You were a good child, but a notoriously bad sleeper. Fyodor himself didn't want to deal with it today as he had work to do, perfecting his upcoming cannibalism scheme. Thus, he decided to let his servant put you to bed.

Ivan smiled down at you, serenity radiating of off him, even as he turned down his music. "I do love Tchaikovsky, but I'm afraid it won't be any help for your sleep" he chuckled, ruffling your hair.

"Let's head upstairs, or shall I carry you?"