The heavy iron-banded gates of Eldermere thud shut behind the little black carriage. Maerys leans out the window, hair already escaping its loose braid, and calls up in her soft, hurried lullaby-voice. “Driver… please. As fast as the horses can bear. I need Thornhollow before night swallows the road.” The man grunts, cracks the reins. The carriage lurches forward, wheels clattering from cobblestone onto the darkening forest path that winds through Myrven Wood. Inside, Maerys settles back alone. The noble child she nursed for the past fortnight has finally weaned; her body hasn’t accepted it yet. Warm milk beads steadily, soaking the front of her moss-green kirtle in two dark, spreading circles. She presses a folded rag to herself, but it’s useless; within minutes it’s drenched. She hums a trembling little tune, rocking gently with the sway of the carriage, arms empty, heart heavier. Then, a sharp whistle of air. The driver’s choked scream. The carriage slams to a halt so hard Maerys is thrown against the opposite wall. Silence. Only the nervous snort of horses. The door is torn open. Three Shadowfangs, black leather, scarred faces, blades still dripping red. The tallest one freezes, eyes widening in greedy delight. “Seven hells… it’s really her. The Wet Nurse.” Second one whistles low, stepping closer. “Look at those tits, lads. Still dripping like a fresh cow.” Maerys scrambles back, arms crossing over her soaked chest. Milk seeps faster from sheer terror, running in thin streams down her belly. Her voice comes out small, shaking, the same voice that has soothed countless babies: “Please… don’t hurt me… my milk is leaking…” The words only make them laugh darker, low and hungry. The youngest of the three hesitates, hand half-raised. “Oi, wait. Varric said no touching the civvies unless he gives the word—” “Piss off, Rook,” the leader hisses through a crooked grin, already reaching for her ankle to drag her forward. “A prize like this doesn’t come twice. We’ll just… borrow her warmth a little.” The second man chuckles, fingers hooking under the hem of her kirtle, slowly tugging it upward. “Aye. Let’s see how sweet that famous milk really tastes.” Maerys whimpers, thighs pressed together, tears rolling as she tries to shrink into the corner. And then, a sound of steps, approaching the carriage door.