Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The Kingdom of Aurum Apexus rose from a scattering of warring tribes into a vast and glittering dominion whose banners came to define the horizon itself. Its origins are traced back nearly a thousand years, to a time when the land was fractured and lawless, and survival depended on the strength of one’s sword-arm. According to scholars, the first High Sovereign unified the strongest warlords not through conquest alone, but by binding them into a structured hierarchy of loyalty- thus giving birth to the Great Houses. 

Over generations, this system evolved into a complex feudal order, where power was not merely seized but inherited, negotiated, and carefully balanced. Be it through civil discussions or arranged marriages.

At the heart of Aurum Apexus stand the 11 Great Houses, each entrusted with dominion over vast territories that stretch from fertile river valleys to iron-rich mountains and wind-scoured coasts.

These Great Houses are not equals in temperament or ambition, but they are bound by ancient oaths to the Crown and to one another. Beneath them exist countless lesser houses- minor lords and vassals who govern towns, guard trade routes, and maintain order in the name of their liege. These smaller houses often rise or fall depending on favor, marriage alliances, or their performance in times of war, making the political landscape of the kingdom as fluid as it is rigid.

What distinguishes Aurum Apexus from other realms is its relentless expansion. For centuries, it has pushed its borders outward, absorbing neighboring lands not only through military campaigns but also through diplomacy, arranged unions, and economic dominance.

Each newly claimed region is folded into the existing hierarchy, assigned to a Great House or divided among them, further strengthening the kingdom’s intricate web of allegiance. Yet this growth comes at a cost: rivalries between the Great Houses simmer constantly beneath the surface, and while open conflict is rare, intrigue, betrayal, and quiet power struggles are woven into the fabric of court life.

They do try their utmost best to stay civil with each other however peace can only last for so long until one loses patience and sense.

The ‘Crown’ was also known as The Crown Synod. It was a council of sorts. There was no singular independent man that ruled the kingdom. But collective people from all the different houses that were worthy of the position. They are men and women known to be unbiased and they are selected with caution and care. Ones that stray from these objectives and are kicked out of the Synod with no one to spare a thought.

They bring order to the empire of Aurum Apexus. The Houses might not enjoy some of their decisions but it's necessary for the realm.

In the empire of Aurum Apexus, peace was never truly peace.

When the 11 Great Houses were not locked in open rivalry- not clashing banners at the frontiers nor contesting glory upon the Grand Circuits of war- their strife merely turned inward. Pride, ambition, and old grudges do not vanish in times of quiet; they fester. Within each dominion, beneath gilded courts and marble keeps, lesser houses circle like hawks, ever watchful for weakness in their betters or advantage over their rivals.

Thus it was within the vast and ordered realm of House Stellaris Argentum.

Renowned for its discipline and silver-star standard, Stellaris Argentum ruled with cold precision. Its dominion was a marvel of symmetry. Fortified cities of pale stone, roads measured to exactness, armies drilled to silent perfection. Yet even in such a rigid hierarchy, ambition stirred.

Two minor houses- House Vaelcor and House Myrenth- long bound in uneasy alliance, allowed rivalry to eclipse reason. What began as disputes over tribute levies and rights to forge-steel contracts escalated into whispered accusations of dishonor. Retainers clashed in shadowed courtyards. Knights met not in tourney but in blood-feud. Soon, entire districts burned under silver skies as sworn vassals took up arms against one another.

The conflict spread like a fracture through tempered steel.

For a time, the High Masters of Stellaris observed in silence. Order is not preserved by haste. They allowed the lesser houses to reveal the depth of their treachery. When proof emerged that House Myrenth had conspired to undermine the Dominion’s authority, withholding levies and rallying banners in secret, judgment fell swift and absolute.

Legions bearing the triple-star sigil descended.

House Myrenth, guilty of its crime, was not spared consequence. Its lord was stripped of rank, its forces disbanded, its heirs sent to serve under direct Stellaris command. The message was clear: ambition without sanction is treason; conflict without control is chaos. The House was no more, and the land and people of House Myrenth were Stellaris bound.

And chaos has no dominion under the Silver Star.

House Vaelcor was eradicated by House Myrenth. Its keep was dismantled stone by stone, its name struck from the rolls, its bloodline extinguished . No banner remained to mark its passing. The men, women and children of this House had been burned, beaten and executed in this foolish rebellion by House Myrenth. Not a single person from House Vaelcor had been left alone.

The House of Stellaris had finally, after so much blood shed, decided to take action.

They left House Myrenth for dead. Showed everyone in the kingdom what would happen if they crossed the Great House again through selfishness.

Thus peace returned to Stellaris Argentum, ordered, silent, immaculate, too late.

Yet across Aurum Apexus, the other Great Houses took note. For in the empire of gold and glory, war between rivals may shape legends… but war within shapes survival.

When Max Verstappen was a young boy, he knew he was destined for greatness. It was written in his blood. It was a part of him. Rooted into his soul. He was a part of House Verstappen that laid under the dominion of House Tauryx Tempest. When he was a young boy he was trained to conquer all challenges that he faced with his head held high and power firmly clenched in his hand.

He was heir to House Verstappen. He was already polished for that rule since he came out of his mother's womb. However his father was not satisfied with that designation, training him, guiding him with an iron first to be accepted into House Tauryx Tempest. His father had large ambitions for his boy, they were vast and relentless. Who was Max to deny such a sweet sweet fantasy, even if it left him bleeding?

When he was 15 he was accepted into House Tauryx, he was a squire for Ser Vettel. Which was short lived because Ser Vettel had shifted his loyalties in a harsh conflict to House Ferrion Ignis.

Lord Helmut had seen Max's potential. They knew precisely what Max was capable of and so he was accepted into the House and treated as one of their own. After the binding ritual of course.

When Max had finally been accepted into House Tauryx. He thought— maybe foolishly— that it would be enough to make his father proud. To make him feel content with Max. However that didn't seem enough for the man. Anything Max did was never enough for his father. Max despises the man because of it.

His father had told him that simply being a part of House Tauryx would gain him nothing. He had to rule it. Take control. 

“Being part of Tauryx means nothing,” he had said. “You don’t join power, Max. You take it.”

So that became the goal.

Not acceptance.

Dominance.

Chip away at the others that laid in the line of succession. Max had begrudgingly accepted the challenge. It wouldn't be that hard, he had assumed. His only real competitors were Daniel Riccardo of House Riccardo, Carlos Sainz Jr of House Sainz and Alexander Albon of House Ansusinha. It should have been simple. It was supposed to be easy politics. Gain the favor of the Lord's and be number 1.

However sooner rather than later Max had realised how fucking hard it could actually be. Max had found something unexpected, friendship and kindness in those three men. Friendship he had never experienced. He was surprised at how the three men did not really fight him for much, not for position or for favor with the Lord. Didn’t claw for favor. They simply… coexisted.

It unsettled him.

He had the favor of Lord Helmut in the matter of a few moons. However his father did not find it enough.

His father decided that Max was taking things too slow and he had started a conflict with House Sainz. Lord Helmut had supported Max's house for obvious reasons. Which frustrated Carlos Sainz Sr. Which ultimately caused his son to be pulled away from House Tauryx and sent him to House Ferrion. 

His father had also seen Albon as a threat. He poured lies in Lord Helmut's ears and had the boy removed from House Tauryx as well. It didn't help that Lord Helmut himself seemed to have clear problems with the poor boy, Max suspects it was probably because of House Ansunsiha’s unfortunate scandal a very long time ago. The boy was treated like garbage.

Max felt pity for Alex. He had enjoyed the boy's presence. His sarcasm helped Max survive ridiculous compulsory lectures. He was shunned from House Tauryx and instead he found himself in House Willenor Ragalia. He was accepted much easily and without judgement.

However the departure that had affected Max the most was of Daniel. It cut deeper than he would have preferred. 

Daniel had left on his own accord. Max hadn't known but Daniel felt the neglect from Lord Helmut. The favoritism that Max had received had become so blindingly obvious and discouraging that Daniel simply could not stay out of loyalty. His care for Max didn't seem to overpower his brewing hatred for House Tauryx. Max wishes it was. He had hoped Daniel would become his right hand man when he eventually inherited House Tauryx. Sometimes things don't go as planned because hope can hardly survive reality.

Daniel had left and pledged his loyalty to his own House, becoming its heir. Max still met him at festivities in the capital or tourneys. It brought Max comfort that Daniel didn't hate him.

His status as heir to House Tauryx was stable. It was indisputable. It didn't matter how many spares the House would adopt, they would eventually leave for another due to the unkind treatment and toxic environment that only the toughest of shells could possibly handle. The House went through his brothers as fast as Lord Brown went through the food at other House's festivals.

Max tried his best to guide his new brothers that would join House Tauryx. But his advice and lack of understanding of ones who weren't as privileged as he was. He did try. It just wasn't enough. His brothers would leave as quickly as they arrived. The House seemed to devour its own blood alive. And at the top of it all, Max stood alone.

He knows the path Max is on is the path his father wishes he had the privilege to take every second of every day. Max lives his father's dreams. Not his own. Max doesn't care for it. He will be content with this life that has been thrust into his hands and he will make use of it. He won't abandon the duty that he has been given. He won't fight against it. He would not run away.

He has fought and argued and proven that he deserves the power that he has been gifted. He won't run away from it. He will be Lord of Tauryx Tempest the second Lord Helmut falls from his high throne and he will relish in it, not looking back.

Max was in his office going over some documents and papers related to some conflict between some minor House's. Horner tells him that he should give the duties to someone else. He thinks the houses will eventually settle the matter between themselves.

Max had snapped back, reminding the older man of the hell that had broken loose in House Stellaris Argentum. They had left two houses in conflict to deal with their own problems but by the end the bloodshed was plentiful and quite unfortunate.

His mind wandered to the fact that this civil war had produced an orphaned farmer's boy. The one lonely survivor of his family's unprecedented fate. George Russell. The current second in line to House Stellaris. Max has met the man on very few occasions, he's fought tourneys against the man. They are at a current split in victories against one another last time he checked. Max hasn't talked much to the man. He's noticed he doesn't talk much. The man is quite stiff, stoic and distant in a way that borders on indifference. And yet he was striking. Has an otherworldly beauty to him. 

Daniel had found Max's simple observation very hilarious and unbelievable. Max didn't understand, Max will appreciate beauty if he sees it. He could say the same about Charles- Max shakes his head. He promised himself to not let his mind wander to this again. Not to Charles.

At that moment the door to his office opens wide and Isack, his newest brother, stands before him. Chest heaving, breathless. He looks like he ran to Max's wing of the castle. He has beads of sweat rolling down his forehead and he seems to be in shock.

Something bad has happened. Max can tell from the boy's distressed face.

“What is it Isack?” Max asks as he places his quill down and walks over to Isack. Who currently is trying to catch his breath. He is in a state of collapse. What could possibly have happened.

“Isack, breathe. And tell me what's wrong.” he reminded him.

The boy closed his eyes and let out a long and loud exhale before he eventually faced Max.

“He's dead.”

Max paused, studying Isack's expression.

“Helmut?” He asked unsure.

Isack rolled his eyes, “Of course I'm talking about Helmut! The old sack has been on his death bed for five years.” He explained as if it was obvious and stupid that Max hadn't picked up on it immediately.

Nonetheless Isack is correct. Helmut had been on his death bed for ages now. Everyone expected the man to croak and take his final breath any day now. However, like all members of House Tauryx, the man stayed persistent.

But now today was the day. The old bull is dead and Max reminds himself that he is heir. He is head of House Tauryx automatically. Well. This isn't too bad now is it.

“Now come on! Horner's asking for your presence and he'll assign himself Lord if you don't pay your respects to the dead.” Isack insisted as he urged Max to follow him to Helmut's chambers, where the man had most probably passed in his king sized bed. Such unnecessary space for a man such as Helmut? You really do get whatever you want if you have enough power.

Max composed himself and followed Isack.

Max knew it would be any day now that he became Lord Verstappen of House Tauryx Tempest. Helmut's death doesn't really change anything. It simply verifies his position so that The Crown Synod would write his name in ink in their important fancy books. Declaring him a leader of House Tauryx and everyone under him.

It's something he's worked his entire life for and as Max walks to a dead man's chambers, it might make him a bad person but he feels prideful. Not as though Max cares, one sin an hour is allowed for him he always tells himself.

They finally make it to the Lord chambers. The room stunk of death. How long has it been since anyone checked up on the old man? 

Max entered the room with Isack right behind. Horner stood over Helmut's body with a cloth to his nose. One might think the man was wiping snot from his nose but really he was protecting himself from the awful smell of the dead.

How long has he been dead for?

Max finds humor in this. The old man was neglected the same way he had neglected everyone and everything he swore to protect. It must be true that what goes up must always come back down.

Horner seems to finally force his eyes away from the former Lord and manages to look at the heir. “So nice of you to finally join us Max.” Christian says with a hint of annoyance.

Max simply offers him a shrug. “I was busy handling the dead man's House, Christian. Something that I've been doing for the past 5 years.” Max comments as he walks over to be at the other side of the bed. Adjacent to Christian.

Max studies Horner's lifeless body. He is certain of a few people who will be joyous at the be a of this unfortunate incident.

“He is dead isn't he?” Max asks.

“Completely.”

“Well, Isack.” He faces the boy, who looked as green as grass in the dominion of House Aurelian Verdant. “-Make sure everyone is informed of the death of Lord Helmut. Prepare the funeral and send messengers to send out invitations to noblemen and houses around the kingdom. Don't forget to inform The Crown Synod, so that they don't rob us blind again.” Max groaned at the reminder of the incident.

Isack nods and almost salutes as he speeds away and out of the room.

Max looks back at Christian who looks just as ill as young Isack. “Let's talk outside. The man isn't getting up any time soon.” Max joked.

The older man didn't hesitate before leading the way out of the room. Max would almost laugh. He shook his head and followed the man out.

Christian took a deep breath when the doors closed behind them. He must be exaggerating surely. Max rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest.

“You're next in line.” Christian finally stated as he glanced at the closed door.

Max nods in agreement.

“There will be a ceremony of acceptance for the new heir. Which is you.” Christian gestures.

Max nods. “Yes Christian. I am fully aware.”

“And you will need someone to be by your side-”

“Isack will do. No need to fear that Helmut will kick him out like the others-” Max explains however he is politely interrupted with Christian pinching the bridge of his nose.

“That's not what I mean by that Max.” Christian sighed.

Max's brows furrowed.

*Then what could you possibly mean by that?”

Christian looked at Max unimpressed. “A spouse Max. A Lady to your Lord- Or a Lord to your Lord, it really doesn't matter.”

Max froze. What? He thought he still had years till that happened.

“What… you want me to get married?” Max asks incredulously.

“Yes Max. It's tradition. Whenever one is promoted from heir to Lord they are to be married within the same week if they haven't already done so before hand-” Christian pauses, looking at Max with wariness. “-you do have a list of suitors and suitresses? Correct?” He looked at Max with hope in his eyes hoping he had all the information that Max hadn't thought about in years. Not since…

“Fuck no.” Max exclaimed in annoyance. “I was busy managing Tauryx! I didn't care about potential matches when I became heir?!” 

Christian closes his eyes and his patience was obviously thinning. He takes a sharp breath in and lets it out just the same. He's trying to calm himself down. 

“I can't deal with you right now. This will be discussed with your parents when they arrive and I will go check and make sure Isack hasn't broken a carriage again.” Christian states and walks away. Dismissing Max's concern.

Max stands there in the hallway completely lost. Why wasn't Max ever told about this tradition? It was frequent that new Lords would marry someone right after the acceptance ceremony but he just assumed it was because it was convenient for many people. Not because it was compulsory?

Fuck. His father's going to arrive today and Max will have to converse with him about his future as Lord of Tauryx. Again.

Max was glad the old man had died, so that just this once when he meets his father again he'll have a pleasant time and no more expectations because he thought he'd done his job and then he'll leave Max alone. But unfortunately Max isn't free from his father's iron fist just yet.

He faces the door of Helmut's chambers. The old man even in death creates an unbearable environment for everyone in House Tauryx. Max hopes he burns in hell.

He knows he cannot stay near the dead when he notices a flash of red in his peripheral vision. All of a sudden the smell of Helmut's dead body is starting to bother him even through the large heavy doors.

Max groans and stomps his way to his office. Slamming the door behind him and hoping no one disturbs him for the next hours till the funeral because he needs to mentally prepare himself for his father's constant disappointment.

In the silver castle of House of Stellaris Argentum. George Russell trained in their many training grounds. He found himself here many times. Too many times according to Susie. She had suggested —more than once— that he seek a different hobby to occupy his wandering mind instead of always working himself to the bone alone in one of the training grounds when he wasn't buried with duties around the dominion.

He used to run. In the forests or across open tracks whenever he could. Where the wind could meet him head-on. He found the cold air that hit his face very soothing. However Lord Wolff had put a stop to that annoyingly so. He scolded him saying that running around in the mud was unbecoming of the people of House Stellaris. It frustrated him. How everyone from House Stellaris would constantly tell him to find a ‘new hobby’ and when he found something he liked they were not sophisticated enough, not ‘refined’ enough. 

He was going to ignore Susie's suggestion but then she grabbed him by the shoulder and looked at him in that stern way she always. So George ended up listening to the Lady of the House. He tried to find a different solution to his mind. He tried many things but it didn't seem to help as much as tiring himself out till he passed out. Susie had given up then. Finding it futile to waste her efforts on a man like George. A man who had to busy his mind in ways she simply could not understand but she respected.

He was mid swing when he heard the clicking of boots behind him and then a voice.

“Are you busy, George?” the voice asked. George knew that voice, it could be distorted and George would recognize it in a split second.

He pulled back from his punch from his sparring partner, Aleix Casanova. He nodded for him to leave. Aleix bowed in return before grabbing a rag and leaving the ground.

Leaving George and his pleasant guest in the training grounds.

“Not really, that's more of an adjective reserved for you, Lewis.” George commented as he grabbed a damp cloth and wiped his face of his sweat.

Lewis chuckled at the comment made by George and he leaned against a wooden pillar casually.

“You are false. With the way you handle your duties and my own when I am gone on my…” the man thinks of a word.

George's mind thinks faster, “adventures?”

Lewis smirks. “-not to sound selfish but yes, my adventures. You have quite occupied yourself.”

George shrugs. “I like the work.” He says as he crosses his arms over his bare chest.

Lewis tilted his head slightly “Yes, well that isn't always a good thing.” 

George remained silent.

Lewis pushed himself off the pillar “You should go on a little adventure too don't you think? How about on my next visit to House Ferrion, you come along! You could benefit from the change.” Lewis suggested.

George raised a brow. Lewis had been visiting House Ferrion quite frequently as of late. George can't help but think it's related to something more than just his… adventures.

“And who do you think is going to handle our responsibilities while we are off enjoying ourselves in House Ferrion?” George asked flatly.

“Kimi and Doriane of course! Those kids need to learn these responsibilities at some point don't you think?” Lewis explained without hesitation.

George let out a short laugh. “Absolutely not. Last time I gave Kimi any work he did half the job and I had to clean up the matter myself. Doriane is still more capable, sure— but she already handles some of Susie's duties. I can't give her more work load, I simply can't.” He shakes his head.

Lewis frowns. “How have Toto and Susie not reprimanded your atrocious working habits brother?”

“Oh they have.” George said lightly. “Toto gave up the second time around and Susie still does try, however her guilt trips are becoming less and less effective.”

Lewis closes his eyes and lets out a slow exhale.

“Well you'll have to get out of the dominion with me anyways.” Lewis declared.

George wore his shirt and looked at Lewis with a narrowed gaze. “What did you do?”

“I didn't do anything!-”

"You must have done something if I'm required to leave the dominion alongside you.”

“Well I didn't kill the old crusty ball sack Helmut of House Tauryx Tempest.” Lewis defended himself.

George blinked. His eyebrows turn up. Shock dawned on his face. “He’s dead?!” He asked surprised.

Lewis smirked, “As dead as a doornail.”

George lets out a laugh in disbelief. “Well that's great news! I'm sure Alex is celebrating with a glass of Willenor’s finest wine.” 

George was really glad. The old hag had finally taken his final breath. George never liked Helmut. His lack of respect for the people he brought into the House Tauryx. His blatant favoritism and injustices towards his own people. He had met the man many many times. George knew the man hated him. For reasons most people did. They thought George's position in House Stellaris was due to the house taking pity on him. To think the man was arguing about George's legitimacy, even though he was just a spare, not a threat to anyone. He was only 6 years of age for god's sake. 

Helmut was a rotten man. It's a relief he's gone.

Lewis rolled his eyes. “I knew you'd act like this,” he muttered.

George looks at Lewis in an askance manner. “After the hell the bastard put Alex through? It'd be a concern if I didn't act like this ”

“Well try not to look this pleased at the funeral, George. They'll execute you on site.”

“Not my House, not my problems Lewis.” 

A beat.

“Also why can't Kimi or Doriane go with you instead? Or hell, why isn't Toto going with you? Why must I accompany you?” George added.

“Toto actually is joining us. You think he'd ruin his reputation by not attending the funeral? Plus you wouldn't leave me alone with him to go all the way to Tauryx.” Lewis asks.

“Is he mad at you?” George asks.

“Something like that-” Lewis lets out an awkward laugh and before George can ask further questions he continues, “Also I wasn't joking about Kimi and Dori needing the experience.” Lewis pointed out.

George sighed, already resigned.

“How long will we be there for?” He asked.

“A long while. Tomorrow noon it's the funeral, we'll leave at dusk. Two days after that is the acceptance ceremony for the heir. And many other things.” Lewis explained waving his hands in the air as a demonstration.

George rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe he pushed himself too far in training today, his muscles are starting to sore.

“Oh may the Gods help Stellaris with how long we will be gone for.” George prayed half-heartedly.

“Ye of little faith.” Lewis smirked.

George rolled his eyes. “Fine I'll pack”

Chapter Text

“Max.”

A pause. Max felt his stomach twist and turn. He expected their arrival to be quick but not this quick.

However he has to deal with the cards he has been dealt. No need to run away now.

Max turns around to face Jos Verstappen, his father. Then- his eyes found his mother, Sofie. Standing at a distance to his father. They stand before him in House Verstappen's colours. The House which his sister Victoria is meant to inherit when his parents are no more. Where is Victoria?

His father stood tall. Rigid posture, cold eyes, presence that demanded attention without ever asking for it.

His mother, quieter, with a much calmer demeanor around her but no less observant.

“Is this a way to welcome your family to your House?” His father asks.

“I wasn't aware you would arrive this quickly.” He replied flatly.

Then there it was. The pause. The silence. It was an assessment. Judgement. The only constant in Max's life.

“You are now Lord.” 

Not will be.

Are.

His father needed no ceremony for his son's new honor, so why must Max go through the gruelling process. He's been handling the House's responsibilities ever since Helmut had hit his bed and not gotten up. 5 years. Yet now they demand more from Max.

Max nodded once, not meeting his father's eyes.

His father studied him, searching for something- pride, perhaps. Satisfaction.

He would find neither.

“You've done well.” His father said finally. However Max did not react. He kept his eyes on the old wooden floors which he had studied many many times before.

His father's praise felt like nothing to him anymore. When he was young, he chased for it, even begged for it at times. But now? It had no effect. Left him more hollow than before if Max was being true to himself.

He waited for the other shoe to drop and it eventually did.

“And now,” his father continued, “you must secure it.”

His father had started to walk towards Max's desk. Stopping just before it.

Max's jaw tightened slightly. “Secure what?”

“Your position, your legacy.” His father insisted.

“I've already secured it. The House is stable. The Crown must-” the must accept it.

“It won't. A House is not secured with only Power. You need to be betrothed. You must have known this, Max.” His father is unimpressed.

“I have only known what you have taught me. And marriage was never one of them, father.” he snapped.

Then there was silence.

His mother seemed to understand what Max needed. A calm presence. No wonder his father brought her along.

“You need union, Max.” She spoke, softer but no less firm. Her words were always final. They were absolute. Max could not deny or fight against her.

She walked over to her son behind the desk, took a hold of his hand on her own and held it firmly.

Max finally looked at her. She takes her free hand and cups the side of his face and Max cannot help but lean into the warmth. His mother smiled softly.

“There will be many noble Houses attending the funeral,” she continued. “It is… an opportunity.”

Max let out a quiet breath through his nose.

Of course it was. Everything was an opportunity. Everything was a leverage. Everything was strategy.

“I’m not choosing a partner at a funeral,” Max forced out.

“You are not choosing,” his father corrected. Impatience bleeding through his voice “You are presenting.”

Max’s gaze sharpened as he faced his father “I’m not a prize.”

“No,” his father said coldly. “You are a ruler. Act like one.”

For a brief moment- just a moment. Max thought of Charles. Of quiet conversations in the unused rooms of the tallest towers. Of something that had not been calculated. Not strategic. Not forced.

But it was gone.

All of it.

His mother noticed him lost in thought.

“This is not optional,” she said gently. “Tradition binds you now more than ever. The moment Helmut died, expectations followed.”

Max laughed under his breath.

Of course they did.

“You have until the end of the funeral proceedings,” his father added. “Make connections. Show presence. Let the Houses see you.”

Max finds that ridiculous because Max was seen by all the Houses, he had made sure of it.

“And pick someone,” his mother finished. Making his father's words land softer.

Max said nothing.

Because what was there to say? This was inevitable. Just like everything else in his life.

“Do not fail in this,” his father threatened as he turned away and then them in his office.

Max stood still for a long moment.

