There came a day when King Khosrow Parviz yearned for the hunting grounds and resolved to array a hunt of unprecedented magnificence, matching the royal traditions of the ancient monarchs of Iran. Three hundred noble steeds with golden bridles were brought forth for the renowned king, while eleven hundred and sixty spear-bearing footmen, clad in silk brocade over their mail, marched alongside. A thousand and forty men held swords and staves to clear the way, followed by five hundred falconers bearing trained falcons, hawks, and royal eagles. Three hundred champion horsemen rode behind the falconers and cheetah-keepers, leading seventy lions and leopards tethered in golden chains and wrapped in Chinese brocade, their mouths sewn with golden threads. A hundred greyhounds with golden collars, capable of catching swift gazelles on the plain, bounded in the procession.
Behind them came two thousand musicians mounted on camels adorned with golden crowns, their harps and instruments prepared to fill the hunting fields with song. Five hundred camels carried the royal tents, pavilions, thrones, and banquet halls, while three hundred young princes of royal blood rode beside their monarch, wearing armlets, torques, and jewel-encrusted golden belts. Two hundred young attendants held burning censers of agarwood and ambergris, filling the air with fragrance, while another two hundred carried bouquets of narcissus and saffron. A hundred water-bearers sprinkled musk-scented water along the path so that no cloud of dust might touch the blessed sovereign.
When news reached Shirin that the King’s brilliant cortege was passing by the palace, her heart swelled with the memories of past days. She clad herself in a musk-scented yellow robe, brightened her cheeks like pomegranate blossoms, wrapped herself in a crimson Roman silk cloak embroidered with gold and jewels, and placed a royal Pahlavi crown upon her head. She ascended to the roof of Khosrow's grand palace—she who had known no joy in the spring of her youth—and waited until the King drew near. When her eyes fell upon Parviz, tears gushed from her lashes down her cheeks. Standing tall, she spoke in sweet, mournful accents, invoking their ancient love: 'O mighty lion and brave commander! Where is all that deep love and those bloody tears, when beholding Shirin was your only cure? Where are those long nights spent in longing, when your eyes wept yet your lips smiled? Where are all our sacred covenants, our solemn vows and pledges?' Tears of sorrow drenched her azure garments.
At the sight of her, Khosrow's heart melted; tears filled his eyes, and his complexion turned pale as the setting sun. He dispatched forty noble Roman eunuchs with a golden-bridled steed to escort Shirin to the golden harem and jewel-adorned chambers. The King then rode forth into the wild plains, surrendering to the joys of the hunt, wine, and music. Having taken his fill of sport across mountain and plain, he returned triumphantly toward the city. The people decorated the streets and walls; the blast of trumpets and the strain of songs filled the air. Khosrow returned to his high palace in full majesty.
Shirin stepped forth from the harem, kissed the King's feet and chest, and bowed down before him. Khosrow turned to the High Mobad, requesting that no ill thoughts be harbored, and commanded that this fair lady be given to him in wedlock. Thus, according to the ancient rites and sacred customs of the monarchs of old, Shirin was united with Khosrow Parviz in royal marriage, bringing joyous tidings to the world.