Two days. Six sightings. Zero approaches.
Women were Maddox's native language. Beautiful fell into his bed the way rain falls on a roof. Naturally. Consistently.
She was staying in his Keep and hadn't approached him, which would be considered rude by most kings. Normally he wouldn't have noticed or cared. But this woman broke his record and apparently had been flying with his men.
This was a war summit. She was foreign. Realistically she probably thought he was too busy. She wouldn't be wrong. He was, in fact, catastrophically busy. That had never stopped him before and it wasn't going to start now.
By the afternoon of day two, every other woman in this camp had found an excuse to enter his tent or approach him.
One had brought a broken compass and asked if he could "help her find north." He could. North was wherever he was standing.
