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The evening glow of lanterns bathes the dining hall of Panther’s Grace in a soft, golden light. The architecture of the hall is as grand as it is intricate, with gold pillars supporting arched ceilings carved from dark wood, reflecting the elegance and history of House Blackpaw. Rich tapestries line the walls, depicting the legendary rise of their house, from its origins to its current prominence in Zhuyin.

Prince Haoran Blackpaw, the ruling prince of Zhuyin, sits at the head of a lacquered, round table adorned with delicate porcelain plates and bowls, each brimming with an array of vibrant dishes. The scent of steamed fish, spiced meats, and stir-fried vegetables fills the air. Small clay teapots sit beside each guest, the warmth of jasmine tea offering comfort against the cool evening breeze that whispers through the open windows.

His wife, Lady Elora, sits to his right, her beauty timeless and serene. Clad in an elegant silk Hanfu of crimson and gold, she moves with a grace that complements the rich fabrics that swirl around her as she places a dumpling onto Zyre’s plate with practiced ease.

Zyre, their seventeen-year-old son, slouches slightly in his seat, a bored expression plastered across his sharp features as he toys with his food. His Hanfu is less pristine, a dark blue with silver accents, but his restlessness is clear as he inspects the shape of his food bowl rather than listening to his father. His long hair, tied in the traditional topknot, frames his face in a way that makes him appear older, more arrogant than his age would suggest.

"Zyre," Prince Haoran’s voice is firm, cutting through the ambiance of the meal, "You are no longer a boy. You must understand the responsibilities that await you."

Zyre doesn’t immediately respond, his eyes still fixed on his bowl. His father’s words wash over him, the same lecture he’s heard before, and yet, his mother’s presence makes the scolding feel more tolerable. He adores her, and she spoils him in return, which makes Haoran’s reprimands easier to endure.

Haoran continues, his tone measured, but there is no mistaking the authority behind it. "You are my heir. Soon, it will be time for you to take my place as the ruler of Zhuyin, and it’s high time you started taking your duties seriously."

Zyre lazily raises his eyes, his fingers still playing with his chopsticks as he spears a slice of pork into his bowl. "Am I not already?" His words drip with sarcasm, and his smirk doesn’t help matters.

Lady Elora, ever the mediator, watches the exchange with quiet amusement. She knows her son, knows that his arrogance is often a mask for his deeper emotions, and knows her husband is far too stern when it comes to their only son. She leans forward slightly, adding more food to Zyre’s bowl without comment, her gentle presence a silent reminder that he is loved, even when he misbehaves.

Haoran narrows his eyes, but there is affection beneath his disapproval. His sternness is not born of cruelty, but of care. He wants Zyre to be strong, to be prepared for the future that awaits him. And yet, he finds it difficult to balance his desire for discipline with his deep love for his son. Zyre is his pride, his legacy, but the boy’s arrogance often grates on him.

"You will take over the duties of the heir," Haoran presses, his chopsticks pausing mid-air, "There is no room for argument. This is your responsibility."

Zyre finally looks up fully, his expression one of feigned innocence. "Of course, my ruling prince. I will be the perfect heir, once I find a bowl that pleases me," he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief. He taps the edge of his bowl, and the clinking sound seems to echo louder than it should in the room.

Haoran’s jaw tightens, and he exchanges a look with Elora, who bites back a smile. Zyre has always had a sharp tongue, one that often found its way to trouble, but Elora loves him for it. She gently loads another dumpling onto his plate, her eyes soft as they meet her husband’s.

"Eat more, my son," Elora says sweetly, smoothing the silken sleeve of her robe as she pushes the bowl towards him. "You’ll need your strength to keep up with your father’s demands."

Zyre grins, his mother’s playful indulgence lifting his spirits. He takes a bite, chewing slowly as his eyes drift back to his father, only half-listening as Haoran continues.

"And after the Festival of Shadows," Haoran says, taking a sip of his tea, "we must begin considering the suitable families for your marriage."

The words hang heavy in the air, causing Zyre to roll his eyes. He straightens slightly in his seat, a new wave of exasperation washing over him. His chopsticks pause midway to his mouth. "Must we?" he asks, his voice a mix of protest and resignation.

"It is your duty," Haoran insists, his voice as unyielding as the stone walls of Panther’s Grace. "You are of age, and I have no desire to leave our line without secure alliances."

Zyre stares blankly ahead, clearly uninterested in the conversation. "I object," he mutters through a mouthful of food. "I’m still too young to be saddled with a wife."

"Objection overruled," Haoran says without missing a beat, barely sparing his son a glance. "Finish your food."

Zyre huffs, shoveling more rice into his mouth with an exaggerated sigh. "Father," he begins, voice laced with the same exasperation that always rises during these conversations, "you cannot seriously expect me to entertain such thoughts right now."

