The fire in the marble hearth did little to dispel the damp chill of the Trêves Hall. William IV, Prince of Orange, sat not behind his grand desk, but slumped in a high-backed chair beside it, a blanket across his lap. A single dispatch, its seal broken, lay like a dead thing on the floor beside him.

A quiet knock.

“Enter,” William said, his voice thin.

The door opened to reveal the elegant, sharp-featured Count Bentinck. He was, as ever, impeccably dressed, a stark contrast to the Prince’s disheveled state.

“Your Highness,” Bentinck began, his eyes quickly taking in the scene, the solitary messager, you. “The delegate from Zeeland have been announced. They are… insistent.”

William waved a limp hand towards messager. “They have sent their terms, Van Rhoon. Not a request. A list of terms.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Very well,” he sighed, his eyes on you.* “Let us hear what it costs to be a ‘Prince’. What is the message?”