Then exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face as he pulled away from his mother and walked towards the balcony of his office. He stepped out and the cold hit him hard. Max didn't enjoy the cold. He much preferred warmer climates.

He looked over his dominion. He thought of what everyone expected of him. Even though he had given them exactly that for years. Except for one thing. One thing he never thought he would worry about. Yet here he was.

They wanted: a partner, a union, a performance. But somewhere beneath all of that stung a memory that refused to stay buried, a voice, a presence that seemed to haunt him from the underworld. How was it fair? Why must Max bend in favor of the expectations of people he has been protecting for years?

Max wishes he could give it to them, something real. But the world had already forbidden it.

His mother had followed him out onto the balcony. She stood beside him, her hands elegantly holding the railing.

“I will help you. I won't let you go in blind my kanjer.” She assured Max. “There's thousands of noblemen and women. I'm sure one of them will catch your eye.”

Max frowned.

Then there was silence. Not the suffocating one that always occurred around his father. This one was… more gentle.

“I hope you don't mind me asking but why are you so reluctant to find a spouse, lief? Governing a House like Tauryx, is taxing and no one is able to do it alone.” She asks as she faces him.

“I can't.”

“Of course you can, why do you think you can not?” she asks, finding the words preposterous.

Max closes his eyes and his hands gripping the railing with a vice grip. “I just can't!” He snapped. Regretting it almost immediately.

He never liked shouting at his mother. It would make him feel more like his father and he never enjoyed that. He looked away in shame. Gosh… he was a mess. Why must Charles haunt him this way? Why could he not have just listened to Max that day? Why did he have to go and make Max's life much more difficult?

“Oh.” His mother lets out a short huff in realisation.

Max can't face her. He simply can't.

“It's about the boy from Ferrion isn't it?” She asks. Her tone is softer and her voice quieter.

Max sighs and he says nothing.

His mother furrows her brows in worry. “I’m sorry… but liefje he's gone.”

“I know! I know… I am fully aware that he's not here and will never be here and that he rests in the soil, embraced by mother nature and I will never be able to see him ever again. Yes I know. I have lived years acknowledging this, you mustn't remind me.” he pleads.

Then it's silent again.

“He may not be here anymore but you cannot let that stop you from finding love again.”

“Does it really matter if he never leaves?” His voice cracks and he hates himself for it. He's acting pathetic. He hates this weakness. His father would hang him over this balcony if he knew.

“If you hold onto someone new, then maybe you'd be able to let go.”

He gives a short disbelieving laugh. “Your optimism is baffling.” 

“To survive your father, It's needed.” She sighs.

Then they're silent again.

“You will find a spouse Max. The Crown expects it. You of all people will not be an exception to this.”

Max stays silent.

“You will find it hard but it will get easier.”

“I am fine how I am, I don't need someone else.” Max scoffs.

His mother sighs. She doesn't say anything. She lets him ponder.

Max looks back at House Tauryx.

Out there and beyond are the people that will have to entrust Max with their protection and loyalty. Max has worked too hard for them to stop.

It will be hell. Max will be pushed and bothered. He will be forced to forget, forced to move on.

But isn't this what Max signed up for? Isn't this what Max bled for?

Max takes in a sharp breath. The cold filling his lungs is a painful way but it helps him wake up. Helps him focus.

“Fine.” He says. Begrudgingly but he agrees.

His mother places her hand over his. A warm presence in the blistering cold.

Max stares at it. It brings him comfort.

He dreads the funeral and whatever comes after but he will survive. He must. He won't let this destroy his chances and efforts. He will be Lord. He will show them. He'll show them all.

Max wandered around the castle, making sure everything was in order for the funeral, his mother accompanying him through his duties.

Isack had done a decent job with arrangements, however he wasn't surprised, the kid was capable and nothing less is expected from a member of House Tauryx.

Most noblemen had arrived at noon. Most were from the minor houses of House Tauryx’s dominion. The rest were representative of the Great Houses.

Max studied each and everyone one with a focused gaze, as they entered the funeral grounds in their funeral attire.

The first of the Great Houses to arrive were House Vicaris Azure. They are a sister House to Tauryx. Isack was originally a member of this House, much like all the brothers that came before him. Vicaris had been introduced with a former brother of House Tauryx, Liam Lawson and a new one Arvid Lindblad.

Liam hadn't lasted long in House Tauryx, due to Helmut's constant dissatisfaction. However he found a home in Vicaris and Max is glad for him. He is heir and to be a good one as well. He had a fiery passion and big ambition- unfortunately it was too big. He was humbled by Helmut's treatment and now he's much calmer, but Max still sees the fire behind his gaze.

Arvid was a kind soul, carefree and very well versed in swordsmanship. He had once told Max that he would soon pledge loyalty to House Tauryx and become a knight. Max encouraged that path. It would be nice having a person like him around the cold House of Tauryx.

The next House to arrive was House Aurelian Verdant. A House known for its wealth and rich history. This mainly claims from House Lawrence that dominated the legacy of House Aurelian. Which really isn't part of Aurus Apexus' tradition. Lord Lawrence bribed the Crown Synod so that his biological son could be heir. No one can complain but everyone is aware how corrupt the House is.

The members to join from House Aurelian were wearing mainly black attire with details of their emerald green colour. 

Lord Lawrence, a corrupt man deep down. Fat and unbearable to be around. He reeked of greed. He wouldn't stop talking about his son, that just made his son Lance unbearable as well.

Speaking of Lance, he enters the reception right behind his father. He is heir to a great house but Max knows he has no passion for it. No drive, nothing. The expression on his face in that specific moment could match Max's when he's in the capital and everyone knows how much Max finds the Capital to be a bore.

Behind Lance, enters a much more tolerable and honorable man. Ser Fernando Alonso. Sure he may switch House's every other decade, but he is skillful and much much more entertaining compared to the rest of House Aurelian. He pledged his loyalty to this House not too long ago and Max waits for the man to switch to another. Maybe Max could invite him to House Tauryx. They do have a good relationship! Fernando would definitely agree if Max just pushes slightly. The idea thrills him.

His mother elbows him in the side when she notices him lost in thoughts and he winces. She narrows his gaze at her but sighs and brings his attention back at the main entrance.

House Alpinor Glacien. A House that used to be respected immensely but after Fernando had decided to up and leave, they were painted as the laughing stock of the great House's. Mostly because of the unreasonable amount of civil conflicts that they've had throughout the years. It seemed to become a torture chamber for every member that joins because they would just leave or kicked out very unceremoniously.

Franco Colapinto. The House's spare. He's charismatic and extroverted. He talks with the first person he sees and does not shy away from much. He has been caught between multiple conflicts in his House, even though Max is sure he could care less.

It's current heir Pierre Gasly, he used to be a squire for House Tauryx the same time as Max, however he didn't fit in as well as Max and he left in a weeks time. Pierre is tolerable. Max doesn't know much about him aside from his blazing rivalry with a certain member of House Haedon Forge.

Speaking of which, they are the next to arrive. The heir of the House, Oliver Bearman. He was young, tall and sly. Like anyone his age he speaks before he thinks. He's entertaining, has a sense of humor.

Beside him Ser Esteban Ocon. Max hasn't had a good track record with the man. Neither has Pierre. Max hasn't cared about getting to know about the man after one of the tourneys where they had fought in the mud because Esteban had aimed too low and injured Max's horse.

The next House to arrive is Cadillaris Imperium. The two Lord's, Check Perez and Valterri Bottas were good people. Humble and took care of their House even through the harshest troubles. Checho was very friendly with Max and honestly he was glad the man had come along, putting his fights and arguments with the old dead bull aside for this. Max caught his eye and they both smiled at each other.

Valterri is a comic. Hilarious. He was initially from Stellaris but he wasn't needed there, therefore went to Cadillaris instead.

Checo and him had married long ago, they were a match and it worked for them. They don't have any heirs yet but Max knows they have their eyes out for one. 

The next to arrive were House Willenor Regalia. Alexander Albon, their heir. One of Max's first friends. A kind heart but when needed he cut through people with focused precision. Max notices the pip in Alexander's step. Max knows he finds joy in Helmut's death and he knew the man would not pass up an opportunity to come to his funeral and spit on his grave. Max smirks. Just by looking at the gleam in Alexander's eyes as his gaze finds the casket, it's honestly hilarious. Max will definitely catch up with him.

Beside him in Ser Carlos Sainz Jr. Another one of Max's first friends. When he was sent to House Ferrion, Max thought he would adjust, but House Ferrion is known to never treat outsiders from their dominion as well as their own. They are prideful in that manner. Therefore Carlos was treated unfairly there as well. Eventually pledging his loyalty as a knight to House Willenor. Willenor accepted strays and people of other dominions much more kindly than any other Great House.

Then arrived at the House Audacia Revolt, Lord Nico Hulkenberg, a man Max respected and had a couple horse rides with when he was younger and he visited Tauryx for politics. 

Next to him was Ser Gabriel Bortoleto who Max was very fond of. Because he had once stumbled upon the boy helping the stable boys with all the houses of the participants in a tourney not so long ago. He struck up a conversation with the boy and was impressed by the boy's knowledge. He reminded Max of himself when he was younger. 

Max sees Gabriel brighten ever so slightly when he catches Max's eye, he gives a small awkward wave and Max politely waves back.

In that moment he notices his father glaring at him. Probably because Max's expressions don't look like he's at the previous Lord's funeral. So Max rolls his eyes and puts his hands against his sides, clenching his hands into fists.

He looks back at the large door to the hall. House McLaren Ascenda walks in. The heir Lando Norris ahead of the others, it's not even been a 1 second and the man grabs the spare Oscar Piastri. Whispering something to the three Emma's of House McLaren and he pulls the other man towards the representatives of House Willenor. Max is very familiar with Lando. Lando would call them friends.

Oscar is a reserved one. Offers polite smiles and would rather listen than speak. He however is very skillful with the sword, Lando gushes about it quite often. Max is pretty sure the two of them are… a thing.

The Emma's watch their pseudo-brothers run away and they roll their eyes before walking over to the other side of the hall, all in sync.

Max almost laughs at the display. However he stops himself because he remembers he's at a funeral. He also notices his father glaring at Lando and Alexander hugging and chuckling with each other. Max will have to talk to the two heirs of their carefree attitude before his father decides interrogates them...

Max sighs, his chores for the day keep increasing minute by minute.

Then—

His breath caught in his throat.

He feels his heart hold a beat or two because he sees a flash of that same shade of red that seems to become part of his life now. He snaps his head toward the door so hard that he thinks he pulled a muscle.

Hope- unwanted, irrational- rose before he could crush it.

When he processes the nobles in Black with those red and golden details, he can't stop his lips from downturning ever so slightly.

It wasn't him. Of course it wasn't him.

It's Lady Maya Weug and the spare Alba Larsen. They are Farrion's representatives. Maya used to be the spare, she came into power unexpectedly one random evening in a spring 5 years ago. No one expected it, but it had happened and she was a good fit. She stood tall and never let any Lord push her to do one thing or the other. Alba followed in suit with her hands clasped together in front of her. All Max knew of her was that she was shy.

When they had finally walked past, Max was hoping one other person to walk inside. He was wishing for his saving grace. However no one entered the hall. No one with dark brown hair, no one with bright green eyes and no one else who wore the Ferrion sigil as proudly as… him…

Max sighs and waits for the final House to arrive. They must be here by now.

And they are, because the final House. Always last to arrive, in any circumstance— had finally arrived.

The representatives of House Stellaris Argentum walked through the doors and left them to be closed till further notice.

Lord Wolff. A proud man, too proud— with a tall stature and a roughness to him. Max is familiar with the man, after all he did always find Max at tourneys and suggested the heir of Tauryx a spot in Stellaris. Which was comical really. Max would entertain him for a while, mainly for his own entertainment. But he would never agree to Toto Wolff's absurd plans. The man looked for power, he loved power. He was a very smart man and his political work was very astonishing. However he was embarrassing at times. Max almost expected Toto to not show up because of his disdain for Helmut, but then again Toto is a very strong political figure.

Next in line was the heir, the great Lewis Hamilton. A man who everyone wished had pledged loyalty to them, but he settled for the turned three pointed star as his dominion and he stuck with it. Lewis Hamilton and Max never really… got a long, the more Max thinks about it, they haven't had a polite conversation even once. Lewis is heir but he's usually off in other places around the kingdom. He was more interested in foreign affairs, rather than his own dominions. However he was still respected from the tallest peak in Alpinor to the deepest of seas in Audacia.

Behind him was the spare. George Russell. He scanned the room with those big hauntingly blue eyes. He held himself to a standard and it was very obvious by just looking at him, he wanted to seem perfect. It ticks Max off the wrong way, he isn't sure why. Probably because Max knows no man is perfect and that there is something wrong with George Russell, something deeply wrong, there must be. No one goes through what he had and comes out perfectly fine. He knows George fakes it. He takes on Lewis' responsibilities without a question when the man is away and he guides House Stellaris’ younger members, Kimi Antonelli and Doriane Penn. No one does such a thing without asking for something in return.

The doors are closed and no one else joins. The priest calls upon everyone to take their seats and the funeral begins.

The casket was lowered and everyone had paid their respects. It was now time for everyone to look forward to tomorrow, the acceptance ceremony for Max.

Out with the old, in with the new.

Currently every house sat around their own round table for the funeral dinner. Max sat down on a House Tauryx's table, where he was surrounded by Isack, his mother, his father, Christian and Daniel.

He was happy with Daniel's presence, the man's open laughter drowned his father's sharp gaze. However sometimes Max would wish Daniel for would just shut up.

“So Maxie… are you looking for a spouse? Anyone catch your eye yet?” Daniel commented with a dirty smirk on his face which Max wanted to punch right off of him.

He knows Daniel was just messing with him. However the question brings his father's attention back to him.

“We're still at the funeral- talking about marital ordeals seems quite disrespectful don't you think?”

“The man is dead Max. It's not as if he's going to get up and execute you for treason any time soon.” Daniel joked. Earning a awfully concealed laugh from Isack and a huff from Max's mother.

Max tightened his jaw. “I still do not prefer to speak on this matter-”

“Daniel is right, Max. You are supposed to announce your match tomorrow. All the noble House's are here and there are many good choices.” His father interrupts. Surprisingly agreeing with Daniel who is just as shocked as Max.

“Father we are eating dinner.”

“You haven't picked up any of the food on your plate since the moment it was laid down in front of you. I know you are not hungry.” His father reads him like a fucking book.

Max sighs and places his fork down.

He feels his mother reach for his left hand under the table. Max looks at her and appreciates her company and attempt at comforting him.

“I have been looking for potential matches for you, since I know you didn't even bother. Would you like to hear them?” His mother asks.

Max honestly has no other choice so he nods and waits to hear what his mother has to say.

“Good! How about Oscar Piastri from House McLaren? He is has a very calm and gentle character-”

“He is most probably betrothed to Lando.” Max rejects.

“Oh he's definitely betrothed to Lando.” Daniel comments with a sleezy smirk. Max knows he knows something, not surprised, considering the man had spent some time at the Papyron for a while.

His mother blinks at them, “well- what about Kelly Piquet?”

“She is divorced and has a child.” His father points out.

“Yes but her little girl is the sweetest!”

“The Piquets are not that fond of me mother…” Max replied.

“Ok ok… How about-”

It continues like this for a very very long time, and the conversation would go nowhere because either his father would reject before she finished a sentence, Or Daniel would bring up a piece of gossip that would just make the idea of marriage to Max even more unappealing or Max would just not feel a connection.

His mother sighs, annoyed by the amount of rejection. “You men are so hard to please! I have practically named most of the noblemen and women in all of Apexus.”

Max does find this search futile. Max turns to Isack and jokingly says, “Guess I won't be able to become Lord. Time to search for a partner, boy.”

Max watches the boy's face heat up and he almost chokes on his food.

“There is one left,” his mother says conspicuously.

Max raises a brow. “You might as well tell me?”

“George Russell, spare of House Stellaris-” she pauses, waiting for anyone to reject. Daniel just smiles and his father seems intrigued. She looks at Max, who's opinion matters the most and notices the way his face is twisted.

“You don't like him?”

“I don't know he's just… I don't know” he couldn't point his finger on what I exactly makes Max's heart beat faster when he sees or thinks about the spare of Stellaris.

“So you have no obvious objections? I've met the boy. He's kind hearted, quiet, respectful of his elders but he does have a sharp tongue.” His mother explains, a smile finally creeping on her face at not being interrupted. She leans in closer and whispers, “He's quite a pretty one too.”

Max face heats up and he gasps, “Mom!” All he gets in response is a giggle form his mother, thoroughly amuse.

“I am friendly with George, he's pleasant company and he's very responsible. Acts more like an heir compared to Lewis, if you ask me. He'll be a great fit for you! Maybe he'll cover your duties around Tauryx too when you grow old and brittle.” Daniel states.

Max's father seems to be brushed the wrong way by Daniel's statement. “He could be a risk to your power.”

“I was joking old man. Poor Georgie would rather die than share any responsibilities related with House Tauryx of all dominions.” Daniel rolls his eyes and Max watches as he relishes in the way a vein pops on Jos Verstappen's head.

Daniel continues, “Also! I have heard from a little bird that House Stellaris is going to announce something very ground breaking soon. Something related to the heir and his constant visits to Ferrion.”

Then there was silence. An announcement from House Stellaris? Daniels sources were always to be trusted. The man was barely ever wrong.

Max knows Lewis Hamilton has been outside of the dominion of Stellaris more often than he is inside. However it's been that way for a very long time and nothing has ever come of it.

In that very moment there was a sound of a knife clinking against a glass echoes through the dining hall. Bringing everyone's attention to the table of House Stellaris and more specifically to Lewis Hamilton.

Max quickly snaps his gaze to Daniel who's shrugging at him. Maybe this isn't an important announcement because that would just be disrespectful.

“If I could get everyone's attention for just a few seconds, thank you.” Lewis, as charismatic as ever, guides everyone's gaze at him.

“We are all here to mourn the loss of a-” he pauses.

Max hears his father mumble, "Arrogant fool.”

“-great, Lord. He was respected by all around the kingdom. However I'm sure most of us are not surprised by this, he was weak in his last few days and we knew we would unite here in this hall of House Tauryx Tempest. It is an honour to be in the presence of many great noblemen and women. It is also a great reminder that we all may seem divided, we are still united by our honour and our loyalty for our Houses. When the time matters it is satisfying to see us all come together in such a way.” Lewis continues his speech, with precision and confidence. His words might sound condescending but Max isn't sure where he's going with this.

“The unfortunate death of Lord Helmut Marco, brings an end to this chapter for House Tauryx. But-” he faces Max. They both share eye contact and Max almost blinks in surprise but he can't be caught off guard. Not by Lewis. He'd never let him live it down.

The man may be arrogant but he has the skill to excuse it.

“- tomorrow is a new beginning. A new chapter for Tauryx. And it will be in the hands of the Great bull Max. Max Verstappen.” He smirks, Max doesn't know how to feel, “ I have known Max since he was just a child of 5 and 10. He was annoying and had an awful temper but he has grown into a fine man and whoever gets to have his hand will be a very lucky noble.” He winks and Max finds this all so embarrassing. What is this? A final Fuck you to Max for their last tourney that Max had accidentally (purposefully) killed his horse by aiming too low? Honestly it was in the rules and Max doesn't know what Lewis was so mad about it after the tourney… This is just disrespectful. Max can feel a vein pop in his head. Then he feels his mother's hand on his, squeezing tighter.

“He is a fine pick and will be as great of a Lord a House as fierce as Tauryx deserves.” His hand rose, the drink was full to the brim. “So, please! Join me in raising a glass to the new Lord of House Tauryx Tempest, Max Verstappen-” 

Everyone follows Hamilton's lead and excitement buzzes through the hall.

Max glares at Lewis as Lewis smiles back with sinister intentions.

“-And to new beginnings!” He cheers, everyone in the room following along.

Max reluctantly raises his glass and gives Hamilton a stiff smile.

This week is just becoming more and more annoying. Then Max's eyes meet the figure that is meant to sit next to Hamilton. It's Russell. He sits at House Willenor's table.

Controlled.

Composed.

Empty.

Max knows that he and Alex in particular are very very close. It was demonstrated as Alex leaned in quite close and was whispering something into George's ear. They seem to have not listened to a single word Lewis had said. Instead Alex keeps pouring wine into George's glass. Who accepts it and is already downing his drink, a drunk man with a death grip around his glass. Max wonders why he's even here, doesn't Stellaris need its trustworthy spare while the Lord and heir enjoy time here? Those three have never been out of their dominion all at the same time.

He looks back to House Stellaris’ table and he finds Lord Toto Wolff looking extremely pissed, probably something related to Lewis' actions. The toast really was disrespectful and Max should probably be allowed to throw his glass across the room and hope it breaks on Hamilton's head, however something tells Max that that is not the full story.

There is something wrong in Stellaris and it looks like Daniel was right, it will be a ground breaking announcement.

Chapter Text

George thinks this is his sixth glass of wine.

The thought comes to him slowly, as though it has to wade through syrup to reach the surface. He studies the liquid regardless, swirling it lazily in his palm, watching the deep crimson cling to the glass before sliding back down. Across from him, Alex chatters on, something about court gossip, some noble scandal- his voice bright, effortless, filling the space George has no intention of occupying.

Carlos cuts in now and then, adding his own remarks, dry and amused.

George nods at the appropriate moments.

He thinks he should stop after this one.

He had thought that after the fifth as well. And yet—his glass had somehow refilled.

Manners, he reminds himself. It is only polite to finish what you are given.

“Alex, please don’t fill my glass after this one,” George says, a touch more firmly than before, gesturing faintly with the rim of his cup. “This is the last.”

Alex beams at him. That same annoyingly bright, gummy smile he’s been wearing all evening, wholly inappropriate for a funeral. George had already told him to stop once, before Horner inevitably came slithering over to deliver a sermon on decorum.

Ironic, really. Coming from him. He wouldn't know decorum even if it hit him in the face.

“Okay, I promise,” Alex says easily. “No more. But you do feel better now, don’t you? Did it help with your headache?”

George nods, taking another slow sip.

“You had a headache?” Carlos asks, turning slightly toward him.

George exhales through his nose. “Yes. Got it on the way here.”

“Why?”

“He gets them sometimes,” Alex cuts in smoothly, mercifully. “Because of this.” He gestures to his own forehead, mirroring the scar that cuts through George’s left brow and disappears into his hairline.

A very old wound.

Carlos’ expression shifts—recognition, understanding. He nods once.

Everyone knows.

George has never found the need to explain.

His gaze drifts, unbidden, toward the Stellaris table.

He watches. Measures. Waits.

Toto looks displeased—unsurprising. Lewis, on the other hand, seems entirely at ease, engaged in what appears to be a pleasant conversation with Ser Sebastian Vettel, heir to House Vettel.

George exhales quietly.

He is not going back there. Just to go and play mediator, only to be dismissed, not tonight.

So he stays where he is- at Willenor’s table, beside Alex and Carlos.

Willenor and Stellaris: sister houses. Proximity had made familiarity inevitable. And from the very beginning, something had simply… worked. George, quiet and restrained; Alex, bright and endlessly talkative. Where George left silence, Alex filled it—never too much, never too little.

It is, perhaps, the closest thing George has to ease.

“Oh!” Alex suddenly perks up. “Who do you think Max is going to choose as his spouse?”

George and Carlos both turn to stare at him.

Alex sighs dramatically. “What? The acceptance ceremony is in two days. Are you not curious?”

“Not my house, not my problem, Alex,” George replies, lifting his glass once more before setting it down with quiet finality.

“Probably someone within the dominion,” Carlos offers.

Alex rolls his eyes. “No shit, Carlos. Lords of Great Houses don’t marry outside their dominion unless it’s another Great House.”

Then—he leans in slightly, lowering his voice.

“But… I have seen Max looking over at our table quite often.”

Carlos’ smirk is immediate. “What, you think he’s going to ask for your hand, Lexie?”

Alex recoils. “Ew—what? No! He’s like a brother to me, that’s disgusting.” A beat. Then, far too casually—“I was thinking more about you, George.”

George, halfway to nowhere in his own thoughts, blinks. “Pardon?”

“Oh, come on,” Alex presses, grin sharpening. “You’re not going to tell me you haven’t noticed the way he looks at you?”

George narrows his eyes, trying to decipher what exactly Alex is implying—but before he can speak, Alex’s expression changes.

His gaze shifts past George. Widens.

Then—he grabs George’s arm and starts shaking him.

“What—”

George turns.

And there he is.

Max Verstappen, walking toward them with deliberate, unhurried steps—his gaze fixed, unwavering.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The last thing George needs tonight is a conversation that requires more than half his mind.

“Max!” Alex greets brightly.

“Alex,” Max replies simply.

Familiar. Easy.

Of course it is.

George has known of Max long before he ever truly knew him—through Alex, through stories, through complaints of favoritism and injustice. Enough to seed a quiet, one-sided resentment that never quite left.

Alex liked Max. He was find of him which George had never understood. After all Max was indirectly—or directly if we talk about Jos Verstappen—  been the reason Alex was shunned out, humiliated and practically abandoned after he was promised for so much more.

George supposes that's simply Alex's nature. Too forgiving. Or maybe forgetful.

Their own interactions had never been warm.

Civil, at best. And catastrophic at worst. Every conversation with this man has left George baffled by either true audacity or the stupidity of him. George watches as he spins a wheel in his head on how he's going to irritate George today.

Then Max’s gaze finds George again.

“You drink like you’re trying to forget something.”

George raises a brow.

Beside him, Carlos and Alex exchange a look—then, very conveniently, rise to their feet.

Traitors.

