The war for love is over. The Fairy Kingdom has lost.

The King of the Dark Forest has outlawed love throughout all his lands—lands which now include the former Fairy Kingdom.

So it is understood implicitly that the marriage which has been arranged between the King of the Dark Forest and Princess Marianne, the eldest daughter of the deposed Fairy King, is to be political in nature only.

Princess Marianne is not best pleased.

"But I thought you hated love," Princess Dawn says, when the Princess Marianne has stopped swearing and throwing things.

"That! Is completely beside the point!" Princess Marianne says, eyes blazing with fury. "That doesn't mean that I want to be forced to marry this—this—"

"Maybe you'll get along," Dawn says, optimism undimmed in the face of her sister's rage, "since the King of the Dark Forest hates love, too."

Princess Marianne resumes swearing and throwing things and Princess Dawn wisely retreats from her sister's chambers.

When Marianne has run out of breath, curses, and things to throw, she flops down on her rose petal bed and glares at the gossamer canopy over her head.

(it could be worse, a small, practical voice at the back of her mind points out. it could be Roland.)

Marianne's scowl deepens.

She refuses to look on the bright side. She doesn't know the King of the Dark Forest. He might turn out to be just as awful as the unfaithful former swain that Marianne left at the altar last spring.

Marianne turns over onto her stomach and considers her options.

She could run away. Pack her sword and slip out from the palace into the forest and—

—leave Dawn behind to marry the King of the Dark Forest in her place; no, she can't do that.

All right, so she'll take Dawn with her. Dawn, who—

—is liable to walk into the mouth of a lizard without noticing while she's thinking of some new swain; no, bringing Dawn will never work.

She can beg her father to make one last stand against the King of the Dark Forest. If, by some chance miracle, she manages to convince him, they can wall themselves in the palace and—

—starve to death, most likely. The King of the Dark Forest arrives in two days time; that's nowhere near long enough to prepare properly for a siege.

All right. Well. She can—

—pretend to be complacent about the marriage, and then stab the King on their wedding night.

Hmm, she likes this plan. She'll just—

—have to nod and smile and pretend to be sweet-tempered and there is no way Marianne can manage to be that convincing; she's bound to slip up.

So.

What is she left with?

Marianne rolls over onto her back again, frowning thoughtfully.

She is to be Queen of the united courts of the fae. Not consort. The King's mother, who he sent as a messenger to relay the news of the betrothal, was very clear on that point.

A Queen will have power. The ability to gather supporters from both courts.

Supporters enough, perhaps, to lead a successful coup against her unfortunate husband in a year's time or so.

Marianne rises slowly from the bed and tugs the bellrope to summon her pixies in waiting..

The three of them flutter into the room very adroitly; she suspects Dawn of having set them to wait outside of Marianne's chambers.

"You have doubtless had conversation with the Dowager Queen's ladies," Marianne says, standing at her window and looking out.

Her pixies give nervous, tinkling laughs.

"This doesn't displease me," says Marianne. "I think it might be useful. What do the ladies of the Dowager Queen have to say about my bridegroom to be? I know almost nothing about him," she continues, "save that he has an hatred for love. Tell me, is there anything he likes?"

"They do say he is a skilled fighter, my lady," offers Rosa hesitantly.

Marianne taps her fingers on the window sill.

"And what is his majesty's chosen weapon?" she asks.

"Staff."

"Hmm," says Marianne, thinking of the edge on her own sword. "And what else?"

Her pixies are silent for such a long moment that Marianne turns, eyebrows upraised.

"Surely he must like something besides fighting," she says.

"His majesty is—more noted for his prejudices than his pleasures," says Verda, with an apologetic expression.

"Oh?" Marianne says. "Does he hate more than just love?"

"They do say he dislikes singing," says Violet.

"Singing," says Marianne. "I see."

"And primroses!" adds Violet. "He has a terrible aversion to primroses; can't stand them!"

"Really," Marianne says, "Primroses. I'll have to remember that. Right. Get me the royal dressmaker, now, please. I need to plan my wedding gown."

As her pixie attendants flutter from the room, Marianne smiles grimly to herself.

She cannot stop this marriage from taking place. But she can make this King regret it.

