ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

Barro’s shop stood in the middle stretch of Wintertown’s main street. It was not large, but it was usually well stocked. Furs, tools, salted goods, cheap cloth, jars, straps, little things men needed and forgot until they needed them badly. That morning, the door was half-open, and the place looked as if a storm had learned how to hate merchants.

Crates were overturned. Shelves had been disturbed. A few bundles lay open on the floor. Barro himself crouched behind the counter, counting what remained with shaking hands. His face was pale with anger and grief. Not the grief of a man who had lost family. Worse, perhaps, for a merchant. He had lost profit.

”Arthur!” Barro rushed toward him the moment he entered, grabbing his arm as if Arthur were a rope thrown to a drowning man. ”You finally came. My furs. All gone. Half a year of work, gone.”

”Breathe,” Arthur said.

”I cannot breathe. I have been robbed.”

”You will breathe or you will faint, and then I will have to listen to someone else explain this badly.”

Barro opened his mouth, closed it, then forced himself to inhale.

Ena moved past them, studying the shelves and floor. She touched nothing.

Arthur looked at Barro. ”Start from the beginning. When did you discover it?”

”This morning,” Barro said. ”I counted everything yesterday evening, locked the shop, checked the door and windows. When I came back, the back window had been pried open. The chest where I kept the best furs was empty.”

”Only the best furs?”

”Yes. That is the worst part.” Barro looked close to collapsing again. ”They did not take common goods. They did not take cheap pelts. They knew what was worth coin. Fine wolf skins, bear pelts, clean hides. Goods that would fetch a good price in White Harbor. Several hundred gold dragons if sold properly.”

Arthur frowned slightly at the amount, but did not correct him. Merchants in pain often counted future profit as present loss. It was their nature.

”Show me the window.”

Barro led them to the back. The rear of the shop opened into a narrow muddy alley between buildings. The wooden board covering the window had been pried loose. Fresh marks showed where a tool had bitten into the wood. Beneath the window, the mud held footprints. More than one set. Some heavy, some lighter. Men carrying burdens, likely. Not a lone thief, then.

Ena crouched and looked closely. ”At least four. Maybe five.”

Arthur nodded.

Barro leaned close and lowered his voice. ”I asked around. New faces came to town a few days ago. Not locals. Not caravan guards. Not any men I know. They stay near the Black Mole Tavern.”

Arthur knew the name. Everyone in Wintertown knew it, though respectable people pretended they did not. The Black Mole sat near the edge of town, where the law arrived late and left early. Drifters, thieves, deserters, broken men, and cheap sellswords drank there. If a man disappeared after entering, the tavern probably charged rent for the bloodstain.

”They are suspicious,” Barro said. ”It must be them. It has to be them.”

”Suspicion is not proof.”

”I do not need proof. I need my furs.”

”You need both if you want Lord Stark’s men to hang anyone.”

Barro swallowed. He disliked the sound of that, but he understood it.

Arthur turned to Ena. ”We look first. No noise.”

”Bring Katel?” she asked.

”Yes, but not inside. Too many men will scare the rats back into their holes. You come with me. Katel will keep the Volunteers close enough to support us if things go wrong.”

”Things usually go wrong,” Ena said.

”That is why we bring support.”

By twilight, Arthur and Ena had changed into plain roughspun and made their way toward the Black Mole. Katel and several Battanian Volunteers moved separately, taking positions in nearby alleys and around the edge of the tavern. They did not gather in a visible group. Men who looked like a trap often failed to catch anything.

The Black Mole was worse than the Smoky Wood and not as foul as the Lazy Eel, which gave it a narrow, depressing place in Arthur’s memory. The sign above the door was cracked and worm-eaten. The walls leaned as if tired. Smoke leaked from the roof in a thin grey thread.

Arthur entered alone.

The inside was dim and low-ceilinged, heavy with smoke, sweat, old ale, and damp wool. Several men sat at tables, speaking quietly. Quiet men in taverns were more dangerous than loud ones. Loud men wanted to be seen. Quiet men wanted to be missed.

