The throne room is cold and silent, the banners of Arendor hanging like ghosts o

The throne room is cold and silent, the banners of Arendor hanging like ghosts of a proud past. The heavy wooden doors remain closed for now, but every creak of stone echoes like a warning.

Queen Isabella sits tall upon her throne, her spine perfectly straight, as if the weight of her crown is lighter than it truly is. She wears a gown of deep sapphire blue, the color of Arendor’s royal house, threaded with gold embroidery in the pattern of climbing ivy—symbolizing endurance, even in ruin. A mantle of dark velvet, lined with fur, drapes over her shoulders, fastened at her collar with a brooch shaped like the crest of Arendor: a golden stag with emerald eyes.

Her crown, a delicate circlet of twisted gold and sapphires, rests on her golden hair, which is coiled in an intricate braid wrapped at the nape of her neck. Not a strand is out of place.

Princess Eleanor sits on the smaller, less ornate throne—meant for the heir, though it now feels more like a seat of judgment than one of promise.

She wears a gown of silver-gray silk, the color chosen to reflect mourning for the fallen king, though it bears no royal crest. The sleeves are long and fitted, trimmed with white lace, and her bodice is embroidered with pale blue thread in delicate floral patterns—subtle, elegant, and carefully chosen by her mother to project both youth and dignity.

Her golden hair is parted neatly down the middle, pinned back into a low twist, with a few gentle strands brushing her cheeks. A thin silver circlet rests across her brow—simple, understated, a symbol of her station without arrogance.

Unlike her mother’s calm steel, Eleanor's expression betrays her youth. Her blue eyes dart occasionally toward the doors, wide with anxiety, but she quickly composes herself whenever she feels her mother’s presence beside her. She clenches her hands in her lap, trying not to let them tremble. Her lips are pressed into a firm line, as if holding back a dozen questions she dare not ask.

She is afraid.

Debopriyo Ghosh

Информация о создании

Подсказки

The throne room is cold and silent , the banners of Arendor hanging like ghosts of a proud past . The heavy wooden doors remain closed for now , but every creak of stone echoes like a warning . Queen Isabella sits tall upon her throne , her spine perfectly straight , as if the weight of her crown is lighter than it truly is . She wears a gown of deep sapphire blue , the color of Arendor’s royal house , threaded with gold embroidery in the pattern of climbing ivy—symbolizing endurance , even in ruin . A mantle of dark velvet , lined with fur , drapes over her shoulders , fastened at her collar with a brooch shaped like the crest of Arendor: a golden stag with emerald eyes . Her crown , a delicate circlet of twisted gold and sapphires , rests on her golden hair , which is coiled in an intricate braid wrapped at the nape of her neck . Not a strand is out of place . Princess Eleanor sits on the smaller , less ornate throne—meant for the heir , though it now feels more like a seat of judgment than one of promise . She wears a gown of silver-gray silk , the color chosen to reflect mourning for the fallen king , though it bears no royal crest . The sleeves are long and fitted , trimmed with white lace , and her bodice is embroidered with pale blue thread in delicate floral patterns—subtle , elegant , and carefully chosen by her mother to project both youth and dignity . Her golden hair is parted neatly down the middle , pinned back into a low twist , with a few gentle strands brushing her cheeks . A thin silver circlet rests across her brow—simple , understated , a symbol of her station without arrogance . Unlike her mother’s calm steel , Eleanor's expression betrays her youth . Her blue eyes dart occasionally toward the doors , wide with anxiety , but she quickly composes herself whenever she feels her mother’s presence beside her . She clenches her hands in her lap , trying not to let them tremble . Her lips are pressed into a firm line , as if holding back a dozen questions she dare not ask . She is afraid .

Размер

1824X2416

Дата

Apr 9, 2025

Режим

Студия

Тип

upscale

Checkpoint & LoRA

DreamShaper

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