ALL THE KING'S HORSES ━ asoiaf

HILENA I

It had not yet settled in Hilena's mind that the King of the Seven Kingdoms was to visit Winterfell. Her home. However, the excitement was dulled by the immense increase in work and manners education in preparation. Wear formal dresses, do your hair properly, act modestly, smile pleasantly but not toothily, and most of all, only speak when spoken to. She repeated the list of etiquette internally every day. Indeed, if Hilena told herself how to act enough, she could be as such. Today, the King and his retinue arrived, and she needed every god in her favor.

Lord Stark had called for a feast larger than any in Winterfell's history in the King's honor, so Hilena had been hunting for fresh game since dawn. Alone, she managed two rabbits and a pheasant, which she promptly brought to the butcher in the castle's kitchens. Bow around her shoulders, quiver at her hip, kills in hand: Hilena was ever herself.

Unfortunately, the commoner found the kitchens occupied by a sight, making her wish she was blind. For reasons beyond Hilena, Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy, and Jon Snow were present. To be cleaned up for the feast, of all things. Really. In the kitchens? Hilena stalked past them as they stared. She laid the pheasants and rabbit down on a table, then pivoted to face the only tolerable boy, Jon.

"How're you, Jon?" Hilena kept her face blank. The boy, getting his hair shorn, glanced at her with a subtle smile.

"Well," he said, still smiling, "Your hunt was good then?" Theon barely contained a burst of laughter.

"Yes, and now I'll be going," Hilena answered dryly, spurring into a walk.

"We'll speak at the feast!" Jon called out, followed by more laughter. Seven hells. Seven hells! She stormed to the stables to get herself home as soon as possible. The commoner continued cursing out the lords in her head as she rode out of the castle gates. She only spared Jon Snow some choice words.

Unlike Starks or Greyjoy wards, Jon understood what it was like to not be so high and mighty. A Stark bastard, indeed, but whether the house's name or his bastard birth determined his treatment was as changeable as the winds. When he was seen as more of a bastard, Hilena was there for him. They drank together at the Smoking Log, rode horses in the Wolfswood, and entertained the girls of the Winter Town. He's my only true friend.

Hilena frowned. I used to have other friends. He was not so true.

Finally, Hilena arrived home, pushing her thoughts away as she dismounted her mare. Her home in the Winter Town was quaint, especially under the foreboding, long shadows of Winterfell's great towers. She pushed open the front door with a creak.

"Anyone 'ere?" Hilena called out. Silence was her answer. Even Sara is out? Good.

The girl made her way up the narrow, rickety staircase to her bedchamber. Her room was a tiny thing; its only contents were a bed, chest, and a small bookcase filled with borrowed materials from the Winterfell library. Parchments and books lay across the case and shelves, some spilling onto the ground. The mess was only due to Hilena's minimal time in her room. She took her bow off and laid it against the wall, then unbuckling her quiver belt to rest it too.

Hilena sighed and looked at what had been laid out on her bed. Hullen must've told Sara to take it out for me. A dark grey lambswool and long-sleeved kirtle and linen chemise awaited her. She scrunched her nose. It was not the formal wear that uneased her, but its origin. I know it's mother's. Father said it was.

Hilena was not like her mother, at least not who she was told her mother was. As the girl aged, she began to see that Mariya was more of an idea than a woman to Hullen. The perfect wife: beautiful, kind, advanced in womanly arts, a fantastic horse rider. Hilena's father said the two shared beauty and a talent for horseback riding. But such words were paired with disappointment in his eyes. His daughter was loose like a man and dressed the part, fighting, hunting, and fucking her way to shame in any father's eyes. Hilena sniffed. Blood, hay, and sweat. How attractive a scent.