It had not yet settled in Hilena's mind that the King of the Seven Kingdoms was to visit Winterfell. Her home. However, the excitement was dulled by the immense increase in work and manners education in preparation. Wear formal dresses, do your hair properly, act modestly, smile pleasantly but not toothily, and most of all, only speak when spoken to. She repeated the list of etiquette internally every day. Indeed, if Hilena told herself how to act enough, she could be as such. Today, the King and his retinue arrived, and she needed every god in her favor.

Lord Stark had called for a feast larger than any in Winterfell's history in the King's honor, so Hilena had been hunting for fresh game since dawn. Alone, she managed two rabbits and a pheasant, which she promptly brought to the butcher in the castle's kitchens. Bow around her shoulders, quiver at her hip, kills in hand: Hilena was ever herself.

Unfortunately, the commoner found the kitchens occupied by a sight, making her wish she was blind. For reasons beyond Hilena, Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy, and Jon Snow were present. To be cleaned up for the feast, of all things. Really. In the kitchens? Hilena stalked past them as they stared. She laid the pheasants and rabbit down on a table, then pivoted to face the only tolerable boy, Jon.

"How're you, Jon?" Hilena kept her face blank. The boy, getting his hair shorn, glanced at her with a subtle smile.

"Well," he said, still smiling, "Your hunt was good then?" Theon barely contained a burst of laughter.

"Yes, and now I'll be going," Hilena answered dryly, spurring into a walk.

"We'll speak at the feast!" Jon called out, followed by more laughter. Seven hells. Seven hells! She stormed to the stables to get herself home as soon as possible. The commoner continued cursing out the lords in her head as she rode out of the castle gates. She only spared Jon Snow some choice words.

Unlike Starks or Greyjoy wards, Jon understood what it was like to not be so high and mighty. A Stark bastard, indeed, but whether the house's name or his bastard birth determined his treatment was as changeable as the winds. When he was seen as more of a bastard, Hilena was there for him. They drank together at the Smoking Log, rode horses in the Wolfswood, and entertained the girls of the Winter Town. He's my only true friend.

Hilena frowned. I used to have other friends. He was not so true.

Finally, Hilena arrived home, pushing her thoughts away as she dismounted her mare. Her home in the Winter Town was quaint, especially under the foreboding, long shadows of Winterfell's great towers. She pushed open the front door with a creak.

"Anyone 'ere?" Hilena called out. Silence was her answer. Even Sara is out? Good.

The girl made her way up the narrow, rickety staircase to her bedchamber. Her room was a tiny thing; its only contents were a bed, chest, and a small bookcase filled with borrowed materials from the Winterfell library. Parchments and books lay across the case and shelves, some spilling onto the ground. The mess was only due to Hilena's minimal time in her room. She took her bow off and laid it against the wall, then unbuckling her quiver belt to rest it too.

Hilena sighed and looked at what had been laid out on her bed. Hullen must've told Sara to take it out for me. A dark grey lambswool and long-sleeved kirtle and linen chemise awaited her. She scrunched her nose. It was not the formal wear that uneased her, but its origin. I know it's mother's. Father said it was.

Hilena was not like her mother, at least not who she was told her mother was. As the girl aged, she began to see that Mariya was more of an idea than a woman to Hullen. The perfect wife: beautiful, kind, advanced in womanly arts, a fantastic horse rider. Hilena's father said the two shared beauty and a talent for horseback riding. But such words were paired with disappointment in his eyes. His daughter was loose like a man and dressed the part, fighting, hunting, and fucking her way to shame in any father's eyes. Hilena sniffed. Blood, hay, and sweat. How attractive a scent.

Her eyes returned to the clothes on her bed. It's wrong to wear her clothes and act as she would want when I am anything but. Well, I suppose what she would. Guilt pooled in her stomach and made it turn. It is but for a day. I can be a good child for a day.

