Image description and transcription by @hostilecityshowdown under the readmore <3
Image Description: A multi-page magazine spread. The first page is headed by a greyscale photo of dumbbells, over top in pink capital letters are the words "THE CHYNA SYNDROME." In black stamped, Impact font: "WHAT MAKES THIS WOMAN TICK?" The article was written by Lou Gianfriddo in July 1997 and a quote from him reads:
"Ever since she manhandled Marlena, director of former Intercontinental Champion Goldust, on RAW IS WAR, Chyna - the massively muscled advisor to Hunter Hearst-Helmsley - has been caught in the public's eye. It seems as if everyone wants to know about her and with good reason."
The article reads as follows: No woman has ever made such an impact on the World Wrestling Federation as has Chyna. Sure, Elizabeth - who has once married to and manager of multi-time Federation kingpin Macho Man Randy Savage - warranted great attention in the media, in part because of her managerial expertise, but mostly because of her pristine, innocent appearance.
Other women have also made a mark in the Federation, but most, if not all, were wrestlers. Everyone knew where they stood in terms of ring combat; they had - and this should not be misconstrued by anyone or any organization - their place: they were athletes. They were brave female athletes who took great pride in their profession. They competed on a nightly basis against some of the most competitive women of their era, and often did so with more intensity than some of their male counterparts.
That all changed when Chyna entered the Federation several months ago, ostensibly as a fan, at first. Few can forget the carnage this huge, athletically built woman caused when she initially made her presence felt to the world on [ITALICS] *Monday Night RAW* this past February.
There, seated at ringside, Chyna was taking great interest in the Intercontinental Championship match between Goldust and Hunter Hearst-Helmsley. During the match, however, she extended herself in a way no one ever should. When Marlena drifted near her clutches, Chyna - who weighs in at approximately [...]
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[...] 180 pounds of shredded muscle - reached out and manhandled the cigar-smoking manager in a way that had never been witnessed before. Security guards rushed to the trouble spot and, with much difficulty - due in part to her size and strength - ejected her from the building.
Most people would have learned their lesson, especially after spending time in lockup. But Chyna is different. From what [ITALICISED] *World Wrestling Federation Magazine* has discovered, Chyna bonded herself out of jail and promptly drove herself to the next city where the Federation superstars were scheduled to compete. Then, once again on [ITALICISED] *RAW*, Chyna showed the world her mean streak by jumping the barricades... and getting to the petite director yet again.
This time, Chyna left a lasting impression: her assault was so vicious and unexpected that Hunter Hearst-Helmsley had to stand up and take notice. The Greenwich Snob was in the market for a bodyguard and, in his opinion, no one could fit the bill better than this she-beast!
Since then, Chyna has catapulted into the spotlight. She has shown that fear is a word and emotion that she does not care to learn. On several occasions, she has stood toe-to-toe with such monolithic federation superstars as Bret "Hit-Man" Hart - former three-time Federation champion - and even, more recently, the Undertaker. Moreover, she has even tangled with superstars of the opposite sex during matches in which her man Hunter has competed. For example, [...]
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... she bodyslammed Bart Gunn during his match with Hunter some time ago on [ITALICISED] *RAW IS WAR.*
This magazine wanted to know what makes Chyna tick. With that in mind, we did some extensive research into her background.
Chyna, as we discovered, has been an athlete her entire life. In fact, we learned that her powerlifting exploits are world-renowned. She has officially bench-pressed 320 pounds and has a deadlift in the mid-400 range, all at a bodyweight of 181 pounds. Chyna, we are told, is also a fully licensed female boxer; she's said to have accomplished this before Kristy Martin came along.
With so much athletic talent, Chyna then directed her energies to perhaps the most physically demanding physical challenge of sports: professional wrestling. True, some may scoff at the notion, but it goes without saying that wrestling is one of the most taxing endeavors any athlete can undertake. As for Chyna? Well, her natural athletic abilities and power served her well when she appeared at the door, gym bag in hand, of Walter "Killer" Kowalski's wrestling school in suburban Boston, Massachusettes. From the start, she was one tough - and mean - cookie.
