Days turned into a week. The journey became a blur of grey skies and rocky camps.
They slept under the wagon when it snowed. They ate hard cheese and dried beef. The luxury of Winterfell was a distant memory, but strangely, Serena felt stronger. The cold stripped away the softness, leaving only the iron underneath.
The terrain grew rougher. The grass disappeared entirely, replaced by a ruddy, rocky soil filled with pebbles and slate. The wind grew louder, a constant, low-pitched moan that sounded like a giant in pain.
"Nearly there," Tomard announced one morning, pointing his whip forward. "See that rise? The Mole's Town entrance is just beyond it. We'll be there by midday."
Yoriichi sat up straighter. He felt it before he saw it.
A pressure.
It wasn't magic, exactly. It was the sheer, massive presence of something colossal disrupting the wind currents.
"The Wall," Yoriichi whispered.
"I don't see it," Lyra said, tilting her head. "But I hear it. It sings. A low, sad song. Like ice cracking."
They crested the rise, and there it was.
Not the Wall yet—that was still miles further north, a white line barely visible against the clouds.
They saw Mole's Town.
Or rather, they saw what passed for it.
Serena had expected a town. A poor one, yes, but a town. She expected walls, a gate, perhaps a market square.
What she saw was a muddy scar on the landscape.
There was a single, large timber building on the surface—a ramshackle structure with a sagging roof that looked like a stable mated with a tavern. Around it were a few smaller sheds and a well.
But the real "town" was evidenced only by the dozens of chimneys poking out of the snowy ground like gravestones. Plumes of grey smoke rose from the earth, staining the pristine white snow with soot.
"It is... underground?" Serena asked, staring at the holes in the earth.
"Aye," Tomard nodded, pulling the horses to a slow walk. "Warmer that way. The wind can't get you if you're ten feet down. They call them 'moles' for a reason. Dig deep enough, and you find the warmth."
They rode closer. The place looked abandoned at first glance, but as they approached the main surface building, Serena saw the signs of life.
And they were not good signs.
A pile of refuse—broken barrels, old bones, and frozen filth—lay unburied near the entrance. A group of three men, dressed in the ragged black cloaks of the Night's Watch, were staggering out of the timber building, laughing drunkenly. One of them pissed openly against the wall, not caring who saw.
"Low management," Serena murmured, her eyes sharp. "Poor hygiene. No perimeter guard. No organization."
"My Lady," Tomard interrupted gently, stepping down from the driver's bench into the ankle-deep slush. He pointed his whip not at the building, but past it, toward a smaller, solitary structure that slumped in its shadow. "The landlord—a man named Gared—runs the main hall there, the 'Mole's Hole.' But Lord Stark… he arranged for privacy. Your dwelling is over there."
Serena followed his gaze.
Whatever romantic notions of a "cottage" one might have had vanished instantly. The hut Ned Stark had secured was little more than a wooden shack, its timber grey and warped from years of harsh winters. It sat uncomfortably close to the main entrance of the brothel—less than twenty paces away.
"Privacy," Serena murmured, arching a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "If the wind dies down, we'll be able to hear every sinner's confession through the walls."
"It was the only structure available above ground that wasn't… occupied," Tomard said apologetically, glancing at the brothel. "Most live down in the tunnels. It's safer, warmer. But Lord Stark insisted you have your own door."
Serena signaled the children, and they began the trek through the mud.
As they passed the main building—the surface entrance to the famous underground brothel—the reality of Mole's Town assaulted them. The oak door of the "Mole's Hole" banged open, and a wave of stale heat, the smell of cheap ale, and the raucous sound of bawdy singing rolled out into the freezing afternoon air.
A scantily clad woman, shivering violently in a thin shawl, leaned against the doorframe, smoking a pipe. She eyed Serena's decent cloak and the armed guards with dull, dead eyes before spitting into the snow and turning back inside.
"Don't look," Tomard whispered to the children.
But Yoriichi was looking. He wasn't looking at the woman's exposed skin; he was looking at the structural beams of the brothel entrance. Rotting wood, he noted. Load-bearing pillar on the left is listing. Fire hazard is high.
They reached their hut.
It was humble, bordering on squalid. The thatch roof looked like it had been patched with mud, and the single window was covered by a stretched, oiled skin rather than glass.
Tomard pushed the door open. It groaned on rusted hinges.
The inside was dim, smelling of dust and pine resin. It was a single room with a cold hearth, a rough-hewn table, and a wide sleeping pallet pushed against the far wall. It was small. It was dark. It was a far cry from the warm, bustling servants' quarters of Winterfell.
"It will need work," Tomard said, looking around grimly. "I can have the men chop firewood before we leave, My Lady. Patch the roof. It's going to be a cold night."
Serena stepped inside. She ran a gloved finger along the dusty table, leaving a streak in the grime.
She listened.
Through the thin timber walls, she could hear the muffled thrum of the brothel next door—the heavy boots of men, the clinking of tankards, the shouting of deals being made in the dark. It was loud, chaotic, and dangerously close.
Most women would have wept at being placed next to a den of iniquity. Most would have felt the shame of raising children in the shadow of a whorehouse.
Serena turned to the door, looking back at the brothel entrance where men were lining up even before sunset. She didn't smile. Her face tightened, the protective instinct of a mother warring with the harsh reality of their situation. She wasn't looking for a ladder yet; she was looking for a shield.
"Yes, Tom," Serena said, her voice steady but lacking the warmth of the past. She untied her cloak, her eyes scanning the flimsy latch on the entrance. "Please. Patch the roof. And check the hinges on this door. I want a heavy bar installed inside. Something strong enough to hold back a drunkard."
She looked at Yoriichi and Lyra.
"Unpack the wagon," she commanded gently. "We make this place safe first. Then we rest."
Tomard nodded, relieved she was being practical. He barked orders to his men, and for the next few hours, the sound of hammers and axes drowned out the noise from the brothel. They worked with the efficiency of soldiers who knew they were leaving a woman and children alone in a bad place. They patched the thatch with spare tarp, reinforced the doorframe with iron nails, and stacked a mountain of firewood against the side of the hut.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the hut was no longer a ruin. It was a fortress. Small, ugly, and cold, but secure.
Tomard wiped the sweat from his brow and bowed low. "It is done, My Lady. The door will hold."
"Thank you, Tom," Serena said, handing him a small skin of wine she had saved. "Safe journey back to Winterfell."
As the wagon rattled away into the twilight, leaving them truly alone, Serena ushered her children inside and slid the new, heavy wooden bar into place with a solid thud. She listened to the lock click, her hand lingering on the wood. They were safe for tonight. Tomorrow, the real work would begin.