Hilena stood up, sighing, and stripped off her jerkin, tunic, and riding boots, grabbing the chemise and the kirtle. She wrestled them over her trousers, not bothering with smallclothes. Eventually, the girl got both items on and ran her fingers over the cloth. The fabric stretched awkwardly across her shoulders, tight across her back. I suppose I was not gifted with my mother's shoulders. Or she never touched a bow. Dresses were not practical for her line of work. Hilena paused, stepping around herself in a circle while observing the clothes. Fuck I still need to wash up, she suddenly remembered.

As Hilena stripped off her clothes, she noticed something on her bed. She did not know how she missed it, laid below her mother's clothes. A cloak, refined, with silky dark fur about its top. Stark's. The commoner flinched at all the memories that fabric held. It was a gravestone, an extant reminder of her dead affections. Then fury lit inside her towards her father. Why does he think I need that? I don't need a cloak. I should burn it, give it away, bury it, get it out of my sight and home.

Hilena stormed into her privy, the cloak still lying on her bed.

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The Winterfell courtyard buzzed, people scrambling everywhere, and the air congested with shouting. Through the chaos, Hilena scanned for someone to inform her where she would end up once the hectic crowd subsided. Her father had told her the family would be standing with the Starks and other distinguished residents to greet the royal host. Where? As if I would be told.

"Dear sister, is that you?" A condescending, deep voice said behind her. Hilena turned to her brother Harwin, dressed in his guard uniform, grinning widely. She laughed and brought him into a hug.

"I suppose it is," she quipped, "Don't look it, but..." The girl stared down at the kirtle.

"Father will be pleased, at least," Harwin said, concern creased in his brow, "I would hope your effort would increase his... good opinion." Said effort was smelling of clean linens and sections of Hilena's hair twisted into a braid at the back of her head.

"Well, you look ever handsome in your armor and leathers," Hilena bantered, clasping her brother's ironclad shoulders, "Those southern maids and ladies will be clamoring for a look at you."

Harwin guffawed. "And you are spared from the looks of southern boys and lords?"

"Spared? When am I ever? Those southern boys have more pleasant faces to look upon than mine own."

"Your face is plenty pleasant, sister," Harwin sighed. "Unfortunately, I cannot gaze upon it for much longer. I have been posted outside the gates, awaiting the king. I shall see you at the feast?" Hilena smiled and nodded, and her brother kissed her forehead gently. She grinned as Harwin left the bustling yard, disappearing among the people.

In a sudden rush, guardsmen and servants arrived in organized lines. Luckily, Hilena spotted the visages of her father and stepmother. Pushing through the crowd towards her guardians, dread settled in Hilena's stomach. She loathed the words Harwin and Sara would have for her.

"Hilena!" The girl flinched at the sound of her father's voice. He stared daggers at Hilena from some couple yards away. "Come over here, with haste, girl, haste!" Hilena shuffled to stand to the right of her father. To his left was Sara, flaxen hair braided and bosom accented by her shift.

"Oh, isn't she beautiful! Look at 'er hair!" Hilena shot her a look. Sara's smile was sickeningly fake. "My dear Hullen, you're so lucky to have such a... lovely maiden for a daughter." Hilena's lips pressed into a deep frown. Her stepmother's cadence of speech may as well have been pins poking into the girl's skin. Maiden. How laughable.

"Thank you, love," Hullen replied, glaring at Hilena. Still, Sara smiled and kissed her husband on the cheek. He grinned back, wide and bright. Hilena turned her gaze away, her heart constricting in her chest. Did he smile that way at my mother?

To distract herself, Hilena surveyed the people in front of her. Jon was two rows ahead of her, next to Theon Greyjoy. The kindest of the stablehands, Hodor, was off to the side, and the Starks were all at the forefront. There was tall Lord Stark, who wore a heavy fur cloak, Lady Catelyn with her crimson hair, Sansa Stark with her bright copper locks, and Robb Stark with his auburn curls and a pelt around his shoulders. Her gaze returned to Jon, wishing he would turn around and smile at her. It would ease her mind.

