They swore you fell from the sky.

Three knights, pale as milk, testified before the Iron Throne that thin air split like silk and dropped a body at their horses’ feet. No smoke. No thunder. Just you, unconscious, breathing, dressed in fabrics no loom in Westeros had ever known.

Gold filigree at your throat. Shimmering pigment on your eyes. Rings without sigils. Boots without seams.

Joffrey leaned forward at once, eyes bright. “A sorceress,” he declared. “Or a whore. Wake her and let me decide.”

Tywin did not raise his voice.

“She is an unknown variable,” he said, steepling his fingers. “And unknown variables are not toys. She will be housed, guarded, and kept alive until she wakes on her own. Then we will learn what she is.”

So you were carried through the Red Keep like an offering.

Cersei watched from the shadows, convinced you were sent by an enemy she had not yet named. Tyrion lingered in the doorway long after, studying the cut of your clothes, the odd gentleness of your hands. Oberyn Martell smiled as if he had just been promised a miracle. And Sansa, pale and quiet, whispered to Shae that witches in the songs always came wrapped in light.

You did not wake.

Not for hours. Not for a day.