The roasted fish had been stripped to the bone, and the warm, crackling bonfire was slowly reducing to a pile of glowing orange embers.
As the freezing night began to fully claim the Wolfswood, the temperature plummeted drastically. The kind of cold that seeped through wool and bit directly into the bone descended upon the clearing. The laughter and chatter of the orphans finally died down, replaced by shivering and the drawing of thick cloaks. Yoriichi and Lyra bid their friends a warm farewell, promising to bring an even bigger catch next time.
The walk back to their secluded hut was quiet, the crunch of their boots on the fresh, hardened snow a familiar, comforting rhythm. Yoriichi walked slightly ahead, his breath puffing in rhythmic, controlled clouds. He was passively cycling his Total Concentration Breathing, radiating enough subtle body heat to ensure his sister, walking closely behind him, didn't feel the worst of the biting wind.
When they arrived, the heavy ironwood door was unbarred from the inside. The hearth was already blazing, casting a golden, flickering light across the well-insulated room.
Serena greeted her children with a tired but deeply loving smile. She had spent the entire day managing the complex logistics of her underground empire, but she immediately set aside her ledgers to serve them warm bowls of thick venison stew.
They ate in comfortable silence, the bond between the three of them acting as the strongest shield against the harsh world outside. Within an hour, the twins were fast asleep under a mountain of furs, resting their growing bodies for whatever grueling training the next day would bring.
Serena stayed awake a little longer. She quietly checked the locks, slid a freshly sharpened dagger under her pillow, and stared into the fire. She could feel a shift in the air. The long game she had been playing for years was finally reaching a tipping point.
And while Mole's Town slept in peaceful, heavily guarded silence, the atmosphere at Castle Black was thick with anxiety.
The Lord Commander's Keep, Castle Black
The wind howled like a wounded beast against the massive, monolithic ice of the Wall, violently rattling the heavy oak shutters of the Commander's keep. Inside, a fire roared in the large stone hearth, but it did absolutely nothing to chase away the deep, biting cold that seemed to live permanently in the very stones of the fortress.
A heavy, urgent knock echoed through the room.
Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, the "Old Bear," looked up from a chaotic scatter of supply ledgers, maps, and tallies of salted cod. His thick, graying beard bristled, and his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. "Enter!"
The heavy door creaked open, revealing the nervous, round face of Lord Steward Bowen Marsh. But it was the man being guided in beside him that truly surprised Mormont. It was Maester Aemon, moving slowly with the help of his cane, his cloudy, blind eyes fixed straight ahead, wrapped in three layers of heavy black wool.
Mormont stood immediately, offering a respectful nod to the ancient Maester, even though the old man couldn't see it. "Maester Aemon. Lord Steward. I presume this is an emergency situation, since you both came to brave this freezing wind to see me at this hour?"
"You presume correctly, Lord Commander," Aemon said, his voice soft, yet carrying a weight that commanded absolute silence in the drafty room.
Mormont sighed heavily, rubbing his tired eyes, and gestured for them to take the wooden chairs opposite his heavy desk. He poured two cups of hot, spiced wine from an iron kettle over the fire and pushed them forward. "Let me guess. We need resources. Again."
"The food stores are dwindling faster than my worst projections, my Lord," Marsh began, wringing his plump hands nervously over his ledger. "The rot got into the last shipment of grain from the Umbers. And the weapons... the steel we have is rusting, breaking, or simply not sharp enough. We cannot sustain the garrisons at this rate. If the wildlings mount a coordinated attack on the Shadow Tower or Eastwatch, we will break."
Mormont slammed a heavy, calloused fist onto the table, making the wine cups violently rattle.
"That useless, whoring King!" Mormont cursed openly, his voice booming off the stone walls, completely devoid of political caution. "Robert Baratheon sits on his iron chair, drinking himself into an early grave, surrounded by flatterers and lickspittles, completely not caring for the realm!"
He continued, "Since the day he took that cursed crown, the supplies sent to the Wall have gotten shorter and shorter, and now... nothing! We are left to freeze and starve in the dark while protecting their ungrateful, fat necks!"
Bowen Marsh's eye twitched nervously. He looked over his shoulder toward the door, sweating despite the freezing ambient temperature. Very few men would dare to curse the King so openly, but Jeor Mormont was a man of the North, and his patience with Southern politics had completely dried up.
Mormont took a deep, ragged breath, forcing himself to calm down. He looked at Marsh's pale face and waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry your head, Lord Steward. The King won't hear me from King's Landing. I will call for help from my own house on Bear Island. I will also write a personal letter and plead with House Stark, and the other Northern houses. When Benjen Stark returns from his ranging, I will discuss the matter with him directly. The North remembers the Wall, even if the South has forgotten."
"Lord Commander, please, you don't need to put yourself so low as to beg just yet," Marsh said hurriedly, leaning forward. "Maester Aemon has recommended a plan. We came to get it approved by you."
Mormont's bushy eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. His interest was completely piqued. "Oh? Is there a plan that doesn't involve me begging on my knees to the high lords? Please, tell me."