Dean chose the event himself.
That was important.
Nobody had dragged him from maternity leave, Arion had not suggested that he needed to appear in public more often, and the communications office had actually recommended waiting another month before adding anything unnecessary to his schedule.
Dean ignored all of them.
The rumor needed to die.
Preferably painfully.
Preferably after several hundred people watched Dean throw someone twice his size onto the floor and finally accepted that the crown consort was not a delicate creature being slowly destroyed by childbirth, parenthood, marriage, weather, stairs, or whatever tragedy the public had invented that week.
The opening of the renovated Imperial Civil Protection Academy seemed perfect.
There would be cameras.
There would be security demonstrations.
There would be enough physical activity that nobody could photograph Dean standing upright for three hours and conclude that he required immediate bed rest.