From what we are told, other women [in the wrestling camp] wouldn't get in the ring with her because she would simply beat the !@#$ out of them! But, it got even worse. Knowing her size and ring manner, few - if any - women wanted to compete against Chyna, we're told. It got so bad that Chyna, in an attempt to merely wrestle, took measures to the extreme!
She had to start wrestling 'in drag'. Wearing a bodysuit and [...]
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[...] slicking her hair back so that nobody would know she was a woman... she began to wrestle men. One of our sources, who has asked to remain anonymous, told us that not only was this the greatest thrill of Chyna's career... but that she also broke some bones along the way!
From there, Chyna set her sights on the World Wrestling Federation.
"I was looking for someone to watch my back and someone who wasn't going to back away from anybody," said Hunter Hearst-Helmsley. "That was Chyna. She proved to me that she'd take a whack at any man or woman, regardless of the circumstances!
"The world has never seen an athlete like her," he goes on. "And I can guarantee that no one ever will!"
Notes: This chapter was the culprit for giving me major writer's block, but it's done. And the good news is I have a lot of things already written so the next updates won't take as long. The chapter is also quite long, but I hope it makes up for the lack of updates. English is not my first language and I'm dyslexic af, so feel free to correct anything. Comments are always welcome.
Word Count: 5,555
Chapter Masterlist
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Shawn had given up on reading about an hour into the trip; his mind was simply too chaotic to focus on the words on the page. He could only hope he would be less distracted in the days to come.
Kevin fell asleep almost as soon as the carriage began to move. Soon, he was snoring loudly. Shawn didnāt have the heart to wake him, knowing that catching sleep whenever possible was a survival skill Kevin had developed during his knight training. Anticipating that Kevin would likely volunteer for the first night watch, Shawn left him to rest.
Shawn himself was far from his usual talkative self, which was rare, but given the crushing reality of his situation, it made perfect sense. He spent the remainder of the day staring out the window, trapped in a loop of thoughts about his past and his uncertain future.
As the night came, the carriage veered off the main road and into a dense, wooded area, the designated campsite for the night. Sensing the carriage grind to a halt, Shawn reached over and shook Kevinās leg to wake him.
Moments later, the carriage door swung open, revealing the tall, dark-haired man who had introduced himself as Scott. Shawn still didn't know what to make of his new escorts, but he found Scott genuinely intimidating. The manās scent was staggeringly overpowering, far more intense than Kevin's. Shawn wondered if the mountain people simply lacked the habit of suppressing their scents, or if they didn't know how to at all. Either way, he had to fight the urge to cover his nose as Scott approached, filling the cramped carriage with a thick, musky scent laced with what smelled like brine and the open sea.
āHello, Prince!ā Scott greeted him cheerfully, his voice rich with mirth, before shifting his attention to the giant beside him. āHey, mister knight, how about helping us set up camp?ā Kevin muttered a low grievance under his breath but obediently stepped out of the vehicle to help.
Outside, the young man named Sean was busy untying and unburdening the horses, while the tall, stoic blonde unloaded bags from the carriage. Shawn stood off to the side, feeling entirely out of place. Despite his frequent, unauthorized escapades back home, he had never once ventured beyond the safety of the city walls. He had absolutely no concept of what camping in the wild required. Feeling self-conscious under the gaze of the Alphas, he decided to leave the heavy lifting to them and wandered over to the younger boy tending to the horses.
As Shawn drew closer, the sweet, distinct aroma of dandelions hit him. He blinked in sheer disbelief; he had completely assumed the boy was a Beta.Ā
āYouāre an Omega!ā Shawn said, surprised. The kid jumped, startled by the princeās sudden presence. āSorry, I didnāt mean to scare you. It just caught me off guard,ā Shawn added quickly, trying to soften his tone.Ā
Ā Ā āNo need to apologize, my prince. I should have been more aware of my surroundings,ā the boy murmured, dropping his gaze instantly and refusing to hold eye contact.
