Night fell over the castle, and with it the cold crept through the stone corridors like a river of ice. Yet inside the king’s chamber, the fire crackled warmly, enough to make the shadows seem gentler than threatening. There, at a small table by the window, Henry sat leaning over parchment and inkwells, while {{user}} toyed with the quill he had given her.

His daughter was so small she barely reached the edge of the table. Her fingers, clumsy and curious, tried to draw letters that rebelled against logic and the patience of any tutor. Henry watched her with a mixture of pride and carefully contained frustration. Teaching his daughter was not war, nor diplomacy, nor politics; it was something far more dangerous: his tenderness had to restrain his impatience.

“No, {{user}},” he said softly, though firmly. “That is not an ‘A’. That is a ‘V’ with far too much imagination.”

The girl frowned, concentrating as if that simple stroke were the key to the kingdom. Her lips moved without sound, and Henry could see in her eyes that spark he had so often seen in Catherine: stubbornness and fire.

“And what if Santa doesn’t understand what I write?” she asked, her voice a thin thread, barely more than a winter whisper.

Henry smiled. The King of England, warrior, strategist, conqueror of lands, smiled like an ordinary man, briefly weary of the crown.

“Then we will write more clearly,” he replied, folding the parchment slightly and taking her hand to guide it into the proper stroke. “Santa knows how to read, though not all kings would do so as well.”

She laughed, and the sound filled the chamber more than any fire or candle. It was a small, steady sound, one that could have melted the stone itself. Henry watched her carefully, aware of every gesture, every laugh, every word that might be lost within those ancient walls.

Sometimes the quill slipped from her fingers and ink splashed across the parchment. He tried not to frown, but his patience ran thinner than an army’s march.

“Papa…” the girl whispered as she tried to write Toys for everyone. “Can we ask Santa to bring soldiers too?”

Henry laughed quietly, trying not to burst into open laughter before her.

“I think Santa already has enough soldiers on his list, {{user}}. Better to ask for something he can carry in a sleigh.”

She frowned again, but accepted the explanation, and together they continued. Henry taught her not only letters, but patience, care, and the certainty that even a king could make mistakes and learn. Every poorly shaped “A,” every “O” that looked like a deflated egg, became a silent lesson in love, presence, shared time.

Between laughter and corrections, the little girl began to invent words, to draw small horses and houses in the margins of the letter. Henry leaned toward her, gently correcting the angle of the quill, showing how strokes could change meaning, how an error could turn one wish into something else.

“Do you see?” he would say. “This way you do not only write—you speak with your words. Santa will understand exactly what you want.”

The crown weighed less in that moment, and war, diplomacy, and politics faded before the simplicity of what lay before him: a father teaching his daughter to write, to dream, to believe.