The grand hall of the Alamutian palace was decorated with swaths of fabric, plush pillows, and various delights and delicacies of the area. Upon the arrival of the Persian King, Sharaman, a lavish feast was prepared for the subjects of Alamut to great him.

The banquet was also an opportunity for Alamut's Princess to be presented to the King.

Goblet of spiced wine in hand, Garsiv sipped at the heady drink and watched unnoticed as Tamina paced, waiting alone outside the doors of the grand hall. Ringing laughter and the murmur of conversation filtered through to the otherwise quiet corridor, a sign of the merriment in the room beyond, and yet her face was downcast and her features pinched as she strode about, wringing her hands.

Garsiv's hide was harder than his illustrious father's, and she had already slain him with her wit alone. He wondered at her uneasiness.

"Don't be nervous."

Tamina jumped, whirling to face him. His words had surprised her. They surprised him as well; he hadn't meant to speak.

She straightened to her full height, confidence settling around her like a cloak. "I'm not."

Garsiv shook his head and stalked forward, dismissing the guard by the door with a nod of his head. "Our father is the best of us. He's a kind man." The reassurances fell easily from his lips, despite their foreign feel. Then again, with the drink he had already consumed the little restraint he held on his tongue was close to non-existent.

"He's a conqueror," she said with a frown.

"Better a kind conqueror than a barbarian, like Kosh." She did not reply, and he took her silence for agreement. "You need not be concerned. I would suggest being yourself, but," he smirked, "Then you would likely insult the King."

Chin raising ever so slightly, Tamina regarded him. "I'll have you know, my interactions with you are not a measure of my person."

"And yet your ire comes so swiftly whenever I grace you with my presence. How would I know otherwise?" Again, she did not reply, but the smallest of smiles curved at her lips, and Garsiv felt oddly triumphant.

"I'll save my ire for you, Persian. I would not insult Dastan by offending the King."

His triumph faded.

Without another word, he sketched a short bow to her and strode away in search of his brothers. His thoughts lingered on their conversation though. The usual barbs and anger had been surprisingly absent, and yet his blood rushed, and his body thrummed as if preparing for battle.

He'd consumed more drink than he thought.

Outside the northern doors to the grand hall, Garsiv found that Tamina was not the only bundle of nerves that evening.

Dastan stood still, staring endlessly at the closed doors before him, and Garsiv guessed his gaze went beyond the gold inlay of the carved design. Tus stood at his side, prayer beads in hand, awaiting the moment they would be announced.

Downing the remainder of his wine, Garsiv approached. Tus was the first to spot him, and his eyes tracked Garsiv's easy gate as he drew closer. Shaking his head, Tus looked disapprovingly at the goblet in his hand. "You've started the festivities early."

Garsiv clapped a hand against his back. "I enjoyed wine with the general."

"Then remember to keep control of your tongue," Tus said, shrugging off his hand. "Father intends to smooth his way with kind words and good food."

Garsiv drew back, feigning annoyance. "I can be kind."

"To horses," Tus said, brow raised. "These people are not livestock."

"I'm sure there's an ass or two in there."

Tus snorted in laughter, but his attention strayed once again to his hands, prayer beads tumbling over and over his fingers. When his lips began to move in silent prayer, Garsiv turned his attention to Dastan.

Dastan's countenance was eerily similar to Tamina's, and Garsiv scoffed. Nudging him, he motioned to look over at Tus.

Their older brother had begun to sweat, his brow creased in deep thought as he contemplated his prayers. Dastan's expression lightened, mirth colouring his features. As it should; Dastan would not suffer their father's wrath over the invasion.

"You know you have nothing to fear."

Dastan looked back at him, dubious. "Father is still to approve our union."

Marriage, marriage. Did nought else occupy his brother's thoughts now? "Why are you so desperate to marry this woman?"

Dastan's reply was simple, succinct— and crazy. "I care for her."

Garsiv frowned. "You've never cared for a woman before."

"I've never met a woman like her before."

Truer words had never been spoken. It was the first sensible thing Dastan had said since they arrived in this damned city. "Father will approve," Garsiv assured him.

