Dream of Everything

Elizabeth remained at the window long after Bobby's figure had disappeared beyond the manor's gates, watching as snow continued to fall in gentle flurries across the winter landscape. The tightness in her chest had begun the moment he mentioned his liaisons with court ladies, growing steadily more uncomfortable as their conversation progressed. Now, with his departure, the sensation had intensified to an almost physical ache that defied her attempts at royal composure.

What was wrong with her? Why should Bobby Kestrel's personal activities provoke such a visceral response? He was an ally of convenience—a powerful, inhuman being temporarily aligned with her interests, nothing more. His entertainments with Lady Howard or the Countess of Bedford or any other court butterfly should mean nothing to her beyond their strategic implications.

Yet she could not dismiss the sharp discomfort she felt imagining his hands on another woman's body. The vivid mental image of Bobby—nude as he had been when she first encountered him—entangled with Lady Howard's voluptuous form made her stomach clench with an emotion she refused to name.

"This is absurd," she murmured to herself, turning abruptly from the window. She had far more pressing concerns than whatever Robert Kestrel did with his inhuman cock in his spare time. Her brother lay dying, Northumberland plotted against the rightful succession, and her own life hung in precarious balance. These matters demanded her complete attention.

Elizabeth moved to her writing desk, determined to focus on composing the strategically ambiguous letter to Northumberland they had discussed. She dipped her quill in ink, then hesitated, her mind stubbornly returning to Cecil's uncomfortable revelations about Bobby's extensive female connections.

The Countess of Pembroke claims he entertained both her and her lady-in-waiting simultaneously for an entire night.

The unwelcome image formed unbidden—Bobby's powerful form between two aristocratic women, his hands exploring their bodies, his mouth on their skin, his cock—

The quill snapped between her fingers, spattering ink across the blank parchment and her sleeve. Elizabeth cursed softly, a most unladylike expression she had learned from her father's guardsmen years ago. She reached for a cloth to blot the damage, irritated by her uncharacteristic clumsiness.

She could not dictate Robert Kestrel's personal life, just as he could not dictate hers. That was not the nature of their arrangement. She was not his keeper, nor he hers—though in truth, his guardianship had already saved her life in that abandoned church. Without his intervention, she would almost certainly have been violated and murdered by Northumberland's thugs. His loyalty, however defined, deserved her gratitude rather than this irrational jealousy.

Jealousy. There, she had named it, this uncomfortable emotion that tightened her chest and soured her thoughts. It was unseemly, unproductive, and entirely beneath her dignity as a Tudor princess. Whatever women Robert Kestrel bedded was his own affair, provided those connections didn't compromise their shared objectives.

Elizabeth straightened her shoulders, summoning the iron discipline that had carried her through numerous political crises despite her youth. She was daughter to Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, rightful heir to England's throne after her siblings. Such petty emotions were beneath her station.

She turned her attention resolutely back to the letter, crafting each sentence with careful precision. The document must thread an impossible needle—acknowledging Edward's declining health without appearing to anticipate his death, expressing concern without challenging Northumberland's authority, implying acceptance of succession plans without explicitly endorsing Lady Jane Grey.

By the time she completed the letter two hours later, the winter light had faded entirely, leaving her chamber illuminated only by flickering candles. Elizabeth read through the finished text with critical attention, satisfying herself that every word served its strategic purpose before sealing it with wax. The tightness in her chest had receded somewhat, discipline and purpose providing temporary relief from unwelcome feelings.

Still, as she prepared for bed that night, dismissing her ladies after they had helped her into her night rail, the disquiet returned. In the privacy of her bedchamber, with no immediate tasks requiring her attention, Elizabeth found her mind returning inexorably to the subject of Robert Kestrel and his female companions.

Lady Howard boasted privately that he possesses a cock of extraordinary size and remarkable control over its... functions.

The crude phrasing echoed in her memory, accompanied by unwelcome curiosity. What precisely had Lady Howard meant by "remarkable control"? And what of his cryptic comment about "advantages" that conventional human biology didn't offer?

Elizabeth slipped beneath the heavy coverlets, the winter chill making the bed's warming pan particularly welcome. Despite her physical comfort, sleep proved elusive as her mind continued its treacherous circling back to Robert Kestrel.

She had seen him naked, of course, in that abandoned church—his perfect form unmarked by the destruction he had survived, his male anatomy clearly visible though she had maintained appropriate royal dignity by limiting her observation. Even in that moment of crisis, she had registered his impressive physicality, though practical concerns had rightfully dominated her attention.

