Special Guest Blogger: King of Sparta Tyndareus

I’ve been sitting here for eons, listening to Achilles prattle on about his one tiny heel, while Socrates keeps asking rhetorical questions no one wants answered.
I was born in Sparta, a place where the average citizen is sculpted like a Greek god and my claim to the throne was pure nepotism. Father was Zeus and I inherited the crown not because of any great deeds or divine right, but because Sparta’s version of a royal dynasty was Zeus did it.
My most notable achievement before ascending the throne? Mastering the art of avoiding the plague of infant exposure (yes, Sparta’s famous for leaving unhealthy babies on the side of a hill. Harsh, but effective if you’re into attrition).
I once married a woman named Leda. In my defence, she was a queen, a goddess, and possibly a swan in disguise. It was a match made in Olympus but result was a family tree so convoluted it would make a Game of Thrones fan weep. There was my step-daughter Helen, the face that launched a thousand ships, then Pollux, Castor, and a few other demigods.
My bad luck that the Trojan War happened. Entirely. My fault. You see, I had this little rule: if a suitor wanted to marry Helen, they had to swear an oath to defend her honour forever. A great idea, until 100 men showed up, swore oaths, and then spent three decades sulking in a tent when she got abducted and sparking the Trojan War. My brilliance knew no bounds.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nobody remembers you for your leadership skills, especially if you die in a classic way.
My daughter Clytemnestra’s husband decided to kill me in a fit of poetic justice. I’d raised the lad like a son, only for him to return the favour by stabbing me. I assume he thought it was a Greek tragedy moment, but honestly, I died while reaching out for the cheese board.
The History books mention me as  the man  murdered by his son-in-law but I wasn’t built for the brutal discipline of Leonidas or the tactical genius of Lysander.
No, I was built for drama and my life was full of irony, murder, and the occasional swan with a lifetime of dodging daggers and died thinking, Maybe I should have just left the kid on the hill.