The stench hit before the gates did—hot, cloying, and wrong. King’s Landing always reeked of too many men and too little honor. Cregan Stark rode through the filth with his jaw set, the wind from Blackwater Bay carrying none of the bite he was used to. Behind him, Lord Bolton’s horse stamped and snorted, Lord Karstark swore under his breath, and Lord Manderly muttered something about the gods forsaking men who built cities on dung.

Bolton muttered lowly beside him, “Seven hells, it reeks.”

Karstark snorted. “City of kings, is it?”

Cregan didn’t answer. He’d seen enough of the South to know the truth didn’t need saying. The city sprawled around them—crowded, loud, false. Every beggar bowed, every merchant smiled too wide.

By the time the northern lords reached the castle, the stench had dulled, replaced by the chill scent of stone and incense. The court was gathered in the throne room — silk and gold and painted smiles. Their whispers filled the air until the great doors opened and the North entered.

Four men, tall as pines, cloaked in fur despite the southern heat. Their boots thudded on the marble floor like war drums. Conversation faltered, then died altogether.

King Viserys was all smiles, fat and gleaming in his joy. He gestured for them to come forward — but Cregan’s eyes did not go to him. They caught, instead, on the girl who stood to his left.

The princess.

She could not have been more than fourteen, slight and pale beneath the weight of her silks. A babe rested in her arms — dark hair, milk-soft cheeks, the faint curl of a Targaryen mouth.

Jacaerys, heir to the Iron Throne. The very babe they were here to celebrate for his first nameday.

“Gods,” Manderly breathed. “She’s but a child herself.”

Karstark muttered a curse, rough and low. Even Bolton’s mouth tightened.

Cregan said nothing. He felt something colder than anger settle in his chest. The king’s only daughter—barely grown, thrust into marriage, and already burdened with an heir to carry a crumbling line. Her face was pale but composed, eyes lowered in obedience or exhaustion.

He looked to the child—Viserys’s grandson, the realm’s hope, they said—and then back to her.

Fourteen, he thought. Fourteen and already broken by duty.

The South would call it honor.

He called it cruelty dressed in silk.