We returned to the Green Bird Inn laden with the day's purchases. Alice was waiting for us, and upon our arrival, she darted inside to summon the others. We were met with a warm welcome from the three women.
After instructing the boys to unload our goods, I turned to Miranda. "My lady, how are you feeling?" I asked, my tone carefully neutral.
"Much recovered, thank you," she replied, a knowing glint in her eye. "Though last night's... feast... was rather rough. My lower regions are still recuperating. I fear I cannot partake in another so soon." Her gaze sharpened. "But tell me, why did you not visit me today to check on my condition?"
To deflect, I presented the gifts. The girls beamed with unadulterated joy. In a flurry of excitement, they each kissed my cheek, their soft breasts brushing against my arms in the process, before fleeing to their room to try on the new dresses. Miranda, however, did not look at her own gift. Her eyes remained fixed on me, searching for a motive.
"I swear, I have no ill intentions with this," I assured her.
In response, she simply stepped forward, closed the distance between us, and kissed me. It was not a kiss of conquest or manipulation, but one of startling passion. My surprise melted away, and I found myself kissing her back, my hands moving of their own accord to her hips. It was a stark contrast to the harsh transaction of the previous night; this felt like a choice.
The sound of approaching footsteps made us break apart, both of us breathing heavily. Alaric entered, announcing they had finished unloading and that customers were waiting at the counter.
Miranda composed herself with impressive speed, giving her son a warm, maternal smile. "Thank you for your hard work, my dear. Please inform those customers that we are full for the evening and they must seek lodging elsewhere."
After Alaric left, she leaned close to my ear, her whisper a promise and a threat. "I should like to try on my new dress as well." She gave a firm, meaningful squeeze to a sensitive part of my anatomy before turning and walking away, leaving me both aroused and profoundly relieved that the situation seemed to have stabilized.
I retreated to the bath they had prepared for me, soaking in the hot water to wash away the grime of the city. Later, as I was dressing in my room, the door opened without a knock. Jane and Alice stood there, radiant in their new gowns. Seeing me in nothing but a towel, they blushed deeply, mumbling apologies for the intrusion.
"We... we wanted you to see us in our new dresses," Alice said, her voice barely a whisper.
They were stunning, their beauty a bright, innocent flame compared to their mother's smoldering embers. They did a small, graceful turn, and I gave them my most sincere compliments. Thankfully, they left without asking who looked better, sparing me a diplomatic crisis.
Alone again, my thoughts turned grim. I could grow accustomed to this slow, comfortable life, but I knew it was an illusion. War was coming. A part of me, the Warden's part, yearned for it—for the clash of steel, the heat of battle, the clarity of purpose.
But which side to take?
Fighting for the Targaryens was unthinkable. The Mad King was a monster, and Prince Rhaegar, from what I knew, was arguably worse. They were a dynasty teetering on the brink of self-immolation.
The alternative was the rebel alliance. Yet, I held no love for the high lords playing their game of thrones. The Starks, with their misplaced honor, seemed to specialize in catastrophic decisions. The Lannisters were ruthless and untrustworthy. The Tullys were weak, the Arryns were isolated, and the Martells were too far removed.
My mind drifted to the words of Apollyon, a ghost in my muscle memory: "Tell me, child, are you a sheep or a wolf?"
I was neither. I was a warden. This body was sworn to defend the weak, master the longsword, and stand for the innocent. My path would not be for a lord, but for a cause. I would prepare for the true war against the ice in the North, but to do that, I needed power, influence, and allies.
A plan crystallized. The great tourney at Harrenhal was the key. I would enter the melee. I would not joust and draw the wrong kind of attention, but in the chaos of the mass battle, I could prove my worth. I would win, I would share a drink with the future king, Robert Baratheon, and I would earn a place on the ladder. Chaos was coming, and I would use it, not to serve the highborn, but to forge a bastion strong enough to defend against the Long Night.
The night culminated in a feast. The air was filled with laughter, the food was plentiful, and Rolf played the lute I had gifted him. We ate, we drank, and we danced—Miranda, her children, Rolf, and I. In a world so often defined by darkness and terror, we carved out a pocket of pure, unadulterated joy. For one night, the looming shadows were held at bay by the simple, defiant act of happines