl than a boy should be.”
“Still feels like a compliment,” Merlin said, unfazed. “Better than being such a prat.”
Arthur sighed, looking like a man preparing for execution.
Merlin sat across from him, resting his chin in his hand. “Try asking what they actually like to do. You know, hobbies: embroidery, riding, swordplay—”
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
“You never know,” Merlin shrugged. “Maybe one of them has a better swing than you.”
Arthur glared.
“Ask about books. Music. If they dance. If they like to read. If they want to rule, or if they’re just here because someone told them to be.”
Arthur stayed quiet, mulling it over.
“Talk to them like people, Arthur,” Merlin said more gently. “Just… girls. With lives.”
Arthur stood, adjusting his cuffs. “You’re unbearable when you’re right.”
Merlin grinned. “You’ll survive. Maybe.”

***

Princess Zahra of Ashalim

The morning was still young when they left the castle. Sunlight poured through the canopy of tall trees, glinting off the silver undersides of the white poplars’ leaves, and whispering with the breeze.
Arthur rode ahead with the princess at his side, their horses’ hooves muffled by the soft earth of the woodland path. Behind them, at a respectable distance, Merlin followed. His figure was a constant in the corner of Arthur’s eye, a tether to something familiar. He wasn’t supposed to interfere, and Arthur knew that. But still he glanced back more than once.
The garden outside the castle walls was not manicured or curated like the palace grounds. It was a pocket of soft and lush wildflowers, and edged by a clear lake where dragonflies hovered just above the water. Bees, beetles, and butterflies drifted lazily between petals.
A linen blanket had been laid out for them beneath the shade. It was covered with delicate things: silver cups, a jug of wine, a pot of tea, bread and cheese wrapped in waxed cloth, bright fruit resting in a wide shallow bowl. Zahra dismounted with practiced ease, though she leaned on a cane as her boots touched the soft earth. The cane, dark wood inlaid with delicate patterns (hand-carved intarsia that spiraled like vines) caught the sunlight on its golden fittings. She walked slowly but steadily toward the blanket, the cane sinking slightly into the mossy ground with each step. The princess knelt gracefully at the edge of the blanket, smoothing her skirt. Arthur hesitated, then followed, sitting far too stiffly, his sword at his hip like an old habit he didn’t know how to put down.
They ate in silence at first, the quiet filled with birdsong.
Arthur’s gaze lingered on the cane. Zahra noticed, and hid a smile behind her cup.
“It helps,” she said simply. “I get pain in my belly. Low on the right side, near the womb, especially around my bleeding days.”
Arthur blinked. The admission startled him—not in a scandalised way, but in the way people are startled by honesty when they don’t expect it. Pain was not something he was used to naming out loud, let alone hearing spoken of so plainly. He nodded, unsure what to say, but Zahra was already pouring the tea, like she’d only commented on the weather.
“You seem tense,” she said, tilting her head.
Arthur almost choked on his breath. “No—I just—no. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted, to the fruit, or maybe the grass. “This is not what I trained for.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were trained for everything.”
“Not this,” he muttered. “No one teaches you how to be... charming.”
Her laughter was low and warm. “Charming is highly overrated. But horses aren’t. I liked the ride. Do you ride often?”
He nodded. “Every day.”
“So do I. And I train with a sword.”
Arthur blinked. “You, really?”
“Where I’m from,” she said, plucking a grape from the bunch, “we learn battle if we have the heart for it. Doesn’t matter if we wear silk or leather.”
Arthur looked her over, taking in the jewelled olive leaves woven into her hair, the embroidered hem of her dress, the way she looked so entirely... put-together. “You don’t look like someone who knows how to use a sword.”
She smiled sharply. “Neither do you. Not with those sleeves and that perfume. And your lips the colour of cherries.”
He stared at her, somewhere between mortified and utterly impressed.
She leaned back on her hands, gazing at the water. “You think this is a game. Or worse, something beneath you. But marriages like this? They keep kingdoms from burning. That makes them just as serious as war. Maybe more.”
Arthur was quiet.
She poured tea into her cup, then sat back, watching him with a small, knowing smile. "This isn't the first time I've attempted this game," she said casually, her fingers tracing the rim of the cup. "Most men think marriage is some kind of... womanly concern. A matter that should never interest them. But women? We’re the ones who weave the fabric of our families. In many ways, our power in marriage is far stronger than the power men wield in battle."
Arthur blinked, processing her words. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, not sure how to respond.
"My family," he finally said, lowering his gaze to his own hands, "is small. My father is alone in this." He hesitated. "Uther is not pushing Morgana to marry, and she hasn’t shown much interest in finding a husband."
She nodded, her smile softening into something more thoughtful. "I understand. Your kingdom has been plagued by too much conflict for too long. But you’ll learn, Arthur. You’ll learn how to take care of all the mundane things: court politics, the game of marriage. It’s all part of ruling."
Arthur nodded silently, feeling the weight of her words. The thought of dealing with these endless intricacies of diplomacy, alliances, and expectations made his stomach tighten. It was all so far removed from the straightforwardness of war. Here, nothing felt clear. Everything was tangled up in gestures, words, and what wasn’t said.
He paused, his mind turning the conversation over, then decided to ask something that had been bugging him since he first met the princesses. "Did you come here of your own accord? Or was it your family’s decision?"
She raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by his question. "Why do you ask?"
"You just seem... so comfortable with this," he said, gesturing vaguely to the picnic and the easy way she had settled into the role of princess. "Like it’s not some foreign idea or a forced choice."
She smiled, a little wickedly. "Oh, I’m ready to marry. But I’m simply exploring my options. The only stake for me in this entire thing is the chance to meet pretty boys while traveling to foreign lands."
Arthur laughed, unexpectedly. "That’s all?" he teased, a little more at ease.
"Pretty boys, good wine, and even better company," she said with a wink, her eyes dancing with mischief. "That’s my only concern. The rest is all just politics, after all."
Arthur’s chest tightened with something he couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t jealousy, exactly, but the notion that everything she was so casual about was the very thing that had been drilled into him as a sacred duty. She was right, of course. He wasn’t the one doing the weaving. He wasn’t the one who stood at the centre of a family’s future, pulling strings.
"Must be nice," he muttered under his breath, his thoughts wandering.
She didn’t seem to mind. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, looking at him with an easy confidence. "So, tell me, Arthur—" her voice took on a more playful tone, "what would you do if you had to choose right now? Would you marry a pretty princess for love, or would you be looking for someone who fits the political needs of Camelot?"
Arthur froze for a moment, not expecting the question. The ease with which she asked it felt so out of place compared to his usual life of battles and royal decrees.
"Right now?" He echoed. "I would probably choose the one who doesn’t want to kill me."
She laughed again, bright and unburdened, a sound that broke through the tension in his chest. Arthur smiled despite himself.

***

Princess Leila of Norrhem

“Oh, riding isn’t my favourite thing,” Leila said as Arthur helped her down from the saddle, her voice light but fatigued. “The journey here was harsh and long.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Arthur replied, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “How far did you travel?”
“A month. Such a long time. I’m not super fond of nature, insects especially. They always find a way to crawl everywhere.” She gave a shiver and swatted the air, though nothing buzzed nearby.
Arthur gave a polite, noncommittal smile. He wasn’t exactly offended—most people didn’t like crawling things—but her voice had a sharp edge that grated. He glanced back toward the woods, where Merlin was trailing behind, half-lost in his own thoughts.
He remembered once, years ago during a scouting mission in the south.
“You have a huge bee on your knee,” Arthur had warned Merlin, voice sharp with alarm.
Merlin had looked down, unfazed. “Oh, she must’ve thought I was a flower,” he said, tugging at his magenta shirt with a smirk. “They search by colour, you know.”
Arthur had always been braver than Merlin, except when it came to insects. Once, a spider had crawled across Arthur’s face as they hid from enemies between shrubs. Arthur had panicked, frozen. Merlin, calmly, took it in his fingers and moved it to a leaf.
“You’re so used to that giant castle,” Merlin had teased him later. “You forget nature is part of you, that you’re part of her.”
Arthur always forgot Merlin didn’t have the privilege to be afraid of insects. In Ealdor, he’d slept on the ground. One had to learn to coexist with natural things.

Back in the present, Leila was still talking.
“I once had ants in my hair,” she said with a laugh. “We were afraid they’d have to cut it all.”
Arthur chuckled politely.
“Can you imagine?” she said with a smile, touching her long blonde hair. “Coming to the prince of Camelot with a shaved head?”
Arthur smiled, but didn’t laugh.
“We don’t have many insects back home. It’s cold most of the year there. It would be such a change to live here,” she added thoughtfully.
He smiled back, but her words struck something deeper. She wasn’t just here to meet him, she was facing a future where everything would change: her home, her people, her place. It wasn’t just a date; it was a decision to leave behind a life.
Arthur disliked the pressure to marry, but the thought of leaving Camelot altogether? That felt unthinkable.
“Do you see yourself living here?” he asked as they settled on the linen blanket, their picnic set out like all the others.
“Well… maybe,” she said, hesitant.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Sorry, my lord.” She adjusted quickly, remembering her role. “I would love to move here.”
“No, please; tell me the truth,” Arthur said, more earnestly than intended. “I want to know what you really think.”
“It’s… different from home,” she said carefully. “I suppose I’m used to a certain rhythm. Things work differently in the North.”
“In what way?”
She hesitated, choosing her words. “The way the household runs, for one. The staff. It’s more… streamlined, I suppose. I imagine it’s a challenge here, without a queen to manage those things.”
Arthur tilted his head slightly, hearing the undertone. It wasn’t insulting exactly, but it wasn’t a compliment either.
She poured herself some wine, then glanced toward Merlin, who stood by a tree nearby, pretending not to listen.
“And your servant,” she added, lowering her voice slightly. “I noticed he doesn’t quite follow etiquette.”
Arthur looked up. “What do you mean?”
“He doesn’t bow when you approach. He rarely says ‘my lord.’ And I saw him speak to you as if you were equals—my lady-in-waiting was shocked. That would never be allowed where I’m from.”
“You’re not allowed to have friends?” Arthur asked, forgetting for a moment to sound polite.
Leila looked mildly taken aback. “That’s not what I meant. I’m friendly with my maid, of course. But she can’t be my friend. Not in public. Your people need to see you in a certain way. There’s order in that.”
Arthur said nothing. Merlin still stood by the tree, eyes turned away, as if he hadn't heard. But Arthur knew he had.

