A/N: This is set during the chess-playing scene in Episode 13 of the 1970 show "The Shadow of the Tower", but you can also read this with no knowledge of that serial.
You are wedded and settled, your life's work just beginning. Your new husband, Arthur (how tantalizing his name sounds on your tongue), sits across the chessboard from you. Your young siblings-in-law flank you, the Princess Margaret at your right and the restless Prince Harry at your left, urging their revered brother on. Doña Elvira stands sentinel behind you, and your parents-in-law are tactfully sitting some distance away by the hearth.
You are glad of this consideration, as it allows you the chance to observe Arthur closely. The two of you are bound together before God for life, yet you are still strangers to one another. So you sit here, you and Arthur both, tentatively reaching out to the other, testing the boundaries, closing ground between you, taking the first steps to become a couple that will rule a kingdom (you will rule it, certainly, but with another man at your side, who will later say that you have never truly ruled it at all). And what better way to explore his mind, to learn his strategies and his habits than over a game of chess, his well-meaning but hovering parents for once to the side?
At least until El Rey attempts to inject his advice into the game. By means of Doña Elvira, you let him know that you will be happy to play against him later, the operative word being later. Fortunately, the King is a man who appreciates spirit, as does his family, and they all burst into laughter at your cheek.
It's a cozy tableau you're staging, and you know it, know that this evening is brimming with promise of hope and good fortune, that your future holds seven sevens in it. But what you don't know is the real play that this scene preludes. You do not know the battlefield that stretches before you.
But I do. I know what will happen to you. I know that your husband will sicken and die less than half a year from now. I know that the boy at your left will become your new husband, only to become your greatest enemy. I know that seven sevens will indeed command your life. Shall I enumerate them?
Seven years will you wait to marry him, selling your precious plate and jewels, bartering away mere trinkets in comparison to the gleaming crown awaiting you, that you were born to wear.
Seven times will you attempt to give him a son, so that the crown may grace another head.
Seven weeks will you be the fine parents of a fine prince in the nursery, only for him to flee back to God in the night.
Seven years will you spend in limbo after your womb yields its final fruit, loving your only daughter while you hold each other close, loving your husband while he holds you away, trusting in God and in the future, until your husband decides he wants to erase your union and start anew (Arthur never would have done this).
Seven more years will you fight to keep your crown and your daughter's future crown.
Seven score weeks will you linger in a cold damp castle, forsaken by husband, barred from daughter, your cherished and cultivated court and country sundered forever in your name.
Seven days after a bitter New Year's will you breathe your last.
"Checkmate," you announce, as proud of enunciating the word correctly as you are of your victory. Arthur smiles, admitting defeat graciously enough, and sweeps the pieces off the board so that the game might begin anew.