The great hall of the Vexin fortress was a study in contrasts. The rough-hewn stone and hearth fire spoke of war and survival, while the freshly laid linens and polished flagstones hinted at an uneasy truce with civility. Arion stood beside Damon, his posture rigid. He was a man forced into a cage, and the bars were made of political necessity. He had not seen the merchant's daughter, and the not knowing, the anticipation of a woman he might despise, had turned him grim. He looked across the hall, watching as a small party from the House of Galen made their way inside.
Lysa, with her pale skin and dark brunette hair, walked beside her father, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. She kept her eyes downcast, a polite and submissive gesture she had been taught for this very moment. But in her mind, a frantic internal monologue played on a loop. He is a warrior. He is a brute. He will be angry. He will be... ugly. She had built an image of him in her mind, a man of rough hands and broken teeth, and she was terrified to see if the image was true.
Damon stepped forward, his voice a low rumble as he greeted Lord Elmsworth Galen. The political pleasantries were exchanged, a fragile dance of two houses finding their footing. Then, Lord Elmsworth stepped aside, and Arion and Lysa stood face to face.
Arion's gaze was hard, his eyes sweeping over her in a single, clinical look. He saw a small, fragile woman, her shoulders hunched slightly, her dark hair a stark contrast to her pale skin. He saw the elegant silk of her dress, the careful way she held herself. He saw a pampered princess, a sickly dove who would wither in the cold. He felt a deep, familiar disappointment settle in his stomach.
Lysa, however, was forced to look up. She saw not the brutish monster of her fears, but a man of striking, rugged handsomeness. His hair was dark and shaggy, his face etched with the sharp lines of a life of struggle, not debauchery. His eyes, a shade of blue so deep they were almost grey, were intense and focused. He was not a maniac. He was a warrior, yes, but there was a quiet, brooding intelligence in his face that she had not expected. He was a wolf, but he was not a rabid one.
"My brother, Arion," Damon's voice boomed, breaking the silence. "And this is Lysa Galen, your bride."
Lysa curtsied, her motions practiced and flawless. "My Lord Arion," she said, her voice clear and without a tremor.
Arion nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "Lady Lysa," he replied, his voice a low, gravelly sound that sent a shiver down her spine. He had planned to speak to her with cold, formal words, to make his duty clear and to show his resentment. But his tongue was tied. He had been given a shackle, yes, but it was a shackle of surprising beauty.
From across the hall, Isolde watched the exchange, a small, knowing smile on her face. She saw Arion's stiff posture, his initial dismissal, and then the slow, dawning realization in his eyes. He had been afraid of a cruel trick, a bitter punishment from the king. Instead, he had been given a gift. The two pairs of eyes, one dark and one light, were locked in a moment of quiet assessment, of two strangers discovering that the other was not the monster they had been led to believe. The first battle of their marriage was over, and it had been won without a single sword drawn. The wedding, and the rest of their lives, had just begun.