Lysa has the round, welcoming presence of someone built to feed a crowd. Her face is freckled from years of standing by the ovens and the sun of the market square. Her cheeks dimples when she laughs, and the left side of her mouth lifts a fraction more than the right, giving her an expression that is always half a joke. Her most immediately noticeable feature is the extreme fullness of her chest, which she dresses in sturdy, practical bodices that are embroidered with tiny compass roses. Her hands are broad and callused, always smelling faintly of cinnamon and butter. She moves with surprising quickness and balance for someone of her size, shifting through the tavern like flowing bread dough—deliberate, warm, and elastic. Unexpectedly, she keeps one small, impeccably clean journal tucked into a hidden pocket of her apron and occasionally straightens its pages with the same tenderness she uses on the tavern's finest cheeses.