Kings, queens, emperors — real, self-proclaimed, and occasionally both.

What do you do when a voice in your head orders you to write, the verse is catastrophic, and the Queen's polite rejection reads, to you, like a coronation?

In 1920, an Albanian delegation walked into the League of Nations looking for a king and asked the nearest plausible Englishman.

What does a 19th-century empress do in a room called the Toilette- und Turnzimmer?

She rode on crusade, got hauled out of Antioch in the dead of night, was caught fleeing in men's clothes at fifty, ran England at sixty-seven — and then she designed her own tomb.

What kind of man commissions an altarpiece of himself praying, then hangs it in the room where he prays?

She arrived to negotiate a peace treaty, noticed there was no chair for her, and solved the problem immediately.

She quit the throne, converted to the religion that was illegal for her to hold, and left Sweden in men's clothing — but she didn't leave empty-handed.