The Winter Town was small. Everyone knew who Serena was. They knew she was the woman Lord Stark visited in the dead of night years ago. They knew the twins were "Snows"—bastards of the high lord.
"Look, the Winter Rose is seeking a handout," a tanner sneered as they passed, spitting into the mud near Torra's boots.
"Keep your tongue in your mouth, or I'll cut it out and feed it to the pigs," Torra snarled back, her hand resting on the small skinning knife at her belt. The tanner grunted and looked away.
They reached the outer gates of Winterfell. The massive weirwood and iron gates were open, guarding the entrance to the courtyard. Two guards in Stark livery—grey cloaks and chainmail—leaned on their spears.
They recognized Serena immediately.
"Well, well," the taller guard smirked, leaning down. "If it isn't Lady Serena of the Wash Tub. Coming to clean the stables?"
"I… I have come to see Lord Stark," Serena said, holding Lyra tighter. "It is important. Please."
The guards exchanged a look. They were bored men, and cruelty was a cheap form of entertainment. But they also knew that Ned Stark, for all his honor, had a strange soft spot for this woman. If they turned her away and the Lord found out, it might mean a flogging. But if they let her in and Lady Catelyn saw her… well, that was a different kind of storm.
"The Lord is in the Great Hall," the second guard muttered, stepping aside with a mock bow that was more insult than courtesy. "Breaking his fast with the King's messengers. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to see his laundry."
The guards snickered as Serena hurried past them, her cheeks burning red. Torra glared at them, spitting on the ground before following.
Yoriichi paused for a second. He looked up at the tall guard. He focused on the man's knee—specifically, a past injury where the ligament had healed poorly.
"Your stance is weak on the left," Yoriichi said softly, his voice devoid of mockery, stating it like a fact about the weather. "If you pivot, you will fall."
Before the guard could process the insult, the boy was gone, slipping through the gate like a ghost.
The inner courtyard of Winterfell was a different world. It was paved with stone, clean of mud. Men-at-arms were drilling with blunted swords near the armory. Servants rushed back and forth with baskets of bread and wheels of cheese.
The smell of roasting meat wafted from the Great Hall.
Serena's confidence began to crumble. The castle was huge. It was a fortress of stone and power, and she was just a woman in a faded blue dress. But she looked at Lyra's blindfolded face, and Yoriichi's silent, stoic expression, and she steeled herself.
For them. I do this for them.
"Serena, we should turn back," Torra hissed, sensing the hostile atmosphere. "This isn't the place."
"Just one word. I just need one word with him," Serena whispered.
They reached the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall. They were slightly ajar, allowing the noise of conversation and clattering cutlery to spill out. There were no guards right at the door—the household felt safe within these walls.
Serena took a breath, pushed the heavy wood, and stepped inside.
The Great Hall of Winterfell was cavernous, warm, and smelled of pine logs and bacon.
At the High Table, raised above the rest of the room, sat the rulers of the North.
Lord Eddard Stark sat in the center, looking every inch the Lord of Winterfell. His face was long and solemn, his beard neatly trimmed. He was listening intently to a man dressed in the black leathers of the Night's Watch—his brother, Benjen Stark.
To Ned's left sat Lady Catelyn Stark. She was beautiful, with high cheekbones and the auburn hair of the Tullys. She was currently smiling, bouncing a toddler with thick auburn hair—Bran—on her knee.
Beside her, a boy of six, Robb Stark, was laughing loudly as he tried to balance a spoon on his nose, while a delicate girl of three, Sansa, watched him with giggling admiration. A wet nurse held a baby—Arya—nearby.
To Ned's right sat the messengers from King's Landing—men in velvet doublets that looked too fancy for the North, drinking ale and looking bored.
It was a picture of a perfect, powerful family. A fortress of happiness that had no room for cracks.
THUD.
The heavy oak door slammed against the stone wall as Serena pushed it fully open.
The sound echoed through the hall.
Silence rippled outward from the door like a wave. The laughter at the lower tables died. The clattering of spoons stopped.
Twenty pairs of eyes turned to the entrance.
They saw a woman with hair like spilled wine, clutching a blindfolded girl, standing beside a small boy with eyes that burned like embers, and a rough-looking peasant woman standing guard behind them.
At the High Table, the blood drained from Eddard Stark's face. He froze, his goblet halfway to his mouth. His grey eyes went wide, panic flashing behind them for the briefest of seconds.
Beside him, Benjen Stark stopped laughing. He looked from the woman to his brother, his eyebrows raising in realization.
But it was Catelyn Stark's reaction that changed the air in the room.
Her smile vanished instantly. Her eyes, moments ago filled with warmth for her son Bran, snapped to Serena. Recognition dawned on her face—cold, hard, and sharp as a knife. She looked at the crimson hair. She looked at the children.
She looked at Ned.
The temperature in the Great Hall seemed to drop ten degrees.
"My Lord," Serena called out, her voice trembling but carrying across the silent hall. She took a step forward, dragging Yoriichi and Lyra with her. "I… I have come to wish you well. It is the twins' Sixth nameday."
A gasp went through the servants. Everyone knew the rumor. Now, the rumor was standing in the doorway.
Robb Stark looked down from the high table, confused. "Father? Who is that?"
Ned stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. "Serena," he said, his voice rough, lacking its usual command. "You… you should not be here."
"I had nowhere else to go, My Lord," Serena said, tears pricking her eyes as she felt the crushing weight of Catelyn's stare. "I only wanted… I hoped…"
Yoriichi stood silently at his mother's side. He didn't look at his father. He didn't look at the confused Robb or the angry Catelyn.
He was looking at the man in black, Benjen Stark. And then, his gaze shifted to the corner of the room, where the shadows seemed to be stretching unnaturally toward his sister.
The tension in this room, Yoriichi thought, observing the tightened muscles of the guards and the way Catelyn's hand gripped a dinner knife until her knuckles were white. It is sharper than a blade.
"Guards," Catelyn Stark's voice rang out. It was not a shout. It was a whisper of pure ice. "Why is this… woman… interrupting the Lord's meal?"
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a man. And in the center of it, Yoriichi Snow squeezed his mother's trembling hand, his red eyes finally lifting to meet the cold blue gaze of Lady Stark.
The Sun had entered the Winter, and the storm had just begun.