Reincarnated as the Crown Prince

Madrid's frost lingered well into January, glazing the city in a thin white sheen that sparkled beneath the morning sun. The capital looked serene, but within its walls the atmosphere buzzed with a different energy. No longer the whispers of spies and assassins—it was the hum of dynastic politics. The question was no longer whether Lancelot of Aragon could survive in shadows, but whom he would crown beside him when he stepped into the light.

The fall of Harrow had silenced knives in alleys, but it had opened the gates of Europe. Envoys from a half-dozen courts now trailed Madrid's streets, cloaks heavy, voices guarded, their presence unmistakable. Each carried promises, each carried threats veiled as gifts. And all of them, in one way or another, had their eyes fixed upon Lancelot.

The first arrivals had been Iberian. Portugal's emissaries strutted through Madrid with the confidence of men carrying divine favor, their reliquary gift whispered of at every tavern table. Navarre sent subtle men, diplomats wrapped in modest attire, their words humble but edged with a reminder of their mountain watch over France. Castile, predictably, came in force—an ostentatious delegation led by the Duke of Medina's brother, parading hawks, tapestries, and silver plate, as if wealth alone could settle Spain's dynastic question.

But they were soon joined by others.

From Britannia came Sir William Havers, envoy to the Duke of York, who bowed low and offered Lady Eleanor's portrait with language dripping in diplomacy. Few forgot Britannia's role in Madrid's months of blood and knives. Yet the possibility of alliance with their ships and coin could not be ignored.

Glanzreich's delegation was colder still: Baron von Kessel, stiff and humorless, presenting Archduchess Amelie's likeness as if it were a treaty map. He spoke of discipline, of shared Catholic faith, of the Archduchess' "unshakable character." Lancelot noted how he never once spoke of love.

François, in contrast, sent Count de Roussel, a courtier of wit and charm who delighted Madrid's salons with stories of Versailles. He spoke endlessly of Princess Charlotte's grace and her piety, and more than once implied that such a marriage might make the Pyrenees vanish as a border. To Lancelot's ears, it sounded more like conquest through kisses than through cannon.

Finally, from the frozen north, came Nordenmark's representatives: sailors and traders more than courtiers, bearing furs, iron tools, and a simple letter from Princess Astrid herself. Written in her own hand, it lacked flowery phrases but spoke directly of loyalty, honesty, and partnership. It was the least adorned, and somehow, the most sincere.

Colonel Valdés had secured for Lancelot a discreet chamber within the Alcázar where no foreign ear might eavesdrop. There, once again, his closest circle assembled: Isandro, Father Alonso, Don García de Luna, and Don Ramiro de Montcada. Maps of Europe lay on the table beside the envoys' gifts and portraits, the fates of kingdoms compressed into parchment and ink.

Isandro, as ever, wasted no time:

"Britannia should be dismissed outright. Eleanor may be ambitious, but to wed her is to invite daggers into your bedchamber. Harrow is gone, but his country still thirsts."

Ramiro, however, pressed the opposite. "Ambition can be shaped. Marry her, and you take their fleet as shield, their merchants as partners. If Britannia is the viper, let us put its fangs to our enemies instead of our throats."

Father Alonso raised a cautioning hand. "But at what cost to our soul? Britannia wavers between Rome and heresy. Their Queen may one day turn against the Church itself. Better to anchor ourselves to Catholic thrones."

Don García leaned forward, tapping Glanzreich's crest. "Then Glanzreich is the answer. Their armies stand as Europe's iron wall. A queen from their Archduchy ensures François thinks twice before crossing the Pyrenees."

Isandro barked a laugh. "Or it ensures Spain dies on the Rhine for Glanzreich's wars! I've seen their generals—they treat men as numbers, not souls. Will Spain's sons march to freeze in the German snows?"