Chapter Text

Lunch was served on the balcony, sunlight spilling over the stone balustrade. It was an unusually warm April (Camelot hadn’t seen a spring like this in years) and the early sun was too inviting to ignore. Morgana had insisted they have lunch somewhere quiet—just the royal family, and the two most trusted servants.
The table was laid simply. Gwen stood beside Morgana, smiling politely, while Merlin poured water into silver goblets, hovering at Arthur’s side as always.
“So,” Morgana said, eyeing the food set on the table, fresh bread, herb-stuffed pastries, lentil stew, and grilled root vegetables glazed with honey and rosemary, not knowing where to start. “How are the dates going, dear brother?”
Arthur sighed, dramatically and on purpose. “Let’s not.”
“You’ve been through five of them now,” she pressed. “Halfway. You must have some thoughts.”
Arthur busied himself with his bread.
Uther raised an eyebrow. “You’ll need to offer more than shrugs and grunts when it’s time to make a choice.”
Arthur muttered something unintelligible into his cup.
Morgana turned to Merlin instead. “Fine. Merlin, you’ve been there, haven’t you? What’s your impression?”
Merlin glanced at Arthur, who shrugged and waved him on.
“Well,” Merlin began, clearing his throat, “Princess Elidia talks a lot. She’s kind, though. She said she'd miss the food back home. There’s more variety there: fruits, fresh grains. She’s from a very fertile region. Lots of foods.”
“And the next?” Morgana asked.
“Princess Saanvi brought tea,” Merlin said, warming to the task. “Arthur drank three cups, I counted.”
Arthur nodded grudgingly.
“She’s got a good sense of humour, very forward. She brought her dog with her to the picnic, huge thing. Listens to her better than most knights listen to you,” he added with a grin.
Morgana laughed.
“And Awen?”
“She paints,” Merlin said, gentler now. “Quiet, shy. She flushed red just because Arthur asked her what kind of paint she uses. The date was… sweet, but not very talkative.”
Morgana sipped from her cup and leaned slightly forward. “What about Princess Zahra?” she asked, a little too casually, though everyone at the table knew she had a soft spot for the poised, silver-tongued noblewoman. Zahra was older than Arthur by two years, and it showed—in her confidence, her grace, the way she had navigated the entire affair with practiced charm.
Merlin smiled “She was the first to break the ice,” he said. “She makes conversation easy, really knows how to read a room.” He glanced at Arthur, who didn’t protest. “You can tell she’s done this sort of thing before.”
Morgana leaned back, satisfied. “And Leila?”
Arthur made a noise.
“Merlin?”
“She’s… precise,” Merlin said carefully. “Noticed every detail”. And then, got closer to Morgana and whispered: “Including how I don’t bow when I speak to Arthur.”
Uther frowned.
Morgana narrowed her eyes. “Ah.”
“I think she’d like things to run her way,” Merlin added, meeting Arthur’s eyes. “She’s not used to, um… flexibility.”
Uther motioned for Gwen and Merlin to leave them. Gwen gave Arthur a supportive glance before following Merlin out.
The door shut behind them.
Arthur leaned forward at once. “She would dismiss him.”
Uther blinked. “What?”
“Leila,” Arthur snapped. “She practically said so. She thinks it’s inappropriate I treat Merlin like a person and not like a tool.”
“It’s not uncommon,” Uther said calmly. “A queen oversees the household. The servants are part of that.”
“So she’d have the right to dismiss him?” Arthur’s voice rose.
“She wouldn’t need your permission,” Uther replied. “That is tradition.”
“Then I’d never marry her,” Arthur said flatly.
Uther’s jaw tensed. “I’m doing you a favour, boy. You think this is a game? I could choose for you and be done with it.”
Arthur looked away.
Morgana placed her fork down, her voice sharp. “That’s enough. Both of you.”
She turned to Arthur. “You don’t have to choose today, but you do have to start thinking properly. Write a list. Order them, favourite to least. You may change your mind later, but for now, you’ll remember where you stand.”
Arthur groaned. “It’s starting to feel more like buying a horse than finding love.”
“Well,” Morgana said, raising a brow, “at least you’d know the horse wouldn’t try to run your castle for you.”

The same evening, Merlin found Arthur lying on his bed, arms sprawled above his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Something bothering you?” Merlin asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
Arthur exhaled loudly, like he’d been holding it in all day. “I’ve just begun and I’m already tired. Training with a sword is less exhausting, I promise.”
Merlin glanced at the state of the room (clothes everywhere, boots kicked off in different corners) and started picking things up, folding what was clean enough to be salvaged and setting the rest aside.
“I have to start preparing you for the banquet,” he said, straightening the ceremonial shirt from the first feast, now freshly washed and laid out neatly on the bed.
“Another one?” Arthur groaned.
“Apparently so,” Merlin replied, dusting off the matching trousers. “You have to bathe.”
“Maybe if I didn’t, they’d all run away.”
“Uther would still find a way for one of them to marry you,” Merlin said, walking over with the clean clothes.
“I know,” Arthur muttered, finally sitting up, letting Merlin ease the tunic over his head.
“I’m enjoying their company,” Merlin added, his fingers brushing against Arthur’s arm as he helped him undress. “Their food is amazing.”
“For that I agree. Saanvi’s tea? Wow” Arthur admitted.
Merlin smiled as he pulled the undershirt free, slow and unhurried, but gave a lopsided smile. “I still didn’t try it. Someone finished it before I could.”
Arthur laughed, a real one.
Merlin didn’t say much after that. He simply kept working, tugging off Arthur’s boots, brushing his fingers lightly over Arthur’s shoulders to guide him to stand. His touch wasn’t clinical, but quiet, thoughtful.
He fetched the towel, laying it out by the tub, then turned back to look at him. “Water’s warm. I added that lavender stuff Gaius gave me.”
Arthur gave a little grunt of acknowledgement but didn’t move at first.
Merlin crossed the room again and, without thinking, passed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, stroking his nape. “You’ll feel better after,” he said softly.
Arthur looked at him (half amused, half something else) and Merlin just gave him a small smile.
Arthur sank into the warm water with a sigh, the steam curling around his shoulders, rising in soft whorls toward the stone ceiling. His eyes were half-lidded, arms resting on either side of the tub.
“Amara left this for you,” he said, holding a cream coloured woven square, soft but textured. “She says your skin will be smooth as riverstone after.”
Arthur cracked one eye open. “Does it work?”
Merlin dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it out, and began scrubbing Arthur’s arm with practiced ease. “She claims it does. And considering how smug she looked, I’d say she’s confident.”
Arthur let out a soft grunt, but didn’t pull away. Merlin moved to his shoulders, then down his back, using slow, firm strokes. The cloth was rough enough to do its job, but not unpleasant.
Arthur shifted slightly, relaxing further under Merlin’s hands.
“That’s... oddly nice,” he muttered.
Merlin snorted. “That’s because you usually scrub yourself like you’re cleaning armour.”
He moved lower, brushing down his legs with the same even pressure, rinsing the cloth as he went. The scent of soap and warm water filled the air. Arthur blinked slowly, surprised by how soft his skin already felt.
“Don’t get used to this,” Merlin warned, rinsing the cloth again.
Arthur smirked, eyes still half-closed. “You’re just jealous you didn’t get one.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow. “She gave me one too. I just don’t need someone else to use it for me.”
Arthur’s grin tugged lazily at his mouth, but he didn’t argue. He leaned back into the water, letting Merlin’s hands move over his skin, content—for once—to let someone else take care of him.

When he was done, Merlin leaned his head in the side of the tub, and as he stirred the water with one hand, he said, almost absentmindedly, “Do you have a headache?”
Arthur sank into the water slowly, the heat drawing a sigh from his chest.
“A bit” he said under his breath.
Arthur leaned his head back against the tub’s edge with a soft sigh. Merlin, crouched by the side, stirred the water again, checking the temperature one last time.
“I brought the balm,” Merlin said, standing and crossing to the small shelf where a little clay pot waited. “The mint one you like. It’s not strong, but it should help.”
Arthur made a quiet, appreciative noise. “And tea?”
It was an unspoken ritual by now: balm and tea, Merlin’s usual answer whenever one of Arthur’s headaches crept in.
Merlin didn’t reply right away. He’d already dabbed a bit of the balm onto his fingers and leaned in, massaging it gently into Arthur’s temples. His touch was practiced, familiar, a comfort in its own right. Arthur let his eyes drift shut, sinking into the rare, quiet ease of it.
“I’ll go fetch some,” Merlin said, brushing a thumb behind Arthur’s ear before pulling away.
“Ask Saanvi’s cook,” Arthur added, eyes still closed. “So you can try it too.”
By the time Merlin returned, two small fuming mugs in hand, Arthur was still in the tub, half-drowsy in the warmth. He accepted the tea without a word, and Merlin sat on the edge of the bench nearby, catching the scent, sharp, earthy, unfamiliar. He smiled faintly. “Smells promising.”
Then, in the low hush and comfort, Arthur said, “I’m not even married yet and it already feels like too much compromise. There’s too much to think about. And it’s so lonely.”
“Arthur, everyone is offering to help you, but you’re ignoring them. Morgana organised a council just for you and you didn’t even show up.”
Arthur opened one eye. “Can’t they just marry her off and leave me alone?”
Merlin stared at him. “Think about what you’re saying.”
Arthur huffed, sinking deeper into the water. “Don’t act like this isn’t difficult. I don’t even know what I want.”
“You behave as if marriage is some kind of torture thrust upon you,” Merlin said, softly but firmly. “Marriage is fun for kings and princes. Princesses, on the other hand – ”
Arthur turned his head toward him. “How do you mean? This is horror for me—”
Merlin cut him off, voice calm but pointed. “Princesses need to be in their best behaviour, look as pleasant as possible, compete with each other so that a bored prince decides they’re pretty enough, or their family’s powerful enough. You’re not judged for anything. You just need to choose, while they’re being auctioned off to another family.”
Arthur looked away, jaw tightening. Water lapped gently against the sides of the tub. Merlin didn’t say anything else, just reached for a towel and began to fold it neatly, letting the quiet speak for itself.

