"The spirits… they are restless," the old woman rasped, her voice sounding hollow, as if she were speaking from a grave. "I have birthed a thousand babes in this snow, Serena. Lords, bastards, wildlings. I have never felt the air change like this."
"Don't speak in riddles, old woman," Torra warned, standing protectively between the midwife and the bed.
"It is no riddle," the crone muttered, pulling her shawl tighter around her bony shoulders. She looked at Serena with a gaze that pitied her. "Fire and Ice. Blood and Shadow. This boy… he will not just live in this world, girl. He will change the shape of it. And change… change always comes with a mound of corpses."
A nervous laughter bubbled up from one of the younger assistants. "He's just a bastard babe, grandmother. Don't curse him before he's even had his first milk."
"Let us hope I am wrong," the crone whispered, turning away to pack her satchel. "For all our sakes."
......
An hour later, the hut was quiet.
The midwife and her assistants had gone, paid with the last of Serena's silver stags. The fire had settled down to a steady, comforting crackle. The twins were asleep in a small wooden cradle near the warmth, bundled in thick wolf furs.
Only Torra remained.
The Bear Island woman sat on a stool near the bed, sharpening a small whittling knife, her eyes fixed on the door as if expecting an attack. Serena lay propped up against the pillows, cleaned and bandaged, but her heart felt heavier than her body.
She stared at the door, waiting.
Every creak of the wood, every gust of wind, made her head snap up. But the door never opened.
"He isn't coming, Serena," Torra said quietly. Her voice wasn't cruel, just heavy with the brutal honesty of the North.
Serena flinched as if she'd been slapped. "He… he said he would try. He knows. I sent word to the castle yesterday when the pains started."
"The Lord of Winterfell has a wife," Torra said, not looking up from her knife. "And that wife has just given him a trueborn son. The castle is full of feasts and lords celebrating the heir to the North. Do you think he can just slip away to the Winter Town to hold the hand of his mistress?"
"He is not like the others," Serena defended weakly, tears pricking her eyes again. "Ned… Lord Stark is honorable. He cares for me. He promised."
"Honor," Torra scoffed, finally looking up. Her eyes were hard flint. "Honor is what keeps him in that castle, Serena. Honor to his House. Honor to his Tully wife. Coming here? Acknowledging these two?" She gestured with the knife toward the cradle. "That would be dishonor in the eyes of the Southron gods his wife prays to."
Serena looked at the twins. Bastards. The word hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. In the North, a bastard was a stain. A creature of lust and lies. Snow. They would be Snows.
"He told me he could manage it," Serena whispered, her voice trembling. "He said he would protect us."
"Men say many things when the nights are cold and the bed is warm," Torra said, rising from the stool. She walked over to the window, peering out into the dark, snow-swept street. "But listen to me closely, Serena. You are my friend. I have fought beside wildlings and traded with smugglers. I know how the world works."
Torra turned back, her expression fierce. "Lady Catelyn Stark is a Tully. Their words are Family, Duty, Honor. In that order. Family comes first. Her family. Her children. If she finds out about these two… if she sees that boy with his strange eyes, or that girl with your face… she will not see innocent babes. She will see a threat to her own son's inheritance."
Serena clutched the furs to her chest. "She wouldn't… she is a mother herself."
"She is a highborn lady who has been humiliated by her husband's infidelity," Torra corrected sharply. "Pride makes monsters of us all. She will not let you stay in Winterfell. She might not even let you stay in the Winter Town. If Ned Stark is soft, his wife is steel."
The silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft breathing of the newborns. Serena looked at Yoriichi. Even in sleep, his face was stoic, his brow un-furrowed. He looked nothing like a child who needed protection; he looked like a sword waiting to be drawn.
"So what do I do?" Serena asked, her voice hollow. "If I cannot depend on him… what do I have?"
Torra walked back to the bed and placed a hand on Serena's shoulder. The grip was firm, grounding.
"You have yourself. And you have me."
Torra leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You are not just a tavern wench, Serena. You have a head for numbers that maesters would envy. You know how to make men laugh, how to make them drink, and how to make them spill their secrets. That is power. More power than a sword."
"Power?" Serena laughed bitterly, a tear tracking through the sweat on her cheek. "I am a mother of two bastards living in a hut."
"For now," Torra said. "But the Wall is close. Mole's Town is close. The Night's Watch needs food. They need warmth. And they have coin, even if they pretend they don't. You need to carve your own path, girl. You cannot wait for a Stark to save you. If you stay soft, if you wait for him to sneak out of his castle to give you scraps of affection, the world will eat you and those children alive."
Torra looked at the cradle again.
"That boy… the old crone was crazy, but she wasn't wrong. There is something about him. If you want him to survive Catelyn Stark's wrath, you need to be strong enough to make yourself untouchable. Make yourself someone the North needs."
Serena wiped her face with the back of her hand. The pain in her body was fading, replaced by a cold, hard clarity. The emptiness in her chest where Ned should have been was still there, aching and raw, but Torra was right. He wasn't here. He was in his stone castle, wrapped in honor, while she was here in the mud.
She looked at Yoriichi and Lyra one last time.
I will not let you be trampled, she vowed silently. I will not let you be just 'Snows' that people spit on.
"I understand," Serena stammered, her voice gaining a sliver of steel. "I… thank you, Torra. For being here when he wasn't."
"Rest now," Torra said, blowing out the candle near the bed, leaving only the dying embers of the fire. "We will plan in the morning. Winter is coming, Serena. And we must be ready to greet it."
Serena nodded, her eyelids heavy. As she drifted into sleep, the wind outside battered the walls, shaking the hut. It was a brutal, unforgiving sound. The long summer was ending. The season of death was knocking at the door.
But in the cradle, Yoriichi slept on, silent and warm, a tiny ember of the sun burning in the heart of the Long Night.