Masterlist | Word Count: 9k
Pairings: G!p King! Natasha Romanoff x Princess!Reader.
Contains: forced engagement/deception, political manipulation, power imbalance, emotional distress, mild physical restraint (being carried/held), implied coercion through circumstance, sudden illness/fever episode, cold exposure/harsh environment survival risk, court pressure and public scrutiny, possessive behavior, emotional tension, intimidation through authority, arranged political alliance implications, grammar errrors.
Taglist: @beggingonmykneesforher @red1culous @slutforabbyanderson @acollectionofrandomdreams @red1culous @chlck99
A week had passed, and the road toward the north grew heavier with every passing mile, as though the land itself was pressing downward upon all who dared to travel it. You were not accustomed to this kind of weather. In Valoria—nestled nearer to gentler borders—the seasons were kinder, shifting with balance rather than brutality. There, winter was more of a passing guest than a ruling monarch. But here, in Vostrovia’s northern reach, winter was something else entirely—something sovereign, enduring, and unyielding.
The cold here did not arrive in a single blow. It seeped in gradually, first as a bite at the fingertips, then as a creeping weight along the bones. The air itself felt sharper, thinner, as though every breath had to be earned. Moisture in the atmosphere turned into a pale fog that clung low to the ground, swallowing distance and softening sound. Even the sky felt distant—its light muted, filtered through endless gray. You learned quickly that in such climates, warmth was not simply comfort; it was survival. Without proper layering, the body struggled to regulate itself, blood slowed in its extremities, and fatigue arrived faster than reason could keep up.
The land demanded preparation, and you had arrived without enough of it. You were grateful—at least—that you had managed to pluck a few herbs before leaving, carefully chosen and dried in advance. You knew the northern borders rarely offered abundance. Most plants here slept beneath frost for much of the year, retreating into the soil until the brief mercy of summer allowed them to bloom.
Even then, it was fleeting once a year, when the snow relented long enough for scattered grasses and resilient flowers to rise in fragile defiance across the open fields. After that brief season, the land returned again to its long silence of ice and wind.
You clutched your coat tighter around yourself, trying to preserve what little warmth you could. The absence of proper winter garments weighed on you more than pride would allow you to admit. You had gloves once, thick enough to resist harsher winds, but they were gone now. Lost in the aftermath of Natasha’s destruction of your chamber back at the castle. Now, there was only the memory of warmth and the bitter reality of exposure. Each breath you took felt visible in the air, forming into pale mist before vanishing again, as if even your presence was temporary against the vast cold. It almost felt absurd—how something as simple as weather could strip away dignity so easily, reducing even a royal to quiet endurance.
From the corner of her eye, Natasha observed you as she looked out the carriage window. The world beyond was veiled in drifting fog, the ground dusted with a thin, uneven layer of snow that clung stubbornly to the earth. For Vostrovia, this was a mild winter’s breath—familiar, expected, almost routine. But for you, it was a sudden and unforgiving transformation. The body did not adapt so quickly; temperature shifts like these often triggered shock responses—fatigue, stiffness, difficulty regulating warmth as the internal balance struggled to catch up with the environment.
Natasha exhaled slowly, a quiet sigh lost between the rhythm of the carriage wheels. Without ceremony, she removed her coat and gloves, the motion calm and unhurried, before leaning slightly toward you. She placed them on your lap as though it were the most natural decision in the world.
She settled back into her seat afterward, crossing her arms with composed ease, as if nothing had truly changed.
“Vostrovia’s coat is specially made for this part of the North. It will keep you warm.”
Her tone remained even, almost detached, as she turned her gaze back toward the window. There was no emphasis in her generosity—no expectation of gratitude, only certainty. As though she were simply correcting an imbalance in the world, yet you sat there, frozen for a different reason now caught between disbelief and reluctant awareness of her unexpected consideration. Especially when you remembered—quite clearly—that she was the reason you no longer had proper gloves to begin with.
“Thank you… your Majesty.”
Carefully, you pulled on her coat. It enveloped you far more than expected, it was large, structured for someone of her build, the fabric thick enough to trap warmth against the body almost immediately. It fell past your arms, heavy and protective, as though it had decided to claim you rather than simply cover you. The gloves followed—lined, insulated, and strikingly warm the moment they touched your skin. The relief was immediate, your body finally easing from its strained vigilance. For the first time in hours, you could breathe without feeling the cold clawing inward.
“But your Majesty… what about you?” you asked, concern slipping into your voice despite yourself, your gaze turning toward her with quiet worry. Natasha did not look at you at first. Her eyes remained on the blurred winter beyond the glass.
“Don’t worry. I’m wearing layers underneath. Besides, we’re almost at Vostrovia, and I have an extra pair here given to me.”
