The Queen

37. The Serpents Lullaby

The nursery was awash in golden light, filtered through the stained glass windows that cast jewel-toned shapes across the floor. Alice sat poised in her silken gown, her back perfectly straight, her lips curled in a smile so sweet it could've soured wine. Across from her, cradled in a gilded cradle lined with velvet, the joint prince cooed softly—his eyes wide, curious, innocent.
Alice leaned over, brushing a stray lock from the baby's forehead with feigned tenderness.
"You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you, my little darling?" she cooed, voice saccharine. "But that's alright. One day, you'll look back and realize how clever your mother is."
She chuckled lightly, eyes glinting with pride and malice. "Did you know, sweetheart, I bribed one of your father's soldiers? Just one. That's all it took. A little gold, a little flattery... men are so easy." Her fingers toyed with the lace trim of the baby's blanket. "I told him to attack before the queen's deal was sealed. Surely Samira wouldn't walk out of Henry's tent alive. And just like that—poof—she'd be gone."
Alice sighed dramatically, shifting in her chair. "Foolish girl. Walking into the lion's den like that? It's almost insulting how easy she made it for me. All that fire and bravery for nothing."
She reached in and touched her son's small fingers. "And now... well, things are even more deliciously complicated. Your father is missing—wasn't part of my plan, but I'm hardly complaining. In fact, I think we're in an even better position now, aren't we?"
Her smile widened as she traced the baby's cheek. "You, my precious boy, might become king far sooner than I ever hoped. And as your dear mother and regent, I shall tend to your affairs, guide your reign, shape this kingdom in ways your father never had the stomach for."
She leaned in close, whispering like a bedtime story, "You're the key to everything I've ever wanted. My sweet little prince of power. And with you in my arms, the crown will never fall from my reach."
She kissed his forehead with a softness that clashed bitterly with the venom in her voice. Outside, the wind howled softly through the stone halls, as though the walls themselves recoiled at the quiet treason that had just been spoken.
A distant shout shattered the stillness like a pane of glass. Then came another—closer, more urgent—followed by the thunder of hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Alice stiffened, her pleasant smile vanishing as she turned her head toward the door. Her eyes narrowed.
She looked back at the nursemaid, who stood clutching the baby, white as parchment.
"Watch over him," Alice ordered, her voice colder than frost. She stepped closer, her tone turning dangerously low. "Now more than ever, I need him strong. Healthy. Unharmed." Her gaze bore into the maid's, laced with an unspoken warning. "You won't leave his side. Not for a single breath. Do you understand me?"
The maid nodded quickly, trembling. "Y-Yes, my lady. I swear it."
Without another glance, Alice swept from the room.
The corridor was chaos. Courtiers rushed about wide-eyed, whispers catching like fire. Alice's steps were composed as ever, measured and elegant, but her blood surged with sudden urgency.
She stepped out into the courtyard just in time to see the queen mother collapse to her knees, her fingers clawing into the tunic of her youngest son—Henry.
His body lay crumpled, pale and blood-soaked, eyes half-lidded in eternal stillness. The queen mother's cries pierced the air like a mother wolf howling into the void, raw and broken.
Two soldiers stepped forward, attempting to lift the body away.
"Do not dare touch him!" the queen mother screamed. The men froze at once, glancing helplessly toward the higher-ranking officers for guidance. No one moved.
The crowd watched in stunned silence, the grief too sacred—too damning—to disturb.
Alice's steps slowed. Her mind raced.
She turned to a nearby soldier, catching his arm. "What happened?" she demanded, voice sharp but hushed.
The man swallowed hard. "We... we don't know, my lady. Hell broke loose during the battle. There was so much chaos. The prince was found after the skirmish... already fallen. No one saw how it happened."
Alice stepped back into the quiet corridor, the echo of the queen mother's wails still lingering in the air behind her like a requiem. She didn't flinch. Instead, a small, almost imperceptible smile curled at the corner of her lips.
She walked with purpose—graceful, poised, unbothered. Step by step, her thoughts crystallized into a single, undeniable truth: her position had never been stronger.
No Henry.
No heir.
Only her son now.
And through him... her.
She pushed open the nursery door, where the nursemaid sat in silence, clutching the baby a little too tightly. At the sight of Alice, the maid quickly stood, bowing her head, hands trembling.
