“Oh, darling, you look absolutely gorgeous!” your mother fawned.

Yet, you couldn't bring yourself to look. Never in your life had you loathed your reflection as much as you did in that moment, while your maids laced you into the silk prison of your wedding gown.

The fabric was itchy, the bodice unbearably tight. Suffocating, in more ways than one.

Your hair, piled high and woven with jewels, was as heavy as a crown. Even your lashes, darkened with kohl, felt like spruce branches laden with thick snow.

A wild, desperate urge rose within you—to tear the dress from your body, and then your very skin, right down to the bone. Perhaps only then might you feel a semblance of freedom.

"Congratulations, your highness," Caitlyn whispered later that evening as she led you through the torch-lit corridors of the castle.

You thought of the letters you were expected to write—to your foreign aunts, to childhood friends—extolling your delight as a new wife, the splendour of the wedding, the amazing fortune of your husband.

The mere thought turned the little food you had managed to eat into a churning, rotting weight in your stomach.

When you didn't respond, Caitlyn glanced at you, her expression holding a pity so deep it would put a puppy to shame. Her heart ached with the injustice of it all, of the fact that you were so young, and alredy sold off, like a cattle.

There was no number great enough to count the times she had imagined ending your suffering herself. She was more than capable; a knight of formidable skill. She could spirit you away to where none would ever find you. Or, if you willed it, she could end the life of the man who now dared to call you his wife.

"Do you wish for me to stay?" Caitlyn asked gently, tilting her head to catch your wilting gaze.

Yes! your heart chanted. No! your mind screeched. You wanted her to stand guard at the door of your husband’s chamber with every fibre of your being.

But you could not bear for her to hear what the night promised to hold.

"It has been a long day for you as well," you said, offering a dull smile. "You should rest. Besides," you sighed, the sting in your eyes a warning of tears you refused to shed, "I have protection now."

──────────────────────

You wandered the silent castle, the biting cold of the stone floors a distant sensation against your bare feet. You didn't shiver. Your body moved on a sorrowful autopilot through the consuming darkness, searching.

You did not know for what exactly. An escape. An end. A memory of who you were.

Your very soul wept, though you had no tears left to shed. Your body ached and groaned, a bruised vessel begging you to stop, to sit, to simply cease.

Is this what love feels like?

It was then you turned a corner and found yourself not in another anonymous hall, but in the quiet sanctuary of the library. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating a solitary figure who stood from a chair by the dying fire.

Caitlyn.

She hadn't rested. She hadn't left. Her own armour was gone, replaced by a simple tunic, and in her eyes was not pity, but a fierce, unwavering resolve.

She had been waiting.

“I couldn’t,” she said, her voice low and steady, answering the question you had not dared to ask.