She retrieved another pair of gloves—distinct from the ones she had given you. Hers were black and red, sharp in contrast, while the spare pair was lighter, white with subtle yellow detailing along the seams, almost ceremonial in design.
Before the thought could settle further, the carriage slowed, wheels crunching against frost-hardened ground until it came to a steady halt. The door opened with a controlled motion, and Maria stood outside, holding it open as cold air rushed in like an uninvited guest. You blinked, pulled back into the present, and looked past her.
Beyond the threshold, the world had changed. Soldiers stood in disciplined formation, aligned in perfect rows that stretched outward like a living corridor. A carpet lay across the snow, striking in its contrast against the pale ground, leading toward the grand estate ahead.
Natasha stepped out first, her movements steady and assured, before turning back toward you and offering her hand without hesitation. You took it carefully, letting her guide you down from the carriage. The moment your feet touched the ground, the scale of what awaited you became clearer. A castle rose before you—vast, imposing, carved with the authority of centuries.
Its presence alone seemed to command the air around it. Staff members stood in organized lines behind the guards, their attention fixed forward with a mixture of reverence and disciplined restraint. The sheer number of them made something uneasy stir within you—not fear exactly, but disbelief at the weight of influence gathered in a single place.
Natasha began walking ahead without pause, and you followed a step behind her. As you moved, you caught glimpses of the staff’s faces—some confused, others openly shocked, all trying to reconcile what they were seeing with what they believed they knew. The contrast between her reputation and the formal welcome laid out before you was difficult to ignore, as if the world itself was unsure which version of her to believe.
Eventually, you reached the great entrance of the palace. Three figures stood waiting. The former King and Queen of Vostrovia, composed yet unmistakably attentive, and beside them, their second daughter, observing with quiet interest.
“Natasha moya dorogaya, welcome home.”
The former Queen was the first to step forward, her voice soft yet carrying the weight of long-awaited relief, as though it had traveled through distance and worry alike. She closed the space between them with unhurried grace, as one who had spent too many nights waiting for such a return, and drew Natasha into her arms. The embrace she offered was firm, enveloping, and unhesitating—an act of love both practiced and profound, held just long enough to speak what words did not.
“How was your trip? I heard there were bandits that tried to ambush you.” The former King followed soon after, his presence steady as carved stone softened by age and care. He took his place beside his Queen, laying a measured hand upon Natasha’s back.
The gesture was simple, yet carried the quiet authority of protection and concern, as though even a returned daughter must still be checked for the scars of the road. His eyes lingered on her with a searching fatherly gaze, unreadable yet deeply aware.
“Oh please, Father. You know it’s nothing Natasha can’t handle, she’s practically invisible at this point. Right, sis?”
The younger princess spoke then, her voice bright as springlight slipping through castle windows after winter. With a playful ease, she stepped closer and nudged Natasha lightly at the side with her elbow, as if reminding the world that even legends could be teased like siblings.
There was fondness in her tone, the kind born from shared childhood corridors and echoing halls. And there you stood—an outsider to this warmth—watching as if witnessing a tale you had only ever read in old manuscripts.
For one so often described as cold and distant, Natasha’s world was unexpectedly alive with color, laughter, and familial warmth. Yet as you lingered in silence, the former Queen’s gaze shifted, sharp and perceptive as an owl in moonlight, turning toward you with sudden awareness. Her brows lifted slightly, surprised by your presence as though you had stepped out from a forgotten verse.
“And who might you be, dear?” she asked, her voice gentler now, curiosity threading through each syllable. Her gaze traveled over you—measured, thoughtful taking in your form and attire before returning to Natasha with a flicker of puzzled inquiry.
“Everyone, meet the Princess of Valoria—or was.” Natasha’s voice rang clear, untroubled, as she stepped beside you. In a movement both natural and inevitable, she drew you closer by the waist.
Her arm settling around you with quiet certainty, as though such placement had always been written into fate itself. The touch was subtle, yet unmistakably binding, and you realized only too late how firmly she had anchored you at her side.
The words fell from her lips as casually as a passing breeze over palace gardens, yet they struck the room like a royal decree spoken in the great hall. Silenced followed—brief, stunned, and reverent. All eyes turned, as though the very tapestries had leaned in to listen. Your own breath faltered, caught between disbelief and sudden implication. A fiancé? The title echoed within you like a bell rung in an empty chapel—unannounced, yet undeniable.
“Good heavens! Thank the gods you finally found someone—this is an absolute miracle, Natasha!” The former Queen’s voice broke first, rising with radiant joy. Her hands clasped as though in prayer answered after years of waiting, her expression alight with disbelief softened into celebration. It was as if the kingdom itself had been waiting for such news to breathe again.
