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Richard Neville, 16th Earl of Warwick, had never felt such a simmering rage as the day he had to hand his daughter off to the enemy. Little Cecily clung to him like she would evaporate into the air the moment she let go of his arm. He could offer little comfort to her, only place a hand upon her shoulder in his usual dry way.

The Duke of York stared at him with something like an apology in his eyes, though Warwick knew it was not truly remorse. York was simply glad that this whole debacle was over and done with, and that he'd gotten out of it relatively unscathed. Save for the fact that he'd just thrown Warwick's daughter to the wolves and hadn't even consulted him before.

"The King's daughter will become my ward. Your daughter will be safe as the girl is with me," York reasoned and all Warwick could do was curl his lips up in a sneer. The King's daughter? The bastard child Henry had sired upon his mistress? The Lancastrians would care little of what became of her.

She was not a true princess, and although the King loved her as though she was, just as he loved her mother more than he did the Queen, it would not save Warwick's daughter from harm if it came down to it. Margaret of Anjou might've been friends with Katherine Howard, the King's long-time mistress, but she would never place the life of an illegitimate girl over that of her trueborn son.

"Henry Percy cares little for the FitzRoy girl," came Warwick's answer as he brought Cecily closer to his body. Of all the people that had to have been granted his daughter's wardship, it was that horrid man. Even if the long-standing feud between the Percys and the Nevilles did not exist, Warwick would never willingly hand any of his family off to the man. He was said to be cruel and loathsome, his abhorrent ways being known even outside the North.

Warwick would not pretend that he was free of all sin, but there were things even he would not do. The look on York's face told him he knew that well enough. It was why he'd offered up Cecily and not one of his own daughters. Had Warwick not known of the very precarious situation they found themselves in, he would have taken a blade and sunk it deep into the man's chest.

But he couldn't do that. Whether he liked it or not, he'd thrown his lot in with York long ago and the Queen's party despised him more than anything. If he hadn't taken his troops into battle, things would be different. They had won then, taken Henry prisoner to enforce their demands, though that did not last long. And they'd put men of the Queen's party to the sword.

Somerset had died, the fool raising his men for one last wild charge, as though it would save him. He'd have died, either way, Warwick knew. Northumberland fell too, and at the time, Warwick was more than happy to taste Percy blood on his tongue.

But now he was handing his child – his favourite daughter – off to his son. A man who thirsted for little more than vengeance for his father's demise. Warwick swallowed down the desperate terror that threatened to crawl its way up his throat. He could not show his fear now. Not when Cecily was already so afraid.

York gestured towards the door in a gesture of finality. "It is time, Richard," he said Warwick's name like it would absolve him of this action. "For what it's worth. I am sorry."

Warwick did not look at him as he took his daughter from the room, knowing the moment he stepped outside, she might be lost to him forever.