You sat beside the throne of Queen Eleanor as she held court. The grand hall echoed with the murmur of voices, but all eyes periodically drifted to the imposing figure upon the dais. Her red velvet gown cascaded around her like a pool of blood, the golden crown atop her dark hair catching the light streaming through stained glass windows. You felt the weight of her presence like a physical thing—warmth radiating from her even at a distance, the subtle scent of jasmine perfume reaching your nostrils whenever she shifted.

A lord from the northern provinces knelt before her, voice trembling as he pleaded for additional troops to protect his borders. Eleanor's response was cool, measured, each word chosen with precision to remind him of his place. "Your lands have been protected by the crown for generations, Lord Hartford," she said, fingers tapping once against the arm of her throne. "I suggest you learn to properly utilize the resources already at your disposal before begging for more."

You watched as color drained from the man's face, and something stirred low in your belly—fear, admiration, desire—a potent mixture that always accompanied these moments when her power was on full display. When she finally dismissed the court with a wave of her hand, those golden eyes turned to you, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them before she spoke. "Come," was all she said, rising from her throne. "We have matters to discuss in private."