“Indeed it is! You’ve finally found a suitable Queen—Vostrovia will be delighted to hear this news!” The former King’s laughter followed, deep and resounding like distant thunder softened by joy. He stepped forward with no restraint, gathering the both of you into an exuberant embrace that spoke of pride too large to contain.
The weight of his happiness pressed down warmly, almost overwhelming in its sincerity. You offered a strained, uncertain smile as you were held within it, while Natasha merely lifted a hand to her father’s shoulder, attempting with quiet composure to ease him back into decorum.
“Goodness, sestra. Never knew you’d find someone—considering you’re quite picky.”
The younger princess added with a knowing smile, her tone edged with playful disbelief. She tilted her head, observing you with open curiosity before stepping forward with practiced grace. Taking your hand, she shook it gently, as though sealing an unspoken accord between strangers and story.
“I’m sorry for our incompetence. I’m Yelena, the youngest daughter of Vostrovia. Thank you for taking great care of her.”
Her words were earnest, softened by gratitude and youthful sincerity. She gave your hand a light pat before stepping back, making space for the next arrival. Then came the former Queen once more, moving like a figure out of an ancient portrait—graceful, composed, and maternal in a way that softened even stone. She drew you into her embrace with gentle certainty, her warmth neither rushed nor hesitant, but entirely assured. It was a welcome that felt like being folded into history itself.
“My apologies, sweetie. I’m Melina—Natasha’s mother and former Queen of Vostrovia. My, my… you’re quite a grace. Tell me, how did Natasha convince such beauty to be hers?”
Her curiosity was unhidden, almost delighted, as her hands rose with refined precision to cup your cheek, rest upon your shoulder, then lightly trace the outline of your presence as though confirming reality. She studied you not with judgment, but with the careful appreciation of one accustomed to courtly detail and inherited elegance.
“And I’m Alexei, former King of Vostrovia. Goodness, you don’t know how much of a blessing you are to Vostrovia.”
At last, the former King returned once more, taking your hands in his with a joy unburdened by restraint. He shook them warmly, his laughter carrying the easy pride of a man who believed his family’s fortune had just been written anew. Then, as quickly as he had come forward, he released you.
And so you stood among them—wrapped in the sudden tide of royal affection and proclamation like a character drawn unexpectedly into the opening chapter of a legend already in motion, still trying to understand where you now belonged within its unfolding tale.
“Please don’t overwhelm her. She needs rest, and I do as well. It has been a week since we have not had proper care we will see you again at the grand ball later.”
Natasha spoke with composed authority, her voice even and controlled, yet carrying a quiet insistence that settled over the room like a soft command rather than a forceful one. There was no sharpness in her tone, no impatience, only a steady certainty that made it clear she did not intend to stay any longer for their questions.
As her words faded, she shifted slightly closer to you, her arm returning to rest around your waist. The gesture was deliberate but not rough, her hold firm enough to guide yet careful enough not to startle, as though she were mindful at least in part of how much had already been forced upon you that day.
Without waiting for a reply, she gently steered you away from the grand entrance, leading you past the towering doors and into the vast interior of the castle. The warmth inside greeted you almost immediately, a stark contrast to the bitter cold that had clung to your skin outside. It seeped slowly into your limbs, easing the stiffness in your fingers and the tension in your shoulders, though it did little to quiet the unrest building within your thoughts. Behind you, the murmurs of her family faded into the distance, replaced instead by the softer echoes of footsteps against the polished stone floors and the faint rustle of fabric as you moved deeper into the palace.
The corridors stretched long and elegant, lined with tall windows that allowed pale winter light to filter through makes a casting muted patterns along the walls. Tapestries hung in careful symmetry, their intricate designs telling stories you did not have the time nor the patience to decipher. Everything around you spoke of history, the legacy of a kingdom that had endured far longer than you had ever imagined.
Yet despite the grand tour, the path Natasha led you through grew quieter, more secluded. Until the presence of others faded almost entirely. It was here, in this stillness, that the weight of everything began to settle more heavily upon you.
Then you suddenly stopped, the abrupt movement enough to break her stride, and with a firm pull you slipped out of her grasp. The warmth of her hold disappeared, leaving only the lingering imprint of where her hand had been. You turned to face her fully, your expression tightening as the frustration you had held back finally surfaced. Your eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unwavering.
“What in heaven was that?” Your voice cuts through the quiet corridor, no longer restrained by the presence of others. “I don’t recall discussing being your fiancé at all. Don’t you have a Queen?”
The questions came one after the other, laced with disbelief and something deeper—something unsettled. Natasha stilled, her posture straight but not rigid. She did not react immediately, nor did she interrupt you.
