Days of Hilena's life smeared together like a hand upon freshly inked words. She awoke at dawn, set out for her work until dusk, and made merry in town until the hour of ghosts. Every night in bed, the girl wondered how she had not yet collapsed from sheer bore. Little punctuated her waking hours, so the moon had turned thrice since Winterfell emptied with little notice.

This is stupid, the commoner thought as she brushed a horse's mane. Stupid lordling chose me to replace my father. Even Hullen figured it would be Joseth. Why wasn't it? Hilena gently picked apart a knot in the courser's wiry, black hair. I could be in King's Landing with Harwin. Why am I not? The knot came loose, and a heavy breath escaped her chest.

"Mistress!" It was Hallis Mollen's voice coming from afar, unfortunately.

"What does Lord Stark demand, Hallis?" Hilena replied coolly. She could feel the man's presence and eyes upon her at the stall door, but she did not look at him.

"He asks ye to meet him in the Great Hall," the guard said, "Urgent matters." She picked up her coarse brush and continued to untangle the courser's mane.

"Urgent?" The brush caught on another knot, which she undid.

"Urgent. M'lord says ye must attend to it. Forthwith."

Hilena sighed and put down the brush, and turned to leave the stall. Hallis stood aside as the gate swung out, and she glared at the man, then felt a pang of guilt. He has not done anything to me and is not so different from me. She strode to the Great Hall, the captain of the guard putting a distinct distance between them as he followed. Her stomach sloshed, and her skin prickled. Urgent. What in any hell could be so urgent that concerns me?

The Great Hall was a dull place when devoid of a feast. Hallis opened a door to enter the hall alongside Hilena, and the air inside was stagnant. The girl did not cast her eyes aside at who sat at the dais; she had grown tired of games of stares. The new Lord Stark was conversing with Maester Luwin; both sat high in their fine chairs at their fine table. A direwolf the size of a grown hound, Grey Wind, she supposed, lay before them calmly.

If the Gods are real, they are cruel, Hilena thought as she approached the dais. She could serve her father and live with serving Eddard Stark, but it had all gone too far. Anger simmered on her tongue at the sight of Robb Stark, her words waiting to burn. But in truth, she was helpless. Hilena took her orders, held her tongue, and did her duty because there was naught much else. She had long ago discarded fanciful notions of liberation. So, she approached in servitude.

"You asked for me, m'lord?" Hilena crossed her arms before herself, her ill-fitting leather jerkin stretching awkwardly. He had asked her, but she took it as an order. Everything Lord Stark said to her was a command.

Robb Stark cleared his throat. "That I did." He stood up from his seat and came down from the dais, Grey Wind following him. His scabbard, which held a proper blade, was too large for him. He is a mummer's lord. The boy stopped a yard from where the commoner stood, and his direwolf sat next to him obediently. If only Ghost was here.

"What news?" Hilena noticed the lord had something in his hands.

"A letter came for you... from the Night's Watch," he said and stepped forward, holding out the small scroll, "From Jon." Hilena snatched the scroll from Robb's gloved hand without hesitation, hastily turning away and breaking the wax seal to read the letter.

Hilena,

No one warned me about this place, no one but Tyrion Lannister. I am surrounded by cruelty and criminals. The master-at-arms and the others despise me when we train. It's not my fault that I am better than them. It's unbearably cold as well. My uncle Benjen is the warmest thing here. Are you well? I hope Robb is no trouble. I miss our evening drinks.

Jon

Hilena frowned, and her eyes became wet. Poor lad. A night of revelry with Jon Snow would make her smile and give her some respite. She rolled the letter tightly and blinked back her tears, remembering who stood so close to her. He's been trouble Jon, much trouble. Hilena tenderly tucked the scroll into her sleeve.

"There is more," Robb said. Hilena whipped her head to look at him. A wisp of auburn beard was on his face. His blue eyes were ice rather than sky. He continued, "As you've heard, my brother Brandon has awoken. Today, Tyrion Lannister visited and provided instructions on how Bran could ride a horse, even without his legs." The Lannister? How curious. She had seen the southern lord enter and leave Winterfell but did not question his visitation. The Stark gestured to Luwin to join him, the maester carrying a roll of parchment. The older man reached them and passed the scroll to Hilena. Robb stiffly clasped his hands before him. "If you could provide these plans to the saddler, I'd be very grateful. Elys is his name?" He remembers? Hilena unfurled the paper and examined the drawing.

