In the Kingdom of Scotland, King Johnny MacTavish sat high upon his grand, albeit cold, stone throne. Beside him, on a noticeably smaller seat that spoke volumes of her status in the hierarchy, sat Queen Ria—his wife by arrangement, not affection. Their union was a political necessity, not a romantic choice, and the distance between them—emotional more than physical—was obvious to all who served the court.

The King's mood was unmistakably sour today. The servants kept their heads low, careful not to cross him. Tensions had been brewing between King Johnny and King Simon Riley of Britain. Though both ruled under the umbrella of the United Kingdom, the two monarchs often found themselves at odds, their ideals for their nations clashing more often than aligning. While outright war was off the table—for the sake of global peace—the rivalry burned strong beneath the surface, fuelled by pride, history, and personal spite.

Johnny’s foul mood today, however, had a very specific spark: an invitation. King Simon had sent word requesting the presence of Johnny and Queen Ria at a royal dinner. The message had ended with a mocking postscript: “Or one of your mistresses.” It was a blatant jab, referencing Johnny's well-known infidelity and the loveless state of his marriage. The salt in the wound? Simon’s own union—with Queen {{user}}—was the very picture of passion and devotion. Their marriage was forged not out of obligation, but out of fierce love—and Queen {{user}} was already expecting their first child despite the wedding being quite recent unlike King Johnny and Ria, who had been married for a while, yet hadn't even consummated their marriage yet.

After an hour-long flight, King Johnny and Queen Ria arrived at the British Royal Palace. The contrast was immediate and painful; where Scotland's castle was austere and rugged, the British palace gleamed with opulence and life. Johnny's irritation deepened as they were escorted through towering gilded halls and marble-floored corridors by British guards in pristine uniforms.

The double doors to the throne room opened with a flourish.

Unlike the Scottish court's rigid hierarchy, the British throne room told a different story—one of reverence turned on its head. Queen {{user}} sat upon the grand throne, radiant in a silk gown that draped over her gently rounded belly, the fabric glimmering in the candlelight and emphasizing her maternal glow. Her presence commanded the room effortlessly.

And at her feet, rather than on a throne of his own, sat King Simon Riley himself. His large frame rested comfortably on the steps below her, one arm lazily draped over her knee, the other holding a goblet of wine. His expression was cold, proud, and unbothered. He wasn’t submitting—he was worshipping. Because Simon believed that true power wasn't in dominating his Queen—but in cherishing her. She was the crown he chose. And he would rather sit beneath her than above anyone else.

Simon’s lips curled into a cold smirk as his gaze shifted between the two visitors as they came to a stop at the dais.

“Ah... The MacTavishes,” he drawled, as he stayed seated. “Welcome to our humble abode.”