"How do you know?"

"I don't. But tell him you want it, and it's yours."

Dastan shot him a quelling look, but Garsiv didn't bother to mask the bitterness that always rose whenever he thought of the bond between his father and younger brother.

Dastan was the son Sharaman chose to be part of his family. Garsiv was troublesome; a hot-headed and arrogant boy who had grown into a difficult man. He cared not for his father's fascination with God and knowledge, and shared little in common with him. His role was to secure and extend their empire, and he did it well. But though Garsiv's temperament was well-known, his actions rarely caused a political stir.

Unlike Dastan, who moments later upon entering the great hall shocked the entire congregation with his seemingly brash announcement.

"You wish for Princess Tamina to decide if this marriage should proceed?" King Sharaman spoke softly, but his voice carried throughout the room which had fallen to hushed silence at Dastan's declaration.

"If she'll have me." Dastan's impish smile helped diffuse some of the tension from the moment.

Dastan was clearly not as well-educated in politics as Garsiv once thought. Women were among the spoils of war, and he had every right to claim Tamina as his bride, with or without consent. Giving Tamina the option to deny him and an alliance with Persia was one of the most harebrained, foolish, brilliant ideas he ever had. The idiot was bound to win her over with that gesture.

Sharaman regarded his youngest son for some time before speaking. "Perhaps you are wise, my son. A woman who comes willingly is infinitely more desirable than a struggling captive."

"I am no one's captive."

Garsiv guffawed into his wine at her outburst, his drink spilling with the movement. No-one but Tamina noticed, the smile leaving her face as swiftly as it appeared.

"Of course not, my dear, and it seems Dastan wishes nothing of the sort for you. I give my blessing. You may marry my son at your discretion, Princess."

The eruption of conversation and congratulations was deafening.

Later, when the wine flowed freely, and their bellies were warm with food and drink, Garsiv found a moment alone with his younger brother.

"You truly care for her."

Dastan smiled, toeing a chair closer for Garsiv to sit down. "I said as much, didn't I?"

"Yes, but," Garsiv shook his head in bewilderment and he took a seat. "You are giving her the option to turn you away."

Dastan twirled the wine in his goblet idly. "If she doesn't want me, what kind of loathing would that breed in her?"

He snorted, taking in what remained of the celebrations around them. "Likely the same as what is residing in Tus' wives."

That seemed to confuse the poor boy. "Tus' wives don't despise him."

"No, but they hold no love for him either. That is the way of marriage." Garsiv had no wives of his own, but every union he had ever witnessed was contrived. Gold, land, alliances; all played their part in marriage. There was no room for love in such arrangements. Not for the likes of them.

"That is not what I want for us." Dastan's words were softly spoken, almost a vow, and Garsiv recoiled at the sincerity he heard.

But their conversation was cut short at Tamina's approach.

"Prince Dastan." There was a slight pause and a distinct lack of warmth in her tone when she addressed him. "Prince Garsiv."

"Princess," he said, tearing his thoughts from the problem of his brother to the problem of his brother's woman. "You look radiant. Broken betrothal suits you well." He ignored the hiss of his name from Dastan.

She arched a brow at him. "Our betrothal is not broken."

"No? You've accepted his hand then?"

"Garsiv."

"I will give it true thought." She turned to Dastan with a deep smile. "I have been gifted with time. I will use it wisely."

The look the two of them shared had him feeling uncomfortable in his own skin. Clearing his throat, he didn't even bother bidding them farewell before escaping.

It seemed his little brother had happened upon a love match after all. How fortunate for him.

After the festivities died down and most dignitaries retired for the evening, Dastan, with his laughing eyes and ready smile had pulled her aside and begged for another walk alone with her.

Tamina had laughed, delighted at his eagerness, but declined. She was a maiden, but enough eavesdropping had taught her that the maids relished late night walks with their paramours. She could only imagine the reasons why.

Instead, she rose early the next day, the Persian-allotted barracks her destination.

