The saddler dipped the cowhide into a barrel of lime water. After it had soaked long enough, the hide would be cut into flaps, girths, and stirrups for the Fallen Child's special saddle.

"Don't your people have horses?" said Bran as they watched the work being done. Cradled as he was in Hodor's arms, he was at eye level with Nyssa.

"One or two," she said. "We don't ride them as you southerners. We use them to pull our sleds." The saddler fished one of the cowhides from the barrel and hung the dripping skin over a wooden beam. He began shaving away any remaining hair with a blunt knife. Her people didn't have saddles, either.

"I wish the saddle would be done in time for my nameday," said Bran.

"What's that?" said Nyssa. The boy looked at her as if she'd asked him what was the sky.

"It's the day you were born," he said. "There's always a feast with all your favorite foods and everyone gives you presents."

"Why would people give you presents for being born?" she said. "They should give them to the mother. She did all the work."

Bran's face fell at the mention of mothers. His own would likely not return to Winterfell before his nameday in three days. His father would not be there, either, or his sisters, or Jon. Suddenly he did not much care about the presents to come or even about his new saddle.

"I want to go inside," he said.

"Hodor?" said the half-giant, looking down at his little lord.

"Inside," said Bran again. Hodor nodded his large head and turned towards the castle. With his long stride, they reached the doors in no time. Nyssa stayed behind to keep observing the saddler. She didn't understand namedays, but she did know the child's pain, and she thought about what present she could give him to bring a smile to his face. The answer came to her easily enough. The boy wanted his family, but she could not bring them back to him anymore than she could raise her own clansmen from the dead.

Nyssa sat with her back against the heart tree with five hand-carved dolls lined up in the dewy grass around her. Their faces were crudely cut and lifeless. She frowned at them. Whittling had never been one of her talents, but she had no time to begin anew. Bran's nameday was tomorrow.

The largest of the dolls was no longer than her hand and the smallest only the size of her pinky finger. She thought each of their names as her eyes moved over them; Eddard, Catelyn, Sansa, Arya, Jon Snow. Wilfred had told her the names and described them to her the best he could, as she had never met any of them besides the red-haired lady. Most of the children were black of hair, like their father, except for the older girl who Wilfred said took more after her mother.

For five weeks she had been in Winterfell. The red-haired lady should be returning any day now, and then Nyssa could leave as well. Though she'd grown fond of the Fallen Child, she could not stay with him in this strange place with its strange rules, not while her sister and Gosta waited for her on the other side of the Wall. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the heart tree. It was the only weirwood she'd seen here, in what the southerners called the godswood, and she felt the tree's power pulsing feebly at her back.

A twig snapped to her right. Nyssa opened her eyes and found herself in the boy-lord's shadow. Robb had come to pray, to be alone with the gods, and was not pleased that the wildling had beat him to it. He knew she'd taken to stealing away to the godswood. His guards still kept a close eye on the wildling, but he let her go where she liked, half-hoping she might escape. Though he was tempted to send her away, he supposed her people worshipped the old gods, too, and she had every right to seek them out. Nor did he wish to fight with her today. It never brought any good.

"What are those?" he said, nodding to the wooden figures lined up around her like tiny soldiers.

"A gift for your brother. They're meant to be your family," said Nyssa. Robb crouched down for a better look at the dolls. "Don't touch them. The paint hasn't dried."

"You did a fair enough job," said Robb. It wasn't true. The dolls resembled his family very little, except for the smallest one which had slanted and mischievous eyes just like Arya's.

Nyssa snorted. "They're uglier than the dwarf man," she said.

"Well, I was trying to be polite," said Robb.

"Being polite," said Nyssa. "Lying. It's all one in the same."

Robb rose again. "You'll be leaving soon," he said, glad for it. The wildling did not acknowledge his words. "Where will you go?" he asked her before he could stop himself. It didn't matter where she went as long as she didn't come back.

"Home," said Nyssa.

"I thought all your lot wanted to come to our side," said Robb. "You're always sneaking over the Wall." Burning our villages, he added to himself, raping and plundering. Again the wildling said nothing. "Bran will miss you," he went on. She would miss him, too. Just as Bran only smiled with her, the wildling only ever smiled for the boy. There was a bond between them that not even Robb could deny and he had tried to.

"I don't belong here," said Nyssa. "Your brother knows that."

"Do you have family still?"

Nyssa looked at the dolls of the Stark clan. She had almost made one of Iona to keep for herself, but her sister's face was more clear in her mind than anything she had the skill to carve. Wilfred had told her that it was a month's journey to the Wall from here and she didn't know how long it would take her to find her sister on the other side. Time and hundreds of miles stretched between them, yet she sensed her sister whenever she closed her eyes, as if Iona were beside her.

She did not answer the boy-lord's question. It did not matter to him. He had only asked to be polite. Nyssa tested the paint on the dolls to see if it was dry before gathering them up. "Go on and say your prayers," she told the boy-lord, and she left him alone in the godswood.

Robb knelt before the heart tree, but he did not pray for his mother's safe return as he'd come to do. His thoughts snared on the wildling girl who made no sense to him. Though he told himself that she would not be his concern for much longer, he couldn't shake her from his mind, and the harder he tried, the more she was present, those black eyes haunting his dreams.

