#georgesofyork

[thfcrtuncte]

The York family had not been her choice, for as long as she could remember she had never entertained the idea of matrimonial bliss — if anything she had been kept to her mother’s skirts in some effort to keep her fortunate daughter safe from the outer influences of court life, their pomp and grandeur, their lies and torment spreading like wildfire. No, for many years there was little to admire beyond the walls of her nursery till Hal died — leaving the family thus uprooted, each daughter suddenly eyed as a potential Queen to a wealthy son. It just so happened that the next family of such wealth and prestige happened to have arranged two betrothals to royal blood. Margaret, and her older sister Katherine, sold onward to gain the best profit to the crown itself. 

Alas, she had not been prepared for the union to be met with anticipation and gruelling passions. For it took all of her, every inch, not to weave her hands into George of York’s hair as he whispered chivalric hymns into her ear. Rarely ever allowed to be formally alone, as was but a rule of their sect, it would then be a scandalous affair to know of their secret unions held in the inner sanctum of her rooms — or behind closed doors, or even amongst the rose bushes that blossomed with rich fragrance. Paris, with its glittering affairs of cobalt and gold, would barely be but a hindrance to this new way of life, but still, Margaret had a role to play as her father’s daughter, as a Princess and potential Queen. 

“If they find you here —” she began, her lips easing into a wide-set grin that echoed across her face in waves. “In these rooms…” Margaret continued, closing the shutters to the windows that overlooked the French affairs, rushing to the door of which he came to push it shut. “You will put in danger all that we have built, you don’t want that, do you?” She teased, twisting her form towards him, a sway adopted before she met his stance, her hands set upon the broad stretch of his chest, her breath hitched with her girlish whims. “Alas, stay. I would have no one else help me settle in this new airs." @georgesofyork

[lancastrie]

@georgesofyork

The Parisian climate had been benevolent to its English occupants, a conclave whose bloodline was, nevertheless, gritted to bear frigid, dripping climes; barren chills that penetrated the costliest of sable, whipped and roped at the vein-mapped countenance. The King’s dark-tressed curls brandished rust in the white-flaring sun; the balmy taste of optimism, like ripened apricot, dethawing on the lips. In the mirth and revelry of the day, the chime of laughter and of the tolling bells of Saint-Denis, in the company of crowns and bishops’ mantles, Henry derived no small iota of pleasure; indeed, the piquancy of summer had always boded well with the King. It was, after all, to the marshy, sunburned battlefield, and the bloated, impassable rivers of June, that he owed the victorious attainment of his holy crown – winter had served only misery, meted out only death and malady.

Henry’s movements were fluid, genial, as he glided across the warmed courtyard; the strides of a soldier, of Caesar stepping across the Rubicon, and no shrewd, miserly sovereign, ruling stubbornly, compactly, from a kingdom on the remotest fringes of the world; more populace in boars than noblemen. Henry was all ease, crinkled eyes, boisterous laughter. In splendid velvets, and in buoyant spirits, no one would dare presume that England was a realm that lay on the brink of anarchy. Nor, however, did circumstances allow Henry to forget this woebegone fact. Emerging from between a column of rippling pendants, the swaggering figure of George of York was as sobering as a spear’s tip, sliding at the throat. Hardly as insidious as their lord father, in whom the King possessed but little faith, Henry watched the Neville scions closely. It was in George, however, that he kindled the warmest of sentiments; Henry saw in him the babe he’d cradled in his arms, those liquid eyes, powdery scent, brought to a basin hung with gold-brocade and christened into the true faith, before all of England – shoving roots into a bond that would prove ineradicable. Though chiefly the boy’s sovereign lord, who asserted his authority energetically, the King would concede there was a deeper kinship that ran between a godfather and his godson, than a man in vicarious desire of a son; one that the discord sewn between dynasties could not supplant. And soon, very soon, they would be conjoined in all but blood.

Henry extended a hand, flashing with the heirloom he wore on his pinky, gesturing for the boy, grown into the strapping figure of a man, to draw nearer. ‘My lord York. As I accept you as my natural son, I ask you to allow me the honour of addressing you by your name. Little would bring the Queen’s highness, and myself, more pleasure than for our family to be the merriest in England.’ 

[fortuneshq]

@alienored

@mariereggente

@hurremhatuns

@gevherhans

@lancastrie

@georgesofyork

@oflanders

@amnostheos

@edwardofyork

@hremaximh

@komnenid

@sultanselim

@iskendaer

@thfirebrand

@plntgntprincess

@damayantia

@yorkroses

@basileuspalaiologos

@normndys

@draguts

[thfcrtuncte]

It was frowned upon, of course. But their betrothal had long been set in stone, the promise of such a marriage carved into the very land they had been born into. Against dew-laden grass and fair-weather skies, Margaret embodied the one true vision of an English Princess with her long, braided blonde-white hair and embroidered cotton skirts, her clean fingers then pressed into his body as the warmth of her palm fought to find the beat of his heart. However, though many had urged their princess to be patient and careful when before the York son, Margaret had long since been blind to their sweet, serpentine matches. With butterflies fluttering around her belly, the throb of her wrists ever-present, Margaret welcomed George into her life — happily submitting, as if she were not the child of gilded royalty, as if she were but the second in line to that merry English throne. 

“You talk as if you hold a place in their hearts higher than my own seat, which is almost treason, is it not?” She whispered back, slurring the words through the plump of her lips as she rose to press ginger kisses against the corner of his mouth, drawing forth all unanswered questions, allowing him to press her to him — as if, that was, she had any true hold to make a decision in the first place. “I’m not afraid of the Scots, if the King refuses such intimidation then I will follow suit — I only wish for a familiar face, for we are familiar, or intend to be so,” Margaret followed between velveteen kisses pressed to his lower lip and chin, one ear pricked to make note of the noises coming from beyond the closed door. “Are you scared, George? Is that why you accepted?” Her tease presented without hesitance, her eyes lifting to find his own.

  George's affection for Margaret was conceived in a dell, deep-hollowed in forest secrecy -- over which high summer pours its blue glory and golden light across the beauteous sky;  a light 'til now, the starved hollow of George's heart had never seen. Time had mellowed most affairs to an entanglement of a mild equality; with Margaret, their passion was of a fine vintage -- it was fresh, of a vital comfort to him.  At last he ventured to her apartment, to find comfort in her presence; Margaret ushered him in -- she had no dance of welcome for him this evening. She took immediate possession of his person; moved him round and shuttered doors, all the while softly showering him with honeyed words and fretful phrases. All power lay in her tiny little hands, which rendered him pliable, and he took pleasure in wholly yielding himself to his little bride. "If they protest, do I not have every right to be present?" He was not cheated of the moral absurdity of his assertion; but he resented the oppression, of open expression of a deeply-honouring attachment to his intended; George was attracted to the painful destiny of an arranged marriage. But Margaret had charged him to say nothing on the subject to any friend, family, or servant; she commended his discretion in coming to her. "Would you father resent me so? He enjoys me greatly, and I respect him in return; your mother naturally, finds me most handsome. But your beautiful mouth would be better used kissing me, then fretting over idle tongues." Margaret was sweet for him now, her hands against his chest; devoted and infatuated, rendering his cheeks a warmed hue, when he wished to be as cool and dignified as his family name. He pressed his hands to the small of her back now, and began to kiss her cheeks sweetly; his hips pressing into her own, his arms about to lift her from the ground. "I thank you princess, for allowing me to share your company; is Paris so dreadful? Or is it the lurking, undoubtedly unbathed Scottish delegation, which unnerves you?"