Sleep did not come to Nyssa, nor did the three-eyed raven. She would not allow it to. Whenever her eyes began to close, she pinched and bit at herself to stay awake. She would not allow herself to think about what had happened in the Wolfswood. She told herself that the crying girl she'd seen as she hovered outside of her body had been someone else. Only she could not forget the bodies left behind. They plagued her through the long, sleepless night.

Come dawn, Nyssa left her room, crept through the quiet halls, and out into the courtyard. On her way to the gate, she froze, wondering if she would be allowed to pass through. The boy-lord had told her that she was free to leave. She took a step and froze again. The outer walls of the castle, which had seemed so crushing yesterday, were a solid boon. She had told the boy-lord to burn the bodies, but she didn't trust him to listen, and she began to tremble at the thought of meeting Cyril again in those woods. Fire was the only way to make sure he stayed gone. Someone had to burn him.

Nyssa took another step, and another, and then froze again when a horn was blown. The gate began to rise though she was a good twenty feet away. She realized it hadn't been lifted for her when six black-cloaked figures on horseback streamed into the courtyard. All of them halted just past the gate except for one. Greyjoy did not halt until he was almost upon her.

"It's done," he said, glaring down at her. "We should have burned you with the rest of them."

Nyssa turned her back on Greyjoy and the gate. She slipped through a narrow, wooden door and darkness greeted her like an old friend. She pressed her hands to the stone on either side of her to guide her way down the steep staircase leading deeper into the earth. Having only come this way once before with the red-haired lady, she did not know how deep. Her foot dangled over the abyss for a moment with each step she took, until she came to a puddle of torchlight when she reached the bottom.

A dimly lit corridor of cells stretched before her. Nyssa glanced inside them, stopping midway when she found who she was looking for. Through the iron bars, Osha peered back at her. "Did you burn them?" she said. Nyssa nodded. "Good, they won't come back then."

Nyssa moved closer and curled her fingers around the cold iron bars. "Who were they to you?" she said.

"No one," said Osha.

"Why were you with them?"

"Ask your little lord. I done told him everything."

Nyssa did not correct the woman about the boy-lord not being her lord. "Tell me," she said.

"I was running. I wouldn't have made it over the Wall on my own."

"Running from what?"

Osha eyed her warily for a long moment. "I think you already know," she finally said. A shadow of fear rippled across the woman's face and Nyssa saw a reflection of her own memory. The bodies of her clansmen, frozen in terror, dead in an instant. "They took my man," Osha went on. "He was a good man."

Nyssa let go of the iron bars and stepped back. "They took my whole clan," she said. It was as if she'd let go of some terrible secret, the weight of which she hadn't known she was carrying against the weight of everything else. Again she felt the tears welling behind her eyes, burning to be released, but she would not allow that either. Never again. Her father always told her not to waste good water on the dead. Tears were no use to them.

Robb was much too tired to eat. He had been subjected to Theon's tart remarks all day as retribution for being sent back out into the Wolfswood in the small hours of morning to burn the bodies of the rogues they'd left behind. Of course Robb didn't understand Nyssa's insistence that the bodies be burned, but he remembered that cold look in her eyes, and he knew she would not have spoken the words last night had they not been important somehow. Whatever her reasons, he trusted her now, perhaps too late.

"You're not eating," he said to Bran, who had been pushing his stew around without taking a bite.

"Neither are you," said Bran.

To set an example, Robb forced down a hearty spoonful of lamb and onions. The meat was tender and the stew strongly seasoned, but the food was like sand on his tongue, and the effort was wasted as Bran set aside his own spoon.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" said Robb. "Is it about yesterday? You know none of it was your fault."

"It was," said Bran, staring hard at the table. "She could have gotten away if not for me. I know what happened. That man hurt her and I couldn't do anything. I'm nothing but a useless cripple."

Robb leaned forward so that his face was only a few inches from his brother's. "Look at me," he said. Bran did so reluctantly. "You understand the wildling better than anyone. Do you think she would have risked herself for nothing? She does not blame you. If anything, I am to blame, not you, not her. I should have sent the men with you. I should have gone with you myself."

Bran lowered his gaze back to the table. "Why did he do that to her?" he muttered.

Robb sighed. "I don't know," he admitted. "Some men are without honor. Not just wildlings, but any man. You should not dwell on it."

Bran pushed back his plate and beckoned to Hodor. "I'm tired," he said. Robb was not satisfied with their conversation, but he didn't know how better to explain the horrors of men to his young brother, so he let the boy go. Someday he would learn for himself. He's learning too much too soon, thought Robb, sagging into his chair. He had promised his mother to protect his brothers and he had failed. Now he owed the wildling for his brother's life. His mother had known all along that he would need the girl, but he'd only realized it himself at the same time he had promised to let her go.

No one was supposed to know that Lady Stark had kidnapped the Imp, so of course rumors abounded, and even Nyssa was aware though she moved as if in a waking dream, having not slept in days. When the boy-lord finally summoned her, she considered refusing, but she did not have the will. She found him in his chambers, studying a map spread out across the table, a grave look on his boyish face. "Sit," he said. Nyssa remained standing and he continued. "I thought you would've come to me already."

