Chapter 30: Bannered Mare
The door to the Bannered Mare Inn swung open with a creak. Warm air spilled out, thick with the scent of roasted meat, stale ale, and the musk of the wood burning in the middle. Lively voices bounced against the wooden-beamed ceiling, laughing with curses, the clinking tankard meeting with enthusiasm and challenge.
I stepped inside.
Heads turned.
Some faces flinched, others tightened. There were whispers. What is this? Has the news already spread? I wondered. I ignored the crowd as they began to mind their own business.
And then I saw her.
Behind the counter, bathed in the amber glow of the hearthfire, stood Hulda.
Her auburn hair fell in a smooth curtain down her shoulders, catching the firelight like strands of burnished copper. It framed her sharp cheekbones, soft lips, and eyes the color of honey steeped in autumn sunlight, hazel and warm. She moves with the grace of someone used to watching, judging, and weighing men not by their title, but their character.
Her blouse, dyed faded orange, clung to her curvaceous form. Over it, a brown corset hugged her figure with accustomed tension. Lifting her breast into a quiet display, not intentional, just there. The rise and fall of her chest was a rhythm in itself, a subtle reminder of the living heat behind the tavern's calmest point.
She didn't look up as she poured the frothy drink into a tankard for an Imperial seated at the far end of the bar. But I caught the flick of her gaze. She was quick, deliberate, and already moving.
I slid onto the stool before her counter, exhaling a breath I hadn't noticed I was holding. The moment outside still rattled my brain, like loose stones in a pouch. I needed something to ease that feeling.
"The strongest you've got," I said.
She looked up now, properly, and our eyes met.
It wasn't flirtation, at least not yet. She was curious, just like the patrons behind me, but she was better at hiding what she was feeling, looking at me, a skill that made the tavernkeepers the best of spies in any world. She nodded slowly, her gaze lingering a beat too long, before she turned and walked to the back shelves.
Her hips swayed with purpose, not exaggerated, but undeniably alluring.
She returned with a green-glass bottle. Before she poured, I raised my hand.
"I need the whole bottle," I said. My voice was lower now, rougher.
The pain stabbing at my brain was increasing, panic, maybe. A shadow of a memory refusing to take shape, just like the face of the god or man who'd sent me into the world. My temples throbbed like a warning drum. I needed to forget whatever my brain was trying to remember, because for some reason, I knew it was futile.
Hulda paused. Her brow furrowed, just slightly. "Perhaps you want to try it first?" she offered, her velvet-smooth but with a snap beneath it. "This'll burn more than your throat. Might take your chest with it."
I laughed, not the loud, arrogant kind, but a tired one, the kind old men gave, I chuckled internally.
"Something like this can't kill me," I said to her.
She sighed, thinking of the mess she'll have to clean up afterwards, but this is expensive, she thought, looking at the bottle. It's worth it. She looked at me, analyzing my attire. I could pay for something like that.
I still wore the blue noble cloth from the feast, having forgotten to change it. Ah, so that's why the sudden animosity. I finally figured out the sudden glares of disdain, fear, and respect I received when I walked in.
I took the bottle from her hands, our fingers brushing, but I wasn't paying attention; perhaps she was. I yanked the cork loose and lifted the bottle to my lips.
Argoninan Bloodwine.
It tasted like smoke and spice and something vaguely metallic. It felt like I was swallowing dying embers; they hissed as they vaporized the water in my throat.
Fuck! It does hurt.
Beside me, one of the farmers looked over, eyes narrowing with concern, but said nothing. Whiterun had learned not to question things they don't understand, especially because of the murmurs of the black dragon a few days ago, and now the sudden curfew in the middle of the day.
"You always drink like you've got nothing to lose?" the farmer, unable to contain his curiosity, asked.
"I already lost it," I blurted out with a burp, as I lost control of my tongue for a moment.
Lydia stood behind me on guard, worry visible on her face, Is he alright? She wondered. He was fine at the feast, but he's been acting weird ever since he came here. Lydia sighed. She'll have to carry him back to Dragonsreach, a tiresome task, but she was determined to do it.
