A few months later
Robb Stark marveled at the sheer variety of soldiers he got volunteering for his army. Looking across them, he noticed tall, short, fat, thin, underprepared and actually ready. One caught his eyes, and he paused for a moment. An armored woman stood there, a large claymore strapped across her back. She wore armor with copper details that caught his eyes, and when he looked into her face he got back a blank look, like stone, hiding rage and hatred. He walked to stand in front of her.
"Who are you?" her eyelashes fluttered as she blinked, fast.
"Nikla, your honour." Her answer held none of the quick easiness of a practiced lie, so he nodded to her sword.
"Glad to have your blade in our forces, Nikla, but may I ask why?" A slight, sardonic smile crossed her face.
"I have a personal score to settle with the Lannisters, King of the North."