"Yes," Diana snapped, her tone blunt. "Ignore him. Forget him. You're a queen, for heaven's sake, not some love-struck girl waiting for scraps of affection. If he's too busy gallivanting with his concubines to see your worth, then he doesn't deserve you."
Sansa's shoulders sagged, her despair evident. "It wasn't supposed to be like this," she murmured.
"He wasn't supposed to become king. If… if only she hadn't died, his sister would have taken the throne, and I wouldn't—"
Diana cut her off with a wave of her hand. "Enough of that. What's done is done. Wishing for a different past won't change the present."
"But it hurts, Diana," Sansa confessed, her voice cracking. "I just wanted… I wanted someone to love me, to share my life with. Now, I'm trapped in this cold, lonely marriage. He doesn't even come to me at night anymore."
"I'm a queen in name only." She whispered sadly with her head down.
Diana's eyes softened, though her expression remained resolute. "You're more than that," she said, shifting to sit beside Sansa.
"You're my sister. And it kills me to see you like this—waiting for a man who clearly doesn't care. You're worth more than this misery." Diana shifted closer to her sister.
"Maybe it's time to stop pinning for him and find someone who can give you what you want."
Sansa looked up, her brow furrowing. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Diana began, her voice lowering conspiratorially, "that there are plenty of young men in this court who would be more than happy to warm your bed and remind you what it feels like to be desired."
Sansa's cheeks flushed, a mix of scandal and intrigue flashing in her eyes. "Diana!"
"What?" Diana shrugged unapologetically. "Why should you suffer for his choices? He's off with his concubines, isn't he? So why shouldn't you have someone to make you happy?"
Sansa hesitated, her hand tightening on the handkerchief. "But… I'm a queen. I can't just—"
"You're a woman first," Diana interrupted, her tone softening as she placed a hand on Sansa's shoulder.
"A strong, beautiful woman. And you deserve to feel alive again, not buried under his neglect. If he doesn't care for you, then stop wasting your tears and take care of yourself."
Sansa leaned into her sister's shoulder, letting out a shaky sigh. "I don't know if I can."
"You can," Diana assured her, wrapping an arm around her. "You've always been stronger than you think. And if you ever need someone to remind you of that, I'll be here. But I won't let you keep drowning in this sadness. Not for him."
Sansa closed her eyes, the warmth of her sister's embrace offering a small comfort. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to consider Diana's words.
Maybe it was time to stop waiting for the king's love and start reclaiming her own happiness—even if it meant finding it elsewhere.
~~~{─────────────
Borderline.
The battle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~}~~~
Fooleria's ambitions had been clear from the start: to claim Wyfn-Garde and expand their dominion.
They dreamed of planting their banner atop Wyfkeep Castle, ruling the fertile lands and its strongholds with iron-fisted authority.
To Fooleria, Wyfn-Garde was a prize too tempting to ignore—a kingdom of wealth, strategic power, and formidable history.
But what Fooleria hadn't anticipated was that Wyfn-Garde harbored a secret, one that turned every battle into a nightmare for their forces.
Among the knights and commanders of Wyfn-Garde was a being they whispered of in fearful tones, a creature of darkness who fought with the ferocity of ten men.
A demon, they called him.
In truth, it wasn't far from the mark. Alaric Velthorne, Third prince of Wyfn-Garde royal house, was no mere mortal.
He was darkness. A vampire by blood and birth, his strength, speed, and endurance were unparalleled.
To the Foolerians, his presence on the battlefield was a horror story brought to life. Soldiers swore they saw his eyes glow like embers in the heat of battle, his blade cutting through men with unrelenting precision.
And Wyfn-Garde never failed.
For years, the Foolerian military strategists had tried to downplay the stories of this "demon."
They spread propaganda, dismissing him as a myth, an exaggerated tale to frighten children and bolster Wyfn-Garde's morale. But when they faced him on the battlefield, they learned how wrong they had been.
Fooleria's forces had come to Wyfn-Garde, confident of their superiority. Their legions were vast, their generals seasoned, and their tactics sharp.
Yet they found themselves repeatedly beaten back, their soldiers trembling before Alaric's devastating power.
No shield could block his strikes, no sword could match his speed.
He was an unstoppable force, his presence alone enough to demoralize even the bravest warriors.
The battlefield today was no exception.
As rain poured from the darkened sky, Fooleria's hopes of victory began to crumble. Their soldiers hesitated at the front lines, eyes darting nervously toward the figure who moved like a storm among them.
Alaric was relentless, a blur of death in the midst of the melee. His sword, slick with blood, sang as it cut down enemy after enemy.
"You thought to claim Wyfn-Garde?" Alaric's voice carried over the clash of steel, cold and mocking. "You thought yourselves worthy of this kingdom?"
He, a prince still hadn't been deemed worthy!
Who did they think they were?!
He drove his blade through a Foolerian officer, the force of the strike sending the man's body crumpling to the ground.
Around him, the Foolerians faltered, some retreating in blind panic while others stood frozen in terror.
"Run," Alaric snarled, his voice low and menacing, "and take your cowardice with you. Tell your king that Wyfn-Garde does not fall."
The Foolerian soldiers, who moments ago had been chanting for glory, now found themselves unsure.
The stories of the "demon of Wyfn-Garde" were no longer rumors—they were undeniable truths.
Behind Alaric, the men of Wyfn-Garde fought with renewed vigor, their faith in their so-called demon unshakable.
Commander Wall, bleeding and barely standing, roared out commands that echoed over the battlefield.
"Press forward! We don't give them an inch!"