Word Count: 1287
"Your Highness, you've been frolicking around the cheese platter for the past ten minutes," Nikolas said, carefully flicking cracker crumbs off Harry's navy frock.
"I just cannot decide between aged comte and goat gouda," Harry chuckled nervously with a mouthful of red wine and olives.
"There's no more of either, your Highness," Nikolas retorted bluntly. "You've bulldozed through half the platter."
This was Harry's first time in a party environment, save for the occasional tea party with his nan (bless her). So unsurprisingly, he'd been awkwardly perched near the refreshments table.
He had tried dancing with a lovely duchess earlier and that would've worked out great; if he hadn't looked like an oversized toad slipping on a wet floor in a continuous loop. Harry swore he'd even heard the Vicar of Cambridge laugh at him, and he was about one Viennese Waltz away from crumbling into dust. Poor Harold.
"Mind your figure, your Highness," Nikolas eyed him warily, patting sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief out of distress. "Why don't you offer another dance to Duchess Stafford? I'm sure she'd lo—"
"Prince of Cherose! Welcome to the banquet!" An overly giddy blond beamed at a startled Harry as he spoke with a heavy accent. "Your mother speaks highly of you. I offer my felicitations for your healthy eighteen years of age."
The mention of his dear mother caught Harry's attention and he felt safer knowing the stranger had known her to a certain extent.
Harry looked to Nikolas for help and the aging man silently urged him to continue conversing, silently slipping away to watch from afar. The brunet turned back to face the nobleman.
"Cheers. . .little blond gnome." The boy's round eyes and pudgy cheeks had reminded Harry of the small mythical creature. His cream royal jacket and golden belt at the navel didn't quite help either. Harry mentally winced at how rude and maladroit he probably sounded, but the blond only grinned wider.
"Prince of Leerye, Western England—but little blond gnome sits well too," he bowed his head. Harry hesitated slightly before returning the etiquette.
"Prince of Cherose, Northern England. Acquaintances call me Harry," he said, even though Harry wasn't completely sure what category this person fell into. Thankfully, the prince nominated himself.
"In that case, acquaintances call me Niall," he continued smiling and Harry imagined how much his cheeks probably hurt.
"Have you met Louis yet?" Niall's smile finally dimmed to a neutral mien. The curly-haired prince stared at him with curious eyes.
"The French Kingdom was invited as well?"
Niall bursted out into boisterous laughter as if it were the funniest thing in the world while Harry stared on obliviously.
"Louis is French, no? Sounds quite posh," Harry's cheeks flushed pink when the blond continued chuckling. The Leerye prince finally got a hold of himself and sighed contently.
"Come, I'll introduce you," he grasped the brunet's hand. Harry bit his bottom lip, a bit unsure, though he let the blond lead him anyways.
Niall's crystal blue eyes searched the sea of men dressed in velvet overcoats and women in satin evening gowns, before they finally landed on somebody in the back of the large room.
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The White Prince | L.S AU
Fanfiction❝ My dear, he is not as virginal as he seems. ❞ Harry―the Prince of Cherose―finally reaches the ripe age of 18 and takes his father's place in the annual banquet of the four royal kingdoms. Unfortunately, he also happens to take a special, unrequit...
