As their king

Henry was never meant to be king.
He was the seventh son of the king.
But one by one, his brothers died.
Sickness. Accidents. War. Assassinations.
Six graves in the royal graveyard.
And, surrounded by guards, Henry standing over them, laying a flower on each.
“Get back inside,” said his father, pushing him.
Being exposed to the outdoors and the risks there was too much.
He stayed inside the castle, no windows, no sunlight.
When his father died, he threw open every shutter.
“Let the sun greet its king!” shouted Henry.
And he fell, an arrow buried in his neck.