36. Inn Stay
Inn Stay
The inn door exploded inward with enough force to rattle every glass in the room.
Cold air knifed through the warmth, carrying rain and the iron smell of weapon oil. Every fighter in the room straightened. Hands drifted toward hilts, and the taste of oncoming violence settled across the common room like a held breath.
The Sword-Kin entered like they were claiming territory, because in every way that mattered, they were.
Haim led them, his scarred face reading the room between heartbeats, one eye sweeping past merchants, servants, and our scattered groups with the efficiency of a man who’d spent decades sorting threats from furniture.
Behind him, Tormund’s massive frame filled the doorway.
Cain and Willem flanked the entrance while the rest spread through the common room, each finding a position that covered the others.
They moved the way professional killers always moved: aware of every exit, already knowing the room was theirs before anyone else had time to argue.
And among them walked Ygritte.
I almost didn’t recognize her. She carried herself differently with these men, her usual sharp edges ground down to a leaner, more controlled weapon. The Sword-Kin had claimed her, folded her into their formation, and she’d let them reshape her into one of their own.
She held my attention across the room for exactly three seconds before looking away. A nod’s worth of recognition, no more. We’d both found our places, though neither matched what we’d expected .
The common room stilled. Even Baldir’s crew straightened at their tables, recognizing the hierarchy above them. These weren’t just veterans. These were the men who’d built House de Blaise’s reputation with blood and steel, who’d fought wars that most of us had only heard stories about.
The innkeeper appeared at Haim’s elbow, bowing deep enough to show respect without quite groveling.
“Your finest chamber awaits, my lords.” He clasped his hands in front of his belly. “I’ve prepared the private dining room with the best wine in the cellar.”
“This will do.” Haim’s voice cut the offer short. “We’re not here for privacy.”
They claimed the central table without asking, displacing a group of grain merchants who grabbed their cups, ledgers, and pride as they fled to darker corners. Ygritte settled beside Cain, her posture alert but relaxed. She’d learned to read their rhythms. Learned to belong.
I watched her a moment longer than I should have, remembering the girl who’d stood in the arena during Selection Day and traded blows with me until we’d earned each other’s respect through steel.
She’d come farther than I had in some ways and found a cleaner path.
The Sword-Kin didn’t care about legitimacy or bloodlines.
They only cared about what you could do with a blade in your hand.
I returned to my cold soup, but Baldir’s voice rang across the room before I could take a bite.
“Leadership council. Team leaders, squad commanders, anyone responsible for others. ”
He stood near the fire, rain still dripping from his travel cloak, water pooling at his feet. His voice carried the authority of legitimate blood and the assumption that everyone would obey.
I stayed seated. Let him call the meeting. I’d earned my place, but I wouldn’t scramble for it like some eager puppy begging for scraps from the master’s table.
Tormund’s hand settled on my shoulder from behind, gentle but unmistakable. I hadn’t heard him move.
“That includes you.”
The Sword-Kin had acknowledged my presence, my authority, my right to sit in that circle. Baldir’s opinion on the matter didn’t factor.
I could go alone, maintain the distance Armand had counseled, play the game the way it was supposed to be played with my team in their corner and me in mine. Or I could make a statement.
“Maise.”
She looked up from where she sat with Perrin and Grit, surprise flickering across her features before she could smother it. Firelight turned her red hair to copper.
“You’re with me.”
“I’m not a team leader.” She shook her head. “I don’t have the authority.”
“You found the crossing today.” I kept my voice level, professional, loud enough to carry. “You’ve been making tactical decisions when I’m occupied with other matters. You’ve been leading when I couldn’t.”
I let that sink in, let everyone in the room hear it.
“That makes you my second. Come. ”
She rose slowly, understanding what I’d just done. Public recognition. Formal elevation witnessed by everyone who mattered.
Perrin gave her the smallest push forward when she hesitated, his hand on her back for just a moment. Grit nodded once, approval without words. They’d known this was coming before she did, maybe before I did.
We joined the circle near the fire. Baldir’s expression tightened when he saw Maise at my shoulder, but he kept his mouth shut. Challenging my choice would force a confrontation he wasn’t ready for, not with the Sword-Kin watching.
