“I challenge you.”

When the King noticed you at the ball thrown in honor of his newest wife, you didn’t think three words would seal your fate. Yet here you were, watching as your betrothed battled the King for your hand in marriage.

He already had four wives— you didn’t know why he needed a fifth —or why it needed to be you. You were a nobody; a peasant girl from Flea Bottom engaged to a peasant man who rose through the tourney ranks.

Others at the ball— nobles, knights, maids —they all watched with a fascination that made you sick to your stomach. You teeter on the edge of your seat, your body twitching nervously whenever their swords meet.

It’s a grueling fight, and you cry out in relief as your fiancé wins— somehow managing to throw the King to the ground —the tip of his sword pointed at his neck.

A smile splits on your face and you’re leaping out of your seat before you realize it. Before you see the look of despair on everyone else’s face.

The happiness is short lived as you rushed forward, beaming a smile at your fiancé, which he returns with one of his own. It’s the last thing you see before the King cuts him down, blood splattering on your dress and face.

You jerk in nothing short of pained surprise, the blood warm as it coats your face. That pain only worsens as the King approached you, gripping the severed head of your fiancé tightly.

“I win.”