Shawn was painfully accustomed to this reaction, people were constantly intimidated by his royal status, but he despised it. He forced a warm smile, trying to put the young man at ease. āDo you need help with anything?ā The offer only seemed to fuel the boy's panic. āOh, no! Your Royal Highness, I donāt need help... um... thank you for the offer... sir.ā
Shawn internally scolded himself; his attempt to be kind had only driven the boy further into a corner. āGreat! Iāll just... wait over there, then,ā Shawn said, slowly backing away until his shoulders met the bark of a nearby tree.Ā
It didn't take long for the camp to be established, and soon they were all gathered around the crackling fire for a meal. Shawn and Kevin ate in a tense, heavy silence, while the other three men laughed and traded jokes. As soon as he finished eating, Shawn retreated to his tent to escape the awkwardness.
āYouāre quiet,ā Kevinās deep voice broke the silence inside the tent, startling Shawn.
āI guess I just have too much on my mind,ā Shawn replied, shedding his heavy layers and changing into his silk sleeping clothes.
āQuiet doesnāt suit you,ā Kevin countered with a faint smirk.
Shawn let out a soft, dry laugh. āI think youāre the only person in the world who thinks that, Kevin.ā Kevin merely shrugged.
āIāll stand guard tonight. Are you going to be okay sleeping alone?ā Kevin asked, a visible layer of protective worry settling into his features.
āYeah, Iām fine. No need to worryā¦ā
Before Shawn could finish, Sean slipped quietly into the tent. āSorry to interrupt, my prince. Oh... youāve already changed,ā the boy stammered, his voice laced with anxiety.
āYes, I have. Is something wrong?ā
āAbsolutely nothing wrong, my prince! I just... itās just... um...ā The boyās eyes darted frantically around the tent, refusing to settle on Shawn
āItās okay, Kid. Youāre not in trouble,ā Kevin intervened, his tone dropping into a rare, gentle tone as he allowed his own soothing scent to permeate the tent.
The younger Omega seemed to anchor himself to Kevin's calming scent, his shoulders relaxing instantly. Shawn felt a sharp prick of guilt for not being quick enough to soothe the boy himself. Letting out a quiet sigh, Sean finally looked at Shawn. He still avoided direct eye contact, but he was no longer pulling away entirely.
āI... Iām supposed to be your valet, my prince,ā Sean confessed, his voice dropping to a whisper as his brief surge of confidence wavered. āThatās why I came. I wanted to get used to my role before we reached the castle.ā
Kevin smiled broadly, a rare sight for the stoic knight, clearly doing his best to make the boy feel welcome. āWell, that is excellent news. I might be a decent guard, but Iād make a downright terrible valet.ā Kevin stepped forward, gently squeezing Seanās shoulder in reassurance.
"Thank you, Sean," Shawn said, offering the boy a genuine, warm smile. "To be honest, I had no idea a personal valet had been sent from the mountains. I'm truly glad it's you. Don't worry about the garments tonight; the journey has left me exhausted. Tomorrow morning we can sit down and figure out your new duties together. How does that sound?"
The boy looked up for a fraction of a second, his cheeks flushed crimson, but a distinct spark of relief washed over him, causing his dandelion scent to sweeten and mellow out. "Yes, my prince. Thank you. I... I will retire so you can rest. Good night, Your Highness. Sir Kevin." Sean offered a hasty bow and practically tripped over his own boots as he scrambled out of the tent.
Kevin let out a low chuckle, the deep sound vibrating through his massive chest. "Heās a good kid, Shawn. A bit skittish, but loyal. I think King Hunter handpicked him so his envoy wouldn't look like a total threat."
Kevin nodded, giving the prince's shoulder one last reassuring squeeze before positioning himself firmly at the tent's entrance. It took a long time for sleep to finally claim Shawn. The rhythmic chirping of the forest crickets and the distant, biting howl of the mountain wind served as cold, persistent reminders that the luxury and safety of the McMahon palace were officially a thing of the past.
Through these long conversations, Shawn learned a great deal about his young valet and the other men charged with escorting him to the King.
Sean had originally come from a border village nestled right on the edge between McMahonās kingdom and the mountains. His home had been sacked in the early days of the war, and his family killed in the chaos. However, Scott had shown a rare mercy and spared him. Since then, the kid had been tending to the horses of the barbarian king's army. It was this unique cultural closeness, straddling the line between the civilized south and the rugged north, that made him the ideal choice to serve as the prince's valet.