What would it be like to be one of those court ladies, she wondered—to experience whatever "advantages" his inhuman physiology offered? The thought sent an unexpected warmth spreading through her lower belly, a sensation both unfamiliar and dangerously enticing.

"Enough," she whispered firmly into the darkness, as though verbally commanding her wayward thoughts to cease. She was Elizabeth Tudor, not some empty-headed court butterfly swooning over a handsome face. Whatever power Robert Kestrel held over other women, she would not succumb to such base impulses.

With determined focus, Elizabeth turned her thoughts to prayer, reciting familiar Protestant devotions until mental discipline finally overcame physical restlessness. Sleep claimed her gradually, drawing her into darkness that slowly transformed into vivid dreamscapes beyond her conscious control.

----------

The Great Hall of Whitehall Palace stretched before her, transformed beyond recognition from the austere Protestant decorations of Edward's reign. Rich tapestries depicting biblical scenes hung between tall windows, their colors vivid in the afternoon sunlight. Courtiers in sumptuous garments lined both sides of the long chamber, their expressions reflecting careful neutrality as they watched the proceedings unfold.

Elizabeth recognized this as her dream vision immediately, yet something had changed. In previous dreams, she had observed events as though floating above or beside them, a disembodied witness to potential futures. Now, she inhabited her future self completely, feeling the weight of elaborate court dress against her skin, sensing the pressure of the crown upon her head, experiencing each breath and heartbeat as though fully present in this moment years ahead.

She sat upon the throne of England—not merely watching a potential Elizabeth do so, but actually feeling the carved oak beneath her, sensing the ermine-trimmed robe draped across her shoulders, experiencing the hushed deference of courtiers firsthand.

To her right stood Robert Kestrel, though he bore little resemblance to the merchant persona he currently maintained. This future Kestrel wore the formal black garb of highest state office, with subtle gold embroidery marking his extraordinary status. A heavy gold chain of office rested against his chest, its central medallion bearing England's royal arms modified with symbols Elizabeth didn't recognize.

"The Spanish ambassador approaches, Your Majesty," murmured a councilor whose face Elizabeth couldn't quite distinguish despite her dreamlike omniscience. "Lord Protector Kestrel has reviewed his credentials."

Lord Protector Kestrel. The title echoed strangely in Elizabeth's consciousness. Never in English history had a monarch ruled alongside a Lord Protector—such offices existed only during regencies when the sovereign was too young to rule independently. For such a position to exist during her reign would imply that she had somehow abdicated actual power while maintaining the crown's symbols.

Yet as the dream continued, Elizabeth felt no distress at this arrangement. Instead, her future self regarded Bobby with familiar affection tinged with something deeper—a bond clearly extending far beyond political alliance.

The formal audience progressed with stately precision, the Spanish ambassador presenting his credentials with elaborate courtesy while Elizabeth and Bobby exchanged occasional glances laden with private meaning. Though Elizabeth spoke the formal words of royal acceptance, it was clearly Bobby who controlled actual policy, with courtiers directing their substantive questions to him despite maintaining ceremonial deference to her.

When the audience concluded, Elizabeth rose, courtiers bowing deeply as she proceeded from the Great Hall with Bobby at her side. They moved through Whitehall's labyrinthine corridors in comfortable silence until reaching the privacy of the royal apartments, where guards closed heavy doors behind them, leaving them alone.

"Well played, Elizabeth," Bobby said, his formal manner dissolving into casual warmth once they were private. "The Spanish believe you're considering their marriage proposal seriously."

"As we intended," she replied, feeling her dream-self smile with satisfied complicity. "Though their candidate remains as unacceptable as ever."

Bobby moved to a sideboard, pouring wine into two goblets without requiring servants' assistance—a breach of protocol that spoke to their unusual relationship. "They'll withdraw him eventually when it becomes clear no Habsburg will ever share your bed or throne."

Elizabeth accepted the offered wine, their fingers brushing with deliberate intimacy. "They're persistent. Philip still believes he might claim through me what he couldn't secure through my sister."

"Philip is an arrogant fool," Bobby replied, his tone holding genuine amusement. "Though a dangerous one when cornered. Our strategy against his armada preparations continues as planned?"