George watches them disappear toward McLarens table before turning back, composure intact.

“I could say the same about you,” he replies coolly.

Max arches a brow. “I don’t have a drink.”

“No,” George says, glancing briefly at the empty glass in Max’s hand, “but you look like you need one.”

A pause.

“That’s a bold assumption.”

“So is everything that comes out of your mouth, my Lord.”

Silence settles between them—thin, sharp, almost cutting.

“My Lord?” Max echoes, faintly amused.

George glances sideways. “That is your title now, isn’t it?”

“Not for another two days.”

Ah.

Right.

The ceremony.

“Then my apologies for acknowledging it prematurely,” George says lightly.

Max shifts, arms crossing—a subtle tell.

“You’re very far from Stellaris.”

George lifts a brow. “Aren’t we all?”

Another stretch of silence. It lingers too long.

Uncomfortable.

Unnecessary.

“You can sit,” George offers at last. “Or is this all you came to say?”

Max stills.

“You talk a lot for someone who barely speaks.”

“I’ve been told.” A faint almost-smile ghosts across George’s lips. “I only speak when required.”

“You’re not required to have this conversation.”

“If I didn’t,” George replies smoothly, “you would still be standing here, looking like a lost puppy. That would be rather unbecoming of a future Lord of a Great House, don't you think?”

Max’s expression flickers—brows drawing, lips parting, then pressing shut again.

His composure cracks, just slightly.

George notices. Of course he does. It's easy with how pale the man in front of him is. Does he ever leave the castle?

There’s color rising in Max’s face.

Is he— George’s smile deepens, just a fraction.

“Are you trying to court me, Verstappen?” he isn't sure why he had asked, maybe it was because of too much wine.

Definitely the wine.

The reaction is immediate.

“No!” Max blurts—far too loud.

A few nearby heads turn.

George’s amusement sharpens.

“I mean—no. I’m not,” Max corrects, quieter now, glancing around.

“Good,” George replies simply.

Max regains some semblance of composure, preparing to speak again but he’s cut off.

“Hey, Max—your mother’s asking for you.”

Daniel Ricciardo appears as if summoned by chaos itself, clapping a hand against Max’s chest and nudging him away. He leans in, murmurs something low.

George doesn’t catch it.

But whatever it is- Max leaves quickly. Too quickly.

Daniel watches him go, sighing dramatically before turning back.

His attention lands squarely on George.

He squints.

George stares back, unimpressed.

Then Daniel slides into Carlos’ vacated seat, far too close for comfort.

Daniel drums his fingers lightly against the table, watching George far too closely for comfort.

George sets the empty glass down with deliberate care. “If you’re about to start, at least have the decency to make it quick.”

Daniel hums, unconcerned. “Start what?”

George gives him a flat look. “Whatever game you think you’re playing.”

A grin spreads across Daniel’s face—easy, unbothered. “Not a game. I’m observing.”

“Observe from a distance.”

“Oh, but this is much more entertaining up close.”

George exhales and drains the rest of his glass.

He will need it.

“Calm down Georgie, or I'll have to escort you to your room.” Daniel comments, still studying George.

“I am fine,” George replies, the words clipped.

Daniel tilts his head, studying him. “Yes, I could tell. You looked thrilled talking to Max.”

“I was amused,” George corrects. “There’s a difference.”

“Ah,” Daniel leans back slightly. “So you admit it. He entertained you.”

George almost rolls his eyes. “He embarrassed himself.”

Daniel’s grin widens. “And you enjoyed that.”

George doesn’t answer.

That, in itself, is answer enough.

George almost groans but he simply shoots back, “I was only ‘entertained’ because he was being ridiculous.”

“Max? Ridiculous? Never heard of such a combination, care to explain?” Daniel tilts his head.

George glances at him annoyed. “Ask him, he was the one who came up to me.” 

“I'd rather talk with you Georgie. You have a vey… profound way with words.” The man shows his teeth.

George is not charmed.

“You could say the same about Verstappen. Though he must be less pleasant to talk to.”

“Give him a chance, he'll make you laugh.” 

George snapped his head towards the Lord of House Riccardo. “What are you insinuating?”

“They call you a smart man Georgie, I think you know exactly what I'm insinuating.” Daniel 

Daniel leans forward again, resting his elbows on the table. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like that.”

“Like what?” George asks, already sounding bored.

“Nervous.”

George lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “Verstappen is many things. Nervous is not one of them.”

“Oh, but he was,” Daniel insists. “You just made him forget how to speak in full sentences.”

“That sounds like a personal problem,” George mutters.

Daniel laughs under his breath. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m honest.”

“You asked if he was courting you.”

“And he denied it,” George says immediately, as if that settles the matter entirely.

Daniel watches him for a moment—longer than necessary.

Then, softer, “Did you believe him?”

George stills.

Just for a second.

It’s subtle. Most wouldn’t catch it.

Daniel does.

George reaches for a glass that is no longer there.

Finds nothing.

His jaw tightens.

“That’s irrelevant,” he says at last.

Daniel hums again, like he’s savoring something. “You didn’t.”

“I said it’s irrelevant.”

“It’s not,” Daniel counters gently. “Not when he looked like someone had just thrown him into a battlefield without armor.”

George scoffs. “Dramatic.”

“Says the man six glasses deep at a funeral.”

George shoots him a glare. “Five.”

Daniel raises a brow.

“…Six,” George concedes flatly.

Daniel smiles, satisfied.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

The noise of the hall swells around them—low murmurs, distant laughter that feels misplaced, the clink of glass against glass. It presses in, heavy and suffocating.

Daniel’s voice cuts through it again, quieter this time.

“You know he’s choosing in two days.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you don’t care?”

“No.”

Too quick.

Daniel’s eyes sharpen.

“Not even a little?”

George turns his head, finally meeting Daniel’s gaze fully. There’s something colder there now—something firmer.

“No,” he repeats, slower this time. “Why should I? It has nothing to do with me.”

Daniel studies him.

Weigh the words.

Then very deliberately, “I think it does.”

George’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture shifts. Tighter.

“On what grounds?” he asks.

Daniel shrugs, but there’s intent behind it. “On the grounds that he crossed an entire hall, ignored half the nobility, and made a fool of himself just to stand in front of you and say… what, exactly?”

George doesn’t respond.

Because he knows.

Because that’s precisely the problem.

Daniel leans in slightly. “Men like Max don’t do things without reason.”

“And yet,” George replies coolly, “he just did.”

“Or,” Daniel counters, “you’re choosing not to see the reason.”

George lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “You’re reaching.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Daniel watches him for a long moment.

Then, softer still. Almost careful, “Or are you just afraid of what the reason might be?”

George’s gaze sharpens instantly. “Careful, Daniel. I'd rather gauge both my eyes out then ever let whatever you think happened and is happening become true”

But Daniel doesn’t back down. His smile was as bright as ever. He found humour in George's suffering.

“Why?” he asks. “Because I’m right?”

“No,” George says, voice low now, controlled in a way that feels deliberate. “Because you’re being foolish.”

Daniel sighs, leaning back again. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Dismiss anything that doesn’t fit neatly into that little box you’ve made for yourself.”

George’s lips press into a thin line. “And you always insist on opening boxes that are better left closed. A fatal and unfortunate flaw.”

Daniel smiles faintly. “Some things don’t stay closed just because you want them to.” Ignoring George's drunken insult.

George pushes back his chair.

The scrape against stone is sharper than intended.

“I am not having this conversation,” he says, standing.

Daniel rises with him, slower, less abrupt. “You already are.”

George steps closer—just enough for his voice to drop, for it to remain between them.

“I have no interest,” he says, each word measured, “in entertaining some fantasy you’ve decided to indulge in.”

Daniel’s expression softens—but not in retreat.

In understanding.

“And if it’s not a fantasy?”

George’s jaw tightens.

“It is,” he says.

“Even if he chooses you?”

George lets out a quiet breath—something almost like a laugh, but without humor.

“He won’t.”

The certainty is immediate.

Unshakable.

“Because he can’t,” George continues. “Because I am not what his house would accept. Because I am not what this kingdom respects. And because” his voice dips, just slightly, “he knows that.”

Because George studied the way Max looks at him. He does not look at him as though he is George, there is someone else that Max sees and George is not in the middle to ponder on who 

Daniel watches him carefully.

“Or,” he says gently, “because you need that to be true.”

George doesn’t answer.

For a moment, something flickers in his expression- something tired, something far too close to honesty… and then it’s gone.

Replaced with composure.

With distance. The way George likes it. The way he prefers. This is all just an over-exaggeration and Daniel is only messing with him just to entertain himself.

George steps back, straightening his sleeves.

“This conversation is over.”

Daniel doesn’t try to stop him this time. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t push.

He only watches.

“Get some rest, Georgie,” he says quietly. “You look like your head’s about to split open.”

George exhales once, sharp and restrained.

“It already has.”

And with that, he turns, and walks away.

The corridor outside the hall is quieter.

It's dark, not because there is no light but because it is just the way it looks. Would it kill these people to use anything but navy for the walls and pillars?

The silence is not silent—never silent—but the noise is dulled, distant, as though the thick stone walls themselves are swallowing the excess. The laughter, the clinking of glasses, the murmured politics—it all fades into something indistinct behind him.

George prefers it that way.

His steps are steady, and measured.

Anyone watching would think him untouched by the wine, untouched by the evening entirely. His posture remains straight, his pace even, his expression composed into something neutral and unreadable.

Only the faint tightening at his temples betrays him.

The headache has returned.

Not sudden- never sudden. It creeps. A slow, deliberate pressure that begins behind his eyes and spreads outward, like something trying to split him open from the inside.

He ignores it.

He has learned to ignore worse. His body goes against him possibly every day, he has grown used to these chronic pains. It annoys him more than it hurts him now. It used to hurt like hell when he was younger. Pain pulsed through his wounds and it felt like it was killing him. But he's better now. He thinks.

Servants pass him in the corridor, bowing their heads as he walks by. George acknowledges none of them. Not out of cruelty. Simply because he does not have the energy to perform civility when no one of consequence is watching.

His chambers are at the far end.

He reaches them without faltering.

The door shuts behind him with a soft, final click.

And only then— George exhales.

The tension slips from his shoulders all at once, subtle but undeniable. He rolls his neck slightly, lifting a hand to press his fingers against his temple.

It does nothing.

Of course it doesn’t.

He moves through the room out of habit more than thought.

Pins first.

One by one, he removes them from his collar, placing them carefully onto the table. Aligned, precise. Then the silver sash, folded with practiced neatness. His belt follows, the leather sliding free with a quiet sound that feels louder in the stillness of the room.

His boots take longer.

He unlaced them slowly, fingers working through the knots with mechanical patience. For a brief moment, the pressure in his head spikes, sharp enough that his vision threatens to blur.

George stills.

Closes his eyes.

Breathes in.

Out.

It passes.

It always does.

He finishes unlacing, slips the boots off, and—out of sheer habit—laces them back up again properly before setting them aside. Order matters. 

Even now.

Especially now.

His clothes are folded and placed into the chest with the same precision. Everything in its place. Everything is controlled. Unlike-

George pauses.

Just for a second.

His hand rests against the edge of the chest, fingers curling slightly into the wood.

His mind, unhelpfully, supplies him with the image he has been carefully avoiding.

A pair of glacial blue eyes.

Steady.

Unyielding.

Fixed entirely on him.

'You drink like you’re trying to forget something.'

George exhales sharply through his nose, straightening.

Ridiculous.

He reaches for his nightwear, changing quickly- efficient, detached. The fabric is softer, lighter, a welcome absence of weight against his skin.

He avoids the mirror.

Deliberately.

The thing is useless to him. Always has been. A reflection offers nothing he does not already know

And far too much of what he would rather not see.

So he doesn’t look.

Instead, he moves to the bed and sits on the edge for a moment, pressing his fingers once more against his temple.

The headache lingers.

Duller now, but persistent.

Annoying.

Like a thought that refuses to settle.

Max’s voice slips in again, uninvited.

That’s a bold assumption.

George lets out a quiet, humorless breath.

Bold.

As if the man hadn’t crossed an entire hall to stand in front of him and say nothing of substance.

As if he hadn’t—

George stops the thought before it can finish.

Shakes his head once, as though that might physically dislodge it.

It doesn’t.

Instead, another memory surfaces.

Max’s face, flushed.

Caught off guard.

Speechless.

George’s lips twitch.

Just slightly.

It had been… entertaining. Unexpectedly so.

He leans back, bracing himself on his hands for a moment before finally lying down, stretching out against the mattress. The ceiling above him is dimly lit, shadows shifting faintly with the movement of candlelight.

Two days.

The acceptance ceremony.

Max would choose.

Of course he would.

And it would be someone appropriate.

Someone noble.

Someone acceptable.

George huffs quietly, closing his eyes.

This entire line of thought is pointless.

Irrelevant.

It has nothing to do with him.

It never has.

It will never have anything to do with him.

Because men like Max— men like that— do not choose people like George. Not for something that matters. The thought settles, firm and familiar. Comforting, in its own way.

Final.

George shifts slightly, turning onto his side. The ache behind his eyes pulses once more, then begins to fade—slowly, steadily, as exhaustion finally starts to take hold.

His breathing evens out.

The tension in his body loosens, piece by piece.

Sleep comes quietly.

But just before it fully claims him-

there’s a flicker of something.

A half-formed thought.

Unfinished.

Unwanted.

'Then why did he look at you like that?'

George exhales, barely conscious.

And this time-

he doesn’t answer it.

George doesn’t know what wakes him.

At first, it’s nothing, just a disturbance in the dark, something pulling him out of sleep without reason or form. His body feels heavy, his limbs slow, as though he’s been dragged up from somewhere far too deep.

Then,

A voice.

Soft.

“George.”

He doesn’t move.

The headache is worse.

It’s no longer a dull pressure— it’s sharp now, splitting, drilling straight through his skull. It makes thinking difficult. Makes existing feel like effort.

“George,” the voice tries again, quieter this time. Careful.

Lewis.

George exhales weakly, dragging a hand over his face. “If this is about the ceremony,” he mutters hoarsely, eyes still closed, “I will gladly fake my death to avoid it.”

There’s a pause.

Long enough that George almost slips back under—

“I need to talk to you.”

That—

pulls him awake.

Not fully. Not cleanly. But enough.

George forces his eyes open, blinking against the darkness. The room is dim, lit only by the faint flicker of dying candlelight. Lewis stands near the foot of the bed, half-shadowed, posture… wrong.

Too still.

Too hesitant.

George frowns faintly.

Lewis is not a hesitant man.

Something's wrong.

“Then talk,” George murmurs, voice rough, shifting slightly onto his side. “Or come back in the morning when my body isn’t actively trying to kill me.”

Lewis doesn’t move.

George watches him through half-lidded eyes, vision unfocused.

“…This can wait,” Lewis says finally, quieter now. “You’re not well.”

George lets out a weak, humorless breath. “I’m always not well. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Another pause.

Lewis exhales, tension visible even in the low light.

George squints at him, irritation slowly replacing the fog. “If you woke me up for something trivial, I swear—”

“It’s not trivial.”

That lands.

Even through the haze.

George stills.

Something in Lewis’s tone—tight, restrained—cuts through the pain just enough to sharpen his awareness.

Something's really really wrong.

“…Fine,” George mutters, pushing himself up slightly against the headboard. The movement makes his head throb violently and he winces, pressing his fingers hard against his temple.

“Go on.”

Lewis hesitates.

For a moment—just a moment—it looks like he might actually turn around and leave.

Then—

“I’m stepping down.”

Silence.

George doesn’t react immediately.

The words… don’t settle. They hang in the air, weightless, meaningless.

“…What?” he asks, blinking slowly.

Lewis swallows. “I’m resigning. From my position as heir.”

And just like that—

the room changes.

The air shifts, sharp and suffocating.

George’s hand drops from his temple.

“What did you just say?”

“I’m stepping down,” Lewis repeats, quieter but firmer now. “I’ve already made the decision.”

George stares at him.

Really stares this time.

Trying to make sense of the shape in front of him, the words coming out of his mouth, the reality that refuses to align with anything logical.

“You’re joking.”

Lewis says nothing.

George lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. It sounds wrong in the silence. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

The headache spikes.

Hard.

George inhales sharply, pressing his fingers back against his temple, but this time it does nothing to ground him. If anything, it makes everything feel sharper. Louder.

“You’re resigning,” George repeats slowly, as if saying it differently might make it make sense. “From Stellaris.”

“Yes.”

“From everything.”

“Yes.”

George lets out another laugh—this one more brittle.

“Are you stupid?”

Lewis flinches.

Good.

“Do you have any idea what you’re saying?” George continues, voice rising despite the pain clawing through his skull. “Do you understand what that means?”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t,” George snaps immediately. “You can’t, or you wouldn’t be standing here telling me this like it’s a reasonable decision—”

“I’ve thought about this—”

“Clearly not enough.”

Lewis’s jaw tightens. “George—”

“You don’t step down from Stellaris,” George cuts in, sharper now. “You don’t just decide one night that you’re bored of responsibility and walk away—this isn’t some minor title you can discard when it inconveniences you!”

“It’s not about inconvenience,” Lewis says, voice tightening.

“Then what is it about?” George demands, pushing himself fully upright now despite the way the room spins slightly. “Enlighten me. Because from where I’m sitting, this sounds like insanity.”

Lewis holds his gaze.

For a moment, there’s something almost fragile in it.

Then—

“Because I want to be free.”

George freezes.

The words settle this time.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

“…Free,” he repeats, quieter now—but no less sharp.

“Yes.”

“Free from what?” George asks, his voice dropping into something colder. “From duty you barely attended? From expectation, that you've handed peacefully over to me? From the House that has given you everything?”

“From judgment,” Lewis says, cutting through him. “From being watched, weighed, and found lacking every time I breathe wrong. From having every decision dictated before I even make it.”

George stares at him. This is unbelievable.

“You’re the heir,” he says flatly. “That’s how it works!”

“I know,” Lewis replies. “That’s exactly the problem.”

A beat.

Then-

“I’m leaving for Ferrion.”

That breaks something.

George’s expression hardens instantly.

“…No,” he says.

Lewis doesn’t respond.

“No,” George repeats, sharper now. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s already been arranged—”

“Ferrion?” George interrupts, incredulous now, anger bleeding fully into his voice. “You think Ferrion is going to give you the freedom you’re so desperate for?”

“They don’t operate like we do—”

“They don’t welcome people like us,” George snaps.

The words come faster now. Harsher.

“Have you lost your mind? They barely tolerate outsiders from other dominions as it is—what do you think they’re going to do with you? Welcome you with open arms?”

“They’re different—”

“They’re worse,” George cuts in, his voice rising despite the pounding in his skull. “They just hide it better.”

Lewis’s expression tightens. “You don’t know that.”

“I know enough,” George fires back. “And if you don’t, then clearly you haven’t been paying attention to anything outside your own misery.”

Silence.

Sharp.

Tense.

Then George laughs again—but there’s no humor in it this time. Only something jagged.

“Or have you conveniently forgotten what happened to Charles?”

Lewis’s head snaps up. “Don’t.”

But George doesn’t stop.

“Have you?” he presses, voice low and cutting. “Because I haven’t. No one has. We just don’t talk about it.”

“I said don’t,” Lewis repeats, more forceful now.

“He was there, from the beginning.” George continues anyway, the words spilling faster now, fueled by anger and something dangerously close to panic. “He tried to meet their standards, their expectations—tried to become something they would accept—and what did it do to him?”

“George—”

“It broke him,” George says sharply. “It drove him mad.”

“Stop.”

“It’s been sitting in everyone’s mind since that spring,” George pushes on, relentless now. “That day—and no one says a word because it’s easier to pretend it didn’t happen—”

“I said stop talking about Charles!”

Lewis’s voice cracks through the room.

Loud.

Sharp.

Final.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

George’s chest rises and falls unevenly. The pain in his head pulses violently, but he barely registers it now.

His gaze is locked on Lewis.

Burning.

Furious.

“…And you think you’ll be different?” George asks, quieter now—but far more dangerous. “You think you’ll go there and somehow escape everything that broke him? It's a mad house Lewis. A fucking mad house! I don't know how Maya and Alba are surviving, but I give them a few more months.”

Lewis doesn’t answer immediately.

When he does, his voice is steady—but there’s something underneath it. Something strained.

“I have to try.”

George lets out a slow, disbelieving breath.

“Of course you do,” he mutters.

His hand drags down his face, lingering there for a moment as if he’s trying to physically hold himself together.

When he looks back up—

the anger is still there.

But now, there’s something else beneath it.

Something tighter.

Something that almost—almost—looks like fear.

“You’re making a mistake,” George says quietly.

Lewis doesn’t look away.

“Maybe,” he admits.

A pause.

Then—

“But it’s mine to make.”

“And somehow that makes it worse.” George snapped.

The words hang there, heavy, suffocating.

George doesn’t realize he’s on his feet until the room tilts.

The movement is abrupt—too fast—and the pain in his head spikes so violently that his vision flickers at the edges, and the pain stretches into his spine. He grips the bedpost for balance, knuckles whitening, breath unsteady.

He doesn’t sit back down.

“You don’t get to do that,” George says, voice low but shaking with restrained anger. “You don’t get to decide that everything just… ends because you’re tired.”

Lewis’s expression hardens. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It is exactly what you’re doing,” George snaps. “You’re abandoning your position, your House, your responsibilities—everything—and dressing it up as some noble pursuit of freedom.”

“I never said it was noble—”

“No, you didn’t,” George cuts in sharply. “You just expect everyone else to accept it anyway.”

Lewis takes a step forward now, something firmer settling into his posture. “I’m not asking for acceptance.”

“Then what are you asking for?” George demands.

Lewis opens his mouth—

—and closes it again.

Because there is no clean answer to that.

George lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Right. Thought so.”

“This isn’t about you,” Lewis says, quieter now, but no less firm.

And that…lands wrong.

George’s expression shifts instantly. Something colder. Sharper.

“No,” he says slowly. “Of course it isn’t.”

Lewis frowns. “That’s not what I meant—”

“You’re right,” George continues over him, voice tightening. “Why would it be about me? I’m just the one who’s going to be left behind to clean up whatever mess this creates. You're going to leave and I'll be left behind to take over and I'll be just as trapped as you make yourself out to be.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” George lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “You want to talk about fair now?”

Lewis’s jaw tightens. “I’m not doing this to hurt you.”

“Well, congratulations,” George shoots back. “You’ve managed it anyway.”

Silence.

It stretches—tense, fragile.

Lewis’s gaze flickers, just slightly. “You think this is easy for me?”

“I think,” George says, each word precise and cutting, “that you’re being selfish.”

That one lands.

Lewis recoils—not physically, but it’s there, in the way his shoulders pull back, in the way his expression closes off.

“Selfish,” he repeats quietly.

“Yes,” George says, unwavering. “Because you know what this means. You know what happens if you leave. The House weakens. The vultures circle. Every alliance becomes uncertain, every decision questioned—and you still chose to walk away. They'll ask us. Toto, Kimi, Doriane, me. They'll hound us as you make your great escape from the responsibility you wanted and worked so fucking hard for ever since you were a child.”

“I chose myself,” Lewis says, sharper now.

“And what about everyone else?” George fires back immediately. “Do they just stop mattering?”

“I have spent my entire life making choices for everyone else,” Lewis snaps, his composure finally cracking. “Every step, every word, every decision—measured, judged, controlled. I am tired, George.”

“And you think Ferrion is going to fix that?” George demands.

“I think it will give me a chance to breathe.”

“It will tear you apart,” George says flatly.

Lewis’s eyes flash. “You don’t know that.”

“I know enough,” George replies. “I know what they expect. I know what they do to people who don’t meet those expectations.”

“I am not Charles.”

The words come out sharp. Immediate.

Final.

George stills.

The room goes very, very quiet.

“No,” George says after a beat, quieter now. “You’re not.”

Something shifts in his expression—just for a moment.

Not anger.

Not quite.

Something heavier.

“And that’s exactly why this is worse.”

Lewis frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” George says, voice tightening again, “that you’ve seen what happens. You know what happens—and you’re going anyway.”

“I told you not to—”

“And I told you,” George cuts in, sharper now, “that pretending it didn’t happen doesn’t change anything.”

Lewis’s hands curl slightly at his sides. “You don’t get to use him like that.”

“I’m not using him,” George snaps. “I’m reminding you.”

“Of something you barely understand—”

“I understand enough!” George’s voice rises despite himself, the pain in his head flaring with it. “I understand that he took that House's responsibility and it's duty thinking he could handle it—and he couldn’t!”

“And you think I can’t?” Lewis challenges.

“I think you’re underestimating it,” George shoots back. “Massively.”

Silence.

Then, quieter—

“I think you’re underestimating yourself,” Lewis says.

George lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “This isn’t about me.”

“No,” Lewis agrees. “It’s about the fact that you’ve already decided how this ends.”

George’s expression hardens. “Because I’ve seen how it ends.”

“No,” Lewis says, stepping closer now. “Because you’re too afraid to imagine anything different. You hate change, you hate the fact that I'm leaving and you're staying here because it will change everything for you. I am sorry George, I know this kills you but I won't— I can't stay… not for you.”

That—

hits somewhere it shouldn’t.

George’s grip tightens on the bedpost.

“You don’t get to stand there,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “and psychoanalyze me after dropping something like this in the middle of the night.”

“I’m not psychoanalyzing you,” Lewis replies. “I’m telling you what I see.”

“Well stop looking,” George snaps.

The words come out harsher than intended.

Sharper.

And for a moment—

they both feel it.

The line crossed.

The silence that follows is different now.

