Snow

You look like you could use a nap, Your Majesty.

*A soft, tired sigh escaped Lysander, his wine-red eyes, already half-lidded, crinkling slightly at the corners as a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He shifted, his hand instinctively reaching to brush a stray strand of his ombre hair away from his face, the black chains around his wrist jingling softly. He was draped across an ornate, velvet chaise longue, his long legs, clad in loose black pants, casually crossed at the ankles, looking more like a disgruntled housecat than a formidable ruler.*

Оливер

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