Six years in the North does not pass like a dream; it passes like a slow, grinding stone.
The Winter Town, a sprawling collection of mud, timber, and desperate heat huddled outside the massive granite walls of Winterfell, had not been kind to Serena. The beauty that had once caught the eye of the Quiet Wolf was still there, but it was thinner now, worn down by the biting wind and the relentless scrub of lye soap.
"You're staring at the castle again," a gruff voice cut through the morning chill.
Serena blinked, pulling her gaze away from the towering grey battlements of Winterfell that loomed over their small, thatched hut. She looked down at the pile of linens steaming in the vat of boiling water before her. Her hands were red, the skin cracked from years of washing the smallfolk's filth.
"He is there, Torra," Serena whispered, plunging a tunic into the water. "The banner of the Direwolf is flying high. He has returned from his tour of the holdfasts."
Torra, older and harder than she had been on the night of the twins' birth, sat on a wooden stool nearby, mending a tear in a woolen cloak with aggressive stabs of her needle. She didn't look up. "He returned three days ago, Serena. Has a rider come? Has a steward come with a pouch of silver? No."
"He is busy," Serena defended, though her voice lacked the fire it once held. "He is the Warden of the North. He has duties."
"Duties to his wife. Duties to his trueborn heirs," Torra spat, biting the thread with her teeth. She looked at her friend with a mixture of pity and frustration. "It has been six months since he last visited, Serena. Six months. And before that? A year. You are waiting for a ghost."
Serena didn't answer. She couldn't. Because deep down, she knew Torra was right. But she also remembered the look in Eddard Stark's eyes the first time he had held Yoriichi and Lyra. It wasn't the look of a lord looking at a mistake; it was the look of a man looking at a miracle. He had smiled—a rare, true smile that reached his grey eyes. That memory was the only fuel keeping her warm in this frozen hell.
"Today is their Sixth nameday," Serena said softly, wiping her hands on her apron. "He wouldn't forget. Maybe… maybe he just needs a reminder. If I go to him, if I ask humbly… surely he can find a place for us. Even as a scullery maid. Just to be inside the walls. Away from this mud."
Torra sighed, a long, rattling sound. She stood up, her knees popping, and walked over to put a hand on Serena's shoulder. "You are a fool, girl. A sweet, beautiful fool. But I cannot let you walk into the wolf's den alone."
Yoriichi sat on the edge of the wooden porch, his small legs dangling over the half-frozen mud.
At Six years old, he was small for his age. While other boys in the Winter Town were loud, brawling in the dirt and chasing stray dogs, Yoriichi was an island of stillness. He wore a simple tunic of roughspun grey wool that Serena had stitched for him, and his deep red-black hair was tied back in a small knot, keeping it out of his eyes.
Those eyes.
They were the talk of the market. Deep, unsettlingly red, like dried blood or the last embers of a dying fire. Most people looked away when he stared at them. They felt exposed, as if the boy wasn't looking at them, but through them.
Yoriichi looked down at his hands. They were small, uncalloused. Useless.
This body is weak, he thought, the words drifting through his mind with a clarity that no five-year-old should possess.
His memories were a haze, like looking at a mountain through a heavy snowstorm. He remembered the feeling of a sword hilt—the weight, the texture of the wrapping. He remembered the smell of charcoal and blood. He remembered a brother… and a monster with six eyes. But the names, the faces, they were slipping away, replaced by the biting cold of this new world.
He didn't mind. The past was ash. This was now.
Beside him, Lyra hummed a melody that had no words. She sat with her legs crossed, her eyes covered by a strip of white cloth Serena insisted she wear to hide her milky, sightless irises.
" The birds are angry today, brother," Lyra whispered, tilting her head toward the sky.
Yoriichi looked up. A murder of crows was circling the high towers of Winterfell, cawing loudly. "They are just hungry, Lyra."
"No," she said, her voice drifting. "They are waiting for scraps. But the big wolf is eating. And the fish is swimming in the wolf's bowl. It makes the water muddy."
Yoriichi didn't dismiss her. He had learned early on that his sister saw things others did not. Just as he could see the faint, rhythmic pulses of blood flowing through the veins of the passersby—a transparency to the world that he hadn't yet learned to control—Lyra saw the shadows of intent.
"Mother is coming," Yoriichi said, standing up smoothly. His movement was fluid, wasting no energy.
Serena emerged from the hut, wearing her best dress—a simple blue gown that she had preserved for years. It was faded, but clean. Torra walked behind her, looking like a guard dog anticipating a fight.
"Come, my little loves," Serena said, her face bright with a fragile, desperate hope. She scooped Lyra up into her arms, kissing her cheek. "It is a special day. We are going to visit your father."
Yoriichi felt a distinct pull of instinct—a warning bell ringing in the back of his mind.
Danger. Humiliation.
But he saw the light in his mother's eyes, and he remained silent. He simply walked to her right side, falling into step with a discipline that made Torra shake her head in wonder.
As they walked through the market, Yoriichi's eyes scanned the stalls. An ironmonger was sharpening a rusted dagger on a wheel.
Shhh-clack. Shhh-clack.
Yoriichi stopped. His eyes locked onto the blade. He could see the imperfections in the steel, the microscopic chips in the edge. Without thinking, his hand reached out. He wanted to hold it. He wanted to feel the balance. It was an itch in his very soul, a hunger to hold the tool he had mastered a lifetime ago.
"No!" Serena's voice was sharp, fearful. She pulled him back by his shoulder. "Yoriichi, never! Swords are for knights and killers. You are a gentle boy. Promise me."
Yoriichi looked at his mother. He saw the fear in her pulse, the frantic beating of her heart. She was terrified of him becoming violent.
"I promise, Mother," he lied calmly.
The walk to the Great Keep was a gauntlet of whispers.