Chapter 3: Pearls of the Prince's Promise
No one dared question the prince's sudden burst of Holy Light. A divine awakening to bolster his strength? It mattered little—Lordaeron's might was unchallenged, and weakening it invited ruin. Better to court favor, then. Whispers spread among the great houses: daughters of suitable age and lineage, paraded like prizes for the fourteen-year-old heir. In Azeroth, unions were forged young—commoners sired broods by now, while nobles bound empires with vows. Terenas himself had waited until fifty for heirs, an anomaly among kings who seeded legacies in their youth.
"Arthas, congratulations."
The voice was soft as sea mist, drawing his gaze to a familiar face: Jaina Proudmoore, his childhood companion, equally youthful at thirteen. Her golden curls framed a face of quiet intelligence, her robes hinting at the archmage she would become.
Arthas's expression softened with layered affection. In tales he'd once known, Jaina's path twisted toward tragedy—betrayals and broken oaths. But here, in flesh and breath, she was unmarred: a brilliant girl, unscarred by prophecy's cruel pen. Daughter of Kul Tiras's admiral, wielder of a fleet that ruled the waves; blessed with beauty like dawn-kissed waves and arcane gifts that hummed in her veins. Assets enough to tempt any crown.
"And to you, Jaina. I've not forgotten our promises."
He drew her into an embrace, heedless of the banquet's eyes. Marrying Jaina? No folly there. She was nobility incarnate—wealth, influence, and allure in one. He was no puppet of fate; he was Arthas Menethil, reborn to seize, not suffer. Sugar-coated alliances? He'd savor the sweet, discard the shell, and hurl the core back at its sender.
Gasps echoed from the nobles' circle. A public vow? Binding as iron. A lord took one true wife, her heirs legitimate; mistresses were mere shadows—tolerated dalliances for the courtly elite. Who among them lacked a paramour or three?
Jaina's cheeks flushed rose, her head nestling against his shoulder. Clever as she was, she sensed no ploy—only the warmth of a betrothal long whispered in Dalaran's towers. Marrying into power brought fleets and fortunes; who wouldn't? And beyond strategy, was she not a captivating thirteen-year-old, her form budding with promise?
"Arthas..."
"When this feast ends—and the wars call me south—I'll seek you in Dalaran."
He wouldn't let her slip away. No, he'd shape her into his fiercest ally, loyal beyond doubt. The game's Jaina had withered untended, a flower starved of pursuit. To leave such beauty adrift? Madness. He'd water her with ambition, watch her bloom in his shadow.
"Very well... I'll wait for you."
Jaina faltered, words caught between joy and the weight of watching eyes—jealous glances from courtly rivals, sharpening her fluster into quiet pride. Her betrothed: Prince of Lordaeron, heir to mankind's strongest realm. What girl wouldn't preen?
Across the hall, Terenas held court, ushering forth the evening's honored guests: Queen Tiffin Wrynn of the Kingdom of Stormwind and her son, Crown Prince Varian Wrynn. Ostensibly a welcome for the refugees, it masked graver talks—alliances reforged in Stormwind's smoldering wake. Without aid, their banners would fade to memory. Only Anduin Lothar's valor had spared them annexation, his lineage a shield of ancient prestige.
Lothar traced blood to Thoradin, Arathor's first emperor—a pedigree that stirred Azeroth's races like a battle horn. Bloodlines commanded respect; "noble descent" evoked bowed heads and murmured accolades.
Arthas lingered at the fringes, ear attuned to the diplomacy, gaze drifting to Varian—the boy who would one day helm the Alliance. Yet fate's threads frayed in his hands; no longer bound to canon, the future bent to will. Their eyes met—peers, not yet rivals, bound by boyish camaraderie more than crowns.
But Arthas's attention snagged on Tiffin Wrynn, the Stormwind queen. Poise incarnate, she mirrored his mother's elegance, her maturity a siren's call to his budding manhood. Voluptuous and vital, she exuded a generous allure: faint laugh-lines framing wise eyes, jewels glinting against porcelain skin, her form a masterpiece of curves that whispered temptation. For a youth of fourteen, she was forbidden fruit—ripe, intoxicating.
*Gulp.* Arthas swallowed hard. Desire, once dormant, now roared with his newfound power. A true man claimed more than thrones: women, legions of them, to grace his victories. In that instant, clarity struck—power, wealth, and beauties unbound. His creed, etched in Light and shadow.
As the banquet swirled, Arthas navigated the nobles' web—Lordaeron's schemers mingling with envoys from afar. Beneath the glamour's sheen lurked rot: bribes veiled as toasts, alliances bartered like cattle. Soon, a figure approached, her presence announced by a briny tang of ocean spray. Plump and commanding, her fitted gown hugged a form that turned heads—especially the deep valley of her cleavage, soft swells inviting the boldest gaze.
"Oh, my little prince!" Priscilla Ashvane pulled him into an enthusiastic embrace, her ample bosom pressing warmly against him as she nuzzled his hair. "I heard of your ascension—such a marvel! What shall it be? A swift galleon, or a necklace of pearls to rival the tides?"
*Gulp.* Arthas savored the mature warmth, a thrill uncoiling low. Paradise, this—yet eyes bored in from every corner.
"Ahem, Auntie—I've been eager to see you. Sit, please; the road from Kul Tiras must weary you. I've your favorite rum chilling."
"So thoughtful, you are!"
Priscilla paid the stares no mind, sealing his cheek with a bold kiss—lips brushing perilously close to claiming more. The court murmured, accustomed to her flair. A rural lord might scoff, but Lady Ashvane? She gripped ninety percent of humanity's maritime trade—a titan in silk, aunt to the prince. None dared murmur against her fire.
Even her husband, Lord Poole Ashvane, had learned silence; once, his grumbles earned a retort that still echoed: "I've yet to tally your nights at that paramour's villa. What's a nephew's hug to that?"
Childless of sons, with only a daughter to her name, Priscilla doted on Arthas—sweet-tongued and filial since boyhood—like the heir she'd never borne. In Arthas's eyes, she was a boon untainted by future villainy; no whispers of ambition's fall shadowed her yet. To squander such an ally? Folly. And truthfully... that cleavage haunted dreams, vast and yielding, a handful demanding two to tame.
A treasure worth claiming—and soon.