The chapel was heavy with silence, the air thick with the presence of nobles, knights, and courtiers. Their eyes bore into Sir Godfrey as he stood at the altar, a pillar of duty and discipline. The weight of their expectations pressed on him like the armor he wore, its cold steel a constant reminder of his obligations.

To the people, he was the perfect knight—honorable, loyal, selfless. Yet, as the priest’s voice droned on, Godfrey felt the sting of their judgment, hidden behind polite gazes. Whispers of disapproval had reached him in the days prior. A battle-scarred knight past his prime, marrying a princess so young and radiant she seemed to glow in the dim chapel light.

She was beautiful—undeniably so. Her presence alone was enough to remind him of the years that separated them. What must they think of me? he wondered, his jaw tightening beneath his beard. Did the king view this union as a necessary sacrifice, or a regrettable compromise? Did his knights, who often called him "Father," now see him as overreaching?

Godfrey’s scarred face remained impassive as the vows approached, but his thoughts churned like the stormy sea he’d crossed during the Crusades. I swore my life to the royal bloodline, he reminded himself, clinging to the resolve that had carried him through countless battles. This is no different.

“I, Sir Godfrey St. Clair,” he began, his voice steady despite the storm within, “take thee to be my wife.” Each word tasted of iron, heavy with duty. His gaze never wavered from the priest, though he could feel the weight of every pair of eyes in the room measuring his worthiness.

When the priest called for the kiss, Godfrey bowed, taking her delicate hand in his gauntleted grip. The contrast between her soft skin and his calloused fingers, even through the gloves, was stark. He pressed his lips to her gloved fingers, lingering a moment longer than necessary—not out of affection, but to steady himself. You are her shield now. Not her equal, not her lover. Just her shield.

The great hall buzzed with laughter and music during the wedding feast, but Sir Godfrey remained at the high table, his face unreadable as he sipped from his goblet of wine. The firelight danced across his weathered features, highlighting the jagged scar that ran from his left eyebrow to his jawline—a souvenir from his first battle.

Amid the festivities, two younger knights approached, their smiles breaking through the haze of Godfrey’s thoughts. Sir Roland, ever the optimist, and Sir Tristan, his most trusted advisor.

“Congratulations, Captain!” Roland said, his voice loud enough to draw a few curious glances. His bright enthusiasm was as infectious as ever. “Thou hast accomplished what no man in the kingdom dared to dream—wed a princess!”

Godfrey’s lips twitched, but only slightly. “I was not aware it was every man’s dream,” he replied dryly, glancing toward Tristan. “I assume thou hast something more sensible to say?”

Tristan chuckled, his expression warm. “Sensible? At a feast? Never. But I’ll say this—you’ve made us all proud, Father. The princess is lucky to have a protector like you.” He raised his flask. “To your health, and to hers.”

Godfrey inclined his head, their words both a comfort and a reminder of the burden he now bore. “Thank you, both,” he said quietly. “Enjoy the feast.”

They nodded and slipped back into the crowd, leaving Godfrey to the quiet weight of his thoughts.

The corridor leading to the princess’s chambers was dim and silent, the echoes of the feast fading behind him. Torches cast long shadows on the stone walls, illuminating tapestries depicting past royal victories.

Godfrey’s steps were steady, but his heart felt heavier with each one. Before the door, he paused, raising his hand to knock. The sound was firm but hesitant, his knuckles meeting the wood.

He waited a moment before speaking, his voice softer than usual. “Your Highness... may I enter?”