Lysa Galen, a woman who had spent her life among the quiet hum of commerce and the sharp clarity of numbers, felt as if she were riding into the jaws of a beast. Her father, Lord Elmsworth, rode beside her, his face a mask of smug satisfaction. He had secured a powerful alliance, a master stroke of political maneuvering. But for Lysa, it felt less like a triumph and more like a sacrifice.
She had spent the last month in a state of quiet terror. Her father had described the House of Vexin in glowing terms—a family of fierce loyalty and unbreakable strength. But all Lysa heard was "warriors." She had grown up on tales of brutish men from the borderlands, men who lived and died by the sword. Her father's description of her husband-to-be, Arion, was no comfort. A captain of knights, a man of few words, a warrior through and through. The image that formed in her mind was of a hulking, scarred brute with a vacant stare. An ugly, brutish man with the manners of a mountain troll.
As their company rode north, the gentle hills of her home gave way to a landscape of jagged peaks and deep, shadowed forests. Lysa's heart pounded with a steady rhythm of dread. She had to do this, she told herself. For the House of Galen. For their wealth, their influence, their very survival. But a small, rebellious voice in her mind whispered of a different path.
I could run away, the voice said. I could make a life for myself in the free cities. I have coin. I have the mind for it. No one would find me there. I could live a life of my own making, with no sword-wielding barbarian to command me.
She considered it, the thought a small, comforting ember in the vast cold of her fear. But then she would remember her father's words, the careful calculations he had laid out for her. The king was a snake, and he would devour them all if they were not protected. Her marriage to a Vexin warrior was the shield that would protect the House of Galen. It was a duty, a bitter necessity.
But what if he is a maniac? a new voice, a panicked one, whispered. What if he is a cruel man? A man who thinks of me as nothing more than an ugly, delicate thing to be used and discarded?
She had no knowledge of this life. She knew of trade routes and ledgers, of profit margins and supply chains. She did not know of swords and warriors and the grim, quiet violence that seemed to hang in the air of the Vexin lands. She felt helpless, a bird of delicate plumage being willingly thrown into a den of wolves.
The Vexin fortress finally came into view—a dark, imposing edifice of rough-hewn stone that seemed to grow out of the mountain itself. It was not a manor. It was a weapon. Her fear, which had been a low hum, now rose to a crescendo. She swallowed hard, her mind a furious whirlwind of doubt and terror. But then she saw her father, riding beside her, his face full of pride. She saw the men who rode behind them, her people, who would be safe because of this sacrifice. She was a Galen. A daughter of a house that did not falter, that did not run from a bad deal.
She took a deep breath, her mind pushing down the fear, silencing the rebellious thoughts. She would not run. She would face this. She was a Galen, and she would not break. But as she rode through the fortress gates, she clutched the reins of her horse with a trembling hand, her heart a drumbeat of dread.