"Where's Arya?" Lady Stark's urgent whisper carried across the crowd. "Sansa, where's your sister?" The eldest Stark girl shrugged in response. Then came little Arya sprinting toward them, curiously wearing a guard's helmet. A quick smile spread across Hilena's face at the sight.

"Hey, hey, hey, hey!" Lord Stark caught his young daughter's arm, bringing her towards him. "What are you doing with that on?" Arya's father swiftly removed the helmet and said, "Go on." The Stark girl groaned in defeat and shoved her brother Brandon out of her way.

Hilena leaned back and forth to view the arrived royal host. She would not admit it to anyone, but she was excited. The girl had never met true southerners before; nonetheless, the family of the king himself. So many stories were told of these lords and ladies, and here they were in front of her.

First came a man in brilliant golden armor atop a white horse, behind him a boy with blond hair who wore rich burgundy clothes and a luxurious pelt for a cloak. That must be the crown prince, Hilena realized, looking at the boy again. Seven hells. From what I've heard of a young Robert, I would think the prince to be more pleasant to gaze upon. Behind the prince was a man in steel armor, sporting a helm shaped like a snarling hound. Then, a vast and intricate wheelhouse of oiled wood and gilded metal entered and stopped. The extravagance was overwhelming to the senses.

Finally, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms arrived with more men in golden armor. However, this immense man riding a black warhorse could not be the Robert Baratheon. Well, he's just gotten old, hasn't he? How disappointing. Hilena had heard stories of the immense, powerful Baratheon since she was a little girl. The man who struck down Rhaegar Targaryen, who wielded a warhammer in a single hand. A brute.

Hilena stumbled into her kneel for the king, tripping on her clothes. A guard laughed behind her quietly. Stupid. This is ridiculous. Hullen let out a heavy sigh. After a long pause, everyone rose to stand again, and Hilena jerked her head to see the king and his retinue. What will they say? Do?

"Your Grace," Lord Stark said, bowing his head to the king, his old friend.

Robert Baratheon paused momentarily, then said, "You've got fat."

Hilena had the urge to laugh at the absurdity. I don't know what I expected. Lord Stark and the king began laughing, entering a tight hug. King Robert embraced Lady Catelyn and continued speaking to Lord Stark and his family.

Hilena stopped listening to the king and the Starks regarding the other guests. The first man in the resplendent armor removed his helmet, revealing a handsome face and long blonde hair.

The Kingslayer, she identified, Jaime Lannister. To talk to him... that would be something. Next, Hilena turned her attention to the approaching queen. Cersei Lannister, the twin sister of the Kingslayer. She shared all of her brother Jaime's features. The twins of Tywin Lannister were beautiful in the face but visibly cold in disposition.

Lord Stark kissed the queen's pale hand. "My queen." Lady Stark curtseyed and repeated the courtesy.

"Take me to your crypt," the king interrupted, "I want to pay my respects."

"We've been riding for a month, my love," the queen responded with no warmth in her voice, "Surely the dead can wait." The Baratheon ignored his wife, turning to Lord Stark.

"Ned," the king addressed, then turned to stalk away. Lord Eddard promptly ducked away from the crowd to follow. Everyone looked around listlessly, and all Hilena could feel was disappointed.

»»-------------- --------------««

Laughter and shouting congested the Great Hall of Winterfell. Giant canvas banners painted with direwolves, stags, and lions were draped on the stone walls. Iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling, raised by ropes, filling the vast room with rutilant candlelight. The smoke of meats and the reek of wine filled the air, intoxicating the hall.

Hilena sat among the other smallfolk of Winterfell and afar, excited to partake in as much drink and conversation as she pleased. Thankfully, she had convinced her father to let her wear her everyday clothing to the event. Jon Snow was jovial beside her, allowed to be at the feast as long as he was out of sight of the royals. Before the proper festivities could begin, the highborns had to make their extravagant entrance. Hilena only withheld her frustration about the procession because she was invested in getting another look at the southerners.

