The courtyard hummed with restless noise—murmured conversations, faint gasps, and uneasy whispers weaving together in an undercurrent of tension.
A young girl in a white embroidered gown stepped onto the balcony. Her long, curly hair—bright orange like polished copper—shifted gently in the wind. She leaned forward, cautious yet compelled, driven by an instinct she could neither name nor resist.
Her father, King Wilhelm, appeared beside her at the railing. His face was unreadable, save for the faint, controlled curve of a smile at his lips.
Below them, the woman knelt at the center of the courtyard. Though her hands were bound, she retained quiet dignity. Tears slipped down her cheeks—not frantic, but calm, mournful, and resolute.
Gisela was too young to grasp the depth of the moment—to understand what history was being carved into her soul.
The royal executioner—a tall, disciplined figure with the bearing of a hardened soldier—draped a black cloth gently over the woman's eyes.
"Her Majesty may declare her final words," he announced.
The woman lifted her chin toward the unseen balcony where she sensed her daughter might stand.
"Once more I speak, before every witness: I am innocent," she said, her voice carrying across the stone.
"But if this is the path set before me, I shall meet it with grace.
To my daughter—my princess—I love you beyond life, and I always shall. May you be protected and guided in all trials.
And to my husband… my king… may your reign endure."
Silence descended like snowfall.
The blade fell—swift, decisive—
and the queen passed from life into memory.
A heavy stillness settled over the courtyard.
---
"AHH!"
Gisela awoke with a sharp gasp.
"Mother…"
Her amber eyes shone with tears as she struggled upright, trembling.
"Today I marry a man I have never met… please… guide me," she whispered.
Morning light washed across her chamber, turning her hair into threads of gold-tinged fire.
For a fleeting moment, she felt as though her mother's presence brushed gently past her, unseen but near.
She rose slowly, her small feet touching the cool marble floor. A faint ache lingered in her limbs. Her long orange curls were tangled and wild, like embers scattered by wind.
A steadying breath. She listened to the quiet rhythm of servants moving softly—arranging linens, setting garments, lighting scented candles. Their muted efficiency only sharpened her anxiety.
Lady Hilda entered with calm composure, bearing a gown of pale ivory.
"You slept restlessly again," she observed softly.
Gisela turned to her, pale and regal, almost spectral in her stillness.
"I dreamed of her… my mother," she admitted. "I… I cannot tell what it means." Her voice trembled, breath uneven.
"Perhaps she came to warn me," Gisela whispered. "Perhaps this marriage is the threshold of some unseen fate, and she wishes to guide me." Tears slid down her cheeks, but her gaze burned with resolve.
"No, child," Hilda said firmly, yet gently. "You must not let fear sway you."
Gisela raised her hand.
"Do not dismiss me," she said, voice trembling but determined.
"What if he is as cold and unyielding as my father? What if I am destined for a life where I am silenced—where I am nothing but a display piece?"
She collapsed to her knees, sobbing into the folds of her nightdress. The cool marble pressed against her skin, grounding her despair.
"Gisela… look at me," Hilda commanded. Her tone was calm, steady, unshakable.
She knelt beside the princess, brushing curls from her flushed face.
"You are the future Queen of England," she said softly. "A woman of destiny, one who will shape nations and bear heirs of greatness. You cannot surrender to fear. You must rise, as your mother did—with courage and dignity."
Hilda drew Gisela into a firm embrace.
"Your mother was but ten when she wed your father," she continued. "She faced her fate with grace, never faltering. You carry her blood, her spirit… her fire. Do not forget it."
Gisela's breath steadied. Slowly, she lifted her head and wiped her tears. Amber eyes glistened, swollen but resolute.
Strength bloomed within her.
She rose, back straight, chin lifted.
"I am Gisela," she declared, her voice ringing through the chamber.
"A princess from Germany… and I shall be the Queen of England."
A bold, determined smile spread across her face.
---
"Prepare the royal carriage!" the chief guard proclaimed, his voice echoing through the corridors. His uniform of deep blue trimmed with gold gleamed in the morning light.
Servants hurried. Curtains were drawn back. Trumpets sounded in the distance.
Gisela no longer felt like a frightened girl.
She was stepping toward her crown.
The horses snorted and shook their manes as the carriage rolled forward, wheels grinding against the stones. Inside, silence stretched taut. Only the gentle rustle of her white embroidered gown with gold stripes and the soft adjustment of her posture moved the air.
"Gisela." Her father's voice cut through the quiet—cold, measured.
"Yes, Father?" she replied calmly, meeting his gaze.
"See that you do not embarrass me," he said, voice flat but sharp.
"I have never dishonored you," she answered quietly, yet there was steel in her tone.
He said nothing further, only studied the passing scenery through the window.
"Be careful what you say… and how you present yourself. The English court watches closely. They look for flaws."
A chill ran down her spine.
"I will present myself as I am," she said, voice steady. "With poise. With confidence."
Her father let out a short, curt scoff.
"This is only a royal marriage alliance," he said.
"I understand, Father," she said, holding his gaze without wavering.
"I was born for this. And I will make a good queen—of that, I am certain."
His jaw tightened, his hand curling in restrained frustration.
"Just like your mother, you irritate me... You should know how to speak... Be mindful of what you say infront of your husband before you have your head off too," he hissed in annoyance.
Then–the carriage slowed. Wheels ground to a halt against the cobbled stones.
The threshold of her new life awaited.
---