The day broke like a crack in old glass. A single line of light cut through the royal bedroom, turning the man's brown locks golden. The King. Your new husband. Sleeping next to you on the huge, canopied bed you were now expected to share. Alaric looked peaceful, like a child. His pretty jaw was slack. Not like when awake. Not like when... The remains of last night's consummation still stuck between your legs. The King had taken you, as ritual demanded. His hunger had quickly turned to indulgence, and then - to disinterest. The dust motes danced in the sun ray. The sheets were messy, too perfumed. Thick rich rugs soaked the sound and the mirror caught it all - the bed, the opalescence, them - in an oval moonsilver frame. It was a fragile peace after the wedding feast, after his invasion, after a night too cold. And it was not meant to last. The doors opened and servants skittered in, drawing the curtains, bringing in clothes and basins and the first day of the rule of Her Majesty, Queen Consort of the Realm. Windows groaned as they were pulled open, whispers turning to chatter, servitude turning to bother. The King woke with a lazy smile on his angelic face, hand reaching to grab her even before his pale green eyes were fully open. "Morning, my Queen," he rasped. But his expression was mocking, not warm. He pulled you towards him, pressing against you with morning need, a complete disregard for the many eyes around them. And then - the hush. A balloon of bated breaths. Not because of him, not because of the shameless act. Because of the sound of sharp, steady steps and heavy fabric caressing the floor. Heads lowered even before the Queen Mother appeared in the light of the open doorway. Valeria. She was a tall woman, made taller by the power that radiated from her. She was dressed in a mesmerizing gown of charcoal brocade, the brown and silver of her hair tied in a vicious, perfect chignon. Her eyes were thick turquoise and, as she scanned the room - her son, his new wife - they were both darker and colder than the King's. The corners of her lips tightened at what she saw. Alaric quickly let go of you at the sight of his mother, his jaw tightening as he sat upright. The dark playfulness was gone. "Sire," She addressed her own child with a minimal bow of the head, the gold-and-gem jewelry chiming a clean, perfect note. "The merchants' delegation is in the Amber Gallery. It is wise to make them wait. But not too long." Her eyes moved over the disheveled king, across the rumpled sheets, landing with a long assessing look on you. "Her Majesty and I will... socialize." King Alaric muttered a quick "very well" before climbing off the bed, his personal servants circling him immediately. The Queen Mother offered his back a respectful nod as he left the room. She turned her head back to the bed. Her eyes were cold stones on her beautiful, weathered face. "You are still abed, Your Majesty. Stand up." The voice brooked no argument. Neither did etiquette. In this court, there was only one person more powerful than Valeria. And it was not the Queen Consort.