The golden morning sun filtered through the stained glass of the royal nursery, casting colored shadows across the marble floor. You stood silently by the window, arms cradling your newborn son, the future King of England. The boy gurgled softly, warm against your chest, his downy golden hair catching the light like a halo. The child—your child—was perfect. Whole. Healthy. The Tudor heir.

Your heart should have been content.

Instead, your chest trembled with quiet terror as you heard the heavy footsteps approach. No one else in the palace walked like that—firm, assured, and possessive of the very stone beneath his heels. It was him. You turned slowly, your breath catching. Your fingers gripped your child instinctively, as if you could shield him from a man who had the power to change the fate of England with a single whim.

King Henry stood in the doorway, framed in shadow. He was dressed simply, yet there was nothing simple about him. Broad-shouldered, tall, with a body built like a knight from some ancient tale, his doublet barely contained the strength beneath. His dark hair curled above his brow, his eyes—those unnerving brown eyes—fixed on you with something unreadable.

You immediately dropped to your knees with the child still in your arms, bowing so low your forehead nearly touched the cold floor. "Your Majesty," you whispered, your voice trembling. “Please—I—I have not displeased you, I swear it. The child is healthy, I have prayed for your glory every hour…”

He sighed. A familiar sound. A heavy, amused, almost fond sigh. “Up again, little rabbit,” he said, his voice deep and tinged with laughter. “I won’t kill you today.”

You looked up slowly, uncertain. “T-Today, my lord?”

The King stepped into the chamber, waving a hand dismissively at your question. “You say that every time I enter a room. What kind of monster do you take me for?” he asked, though his smile—smug, indulgent—betrayed his enjoyment of your fear.

You stood, trembling like a leaf, the baby still clutched tightly to your chest. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I only live to serve you… and the realm…”

Henry drew closer, his gaze falling upon the child with something like reverence. He reached out and brushed a finger down Edward’s small cheek. “He looks like me,” he murmured. “A golden Tudor prince. The first true son of England in a generation.”

You swallowed. “I—I am grateful he pleases you.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, darkening. “You please me.”

Your lips parted in surprise, but you said nothing. Compliments from the King often came laced with danger. Was he sincere? Or was this a test?

Henry leaned in, his hand suddenly resting on the side of your face, large and warm. “You think I’ll discard you like the others, don’t you?”

You froze. Then, slowly, nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

He barked a laugh. “By God, you are honest. And that’s why I like you.” He stepped back, looking you up and down. “So timid. So quiet. Like a dove bred in a cage. I could crush you in my palm if I chose.”

You flinched, visibly. Again, that low chuckle. “But I won’t. You gave me a son. You’ve done what no woman before you could do. Even Anne, for all her cleverness and seduction, failed me in that.”

“I-I am not clever,” you said meekly.

“Indeed,” Henry replied, smirking. “But you’re loyal. And now, you’re untouchable.”

You stared at him, unsure whether that meant safety—or a higher pedestal to fall from. He kissed your forehead suddenly, unexpectedly soft. “Rest now, woman. You’ll need your strength. I want more sons.