Quieter.

Heavier.

George exhales, slower this time, but it doesn’t steady him. His head is pounding, his thoughts slipping in and out of focus, anger bleeding into something messier. Something less controlled.

He drags a hand down his face.

“…This is a mistake,” he says again, but there’s less bite to it now. More strain.

Lewis doesn’t argue this time.

He just stands there.

Tired.

Resolved.

“I know you think that,” he says quietly.

George lets out a weak, humorless breath. “No—you don’t understand. This isn’t—” He cuts himself off, pressing his fingers hard against his temple. “You’re not thinking this through.”

“I have,” Lewis replies.

“Then think again.”

“I have.”

George lets his hand drop.

The room feels smaller now.

Too tight.

Like there isn’t enough air.

“…You can’t leave,” he says, softer now—but no less firm.

Lewis’s expression shifts slightly. “I can.”

“No,” George insists, shaking his head once. “You can’t. Because if you do—”

He stops.

The words catch.

Lewis watches him carefully. “If I do… what?”

George doesn’t answer.

Because suddenly—

this isn’t about Stellaris.

Or Ferrion.

Or duty.

It’s something far more personal.

And far more dangerous to say out loud.

George looks away first.

“…It doesn’t matter,” he mutters.

Lewis’s voice softens. “George.”

“Don’t,” George cuts in immediately. “Don’t—don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That tone,” George says, sharper again, like he’s trying to rebuild something that’s already slipping. “Like this is something that can be… talked through.”

Lewis exhales slowly.

“I wasn’t asking for permission,” he says. “I just didn’t want you to hear it from someone else. I won't be going there as heir, I am only leaving because I don't think I was made for this, for all this power, all the control. I thought I was! But now… now I feel empty at the idea of being Lord. I won't be a good fit.”

That—

lands quieter.

But deeper.

George swallows.

His throat feels dry.

“…When?” he asks after a moment.

“Soon,” Lewis replies. “After we finally make it to Stellaris again.”

Of course.

Of course it ties back to that.

George lets out a faint breath, something almost like a laugh but without any humor in it.

“Convenient.”

Lewis doesn’t respond.

The silence stretches again.

This time, neither of them rushes to fill it.

Finally—

George steps back, the distance between them widening just slightly.

It feels… final.

“I’m not going to stop you,” he says.

Lewis watches him carefully. “I know.”

“But don’t expect me to agree with this,” George adds, voice quieter now, steadier—but colder.

“I don’t.”

Another pause.

Then—

“…And don’t expect me to pick up the pieces when this goes wrong.”

That one is deliberate.

Sharp.

Lewis flinches—just slightly.

But he nods.

“Understood.”

George looks away again.

Because if he doesn’t—

he might say something else.

Something worse.

“…You should go,” he mutters.

Lewis doesn’t move immediately.

For a moment, it looks like he might say something more.

He doesn’t.

“Get some rest,” Lewis says quietly.

George almost laughs.

But he doesn’t.

He just nods once, stiffly.

Lewis lingers for a second longer—

then turns, and leaves.

The door closes softly behind him.

And just like that—

George is alone again.

The silence is deafening.

George stands there for a long moment, unmoving, staring at nothing.

Then—

the tension snaps.

His hand lashes out, knocking the nearest object off the table. It hits the floor with a sharp crack, splintering into pieces.

George doesn’t even look at it.

His breathing is uneven now, his head pounding violently, thoughts spiraling too fast to catch.

“Idiot,” he mutters under his breath.

He doesn’t know if he means Lewis.

Or himself.

He presses both hands against his temples, squeezing his eyes shut.

Ferrion.

Freedom.

Resigning.

The words loop, over and over, refusing to settle into anything that makes sense.

“You can’t leave,” he says again, quieter now

Because if he leaves then everything will be bad again. George hates it when things get bad again. He's tired of them being so fucking bad again. It fuels his constant paranoia and he wishes he had more control over it. That's the thing isn't it? He's mad because he's losing control.

He's being forced to handle something he didn't fucking sign up for.

Why would Lewis leave? Why would his selflessness end here?

Truthfully, deep down— George knew something like this would happen. But He was happy, he was fine. George made sure he was happy. He encouraged the man to leave the dominion whenever he wanted and assured him that he'd take care of business here if he was worried. George did everything. He did fucking everything for Lewis to not leave.

It's not fair. It's not fair. If George can live with the judgement and the whispers that followed him everywhere, Why couldn't Lewis?

But now there’s no one there to hear it.

No one to argue.

No one to ask to stay.

George exhales shakily, the anger bleeding out of him just as quickly as it came, leaving something far more exhausting in its wake.

He sinks back onto the bed, slower this time.

Careful.

Like if he moves too quickly, everything might shatter again.

The room feels colder now.

Empty in a way it hadn’t before.

He leans back, staring up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused.

Two days.

Everything changes in two days.

George lets out a quiet breath.

“…Stupid,” he murmurs again.

He wishes he could scream but it sounds weaker this time.

Less certain.

His eyes drift shut—not because the thoughts have stopped, but because he no longer has the strength to keep fighting them.

Sleep doesn’t come easily.

And when it does—

it isn’t kind.

Chapter Text

'Fuck, fuck, fuck—'

Max dragged both hands through his hair as he crossed the hall, fingers catching, pulling, ruining whatever composure he had carefully constructed before approaching him. 'Brilliant,' he muttered under his breath. 'Absolutely brilliant. Walk over there like you have something to prove and leave like you’ve just been publicly humiliated.'

The funeral feast swelled around him—voices layered over one another, low murmurs of feigned grief, goblets clinking in hollow tribute. It all blurred. None of it mattered. Because his mind was still there. Still standing in front of George Russell. Still replaying every word. Every look. Every infuriatingly calm response.

Max clenched his jaw. What was that? What kind of conversation was that? It hadn’t even been a fight—he would have preferred a fight. At least then there would have been something to push against. Something to win. But George hadn’t fought him. He had just… sat there. Measured. Controlled. Like Max wasn’t even worth the effort of anger.

Max exhaled sharply through his nose. That—more than anything—stung.

By the time he reached his House’s table, something heavier had settled in his chest. Not just embarrassment. Something sharper. Something unfinished.

His mother noticed him first. Of course she did. Her gaze lifted from her goblet almost immediately, her expression softening into a small, knowing smile that made Max want to turn around and leave again. He didn’t. Instead, he dropped into his seat harder than necessary.

Across from him, Isack looked like he had just fought for his life against laughter and lost.

“Don’t,” Max muttered immediately.

“How did it go, honey?” his mother asked, her tone light but her eyes far too perceptive.

“Terribly,” Max said flatly. “In case that wasn’t obvious.”

“Really?” she tilted her head slightly. “From here it looked rather… engaging.”

“It looked absolutely tragic,” Isack added brightly. “For you.”

Max turned slowly and fixed him with a glare sharp enough to cut.

Isack did not stop smiling.

“In fact,” he continued, leaning forward slightly, “I think my favourite part was when you realised he wasn’t going to let you win.”

Max scoffed, grabbing his goblet. “That’s because he wasn’t trying to win.”

“Exactly,” Isack said, delighted. “And you still lost.”

Max kicked him under the table. Hard.

Isack hissed. “Worth it.”

Max ignored him, turning back to his drink.

His mother watched him quietly. “And why,” she asked softly, “did it go terribly?”

Max exhaled, frustrated. “Because he has an answer for everything,” he said.

“You say something, he questions it. You push, he doesn’t push back the way he’s supposed to—he just… adjusts. Like he’s already thought through ten different outcomes before you even open your mouth.” His fingers tapped against the table. “It’s like trying to corner someone who refuses to stand still.”

His mother nodded faintly. “And that unsettles you.”

“Yes.”

“And interests you.”

Max didn’t respond.

Isack made a small, knowing sound. Max kicked him again.

“Ow—”

“Shut up.”

“I haven’t even said anything.”

“You were about to.”

“Fair.”

Max dragged a hand down his face. “I do not like him,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

“Never said you did,” Isack replied cheerfully. “But you are thinking about him. Obsessively, I might add.”

Max glared.

Across the hall, his gaze betrayed him again. George now stood with Daniel Riccardo, who was speaking animatedly, clearly mid-sentence. George listened—really listened—but there was still that same composed distance about him. That same control. There was a slight tenseness in his jaw. What the hell was Daniel telling?

Max’s jaw tightened. Why did he look so unaffected and affected all at once? Why did it look like that conversation had meant nothing? Honestly Max thinks it was nothing. It can't mean something. It would be easier to move on from it. However the way Daniel seemed to be chatting him up and seemingly trying to pull something out of him... It looked like it had meant something the more irritated he looked.

“…He’s not stupid,” Max muttered.

Isack gasped. “The highest of praise.”

Max ignored him. “That’s the problem,” he continued. “If he were stupid, I could ignore him. But he’s not. He listens, he understands, and then he answers like he’s been waiting for you to say exactly that.” He exhaled sharply. “It’s exhausting.”

“And you don’t like losing,” his mother said gently.

“I didn’t lose.”

She raised a brow.

Max hesitated. “…I didn’t win.”

“That’s worse for you.”

Max didn’t answer. Because she was right.

“Well,” Isack chimed in, “at least no weapons were involved this time.”

His mother turned sharply. “This time?”

Max froze. “It was one incident—”

“You threw something at him?” she demanded.

“He cheated—”

“You cheated,” Isack corrected immediately.

Max turned slowly. “I am going to end you.”

“I speak only the truth.”

“Mother,” Max said quickly, “it wasn’t like that. We had a tourney at Aurelian, I might have misstepped, he called me a cheat, and I might have gotten a little angry.”

“With a spear,” Isack added.

“With emphasis,” Max snapped.

His mother sighed deeply. “I leave you alone with nobility for one season and you start throwing weapons.”

“It wasn’t a weapon—”

“Max.”

He stopped.

She looked at him then—not amused, not exasperated. Something softer. “You’re not just embarrassed,” she said quietly.

Max hesitated. “…No.”

“You’re frustrated.”

“Yes.”

“And not because of the conversation alone.”

Max frowned. “…He didn’t react the way I wanted him to.”

“And why does that matter?”

Max opened his mouth—and paused. “…I don’t know.”

Her gaze softened. “I think you do.”

Silence lingered.

“You wanted a reaction,” she said gently. “Anger. Agreement. Anything you could respond to.”

Max didn’t deny it.

“But he didn’t give you one.”

“No.”

“And now you don’t know where you stand with him.”

Max’s fingers stilled. “…No,” he admitted.

“And that bothers you.”

“Yes.”

“Because you care what he thinks.”

Max looked up sharply. “I do not—”

“You do,” she said calmly.

Max opened his mouth—and closed it again.

Across the hall, George left—he bid his due to Daniel and retired for the night. He didn't look amused. Max noticed. Of course he did. And something in his chest tightened in a way he didn’t quite understand.

Later.

The hall had begun to thin, the night settling heavier over the estate. Max found himself near one of the outer corridors, the noise of the feast dimming behind him.

“Ah, there you are.”

He turned. Daniel Riccardo approached, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Max sighed. “If you’re here to laugh—”

“Oh, I am,” Daniel said easily. “But I’m also here to help. Rare combination, I know.”

Max crossed his arms. “Make it quick.”

Daniel leaned casually against the wall beside him. “I just came from speaking with George.”

Max stilled. “…And?”

Daniel watched him carefully, amusement flickering. “He’s going to hate this.”

Max frowned. “Hate what?”

Daniel tilted his head. “You don’t know yet?”

Max’s patience thinned. “Know what?”

Daniel huffed a quiet laugh. “Let’s just say—if anyone is thinking of tying the two of you together in any official capacity…” he shrugged, “he will not take it well.”

Max’s expression hardened slightly. “Why?”

Daniel studied him for a moment. “He doesn’t let himself have things,” he said.

Max frowned. “What does that mean?”

Daniel’s tone shifted—still light, but edged now. “You know where he came from, right? Not born into Stellaris. Not even close. Farmer’s boy. Or close enough to it. Lost everything. Then—” he gestured vaguely, “taken in. Raised into something else. Something completely different.”

Max’s gaze sharpened slightly.

“But that life he lived once upon a time doesn’t leave you, those memories and suffering he faces for years haven't left either,” Daniel went on. “He doesn’t think he belongs where he is. So what do you think he’s going to do when someone tries to give him more?”

Max didn’t answer.

“He’ll fight it,” Daniel said simply. “Even if part of him wants it.”

Max’s jaw tightened.

“And you,” Daniel added with a grin returning, “are exactly the kind of person who would make that worse.”

Max shot him a look. “Excuse me?”

“Higher standing. Stronger House. Bigger reputation. You think he’s going to accept that easily?”

Max exhaled slowly.

“No.”

“He wouldn’t,” Daniel agreed. “Just thought you should know. Whatever’s coming—it’s not going to be simple.”

He paused, smirked. “But it will be entertaining.”

“Get lost.”

Daniel laughed and walked off.

Max remained.

Thinking.

The corridor felt colder away from the feast.

Max barely noticed when the noise faded behind him—voices dissolving into a distant blur, laughter thinning into nothing. He needed the quiet. Or something close enough to it.

Daniel’s words still lingered.

He doesn’t let himself have things.

Max exhaled slowly, jaw tightening.

“That’s convenient,” he muttered under his breath. “For everyone except him.”

“Talking to yourself now?”

Max stilled.

He didn’t turn immediately. He didn’t need to.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t hear that,” Max said flatly.

“That was optimistic.”

Max turned then.

Jos Verstappen stood a few steps behind him, posture relaxed in a way that wasn’t relaxed at all. Controlled. Always controlled. His gaze was fixed—not harsh, not soft. Just… assessing.

Max resisted the instinct to straighten.

“Enjoying the evening?” Jos asked, tone casual.

Max huffed quietly. “If this is your version of enjoyment, I’d hate to see your idea of suffering, Father.”

Jos ignored that.

“You spoke to Russell.”

Not a question.

Max’s shoulders tightened slightly. “Yes.”

“And?”

Max hesitated.

That, more than anything, drew attention.

Jos’s gaze sharpened just slightly—not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice. But Max saw it. He always did.

“And?” Jos repeated.

Max exhaled through his nose, buying himself a second. “He’s…” he paused, searching for something that didn’t sound like he was still thinking about it. “Difficult.”

Jos tilted his head slightly. “In what way?”

Max frowned. “He doesn’t react properly.”

“Properly?”

“You push, he doesn’t push back,” Max said, frustration slipping in despite himself. “He just… adjusts. Like he’s already considered everything you’re going to say before you say it.”

Jos watched him.

Silent.

Max shifted slightly under the gaze.

“It’s irritating,” he added, quieter now.

A pause.

Then—

“Good.”

Max blinked. “Good?”

Jos stepped closer, slow, deliberate.

“Yes,” he said. “It means he thinks before he speaks. It means he doesn’t waste energy on pointless reactions.”

Max frowned slightly. “Or it means he avoids them.”

Jos’s mouth twitched faintly. “Same result.”

Max didn’t respond.

Because it wasn’t the same.

Not really.

But he wasn’t going to argue that.

Not here.

Jos studied him for another moment before continuing, tone shifting just slightly—less observational, more intentional.

“And what do you think of the union?”

There it was.

Max’s posture stilled.

He should have expected that.

Of course this wasn’t just about a conversation.

Nothing ever was.

Max looked away briefly, gaze settling somewhere down the corridor before returning.

“I think it’s too early,” he said carefully. “We’ve spoken once.”

“That is sufficient.”

Max’s jaw tightened slightly. “It’s not.”

Jos didn’t react.

Max continued anyway.

“I don’t know him,” he said. “I mean— I know him but not enough. Every previous conversation we've had has ended in arguments and disaster. If we’re talking about something like this—” he gestured vaguely, “—then it should be considered properly.”

“It has been.”

Max let out a quiet breath, irritation flickering. “By you.”

Jos’s gaze hardened a fraction.

“That is my responsibility.”

“And this would be mine, handling him would be mine,” Max said, more firmly than before. “If it happens.”

A pause.

Small.

But dangerous.

Max felt it immediately.

He’d stepped just slightly out of line.

Not enough to provoke—yet.

But enough to be noticed.

Jos took another step closer.

“Then consider it,” he said. “Now.”

Max held his gaze.

Something in his chest tightened—not fear, not quite. Just awareness. Calculation.

Unfortunately for Max he isn't very liked around the kingdom.

“…I’d rather take time,” Max said, more measured now. “Look at other options. There are other Houses. Other alliances that—”

“No.”

The word cut clean.

Max stilled.

Jos didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

“No,” he repeated. “There aren’t.”

Max frowned slightly. “There are always alternatives.”

“Not ones that matter.”

Jos’s tone remained calm. Controlled. Final.

Max exhaled slowly. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Silence stretched between them.

Max felt it pressing in.

This wasn’t a discussion.

It never had been.

Still—

He tried once more.

“He’s not easy to deal with,” Max said. “You saw it yourself—he’s not going to just—fall into place.”

Jos watched him carefully.

Then—

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

Max’s brows drew together. “He didn’t seem—”

“He’s easier than most,” Jos cut in.

Max blinked.

“…What?”

Jos’s expression didn’t change.

“He’s controlled. Disciplined. Structured,” he said. “That kind always is.”

Max stared at him.

“That doesn’t make him easy,” he said slowly.

“It makes him predictable.”

Max shook his head slightly. “You didn’t speak to him.”

“I don’t need to.”

Max let out a quiet, disbelieving breath.

Of course he didn’t.

“People like him,” Jos continued, “build themselves around expectation. Duty. Obligation. Strip everything else away, and what’s left?”

Max didn’t answer.

Because he knew what Jos was implying.

And he didn’t like it.

Jos’s voice lowered slightly.

“He will do what is required,” he said. “Whether he likes it or not.”

Max’s fingers curled slightly at his side.

That sounded—

Too familiar.

“He didn’t seem weak,” Max said before he could stop himself.

The words slipped out.

And immediately—

He regretted them.

Jos went still.

Not obviously.

But enough.

Max felt it.

Felt the shift in the air between them.

“He held his ground,” Max added, quieter now. “He didn’t—bend.”

A pause.

Then—

Jos exhaled softly.

Almost amused.

“Of course he didn’t,” he said. “Not in a conversation.”

Max frowned slightly.

“What does that—”

“Strength in small moments is easy,” Jos interrupted. “It’s consistency that matters.”

Max didn’t respond.

Because that—

That wasn’t entirely wrong.

But it also wasn’t entirely right.

And he didn’t know how to argue that without making this worse.

Jos stepped back slightly, the moment passing as quickly as it had come.

“This is not a matter of preference,” he said, tone shifting back to something more neutral. “It is a matter of advantage.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “For you.”

“For Tauryx,” Jos corrected.

Max didn’t bother responding to that.

Jos continued.

“Stellaris is stable,” he said. “Influential. Clean, in the way they present themselves.” A faint edge slipped into his voice. “Too clean.”

Max glanced at him.

“And Russell?” he asked.

Jos’s gaze sharpened again.

“He is useful.”

Max stilled.

Not capable.

Not intelligent.

Useful.

“He works harder than the rest of them,” Jos went on. “Takes on responsibility he doesn’t need to. That kind of behaviour can be directed.”

Max’s stomach tightened slightly.

Directed.

“He’s not stupid,” Max said, quieter now.

Jos gave a short, dismissive breath. “No. But that doesn’t make him difficult.”

Max didn’t respond.

Because something about that—

Didn’t sit right.

Not because he disagreed.

But because it felt…

Incomplete.

Jos studied him for a moment longer, then nodded once, as if confirming something to himself.

“It’s decided,” he said.

Max’s gaze snapped back to him. “You didn’t—”

“We speak to Wolff tonight.”

There it was.

Final.

Set.

Max exhaled sharply. “You already planned it.”

“Yes.”

“Without asking me.”

Jos’s expression didn’t change. “I don’t need to.”

Silence fell.

Max looked at him for a long moment.

Then laughed—quiet, sharp, without humor.

“Right,” he muttered. “Of course you don’t.”

Jos didn’t react.

“Be ready,” he said instead. “And try not to antagonise him before it’s formalised.”

Max almost smiled at that.

Almost.

“I’ll do my best,” he said dryly.

Jos turned to leave, then paused just slightly.

“And Max.”

Max didn’t move. “What.”

“Keep him in line.”

The words were casual.

Like a passing thought.

But the meaning—

Wasn’t.

Max’s fingers curled again, briefly.

“…Of course,” he said.

Jos nodded once.

Then walked away.

Max remained where he was.

For a moment.

For longer than he should have.

The corridor felt quieter now.

Heavier.

His thoughts didn’t settle.

They rarely did.

Predictable.

Useful.

Easier than most.

Max exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair again.

“That’s not what it looked like,” he muttered.

Because George hadn’t felt predictable.

He hadn’t felt easy.

If anything—

He’d felt…

Max stopped the thought before it could finish.

It didn’t matter. None of it did. The decision had already been made.

Max pushed himself off the wall, straightening slightly.

“Great,” he muttered under his breath. “This is going to go well.”

He turned back toward the inner corridors.

Toward the part of the night that hadn’t happened yet—But already felt inevitable.

Night had settled fully over the estate by the time they sought Toto Wolff.

The corridors were quieter now, lit by low-burning torches, the echoes of the funeral reduced to distant murmurs behind closed doors.

Toto stood in a smaller chamber, one hand braced against the edge of a long table, a glass sitting untouched beside him.

He didn’t look up immediately when they entered.

“My Lord,” Max’s father greeted.

Toto turned then, composed—but only just.

“Lord Verstappen,” he replied. His gaze flicked briefly to Max, then to Christian Horner. “And company.”

“We’ll be direct,” Max’s father said, stepping further into the room without waiting to be invited.

Toto inclined his head slightly. “Please.”

“We want an alliance with House Stellaris.”

A pause.

“I see,” Toto said.

“And we intend to secure it through marriage.”

Silence.

Then—

“No.”

Flat. Immediate.

Max’s father didn’t even blink.

“No?” he repeated, almost amused.

“No,” Toto said again, firmer this time. “House Tauryx and House Stellaris have never aligned. Not in politics, not in values, and certainly not in… temperament.”

A faint edge slipped into his tone.

Jos gave a short, humourless laugh.

“Yes, well,” he said, waving a hand dismissively, “your House has always been a bit too… polished for its own good.”

Max stiffened slightly.

Toto’s expression cooled.

Christian shifted subtly, already sensing where this was going.

“We deal in results,” Max’s father continued. “Not posturing and pretty words.”

Toto’s jaw tightened. “Careful.”

But Max’s father didn’t stop.

“No, let’s not pretend otherwise,” he said. “Stellaris plays at honour, at decorum—at looking like the most refined court in the realm—while Tauryx actually wins things.”

Max exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face.

This was going exactly where he didn’t want it to.

“This is not a battlefield,” Toto said, voice sharpening. “And I will not have my House spoken about like—”

“Like what?” Jos cuts in. “Like a House that would rather host a banquet than dirty its hands?”

Silence snapped tight in the room.

Max clenched his jaw. “Father—”

“Not now,” his father dismissed.

Toto straightened fully now, his composure cracking just slightly.

“You come to me,” he said, voice low, controlled, “and insult my House, and you expect me to entertain a marriage proposal?”

“I expect you to recognise an opportunity,” Jos replied bluntly.

“An opportunity?” Toto let out a sharp breath. “You’ve done nothing but prove exactly why our Houses do not mix.”

Christian stepped in quickly, tone smoother. “What my lord means—”

“I know exactly what he means,” Toto snapped.

Max shifted, frustration rising.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

This wasn’t strategy anymore—this was ego.

And it was ruining everything.

“It’s not about liking each other,” Max said suddenly, cutting through the tension.

Both men looked at him.

“It’s about what it does,” Max continued, more controlled than he felt. “For both Houses.”

A pause.

Toto’s gaze lingered on him.

Then—

“And George?” Toto asked quietly. “What do you think this does to him?”

Max hesitated.

Because he already knew the answer.

“He won’t like it,” Max admitted.

Toto huffed a humourless laugh. “That’s an understatement.”

Jos scoffed. “He doesn’t need to like it.”

Toto’s head snapped toward him. “He is not a bargaining chip.”

“No,” Jos’ said, voice hardening, “he’s an asset. Just like my son.”

Max’s stomach tightened slightly at that.

Toto went very still.

“Be careful,” Toto said quietly.

But Max’s father pressed on.

“You’ve raised him into nobility,” he said. “Given him power, position—don’t pretend sentiment suddenly matters now.”

“That’s enough,” Toto snapped, a flash of anger breaking through fully now.

Silence fell.

Heavy.

Sharp.

Max closed his eyes briefly.

Great.

Now they’d actually managed to anger him.

Toto turned away for a moment, running a hand over his face, forcing control back into place.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

Tighter.

“You don’t understand him,” he said.

Max didn’t think that was entirely true.

But he didn’t interrupt.

“He will fight this,” Toto continued. “Not because it is unwise—but because his anger will blind him.”

Daniel’s words echoed in Max’s mind.

He doesn’t let himself have things.

Max’s jaw tightened.

“We’re not asking for his permission,” Max’s father said.

Toto let out a slow breath.

“No,” he said. “You’re not.”

Another pause.

Longer now.

He looked between them.

At Max.

At Jos.

At Christian.

Weighing something.

More than just politics.

“There are complications,” Toto said at last.

Max’s father’s gaze sharpened. “Such as?”

Toto hesitated.

Only briefly.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

But it didn’t sound convincing.

Max noticed.

“Then it’s irrelevant,” Jos said dismissively.

Toto’s expression tightened again.

Max felt irritation spike.