"About what?" she said.

"Leaving," said Robb. He drew a black leather purse from his pocket and tossed it onto the table where it landed with a heavy clink of coins. "My mother promised to pay you. I've doubled her offer. There's also a writ of passage with my father's seal. No one should trouble you as long as you have it on you."

Nyssa scooped up the little purse and weighed it in her palm. She opened it and spilled out a silver coin the likes of which she'd never seen.

"I don't know when my mother will return now," admitted Robb.

"Soon, I'd think," said Nyssa.

"That's what the Lannisters will expect, too," said Robb. He'd received no letter from his mother, but he knew well enough that she would not return to Winterfell with Lord Tyrion as her hostage. He looked at the map and pointed to a blue tower in the mountains. "She'll go here, to the Eyrie," he said. "That's where her sister lives. The castle is impregnable."

He looked up at Nyssa again. She was a pale shadow of the girl she'd been a few days ago. Even when he'd first met her, battered and broken, there had been an undeniable fierceness about her. "Wherever she goes, you have your freedom," he said. "This is not your war and we are not your kin. Go home."

Nyssa slipped the purse of silver into her sash. There was nothing to keep her here. She'd stayed too long already when she should have gone days ago. Winterfell was not her home. Its walls offered only the illusion of safety, because she knew they could not hold against what was coming. Her place was with her sister. If the Others got to them, so be it, they would die together.

At the door, however, Nyssa paused. Without turning back around to face the boy-lord, she said, "Take care of your brothers. Take care of yourself."

"I'll do my best," said Robb. She was gone before he finished speaking.

Nyssa did not say goodbye to Bran. While most of the servants were taking their supper, she snuck into the stables and found a speckled mare. After struggling for the better part of an hour, she managed to saddle and mount the mare. Though the boy-lord had not given her permission to take a horse, and though she much preferred to go on foot, riding would be much quicker. The mare she'd chosen was of a gentle nature. She still did not entirely trust the beast.

Remembering Bran's lessons, she urged the mare out into the courtyard, which had been deserted when she entered the stables, but was no longer so. The direwolf, Summer, stood in her path, snarling at her. The mare kicked onto its hind feet in fear. Nyssa just managed to cling to her neck and not be thrown. She dug her toe into the mare's ribs and was off, galloping around the wolf, straight through the gate which had been left open as if the boy-lord had known she would leave tonight.

Nyssa only looked back once at the stone fortress with its towers stretching into the night sky. Summer followed her at a distance now flanked by his two brothers. She urged the mare to gather speed and held on for dear life as she bounced in the saddle. The purse of silver jingled at her waist. Though she was beyond the walls of Winterfell, she felt no wild rush of freedom. It was not only the wolves who chased her. In every beam of moonlight, she saw Cyril, shimmering on the wind. The wolves howled a hunting song.

"Fly," Nyssa whispered into the mare's ear. "Fly north."

For a second night, Bran refused to touch his supper, and Robb made no attempt to coax him. Their mother was only supposed to have been gone for a month at most. Now there was no telling when she'd return. Neither of them wanted to broach the subject. She must have her reasons, thought Robb. His mother wouldn't kidnap the Imp for nothing, though it seemed utterly foolish to him. How many times had she warned him to be careful, only to go off and break all of her own rules? He was more angry with her than he was willing to admit even to himself.

Stewing in his thoughts, Robb was startled when Harwin stormed into the hall. "M'lord," he said, nodding curtly, "one o' the mares has gone. A lad saw that wildling bitch steal off with it. She can't have gone far. If we rally a a few riders to go after her-"

"No," said Robb. "Let her go."

Harwin looked at him in disbelief. He was an outspoken man, not quiet like his father who had gone South with Lord Eddard and half of the household. "But m'lord, the mare."

"We have more than enough horses," said Robb. He met Harwin's steely gaze with his own, daring the older man to contradict him further.

After a moment, Harwin grumbled, "As you command," before stalking off again. Once he was gone, Robb turned to his brother, prepared to comfort him, knowing the departure of the wildling would be another blow to the boy, but Bran did not look concerned or surprised at the news.

"Did she come to say goodbye to you?" said Robb. Bran shook his head. She hadn't needed to. He knew she would go, just as he knew she would return. He could not say how he knew. The truth of it was deep in his bones. "I had to let her go," said Robb. "I know you liked her, but it was the right thing to do."

Bran nodded, but said nothing more. That night, as he lay awake in bed, he stared at the empty chair by the door where Nyssa had watched over him most nights, knowing she was not far.

The moon was high and still the wolves followed her, growing more bold the further she rode from Winterfell. Nyssa ignored them the best she could, but her head ached from their howling. She was tired after so many days without sleep and she couldn't keep from drifting off in the saddle. Every time her eyes closed, the three-eyed raven appeared, tearing at her flesh with its talons.

