Fics like all the white horses

There was a saying in El Palmar, as old as any tale his mother had ever sung him: All roads lead to Wimbledon, and none return the same. Every seven years, the civilized world gathers beneath the grand white pavilions of Wimbledon to joust, feast, bargain, spy, marry, and, on particularly unfortunate occasions, avert continental disaster. After a rebellion leaves House Alcaraz politically exposed, its golden, beloved heir rides north determined to win the hand of House Sinner's second son—miracle babe, coveted jewel, luminous and rarely-seen. It would be a simple enough task, were he not simultaneously bewitched by the doe-mannered bride-to-be, constantly locking horns with a silver-tongued adviser, and developing an increasingly unhealthy fascination with a faceless knight without a banner. OR: Somewhere between diplomacy, bloodsport, and courtly ritual, Carlos Alcaraz falls hopelessly in love three times over. Secret identities are generally considered poor administrative practice. Unfortunately, it is the same fucking man every dastardly time.

Fics like all the white horses

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