Prince Harry!! (Patreon)

I need you're opinions! I hope it's good so I'm gonna post all of what I've got so let me know if you're digging it or not. (I'll probably go back and beef some of it up you know)

______________________________________________________________

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, and 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, "He's to be a fine ruler," 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 Niall, 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 on 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 smudged 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 palms 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. 

And he intends for this, until his brother knocks 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 and instead giving a hardy blow to the dust covering the bind of an old piece, "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 into the world. Just because she's replacing the girl you've 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 with the clicking sound of his door shutting and two things become certain to Harry. 

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. 

                                                                          .                              .                              .

The next time Harry takes one of his morning strolls on the east end of the castle, this time with a full bodied peach in his hand and the juice running down the sides of his wrist in multiple sticky drizzled lines, he sees the girl there again which is what he had intended. Again she was on her knees, patting around the soil of what he presumes has been a newly planted seed, though he does se her mouth moving. Almost like she was speaking and he's quite confused to whom she may be speaking to, until he comes closer to her and strains his ears some from the rock embedded trail he'd ben walking on -- that's when he realizes that she's conversing with the plants. 

Plants, like that old folktale that says it makes them grow better. A sharp noise between a snort and a scoff is what ultimately gives his position away, and the jumpy thing all but squeaks in surprise, her hand pressed to her heart as she turned around, "You scared me, Your Grace!" She tells him but he rolls his eyes (had it been the other girl he might have apologized but she's with her dough kneader right now), digging the tip of his thumb into the flesh of the fruit in his hand. 

"You're speaking to the plants," he sneers, "Are they your only friends then?" 

Either she doesn't recognize this as an insult or she chooses to ignore the connotation behind his tone, but she responds as she dusts off her palms, "No they aren't, but Prince Edgar told me once if you speak to them it encourages them to grow so I've been trying it. I'm not the best at gardening and I figure this may help." 

Of course it was fucking Edgar who told her. Harry huffs through his noses, bending at his knee and peering at her through the slits of his eyes, "What's your business with Edgar?" He questions her before accusing, "Is he fucking you?" 

Y/N's eyes go wide, shaking her head, brows furrowed, "What? Of course not!" 

Harry puts his hands up in mock defense, tilting his head some, "Hey now, don't get so teste. M'just wondering what relation you must have with my brother for you to tattle on me and have him come as your knight in shining armor." The dribble of excitement that slithers through him should probably be concerning, considering that the way she'd gotten so riled has fostered a racing of his own heart -- like being in the midst of a really enlivening game. Getting a rise out of people is something he's always enjoyed but it feels a bit different when it comes to her. . .more gratifying to see the way her face had shifted from what he was picking up as soft, naïve optimism. 

"I didn't -- I didn't, tattle, Your Grace. Prince Edgar asked me how my day was and I told him that I met you for the first time and that I don't think you like me." She explains herself, shaking her head, "I didn't ask for him to talk to you, he did that at his own volition." 

What a great leader he'll be, Harry fights to not roll his eyes again, resting his elbow on his knee and biting down into the peach again, chewing thoughtfully as he chose what to say next. When he finally swallows, he nods his head, "You're right, I don't like you. You're covered in dirt and apparently batty if you'll go on talking to plants 'cos my brother said so. Any person who blindly listens to him is no friend of mine." Her brows pinch inward. . .she seems annoyed and he likes that even more. Rarely anyone apart from his family and Niall show their irritation with them on their face, but it's clear as day on her features. It makes him feel giddy in a way he can't describe. "However, I do feel sorry for you," he continues, fighting the smile that worms on his face as he kisses the inside of his cheek, "Edgar's got a small cock." 

"I'm not --" she begins, at first angry and affronted but it's like it clicks in her head who she's speaking to, as her once fierce posture returns to one of compliance. . .he doesn't like that though, at least not in this case, "There are no relations between Prince Edgar and I, Your Grace." 

He realizes then that he probably won't get much of anything else from her and really he had nothing more to say, so he begins to stand. 

"Pity. It's about time he loses his virginity." 

