Greta's dirge seemed to fan the flames of the funeral pyre. Nyssa could no longer see her mother through the smoke. She passed the infant in her arms to Gosta and stepped free of the mourners, reaching out her hands to the fire to touch her mother one last time.
"No girl," said her father, grabbing the back of her tunic to pull her away. He returned the babe to her arms. The child did not cry. She smiled up at her sister as if there was only good in the world.
"What should we call her?" said her father.
"Iona," said Nyssa. Wolves joined in with Greta's song of mourning and Nyssa looked fearfully past the pyre.
"They won't come near the fire," her father assured her. He put his strong arm around her shoulder and held her close. "And if they do, I will protect you."
Greta said that all memories were dreams. Or was it that all dreams were memories? Nyssa couldn't remember. She mashed the lumps of her porridge against the bottom of a wooden bowl. Three servant girls sat at the other end of the table. They glanced at Nyssa from time to time, but never spoke to her. Sometimes she caught them whispering about her in the halls and she ignored them. They were frightened of her. They hated her. They did not matter. She wouldn't be here long.
The red-haired lady had been gone two weeks now. Nyssa hoped she would not be gone much longer. All day and most nights, she guarded the Fallen Child, but she dared not enter his chamber again. Of course that didn't stop the three-eyed raven from visiting her dreams. She had not slept through the night since arriving in Winterfell. The shrill laughter of one of the servant girls made her head ache. She could take no more of them this morning and rose from the table.
"You can't take that with you," said one of the girls with straw for hair and hard button eyes. She glared at Nyssa while the other girls ducked their heads. "Bowls aren't supposed to leave the hall."
Nyssa looked at the bowl in her hands with most of her breakfast still inside. She'd never heard of a person not being allowed to eat wherever they felt like. Without a word to the girl, she left the servants' hall along with the bowl. The cold air brought back her appetite. It was always too crowded and stuffy behind those stone walls. She much preferred the yard, where even if she was still surrounded, she could breathe more freely.
The boy-lord was playing at swords with his men. Nyssa settled in the dust to watch him as she finished her porridge. He wasn't without potential, even if his moves were predictable, taught to him by better men rather than learned from experience. That was the problem with Southerners. Every man learned to fight the same way from men who'd fought the same way before them. Nearing noon, the boy-lord called an end to his sword play. He did not glance her way as he passed, but she was certain he'd noticed her.
There was much Nyssa did not understand about her new prison and the people here. The more she observed them, the less they made any sense to her. She left her empty bowl in the grass and returned to her post outside of the Fallen Child's chamber.
Robb yawned over the account ledgers spread out on the table before him. His arms and back still ached from the morning's training. It had been difficult to remember his lessons from Ser Roderick while the wildling stared at him, judging his every move. The candles were burning low. He made a note to have more brought up tomorrow as his nights only grew longer. Maester Luwin sat across from him and, not for the first time, Robb marvelled at the older man's diligence. He showed no signs of fatigue.
"We can finish this in the morning," said Robb.
Maester Luwin finally looked up from his numbers. "As you wish, my lord," he said. "There is one matter I would discuss with you."
Of course there is, thought Robb. "Very well," he said. "What is it?"
"The wildling," said Maester Luwin. "Some of the servants have come forward."
Robb straightened in his chair, suddenly alert. "What's she done?"
"Nothing, my lord. The others merely are not comfortable living in such close quarters with someone of her….heritage"
Robb slumped back into his chair again. He'd been waiting for the wildling to give him an excuse to be rid of her, but apart from glowering at him from afar, she'd been a model prisoner. "Where would you have me put her? In the main Keep with the rest of us? Perhaps I should give her the room Robert Baratheon stayed in."
Maester Luwin did not acknowledge the young lord's sarcasm. He waited patiently for Robb to compose himself before speaking again. "You could house her with the guards."
"No," said Robb. Tempting as the idea was, he would not risk throwing a woman in with a dozen men. "Bring her into the main castle. Have a room prepared in the east wing."
"Yes, my lord," said Maester Luwin. He stood, gathered his parchments, and bowed at the door. Robb was alone at last. He was too tired to move from his chair to the bed, so he rested his head on the table. The servants were right to fear the wildling. Her eyes were those of a wolf. It was only a matter of time before she bit someone and then he'd be free to take her head. No one could accuse his mother of breaking her promises if the wildling broke them first.
The wildling stood outside of Bran's room, sitting on the floor with her legs stretched across the hall. "Leave us," said Robb to the guard. He waited for the man's footsteps to recede before addressing the wildling. "You're to be moved to a different room," he said.
"Why?" said Nyssa, getting to her feet. "Is it because of the bowl?"
"The what?" said Robb. She crossed her arms and glared at him, though he couldn't see why. He hadn't expected a confrontation. If anything, she should be grateful to be given any shelter at all, let alone a private room in the main castle.
"You Southerners sure do have some strange rules," said Nyssa. "All I did was take the bowl from the hall. I didn't murder anyone with it."
