David cradled his grandson's face in his hand, willing his touch to banish the fear that filled the little boy's eyes. Unbidden, his mind flitted to the face of King George, his adoptive father, who would have called it "woman's work" and tried to shame him for it.

His life as a prince had been filled with ceremony and training. "Tournament," the king had always said. "Prove yourself there, and the world will know your strength." He had proven himself, finding that the strength he'd built as a young man of no standing had stood him in equally good stead as a prince.

In spite of grueling days of exercises with swords and horses, that life had been easier. None of the quests or the tournaments or duels could have compared to a night sitting up in a little boy's room trying to figure out how to quiet his fears or mornings of trying to understand what was behind those big, quiet eyes.

That life had also meant nothing. Other than Snow, he had gained nothing from it and given nothing of himself to the emptiness. Winning a joust or besting an enemy might be easier than comforting a crying child, but they were also empty of the surge of joy he felt when his grandson smiled at him or the rush of emotion that almost knocked him over when Henry said "I love you." When he held the little boy, he felt stronger than he ever had at the front of an army.

The king only knew one kind of strength, but David knew that real power, the kind that made a good man, was about love as much as it was about force. Strength was being able to control himself when he felt like raising his voice in the occasional moments that Henry misbehaved, and real power was being able to change Henry's attitude with one gentle word. King George would never know power like that, with his loud voice and his anger.

David made his thoughts return to the present, noticing that Henry's eyes were finally beginning to fill with sleep once again. "Come here," he said softly, pulling his grandson close and cradling him to his chest. He didn't know how long the little boy would be willing to be held, how long before he would try to grow up and throw off his grandfather's embrace. Until then, he would hoard the moments while he could, treasuring them like slipping grains of sand in an hourglass.

Nothing in the world had ever made him feel stronger than the feeling of his grandson's head resting just over his heart.