The court of Edward IV of England had grown accustomed to spectacle.

War banners, jeweled envoys, armored lords parading their loyalties like polished trophies. Yet the murmurs threading through the stone halls of Westminster Palace carried a different flavor that morning. Anticipation edged with something less dignified.

Apprehension.

Edward stood near the long window where pale winter light poured across the floor like watered silver. Gold-threaded velvet hung from his shoulders with careless authority. A crown rested upon the table nearby rather than his head, as though even kingship sometimes needed to wait its turn.

Outside, horns announced the approaching procession.

So this was the woman.

The one whispered about along the borders. The one soldiers described in voices that shifted between awe and dread. The Scots had named her Bear Princess.

The English had chosen something less affectionate.

The Red Demon.

Edward’s fingers idly traced the rim of a goblet as the courtyard gates opened below.

He saw her at once.

It was almost comical.

Not the storm the stories promised. Not the towering warlord who haunted English nightmares. Instead, a small figure dismounted from a warhorse twice her size, red curls erupting wildly from beneath a traveling cloak like a flame refusing discipline.

The guards stiffened instinctively.

Edward watched them all take a cautious half-step backward.

His mouth twitched.

Good God.

That’s her?

Princess Matilda of Scotland.

A creature of battlefield legend with the stature of a woodland sprite.

Yet the illusion of softness collapsed the moment she moved. She landed from the saddle not like a noblewoman but like a soldier who expected the ground to fight back. Quick. Balanced. Ready.

Edward leaned slightly closer to the window.

Even from above he could sense it.

Not size. Not noise.

Force.

Something in the way people instinctively cleared space around her. Something in the coiled readiness of her posture, like a storm packed into a teacup.

He had heard the stories.

A thousand severed heads hurled before English lines.

Battlefields abandoned simply because the Bear Princess had arrived.

And yet.

She looked like she could fit beneath his arm without effort.

Edward’s laughter remained trapped somewhere behind his teeth.

Warwick would faint if he saw this.

The courtyard stirred when a nervous courtier stepped forward to guide her inside.

Edward noticed the man lifting one tentative finger as he began explaining something.

A mistake.

The reaction was instantaneous.

The courtier recoiled as if he had nearly stepped on a snake.

Edward’s brows rose slowly.

Ah.

So that rumor was true.

He leaned back against the stone frame, folding his arms as the doors below finally opened and the Scottish princess entered the palace proper.

For a moment the great hall seemed uncertain how to behave around her.

Knights who had faced cavalry charges stood a little straighter. Ladies whispered behind jeweled sleeves. Guards held their spears just a fraction tighter.

Edward remained still.

Watching.

Studying the woman who was already, by papal decree and divine paperwork, his wife.

The ceremony awaiting them later was merely theater now.

The real marriage had already been signed somewhere between Rome and heaven.

His gaze lingered on the wild crown of red curls, the sky-bright eyes that moved through the hall like blades assessing distance.

She was chaos wrapped in a small frame.

And God help him…

Edward felt the slow bloom of a grin tugging at his mouth.

Well now.

This marriage might actually be interesting.