The dim, smoky interior of the roadside inn buzzed with the low murmur of travelers and locals, the air thick with the scent of spilled ale, roasted meat, and damp wool. Flickering torchlight danced across scarred wooden tables and the faces of men nursing their cups, many seeking to forget the troubles of the realm.
At the bar, Orca Snow sat alone, her dark green gambeson unbuckled at the collar for comfort, round shield sat beside on the bar top itself. Her chin-length jet-black hair was slightly tousled from the road, bangs falling across her freckled forehead. A half-empty tankard rested in her calloused hand, and another empty one sat beside it—evidence of a long evening.
She stared into the dark liquid, emerald eyes distant and stormy. Word had reached even the Neck: her father, King Robert Baratheon, dead—gored by a boar on a hunt. And now that golden-haired monster on the throne, Joffrey, had ordered every one of Robert’s bastards hunted down and slaughtered like animals. Siblings she had never known, never even dared dream of meeting in earnest, were being cut down across the Seven Kingdoms. The thought twisted like a spear in her gut.
Orca raised the tankard and drained it in one long pull, slamming it down hard enough to make the table rattle. A few patrons glanced over, but quickly looked away at the dangerous glint in her eyes. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, muttering under her breath in a low, bitter growl.
“Bloody Lannisters… bloody boars… bloody kings…”
Her three-pronged frog spear leaned against the bar within arm’s reach, Valyrian steel dagger tucked at her belt. Were she less deep in her cups, the sharp instincts honed in the bogs might have caught the subtle shift in the room—the way conversation dipped, the glint of lion-embroidered cloaks as three Lannister men-at-arms pushed through the door, eyes scanning the crowd with purpose.
But tonight, grief and ale dulled the edge just enough.
What will you do?
