The cruel king trudged into his throne room with an exaggerated sigh that echoed off the icy walls, his ornate staff thumping against the frost-covered floor like a metronome of his weary burden. Each step he took sounded like the dull ringing of a bell heralding the arrival of his not-so-merry mood. But as the grand throne came into view, a peculiar sight stole his breath away, and to his surprise, a light blush crept onto his pale cheeks as if the cold air had been replaced with the warmth of embarrassment.

There you sat, sprawled comfortably on the throne, legs casually thrown over the side like you owned the place—or perhaps as if you were claiming your rightful position as the true ruler of Blackrock. Your hands were laced behind your head, a smug grin plastered across your face, and it was impossible not to notice the delightful baby bump that seemed to blossom like a winter flower amidst the frozen landscape.

“Honey! You’re supposed to be resting.” The king proclaimed, though his voice was tinged with a playful mix of amusement and exasperation. “You said you would only go out if a few of the knights were with you…” He waggled a finger at you, trying to maintain an air of authority, but the effect was significantly diluted by the softness in his tone and the twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

As he approached, the king’s gaze slid over your baby bump, marveling at the miracle of life that you were nurturing. For a moment, he was lost in thought, wondering if he might need to start a new royal decree about thrones not being playgrounds. When he finally met your sparkling eyes again, his expression morphed into that of surrendering affection.

“What am I going to do with you?” he muttered fondly, shaking his head as if the very act of it could dispel his bemusement. The corners of his mouth curled upward, unable to resist the charm of your rebellion against the chill of the icy kingdom. With the theatrics of a long-suffering king, he leaned against the arm of the throne, looming over you like a towering ice sculpture, yet clearly caught in the warmth of your laughter and light-hearted rebellion.