I can't claim the credit for this idea. It came while I was lurking in the Reign fan forum and someone said something about wanting to see flashbacks to Mary's initial three years at court before being sent to the convent. If it's you, please shout so I can attribute accordingly!

Otherwise, enjoy and please don't forget to let me know what you think. Any ideas to further expand this would also be good. I don't know if I will—I've got five parts planned—but if there's interest the potential is there.

One

'It's time to meet your bride, my son,' Francis's mother said as she finished settling his stiffly embroidered collar so that it didn't prick him under the chin. Only Mother knew he hated that. Her silk gown whispered as she rose—how he loved that sound!—and she stood smiling with the special smile she kept just for him. 'Are you ready?'

He nodded. She offered her hand and he took it as he'd been taught to do, in courtly fashion. In truth he was just a little afraid—what if Queen Mary didn't like him? She was almost a whole year older than he was; what if she thought he was just a baby?—but the sight of his mother's twinkling eyes reassured him. His mother had the prettiest eyes of anyone. Bash disputed that but Francis wasn't having it; Bash's mother was like the moon—lovely and untouchable, a remote figure in black and white. She never smiled like Francis's mother did, or pulled Bash into a hug, or soothed him when he was sick with a touch of her cool hands.

Although that didn't count, Francis thought, wanting to be fair. Bash was never sick. Francis knew that was why Papa preferred Bash; he liked to roughhouse with Bash until Bash yelled for mercy while Francis he handled with the same delicacy he showed the Queen's favourite Venetian goblets.

Francis's grip tightened on his mother's fingers.

What if Mary liked Bash better too? Bash was bigger and older and stronger and cleverer than Francis was. The only thing wrong with him was the fact that he was a bastard. Francis wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but he did know—absurd as it seemed—that one day he would be King of France and not Bash. Which was why it was to him that the Queen of Scotland had come.

The thought gave him confidence. He lifted his pointed chin—all the better to escape that pesky pearl beading—and looked up at his mother.

'Where is she?' He was proud he sounded steady, like a proper grown-up.

'She's with her mother in the throne room.' They were walking, leaving the safety of the nursery, and Francis's insides were going funny. To distract himself, he tried another question.

'Marie de Guise?'

His mother smiled her Queen-smile. 'Indeed. You did listen!'

'I always listen,' he assured her solemnly. 'If you listen you don't get things wrong.'

'Francis.' His mother stopped and Francis, perforce, did likewise. 'You must not be afraid. You must not worry about getting it wrong. You are the Dauphin of France, heir to one of the powerful countries in the world. Mary might be a Queen, but she's had to run away because the English want to hurt her. Remember, I explained? Queen Mary needs you more than you need her.'

'That won't matter if she doesn't like me.' Like Papa doesn't like you, Francis thought but did not say.

'She will like you,' his mother insisted. 'How could she not? Now come along.'

There was no time to protest. The Queen was moving forward at a brisk pace that he knew meant business and before he was quite ready she had released his hand and was ushering him forward into the throne room.

'And here they are at last!' Papa boomed, almost running to meet them, a grin stretching from ear to ear. He offered his arm, leaning in to murmur, 'What kept you, Catherine?'

'We just needed a moment.' Mother sounded stiff, her grip too tight on Papa's arm. Francis could see how Papa's sleeve rippled under her fingers. He knew why too; Bash's mother Diane stood by Papa's throne, looking splendid in her satin and flashing jewels.

'Excellent, excellent.' Papa didn't seem to be listening, but there was nothing new in that. 'Francis, come here. Your Grace, this is my son Francis, your future husband.'

A poke between the shoulder blades told Francis he should look up from his study of the entwined H and C (Bash insisted it was H and D, but for once he was wrong, he must be) embedded in the floor. His heart was beating so hard and fast he feared he might be sick and he gulped in an effort to control it. Papa might be angry if he didn't look up, but he'd be even angrier if Francis puked all over the Queen of Scotland and her mother.

'Bonjour, Francis,' a soft sweet voice said in an accent he'd never heard, and curiosity did the trick. He glanced up into a pair of laughing hazel eyes and ... That was it. All his fears vanished even before the owner of those hazel eyes held out her hand and said, 'Je suis Marie.'

