Robb travelled with his mother only as far as Winter Town. He would've gone with her further, all the way to King's Landing, but she had been right the night before- a Stark must always be at Winterfell. Theon and Ser Roderick fell back to give mother and son time to say their farewells. Catelyn felt for the dagger under her cloak, the very one the assassin had tried to use on her son, as a reminder of why she had to leave her boys now.
"You should reach King's Landing before father," said Robb. She and Ser Roderick intended to sail from White Harbor. They would be much quicker, the two of them over sea, than the king's caravan would be over land.
"If the gods are good," said Catelyn. "You must be strong while I'm gone. Protect your brothers."
"They'll have your wildling to look after them," said Robb. Resentment and shame made it impossible to meet his mother's gaze. He had not forgiven her for releasing the wildling without his permission.
"I trust you above anyone else," said Catelyn. She reached out to touch his face. "You must trust me."
Robb finally looked at her. His anger vanished and he wanted to beg her not to go. His father was gone. He could not fathom ruling over Winterfell without his mother as well. "I trust you," he said at last. She wouldn't leave him if it were not important. Somehow, he would have to find a way on his own. He had not realized that he was still a child until this moment when he felt his childhood ending.
Catelyn dropped her hand from his face. He looked so much like his father, but his eyes were Tully blue. She feared if she looked at her firstborn for too long, she would not be able to leave him, so she looked away. They said no more though there was so much more to say.
As soon as Robb returned to Winterfell, he went to the wildling's room and found her standing at the foot of the bed as if she'd known he was coming.
"Take it your mother's gone," she said. Robb ignored her words. He'd come with every intention of returning her to her cell. Whatever bargain his mother had struck with the girl, she was a wildling, and it was his duty to rid the kingdoms of her kind.
"I should kill you," he finally said.
Nyssa shrugged. She didn't flinch when the boy reached for his sword. His fingers curled around the hilt, but he did not draw it. "You've never killed a woman before," she said. "Bet you've never killed anyone, boy."
"I am not a boy," said Robb. "I am the Lord of Winterfell and you'd be wise to hold your tongue."
"You could cut it out," said Nyssa. "That would stop me talking. It's easy." She stepped forward, stopping less than a foot from the boy-lord. Robb nearly did draw his sword, tempted to do as she suggested, when he saw the bruises around her neck in the shape of a man's hands and he remembered too clearly what the rest of her looked like. If he struck her down now, there would be no honor in it.
"What's the matter, boy?" said Nyssa. "Are you frightened? You took my knife. Go on, take my life, too."
Robb dropped his hand from his sword. "My mother made you a promise," he said. His next words came grudgingly. "I will not break it unless you force my hand."
"How could I ever force a great lord like you?" said Nyssa, stepping back again. The boy could try to kill her if he wished. He would not succeed. She'd taken down bigger and better men than him when she was no more than thirteen.
"Just keep out of my sight," said Robb. "If I hear you've caused any trouble, you will die. Consider that my promise to you."
Robb was glad when he'd closed the door between them. He ordered one of his men to stay outside the room. Someone would always be with her, watching. It was only a matter of time before she proved who and what she was. Robb would be ready to do what must be done when that moment came.
Nyssa had been given a servant's smock of coarse wool dyed the gray of House Stark. She tugged at the tight-fitting sleeves, wondering how the Southerners bore such discomfort, and longing for her own clothes. She could not walk three steps without tripping over the hem of the dress, a problem she'd never encountered in her doe-skin leggings. After a week of the maester's care, her leg had begun to mend properly. The old man said it was a wonder the rot had not spread through her blood. Nyssa didn't bother to tell him that it was no wonder, but the work of Greta's magic. Her other scrapes and bruises were fading. The pain of her body faded with each day, too, but the pain in her heart only grew.
Every night, Nyssa spoke to her sister, hoping that Iona could hear and know that she was trying to find a way back home. She thought often of Cara and the girl, too, and swore to find them again someday. Leaving them behind had been a mistake and the choice hadn't gotten her anywhere. She may as well be a slave. There was no way out of Winterfell. Nyssa had never seen such high walls of stone. Even if she could climb them, she'd be shot down before she came close to the top, for she was never truly alone.
Every day, Nyssa stood outside of the Fallen Child's chamber in the presence of one of the boy-lord's men. It was better than staying shut up inside of that tiny room, though not much. Only one of the guards ever spoke to her. The others either pretended she wasn't there or scowled at her as if she'd shit in their mouth, which was fine by her as she didn't have much interest in talking to them either. The way she saw it, she'd made a deal with the red-haired lady, and the only way out of Winterfell was to make good on it. So she would stand here outside of the Fallen Child's chamber until the lady returned, and then she would be free to cross the Wall, to go home.
