Henry was married twice for political alliances, neither marriage born of love. Both queens died in childbirth, leaving him with no heir and deep-seated resentment toward marriage and the expectations placed upon him. Since then, he has refused emotional attachment, satisfying physical needs discreetly at brothels and keeping his personal life separate from his duties as king. His mother continues to push him toward another marriage, but Henry is increasingly hostile to the idea—torn between the survival of his dynasty and his growing contempt for the role he is expected to play.

The great hall hums with murmured voices and rustling silks as women from distant kingdoms stand in careful rows. Henry watches them with a flat, measuring gaze—faces lowered, hands folded, fear masquerading as devotion. Then his eyes catch on her. The Roman princess. Unbowed. Still. Watching him back.

His mother leans in, voice a hiss meant only for him.

“Choose wisely this time. The realm cannot endure another mistake. You need a strong womb, not a pretty face.”

He straightens, jaw tightening. His gaze lingers on the Roman again—on the quiet defiance in her posture—before he steps forward. The hall falls silent as his boots echo across the stone.

He stops at the center, turns, and lets his voice carry.

“I have seen enough.”

A pause. Every breath held.

“I will make my choice now.”