Chapter 146: When in Rome, Do as the Romans Do

Blanche slowly shifted her attention to the man who naturally dominated the entire hall.

The Chief.

Even seated, he commanded respect.

Or fear.

His build dwarfed even the other warriors, imposing as they already were. His shoulders looked as though they had been carved from stone, his neck was as thick as a tree trunk, and his forearms, covered in dark hair and old scars, rested with deceptive ease on the armrests of his enormous chair. His weathered face, shaped by years at sea and beneath unforgiving skies, was naturally ruddy, tanned by salt winds and northern winters alike. A thick black beard, meticulously groomed, reached the top of his chest, nearly blending into his long ebony hair, which had been braided into several heavy plaits adorned with bronze rings.

But it was his eyes that truly held her attention.

Two black irises.

Deep.

Unmoving.

They never left her.

While casually tearing into massive chunks of meat as though nothing else mattered, he watched her with the patience of an old predator assessing an unfamiliar creature that had wandered into his territory. He seemed neither hostile nor welcoming.

He was simply...

Evaluating her.

Every movement.

Every breath.

Every reaction.

Blanche held his gaze for a few seconds before movement to her right caught her attention.

The young woman she'd seen earlier on the beach approached the Chief carrying a fresh tankard of ale.

As discreet as ever.

As calm as ever.

She refilled his mug before it was empty, sliced his meat the moment he pushed his plate away, and silently cleared the dishes without ever interrupting the conversations around her. Every movement spoke of long practice, almost mechanical in its precision.

Farther away, two other women moved among the long tables.

They were noticeably younger.

Their coarse gray wool dresses, thick and patched countless times, stood in stark contrast to the pale garment worn by the woman seated upon the smaller throne. The rough fabric had been mended so often it was difficult to tell what had been original. Some seams had even been stitched with thread of different colors for lack of better materials.

Their hands were red.

Chapped.

Worn by labor.

They served food, refilled tankards, wiped away spilled ale, and gathered the gnawed bones the warriors carelessly tossed onto the tables.

Without speaking.

Without making eye contact.

As though they had learned to become invisible.

Blanche felt her jaw tighten.

Their clothing alone told the entire story.

No questions were necessary.

Fine fabrics for free men.

Light-colored garments for the chieftain's family.

Coarse, patched gray wool...

For those who clearly had no right to choose.

Slaves.

The sheer reality of it sent a surge of anger rising in her chest.

She knew practices like these belonged to the era this village represented.

Seeing them with her own eyes, however...

Was something else entirely.

Reading history in a book was one thing.

Breathing it.

Hearing it.

Watching it unfold before her...

Was another.

Her gaze followed one of the young women as she set a tray before a group of warriors.

One of them casually slapped her on the hip, roaring with laughter.

Another caught her wrist, forcing her to remain beside him for several more seconds while making some remark that sent the entire table into fits of amusement.

She said nothing.

She simply lowered her eyes.

Waiting until he decided to let her go.

A third shouted an unmistakably crude joke, punctuated by several vulgar whistles.

The laughter only grew louder.

Blanche slowly wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her dagger.

Very slowly.

Around her, the other men continued eating as though nothing unusual had happened.

As though no one saw anything wrong.

Her blood boiled.

Every fiber of her being screamed at her to rip that Viking's hand clean off.

But she remained perfectly still.

Because she wasn't here to rewrite history.

Because she knew that acting impulsively could have consequences far worse for those women.

And that helplessness...

That obligation to watch without intervening...

Might have been the hardest thing of all.

"A female," the young man beside her growled, abruptly cutting through her furious thoughts.

His tone had changed.

Still syrupy.

But now laced with contempt.

He looked her up and down with open hostility.

The resemblance between the Chief and his son was unmistakable.

The same was true of Rauõr, who had stopped eating altogether to watch her warily, every muscle tense.

The Chief suddenly burst into laughter, making Blanche jump.

"I can see she's female, son. Do you have an announcement to make?"

Blanche frowned, looking from one man to the other.

When she finally understood the implication, she couldn't suppress a grimace.

"My name is Snow," she replied calmly. "Aaron's wife... and Argent's mother."

It irritated her to be introduced as someone's wife and someone's mother instead of being recognized as the Queen of the Players.

But that secret had to remain hidden.

Silence fell over the hall.

Utter silence.

No laughter.

No clinking cutlery.

No tankards striking wood.

Rauõr clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

He hadn't expected that.

From his perspective, only a few months had passed since he'd first met the young woman.

She'd already managed to catch Aaron?

Or was she simply following their Chief's advice?

The woman seated upon the smaller throne chuckled softly.

"So... your Chief has a wife?" she asked with a warm smile.

Technically, Blanche was the Queen, not Aaron the Chief.

She nodded with a slight grimace.

"What are you doing here, Half-Pint?" Rauõr rumbled, casting a dark glance over his shoulder toward the Chief's wife.

"Your brother wanted to introduce me to your father," Blanche explained. "As a good neighbor... I accepted."

Rauõr grunted, drained his tankard, then slapped the shoulder of the man seated beside him.

The warrior rose immediately and left, though not before shooting Blanche one last hostile glare.

"Sit," Rauõr ordered, pointing toward the newly vacated space on the bench.

She wasn't a dog.

She frowned, sighed, her shoulders stiff with irritation... then reluctantly obeyed.

This wasn't her home.

Otherwise, half the brutes in that hall would already have experienced the full extent of her temper.