The return journey from Winterfell to the outskirts of the Winter Town was a march of silence.
Serena did not cry while they walked. She held Lyra tight against her chest, her eyes fixed on the muddy, slush-filled road, refusing to look back at the grey granite walls that had just rejected her. But Yoriichi, walking beside her with a steady, rhythmic gait, could hear the erratic beating of her heart. It was a rhythm of shattered hope.
Their hut stood at the very edge of the town, where the clusters of wooden buildings thinned out into the vast, white emptiness of the Wolfswood. It was a small, fragile thing made of timber and thatch, isolated from the neighbors—just as they were isolated from the world.
"I will stay tonight," Torra announced as they stepped inside, her voice leaving no room for argument.
Serena looked at her friend, her composure finally cracking. Her lip trembled. "Torra, you don't have to… the market tomorrow…"
"To the seven hells with the market," Torra grunted, barring the door with a heavy wooden plank. She looked at Serena's pale, ghost-like face. "You look like you're about to shatter into a thousand pieces, girl. I'm not leaving you alone with the wolves howling like they are."
The afternoon passed in a haze of misery.
The hut was warm, but the atmosphere was suffocating. Serena moved like a sleepwalker, preparing a meager meal of vegetable broth and hard bread, her movements mechanical. Every so often, she would stop and stare at the wall, a fresh tear tracking silently down her cheek. She was mourning a love that had died that morning in the Great Hall.
Yoriichi sat in the corner on a pile of furs, a thick, leather-bound book resting on his small knees.
It was a history of the North, a gift Serena had bought him three months ago with coin she had saved for a new cloak. She had been so proud when he started reading at four, boasting to Torra that her son had the mind of a Maester.
But today, the words blurred on the page.
"The Kings of Winter were hard men for hard times…"
Yoriichi stared at the text, but his mind was elsewhere. He looked at his mother. In his past life, he had failed to protect his wife and unborn child. He had been strong—the strongest under the heavens—yet he had arrived too late. Now, in this new life, he was watching his mother bleed from a wound that no sword had inflicted.
My body is small, Yoriichi thought, clenching his small fist until the knuckles turned white. I cannot challenge the Lord of Winterfell. I cannot force them to respect her.
He sighed, a sound far too heavy for a six-year-old, and closed the book. The feeling of helplessness was a bitter poison he hadn't tasted in a very long time.
Night fell like a shroud.
The wind picked up, whistling through the cracks in the timber walls, carrying the biting chill of the true North. Inside, the fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, dancing shadows across the room.
They had eaten in silence. Lyra, sensing the heavy mood, had curled up early, clutching a stuffed wolf doll Torra had made for her. Serena lay on the main bed, staring blankly at the thatched ceiling. Torra sat in a wooden chair near the door, wrapped in a blanket, dozing lightly with her skinning knife resting in her lap.
Yoriichi lay beside Lyra, his breathing shallow and controlled. He was practicing a breathing technique—not Sun Breathing, which generated too much heat and would wake the others, but a simple rhythm to oxygenate his blood and keep his senses sharp.
Thump. Thump.
The sound was faint. To a normal ear, it would have been lost in the howling wind.
But Yoriichi's eyes snapped open.
Footsteps.
Two sets. They were heavy, clumsy, dragging through the snow outside. They didn't have the rhythmic cadence of a patrol or the lightness of a traveler. These were steps of intent, fueled by drink and malice.
Beside him, Lyra gasped.
Her body went rigid, her back arching off the mattress as if she had been struck. Her hands flew to her head, gripping her temples.
"No…!" she whimpered, the sound rising to a terrified shriek. "NO!"
Serena bolted upright, gasping. "Lyra? What is it? A nightmare?"
"They are here!" Lyra screamed, her blind eyes wide and staring at the door as if she could see through the wood. Tears streamed down her face. "Two shadows! They have teeth of iron! They have a club! Mama, they want to break us!"
Torra was awake instantly. The old woman kicked off her blanket, her hand gripping the knife tight. "Hush, child! Quiet!"
"Lyra is right," Yoriichi said.
His voice was calm, cutting through the panic. He stood up from the furs, placing himself between the bed and the door. The air in the room changed. The clumsiness of the footsteps outside stopped. They had heard the scream.
Silence.
Then—
CRASH!
The wooden door didn't just open; it exploded inward.
Splinters of wood flew across the room as a heavy boot kicked the bar loose. The wind rushed in, extinguishing the last candle, leaving the room lit only by the dying red glow of the hearth embers.
Two figures loomed in the doorway. They were big men, wrapped in dirty furs that smelled of stale ale and unwashed bodies. They wore scarves over their faces, but their eyes were bright with drunken cruelty.
"Told you this was the place," the taller one grunted, hefting a rusted iron mace—a club studded with spikes.
"Grab the woman," the second one hissed, pulling a long, serrated dirk from his belt. "And shut that screaming brat up."
"Get out!" Serena screamed, grabbing Lyra and pulling her back against the wall.
Yoriichi didn't speak. He moved.
As the second man stepped forward, reaching for Serena, Yoriichi stepped in to intercept him. He moved with the fluid grace of a master swordsman, intending to strike the man's wrist to disarm him.
But reality was a cruel teacher.
His mind was that of Yoriichi Tsugikuni, but his body was that of a malnourished six-year-old boy. His reach was too short. His muscles lacked the explosive twitch fibers he needed.
The intruder didn't even use his weapon. He simply laughed and swung his heavy boot.
"Out of the way, demon-spawn!"
Thud.
The kick caught Yoriichi square in the chest.
It felt like being hit by a swinging log. The air was forced out of his small lungs instantly. He was lifted off his feet and thrown backward, crashing into the wooden table, which tipped over with a clatter of clay bowls.
"Yoriichi!" Serena shrieked.
Pain flared in Yoriichi's chest—ribs, likely cracked. His vision swam. Weak, he thought, gritting his teeth as he gasped for air on the floor.
Too weak.
"You bastards!"
Torra roared like the bear of her homeland. She didn't hesitate. She didn't look at the size difference. She launched herself at the man with the knife, her own small blade flashing in the firelight.
"You won't touch them!"
She collided with the man, driving her shoulder into his gut. The man grunted, surprised by the ferocity of the old woman. Torra slashed wildly, cutting a deep gash across his forearm.
"Argh! You old bitch!" the man howled, dropping his knife and backhanding her across the face.
Torra stumbled back, spitting blood, but she didn't fall. She stood firmly between the men and Serena.