“Father,” he said under his breath.

Enough.

This wasn’t helping.

This was pushing.

And pushing too far.

But then—

Toto exhaled, long and slow.

“…It would be a strong alliance,” he admitted, the words clearly dragged out of him.

Christian inclined his head slightly. “It would.”

Silence lingered.

Then—

“…Fine,” Toto said.

Reluctant.

Measured.

Heavy.

“We will discuss it further before the ceremony.”

His gaze shifted to Max again.

Lingering.

Assessing.

“And we will see where it leads.”

Max’s father nodded once. “Good.”

As they turned to leave, Max cast one last glance back.

Toto hadn’t moved.

He stood exactly where they’d left him.

Still.

Rigid.

His hand resting against the table, fingers tightening ever so slightly.

His expression no longer angry—

but troubled.

Deeply.

As though the argument hadn’t been the real problem.

As though something else—

something far more dangerous—

was already in motion.

-

The corridor outside the chamber felt colder now that the doors had shut behind them, the noise of the negotiation swallowed instantly by stone and distance. Max walked a few steps ahead before stopping, not turning right away, as if giving himself a second to rebuild whatever composure he had left.

“What the hell was that?” he asked finally, his voice steady but carefully stripped of emotion.

Behind him, his father didn’t even slow his pace. “A negotiation,” he replied, as if that alone explained everything. Max let out a quiet breath through his nose, jaw tightening, because it hadn’t been a negotiation—not really. It had been pressure, provocation, control. And worse, it had worked just enough to keep everything from collapsing entirely.

Christian followed a step behind, watching but not intervening. The silence between them stretched until Jos spoke again, casually at first, but with intent.

He said “George Russell would be the issue, a farmer brat who thinks he deserves everything because what? His family was somewhere at the wrong time?”

He said it like it was already decided, like George was less a person and more a variable in an equation that didn’t behave properly.

Max’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly at the name, though his face remained carefully neutral. That was safer. Reaction always meant attention, and attention from his father was never neutral.

“He won’t like it,” Christian offered mildly, and Max’s father responded without hesitation, “George didn’t need to like it. He's just one piece on this whole board. He will survive if this move cracks him ever so slightly.” 

Max said nothing, because there was nothing to say that wouldn’t turn into something worse.

His father went on, voice flattening. “I never liked the boy, but he has some good traits. He works harder than Hamilton in that House, he doesn’t need to but stupidly take on the responsibility anyway. Let's hope he's smart enough to recognize how this treaty will benefit his House.” 

Max listened without interrupting, even as something uncomfortable settled in his chest. 

He should have agreed. That would have been easier. That would have kept things smooth. But instead, a thought slipped through before he could stop it: George hadn’t seemed weak earlier. If anything, he had been steady in a way most nobles weren’t.

Max let the thought die quickly. It wasn’t worth examining. Not here.

His father continued, describing George as a farmer’s boy who had been lifted into nobility and never fully adapted, as though upbringing was something that permanently defined a person. Max kept his gaze forward, expression blank, but inside something tightened—less disagreement, more instinctive discomfort. Not because he felt strongly about George specifically, but because agreement here wasn’t really optional.

 It never had been. With his father, agreement was simply the path of least consequence.

When Max did speak, it was minimal, almost detached. He said George held his ground, as if it were just an observation, something factual rather than personal. The words barely left him before he regretted them—not because they were wrong, but because they were unnecessary. His father paused just slightly, enough to acknowledge the deviation, enough to note it.

But he didn’t challenge it directly. Instead, he dismissed it with ease, returning to the same conclusion: George only appeared competent because Stellaris allowed him to. Strip that away, and there was nothing left. Max didn’t respond, though his fingers curled briefly at his side before he forced them still.

There was a familiarity to this dynamic that sat under everything else. Not just disagreement, but structure. Not just pressure, but expectation. Max had learned early that pushing too hard didn’t lead to debate—it led to consequences that weren’t always immediate, but always remembered. 

So he nodded when required, kept his voice even when he spoke, and let most of his thoughts stay where they belonged.

Inside.

Max listened, nodded where appropriate, and stayed quiet otherwise. His father seemed satisfied with that, returning to control rather than confrontation, as though the earlier discussion had already been settled in his mind.

Before the conversation fully moved on, though, his father’s voice cut in one last time—lower, sharper, directed at Max alone. He told him he would deal with George, that he only needed to keep him in line. The phrasing was casual, but the meaning wasn’t. Max nodded once in response, because there was no alternative response that wouldn’t complicate things further.

“Of course,” he said simply.

But as they continued walking.

The conversation shifted again—logistics, timing—but Max only half listened.

Because Christian was still watching him.

Not obviously.

But enough.

“You’re thinking too much,” Christian said quietly, falling into step beside him.

Max didn’t look at him. “About what.”

Christian hummed faintly. “About whether he fits what your father thinks he is.”

Max’s jaw tightened.

“I don’t care what he is."

Christian’s glance was brief.

Measured.

“No,” he said. “You care whether he matches it.”

Max didn’t respond.

Because—that was closer.

Closer than he liked.

Christian let the silence sit for a moment, then added, almost idly—

“Just be careful not to confuse the two.”

Max frowned slightly. “Confuse what.”

“What he is,” Christian said, “and what you expect him to be.”

A pause.

Then he stepped back slightly, letting the distance return.

Like he hadn’t said anything at all.

Max exhaled slowly.

Annoyed.

Because that—that stayed.

Long after the conversation moved on.

Max found his thoughts drifting anyway, uninvited. Not to his father. Not to the alliance. But to George—standing there earlier, not bending, not reacting the way he was expected to, speaking like someone who wasn’t aware he was supposed to be lesser. It was irritating, yes, but not in the way his father meant. It wasn’t defiance that bothered Max.

It was that it had been… consistent.

Stable.

Real, in a way most interactions at court weren’t.

He pushed the thought down before it could become anything more defined. Because whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Not yet. Not until the ceremony. Not until the arrangement was formalised and real consequences began to exist around it.

And definitely not until he saw George Russell again and had to decide whether he would simply follow the path already laid out for him—or do something far more complicated than that.

The room remained quiet long after the representatives of House Tauryx had left.

Toto Wolff did not move immediately from where he sat. The door had closed with finality, but the conversation still lingered in the air like an afterimage—unspoken implications hanging heavier than the words that had actually been exchanged.

Christian had left first, muttering something about arrangements and confirmations that would need to be handled before dawn. Jos had followed shortly after, already speaking as though outcomes were inevitable rather than uncertain. Only Toto had remained behind in the chamber, because someone had to sit with the parts of the discussion that did not fit neatly into confidence.

He let out a slow breath, finally leaning back in his chair.

On the surface, everything had been composed. Controlled. A structured exchange between Houses with shared interests and carefully aligned futures. That was what would be recorded. That was what would be spoken aloud.

But underneath it—

there had been strain.

Not from Tauryx.

From within Stellaris itself.

Toto’s gaze drifted briefly toward the table where the plans had been unrolled earlier, still faintly marked with ink lines and annotated margins. Alliances. Boundaries. Responsibilities. Names placed beside each other as though proximity alone could guarantee stability.

And yet, none of that had accounted for what was happening beyond the walls of the chamber.

The real fracture wasn’t external.

It was internal.

The thought returned to him uninvited: Lewis.

Lewis Hamilton.

Toto’s jaw tightened slightly.

That conversation had not been part of the negotiation with Tauryx, and yet it had weighed on him more heavily than anything said in that room.

Lewis intended to go to Ferrion.

Not as rebellion, not as defiance, but as something far more dangerous in its simplicity: a desire for distance. For autonomy. For space outside the structure Stellaris had built around him.

Toto had been furious at first. He had assumed ambition—assumed Lewis was chasing power, chasing the possibility of carving out something greater for himself elsewhere. Ferrion had influence. Ferrion had reached. It would not have been an unreasonable leap.

But Lewis had corrected him.

Calmly. Quietly. With a kind of honesty that had left no room for argument.

It wasn’t about power.

It was about escape.

About the absence of joy.

About waking up each day already carrying the weight of expectation before he had even taken a breath. That if he had become Lord taken responsibility he would not be content and his mental state would cause his critical thinking skills and decision for the House to deteriorate.

Toto had understood.

He hadn’t agreed. He still didn’t.

But he had understood.

Lewis wasn’t leaving to rise.

He was leaving because he could no longer endure staying.

Ferrion, apparently, had promised him something Toto never had—something Stellaris had never been built to offer.

Freedom.

The word sat bitterly in his mind.

Lewis would leave, wander as he pleased under the guise of allegiance, shedding responsibility like a second skin. Duties would be shifted—placed, inevitably, onto George. Younger. Steadier. More willing to endure.

More willing to stay.

Toto’s fingers tightened slightly against the arm of his chair.

He knew how that would unfold.

George would accept it.

Not because he wanted to—but because he always did what was required of him. He would step into the space left behind without complaint, carrying more than what was initially expected of him, saying less than he felt.

And Lewis—

Lewis would keep moving.

He always had.

It hadn’t always been like this.

There had been a time when Lewis had been constant within Stellaris. Present. Engaged. Unquestionably part of it.

Back when Nico was still there.

Nico Rosberg.

Even now, the name lingered with a kind of weight Toto rarely allowed himself to acknowledge.

Nico had been… different. There had been something in him—something rare, something almost otherworldly. Magic, in the truest sense of the word. Not just power, but instinct. Precision. A presence that altered the balance of everything around him.

He and Lewis had grown up side by side, brought into Stellaris within a year of each other. Where one went, the other followed. Where one faltered, the other compensated.

For a time, they had been perfect.

Until they weren’t.

Age had sharpened them against each other. What had once been balance became friction. What had once been understanding turned volatile. They fought—not just in words, but in everything they did. Rivalry eclipsed reason. Responsibility became secondary to whatever storm brewed between them.

Toto—and Niki—had watched it unravel in real time.

And Stellaris had paid the price.

The fractures within the House, left unattended, had widened. Minor conflicts escalated. Alliances weakened.

Until it had all spilled outward.

The civil war with House Myrenth and Vaelcor had not started from strength.

It had started from imbalance.

From distraction.

From two of Stellaris’ most vital pillars turning against each other instead of holding the structure together.

And when it ended—

Nico was gone.

No warning. No confrontation. Just absence.

A letter, left behind for Lewis, and nothing more.

No trace. No direction. No explanation.

The disappearance had never been resolved.

Toto’s gaze lowered slightly.

He had suspected the truth long before anyone else said it aloud.

Lewis’s “adventures” had not been adventures at all.

Not in the beginning.

They had been searches.

Every journey, every absence—another attempt to find something that had been lost without closure.

Another attempt to find him.

Then Niki died.

And whatever fragile thread had kept Lewis tethered to Stellaris had frayed even further.

Toto remembered that conversation.

He had called Lewis in. Sit him down. Spoken not as a mentor, not as anything resembling family—but as the head of a House that could not afford instability.

It had been necessary.

It had also been the moment Toto understood something he refused to admit aloud:

Lewis would not stay forever.

Stellaris had become a place of ghosts for him.

Of what had been.

Of what had been lost.

And no amount of structure, of expectation, of duty—would ever fully anchor someone who no longer wanted to be anchored.

Still, Toto had tried.

He had delayed it.

Managed it.

Contained it.

Because that was what he did.

But time rarely softened anything.

It only delayed collapse.

His fingers tapped once against the arm of his chair before stilling again.

The irony was not lost on him. While Tauryx spoke of strengthening alliances through structure and marriage, Stellaris itself was quietly wrestling with something far less controllable: loyalty that no longer behaved predictably.

Lewis wanted freedom.

George would not tolerate imposition—not truly. He would accept it, yes. Endure it. Carry it with that same quiet resolve he always had. But it would not leave him untouched.

Toto exhaled slowly.

He didn’t know which conversation would fracture things more—telling George about Lewis, or telling him about the marriage alliance.

Either way, the outcome would be the same.

George would agree.

He would fall into line.

And something between them would break in the process.

Irreparably.

Max sat somewhere in the middle of it all—present, but not yet fully shaped by either pressure. Watching. Learning. Reacting in ways that were not always predictable, but never insignificant.

And Toto—

Toto was expected to hold all of it together.

A faint knock at the door interrupted the silence.

Christian stepped in first, more subdued now than before, followed briefly by a servant carrying documents that needed reviewing before morning. No one spoke immediately. The atmosphere had shifted from negotiation to aftermath—the kind of quiet that followed decisions not yet fully understood.

Christian placed the papers down carefully. “Tauryx will expect confirmation soon,” he said. “They’ll interpret delay as hesitation.”

Toto nodded once, though his attention was only partially on the words.

“I know,” he replied.

Christian hesitated, then added more quietly, “And Lewis?”

That question landed differently.

Toto’s gaze sharpened slightly, though his expression remained controlled.

“Is not part of this arrangement,” he said carefully.

But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t entirely true.

Because Lewis was part of everything Stellaris was.

Just not in the way anyone could easily write down.

Christian seemed to understand that, because he didn’t push further. Instead, he gave a short nod and stepped back.

When the door closed again, Toto remained still for a long moment.

The chamber felt larger now, emptier.

Not because anything had been resolved—

but because too many things had been left unresolved at once.

Ferrion.

Tauryx.

George.

Max.

Lewis.

Each one pulling in a different direction.

And Toto, sitting at the centre of it, was beginning to recognise something uncomfortable:

This was no longer a matter of managing alliances.

It was a matter of managing people who were beginning to want things Stellaris might not be able to give them anymore.

His eyes lowered slightly.

Whatever came next—

it would not stay controlled for long.

Chapter Text

Max woke to the sound of knocking.

It wasn’t gentle. It was persistent—measured, polite, entirely too composed for the hour.

He groaned and buried his face deeper into the pillow, dragging the blanket half over his head as if that might somehow silence the world outside his door.

“My Lord,” a servant’s voice called carefully from the other side, “Lord Riccardo wishes to—”

The door opened before the sentence could finish.

“Max, I have so much to tell you—wake up, wake up!”

The energy hit the room before the words fully did.

Daniel Ricciardo moved like he owned the space, brushing past the servant with a grin that bordered on obnoxiousness at this hour. The servant exhaled, defeated, and quietly shut the door behind him.

Max did not move.

“What the fuck, Daniel,” he muttered into his pillow. “What’s the time?”

“It’s time,” Daniel declared brightly, dragging one of Max’s desk chairs across the floor and planting it right beside the bed, “to break our fast with the fabulous information I have for you. Now get your ass up. You will not believe what I’m about to say.”

Max groaned again—longer this time—and forced himself upright with visible reluctance. His hair was a mess, his eyes barely open as he scrubbed a hand down his face.

He gestured vaguely. “Talk.”

Daniel leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grin sharp and expectant.

“Lewis Hamilton is leaving his position as heir of Stellaris,” he said, voice dropping just enough to carry weight. “For Ferrion.”

It hit.

Harder than Max expected.

His eyes snapped open, the last trace of sleep gone in an instant. He stared at Daniel, waiting—almost expecting—the punchline, the laugh, the inevitable “got you.”

It didn’t come.

Daniel just watched him, grin unwavering.

“You’re fucking serious?”

“Dead.”

Max let out a breath that turned into a disbelieving laugh as he fell back against the bed, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Lewis fucking Hamilton… is leaving Stellaris?”

The words felt absurd even as he said them.

Impossible.

And yet—

Max pushed himself up again, resting on one arm as he looked at Daniel more sharply.

“How the hell do you know this?”

Daniel’s grin widened. “A little birdie told me.”

Of course.

“Right,” Max muttered. “And you’re sure your bird isn’t drunk?”

“Nope,” Daniel said easily. “I’m certain.”

Max studied him for a moment longer, searching for hesitation—finding none.

So it was real.

Lewis was leaving.

For Ferrion.

Max exhaled slowly, something shifting behind his expression.

“You know what this means, right?” Daniel added.

Max raised a brow. “What?”

“George becomes heir.”

The realization landed differently.

Quieter.

But heavier.

Max leaned back slightly, eyes unfocusing for a moment as the implications settled into place.

George.

Of course.

The thought twisted into something sharper—interest, curiosity, something bordering on anticipation.

George wouldn’t take that lightly.

He never took anything lightly.

Max could almost picture it—George somewhere in his chambers, tension coiled tight beneath that controlled exterior. Jaw clenched. Eyes sharper than usual. That carefully maintained neutrality beginning to crack under pressure.

What did George look like when he lost control?

Did he raise his voice?

Did he break things?

Did he shut down entirely?

Max didn’t know.

And for the first time, he found himself wanting to.

“It’ll make that alliance even more appealing now,” Daniel went on, watching him closely. “You’ve practically hit the jackpot, Maxie.”

Max didn’t respond.

“You should probably prepare yourself,” Daniel added with a half-laugh. “He’s going to be furious.”

Still nothing.

Max’s focus had already shifted elsewhere.

George.

Did he know? He had to know. Unless—

Max’s expression tightened slightly.

No. Not likely. Whatever Toto had been dealing with last night—whatever had sat beneath that perfectly controlled negotiation—it had to be tied to this.

Which meant George wasn’t in the dark. Probably the reason he was drinking himself dead last night.

Max swung his legs off the bed.

“I’ll talk to him,” he muttered, more to himself than to Daniel. “Today.”

Daniel hummed, satisfied, leaning back in his chair. “I’d pay to watch that.”

Max shot him a look.

Daniel only grinned wider.

George had already been awake for some time.

Sleep had come in fragments—restless, shallow, broken by the dull, persistent ache running along his back and threading through his nerves like something alive.

He moved carefully as he dressed, every motion measured, controlled. Too much strain and the pain would spike—he knew that well enough by now.

It didn’t make it any less frustrating.

By the time he finished, the discomfort had settled into something manageable. Present, but tolerable.

Barely.

He avoided the mirror entirely.

There was no need to confirm what he already felt—the heaviness behind his eyes, the faint tightness in his expression.

Instead, he focused on the routine.

Clothes adjusted. Sleeves straightened. Composure rebuilt.

By the time he stepped out of his chambers, there was little left to suggest anything had been wrong at all.

George Russell, was as expected. Controlled. Untouchable.

He made his way through the halls toward Toto’s chambers, where breakfast had been arranged.

Where Lewis would be.

Where this would become real.

The doors opened without ceremony.

Toto was already seated.

Lewis stood by the window, half-turned toward the light, posture loose in a way that felt almost deliberate—like he had already begun detaching himself from everything this room represented.

Both of them looked up when George entered.

And immediately—something sharpened.

Toto’s gaze swept over him once, precise and assessing. “You’re injured.”

George didn’t break stride. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I said I’m not.”

Lewis pushed himself off the window, arms folding loosely. “You look like shit.”

George shot him a look. “Charming.”

“Accurate.”

George ignored him, taking his seat with controlled, deliberate movements. Too controlled. He reached for the cup in front of him, more for something to do than anything else.

Toto didn’t sit back.

He leaned forward slightly instead, attention fixed.

“We’ll address that,” he said. “But first—”

“Lewis is leaving for Ferrion.” the old man announced.

George didn’t look up when he said it.

The words cut cleanly through the room.

A pause followed.

Short.

Heavy.

Toto’s expression remained composed, but there was a flicker of something behind it. “You already know.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I told him,” Lewis said.

No hesitation. No apology.

George’s grip tightened faintly around the cup, but his face stayed neutral.

Toto exhaled once, controlled.

“Then that simplifies things.”

“Does it?” George muttered.

Toto ignored it.

“Lewis’s departure leaves the position of heir vacant,” he continued. “As of this morning, that position is yours.”

George let out a quiet breath.

Not surprised.

Not pleased.

Just… tired.

“Of course it is.”

“It is not being given to you lightly,” Toto added.

“No,” George said, finally looking up. “Just formally.”

A slight pause.

“I’ve been handling the responsibilities already.”

That landed.

Subtly—but it landed.

Toto’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “You’ve been assisting.”

“I’ve been managing,” George corrected, sharper now. “While he was gone. While he was… wherever he needed to be.”

Lewis shifted, something tightening in his expression. “I didn’t leave you to carry it alone.”

“No,” George said evenly. “You just left often enough that it didn’t matter.”

Silence.

Tense.

George exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers briefly against the table as if grounding himself.

“And now you want to make it official,” he continued. “Fine. I understand that. I don’t like it—but I understand it.”

Toto watched him carefully. “Then we are aligned.”

George’s gaze flicked up, sharp. “Don’t assume that.”

A beat.

Then—

“There has been a proposal from House Tauryx,” Toto said.

George went still. Fuck.

“An alliance,” Toto continued. “To secure—”

“No.”

Immediate.

Firm.

“You don’t know the terms—”

“I don’t need to.”

“George—”

“No,” he repeated, louder now, standing abruptly. “You don’t get to do that. Not this.”

“It is not simply a matter of preference—”

“It’s my life!”

“And it is tied to this House whether you like it or not.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to offer it up—”

“It gives me the responsibility to ensure Stellaris survives!”

The words hit hard.

George’s chest rose sharply, his composure cracking just slightly at the edges.

“I have already been ensuring that,” he shot back. “For months. Quietly. Without the title. Without the recognition.”

“That does not change what is required now.”

“No,” George said, voice tightening. “It just means you’re asking for more.”

“Yes.”

The simplicity of it made something snap.

“And what happens when they don’t accept me?” George demanded.

Toto stilled.

George took a step forward, tension coiling tighter in his posture.

“Have you thought about that?” he pressed. “Or are you just assuming they will fall in line because you tell them to?”

“They will accept what is necessary.”

“No,” George said sharply. “They’ll tolerate it. There’s a difference.”

“George—”

“I’m not from one of your great houses,” he continued, voice rising now. “I don’t have a legacy that reassures them. I don’t have a name that carries weight beyond what you’ve given me.”

“You have proven yourself—”

“To you,” George cut in. “Not to them. Not to the rest of the Kingdom.”

The room tightened.

“You think Tauryx doesn’t see that?” he added. “You think they’re offering this because they respect me?”

“They’re offering it because it strengthens both Houses.”

“They’re offering it because it gives them leverage,” George snapped. “Over Stellaris. Over me.”

Toto’s expression hardened. “You underestimate your position.”

“No,” George said quietly. “You overestimate how much it protects me.”

Silence.

Then—

“And now you want to tie me to them permanently,” George continued. “Through marriage. As if that won’t make it worse.”

“It will stabilise the alliance.”

“It will trap me in it.”

“It will secure your authority.”

“It will make me dependent on their acceptance.”

The words came faster now, sharper, each one cutting deeper than the last.

“And when they decide I’m not enough?” George pressed. “When the rest of the Kingdom decides I’m not enough?”

“They won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You can’t.”

The last word cracked.

And with it—the pain hit.

Suddenly.

Violent.

George sucked in a sharp breath, his hand bracing against the table as his balance faltered.

Both of them saw it immediately.

Toto stood. “You’re in pain.”

“I’m fine,” George forced out.

“No, you’re not.”

“It’s nothing—”

“When did this start again?” Toto cut in, sharper now.

George’s jaw clenched. “It didn’t ‘start again.’ It never really stopped.”

Lewis stepped closer, concern overtaking everything else. “Then why didn’t you tell us?”

George let out a strained breath. “Because it passes.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It’s enough of one.”

“It isn’t,” Lewis said. “Not when it’s this bad.”

George shook his head slightly, tension threading through every movement. “I can manage it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is to me.”

Another wave hit—stronger this time.

George’s grip tightened against the table, knuckles paling as he forced himself to stay upright.

Lewis reached out instinctively. “Sit down.”

“No.”

“George—”

“I said no.”

His voice strained, uneven—but still defiant.

The room fell into a different kind of silence.

Not argumentative.

Not controlled.

Something tighter.

More fragile.

George exhaled slowly, forcing the pain back, forcing control back into place piece by piece.

This is what it is, then. 

The thought came quietly this time. Not sharp—just… certain. This is the moment it stops being something he can delay. He stared at the table, at the faint grain in the wood, using it to steady himself.

He had known. Of course he had known.

Lewis leaving had always meant this. Not in words. Not officially.

But in practice?

George had already been standing in that space—already carrying weight that had never been named as his.

This was just making it unavoidable.

So why does it feel different?

Because before, there had been room. Room to pretend it was temporary. Room to step back if it became too much. Room to believe it wasn’t fully his.

Now— there was none of that. Now it was permanent.

Recognised.

Expected.

And the marriage.

George’s jaw tightened slightly. That isn’t duty. That’s something else entirely. Binding. Final. Inescapable in a way responsibility never was.

Responsibility could be managed.

This couldn’t. They think this will stabilise things. Maybe it would. Maybe it would hold Stellaris together long enough to keep everything from breaking apart.

But it wouldn’t be clean.

It would never be clean.

And he is the cost. The thought settled heavily. Not dramatic. Just true.

George inhaled slowly.

He had survived worse.

House Myrenth’s needless torture. The war. His family. His mother crying over his brother and father's lifeless bodies. His sister yelling at him to run. Being hunted down. Everything that had nearly killed him—and hadn’t quite succeeded.

Compared to that, this wasn’t survival.

This was something quieter.

Endurance. Not surrender. Not quite. Because there was still a choice here. Just not one he wanted.

His fingers curled faintly against the table.

If he refused— Stellaris fractured. Tauryx pulled back. Toto lost ground he couldn’t afford to lose.

And everything George had already been holding together quietly, invisibly— started to slip.

So he won’t refuse.

Simple. Cold. Certain.

His shoulders straightened slightly. The pain was still there. The anger too. But something underneath it settled into place.

Not acceptance.

Not belief.

Just… understanding.

When he spoke again, his voice was steadier.