"They don't look much like the Starks," said Wilfred, examining the five wooden dolls.

"I did my best with what you told me," she said. "If they're no good, you're to blame." She had taken to breaking her fast with Wilfred in the guardhouse. The other men scowled at her, but she preferred that to the frightened titters of the servants in the hall.

"It's no fault of mine you can't whittle worth a damn," chuckled Wilfred. He picked up the smallest doll and held it close to his face. "You got the little lady's eyes. I'll give you that."

"Tell me more about them," said Nyssa. She reached for the flagon between them and filled her cup. The Southerners did know how to brew a good ale. She couldn't deny that. The taste was nutty and smooth. The bread was better, too, and there was always fresh butter. She would be fat by the time she left Winterfell.

"What more do you want to know?" said Wilfred. Nyssa shrugged and thought for a moment.

"Tell me more about the bastard." She picked up the doll dressed all in black. "The crow," she said.

"Let's see," said Wilfred, scratching his stubbled cheek. "He's the same age as Robb just about. Good with a sword, not so good with his words. Quiet and brooding, that one."

"Where's his mother?" said Nyssa.

"Can't say," said Wilfred. "No one knows who whelped the boy 'cept for Lord Stark and that's a name he'll likely take to the grave. I remember when he came back from the war with that little bundle tucked under his arm. It's a wonder Lady Stark didn't toss the babe from the battlements."

"Why would she do that?" said Nyssa.

"I reckon for her honor," said Wilfred.

Nyssa still did not understand. "What's honorable about killing a babe?"

Wilfred looked at her with a furrowed brow. Some things were harder to explain to her than others. He wasn't a scholarly man and he didn't always have the right words, but he always tried. "His name is Snow, not Stark. All bastards of the North are called Snow. In the Riverlands, they're all Rivers, and in Dorne they call them Sand. Every region has its own, so you always know where a bastard comes from. They belong to the land because most families won't have them."

"But why?" said Nyssa. "They have parents just like everyone else. Or do you mean to tell me that Jon Snow popped up from the ground?"

"Aye, they have parents," said Wilfred, "but they aren't legitimate."

"Legitimate," she repeated slowly. "What's that?"

"Well, it means they weren't born in marriage. Think of it this way, every time Lady Stark looked at that babe that wasn't her own, she saw proof of the promise her husband broke."

"What promise?" said Nyssa.

"To be faithful and true, to lay with no other woman."

Nyssa laughed, sure that he was teasing her now, but Wilfred didn't join in. "That's the silliest thing I've ever heard," she said once she realized he was sincere. "You mean to tell me that once you're married you can't fool with nobody else?"

"That's the way of it," said Wilfred with a nod.

"Then why does anyone ever get married?"

"Lots of reasons, I suppose. I can't think of any good ones." Wilfred took a long draught of ale. "How does it work for your folk? You've got your spearwives and all."

"They ain't wives like your ladies here," said Nyssa. "It's not a man they wed, but their spears. That's why we call them spearwives. We take whoever we want into our beds when we want them, for as long as we want them, and we don't make promises we can't keep."

Wilfred raised his tankard. "I'll drink to that," he said, and so he did, finishing the last of his ale. "You might be my sworn enemy, girlie, but you talk more sense than most I've met."

"And you talk no sense at all," said Nyssa, grinning back at him. She rose from the table. Bran would be awake and dressed by now. It was time she returned to him. Maybe he could explain better than Wilfred about bastards and marriages, though Nyssa very much doubted she would ever understand the ways of the southerners.

Late into the feast, Rickon passed out beneath the table, curled up with his direwolf, and Bran began to nod off in his chair. "And then," said Theon, "she put her-"

"Not in front of the boys," said Robb. Most of the men were deep into their cups by now. Laughter and song filled the hall. He looked out across the sea of faces, but did not see the one he was looking for. "Time for bed," he said, gesturing to Hodor.

Bran, with his eyelids still drooping, said, "I don't want to go to bed."

Robb would not bend even if it was the boy's nameday. The hall had become too rowdy and the hour was past midnight. Theon recommenced his ribald tale once the boys had been taken away to their rooms, but Robb was not listening now anymore than he had been before. He noticed that Bran had left the wildling's gift for him on the table. One of the dolls was missing, the one with red hair, their mother, and he knew Bran had taken her with him. He scanned the hall again. The wildling was not there.

"Looking for her, aren't you?" said Theon.

"Who?"

"That wildling bitch."

Robb didn't admit to it. He looked to his father's ward and found him smirking in that smug way Robb hated. "It's not every day the chance comes along to fuck a wildling," said Theon. "Admit it, you're curious what she's like."

"She's under my mother's protection," said Robb sternly. Theon's smirk did not fade. It was too much for Robb, as were the noise and the heat of the hall. He rose from the table, taking the half full jug of wine with him, made his way between the tables, and slipped out into the blissfully cold night. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying Bran's nameday feast more than Bran had, though Robb had tried to do everything their mother would have. He'd spent more time in the kitchens today, overseeing the preparations, than he'd ever spent there before. He had also decided not to tell the boy about the raven from Castle Black that had come and dreaded doing so tomorrow.

