"If any help is needed, do not hesitate to ask as a brother," Ser Jaremy said firmly, resting a hand on his own sword hilt. "If we have thieves in our own ranks selling our good steel, I will personally take their heads."
They nodded to each other in grim farewell.
Bowen Marsh spent the rest of the night in the armory. He opened crate after crate of recent shipments. He took a heavy hammer and struck several of the new swords against an anvil. To his horror, three of them cracked right down the middle.
Pig iron, Bowen realized, his blood running cold. Cheap, Essosi pig iron covered in a shiny glaze. And all these crates... they all came routed through our eastern checkpost. And they were stored in Mole's Town.
The next morning, the skies over Eastwatch-by-the-Sea were grey and churning.
The eastern fortress of the Night's Watch was a bustling port where smugglers, traders, and sailors mixed with the black brothers.
Inside the commander's quarters, an officer named Glendon was enjoying a hot cup of spiced wine. Glendon was a thin, weasel-faced man who loved coin far more than his vows. He was Gared's man on the inside—the high-ranking officer who allowed the smuggling ships to dock and swap the steel.
There was a polite knock at the door, and the castle's Maester entered, holding a small scroll sealed with black wax.
"A raven from Castle Black, sir," the Maester said, handing it over. "From the Lord Steward."
"Thank you, Maester. Leave me," Glendon muttered.
Once alone, Glendon broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. As his eyes scanned the messy, urgent handwriting of Bowen Marsh, the color completely drained from his face. His hands began to shake, sloshing spiced wine onto his desk.
The letter was blunt. Rangers had nearly died. The new steel was exposed as brittle fakes. Bowen Marsh was personally riding south to Mole's Town to inspect the main checkpost shop (The Black Cache) and audit the entire supply line. Furthermore, Bowen demanded that Glendon ride to Castle Black immediately to give "appropriate answers" regarding the Eastwatch manifests.
Glendon crushed the letter in his fist, his heart hammering against his ribs in sheer panic.
"That fat idiot!" Glendon hissed to the empty room, cursing Gared's name with every fiber of his being.
Glendon's mind raced frantically. Did Gared swap everything? I told him to only take a few swords per crate! Did he think that no one would notice if he swapped the whole damn shipment for cheap Braavosi trash?!
Glendon paced the cold stone floor, his boots echoing in the quiet room. He weighed his options with the desperate logic of a cornered rat. He could steal a horse and desert, but how far would he get in the winter snows before Lord Stark's men caught him and took his head? Fleeing was a guaranteed death sentence.
The only way to survive was to sever the rot before it spread to him. Bowen Marsh would reach Mole's Town within a week. If the Lord Steward got his hands on Gared, that cowardly, fat brothel owner would squeal instantly. Gared would trade Glendon's name for a pardon, or at least the mercy of a quick hanging.
I am a dead man, Glendon thought, his terror finally hardening into a cold, ruthless resolve. Unless... unless I silence that fatty first. Dead men tell no tales.
Glendon walked over to his iron lockbox, pulling out a heavy pouch of wildling gold. He knew a few vicious cutthroats in the port—smugglers and pirates who would slit a throat for a handful of coins and ask absolutely no questions. He had to send a message to Mole's Town tonight. Gared had to die, and the shop had to burn to ashes, destroying all the ledgers with it.
While panic, treason, and death brewed at the Wall, Mole's Town remained peacefully ignorant.
Or at least, most of it did.
A few weeks prior, Serena had made a quiet but highly necessary change to their living situation. Using a portion of the trading post's growing profits, she had moved her family out of their cramped shack in the center of town and purchased a small, secluded hut at the very edge of the settlement, near the tree line.
Her previous home had simply been too close to Gared's brothel. The drunken brawls, the crashing bottles, and the inappropriate noises echoing through the thin walls late into the night were a terrible environment for her children's learning and development. Serena refused to let Lyra and Yoriichi grow up listening to the dregs of the world.
This new hut, however, offered perfect peace. Here, Yoriichi could practice his breathing in the quiet snow, and Lyra could focus her heightened hearing on the songs of the winter birds instead of the shouts of drunkards.
Thick, high-quality furs lined the wooden walls, keeping the drafts out. A sturdy oak table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by real chairs instead of wooden crates.
The family of three was sitting around the table, enjoying a very good meal. A large iron pot of thick venison stew bubbled over the hearth, filling the room with the rich scent of meat, onions, and imported southern spices.
Serena watched her children eat, a look of profound satisfaction in her green eyes.
The twins had grown beautifully. Lyra, now a little over nine years old, looked healthy and vibrant. Her cheeks were rosy, and she navigated the upgraded hut with absolute, flawless confidence despite her blindness, thanks to her breathing training.
Beside her, Yoriichi ate his stew with his usual quiet elegance. He had grown taller, his muscles lean and dense from continuous training. His crimson eyes were as calm as a still lake.
"Mother," Lyra said softly, reaching out to perfectly grasp a piece of fresh bread from a basket. "The town feels very quiet tonight. There is a strange tension in the air. Like... like the wind before a big snowstorm."
Serena smiled, taking a slow sip of her hot tea. Her own heightened senses, honed by months of Yoriichi's rigorous training, had felt it too. She had noticed the subtle shifts in the Night's Watch recruits today. She had heard the whispers of a disastrous ranging.
She knew exactly what was happening. Gared's greed had finally broken the camel's back.
"You have very good instincts, Lyra," Serena said gently, her voice perfectly relaxed.
Underneath the table, Serena's hand brushed against her leg, where her skinning knife was strapped tight and sharp. Beneath the floorboards of this very hut, the Black Ledger sat in its ironwood box, waiting to be unleashed.
"Eat up, my sweet wolves," Serena whispered, a cold, confident glint shining in her beautiful eyes. "A storm is indeed coming to Mole's Town. But do not worry. We are no longer the ones who need to fear the cold."