Colder.

“You don’t get to question how I handle this,” he said. “Not when you’re both too busy deciding everything else for me.”

“That is not what this is—”

“It is exactly what this is,” George interrupted. “You want me as heir. Fine. I’m already doing the work.”

His gaze flicked briefly to Lewis.

“Have been for a while.”

Then back to Toto.

“But this?” he continued. “This isn’t about capability. It’s about optics. About control. About making sure everything looks stable even if it isn’t.”

“It is about stability.”

“At my expense.”

“At the House’s survival.”

“And if I don’t survive it?” George shot back.

That—

that lingered.

Toto didn’t answer immediately.

Because he couldn’t.

George let out a quiet, humorless breath.

“I don’t want this,” he said. “Not like this.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t trust it.”

“That will change.”

“No,” George said softly. “It won’t.”

A pause.

Long.

Heavy.

Then—

“You know it won't but I understand it.”

His shoulders straightened fully now.

Control locking back into place.

Mask sealing.

“I understand what happens if I refuse,” he continued.

Toto said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

George’s jaw tightened.

“…I’ll do it.”

The words felt dragged out of him.

“I’ll take the title,” he said. “I’ll continue what I’ve already been doing.”

A breath.

“And I’ll agree to Tauryx.”

Another pause.

“But don’t expect me to believe in it.”

“I don’t,” Toto said.

George nodded once.

Sharp.

Final.

Then he sat back down, movements once again precise, controlled—despite the lingering pain.

Despite everything.

As if nothing had cracked.

As if nothing had been taken.

As if duty—

was enough to hold him together.

The gardens of Tauryx were not meant to feel alive.

That was George’s first thought as he stepped out onto the stone path, the cold air cutting sharp against his face, slipping through the seams of his coat like it had been waiting for him. The sky hung low and grey, pressing down on everything beneath it, and the wind carried a bitter edge that made the carefully sculpted trees shudder faintly.

It was beautiful.

In the way something distant and untouchable could be.

In the way something constructed always was.

And George hated it.

There was no life in it. No imperfection. No space for anything to grow wrong or wild or real.

It reminded him too much of everything that had just been decided for him inside those walls.

He exhaled slowly, watching his breath curl into the cold air, and kept walking.

He hadn’t meant to come here.

He had just needed to leave.

The halls felt too tight. Too heavy. Too full of words that had already been said and couldn’t be taken back.

Heir.

Marriage.

Duty.

The words looped, persistent.

Binding.

George stopped near the centre of the garden, where a fountain stood frozen mid-motion, water trapped in place like time itself had stalled.

He stared at it for a moment.

Still.

Silent.

Then—

“Alright, I give it five more minutes before you actually turn into one of those statues.”

George didn’t turn immediately.

He didn’t need to.

"You're up early” he said instead.

A scoff followed.

“Oh, sorry,” Lando Norris replied, stepping into view, rubbing his hands together against the cold. “Didn’t realise I was expected to miss this scheduled brooding session.”

George glanced at him. “You always manage to make things worse.”

“That’s my role in your life, actually.”

Behind him, Alex Albon shook his head, far more sensibly dressed, though even he looked unimpressed by the weather. “We weren’t even looking for you.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lando said. “I had a feeling he’d be somewhere miserable.”

George huffed faintly. “And Tauryx delivered.”

“God, it really did,” Lando muttered, looking around. “Who designs a garden like this? It’s like they sat down and said, ‘how do we make nature uncomfortable?’”

“It’s… intentional,” Alex said, though even he sounded unconvinced.

“It’s depressing,” George corrected.

“Which explains why you like it so much,” Lando shot back.

George gave him a flat look. “Get off my back, Lando.”

“No,” Lando said immediately.

Alex smiled faintly, stepping closer. “You look worse than usual.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“It’s honest.”

“Same thing,” Lando added.

George shook his head slightly, but there was something softer in it now. Familiar. Easier.

They’d always been like this.

Ever since—

Well.

Ever since George had been brought into all of this.

They hadn’t treated him differently. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered.

“You didn’t come out here for the scenery,” Alex said after a moment, watching him more closely now.

George didn’t answer.

Lando tilted his head, squinting at him. “No, he definitely didn’t. This is peak ‘George is dealing with something and pretending he’s not.’”

“I’m not pretending.”

“You are,” Lando said easily. “You do that thing where you go all quiet and stiff and act like everything’s fine when it’s clearly not.”

“That’s just his face,” Alex added.

George looked between them. “I regret knowing both of you.”

“Too late,” Lando said. “We’re lifelong commitments.”

“Unlike some people,” Alex added casually.

Lando turned on him immediately. “Don’t you dare.”

George blinked. “What?”

Alex shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Oh, nothing. Just that Lando’s already halfway into his own political nightmare.”

“I am not,” Lando protested.

“You’re literally betrothed,” George said, raising a brow.

“To Oscar Piastri,” Alex added helpfully.

Lando groaned. “You both need to stop saying it like that.”

“Like what?” George asked innocently.

“Like it’s—like it’s—”

“Romantic?” Alex offered.

“It’s not romantic!”

“It could be,” George said, deadpan.

“It’s not,” Lando insisted. “It’s strategic. There’s a difference.”

“Mm,” Alex hummed. “You like him.”

“I tolerate him.”

“You tolerate him very well from what I've seen. Practically couldn't leave his side ever since you got here.”

“Shut up!”

George let out a quiet breath that almost resembled a laugh.

Almost.

Lando pointed at him immediately. “There. That. That was a laugh. We’re making progress.”

“I didn’t laugh.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Pretending.”

George rolled his eyes, but it didn’t quite stick this time.

Alex’s expression shifted slightly, softer now. “What happened?”

George hesitated.

Just briefly.

Lando caught it immediately. “Oh, it’s bad.”

“It’s not—”

“It’s bad,” Lando repeated. “You did that pause thing.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” Alex said gently.

George exhaled slowly, gaze drifting away from them, back toward the frozen fountain.

“…I’ve been named heir,” he said.

Neither of them looked surprised.

Lando nodded once. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Alex tilted his head slightly. “We figured that might happen.”

George glanced at them. “You did?”

“Lewis leaving? Yeah the entire kingdom knows by now.” Lando said. “It was kind of obvious where that would go.”

“Right,” George muttered.

“But you look like someone just told you you’re being executed,” Lando added. “So I’m guessing that’s not the part you’re upset about.”

George didn’t respond.

Alex stepped in, quieter now. “What else?”

George’s jaw tightened.

Lando crossed his arms. “George.”

“Don’t.”

“George.”

“I said—”

“George William Russell,” Lando said, far too deliberately. “If you don’t tell us, I will start guessing, and I promise you, you will hate that more.”

A pause.

Then—

“…Tauryx proposed an alliance.”

“Shocking,” Lando said flatly.

“Through marriage.”

Silence.

Lando blinked.

Then blinked again.

“…Oh.”

Alex’s expression changed immediately. “And?”

George looked at them.

Didn’t soften it.

Didn’t hide it.

“I agreed.”

Lando let out a sharp breath. “No, you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“No,” Lando shook his head, stepping closer. “No, you were told to and didn’t argue enough.”

George didn’t answer.

“That’s not the same thing,” Lando said.

“It is when the outcome doesn’t change.”

“That’s—no, that’s not—” Lando cut himself off, frustrated. “George, that’s your life.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you’re just—what? Fine with that?”

“I didn’t say I was fine with it.”

“Then why agree?”

George’s gaze snapped to him, something sharp flashing through. “Because not agreeing wasn’t an option.”

“It is an option.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it—”

“No, Lando,” George cut in, voice tightening. “It isn’t.”

That stopped him.

Not completely.

But enough.

Alex stepped forward slightly, more careful now. “Explain.”

George exhaled slowly, running a hand briefly through his hair.

“I’ve already been doing this,” he said. “Everything Lewis was supposed to be handling—I’ve been doing it.”

“We know,” Alex said.

“Do you?” George asked, sharper than intended. “Because it doesn’t seem like anyone actually understands what that means.”

Silence.

“I’ve been holding things together,” he continued. “Quietly. Without the title. Without anyone needing to acknowledge it. I liked it that way. It was good and calm that way.”

Lando’s expression shifted slightly.

“And now,” George went on, “they want to make it official. Fine. That part—I understand.”

“But?” Alex prompted.

George laughed softly. “But now they want to secure it.”

“With Tauryx,” Lando muttered.

“Yes.”

“And you don’t trust them.”

“No.”

“That’s fair,” Lando said.

George’s jaw tightened. “It’s not just that.”

Alex studied him. “It’s you.”

George didn’t answer.

Which was answer enough.

“You don’t think they’ll accept you,” Alex said quietly.

George let out a slow breath, gaze dropping slightly. “Why would they?”

“Because you’re capable,” Lando said immediately.

“That’s not how this works.”

“It should be.”

“It’s not.”

“They’d be stupid not to—”

“They are,” George snapped. "We're talking about privileged assholes who put people out of jobs if they don't bring enough profit for fucks sake."

The words came out sharper than he intended.

But he didn’t take them back.

“I’m not from one of their houses,” he continued, voice lower now. “I don’t have their lineage. Their history. I’m not what they expect.”

“You’re what they need,” Alex said.

“That doesn’t mean they’ll accept it.”

“It doesn’t mean they won’t either,” Lando countered.

George shook his head slightly. “You don’t understand. They won’t see me as heir. They’ll see me as something Stellaris placed there.”

“Let them,” Lando said.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It can be.”

“No, it can’t,” George said. “Because if they don’t accept me, it doesn’t just reflect on me—it reflects on Stellaris. On every decision tied to me.”

Alex’s expression tightened. “And you think that’s your responsibility.”

“I know it is.”

Silence settled.

Heavy.

Familiar.

Lando exhaled slowly, then nudged George lightly with his shoulder. “You know, for someone who claims to hate all of this, you’re very committed to it.”

George huffed faintly. “That’s because I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

“Not one that doesn’t break something.”

“That’s life,” Lando said.

“That’s your life,” George corrected. “Not mine.”

Alex stepped in before it could spiral further. “Hey.”

Both of them stilled slightly.

“You don’t have to figure all of it out right now,” he said. “And you don’t have to carry it alone.”

George’s lips pressed together slightly. “I do.”

“No,” Alex said firmly. “You don’t.”

A pause.

Then—

“Well,” Lando said, clapping his hands together lightly, “on the bright side—”

George looked at him. “There isn’t one.”

“There is,” Lando insisted. “You could end up liking him.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You could have a whole dramatic love story,” Lando continued.

George stared at him.

“Enemies to lovers,” Lando added.

Alex groaned. “Stop.”

“I’m serious!”

“You’re not.”

“I am,” Lando insisted. “Oscar says it’s a very common trope.”

“Of course he does,” Alex muttered.

George let out a quiet breath—closer to a laugh this time.

Small.

But real.

Lando pointed again. “There it is! You're not a lost cause afterall!”

“Stop tracking my emotional progress.”

“No.”

The moment lingered—

warmer, somehow, despite the cold.

Familiar.

Safe.

Until they heard footsteps.

Measured.

Unhurried.

George felt it before he saw it.

The shift.

The way both Alex and Lando’s attention flicked past him.

He turned.

Max Verstappen approached like he had always intended to end up here.

Calm.

Certain.

His gaze settled on George immediately.

“Can I talk to you?” he asked.

Not loud.

Not soft.

Just… direct.

Lando glanced between them, then leaned slightly toward Alex. “That sounds like trouble.”

“Very much so,” Alex murmured back.

George didn’t respond immediately.

Something in him shifted—subtle, but unmistakable.

Guarded.

More aware.

“Of course,” he said finally.

Lando clapped once, too brightly. “Right! Perfect. We’re leaving.”

“We are?” Alex asked.

“We are now.”

Lando paused briefly beside George, lowering his voice just enough. “Don’t let him ruin your mood further.”

George huffed faintly. “I’ll try.”

Alex gave him a small, steady nod. “We’ll find you later.”

Then they were gone.

Leaving George alone in the cold, carefully constructed garden—

with Max.

And whatever came next.

The garden in Tauryx had emptied of everyone except them.

The others—Alex and Lando—had long since left, their voices fading down stone corridors, their laughter swallowed by distance. What remained behind was colder than before, as if the air itself had been waiting for this version of the conversation to begin.

George didn’t turn when he heard the footsteps again.

He already knew.

Max Verstappen stopped behind him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Max exhaled, like he was already tired of something that hadn’t fully begun.

“We need to talk.”

George gave a short, humourless laugh. “That’s usually your opening line right before something becomes my problem.”

Max tilted his head slightly. “It already is your problem.”

That did it.

George turned.

Slowly.

“Careful,” he said quietly. “You’re starting to sound like you enjoy that.”

Max smirked faintly. Not warmth. Not humour. Just instinct.

“I don’t enjoy it,” he said. “I manage it.”

George stepped forward. “That’s your issue. You don’t manage people. You reduce them.”

Max’s eyes sharpened. “And you overcomplicate everything until it collapses.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” George snapped back. “I didn’t realise I was meant to be simple for you.”

A pause.

Max’s tone shifted—lighter now, almost teasing. Almost careless. “You never were.”

It wasn’t kind.

It wasn’t meant to be.

George’s jaw tightened. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk like I’m some inconvenience you’ve learned to tolerate.”

Max gave a small shrug. “If I did that, you’d actually be tolerable.”

That should’ve been a joke.

It wasn’t received as one.

George stepped closer. “Say that again.”

Max didn’t move back. “You heard me.”

Something in George’s expression shifted—sharp, dangerous, immediate.

“You really want to start this again?” George asked lowly.

Max exhaled. “We never stopped.”

A beat.

Then George laughed once. Cold.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s start properly.”

Max looked as composed as ever—hands in his coat pockets, expression calm in that irritating way that suggested nothing ever really touched him unless he allowed it to.

George’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?”

Max tilted his head slightly. “A conversation.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

George let out a short breath through his nose. “Fine. Talk.”

Max’s gaze flicked over him once—quick, assessing. “You look like you’ve already lost the argument.”

“I haven’t started one.”

Max smiled faintly. “You usually don’t need to. You just arrive halfway through one and declare yourself correct.”

George stepped forward slightly. “If you’re here to tease me—”

“I’m always here to tease you,” Max interrupted calmly.

“That’s not helpful.”

“I never said I was helpful.”

The wind cut between them.

George’s patience snapped just a little.

“This entire arrangement is absurd,” he said sharply. “Tauryx, Stellaris, the alliance, the marriage—none of it is stable. It’s just dressed up as stability so people like you can pretend it holds.”

Max’s expression didn’t change. “People like me?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“No,” Max said softly. “Say it.”

George’s eyes narrowed. “People who benefit from chaos being controlled.”

A beat.

Max nodded once, almost approvingly. “Fair.”

That wasn’t the reaction George wanted.

It made something in his chest tighten further.

“You think this is funny,” George said.

“I think you’re angry,” Max corrected.

“I’m right.”

“You can't be both.”

George let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “Of course you’d say that.”

Max took a step closer now. “You haven’t even heard my position.”

“I don’t need to,” George shot back. “I already know it. You think this strengthens the structure. You think it stabilises everything. You think I should just accept it because it benefits everyone else.”

“It does benefit everyone else.”

“There it is,” George said coldly.

Max’s gaze sharpened slightly. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

“It never is.”

A pause.

Max exhaled slowly. “You’re making this personal.”

“It is personal. We're getting fucking married you idiot.”

“No,” Max said firmly. “It’s strategic. There’s a difference.”

George’s voice rose. “Not when I’m the one being used as the strategy.”

That landed differently.

Max’s voice stayed steady. “You’re angry.”

“Brilliant observation,” George said. “Do you want a medal for that or should I just assume you’re finally developing awareness?”

Max’s eyes narrowed. “This is exactly what I mean. You don’t fucking listen.”

“I listen perfectly fine,” George shot back. “I just don’t agree with your arrogance wrapped in strategy.”

Max stepped forward slightly. “This isn’t about agreement.”

“Then what is it about?” George snapped.

Max hesitated just a fraction.

That was enough.

George noticed immediately.

“…Go on,” George said. “Say it.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “It’s about stability.”

George’s eyes darkened. “Stability.”

“Yes.”

George nodded slowly. “That’s what you always say when you want to justify deciding things for other people.”

Max’s tone sharpened. “Someone has to decide.”

“And you think that’s you,” George said immediately.

Max’s smirk returned, thinner now. “I know it’s me.”

That made something in George snap.

“You always were unbearable,” George said sharply. “But at least before you were predictable.”

Max’s eyes flickered. “Before?”

“Before you threw a spear at me in a tournament hall because you couldn’t stand losing an argument you started.”

A pause.

Max’s jaw clenched.

“You cheated,” Max said flatly.

“I outplayed you,” George corrected immediately.

“You broke the rules.”

“I exposed your weakness.”

Max stepped forward sharply now. “That’s not how it works.”

“That’s exactly how it works,” George shot back. “You just hate it when someone does it better than you.”

The tension tightened further.

Max’s voice rose slightly. “You always think you're always right.”

George leaned in. “No. I know I'm always right.”

Silence.

Then Max exhaled sharply.

“This conversation is going nowhere,” he said.

George nodded once. “Finally. Something we agree on.”

A beat.

Max’s expression shifted—something sharper now. Less controlled.

“You haven’t changed,” Max said.

George laughed once. “Neither have you.”

Max stepped closer. “No. You’re still reactive. Still emotional. Still—”

“Still what?” George cut in. “Still not obedient enough for your taste?”

Max stopped.

Just for a second.

That pause—

George caught it.

His eyes narrowed immediately.

George’s expression sharpened. “Why do you keep doing that?”

Max blinked once. “Doing what?”

“That,” George said, stepping closer now. “That look. Like I’ve said something wrong in a language you don’t want to translate.”

Max’s jaw tightened slightly. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“It is.”

“You’re lying.”

Max’s eyes hardened just a fraction. “Drop it.”

“No,” George said immediately. “Because you keep doing it. Every time I speak, every time I push back—you look at me like I’ve reminded you of something.”

Max didn’t respond.

That silence was answer enough.

George’s anger sharpened further.

“Is it someone else?” he pressed. “Someone I’m supposed to be compared to?”

Max exhaled slowly. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

George stepped in closer, voice low now. “Then explain it.”

Max held his gaze for a long moment.

Then—

“It’s nothing,” he said again.

But this time it sounded more controlled.

More deliberate.

A wall going up.

George’s expression tightened.

“Right,” he said coldly. “Because you’ve always been so transparent.”

Max’s mouth twitched slightly. “Says you.”

That hit.

They both knew it did.

The air between them shifted again—tenser now, brittle.

Then Max said flatly, “You remind me of someone.”

That landed differently.

George went still.

“…Who?” he asked.

Max hesitated.

That hesitation was worse than the answer.

“Doesn’t matter,” Max said quickly.

“It does to me,” George shot back immediately.

Max stepped back slightly. “It’s not relevant.”

George’s voice sharpened. “Everything about you is relevant when it affects how you treat me.”

Max’s patience cracked slightly. “You think everything is about you.”

“It is when you keep looking at me like I’m someone else,” George said.

Silence.

Max didn’t answer.

And that silence confirmed too much.

George’s expression darkened. “So I’m a replacement for someone you can’t deal with anymore.”

Max’s eyes flashed. “That’s not what I said.”

“You didn’t have to,” George snapped.

A pause.

Max exhaled sharply. “This is why I don’t—”

“Don’t what?” George cut in. “Don’t deal with me properly?”

Max stepped forward again. “Don’t engage in conversations that go in circles.”

George laughed, sharp and angry. “Because you can’t control them.”

Max’s voice rose. “Because you refuse to listen.”

George stepped closer again, now fully matching him. “Because you refuse to say anything honest.”

That hit.

They both knew it did.

The air between them shifted again—tenser now, brittle.

“You don’t get to act like this is all rational strategy,” George said sharply. “You don’t get to stand there and pretend there aren’t consequences for people involved.”

Max’s tone dropped slightly. “There are consequences for everyone.”

“Not for you,” George snapped.

That made Max pause.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Then—

“I’ve had plenty of consequences,” Max said quietly.

“Not like this.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know enough,” George said.

Max stepped closer now too.

Now they were too near.

Not touching.

But close enough that every word landed heavier.

“You always do this,” Max said.

“Do what?”

“Turn it into a fight you think you’re the only one allowed to win.”

George’s eyes flashed. “Because no one else is the one being forced into a marriage arrangement they didn’t choose.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“It is.”

“It’s an alliance.”

“It’s control.”

“It’s survival,” Max said sharply.

George laughed again, but there was no humour left in it now. “Whose survival? Mine? Or the system you're forcing me into because your house wants to prove something?”

Max didn’t answer immediately.

And that silence again—

that hesitation—

George felt something shift inside him.

“You don’t like when I push back,” George said suddenly.

Max frowned. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” George pressed. “It bothers you.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “You’re projecting.”

“No,” George said, voice quieter now but sharper. “I think I remind you of something you don’t like remembering.”

That landed.

Properly this time.

Max’s expression changed—just slightly.

But enough.

George saw it.

And he didn’t let it go.

“Who?” he asked again, more controlled now. “Who do I remind you of?”

Max stared at him.

Long enough that the wind almost felt like it paused around them.

Then—

“It’s not important.”

“That means it is.”

Max’s voice dropped. “Drop it, George.”

“No.”

Max’s patience snapped just slightly. “You always do this. You always push until there’s nothing left of the conversation except damage.”

George stepped back half a pace, eyes narrowing.

“Damage?” he repeated. “You think I’m doing the damage here?”

“You are right now.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” George said sharply. “Considering you’re the one standing here pretending this isn’t just another political move while my entire future gets rewritten around it.”

Max’s eyes flashed. “You think I wanted this?”

“I think you agreed to it.”

“I didn’t have a choice either. If I had a choice you would be the last person I allowed to breathe the same air as me. ”

That hung.

A beat of silence.

Then George scoffed. “Everyone always says that. That they had not other choice.”

Max’s expression darkened slightly. “That’s because sometimes it’s true.”

George shook his head. “No. You just like believing it is.”

Max stepped closer again, frustration now visible in the tension of his shoulders. “You don’t listen.”

“You don’t explain.”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“Then why are you even here?” George snapped.

Silence.

Wind dragged through the hedges, cold and indifferent.

Max stared at him for a long moment.

Then, quieter—dangerously controlled—he said:

“You were never meant to be difficult.”

That hit harder than anything else.

George blinked once.

Then his expression changed.

Slow.

Cold.

“…Meant to be?” he repeated.

Max froze slightly.

Realising.

Too late.

George’s voice dropped. “Say that again.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No,” George said quietly. “You said it perfectly.”

A beat.

George stepped forward.

“Explain,” he said.

Max didn’t answer.

So George filled it in himself.

“I was chosen because I was acceptable.”

Max exhaled sharply. “That’s not—”

“You didn’t correct me,” George snapped. “So correct me now.”

Silence.

And then Max, exhausted and irritated beyond patience, said it.

“You were the most viable match,” he said bluntly.

George stopped.

Everything went still.

Even the wind felt like it hesitated.

“…Match,” George repeated.

Max immediately tried to recover. “That’s not—”

“No,” George cut in sharply. “Don’t fix it now. Say it properly.”

Max’s voice hardened. “Every other house was either unstable, politically incompatible, or refused alignment.”

George stared at him.

Long.

Unblinking.

“…So I wasn’t chosen,” George said quietly. “I was the only one left standing still long enough for you to aim at.”

Max’s voice snapped. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant,” George replied immediately.

Silence.

Max ran a hand through his hair, frustration breaking through. “Fuck sake, You’re making this worse than it is.”

George laughed once. “No. I’m hearing it without your filters.”

Max stepped forward sharply. “This is exactly why it doesn’t work.”

“Oh, now it doesn’t work?” George snapped. “After you’ve already decided I’m a structural solution instead of a person?”

Max’s voice rose. “You’re twisting everything into offence.”

“Because everything you say is offensive when you strip it down!”

Silence.

The tension snapped again.

Max exhaled sharply. “This conversation is pointless.”

George nodded once. “Good. Then we’re done.”

Max turned slightly.

“This was never personal,” he said.

George’s voice was immediate.

“That’s the problem.”

Max stopped.

For a second.

Then he walked.

No final glance.

No resolution.

Just distance.

George stayed behind in the frozen garden, jaw clenched so tight it ached, staring at nothing in particular.

Because the worst part wasn’t the argument.

It was how easily Max had said it.

Like selection was just another form of logic.

And George was simply the correct answer that nobody else had wanted to be.

Chapter Text

The cold followed George out of the gardens, but it did not feel like the same cold anymore.

Out there, it had been sharp—clean in the way it bit into skin and forced breath into clarity. Here, within the inner courts of Tauryx, it felt contained. Pressed into stone, dulled by structure, controlled like everything else in this place.

George rolled his shoulders once as he walked.

The ache was still there.

Low. Persistent. Waiting.

Not now. He had court to attend to.

He exhaled slowly and kept moving.

The main court of Tauryx was already assembled by the time he entered.

It was vast— not larger than any chamber Stellaris had ever commanded—its vaulted ceilings stretching high above, banners hanging in deliberate symmetry. Tauryx’s gold and ruby dominated, but the sigils of other houses had been given equal weight.

Not out of courtesy.

Out of intent.

They were all here.

House McLaren, restless even in stillness. House Willenor, composed and observant. House Ferrion, quiet and sharp-eyed. House Audacia, Cadillaris, Alpinor, Vicaris, Aurelian, Haedon all around the court room.

And Stellaris.

At the centre of it.

Or perhaps—

at the centre of being watched.

