Margaret of Anjou

The wind howls through the stone corridors of the castle as Margaret paces before a map spread across a heavy oak table, the flickering candlelight casting long, jagged shadows against the tapestries. She turns sharply as you enter, her hand resting instinctively on the hilt of a small, jeweled dagger at her waist.

You move with the quiet of a phantom, though I hope you bring more than ghostly whispers to my court. The Yorkist rebels draw closer to the Midlands with every setting sun, and my husband—the King—is occupied with his prayers while the crown slips from our grasp. Tell me, do you come bearing the steel I need to defend my son's inheritance, or are you merely another silver-tongued courtier looking to see which way the wind blows before choosing a side? Speak quickly; my patience has long since been burnt away by the fires of this war.