Marsh looked toward the old man. "Maester Aemon will explain, my Lord."
Aemon took a slow, deliberate sip of the hot wine, letting the spices warm his frail chest before speaking. "As you know, Lord Commander, there is a new landlord who took over the underground operations in Mole's Town a few years ago. Over these past years, that wretched, chaotic town has slowly been flourishing. The supplies, the order... everything operates with a strange, unnatural efficiency. In fact, the meager supplies we have received these past weeks have mostly come from them, fulfilling their agreed part regularly and without a single complaint."
"But it's still not enough for our current crisis," Marsh interjected, tapping his ledger. "We cannot just force them to give us more, or we risk a riot so close to Castle Black. I need to go down there with few brothers to discuss new terms officially. I believe the solution to our winter shortage lies in those vaults. They have grain, good steel, and gold. And..." Marsh paused, clearing his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable. "And it is most likely a woman who is operating the entire syndicate."
Mormont sat completely silent for several long minutes. The only sound in the chamber was the crackling of the fire and the distant, mournful howl of the wind.
He finally opened his mouth, leaning back in his heavy wooden chair. "I know a new landlord has been highly influential there since that fat slug Gared vanished without a trace. But the new master you describe has eyes in every corner, unmatched logistics, and unyielding control over a population of cutthroats. That's hard to believe for a seasoned Northern Lord, let alone a woman operating in a den of thieves and murderers."
Mormont narrowed his eyes, his tactical mind trying to piece the puzzle together. "Is she a wildling? Some spear-wife who slipped over the Wall?"
"No, Lord Commander," Marsh replied quickly. "According to my sources, she was a refugee. A washerwoman who used to work for House Stark in the past."
"Oh." Mormont's frown deepened in thought. A Stark servant turning into an underground Spymaster? The North was full of strange tales, but this one was particularly fascinating.
"Hmm..." Mormont stroked his beard, weighing the pride of the Watch against the rumbling stomachs of his men. "Alright. Let's do as you say. We are desperate, and if this woman has food and iron, I don't care if she wears a dress or chainmail."
Mormont turned to his drawer, pulling out a crisp piece of parchment and a quill. He quickly drafted an official summons and a request for a formal parley. He dripped black wax onto the bottom of the page and pressed the heavy, unmistakable seal of the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch into it.
He handed the sealed scroll to Bowen Marsh. "Try hard, Lord Steward. Do not insult her, but do not let her forget that Mole's Town exists on our land."
As Aemon and Marsh stood up and began walking toward the heavy oak door, Mormont suddenly realized something.
"Wait," Mormont called out, a grim, calculating smile touching his lips. "If this woman is as dangerous and cunning as you suspect, you shouldn't go down there with just a few scribes and builders. Take the Master-at-Arms, Ser Alliser Thorne, and a couple of his best-trained men. It would be a good walk in the snow for him. Maybe it will freeze some of that sourness out of his mouth."
Marsh laughed a little, a nervous sound at the mention of the notoriously bitter Master-at-Arms, before nodding in agreement. "As you command, my Lord."
The Mole's Hole, The Next Morning
The raven carrying the advance notice had arrived at the Mole's Town checkpost just before dawn. By mid-morning, a young Night's Watch recruit was dispatched to deliver the physical, sealed letter to the mysterious owner.
The recruit, a boy named Rodge, was fresh from the slums of Flea Bottom in King's Landing. He had only been posted to the Wall a week ago. Growing up in the gutters, he still thought of himself as a tough, street-smart thug. He believed the black cloak of the Watch made him untouchable to commoners. As he descended the winding, earthen stairs into the main cavern of the Mole's Hole, his eyes widened.
He had expected a dirty, freezing, piss-stinking brothel. Instead, the transition from the biting cold outside to the cavern was jarring. It was incredibly warm, heavily perfumed with exotic oils, and impeccably clean. Beautiful women in fine silks and furs moved gracefully among the tables, serving hot mead to off-duty guards and merchants.
Rodge's heartbeat spiked, his youthful, deprived heat flaring up at the sight of so much exposed skin. He licked his lips, completely forgetting his vows and his miserable life on the Wall. He wanted a piece of this.
But as he felt the heavy, wax-sealed letter in his pocket, he reluctantly cooled down. He needed to deliver this first. It was very serious, straight from the Lord Commander himself.
He spotted a grand, newly constructed wooden staircase leading up to an enclosed, private floor—the Lady's cabin. Puffing out his chest and swaggering like a high lord, he started to climb the stairs.
Suddenly, a solid wooden spear shaft slammed horizontally across his chest, stopping him dead in his tracks with a dull thud.
Rodge blinked in surprise. Standing on the step above him was a young woman named Beth. But she wasn't wearing silk, and she wasn't offering a seductive smile. She was dressed in light, boiled leather combat gear, her stance perfectly balanced, her eyes cold and hyper-alert.
"What business do you have with the Lady?" Beth asked coldly, her grip on the spear tightening.