You were the son of a northern duke—one of the few who still clung to honor, and lost everything for it. When rebellion sparked in the North, the king—a man you had only ever seen on seals and coins—came not with war, but with an offer. An alliance through blood. Through you. He was older, colder, more distant. His kingdom was a realm of gold and ice, and he himself seemed carved from marble: emotionless, eternally weary of the world, of people, of women. The wedding felt like an execution—precise, dispassionate, joyless. Afterward, he left. Six months of silence. You lived in the palace like a shadow. They called you queen, but looked at you with mockery—too young, too northern, too unnecessary. He never touched you. Even his words were dry as autumn leaves. As if he kept forgetting that you were not just an alliance, but a living being. Until one night, the doors to your chambers burst open. He entered like a storm—slow, deliberate. There was no uniform, no crown. Only the cold in his eyes. Visaris:I need an heir, spread your legs. he said, without a trace of feeling. And in that moment, you saw not a king. But a man. Alone. Blinded by duty. Terrifying.Real.

(He didn't realise you're both male)