With this he leaves, almost concerningly spirited for having just been poking fun -- he figures that he must be a proper bully or summat then. Though he still would very much like to know the relationship between Edgar and this girl Y/N that would have him rushing to a servant's defense of his own choice and why she would become so frantic when he accused them of having sex. This is the only reasoning he could figure that the both of them were reacting in their way, however he would admit that it would be perplexing if he were since he usually has his pick of the court. And it's not to say Y/N wasn't pretty. . .she was quite nice to look at, though of course she wasn't as tidied or as done up as someone on the court might be. Her features were intriguing, soft, and pretty -- he liked them, and he'd like them more had she not replaced his eye's previous delight. 

He hates for it to seem like he's treating these women as objects as well. . .he doesn't believe he is. While Harry does focus on beauty, it's more for the art of it than his actual indulgent pleasures. Had it been for merely that, then he would fuck any living breathing thing that knocks on his door in the midst of the evening, looking to see if he'd like a tongue or two on his prick. The human form and all that it carries has always been something Harry was supremely interested in and since he didn't spend his time wallowing in the normal entertainment that someone of his status should be -- he spent most his time observing. Studying forms and shapes, how the muscles in their face contract through their expressions, the curves and marks of their faces. Harry is one who appreciates beauty in all things, and especially in living creatures, and especially in humans, women and men alike. 

And any person to him that is beautiful, yet no fun to speak with, peaks his interest very little. That's why, though he'd been irritated that he would not see the pretty and seemingly sweet gardener before (whom he'd never just bit the bullet and spoke to), he was more than excited now that Y/N has taken her place. It was a delight getting underneath her skin the little that he had already, and he looked forward to doing it more often. 

This should be great fun for him.

                                                                    .                                .                                .

The rain is but a cool drizzle that Harry couldn't stand to walk in early one Saturday morning, which had only bummed him some. Mostly because the past three weeks he had made a lovely habit of walking around the east end garden and poking fun at the meek gardener who often gets grumpy with him but reigns it in before it could get too disrespectful. He teases her for her clothes, for the way she speaks to the plants like they're humans, ("You're friends aren't listening to you, are they? Garden looks like rubbish."), how the dirt smudged on her skin, or even the way she just speaks in general. He loves watching her feather's visibly ruffle, like running his fingers the opposite direction of growth on a chicken's side -- the inability of her keeping her facial features in check, like managing the furrow in her brow, or the frown on her mouth, or the clear annoyance decorated on her face. . .was just all too satisfying! He couldn't explain it. Couldn't quite determine why he wasn't getting angry when she thought she could get upset with him. Hell, he wanted to push her to the point that she might yell. 

He thinks it may be because she's so. . .just so, disgustingly kind. Harry had done some digging into who this girl was as to try and figure out Edgar's adoration for her, but it was apparent that she was well liked by many. The seamstress whose brain he'd prodded for information had told him a few things, like how she'll clean twice as many rooms if it means that the other chambermaid can spend time with her new baby, or how she purposefully takes extra care to double check linens when she's tidying up just in case the washer -- an old woman who was blind in one eye -- wouldn't get scolded if there was anything wrong. If there was, she'd take the blame of "accidentally" getting soot on it from the fireplace and run quickly to gather their replacements, doing up the bed herself before anyone could do anything for her. 

This only serves to make him want to be even crueler towards her. Harry doesn't believe that anyone is inherently good -- not even those apart of the church. The world they're surrounded in is such a corrupt, evil place full of terrible, awful people that all have an ulterior motive; nobody kisses the boots of a poor man. What her gain might be, he wouldn't know, but what he does know is Edgar is such a strong advocate for treating people of all ranks and all classes with a tender heart. And if she were to pick up on this, she could easily be trying to slither her way into his heart like the likes of a snake. Once he's king, it wouldn't matter to whom their parents wanted him to marry. He was strong-willed, stubborn, and father was getting old. . .if he could dress her and jewels and lie of her origin, they would be none the wiser and he no doubt would persecute anyone who tried to get in between him. 

The very reason they believe he'd be a fine ruler would be the same to bite them in the arse, in the end. 

Through whispers in the court, Harry hears that Edgar's to be wed to Lady Monterey of northern riches and kin to one of his father's closest politicians but being born with a slick tongue and a perplexing ability to get as he wishes, it was up in the air what could happen. And if this chambermaid fooled him, he has no doubts that she'd mysteriously gain higher rank if not tricking her way to be his bride. 

