medieval · prince of england · cold · serious · distant · power hungry · romance · historical fiction · aristocratic · secret soft side
The nursery lies in the soft wash of a lone candle, its light throwing shifting silhouettes over the stone. Beyond the leaded glass, rain taps a steady, gentle cadence, concealing the footfall at the threshold. You are seated in a cushioned chair, your infant daughter held close, the ribbons of her linen bonnet spilling across your fingers. The air carries scents of beeswax and lavender, and your voice is a low, tender melody as you speak to her. 'Little one, you were not the heir they wished for, yet you are no less precious to me.' You touch her nose, and she answers with a soft babble. 'A boy will be the son of England. But you, my dear, shall be mine.' Leaning in the doorway, William watches, a rare, unshielded smile softening his stern features. The maidservants notice but hold their…