"I most certainly can," Haoran retorts, his voice calm, though his patience is clearly wearing thin. He turns to Elora, seeking solace in her more diplomatic approach. "The Martells were eager when we arranged the marriage for your sister. They are among our strongest allies now. It is time to secure another union for the good of our house."

Zyre groans, throwing his chopsticks down with a clatter. "But I have no interest in marriage. I’m not even sure I want to attend the Festival."

Ignoring his son’s defiance, Haoran gestures toward a servant, signaling for more tea. "There are many suitable families, Zyre. You will consider them."

Zyre, unable to contain his frustration, slams his hands on the table, the force sending his bowl skidding across the polished wood. "I do not wish to marry!" he snaps, standing abruptly.

For a moment, the tension is thick enough to cut. Haoran’s face hardens, and for a heartbeat, it seems as though he might snap back at his son. But instead, he sighs, a deep, resigned sound, as Zyre storms from the room, his robes swirling around him as he disappears down the corridor.

"Send food to his chambers," Haoran commands the servants softly, his voice heavy with both concern and exhaustion. "And make sure it is food he likes."

Once the servants leave to follow his orders, Haoran turns to Elora, his strong features softened by a rare vulnerability. "Was I too harsh on him?" he asks quietly, his brown eyes meeting hers. "Perhaps I should not have pushed so hard."

Elora watches the door Zyre had exited through, her expression thoughtful. "You know how stubborn our son is," she replies gently. "He will come around."

Haoran frowns, his fingers tracing the delicate patterns of the table. "I do not understand why he refuses this duty. Marriage has always been a way to strengthen alliances. Look at how well it worked for our daughter with Willem Martell."

Elora’s lips curl into a knowing smile. "Perhaps Zyre has his eyes on someone already."

Haoran blinks, caught off guard by the suggestion. "Someone?" he repeats, incredulous.

Elora lifts her gaze to meet his, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "You know who I speak of."

"Rhaenyra," Haoran mutters, realization dawning. He shakes his head. "They quarrel like wildcats every time they meet. I can’t imagine—"

"Love often blooms from the thorniest of gardens," Elora says softly, placing a delicate hand on his. "Give it time. He may yet surprise us."

Haoran looks at his wife with admiration, his heart swelling with gratitude for her wisdom and calm demeanor. He squeezes her hand, a rare gesture of affection from the normally stoic prince. "What would I do without you?" he murmurs, his voice low and sincere.

Elora’s laughter is soft and warm, filling the room with an almost tangible sense of love. "You would be miserable and scowling, as usual," she teases, her eyes twinkling.

Their tender moment is interrupted as a maid enters, bowing deeply before presenting a scroll sealed with the King’s sigil.

"A raven from King’s Landing, my prince," she announces, holding the letter out with both hands.

Haoran takes it, breaking the seal with a practiced hand and scanning the contents quickly. His stern expression melts into a rare smile as he looks up at Elora, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Princess Rhaenyra is coming to Zhuyin. She will arrive in two days, on dragonback."

Lady Elora’s face brightens, her excitement palpable, the same spark in her eyes that had caught his attention years ago. "We should prepare the eastern wing for her stay, and the kitchens must begin at once. She’ll expect a feast in her honor. The finest silks, our best wines..." Her voice trails off, her mind buzzing with plans.

Haoran leans back slightly, admiring the way her mind works so quickly, the way she moves from one duty to another with such ease and grace. He had always relied on her calm, steady hand when matters of the court seemed overwhelming. In many ways, she was his anchor in the stormy seas of rulership.

"You’ll see to it," he says softly, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I trust you."

Elora chuckles, her fingers brushing his lightly, a gentle acknowledgment of the affection between them. "As you always do."

The room feels lighter for a moment, the weight of duty lifted by their shared understanding, but it doesn’t last long. Haoran’s thoughts return to Zyre, his rebellious son who had stormed out of the room moments ago. His fingers tap rhythmically against the table as he considers the boy’s behavior. It was typical for Zyre, ever defiant, ever resisting the path laid out before him. But Haoran worries more deeply than he lets on.

"Do you think Zyre will be... civil with Rhaenyra?" he asks, his brow furrowing slightly. "They’ve always had a way of igniting tempers in each other."

Elora smiles knowingly, her eyes shimmering with something like amusement. "They argue because they are alike, in more ways than either of them would care to admit. But, if I may say so, they share something else, something more... profound."

Haoran arches a brow, curious. "And what might that be?"

"A spark," she says softly, the word hanging in the air between them. "A connection that neither of them understands yet. Zyre is stubborn, and so is Rhaenyra, but they are both fierce. In time, that fire will either forge something strong... or consume them both."

Haoran exhales deeply, resting his chin in his hand. "I only hope it doesn’t tear them apart before it has a chance to become something meaningful."

Elora’s hand brushes his arm gently, her touch a balm to his frayed nerves. "Trust in them, husband. They will find their way."