The great hall looked softer by candlelight. With the sun gone, the day’s heat had finally eased, and windows had been flung open to let in the cool April breeze. The long tables weren’t formal tonight, no strict seating chart, no ceremonial fanfare. Servants carried in food on wide platters: roasted mushrooms with herbs, barley and pomegranate salad, baked cheese with spiced honey, and a tower of early spring fruit glistening under the torchlight.
Laughter hummed low under the vaulted ceiling. The princesses, now a week into their stay at Camelot, moved more easily through the room, no longer guests tiptoeing in a stranger’s court, but figures slipping into rhythm with the castle.
Zahra stood by the window, her goblet tilted lazily in one hand, watching the way the candlelight glinted off the rim. She didn’t startle when Morgana appeared at her side.
“Enjoying yourself?” Morgana asked, voice light.
Zahra gave her a sideways glance. “More than I expected. The food’s good, the company better. Though I’ll admit I miss the wine back home.”
“I’ll have some brought to your rooms tomorrow,” Morgana said easily. “I still have a bottle from Wadi Sufan.”
Zahra smiled at that. “Thoughtful of you.”
They stood for a moment in silence, watching the others. Across the hall, Arthur was cornered by Gwaine and Leon, both clearly amused by something. Elyan sat nearby, polishing off a second helping of roast potatoes. Merlin hovered with a tray of cups, Gwen beside him, helping him pass them out. There was a kind of ease in the air that hadn’t been present at the first banquet. The edges were softening.
“I wanted to ask you something,” Morgana said, her voice lower now. “About Arthur.”
Zahra arched an eyebrow. “You’re not going to ask if I’ve fallen madly in love with him, are you?”
“Not quite,” Morgana said dryly. “But you’ve spent time with him. You’re perceptive. What do you think?”
Zahra took a sip of wine before answering. “He’s charming,” she said, honestly. “He’s kind in a quiet way. Smarter than people give him credit for, I think. And brave. But…” She tilted her head, choosing her words. “He’s not ready.”
“Because he’s young?” Morgana asked, though she already knew it wasn’t that.
Zahra shook her head. “Not because of his age. Because he’s still learning how to hold power without gripping it too tightly. And because he hasn’t decided who he is without his father in the room.” She turned to look Morgana in the eye. “That could change. I’m not dismissing the idea. I just… I’d want to be certain before stepping into something that binds me to this place forever.”
Morgana tilted her head. “And if you don’t end up marrying him? Will you help me make sure whoever he does marry isn’t a complete disaster?”
Zahra laughed softly. “Deal.”
“I knew I liked you,” Morgana said, smiling.
There was a beat of companionable silence before Zahra gave her a sideways glance. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m horribly curious. Everyone whispers about how you’re still unmarried, may I ask why? A pretty one like you, still haunting these halls?”
Morgana arched an eyebrow. “Haunting, am I?”
“Well, you must know how delightful it is to run your own household. You’ll lose that the moment Arthur picks someone.”
“I know,” Morgana said, voice warm but calm. “But that feels like a problem for another day. I don’t want to leave home just to follow someone I barely know. Arthur complains too much, but... I understand him.”
Zahra chuckled. “Arthur wouldn’t have to move. He wouldn’t have it very difficult.”
Morgana raised an eyebrow. “You mean he gets you and doesn’t even have to pack a bag? That’s convenient.”

Across the room, Arthur was slumped in his chair, halfway through a goblet of something stronger than usual. Gwaine leaned in with a grin too wide to be innocent.
“So,” he said, “how’s the hardest job in Camelot going?”
Arthur blinked. “What?”
“Being the kingdom’s most eligible bachelor. Must be exhausting, having to court the most beautiful women in the realm while wearing clean shirts.”
Leon laughed. “He’s probably sore from lifting all those goblets of imported wine.”
“Tragic,” Elyan added, mock serious. “Do you need a squire to carry your picnic blanket?”
“I have a squire,” Arthur said flatly, nodding toward Merlin, who was glaring at Gwaine while setting down more wine.
“Sorry,” Gwaine said with exaggerated sincerity, cutting in. “Didn’t mean to imply Merlin is replaceable.”
“Thank you,” Merlin muttered.
“No,” Gwaine continued, “only that he’s too close to the action. He knows all the secrets. Like which princess actually likes you, and which one’s just here for the embroidery competitions.”
Arthur threw a piece of bread at him. Gwaine caught it mid-air, triumphant.
“Come on,” he said, more genuinely now. “Do you like any of them?”
Arthur hesitated. He looked across the room, at Elidia deep in conversation with Gwen, at Saanvi laughing with one of the kitchen girls, at Zahra and Morgana by the window—and shrugged. “Some of them are great. Kind. Smart. I just…”
“You just wish you had more time,” Leon finished for him.
Arthur nodded. “Or less pressure.”
Elyan raised his goblet. “To impossible choices.”
They all toasted with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Gwaine clinked his cup a little harder than necessary against Arthur’s. “To embroidery competitions and very large dogs.”

Arthur made his way across the banquet hall, nodding politely to the various guests who caught his eye. He had long learned that these gatherings were as much about presence as they were about conversation, he needed to be seen, even if only in passing. His gaze eventually settled on a familiar group near one of the tables: the Princesses Elidia, Saanvi, and Meilin, who were laughing together in a lively cluster of joy that stood out from the more formal corners of the room.
At their feet, a big and energetic dog was performing tricks. Princess Saanvi held a treat in one hand while giving the creature a command; the dog obeyed with a wag of the tail, sitting proudly as Elidia laughed and clapped.
Princess Elidia spotted Arthur and waved him over. “Arthur! Come and see this! You can’t miss how adorable these two are.”
He couldn’t help but smile at the warmth in her tone. Crossing to their table, he felt some of the weight of duty slip off his shoulders. When he arrived, the three princesses greeted him with respectful dips of their heads.
Saanvi grinned. “It’s hardly a spectacle for a prince. I’m just telling the dog to sit.”
Elidia chuckled. “Are you kidding? That’s advanced training. I tried teaching my dog to sit once. All I managed was to train him to expect a treat every time I made eye contact. I had no authority whatsoever.”
Saanvi burst into laughter. “Sounds like a smart and manipulative dog.”
“Very much so,” Arthur agreed.
As the music swelled and the room grew livelier, Saanvi gestured discreetly to a nearby servant. “Could you take him to my chambers, please? It’s getting a little loud for her.” The servant nodded, gently scooping up the dog as Saanvi offered one last stroke of affection.
“She is clever,” Elidia said fondly, then turned back to Arthur with a playful smile. “Though apparently, nothing worthy of princely attention happened here... Meilin was telling us about her spring festival traditions. You were saying?”
Meilin gave a small smile and took a sip from her cup before continuing. “Yes—our kingdom’s greatest wealth is water. Rivers, springs, and waterfalls shape the land. Each spring, we gather at the largest waterfall to celebrate the season’s arrival.”
She glanced at Arthur as she spoke, her tone light but full of fondness. “Everyone comes, nobles, servants, villagers. We eat, dance, sing, and swim until the first full moon of spring rises. It’s the only time of the year where no one uses titles. I love it... especially the swimming.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Arthur said, clearly intrigued.
“We should all go next year,” Saanvi joked. “Though I’d probably drown. There’s barely any water near my home, and I’ve never learned to swim.”
Elidia smirked. “I had to beg my parents to let me learn. They said teaching a princess to swim was pointless, as if a prince will always be ready to leap in and save her.”
“Well,” Meilin said, with a smirk on her face, “Arthur might be available for spring rescues.”
The group laughed again, enjoying the ease of each other’s company. For a moment, it was easy to forget who was heir to what.
But soon, Arthur’s attention was drawn by one of his advisors across the hall, subtly beckoning him with a look.
He offered the princesses a regretful smile. “Duty calls. I’ll leave you to your night.”
Meilin met his eyes as he turned. “Sleep well, Prince Arthur. I’ll see you tomorrow, for our picnic. I’m looking forward to it.”
He dipped his head slightly in farewell, before making his way back into the swirl of the banquet, his mood a touch lighter than when he’d arrived.

The banquet stretched into the night. Dishes were cleared, the firelight grew lower, and someone brought out a lute, though no one played it seriously. There was music in the way people talked anyway. Merlin, eventually done with his duties, slid into the empty seat beside Arthur. He didn’t say anything. Just offered him a ginger tea.
Arthur took it, sipping it without a word.
“Better night?” Merlin asked.
Arthur gave a small smile. “Yeah.”
And for a moment, with tea warming his chest and candlelight softening the room, it didn’t feel quite so lonely.

