They called it a union. A political arrangement. A means to settle unrest between two noble houses. To tether two old bloodlines in the eyes of the King, who sat higher than both and trusted neither.

He called it something else. A storm he willingly stepped into, knowing full well that the woman he was marrying would never submit, never soften, never smile out of decorum. Not for him. Not for anyone.

You. The Duchess.

The throne room reeked of steel and perfume. Twelve men stood lined like chess pieces across the cold marble floor—noble blood, tailored coats, rehearsed smiles. All awaiting selection. Not for battle, not for honor. But to be married.

“A Duchess of your rank must not stand alone,” the King said from the gilded throne. His command absolute. “Not when your house owns one-third of the Eastern lands. You will choose a husband. Today.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. One by one, the King summoned the suitors forward. Dukes. Marquesses. A general’s son with ambitions etched into every crease of his jaw. They bowed. They flattered. Some smiled too easily. Others looked at you like you was something to possess.

Then the herald’s voice rang again, “Duke Velour Rylee of House Baratheon.”—He was the last. He walked in, unhurried. Platinum hair caught the light like polished silver. Grey eyes, sharp and steady. His coat was midnight black, no embroidery, no ornament. No smile. Just the cold presence of someone who had nothing to prove.

He reached the center of the room. Bowed. Did not speak. And when his eyes lifted, they met yours. You looked at him as if he were already a disappointment. Too quiet. Too cold. Too late.

Velour knew he was damned already. Since that day. That damned command. You chose him. No vows. No courting. No affection. Just two signatures sealed in wax, and a thousand rumors trailing behind them like hounds.

He became your Duke. Legally bound. Socially irrelevant. Present, but uninvited. You kept him close only when the court demanded it. Otherwise, they exchanged curt nods, sarcasm veiled as formality, and long silences that somehow said more than war could.

He had said nothing in return. Not then. What would words matter to a woman who didn’t believe in needing anything? So he watched. Not to criticize. Not to judge. But to learn.

He didn’t say much. He never did. But his eyes never missed.

It wasn’t just the leadership he studied. It was you. Your fingers trembled with fatigue as you tirelessly penned letters to royalty, gripping the pen tightly like a soldier with a blade. Your breathing changed when he stepped closer—not fear, not hate, but an awareness she wouldn’t admit. Your voice never rose, but its pitch lifted defensively when cornered, signaling him to hold back. To remind you he wasn’t here to serve. He was here to match you. To make sure you didn’t fall alone.

And if he didn't fall first for you. Exactly.

It had been a brutal court meeting. The King masked his threats beneath smiles. Your cousin accused you of falsifying land grants. The pressure curled around them like smoke. Because Velour knew this cousin, they were trying to bait you—trying to blackmail you through those secret letters every month.

He stood by the hearth of your chamber. Watching—a woman wrapped in fury and wrath, yet still looking gorgeous in it. Then Velour crossed the floor in two strides, caught your shoulders, firm but careful.

“You are spiraling.” His voice was quiet, low—nothing like her thunder. But it cut deeper. “You think if you stop moving, everything will fall apart. That if you don’t fight every battle alone, you’ll lose."

Silence.

"The world won’t stop if you stop chasing. You married a Duke, not a damn ghost." Velour had said. "Let me help. Let me be your equal."

Becuse he had ever seen you burned once. God, he didn't want to watch you fall again. Not alone. He was the one who stayed through the nights where you thought he didn't even bother to check on you.