Dark wings, dark words, thought Robb, taking a swig of wine from the jug. Those were the words his mother would say and they were true. The Lord Commander had written with the news that Benjen Stark had gone over the Wall for what was supposed to have been a short scouting party and had not returned though apparently his horse had. Robb sensed the Lord Commander hadn't said all there was to say in his letter, and he wanted to write to Jon for more answers, but he thought better of it. Jon was now a brother of the Night's Watch, sworn to keep the Lord Commander's confidence and to obey him. Robb could not ask his brother to betray his new brothers' secrets. It was not the honorable thing to do.

Deep in his thoughts, Robb did not see the wildling, laying on her back in the dusty training yard, until he nearly stepped on her. She rolled out from under his foot before he lowered it. Her sudden movement unbalanced him for a moment.

"What're you doing down there?" he said.

"Thinking," she said as she sat up.

"You weren't at the feast," said Robb.

Nyssa snorted. She didn't look up at the boy-lord as she drew circles in the dirt. "No one wanted me there," she said, "myself included." She didn't tell him that she had gone to the feast. She had stood in the shadows for a time, listening to the southerners sing songs and tell jokes that she didn't understand. None of them sang as sweetly as Iona. None of them told a story with as much gusto as Gosta. None of them could spin histories in the smoke of a bonfire the way Greta could when she spoke the old words.

Robb knew he ought to leave her be, and yet he stayed, finding that he did not want to be alone with the dark words from Castle Black. He sat in the dirt nearby, far enough away, but not so far that he couldn't pass her the jug of wine. "Drink with me," he said. Nyssa peered at him through black eyelashes. "It's not poisoned," he said, taking a sip to prove it. Still, she did not take the jug from him.

"I don't like your drink," she said, "too sweet."

"What do you usually drink, then?" said Robb. "We might have some."

"Sour goat milk," she said.

"Ah, no, I don't think you'll find that here."

As silence settled between them, Nyssa waited for the boy-lord to go away, but he just sat there, sipping his sweet wine and staring at her. She looked more ghost than girl in the moonlight. Robb had not really looked at her face since her bruises healed. Emboldened by the wine in his belly, he did so now, as if it might help him to understand her.

"Don't you ever smile?" said Robb. "Have you ever been happy or were you born with that scowl?"

"Only fools and children are happy," she said, finally looking back at him.

"You think I'm a fool," said Robb.

"No, I think you're a child."

"I'm as old as you," he protested. "I think so. How old are you?"

Nyssa showed him with her hands, holding up one finger and then seven. So, she was older than him, though not by much, a few months at most. She went back to drawing circles in the dirt. Robb sipped his wine. His head had begun to spin and he did not feel the cold anymore. It was unwise to be alone with his senses dulled, his thoughts hazed by wine, but for once he didn't feel unease in her presence. There was something sad and soft about her expression, far different from the face he normally saw.

"What were you thinking about?" said Robb. "You might as well tell me. I probably won't remember in the morning."

Nyssa looked again to his flushed cheeks and wine bright eyes. True enough, he was not likely to remember much come the dawn. Something in her ached to tell him, to tell anyone, about the pain of longing that had seized her heart as she watched the southerners sing and laugh together. "My people…" she began, faltering immediately. Robb leaned forward so that his elbows rested on his knees. Nyssa reached for the jug and took a hearty gulp, swallowing quickly to avoid the taste, but the sweetness still coated her tongue.

"I was thinking about the bonfires my people used to have," she said. "The songs we would sing. My sister has a voice like none you've ever heard. She sings to the fish and they come to her. She can make the stars dance."

Robb wanted to ask more about the wildling's sister, where she was now, but he didn't want her to stop talking. He wondered if this was how she spoke to Bran, when she told him her stories, and he understood why his brother was so captivated. Her voice now was almost a song in itself.

"We lived on the Bay of Ice," said Nyssa. "We would try to swim out to the glaciers that never melt. The water is cold even in summer, but in winter the whole bay freezes over. The snow falls six feet deep, sometimes more, and the whole world is quiet for a time. We might starve, or freeze to death, but I always loved the quiet after a snowfall."

"Me too," said Robb. The wildling looked at him for a moment, and then dropped her eyes to the ground again.

"I didn't want to come here," she muttered. "I've never wanted to come here. My home…" She stopped short again. Her home was gone, her people were dead. She remembered the last bonfire, the one she had set with Gosta and Iona, the one that burned everything she'd known to the ground.

"Go on," said Robb. Nyssa shook her head. She had spoken more than enough. Without another word, she rose from the ground and stalked off into the night. Sighing, Robb fell onto his back, laying in the dirt as she had been when he found her, and stared up at the moon until a wave of dizziness forced him to close his eyes. He tried to envision the wildling's home, the frozen water of the bay, the glaciers rising like mountains on the horizon. He would've liked to hear a song of her people. Someday, he thought, the stars bursting behind his closed eyelids, I'll ask her to sing for me.