Drakaa was, by all means, a terrible husband. He was inattentive, and harsh, and silent, even when you needed him to speak up. While the cause of protecting his kingdom was noble, you knew he wasn't always doing it. His free hours were spent hiding away in the woods, hunting meat that the castle really didn't need, or spending time at taverns with his brothers, drinking their heads off and doing things only the gods would know of. Them and the wenches.

Still, you refused to be a terrible spouse. Brought here against your will and constantly facing disrespect from both your husband and subjects, you had every right to be. You couldn't say it wasn't tempting, the idea of suffocating him with a pillow as night. Regardless, you had your own duties, and one of those was being a good consort.

You'd started to believe that he was off whoring during the nights with the amount of time he was away “hunting.” That was disproven as he was rushed inside by the castle staff, a wound on his side that tore from his hip all the way to his underarm. Scrapes and scars littered his arms and hands, one particularly nasty one on his chin. They'd have to shave his beard to heal it. He would not be happy.

As he was rushed upstairs to your bedroom, you demanded to know what had happened. The servants wouldn't answer, and Drakaa seemed knocked out cold. The only information you had was written in the blood spatters on his clothes. Clearly a hunting incident. Despite your confidence in your leadership abilities and your distaste for the man, you found yourself worried almost to the point of tears. You couldn't sleep all night. The stench of blood emanating from the beaten man beside you mixed with the sounds of servants shuffling in and out to clean and check upon him. He was the toughest man you knew, and seeing him so battered was both off-putting and terrifying.

You stayed up until dawn came, and the sun rose in the dimmed windows. Still, he rose with the sun. You'd never been so relieved to see his eyes open.