"Yes, m'lord, this shouldn't be difficult to make, not for Elys," she answered, rolling the scroll up, "Mikken may be of help as well. Don't see how the saddle may do more than get m'lord's brother upon the horse, though."

Maester Luwin responded, "Lord Tyrion said a yearling must be shaped alongside Bran to respond to his voice and to know commands with the reins."

"Ah, I can think of a good filly already." Hilena let herself smile but kept her gaze on Luwin. "She has no proper name yet but is a smart little thing and sister to my Jenny."

"Would you train Bran and the yearling together?" Robb said. There it is, the urgent matter. She hesitated for a moment. I can say no. Joseth could do it. The Stark is asking, not ordering. But is he? Her grip tightened on the scroll. Bran is just a boy... and a cripple. What kind of person am I not to help him?

"Yes, m'lord, just give me when to do so," Hilena answered, glaring, but her heart was not in the frigid look. The commoner hoped the lordling did not think her animosity extended to Brandon.

"Tomorrow at midday," said Robb the Lord, unsmiling. Who even are you anymore, Robb Stark? A mummer through and through, stupid boy; I know you wear a mask. I wear my own disguises. Hilena nodded. She was more than happy to take leave of the Great Hall, the saddle plans tucked under her arm and Jon Snow's letter gently grasped in her hand.

The taste of black beer on Hilena's tongue washed away her worries. She had hastily rode to the Smoking Log after finishing her business in the castle. The bawdy alehouse was filled edge to edge with patrons, serving maids, hedge knights, cooks, and whores. The days had grown colder, and more smallfolk returned to the Winter Town, so the Log flourished.

Sickeningly sweet perfume, the squeals and giggles of girls, the mirthful guffaw of men, smoke, and char, the light clink of armor, horns, and cups. Hilena sat alone at a long table, half done with her beer tankard, and let the sounds and scents of the inn dominate her mind. It was almost a serenade, a cacophonous reverie of breath and material that reminded Hilena she had a beating heart and blood in her veins. She may have danced if there was a bard, but there were no songs. Anything would do to keep her thoughts at bay, to halt the notions that threatened to flood her with unease and fury.

A sudden hush came over the hall, and words became whispers. "Who's 'ere?" muttered a man near Hilena. Who cares? She drank from her mug.

"Hells, it's the Imp," another man replied. What!?

Her eyes shot up, and she inspected the room to find the lord. Then there he was, some tables away— Lord Tyrion Lannister— dressed in the finery of his house and a decadent cloak, followed by a guard in matching extravagance of gold and red. Highborns and their pride. So easy to see. Hilena remembered the lord's look from his time moons ago in Winterfell, his brief visit that morning, and his dirty blond hair and loathful countenance. The southerner approached a table, and a patron stood instantly to make room for the lord. The rest of the drinkers eyed him with distrust. Lord Tyrion took the open seat, then regarded the silent alehouse.

"Don't let me ruin your merriment," he proclaimed, his accent decidedly rich. "Some wine would be nice... and mayhaps a song?"

A flurry of serving maids came to the Lannister, and someone broke into a rendition of "A Cask of Ale." The alehouse became a living creature again, but the want to dance and be of mindless pleasure had left Hilena. Instead, she drained her cup and rose to speak with the Lord Lannister. If I can get more out of him about how to train a horse for Brandon, it will make my life easier. The girl waded through the room easily until she neared the lord. His finely armored guardsman grasped her shoulder as she stepped to speak to the Lannister. She shrugged him away.

"What do you want, wench?" the guard said, beady brown eyes staring at her under a thick brow.

"I wish to speak to Lord Tyrion of matters concerning Brandon Stark," Hilena replied, picking her words carefully, "I'm mistress of horse in Winterfell, ser." The man laughed, and she frowned.

"Let her come," Tyrion Lannister said, "She's no liar." Gods be good. The guard huffed and stepped away from her. The commoner swallowed thickly, recalling every courtesy she ever heard and how to converse without potential offense. She would be damned before she respected a highborn but knew forgetting herself in front of one was a dreadful mistake. Lord Tyrion turned his gaze and regarded Hilena with kind eyes.

