There nothing you can do

You shrink into the bench as you shy in desperation, "Well, Sire Dietrich, it appears there is nothing we can do. If we put a halt to this or kick them out, we either start a revolution or a war, if not both. So please go deliver the news."

Sir Dietrich, in his wisdom, must have known this was the only outcome, and was just telling you to inform you because the words were barely out of your mouth when Sir Dietrich silently blows his head and then turns with a subtle air of desperation, before he enters the room.

You glimpse him through the crack in the door as he stands on the balcony that leads down to the dance floor where all the noble women have gathered, and are talking with each other as they snack on the provided horderves. He calls out in his basso profundo: "Hear ye, hear ye. Listens as I explain what is to forecome." The words hang in the air, slicing through the gossip and laughter like a phalanx at a feast. As a result, the room goes deathly quiet as he drops the bombshell of what their fathers had agreed to.

Once he has finished, the mourning begins. Some cry openly, voices cracking with disbelief: "I can believe my father would agree to this," While other attempt to sound resolute, "sisters, for the sake of our father, it must be one of us." But you can hear almost all of the saying some things, making it hard to pick out anything specific through the soft roar. The commotion continues for several minutes. Dietrich, for his part, is a master of the slow withdrawal; he lets the drama saturate the ballroom, then steps back with a tight-lipped bow, ceding the stage to the girls and their hysteria.

Once the mourning has played its course, the room begins to reassemble itself. The more composed of the women check their hair in the mirrored sconces, dabbing at their faces and exchanging cold, strategic glances. They are, after all, daughters of statesmen, trained from birth to maintain poise even as their world collapses. But beneath their practiced movements, the tension simmers like a pot left too long on the flame.

Since they all had regained their composer you figured it was your time to enter. Through the window, you can see that the room is full of all the beautiful women that you saw before, plus three more. In fact, the additions three don't look out of place. Each of them could actually be in the running for both best dressed and sexiest in the room.

The trumpets sound, a blaring shockwave through the drafty halls, and drawling everyone who is in the ballroom’s attention to the heavy double doors as they swing inward not on their hinges but on the **** of centuries of monarchy. The herald’s voice booms your titles, each syllable a slap in the face, as you step across the threshold: an entrance designed to cow and impress, and impress it does, as every eye in the ballroom turns to you with a mixture of expectation, hunger, and loathing.

One by one, all the beautiful women promptly and gracefully line up to greet you. Each one gratefully accepts a kiss on the hand and provides you with a individualize complement in hopes of doing and saying something that will make you remember her more.

Once the formal, tiresome greetings had finally dispensed, you’re escorted to your throne at the head of the ballroom. Once you are seated, the music instantly starts to play, signaling the true start of the party, as male fill-in dancers emerge from hidden doors and start to fill the dance floor. Each dress slightly less than you, with your family’s royal seal on their chest so that everyone knows they are nothing more than a fill-in for you, just as Sir Dietrich has skillfully planned.

With the dance floor filled with the best male dancers your country could find, every one of the ladies knew what was expected next. Naturally, all eyes drift toward your sister. She, being the highest degree of nobility, stood alone at the front of the gathering of ladies in waiting, with the responsibility to move first. Her dress flows around her like a living thing, a cunning arrangement of violet silks and black lace that strikes the eye even in this saturated company.

With a practice flick of her noble gaze, she glanced towards you, as if asking for permission to start. You nodded to her, and she glided out to the dance floor and picked a dancer who fit her high perfectly. Once there, she gives you one last smirk of her mouth as if to say “Watch me,” before holding her place on the dance with her partner.

After her, in order of nobility, one by one, with one exception, that being your mother, each of the ‘hopeful’ ladies carefully picks which partner will perfectly show off their skills. While your mother, Queen Beatrice, remains motionless, standing not apart from the rest, but not fully with them as well. When the last ‘hopeful’ besides her finally leaves her side and picks her partner, were she holds their place waiting for you to join them on the dance floor for the dance to start. As if on cue, as Queen Beatrice was trained over the years of being a noble woman to do, she turns towards you and slowly, skillfully approaches you.

"My king, as the former queen of this proud country, I would be my honor, if you would allow me join you for a dance." She gently extends her hand, waiting for your response.