The keeper was one-armed, broad in the shoulders, and careful with his eyes. He wiped cups with his remaining hand, watching everyone who entered as if counting their knives.

Arthur ordered the cheapest ale and took a corner seat. He lowered his eyes, drank slowly, and listened.

At first there was nothing useful. Talk of women, ale, the king’s arrival, royal guards, and inflated prices. Then, from a nearby table, a whisper cut through the noise.

”The goods are gone. The buyer was pleased.”

”When do we split?”

”When the town stops sniffing around. The Starks are busy with the king. No one will care about a fat merchant crying over furs.”

”They were good furs. Clean cuts. Bear and wolf. White Harbor will pay high.”

Arthur did not look at them.

He finished his ale.

Then he placed a few copper pennies on the table and left.

Ena waited across the lane, hood raised.

”It is them,” Arthur said.

”You are sure?”

”They spoke of goods, furs, White Harbor, and Barro without using his name. Men who speak carefully usually have something to hide.”

”Where are the furs?”

”Already moved, it seems. Sold or hidden. But the coin has not been split yet. Greed makes men patient only when they are afraid. Once they think the danger has passed, they will gather.”

For the next two days, they watched.

Arthur and Ena took turns near the Black Mole, while Katel’s men followed at a distance when needed. The thieves were five in number. Southern drifters, by their accents. Not soldiers, though at least two carried themselves like men who had used knives in more than kitchens. They slept in cheap rooms, drank at the Black Mole, and moved mostly at dusk or after dark. One of them, a narrow-shouldered man with a patched cloak, went every night toward the old mill on the east side of town and returned by another road.

”The money or ledgers are there,” Arthur said on the second night.

”Or a woman,” Ena replied.

”He looks too frightened for pleasure.”

”That does not stop some men.”

”Fair.”

On the third night, clouds covered the moon. Wintertown sank into darkness early, the streets lit only by weak lanterns and the occasional glow from windows. It was a good night for theft.

Or for catching thieves.

The five men left the Black Mole carrying small bundles. They moved separately at first, then joined near the edge of town and took a narrow path toward the Wolfswood. Arthur and Ena followed from a distance. Katel and ten Battanian Volunteers moved farther back, quiet among the shadows.

The thieves were cautious. They stopped more than once, looking behind them. One doubled back briefly. Another listened near a bend in the road. But they were watching for town guards, not men trained to move through forest paths. Once they reached the edge of the Wolfswood, they relaxed.

That was usually when men died.

”Where are they going?” Ena whispered. ”This is not the road out.”

”To a hiding place,” Arthur said. ”Or to split the coin where no one can hear them argue.”

They followed for another half hour.

The thieves stopped in a small clearing dominated by an old oak split by lightning. Its trunk was hollow, black inside like a mouth. One of the men crawled into the hollow and dragged out a leather bag heavy enough to make the others lean forward eagerly.

The bag opened.

Silver stags and copper pennies caught what little light the sky allowed. Papers too. Receipts, perhaps. Ledgers. Men who dealt in stolen goods often believed parchment made them clever. It mostly made them easier to hang.

Arthur raised one hand.

Katel moved.

The Battanian Volunteers spread through the trees with axes and shields ready, circling the clearing. They were not perfect, not yet, but they were quiet enough. The thieves noticed too late.

The bald man among them lifted his head sharply.

”Who is there?”

A short spear flew from the trees and struck one of the thieves through the thigh.

The man screamed.

”Move,” Arthur ordered.

He drew his axe and stepped into the clearing. The Volunteers rushed in from both sides, hard and fast. The thieves fought back in panic. One slashed at Arthur with a knife. Arthur caught the arm with his shield and struck him in the jaw with the axe haft. Another tried to flee but went down when a sling stone cracked against his knee. Ena’s arrow took the cloak from a third man’s shoulder, close enough to teach wisdom without killing him.

