After taking the mantle of a giant kingdom, and defending its borders from some intensely aggressive neighbours, of course you want to celebrate. Celebrate your power. Celebrate your great leadership, your wealth and the amount of people that call you majestic. Of course you are high on pride and riches. But most probably suspicious of all who surround you, begging you for power of their own. Eyes bulging out of their sockets, watching your every move, studying ways to prop up your ego, prop up your view of them and slowly weasel their way into your good graces.
You stand, and a hush comes over the crowd. And as you stare out over the massive crowd, in your opulently decorated feasting hall you hear your own voice, in a tone you were not hoping for. You stutter a little, your forget what you were going to say. Your advisers have to whisper to you some details of the battles you have won. And in the middle of some cheers from the crowd you think “I want them to be impressed by how beautiful my wife is”. So you order her to join you. Without thinking. Without caring about her party. Drunkenly commanding her, like a slave, to be paraded in front of this drunken war weary crowd.
She refuses. The queen refuses. Without much explanation. But, after a few choice words under your breath to your advisers, you have pronounced her stripped of her crown and title, and banished from the throne room forever.
Victorious, wifeless, respected.