Master Hewitt arrived three days before the heavy blizzard season locked the mountain passes. He brought a train of five wagons, twenty armed guards, and an attitude of profound condescension. He was a stout, ruddy-faced man draped in heavy southern velvets that looked ridiculous against the backdrop of Highridge's brutal architecture. He strode into the great hall, wiping snow from his brow, a false booming smile on his face.
Emily and Gareth waited for him at the high table. Gareth sat slouched in his great chair, his heavy fur mantle draped over his broad shoulders, his face a mask of bored indifference. Emily sat beside him, an open ledger resting on the table, her quill neatly aligned next to her inkwell.
"King Gareth," Hewitt called out, bowing with a flourish. "Winter bites hard this year. I brought three casks of sweet Dornish wine to warm your blood, and a crate of candied figs, a gift for your hospitality."
Gareth didn't move. He leaned his head against his knuckles. "Master Hewitt. You are late."
Hewitt waved a dismissive, gloved hand. "The snow's on the pass, Your Grace. It slows the horses. But we are here now, ready to exchange the season's goods. I understand your steward, Vane, sent word regarding the wool prices." He chuckled, a wet, patronising sound. "I'm sure it was a simple misunderstanding. Math is not the strong suit of a warrior."
"It was no misunderstanding, Master Hewitt."
Emily's voice was clear and cold, cutting through the hall like shards of ice. Hewitt stopped his approach. He looked at Emily, really looking at her for the first time. His smile faltered slightly as he took in her plain wool dress and her severe, unsmiling face.
"And you must be the new bride. Lady Emily of House Aaron, I presume. I have done business with your father."
"Then you know my father is an idiot who trades gold for rusted iron," Emily said bluntly.
Several wolves standing near the hearth snorted in amusement. Hewitt's face flushed.
"My lady, I assure you—"
"I have reviewed the trade logs for the past three years, Master Hewitt," Emily interrupted, picking up her quill. She didn't raise her voice, but she commanded the room entirely. "You have been charging Highridge a forty percent markup on southern wool while buying our northern winter pelts at a fraction of their market value. Furthermore, three wagons of iron vanished under your guard last winter. Wagons you claimed were lost, yet our scouts found the broken axles stripped of their cargo."
Hewitt puffed out his chest, turning away from Emily to address Gareth directly. "Your Grace, I will not stand here and be insulted by a southern girl who doesn't understand the cost of transporting goods over ice."
"Address the queen," Gareth rumbled.
His voice was low, but it vibrated through the stone floor. He didn't shift his posture, but his amber eyes locked onto Hewitt with predatory focus.
"She handles the keep. I just kill things."
Hewitt swallowed hard. The silence in the hall was sudden and suffocating. The twenty armed guards he had brought suddenly looked very small, surrounded by eighty scarred werewolves who were slowly circling closer to the centre of the room.
Hewitt turned back to Emily, sweating despite the chill in the air. "What—what is it you want, my lady?"
"Restitution," Emily said. She slid a fresh piece of parchment across the table. "This is the new contract. We will purchase your wool at eighteen copper a bundle. We will sell you our pelts at forty silver a crate. You will deduct the cost of the stolen iron from this season's ledger entirely. If you refuse, we will seize your wagons as tax for the theft, and you will walk back to Oak Haven in the snow."
Hewitt stared at the parchment as if it were a venomous snake. "Eighteen copper? My lady, that leaves me with barely any margin. It is highway robbery."
"It is a fair southern market rate, minus a convenience fee for my time," Emily replied, her face entirely blank. "Sign the contract, Master Hewitt. The king is losing his patience."
Gareth let out a low, theatrical growl in the back of his throat.
Hewitt flinched violently. He looked at the massive alpha king, then at the ring of wolves watching him with hungry eyes, and finally at the small, relentless woman sitting at the table. He was trapped. He reached out with a trembling hand, took the quill, and signed the parchment.
"Leave the goods in the courtyard," Emily ordered, pulling the contract back and blowing softly on the wet ink. "Vane will see you out."
Hewitt bowed stiffly and hurried out of the hall, his guards practically running to keep up.
When the doors slammed shut, a beat of silence hung in the air. Then Kael let out a sharp, barking laugh. It was followed by another, and then the entire hall erupted into cheers. Men hammered their tankards against the wooden tables, howling and stamping their feet. They weren't cheering for a battle won with swords. They were cheering for a slaughter executed with ink.
Emily looked out over the chaotic, joyful hall. A small, genuine smile touched the corners of her mouth.
Beside her, Gareth reached out and covered her ink-stained hand with his heavy, warm palm. He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear, entirely ignoring the noise of his celebrating pack.
"I have never," Gareth murmured, his voice thick with an emotion Emily had never heard from him before, "seen anything more terrifying in my entire life."
Emily turned her hand over, lacing her fingers through his. "You're welcome, my lord."