Hilena bowed low. "M'lord, apologies if I've interrupted your fun."

The blond man laughed. "No, sweet girl, come sit and let me get you some wine."

"I prefer beer, m'lord," she chanced, then obliged and sat at the edge of the bench.

"Why do you wish to speak of Bran Stark?" Lord Tyrion said, waving over a barmaid with ales in her hands. Hilena tensed when she realized it was Kyra. Kyra, who had mocked her since they were girls, Kyra, who had been in Esric's bed when Hilena stumbled in. The serving girl placed the beers down and smiled broadly at Lord Tyrion, puffing her bosom like a bird. Hilena drank her beer meekly, blood pounding in her head.

"You gave instructions to Lord Stark so his brother may ride a horse," she answered, then cleared her throat, "I have been charged with training the horse and rider. I wish to know more."

"You found a good yearling?"

"Indeed. I wonder what the filly needs to know other than common commands."

"Not many, just too rely solely on the reins and voice, the particular inflections of Bran's voice and his hand." The lord sipped his beer and looked about the room.

"I suppose letting Bran name the yearling would be good... and allowing no other riders," Hilena drank again and tapped the mug with her fingers. "How'd you know I was no liar, m'lord?"

The Lannister smirked. "I recall seeing your face at the stables when I arrived, and you looked to be in command. When you called yourself mistress of horse, it was an easy conclusion that you were truthful." A barmaid swept by them and refilled their tankards of black beer. Hilena could hear a rowdy rendition of "The False and the Fair" from afar.

"The lord he came a-riding upon a rainy day, hey-nonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny...!"

"How'd you know I wasn't some lady? Why speak to a common?"

"The lady sat a-sewing upon a rainy day, hey-nonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny-hey...!"

"Do I look like a blind man?" he quipped, "I knew you were a common at once. And I have a soft spot in my heart for those who suffer in this life." His look at her was kind again but too close to pity. I am to be pitied, in his mind, she thought, Poor girl, being worked to the bone by the cruel Starks. Poor, poor girl. Hilena's eyes narrowed.

"Hey-nonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny-hey...!"

"I don't require your sympathy, Lord Lannister," her words cold as winter. She rose from the table and bowed shallowly. "Many thanks for the beer and your words, m'lord."

"You don't wish to speak of Jon Snow?" Tyrion Lannister interjected, gesturing to where she sat, "Apologies for displeasing you with such haste. It is a horrid habit of mine." Her eyes widened at Jon's name. I am an idiot; he was at the Wall with Jon. Snow told the lord of me and had him bring the letter. She resumed sitting next to the lord, shame crawling on her skin.

"You knew I was no liar 'cause of Jon," the commoner said, glaring at the southerner and his prideful visage, "He gave you my letter, and you gave it to Lord Stark. You knew more about me than a moment's glance. What's my name, m'lord?" The songs had halted.

"You're clever, Hilena," Lord Tyrion returned, "It's dangerous for you to be clever." His words were unnerving, as was the cunning glimmer in his blue-green eyes telling her to beware. What danger is there in wits for me? They keep me sane. The lord took a languid drink of his beer.

"Why lie to me?" She fidgeted with her hands underneath the table.

"I did not lie. I did recall your face from the yard," The Lannister sighed and drank again. "That I knew your name and Jon Snow is your friend was unimportant. I figured you would speak of the bastard first."

"He doesn't seem well," she muttered, sipping her beer. It should be Jon next to me, drinking and jesting. I should be forcing him to sing and petting Ghost under the table. But it is the Imp here now, the only man able to make Jon reconsider his life.

"No, the Watch is not what he wished. I saw some joy in him when he spoke of you, though. What a shame that you be separated." Every word strung together by the lord was caustic and vexing. But he is a Lannister. A kind, honest Lannister is rarer than a dragon.

"There must be more amusing ventures for you than mocking a common girl," she said, letting herself speak more plainly, "M'lord."

"You are right," Tyrion Lannister sighed heavily. "I have yet to delight in the brothel. The Greyjoy boy bestowed a suggestion upon me, though I already knew of Ros's charms. Would you know any other... charming girls?" Hilena did not question his assumption that she knew of the brothel's offerings or that she was not one herself. The lord was not wrong but likely did not know why. Someone has to provide the girls with food and friendship, and I get my coin elsewhere.

