[Fictional Disclaimer – Elegant Version]
Though shaped in the likeness of ancient realms, this tale is entirely imagined. Its people and events are born of fantasy alone and hold no reflection of real history or persons.
In the vast and echoing throne room of House Wilhelm, Lady Gisela stood before her father, a flicker of defiance in a chamber built for obedience. The high stone pillars rose like silent judges, and the only light came from guttering torches that cast restless shadows upon the cold flagstones. Her hair—a cascade of copper and gold, like autumn captured in silk—framed a face too young for the gravity it now held. But her eyes, a luminous amber catching the firelight, burned with a quiet, fierce light.
"I cannot wed him, Father. I shall not—"
Her words, trembling but clear, were severed by the crack of his hand through the air. The blow was not what brought her to her knees; it was the shock of it, the violent stillness that followed, as if the very foundations of her world had shifted. The chill of the marble floor seeped through her gown, shocking her palms as she caught herself.
"You dare defy my decree?" King Wilhelm's voice was the sound of a portcullis slamming shut, final and unforgiving. "Would you have me treat you as I did your mother?"
The silence that followed was thicker than the stones around them.
Gisela remained on the floor, breath shallow, a single strand of her vivid hair fallen across her vision, trembling with her. She did not look up.
"Remove her from my sight," the king commanded, his tone now flat, sharp as a blade's edge. Attendants materialized from the gloom, lifting her gently but firmly by her arms.
"Shameless," he muttered, turning his back to her crumpled form. "Utterly without honor."
…
Once beyond the heavy oak door, away from the king's glacial presence, Gisela's composure shattered. Silent tears traced paths through the dust on her cheeks.
"I cannot marry him," she whispered, the words raw and broken. "He terrifies me… the very thought of his touch, his voice… I cannot bear it. Please, Hilda—help me. We could flee. We could escape this fate…"
She buried her face into the familiar warmth of Hilda's lap. Hilda, her nurse, her guardian, the steady hand that had guided her since her first steps, said nothing at first, her worn fingers stroking the brilliant cascade of Gisela's hair.
"No one defies King Wilhelm," Hilda murmured at last, her voice a low, sure current beneath Gisela's tempest. "I know this fear that lives in you, child. To be bound at sixteen to a stranger-king is a heavy yoke. But it has ever been the duty of royal daughters: to bridge kingdoms with their lives, to secure peace with their blood, to continue the line with their bodies."
Hilda paused, feeling the girl tense. But Gisela jerked her head up, her tear-streaked face now alight with something wild and unyielding. In that moment, her amber eyes did not just catch the light—they seemed to generate it, glowing with an inner fire.
"I will not be a vessel!" The cry was not a plea, but a declaration. It echoed, softly defiant, down the empty corridor. "I am more than a womb for heirs, more than a treaty written in flesh! I will live a life of my own choosing. I must."
The passage fell into a profound quiet. Even the dancing torch flames seemed to still, holding their breath.
Then Hilda laughed—a sound rich, deep, and unexpected, like bells pealing from a hidden spire.
"Ah, Gisela… wild heart, fiery spirit of the Old Rhine. You forget. You are not just any daughter sent to barter. You are the last true heir of a house older than stones, wiser than crowns."
Hilda cupped the girl's face, her own gaze deepening into pools of quiet certainty.
"Remember this, child. You do not go to England as a sacrifice. You go as a conqueror."
She leaned closer, her whisper weaving through the silence like a thread of destiny.
"Soon enough, and by your own strength, you shall be Queen of England."
The words settled between them—not as comfort, but as a vow. Not as an end, but as the first, fierce note of a beginning.[