Instead, she let out a slow breath, the faint rise and fall of her shoulders betraying the smallest hint of weariness beneath her otherwise composed exterior. When she finally looked at you, her gaze was steady—direct, unflinching, yet not unkind.
“Yes, we didn’t.” Her voice remained calm, measured, as though she had already anticipated every word you would say.
“Because if I told you in the first place, I know you would reject it.” There was no defensiveness in her tone, only a quiet acknowledgment of truth.
“And no, I don’t have a spouse.” She paused briefly, her eyes flickering just for a moment.
“I am perfectly capable of ruling the kingdom on my own. I have done so without issue.”
A faint shift in her expression followed, subtle but noticeable, as if the next part of her explanation was less about her own belief and more about the expectations placed upon her.
“But my family…” She exhaled softly, her voice lowering just slightly. “They insist that Vostrovia requires a Queen. Not merely for tradition, but for stability—for appearance, for alliances, for things that extend beyond governance itself.”
Her words carried a quiet resignation, as though this was not a battle she wished to fight, yet one she could not simply ignore.
“And I offer you to be the Queen of Vostrovia.”
This time, her gaze did not waver at all. She stepped a little closer not enough to crowd you, but enough to close the distance that had formed when you pulled away. There was no force in the movement, only intention.
“I have been observing you.”
Her tone lightened, just slightly though it remained grounded in certainty. "You are not like the others I have encountered.” She spoke carefully, as though choosing each word with precision.
“Most would have attempted to deceive me… to gain favor through false charm, or to offer themselves without thought, believing it would grant them security.” A faint pause followed, her eyes studying you it was not critically, but thoughtfully.
“I have no use for either.” Her voice grew quieter, though not weaker. “I want someone who can think beyond what is placed before them. Someone who does not bend easily, who understands consequences… who sees more than what is shown.”
Another brief silence settled, her expression unreadable yet steady.
“And you have what it takes.”
The statement lingered in the air, heavy with implication. You remained still, your thoughts struggling to settle into something coherent. Everything she said came too quickly, too suddenly, as though your life had been redirected without your consent.
The question slipped out, softer now, edged with uncertainty despite your effort to remain composed. Natasha did not hesitate.
“Then you shall go freely, wherever you wish.” Her answer was immediate, her tone unchanged. “But I will not provide anything further. Not within this kingdom.”
She did not elaborate, nor did she need to. The meaning was clear enough. Vostrovia was not forgiving—its cold alone was enough to claim those unprepared for it.
Survival here required more than will, it would required resources, knowledge, and protection. Without them, even the strongest would falter. The silence that followed pressed heavier than before.
Her voice came again, softer this time guiding your attention back to her.
"If you say yes, I will provide everything you require… and everything you may need.” There was no exaggeration in her promise, no grandeur only a quiet assurance she's giving you.
“You will not be touched against your will. You will not be harmed. You will not be forced into anything you do not choose.”
Each condition was spoken clearly, deliberately, as though she understood exactly what mattered in such an agreement.
“You will have your own space, your own decisions… and whatever resources you require will be given without question.”
A small short paused followed after, before stating her promises once again.
It was not a demand, nor a threat just a simple condition stated as plainly as everything else she had offered within her will for you.
“What is it going to be, princess?”
This time, there was something quieter in her voice. Not pressure, not impatience—something closer to patience, though it carried an underlying weight all the same. She did not move, did not rush you, simply waiting as though she would accept whatever answer you chose to give.
The corridor remained still around you, the distant silence of the palace stretching on as your thoughts turned over themselves, searching for clarity where there seemed to be none.
“Do I have your word… if I say yes?”
Your voice came more carefully now, hesitation threading through it despite your attempt to steady yourself. For a brief moment, Natasha’s expression shifted—subtle, fleeting, but real.
The edges of her gaze softened, and something unspoken passed through her eyes, something that almost resembled understanding. A faint, restrained smile touched her lips—not one of victory, nor of amusement, but something quieter… gentler.
She stepped just slightly closer but not enough to close the space entirely, but enough to make her presence feel less distant.
“You have my word, princess.”
The guards escorted you through the winding corridors of the palace until you reached your assigned chamber, their presence silent yet ever watchful as they guided you with practiced precision. When the doors were opened, you were met with a room that was neither overly extravagant nor disappointingly plain. It was balanced, thoughtfully arranged, a quiet display of elegance that did not demand attention but earned it nonetheless.
The furnishings were refined, the fabrics rich without being overwhelming, and the faint scent of polished wood and fresh linen lingered gently in the air. It was the kind of chamber that felt lived in even before you stepped inside, as though it had been prepared not just for a guest, but for someone expected to remain.