Alice paid her no mind. Her eyes found the boy—small, serene, unaware that the world was being reshaped in his name. She walked over and gently took him into her arms, cradling him against her chest.
"You're all that remains," she whispered, pressing her lips softly to his forehead. "The last blood of the crown. A kingdom lies in your breath, little one."
She drew back and gazed at him, her expression equal parts adoration and calculation.
"They will have no choice but to kneel," she continued softly, brushing a finger along his cheek. "There's no one else now. No Henry. No whisper of another heir. Just you. And me."
She turned to the fire, the warm glow dancing across her face, highlighting the glint of something wicked in her eyes.
"Rest, my darling," she murmured. "The crown will fit you perfectly... one day. And until then, I shall wear it for you."
The child blinked up at her, as if he somehow understood the power he unknowingly held. Alice smiled wider.
Yes, the tides had turned.
And they were rising in her favor.
The council chamber was cloaked in tension, a heavy silence resting over the long oak table where the kingdom's highest lords and ministers had gathered in haste. Scrolls and sealed letters lay unopened—none dared touch a thing until the matter at hand was spoken aloud.
The King was missing.
Vanished after the chaos at the border. No word. No sign. Only blood on the battlefield and the body of Prince Henry delivered back in tatters.
Lord Halstead, the oldest and most revered of the council, finally broke the silence.
"We cannot leave the throne unattended. The people will grow restless. The nobles will grow bold."
Murmurs of agreement passed among the lords. Another minister added, "We must declare a regency... until His Majesty is found or—"
The chamber doors flew open with a resounding crash.
Alice swept in like a tempest in silk and steel. Her hair was pinned into an impeccable crown of braids, her dark gown laced with gold thread, the baby prince resting calmly in her arms like a symbol, a claim, a warning.
"I believe I can end this little debate," she said, voice as cold and sharp as a drawn dagger. "There is an heir. And he is right here."
All eyes turned to her—some in shock, others in recognition of the dangerous truth she carried.
"As his mother, it is only natural that I serve as Regent," she continued, her tone rising with righteous fury. "Or would the council deny a child his birthright? Would you steal the throne from the blood of the King himself?"
"Lady Alice," Lord Halstead warned, rising slowly to his feet. "These are delicate matters. The King is not confirmed dead."
"No," she replied coolly, "but he is missing. And we cannot rule a kingdom on hope and shadow. Someone must lead. Someone will."
She stepped forward, placing the prince gently onto the high-backed chair at the head of the council table—the King's seat.
Gasps rippled around the room.
Alice lifted her chin. "This throne belongs to my son now. And through him... it belongs to me."
The baby cooed, oblivious, while his mother's gaze dared any man in the room to challenge her.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. No one spoke.
But the power had already shifted.
And Alice knew it.
A stunned silence reigned in the chamber.
The prince sat—barely able to hold up his own head—on the throne that had seen generations of kings rise and fall. The sight of him there, propped by his mother's ambition more than his own body, sent a ripple of unease through the council.
Lord Halstead cleared his throat. "Lady Alice, this is highly irregular. The Council must vote to confirm a regency. You cannot simply—"
"I am not asking," Alice interrupted, her voice low and laced with quiet menace. "I am informing."
One of the younger lords—Lord Tristan of Eastmere—stood abruptly, his eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and indignation. "You would claim the kingdom with no proof of the King's death? On the back of a babe who cannot speak for himself? This is madness."
Alice's smile did not falter. "What's mad is believing the realm can survive another day of uncertainty. We are vulnerable. Our enemies are watching. The people will need a leader. And who better than the mother of the only heir?"
The room tensed.
Lord Halstead stepped forward, hands raised to restore order. "Enough. The matter will be discussed formally. We need confirmation of the King's fate. Until then, no crown is passed, no regency confirmed."
Alice gave a small, amused nod as if humoring a petulant child. "Discuss all you like," she said, scooping the baby from the chair. "But understand this: my son's place is no longer negotiable. The longer the King remains absent, the stronger his claim becomes. And so does mine."
With that, she swept from the room, the scent of rose and war trailing behind her.
