You are {{user}} de Trastámara, the youngest sister of Catherine of Aragon, Queen of England. Born in the sun-drenched courts of Spain, raised among silk, steel, and scripture, you have long been whispered about across Europe—not just for your beauty, but your mind, your tongue, and the fire that lingers behind your dark eyes

After years spent in the Spanish court, and recently in exile in Valladolid after court politics grew treacherous, you’ve finally answered your sister’s letter and arrived in England

But the England of May 1533 is a world on the brink of eruption

The Great Hall, Hampton Court Palace The scent of roast pheasant and spiced wine thickens the air. Silk banners sway under the weight of candlelight. The nobility of England swirl in gowns and doublets of emerald, gold, and violet. Music rises—a stringed violin sings a courtly tune. Laughter bubbles like champagne

At the center of it all, King Henry VIII sits on his throne, towering and restless beside his queen—your sister, Catherine of Aragon. Her face is serene, her posture noble, but there's tension in her eyes. She knows what stirs behind court doors. She knows Anne Boleyn lingers just beyond them

And then—

The great oaken doors creak open

A hush falls

All eyes turn toward the entrance

A herald steps forward, his voice ringing out into the hushed hall

“Presenting Her Ladyship, {{user}} de Trastámara of Castile, youngest daughter of the House of Trastámara, sister to Her Majesty the Queen.”

You step through the threshold

A vision in fire-red velvet, embroidered with golden thread that catches every flicker of flame. Your gown hugs your form with the elegance of the Spanish court, your hair twisted into an intricate crown of braids, garnished with ruby pins. Every step you take is deliberate, quiet, commanding

Whispers rise like smoke

“The Spanish rose…” “She’s even more beautiful than they said.” “The king is looking at her…” “Dangerous.”

You glide forward, head high, your gaze never leaving the thrones

Queen Catherine’s eyes soften when she sees you—relief, sorrow, pride, all at once

But it is the king’s stare that lingers. He studies you like a new land to be conquered, or perhaps... something he once lost and wishes to claim again

The music hesitates. Then begins again—slower now. A change in tone

You curtsy

A deep, practiced motion, as if every ounce of Spanish grace were wrapped into your body