The fight ended quickly.

Two thieves were pinned to the ground. Three were dragged back after trying to run. The wounded one cursed until Katel pressed a boot near the spear wound and asked if he wanted to keep making noise.

He stopped.

Katel picked up the leather bag and handed it to Arthur. Inside were coins and several receipts stamped with the seal of the Silverfin Merchant Guild of White Harbor.

Arthur looked at them.

Evidence.

Good evidence.

He crouched before the bald thief, who seemed to be the leader.

”Barro’s furs,” Arthur said. ”You stole them.”

The man spat to the side. ”Do not know any Barro.”

Arthur took one receipt from the bag and held it before his face. ”The cargo receipt from the Silverfin Merchant Guild. Dated three days ago. Fine wolf and bear pelts. No seller’s name written. Careless.”

The thief’s face tightened.

”There is enough here for Winterfell’s guards,” Arthur continued. ”You were caught with stolen coin, receipts, and four friends too stupid to run properly. The question is not whether you hang. The question is whether you speak before someone decides to make your last hours less comfortable.”

The man looked at the Volunteers around him. Then at Ena’s bow. Then at Arthur.

His courage left him by degrees.

”Anderson,” he said finally. ”Blackfinger Anderson. Manager for Silverfin in White Harbor. He buys things without asking where they come from. Has a private storehouse near the docks.”

Arthur memorized the name.

Blackfinger Anderson.

White Harbor again.

Everything useful seemed to circle back there.

He stood and gestured to Katel. ”Tie them properly. We take them to Barro. He can hand them over to Winterfell’s dungeon himself. Give him the coin and the receipts. That will be his proof.”

Katel nodded. ”Yes, my lord.”

On the way back to Wintertown, Ena walked beside Arthur in silence for a while.

”You are familiar with this,” she said at last.

”With what?”

”Watching people. Following trails. Waiting until they show where they hide things.”

Arthur smiled faintly. ”I have heard stories.”

”What kind of stories teach that?”

”Stories about detectives.”

Ena frowned. ”What is a detective?”

”A person who finds the truth after everyone else has made it inconvenient.”

”That sounds like a strange kind of maester.”

”Less chain. More walking.”

She looked unconvinced.

The lights of Winterfell appeared in the distance, scattered against the dark hill. Above the castle, the royal banners moved in the night wind. Somewhere inside those walls, a feast was underway. Music drifted faintly across the cold air, along with noble laughter. A different world. Warm halls, silver cups, roasted meat, smiles with knives hidden behind them.

Arthur looked toward it.

”What next?” Ena asked. ”White Harbor? Anderson?”

”Not now,” Arthur said. ”That is Barro’s business unless he pays us for more. We found his thieves, his coin, and his proof. The commission is finished.”

”You do not want to follow the thread?”

”I do. That is why I will wait.”

Ena glanced at him.

Arthur kept walking. ”The king will leave Winterfell soon. When he does, the North will change. Perhaps quietly at first. Perhaps all at once. We need to be ready before that happens.”

She did not ask how he knew.

That was one of the reasons Arthur trusted her more than he should.

The wind strengthened as they neared Wintertown.

A storm was coming. Not snow, though that would come too. Something larger. Westeros was beginning to move, and when great houses moved, small men were crushed unless they had steel, coin, and enough sense to stand out of the way until the right moment.

The system panel lit at the edge of Arthur’s vision.

[Mission Complete: The Stolen Furs]

Reward: 200 dinars.

Barro’s Gratitude: Merchant Relationship +10.

[New Mission Triggered: Undercurrents in White Harbor]

Available to accept.

Arthur did not open the details.

Not yet.

He had coin to count, men to feed, and plans to sharpen.

The night over the North was cold, and somewhere beyond the walls of Winterfell, nobles laughed as if the world beneath them was not already cracking.

Arthur quickened his pace.

Let them laugh.

He had work to do.

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