The first night in Mole's Town was not a night of rest; it was a night of endurance.
The wind howled through the gaps in the timber walls of the shack, singing a high, lonely note that grated on the nerves. But the wind was the least of their problems. The real assault came from next door. The "Mole's Hole" did not sleep until the sun rose.
Through the thin wood, the sounds of the brothel drifted in like a sickly fog—drunken roars, the clatter of dropped tankards, the thump of heavy boots, and the occasional, muffled cry of a woman that made Serena pull the furs tighter over Lyra's ears.
Serena lay awake, staring at the dark thatch of the roof, her hand resting on the hilt of the small knife she had placed beneath her pillow.
This is the bottom, she told herself, listening to a glass shatter somewhere nearby. We are in the mud. But mud is where the foundation starts.
When the grey, watery light of dawn finally seeped through the oiled-skin window, the noise next door had died down to a few snoring whimpers.
"Up," Serena whispered, throwing off the furs. The air in the room was freezing—breath-mist hung in the air like spirits. "Wash your faces. Use the snow if you must. We do not walk out looking like beggars."
Yoriichi was already awake. He sat cross-legged by the cold hearth, his red eyes clear and alert. He had not slept much, spending the night listening to the heartbeats of the men next door, categorizing them by aggression levels.
"The water in the bucket has ice on it," Lyra murmured, shivering as she sat up.
"Break it," Serena said, fastening her cloak with a jerky, determined motion. "The cold wakes the mind."
They ate a meager breakfast of hard cheese and bread, then stepped out into the morning.
Mole's Town by day was a different beast than at night. It was uglier. The darkness hid the filth; the light exposed it. The snow was churned into a brown slurry of mud and refuse. Smoke rose from the underground chimneys, blanketing the area in a low, hanging smog that smelled of peat and unwashed bodies.
"Where are we going, Mother?" Lyra asked, holding Yoriichi's hand as they navigated a frozen puddle.
"To work," Serena said, pointing to a large, timber-framed building about three hundred yards up the road.
It was the largest structure in Mole's Town besides the brothel. It sat slightly apart from the main cluster of hovels, a two-story building made of dark pine logs. A faded sign swung above the door, depicting a shield and a sack of grain.
The Black Cache.
It was a sanctioned disposal post of the Night's Watch—a place where the brothers turned the refuse of the Wall into coin for the order.
Here, the Quartermaster sent the things too rusted for the rangers but too good to melt down: cracked spearheads, dull daggers, and surplus grain that had sat too long in the damp cellars of Castle Black.
They reached the heavy oak door. It was closed, barred from the inside. A sign hung crookedly on a nail: CLOSED.
Serena didn't hesitate. she raised her gloved hand and knocked. Three sharp, authoritative raps.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Silence.
She knocked again, harder.
"Go away!" a muffled, gravelly voice shouted from within. "Unless the Wall has fallen, come back at noon!"
"I am here for the position!" Serena called out, her voice cutting through the wind. "By order of Winterfell!"
There was a pause. Then, the sound of a heavy bar being lifted. The door creaked open a crack, revealing a slice of a face—grey stubble, a bulbous nose, and one suspicious, watery eye.
"Winterfell?" the old man grunted. "You're the... arrangement?"
Serena offered a slight, respectful bow—not deep enough to be servile, but polite enough to acknowledge his ownership.
"I am Serena," she said calmly, pulling a folded parchment from her cloak. The wax seal of the Direwolf was unbroken and grey. "Captain Tomard gave me this. It is from Lord Stark."
The old man's eye widened slightly at the sight of the seal. He grunted, pulled the door open just enough to snatch the letter, and squinted at it in the dim light. He couldn't read well—Serena noticed his lips moving as he sounded out the words—but he recognized the signature.
"Hmph," he grumbled, looking her up and down. "You're too skinny to lift crates. And too pretty to be scrubbing floors in a town like this. Stark's... charity case, eh?"
He stepped back, swinging the door wide with a groan of rusted hinges.
"Well, get in before you let all the heat out. I'm Silas."
They stepped inside.
The interior of The Black Cache was cavernous, warm, and utterly chaotic.
It was a treasure trove drowning in neglect. To the left, racks of furs—wolf, bear, seal—were piled haphazardly, gathering dust. To the right, shelves groaned under the weight of iron pots, coils of rope, lanterns, and pickaxes. The back wall was an armory of sorts: rusted chainmail, dented helms, and swords that hadn't seen oil in years leaned against barrels of salted fish.
The smell was a mix of old leather, iron, and dust. Layers and layers of dust.
Silas, the old man, shuffled toward a rocking chair near a massive stone hearth. He walked with a limp, favoring his left leg—an old injury, likely from his time in the Watch or a wildling raid. He wore a tunic that was stained with soup and grease.
"So," Silas wheezed, sitting down heavily and tossing the letter onto a cluttered table. "You're here to work. Don't expect special treatment just because the Wolf Lord felt guilty about bedding you."
Serena stiffened slightly, but she didn't bite back. Let him think what he wants, she decided. Underestimation is a shield.
"I expect nothing but wages for labor, sir," Serena replied evenly.
"Good," Silas grunted. He waved a gnarled hand at the expanse of the shop. "The shop opens in a few hours. Usually, I don't bother opening until the crows wake up from their hangovers. You can start by cleaning. Everything."
He pointed a crooked finger at the far corner, where a mountain of crates seemed to be teetering dangerously.
"Start there. Move the crates. Sweep the rat droppings. Organize the furs. And don't steal anything—I count the stock."
Serena nodded, her eyes already scanning the room, breaking it down into tasks. The inventory is a mess, she noted. He has high-quality steel buried under cheap iron. He's losing money just by being disorganized.
"I understand," Serena said. She paused, glancing down at the twins. "Sir, if I may ask... can my children stay here with me while I work? It is... unsafe to leave them alone in the hut."
Silas frowned, his bushy eyebrows knitting together. He looked at Yoriichi, who was standing perfectly still, staring at a rack of spears. He looked at Lyra, with her bandaged eyes and small hand gripping Serena's dress.