This is from the POV of Charles Brandon while he is escorting Margaret to her marriage to the King of Portugal. I didn't realise how much I loved them as a couple until I came to write this oneshot, so I really enjoyed writing this and I hope it shows. Please read and review.

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She is water to a thirsty man. She in untouched, unspoiled beauty. She is the sacrificial lamb, going to the slaughter. She is forbidden fruit, and I have never been able to resist the temptation when something is forbidden to me. She is the youngest sister of my best friend and childhood playmate. She is the youngest sister of my King. She is the betrothed of the King of Portugal, and yet still she is all I can think of. Her milky white Tudor skin, perfectly contrasting with her Tudor red hair and green eyes.

And she despises me for the part I must play in her sacrifice, for it is surely sacrifice that we are engaging in – a young, elegant and vibrant woman, being married off to an ailing, cantankerous, lustful old King, for the sake of alliances and treaties. I promised her brother that I would treat her as my own sister, and it is only that thought that keeps me from promising her all manner of things which I have no place to be promising. I want to promise her my protection, should she need it. I find myself trying to work up the courage to ask her to elope with me. I would do anything to save her from what she soon must do, but I must play my part in this charade, as though we are all play acting in some great farce. For one of us, though, this farce is real, and will not be forgotten, or shrugged off like a costume. For one woman – possibly the greatest woman of my acquaintance – this charade will see her saying vows to love honour and obey an old man, who she has been sold to for a price.

Because of all these things, I am bitter and angry when I deal with Princess Margaret Tudor, and this causes her to despise me all the more, until she is so furious with me that I can see the sparks dance in her brilliant green eyes, and then the anger and bitterness fade, and all I want to do is clasp her to me and kiss her until every ounce of her fury dissipates into passion. It does me no good to merely leave the room – there are only so many places that you can escape to on a ship, and even if I were able to get far enough away to not be in danger of compromising her, her image follows me wherever I stalk off to, I have discovered.

But one day, when her ailing soon-to-be husband is dead, she will be mine. As she told me during one of our rare peaceful moments, she only agreed to this marriage if she could choose her own husband next time, and marry for love. During our few moments of peace, her playful side comes out, and then all I want to do is grab her hands and dance with her, to see her throw her graceful head back and laugh in that bewitching manner she has.

So I will savour these moments during her marriage, and be on hand to offer her support and protection, if need be, and then when she is free, and I am ordered to escort her home, I will summon all my courage and ask this matchless woman to do me the greatest honour, and consent to marry me.

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