As the doors slammed shut, chaos erupted—voices raised in alarm, in anger, in panic. The council was no longer united. Not in strategy. Not in loyalty.
And Alice... had planted her flag right in the center of the throne room.
Days turned into a quiet kind of chaos. The kind where courtiers whispered behind closed doors and ministers met in candlelit corners, afraid of the silence that came with no word from their king.
Still, Philip did not return.
And in his absence, the royal court began to decay.
The Queen Mother, once the iron spine of the palace, was no longer seen in the royal corridors. Grief hollowed her out. One son missing, swallowed by the war and whispers. The other—her sweet, complicated Henry—was butchered like an animal. She could no longer bear the cold marble halls that echoed with memories and ghosts. Draped in black, she left for her country estate in the north, taking what was left of her heart with her.
Her departure left a void—and Alice filled it without hesitation.
Every day, more matters rose to the surface. Supplies to rebuild the villages burned by war. Men to bury the dead. Farmers begging for seed. Nobles demanding security from border threats.
Someone had to lead.
And Alice, clothed in quiet mourning and iron will, answered every knock at the council chamber doors.
At first, it was small things. Approving provisions. Naming temporary magistrates. Hearing petitions from nobles too timid to wait. But each decision left her name stamped more firmly on the realm.
"She is merely helping until the King returns," said Lord Halstead—though even he no longer believed his own words.
And as her son babbled in his cradle beneath the throne's looming shadow, Alice smiled to herself.
Because the crown was already slipping toward her fingertips—and no one seemed able to stop it.
A sharp cry pierced through the council chamber like a blade.
The baby.
Alice's eyes snapped toward the sound, her jaw tightening. She rose with a huff and swept into the adjacent nursery, her skirts whispering violently against the stone.
"Make it stop!" she snapped, voice cutting like frost.
The nursemaid, a trembling young girl barely older than sixteen, bounced the infant gently in her arms. "He—he must be hungry, my lady," she stammered.
Alice's eyes blazed. "Then feed him, you useless thing! Must I instruct you on how to keep a babe quiet as well?"
The nursemaid gave a small nod, flinching as Alice's hand brushed too close to her cheek. Behind her, a few of the ministers had followed, drawn by the infant's cries and the sharpness of Alice's voice.
None dared speak.
Not a single one.
But their eyes said what their tongues would not—this woman was unraveling.
Alice turned back to them, composed again, the facade snapped into place. "He is the future of this realm," she said, lips curled with false fondness. "And I will not have his health compromised by incompetence."
She swept past them, returning to the council chamber like nothing had happened.
But in the quiet that followed, Minister Tristan—the King's oldest friend, the only one who had known Philip before the crown, before the war—turned to the youngest minister beside him and whispered, "This cannot continue. The kingdom is slipping beneath her heel. I will not watch her destroy what he built."
The younger man hesitated. "What will you do?"
Tristan's eyes, once weary, now sparked with resolve.
"I will find the King. Even if I have to ride to the ends of the realm to do it."
And as he slipped from the chamber, cloaked in silence
The baby cried again.
This time louder—shriller.
Alice's jaw clenched as the sound echoed through the stone walls. Her shoulders tensed, her teacup trembling slightly in her hand before it shattered against the hearth, flung in a sudden burst of rage.
"Take him away!" she roared, whipping around to face the nursemaid. "Somewhere I cannot hear that infernal sound!"
The maid froze, eyes wide with terror, cradling the infant protectively against her chest.
"I said go!" Alice shrieked, her voice feral. "I swear by the gods if I hear another whimper I'll have you whipped and sent to the mines!"
The maid fled without a word, disappearing down the corridor with the baby as he cried harder, wails fading with distance.
Silence returned—but the damage had already been done.
The ministers had seen it all. The way Alice's face contorted at the sound of her own child. The revulsion. The disdain. Not sorrow. Not concern. Not even frustration. No—she was annoyed by her son. Bothered by the cries of the very heir she claimed to protect.
Their gazes shifted uneasily between one another.
There was no warmth in her. No natural affection.
Whatever illusion of motherly devotion she'd paraded since Philip's disappearance was crumbling by the hour—and now, her mask had cracked so violently, they could no longer pretend she was fit to lead.
She wasn't grieving.
She was scheming.
Untrustworthy.
Unhinged.