The smoky tavern air smelled of stale ale, roasted mutton fat, and the damp wool of smallfolk seeking shelter from the northern chill. Ron who'd just escape the smithy happily drinks ale bought with the sweet weight of silver filched from Jon Snow's naivety.
Across the crowded room, a roar of coarse laughter went up near the hearth.
Theon Greyjoy stood tall among the drab wools and boiled leather of the local trappers and farmers. His kraken-broidered doublet was a splash of dark silk against the dirt. A heavy bow of golden wood rested in his hand. At the far end of the room, a drunken skinner was tossing charred marrow bones into the air.
Thwack.
An arrow split a falling bone cleanly in two, pinning the shards to the thick timber beam behind it. The smallfolk cheered, dropping their copper stars into a dented iron plate at Theon's feet. Theon grinned, a flash of white teeth beneath dark curls, soaking in the adulation like a man dying of thirst.
His eyes swept the room, sharp and restless, until they landed on Ron. The apprentice hadn't masked his smirk quickly enough.
"If it isn't the rude blacksmith," Theon called out, his voice carrying the easy, arrogant lilt of the Iron Islands. He leaned heavily on his bow, gesturing with a sleek, fletched arrow.
Ron raised his tankard in a mocking salute. "My Lord Greyjoy."
Theon barked a laugh, stepping away from his circle of admirers and swaggering over to the bench. "You're a long way from the anvil, boy. Mikken let you off your leash, or did you simply break the chain?"
"The old man still works me to the bone," Ron said, a genuine ache settling into his shoulders at the mere mention of the master smith. He took a long drag of the sour ale to wash down the bitter thought. "Every day it's the same. Beat the iron, stoke the coals, listen to him groan about the temper of the steel."
Theon's grin widened, sharp and devoid of real empathy, though he slapped Ron's shoulder with a heavy familiarity. "Let him groan. Let the old mules break their backs while they can. The North is full of men who think a hard stare and a heavy hammer can solve the world's problems." He eyed Ron's tankard, then the silver coin resting on the scarred wood of the table. "Though I wonder... where does a blacksmith's boy find the coin for good Northman ale on a midday?"
"Lord Snow" ron replied.
Theon leaned against the scarred trestle table, a lazy, mocking grin playing across his lips as he twirled a spent arrow between his fingers. "So, the Bastard," he said, his voice dropping into that familiar, arrogant lilt. "Did you treat our high-and-mighty lordship with the proper reverence, or did you leave him brooding into his porridge like he usually does?"
Ron took a long pull from his tankard, the sour ale washing the lingering taste of forge smoke from his throat. "Mikken gave me a thorough scolding on the matter," Ron grumbled, recalling the heavy smack to the back of his skull. "The old man practically ordered me to treat Jon Snow like he was the King of the Andals himself. Said he carries the blood of Winterfell. Personally, I think the guy just needed a lesson in environmental awareness, but try explaining 'tactical positioning' to a man who thinks a heavy hammer fixes everything."
Theon barked a laugh, opening his mouth to deliver another sharp jab at Jon's expense, but the words died on his tongue.
The heavy scent of lavender water and cheap rose oil cut through the tavern's stench before she even reached the table. Ros slipped past a pair of drunken trappers, her crimson bodice a vibrant stain against the grey room. Her eyes locked onto Ron with the chilling precision of a hunter tracking a lame deer.
Ron's survival instincts—honed by brutal VR encounters and a stark awareness that he had zero respawn tokens left—screamed at him to move. He slammed his tankard down, instantly shifting his boots into a tactical retreat. "Right. Well, look at the time. Mikken's probably looking for those horse shoes. My Lord Greyjoy, always a pleasure."
He made it exactly two steps before a soft, calloused hand clamped around the rough leather sleeve of his work apron with the strength of a iron vice.
"I'm not here for our hostage lordship, blacksmith," Ros said, her northern drawl smooth but unyielding as she anchored him to the floorboards. She leveled a hard, unimpressed stare at Ron's face. "I'm here for your debts. You slipped out of my sheets this morning without leaving a single copper star on the washbasin."
Theon's eyebrows shot up, his smug grin freezing into a look of absolute bewilderment. He glanced between the apprentice and the whore, his highborn sensibilities temporarily short-circuiting at the casual audacity of it.
Ron didn't flinch. Instead, he forced his features back into that mask of calm, condescending superiority that usually worked on naive highborn boys. He leaned in, lowering his voice into a smooth, conspiratorial whisper. "Come now, Ros. I thought we were operating on a mutual understanding. I thought you genuinely enjoyed our time in the bed last night."
Ros let out a heavy, bone-weary sigh, her fingers tightening on his apron until the leather groaned.
"That is the fifth time you've used that exact line, Ron," she said, her voice entirely deadpan. "And the fifth time my purse has come up light. The smallfolk might buy your bizarre Philosophies about life and dreams, but I don't work for abstract philosophy. Pay your tab, or I'm taking that pretty silver coin right out of your apron pocket."
The smooth silver stags felt cold as Ron slid them across the grease-stained oak table. Each coin hit the wood with a dull, heavy clink that felt like a drop of his own blood hitting the smithy floor. It was Jon Snow's coin, won by slick words and underhanded promises, but it stung all the same.
Ros scooped the silver into her palm with a deft, practiced flick of her wrist, her thumb testing the ridges of the metal. The sharp, tight line of her mouth softened into a triumphant smirk. "Pleasure doing business with you, Ron," she murmured, her voice dripping with lazy satisfaction as she adjusted the fur trim of her cloak. She gave him a slow, mocking wink before turning on her heel, her heavy wool skirts sweeping the sawdust from the tavern floor.
Theon stared after her, his jaw slightly slack, the golden wood of his bow resting forgotten against his knee. The silence stretched between the two young men, punctuated only by the crackle of peat in the hearth and the low hum of the smallfolk at the bar.
"Since when," Theon began, his voice cracking slightly before he caught himself and forced his usual arrogant lilt back into his throat, "did a common anvil-monkey employ the services of the finest girl in Wintertown? I didn't think Mikken paid you in anything but stale bread and bruises."
Ron picked up his tankard, swirling the dregs of the sour ale. He didn't bow, nor did he offer the guarded, submissive look the highborn expected. "You should just confess already, My Lord," Ron drawled, his voice carrying a flat, unbothered cynicism.
Theon froze, his dark curls spilling over his brow as his head snapped up. "Confess? Confess what?"
"That you've been watching the door of her bedchamber like a starved hound who watches the Great Hall kitchens," Ron said, a small, knowing smirk cutting through the soot on his face. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the scarred table, entirely indifferent to the dangerous look crossing the Ironborn's features. "You're the ward of Winterfell, a highborn prince, yet youre infatuated with a smallfolk woman. It must be great right?, Greyjoy."
"I—I have no need to watch anyone's door!" Theon stuttered, the color rushing to his cheekbones, turning his pale skin a mottled, angry red. His hand tightened around the fletching of his arrow until the wood groaned. "She's a whore. A common northern tavern girl. I am a Greyjoy of Pyke. I could have ten of her if I chose, without wasting a single thought on what a dirty little smithy-boy does in the dark!"
Ron let out a dry, short breath—and mocks the young ward. "Of course, My Lord. Whatever helps you sleep in the night."