Rodge frowned, his face flushing red with sudden, furious anger. Being stopped by a mere woman—a whore, in his Flea Bottom mentality—was an insult his fragile ego couldn't handle.
"What business I have doesn't matter to you, bitch," Rodge sneered loudly, his voice echoing over the quiet hum of the tavern. "You mere thing don't know who you're looking at. This is official Night's Watch business from the Lord Commander himself. Move aside, or I'll f*** you to death!"
The tavern instantly went dead silent. The merchants stopped drinking. The other women in the room slowly turned their heads, their eyes narrowing. They were not afraid; they were cautious, analyzing the threat like a pack of wolves watching a stupid, loud sheep wander into their den.
Beth didn't even flinch at the vile threat. She looked mildly surprised by his sheer, suicidal stupidity. "Oh? From the Lord Commander? Then give the letter to me. I will send it up to the Lady."
Rodge couldn't take this disrespect. He had completely ignored the warnings of his older mates about the true, dangerous nature of this town. He wanted to look strong, to establish dominance so he could come back here and enjoy these women for free.
With a roar of arrogant anger, Rodge drew his iron longsword, the metallic shing ringing loudly, and pointed the tip directly at Beth's neck.
"You stupid slut, you won't die a good death today!" he spat, his hand trembling slightly with adrenaline. "You've made an honorable Night's Watchman angry!"
Beth mused, tilting her head. "Eh? Honorable? From your words, you're just a vulgar bastard who knows nothing but how to curse."
Rodge lunged, intending to press the blade to her skin to force her to yield.
He never even got close.
Beth didn't retreat. She stepped forward, twisting her spear shaft violently. She utilized a deflecting technique Serena had relentlessly drilled into her guards. She hooked the crossguard of his sword and pivoted her hips, pulling the heavy blade completely to the side using his own momentum against him.
The sudden loss of resistance threw Rodge off balance, sending him stumbling clumsily forward onto the stairs.
Before he could even correct his stance or raise his sword again, he felt something cold press against his ribs, his throat, and the base of his spine.
Rodge froze. He slowly looked around, his eyes widening in horror. Three other women, who had been pouring drinks just a moment ago, had seamlessly surrounded him on the narrow staircase. They weren't holding serving trays; they were holding wickedly sharp, perfectly polished steel daggers. And they weren't holding them like amateurs—the blades were pressed directly against his major organs, their grips tight and professional.
Beth stepped closer, her eyes flashing with mocking pity. "You guard the Wall? You can't even protect yourself from a few tavern girls. Just go back and hide behind your mother's skirt, little boy. Learn something about the real world before you try to swing steel."
The sheer, terrifying realization of his situation crashed down on Rodge. These weren't whores. These were trained killers. The cold steel biting into his throat broke whatever false courage he had brought from Flea Bottom.
A warm, wet stain rapidly spread across the front of his black trousers. He had literally pissed himself in absolute terror.
Seeing the puddle form on the clean wooden stairs, the women surrounding him didn't gasp; they burst into mocking, melodic laughter. Rodge's face burned with complete, utter shame. He dropped his sword, the clatter deafening in his ears.
Suddenly, a beautiful, smooth melody of a voice drifted down from the cabin above.
"Beth, what happened? And who is this... fearless gentleman making a mess on my stairs?"
Rodge slowly looked up.
Descending the stairs with the slow, terrifying grace of a lioness was Serena. She wore a dark, heavy woolen dress lined with silver embroidery, a thick, luxurious shadowcat fur draped over her shoulders. Her face was stunningly beautiful, but her eyes—those dark, calculating green eyes—were so cold they made the winter wind outside feel like a warm summer breeze. Rodge was completely dazed by her beauty and her overwhelming aura of absolute authority.
"My Lady," Beth said calmly, not taking her eyes off the trembling boy. "This recruit was making vulgar threats. He claims to have a letter from the Lord Commander."
Serena stopped on the step just above Rodge. She looked down at his trembling form, the puddle at his boots, and the drawn sword on the steps. Her beautiful eyes turned completely devoid of warmth.
"Young man," Serena said, her voice dropping to a terrifyingly quiet whisper that effortlessly carried through the entire cavern. "Be incredibly thankful that you wear the black cloak of the Night's Watch. If you were a common sellsword, I would have plucked your head from your shoulders right here and put it on a spike outside the checkpost for show."
Rodge opened his mouth, but only a pathetic, squeaking sound came out. He was too paralyzed by fear to speak.
"I will overlook this today, chalking it up to a youth's blind heat and ignorance," Serena continued, her gaze piercing right through his soul. "But hear me well, little crow. This is the first, and it will absolutely be the last time you ever draw steel in my domain."
She extended a single, elegant hand. Rodge frantically reached into his pocket with his left hand, pulled out the sealed letter, and placed it on her palm, his fingers trembling violently.
Serena briefly glanced at the heavy black wax seal of the Lord Commander, her expression unchanging, before turning her back on him and walking slowly back up the stairs.
"Kick him out," she ordered without looking back. "And have Orik make sure he cleans the stairs with his own cloak before you throw him into the snow."