The Rose Bargain

The War of the Roses

King Edward’s face was streaked with mud and blood when the woman first appeared at the tree line. His sword hung by his side, limp, in a single moment of pause, and then he fell to his knees.

There had been rumors of the Others’ involvement in the war from the first moment a sword plunged through the belly of a banner knight from the Midlands, but denial goes down easy. Surely there were plausible explanations for the sudden turns in weather or the flocks of sheep found skinned and headless. But those whose grans taught them never to go into the woods without a sprig of holly in their pocket knew. They’d known for months, for decades, for generations.

Like the gods meddling in the affairs of men in the Trojan War, the Others too played with mortal conflicts for fun.

That’s what they were called back then. The Others.

The Lancasters and the Yorks both believed themselves to be the legitimate successors to the Plantagenet line. But a country cannot have two kings, and as neither side was willing to concede to the other’s claim to the throne, banners were raised and blades were sharpened.

The war was brutal, as all wars are, pointless and cruel. Within the first year, the soil of England ran wet with blood. But the war did not end. Like the beat of the drums that led farmers to slaughter, it marched on.

It wasn’t until the Battle of Barnet that the tide truly turned. Every schoolchild on the island knows the story. It’s carved into marble stones outside Buckingham Palace, set upright for all to read. The story of the day Queen Moryen saved all of England.

It went like this.

The battlefield was burning, and Edward was desperate.

Whether it was the scent of desperation or blood that called her is still some matter of debate, but what matters is she came.

They say the entire battlefield went still as she strode out into the fray. Her bone-white gown trailed gauzy behind her, catching the leaves and pulling them along in her wake. She had onyx hair and eyes even blacker than that. Her skin was ghostly pale, her sharp features so beautiful that looking at her felt like a physical blow. Some men bent over and retched, unable to take the sight of her.

She walked across the battlefield on slipper-clad feet, slowly, like she knew they’d all wait for her.

Edward dropped to his knees before her.

“Stand,”

she commanded, and he did. “I come to help.”

Tears streaked tracks through the dirt on his face as he nodded in wordless, profound gratitude.

She leaned into him, her perfect profile silhouetted in the ashy smoke of the battlefield, and whispered into his ear.

The conversation wasn’t long; whatever she offered, he readily agreed to. Then she pulled a dagger from her belt and slashed his palm. The bargain was made.

On the other side of the clearing, Henry VI dropped dead.

Britain had a new king, decisively. Edward IV.

The Lancasters went home, and the York camp torches burned all night as the victory celebration raged.

But the strange woman didn’t watch them. She was already on the road in a carriage pulled by snow-white horses. With a coronation to plan, there was no time to waste.

Twenty-four hours and one minute later, Edward IV was dead as well. He closed his eyes and fell to the ground as if a string had been cut.

She had promised Edward he would be king, but she never specified for how long.

And so Queen Moryen of the Others took the throne at Eltham Palace, a serene smile on her face and a crown on her head.

All who raised a hand or sword against her found themselves suddenly unable to move, as if the act itself was forbidden.

The war was over, and Britain had a new queen. Immortal. Uncrossable. Inevitable.

Now