She woke from one such dream when the mare suddenly reared. She lost her grip and slid backwards, landing hard on the ground, helpless to stop the mare from fleeing back towards Winterfell while her breath returned to her. She was surrounded by wolves the moment she fell. They circled her, nipping at her, careful not to draw blood. They had not come to kill her. She knew what they wanted.

"Go!" she shouted at them. Summer stood over her, a paw on either side of her head, and pinned her where she lay with his golden stare. His hot breath warmed her cold cheeks. Screaming at the beasts was no good. They did not listen to her anymore than the gods. A cry of rage caught in her throat. "I don't belong here," she said to the wolf. "Please let me go home. Please." Summer did not bend to her begging anymore than her shouting. As she stared into those golden eyes, far too intelligent to belong to any beast, she remembered the promise she'd made to the red-haired lady. She thought of Bran and the lions closing in around him.

He has his brother, Nyssa told herself. The boy was not her responsibility. She owed the southerners nothing and she owed the gods even less. No matter what she told herself, however, the guilt did not lessen. She had left Cara and the girl to be sold as slaves. She had left her sister, though by no choice of her own, and now she meant to leave the boy as well. You can't run from the gods. How many times had she been told that? By Gosta and by Greta. Trying to will only hurt you. Nyssa could not think what more the gods could do to her.

When she finally moved to stand, Summer let her. She looked north, towards home, her sister and Gosta, and then she looked south, towards the Fallen Child. The wolves would follow her all the way to the Wall, leaving Bran unguarded, defenseless against the lions. "I'm not going back for you," she said, looking at the wolf again, but addressing the gods. Summer and his brothers turned away from her and trotted after the mare.

Nyssa hesitated only a moment longer. I will go home, she thought, hoping the words reached her sister wherever she was now. I will find you. But not until her promise was honored and the boy was safe. She kept a wary eye on the wolves ahead as they led her back over the gray-green hills to Winterfell. She could run from the gods, at least she could try to, but she could not run from herself.

The hour was late and Robb could not sleep. Nor could he focus on the account ledger before him. Maester Luwin's fine letters and numbers swam on the page in indecipherable waves as his thoughts turned again and again to the wildling, wondering where she was now. He had not seen Greywind, or his brothers' wolves, since she fled with the stolen mare. Without them, without the girl, the castle felt undefended.

No matter how he tried to remind himself that the wildling was no longer his concern, he could not help fearing for her. It was a long journey to the Wall, and she likely had even longer to go on the other side, assuming she made it that far. His writ of passage would not protect her from everyone. Trying not to think of her, he stared even harder at the page, but it was no use. Just as he gave up and was closing the account ledger, the door to his chamber creaked, and he looked up, expecting Maester Luwin with more dreaded news, only to find the girl standing before him.

Robb thought he must be dreaming. Her dress was torn at the knee, her dark hair blown into knots by the wind, and her face streaked with dirt. She looked back at him, black eyes like two burning coals in her pale face, and he realized he was not dreaming when she spoke.

"I'm staying," she announced. "I promised your mother I would until she came back. That's what I mean to do."

Robb shook his head to clear his mind of the shock of her appearance. "But-" he began.

"But you don't know when that'll be," said Nyssa. "It doesn't matter. A promise is a promise."

Robb knew he ought to protest further, as she had more than earned her freedom, and yet he was silent. Whether it was selfish, whether it was wrong, he did not care and he did not want her to go again. She took the purse of silver from her sash and tossed it onto the table. "It's yours still," he said.

"I'm not giving it back to you," said Nyssa. "I want you to use it."

"For what?"

"To buy two slaves," she said, shocking him senseless for the second time that night. Nyssa had thought long and hard what to do with the boy-lord's silver as she followed the wolves back to Winterfell. "A woman named Cara and her child. The slavers who took me took them," she said. She did not know or understand this southern place well enough to find them again herself. The boy-lord seemed to understand what she was asking before she voiced the request.

"You left them behind when you escaped," he said. She gave a rigid nod. "You want me to find them." She nodded again.

"They're only wildlings," she said, hissing the word the southerners called her people, "but they didn't want to come here anymore than me. They don't deserve to die as slaves."

"I agree," said Robb, cutting her short. He did not need to be convinced. Slavery was outlawed in the Seven Kingdoms. Even if he did not owe the wildling a great debt, he was honor-bound to seek out this woman and her child, and to bring justice to those who had sold them. He reached for the purse of silver. "I will find them," he said. "On my honor as a Stark."

Nyssa accepted his oath. He may be just a boy, but she did not doubt his honor, and nor had she forgotten his kindness. He could have let her go after the attack in the Wolfswood. He should have let her go, but instead he'd found her, given her shelter and silver. She did not thank him before slipping once more out of his chamber.

Robb was finally able to give into his fatigue. He fell into bed fully clothed and was asleep before his head hit the pillow. He slept soundly through the night, knowing that the wildling had returned, that she was near, that she would let no harm come to Bran. All his life he'd been told that the wildlings were savage, untrustworthy, blood-thirsty heathens intent on taking what did not belong to them. Such was no longer his belief.