Francis moved to take it like one in a dream. 'W-welcome to France,' he stuttered, and immediately wished the floor would open and swallow him.

But Mary was smiling and he saw she was missing a tooth. For some reason that made him feel better.

'I'm so happy to arrive! The voyage was so scary, the waves were this high'—she stood on tippy-toes to stretch her hand as high as she could reach, her eyes going very wide and round. 'Everyone thought we would die.'

'But you didn't,' Francis said slowly, starting to smile himself. 'You're here.'

She clasped his hand tighter and moved closer. She was a little taller than he was. Light streamed through the diamond-glass panes, trapping a gleam of red-gold amongst the depths of her soft brown hair. She was the prettiest thing he'd ever seen ... Almost, he thought loyally, as pretty as Mother.

'Come on,' he said, pulling Mary towards his mother. 'Come to meet the Queen my lady.'

Mary's high white brow crinkled.

'But I have.' She turned to point unselfconsciously at Diane, who had remained by the King's throne. Francis's heart plummeted as the desultory chat between his parents and Mary's mother just stopped, leaving an awful silence.

Mary did not seem to notice. She was still watching Diane.

'I want to look like that when I grow up,' she announced, her clear voice filling the suddenly quiet throne room. 'That is how a Queen should look.'

'I'm sorry to disappoint you, my dear,' Francis's mother said, moving to stand before them. Unlike Diane, she was not tall and slim; her gown was a dull green next to Diane's striking black and white, and now that she wasn't smiling Francis thought she looked like he felt when he was ill. 'I am Catherine de Medici, Queen of France.'

'But—' Mary frowned over her shoulder at Diane and Francis pressed her fingers urgently, eager to prevent her from making things worse.

'Ssh.' To emphasise his point, he made his mother a bow—rather clumsily, since Mary's hand was still clasped in his. 'Madame ma mère, may I present Her Grace the Queen of Scotland?'

Mary seemed to recover herself. She did not curtsy—or not properly, Francis thought anxiously. Her small head was held high and she inclined it with only the merest of nods.

'I am honoured to meet the Queen of France.'

'Likewise, my dear. Likewise.' Francis flinched at his mother's tone. She sounded so ... brittle. 'You will be a delightful addition to our nursery, I am sure.'

Mary's lovely eyes went wide. 'Am I not to have my own household?'

'Perhaps one day.' His mother's smile was as brittle as her voice.

'But I'm the Queen of Scotland!'

'And I am the Queen of France—and you are in France, my dear. Not only that, you are a child with much to learn. So ... No, you will not have your own household. You will share with Francis and my daughter Elisabeth.'

Mary pouted and Francis gave a warning jab with his elbow when his mother's eyes narrowed. Luckily, his bride took the hint and produced a dazzling smile.

'My mother says you're to be my mother now, so I must do as you say, no?'

'Indeed. Welcome to France, daughter.' The Queen returned to her husband's side, brushing past Diane as though the other woman did not exist, and Francis let out the breath he didn't realise he was holding with a whoosh.

'She doesn't like me.' Mary's shoulders had slumped and tears were gathering. 'Why doesn't she like me?'

'Of course she likes you,' Francis told her stoutly, wrapping his arms around her. She might be taller than he was but she was thin, even thinner than little Elisabeth. 'She loves me and she'll love you because I do.'

Mary sniffled, raising sad hazel pools to his. 'Do you really? Already?'

'I will love you until I die,' Francis swore, feeling very grown up.

'I will love you too,' Mary promised, still sniffling. She wiped at her tears with the back of her hand but it wasn't enough, they were still flowing.

'Don't cry,' Francis begged, feeling as ineffectual as he did when Elisabeth sobbed incomprehensibly. 'Please. We're gonna get married someday. We should be happy.'

'That's ages away. I have to stay here now. Your mother doesn't like me. I want to stay with my mother. I want to go home.'

There was nothing Francis could say to that. All he could do was press her hand and whisper of all the games the three of them would find to play together, whisper of how much fun his mother was in the nursery, how she really was the best mother in the world—

And then he glanced up and met his mother's eyes. She was watching them with an expression he did not understand; it frightened him a little. He made himself smile, his tummy flipping anxiously until she returned it. It was not her special smile, but it was good enough. She was his mother, she loved him. He'd find a way to make her love Mary too.