She couldn't wipe the smile from her face as she walked, the beaming sun warming her cheeks and wringing a delighted chuckle from her lips. The previous evening could only be described as a success. The Persian king had charmed her, his steady manner and quick mind a welcome foil to the brashness of his sons and soldiers. He was unlike any king she had met, but for that she was thankful.

Any other king would not allow his son to court her in his own time. That thought sent her cheeks glowing red as she rounded the corner to the barracks but shouting and the clash of steel disrupted her reverie.

Collecting her skirts, she ran to find the source of the commotion.

Soldiers and servants alike gathered in a sizeable crowd, forming a circle in the open training grounds. They jeered and cried out, bellowing encouragements, urging on two figures in the middle. Pushing through the bodies, her lithe frame allowing her to slip by easily, Tamina finally laid her eyes on the entertainment.

The two youngest Persian princes squared off, blades drawn, eyes watching the other with deadly intent. Her hand flew to her face, stifling a cry. They were shirtless and bare-footed, sweat gleaming in the morning light. She watched, enthralled, as they circled each other. Darting in with swift blows and the screech of their blades, each watched closely, searching for an opening.

"Do not fret, my Lady."

She tore her gaze away to find Dastan's man at her side, smiling.

"Dastan has him beat," he assured her, his relaxed countenance and easy grin at odds with the match before them. "Too much wine makes Garsiv slow in the mornings."

"They're drunk?" Of course they were. Imbecilic men.

"Just hurting. The sparring helps revive their dimmed senses."

She'd never heard such nonsense before.

But a cheer went up and she looked back to see Dastan had robbed his brother of his sword.

"Blasted street rat," Garsiv called, swiping an arm against his brow. "You'll clean that for me later."

Dastan raised the sword to inspect, an unfairly attractive smirk blossoming. "To the victor the spoils. I'm not cleaning anything of yours."

Straightening, Garsiv began to swagger away. "You'll be cleaning my boots with your tongue if it keeps flapping."

"I can think of much better uses of my tongue, dear brother." A suggestive waggle of his brow had the soldiers hooting and hollering, dispelling the last of the tension and signalling an end to their games.

Dastan stooped to collect his discarded shirt. It was then that he noticed Tamina.

"Good morning, Princess." She could not overlook the way his eyes perused her figure. "You are not the reward I was expecting."

His appreciation improved her confidence. The display she had seen set a fire low in her belly that she didn't understand, but the energy coursing through her made her feel bold. She allowed a wry smile to twist her lips, a move she had seen the maids use to make them look particularly plump. "Good morning, my prince."

He donned his shirt, sadly, and accepted a cloth from his man Bis. "Walk with me?" He asked with just the right amount of begging, as he mopped his sweaty brow.

Her smile bloomed, and she accepted, falling into step beside him.

Something prickled at the back of her neck, forcing her to glance back.

Garsiv's eyes bored into her, his hooded glare stealing her breath and setting her heart to race. Something raw burned in his gaze, and it made her shiver.

The ambling pace Dastan set wasn't fast enough to escape as far as she was concerned.

But Dastan did not take her far. They barely circled the barracks before he crowded against her, bodily pressing her up against the rear barracks wall.

He claimed a kiss from her then, flashing a cheeky grin and whispering that he deserved a reward for his hard-won battle.

It was their first kiss. Her first kiss. It could not have been more different to what she had expected. Her impression of Dastan was that he was reckless and headstrong, but the softness of his lips and the gentle way he held her did not leave her breathless or hungry as she imagined his kisses would.

His lips moulded over hers, then sipped at her, drawing her in and stealing her wits.

Which was the only reason she could think of for why dark eyes replaced blue in her mind's eye, why an angular face replaced the image of his soft one in her thoughts.

Tamina gasped, inching away, and Dastan reluctantly let her go.

He murmured apologies, begged her forgiveness for his forthright manner, and she assured him he didn't take what she wasn't willing to give.

But later, in the privacy of her rooms in the dark of the night, she couldn't relive the excitement of Dastan's kiss. She dared not close her eyes lest the memory of another's dark eyed glare swam before her.

AN: I couldn't return to Prince of Persia and not expand on these two - three - darlings. My fiery Prince must have his say ...