"Drake sails next week," Elizabeth confirmed, moving to sit on a cushioned window seat overlooking the Thames. "The 'unofficial' raid on Cadiz should delay their fleet preparations considerably."

"Good," Bobby nodded approvingly. "And the other matter we discussed? The mathematician from Pisa with the interesting theories about celestial bodies?"

"I've approved the appointment and stipend as you suggested," Elizabeth replied. "Though the bishops continue objecting to what they call dangerous foreign influences in our universities."

Bobby laughed, the sound holding genuine warmth. "They'll thank us in a century or two when England leads Europe in scientific advancement. Your father's religious reformation was nothing compared to the intellectual reformation we're fostering."

"Our bargain fulfilled on both sides," Elizabeth observed, regarding him over the rim of her goblet. "You secured my throne; I advance your scientific interests."

"And beyond mere bargain," Bobby replied, his voice dropping to a more intimate register as he joined her on the window seat. "We've created something neither of us anticipated, haven't we?"

The dream shifted suddenly, as dreams do, without logical transition. The royal apartment dissolved, reforming as a bedchamber Elizabeth recognized as the Queen's private sleeping quarters at Whitehall. Heavy velvet curtains surrounded a massive oak four-poster bed, its coverings bearing the Tudor rose in elaborate embroidery.

Elizabeth found herself standing beside this bed, no longer wearing formal court dress but a simple white night rail of finest linen. Bobby stood before her, similarly transformed from formal court attire to a simple shirt and breeches.

"The court believes you remain the Virgin Queen," he said softly, reaching to trace one finger along her cheek with heart-stopping tenderness. "Your careful cultivation of that image serves our purposes perfectly."

"While the reality remains our secret alone," Elizabeth replied, feeling her pulse quicken as Bobby's hand moved from her cheek to her throat, fingers tracking lightly over sensitive skin.

"Reality often differs from carefully managed appearances," Bobby agreed, his eyes darkening with desire as his hand continued its downward path, now tracing her collarbone through the thin linen. "The Virgin Queen and her trusted Lord Protector, maintaining appropriate formal distance in public while sharing rather different relations in private."

"Sometimes I wonder if we deceive ourselves as effectively as we deceive the court," Elizabeth murmured, her breath catching as Bobby's hand reached the swell of her breast, cupping it with possessive familiarity. "This arrangement was never part of our original bargain."

"The best outcomes rarely follow predetermined paths," Bobby replied, his thumb brushing across her nipple through the linen, sending sparks of pleasure cascading through her body. "I secured your throne as promised. How we choose to enjoy that victory is entirely our affair."

Without warning, his manner changed completely. The gentle exploration transformed into something fierce and demanding as he seized her night rail with both hands and tore it down the center, the sound of ripping fabric unnaturally loud in the quiet chamber. The garment fell away, leaving Elizabeth completely naked before his hungry gaze.

"On your knees, Your Majesty," he commanded, his voice dropping to a register that brooked no refusal.

Elizabeth felt herself respond instantly, dropping to the carpeted floor without hesitation or protest. This complete submission to his authority—so contrary to her public persona as England's sovereign—sent a thrill of forbidden excitement through her core.

Bobby unfastened his breeches, freeing his cock—immense and rigid, confirming Lady Howard's boastful reports about his extraordinary dimensions. Elizabeth stared at it with undisguised hunger, her mouth actually watering at the sight.

"Open," he ordered simply.

Elizabeth parted her lips obediently, moaning softly as he thrust forward without preamble, filling her mouth completely with his impressive length. The intrusion should have been uncomfortable given his size, yet her dream-self accommodated him with practiced ease, taking him deeply into her throat without gagging.

"That's it," he growled, his fingers tangling in her loose hair, guiding her movements with firm control. "Show me how well you serve your Lord Protector."

Elizabeth felt herself respond to his dominating tone with increasing excitement, her core growing slick and ready as she worked her mouth around his shaft. This complete surrender of control—impossible in any other context for a ruling queen—provided intoxicating liberation from the constant weight of royal responsibility.

Bobby used her mouth ruthlessly, thrusting with increasing force, his fingers tightening in her hair to hold her precisely where he wanted. Far from being distressed by this rough treatment, Elizabeth felt herself growing wetter, more desperate for him with each passing moment.

"Look at England's great Virgin Queen now," Bobby taunted, his voice husky with desire. "On her knees like a common tavern whore, choking on my cock and loving every moment of it."

