We arrived at The Green Bird to find a scene of distress. Four Gold Cloaks were harassing three women outside the establishment. One was a handsome woman in her mid-forties with a voluptuous figure, the other two, her mirror images, were barely eighteen. Two more guards were roughly holding a pair of struggling boys, no older than sixteen.
The older woman was shouting, her voice frayed with panic and anger, while the guards leered, their hands wandering scandalously over the girls. I saw Rolf's face darken with a familiar rage. These were clearly the relatives he had spoken of.
What should I do? The answer was simple.
I hate bullies.
And I relish the chance to bully them in return. These Gold Cloaks needed a lesson in manners.
My method of teaching was even simpler.
I chose violence.
I was upon them before they knew it. My gauntleted fists connected with jaws and noses. The sound of crunching bone and the spray of blood and teeth filled the air. The four I struck first went down in a heap, their faces rendered into unrecognizable, bloody messes. I had, perhaps, underestimated my own strength.
The two holding the boys watched in horror, released their captives, and fled down the street, doubtless running to their superiors.
The women were stunned, staring at the carnage with wide, terrified eyes. It was Rolf who moved to calm them, his familiar face a beacon in the chaos. After a moment, their panic subsided into relieved tremors.
Rolf quickly explained who I was and our recent travels. In turn, I received the full story.
The inn was run by his aunt, the landlady Miranda. Her twin daughters, Jane and Alice, shared her striking looks and curvaceous figures. Her twin sons, Alaric and Alban, now looked at me as if I'd descended from the heavens, their eyes shining with hero-worship. The girls, for their part, stole glances at me, their cheeks flushed.
The Gold Cloaks, it turned out, had developed an unhealthy fixation on the girls. One was already married, the other abandoned by his wife. After having their marriage proposals rejected, they had resorted to threats. They had been emboldened by the death of Miranda's husband, a former Gold Cloak captain, six months prior. Today, they had crossed a line, storming the inn under the false pretext of unpaid taxes—which had been settled three days prior—and dragging the family into the street.
My brief sympathy for the beaten men evaporated. I walked over and delivered a few more sharp kicks for good measure.
About twenty minutes later, a squad of twenty-five armed Gold Cloaks arrived, led by a stern-faced captain.
"Who did this?" he demanded, his eyes sweeping over the groaning men.
I explained the situation calmly, but he brushed aside my claims, intent on arresting me for assaulting his men. With no other choice, I presented the paper Lord Stokeworth had given me.
The captain's demeanor shifted instantly. "So," he said, his voice dropping, "you're the hedge knight who dealt with those outlaws."
So that was Stokeworth's game. By keeping my achievements quiet, he left me in a position where joining the City Watch might seem my only option. A clever, if frustrating, move. Still, I was grateful he hadn't forced the issue.
The captain now listened properly. After hearing the evidence, he declared the corrupt guards would be charged for damages, with dismissal from their posts as the penalty.
I stopped him. "They don't need to pay a coin," I said, my voice low. "But if they ever try their luck again, I will take their lives as payment." The promise in my tone made the bloodied men pale, and they quickly swore it would never happen again.
Once the Gold Cloaks had departed, Rolf finished reassuring his aunt, and we finally entered the inn. I booked a room for a month, one with a large bed, and requested a hot bath and a hot meal. I paid Mrs. Miranda two gold dragons upfront, telling her to keep the change when she insisted the rent was only twenty stags.
After Rolf bid his farewells, the girls showed me to my room. I took the chance to observe them more closely. They were indeed beautiful, with round faces, long caramel-brown hair, and dresses that artfully accentuated their assets. It was no wonder they had attracted such unwanted attention.
A chivalrous part of me wanted to strike up a conversation, but I suppressed the urge, focusing on getting settled. It was only when I stood alone in my room that I realized my predicament.
I had no idea how to remove the armor.
I had worn it so constantly it felt like a second skin, but now it was a tin cage separating me from a bath. I needed assistance.
Swallowing my pride, I went back downstairs and found the girls cleaning. After an awkward moment, I asked for their mother.
When Mrs. Miranda arrived, looking worried, I explained my problem. "I require assistance to remove my armor. If one of your boys could help me…"
Before I could finish, the girls—over their mother's strong protests—volunteered for the job themselves.
And so, I found myself in my room with all three women, ready to be undressed. Mrs. Miranda was the only one with any experience, having helped her husband. The girls, I suspected, were there out of rampant curiosity. To be honest, so was I.
What followed were the ten most awkward minutes of my life—or lives. As their hands fumbled with latches and straps, I realized this was not the fantasy-world scenario I had imagined. This was just profoundly, excruciatingly uncomfortable.