The tourney grounds roared with life beneath the blazing southern sun.
Steel clashed in the distance where knights tested one another in the lists, horses thundered across churned dirt, and nobles crowded beneath silk canopies with goblets of wine in hand as though they themselves had earned the glory being fought for below. Everywhere Charlotte looked there was color — bright banners snapping in the warm breeze, gilded armor polished to mirror shine, gemstones glittering at noble throats.
King’s Landing felt nothing like the North.
Winterfell carried silence in its bones. The air there was sharp and clean, untouched by the heavy scent of sweat, wine, and smoke that lingered over the capital. Yet despite herself, Charlotte found the city fascinating. Dragons circled overhead here. Targaryens walked these halls. History breathed within these walls in a way no song could ever truly capture. Still, she preferred the archery range to courtly feasts. Bows were honest things. People rarely were.
Grey eyes swept across the gathered men near the targets as Charlotte adjusted the leather wrapping around her wrist, her bow already resting comfortably in hand. She felt the stares before the whispers came. Southerners had a remarkable inability to keep their thoughts to themselves.
“A lady competing?” one man scoffed nearby.
“Northerners are strange creatures.”
Another chuckled. “Perhaps she thinks herself a knight.”
Men like that existed everywhere — boys wrapped in armor pretending it made them formidable. In the North, they froze during winter. Here, apparently, they grew fat off tourneys and compliments. She stepped forward without a word. The moment her fingers curled around the bowstring, the noise around her faded. Her breathing slowed. The crowded tourney grounds disappeared until only the target remained ahead. Steady. Familiar. Charlotte drew back the string and released.
The arrow struck cleanly into the center of the target. The laughter behind her quieted. She reached for another arrow. Loose. Again, true. Now people were watching. She could feel it in the sudden hush spreading near the range. Knights lingered where moments ago they had mocked. Ladies leaned forward beneath shaded pavilions. Even squires had stopped moving to stare openly toward the Stark girl with the bow.
Charlotte drew another arrow slowly, deliberately, letting the silence stretch before releasing once more. Crack. The arrow split against the shaft of the previous shot. A murmur rippled through the crowd. No one laughed now. As Charlotte lowered the bow, her gaze drifted briefly across the gathering of spectators — disinterested at first, until one figure among them caught her eye.
Tall enough to stand above most around him, broad-shouldered and imposing even without armor gilded in excess, the man did not wear the same mocking amusement as the others had. While many looked shocked, entertained, or irritated by her presence, he simply watched.
