Tulle and silk fluttered like a furtive butterfly around Wynona’s pale skin that blended almost seamlessly with the barely beige sheets. Her window was cracked open an inch, and with the small hearth having been cold and free of fire since the previous night. She sat perched on the bed, staring at the fat flakes of frozen snow the landed without a sound on the ledge. Raventree Hall was not immune to the icy grasp of winter, but the frozen beast had only ever had a tentative hold on the castle. The snowflakes there had melted on contact, pouring swaths of melted water over the Riverlands. Her shift was devoid of any protection or warmth, but Wyn did not wear it for practicality. The thin and see-through fabric had an obvious purpose: it cupped and accented her curves, and drew the eye to everywhere it shouldn't look.
With a fire unstoked, goosebumps freckled Wyn's flesh. She trod barefoot on the stone floor, her toes curling against the freezing blocks. She reached the jewelry box and methodically searched the small heaps of silver and gold, almost all of the expensive adornments had been provided by not her family, but Rickard. A small smile danced across her bare lips as she thought of the Lord of Winterfell, her lord. She never thought she would end up in the cold halls of the Stark stronghold, much less become a paramour to the patriarch. She carefully slipped off the transparent material, which had done little to keep her warm during the night. She was grateful for the furs that were piled high upon her bed, but she still shivered as she quickly traded the light blue silk lined night slip for a thick red dress. It was wool lined but presented the image of a southern dress, and a certainly not a garment that belonged so far north. She had sewn the thicker lining on herself, permanently scarring her dress. She slipped a matching cape with satin ribbon over her shoulders, admiring her own stitching. She did not usually spend much time on such frivolities, and preferred to drown her skin in the gifts presented to her by her lord.
Slipping on a thin chain adorned lightly with crisp cut gems, Wyn started to weave her own hair. It was a habit she had developed while traveling, and one that continued due to her dislike of servants. Yes, they were a mark of nobility, but their incessant scurrying and lack of good conversation annoyed Wyn to no end. She dealt with them as often as her post commanded, but if something could be done herself that she did not deem beneath her, she would do it. She slipped quietly into the halls of the slowly waking holdfast. She was always an early riser. She had learned when she was quite young that morning was the time to get what you wanted. The lingering drowsiness of sleep made minds into dough; they were easily molded and even more easily subdued. She would often wake her parents at dawn and beg them for whatever fancy crossed her mind that day. A new necklace, a journey across the country, a small ship. Almost every day they would wave her away with a simple yes, and being of their word her parents often conceded her the gifts.
Win tried to ignore the heavy thud of her thick boots on the stone floor. She was used the the whisper of slippers in halls, but even the thick walls of Winterfell could not keep the cold out. She shivered from both heat and cold at once, the icy reality digging into her bones, but she also shivered from the memory of a fire, and the man that she lay with beside it. Another quick smile darted across her lips, so quick an unobservant man would have missed it. Wyn remembered the time she had gone to King's Landing, where everyone was observant. She had felt so at home there, with all the predators and liars. But still under the guidance of her parents, she had no choice but to depart back to the wanting passages of Raventree. She had almost thrown a child's fit when her parent's told her she was to go to an even more remote place. They were sending her as a part of her cousin's marriage delegation, though the real reason was that they could not fathom why a fertile, young, and beautiful girl with the name of those who were once kings had not found a husband. That was because she had made sure they did not hear the rumors, though those rumors could not be described as such due to their overwhelming truth. The truths spoke of her wantonness, of the men she had lured like a harpy into her bed only to cast out when they were unsatisfactory. She had even sampled some of the servants, despite her distaste for them, in order to find the one man who could sate her ever-increasing appetite. She even played around with some of the servant girls, tasting them like she did the pastries they baked. But she did not need a girl or a boy. She needed someone grown, experienced, a man or even a woman who would know just how to quench her thirst.
The memories sang in Wynona's ears, making her oblivious to the world outside. She stumbled over a sharp stone with a near-silent crash, falling into the arms of a hidden alcove. The nearest torch flickered out of sight of the stone bird's nest she had fallen into, and cast her reddened visage into darkness. Steps hit the stone, but they were not hers. Wyn held her breath, hoping that the onlooker had not seen her tumble. No lady should ever be caught up in memories such as the ones she had been.