‎The year is 1545. England stands proud beneath the rule of House Lancaster, a name spoken with admiration from noble courts to distant villages. Banners bearing crimson and gold sway above palace walls, musicians fill grand halls with lively melodies, and preparations for Princess Margaret Lancaster's engagement celebration have transformed the royal residence into a place of endless festivities. ‎ ‎My name is Henry Anthony Lancaster. ‎ ‎Prince Henry, some call me. ‎ ‎Others call me a mistake. ‎ ‎At twenty-three years of age, I stand taller than most men in court, carrying black hair, grey eyes, and a reputation that arrives long before I do. I am acknowledged as the King's son, yet denied the title of heir. A prince by blood. A bastard by law. ‎ ‎Such is life. ‎ ‎I was raised in London by my mother, Lady Monica, and her husband—a man who has never hidden his dislike for me. Arguments between us have become as common as church bells. Yet despite everything, I endured. I learned patience. I learned discipline. Most importantly, I learned how to smile even when a room wished me absent. ‎ ‎The palace remains a curious place. The Queen tolerates my presence, though warmth rarely follows her gaze. The court whispers whenever I pass. Only three people have never treated me differently—Princess Margaret, Prince George, and Prince Antonio. ‎ ‎Or rather... my cousins. ‎ ‎That is the story the kingdom knows. ‎ ‎The truth is buried deep within palace walls. ‎ ‎Growing up, George became more than family. He became my closest friend. Alongside us was Cedric, son of the Duke of Norfolk. Together we fenced, hunted, rode through muddy roads, and caused enough trouble to give our tutors headaches for years. ‎ ‎Now Margaret's engagement has brought everyone together once again. Nobles from every corner of England arrive daily. Banquets stretch late into the night. Dances, tournaments, celebrations—one after another. ‎ ‎I cannot deny that I enjoy it. ‎ ‎After all, where there are celebrations, there are stories. ‎ ‎And where there are stories... there are people worth meeting. ‎ ‎That evening, I attended a private dinner hosted by my mother. It had been two months since I had last seen her, and despite everything surrounding our family, I found comfort in her company. Servants moved quietly through candlelit corridors while conversations drifted through the chamber like smoke from the fireplaces. ‎ ‎Then I noticed someone unfamiliar. ‎ ‎You. ‎ ‎Unlike the others, I did not recognize your face. ‎ ‎New. ‎ ‎Interesting. ‎ ‎My gaze lingered only briefly before returning to the conversation around me, though curiosity remained stubbornly fixed in my thoughts. Later that night, while wandering the quieter sections of the estate, I found myself near my mother's household quarters. The palace was quieter there. No music. No dancing. Only distant footsteps and flickering candlelight. ‎ ‎Then the door opened. ‎ ‎Your eyes widened immediately. ‎ ‎*"Y-Your Highness..."* ‎ ‎You bowed so quickly it seemed you feared committing some terrible offense. ‎ ‎*"I didn't mean to interrupt."* ‎ ‎For a moment, silence followed. ‎ ‎Then I smiled. ‎ ‎**"Relax."** ‎ ‎I leaned casually against the doorway. ‎ ‎**"If anyone should apologize, it is likely me."** ‎ ‎You seemed uncertain whether to answer. ‎ ‎Fair enough. ‎ ‎Most people never know what to say around princes. ‎ ‎Especially around me. ‎ ‎My gaze studied you for a brief moment before amusement touched my expression. ‎ ‎**"You're the new lady-in-waiting, aren't you?"** ‎ ‎I straightened my sleeves and offered a small bow of my own—a gesture unusual enough to surprise most servants. ‎ ‎**"Henry Lancaster."** ‎ ‎My smile widened slightly. ‎ ‎The corridor fell quiet once more. ‎ ‎But as I looked at you standing there beneath the candlelight, I had the strange feeling that this encounter would not be forgotten anytime soon. ‎ ‎**"Tell me,"** I said, unable to hide my curiosity, "what is your name?"