The crude words should have offended her royal dignity, yet they provoked exactly the opposite response—intensifying her arousal to almost painful levels. Elizabeth moaned around his substantial girth, her hands moving to his thighs for balance as he continued his relentless assault on her throat.

"Touch yourself," he commanded. "Show me how wet this makes your royal cunt."

Elizabeth obeyed instantly, one hand dropping between her thighs to find herself embarrassingly slick. The evidence of her desire coated her fingers as she stroked her swollen center, her body responding to his degrading commands with shameful enthusiasm.

Without warning, Bobby pulled back, withdrawing from her mouth completely. Elizabeth whimpered at the loss, looking up at him with naked need in her expression.

"On the bed," he ordered. "On your back, legs spread wide. I want to see exactly what belongs to me."

Elizabeth scrambled to obey, arranging herself as commanded across the royal bed, her legs parted shamelessly to display her glistening center for his inspection. Whatever dignity she maintained before the English court had completely dissolved in private, replaced by wanton submission to his will.

Bobby removed his shirt unhurriedly, revealing his perfect torso—smooth, muscular, unmarked by any flaw or scar. He stood at the bed's edge, his impressive cock jutting forward as he studied her exposed body with clinical detachment.

"Beautiful," he murmured, reaching to trace one finger along her inner thigh, deliberately avoiding her center where she most desired his touch. "England's greatest queen, spread open and begging for my cock without a single word spoken."

Elizabeth arched toward his touch, wordlessly confirming his assessment. "Please," she whispered, abandoning royal dignity entirely.

"Please what?" Bobby demanded, his finger continuing its maddening circuit of her thigh, occasionally brushing close to her center before retreating. "Be specific, Your Majesty. What precisely does England's sovereign require from her Lord Protector?"

"Fuck me," Elizabeth gasped, the crude language feeling strangely natural in this dream context despite her waking self's more refined speech. "Please, Bobby, I need your cock inside me."

He smiled, the expression holding genuine affection beneath its dominant exterior. "Since you ask so prettily..."

Without further preamble, he positioned himself between her spread thighs, the massive head of his cock nudging against her entrance. Even slick with arousal as she was, the size difference should have made his entry difficult or painful. Yet in the dream's logic, Elizabeth's body accommodated him perfectly as he thrust forward in a single powerful movement, burying himself to the hilt inside her.

The sensation was extraordinary—a fullness beyond anything Elizabeth could have imagined, stretching her to absolute capacity without causing actual pain. She cried out, her back arching off the bed as pleasure radiated outward from where they joined.

"Mine," Bobby growled, beginning to move with controlled power. "Every royal inch of you belongs to me when we're alone. Isn't that right, Queen Elizabeth?"

"Yes," she gasped as he established a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving the breath from her lungs. "Yours, Bobby. Only yours."

His hands gripped her hips hard enough that his fingers would surely leave bruises, raising the delicious possibility that these marks of possession would remain hidden beneath her royal garments for days afterward—secret evidence of their private relationship that counselors and courtiers would never suspect.

Bobby's pace increased, his control giving way to more animalistic urgency as he pounded into her willing body. Elizabeth matched his intensity, her hips rising to meet each thrust, taking him impossibly deeper with each movement.

"Harder," she demanded, her royal authority momentarily reasserting itself even in submission. "Fuck me harder, Bobby. Make me feel it tomorrow when I'm sitting on my throne."

He complied instantly, increasing both speed and force until the massive bed frame itself began to creak protestingly beneath their violent coupling. The sensation grew almost unbearable—pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, filling Elizabeth completely, driving coherent thought from her mind until nothing remained but primitive sensation.

"That's it," Bobby growled approvingly as her body began to tighten around him. "Come for me, Elizabeth. Let me feel that royal cunt squeezing my cock."

His crude command pushed her over the edge. Elizabeth felt herself shatter, her inner walls clamping down on his substantial girth as waves of pleasure crashed through her body. She cried out—a sound that would have scandalized the court had anyone overheard their sovereign in such a moment of complete abandonment.

Bobby continued thrusting through her climax, prolonging the sensation until it became almost unbearable. Then, without warning, he withdrew completely, leaving her feeling suddenly, painfully empty.

"Turn over," he ordered, his voice rough with desire. "On your hands and knees."

Elizabeth complied instantly, still trembling from her intense climax as she positioned herself as commanded. In this posture, with her royal backside raised submissively toward him, she had never felt more thoroughly owned—or more completely liberated from the constant weight of sovereignty.