Shawn also learned just how culturally diverse the King of Kings' burgeoning realm truly was. Scott belonged to a clan that utilized gold and jewelry not as mere trinkets, but as symbols of high status and battle prowess. Shawn had found this incredibly strange at first, given that in his own homeland, jewels were strictly reserved for omegas. Yet, Scott was undeniable proof of his people's ways; he was a master warrior, and the multiple heavy golden chains adorning his neck, alongside his thick rings, were physical tallies of his victories.
Sid, on the other hand, hailed from a land of stoic and quiet warriors whose lethal reputation relied entirely on raw speed and devastating strength. His people typically fought with very little armor, trusting their instincts and reflexes over iron plates. They were renowned masters of hand-to-hand combat, capable of breaking a man before he could even draw steel.
Around noon on that tenth day, the horses' pace slowed drastically. The heavy clatter of hooves on loose gravel stopped entirely. Inside the carriage, Shawn frowned as the sudden silence was broken by the sharp, metallic ring of Scott Hall unsheathing his sword.
"Trouble?" Kevin Nashās deep voice echoed from the driverās box outside, followed by the heavy, ominous cracking of his knuckles.
"Stay close to the prince, mister knight," Scott replied. The usual mocking, lighthearted tone in his voice was completely gone, replaced by a cold, lethal seriousness. "We've got company. And they don't look like they want to negotiate toll fees."
Shawnās heart hammered violently against his ribs. He shrank back onto the leather bench as low, calculated rustles echoed through the dense trees, followed by the sudden, terrifying sound of drawing steel. Unlike the wild, uncoordinated yells of typical mountain bandits, these men moved with a chilling, disciplined silence.
Figures clad in dark, non-descript mercenary armor broke through the thick fog, ruthlessly surrounding the convoy. There were over a dozen of them. Their faces were concealed by dark cloth, and they bore no banners, no crests, and no markings. They fought with polished, heavy broadswords, weapons far too expensive and finely forged for common highwaymen.
A heavy thud rattled the side of the carriage, making the wood groan. Outside, chaos erupted. The sound of clashing blades and Scott's shouting commands filled the air. Sid let out a bestial, booming roar as he leaped from his horse, engaging two mercenaries at once with nothing but his bare hands and a short dagger, his brute strength snapping a man's arm within seconds.
Through the window, Shawn saw Kevin Nash drop from the box like a force of nature. With his massive sword in hand, Kevin blocked a lethal downward strike aimed at the carriage horses, using his immense size to hurl the attacker backward into the dirt.
However, Shawnās panic peaked when the opposite door of the carriage was violently ripped open. A heavily built mercenary with cold, professional eyes lunged inside, a long dagger pointed straight at the omega prince's throat.
The man didn't look like he wanted to kidnap a prize; his blade was moving with lethal intent.
Before the attacker could recover, a thin blade pierced his throat, Kid jumping out of the carriage and landing on top of the bandit. The man fell lifeless into the mud, Sean Waltman stood up, panting heavily, holding his blood-stained Rondel dagger. The Kidās eyes were wide with terror, but his stance over the body was firm.
"Are you alright, my prince?!" Kid yelled, his voice cracking as he quickly inspected Shawn for wounds.
"I am! Thanks to you!" Shawn replied, his chest heaving, his omega instincts clamoring for safety as the thick, copper scent of blood filled the mountain air.
But the relief was short-lived. Three more mercenaries, realizing the prince was still alive inside the vehicle, broke away from Scott and Kevin, charging directly toward the open carriage doors. Kevin was pinned down by two swordsmen, and Sid was fighting off a cluster in the fog. They wouldn't make it in time.
Just as Shawn braced himself to fight for his life, a loud, booming voice echoed from the cliffs above, shattering the tension of the battlefield.
"Oh, you didn't know?!"
The mercenaries blinked, momentarily disoriented, as a pair of figures dropped from the rocky ledge right into the center of the fray.
Shawnās instincts braced for the usual suffocating wave of Alpha pheromones that usually accompanied powerful warriors, but to his utter surprise, there was nothing. No scent of bloodlust, no territorial musk, just a clean, eerie neutrality. They were Betas. Perfect, unnoticeable ghosts of the forest, the Kingās finest scouts.
