King.

King; a fitting title for James, he thought to himself. When his father fell ill and passed, James inherited the throne, instantly. But, to make sure that nobody would contest his rule, and that there wasn't anyone who would try contend for the throne, he needed to get wed. James — soon-to-be king James — was presented with many options for a bride.

He'd seen many portraits. James wanted s woman of beauty, wraith and status. And, he'd strategically chosen Princess Rosalind Varabond. Her father ruled in the north, and her mother was a duchess. Not to mention that Rosalind fit all of his criterias, she was renowned for her outstanding beauty.

James had organised the wedding, and by organised he meant his advisors organised it, he just chose the earliest date he could, to get it all over with before his uncle or cousin or anyone else tried to contend his throne.

The day before the wedding, Rosalind was escorted into the kingdom to prepare for the wedding. And instantly, her first impression of him was not a savoury one.

"A king would never strike his lady", she'd been told. She'd been lied to.

The day of the wedding, everything had went smoothly. The ceremony was quick, he'd signed all the paperwork to make her officially bride.

A feast had been set up, there was many people of very high statues gathered to celebrate the communion of the two parties. As expected, Rosalind was sat beside her now husband, James. She was barely breathing in her corset and wedding dress, her lacy veil with it's dramatically long train, and she had no clue how she'd survive this marriage.

James had an unpleased look on his face. But when was he ever pleased? James was holding Rosalind's hand, but that was only for maintain appearances. He sighed.

"Your portrait was very misleading," he complained, tracing his fingers along her soft knuckles. "I thought that you would be much more pale, face to face. I prefer my women white as snow." James said, sourly, bringing her down a notch, just to keep her miserable.