The moment George stepped inside, the shift was immediate.

Not silence.

But attention.

Conversations didn’t stop—but they altered. Heads turned just enough to notice. Eyes lingered a second too long before moving on, only to return again.

They know something.

Not everything.

But enough.

George walked forward anyway, posture controlled, steps measured. If they were watching, then they would see exactly what he allowed them to see.

Nothing more.

His gaze moved across the room—and caught.

Alex Albon.

Across the hall, Alex was already watching him. The moment their eyes met, Alex gave the smallest nod—steady, grounding, something unspoken but firm.

Beside him, Lando Norris was far less composed. Concern flickered openly across his face before he forced it into something lighter, lifting his brows slightly.

Don’t let them get to you.

For a brief moment, George felt something in his chest loosen.

Then it was gone.

He kept walking.

At the far end stood Toto Wolff, already engaged in quiet discussion. Beside him, Lewis Hamilton, gaze sharp and fixed on George the moment he entered.

And to the side—

Max Verstappen.

George didn’t look at him.

Not properly.

But he felt it.

And near him—

Jos Verstappen.

Watching.

Always watching.

George approached the centre of the room.

“My Lord.”

Toto turned smoothly. “George.”

A pause.

“You’re late.”

“By minutes,” George replied evenly.

“Still noticeable.”

Of course it was.

George inclined his head slightly. Nothing more.

Toto studied him briefly—measuring—before turning to the court.

“We’ll begin.”

The room settled into attention.

“Thank you Tauryx for letting Stellaris use your court in urgency." He thanked.

"Representatives of Tauryx, Stellaris, and allied houses,” Toto began, voice carrying effortlessly, “we stand at a point of necessary transition.”

A subtle shift moved through the hall.

“House Stellaris will undergo structural change. A redistribution of responsibility reflecting present realities and future stability.”

George felt it coming.

Still—

it landed.

“Lewis Hamilton will be stepping down from his position as heir to Stellaris.”

The reaction rippled—controlled murmurs, shifting glances.

George did not move.

Hold it.

“In alignment with this transition, George Russell will assume the position of heir to House Stellaris.”

The weight sharpened.

Not curiosity.

Evaluation.

Across the hall, Alex straightened slightly. Lando gave the faintest shake of his head, like he was bracing George through nothing but stubborn will.

Breathe.

“And to reinforce the alliance, a formal marriage proposal has been established between George Russell and Max Verstappen.”

Silence.

Then breath returned to the room.

Layered reactions—calculation, approval, doubt.

George stood unmoving at the centre of it.

“Well,” a voice cut through, smooth and edged with something unmistakably cruel, “that is… efficient.”

Jos Verstappen stepped forward just enough to claim attention.

His gaze landed on George.

Measured.

Dismissive.

“Stellaris adapts quickly,” he continued. “Though I suppose when one is… elevated so suddenly, there isn’t much time to be selective.”

The implication hung in the air.

George’s jaw tightened.

“Adaptation tends to be necessary when survival is involved,” he replied calmly.

Jos’s lips curved faintly. “Survival. Yes. A useful skill… especially for those who start with very little.”

A pause.

Then, more pointed—

“It’s quite remarkable, really. From fields to court. From… nothing… to this.”

The word nothing landed harder than anything else.

A few nobles shifted, sensing the direction.

George met his gaze fully now.

“If you have something to say,” George said evenly, “you should say it directly.”

Jos obliged.

“Very well,” he said. “It’s simply fascinating how far one can rise when the right people take an interest. Niki Lauda always did have an eye for… the poor little things.”

There it was.

Not even veiled now.

George felt the anger rise—sharp, immediate—but he held it, contained it, refined it.

“You’re mistaking survival for spectacle,” George replied.

Jos’s gaze sharpened. “Am I? Because from where I stand, the distinction is unclear.”

George took a step forward.

Measured.

Deliberate.

“From where you stand,” he said quietly, “you’ve never had to prove your place.”

That landed.

Jos’s expression hardened. “I didn’t need to be picked out of obscurity to earn mine.”

George didn’t hesitate.

“No,” he said. “You were born into it. That’s not the same as earning it.”

A sharper shift moved through the room now.

Jos stepped closer by half a pace, voice lowering.

“Careful,” he warned.

George didn’t move.

“I am,” he replied.

Silence stretched—tight, dangerous.

Jos’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Tell me,” he said, tone almost conversational now, “when they look at you—do you think they see an heir… or a project?”

That struck deeper.

George’s fingers curled slightly at his sides.

But his voice, when he spoke, was steady. Afterall they had just announced the union between the two houses just two seconds ago. Would be a shame if George's fist accidentally met Jos' face.

“They’ll see whatever I give them reason to see.”

Jos’s mouth twitched. “Confidence. Or denial.”

George’s gaze didn’t waver.

“You mistake my restraint for weakness,” he said.

“And you mistake tolerance for acceptance,” Jos shot back.

A beat.

Then George stepped closer—just enough.

“I don’t need acceptance,” he said quietly. “I need results.”

That—

shifted something.

Not agreement.

But recognition.

Jos held his gaze for a long moment.

Then stepped back.

But not before adding, low enough to feel personal—

“Let’s hope you’re more than what you were found as.”

That was the final cut.

Toto stepped in smoothly, voice firm enough to break the tension.

“That will be enough.”

The court moved on.

But the damage remained.

By the time George stepped out, the weight had settled fully.

Eyes.

Expectations.

Judgment.

Heir.

It still didn’t feel like it belonged to him.

The main court of Tauryx had already unfolded into expectation, into spectacle, into judgment—and now, finally, into aftermath.

George had endured it.

That was the word that fit best.

Endured.

The announcements, the looks, the weight of being named something he had not fully accepted yet.

And Jos.

George’s jaw tightened slightly at the memory.

From fields to court.

From nothing.

His fingers curled faintly at his sides as he moved through the corridor, the quiet here almost jarring after the suffocating awareness of the hall.

Then—

pain.

Sharp. Sudden.

It caught him off guard, forcing his hand against the wall as his breath hitched, the familiar, wrong ache threading through his ribs and spine like something trying to remind him it was still there.

“Damn it—”

He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, jaw clenched.

It passed.

It always did.

Leaving behind that dull, lingering echo.

“…You’re terrible at hiding that, you know.”

George exhaled slowly before turning.

Lewis Hamilton stood a few paces away, watching him with that same quiet, unnervingly precise attention.

“I wasn’t trying very hard,” George admitted, his voice more tired than defensive.

Lewis stepped closer, his gaze not on George’s face but on the tension still locked into his posture.

“You should’ve said something,” he said.

George let out a humourless breath, leaning back slightly against the wall. “And what would that have changed?”

Lewis didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was softer.

“It would’ve meant you weren’t carrying it alone.”

That landed deeper than George expected.

He looked away, gaze settling somewhere unfocused down the corridor.

“I’ve been carrying it alone for a while,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Lewis replied.

Silence stretched between them.

Not uncomfortable.

But not easy either.

“They’re already treating it like I’ve agreed,” George muttered.

“Because to them, you have.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“It is here.”

George let his head tilt back slightly against the wall, exhaling slowly.

“I don’t think they’ll accept it,” he admitted.

Lewis tilted his head. “Accept you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

George hesitated, then answered honestly.

“Because of where I came from. What I am. What I’m not.”

Lewis didn’t react to that immediately.

Instead, he studied George for a moment—longer than before, like he was measuring something else entirely.

Then, quietly—

“Do you remember the first time I met you?”

George frowned slightly, caught off guard by the shift.

“…No,” he admitted. “Not really.”

Lewis nodded once, like he expected that.

“You were small,” he said. “Smaller than I thought you’d be, considering how much Niki had already started talking about you. You had long choppy hair, the biggest and brightest blue eyes I had ever seen.”

George blinked, a faint crease forming between his brows.

Lewis continued, his tone softer now—less analytical, more… reflective.

“You were hiding behind him,” he said. “Literally. Half your face pressed into the back of his coat like you thought if you stayed still enough, no one would see you.”

George let out a faint breath, something almost like disbelief flickering through his expression.

“I don’t remember that,” he said quietly.

“I do,” Lewis replied. “Because Niki was trying to introduce you like it was the most normal thing in the world- like the boy hiding behind him was perfectly normal.”

A faint shift in his tone—something warmer, but edged with something else.

“He said, ‘This one will be trouble.’”

George let out a quiet, humourless breath. “Sounds like him.”

Lewis’s mouth twitched faintly. “It does.”

A pause.

Then Lewis’s gaze sharpened slightly—not harsher, just more precise.

“You were bruised,” he said.

George stilled.

“Not just a little,” Lewis continued. “You looked like you’d been dragged through something you weren’t supposed to survive.”

The corridor felt quieter suddenly.

Heavier.

George’s fingers tightened slightly against his sleeve.

“I didn’t ask questions then,” Lewis added. “Didn’t feel like it was my place.”

A beat.

“But Nico knew.”

The name landed softly—but not lightly.

Nico Rosberg.

George’s gaze shifted slightly, something unreadable flickering behind it.

Lewis continued.

“He told me later,” he said. “Said they’d found you barely conscious. That whatever they’d done to you…” He paused briefly. “It wasn’t something that should’ve left you standing again.”

George swallowed slightly.

Lewis didn’t push.

He just spoke.

“Magic isn’t clean,” he said quietly. “Not the kind Nico had. Not the kind he used on you.”

A pause.

“He said it worked,” Lewis continued. “But not perfectly. Said your body wouldn’t forget it. That it might… misfire, sometimes.”

George let out a quiet breath.

“…That explains a lot,” he muttered.

Lewis’s gaze softened slightly.

“He also said something else.”

George glanced at him.

“What?”

Lewis hesitated just slightly.

“That you were stubborn,” he said. “that you held on longer than you should’ve.”

A faint, almost reluctant smile touched Lewis’s expression.

“Said you didn’t make it easy to save you.”

George huffed quietly, something tired but real slipping through.

“Sounds about right.”

Silence settled again—but it felt different now.

Less sharp.

Less suffocating.

Lewis shifted slightly, leaning back against the wall opposite George.

“He left a few days later,” he added.

George’s gaze flicked to him. “Nico?”

“Yes.”

“Just… left?”

Lewis nodded once. “Didn’t say much. Just that he’d done what he could.”

A pause.

“And that staying wouldn’t fix anything else.”

That lingered.

George exhaled slowly.

“He always did that,” he said quietly. “Show up. Change everything. Then disappear. Didn't he?”

Lewis didn’t disagree.

“Yes,” he said. “He did.”

Silence stretched between them again.

But now—

it wasn’t as heavy.

George’s shoulders lowered slightly, the tension easing just enough to breathe.

Lewis watched him for a moment.

Then, gently—

“You’ve been carrying that longer than any of them realise.”

George let out a quiet breath.

“Doesn’t change how they see it,” he said.

“No,” Lewis agreed. “But it changes what it actually is.”

George didn’t respond immediately.

Then—

quietly, almost without thinking—

“I wish you weren’t leaving.”

It slipped out softer this time.

Not sharp.

Not defensive.

Just… tired.

Lewis didn’t answer right away.

George looked down briefly, his voice quieter still.

“Not because I don’t understand it,” he said. “I do. I just… don’t think this would feel as unbearable if you were still here.”

The admission hung there.

Honest.

Unprotected.

Lewis’s expression shifted—subtle, but real.

“I’m not disappearing,” he said.

George let out a faint breath. “Feels like it.”

“I’ll still be around.”

“That’s not the same.”

They both knew it.

George’s voice dropped further.

“You were the only thing in Stellaris that didn’t feel like it was constantly shifting.”

Lewis didn’t interrupt.

“And now everything is,” George added.

A pause.

“I don’t know if I can hold it together the way you did.”

Lewis shook his head slightly.

“You don’t have to do it the way I did.”

George looked at him.

“Then how?”

A beat.

Lewis’s answer came quietly.

“Your way.”

George exhaled slowly.

Because somehow—

that felt harder.

And the weight of everything—his past, his present, what he was being asked to become—settled back into place.

Not crushing.

Not yet.

But there.

Waiting.

The corridor had settled into a quieter kind of cold.

Not the biting kind from the gardens, not the suffocating weight of the court—but something in between. Still. Watchful. Like the walls themselves were listening.

George remained where he was, shoulder pressed lightly against the stone, the last of the pain still echoing faintly through his ribs. It had dulled now, retreating into something manageable. Familiar.

Across from him, Lewis Hamilton hadn’t moved far.

He hadn’t needed to.

The silence between them had changed since he started speaking—less strained, less brittle—but not entirely easy. Not when everything else still lingered beneath it.

George let out a slow breath, gaze unfocused somewhere along the corridor floor.

For a while, neither of them said anything.

Then—

quietly—

“Sometimes,” George began, his voice lower than before, stripped of its usual edge, “I think it would’ve been easier if they hadn’t.”

Lewis frowned slightly. “Hadn’t what?”

George didn’t look at him.

“If they’d just… left me there,” he said. “When they found me.”

The words didn’t come out bitter.

That would’ve been easier.

They came out tired.

Flat.

Like a conclusion he’d circled too many times.

“If Niki hadn’t decided I was worth the trouble,” George continued quietly, “if Nico hadn’t… fixed what was left of me—”

He exhaled faintly.

“Things would’ve been simpler.”

Lewis went still.

Completely.

George’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t crack.

That was what made it worse.

“For everyone,” he added. “For Stellaris. For them. For me.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Sharp.

Then—

“That’s a ridiculous thought.”

Lewis’s voice cut through it immediately.

Not loud.

But firm.

Unyielding.

George’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t look up.

“It’s not,” he said quietly.

“It is,” Lewis replied, sharper now. “And you know it.”

George let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, though there was no humour in it.

“Do I?”

Lewis stepped closer, the distance between them closing just enough to matter.

“Yes,” he said. “Because you’re not a mistake someone dragged back into the world out of pity.”

George’s gaze flicked up briefly—just for a second.

Lewis didn’t soften.

“You think Niki saw you and thought you would be entertainment for him?” he continued. “You think Nico nearly burned himself out trying to keep you alive because it was convenient?”

George looked away again.

“They chose you,” Lewis said, voice steady. “And not because you were easy. Or simple. Or disposable.”

George’s fingers curled slightly at his sides.

“That doesn’t mean they were right,” he muttered.

“It does,” Lewis shot back immediately.

A beat.

Then, quieter—but no less firm—

“You don’t get to decide that their choice was a mistake just because it’s hard now.”

That landed.

Not gently.

George exhaled slowly, shoulders tightening again.

“I didn’t say it was a mistake,” he said.

“You implied it,” Lewis replied.

George shook his head faintly. “I said it would’ve been easier.”

Lewis’s expression hardened slightly.

“Easy isn’t the point.”

“Maybe it should be,” George snapped back—sharper now, something breaking through the exhaustion. “Maybe it should’ve been from the start.”

Silence cracked between them.

Lewis didn’t step back.

Didn’t give ground.

“And what?” he said. “You’d rather not be here at all than deal with this?”

George didn’t answer immediately.

That hesitation— That was answer enough.

Lewis exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

“That’s not you,” he said.

George’s voice dropped again.

“It feels like it sometimes.”

The honesty in it made something in Lewis’s expression shift—but not soften.

Not entirely.

“You’re tired,” Lewis said. “That’s what this is.”

George let out a quiet breath. “I’m beyond tired.”

Another pause.

Then—

quieter still—

“I’d be better if you weren’t leaving.”

That changed it.

Immediately.

Lewis stilled again.

Not defensive.

Not angry.

Just—

caught.

George didn’t look at him when he said it.

Didn’t dress it up.

Didn’t try to soften it.

It just sat there between them.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

“You can’t keep putting that on me,” Lewis said after a moment, his voice controlled but tighter now.

“I’m not,” George replied. “I’m just stating it.”

“It sounds like you are.”

George shook his head faintly. “I’m not blaming you.”

“Then what are you doing?” Lewis asked.

George hesitated.

For the first time since the conversation started—

he didn’t have a clean answer.

His fingers tightened slightly against his sleeve, gaze dropping again.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly.

Silence stretched.

Longer this time.

Heavier.

Then—

barely above a whisper—

“I just…”

He stopped.

He tried again.

“…I wish you didn’t want to leave.”

That landed harder than anything else.

Because it wasn’t anger.

It wasn't an accusation.

It was something else entirely.

Something quieter.

More dangerous.

Lewis didn’t respond immediately.

For once—

he didn’t have something ready.

Didn’t have a clean argument or a firm correction.

He just stood there, looking at George like he was trying to find something ready.

Didn’t have a clean argument or a firm correction.

He just stood there, looking at George like he was trying to find something to say that wouldn’t make it worse.

George didn’t look up.

Didn’t push further.

He had already said too much.

More than he meant to.

More than he could take back.

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp.

It wasn’t angry.

It was something heavier than both.

Because now—

there was nothing left to argue.

Only truths neither of them knew how to fix.

Max did not wait for the court to fully empty.

He should have.

There was protocol. Courtesy. The expected rhythm of exit after a royal announcement.

But Max was already past caring about rhythm.

All he could feel was the way the moment had fractured.

The way George had stood there.

Silent.

Rigid.

Not accepting.

Not yielding.

Not even pretending.

And worse—

the way everyone had noticed.

By the time he reached the private sitting chamber, his frustration had already sharpened into something restless.

He pushed the door open harder than necessary.

“I swear if anyone says ‘destiny’ to me in the next ten minutes—”

He stopped.

Daniel Ricciardo was lounging like he had personally claimed ownership of the furniture, one leg draped over the armrest. Isack Hadjar sat beside him, far too composed for someone with that level of amusement in his eyes.

And near the window—

Sophie Kumpen turned immediately, arms folded, already reading Max’s mood like a report.

Daniel grinned. “Ah. He’s back. Did the future king of Stellaris survive the emotional experience of standing in a room?”

Max ignored him.

“He’s furious,” Max said instead.

Daniel blinked. “You’re going to have to be more specific. That could be either of you.”

Max shot him a look. “George.”

That got Isack’s attention properly.

“Oh,” Isack said. “That kind of furious.”

“Yes,” Max snapped. “That kind.”

Daniel tilted his head. “Define ‘that kind’ because I saw him standing there and he looked more like—”

“Like someone who wanted to set the entire court on fire?” Max cut in. “Yes.”

Daniel considered that. “Fair.”

Max started pacing.

“He didn’t say anything,” he continued, voice tightening. “Not one word. But it was worse than if he had. He just stood there like—like he was being sentenced.”

Isack hummed. “To be fair, that’s sort of what it looked like.”

Max stopped walking.

Slowly.

“Whose side are you on?”

Isack raised both hands. “No sides. Just observational comedy.”

Daniel nodded. “He’s impartial. Annoyingly so.”

Max exhaled sharply.

“He’s going to make this impossible,” he said. “He’s going to resist everything. Every decision. Every adjustment. Every expectation.”

Daniel leaned forward. “You say that like it’s not also your personality trait.”

“I am not like that,” Max snapped immediately.

Silence.

Isack coughed.

Daniel blinked. “You sure?”

Max pointed at him. “Don’t start.”

Sophie cleared her throat once, sharply enough to pull the room back.

“Why do you think he’s going to do that?” she asked.

Max ran a hand through his hair again, agitation returning.

“Because I saw his face,” he said. “Because I saw the way he looked at the court. At me. At everything.”

A pause.

“And because he looked like he already decided this was a war.”

Daniel muttered, “He’s not wrong.”

Max turned slowly.

Daniel immediately added, “I’m just saying—he’s not wrong emotionally. Strategically, still questionable wording.”

Max opened his mouth—

The door opened again.

Jos Verstappen stepped in.

Everything shifted.

Instantly.

Max visibly deflated in irritation.

“Oh good,” he muttered. “The atmosphere just got worse.”

Jos ignored him entirely.

“What are we discussing?” he asked.

Daniel leaned back. “Family bonding. Trauma sharing. Light gossip. You missed the fun part.”

Jos didn’t look at him.

“…George,” he said instead.

Max exhaled through his nose. “Obviously.”

Jos’s expression barely changed, but his tone cooled.

“I assume he did not take the announcement well.”

Sophie answered before Max could. “That would be an understatement.”

Max turned to her. “Understatement is generous.”

Daniel nodded. “He looked like someone had just told him taxes exist for the first time.”

Isack added, “Or like he just found out he is the tax.”

Max pointed at Isack. “Not helping.”

Isack shrugged. “Trying.”

Jos stepped further into the room.

“He made himself very clear in court,” Jos said.

Sophie’s eyes narrowed immediately. “He stood there and said nothing.”

“That was the point,” Jos replied.

“No,” she said sharply. “The point was you made it about his past in front of the entire court.”

Silence flickered.

Max’s head snapped slightly toward her.

Sophie didn’t stop.

“You didn’t question him,” she continued, looking directly at Jos. “You judged him. Publicly. On something he had no control over.”

Jos’s expression tightened. “I stated facts.”

“You stated history,” she corrected. “And you used it as a weapon.”

Daniel muttered, “Oh this is going to get loud.”

Max shot him a look. “Shut up.”

Daniel whispered to Isack, “He says that like it’s optional.”

Isack whispered back, “It’s not.”

Jos finally looked at Sophie fully.

“It matters,” he said. “His origin matters. His stability matters.”

“It was a court announcement,” Sophie shot back. “Not a trial.”

Max’s jaw clenched harder.

“And you wonder why he’s angry,” he said suddenly.

Jos glanced at him. “He is not your concern yet.”

Max stepped forward. “He’s literally my entire future.”

Daniel raised a hand. “Technically, yes, but emotionally that sentence sounds terrible.”

Max ignored him.

“I saw him,” Max continued. “I saw how he reacted. And I saw you pushing him in the middle of the court like he was something to be examined.”

Jos’s gaze sharpened. “He was being introduced to power. Power requires scrutiny.”

Sophie stepped forward now.

“Scrutiny is not humiliation,” she said coldly.

Jos didn’t back down. “He is not suited for this world.”

“That is your opinion,” she replied.

“It is observation.”

“It is prejudice.”

Max cut in sharply.

“Why are you so focused on him?” he demanded.

A pause.

Jos looked at him.

Then said, flatly—

“Because you are about to bind yourself to him.”

Max frowned. “So?”

“So I need to know what you’re tying yourself to.”

Sophie let out a sharp breath.

“There it is,” she said. “You don’t trust him. You never even tried to.”

“I don’t need to trust him,” Jos replied. “I need to assess him.”

“That’s not how people work,” she said.

Jos’s voice lowered slightly.

“It is how alliances work.”

Max stepped forward again, frustration boiling.

“You keep talking like he’s a liability,” he said. “Like he’s a mistake in a ledger.”

Jos met his eyes.

“Is he not causing exactly what I said he would cause?” he asked.

Max hesitated—

just a fraction.

Daniel leaned in, stage-whispering to Isack, “Oh no, he hesitated. That’s dangerous.”

Isack whispered back, “That’s politics.”

Max snapped back.

“He’s reacting to being cornered,” Max said. “Of course he’s angry.”

Jos tilted his head. “And you’re certain you can control that?”

“I don’t want to control him.”

Jos’s expression didn’t change. “That is not what this arrangement is.”

Sophie stepped in again.

“This arrangement was decided by houses,” she said firmly. “Not by personal judgment.”

Jos glanced at her. “And houses make mistakes.”

Max’s patience broke.

“Why are you even pushing this?” he demanded. “If you clearly don’t like him.”

That landed.

A pause.

Then Jos answered, quieter—

“Youre talking as if you have any other choice and also because this isn’t about liking him.”

Max’s eyes narrowed. “Then what is it about?"

Jos’s voice hardened again.

“It’s about strength,” he said. “And where it is missing.”

Silence cracked.

Max stared at him.

“You think he’s weak,” he said.

“I think he is untested,” Jos corrected.

Sophie cut in immediately. “He survived something you clearly don’t understand.”

Jos didn’t flinch.

“And was rebuilt by two people,” he said. “Niki Lauda and Nico Rosberg. Not himself.”

Sophie’s expression sharpened. “That’s not a flaw.”

Jos replied coldly, “It is dependency.”

Max took a step forward—

“You’re wrong about him.”

Jos didn’t move.

“I am assessing risk,” he said. “You are emotional.”

Max’s voice rose slightly. “I am marrying him.”

Daniel raised a hand quickly. “Just to clarify—politically, yes. Emotionally, we are all still in denial.”

Max shot him a lethal look.

Daniel added quickly, “Bad timing. Not helping. Noted.”

Silence stretched again.

Then Daniel stood.

“Right,” he said, clapping once. “This is going nowhere.”

Jos looked at him. “Is it?”

“Yes,” Daniel replied. “Because none of you are actually listening. It's already done.”

A pause.

“Everyone saw what happened in that court,” he continued. “Everyone saw the disagreement. The tension. The looks.”

He gestured between them.

“Doesn’t change anything.”

The room quieted. Grounded.

“Contracts are signed,” Daniel added. “Deals are made. Alliances are locked in.” He looked at Max.

“In a day, you’ve got your acceptance ceremony as heir.”

Max didn’t respond.

Daniel continued anyway.

“Then we travel to Stellaris for George’s acceptance ceremony,” he said. “And after that, we all head to the capital of Apexus to prepare for the wedding.”

He leaned back slightly, tone lighter—but still firm.

“That’s the reality.”

Silence settled. Heavier now.

Because there was nothing left to argue.

Max exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair again.

Because Daniel was right.

It didn’t matter that George hadn’t said a word. It didn’t matter that everyone in that court had seen the fracture. It didn’t matter that Jos doubted him—or that George hated him, or he hated the both of them for making everything so difficult.