"Theon Greyjoy may be fatuous, but not in that. You need not but Ros. She's a good woman; treat her well again." Hilena recalled a time when Ros tried teaching her how to braid hair. I was dreadful, and she was so patient. The girl hesitated to call the older woman a friend. Hilena was acquainted with many people in the Winter Town and Winterfell but was amiable with few.

"Thank you for the company, mistress," Lord Tyrion remarked, then polishing off his mug of beer, "And your words. I will keep them in mind." He lumbered off of the bench and snapped his fingers at his guardsman. "A final question, though. Whereabouts is the Lady Catelyn?"

"I know not," Hilena replied, throwing her legs over the bench to face the lord. She recalled Lady Stark's departure from Winterfell at least a moon's turn ago. "I put the tack on m'lady's palfrey and no more. Not anyone but Lord Stark or Maester Luwin would know that."

"Hah, your lord would never tell me. Insolent boy, hm?" Tyrion Lannister contemplated her one more time, his eyes pity, judgment, and consideration all at once. Eyes like the Lord of the Seven Hells, they say. They had been trained on her, observing, and Hilena felt bare in his gaze. The lord smiled and continued, "Lord Stark made such a queer face when I presented that letter to him." Then, with a bow, the southern lord tottered his way out of the alehouse, his guard close behind. The tune of "The Rains of Castamere" began from some corner of the hall to see the Lannister out.

Hilena slouched with a groan, then seized her mug to drain its contents. She would rather go to bed drunk and senseless than parse through the words of Tyrion Lannister. The girl faced the table again, folding her arms to lay her head down, squeezing her eyes shut.

"And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low? Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know..." What a loathsome song, she thought, tempted to cover her ears. I'm a fool who's announced it proudly to all more than I already have. There was no doubt that the patrons of the alehouse had keenly listened to her talk with a Lion of Lannister. Sick rose in her stomach; the song was too loud, and she could feel sweat sticking her hair to her forehead.

"This a new 'abit of yers?" Senna's voice was a relief as sweet as a heaven. "Layin' on tables, drunk out yer mind?"

Hilena laughed against her arms but did not rise. "I am not drunk, simply tired."

"Let me take ye home." Senna ran her fingers along Hilena's scalp, then gently brushed them along her braid. No, not here. The Dornish girl's fingers reached her shoulder and clasped it.

"You worry too much," Hilena retorted, "Too much about me." Senna let out an exaggerated sigh, then shook the shoulder she held.

"Someone 'as to worry!" she said, somewhere between scorn and affection, "Let me least see ye enter yer house, come on." Hilena conceded and roused from the uncomfortable wooden table. Senna joined arm in arm with the other girl, leading her out of the Smoking Log. Hilena took in her friend's appearance; she was wearing her nicer kirtle, deep burnt orange with embroidery of the sun and leaves. It suits her eyes and her skin. She knows how pretty I think it is. Her violet eyes were affixed to the exit, and she held onto the other girl with a worrying tightness. Hilena could walk upright and alone, as she was perfectly alert. However, she remained silent as the gesture warmed Hilena's heart, and that was enough. Together, they retrieved Jenny from outside the alehouse and walked the mare alongside them towards Hilena's dwelling.

They were quiet and making slow progress due to Jenny. Hilena fiddled with her reins. The moon was still traveling up into the darkened and cloudless sky. There was no wind, but the air was crisp in a way it could only be at the hour. A howl came from afar, and Hilena hoped it was a direwolf, though she could not distinguish it from an average wolf's. She wished that it was Ghost, but the albino was long gone, and so was his owner.

Only when Jon Snow left did Hilena realize how much he meant to her. She felt the letter in her sleeve, the parchment a bandage for her heart. The commoner wondered how Robb Stark looked at her as she had read Jon's letter. Queer, Lord Tyrion called it. In what manner? Surprise, worry, jealousy, longing... Well, I don't care. But Hilena could remember the look in the Stark's eyes from when Jon had hugged her the day he left.

