The first weeks in the palace were like walking into a den of snakes.
Every corridor gleamed with polished marble, every corner hid a pair of whispering servants, and every noble who bowed before Drizella seemed to have a dagger behind their smile.
She despised it.
"I swear," she muttered one morning, pacing across her chambers as three maids fussed with her gown, "if another lady curtsies so deeply she nearly faints just to mock me, I'll—"
"You'll smile," Henry interrupted, lounging in the doorway with arms crossed, "and let them choke on their own envy."
Drizella glared at him through the mirror. "Easy for you to say. You've had years to grow used to these vultures."
"True," he said, strolling in and kissing the crown of her head before the maids could protest. "But I never had your wit. That, my dear queen, is sharper than any sword in this palace."
The council meetings were worse.
Old men with powdered wigs droned on about trade, land disputes, and laws as though they were reciting scripture. When Drizella first joined them, she nearly fell asleep on the polished oak table.
But when one lord dared to suggest she should "observe silently until she learned her place," Drizella leaned forward, eyes glinting.
"My place, my lord," she said coolly, "is beside the king. Not behind him. And unlike you, I don't need spectacles to see when someone is wasting our time."
The chamber erupted into nervous coughs. Henry's lips twitched, but he said nothing—only rested a steady hand over hers beneath the table, a silent well done.
Still, not everything came easily.
There were nights Drizella collapsed into a chair by the fire, ripping off her jewels with muttered curses. "They hate me," she said once, staring into the flames. "Every last one of them."
Henry knelt beside her, taking her hand. "No. They fear you. There's a difference. And in time, they will respect you."
"And if they don't?" she asked bitterly.
"Then let them choke on their own silence," he replied firmly. "You are my queen, Drizella. I do not waver. Neither will you."
She swallowed hard, looking at him. In those moments, when his loyalty was as solid as stone, she felt her strength return.
Slowly, she began to find her way.
She ordered the palace kitchens to redistribute leftover feasts to the city's poor. She demanded the servants be granted fairer wages and shorter hours. When nobles protested, she cut them down with barbed words sharp enough to silence even the boldest tongues.
"She's impossible," one courtier muttered.
"She's honest," Henry corrected, his voice carrying. "And honesty is what this kingdom needs."
One afternoon, they walked the palace gardens together. Drizella plucked a rose and twirled it between her fingers.
"Do you regret it?" she asked suddenly. "Choosing me? Wouldn't it have been easier with someone like her? Someone who smiled sweetly and said all the right things?"
Henry stopped, turning her to face him. His gaze was steady, unwavering.
"Easier? Perhaps. But false. I would rather wrestle with your stubbornness every day than live one hour with a lie."
Her throat tightened. She tried to cover it with a scoff. "Careful, Henry. You're starting to sound besotted again."
"I told you before," he murmured, leaning close. "I am besotted. Hopelessly."
And though she rolled her eyes, Drizella's hand slid into his, fingers curling tight.
By the end of that first season, the court was still wary, still whispering. But the people outside the palace walls—the bakers, the blacksmiths, the children chasing dogs through the streets—had begun to murmur a different tale:
That their queen was fierce. That their king was steadfast. And that together, they might be exactly what the kingdom needed.