As understanding dawned on him, Robb was sorely tempted to laugh, but he thought she might strangle him if he did. "I don't care about the bowl," he said. "You scare the other servants."
"Do I?" said Nyssa. She relaxed, leaning against the wall, and something close to a smirk crossed her lips. "And what about you? Do I scare you, too?"
"No," lied Robb. Nyssa knew he was lying. He was terrible at it. "Someone will show you to your new lodgings. You should be comfortable."
"Thanks ever so much, m'lord," she said. Robb cringed at the way she called him m'lord in such a mocking tone. His father had taught him never to hit a woman and he'd never been tempted to until he met this particular one.
"Is that all you wanted?" she said.
Robb did not want her to have the last word. "Don't take any more bowls out of the hall," he snapped, turning on his heels before she could see the color creeping into his cheeks. He was the Lord of Winterfell and she was nothing. So then why was she able to make him feel so very small?
The only person in Winterfell who treated Nyssa as a person was Wilfred. She liked it best when he stood guard over the Fallen Child. She did not crave the approval of the Southerners and she did not mind their sneers, but she could not deny the loneliness that hung over her. Back home, she was respected, a member of her clan. Not long ago she would've given her right arm for a moment of peace where she wasn't surrounded by her clansmen, kept awake by crying babes and drunken men. Now she had only the wolves to sing her to sleep. She missed her people, their songs and stories. She missed being looked at as a person instead of a wild animal.
Wilfred was the only company she had in this stone prison. He liked to talk and he didn't ask questions. Mostly he told her about his life and sometimes explained things to her that she didn't understand. From him, she'd learned that the boy-lord's father had gone to a place called King's Landing so that he could wipe his King's ass for him. King's Landing was where the red-haired lady was going, too, but Wilfred didn't know that and Nyssa didn't tell him.
Today, she was only half listening to Wilfred as he explained to her how the Southerners made some sort of pie. "You have to wait for the quince to cool," he told her. "Only then do you add the milk or else the bread will-"
"How long does it take to get to King's Landing?" said Nyssa.
Wilfred took a moment to curb his thoughts away from pastries. "Guess that depends on how you go," he said. "By the Kingsroad, it'd take a month, but by sea a little less than that."
Nyssa assumed the red-haired lady would've taken the faster route, which meant she should be nearing the city by now. Hopefully she would not stay long.
"You aren't planning to run off to King's Landing, are you?" said Wilfred.
"Maybe," lied Nyssa.
"I'd pay to see that," said Wilfred, chuckling. "A wildling girl at the king's court. Aye, that would be a fine sight. It's probably too warm for your kind up there."
Nyssa had stopped listening to him again. The straw-haired servant girl, Hild, was coming up the hall with a bundle of bedding in her arms. She glared at the wildling as she approached. Nyssa slipped in front of the Fallen Child's door, blocking Hild from entering.
"Let me by," said Hild. Nyssa did not move or speak. She simply glared back at the straw-haired bitch.
"Go on, budge over," said Wilfred. Grudgingly, Nyssa stepped aside. As Hild darted past, she growled into the girl's ear, causing her to startle. The bedding in her arms spilled onto the floor. Hild hurriedly gathered it all up and disappeared into the Fallen Child's room, slamming the door behind her.
"What you do that for?" said Wilfred.
"Might as well be what she wants me to be," said Nyssa, returning to her stretch of wall.
"And what's that?"
"Wild."
Wilfred's laughter bounced off of the stones. She could not help but smile at the sound. The moment did not last long, as a shriek came from the Fallen Child's room, and Hild flew back into the hall.
"What is it?" said Wilfred, reaching for his sword.
"He's awake," said Hild, eyes wide in disbelief.
"Fetch the maester," said Wilfred. The girl didn't move. "Go!" he shouted. Hild seemed to regain her senses and sprinted off around the corner. Wilfred hurried in the other direction, no doubt to find the boy-lord, and Nyssa found herself alone. Hild had left the door open and Nyssa moved towards it despite her fears of the raven. Something drew her to the boy.
Entering the room, she found him wide awake, staring at her from his nest of furs. Nyssa stopped at the foot of his bed. "I won't hurt you," she said.
"I know," said the Fallen Child. "I dreamed about you. The raven told me you'd be here."
Voices were drawing near. Nyssa found that she could not look away from the child. There was something odd about his face, so young, and his eyes that seemed so ancient. She didn't break his gaze until the voices were right behind her and she turned to find the boy-lord standing in the doorway. He did not seem to see her. His gaze was fixed wonderingly upon his brother. Before any of them could speak, one of the direwolves bounded into the room, leaping onto the Fallen Child's bed and licking his face.
"Summer," said the boy. "Your name is Summer."
"Strange name for a Northern beast," murmured Nyssa as she backed away from the bed.
