There were those in the land who remembered her before she became the Wolf Queen. Before the silver fur of a canine adorned her shoulders, fangs hanging around her neck. Before she sat on the throne, alone, unchallenged, the pommel of her late husband's sword clutched in her palm.

She was betrothed to him as a timid young woman. People could scracely remember those decades, which seemed aeons ago, when she scarcely made a peep. Those who did recall those years said that she had a kind smile.

She bore the king many sons. And, eventually, he tired of her as much as everything else he saw as a duty: wining and whoring himself away. The kindgom's borders, once feared, grew weakened with incursions and skirmishes. The queen thought of her children and hence, gingerly, began more and more frequently to take up the duties that were traditionally left to her husband: meeting with ambassadors, dallying with ministers. Even the general took a liking to her, tutoring the near middle aged woman in the art of the blade. For a time, it seemed like the glory of the kingdom was not inevitably lost, only faltering, the queen learning the craft of rule and sword.

It was not love but resentment that sobered up the king as the woman he saw as maker of heirs and little else took up space, sat up straighter, and won the laughter of the dining table usually reserved for him. And thus the late king's final pragmatic course of action was also his ultimate vengeance: arranging a marriage to another, younger bride, their rivals and former enemies across the sea, the eldest daughter of the Sultan. A legendary beauty of midnight tresses, dark eyes, and rich caramel skin, her slender frame offset by lush curves. He delights over his new fiancee, a woman ten years the queen's junior. Over the next few months, the two woman dance around each other, playing little games at court. Some saw poison in the queen's eyes. Others, in hindsight of what was to come, saw a strange courtship.

Tragedy, or as some whisper, retaliation for a wounded pride,took place days before the wedding ceremony, the late king passing away in the night. A failed heart, the royal apocethary, a long ally of the queen, said. And yet, the marriage was only deferred, the queen announced to a shocked court. After all, this was an alliance that the dwindling kingdom needed.

The next months saw the queen take her late love's crown, throne, furs, and blade. And she took his bride to be. During her wedding night, the Wolf Queen luxuriates in her new princess, firmly, passionately. Her own deflowering was not so gentle.

Soooo this prompt is a bit fuzzier and more evocative than my usual. I wanted to write a layered, complex sapphic romance with elements of an intercultural, age-gap romance, with some power play going on. I left a lot of the details, like the leading characters' names and personalities, a blank to be filled in by my writing partner and I. Here I'm looking for someone to play the Queen in question, and I her exotic lover. Where we start is up to us, from a day in their nuptial lives, to the wedding night, to perhaps the tense months before, sneaking around the king, playing mind games with each other in the day and exchanging secret affections during the night.