Maester Aemon sat perfectly still for a moment. Then, he let out a soft, wheezing chuckle that rattled in his frail chest.
"A fairy tale, Bowen," Aemon mused, shaking his head. "A classic mummer's farce. Even a dozen of our best armed Rangers, armored in steel, need to sweat and bleed to face a beast of that massive type. An early teenage boy killing a charging bear with a single strike? You are seriously believing this tavern gossip?"
Aemon tapped his aged fingers against his teacup, his brilliant mind analyzing the politics of the rumor. "It is likely a fake story, intentionally circulated by that woman herself. She wants to have fear instilled in the unruly thugs of the town. She is exaggerating her son's glory to protect her family from challengers. It is a very clever tactic for a lone woman ruling a town of cutthroats."
Bowen Marsh hesitatingly nodded. The logic was sound. But his gut, honed by years of surviving the North, told him otherwise.
"Perhaps you are right, Maester," Marsh conceded nervously. "But... what about his demeanor? I have seen the boy myself when I visited her shop to collect our grain tax. He is unnaturally tall for his age. His face is always, always calm. Cold. Completely detached, displaying zero emotion. He doesn't look at you; he looks through you. And his eyes..."
Marsh shivered again, rubbing his arms. "His red eyes are unique. It really gives me goosebumps every time I stare into those bottomless depths. It doesn't feel like looking at a child. It feels like looking at an ancient, sleeping dragon. Something must be special about him. Just think about it, Maester."
Aemon's faint smile vanished instantly.
The mention of "red eyes" and "ancient dragons" struck a very personal, deeply hidden chord within the old Targaryen's heart. Aemon's mind flashed back decades, remembering his uncle, Brynden Rivers—the Bloodraven. A man with red eyes who dabbled in dark sorcery and saw visions in the flames.
Red eyes... Aemon thought, his heart beating a little faster. Could it be? Does he carry the blood of Old Valyria? Or the magic of the First Men?
"Does he have special blood?" Aemon muttered aloud to himself, his sightless eyes staring into the void of the room. "The blood of the First Men? Of the Giants? If that bear incident has even the least possibility of being true, then it's... I don't know what to tell you, Bowen. We are dealing with forces we may not understand."
The old Maester sighed, a heavy, exhausted sound that carried a hundred years of secrets and regrets.
Marsh heard it and sighed as well, rubbing his face with his calloused, ink-stained hands. "Well, let us not talk too deep about the boy or her magic right now. Our priority is resources, not ghost stories or myths."
"Indeed," Aemon agreed, setting his teacup down, his face returning to its calm, scholarly mask.
"This past winter has wholly exhausted our supplies," Marsh stated, slipping back into his comfortable, albeit depressing, role as a logistics master. His voice grew grim. "The granaries are practically echoing. The salted beef we received from the South last moon arrived rotting. And even after the winter has passed, we are still struggling. We lost twenty men to the freezing sickness, and the wildling raids in the gorge are increasing. We simply cannot afford to feed the new recruits."
Marsh stood up, gathering his heavy, depressing ledgers into his arms.
"We need to inform Lord Commander Mormont about this immediately," Marsh declared with firm resolve. "We need to arrange an official, highly secretive meeting with this 'secret landlord' of Mole's Town. We must bargain for a new trade agreement, a loan of gold, and better terms on the steel and food she is importing. If we do not..."
"I hope this works out," Maester Aemon interrupted softly, his ancient face lined with genuine worry. "Or else we will need to beg for scraps from the other Northern houses. And even the Starks of Winterfell can only send us so much charity."
Marsh nodded in grim agreement. Together, the two men left the warm, herbal-scented chamber, making their slow, deliberate way across the freezing courtyard toward the Lord Commander's keep. They were preparing to negotiate with a phantom.
Several miles south, away from the grim, desperate politics of Castle Black, Mole's Town was thriving in the morning light.
Over the past three and a half years, the town had undergone a subtle but massive transformation. The drunken brawls in the muddy streets had decreased drastically. The whores were healthier and heavily protected by hired guards who wore subtle green armbands. The local farmers were actually turning a profit from their crops, no longer extorted into poverty. To the casual, ignorant observer, the town had simply stumbled into a stroke of good luck.
But anyone who knew the dark truth knew it was the meticulous, iron-fisted management of the Shadow Queen.
Directly above the entrance to the Mole's Hole brothel, a completely new structure had been built. It was a sturdy, beautifully crafted wooden cabin that served as a private office, inaccessible from the brothel below. The only way up was a heavily guarded exterior staircase, watched day and night by Orik—the thug whose life Serena had spared years ago, who was now fiercely loyal to her coin.
Inside this beautiful, warmly lit cabin, Serena Stark was currently hard at work.
She stood behind a wide, polished mahogany desk, her crimson hair tied back in a practical, elegant braid. She was no longer wearing the rough, patched wool of a washerwoman. She wore a tailored dress of deep green, reinforced with subtle, high-quality leather padding, projecting an aura of immense authority and quiet wealth. The years of breathing exercises had given her a flawless, commanding posture.
With practiced, efficient movements, she organized a thick stack of parchment files. They were shipping manifests from Eastwatch, crop yields, and the highly encrypted, coded version of her new Black Ledger.
After sealing the final document with a drop of green wax, Serena paused. She set her quill down and walked over to the large, glass-paned window—a rare and expensive luxury she had imported from White Harbor.
She looked out over the bustling, muddy streets of her town. Her green eyes were sharp, scanning the crowds with the same lethal caution she had developed years ago, though she now possessed the power and the gold to crush any threat that dared show its face.
She smiled softly, a genuine look of maternal warmth breaking through her queenly facade.
I wonder what they are doing right now? Serena thought fondly, looking toward the distant tree line of the Wolfswood where Yoriichi usually took Lyra for their morning training.
Little did she know, the high command of the Night's Watch was currently marching toward a meeting table, preparing to summon her out of the shadows once and for all.
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Sigh... Let me ask how many of u can join and support me? I will start to release frequently and give my time more to this fic.
Just comment if u want.