The heavy wooden door at the entrance of the Mole's Hole flew open with a loud, violent crash.
"And stay out, you piss-stained crow!" Beth's voice rang out sharply into the freezing morning air.
A moment later, the young, arrogant recruit named Rodge was physically launched out the door. He hit the freezing, snow-covered mud of the Kingsroad face-first, slipping on a patch of ice and rolling into a slushy, freezing puddle.
He scrambled to his feet, shivering violently, his black pants completely soaked with his own terror and the freezing mud. He didn't dare look back at the beautiful, deadly women laughing at him from the doorway. He just ran, stumbling clumsily back toward Castle Black as fast as his trembling legs could carry him.
Inside, the tavern erupted into cheers and raucous laughter. The off-duty guards and merchants raised their tankards, highly amused by the swift, humiliating defeat of the loudmouthed southerner. It was a well-known, unspoken rule in Mole's Town these days: You do not disrespect the Shadow Queen or her girls.
Upstairs, insulated from the noise by thick ironwood floorboards, Serena stepped into her private cabin and closed the door.
The contrast between the bawdy tavern below and her office was staggering. The room was immaculately clean, smelling of fresh pine and imported Myrish incense. Thick, expensive shadowcat furs covered the floor, and a warm fire crackled merrily in the stone hearth, chasing away the bitter chill of the North.
Serena walked over to her large mahogany desk and took a seat. She placed the heavy, wax-sealed parchment on the polished wood.
For a long moment, she simply stared at the seal. It was a massive, black wax crest bearing the unmistakable emblem of the Night's Watch—a crow gripping a sword. This wasn't a standard patrol report or a petty complaint from a drunken ranger. This was the personal seal of Lord Commander Jeor Mormont himself.
What could the Old Bear possibly want from me? Serena thought, her perfectly arched eyebrows drawing together in a slight frown.
Over these past years, her entire focus had been locked on internal growth. She had spent every waking hour developing Mole's Town, securing the underground vaults, managing the wildling trade routes, and providing a safe, prosperous environment for her growing children.
Because of this laser focus on her own territory, she hadn't paid much attention to the broader political situation at the Wall. She knew the Watch was always complaining about being underfunded and undermanned, but she hadn't realized just how dire their situation had truly become.
She reached out, her slender fingers breaking the black wax with a crisp snap. She unrolled the heavy parchment and began to read.
The handwriting was bold, sharp, and highly utilitarian—the script of a tired military man who did not like wasting expensive ink on southern pleasantries.
Serena's green eyes scanned the words quickly, and as she reached the middle of the page, a look of genuine surprise crossed her beautiful face.
Before opening the letter, she had braced herself for the worst. The Night's Watch technically owned the land Mole's Town sat on. She had assumed this letter would be a heavy-handed demand for a massive tax increase. She thought Mormont might be ordering her to conscript her hired guards to man the crumbling castles, or worse, launching an official investigation into the wildling gold circulating in her town.
But it was none of those things.
"...therefore, we request a formal parley to discuss the mutually beneficial trade of resources and winter provisions. Lord Steward Bowen Marsh will arrive at your establishment before this week's end to officially negotiate these terms on behalf of the Night's Watch..."
"A secret meeting," Serena whispered to the empty room, leaning back in her chair.
She let out a soft, amused exhale. The Night's Watch—the ancient, proud, and heavily armed order that had guarded the realms of men for eight thousand years—was formally asking to sit down and negotiate with a woman who ran a town of whores, thieves, and smugglers.
What could they possibly want to trade for? Serena thought, her mind working through the logic. She pieced together the few rumors she routinely heard from the off-duty guards downstairs.
The recent winter was incredibly brutal, and I heard the recruits were always complaining about thin stew and rusted blades. If the Lord Steward himself is coming down here to talk about 'provisions,' they must be running desperately short on basic supplies.
She guessed that they were finally noticing the abundance of grain and quality steel flowing through her town, and they wanted a piece of it. Whatever the exact truth was up at Castle Black, one thing was absolutely clear: they needed something from her.
It was a massive shift in the power dynamic. If they were coming to her table to ask for resources, it meant she held a considerable amount of leverage. A thoughtful, confident smile graced her lips.
But as she read the final paragraph of the letter, her smile vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp sneer.
"...to ensure the safety and honor of the envoy, the Lord Steward will be accompanied by our Master-at-Arms, Ser Alliser Thorne, and a detachment of brothers."
Serena tossed the letter onto the desk, shaking her head.
"Ser Alliser Thorne," Serena murmurred, her green eyes flashing with a dangerous glint.
Even as a former washerwoman of Winterfell, she knew exactly who Ser Alliser was. The man was infamous across the North. He was a bitter, cruel Targaryen loyalist who had been forced to take the black after Robert's Rebellion. He was known for his venomous tongue, his sheer arrogance, and his brutal martial skill.
Mormont and Marsh weren't just sending an accountant to negotiate. They were sending their meanest, most vicious attack dog along with him.
They want to intimidate me, Serena realized, tapping a perfectly manicured fingernail against the wooden desk. They are coming to my home to ask for my food, but they are bringing their Master-at-Arms to flex their military muscle. They want to remind me that they have swords, just in case I decide to refuse their terms or demand too high a price.
It was a classic, heavy-handed lord's tactic. But Serena was no longer a frightened commoner who would cower at the sight of a knight's armor. She was a woman who had shattered an assassin's skull with a broken spear, seized an underground empire, and trained her lungs to breathe fire.