The guard on duty had fallen asleep where he stood. It was no wonder the red-haired lady feared for her son's safety. He only had old men and green boys to protect him. Nyssa had overheard talk that most of the men had already gone South with the boy-lord's father, which made no sense to her. Why build a fortress and then leave it undefended? She supposed they had the wolves, three of them, and worth at least two dozen strong men each. Nyssa kept as much distance between herself and the direwolves as possible. She'd never seen one before and certainly hadn't expected to find her first this side of the Wall. The Southerners were fools to keep them as pets. She heard them howling at night alongside the wolf in her dreams: and she heard one of them whining now inside the Fallen Child's room, scratching at the door to be let out.
Nyssa glanced at the guard, hoping he would wake up, but he did not. The wolf's shrill yips pierced her ears and she could not bear it. Finally, she checked the hall to make sure no one was coming, and then crossed to the door. The moment she nudged it open, the direwolf shot out, and she leapt back as it darted past her. She did not move again until the beast was out of sight. As she was closing the door again, she caught a glimpse of the Fallen Child, swaddled in furs, and paused. The boy-lord had made clear that she was not to go inside, but the boy-lord was not here and she was curious to see this Southern child whom the old gods seemed to know.
The room was shuttered with only the red glow from the fire to light her path to the great bed with the tiny boy. He couldn't be any older than ten. He did not stir. Nyssa put her hand to his nose and felt breath, the only proof that he was still alive. His face was as bruised as her own and she hoped he didn't feel the pain in his deep slumber. No child deserved such a fate.
Without knowing why, she touched the boy's cheek. His skin burned and the room around her dissolved. She found herself instead in a dark and cold place, a ceiling of roots and dirt above her. Something heavy landed on her shoulder. She turned her head and was met with the three black eyes of a raven. When the raven opened its beak, a man's voice came out.
"You aren't supposed to be in here!"
Nyssa returned to the room as someone knocked her hand away from the Fallen Child. She now faced the guard who'd fallen asleep in the hall. He made a grab at her, but she dodged, skittering past him and out the door. She kept going until she was outside of the stone walls, the cold air on her face, and the wind whipping her dress between her legs.
Nyssa knew where to find the boy-lord. He didn't know it, but she kept as close an eye on him as he did her, even without guards to do the legwork for her. She'd had no reason to seek him out until the three-eyed raven came to her. That night after touching the Fallen Child, she had dreamed of the bird, and she knew what it signalled. There was no more denying that her dreams were more than dreams. When she woke, her shoulder bore deep gouges from where the raven had landed upon her.
Danger was nothing new to her; being so unprepared was entirely so. With no friends and no weapons, she wouldn't be much good at protecting herself, let alone the Fallen Child. The raven's visit had startled her to the core. Her mother had warned her about the bird, telling her that dark wings brought dark words.
The boy-lord was exactly where Nyssa expected him, brushing down his horse after a late ride in the woods beyond Winterfell. She stood in the shadows to observe him, not quite ready to give herself away, when the boy-lord suddenly stopped what he was doing and glanced behind him. "What do you want?" he said.
"My knife," said Nyssa, caught off guard. Usually she was not noticed when she did not want to be. Perhaps the boy-lord wasn't so oblivious as he seemed. He was at least smart enough not to turn his back to her. "And my clothes," she added. How could she fight in a dress if she couldn't even walk?
"We burned your clothes," said Robb.
"My knife," she said again. "Your men took it from me. I'd like to take it back."
"So you can slit our throats while we sleep?" said Robb. He was almost amused by her audacity. Her eyes were black coals in the shadow and he found himself somewhat afraid as well. "You can't have it back."
"How am I to defend your brother without any weapons?"
"Your problem, not mine," said Robb with a shrug. "The only reason I've allowed you to keep your head is-"
"Allowed me?" said Nyssa. "I'm alive because of your mother. You're just a boy doing as he's told."
"I am a lord," said Robb. "You will address me as such or not at all."
"Fine, m'lord, give me the knife."
Robb was no longer amused. He marched towards her, stopping just out of her reach. "No," he said. "Do not ask again." To make sure that she didn't, Robb pushed past her.
"I could kill you without it!" she called after him.
Robb didn't doubt her. He strode quickly across the courtyard, the horse brush still gripped in his fist. The dagger she'd brought with her over the Wall was a fine work of craftsmanship, too good for a wildling welp. He had taken to sleeping with it under his pillow. When he couldn't sleep, he felt the notches in the hilt, clearly made with some intention, and he wondered what they meant. Why had the girl made them? Why was she here?
Nyssa glared after the boy-lord long after he was gone. These people had burned her clothes, taken her father's blade, and stolen her liberty. She had nothing left of her home or her people. However long it took, whatever she had to do, Nyssa vowed to return. She'd been born in the shadow of the Frostfangs. She would die in their shadow, not hundreds of miles away in a great stone prison.