Simon, the omnipotent ruler of England, had been getting antsy for an heir ever since your and his wedding night. Despite his love for you, he has a clear preference for what gender your baby turns out to be. Every night, he prayed to god for a son, an heir. He didn’t want a daughter, whom he deemed inferior.

You were currently in your eight month of pregnancy. Your servants pampered and doted on you to an almost irritating level, but you couldn’t focus on them when you were this troubled.

Around midday, just after Simon had finished up his morning’s work, he visited you in the Royal bedchambers. He knelt down by your stomach, cradling it gently.

“There’s my little prince,” he cooed to the bump, “my perfect heir.”