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:
