The earth of the North was hard, unforgiving, and cold. It did not welcome the dead easily; it had to be broken, chip by frozen chip.
The two guards, breathing heavy clouds of steam into the night air, patted down the last shovel of soil over the fresh mound. There was no stone mason to carve a name, no septon to sing the seven-pointed star. Just a mound of dark earth in the lichyard, stark against the surrounding white snow.
Torra of Bear Island was gone.
Serena knelt in the slush, the cold seeping through her dress and biting into her knees, but she didn't feel it. Her hands were clasped together, not in the southern fashion of the Seven, but resting on her thighs in the quiet contemplation of the First Men.
Be happy, old friend, Serena prayed silently, her eyes fixed on the dirt. Find your bears in the next life. Find the green summers you told me about.
The wind howled through the lichyard, rustling the bare branches of the sentinel trees, sounding like a thousand whispering ghosts.
I heard you, Serena vowed, her fingers digging into the fabric of her dress until her knuckles turned white. I will not be the sheep. I will not wait for the butcher. I will take them where the wolves cannot follow. Watch over us, Torra. I will be the mother they need. I will be iron.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of pine and wet earth, and exhaled the last of her girlhood. When she stood up, the trembling in her legs was gone.
Beside her, Yoriichi and Lyra finished their own silent vigils. Yoriichi bowed low, a gesture of respect that looked strange in Westeros—too formal, too precise—but carried a weight of sincerity. Lyra simply touched the grave with her small hand, whispering a secret to the earth before stepping back.
Ned Stark stood a few paces away, his silhouette dark and heavy against the moonlit sky. He had been sighing continuously, small puffs of white mist escaping his lips, his hand resting restlessly on the pommel of his sword. He looked like a man carrying the weight of the Wall on his shoulders.
He watched Serena rise. He saw the change in her posture—the way her chin lifted, the way her shoulders squared. She looked less like the tavern girl he had fallen for and more like the statues in the crypts of Winterfell. Stern. Enduring.
Ned signaled to Jory Cassel, who waited by the gate.
A moment later, the heavy creak of wooden wheels broke the silence. A covered wagon, pulled by two sturdy garrons, rolled into view. It was not a noble's carriage, but it was solid, reinforced with iron and piled high with furs. Two mounted guards, men Ned trusted with his life, flanked it.
They had stopped briefly at the hut to salvage what little they could—Serena's few dresses, the children's furs, Yoriichi's books, and the small wooden wolf Lyra slept with. It was a pathetic pile of belongings for a life spanning six years.
"It is time," Ned said softly, his voice cracking slightly.
He walked over to the wagon, inspecting the wheels, checking the harness—busy work to hide his eyes. He turned to Serena, who was ushering the children toward the vehicle.
"Serena," Ned called out.
She stopped and turned. Her face was pale in the moonlight, her eyes dry.
Ned walked toward her, stopping a foot away. The distance between them felt like a chasm. He looked at her—really looked at her—knowing that this face, which had been his solace during the long, hard years of ruling the North, would soon be a memory.
"You know…" Ned started, struggling to find the words. He was a Lord, trained to command armies and judge criminals, but he had no training for this. "We… we cannot meet from now on. Or it will take a very long time. If Catelyn… if anyone knows where you are…"
"I know," Serena said quietly. "It is safer this way."
"Is it?" Ned asked bitterly. "Safe for you, perhaps. But for me… to let you go into the dark…"
He took a step closer, breaking the propriety of a Lord.
"Can we hug?" Ned asked, his voice barely a whisper. "For this last time? I know it isn't much. I know it fixes nothing. But… it is the least I can do. I will remember you, Serena. Until my last day."
Serena looked at him. She saw the pain etched into the lines of his face. She saw the grey eyes that were usually so cold now swimming with unshed tears.
A part of her—the part that had loved him, the part that had waited in the hut for years—wanted to scream at him. To slap him. To ask why his honor mattered more than their lives.
But she looked at the wagon. She looked at the guards he had provided. She looked at the heavy purse of gold he had pressed into her hand earlier.
This is his limit, she realized. He is a wolf chained by duty. He cannot break the chain without destroying his pack.
He was giving them a chance to survive. In this cruel world, that was more than most bastards got.
"Okay, My Lord," Serena whispered, her resolve softening just for a moment.
Ned closed the distance and wrapped his arms around her. He held her tight, burying his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her—fading lavender and woodsmoke. It was a desperate embrace, a silent apology for a thousand broken promises. Serena held him back, her hands resting on the rough wool of his cloak, allowing herself one final moment of comfort before the cold reality set in.
They stood there for a long moment, two shadows merged into one under the indifferent gaze of the moon.
Then, they separated.
Ned cleared his throat, wiping his eyes with the back of his leather glove. He turned his attention downward, to the two small figures standing silently in the snow.
He crouched low, ignoring the wet slush soaking into his breeches, bringing himself to eye level with his children.
"Lyra," Ned said gently.
The girl turned her face toward him. The white bandage over her eyes was stark against her pale skin.
Ned reached out and took her small, cold hands in his large, warm ones.
"I will try to see for your eyes," Ned said, his voice trembling. "I will send Maesters if I can. I will search for healers. I hope… I hope you don't blame your father for the darkness you live in."
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