Yours was placed directly beside Her Majesty’s own chamber, an arrangement that had not been made without reason. Melina had insisted upon it with a certain maternal firmness, claiming that the two of you ought to remain close, even before the wedding itself had taken place. The implication of such words lingered in your mind, heavy and premature, as though the future had already been decided for you without your full consent.
Your baggage, what little you had managed to bring was carried in by a maid who handled it with quiet care, placing it neatly within the room before offering a respectful nod and taking her leave. The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving you alone at last. A tired sigh escaped your lips as the silence settled around you.
You moved toward the window almost instinctively, your steps slower now, weighed down by both exhaustion and the events that had unfolded too quickly for your mind to properly grasp. Resting lightly against the frame, you gazed out at the kingdom below.
Despite the unforgiving cold that blanketed the land, the town remained alive. Movement could be seen even through the faint haze of winter air, figures going about their duties, lights flickering from homes and establishments, smoke curling gently from chimneys into the pale sky. There was resilience here, a quiet determination that refused to yield to the harshness of the season. It was… unexpectedly beautiful.
Your eyes slowly closed, the tension in your body beginning to surface now that you were no longer forcing yourself to remain composed. A low groan slipped from you as discomfort crept in—your nose beginning to run, your head pulsing faintly with the early signs of strain.
The sudden exposure to the cold, the exhaustion from travel, and the weight of everything else combined into a dull ache that made even standing feel like effort. You barely had time to settle into the stillness before the peace was abruptly shattered.
The door burst open without warning, the sudden sound sharp against the quiet, and several maids hurried in with urgent energy. Their arms were occupied, one pushing a rolling cart filled with neatly arranged products, others carrying garments, and another guiding a rail of dresses that swayed slightly with the movement.
The unexpected intrusion made you jolt upright, your heart skipping a beat as you turned toward them, confusion written plainly across your face.
“Your Highness! You’re quite late for your preparation!”
One of the maids spoke quickly, already moving toward you without pause. Before you could react, she gently but firmly guided you toward your vanity, urging you to sit. Hands moved with practiced efficiency around you with tools laid out, fabrics adjusted, mirrors angled and each action blending seamlessly into the next as though this had been rehearsed countless times before.
“Uhmm… preparation for what exactly?”
You asked, your voice uncertain as you tried to follow their movements, your gaze flickering from one maid to another in search of clarity.
“For the Grand Ball, of course! Her Majesty will announce your engagement to all kingdoms! We’re very happy for you, my lady!”
The response came brightly, almost too brightly, as though the excitement alone could carry the weight of the revelation.
The words struck you all at once, piling over one another until they became almost too much to process. Everything was happening far too quickly—too suddenly. Just weeks ago, you had been in Valoria, living a life that, while not simple, was at least your own. And now… now you stood here, in a foreign kingdom, dressed and prepared for an announcement you had never agreed to publicly.
The realization only worsened the ache in your head, a dull throb building behind your temples as the maids continued their work. Brushes moved through your hair, hands adjusting strands with care, while another worked delicately with your makeup. You exhaled slowly, unable to do much else but sit there and endure it all.
Natasha had not mentioned any of this, that woman would be the death of you. Your eyes closed once more, surrendering—if only briefly to the sensation of being cared for. There was a strange comfort in it, in the gentle rhythm of preparation, in the quiet focus of the maids as they worked. It dulled the sharpness of your thoughts, softened the discomfort just enough for you to breathe easier.
“Your Highness? Everything is now done. We just need you to change into your gown.” A gentle tap brought you back, your eyes fluttering open as you were met with your reflection in the vanity mirror.
For a moment, you simply stared.
The makeup was not overwhelming—subtle, refined, enhancing rather than masking. It was exactly how you preferred it, a rare and pleasant surprise. Your hair fell in soft waves, not overly styled, not forced into something unnatural, but shaped in a way that complemented your features while still feeling like your own. It was… different from what you had expected.
You had been prepared for something far more excessive. The head maid approached once more, her movements calm now that the urgency had passed, and gently guided you toward the wardrobe where your gown awaited.
The dress itself was striking. A deep, dark red reminiscent of aged wine formed its base, rich and commanding without being loud. Subtle touches of black shadowed along the seams and edges, giving it depth, almost as though it shifted with the light.
The bodice was fitted, structured in a corset like design that shaped the form with elegance rather than restriction, its row of delicate buttons running neatly down the center. The neckline dipped softly, framed by ruffled trim that faded into darker hues.
The sleeves flowed sheer and light, carrying a faint smoky tint, their ends adorned with layered lace cuffs that appeared gently darkened at the edges. Fine gold detailing traced across the bodice and neckline, intricate yet restrained, catching light in quiet glimmers rather than bold flashes. It was regal, undeniably so—but there was something else beneath it. Something deeper. Something almost… mysterious.