Bog does not see his bride to be until the wedding itself; he has no taste for princesses, no inclination to make polite small talk. He'll be spending time enough with the lady when she is his wife; he has no wish to spend any with her beforehand.

So he is entirely unprepared for the Princess Marianne.

(Later, he will wonder if anyone could ever be prepared for Marianne.)

She enters the grand hall to the ringing din of a fairy choir singing, her chin upraised, her eyes glittering dangerously, and Bog actually feels his jaw drop slightly.

He had thought to ease the discontent of the former Fairy Kingdom by wedding the daughter of their defeated king, had expected to find his bride subdued and resigned.

The Princess Marianne strides towards him with her spine straight, and she looks much more conqueror than conquered.

He's so struck by her that it takes him a long moment to even notice her gown.

It's the sweet, floral scent that drags his attention away from her first. He knows that smell, the sickly smell that sticks in the back of his throat, makes him want to gag reflexively.

She's wearing primroses.

Her entire gown is primroses and spidersilk, shot through with delicate gold embroidery, and the look on her face tells him that she knows exactly what she's doing.

When she reaches him, she turns to face him and her wings snap out, sudden and fierce, like a challenge.

The scent of primroses fills his nose through the entire wedding ceremony and Marianne's coronation.

She sits beside him at the wedding banquet and Bog can scarcely bring himself to eat for the scent of primroses. The choir sings throughout the whole meal, too. His temples throb.

"Does the music not please you, my lord?" Marianne says, managing to make the honorific sound like an insult.

He glares at her.

"No, it does not," he says through gritted teeth.

Marianne narrows her eyes at him like a satisfied cat watching the mouse it has trapped.

"How unfortunate," she says, "but then, very little pleases you, from what I hear."

He growls at her beneath his breath.

"A gallant man," Marianne says, still smirking, "would have told me 'I am very pleased in my choice of wife'."

"I am not," Bog says, "a gallant man. An' I think you have very little interest in pleasin' me. My lady."

"Then you should have told me that you are pleased with me," Marianne says, "it would have been the thing most likely to displease me."

"You're givin' me your own motives," says Bog, "I don' have a particular desire to displease you."

"If that's the case," says Marianne, "then you shouldn't have announced our engagement without consulting or even meeting me."

"Trust me, I wouldna have made the announcement if we had been acquainted."

Marianne smiles a sharp smile and stabs a berry with great viciousness, brings the fork to her mouth, and takes a bite.

"I'm surprised you went through wi' it, if the marriage displeased you so much," Bog says, watching her balefully. "You've got a reputation for leavin' would-be husbands at the altar, my lady."

Marianne skewers the next berry with even greater force.

"He was unfaithful to me," she says. "Since you do not hold with love, I trust I will not need to worry about such things with you, my lord."

Bog blinks.

He'd met Sir Roland, when the Fairy Court had officially surrendered, and while he had thought the man contemptible, Bog hadn't thought him quite so stupid.

He had been unfaithful? To this woman?

Bog no longer wonders at Marianne's leaving Sir Roland at the altar. He rather wonders that she hadn't eaten his heart while she was at it.

"You won't," Bog says, without thinking. "You won't to worry about that."

Marianne goes still, and for half a moment he thinks he saw something like uncertainty in her expression.

Then it's gone, and she's looking away from him, out at the rest of the banquet hall.

"I hear that you enjoy sparring," she says.

"…I do, yes," Bog says.

"So do I," says Marianne, "Sword, though. Not staff. Perhaps we'll spar together sometime."

"Aren't we already?" Bog says under his breath.

Marianne makes a sound like startled, smothered laughter and looks at him sidelong.

"I'd be glad to spar with you, my lady," Bog says, "though I do hope you don' intend to kill me."

Marianne makes that almost-laughter sound again.

"Oh, no," she says, baring her teeth at him in something that is almost a smile, "seriously maim you, at most."

Bog gives a snort of laughter.

(later, he'll look back and realize that this is when he started to fall in love with her.)

"I'm lookin' forward to it, tough girl," he says.

When he comes to her chambers that night, he brings his staff and her sword. The ensuing fight lasts more than an hour and ranges throughout the entire royal suite. They destroy two sets of curtains, seven decorative throw pillows, and a large sofa.

He never once suggests that he take her to bed.

(later, Marianne will look back and realize that this is when she started to fall in love with him.)