Regret. Her gut churned at the memory, his blue eyes so sorrowful. Eyes like ice, eyes like the sky, eyes like the Acorn Water. I regret nothing. I rid myself of him as was necessary. I had to.

Hilena's legs gave out from under her, and Senna shrieked.

"Don't yell; you'll scare Jenny," Hilena grumbled, seizing Senna's arms and leaning against her. "Fuck's sake." Thankfully, the mare had not bolted, though her owner had yanked the reins.

"Yer pale," the other girl breathed out, slowly heaving her friend back to her feet. The Dornish girl laid a hand on Hilena's forehead and then her cheek. "Tsk, tsk, yer ill." Her dark violet eyes glimmered in the dark and grounded Hilena to the world.

"Nonsense." Hilena wretched slightly. "Mayhaps, sense."

Senna sighed annoyedly, hooking her arm in the other girl's once more to drag her to the house. She took hold of Jenny's reins as well. Maybe someone does have to take care of me, and Senna worries as much as anyone should. Nobody else is willing. Hilena's feet dragged along the muddy ground, and she held onto Senna even tighter. Exhaustion had settled into her bones, and she longed to lay down.

"We're 'ere," Senna whispered eventually. She guided Hilena to lean against a wall and tied Jenny to a post. Hilena grumbled as the other girl finished the task, then took hold of her friend to enter the dwelling and go up the stairs. They succeeded, and Hilena collapsed in a heap on her cot as soon as it was within reach. Senna groaned, "Ye can't just sleep like that in yer clothes!"

"I shall deal with the consequences on the morrow." Hilena could not see but knew her friend had rolled her eyes. Instead of responding, the Dornish girl sat on the bed, pressing against Hilena's lower back, her hand going to her friend's hair again. It was soothing, the light drag of fingertips across the scalp, the slight scrape of a fingernail. "Don't go," Hilena said abruptly, breathily, "I... I fear I may have nightmares this night." The night terrors came when she was exhausted. She was always exhausted.

Hilena felt Senna lie down, and she sidled over in the small cot so they could embrace. They lay facing the wall, legs bent together and Senna's arm over Hilena. The Dornish girl's hand drifted slowly down her friend's arm, then interlaced her fingers into Hilena's. A shuddered breath left the former as Senna pried down the collar of her jerkin and kissed the nape of her neck.

"Sleep, love, yer all right," Senna muttered against Hilena's body, then squeezed her hand.

Hilena wanted to spit out countless confessions and then nothing at all. I hate what my life has become. I hate this dread that will never go away. Senna, I hate that we are a sin. I still hate highborns. And most of all, I hate Robb Stark. I hate him so much, so much, so much...

The trees of the Wolfswood blurred in a haze of brown and green as Hilena sped through the forest atop Jenny. They were at an impossibly fast gallop, and the wind was on her face. Suddenly, she broke onto the shores of the Acorn Water, glimmering and shifting vibrant blue.

"Beautiful day to race, is it not?" said a voice. Hilena turned to face it, but there was no one there. She spun around on foot and was utterly alone as the trees swayed in the violent wind.

"It is," she said joyfully, the words coming from afar. A figure cloaked in shadow came out of the woods and approached steadily, though it drifted, walking without feet.

"Beautiful day to hunt, is it not?" The voice was young and deep, smooth like decadent fur.

"It is," Hilena's voice beamed, but she stumbled back, and her back hit a soldier pine. She blinked, and she was alone, and there were a hundred cloaked figures, and then the world blurred and shifted. Hilena blinked, and Jon Snow smiled at her for the last time. She shook her head, and Esric smirked like the scoundrel he was, and he mouthed I never wanted you, anyway. Lord Eddard Stark regarded her with those calm grey eyes, and then, Lord Tyrion Lannister laughed in her face, and Sara's laughter joined his. The cloaked figure returned and cocked its head. Then, Robb Stark was before her, facing away from her. All she could see was those delicate auburn curls.

"Robb," Hilena's voice was small and weak, and she choked, "Robb."

A force threw her to the ground, gasping and seizing, then flipping her to her back. A grey, older man with a face as red as an apple was all she saw, his eyes aflame. No! He seized one of her arms, raised a dirk, and slashed. Mercy! Mercy! Mercy! MERCY! MERCY. MERCY. MERCY.

Hilena screamed.