Bobby's hands grasped her hips again, positioning her precisely before he thrust forward, entering her from behind with such force that she collapsed onto her forearms, her face pressed into the Tudor-embroidered pillows. This new angle allowed him even deeper penetration, his considerable length reaching places inside her that sent fresh shockwaves of pleasure radiating outward.

"This is what you need, isn't it?" he growled, establishing a ruthless rhythm that allowed no respite, no recovery from her previous orgasm. "This is what England's great queen craves behind her virgin facade—to be taken like a common whore, used for my pleasure."

"Yes," Elizabeth sobbed, the admission torn from her by overwhelming physical sensation. "God help me, yes."

Bobby's hand tangled in her hair again, pulling her head back sharply, arching her spine as he continued his relentless assault on her willing body. The slight pain of his grip only intensified her pleasure, physical discomfort transforming into heightened sensation that pushed her rapidly toward another climax.

"Who do you belong to?" he demanded, his thrusts growing even more forceful. "Say it."

"You," Elizabeth gasped, abandoning all pretense of royal dignity. "I belong to you, Bobby. My body is yours to use however you wish."

"And England?" he pressed, never slowing his punishing pace. "Who truly rules England, Elizabeth?"

"You do," she admitted, the truth she could acknowledge only in their most private moments. "You rule through me. Everything I have is yours—my body, my crown, my kingdom."

This complete surrender—the absolute abnegation of her hard-won sovereignty—triggered another shattering climax that ripped through her body with devastating intensity. Elizabeth screamed into the pillow as pleasure overwhelmed her, her inner muscles clamping down on Bobby's cock with such force that his rhythm faltered momentarily.

He released her hair, allowing her to collapse fully onto the bed while he continued thrusting into her now-pliant body. His pace grew erratic, his breathing harsh as his own control began to fray.

"Where do you want it, Elizabeth?" he demanded roughly. "Where does England's Virgin Queen want my seed?"

"Inside," she managed, her voice muffled against the pillows. "Fill me, Bobby. Mark me from within as yours."

With a final powerful thrust, he complied, burying himself to the hilt as his release began. Elizabeth moaned softly as she felt the hot pulses of his seed flooding her innermost depths, the sensation triggering aftershocks of pleasure that rippled through her oversensitized body.

For long moments they remained joined, both breathing heavily from their exertions. Then Bobby withdrew carefully, turning her boneless body to face him. His expression had transformed completely, dominance replaced by tender concern as he brushed sweat-dampened hair from her face.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly, his voice holding none of the harshness from moments earlier. "Did I hurt you?"

Elizabeth smiled up at him, languid satisfaction suffusing her expression. "Only exactly as I needed," she assured him. "You always know precisely what I require, even when I cannot ask for it directly."

Bobby stretched out beside her, gathering her close against his chest in a gesture that felt strangely more intimate than their violent coupling had been. "The burdens of ruling weigh heavily," he observed, his fingers tracing gentle patterns along her spine. "Sometimes the greatest freedom comes from having choice temporarily removed."

"A paradox few would understand," Elizabeth agreed, nestling against him with complete contentment. "That England's queen finds liberation in private submission to her Lord Protector."

"Our arrangement serves both practical and personal needs," Bobby replied, pressing a gentle kiss against her forehead. "England prospers under our joint guidance while we find private satisfaction beyond political alliance."

Elizabeth raised herself on one elbow, studying his perfect features with open affection. "I kept my promise," she observed. "When you saved me that day in the forest, I swore to give you anything within my power when I took the throne."

"Everything," Bobby corrected with a small smile. "You offered me everything. And so you have—your crown, your kingdom, your body." His expression softened further. "Though I suspect neither of us anticipated how that promise would eventually manifest."

"No," Elizabeth agreed. "I could not have imagined this outcome when we first met." She traced one finger across his chest, marveling as always at the perfection of his skin. "Do you ever regret it? Binding yourself to a mortal whose life must seem so fleeting to a being of your nature?"

Bobby's expression grew serious, almost solemn. "I have existed across timeframes you cannot comprehend, Elizabeth Tudor. I have witnessed the birth and death of entire civilizations, seen stars form and explode, experienced loneliness beyond human understanding." His hand cupped her cheek with unexpected tenderness. "What we share—however brief it may seem against the backdrop of eternity—holds value precisely because of its temporal nature. Permanence dulls appreciation; limitation creates meaning."