Chapter Text

Arthur had finally been summoned to the council – not as a topic of discussion, but as a participant. That alone was shocking.
He suspected it had less to do with him proving himself and more to do with Uther being very convincing… to Merlin, who in turn had been very convincing to Arthur. Somehow, here he was, sitting stiff-backed in a room full of advisors, most of whom regarded him like a promising but problematic hound.
The council chamber was far less grand than the great hall. The light was dim, the air heavy with expectation, and the mood (unsurprisingly) tense.
“Any favourites yet?” Morgana asked, arching an eyebrow.
Arthur shook his head. “Not really.”
“No one?” she pressed.
He hesitated. “They’re all... fine. But no.”
A few of the councillors exchanged glances. Morgana leaned back, unimpressed. “Then who isn’t a possibility?”
That, at least, was easier.
“Leila isn’t promising,” he said flatly. He didn’t explain, but both Morgana and Uther seemed to understand without needing more.
“Awen is sweet, but...” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s like trying to have tea with a scared animal. Every time I open my mouth she seems ready to bolt.”
“That sort of silence doesn’t make for a very practical queen,” Lord Elric muttered.
“And the others?” Morgana asked.
Arthur looked at her. “Who would you choose?”
Without hesitation, she said: “Zahra.”
He blinked. “Really?”
“She’s strong, clever, loyal. She’d make an excellent ally.” Morgana’s voice softened. “But I don’t see her with you. And she doesn’t seem particularly interested in you either. She’s still in contact with someone back home – someone who might suit her better.”
“I like her,” Arthur admitted. “But not like that.”
“So, she’s off the list,” Morgana said. “What about Amara?”
Arthur grimaced. “She told me she’s only here because her family made her come. She doesn’t want this.”
“Rin?” someone else prompted.
“She’s nice” Arthur said. “But there’s no spark. Not for me.”
Then he paused, drumming his fingers on the table. The whole thing felt more like sorting grain than people.
“This is starting to sound like a livestock auction,” he said – not accusing, just stating it.
A few councillors stiffened. Morgana kept her gaze steady.
“You asked for honesty,” she said.
“And you’re getting it,” he replied, with a half-shrug. “Just saying it’s a bloody strange way to find a wife.”
Morgana glanced around the table. “So that’s Zahra, Leila, Awen, Rin, and Amara.”
Uther finally spoke, his voice firm. “Then focus on the rest.”
Arthur turned his head slowly. “The other five?”
“Yes,” Uther said. “One more meeting with each. Be discreet. No need to alarm the others.”
Arthur nodded. “So, Nyah, Imani, Elidia, Saanvi, and Meilin?”
“Exactly,” Morgana said. “Each one brings something different to the table.”
Arthur nodded again, slower this time. He had no idea where any of this was going – but, for the first time, he didn’t entirely dread it.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll speak with them. Quietly.”
“Good,” Uther said. “And Arthur—”
He looked up.
“Don’t just look for what we need. Look for what you need too.”
Arthur furrowed his brow. “What I need?”
Uther’s face tightened with something like disappointment. “You have thought about what you’re looking for in a queen. A wife.”
Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it. He hadn’t.
“Arthur?” Uther pressed.
Arthur took a breath. “I want someone I can rule with, someone who’s compassionate, smart, loyal...” He paused, then added more softly, “And someone I can marry. Someone who’s funny. Someone I can feel comfortable with.”
He didn’t say the last part aloud, ‘someone who’s affectionate, caring’. But it sat quietly in his chest, already uneasy at the words just spoken.
The council chamber remained still, as if giving that moment the weight it deserved.
Then Arthur straightened a little. “Do you have a favourite family?” he asked the room, embarrassed of the way he opened himself up in front of them. “If you had to choose, who would you pair me with?”
A few of the councillors exchanged looks again. One of the older lords, silver-haired and always composed, finally spoke.
“On paper,” he said, “they are all perfect. Each princess represents a powerful, respected house. Rich in history, strong in resources. Any one of them would be a formidable ally. That’s why we invited them here, to give you only the best. For Camelot, each would be a wise match.”
Arthur watched him closely. “So… no preference?”
“Not for us to say,” the man replied. “Camelot would be in good hands with any of them.”
Arthur nodded slowly, then shifted his gaze. “Do you have a favourite, Father?”
Uther didn’t answer immediately. He looked tired, more so than usual, like the weight of the crown was heavier than normal tonight.
“I only wish for you to marry,” he said at last. “I do not care for much more.”
There was no malice in it. No sharpness. Just truth.
Arthur sat back, quiet for a long moment.

The council had retired, leaving only the innermost circle behind: Uther, Morgana, Gaius, Lord Elric, Sir Leon, and Lord Hargrave. The room felt quieter now, heavier, the kind of silence that followed storms.
Uther exhaled slowly, his hands resting on the carved table. “Do you think the boy is even interested in girls?” he asked, voice low but unguarded.
Sir Leon looked up, brows raised.
“Anyone else would be thrilled to marry any of those women,” Uther continued. “At his age, I’d have counted myself lucky.”
Morgana narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”
Uther gave her a long, tired look. “I am not blind, Morgana. Nor deaf. Don’t act surprised.”
She folded her arms, but said nothing.
“I’ve heard the whispers. The court may keep its voice low, but the gossip is constant.” He turned toward Gaius. “Arthur and Merlin. Everyone treats that boy like more than a servant, like he’s the consort already.”
Gaius looked genuinely taken aback. “I think Merlin would have told me, if – ”
“Maybe,” Uther cut in. “Or maybe not. But that’s not the point. The point is: people talk. And not just our people.”
He paused, voice turning graver.
“These families we’ve invited, they’re not merely noble. They are strategic. Powerful. They will examine Arthur as closely as we assess their daughters. He may be one of the most eligible bachelors in any kingdom right now, but they don’t need Camelot. Not urgently. A single thread of doubt – whispers of a love affair with a servant, uncertainty about heirs – and they may withdraw without hesitation.”
Sir Leon frowned. “You think they'd abandon the match over court gossip?”
“They’d abandon it,” Uther said sharply, “if the gossip becomes a liability. If they sense he’s hiding something. If they think their daughters won’t be queen in truth, or won’t bear the next king.”
Morgana’s expression shifted, less defensive now, more troubled. “So, what do we do?”
“It is our concern,” Uther went on, his tone hardening slightly. “The kingdom needs heirs. A queen. Stability. Appearances. Whatever he feels, if he feels anything, it cannot come before Camelot.”
He fell silent for a moment, then exhaled, as if the weight on his chest had grown.
“I am not saying he cannot have… companionship where he finds it,” Uther said, waving a hand vaguely. “Mistresses, lovers, whatever pleases him, I don’t care. But a wife is not optional.”
Gaius frowned. “You speak of it as though one freedom is granted only at the cost of another.”
“Because that’s what ruling is,” Uther replied. Then, after a beat: “You know this.”
At that, Lord Elric stirred. “We considered all this, sire. That is why the candidates were chosen with care.”
Uther glanced at him.
“They are not simple ornaments,” Elric continued. “Zahra, Nyah, and Imani are warriors, some of them sworn knights, Rin has trained as a general. Leila is a hunter, excellent with hounds and bow. Elidia defies every expectation of passivity: outspoken, confident, and she is a cartographer for her kingdom. Awen is learned in medicine and the sciences. Meilin is athletic, no battlefield training, but she swims, races, outpaces men in sport. Amara helps command her family’s merchant ships, Saanvi plays a strong hand in her own court’s politics.”
He leaned forward slightly, his voice even. “They are all powerful families, yes, but these daughters were chosen not for their fathers, but for Arthur. For what we suspect he might respond to.”
“And you suspect he prefers men,” Morgana said, coolly.
Elric’s expression didn’t flinch. “We suspect... he prefers strength. Freedom. Something outside the traditional mould. Whether that stems from preference or simply boredom with courtly performance, we don’t know. But we tried to offer him a choice that reflects both his duty, and his self.”
A moment of silence passed.
“Then it is time we find out whether any of them suit him,” Uther said, finally. He turned to Morgana. “I’d like you to investigate. Quietly. Ask Gwen, perhaps. Or even Merlin. If he’s kissed one of them, or shown interest. It needn’t be formal. A kiss will not ruin reputations, but it may tell us something.”
Morgana’s brow furrowed. “You want me to play matchmaker?”
“I want to know if our future depends on a lie.”
Before Morgana could respond, Lord Hargrave spoke, voice rich and unnervingly casual.
“There’s always another path, of course.”
Uther raised a brow.
“Send him someone,” Hargrave said. “Not one of the ladies in question, but... a quiet companion. Professional and discreet. Let him learn, at his own pace, that bedding a woman need not be such a burden.”
The room went still.
Uther didn’t reply, as if he had considered that path himself already.
However, Lord Elric spoke to Arthur’s defence. “This is not some rustic barony, Hargrave. He’s a prince. Not a stallion to be broken in.”
“Of course,” Hargrave said mildly. “I only meant – if there’s a block, perhaps it’s inexperience. Fear. There are ways to... guide a young man without pressure. Without scandal.”
Gaius looked horrified. Morgana’s lips curled in distaste.
Uther dismissed the thought with a shake of his head, but didn’t object further.
He stood, signalling the end of the conversation. “One of you should make this clear to him. Gently, but firmly. The court will allow many things from a strong king. But it will not forgive neglecting duty.”
There was a long pause.
“I entrust this matter to you,” he said. “Morgana. Leon.”
Morgana didn’t flinch, but her jaw tightened. Leon inclined his head. “Of course, sire.”
Uther swept from the room, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. But the unease lingered, like a cold draft through a cracked window.
Silence returned, thick and uncertain.
“I hate this part,” Morgana muttered, at last. “Telling someone how to exist.”
Gaius looked pale. “I doubt Arthur will appreciate being told who he can and cannot love.”
Leon said nothing, only pressed his lips into a tight line.
Outside, night had fully fallen. Inside, the fire in the council chamber guttered low, and for a moment, none of them was certain what kind of king Camelot was about to have.

