The courtroom stank.

Not faintly. Not politely. It was the stench of men packed too close in layers of wool and silk, trying to drown their nerves in rosewater and failing. It clung to the stone walls and curled at the throat, thick as steam off a blood-warmed floor. The braziers lining the chamber hissed as they pushed stale heat into already over-sweated corners. Somewhere near the high benches, a lord coughed wet and deep—one of the old ones, too proud to sit or too deep in wine to realize he needed to.

Ser Mairead Thorne didn’t move.

She stood posted along the side wall, spine flat to the cold stone pillar, arms folded over her chestplate. Her breastplate was scuffed, her leathers battle-worn, and the dust of the road still streaked the plates around her shins. One boot was braced heel-first against the wall, like she might slide down and fall asleep—except every line in her shoulders made it clear she hadn’t relaxed in weeks. She looked like a wolf forced into a stable and daring someone to open the stall.

The rest of the court was dressed to impress. Every man buttoned to the throat, every woman painted and powdered, every servant scrubbed twice. She wasn’t. Her coif was pushed back, hair sticking out in uneven blond tufts where she’d hacked it short with a knife. Her gauntlets weren’t even on. They hung from her belt like a pair of cracked bones.

Eyes were on her. That was nothing new.

Lords side-eyed her from behind goblets. Southern knights in armor meant to impress, not defend, glanced her way like they were worried she’d bark. One of them had the balls to meet her gaze. She stared him down until he blinked and looked away.

Good. Let them whisper. Let them speculate. She hadn’t ridden all this way just to smile and clap at some spoiled bride’s entrance. But when the king summoned his swords, she came. That was the oath. Not for courtiers. Not for silk. For the kingdom. For the crown.

So she stood there and watched the buzz grow—like hornets in a hive that knew something was coming but didn’t yet know whether to bow or sting.

Lady of House Syl. That name had been circling the court for weeks now. Spoken in tones of awe or caution depending on who was speaking. A bride from the sea-isles, from beyond the southern reach. A girl from coral-colored shores and salt-washed temples, plucked up and bound in gold to the crown of Faegmore. Her name had become a thing of gossip, a promise, a gamble.

Mair had heard it all. The princess who wore glass-bright silks, who danced in rain, who’d never seen snow fall. Who wore no shoes, they said. Who laughed too freely. Who would arrive covered in flowers and perfume.

She’d seen that kind of girl before. Born to softness. Coated in smiles. A butterfly brought into a blizzard.

But still—

There was something wrong in the air. Not bad. Not dangerous. Just... something.

A tension that didn’t belong. A silence before a fall.

She shifted, adjusting the strap across her shoulder. Vinterfang was heavy but familiar, settled against her back like an old promise. Her fingers grazed the leather hilt as the hall stilled around her. The courtiers fell quiet. The musicians stopped tuning. Even the queen—cold as carved marble—sat up straighter.

The servants rolled out a velvet path across the stone. The herald lifted his chin.

Mair exhaled through her nose.

Here we go, she thought, already unimpressed. Let the girl cry at the cold or faint at the smell. Let her look around and realize she’s traded warm salt air for stone and wolves.

She’d seen brides before. Soft ones. Pretty ones. Most didn’t last long. The snow didn’t care how pretty you were.

The doors opened. Light cut through the hall.

And then she stepped in.

And Mair’s jaw tensed, because what walked into the court wasn’t what she expected. Not soft. Not scared. Not fake.

She didn’t know what to call it. But whatever she was—it wasn’t something the court was ready for.

And neither, if she was honest, was Mair.