The decision had already been made.

And now—all that was left—was to live with it. Before he ever had a chance to speak into it.

Chapter Text

The Hall of Ascension in Tauryx was not built for comfort.

It was built for permanence.

Black stone columns rose in perfect symmetry toward a vaulted ceiling painted with the histories of House Tauryx—each Lord depicted not as a man, but as an ideal. War. Control. Legacy. Sacrifice. The air carried incense so old it felt less like scent and more like memory.

The Crown Synod stood in a half-circle at the base of the dais, their robes stitched with the sigils of Apexus authority. Silent. Watching. Measuring.

And at the center—

Max.

Max Verstappen stood alone on the stone platform, the weight of the hall pressing into his shoulders like a physical thing. He could feel it in the soles of his boots. In his jaw. In the way every breath felt slightly too deliberate.

Max’s ceremonial attire for House Tauryx was not designed to impress.

It was designed to impose.

Max Verstappen wore deep navy layered with harsh crimson and gold metal accents—every piece structured, rigid, and unforgiving. The fitted tunic forced posture, while the heavy mantle fell in sharp, controlled lines, its red lining only visible in movement like something restrained beneath the surface.

A dark steel chest piece bore the jagged Tauryx sigil, unpolished and raw. Angular shoulder guards widened his frame, etched with thin red fractures that caught the light like cracks under pressure.

At his wrists, blackened metal cuffs marked the ritual—cold, weighty, permanent in meaning.

Even the high collar pressed faintly against his jaw, a constant reminder of expectation.

Nothing about it was comfortable.

Nothing about it was soft.

But it fit him—

like something he hadn’t chosen, yet was already becoming.

Behind him, the great bowl had already been prepared.

A goblet unlike any other. It was golden, shined brighter then most future's.

However it was not empty.

It held blood. Not fresh. Not alive.

But layered—preserved essence from every previous Lord of House Tauryx, collected over generations, sealed through ritual and magic older than the current dynasty itself. It shimmered faintly under the torchlight, dark red turning almost black at its edges, as if the past itself had thickened into liquid form.

A Synod voice rose.

“Step forward, heir-designate.”

Max obeyed.

Of course he did.

One step.

Then another.

The hall seemed to narrow as he approached the blade placed on the altar stone—ceremonial, curved, engraved with the insignia of Tauryx. It did not look like a weapon meant for war.

It looked like one meant for meaning.

A second voice followed.

“Do you accept the burden of House Tauryx?”

“I do,” Max said.

His voice echoed too loudly.

Too clean.

The Synod did not react.

“Do you accept the blood of those who came before you?”

A pause.

Max swallowed once.

Then—

“I do.”

The blade was placed into his hand.

Cold.

Heavy in a way metal shouldn’t be.

A Synod attendant stepped closer, lifting his left hand over the goblet.

“Then bind yourself.”

Max hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second.

Then pressed the blade into his palm.

Pain flared instantly—sharp, immediate, undeniable.

The cut was not deep enough to maim.

It was deep enough to remember.

Blood welled.

Dark against his skin.

And when his hand was lowered—

it fell into the goblet.

The surface of the ancestral blood reacted immediately.

Not violently.

Not visibly.

But aware.

A ripple passed through it, like something ancient acknowledging a new addition.

The Synod began to speak in unison.

“We are born of Tauryx.

We return to Tauryx.

We bind the past so the future may obey.”

Max felt it then.

Not just ritual.

But weight.

Something pulled at him—not physically, but inwardly, as if the act had tightened invisible chains around his identity.

He was finally gaining what he worked all his life for. This title he has eyes since he was told it would be his. A title so many were meant to inherit before Max but he just played the game right.

The goblet was lifted.

Held above his head.

“And so,” the lead Synod member intoned, “by blood and legacy, the heir is named.”

A pause.

Long enough for the entire hall to breathe as one.

“Max Verstappen, son of House Tauryx, is declared Lord of Tauryx Tempest.”

The words landed like stone.

Not celebration.

Confirmation.

The hall did not erupt.

It accepted. Him and him alone.

A low sound of approval moved through the Synod—not applause, but acknowledgment.

Max’s hand still bled.

He barely felt it anymore. He'd down something like this before. When he was 15. His first acceptance into the great House. He had cut too deep then— too eager.

Then— his attention had drifted.

Across the hall.

Past the Synod.

Past the stone and ritual and blood.

To where he stood.

George Russell. Watching. Not expressionless. Not soft. Just still. Absorbing.

For a moment, everything else faded—the Synod’s voices, the weight of ancestry, even the sting in his palm.

There was only that gaze.

Max held it for half a second too long.

Then—looked away, too quickly. As if it meant nothing. As if it didn't mean everything.

The ritual continued behind him, but his mind had already drifted.

What would it have been like if it were Charles there instead?

The thought came uninvited.

Sharp.

Unfair.

Charles Leclerc.

For a moment, the hall changed in his memory.

Not Tauryx.

Not blood.

But younger corridors. Lighter air. A version of him that still believed future alliances were simple things—built on laughter, proximity, shared ambition.

Charles had been there in that imagined future.

Always just slightly ahead of him, or beside him, or turning back to look at him like he expected Max to follow. It depended on what Charles felt like that day.

They had spoken once like that—half-joking, half-serious—about how they would rule Apexus together one day. Two houses. Two heirs. A balance of power that would make everything else irrelevant. It would be easier. Much much easier.

Max had believed it.

Completely.

Until Ferrion decided Charles' legacy would not last as long as it should have.

The memory came like a fracture.

A political shift disguised as diplomacy. A court that demanded more than loyalty—demanded control. And Charles, caught between expectation and extraction, pulled into something that had not cared what he wanted.

They wanted more from him.

Always more.

And when they couldn’t have it—they broke what they could reach. And in that it had ended their imagined future. The future they thought about jokingly but now Max mourns.

Max’s throat tightened slightly.

The story had never been told cleanly. Not in full. Not where it mattered. Only fragments—whispers of instability, of pressure, of a boy pushed beyond what even courts should have demanded.

He remembers Charles' descend. In all sense of the word. He was loud. He was angry.

And then—silence.

Finality.

The kind that left too many questions and not enough answers.

Max exhaled slowly through his nose.

Because Charles had not just been a friend.

He had been the version of “future” Max had once understood.

Simple.

Shared.

Uncomplicated.

Easier than whatever this mess was.

His gaze flicked back, almost against his will.

To George.

Still there.

Still watching with a tight jaw.

And that was when the overlap hit him in a way that made him feel briefly unsteady.

Not in personality.

Not in background.

But in something harder to name.

Both had been shaped by systems that did not care if they bent or broke.

Both carried histories that did not sit comfortably in court halls.

Both looked at power like it was something that had to be survived before it could be used.

And yet—They were nothing alike.

Charles had burned brightly.

George burned quietly.

Charles had been taken by duty that had driven him mad.

George had been chosen into consequence.

Max clenched his jaw slightly.

Stop thinking about this.

The Synod voice continued behind him, announcing obligations, duties, the binding of house and heirship, but it all blurred into sound without meaning.

This was his life now.

Not memory.

Not a possibility.

Not ghosts of what could have been.

His hand still bled slightly as he lowered it, the ritual complete. Maybe he had cut too deep again.

The Synod finished speaking.

The hall acknowledged him.

And Max Verstappen stood as heir of Tauryx— while the thought of George’s eyes stayed with him far longer than the blood in his palm.

The corridors outside the main chambers of Tauryx were in controlled chaos—sealed trunks rolling over stone floors, attendants calling out inventories, guards double-checking banners and sigils being prepared for travel. Everything looked orderly on the surface, but underneath it, the entire palace felt like it was holding its breath.

Max barely noticed most of it.

Max Verstappen moved through it like he was trying not to think too loudly.

He almost missed him.

Leaning casually against one of the archway pillars like the palace wasn’t currently preparing for political movement across half of Apexus was Alexander Albon. Heir of House Willenor.

Max slowed.

“…You’re still here.”

Alex turned his head. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Max gave him a look. “You’re not coming to Stellaris.”

“Nope,” Alex said easily.

A pause.

Max frowned. “That feels like a bad idea.”

Alex shrugged. “I have business in Willenor.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “That sounds like code for ‘I don’t want to deal with George Russell.’”

Alex smiled. “I wish.”

Max sighed. “He’s going to kill you if he finds out.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Alex agreed. “He’ll be very composed about it first. Then very detailed. Possibly a formal complaint. Then murder. I'm a dead man either way.”

Max blinked. “That’s… disturbingly detailed.”

Alex nodded. “I’ve known him a very long time.”

They began walking together down the corridor without really deciding to.

"Longer than most of us." Max glanced sideways. “He doesn’t like me like at all. He must have told you,”

Alex exhaled. “He doesn't like the situation. You just happened to be standing right in the middle of it.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

A few steps passed in silence before Max said, quieter, “He looks at me like I ruined his life.”

Alex didn’t hesitate. “He looks at most people like that.”

There's a pause. And then a smirk creeps onto Alex's face and Max knows he's not going to like the next words that will come out of his mouth.

"However I think it's probably because the last time you met eachother was when you threw a spear at him and then proceeded to fight him on the muddy ground on last year's spring tourney."

"Why does everyone keep bringing that up! He was the one who cheated-"

"He didn't but even if he did— throwing a spear at your future husband is not your brightest ideas Max." Alex laughed.

Max frowned. “How the fuck was I supposed to know I'd marry him in years time?”

"Maybe you shouldn't have fought with him in the first place, a civilised conversation would do you both some good." Alex suggested.

"Yeah tell that to him. Whenever we talk his face starts morphing ever so slowly into disgust whenever he talks to me."

Alex glanced at him. “Welcome to George Russell’s emotional baseline.”

Max let out a short breath. “Brilliant.”

A pause.

Then Alex added, lightly, “You survived it. That’s already more than most people manage on first contact.”

Max snorted. “That’s a low bar.”

“Still a bar,” Alex said.

They turned a corner, passing a set of servants carrying sealed travel cases stamped with Tauryx’s crest.

Max exhaled.

“So,” he said, “what do I do with him?”

Alex looked at him. “Define ‘do.’”

Max frowned. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Alex said. “That’s what worries me.”

Max ignored that. “He hates this. He hates me. He hates the house. He’s going to make my life hell for it.”

Alex tilted his head. “That’s one interpretation.”

Max stopped walking for half a second. “What’s the other?”

Alex smiled slightly. “That he’s terrified and trying not to show it.”

Max scoffed. “That’s not what I saw.”

Alex nodded. “Because you’re not what he’s afraid of.”

Max frowned. “Then what is he afraid of?”

Alex’s answer was simple. “Losing control.”

Max exhaled, while rolling his eyes. “That explains… everything.” sarcastic.

“It usually does,” Alex said, ignoring Max's sarcasm.

Max glanced ahead, then muttered, “He thinks I’m going to control him.”

“Correct.”

“I’m not.”

“I know,” Alex said. “He doesn’t. I'll tell you that he has issues, unbalanced, and he hide it, doesn't let anyone see.”

Max shook his head slightly. “This is exhausting already. I'm practically marrying a stranger.”

“It gets worse,” Alex said cheerfully.

Max shot him a look.

Alex raised his hands. “Just being honest.”

They walked a little further.

Then Max asked, quieter, “You said he gets unstable.”

“I said he gets unbalanced,” Alex corrected immediately.

Max waved a hand. “Same thing.”

“It really isn’t.”

Max ignored that. “So what am I dealing with?”

Alex thought for a moment.

“You’re dealing with someone who functions like a locked system,” he said. “Everything has to be accounted for. Every variable. Every outcome. If something slips, he doesn’t break… he recalibrates. Quickly. Sometimes painfully.”

Max frowned. “That sounds worse.”

“It is worse,” Alex agreed.

Max sighed. “Great.”

Alex added, “But he doesn’t fall.”

"He did when I threw the fucking spear at him" he mutters and then Max looked at him. “You sound sure.”

“I am, because he never has allowed himself the privilege.” Alex said simply.

A pause.

Then Max said, “He reminds me of someone.”

Alex glanced at him. “Don’t say it.”

Max frowned. “What?”

Alex sighed. “If you say Charles, this conversation gets sentimental and I lose my ability to joke.”

Max paused.

“…I was going to say Charles.”

Alex groaned. “Of course you were.”

Charles Leclerc.

Max’s expression shifted slightly at the name.

Not softer exactly.

Just… distant.

“I don’t see it completely,” Max admitted.

Alex nodded. “Because they’re not the same.”

Max frowned. “Then why do I keep comparing them?”

“Because humans love patterns, even when they’re wrong.” Alex said. "Plus, you loved Charles and Charles alone. I know you haven't looked or courted anyone since that day—I don't blame you— so of course you're going to compare the only love you've ever had with someone who you're being forced to love."

A beat.

Then Alex added, more quietly, “Charles trusted the world too much. George trusts it too little.”

Max nodded slowly. “And me?”

Alex looked at him. “You’re the one stuck in the middle of it.”

Max groaned. “Fantastic.”

Alex smirked. “Welcome to politics.”

They slowed near an archway where the corridor split into departure paths.

Max exhaled again, then said, almost to himself, “We were all friends once.”

Alex didn’t joke this time.

“Yeah,” he said. “Some closer than others. But yeah.”

Max nodded slightly. “It didn’t feel like this back then.”

“No,” Alex agreed. “Back then it was just dinners, arguments, Charles escaping out of the windows, Lando dragging Carlos into the river and George reading in a corner wanting to be undisturbed before Lando got to him too.”

Max gave a faint smile despite himself. “That sounds like them.”

“It was them,” Alex said.

A pause.

Then Max added, quieter, “I thought we’d all end up in the same future.”

Alex studied him.

Max continued, more honestly than he meant to, “Me and Charles especially. I thought we’d be… something. Not this.”

Alex didn’t interrupt.

Max exhaled through his nose. “Now it feels like everything just… broke off into different directions.”

Alex nodded once. “It did.”

Silence stretched briefly.

Then Alex said, lighter again, “Well. You still get to get Lord and a politically complicated marriage. That’s something.”

Max groaned. “You’re terrible.”

“I know,” Alex said happily.

Max finally let out a small laugh.

Alex stepped back slightly.

“Anyway,” he said, “I’m leaving before George finds out I’m still here.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You’re really not coming.”

“Nope,” Alex said. “Willenor awaits. And so does my desire to not be interrogated by Stellaris’ future Lord. I will try hard to make it but I know I wont be able to make it in time for the ceremony. Maybe I'll crash the wedding, give a little controversial objection to save you both some trouble?”

“Please.” Max let out a laugh but maybe the idea wasn't so bad.

“The offers open till after the vows.” Alex suggested.

They both knew it was unlikely.

Alex gave him a small salute.

“Take care, Lord of Tauryx.”

Max groaned immediately. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why you've been wishing for it since you were in your mother's womb? Ok fine— Good day Future husband to Lord Stellaris?”

“Alex.”

Alex grinned. “Just practicing for the inevitable ceremony titles.”

Max sighed. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Life is a short, I might as well enjoy.” Alex admitted.

Then, softer, as he turned to leave—

“Try not to assume the worst about him,” Alex said.

Max frowned. “That goes both ways.”

Alex nodded. “It does.”

A beat.

Then Alex added, lightly again, “And if he looks like he wants to kill you, that’s just his normal expression.”

Max shook his head. “Reassuring.”

Alex waved once, already walking away.

“And Max?”

Max looked up.

Alex smiled slightly.

“He’s not Charles.”

Then he was gone.

Leaving Max in the corridor with too many echoes—

and a future that still refused to make sense.

George arrived at House Stellaris under a sky that looked too still to be natural.

The banners were already raised. The courtyards were already full. Nobles, attendants, visiting houses—everyone had come for the same reason.

His acceptance.

His beginning.

His sentence, depending on who you asked.

George Russell didn’t linger at the entrance. He gave the expected nods, accepted the expected greetings, and walked with the practiced control of someone who had learned early that emotion was something other people reacted to, not something he could afford to show.

He intended to go straight to his rooms.

He almost made it.

But Stellaris never let anyone move through it alone.

“George!”

Footsteps cut across the corridor before he even turned.

Kimi Antonelli appeared first, slightly out of breath like he had run the distance just to make sure he caught him. Right behind him, composed and unimpressed as ever, was Doriane Pin.

George stopped.

Of course it was them.

Kimi slowed when he reached him, suddenly aware of where they were.

“Uh… hi.”

Doriane immediately frowned. “Don’t ‘hi’ him like he didn’t just have his entire life get politically rearranged in front of a court.”

George exhaled once. “I just got here.”

Kimi nodded quickly. “Yeah, that’s why we came.”

George glanced between them. “I was going to my room.”

“No,” Kimi said instantly.

“Yes,” Doriane said at the exact same time.

A beat.

Kimi blinked. “Emotionally no.”

Doriane hit him lightly on the back of the head.

“Stop talking.”

“Why is that your instinct—?”

George let out a short breath through his nose. Not laughter. Just pressure escaping.

They fell into step beside him anyway.

No one asked permission in Stellaris. Especially not family-adjacent chaos.

They were younger than George, Doriane older than Kimi, however not far apart. They were adopted into Stellaris quite a while ago. They are the only thing in this House that doesn't remind George of responsibility. It's refreshing, however right now he isn't sure if he can handle that.

Kimi went first, too direct to be careful for long.

“So… what actually happened in court?”

George didn’t look at him. “You received a letter did you not?”

“We read the announcement,” Kimi said quickly. “We mean after. With everything.”

Doriane added more carefully, “The arrangement. The House decision. Him.”

George’s jaw tightened slightly at the last word.

“There’s nothing to explain,” he said.

Kimi frowned. “That’s not true.”

George kept walking.

“It’s political,” he said flatly. “That’s all it is.”

Silence followed them for a few steps.

Not disbelief.

Concern.

Worse.

Kimi tried again, softer. “Is he… bad?”

George stopped for half a second.

Just long enough to feel it.

Then kept walking.

“No,” he said.

A pause.

Then, quieter, as if it annoyed him to be precise:

“He’s not what you think.”

Doriane studied him. “That doesn’t sound like you’re happy about it.”

George’s mouth tightened. “I didn’t say I was.”

Kimi tilted his head. “So what are you saying?”

George didn’t answer immediately.

And Doriane noticed that silence sharpen.

She smacked Kimi lightly.

“Stop pushing.”

“I’m not pushing, I’m asking—”

“You’re interrogating,” she corrected.

George let out a slow breath.

Kimi, undeterred, said, “We just didn’t expect it to be him.”

George’s voice went flatter. “Neither did I.”

That landed differently.

They stopped trying to fill the space after that for a moment.

The corridor stretched ahead, long and dressed in Stellaris’ cold elegance. Preparations echoed faintly in the distance—ceremonial movement already beginning.

Kimi shifted slightly. “I mean… I think he is fine.”

George finally glanced at him.

“…You what?”

Kimi shrugged. “He helped me once. With stance training. Corrected my footing. Didn’t insult me. That was new.”

Doriane narrowed her eyes. “That’s suspicious.”

George exhaled sharply through his nose.

“It’s different,” he said.

Kimi frowned. “Different how?”

George didn’t answer fast enough.

Doriane immediately smacked Kimi again.

“Stop talking.”

“Ow—what did I do now?”

“You made him think too hard,” she said.

George didn’t deny it.

That was the problem.

A few more steps passed.

Then Kimi softened, trying again but quieter now. “You’ll be okay, you know.”

Doriane nodded. “You will.”

“You’ll be a good Lord,” Kimi added, like saying it louder might make it true.

George gave a small, controlled smile.

“Right,” he said.

He didn’t believe them.

But he didn’t reject it either.

Before anything else could settle—

The air changed.

Not louder. Not faster.

Just heavier.

Authority arriving before presence. Kimi and Doriane straightened instantly.

George already knew.

Susie Wolff stepped into view.

Everything in the corridor adjusted around her without permission.

Kimi dipped his head. “Lady Susie.”

Doriane followed immediately. “My Lady.”

Susie didn’t look impressed.

“I leave you both unattended for five minutes,” she said, “and you ambush him the moment he returns.”

Kimi opened his mouth. “We were just—”

“Processing,” Doriane cut in instantly.

Susie raised an eyebrow.

Both went silent.

George almost would’ve called it relief.

“Go,” Susie said.

They hesitated.

Kimi leaned slightly toward George before leaving.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said quickly.

Doriane added, “Don’t overthink it.”

Kimi pointed vaguely down the hall. “And Max—”

“Stop talking,” Doriane said, dragging him away.

“Ow—he’s going to think I was going to say something stupid!”

“You always do!”

They disappeared.

Silence returned.

Proper silence.

George exhaled once.

“I’m sorry,” he said automatically.

Susie shook her head. “They care about you.”

A pause.

They did. George knows this. They cared for George even though George wishes they hadn't. Because it makes George start thinking of them as… siblings. It was sweet, too sweet. The kind of sweet that when it became too much it would just overwhelm George and make him ill.

Probably because it made George feel like he was replacing his actual family. However it is what a Great House does isn't it? Replace.

George notices Susie's gaze sharpen slightly—not unkind, just observant.

“You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” George said immediately.

Susie didn’t respond to the words.

“I heard your pains are back.”

That made him still.

“It’s nothing.”

“George.”

One word.

No pressure.

Just certainty.

He stopped trying to fight it.

“…It’s manageable,” he corrected.

Susie nodded once, like she accepted that version more honestly.

“I’ve already arranged a healer,” she said. “Aleix is bringing someone before the wedding in the capital.”

George frowned slightly. “That’s unnecessary.”

“It’s not optional,” she replied calmly.

A pause.

Then, quieter: “Thank you,” George said.

Susie nodded again.

Silence settled between them.

Not empty.

Full.

George’s gaze dropped slightly, and for a moment the weight of everything before the ceremony pressed in harder than the corridor itself.

Then, quietly—too quietly to be casual—he said:

“If Lewis had stayed… it wouldn’t feel like this.”

Lewis Hamilton.

The words slipped out like they’d been waiting behind his teeth.

He regretted them instantly.

Susie didn’t interrupt.

So he continued anyway.

“I keep thinking it was easier when he was here,” George admitted. “At least then I understood what I was supposed to be.”

A pause.

“This…” his jaw tightened, “this feels like I’ve been placed into something that used to belong to someone else.”

Susie stepped closer, but didn’t touch him yet.

“You’re not replacing anyone,” she said softly. “You’re inheriting what was left.”

George didn’t answer.

Susie’s voice lowered slightly.

“And you’re not meant to do it without feeling it.”

That finally made him exhale.

Slow. Controlled. But real.

“I don’t know how to be this,” he admitted.

Susie nodded once.

“You will,” she said. “Not because you’re ready. Because you always adapt.”

A pause.

Then, firmer—but still gentle underneath:

“You were raised for this. But more importantly… you were raised to survive it.”

George finally looked at her properly.

And for once—he didn’t correct her.

He just stood there.

Thinking about how he wishes he had. Because George had been surviving his entire life. For once he just wanted to live. However it's too much to ask for.

The ceremony of House Stellaris did not begin with trumpets.

It began with silence.

Not absence of sound—but enforced stillness, the kind that made every breath feel like a deliberate act of defiance. The Great Hall of Stellaris had been transformed into something between cathedral and court: black stone polished to a mirror sheen, threaded through with silver constellations that caught the light like frozen starlight. Thin veins of teal magic pulsed beneath the floor in slow, controlled currents—like the Hall itself was breathing.

Above it all, suspended like a contained night sky, was the sigil of House Stellaris—silver three pointed star, black at its core, and faintly burning with teal luminescence that rotated slowly overhead as if measuring the worth of every soul beneath it.

Every House was present.

Every eye was watching.

And at the centre of it all stood George Russell.

He wore Stellaris’ lordship attire— it was no longer merely ceremonial cloth. It had been overlaid with the House’s true colours: silver-threaded black fabric, with subtle teal sigil work woven into the seams like hidden circuitry.

The mantle across his shoulders was heavy, layered in deep black velvet lined with silver embroidery that mapped old Stellaris star-charts. Teal highlights pulsed faintly along the edges, reacting to his movement like a restrained current of power.

At his chest rested the crest-piece of House Stellaris—obsidian-black metal rimmed in silver, with a core of the three pointed star that shimmered faint teal when the light struck it correctly. It sat over his heart like a verdict waiting to be confirmed.

Around his wrists were pale oath-bands of silver, etched with black runes that only activated once bound by blood. These bands were inherited by every new Lord of Stellaris from the previously. There were meant to be fused into the skin and never to be removed until a bit Lord is selected.

They had not yet been closed.

Behind him stood the Crown Synod—still, masked, watching.

Ahead, the Obsidian Basin waited.

Carved from a fallen meteor core, it was not truly black stone—but something deeper, denser, threaded with silver mineral veins that looked like trapped lightning. Inside it, teal light drifted like submerged stars, reacting faintly to proximity, as if recognising the living.

It did not accept a voice.

It accepted blood.

George did not look at it.

Not yet.

The Synod raised their hands.

And the ritual began.

“The House Stellaris does not inherit,” they intoned, voices layered as one. “It remembers.”

A pause.

“It does not choose its Lord. It recognises its vessel.”

Another pause.

“And it does not serve the present. It serves the continuity of stars unbroken.”

The hall responded not with applause, but with a tightening of magic itself—silver currents aligning in the architecture, teal light deepening beneath the floor like a pulse syncing to a heartbeat.

George stepped forward.

One step.

Then another.

Each step disturbed the light beneath him, silver and teal rippling outward like quiet shockwaves.

At the edge of the hall, eyes followed him.

First, he found him.