It was not what you had expected. You had imagined something grand in size—heavy, exaggerated, suffocating in its volume. Instead, this gown moved with ease, its flow natural, almost freeing. It did not feel like something that would trap you. It felt like something you could exist in.
“Her Majesty chose it for you, mi’lady. Shall we?” The head maid’s voice was gentle, respectful, as she sought your permission before proceeding.
You gave a small nod. Carefully, they began dressing you—first securing the corset at your waist with practiced precision. Tightening it just enough to hold its shape without discomfort, then guiding the rest of the gown over you with careful hands.
Every movement was deliberate, every adjustment made with attention to detail. When they finished, a full-length mirror was brought before you.
And for a moment, you did not recognize the person staring back at uou in the reflection in front of you.
“Your Highness, it complements you very well. I’m sure Her Majesty will be blessed when she sees you.”
“She did?” you murmured, the thought slipping out before you could stop it.
Your gaze lingered on the details—the embroidery so fine it almost seemed invisible, the stitching so seamless it felt as though the fabric had formed that way on its own. This was not ordinary craftsmanship. It was something far beyond it—something closer to art.
“Indeed. Oh—look at that! Just in time. Your Highness, the guards outside will escort you to the ballroom. It is time.”
The door was opened once more, and beyond it stood two guards, already waiting. They bowed the moment they saw you, straightening immediately as they turned to lead the way. The ballroom was warmer than you had expected, the air filled with the presence of countless people gathered beneath its high ceilings.
Voices blended together into a soft hum, music drifting lightly through the space as chandeliers cast golden light over everything. Faces of strangers, all of them filled your vision as your eyes moved across the room, taking in the scale of it all.
A figure stood before you, turned away, their posture unmistakable even among the crowd. As the sound of your approaching steps reached her, Natasha turned slowly. Her eyes found you immediately, there was no searching nor hesitation—only certainty.
As though she had known exactly where you would be. Her gaze moved over you, taking in every detail of the gown she had chosen, every careful adjustment made to your appearance. And then, slowly, something shifted in her expression.
“I knew it would complement you.” Her voice was lower now, quieter than before yet there was something within it, something faintly softened, almost thoughtful as if the outcome mattered more to her than she would openly admit.
A small, restrained smile touched her lips, subtle and fleeting, but real. She stepped forward, closing the distance between you just enough, before lifting her hand and offering it to you—steady and patient.
You eyed her from head to toe, your gaze lingering longer than intended as it slowly traced every detail of her form from the way her attire settled perfectly against her shoulders, down to the clean, deliberate finish of her shoes. She was dressed well, undeniably so, in a way that did not demand attention yet effortlessly claimed it. There was a quiet authority in how she carried herself, something that felt almost unreal, as though she had stepped out of a tale told in hushed voices beneath candlelight.
Slowly, you laid your hand atop her offered one, your touch careful, almost hesitant. Her hand was warm beneath yours, steady and grounding, and when her fingers closed around yours, there was a firmness there that did not force but guided. Without a word, she began to lead you forward, her pace measured as she guided you down the grand staircase.
Each step echoed softly against the vastness of the ballroom, a sound that, though subtle, drew attention all the same. It was not long before the room began to notice, heads turning one by one, conversations softening, eyes lifting toward the staircase where the King of Vostrovia descended with someone unfamiliar at her side.
By the time your feet met the polished floor, the weight of their attention had fully settled upon you. Murmurs spread through the hall like a quiet wind, slipping between guests who watched with curiosity and quiet speculation. Yet Natasha did not falter. Her posture remained composed, her gaze fixed ahead, unwavering, though every so often her eyes flickered toward you in brief, subtle glances—just enough to make sure you were steady, that your steps did not falter beneath the pressure.
Meanwhile, you swallowed a nervous gulp, your throat dry as you tried to steady yourself against the overwhelming presence of so many unfamiliar eyes.
The Grand Ball was filled with nobles from different kingdoms, each dressed in garments that reflected their own lands and status. The colors, the fabrics, the insignias—it all blended into something grand and overwhelming, far beyond what you had expected. It made your expression tighten slightly, your lips parting as you turned to Natasha, ready to speak, only for the moment to be interrupted as someone stepped directly in front of you
"Natasha! it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
The blonde woman inclined her head gracefully, her tone familiar and laced with ease, as though this was not their first meeting. There was a certain confidence in the way she carried herself, the way she spoke Natasha’s name without hesitation, and you could not help but assume she was someone of importance—perhaps a friend, or something closer.
