Chapter II — The First Customer
The morning after Elena Marlowe stepped into a world she had only watched from her apartment, she awoke on the bar floor of The Wandering Crown. She had somehow made herself comfortable in the plush wooden warmth, curling up amid lantern light and polished oak. The ice cream she had brought with her yesterday was long gone, melted into nothing but memory. And yet, she felt absurdly content.
The tavern smelled of wine and smoke and something subtly sweet—like a faint trace of her apartment lingering in the air. She stretched, testing the tight leather boots she now wore, and yawned in a way that was equal parts exhaustion and smug satisfaction.
"Not bad," she muttered to herself, brushing a strand of orange hair from her eyes. "I could get used to this."
Outside, snow blanketed Winterfell, sparkling under a pale morning sun. Elena peered through the window at the courtyard below. Soldiers sparred, young girls practiced swordplay, and Jon Snow was already awake, polishing his sword, the frown on his face deepening.
"Morning," she called, cheerfully leaning against the bar counter. Her voice carried easily through the warm space. "I trust you slept on top of the fine oak, not the floor?"
Jon glanced up, slightly startled by her casual tone. "I… I slept," he said carefully. "The floor is solid. Comfortable enough, I suppose."
Elena laughed lightly. "Comfortable, he says. I suppose you're used to cold stone." She hopped onto a stool behind the counter, swinging her legs. "I hope you don't mind, but my brain refuses to process fear anymore. I'm far too interested in the possibilities of this place."
Jon's gray eyes flicked to the shelves of wine behind her, then back to her face. "Possibilities?"
"Absolutely. Wine. Ice cream. Limited miracles. Adventure. You're standing in the most profitable corner of the Seven Kingdoms, my friend, and I've just arrived."
He stared, confused, wary, yet something in her irreverent confidence made him hesitate. She was unlike anyone he had ever met.
"Your rules," he said slowly. "They make no sense to me."
Elena grinned. "Good. Rules are for the unimaginative. I'm neither imaginative nor unimaginative. I'm… strategic."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "Strategic?"
"Yes. Strategic. Watch and learn."
Before he could respond, the tavern shivered slightly. Elena's head snapped toward the door. A cold draft swirled around it, and then, like a whisper of fate, the room shifted. The walls elongated, the lanterns flickered with golden light, and the floor seemed to move under her boots—not enough to throw her off balance, but just enough to remind her that she was not entirely in control.
The view outside changed. Where there had been Winterfell moments ago, now a bustling street in King's Landing stretched below. Carriages rumbled past cobblestones, merchants shouted over the hum of city life, and the Red Keep loomed in the distance, ominous and commanding.
Jon froze. "What—?"
Elena waved her hands casually. "Relax. It's the tavern. It moves. The Wandering Crown is… well, wandering."
He looked at her as though she had grown horns overnight. "The tavern moves?"
She nodded. "Temporarily permanent. Contextually mobile. Narratively convenient. You get the idea."
He frowned. "I do not."
"Perfect," she said, clapping her hands once. "You are ready for training. Step one: do not freak out."
Jon exhaled. "I am not sure I can—"
"Then step two: drink wine. Step three: observe." She reached behind the counter and pulled down a bottle labeled Dorne Sunset Reserve. Its cork gleamed in the lantern light. "Step four: profit from experience."
Jon hesitated. Then, out of curiosity or a lingering sense of honor, he accepted the glass. The liquid was richer than any wine he had tasted in his life—sweet, spiced, with a depth that made the back of his throat tingle. He blinked.
"This is… remarkable," he admitted.
"Of course it is," Elena said, brushing her hair back. "I only sell the remarkable. Nothing ordinary. And now… we wait."
She perched on the counter edge, legs swinging, watching the bustling street below. "The first customer is always amusing. They arrive with ambition, greed, or mischief. We decide who gets the miracle, if anyone."
Jon's frown deepened. "Miracle?"
She smiled faintly, retrieving the crystal vial from its hidden drawer. Light caught it just right, making it glow faintly in her palm. "This," she said, holding it carefully, "heals anything. One per month. One person. Not for sale. Not for profit. Only for amusement."
He blinked. "You… intend to give this to someone?"
"Of course not," she said, laughing softly. "I intend to give it to someone entertaining." She set it back in the drawer with care. "Part of the appeal is its scarcity. Everyone else can survive or die. Only the interesting matter."
Jon's gray eyes studied her. He did not speak, but Elena sensed the weight of his thoughts: a mixture of awe, caution, and the faintest flicker of approval.
The tavern shifted again. The walls shimmered, and the noise of King's Landing streets intensified. A small crowd gathered outside the tavern's invisible threshold—a mix of nobles, merchants, and travelers. Elena clapped her hands once.
"Entertainment begins," she announced.
From the doorway stepped a man small in stature but large in wit—Tyrion Lannister himself. He paused, surveying the space as though he had been invited into a private palace rather than a wandering tavern.
Elena's grin widened. "Ah. And here we have the first challenge."
Tyrion's sharp eyes swept over the bar, the shelves, and finally rested on her. "I assume this is no ordinary establishment," he said dryly.
"Correct," Elena replied, spinning lightly on her stool. "We offer wine. Only wine. And occasionally… miracles."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "Miracles?"
She nodded, eyes glinting. "But only for those who amuse me. If you bore me, you get nothing but excellent wine."
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Tyrion's mouth. "I see. A selective benefactor, then. Dangerous work."
"Exactly," Elena said. "Dangerous. Fun. Profitable. And in my case, essential."
Jon watched silently, his loyalty and prudence warring with his growing curiosity. Elena, meanwhile, moved among her bottles with ease, retrieving selections as if the tavern itself whispered instructions. Each pour, each motion, was deliberate. She did not merely serve wine—she orchestrated influence, carefully curating experiences for her guests.
Tyrion took his first sip. Eyes widened slightly. "Incredible. Remarkable. I could get used to this."
Elena laughed softly. "I suspect you would."
Jon frowned, uncertain whether to intervene or remain silent. He understood little of Elena's modern logic, yet he sensed the power in her control—not political, not martial, but something else entirely. A combination of leverage, charm, and unpredictability that made kings and pawns alike defer.
Elena perched again on the bar counter, legs swinging, observing her small audience. A gentle wind ruffled her hair from an open window that had not existed moments before. "The Wandering Crown," she said, voice low and reflective, "will appear where it is needed. Observe, adapt, survive. And occasionally, reward those who deserve it."
She glanced at Jon. "Step one, remember: loyalty matters more than gold. Step two: amusement matters more than loyalty. Step three… everything else is secondary."
Jon's frown softened. He understood enough to follow her lead, even if he did not understand the full scope of her intent.
Outside, King's Landing moved on, oblivious to the secret tavern perched invisibly among its rooftops. Inside, Elena Marlowe felt alive in a way her bank account never permitted. She had freedom, she had agency, and she had her own rules.
And soon, she would learn just how far the consequences of those rules could reach.