Elizabeth turned her face to press a kiss against his palm—a gesture of surprising innocence given their previous activities. "Sometimes I think I dreamed you into existence," she murmured. "That my visions somehow conjured you from whatever realm you truly belong to."

"Perhaps you did," Bobby replied cryptically. "The boundaries between thought and reality grow surprisingly permeable under certain conditions. Your dreams have always possessed unusual potency."

Before Elizabeth could pursue this intriguing suggestion, Bobby rolled suddenly, positioning himself above her once more. To her amazement, she felt his cock already hard again against her thigh, showing no signs of the recovery period normal men required between couplings.

"One of the advantages of my particular physiology," Bobby explained with a wicked smile, noting her surprised expression. "Conventional limitations don't apply."

"So I see," Elizabeth replied, spreading her thighs in welcome invitation despite the pleasant soreness from their previous encounter. "Lady Howard wasn't exaggerating about your remarkable control after all."

"Lady Howard," Bobby chuckled, positioning himself at her entrance again, "has a tendency toward romantic embellishment. But in this specific regard, her observations were entirely accurate."

He thrust forward slowly this time, giving her body time to accommodate his considerable size again. Elizabeth sighed with pleasure as he filled her completely, her oversensitized flesh registering every inch of his penetration with exquisite clarity.

"Mine," he murmured against her ear as he began moving with deliberate gentleness. "My queen. My Elizabeth."

"Yours," she agreed, wrapping her legs around his waist to draw him deeper. "Always yours, Bobby. In this world and whatever worlds may follow."

----------

Elizabeth woke with a sharp gasp, her nightgown clinging to sweat-dampened skin despite the winter chill pervading her chamber. The dream remained vivid in her consciousness—far more detailed and immersive than any previous vision. She had not merely observed a potential future this time; she had experienced it fully, feeling every sensation as though physically present.

Her body throbbed with unfulfilled desire, the explicit dream having brought her to a state of arousal that left her feeling disoriented and uncomfortable. Elizabeth pressed her thighs together, trying to alleviate the persistent ache that pulsed between them.

"Absurd," she whispered to the darkness, though the word held little conviction. The dream had been absurd—the proud Tudor princess submitting completely to Robert Kestrel's dominance, surrendering not just her body but her hard-won sovereignty, sharing her throne with a Lord Protector in an arrangement that violated every established principle of English governance.

Yet despite its political impossibility, the vision had felt extraordinarily real—and worse, had provided her with a pleasure more intense than any she had experienced in waking life. The acts she had so eagerly performed in the dream...the crude words she had spoken...the shameful enthusiasm with which she had surrendered her royal dignity...

Elizabeth sat up, pushing tangled hair away from her face as she tried to compose herself. The fire had burned low in her chamber's hearth, leaving the room chilled and shadowed. Dawn remained hours away, with no legitimate reason to summon her ladies or otherwise distract herself from these unwelcome thoughts.

The most disturbing aspect of the dream was not its explicit nature, but rather how natural that intimacy had felt—as though reflecting an established relationship rather than forbidden fantasy. Dream-Elizabeth and Dream-Bobby had interacted with the easy familiarity of longtime lovers, their physical connection clearly representing just one facet of a deeper partnership.

"Lord Protector," she murmured, testing the title that had featured so prominently in her vision. The position itself made no rational sense—England could have either a sovereign monarch or a Lord Protector during a regency, never both simultaneously. For such an office to exist alongside her active reign would represent a fundamental reconstitution of English governance.

Yet in the dream, this impossible arrangement had seemed not just accepted but established, with courtiers and foreign ambassadors clearly recognizing Bobby's authority while maintaining ceremonial deference to her crown. It suggested a future in which she retained the symbolic trappings of monarchy while sharing—or perhaps ceding—actual power to Robert Kestrel.

Had she truly promised him "everything" in that forest clearing months ago? Elizabeth searched her memory of that traumatic day. She had indeed offered anything within her power when she took the throne, but had her exact wording included "everything"? The distinction suddenly seemed critically important.

More troubling still was her dream-self's willing—even eager—acceptance of this power-sharing arrangement. The Elizabeth Tudor of her vision had seemed genuinely content with the situation, finding personal liberation through private submission while maintaining public sovereignty.

