Bang!
The door of the Smoked Log Tavern was flung open.
A group of mercenaries strode inside, and leading them was a girl.
Everyone in the tavern instantly turned their attention to her.
She looked about eighteen, with long golden hair and striking violet eyes. Her face was dangerously alluring—a poison to men.
She wore tight leather armor that clung to her shapely figure, leaving her long, pale legs fully exposed. A leather strap wrapped around her thigh, holding a dagger in place.
It was as if the northern cold didn't bother her at all.
Beautiful face. Revealing clothes. Wild eyes.
That mix of raw, aggressive charm made her the immediate center of attention in the tavern.
Even Ser Wendell, who usually prided himself on his calm and composure, couldn't help but swallow hard.
As the girl bent forward slightly, her uniquely designed hollow leather armor revealed a pale, soft curve of flesh. A nearby drunk's eyes bulged, and his cup slipped from his hand, crashing to the floor.
The girl gave a cold snort and glanced sideways at Domeric with a look of disdain.
Domeric blinked, caught slightly off guard.
A mere mercenary daring to provoke a noble?
In the world of Westeros, that was hardly normal.
Mercenaries, who lived in a gray zone of morality and legality, usually avoided drawing the attention of highborn lords at all costs.
Domeric quickly studied her more closely. That exquisite face, that wild outfit, contrasted sharply with the dull, dirty gear worn by her companions.
She was like a vivid, poisonous flower blooming in the middle of a dry, dead field.
And anything abnormal was always worth caution.
This was Westeros, after all—a place where even kings could be poisoned in broad daylight, where mighty lords could be slain while relieving themselves.
In a world of magic and shadow, anything was possible.
Domeric took a slow sip of wine. His instincts told him something entertaining was about to unfold.
He was right.
Fueled by alcohol and lust, a group of drunkards couldn't help but make a move on the girl. Leading them, to everyone's surprise, was none other than the heavy-browed, round-bellied Ser Wendell.
The girl's mercenary companions, of course, didn't stand idly by.
Strangely enough, not only did the girl not stop them—she seemed to provoke the situation further.
Tension snapped.
Words turned into violence. Swords were drawn. Chaos erupted.
Domeric's guards jumped into the fray. The slow-witted giant remained still at Domeric's command, standing firm like a stone wall between him and the brawl.
The tavern descended into madness—swords clashed, men shouted, loaves of bread and wedges of cheese flew through the air, ale spilled across the floor, and broken stools were hurled like weapons.
The fight began quickly—and ended just as fast.
The mercenaries were few, and clearly weaker than Domeric's seasoned guards. They were no match.
One by one, the girl's comrades were beaten and thrown to the ground. Even she was bound tightly with rope.
Domeric remained outside the chaos under the giant's protection. Only a few splashes of ale had landed on his sleeve.
Ser Wendell had taken a punch to the face during the scuffle, his nose broken and bleeding, but he looked more excited than angry—almost pleased.
In a way, a tavern could be a battlefield for men too.
"Here," said Domeric, flipping a gold dragon into the tavern keeper's hand.
The tavern had been trashed. From the look of heartbreak in the owner's eyes, the damage was no small matter.
"What should we do with them?" Wendell asked, rubbing his bald head.
"Beat them and throw them outside. Don't dirty this place further."
Wendell nodded and shouted, "You see that? That's what happens when you mess with a noble!"
"Give them a good beating. Make sure they remember this."
Domeric watched silently. This was Westeros—a world where nobles always stood above, and commoners were forever trampled.
When he first arrived, Domeric had tried to change that. But reality quickly taught him he couldn't—not unless he sat on the Iron Throne itself.
His gaze drifted toward the girl. She had been tied up separately, her figure impossible to ignore.
"I'll have her sent to your room later," Wendell said with a knowing grin. "But be careful not to untie her. She's a feisty one. Took me a lot of effort to catch her."
His expression was clear—this was a man's gift to his comrade.
Domeric simply nodded, casually ate some bread and cheese, then turned and left.
…
The room was no luxury suite—it was a cheap tavern, after all—but it was clearly the best they could prepare. At least it was clean.
Inside, the girl knelt on a uniquely shaped chair.
A thick, tough sinew rope bound her in a strange style.
Folded in half, the rope looped around her neck, then tied across her collarbone, chest, and lower belly, with a knot beneath her thighs.
It was the infamous "tortoise-shell binding."
So Wendell was a man of hidden talents after all.
Domeric chuckled to himself.
This whole situation felt oddly familiar. If not for the girl's earlier behavior—which had seemed too out of place—he might have believed it all was nothing but coincidence.
"What's your name?" Domeric asked, keeping a safe distance.
"Benita. I'm Benita. My lord, I shouldn't have offended you."
Benita raised her head with effort. The position clearly restricted her movement, but that wasn't the real problem.
The real challenge was: how could she get this man to lower his guard?
Her mind raced. Should she pretend to be a virtuous maiden to spark his desire to conquer? Or look pitiful and helpless to draw sympathy?
Or perhaps she should just act sweet and obedient?
After weighing her options, Benita chose the most effective route: innocent charm.
Yes, that would work—just the right amount of shyness, a hint of fear, eyes filled with purity…
For noblemen who prided themselves on their knightly ideals, few things were more irresistible.
She began her performance. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted, long lashes fluttering just so—she radiated the perfect image of a timid, innocent young girl.
"I preferred you when you were fierce and untamed."
A strange voice broke through the silence.