Gared breathing was wet and heavy, his small, piggy eyes immediately locking onto Serena with a ravenous hunger that made her skin crawl. Flanking him the two men were lean, scarred, and swaying slightly on their feet. Thugs. Muscle hired with brothel coin, reeking of sour wine and cheap violence.
Silas, the old shopkeeper, gripped the arms of his rocking chair. His knuckles turned white, his face draining of whatever color the fire had given it. He tried to stand, his bad leg trembling beneath him.
"Lord Gared..." Silas stammered, his voice lacking any of the gruff authority he had used on Serena earlier. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his wrinkled throat. "Please. This... this is an outpost under the protection of the Night's Watch. Do not make a scene here. I... I have ledgers to keep."
Gared didn't even look at the old man. He kept his wet, unblinking gaze fixed on Serena's pale face and crimson hair.
"Shut up, you damn," Gared wheezed, his lips peeling back in a grotesque imitation of a smile.
He stepped fully into the shop, his heavy boots leaving tracks of filthy slush on the floor Serena had just spent hours scrubbing. The two thugs followed, one of them kicking the door shut behind them, sealing the shop in a tense, claustrophobic bubble.
"The Night's Watch?" Gared laughed. It was a wet, hacking sound that rattled in his chest. "Those bastards in black spend half their miserable lives freezing on a wall, and the other half warming themselves in my beds, drinking my ale, and forgetting their vows between the thighs of my girls."
He took another step forward. Silas shrank back into his chair, utterly defeated.
"Do you really think," Gared sneered, "that a single crow from Castle Black would raise a sword against me? Against the man who provides them their only comfort in this frozen hell? They would hang you from the rafters themselves if I threatened to close my doors, Silas."
Silas swallowed heavily, looking down at the floor. He couldn't do anything. He wouldn't do anything.
Serena watched the exchange, her mind processing the information with terrifying speed. The fear that had initially spiked in her chest began to crystallize into something cold and hard.
So, we are compromised, Serena thought, her green eyes darting between the three men. There is no law here. There is no Lord Stark to ride to the rescue. The Watch is in this fat man's pocket, bought and paid for with vice.
Time seemed to slow down, stretching into excruciating micro-seconds. Serena's brain fired rapidly, simulating scenarios like a master cyvasse player looking at a ruined board.
If I run for the door, the thugs will catch me. If I scream, no one outside will care, or worse, they will cheer. If I beg, I become just another one of his broken girls.
Her eyes flicked to the hunting dagger Yoriichi had spent the morning cleaning. The rust was gone. The high-carbon steel gleamed in the firelight, its edge honed to a microscopic perfection by her six-year-old son.
Decided. Gared stepped closer, moving with the unearned confidence of a man who had never been told "no" in his entire miserable life. He stopped mere inches from Serena. He was so close she could smell the rotting meat on his breath and see the broken capillaries mapping the bulbous surface of his nose.
He leaned his head down, openly inspecting her. His small eyes roamed over her slender, modest dress, lingering on the curve of her hips before traveling up to her porcelain face and the striking cascade of her crimson hair.
"Hm. Hm," Gared hummed, a sickening sound of approval vibrating in his throat. "Absolute beauty. An art. A masterpiece."
He reached out a thick, sausage-like finger, hovering it just an inch from her cheek, relishing the power dynamic.
"Not like those unwashed, broken whores I have down in the tunnels," he murmured. "You smell like lavender. And clean snow."
Serena stood perfectly still. She forced her muscles to lock, locking her knees, slowing her breathing. She lowered her eyes slightly, painting a picture of a terrified, helpless woman.
Gared smirked internally, his chest puffing out beneath the shadowcat fur. Look at her, he thought, drowning in his own arrogance. She is completely shocked. Paralyzed by my presence. She's probably never seen a man of such wealth and handsome stature this far North.
"Oh, now I understand," Gared purred, taking her silence for submission.
"I understand exactly how a tavern girl bewitched the high and mighty Lord of Stark. You have a fire in you, don't you? Ah, but Ned Stark is a cold fish. Only a handsome, virile lord like me can truly take care of a woman like you."
