The wedding ceremony was a blur of opulent silk, the High Septon's droning voice, and the triumphant, predatory smile of King Theron Valerius. To the court, it was a lavish celebration—the union of a war hero and the king's own sister. To Lord Damon Vexin, it was a gilded cage, a political shackle forged by a man who feared his popularity and military might. The weight of his armor felt like a welcome shield against the silent accusations and calculating stares of the onlookers.
The great hall, filled with the scent of roasted meat and fine wine, was a sea of unfamiliar faces and even more unfamiliar intentions. At the high table, seated beside the trembling Isolde, Damon's eyes scanned the room. The lords of the House of Sorran, the king's loyal guard, were an impassive wall of steel and muscle, their faces unreadable. But it was the table of the House of Galen, the kingdom's richest merchants, that drew his gaze.
The head of the house, Lord Elmsworth Galen, was a man whose every movement seemed to calculate profit and loss. He was laughing with his son, but his eyes, sharp and cold, kept returning to King Theron with a distinct lack of warmth. It was a well-known secret that the king's cruelty had cost Lord Elmsworth his own brother years ago, executed for a supposed treason that many believed was a lie. The merchants had never forgotten, and the immense wealth that was their true power now served as a quiet, constant reminder to the king that he was never truly in control.
Lord Elmsworth's gaze met Damon's across the hall. He offered a small, almost imperceptible nod of respect, a gesture that was entirely devoid of the usual fawning a common lord might offer a war hero. Instead, it felt like an acknowledgment between two powers, a silent and a profound statement. Damon knew what it meant. House Galen saw a powerful ally in the House of Vexin, a sword that could one day be directed at the king. The idea was planted—a dangerous, tantalizing seed.
The feast dragged on, a slow torture of forced pleasantries and endless courses. Damon watched Isolde as she picked at a single piece of fruit, her posture rigid, her eyes fixed on her plate. He felt a deep surge of pity for her, a fragile bird handed over to a hawk by another, crueler hawk.
Finally, the feast ended, and the dreaded bedding ceremony began. The boisterous lords of the court, fuelled by wine and the excitement of a new alliance, led Damon to the bridal chambers with lewd jokes and back-slapping. He offered them curt, polite smiles, his mind already on the terrified woman who was his wife. The moment the heavy oak door closed, the noise and the suffocating courtly pretense faded, leaving behind a heavy silence.
The room was grand, draped in silks and adorned with a massive four-poster bed. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows. Damon turned to see Isolde standing by the window, her back to him, her small frame trembling violently. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the windowsill.
He removed his heavy armor, the sound of the plates clattering to the floor echoing in the silence. He unbuckled his sword belt and laid the longsword on a table, the weapon's familiar presence a small comfort. He was just a man now, in simple tunic and breeches, not the war hero she might fear.
"Isolde," he said softly, his voice low and gentle.
She flinched but didn't turn.
"You don't have to be afraid," he continued, taking a few careful steps toward her. "I will not harm you."
After a long pause, she turned. Her eyes were wide, filled with a raw, untamed fear that pierced him. "My Lord," she whispered, the sound a mere breath of air.
She took a shaky breath, then, to his utter confusion and horror, her hands went to the lacings of her wedding gown. Her fingers fumbled with the delicate fastenings, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. Damon could see the scars of abuse on her bare back, thin white lines that told a story of pain and cruelty. He didn't know who had done this, but a wave of cold fury washed over him at the sight.
This wasn't an act of a woman preparing for her husband; it was an act of a frightened child fulfilling a terrible duty. He stepped forward quickly, his feet silent on the thick rug, and gently took her trembling hands in his.
"Stop," he said, his voice firm but kind. Her skin was ice-cold. "What are you doing?"
She didn't meet his eyes, her gaze fixed on the floor. "The maids... they said... it is my duty..." she whispered, her voice laced with shame and a profound sadness.
"No," he said, holding her hands tighter, a steady anchor to her fear. "No, it is not. Not tonight."
She finally looked up, her eyes wide with a confusion that was even more heartbreaking than her fear. "But... the king... he expects..."
Damon released her hands and took a step back. "The king's expectations are not my concern," he said softly. He gestured to a large, plush chaise longue near the fire. "Please, sit. You must be exhausted."
She stared at him for a long moment, a new, tentative emotion flickering in her eyes. It was a fragile seed, a mix of disbelief and hope. Slowly, hesitantly, she moved to the chaise. He took a seat in a separate armchair on the other side of the hearth, leaving a great deal of space between them. The fire crackled in the hearth, its light illuminating the quiet, unspoken tension between the two strangers, bound by duty and a king's cruelty. For now, it was enough. The long night stretched out before them, and the war hero who was now her husband had given her the one thing she hadn't expected—safety.