I am Clarimonde, the firstborn of my father, Aaron De Nemesio. That would have been tolerable enough, I suppose, had the second born of my father been male. But there was no other, no male heir for the line that had served Lordaeron for generations, only me. And I was hardly a fitting holder for such a name, born small, pale, easily overlooked. Obviously the only answer was that I make as prestigious a match as possible, bring my father a son in law to rival the spirit of a son never born. So it was, when I hit fourteen, that my would be suitors started showing up, and I learned a harsh lesson. Nobility of blood did not necessarily guarantee nobility of a man. So many grand names…it was heartening on some level, that the men that bore them were as poor in quality as I was. But I wanted more. Why settle for these, when I felt I could have better? There had to be better out there.

"Another gone?" My father questioned when I saw one away, and I dropped my eyes to the floor. This had gone on a year, and his patience grew thin. "Clarimonde." He breathed, and I steeled myself for the coming confrontation, running through my options like fingerlings ran through a net. There had to be someone else, someone… better.

"He is scrawny. Weedy." I noted slowly. "I am scrawny, weedy. Bad for the line."

My father shifted uneasily in his chair. He had problems rebutting arguments so obviously true. "We are running out of options, Clarimonde. Who else is there?"

A name leapt into my mind, and I considered it cautiously. It could bring trouble, but it could bring salvation, or at least a stay… "Arthas." I stated, amazed at the level calm of my own voice.

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and I was surprised he didn't laugh immediately. "Arthas?" He questioned slowly. "Arthas….Menethil?"

"I know of no other." I agreed, passing to the window and staring out of it. Night spread from the shadows of the trees outside, an eerie and disturbing sight, but my mind was on my father not such childish fancies.

"Prince Arthas Menethil?" His voice was still steady, and it still lacked derision. Maybe I was on to something here? I did not bother to reply…obviously there was only one Arthas Menethil. The prince. "The boy is promised." He mused, and I tilted my head. My mother ate rumors like a pig slopped at a trough. She told me he was promised… but not committed.

"As a wiser soul than myself noted once, such promises mean little to a young man." Those were my father's own words, the words his warning to not let those young men who courted me to become too friendly without a priest and a ring. "She is merely an admiral's daughter, fine for now…"

He moved to the window beside me, but his gaze was not trained outside, but on my face. "You'd go so far?" He asked, leaning against the casement. "You'd push for Arthas?" Me, Queen of Lordaeron…. It was a laughable idea, except that he wasn't laughing. For the first time, he was listening to me. Considering me. I wasn't a joke.

"It would be worth the try." Rumors told me Arthas was fair to the eye. Told me he was close to my age, not some decrepit specimen hoping to stave off death by getting children on me.

My father rested a hand on my shoulder, silent. "Arthas Menethil." He finally breathed, and I knew I had him then. All the others would go away. I had fixed the idea in his mind, and now, only the king's son would be good enough. I only prayed that I would agree.

"Proudmoore's daughter has gone to training." He mused thoughtfully, "In Dalaran."

I raised a brow. Dalaran was far, and trained only one thing…mages. Such training was intensive, great in depth and scope, if she had any talent for it. She could be gone for years… "And the prince?"

"Trains with the Silver Hand, at Stratholme."

I nodded slowly, locking my teeth together to keep my face bland. If he trained with the Hand, then the prince could not be grossly fat. Or painfully weedy.

My father spun a length of my hair through his fingers. "How far are you willing to go with this?"

"Is he as fair as they say?" I finally demanded, and my father barked in laughter.

"Aye, little one. He is as fair as they say. Fair to the eye. Fair in name and blood. And a fair sort. You are correct, you can do no better."

"Then I will do what must be done." Whatever the hell that was. I was pretty much making this up as I went along…

"Arthas is in training with the Hand." He smoothed my hair down my back. "The Hand will keep him away from Court, away from such things. The only way you can get close to him now…. Is to go into the Hand yourself."

I blinked. The Hand trained paladins. Giant, resolute men charged with the defense of Lordaeron. Not….me. "Yes…." He nodded, his mind obviously carrying on, while mine mired down. "Of course. You are my only child. There is no boy for the Hand to train. Even if you do not become a paladin, there is much for them to teach you. It does work, Clarimonde."