"Don't worry, beauty," he continued, his voice dropping an octave, trying to sound seductive but only sounding predatory. "I am a good lord. You work for me now. You'll have the best room. The best food. All you have to do is be... appreciative."
He stepped forward, closing the final inch.
Instinctively, Serena took a slow step back.
Gared's grin widened. He loved the chase. He loved the fear. He took another step forward. Serena took another step back.
Clack.
Serena's back hit the solid timber wall of the shop. She was trapped between the shelves of iron pots and the massive, suffocating bulk of the landlord. There was nowhere left to retreat.
Gared chuckled, trapping her in by placing a heavy hand on the wall beside her head. He was enjoying every second of this.
Behind him, the two drunk thugs laughed, clapping each other on the shoulder.
"Show your manliness, boss!" the taller one cheered, his words slurring together.
The other thug let out a sharp, piercing whistle that grated against the quiet of the shop. "Yeah, boss! Show her what a real lord does to a wild rose!"
Serena was breathing heavily now, her chest rising and falling rapidly. It wasn't entirely an act—the adrenaline was flooding her veins, making her fingertips tingle. But she controlled the panic, channeling it into focus.
She side-eyed the hearth.
Lyra was sitting on the furs, her small hands covering her ears, her body trembling violently. But beside her stood Yoriichi.
The six-year-old boy was a portrait of unnatural stillness. His deep, crimson eyes were fixed on the back of Gared's thick neck. He wasn't crying. He wasn't reaching for his dagger. He simply stood there, his posture perfectly balanced.
But Serena, knowing her son, saw the micro-shifts in his shoulders. She knew that if Gared touched her inappropriately, the fat man's knee would be shattered in the blink of an eye.
No, Serena thought, meeting Yoriichi's gaze for a fraction of a second. Let me. I must not be helpless this time.
Gared was lost in his own fantasy. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, breathing in the scent of her hair, leaning his face down toward her neck, preparing to press his wet lips against her collarbone.
He never made it.
He felt a sudden, strange shift in the air. It was a movement so fluid, so impossibly fast, that his sluggish, alcohol-dulled brain failed to register it until it was already over.
Gared felt a slight pressure on his chest, forcing his shoulders to rotate just a fraction of an inch to the right.
And then, he felt it.
Something cold. Something dangerously, impossibly sharp, pressed firmly against the soft, pulsing flesh of his neck, right over his carotid artery.
Gared gasped, his eyes snapping open.
His instinct was to jerk backward, to pull away from the freezing steel. But as his muscles twitched, the blade didn't waver; it followed his movement with terrifying precision, pressing just a millimeter deeper.
A sharp, stinging pain flared. Gared felt a single, warm drop of blood well up from his skin and begin a slow, agonizing trickle down his collar.
"Ah—" Gared choked, the sound dying in his throat as the blade bit slightly harder.
He was paralyzed. He stood perfectly still, his eyes wide with a sudden, suffocating terror. The arrogant smirk vanished, replaced by the pale, clammy mask of a pig realizing it was already in the slaughterhouse.
The silence in the shop was deafening. Time seemed to stop completely.
The two thugs froze mid-laugh, their mouths hanging open in stupid confusion. Silas dropped his quill, the feather clattering loudly against the wooden ledger.
Serena had not cowered. She had not reached for the counter. She had drawn the skinning knife she kept strapped to her forearm beneath her sleeve—the very knife Torra had used to kill a man in the Winter Town. She held it with a grip of absolute iron, her arm steady, her eyes locked onto Gared's terrified face.
She was no longer the frightened prey. The illusion shattered, revealing the iron beneath the silk.
Serena leaned in, her lips just inches from Gared's ear.
"Now," Serena whispered. Her voice was no longer trembling. It was slow, calm, and laced with a dark, seductive mockery that sent a violent shiver down the landlord's spine.
"Am I still beautiful and appeasing to you, my lord?"
Gared swallowed, a microscopic movement, but even that made the steel sing against his throat. A bead of sweat rolled down his fat cheek, mixing with the blood on his collar.