The debate circled and swelled, sharp words striking sparks. Each candidate was raised, praised, then torn down. François with its charm but suffocating embrace. Portugal with its promise of Iberian unity—and its equal promise of Iberian domination. Navarre with its fragile strength, Castile with its volatile nobles, Nordenmark with its distant sincerity.

Lancelot said little. He listened, weighing each argument. In the shadows, his decisions had been swift, instinctive. But here, in the glare of crowns, each choice carried ripples that could last centuries.

That night, alone, Lancelot studied the portraits again. Eleanor of Britannia stared back with sharp eyes. When he broke the seal of her personal letter, he expected courtly flattery. Instead, her words cut differently:

"I know your Spain sees Britannia as enemy. Yet enemies share respect that friends seldom do. My uncle does not send me to beg, but to bind. If we are wed, I will not be your enemy nor your servant—I will be your equal. Together we could make peace where daggers failed."

It was bold, almost defiant. He set it down, uneasy. Was it sincerity—or the venom of a viper promising warmth before the strike?

Days later, Lancelot sought clarity in San Jerónimo's chapel, where Father Alonso sometimes preached. He entered in plain cloak, listening among merchants and washerwomen. Alonso's sermon echoed strangely with his private turmoil:

"A house divided cannot stand. A marriage is not only between man and woman, but between nations, between peoples. Yet if one partner seeks dominion rather than union, the house crumbles. Choose not the richest, nor the fairest, but the one who would build with you, not upon you."

The words struck deep. Was that Maria of Portugal with her holy relic? Astrid of Nordenmark with her blunt honesty? Or another entirely?

Madrid's salons meanwhile filled with French perfume. Count de Roussel wove his tales so deftly that even Don Ramiro confessed temptation. Princess Charlotte's charm, her dowry, her artful diplomacy—they promised not just peace but splendor. François gold jingled in the taverns, buying poets and singers to praise Charlotte's name. For many in Madrid's court, the match seemed irresistible.

But Isandro spat on the floor after one such performance. "François silk strangles as well as any rope. They dress it in beauty, but it is still a noose."

One evening, a small banquet was arranged for foreign envoys. Most came draped in silks and jewels. But Nordenmark's sailors brought only roast meat, spiced ale, and a song in their rough tongue. When invited to speak, their captain declared simply:

"We do not seek to rule Iberia. We seek trade, friendship, and ships built together. Our princess is not schooled in flattery, but in loyalty. If your prince weds her, he will have no lies between them."

The hall laughed at their bluntness—but Lancelot did not. He found their honesty refreshing, like cold wind after stale air.

Weeks passed. Frost melted into rain. Europe watched as Madrid became the stage of suitors. Rumors swelled—bets were laid in taverns, poems recited in palaces. Who would she be? Isabella of Navarre with her learning? Beatriz of Castile with her fire? Maria of Portugal with her relics? Eleanor of Britannia, ambitious and dangerous? Amelie of Glanzreich, cold but strong? Charlotte of François, charming and perilous? Astrid of Nordenmark, distant yet loyal?

At last, Lancelot gathered his council once more. His eyes were heavy, his tone measured.

"The choice is not mine alone. It belongs to Spain. To marry is to bind not only myself, but the fate of this crown for centuries. I ask you—who builds Spain strongest? Who keeps us free?"

Silence hung. Each man weighed his words. But Lancelot already felt the answer forming—not of desire, nor fear, but of necessity. He would not marry for dowries, nor for silk promises, nor for vengeance disguised as alliance. He would marry for Spain's soul.

That night, standing at his window, he gazed across Madrid. Lanterns flickered, bells tolled vespers, smoke curled from hearths. The people below wanted bread, peace, safety. They cared little whose hand wore the crown—only that it shielded them.

Lancelot whispered into the night:

"Daggers won me battles. But the queen I choose must win Spain centuries."

He turned from the window, doused the lamp, and summoned the scribes. Letters would be written before dawn, and with them, Spain's fate.