Chapter Text

Morgana’s voice echoed through the hallway outside the training yard. “You do it.”
Leon didn’t even look up from polishing his sword. “Absolutely not.”
“You’re his knight.”
“You’re his sister.”
“Half” she reminded him, with her index finger pointed at his face.
Leon shot her a look. “Still counts.”
They glared at each other for a moment.
“This isn’t even my area,” Morgana huffed. “He needs a gentle hand. A personal talk. You know, like knights do when they sit around the fire sharing feelings.”
Leon blinked at her. “We usually talk about swords.”
“Oh perfect, then maybe bring that up when you’re telling him he can keep Merlin as a lover.”
Leon went red to the ears and choked. “I – Morgana –”
“I’m not doing it alone.”
He sighed. “Fine, together. But if he throws something, you’re stepping in front.”

Later that afternoon, Morgana found Gwen brushing one of the palace horses, the sun slipping gently through the stable slats.
“I need advice,” she said, not bothering with a greeting.
Gwen smiled, brushing without looking up. “About Arthur?”
Morgana perched on the fence and sighted. “About how to talk to Arthur. Uther... suspects. And now he wants me and Leon to bring it up.”
“‘It’ being Merlin?” Gwen asked, gentle but clear.
Morgana nodded.
Gwen exhaled softly. “Well, everyone suspects, and no one’s said a word. That’s court life.”
“Do you think it’s true?”
“I think it doesn’t matter,” Gwen replied. She looked up now, brushing slowing. “But if you want to speak to him... keep it vague. Kind.”
Morgana raised an eyebrow. “Vague and kind are not my best tools.”
“That’s why you have me.” Gwen smiled. “Just tell him that a queen doesn’t stop a king from loving who he wants. Not in private, not always even in public. Lovers are taken all the time, openly or not. Especially for kings. He’ll have freedoms. He should choose a queen he can rule beside – not someone he thinks has to replace a part of him.”
Morgana was quiet for a long moment. Then, with a small smile: “You really are good at this.”
Gwen shrugged. “Someone has to be.”

The fields beyond the eastern gate rolled golden and green beneath the afternoon sun, open and wide, perfect for riding. Arthur waited by the paddock, petting his mare, when Imani arrived on a sleek black horse that looked built for storms and victory.
“Ready?” she asked, already in the saddle.
“Are you?” he countered, mounting up.
She answered by racing ahead with a laugh.
Arthur chased after her, his mare galloping hard, but even pushing at full speed, he couldn’t quite catch up. Imani leaned forward, urging her horse on like they were a single being, hair streaming behind her like a banner.
By the time they pulled up near the tree line, already far from Camelot, Arthur was breathless – partly from the ride, partly from sheer disbelief.
“You ride like the wind,” he said, trying not to sound as breathless as he was.
Imani tossed a grin over her shoulder. “It’s the horse.”
Arthur raised a brow, unconvinced.
She laughed. “Of course, I’m also very good at it. But my family only purchases horses from Saanvi’s family, they breed them for agility and speed, and to stay calm in chaos. They’re our best weapon in war.”
“I heard you went to war, two winters ago,” Arthur said, guiding his horse alongside hers.
“I did,” she nodded. “Not exactly on the front lines, but I was there.”
“What did you do?”
She smiled, pride flickering in her eyes. “With horses like mine, I was a scout and a runner. Carried reports from the hills to the camps, sometimes across enemy lines. Speed can change everything.”
Arthur looked at her with new interest. “That’s brave.”
“I had a fast horse and a map. Bravery came later,” she said lightly.
He chuckled. “I also heard you train pigeons. For messages?”
“Yes! We’ve been doing that since I was a child. It’s faster than riders sometimes, especially in siege. They’re clever birds. We raise them at the palace – I care for them, and I trained a few of our best.”
“You must have a way with animals.”
“I do,” she said simply. “They don’t pretend. You earn their trust, or you don’t.”
Arthur gave her a thoughtful look. “That’s... refreshing.”
She smirked. “So’s galloping ahead of a prince.”
He laughed, but his smile lingered, genuine.

After their playful race, Arthur and Imani let the horses slow to a walk, side by side. They meandered along a quieter path, where the wind rustled the trees.
Behind them, a slower set of hooves caught up. Merlin trotted along, seated rather awkwardly on one of the calmer palace horses, clearly not built for speed. He had a satchel strapped to his shoulder and a slightly harried look on his face.
“Decided to join us, did you?” Arthur called over his shoulder, a grin playing at his lips.
Merlin shrugged. “I was told not to let you fall off a cliff, Your Highness.”
“I didn’t fall,” Arthur said. “I just didn’t win.”
Imani laughed again and glanced back. “Merlin, right?”
“Yes, Princess,” Merlin said, dipping his head politely.
“I’ve seen you around. You’re always close to Arthur.”
Merlin gave a small smile. “It’s sort of my job.”
“Well, it’s a good one,” she said, turning back to Arthur. “He’s clearly still alive.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Barely, thanks to his cooking.”
Imani tilted her head, amused. “Do you actually cook?”
“Only when Arthur insists on nearly dying of hunger,” Merlin said.
She laughed again, an easy, genuine sound. “That’s useful. I like that. A man who can fight and one who can cook? Good balance.”
Arthur smirked. “You’re not marrying both of us.”
“Oh, pity,” she said dryly.
Arthur blinked, not sure if she was joking. Merlin, however, bit back a smile.

The ride back was slow, golden. The sky above them spilled into hues of pink and purple, soft against the deepening blue. The trees cast long, gentle shadows over the narrow path, and the breeze was cool with the promise of night.
Imani rode a little ahead, her back straight and her scarf fluttering behind her like a banner. Her horse had stopped by a stream, its head bowed to drink, and she had dismounted to kneel by the bank. She was focused on something nestled low in the grass, maybe a plant.
Behind her, Arthur and Merlin trailed at a slower pace. Their horses moved without hurry, as if they too had settled into the quiet. Merlin was smiling faintly while watching Imani, with a smile that revealed contentment.
“She’s easy to like,” Arthur said, his voice mild.
Merlin smiled, still gazing ahead. “She is.”
Arthur’s fingers tightened just slightly around the reins. “You like her?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
Merlin didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, I do.”
There was nothing guarded in his voice, he meant it plainly, kindly.
Arthur didn’t answer, only looked toward the stream again.
Imani stood then, brushing off her pants. She held a few silvery-green stems in one hand and remounted with effortless grace. As they reached her, she turned in the saddle.
“Lavender,” she said, lifting the leaves slightly. “No flowers yet, they won’t bloom until summer, but the smell’s already there. I like to dry it and burn it in my room. It's kind of a ritual. The scent’s incredible when it catches the heat.”
Arthur and Merlin exchanged a glance, brief and warm. Lavender was a scent well-known to both of them, their stores always kept a bundle or two for the days Arthur’s head felt like splitting apart. But neither said it, it wasn’t the kind of thing you explained on a second date.
Imani smiled and turned slightly in the saddle to look at Arthur. “Saanvi said you liked her tea?”
Arthur nodded.
“I brought some Assam leaves from home,” she said. “Strong, black tea. I drink it every day. Maybe next time we could have a tea party? You, me, Merlin, my maid… maybe even Morgana? She seems happier when she’s not surrounded by stinking knights and lords.”
Arthur’s mouth quirked at the corner. “You’re already planning the next one?”
“Well,” she said, eyes dancing, “you must’ve enjoyed the last one if you’re still here.”
Arthur tilted his head. “You seemed to think I was stiff during the picnic.”
Imani laughed, a warm, soft sound that made her horse twitch an ear. “You were stiff. But you're better company than I gave you credit for.”
They reached the gates then, the castle casting its familiar shadow as the sun dipped lower. The horses picked up their pace slightly, sensing home.
At the stables, as they dismounted and began to loosen reins and gather saddles, Merlin gave Arthur a big smile.
“That was the longest one yet,” he said, almost to himself.
Arthur glanced at him. “Hm?”
“The longest date,” Merlin clarified, patting his horse’s neck. “You usually don’t stay out this long.”
Arthur didn’t say anything, but the way his hand slowed against the saddle made it clear he’d heard.
Merlin smiled again, and for once, Arthur didn’t look away.
Inside the castle, Leon and Morgana waited for Arthur to return.