It did? I gave him a tentative smile. At the worst, it would get me away from Brill, and away from him. It couldn't be all bad…. If Arthas wasn't all he was supposed to be, I could always fail.

"Then…" My father nodded slowly. "We must prepare you for this. If you mean to go after Arthas, things must be done, and better than your mother must do them."

I squashed the grin that rose to my face. My mother had succeeded in turning me out well enough for here, kept on my father's provincial estates, but not well enough to count me among those with a chance at a prince….no, the Prince. There would be gowns and teachers now…. Much better teachers than those hired to make me suitable so far. There would be books, more than the dozen or so here at the house. The Menethil family was well bred and well read, I would need to be both to aspire to this. I needed to be able to hold my own against the best that Lordaeron offered, against an unseen young woman counted good enough to go to Dalaran while I basked in exile in Brill. I let some of the grin free, meeting my father's eyes.

"Aye, little one." He breathed. "It will be expensive."

The grin died on the vine as I watched him. Money… such a harsh reality… but he did seem as put off by the prospect as I was expecting. "Well spent." I murmured. Even if I failed to fish up Arthas Menethil, such training would put me on a level with those young ladies of nobility raised in Lordaeron's court. I was his only, my entire future rested in the marriage I would make. It was only right he spend the same money on me that he would have on a boy heir who had never materialized.

"I do not understand." My mother groused as the tailor scrutinized me as I stood in the golden light of Brill's noontime. "You have gowns plenty."

The tailor only squinted, ignoring her and picking up the heavy plait of my hair. It hung in his hand, and he turned it to the light, then stared into my eyes, before nodding briskly. He left, returning with heavy bolts of fabric fresh from Lordaeron, rolling them out before me.

"No." My mother disagreed. "None of those. They are not suitable. All the young ladies wear lighter colors. Paler colors. Not… those."

Those… deep, rich colors of amethyst, wine, and the darkening leaves of autumn. Those colors best with my shining chestnut hair and violet eyes… warm, unlike the frosty chill pastels favored by the young blonde ladies of court this season. Arthas's promised was said to be blonde, and I grimaced. "No." I stated, touching my fingers to one of the bolts. "This… will do nicely." To stand out from the herd, I could not follow fashion. I must set it. The tailor's gaze met mine and he smiled conspiratorially, his hands moving of their own volition as he chose bolts seemingly at random. I gazed at his choices, and nodded agreeably. Seemed random, was hardly so. It would have taken me half an hour or more to settle on them, and he shuffled them out like cards.

"Clarimonde." My mother hissed, and I finally graced her with my gaze.

"Yes, my mother?" I asked.

"Your dance master is to be here in an hour." She grated out the words. "And after, you are to choose a horse and begin riding lessons. Then a music instructor. Do you believe money falls from the sky?"

"Father chooses to spend his own money." If I was a boy, I would have had tutors, riding instructors, arms instructors. Harnesses of armor, and a fine blade. It might be coming late, but it was still coming to me, and I was in no mood to hear my mother complain about it. I deserved this.

So I learned how to dance, and I was good at it. And ride, and yes, I was good at that too. Sing, and play an instrument… and still, I was good at it. Card, dice, and games of strategy…those I was not just good at. I excelled. Gowns came, in warm tones, not as many as I'd been expecting and my mother had feared, but the reason for that came quickly enough. For I was to have that harness of armor and fine blade as well, a lethal length of shining sword that sang in my hand when I cautiously lifted it.

My father stared at me as I admired it, pensive and dark as he'd been lately. He was falling from the King's favor, a move from him that endangered this entire venture. What he had done, I was not certain, but he spent less and less time at the Capital City, and more and more time at home. This was a not a welcome turn of events for any at the estate, and I yearned to be away. "We travel to Stratholme tomorrow." He finally stated. "You will not be returning with me, so pack all, Clarimonde."

My mother looked scandalized, her mouth half open as she tried to form a response, any response, to those words. "Aaron!" She wailed, but he ignored her, his eyes on me. I nodded. Yes, it was time to start this.