King's Landing at night felt different.
The day noise didn't vanish so much as curdle. Laughter turned louder and meaner, music sloppier, shadows thicker where torchlight failed to reach. The smell shifted too—less bread and fish, more wine, sweat, and things that had been spilled and never cleaned.
I moved with the crowd, not against it, letting my pace match the city's rhythm. Armor drew looks, but not the kind that invited questions—just the quick, calculating glances of people deciding whether I was trouble worth avoiding.
I followed Wyllam's advice without meaning to: found an inn near the middle of things, not too close to Flea Bottom and not so close to the Red Keep that everyone pretended to be polite.
A painted sign swung over the street: The Copper Gull.
Warm light spilled from the windows. Laughter rolled out every time the door opened. It smelled like roasted meat and spilled ale—honest smells.
Good enough.
I ducked inside.
The common room was packed. Long tables crowded with sailors, craftsmen, a few off-duty Gold Cloaks pretending not to listen to anyone. A pair of musicians sawed at fiddles near the hearth, badly but enthusiastically. The fire itself was large and well-kept, throwing heat and light across the room.
And behind the bar—
I stopped.
The innkeeper noticed immediately. Not because I stared—this city punished that—but because she was the sort of woman who noticed everything.
She was beautiful in a way that didn't bother pretending to be delicate.
Mid-thirties, maybe a little more. Dark hair pulled back loosely, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Full lips curved into an easy, practiced smile that suggested she'd heard every lie a man could tell and enjoyed watching them try anyway. Her dress was practical but cut in a way that made it very clear she had nothing to apologize for—strong shoulders, generous curves, posture that spoke of confidence earned, not borrowed.
A very attractive woman.
A very dangerous one, too, in her own way.
Her eyes flicked over me in a single smooth pass—armor, sword, stance—and then met mine without hesitation.
"Well," she said, voice warm and amused, "you're either here for a bed or a fight. And I don't allow the second inside."
"A bed," I said. "And food."
She smiled wider. "Good. I'm full up on broken furniture."
I stepped closer to the bar, careful with my movements. Armor scraped softly as I leaned an elbow against the wood.
"Name?" she asked.
"Garen Storm."
Something shifted behind her eyes—recognition of the name's type, not the name itself. Bastard. No house. No trouble unless proven otherwise.
"And you?" I asked.
"Marra," she said. "I own the place, I keep the books, and I decide who gets thrown out."
"Good to know."
Her gaze lingered a second longer than necessary, then dropped—deliberately—to the coin pouch at my belt.
"Room's two silver a night," she said. "Meal's extra. Bath costs more."
"I'll take all three."
That earned a low, pleased hum.
"Confident," she said. "Or desperate."
"Practical."
She leaned in just enough that the firelight caught her eyes. "That sword stay with you?"
"Yes."
"As long as it stays strapped."
"It will."
Marra nodded once, satisfied. "One night paid in advance."
I set two silver stags on the counter.
Her fingers brushed mine as she took them—not accidental, not lingering. Just enough to remind me she noticed things too.
"Welcome to the Copper Gull, Garen Storm," she said. "Try not to die in your sleep. It's bad for business."
I took a seat near the fire while she shouted orders to a serving girl and handed a key to a boy who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
As I settled, the system stirred faintly, unobtrusive now—less a menu, more a quiet ledger.
[LOCATION REGISTERED] King's Landing — The Copper Gull
• Status: Neutral
• Threat Level: Moderate
Food arrived quickly. Stew thick with barley and meat that had actually known a fire. Bread still warm. Ale that didn't taste watered down.
I ate slowly, watching.
A pair of men argued in hushed tones about tourney brackets. A woman laughed too loudly at a joke that wasn't funny. A Gold Cloak flirted badly and got shut down harder.
Marra moved through it all like a general on a battlefield—smiling here, scolding there, laying a hand on a shoulder or slapping one away as needed. Men watched her openly. Women did too, some with amusement, some with calculation.
She caught me observing and raised an eyebrow.
"See something interesting?" she asked, passing by with a tray.
"Efficient management."
She laughed. "Careful. Compliments like that get you extra chores."
"Wouldn't want to impose."
"Mm. Shame."
Later, as the room thinned and the fire burned lower, she poured herself a cup and leaned against the bar across from me.
"You're here for the tourney," she said, not asking.
"Yes."
"Melee?"
"Yes."
She studied me again, slower this time. Not hungry. Curious.
"Plenty of strong men come through here," she said. "Most don't last long in the ring. Or the city."
"And the ones who do?"
"They learn when to smile and when to keep their mouths shut."
"Sound advice."
She smirked. "You married, Garen Storm?"
"No."
"Attached?"
"No."
Her smile softened—not inviting, not dismissive. Just… aware.
"Good," she said. "Makes things simpler."
"For?"
"For not having to pretend you don't notice when a woman looks at you."
I met her gaze evenly. "I noticed."
A beat passed.
Then she laughed quietly and straightened. "Finish your ale. Your room's up the stairs, second door on the left. Bath's in the back—don't expect privacy."
"I won't."
As I climbed the stairs later, the sounds of the common room faded into a low murmur. My room was small but clean. The bed looked sturdy. The window overlooked a narrow alley lit by one flickering torch.
I set my gear down carefully, unstrapped the sword, and sat on the edge of the bed.
King's Landing pressed in from every side—coin, ambition, hunger.
And opportunity.
The system pulsed once, softly.
[PENDING EVENT] King Robert's Name Day Tourney — Melee
• Estimated Time: 3 Days
I lay back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the city breathe.
Tomorrow, I'd train.
Tomorrow, I'd listen.
Tomorrow, I'd start making myself known—carefully.
Somewhere below, Marra laughed at something a patron said, low and warm and utterly unbothered by the danger outside her door.
I smiled faintly.
King's Landing was already trying to decide what to make of me.
Soon enough, it wouldn't have to guess.