"Your asses better call somebody!" Jesse James, the Road Dogg, shouted with a chaotic, gleeful grin. He wielded a pair of spiked iron clubs, instantly cracking the helmet of the nearest mercenary.
Right behind him was Billy Gunn, a towering, heavily muscled beta who moved with terrifying speed. He swung a massive war axe, effortlessly cleaving through the shield of another attacker, sending the man flying into a tree.
"Scott! You're late, man! Hunter is about to bite his own tongue off up there!" Road Dogg yelled over the sound of clashing steel, casually ducking under a sword swipe and tripping his opponent into the mud.
"We ran into a roadblock!" Scott Hall shouted back, a grim smirk returning to his face as the arrival of the two Beta scouts completely turned the tide.
With the explosive, aggressive chemistry of the New Age Outlaws joining the fight, the remaining mercenaries were ruthlessly cut down within minutes. None of them surrendered, and strangely, none of them carried any identification. They fought to the absolute death, a detail that did not escape Kevin Nashās sharp eyes.
As the dust settled, Road Dogg walked up to the carriage door, casually wiping a splash of blood off his cheek, and peeked inside. His eyes locked onto Shawn, then shifted to the 7-foot giant outside the carriage.
"Well, well, well. Look at the royal entourage," Road Dogg mused, his tone highly eccentric compared to the grim atmosphere. "You must be the prince. And you must be... a literal wall. King Hunter sent us to find out why you were slacking. Good thing we took the shortcut."
Scott Hall walked over, looking down at the dead mercenary Shawn had hit, then at the dented green book still clutched in the prince's hands. He let out a low chuckle.
"Well... looks like the little prince from the south knows how to use literature as a weapon," Scott mocked, winking at Shawn. "Good work, Kid. But clean that blade. The scent of blood draws worse things in these mountains."
Kevin Nash came rushing over, his face incredibly tight with worry and a strange, deep suspicion. He grabbed Shawnās shoulders, checking him over. "Are you okay? I failed to hold the perimeter. Shawn... those weren't ordinary bandits." Kevin lowered his voice so the mountain warriors couldn't hear. "Those weapons... that armor. That was professional western steel. Standard issue for Lord Bischoffās elite guards."
Shawnās blood ran cold.Ā Eric Bischoff. The ruthless, rival king who had been plotting against both Hunter and his own father, King Vincent. If Bischoffās men were here, it meant someone had leaked their exact travel route. Someone high up in the western courts wanted Shawn dead before he could ever reach Hunterās bed, ensuring the alliance would fail and war would consume them all.
Before Shawn could process the terrifying realization, Billy Gunn banged his axe against the carriage wheel.
"Pack it up!" Billy ordered. "Hunter is already furious about the delay, and if there are more assassins crawling around these woods, we need the prince behind stone walls. Move!"
With the Outlaws leading the way, the remainder of the trip passed in a rapid, exhausting blur. By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the jagged peaks purple and deep red, the massive stone fortress finally loomed ahead. It wasn't a beautiful, artistic palace like the one Shawn grew up in; this place had once been the ancestral home of Lord Ric Flair, a magnificent western stronghold captured in the early days of the war. To preserve his skin and his remaining influence, Flair had bent the knee and sworn allegiance to the conqueror in exchange for a seat at the new ruler's right hand. Now, the high stone walls looked brutal and imposing, heavily guarded and built for war rather than luxury.
As the carriage finally rolled into the cobblestone courtyard, the heavy iron gates groaned shut behind them. Shawn felt a cold sweat break out, but he forced himself to maintain his composure.
The carriage ground to a halt near the stables. Almost immediately, a bizarre, disheveled figure emerged from the shadows of the stalls to tend to the exhausted horses. The man wore a patched, dirty brown tunic, and his long, wild brown hair looked like it hadn't seen a comb in months. Most striking, however, was the crude leather mask strapped across the upper half of his face, hiding everything but his wide, intense eyes and a missing tooth behind his smile.
"Ah, the travelers from the south! Welcome, welcome to the house of stones!" the man muttered in a raspy, strangely cheerful voice, gently patting the neck of Shawn's horse. He seemed completely unfazed by the tension in the air. "I am Mankind, the humble keeper of the beasts. Oh, the poor creatures look so tired... don't worry, my pretties, Mankind will give you fresh hay and a warm bed."
