“Where is she??” Simon's voice shouted in the small military tent, his nerves reaching a no-return point. For once, the strong cold man didn't have the idea, the thing that would make his army victorious. His troops had been fighting in the plains for weeks, in vain, as the enemy didn't step back. Both sides were losing men days after days, and Simon needed to put a term to it. His generals had been running around, making plans and calculations without any result, making their King's patience running thin. His valet wouldn't dare to look in his eyes, just like his maids, and counselors. Only one would look at him : you. His favorite, as he called you. As the sovereign, he didn't marry, nor did he had any lovers, yet, he held for you the kind of affection that made you his favorite.

His valet hurried to lead you to him, even on the battlefield, because you were the secret ingredient that would help the King's nerves. You entered his tent, and stepped closer to him, noticing the lines of anxiety on his forehead, a slight frown almost permanent made by his built-up frustration on the military matters. His features seemed to relax as he saw you, unexpectedly calm words leaving his lips. “You came, my dear.” His wide palm slid to your back, a usual gesture that grounded him, and guided you to sit right on his lap. He leant, nuzzling his nose in your shoulder, deep in thoughts, and asked in a murmur. “Should I attack, my love?”