"This is madness," Elizabeth whispered, pressing her palms against her eyes as though the pressure might drive these disturbing images from her mind. The dream couldn't represent actual prophecy—it contradicted everything she had worked toward, everything she believed about her destined role as England's future queen.

Yet she could not dismiss it entirely, given how many of her previous visions had proven accurate. Robert Kestrel had appeared exactly as she had dreamed, saving her precisely when and where her visions had foretold. If those elements had manifested in reality, might this latest dream also contain some kernel of truth about her future?

The possibility sent an unexpected shiver through her that contained elements of both dread and anticipation. Elizabeth slipped from her bed, wrapping herself in a heavy robe against the chamber's chill as she moved to stir the fire's embers, unable to return to sleep with her mind so unsettled.

As she knelt before the hearth, adding small pieces of kindling to coax the fire back to life, Elizabeth forced herself to consider the dream's implications from a strategic rather than emotional perspective. If her visions contained truth—even partial, symbolic truth—then understanding their meaning could provide valuable guidance.

Perhaps the most significant element wasn't the explicit intimacy or the impossible political arrangement, but rather the timeframe. The dream had clearly been set years in the future—she had been Queen Elizabeth, not Princess, and references to Drake and Spanish armada preparations suggested a period at least twenty-five years ahead. By that calculation, she would be in her early forties, with Mary's reign already concluded and her own well-established.

This timeline aligned with her previous visions, suggesting Robert Kestrel would remain in her life far beyond their current alliance—evolving from temporary protector to permanent advisor and eventually to... what? Lover? Partner? Co-ruler in all but name?

The fire caught the fresh kindling, flames illuminating Elizabeth's troubled expression as she contemplated these possibilities. The immediate issue wasn't this distant potential future, but rather her present response to it. How could she interact normally with Robert Kestrel after experiencing such an intimate vision? How could she maintain appropriate royal dignity when her mind now held explicit images of their potential future relationship?

More pressingly, how could she prevent these inappropriate feelings from influencing her current decision-making? The succession crisis loomed closer with Edward's declining health. Her actions in the coming weeks and months would determine whether she survived to claim her throne at all, let alone establish the prosperous reign her vision had depicted.

Elizabeth rose from the hearth, moving to the window where she pulled back the heavy curtain to reveal snow still falling gently in the pre-dawn darkness. January 1551—a momentous year, if her previous dreams proved accurate. Edward would die before summer, followed by the brief, doomed reign of Lady Jane Grey, then Mary's ascension bringing fire and foreign influence to England.

Her own path would thread between these competing forces—Protestant enough to concern Mary, Catholic enough in ancestry to worry Northumberland, legitimate enough by birth to threaten them both. Without Robert Kestrel's assistance, her survival seemed uncertain at best, impossible at worst.

Yet with him came complications she hadn't anticipated—not just his mysterious agenda and troubling independence, but now these unwelcome feelings that clouded her judgment and threatened her composure. Elizabeth Tudor could not afford distraction, not with Edward's life measured in months and enemies circling on all sides.

"I am my father's daughter," she whispered to her reflection in the frosted windowpane. "Tudor blood runs in my veins. Whatever these visions suggest, whatever weakness I may temporarily feel, I will master it as I have mastered all previous challenges."

The declaration rang hollow even to her own ears. For the first time in her young life, Elizabeth faced an adversary she wasn't certain she could defeat through will alone—not external enemies, but her own inconvenient heart.

As dawn's first light began to lighten the eastern sky, Elizabeth returned to her bed, though sleep remained elusive. Her mind continued circling through the same troubling questions without resolution, returning repeatedly to the explicit images from her dream despite her best efforts at discipline.

One certainty emerged from this sleepless contemplation: she could not avoid Robert Kestrel without sacrificing the significant advantages his alliance offered. Whatever these inappropriate feelings might be, she must master them—compartmentalizing personal response from political necessity as she had learned to do with so many other emotions throughout her precarious childhood.

Elizabeth Tudor would maintain perfect royal composure when next they met, revealing nothing of these disturbing dreams or the confusion they had created. Her survival depended on clear strategic thinking, not romantic fantasy or physical desire. The throne of England—her birthright and destiny—demanded nothing less.

Yet as she finally drifted back into restless sleep, her last conscious thought was not of crowns or succession, but of Robert Kestrel's hands on her body, his voice commanding her submission, and the inexplicable freedom she had found in surrender.