Chapter Text

Arthur had finished his dinner alone, seated on the couch in his chambers, the last crumbs of bread still on his plate, his wine untouched. The quiet was a relief.
Then came the knock.
He didn’t bother getting up. “Come in.”
It was Morgana and Leon. Merlin followed behind them, but Morgana placed a hand on his arm before he could close the door behind him. “Could we… have a moment?” she asked.
Merlin glanced at Arthur – half concern, half curiosity – then gave a quiet nod and stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click.
Arthur raised his eyebrows, already exasperated. “This isn’t a social call, is it?”
The two of them stood awkwardly, just past the threshold. They looked like they’d rehearsed this – and failed.
“We need to talk,” Morgana said, her voice a touch too formal.
“I gathered that,” Arthur said flatly. “Then talk.”
Morgana hesitated, eyes flicking toward Leon.
Leon cleared his throat. “Actually… this isn’t from us. It’s from Uther” he explained, trying to mitigate their guilt. “He asked us to speak with you. It’s a delicate matter, and we – well, we apologise for the intrusion.”
Arthur sighed, and leaned back in his seat. “Just speak.”
“It’s about the marriage,” Morgana began.
Arthur rolled his eyes, as there was something besides the marriage.
Morgana continued. “Uther… wants you to know that choosing a wife doesn’t mean you can’t… take –”
“A lover,” Leon cut in quickly, sparing her the word.
“Yes. A lover,” Morgana confirmed, uncomfortable. “He thinks you’re treating this match too seriously. That you’re expecting love from it. But this is a marriage, Arthur. It doesn’t have to be love.”
Arthur stared at them, stunned for a moment. Then something flickered in his eyes – anger, disbelief. “If Uther has concerns about how I’m handling this, he can speak to me himself.”
“He thought we’d be gentler,” Morgana said softly. “He’s worried you see marriage as a kind of… cage.”
“Have you both lost your minds?” Arthur asked, staring at Morgana, cold now. “What exactly are you implying?”
He was tired being treated like the crown’s obedient hound. Tired of nobles twisting their words into riddles and careful half-truths, speaking in circles as if he were too fragile to hear the truth. He wasn’t a boy anymore, and his patience for games was wearing thin. His mind didn’t work in enigmas and puzzles.
“There are… rumours,” Morgana admitted, her voice strained. She and Leon looked at each other, neither willing to say more. The line was too dangerous.
Arthur’s voice sharpened. “What rumours?”
Leon stepped in again, trying to defuse it. “He’s just afraid you won’t be able to choose. That you don’t want to marry at all.”
“I’ve made it very clear that marriage is not what I want,” Arthur snapped. “But I’m trying, aren’t I?”
“Are you though?” Morgana pushed, gently but firmly. “You’ve already cast five aside. The pact was for all ten to spend a full month at court. Then you could start stating preferences. But it’s only been two weeks.”
Arthur stood now, restless. “What do you want me to do?”
Leon hesitated, then said the one thing he knew would set him off: “The king suggested… a kiss.”
Arthur turned on him. “What?!”
“A kiss wouldn't be improper,” Leon rushed to explain. “No one has to know. It could help you understand the connection, if there is one.”
“You’d need to be discreet,” Morgana added. “But it might help you decide.”
Arthur’s expression darkened. “Get out. Both of you.”
They didn’t argue. They nodded once, solemn, and made for the door.
Just before closing it behind her, Morgana turned. Her voice had softened. “Just think about it.”
She wanted to say more, wanted to reach for him, to remind him that they weren’t the enemy. That they were trying to help. But Arthur was too far, swimming in the opposite direction. And she… she didn’t know how to follow.

The next day, the banquet hall was alive with noise, lit by golden torchlight and filled with the heady scent of roasted vegetable pies, spiced wine, and honeyed bread. Everyone was there: nobles, knights, council members, and of course the ten princesses, seated in a row like polished jewels on display.
Once dinner was over it was time for guests to rise from their seats to talk, dance, drink, and make merry, and it was also time for Arthur to do what was expected of him: join the princesses, court them, give them attention. At every council meeting the pressure mounted: they required more talking, more flirting, more progress between him and the ten. But tonight, he had no patience for any of it.
Not after yesterday.
He'd had a date with Nyah that afternoon. He knew he'd been awful company: aloof, dismissive, cold. He knew she hadn't enjoyed herself, and he knew that if he kept treating her like that, she’d ask her parents to take her away from the palace and end the charade. And frankly, he didn’t care. He didn’t care about Nyah or any of the others. He didn’t care about being forced into this farce.
Still, there were roles to play. He approached the princesses with perfect posture, offered each of them the same empty smile, exchanged the usual pleasantries, and then drifted as quickly as possible to the opposite side of the hall.
Across the room, Morgana stood watching, her lips pressed into a thin line. Gwen stood beside her, arms crossed and a frown creasing her brow. They observed the scene, their conversation hushed.
“They’re going to notice,” Morgana murmured, her eyes following Arthur as he drifted through the hall.
“The princesses?” Gwen asked, her tone dry.
“The princesses. The council. Everyone.” Morgana shook her head. “Father’s going to lose his mind.”
“I guess Arthur didn’t take it well.”
“Far from,” Morgana sighed. “I mean, who gets angry when given permission to kiss ten pretty girls?”
“Maybe he just doesn’t like being forced,” Gwen said quietly.
Morgana paused, then nodded. “Maybe.”

Arthur found Merlin near the back of the hall, the noise of the banquet swirling around them. “Get me wine,” Arthur muttered, casting a glance over his shoulder, referring to the princesses. “And keep them away from me.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow. “Are you okay? Did something happen yesterday? With Morgana and –”
“Don’t,” Arthur snapped.
Merlin fell silent, sensing the tension in the air.
After a beat, Arthur added, his voice quieter, “Entertain me.”
Merlin’s lips twitched in a half-smile. “I suppose Gwaine fits your mood better. He’s drunk enough to be heard from across the hall.”
True enough, Gwaine’s loud laugh echoed through the hall, drawing Arthur’s attention.

“So,” Gwaine said, sliding beside Arthur with a half-full goblet and a grin that spelled trouble. “Rumour has it Uther’s given you permission to kiss the virgins.”
Arthur froze mid-sip. His stomach turned.
“…What?”
“Oh, come on,” Gwaine laughed. “Everyone’s talking about it. You’re allowed to kiss them now, right? But if you’re not interested –” He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “I humbly offer myself for sacrifice.”
The knights erupted in laughter.
On the edge of the group, Percival frowned slightly, catching only part of Gwaine’s words. He glanced at the lips moving around him, then leaned toward Leon, who quietly repeated the joke into his right ear. Percival gave a small shake of his head, a wry smile tugging at his mouth.
Gwaine leaned closer, elbowing Arthur like they were in on some private joke. “Don’t tell me you haven’t kissed any of them yet.”
“That’s enough,” Arthur said, too evenly.
Gwaine blinked, taken aback but undeterred. “It’s just a bit of fun, lighten up, would you? I’m not against a little playful kissing. Unlike you lot – sitting here like celibate scribes. I’ll kiss you, Arthur, if you’re scared you’ve got no charm left. Give you some pointers.”
The tension in Arthur’s jaw was visible. “I don’t need your pointers,” he said evenly, but his eyes burned.
“Well,” Gwaine raised his cup, still chuckling. “I’ll be here if you change your mind. I’m an excellent first kiss. Ask Merlin.”
“That was not my first kiss,” Merlin said, his face bright red as he stared firmly at the ceiling.
The others laughed again.
Arthur leaned back, goblet in hand, his mind far from the laughter. The conversation from the night before echoed in his ears like a curse.
Wordlessly, he raised his goblet toward the high table in a gesture that could be taken as respect, or defiance. His eyes met his father’s for the briefest of moments, unreadable.
In the shadowed corner of the hall, where the candlelight barely reached, a cluster of councilmen stood nursing their goblets and grievances.
“I didn’t even want to attend,” Lord Hargrave muttered, lips curled in distaste. “But I’m glad I did. That boy’s clearly losing his grip. Not a single word to any of the princesses. Uther, wasn’t Morgana or Leon meant to speak to him?”
“They did,” the king replied, his voice clipped. “But they were unsuccessful.”
Hargrave scoffed into his wine.
Only Lord Elric seemed detached from the muttering. His gaze drifted toward the long table where the princesses had gathered in tight clusters, their voices rising in bursts of laughter and urgent whispers. They were speaking too fast, too eagerly, as if they shared a secret pressing at the edges of decorum.
He frowned. Something was off. And whatever it was, it wasn’t going well, for any of them.

At the long banquet table, now mostly abandoned in favour of dancing and mingling, Amara and Awen remained seated. Laughter and music filled the air like smoke, but the two girls lingered at the edge of it all, caught in their own quiet world.
Awen picked at a fig tart, nudging bits of pastry with her fork. Her fingers twitched at the hem of her dress, twisting the fabric between them, knuckles pale. The skin around her nails was red and raw.
“Do you think we should… go talk to him?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Amara arched a brow, swirling her wine. “Absolutely not.”
“But –”
“Awen, darling, look around.” Amara gestured languidly toward the mingling crowd. “He’s not talking to anyone except that loud knight and his servant. He clearly doesn’t want to be bothered.” She leaned back in her chair with the poise of someone who belonged anywhere she sat. “And frankly, I’m not here to chase a boy.”
Awen lowered her gaze, fingers still kneading the fabric of her gown. “But what if that reflects badly on us?”
“Then let it reflect,” Amara replied with a shrug. “I didn’t sign up to play courtship games with a sulking prince.” She paused, eyes narrowing playfully. “Speaking of which, how was your picnic with him?”
Awen’s shoulders bunched immediately, and her cheeks flushed pink. She didn’t answer right away, focusing intently on smoothing the crumpled fabric of her dress.
“I… I didn’t say much,” she admitted. “I wanted to, but… I think I just stared at the trees too long.”
Amara tilted her head. “Staring at trees can be charming, in the right context.”
“I wasn’t trying to be charming,” Awen said, frowning softly. “I was overwhelmed. He kept trying to make conversation, and I couldn’t think of what to say. I just… I like quiet things, my studies. I’ve been reading a new treatise on wound salves – did you know honey prevents bacterial growth better than most herbal poultices and even helps tissue regenerate faster?”
Amara smiled, watching her. “You’re adorable when you talk about medicine.”
Awen blinked, startled, then flushed deeper and looked down. “I just… I like being in my room. It’s the only place I feel… like me. Everything else is too loud or too fast.”
There was a long moment of silence, broken only by the clatter of goblets in the distance.
“I don’t think I’m ready to marry,” Awen said finally, in a small voice. “Not just Arthur. Anyone. It feels like someone else’s story, and I’m just… watching it happen.”
Amara reached across the table and gently took her hand, stilling the nervous twisting. “Then don’t.”