Her gaze shifted to you almost immediately, sharp and assessing as it traveled from your face down to the rest of you. She held a glass of wine loosely in her hand, her posture relaxed, yet her eyes were observant, calculating in a way that made you straighten ever so slightly.
“And who is this gorgeous woman we have here?”
Her tone was light, but there was something beneath it—something that felt almost like a challenge. Her eyes flickered briefly toward Natasha, as if daring her to answer, to speak whatever truth she had chosen to present.
Natasha let go of your hand, and for a brief moment, you thought she might dismiss it altogether. But before the thought could fully settle, you felt her arm wrap around your waist instead, firmer this time, more deliberate. The gesture pulled you just slightly closer to her side, grounding you in a way that felt intentional—meant to be seen.
The words were spoken calmly, without hesitation, yet they carried a quiet weight that seemed to still the air around you. The murmurs did not rise into anything loud or dramatic, but they softened, shifting into something more controlled, more observant. it was not the reaction you had expected, yet it felt heavier in its own way. The blonde woman fell silent for a moment, her brows lifting slightly before she let out a soft hum, her expression smoothing back into composure.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Carol Danvers. And who might you be, beautiful?”
She extended her hand toward you, her smile polite yet curious. You returned it with a small, controlled smile, reaching forward to shake her hand gently.
“I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you too.”
Your voice remained steady, though your thoughts were anything but, before another word could be exchanged, Natasha moved. Her hold at your waist tightened just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to guide as she turned and led you past Carol without pause.
“Excuse me. My fiancé and I need to eat.”
The word fiancé slipped from her lips just as naturally as before, though this time it felt quieter, closer less for the room and more for you. Before you could process it, you were seated at a table, Natasha already pulling out a chair for you with quiet ease.
You had little choice but to sit, settling beside her as servants began placing dishes before you with remarkable speed. Only then did you realize how hungry you truly were. The exhaustion and lingering headache had dulled your senses, but now, faced with warm food, your body responded immediately. Your eyes moved across the table, taking in the variety before you.
For a kingdom bound to the harsh North, the dishes were surprisingly abundant—rich stews, warm bread, carefully prepared meats, and delicate garnishes that spoke of effort and skill. You were about to reach for a portion when Natasha moved first, placing food onto your plate with quiet precision. You stilled for a moment, caught off guard by the gesture, and she seemed to notice.
Her voice was simple, lacking any emphasis yet there was something beneath it—something quieter…almost thoughtful. She returned to her own meal as though it were nothing, leaving you to sit there with your thoughts as you began to eat. The warmth of the food settled into you slowly, easing the tension you had carried, if only a little. As time passed, the lights in the hall began to dim, and music rose gently through the air, spreading across the room. Guests began to move toward the dance floor, their steps blending together as they swayed in time with the melody.
By the time you finished your meal, it felt like the first proper one you had in weeks. You gently dabbed a handkerchief at your lips, your gaze drifting toward the dancers. Natasha, on the other hand, stood, drawing your attention immediately.
You looked up at her, your brows knitting slightly as you saw her hand extended toward you once more, that stirred confusion twisted your expression on your face.
“Is there anything that you want, Your Majesty?” You asked, unsure of her intention, but Natasha let out a small, quiet sound—almost a snicker.
“It would be rude for a King not to take her soon-to-be spouse for a dance. May I?”
You hesitated for a moment. It wasn’t that you didn’t know how to dance, but the dull throb in your head had not fully faded. Still, as you caught the glances and whispers from those around you, you knew there was little room to refuse. With a soft sigh, you placed your hand in hers, allowing her to guide you toward the center of the dance floor. Her arm wrapped around your waist while her other hand held yours, her grip steady as the music carried the room.
Around you, others swayed gently, their movements soft and rhythmic, but Natasha did not simply sway. She led with precision, guiding you through turns and movements that required both balance and trust. Each step sent a faint pulse through your head, yet despite that, you could not deny the control she had. She spun you with care, never letting you lose your footing, never allowing you to fall behind. You tried to slow the pace, to guide it into something simpler, but she had already decided otherwise.
She lifted your joined hands above your head, guiding you into a smooth twirl beneath her arm, your footing gliding across the floor as though drawn by the rhythm itself. Still holding your hand, she guided you outward before pulling you back toward her in one fluid motion, sending you into another turn.
As the spin slowed, her arm slipped securely around your waist, dipping you low as you leaned back along the support of her hold. Your free hand rested lightly against her shoulder, the two of you held in that final pose as the music lingered around you.
The dance left you breathless, your chest rising and falling as exhaustion caught up with you. Your hand clung to her shoulder, your body feeling heavier than before, your strength slowly giving way to fatigue. You hadn’t known she possessed such skill especially not for a King.
