Reincarnated as the Crown Prince

Madrid's winter arrived with frost that rimed the eaves of the houses and fog that pooled in the narrow streets. The city, still shaking the cobwebs of espionage, seemed quieter now—yet beneath the calm, the whisper of dynastic politics had begun to swell. For Lancelot of Aragon, there would be no reprieve.

The fall of Harrow had cleared the shadows for a season, but it had also pushed Lancelot into the light. He could no longer be the nameless blade moving through alleys. He was heir of Aragon, perhaps of Spain itself if fortune favored. The crown demanded more than vigilance and daggers; it demanded a queen.

Messengers had already returned from Toledo, Pamplona, and Lisbon with cautious but interested replies. But word of his intention had spread farther than Iberia. Across Europe, in courts glittering with jewels and gilded walls, the name of Lancelot had been spoken.

Candidates now came not only from Spain's neighbors but from the great dynasties of the continent:

Britannia: Lady Eleanor, niece to the Duke of York, said to be as ambitious as she was beautiful. A marriage here would be a dangerous gamble, binding Aragon to a nation that only weeks before had bled Madrid with spies. Yet it promised the possibility of peace with one of Europe's fiercest powers.

Glanzreich: Archduchess Amelie, a woman of twenty with a reputation for icy composure. Glanzreich's armies remained among the most formidable on the continent. A union here would tie Aragon's fate to theirs—but also risk drawing Spain into their ceaseless rivalries with François.

François: Princess Charlotte, cousin to the King of François, praised for her charm and her patronage of the arts. François' influence across the Pyrenees was already heavy; a marriage might blunt their aggression—or invite them deeper into Spain's affairs.

Empire of the North: Princess Astrid of Nordenmark, tall, blonde, and blunt-spoken. Her dowry included ships, timber, and iron, but her people were far from Iberia. A marriage here promised trade and distant friendship, but little protection against Spain's immediate threats.

Each name came with gifts, portraits, or letters wrapped in silk and wax. And each weighed heavily upon Lancelot's thoughts.

Once again, Lancelot summoned his circle—Isandro, Father Alonso, and the two Aragonese nobles, Don García de Luna and Don Ramiro de Montcada. They gathered not in the cellar this time but in the upper chamber of a rented townhouse, with a fire burning low to cut the chill.

Lancelot spread the letters and portraits across the table like pieces of a chessboard.

"Navarre, Castile, Portugal remain before us," he began, "but now others press themselves into the game. Britannia, Glanzreich, François, Nordenmark. Each has written, each offers promises. We must speak plainly—who among these could stand at Spain's side as queen?"

Isandro, ever the soldier, scoffed first. "Britannia? After Harrow's knives in our alleys? I'd sooner wed you to a viper. Their queen would send more agents than sons."

Don Ramiro countered, stroking his beard. "And yet—marriage has turned enemies to allies before. If Aragon weds Britannia, their ships guard our seas, not raid them. Sometimes the viper at your breast bites your enemy before it bites you."

Father Alonso interjected calmly, "But can we trust the sincerity of their offer? Would Britannia not simply use such a marriage to cripple us from within?"

Lancelot listened, but his eyes remained fixed on Eleanor's portrait: a woman with sharp eyes and a half-smile that spoke of secrets. He felt the irony keenly—could he bind his fate to the very nation that had nearly broken Madrid?

Glanzreich came next. Don García spoke warmly of the Archduchess Amelie. "Glanzreich is strong, my prince. Their armies march like iron, their coffers run deep. A queen from their house would silence François and Britannia alike. None would dare move against Aragon with Glanzreich at our side."

Isandro snorted. "And when Glanzreich demands we bleed for their wars on the Rhine, what then? Spain will be dragged across half of Europe to die for their pride."

François was no less contentious. Ramiro urged caution. "François already covets us. Marry their princess, and they will claim us not by conquest but by kinship. Soon our court will speak their tongue, our laws mirror theirs. Better to fight them openly than let them smother us in silks."

But Father Alonso saw another side. "Princess Charlotte is devout. Her dowry would be immense. And peace with François could buy decades of stability for Spain. Think not only of kings but of children—your heirs raised with François blood might one day rule both thrones."