Nyah was venting to Meilin, voice low but heated. “We went on a walk. A full hour. He said maybe five words. I asked about his favourite weapon, and he said: ‘I don’t know.’ I asked what his hobbies were: silence. I asked about his family: he grimaced.”
“That’s awful,” Meilin said, wide-eyed.
Nyah sighed. “And it’s not like the first date was bad! He was sweet, a little shy. I thought he liked me. But this? This was unbearable.”
Leila, who had been eavesdropping, stepped forward. “Wait, you had a second date?”
Nyah blinked. “Yes?”
Leila crossed her arms, clearly annoyed. “I’m still waiting for any word. My mother told me he’d send for me last week. I’m still waiting.”
“Same,” Rin chimed in, striding over in a rustle of silk. “My mother told me he’d reach out. Still nothing. Honestly, this is getting ridiculous.”
Imani, walking by with a goblet in hand, paused and tilted her head. “You haven’t had your second dates yet?”
The others turned to her.
“We’ve already had ours,” Imani continued. “And we’re planning a third. I thought it was the same for everyone.”
Leila and Rin exchanged a look of disbelief before marching over to the far end of the table, where Amara and Awen still sat.
“He’s giving different treatment to everyone,” Leila complained as they reached the table. “Apparently some of us are getting second and third dates while the rest of us are just... forgotten.”
Amara didn’t even flinch. “It’s not like we’re missing much anyway.”
“It’s not fair,” Leila snapped. “We’re supposed to be equals in this process.”
At a nearby table, Zahra turned her head at the rising voices. She was deep in conversation with Elidia and Saanvi, but the tension grabbed her attention.
“What is it?” she asked, coolly.
Leila filled her in, voice tight. “Some of us are getting more attention than others. Nyah and Imani have had second dates. Rin and I haven’t even heard back.”
Zahra’s brow furrowed. “That’s concerning. I’ll speak to my mother.”
“He shouldn’t be allowed to choose favourites,” Rin muttered.
“Elidia?” Saanvi said, prompting her gently.
Elidia, unusually quiet, leaned in. “Someone should also speak to him. How old is he, sixteen? He’s acting like a child. Ignoring us all night, drinking with his knights… he can do that any other night, while tonight should be about us.”
There was a ripple of agreement, but also silence, the kind that comes when people know nothing will change just yet.
What Arthur didn’t see, too tangled in his own unrest, was that the room was shifting without him. The princesses were not idle ornaments awaiting his, they had been raised to navigate courts and hold reigns in their hands. And now, whispers passed between them like flint and steel. They were not here to be chosen, they were here to choose, too. And some were already beginning to wonder if this prince (distracted, sullen, and silent) was worth their time at all.

Chapter Text

The air in the council chamber was heavy when Zahra’s mother, Queen Samyah, arrived. Her presence had been expected, and dreaded. Everyone was still bristling from Arthur’s behaviour at the banquet, and Samyah’s request to speak before the council made it clear the princesses were, too. As queen of Ashalim and the appointed delegate between Camelot and the royal houses, Samyah’s role was to ensure the best possible outcome for the ten candidates. She was known for her sharp mind and unshakable poise, a voice of real power. Uther didn’t like her. She acknowledged Camelot’s importance, but she didn’t bow to it. Her reign was stronger, more prosperous, and she didn’t mask that fact to soothe egos. Uther, who was used to deference and rarely challenged, found her presence… unsettling. She disrupted the balance he was accustomed to, and the council felt it too. Power was shifting, and no one quite knew what to do about it.
She bowed just enough to be polite, not an inch more.
“I come on behalf of my daughter,” she said, voice calm but crisp, “and of the other young ladies who feel, rightly or not, that Prince Arthur is... overlooking them.”
Murmurs swelled, but Uther silenced them with a sharp glance.
“We were under the impression that the selection process would be impartial,” she continued. “That each princess would be given equal consideration until a decision was announced. That is not what has happened.”
Arthur stood; guilt already written in the crease of his brow. “My lady, I didn’t mean to cause offense. I was not trying to mislead anyone, I simply... gravitated more toward some.”
“Then speak the truth,” she replied evenly. “Let the others stop hoping for something that will not come.”
Arthur inclined his head. “You’re right. I’ll make an announcement. If any lady feels they would be better served seeking a match elsewhere, they’ll be free to do so with my respect and blessing.”
Zahra’s mother offered a stiff nod. “That would be appreciated.”
When the doors closed behind Zahra’s mother, silence hung heavy in the council chamber.
Then came the voices, sharp and overlapping, while Arthur was hiding his face behind his hands.
“She spoke out of turn”
“Arthur should have known better”
“Was there no one advising him properly?”
Morgana stood, clapping her hands on the table. “Enough.”
All heads turned.
“No single person is to blame for this,” she said. “We all let it happen. We basked in the charm of the gatherings, in the spectacle, and forgot that these women are not just ornaments for a throne, they are people, with pride and families behind them. Zahra’s mother was right to speak.”
Morgana’s words had just settled when Gwen, quiet until now, spoke up. “If I may?”
A courtier beside her waved a dismissive hand. “This is a matter for the council, girl.”
“She is part of the council,” Morgana said, cool and sharp as a blade. “Let her speak.”
Gwen hesitated only a breath, then straightened her back. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried. “We forgot something,” Gwen said, steady and clear. “They’re not just competing, they’re talking. Supporting each other, sharing what they notice.” She glanced around the chamber. “We treated them like isolated rivals. But they’re not, and they’ve been comparing notes.”
Arthur slowly lowered his hands, eyes on her. “I didn’t think of that,” he said quietly. “I thought I was being discreet.”
Uther let out a breath through his nose, unreadable.
Gaius murmured, “Wisely said.”
Morgana nodded once, like a final strike of a gavel. “Then we’ll begin arrangements for their departure. And Arthur” she met his eyes, steady “you’ll speak to them. Properly. We cannot afford to offend them further.”
He nodded, this time without hesitation.

That afternoon, Arthur was rummaging through his wardrobe with the intensity of someone searching for a lost sword.
Sitting on the bed, Merlin stared at him. “Are you… tidying?”
Arthur didn’t even glance over. “No.”
Merlin took a bite of his pastry, speaking with his mouth full. “That looked like tidying.”
“It’s not.”
Arthur pulled out a folded shirt, deep purple, and turned around. “Here. For you.”
Merlin blinked, surprised. “What?”
“It doesn’t fit me anymore,” Arthur said, almost offhand, but his eyes lingered on Merlin’s face, gauging the reaction. “And it’s too nice to go to waste.”
Merlin took the shirt slowly, running his fingers over the fabric. “Purple?” he asked, his voice quieter, almost reverent. He loved receiving Arthur's old shirts; they were so much softer than his own servant clothes, which had grown worn over the years.
Arthur gave a one-shouldered shrug. “You’ve earned it.”
Merlin smiled, warm and wordless. “Thank you.”
Arthur sat beside him and reached for the green tea, taking a sip. “You’re not going to try it on?”
Merlin raised his eyebrows. “Now?”
Arthur smirked. “You’ve seen me naked more times than I can count. Don’t pretend to be shy.”
Merlin flushed but stood, carefully placing the shirt on the bed. “That’s different. You’re used to being stared at.”
“And you’re not?” Arthur teased. “I see the way people look at you.”
Merlin rolled his eyes and turned his back, tugging his shirt over his head. “Lies.” Still, he couldn’t ignore how much his body had changed since spending more time with Arthur, broader now, more muscled, shaped by training and battle.
Arthur watched him with quiet amusement, eyes soft. “You’ve got the build of a knight now,” he teased.
Merlin grinned and shrugged. “Guess I’ve been hanging around you too much.”
Arthur laughed, light and fond, and leaned over to tighten the lace of the collar where Merlin had left it uneven. Their hands brushed. Merlin stilled.
“There,” Arthur said softly, fingers lingering just a moment too long. “Now you almost look respectable.”
They sat close. The window was open, letting in birdsong and the rustling of leaves drifting in on the breeze.
“I love spring,” Merlin said, his voice light but sincere.
Arthur leaned back against the bedpost, offering Merlin one of the pastries. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”
Merlin sat back, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry for ruining your peace and quiet,” he said with a sheepish smile. “But I was sent by the council to... investigate.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a soft smile, not because of the investigation, but because Merlin never tried to hide anything from him. "And you brought tea and pastries to soften the blow?" Arthur nodded toward the tray Merlin had brought in.
“They’re not happy with your behaviour yesterday,” Merlin said, his voice a little quieter. "They didn't bring it up because of Zahra’s mother." He paused, as if weighing how much to say. “The kiss thing, too... they’re afraid you're not taking it seriously.”
Arthur frowned slightly, his gaze lowering as he considered it. "I just don’t like being pushed.”
Merlin nodded, understanding. “I get it.”
Merlin took another pastry, his tone shifting to something more casual. “Do you want me to organise a date tomorrow? Or maybe you could have breakfast with all of them. No knights or lords to bother you, no distractions. It could be a way to meet them all at once. They’re good company.”
Arthur paused, then looked at Merlin with quiet earnestness. “Do that. It’s a good idea.” He gestured to the purple shirt Merlin had slipped on, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Wear this.”
Merlin smiled and nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The princesses, Arthur’s unwelcome suitors, were to remain at Camelot until the end of the month as originally planned. It had been agreed upon by the council, and the idea was that they would be treated with the full courtesy and hospitality Camelot could offer to repay for little interest that was shown to them. That way they would not feel rushed, nor would the proceedings seem hurried. Arthur had no particular love for the women, but he understood the importance of maintaining appearances, even when it came to something as fraught as this.
Merlin came to him with news of the breakfast arrangement. “Morgana wants to invite them all,” he said, passing Arthur the details as he took a sip from his cup. “And to keep it informal.”
Later, as the morning unfolded, Arthur found himself wandering outside to the garden where the breakfast was to take place. The air was warm, and the sounds of birds and rustling leaves filled the quiet. A gentle breeze stirred the flowers in the garden, which was remarkably lush. The garden was well-kept, a clear reflection of the attention it had received recently. Arthur couldn’t help but notice that it had grown more vibrant in the past few weeks. He had never seen it looking quite so meticulously arranged before, and it dawned on him – this garden had probably been added to the castle grounds in preparation for the princesses' arrival.
For a moment, Arthur stood still, struck by how he had failed to see what was happening right under his nose. The preparations, the extra care, all for the sake of his royal suitors. It wasn’t something that had particularly interested him, but now, standing among the newly blossoming flowers, he realised how ingrained the politics of marriage had become in his daily life. And how long he had been oblivious to the fact that, while he had been struggling with his own feelings, the kingdom was arranging his future for him.
He sighed, leaning against the stone pillar of the garden arch. It was all more complicated than he had imagined.

