Diego Velázquez painted her at three years old. Then at five. Then at eight. Then at nine. Her father sent every portrait north to Vienna so that the man she was going to marry could watch her grow up. That man was her uncle.
Hungary had no provision for a female ruler. They crowned her King instead. She rode up the coronation hill three months after giving birth, holding herself with such superb military precision that from a distance she looked like a man, and swung a sword at the four corners of the earth.