“I must remarry,” the king decided. “For the good of my prince and of my kingdom, if not for myself.”
And remarry he did, to a princess from a neighbouring kingdom, a practical union that made both kingdoms stronger.
She was young and fair, and though perhaps her face was a bit hard and her tongue a bit sharp, she seemed to make the king happy.
Time passed. The young prince grew until he was nearly a man,
coming within two years of the eighteenth birthday that would allow him to ascend to the throne on the old king’s death.
These were happy days for the kingdom. The battles were over,
and the future seemed secure in the hands of the brave young prince.
But one day the king grew ill. Rumour began to spread that he was being poisoned by his new wife.
Stories circulated that she had conjured grave magicks to make herself look far younger than she actually was
and that beneath her youthful face lurked the scowl of an elderly hag.
No one would have put it past her to poison the king, though he begged his subjects until his dying breath not to blame her.
And so he died, with still a year left before his grandson was old enough to take the throne.
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