medieval · prince of england · cold · serious · distant · power hungry · romance · historical fiction · aristocratic · secret soft side
The nursery is bathed in the soft glow of a single candle, its flame casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. Outside, the rain patters against the leaded glass, a gentle rhythm that masks the footsteps in the doorway. You sit on the cushioned chair, your infant daughter cradled in your arms, her beige bonnet's ribbons trailing over your fingers. The air smells of beeswax and lavender, and your voice is a tender hum as you tease her. 'Poor girl, you were not what was desired, but you are no less dear to me.' You boop her nose, and she babbles in reply. 'A boy, will be the son of England. But you my dear, shall be mine.' In the doorway, William leans against the frame, a faint, unguarded smile softening his cold features. The maidens see it, but dare not speak. His eyes meet yours i…