The royal emissary arrived exactly seven days after Alex's caravan entered the capital, announced by silver trumpets that echoed off marble walls like distant thunder.
A procession of fifty riders in deep indigo and silver crested the eastern ridge at midday, their banners bearing the crowned swan of House Valmont—ancient, proud, and now desperate.
At the head rode Queen-Regent Seraphine Valmont, fifty-five years old, widow of the late king, regent to a throne that had produced no living heir in twelve years.
She sat sidesaddle on a white mare, posture flawless despite the long journey, her gown of midnight velvet cut low enough to reveal the heavy swell of breasts that had once nursed two sons and still carried the faint silver stretch marks of motherhood.
Her hair, once raven, was now threaded heavily with silver, braided with sapphires that caught the sun like frozen tears.
Even from the palace balcony, Alex could smell her on the wind: rose attar, aged parchment, and beneath it all—the sharp, unmistakable tang of a woman whose body had begun to ache for what politics could never grant.
Her five sons rode in strict formation behind her.
Prince-Consort Alaric (29), tall and stern, eyes like chipped flint, hand never far from his sword.
Prince Theron (27), scholar's build, soft-spoken, already studying the crowd with quiet calculation.
Prince Cassian (25), golden-haired and restless, the only one who openly stared at the swollen bellies of the court ladies.
Prince Draven (23), dark and brooding, bearing the faint scar of an old border skirmish across his jaw.
Prince Lucian (21), the youngest, still boyish, cheeks flushing when his gaze lingered too long on Vespera's elegant curve.
The linkage stirred the moment they passed beneath the gate.
Seraphine's breath hitched visibly; her nipples tightened against velvet, a single bead of milk darkening the fabric.
She covered it gracefully with a gloved hand, but Alex saw the flush creep up her throat.
Her sons shifted in their saddles—Alaric's jaw clenched, Cassian's trousers tightened noticeably, Lucian's ears burned red.
The entire royal party felt the pull, subtle as a fingertip tracing the spine, but unmistakable to anyone who had already tasted it.
Vespera stood at Alex's right, First Consort Mira at his left.
Both women had dressed for court: Vespera in sapphire silk that clung to her rounded belly, Mira in crimson that left her leaking breasts half-exposed beneath a sheer over-robe.
Kael waited two paces behind, golden threads shimmering faintly on his robes, face schooled into perfect neutrality.
Torin and Garrick flanked the stairs—massive, silent, hammers polished to mirror brightness.
Damian stood at the carriage door, ready to open it for the queen.
Formal greetings were exchanged in the great hall.
Seraphine's voice was low, cultured, carrying the weight of thirty years of rule.
"We come seeking alliance, Oracle of the Mother. Our lands fail. Our bloodlines thin. The old gods are silent. We have heard… you are not."
Her eyes flicked to Mira's belly, then Vespera's, then lingered on Alex's face with something between fear and hunger.
The scent around her sharpened—rose attar undercut by warm, fertile musk.
Alex inclined his head, voice soft.
"Alliance is not taken, Your Grace. It is grown. Like a child in the womb. Slowly. Deeply. Irrevocably."
He let the words hang.
Seraphine's thighs pressed together beneath velvet; a faint shiver ran through her.
Her eldest son, Alaric, stepped forward as if to shield her—then stopped, nostrils flaring at the sudden bloom of his mother's arousal on the air.
That evening, the first private audience was granted in Vespera's solar.
Only Seraphine, her sons, Alex, Mira, Vespera, and the four anchors.
No servants. No guards.
The doors were sealed with wind-magic runes that glowed soft blue.
Seraphine spoke first, voice steady but eyes betraying the linkage's growing heat.
"My husband died without further issue. My sons carry the blood, but our women… the curse has taken root. Barren wombs. Stillborn daughters. We need… renewal."
She glanced at Mira's belly, then Vespera's, then back to Alex.
Milk had begun to leak through her velvet bodice in two dark spots; the scent of rose and warm cream filled the room.
Mira moved first—kneeling at Alex's feet, parting his robe, taking him into her mouth with slow, reverent devotion.
The blowjob was unhurried: tongue swirling the head, throat opening deep, saliva stringing from her lips as milk dripped from her own breasts onto the marble floor with soft plops.
Vespera joined her—pressing her milk-slick breasts around the shaft for a slow boobjob, the plush, veined flesh squeezing in rhythmic pulses while her nipples leaked warm streams down Alex's cock.
Seraphine watched—breathing shallow, thighs trembling.
Alaric's hand tightened on his sword hilt until knuckles whitened.
Cassian's eyes were glued to Mira's mouth.
Lucian's cheeks burned scarlet.
Kael stepped behind the queen—voice low, almost gentle.
"Feel it, Your Grace. The Mother does not ask. She offers. And once you taste, you will never crave anything else."
Alex let the moment stretch—cock sliding between Vespera's tits, Mira's tongue lapping the underside—then spoke directly to Seraphine.
"Bring your sons closer, Regent. Let them witness what alliance truly costs. Let them hold you while I plant the first seed of a new dynasty in your womb."
Seraphine's breath shuddered out.
She took one step forward—then another—until she stood before Alex, milk leaking freely now, scent thick and desperate.
Her sons moved with her—Alaric first, then the others—forming a protective circle that became, without them realizing it, the circle of witnesses.
The private audience had only just begun.