The first thing you noticed about King’s Landing was the smell.

Not the sea—though salt rode the air thick as mist—nor the markets overflowing with fish and sweat and hot bread. No, it was the scent of too many people pressed together beneath heat your northern blood still could not bear. Perfume over rot. Roses poured atop sewage.

Southern.

You stood at the top of the gangplank with Thea balanced on your hip, her small body warm and heavy against you. Near a year old now, she weighed about as much as a sack of sugar and clung with all the stubbornness of a northern child, fist twisted into the dark wool of your cloak.

Behind you waited the remnants of your household—guards in blackened Karstark furs, servants pale from the long voyage south, and carts bearing the entirety of your future.

Ahead of you stood lions.

Red cloaks shimmered beneath the afternoon sun. Gold armor flashed bright enough to hurt the eyes. At their center waited Ser Jaime Lannister, gilded and broad-shouldered, one hand resting easily upon his sword belt as though this were merely another ceremony instead of the exchange of a kingdom’s last surviving wolf.

And beside him—

Gods.

Lord Tywin Lannister.

Older than you by decades, wrapped in crimson and sable with enough authority in his posture to silence the harbor itself. He did not wave. Did not smile. He simply watched you descend from the ship as though measuring the weight of every choice that had led you here.

You met his gaze without lowering your own.

“The Lady Corvina Karstark,” Jaime announced smoothly once you reached the dock.

Not widow. Not northern hostage.

Interesting.

Thea squirmed suddenly and let out a displeased little grunt at the heat. You adjusted her higher against your hip, murmuring softly into the wisps of pale brown hair at her temple.

Tywin’s eyes flicked downward.

Most men looked at your daughter with awkwardness. Or pity. Or irritation.

Tywin assessed her the way he might assess weather before battle.

Healthy. Alert. Quiet.

Useful observations.

“You’ve traveled far,” he said at last.

His voice was deeper than expected. Calm. Precise. The sort of voice that likely ordered executions the same way another man requested wine.

“We had favorable waters, my lord,” you replied evenly. “The storms spared us.”

“The North rarely receives such mercy.”

There it was.

The test.

You felt Jaime watching carefully beside his father, curious whether the wolf girl would bare her teeth.

Instead, you smiled faintly.

“Then perhaps the gods have exhausted themselves tormenting us.”

A flicker passed through Jaime’s face—amusement quickly hidden. Tywin’s expression barely changed at all, but silence stretched one heartbeat longer than before.

Not displeased, then.

The procession through the city felt like marching through the belly of some enormous beast. Gold cloaks shoved crowds aside while smallfolk craned their necks for a glimpse of you.

The Wolf Lady. The northern bride. The woman marrying the lion who helped destroy her people.

You kept your chin high despite the whispers.

Inside the Red Keep, the air cooled slightly beneath thick stone walls. Servants swept forward immediately, reaching for trunks, cloaks—

And Thea.

“Oh, allow me, my lady—”

The nursemaid barely touched her before your daughter let out an offended shriek loud enough to echo through the corridor. Tiny fists latched onto your collar.

“No,” you said calmly.

The servant retreated at once.

Jaime barked a short laugh under his breath.

“She’s got a grip like a bear trap.”

“She’s northern,” you answered.

“That explains the glare.”

As if understanding herself mocked, Thea turned suspicious grey eyes toward him and buried her face against your shoulder.

For the first time since your arrival, something close to warmth touched Jaime’s expression.

Then came Queen Cersei Lannister.

You found her waiting within a solar flooded gold by evening light, one jeweled hand resting upon the back of a chair as though she herself sat the throne already.