The gardens of Camelot basked in spring light, the ivy hanging like garlands from ancient stone arches and the air warm with the scent of wild roses and late citrus. Among the cushions and low tables of the eastern terrace, the princesses lounged in varying degrees of grace and mischief, sunlight catching on golden thread, fluttering skirts, and the occasional stray embroidery needle.
Laughter rippled from the circle – easy, musical. Someone passed a silver dish of strawberries. Someone else swatted at a bee with a bit too much force. The kind of idle morning that kings dream of, and knights quietly envy.
And then Merlin walked in.
His presence was unannounced, but not exactly unexpected. He held, somewhat awkwardly, a scrap of linen and a tangled mess of thread – what Morgana had asked him to bring to keep the restless royal hands occupied. A hush fell, not of disapproval, but of immediate, electric attention. He was wearing the purple shirt. The clothing was simple, nothing elaborate or overly ornate, but the colour stood out. It wasn’t a colour servants were known to wear, and everyone noticed, the princesses following him with their eyes, suddenly stopping whatever they were doing.
Elidia was the first to break the silence, lounging like she was born to do nothing else.
"Lovely shirt," she remarked, her voice laced with gentle mischief. Her gaze flicked briefly toward Arthur, who lingered by a rosebush in a performance of exaggerated disinterest, then returned to Merlin with a sly grin. "Delicate work, especially about the collar."
Merlin flushed, his cheeks tinted in pink as he bent to the task of setting out teacups and trays, an excuse more than a duty.
Arthur had wanted other servants to handle the breakfast, but he couldn’t find a reason to keep Merlin there that didn’t sound suspicious. In the end, the only way to have Merlin there was to keep him in his role.
"Why not sit with us for a while?" Imani asked, her tone inviting yet matter-of-fact, as if she was reading Arthur’s mind. "We are quite capable of serving ourselves, you know."
"Yes, do join us," called Amara, her voice carrying easily across the morning air. "Have you ever embroidered before?"
"Not in the slightest," Merlin confessed.
"Then we must teach you," Rin offered serenely. "It’s one of my greatest pleasures."
"Did you make that?" Elidia asked, reaching out to touch the hem of Rin’s gown, where a dragon (long, wingless, and artfully stitched) coiled near the trim of her aquamarine robe.
"I did," Rin answered. "It’s the crest of my house."
"Oh, like the Pendragons," Elidia mused.
"Not quite," Rin replied with a smile. "Dragons are imagined rather differently in the East."
"It’s exquisite," Elidia said, her tone warm. "Merlin, she ought to be the one to guide your first attempt."
"If you insist," Merlin said, and allowed himself to be seated between Amara and Rin. A square of linen was passed to him, along with a threaded needle. Rin showed him how to begin, her gestures careful and unhurried.
"Embroidery is one of the finer arts," Imani said, glancing toward him. "You might even embellish Arthur’s wardrobe, he does favour rather plain attire."
She laughed, and Arthur joined her, caught off guard by the gentle teasing.
The morning unfolded with an ease none of them had expected. Between shared pastries, steaming tea, and murmured laughter, the moment took on the air of quiet intimacy, something softer and more human than ceremony allowed.
Arthur, watching them, felt Morgana had been wise to arrange this gathering without the weight of titles and formalities. Here, in the garden, under the soft gaze of the morning sun, it was not a council, nor a courtly audience, it was something closer to camaraderie.

"This garden is wonderful," Meilin said, her eyes following the flight of a bird overhead. "If I lived here, you'd never find me anywhere else." She smiled, then added, with a playful glint in her eye, "Though it’s sorely missing a pond. Something with frogs, perhaps. The next queen of Camelot ought to see to that."
There was a ripple of laughter. Arthur blinked, mildly startled not by the suggestion itself, but by how easily Meilin had spoken of the future queen. He had assumed the topic of marriage was to be tiptoed around, not welcomed. Yet none of the princesses seemed perturbed. In fact, they looked rather amused.
"It’s a shame you can’t marry us all," Zahra said, her voice warm with mischief. "Camelot would be the finest castle in all the realms, and certainly the liveliest."
"That would make the choice much simpler," Leila added dryly, her arms crossed, though a smile tugged at her lips.
Arthur exhaled deeply, as if he had been carrying a weight he hadn't known how to set down. Reclining on a woven cushion beneath the shade of an olive tree, he sat cross-legged, the soft hum of bees and rustling leaves settling around them like a hush. One arm rested lazily across his knee, his other hand cradling a warm cup of tea he’d barely touched. He was not apart from them now, not watching from some higher place, but settled into the circle, shoulder to shoulder with those he’d once only known as names on scrolls.
"I believe I owe you all an apology," he said, his voice steadier than he expected. "For how things began. I shouldn’t have broken the pact my court made with your kingdoms.”
"Oh, Arthur, please," said Saanvi gently, scratching behind her dog’s ears as it leaned lazily against her. "We understand how these matters often unfold. It’s not always the prince who holds the reins. Councils of grey-bearded men making decisions on things they scarcely comprehend? That is the true danger."
There were nods of agreement.
"We didn’t arrive here under the illusion that we’d all be chosen," said Nyah softly, her voice carrying the kind of grace born of quiet thought. "And you are not the first prince to court us. Or the first to hesitate."
There was no bitterness in her tone, only honesty. The kind that made Arthur feel, oddly, at peace.

Merlin squinted at his embroidery, lips pressed together in thin concentration as the thread caught once more in an uneven knot. His fingers were clumsy, and the linen puckered where it ought to lie smooth.
“This will take forever to learn,” he muttered under his breath.
Awen, sitting quietly nearby with her own work balanced in her lap, glanced over. Her needle moved with graceful certainty, stitching delicate outlines of leaves and small herbs that Merlin could almost name: yarrow, thyme, mugwort. He leaned a little closer, careful not to disturb her rhythm.
“Yours is beautiful,” he said, genuinely impressed. “Are those real plants?”
Awen nodded shyly, a faint smile blooming like morning light. “From home. And some from here. I’ve been learning how to tell the difference.”
Merlin hesitated a moment, then brightened. “I heard you like plants. You should meet Gaius. He’s the court physician, and he’s always got dried things hanging from the rafters. He’d love to have you around. And, honestly, he could use the help, I can’t be around much lately.”
Awen looked up, thoughtful. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I’d like that.”

Zahra, sitting just beside Morgana, leaned forward, smoothing a bolt of fabric the colour of summer berries. Zahra’s match back home had been arranged. Her father confirmed it earlier that day, and though the man she would marry wasn’t a prince, he was kind. Her family hadn’t pressed her toward a perfect alliance. She was one of many children, and several of her siblings had already secured powerful ties through marriage. Their house stood steady, respected, and wealthy. It gave her something rare: the freedom to choose. And she had chosen affection over ambition.
"I will miss the travelling," she said softly. "The novelty, meeting strangers from places I’ve only read about. Riding across lands that don’t belong to me. That part was most exciting."
Morgana arched a brow. "Then why not extend your stay? I could use someone to keep an eye on my helpless brother. Though I suppose that would mean no grand balls or royal dances, just scrolls and boring councils."
Zahra smiled, and reflected the proposition. “My match is away at the moment, travelling for work”.
“Oh? And what work does a future lord do, if not attend his betrothed?”
“He’s inspecting some land acquisitions,” she replied lightly, “on behalf of his father. Dull, but necessary. I can meet him when he returns. I’m in no rush.”
Morgana arched a brow. “So you’re staying for me?”
Zahra gave her a look. “I’m staying for the gossip”.
Morgana laughed, and Zahra leaned back in her chair, satisfaction in her voice.
“This is my favourite part of court life, you know,” she said. “The men think themselves so important, with their councils and their wars, but weddings... weddings are the business that can make or unmake a kingdom.”

The morning air had warmed, and the trays of pastries were nearly empty when Leila stood, stretching her limbs with a satisfied sigh. Her gaze swept the garden, then landed squarely on Arthur, who was lounging half-heartedly over a cushion, chewing the edge of a tart.
“This has been lovely,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “But if we’re going to sit here all month eating cake and playing at stitches, we’ll all forget how to hold a sword.”
Zahra laughed, brushing crumbs from her lap. “Speak for yourself. I train at dawn.”
“Oh no, I agree,” Nyah chimed in, twirling a spoon between her fingers. “We should challenge the knights. One match. Let’s see what Camelot is really made of.”
Arthur raised his brows, a grin tugging at his mouth. “All of you? Against my best men?”
“All of us,” Leila confirmed, with a gleam in her eye. “Unless you’re afraid.”
Amara sat up straighter, her smile wide. “It would be good for the knights. They’ve grown lazy since we arrived. And I haven’t sparred properly in weeks.”
“I’ll write the challenge myself,” Elidia offered, already half-reclining again like a bored noble in a court painting. “With flourishes. And ribbons.”
Even Merlin couldn’t help but laugh. Arthur set down his tart, adjusting his posture just slightly – half regal, half resigned.
“Well then,” he said, “prepare to be thoroughly humiliated.”