Lady Catelyn Stark sat rigid in her high-backed chair. She now intend to speak, to cast this woman out with the fury of a scorned wife, to demand the guards throw them into the snow where bastards belonged. But the words died in her throat.
Her mouth felt dry, sealed shut by an instinct she couldn't name.
She was looking at the boy—Yoriichi. He stood beside his mother, small and frail in his roughspun tunic, yet his presence filled the room like a sudden drop in air pressure. His eyes, that unnatural shade of dark crimson, were locked onto hers. There was no hatred in them. There was no fear. There was only a terrifying, abyssal calm.
It was the look of a predator deciding if the prey was worth the effort of the kill.
A chill crawled up Catelyn's spine, slipping beneath her furs and settling deep in her marrow. It was a sensation she had never felt before—not even when she first came North to this savage, cold land.
What is he? she thought, her breath hitching. That is not the stare of a child. That is the stare of something ancient.
"My Lady?"
The whisper came from a guard near the wall. The silence had stretched too long. The household guard, seeing the Lady's frozen distress and the Lord's pale face, took a step forward. His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword.
Shhhing.
The sound of steel shifting in a scabbard was soft, but in the dead silence of the hall, it sounded like a scream.
Beside Serena, Torra's body went rigid. The older woman dropped her hand to her waist, her fingers curling around the handle of her skinning knife. Her eyes darted between the three guards approaching them. She was one woman with a rusty knife against armored men, but her stance was that of a cornered bear. She would die before she let them touch the children.
"Don't," Benjen Stark hissed from the High Table, half-rising from his seat. "Ned, stop them."
But Ned Stark did not speak.
The Lord of Winterfell sat like a statue carved from ice. His grey eyes were wide, fixed on Serena's face. He saw the faded blue dress—the same one she had worn the last time he saw her, years ago. He saw the lines of exhaustion etched around her eyes. He saw the blindfolded girl and the red-eyed boy.
Guilt, heavy and suffocating, crushed his chest. He wanted to stand. He wanted to shout 'Leave them be!' He wanted to rush down and hold his children.
But he couldn't.
To his right sat the envoys from King's Landing—spies for the Crown in all but name. To his left sat Catelyn, the mother of his trueborn heir, the woman who held the alliance with the Riverlands together. If he acknowledged Serena now, if he showed affection to a bastard in front of the Southern court, he would humiliate Catelyn and weaken House Stark's standing.
So, the Honorable Ned Stark did the only thing he felt he could do. He remained silent.
And that silence broke Serena's heart more than any shout could have.
Serena watched him. She saw his jaw clench. She saw the conflict in his eyes. But mostly, she saw that he wasn't moving.
He won't choose us, she realized, the fragile hope she had carried for five years shattering like glass. He loves us in the dark. But in the light, we are just stains on his honor.
The guards were closer now. The lead guard, a burly man with a scarred nose, sneered as he reached out to grab Torra's shoulder.
"No," Serena whispered.
She couldn't let Torra die for this. She couldn't let her children see blood on their nameday.
Serena bowed her head low. It was a deep, submissive bow, the kind a servant gives to a king who has just ordered their execution.
"My Lady… My Lord," Serena stammered, her voice thick with unshed tears. She pulled Torra back, forcing the older woman to release her grip on the knife. "Forgive us. We… we have made a mistake coming here."
Catelyn didn't answer. She was still recovering from the chill of the boy's gaze, her chest heaving slightly.
"We will leave," Serena said, her voice barely a whisper, cracking under the weight of her humiliation. "We will not darken your door again."
She turned, her movements stiff and jerky. "Come, children. Come, Torra."
Yoriichi didn't resist. He simply broke eye contact with Catelyn and turned to follow his mother. But before he did, he paused for a fraction of a second, his gaze sweeping over the High Table one last time. He looked at Robb Stark, who was staring with open-mouthed curiosity. He looked at Ned Stark, who was staring at his plate.
Then, they were gone.
The heavy oak doors creaked shut behind them, sealing the warmth of the Great Hall away from the cold of the courtyard.
For a moment, no one moved.
The guards looked up at the High Table, uncertain. Should they follow? Should they arrest them?
Ned Stark slowly shook his head. It was a minute movement, barely visible, but the Captain of the Guards caught it.
Let them go.
The tension broke, but not cleanly. It shattered into a thousand whispers.
"Well," chuckled one of the King's Landing messengers, a man with a greasy beard and a velvet doublet stained with wine. He picked up a chicken leg, tearing into it with greasy fingers. "I must say, Lord Stark, the North is grim, but your taste in women is… robust."
A few of the men-at-arms at the lower tables snickered, emboldened by the alcohol.
"Did you see the hips on that one?" another envoy muttered to his companion, loud enough to be heard. "A bit worn around the edges, perhaps, but a fine ride for a cold night, eh? No wonder the Wolf howls."
"And the boy?" the companion laughed, wiping ale from his mouth. "Red eyes? Perhaps the mother lay with a demon while the Lord was away."
"Or perhaps she's a witch. That would explain why the honorable Lord lost his way."
The whispers grew louder, cruder. They were stripping Serena naked with their words, turning her tragedy into a tavern joke.
Ned Stark's hands were trembling beneath the table. The "Wolf Blood"—the wild, violent temper that had led his brother Brandon to his death—was boiling in his veins. He could handle insults to himself. He could handle war. But hearing these soft, southern men speak of Serena like cattle…
BAM!
The sound was like a gunshot.
Ned Stark's fist slammed onto the heavy wooden table, rattling the plates and toppling a silver pitcher of wine. The dark red liquid spilled across the white tablecloth like a spreading wound.