Armand watched from his position near the door. The other leaders, acknowledged bastards, house guards, and younger sons chasing glory, made room for us in their rough formation.
“Tomorrow we reach Duke Hemmrich’s estate,” Baldir began, reclaiming control of the room with the ease of someone who’d been doing it his whole life. “First impressions determine everything. Every team checks their equipment tonight. Weapons sharp, armor polished, horses groomed.”
“Discipline, too,” Armand added from the doorframe. “Your people need to understand we’re entering hostile territory.”
One of the younger squad leaders frowned, a boy barely older than me with soft hands that had never worked for anything. “Hostile? It’s a tournament.”
“It’s politics,” Willem corrected from the Sword-Kin’s table, his voice casual but sharp. “Every noble house will be watching, measuring, looking for weaknesses. Looking for advantage. Looking for leverage. ”
“They’ll smile while they’re doing it,” Cain added, turning a knife between his fingers. “That’s the worst part. At least in war, the enemy has the courtesy to look like an enemy.”
Baldir nodded and pulled the room’s attention back. “Team leaders are responsible for their people’s behavior. One mistake reflects on House de Blaise.” He glanced at everyone around the circle. “On all of us.”
“What about lodging?” Maise asked.
Her voice was steady, but I could see the tension across her shoulders. The effort it took to speak in a room full of people who thought she shouldn’t.
“Will teams stay together, or will we be scattered among Duke Hemmrich’s soldiers?”
Several squad leaders turned to stare. The question cut straight to tactical concerns none of them had considered. They’d assumed standard arrangements, assumed everything would work the way it always had, and assumptions like those killed soldiers. Maise knew that better than most.
Baldir’s jaw tightened at being addressed by someone he considered beneath notice. His mouth opened to deliver the rebuke forming behind his teeth.
Tormund answered before the confrontation could catch fire.
“Sharp question.” His voice rolled low and steady through the common room. “Tournaments follow protocols. Legitimate heirs in the main house, acknowledged bastards in guest quarters, everyone else in barracks or tents. Teams usually stay together.”
“Usually,” Willem emphasized. “But Duke Hemmrich enjoys disrupting expectations. Sometimes he quarters by region, sometimes by age. Once he separated everyone by hair color just to see what would happen. Man has a peculiar sense of humor.”
“We adapt to whatever we’re given,” Baldir said, clawing back authority with visible effort. “But prepare for separation. Team leaders maintain discipline regardless of quarters.” His eyes found mine and held.
“My people understand their roles,” I said, meeting his stare. “They know when to be visible and when to fade.”
“Good.” His tone said he’d believe it when he saw proof. “Check your wounded. Anyone operating below full capacity reports it now, not when we’re standing before the Duke.”
He paused, glancing toward the rain-lashed shutters. “Same for sickness. We’ve been riding through this weather for days. Wet cold kills more soldiers than steel ever has.”
“Dry those boots by the fire,” Haim called from his table, tapping the side of his cup for emphasis. “Wet feet take you out of fights faster than any blade. I’ve seen more men lost to foot rot than sword cuts.”
The meeting continued through logistics: march order, supply distribution, contingency planning.
Maise absorbed everything, occasionally asking pointed questions that showed better tactical understanding than some veteran squad leaders possessed.
Each question drew stares. Each stare went ignored.
She was earning her place with every word, building authority that couldn’t be stripped away by anyone who hadn’t been there to witness it.
When Baldir finally dismissed us, most drifted back to their groups. But Tormund’s hand found my shoulder again.
“A word. ”
He guided me toward the Sword-Kin’s table, Maise following close. The veterans made room, Ygritte shifting to create space beside Cain without looking at either of us.
“Sit,” Haim commanded.
We sat.
“You handled that well,” Cain said. Someone poured dark wine into cups and pushed them across the scarred wood toward us. “Making the girl your lieutenant. Smart move.”
“She earned it.”
“Course she did.” Willem leaned back, arms folded across his chest. “But most wouldn’t have recognized it publicly. Too worried about what Baldir thinks. Too worried about appearances.”
“Appearances have their place,” I said carefully.
“To a point.” Tormund’s thick fingers drummed against the table. “But steel matters more. Always has. Everything else is just noise people make while they’re dying.”