A/N: Yes, another flashback chapter. Yeah, these will happen occasionally, but at least I do my best to space them out!

The Chosen One's engagement and subsequent marriage was not organised by his mother or father, as one might have expected. No, since Vlad had run away from his home at the age of 14, control of him did not fall to his father, but rather to his grandparents. It made sense, they were prominent members of the Vampire High Council, and had been on first name terms with the previous Grand High Vampire. A fine old family, and one dedicated to upholding the standards of vampirisim that seemed to be falling with every half fang that gained a half century. It had been felt, among those in the correct social circles, that the Chosen One was running too wild, that he needed to be reigned in, settled down. Hadn't even his blood thirsty father, the slayer of millions, calmed down on his … arrangement with Magda Westernra?

So, it was decided, with Krone making the usual decisions on the behalf of her dear daughter; who was currently in Italy and couldn't possible be disturbed for something as trivial as her eldest son's imminent marriage. The message was sent along to his personal assistant at the office. If it would please His Grandness, the note read, his grandparents do beg his company re: his engagement. Vlad had read the note, and the language that issued forth from the youngest Grand High Vampire to ever sit in the office turned the air blue. "Sire," his assistant had nervously said, hiding behind a clipboard as though it would protect him, "you are yet to turn 18. Your grandparents may still organize such a betrothal." The assistant was promptly fired.

On the evening of the meeting, in the arranged placed, Vlad was late. Krone paced up and down in the meeting room, looking towards the fine clock that stood in the corner, muttering to herself as she did. Attila sat in his chair, fingers drumming on the side. "Băiatul e prea mult ca tatăl său," he told his wife of many years, irritation clear in his tone. Krone did not roll her eyes, but instead turned to her husband with a fury that only Westernra women were said to be able to manage.

"Well, of course he's too much like his father!" She spat. "We should have taken him from Dracu-loser on his 13th birthday," Krone said, scolding herself in the action. "Then he might have grown up properly, not run away to become a soldier in some silly war." The disdain in her tone was so very clear, and Attila nodded his head in agreement.

"Dar toate băieți lungi pentru o lupta buna, dragi soția," he said. "Cine suntem noi să-l nege sângele pofta?"

"The only people willing to show him the discipline that he has clearly been lacking!" Krone snapped back. Her husband tendency towards looking on war with that fond memory of violence was doing nothing for her nerves in this situation. Of all the days for her eldest grandson to be late, he had to chose the day in which he was being presented to his fiancée. Honestly. He had no sense of propriety, she would need to beat it into him before his 18th birthday.

A roar of an engine outside drew her attention, and she did not rush, but proceeded with haste towards the door, opening it. Her grandson sat outside on one of those modern breather contraptions – a motorbike she believed they were called. He was not dressed respectfully at all; looking more like a common feral street fang in his jeans, leather jacket, and scuffed boots. "Vladimir! Come here boy, into the shadow!" she instructed. "Come where you grandmother may appraise you better." Rolling his eyes, Vlad swung himself off the motorbike, stuffing the keys into his pocket and stepping forward. She cast a critical eye over him, and let out an annoyed tut. "You show no respect for your family!"

"Really?" Vlad gave a scoff. "When it comes to you, Krone, I've not got much in the first place." There was a hardness in the tone. He shoved his hands into his Jean pockets, glaring at his grandmother. "So, can we get this over and done with already? I've got to deal with refugees from the war in Budapest coming in, and there isn't enough blood in the bank to deal with those who suffered ritual de-fanging." Vlad's tone was always business-like now, but no one ever seen to listen to his words. Krone bit back an irritated sigh, leading him into the room. She managed – through great strength of will – to get him looking somewhat presentable.

"Nepot," Attila said. Vlad did not comment on how his grandfather's insistence on only speaking Romanian was as irritating as fuck, much as he wanted to. And Krone thought he had no respect whatsoever. Clearly, she was mistaken. "Permiteți-mi să prezinte Adze princess," Attila waved a hand to the side, as the door opened once more. Vlad was pulled to his feet, Krone batting at his shoulders in an attempt to remove invisible dust. Lead by her father, Ramanga, the Princess Adze stepped through the door, lowering the hood on her cloak, and stepping forward to meet Vlad.

The two looked at each other.

"Well, I'm clearly hitting above my weight," Vlad commented. There were mutters, and he rolled his eyes. Adze, for her part, gave him a look, smirking at his words. A delicate eyebrow rose, and her smirk was knowing. Vlad smirked in return, leaning forward and dropping a kiss on her hand. "A pleasure, Princess."

"Entirely yours, your Grandness," Adze replied. There was silence from the elder vampires in the room, though both Adze and Vlad could feel their anger. This wasn't how a betrothal meeting was meant to go. Vlad nodded outside.

"Seen the bike?"

"Yes," Adze replied. "Yours?"

"Mine," Vlad answered. "Fancy a ride?" Adze's answer came in a long, slow, smirk. Vlad grinned. "Girl after my own blood."