.
.
The door to the Bannered Mare creaked again, letting in the cool Whiterun air. A woman entered, black hair loose around her shoulders, wearing a plain brown bodice over a green blouse and a well-worn skirt. Her steps were practiced but weary, and clinging to her side was a small girl no older than ten. The girl wore a thigh-length blue tunic, white skirt fluttering at her ankles, and boots too large for her feet, scuffed with play and dust.
They moved without a word toward a tucked-away table in the corner, half shaded by the chandelier made of tusks. The girl sat first, sitting her legs quietly under the bench. The woman sat next to her, eyes scanning the room in a habit born of necessity, not fear.
From the side of the bar, a Redgaurd woman approached with gentle, practiced grace. Saadia.
"The usual?" she asked, brushing a hand affectionately over the child's dark hair. Mila giggled under the touch, leaning into it like a kitten to a mother's embrace.
Carlotta nodded, the corners of her mouth lifting just barely. "Yes. Thank you."
Saadia offered a wink to Mila before turning back to the bar, her hips swaying slightly with rhythm as she vanished into the kitchen.
And that's when he noticed her.
Mikael.
The self–proclaimed bard of Whiterun, a man whose songs hadn't even begun to charm the people in the Inn, sang the merry tune meant to sound traditional, but couldn't—when his eyes fell on Carlotta.
His song faltered.
He grinned.
His steps carried him toward the table, wine in one hand, lute slung across his back, the other hand smoothing his tunic as if preparing for courtship. He approached them boldly, despite the tension of his presence. The patrons had long since grown numb to Mikael's antics. He was annoyingly persistent and tone-deaf socially, if not musically, but tolerated like a barn cat refusing to leave.
Carlotta's shoulders tensed. She said nothing.
Mila's eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a silent frown.
Mikael bowed exaggeratedly. "Carlotta, my muse, my flame. I saw your shadow before I saw your face and knew the gods had gifted me another evening in your radiant company."
She said nothing again.
He took it as encouragement.
Meanwhile, at the bar, Darius rose from his stool, the now-empty bottle of Argonian Bloodwine rolling slightly in his hand before he set it down. His movements were slow, fluid, and the world around him slightly unfocused. He handed Hulda a small, heavy pouch of gold with one hand, and with the other, unexpectedly, he caught her wrist and kissed the back of her hand.
Hudla gasped, blinking in surprise. She had expected vomit, or maybe a collapsing heap of regret on her floor. Not this.
A pink hue dusted her cheeks as she pulled her hand back quickly but not harshly. "Careful," she muttered, but her voice was softer than usual, almost breathless. She disappeared into the kitchen, hand still cradled to her chest.
Darius chuckled.
His vision swam, but he was aware of one thing: Mikael.
His boots thudded quietly across the wooden floor, direct and full of intent. Lydia, standing nearby, followed with concern as Darius moved across the room like a slow-moving storm.
She caught up to him and grabbed his arm. "My Thane," she said quietly, nervously. "Perhaps… perhaps this isn't necessary."
He turned to her, unfocused but calm, eyes slightly glazed.
Lydia hesitated. Her finger squeezed around his forearm, trying to think of a reason that would make him stop. She'd heard what he could do. A man who killed a dragon? What was a bard to such a man?
"I-I'm sorry, my Thane," she said at last, uncertain. She let go.
Darius stepped forward, approaching Mikael silently.
The bard, now halfway through another cringeworthy verse aimed squarely at Carlotta's disinterest, felt the warm breath behind him and turned.
Standing there, tall and wrapped in nobility, was Darius, and unlike Mikael's performative confidence, his presence was real. Tangible. Measured not in posture, but in gravity.
Darius didn't raise his voice. He simply asked: "Is this man bothering you?"
Carlotta looked up.
She met Darius's eyes, not recognizing him at first. Behind them, Lydia tensed, ready to move.
Carlotta glanced at Mikael, then back at Darius. Her lips parted.
And for the first time in a long while. She considered saying yes
.
.
.
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