Shawn blinked, staring through the window, genuinely bewildered by the man's eccentric demeanor. Beside him, Kevin Nash subtly shifted, keeping a cautious eye on the strange stable hand.
"Just take care of the horses, Mankind," Billy Gunn barked as he dismounted, his sharp Beta voice cutting through the courtyard. "The King has been pacing for hours. We need to get the prince inside immediately."
"Of course, of course! The King of Kings awaits his prize," Mankind chuckled softly, pulling a tattered leather sock from his pocket and absentmindedly smoothing it down with his thumb before turning back to the horses. "Have a wonderful evening, little prince. The stone hall can be very cold."
Shawn swallowed hard. He stepped out of the carriage, his blonde hair catching the last rays of sunlight, his royal garments looking pristine despite the chaotic journey. Flanked by Kevin Nash, who walked with a hand resting subtly near the hilt of his massive sword, Shawn followed the Outlaws, Scott, and Sid toward the grand entrance. He straightened his spine. He was a McMahon. He would not cower.
The throne room was completely quiet when Shawn and the rest of his entourage entered. The hall was a staggering display of stolen grandeur. The high vaulted ceilings of the western Lords were now draped in heavy barbarian pelts, and the scent of fine polished stone mixed with the raw, untamed air of the mountains.
Flanking the path to the dais stood the King's personal elite guard, a trio of terrifying warriors whose sheer presence made the room feel suffocatingly small. On the left stood Chyna, a legendary female Alpha whose massive, sculpted muscular frame was encased in heavy black iron armor; her dark eyes locked onto Shawn, assessing him with cold, calculating authority. Next to her was Batista, an absolute mountain of a man with broad shoulders, heavily scarred arms, and an aura of raw, animalistic power that radiated danger. On the right stood Randy Orton, a younger but deadly soldier with a viper-like gaze, leaning casually against a long broadsword, his sharp eyes tracking Shawnās every movement like a predator waiting for its prey.
The air inside was thick with a mix of strong, competing scents, but one completely overpowered the rest. Shawn supposed it was the Kingās scent. It smelled of freshly fallen rain, a deep, crisp, and surprisingly pleasant aroma that filled Shawn's senses.
Shawn had very little information on how the King looked. There had been no paintings sent to his home before the arrangement, and they had never met. The only information he possessed came from his fatherās knights who had fought against the Barbarian King. Unsurprisingly, those men hadn't been very interested in the King's aesthetic appeal, but rather on surviving the encounter. Most of the descriptions Shawn had received usually summarized the man as intimidating and brutally strong.
Now that Shawn was in the Kingās presence, he could attest that he was indeed strong and intimidating, but he was also remarkably handsome. Shawn was not a frivolous man; he didn't believe physical beauty was all it took for a relationship to work, but he was certainly glad that his future husband was quite nice to look at.
King Hunter was sitting on his throne, his shoulders squared and his face looking every bit as hard as the iron seat he occupied. He had long blonde hair, much like Shawn, though his hair was straighter and fell heavy over his shoulders. His face was framed by a thick blonde beard that was meticulously groomed, though Shawn had never seen this exact styling before, the hair covered only his cheeks and the top of his lips, leaving the chin entirely bare.
The Kingās heavily muscled chest was exposed to the chilly room. He wore a massive cape covered in dark fur and a large metal cross necklace that rested heavily against his sternum. A broad leather belt secured a fur loincloth with intricate chainmail underneath, leading down to long riding boots that reached around mid-calf. To top off the ensemble, the Barbarian King wore a heavy iron crown adorned with crosses, echoing the design on his chest. The crown was remarkably simple compared to King Vincent's golden crown, which was encrusted with countless precious gems.
The man held a deadly serious expression on his face, though his sharp green eyes seemed to betray some hidden emotion. Curiosity, perhaps? Resting by his side on the floor, leaning heavily against the arm of the throne, was a massive warhammer. The King's large right hand rested lazily on top of its handle, a casual reminder of his lethality.