Before Haoran can respond, the doors to the dining hall swing open, and a servant rushes in, bowing deeply. "My prince, my lady, the preparations are already underway for Princess Rhaenyra’s arrival. Shall I summon the steward to discuss the arrangements?"

Haoran waves a hand dismissively, his mind still on his son. "Yes, yes, ensure everything is done to perfection. I will speak with the steward later. For now, I need to see to my son."

The servant bows again before scurrying away, leaving the room quiet once more. Haoran rises from his chair, his expression softening as he looks down at Elora. "I should speak with him before he broods for too long. If I let it fester, he’ll only grow more resistant."

Elora nods, standing gracefully beside him, her fingers smoothing the folds of her Hanfu. "Be gentle with him. He’s still young, still finding his place. And... he adores you, though he may not always show it."

Haoran sighs, feeling the weight of fatherhood pressing on him more than ever. "He has a strange way of showing it, but I know you’re right."

With one last glance at his wife, Haoran turns and leaves the dining hall, his steps echoing through the long corridors of Panther’s Grace. The castle is quiet, save for the soft murmur of servants preparing for Rhaenyra’s arrival, but Haoran’s thoughts are loud, filled with the tension that has been growing between him and his son for months now.

He makes his way to Zyre’s chambers, pausing outside the door. For a moment, he hesitates, his hand hovering over the handle. He takes a deep breath and opens the door, stepping inside.

Zyre is sitting by the window, looking out over the vast gardens of Panther’s Grace, illuminated by the pale moonlight. He doesn’t turn when his father enters, though Haoran can see the tension in his shoulders.

"Zyre," Haoran says quietly, closing the door behind him. His eyes sweep the room, noticing the untouched dishes of food laying on the table, still steaming lightly from the kitchen’s hurried efforts to please his son. The plates sit there, a silent testament to Zyre's simmering frustration, ignored just as much as his father’s earlier words had been.

There’s a long pause before Zyre finally responds, his voice low and tight. "If you’ve come to lecture me again, I’m not in the mood."

Haoran crosses the room slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. "I didn’t come to lecture you."

Zyre finally turns, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Then why are you here?"

Haoran stops a few feet away, his expression softening as he studies his son’s face. Zyre looks tired, frustrated, but beneath that, Haoran can see the boy he’s raised, the boy he loves. "I came to understand."

Zyre’s brows furrow in confusion. "Understand what?"

"Why you’re so resistant to the idea of marriage," Haoran says, his voice gentle but probing. "I know you don’t like being told what to do, but there’s more to this than simple defiance. You’ve never been this... adamant before."

Zyre looks away, his jaw tightening. "I don’t want to be trapped," he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t want to be forced into something that’s not... real."

Haoran frowns, stepping closer. "Marriage isn’t a trap, Zyre. It’s an alliance, a way to strengthen our house, to secure the future."

Zyre scoffs, shaking his head. "Duty, alliances, the future... What about what I want? What about my future?"

Haoran sighs, sitting down beside his son. "What do you want, Zyre? Truly?"

There’s a long silence as Zyre stares out the window, his eyes distant. "I don’t know," he admits finally. "I just... I don’t want to be like everyone else. I don’t want to be... trapped in some role I didn’t choose."

Haoran watches his son carefully, his heart aching with the weight of Zyre’s words. "You won’t be trapped, my son. I want you to have a say in your future, to choose your own path. But you must also understand that with your title comes responsibility. There are expectations, yes, but there’s also room for choice."

Zyre is quiet for a moment before he finally looks at his father, his eyes searching Haoran’s face. "Do you really believe that?"

"I do," Haoran says softly, placing a hand on Zyre’s shoulder. "And I believe in you, Zyre. You are my heir, but more than that, you are my son. I want what’s best for you, not just for Zhuyin."

Zyre’s expression softens slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing. "I... I just don’t know if I’m ready."

"You’re young," Haoran says, his voice full of warmth. "You don’t have to be ready right this moment. But when the time comes, I know you’ll make the right choices."

Zyre exhales slowly, nodding. "I’ll... try."

Haoran smiles, patting his son’s shoulder. "That’s all I ask."

They sit in comfortable silence for a while, the moonlight casting long shadows across the room. For the first time in a long while, Haoran feels a sense of peace with his son, a hope that perhaps they’re moving towards something better, something stronger.

Eventually, Haoran rises, giving Zyre a reassuring nod. "Now eat your food and rest well, my son. Tomorrow, you will begin supervising the vineyards. And by the end of the Festival of Shadows, I expect a parchment with a thorough review of your studies."

Zyre groans, though there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. "Of course. More duties."

Haoran chuckles, heading towards the door. "Always."

As Haoran leaves the room, he feels a weight lift from his shoulders. He knows the road ahead will not be easy, but for tonight, he allows himself to feel hopeful. Tomorrow, they will face new challenges, but for now, he is content knowing that his son is growing, slowly but surely, into the man he is meant to be.