He tells himself it's because of her deceiving his brother that he's irate when he sees her giggling with someone, as he's floating around the castle halls with a piece of lemon cake, visiting sectors he'd otherwise pay no mind to had he anything better to do. Not quite the staff's quarters but an area in which they had a bit more freedom to runabout -- its a place Harry would visit often as a child. The boy she speaks with has suspenders clipped to worn trousers far too small to fit his lengthy frame, a button up that he's sure had once been white years ago, and he's playfully offering her a lollipop like it were a flower. Harry struggles to keep his eyes from rolling at the way her face grows sheepish, smiling at the cobblestone flooring as she takes it from him. 

"You there," Harry calls frown down the hall, finding himself intervening before he could think otherwise, watching both of them startle, looking towards him and while the boy's face goes pale, Y/N has a visible annoyance laced within her gaze, "Boy, you're needed in the east end." 

"Yes, my Lord!" He bends at his waist before him, turning to say a quick parting to Y/N before running off in the direction which Harry came. 

Y/N quickly repositions the water bucket she'd been cradling and seems to be ready to go around him but he stops her with a hand, looking back to the boy scampering off then to her, raising his brows and she shakes her head quickly, knowing what he was implying, "No, no, Charlie is a friend. There's rumors he's seeing Caroline anyway -- he doesn't see me like that." 

The solemn tone she takes suggests that she wishes there were more and it only makes Harry squint his eyes at her, "You fancy him, don't you?" He presses and she continues shaking her head, with no chance to open her mouth and deny this, he continues on, "Oh, Christ, that's embarrassing innit? The guy you like wants another? I s'ppose she must be prettier than you, yeah?" 

She looks down, the suds in the water slosh, threatening to tip over the edge if she moved too quickly, a despondency he'd never been privy to on her face. And it. . .his heart, tugs some. Like the felt of a puppet tied to a string plucked by the fingers of a grabby child, yanked from it's usual place and it leaves him disgruntled. The feeling in his chest must be annoyance, he figures, for her to be so sad over a chimney sweep or whatever he may be having his eyes set on someone other than her, while he and his brother even pay mind to her in the first place. Shouldn't she be daydreaming of the day Edgar finally whisks her away, or imagining that Harry was just a child-minded bully that was cruel to her because he liked her (which was far off the mark but still, he'd think it would have at least crossed her mind)? Why be pining for such a scrawny little thing like that? 

"Say," he begins, "Open your mouth." 

Her brows furrow, looking to face him, "Your Grace?" She questions and he merely shakes his head, peeling a piece of his lemon cake off and holding it in between his thumb and forefinger. 

"Don't question me," his tone carries a certain aloofness to it, and no matter what he may let her get away with confrontational wise with him (short of a few eye rolls and grumbles, she doesn't retaliate much, but that alone could get her in a lot of trouble had he been anyone else -- opposed to maybe Edgar, of course), but his father was still her king and he was still a prince. So she opens her mouth for him, her tongue resting on her lower lip and Harry carefully places the lemon cake atop of it. When she holds it there for a moment he scoffs, "I didn't poison it." He shook his head, "If I wanted you dead, I do something much more creative." 

She still seems hesitant, pulling it into her mouth and closing her lips around it. Harry watches as she chews, slow, steady -- unlike any people in their dining hall or at the table in which he sits. It looks like she's savoring it. . .like this could've been her first bite of food all day, even, and there is something grounding about it, he finds. The food that they eat is plentiful in source; they feast 'till they're stuffed full and cannot bare another bite, then the rest gets sent back to the kitchen before anything is distributed to the staff. He can eat when he's hungry, but in this moment, Harry wonders absently if he ever truly knew what hungry was. 

He watches as she swallows, attempting to shuffle the bucket in her hands to reach and swipe off the crumbs from her face but he reaches up himself and swipes them away, "Thank you, Your Grace, that was very kind." 

"You like sweets?" He questions and she nods, "You eat like a rabid animal." He then lies, just to see the pout dip her mouth low, but he takes the pail from her hands and sets it carefully to the ground, before handing her the rest of the lemon cake wrapped within the handkerchief he'd had (the one he designates for carrying fruits around with him usually, but today he had snatched one before everyone else could eat them -- Harry often leaves the table before dessert so he seldom gets to indulge in sweets), and when she stares at him with widened, confused eyes, he nods towards it, "Go on and eat it then, you've gone and made me pity you. It'll probably be the best thing you've had all your life. I expect to have this handkerchief washed and returned to me before tea." 

Harry pivots on his heel and heads the way he'd came.