Finally, Nordenmark. At this, even Isandro softened. "Their princess Astrid is said to be loyal and honest. Their ships could guard our trade routes, their timber build our fleets. And unlike the others, they do not hunger for Iberia."

Don García scoffed. "A marriage across half the continent is no marriage at all. When François marches or Britannia plots, will ships from the far north arrive in time? No, my prince. We must wed strength that is close."

The arguments swirled long into the night, until the fire burned to embers and the candles guttered low. Lancelot spoke little, only listening, weighing, calculating. Each name, each alliance, was another kind of battlefield.

When the council dispersed, Lancelot remained alone with the portraits. He lifted each in turn, studying them. Eleanor of Britannia with her sharp smile. Amelie of Glanzreich with her pale gaze. Charlotte of François with her warm charm. Astrid of Nordenmark with her fierce bearing.

He set them down one by one, until only the three Iberian choices remained—Isabella of Navarre, Beatriz of Castile, Maria of Portugal. Their faces were less foreign, their alliances more immediate, yet no less dangerous.

For the first time in years, Lancelot felt uncertain. In the shadows, his choices had been clear: kill or spare, deceive or reveal. But in the realm of crowns, choices blurred. Marriage was not a dagger—it was a bond that could either bind wounds or strangle the hand that held it.

That night, he dreamed again of Harrow's mocking voice. Even spiders know where to weave their webs, Spaniard. Do you?

The decision was forced sooner than expected.

A week later, as frost still clung to the streets, an envoy arrived from Lisbon, bearing a gilded coffer and a sealed letter. The Infanta Maria herself had written:

"To Lancelot of Aragon, heir to a noble crown: Portugal has ever stood apart, yet we share one faith, one sea, and one destiny. Should you seek a wife, know that my heart is guided not by ambition but by God's will. Together, our houses might bind Iberia in unity no enemy could sunder."

The coffer contained a relic—a small fragment of the True Cross, or so the envoy claimed, blessed by Lisbon's archbishop. The gesture carried weight beyond politics; it was a holy offering.

Isandro grunted when he saw it. "A relic. That is no dowry—it is a chain. Wed her, and Portugal will expect Iberia united under their hand as much as yours."

Father Alonso, however, bowed reverently before the relic. "God Himself speaks in this gift. To ignore it would be folly."

Lancelot walked that night through Madrid's streets, the letter heavy in his cloak. He watched the people—merchants tallying ledgers, soldiers warming hands by brazier, beggars huddling for warmth. They did not care for the politics of courts. They cared for bread, for peace, for a Spain strong enough to keep wolves from their doors.

He paused before the Alcázar, its towers dark against the sky. Somewhere beneath those stones, Harrow rotted in his cell. The Englishman had sought to break Spain with shadows. Now Europe sought to bind it with marriages. Different weapons, same war.

By dawn, he returned to his chamber and set the letter upon his desk beside the portraits. His course was not yet chosen, but his resolve hardened.

He would not wed out of fear. Nor out of temptation. Whoever became his queen would be chosen not by foreign ambition but by Spain's need.

As the bells of morning tolled, Lancelot whispered to himself:

"Daggers win nights. Dynasties win centuries."

And with that, he doused the lamp and prepared for the next council—where the fate of Spain's throne would be written not in blood, but in vows.

Madrid's winter pressed on, and with it came a new rhythm—slower, heavier, yet filled with undercurrents. The frost that laced the rooftops seemed almost symbolic, a pause between storms. And in that pause, Europe watched.

Envoys lingered in Madrid's inns, their cloaks hiding crests from Britannia, Glanzreich, François, and Nordenmark. At every tavern, whispers turned: Who would she be? Which court would rise, and which would fall, when the Prince of Aragon finally named his bride?

For Lancelot, the answer was still clouded. Yet as he stood by his window, overlooking the city still scarred from shadow wars, he understood the weight of the choice before him. This was no longer about daggers or spies. This was about centuries.

He closed his fist around the relic Portugal had sent and whispered to the cold night:

"The queen I choose will shape Spain's soul."