Yes, the man in front of Shawn was every bit the intimidating warrior his fatherās knights had described, but something deep inside Shawn stirred as he analyzed him. His inner Omega fiercely liked what it was seeing. Shawn had to physically bite his tongue to hold back a keening noise, that would have been incredibly improper. And though he had spent most of his life actively ignoring that frankly annoying part of his biology, he couldnāt quite deny that he agreed with his inner Omega right now.
Big, strong, and safe. A real Alpha.
Shawn shook his head slightly to clear his treacherous thoughts. It would take far more than a hot body and a handsome face to make him fall in love. He didnāt want to make things particularly difficult, seeing as the union between them was essential for the safety of his family and his people. But he would also not make things too easy.
Unbeknownst to Shawn, Hunter was debating with his own internal thoughts as well. Truth be told, his thoughts were proving to be a bit more amicable than the princeās. Hunter hadn't really believed Flair when the old man had sung the praises of the young princeās looks; he had assumed the old fox was exaggerating just to make the political arrangement more palatable.
He hadnāt even believed Goldust, thinking the man surely possessed a taste far too bizarre to trust. Besides, Goldust had met the prince years ago when he still lived with his father, Lord Dustin the First.
But the man standing in front of him was every bit as beautiful as Flair and Goldust had described. Hell, even more so. Shawn's long, wavy blonde hair was secured in an elegant half-ponytail, and his perfectly sculpted face was framed by a pair of golden earrings. Looking into those deep blue eyes, Hunter felt an unexpected jolt, wondering if a man could drown in them.
Shawn wore a black linen shirt covered by a brocaded silk vest with golden accents, paired with tight riding pants that perfectly accentuated his legs. Through a couple of open buttons at the top of the prince's shirt, Hunter caught sight of a light dusting of chest hair poking out. Omegas normally had very little body hair, but Hunter would be lying to himself if he said he didnāt like it. It added a sudden, rugged edge to the delicate southern royal.
After a couple of tense moments of complete, suffocating silence, someone cleared their throat. It was Flair, who had been standing beside the sitting king the entire time, practically vibrating in his extravagant, out-of-place robes.
āPrince Shawn, what an honor it is to have you here!ā Flair declared loudly, flashing a brief, warning glare at the silent King before stepping down from the dais toward Shawn.
āLord Flair, itās been a while,ā Shawn said, keeping his composure. He smoothly extended his hand, palm down, the traditional courtesy in the kingdoms of the Western Alliance, expecting the older man to kiss it.
Flair didn't hesitate, taking Shawn's fingers with practiced nobility and bowing his head. But before his lips could touch Shawn's skin, a low, rumbling grunt echoed from the iron throne, cutting through the courtly elegance like a dull blade.
Hunter leaned forward, his green eyes narrowing as his massive hand tightened on the handle of his warhammer.
"We don't do hand-kissing in the mountains, Flair," Hunter scoffed, his deep voice dripping with sudden, unprovoked disdain. He looked directly at Shawn, his pleasant rain scent turning slightly sharp with irritation. "And we don't usually wait ten days for a delivery. I asked your father for an alliance to secure my borders, and instead, he sends me a pampered doll who gets delayed by a light breeze, bringing half a wardrobe and a courtier's manners to a war room."
Shawnās blood boiled instantly. The lingering warmth of his inner Omega vanished, entirely consumed by the fierce, proud McMahon blood. He slowly pulled his hand back from Flair, standing tall and squaring his shoulders. He didn't bow. Instead, his blue eyes flashed with a sweet, dangerous venom.
"And I was promised a King of Kings," Shawn shot back, his voice cutting through the silent throne room like ice. "Instead, I arrive to find a brute who clearly doesn't know how to welcome his guests, let alone dress appropriately to greet his future husband. If you wanted a warrior to speed up your marches, my King, you should have fought my father. But you chose peace. So I suggest you learn some manners before lecturing me on my arrival."
The entire room went dead silent. Kevin Nash subtly shifted his weight, while Road Dogg and Billy Gunn exchanged wide-eyed looks from the back of the hall. Flair froze entirely, his jaw dropping slightly.
Hunter's jaw tightened, a dangerous, competitive spark igniting in his eyes as he slowly stood up from his iron throne, towering over the prince. The first meeting was officially a disaster.