“Y-you’re not bad yourself…”
You let out a breathless exhale, your chest rising and falling unevenly as you tried to steady yourself. A thin sheen of sweat clung to your forehead, though it brought no warmth—only a strange, cold discomfort that lingered against your skin. Your body felt off, heavier than it should have been, your head still throbbing faintly from both exhaustion and the strain of the dance.
Natasha’s hand lifted toward you again, her movements slower now, more deliberate, as she brushed a few loose strands of hair away from your face. The touch was meant to be simple—almost absentminded—but the moment her skin met yours, she stilled. Her fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary.
There was a shift in her voice, subtle but unmistakable. It was quieter, lower—no longer the usual composed tone she carried with ease, but something edged with concern that she did not bother to conceal.
She cut you off immediately but not raising her voice, yet leaving no room for argument. Her hand dropped from your face, but her arm moved around you again, firmer this time, more insistent as she guided—no, pulled you along with her.
“You must rest. Immediately.”
There was no hesitation in her movement. She turned without another word, leading you away from the dance floor and out of the Grand Ball, her hold never leaving you. The warmth and music of the hall slowly faded behind you, replaced instead by the quieter, colder corridors beyond.
“Natasha—seriously, I’m fine.”
You tried to pull away, your hand pressing lightly against her arm as you attempted to free yourself from her grip. You wiggled, shifting your weight in small attempts to break away but it was useless. Her hold did not loosen—not even slightly of a slip. It was not rough, but it was unyielding, as though she had already decided there would be no compromise.
“No,” she said simply, her tone steady, almost certain. “You’re clearly going into a fever.” Her words were calm, but there was a firmness beneath them that made it clear she had already made her judgment, and you couldn’t change it.
As you passed along the corridor, your hand shot out gripping onto a nearby railing with what strength you could muster, holding onto it as though it were your last defense. The sudden resistance forced both of you to stop in your tracks.
For a moment, there was silence between the two of you. Then she rolled her eyes slowly, almost exasperated though not unkind. Without another word, she let go of you. You barely had time to feel the relief, when your shoulders dropped slightly as you exhaled in relief—
The world shifted once again.
In one swift, effortless motion, she lifted you. You barely registered how it happened, only that your feet were no longer touching the ground and your body felt like it was floating, your body suddenly hoisted over her shoulder as though you weighed nothing at all. A startled yelp escaped you, sharp and unguarded at her sudden action.
Your hands moved instinctively, pushing lightly against her back as you struggled in her hold, but it made no difference. She carried you with ease, her steps steady, unbothered by your protests.
“There’s no point in struggling, princess.”
Her voice was calm—too calm—almost as if this entire situation was merely an inconvenience she intended to resolve quickly.
You continued to protest, your voice echoing softly along the halls as she carried you toward your chamber. The few guards you passed could not help but glance at one another, their composed expressions faltering slightly as if they were unsure whether to acknowledge what they were witnessing. None of them spoke. None of them intervened.
By the time you reached your chamber, your energy had begun to wane, your resistance weakening under both exhaustion and the steady certainty of her hold. She stepped inside without pause and set you down gently onto your bed. The softness of it sank beneath you, your body immediately aware of how tired it truly was. You let out a quiet huff, your frustration lingering as you looked up at her, sending her a glare despite your state.
“I can walk, you know.” Your voice was quieter now, lacking strength. You could feel your head throb again once more, and the way your head was turned upside down earlier did not help.
Her response came without delay, her tone calm, but there was something steadier beneath it now—less like a command, more like certainty.
She moved slightly, her attention shifting briefly toward your luggage as she spoke. “I will have the maids bring medicine and a hot towel. You will rest… and that’s final.”
There was no sharpness in her words, yet the finality remained. It was not spoken like an order meant to control, but like a decision already settled in her mind. She walked over to where your belongings had been placed and opened your luggage without hesitation. Her movements were efficient, but not careless. She searched briefly before pulling out a set of sleepwear, then turned back toward you and placed it within your reach.
“Here. You need to be comfortable.”
There was a short pause, as if confirming you would not argue further. When you didn’t, she simply turned away. Her steps carried her toward the door, the room growing quieter with each step she took. She opened it slowly, pausing just before she left.
For a moment, she stood there without turning fully back at you. Then her head tilted slightly, just enough for her voice to carry back into the room—steady, controlled, but lower than before.
“Oh… think about what you need.”
A brief pause followed, not heavy, just still.
“I broke my promise… to not touch you.”
Her tone did not waver. It wasn’t soft in the emotional sense—just quiet, measured, and controlled, as if she had simply acknowledged a fact to herself. Then she stepped out fully, closing the door behind her with a soft click, leaving the room in silence and you alone with the lingering weight of her words.
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