"Leave us," said Robb. For once, she obeyed him without question. Seeing the direwolf with the Fallen Child unsettled her and she remembered clearly the Child of the Forest's words. Find the wolf. It was no coincidence that she'd ended up in Winterfell along with the three direwolves. The gods had a plan for her and it seemed clear the Fallen Child was part of it. He had looked at her as if he'd known her for all of his life as well as her own.
"Poor little lad," said Wilfred. "The boy won't ever walk again."
"He's alive," said Nyssa.
"That he is. It's strange. I've seen that boy climbing these walls since he could walk. Damn near broke my neck a couple o' times trying to bring him down, but the boy never so much as slipped."
The red-haired lady was certain that her son had not slipped this time either. Someone had pushed the boy, and when that hadn't killed him they'd sent an assassin to finish the job. Nyssa hadn't given any thought to who might want the boy dead. Her job was to stand watch, not ask questions, and then be on her way. Yet the Fallen Child's face haunted her now. She felt bonded to him.
Once the boy-lord reappeared, Nyssa fell in beside him. Robb glanced at her, but said nothing. Though he wanted only to be alone with his thoughts, the wildling was like a fly, buzzing about him, and he knew swatting at her wouldn't make her go away any faster than she wanted to.
"Who are these people that want your brother dead?" she said as soon as they'd rounded the corner. Robb's step faltered.
"Not here," he said. The wildling stuck close to him all the way to his chamber and followed him inside as if she'd been invited. Robb would've had her removed by his guards under normal circumstances, but his head was too full of other concerns to spare any for her.
Nyssa remained close to the door. The boy-lord's room was much larger than the one she'd been put in. There was too much space for one person. The hut she'd shared with her sister wasn't even half the size of this room. She crossed the large space to the window and looked down into the courtyard where the other two direwolves sat patiently, as if they knew the Fallen Child had awoken.
"Your mother said something about lions," she said. "What did she mean?"
Robb knelt by the hearth to stoke the fire to life. He wondered just how much his mother had told the wildling. He wondered even more why she'd trusted the woman to know anything at all. His mother was not a rash woman. Her judgement had always been sound until now. Trust me, she'd told him.
"A lion is the sigil of House Lannister," he finally said.
"Those are the pictures you put on your little flags?"
"They aren't flags," said Robb. "They're banners. Every House of the Seven Kingdoms has one of their own."
"Why would these lions want to kill the boy?"
Robb stood as the fire roared to life. He turned to face the wildling. She was not scowling at him for once. Her dark eyes razed him for answers he didn't want to give.
"Why do you care?" he asked her.
Nyssa wasn't sure of that herself. She shouldn't care about the Southerners' intrigues, but her heart ached for the Fallen Child, a cripple now, and she pitied the boy-lord too. He was an arrogant fool who loved his brother dearly. She'd seen that love in his face when he first saw his brother's open eyes. It was a love that Nyssa understood as she thought of her own sister so far away from her.
"He's just a child" said Nyssa, holding the boy-lord's stare. "What wrong could he have done?"
"None," said Robb. He was surprised by how much the wildling's expression softened when she spoke of his brother. It was true that he'd believed her to be heartless, as she was a savage, but he saw clearly that she was not without feeling no matter how well she hid it. He saw for just a moment what his mother must've seen in the girl. "Unless seeing something you're not supposed to is a crime," he added.
"What did he see?" said Nyssa.
"I don't know," admitted Robb. Her scowl returned. It seemed the boy-lord didn't know much of anything. Silence took hold of them. She looked down into the courtyard again. The wolves had gone. She imagined what it would be like to fall from such a great height and suddenly she felt it. Her body cut through the air. She flung out her arms desperately for something to hold onto, but her hands slid uselessly over the rough stone as the ground rushed towards her. As she plummeted, the three-eyed raven circled around her.
Then it stopped. Nyssa opened her eyes to find the boy-lord before her. She realized she was trembling. Robb did not know what had just happened to her. It was as if she'd been about to jump out of the window. He sensed she would have if he hadn't pulled her back. "What are you doing?" he demanded. Nyssa shook him off.
"Nothing," she muttered. "It's warm in here, that's all."
Robb looked at her skeptically. Her face was white as snow. She looked afraid for the first time since he'd met her. Even when her life had hung in the balance, she hadn't been scared. What had the power to make a wildling tremble?
Nyssa darted past him. She paused at the door, her heart racing, and her hands still shook from her fall. She stared so hard at the door that the grains of wood seemed to move like worms. She did not have to wonder how it felt to fall from such a great height now. The gods had shown her. She thought of the child, helpless to save himself.
"I won't let the lions touch him," she said. "As long as I'm here, no one will hurt the boy again." Then she left the room, leaving her promise to echo in Robb's ears. He understood her even less than he had before. Against all of the odds, Bran was awake, alive if not whole, and Robb's relief was mingled with uncertainty. He did know one thing for certain. The wildling would not hurt Bran. Perhaps his mother had not been entirely wrong about the girl. He was loathe to admit it, but her vow had brought him some small comfort.