Royal Harry (Patreon)

Hello! So I wrote a little bit kind of in the direction I'd like to go with the prince harry fic that has been so highly requested! Let me know if you guys like this, okay? 

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i.

Harry doesn't like being a prince. 

Don't get him wrong, it definitely comes with it's perks. There's an extensive supply of opulent fabrics and clothing at his disposal, including but not limited to the finest of silk spun into his favorite pieces for a airy summer and the warmest wool for the most frigid of winters. He's always fed, given meals high in nutrients that keep him strong and healthy, not ever allowing him the chance to become feeble and meek from starvation. The access he has to the world's most exquisite doctors could possibly cure a thousand small villages outside of their kingdom of any ailments. His life knew no shortcomings, he woke up with his head amongst goose feathered pillows, and he spends his nights at fireside in his room reading through his novels until sleep breathes a careful whisper to him.

But it's not all just putzing about. He was both blessed and cursed with being the second eldest; blessed in regards to his lack of structured days -- he could come and go as he wished most of the time, like if he wished to wake up a few hours after sunrise and miss breakfast nobody disturbed him -- cursed concerning this means everything he does more or less means nothing. Edgar was meant to be king, everyone was attentive to their future king, kissing his arse, bowing at his feet. It didn't help that he was so loved by everyone either, wherever he went a chorus of, (italicize this) "He's to be a fine king," even from their father, who is nearly impossible to make happy -- at least for him. 

And Harry. . .well, Harry was their prince made of stone. 

He thinks he may have just been born this way. Could not remember a time in his life where he could have possibly been a happy child as his mother and father both tend to remind him of. As far as he's concerned, he was pushed from the womb with a furrow in his brow, and a pout at his mouth. He sulked around the halls, sullen and gloomy, he snapped almost always and those who were his friends he was very aware they tip toed around him often in fear that he would send them to a guillotine or summat, as if he could. The only two people who don't allow him to be the son of cloudy days and thunderstorms are his brother Edgar and his close friend the Earl of Desmond who had more or less been adopted into their kingdom (he never leaves, only returning home if duty calls for him but it rarely does). Otherwise he gets away with being a grumpy sod if he wants and he surely does. 

That's why nobody questions him when he takes three bites of his eggs, downs his water, and takes his bread with him before deciding to walk on the east end of the castle to enjoy the planted flowers. There were some one the west end as well, sure, but there was a less than kind reason for it. Of course partly he was going because of the marigolds, having blossomed nicely this season, and the jasmine brings a sweet scent to his nose as he ambles along the stone trail makes him less of a prick, he thinks. And partly he enjoyed gazing at the ample breasted gardener that hunched over the plants, managing to keep things nice and tidy despite fussing around in dirt. She always smiles towards him kindly and Harry enjoys imagining taking her to the wooden shed and fucking her against the wall, raw and dirty. He thinks he may like her as well. . .she seemed nice. It got him through his morning at least, pretending she would be there for him to hold in the night. 

So imagine his surprise when he bends the outer corner of the chapel, to see that his usual gardener wasn't present. Instead, there was another girl, much less neat and orderly about her working if he could tell anything by the fact that she's got dirt on the skirt of her dress, and up to her forearms. She's on her knees, a watering can and shovel at her right, along with a piece of cloth that holds two pieces of what he presumes to be jewelry that appear to be glimmering in the sunlight. 

Maybe it's because she's taken away his morning routine, but he decides then on out that he doesn't like this girl. 

And when Harry doesn't like someone, he doesn't like them. 

He quickens his pace, brows dipping inward, "You," he calls, watching as she startles, the handful of soil in her hand jumping from her hand and landing on the hydrangea, looking towards him with eyes wide and once she sees who it is, her eyes widen even further, "Who are you?" 

She seems confused, visibly swallowing thickly before clearing his throat, "I'm Y/N." 

"Where has the other gone? The one with blonde hair?

The woman -- Y/N -- casts her gaze downward, "She's gone, Your Grace. Left a note and ran off with a baker down in the village," she nods, "So I'm here in her place. I'm usually a chambermaid though." 

Harry is annoyed. . .he'd not even gotten to bed her and she's left? What a twist of fate could've been had he taken a liking towards her heart and they could've married or summat? She chose to run off with a bloody baker! Sure, she had no idea that he maybe bore feelings for her but he was too upset to think logically.

"I don't care," he speaks impassively, tearing off a piece of his bread that'd grown cold by now and moving to pass by her, "You're filthy." 

He leaves it at this and doesn't look back. 

He tells himself that he'll take walks on the west end instead, so he expects to never see her again. 

What he surely doesn't expect, however, is for his brother to knock at his door later in that evening just before tea. It was a perfunctory knock at best as he just pushes the door open without Harry responding to it, so though he's rearranging his books and facing from the door he knows who it is that entered. "Hello," he greets him, not bothering to turn around, "To what do I owe the pleasure? Not too busy being Daddy's favorite?" 

"Don't be rude to Y/N," he begins immediately, not bothering to play into Harry's pettish jab with playful goading as he normally does, "She's gentle and kind and puts nothing but good to the world. Just because she's replacing the girl you'd been touching yourself too for the past year doesn't mean she's the spawn of hell. Don't treat her as such." 

The conversation ends there and two things are certain. 

One being he's confused, because he doesn't know why Edgar could give a fuck about this "Y/N" -- she couldn't be that important if he'd just heard of her today. 

And two being, he would definitely be rude. . .mean as he wanted to be because he could. 

He did not like being told what to do.