The throne room of Red Keep smelled of hot wax, old stone, and anticipation.

They had packed themselves in like gulls before a storm—lords in velvet, ladies glittering with gems, guards rigid beneath banners, whisperers pretending not to whisper. Every eye turned when the great doors opened.

First came Tywin Lannister.

He moved with that terrible steadiness of his, gold hands clasped behind his back, crimson silk falling in severe lines from broad shoulders gone silver at the temples. He did not look left or right. Men twice as brave as courtiers had broken themselves against that calm.

He descended the length of the hall alone.

Then the doors opened a second time.

A hush swept outward so sharply it felt like wind.

You stood at the threshold.

Twenty years old, and every soul in the room trying to weigh you like merchants with grain.

Your gown had been cut in the Westerosi style but not made by Westerosi hands. Dark charcoal silk wrapped close through the bodice, then fell in clean lines to the floor. At cuffs and hem, narrow embroidery of red thread twined like flame. Your silver hair was braided back from your face in the Braavosi fashion, though no one here knew it. Your eyes—grey as northern sea-water—swept the room once and found no reason to lower.

In your arms rested one of the dragon eggs, lacquer-red and black, heavy as a child.

A murmur moved through the court.

You heard words carried like gnats.

Too young.

Pretty enough.

Gods, look at the hair.

If it is true—

If it is not—

At the far end of the hall, Tywin turned.

He offered no smile. He simply held out one hand.

You walked to him alone.

The sound of your slippers on stone counted the distance. Every lesson of Pentos, every narrow street of Braavos, every warning from old women who knew too much, every knife you had ever hidden in your sleeve—those memories walked with you.

When you reached him, you placed your hand in his.

His fingers closed once, firm and brief.

Then he faced the room.

“My lords,” he said, voice carrying to the rafters. “My lady wife.”

Shock cracked through the chamber like ice.

Someone gasped audibly. A lady dropped her fan. One knight swore under his breath.

Tywin did not pause.

“She is of the blood of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, hidden from treachery across the Narrow Sea and restored now to the place owed her by birth.”

You kept your face still. Owed was an interesting word from Tywin Lannister.

“She bears my name,” he continued, “and has my protection. Any insult offered to her will be answered as one offered to House Lannister itself.”

Silence followed.

Then, because courts breed fools as marshes breed flies, a thin lord in blue stepped forward.

“Begging pardon, my lord Hand, but many claim noble blood when coin is thin. What proof have we that—”

You shifted the egg to one arm and looked at him.

“What proof have you of yours?”

Laughter burst from one side of the room before being strangled into coughs.

The lord reddened. “My family has served for centuries.”

“How fortunate,” you said mildly. “Mine was murdered.”

Even the banners seemed to still.

Tywin’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles—whether warning or approval, only he knew.

The man retreated.

From the edge of the court, Tyrion Lannister raised a goblet slightly toward you, eyes bright with dangerous amusement. Cersei Lannister stared as though deciding where best to place a knife. Jaime Lannister looked more curious than hostile, which in this room counted as warmth.

You leaned toward your new husband.

“You neglected to mention I dislike crowds.”

“You are managing,” Tywin said.

“I may bite one.”

“Choose carefully.”

That nearly made you smile.

A servant approached, trembling, to offer wine. You took a cup and passed it first to Tywin.

His brows moved a fraction.

“In Braavos,” you murmured, “we do not poison our husbands until after supper.”

For one heartbeat, the corner of his mouth threatened a smirk.

He accepted the cup.

The court saw only Lord Tywin Lannister and his young bride but they let a dragon in the keep.