A suffocating tension gripped the hall. In the back, Sean felt the sweet scent of his dandelion pheromones turn completely sour with absolute panic; the young valet squeezed his eyes shut, his hands trembling so hard he had to grip his own tunic to keep from hyperventilating. He was certain the King was going to execute them all right then and there.
Beside the carriage entourage, Scott Hall didn't draw his sword, but a slow, highly amused smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He leaned casually against a stone pillar, biting his toothpick.Ā The kidās got balls, Scott thought, thoroughly enjoying the fact that someone had finally talked back to the King of Kings, even if it meant a potential bloodbath.
But Kevin Nash wasn't amused. The 7-foot knight stepped forward, a subtle but deliberate movement that put his massive frame just an inch closer to Shawnās flank. His hand remained wrapped tightly around the hilt of his massive broadsword. His posture was a silent, lethal warning to the guards:Ā If you move on my prince, you will have to cut through a mountain first.
Before Batista or Orton could draw their weapons to defend their King's honor, Ric Flair practically threw himself into the gap between the two men. His face was flushed a bright, frantic red, his elaborate, colorful robes fluttering wildly as he held his hands up in a desperate gesture of peace.
"My King! Prince Shawn! Please, let us all take a breath!" Flair squeaked, his voice cracking slightly under the immense pressure. He looked frantically between Hunterās murderous glare and Shawnās icy defiance. "A long journey! Treacherous roads! Assassins in the fog! It is only natural that tempers are flaring like wildfire! My King, the prince is merely exhausted from surviving an ambush. And Prince Shawn... King Hunter has been carrying the weight of our borders on his shoulders for days!"
Hunter didn't break eye contact with Shawn, ignoring Flair entirely. The scent of freshly fallen rain had turned into a violent, thunderous storm. He stepped down from the dais, his heavy riding boots echoing like war drums against the stone floor until he stopped right in front of Shawn, towering over the younger blonde.
"You have a very sharp tongue for an Omega whose life depends on my goodwill, McMahon," Hunter growled, his deep voice vibrating right through Shawnās chest. He looked down at the prince's black linen shirt, his eyes briefly tracking the hint of chest hair before snapping back to those defiant blue eyes. "Your father gave you to me to buy his kingdom's survival. In the mountains, we don't value poetry, pretty words, or southern arrogance. We value strength. We value results."
Shawn didn't flinch. He leaned in just an inch closer, refusing to let the dominant Alpha aura force him into submission. His own scent flared with a proud, unyielding sharpness.
"Then it is a good thing I brought both," Shawn countered, his tone dropping to a deadly, quiet whisper. "Because if your strength is as brittle as your hospitality, my King, then this alliance is already in jeopardy. I survived an army of mercenaries today with nothing but a book and a dagger. I am here to fulfill my duty to my people. But I will not be spoken to like a piece of livestock."
A low, deep rumble of laughter suddenly broke from Batista, though it was quickly silenced by a sharp look from Chyna. Randy Orton merely whistled softly, highly impressed by the princeās sheer nerve.
Hunter stared at Shawn for three agonizingly long seconds. Then, slowly, the murderous tension in his shoulders seemed to shift. The dangerous spark in his green eyes didn't vanish, but it turned into something different, a dark, possessive curiosity. He had expected a fragile, weeping doll to break under his pressure. Instead, Vincent had sent him a beautiful, vicious tiger.
"Flair," Hunter commanded, his voice dark and quiet, never breaking eye contact with Shawn.
"Y-yes, my King?!" Flair stuttered, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow.
"Show the prince to the northern tower chambers," Hunter ordered, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his bearded lips. "Clearly, the fresh mountain air hasn't cooled his temper yet. Let's see if a night in our coldest rooms teaches him how to speak to his husband."
Hunter turned his back, grabbing the handle of his warhammer and walking back toward his iron throne. "We dine at sundown, Prince Shawn. Don't be late. And leave the attitude in your tower."
Shawn narrowed his eyes at the King's retreating back, but Kevin Nash lightly touched his elbow, a silent plea for discretion. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Shawn turned on his heel, signaling for a visibly relieved Sean to follow him.
The battle lines had been drawn, and the marriage hadn't even begun.
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