First came Lord Stark with the queen at his arm, the blonde donning the most fabricated smile Hilena had ever seen. Even if beautiful, her eyes were near dead. Next was the king and Lady Stark, the former appearing as a greater misfortune than when he arrived, sweating through his silks. Lady Stark's smile was timid, but her composure remained sharp.

"What do you think of him?" Jon whispered into her ear, looking at the king. "The Demon of the Trident?"

She murmured back, "It is quite hard to envision a man so deep in his cups able to crush the Targaryens." Jon nodded in response, then turned to help along a helpless Rickon Stark. As the boy tottered away, the Snow smirked at the next arrivals. Hilena frowned.

Robb Stark walked across the hall with the princess at his arm. Myrcella, I believe. She was very young but looked, as expected, a perfect princess. She directed shy glances and smiles at Robb; he just grinned like a fool at the masses.

"I think the princess is insipid," Jon muttered. Your brother, more like.

"She's a princess." Hilena shook her head. "Rich little girls rarely get the chance to appear as anything but insipid, Jon."

Next arrived the Stark girls, each paired with a prince. Arya was utterly despondent next to the littlest one. At the same time, Sansa appeared radiant next to the crown prince, who Hilena had learned was named Joffrey. The crown prince seemed bored and regarded the room with disdain. A royal prick, that one. After the pairs were the Lannister brothers, though Jaime and Tyrion bore minimal resemblance. Jaime was tall and handsome, like knights in all the stories, with hair of gold thread and a smile that cut like a knife. Tyrion was half his brother's height, with dark, shaggy blond hair. He lacked the sparkling green Lannister eyes the whole family seemingly shared. Not so monstrous, is he? No, not at all.

"Don't you think Jaime is what a king should look like?" Jon asked Hilena, his gaze lingering on the Lion of Lannister.

"Any fool can look like a king," she mumbled, eyes remaining on Jaime as he walked away. Lastly, Theon Greyjoy and Benjen Stark, Jon's uncle and a man of the Night's Watch, drew up the back. Benjen directed a warm smile at the Snow as he passed. Toasts were made once everyone had reached their proper spots, and thanks were given.

Hilena did not precisely listen. In seconds, the room erupted back into sound and smell. In no time, Jon filled his cup from a passing flagon of summerwine. Hilena was not fond of wine, so she found a tankard into which she poured a hearty dark beer.

"Hungry again?" Jon said to no one in particular. Confused, Hilena scanned around them, then noticed a pair of scarlet eyes beneath the table. Oh, it's Ghost.

The Stark's direwolves had become a source of many delights and frustrations. Ghost was Hilena's favorite. The albino wolf was not aggressive to her, even letting her pet him. She had seen little of the other wolves, as she rarely did see their owners. They were all well-behaved beasts, even little Arya's, despite her owner's wildness. Shaggydog, Rickon's wolf, was the real nuisance. The wolf continuously scared the horses and people, causing multiple accidents that resulted in someone getting hurt or a horse bolting into the courtyard. They are just wolves.

Smoke filled the hall and hung in the air, stinging Hilena's eyes and permeating her nose. She poured more beer into her tankard, one after another. The sound of bards singing and playing their lutes was drowned out by the clangor of goblets and a hundred conversations. Perhaps Hilena conversed with those around her; Jon had turned away from her by now. Or maybe he had left. The girl was more occupied with enjoying the richness of the feast's plentiful fare.

"Oi!" A voice snapped suddenly next to Hilena, followed by a sharp poke to her back.

"OW!" Hilena yelped, "What in the hells is your..." The commoner's voice trailed off as she turned and saw the perpetrator. "Hells, Senna." The other girl in question pulled a disgruntled face, her violet eyes piercing.

"Are ye drunk? Fucking hells, Hilena, yer drunk so soon?" Senna's words were rude but undercut with a sense of concern, "Look at the state of ye."

"What do you want?" Hilena groaned back, slumping forward onto the table.

"That Esric fellow kept askin' me for ye—"

"ESRIC?" Hilena hissed, immediately standing up in her seat and throwing her legs over the bench. She stared down at her friend. "What in any fucking hell does Esric want with me?" The Dornish girl looked away timidly.

"Yes, well, I figured I'd go lookin' for ye, and I wouldn't find ye, so he'd go, but... yer 'ere," she answered, her voice nervous, "I think he's drunk too. It's why he wouldn't take a no—" Senna's eyes widened as she saw something in the distance. Hilena whipped her head around to see Esric approaching them, his broad figure easily recognizable. Shit. Her heart lurched in a panic.

"Let me get myself home then," Hilena said quickly, "I need some air." She stormed off, not bothering to see if Senna or Esric was following her, wishing they were not. The last thing she needed that night was prolonged conversations with those two. Hilena dodged serving maids, left the bustling hall, and turned a corner into a dimly lit hallway.

"Goin' so soon?" Esric smirked down at her, his teeth a surprisingly bright flash of white in the dark. Hilena stumbled back to not crash into him, then walked further back. She averted her gaze to see Senna running down the other end of the hall, long black curls and skirts flying.

"I told him to stop! I did!" The other girl yelled down the passage, swiftly placing herself between Hilena and Esric. She heaved, pressed up against her friend. Esric rolled his dark eyes and leaned against the closeby wall. The torches cast shadows across him.

"How sweet," The boy's voice was mocking. "Whores always band together." Hilena felt Senna tense out of anger. He's deep in his cups; the Others take him.

"You shut your mouth!" Hilena seethed, striding forward to face Esric. He cannot intimidate me.

"I just wanted to talk with ye is all," Esric said, brushing away her comment, "I know you were with that bastard. His broodin' must get boring for a girl like ye." He looked earnestly into Hilena's eyes, but there was also a slyness in them. Thick brows and high cheekbones cut him a handsome visage. How he wastes it.

"You are deep in your cups, go home," Hilena insisted, grimacing. Let him grow sober enough to heed me. Her own soberness was slowly impending.

"She's right, go home," Senna piped in from behind the other two, then approaching, "Ye scared the shit out of me, ye daft ass!" The boy repressed a laugh.

Esric countered, "Scared ye? Come now, why would—"

Senna came even closer, spitting out her words. "Ye started near runnin' after Hilena; why do ye think I stepped in—"

"Oh, that was runnin', was it?" Esric cocked a brow, leaning into Senna's face.

"Now stop it, you two!" Hilena reached an arm to part them.

"Yer a right cunt—" Senna raised her hands to act until there came a sound of boots on stone.

"Is there a problem?" The voice was clear and deep. Hilena knew it well. The Others take me, now. Esric stiffened to stand straight, and Senna followed suit, politely clasping her hands in front of herself. Hilena adjusted the sleeves of her jerkin, her eyes shifting.

"No, m'lord," Esric answered tightly, "We'll be on our way, m'lord." Robb Stark nodded at the boy, who promptly left, visibly flustered. Hells. Hilena could feel eyes on her, and her breath caught for a brief moment.

"Apologies, m'lord." Senna dipped into a flimsy curtsy and grinned. She looked up at Hilena, expecting a word, a nod, a gesture. She's too lovely. Hilena smiled back curtly.

"Go on now," Hilena murmured to her friend, "I'll make my own way out." Senna's face dropped to disappointment, but she conceded and strolled away. Finally, Hilena gazed forward at the Stark. He was fidgeting, and the light of torches danced across him. When was he that tall? Robb Stark motioned to speak, but the girl simply said, "M'lord."

Hilena bowed her head and strode past the lordling without hesitation. She did not pause or think. The girl put on her horse's tack and rode out of the castle into the Winter Town. She went home, prepared for her work the next day, and then got into her straw bed. And did not sleep.