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The woods were silent save for the hesitant press of paws against the snow.
Ten feet above, still as the trunk of the tree she was perched in, Natasha waited with unlimited patience for her prey to fall into the trap she'd set. Below her, the rabbit's long ears twitched cautiously and inched closer and closer. It was small, barely enough for one meal, but at this point she'd take what she could get. She'd learned early on how to stop her stomach from growling; it scared the animals away before she could get close enough to catch them.
There was a rustling, and then a snap from off to the left - and in an instant the rabbit was gone, speeding through the underbrush, safe from Natasha's grumbling belly.
She cursed under her breath and angled her body against the trunk, peering down at the interloper who'd ruined her dinner. It was a man - no, a boy - with dark hair. She knew the expression he wore all too well. His stomach was empty, too.
"Damn it, it got away." The boy's voice was surprisingly deep. He turned to gesture at someone; in a moment, a smaller boy, this one blond, appeared. "Sorry, Stevie."
Natasha had half a mind to kill them and take their belongings, but even if they were small there were two of them, plus who knew how many others trailing along behind them. So she huffed out a discontented sigh and sat back against the tree, waiting for the boys to leave so she could continue her own hunt.
But they didn't leave. Instead, the dark-haired boy stepped forward, his face tilted down as he studied the tracks in the snow. It wasn't until he was practically on top of her trap that Natasha realized what he was about to do.
Now, Natasha would readily admit that her methods, while efficient, weren't always the kindest. Compassion and death rarely held hands. If that boy's foot pressed down against those snow-covered spikes he'd surely lose his leg, if not his life. Widow's blood was one of the nastier poisons around.
She should just let him die. It was the easier, more efficient method. She could take his possessions as he writhed around on the ground. But he was with a companion, which made things trickier - even if this boy died, they might be able to track Natasha down, and then she'd lose her hunting territory.
So, as his foot nudged the edge of the trap, Natasha jumped down from the tree and shoved him away with a cry of "Watch out!"
The boy stumbled backwards, his eyes wide with surprise. Behind him a short, skinny blond boy hastily drew a sword from the scabbard at his hip, but Natasha had her own knife drawn in a flash, her eyes darting between the two as she assessed their strength. It didn't take long to realize they were barely more than farmhands - their cloaks were spun from rough wool, with holes and stains scattered across the dull-coloured cloth. Their faces were ruddy, their features handsome but plain. The sword in the shorter boy's hands was made from cheap steel, likely a castoff from a second- or third-rate blacksmith, apt to break by the fifth swing.
"Who are you?!" demanded the blond one, who had moved to stand at his friend's side. His voice was fiercer than Natasha thought possible.
Deciding they were harmless, she sheathed her dagger and allowed her posture to relax. "No one important," she replied.
The dark-haired boy seemed to have recovered; he was now staring suspiciously at her. "Why were you spying on us?" he asked, glancing up at the tree from whence she'd jumped.
Natasha felt her lips curve downwards in distaste. She didn't really want to spend time talking to these two when she could be hunting - she still didn't have any options for her dinner tonight, and she didn't want this to be the night when she had to resort to cannibalism.
Crouching, she gripped her cloak and used it to brush the layer of snow away from her trap. Giving the boys a bored look, she said, "I was trying to catch that rabbit, but instead you two came wandering along." Standing, she brushed the snow from her cloak and added, "You may want to watch your step around here. I can't save you every time."
The boys were silent for a long moment, their expressions stunned. Then the smaller one piped up again; he didn't seem to know what was good for him. "You can't hunt on this land," he said, gripping his sword more tightly. He struck Natasha as the type to get roughed up fairly often. "It belongs to Lord Stark."
Natasha fought the urge to roll her eyes. "And is he here to stop me? No."
Blondie began to speak but was cut off by his friend, who had been staring intensely at Natasha. "Are you a wildling?"
This time she actually did roll her eyes. Deciding these boys weren't worth any more of her time, she turned and began to walk away. "You should get a better sword if you're planning to fight," she called over her shoulder. "And spend less time asking questions. You'll live longer that way."
Their dumbfounded silence practically echoed through the trees.
A few days later, Natasha found herself tracking something much more desirable than a rabbit. One of Stark's prized stags had wandered away from its usual section of the woods and into the outskirts of the forest, solitary and protected only by the huge, prized antlers that sat atop its head. Stags were silent animals, but not always the most intelligent; this one had been easy to follow.
The trick was taking it down without attracting the attention of passersby. It was well known that Stark's wife, a Lannister woman, had brought a dozen young deer with her upon her marriage to Stark and subsequent move to Winterfell. The only people allowed to hunt the animals were the Stark family themselves. Being caught poaching them meant certain death
Natasha didn't care much about that, though. For now, as she stared down at the beast from between the blood-red leaves of a weirwood tree, all she could focus on was aiming her bow just so, following the stag's movements as it picked its way through the forest floor and came to a stop. As it bent its head to mouth at some rare bit of vegetation peeking out from the snow, she drew the bowstring back, and -
A sudden spark of pain ignited in her abdomen, consuming her brain. She released the arrow messily before losing her balance and falling backwards out of the tree, landing on the ground with a thump and a breathless groan of pain as the force of the fall pushed the air from her lungs.
Before she could get her breath back there were footsteps rushing through the underbrush and the sound of hooves pounding frantically against the ground. The hooves faded gradually, but the footsteps drew nearer, until there was a dirty-looking man staring down at her triumphantly.
"Gotcha, you ruddy bitch," he spat out, revealing his half-toothed gums. His clothes were tattered and falling apart; there was a spark of madness in his eyes. "You won' be stealin' from Lord Stark any longer, you won'. 'E'll give me a reward for you, 'e will!"
Natasha grimaced and clutched at her side. Her fingertips brushed against rough wood; an arrow was sticking out of her body, just above her left hip. The bastard had decent aim, she had to give him that. She was about to go for the knife in her belt when the man trained his bow on her, pointing an arrow at her face.
"Don' even think o' tryin' anythin' funny," he warned, his eyes looking her over as though she were a suit of armour or a rack of meat, something valuable but inanimate, something to be taken. She'd been looked at that way before. Those men didn't get to look at much else when she was through with them.
But this idiot had her at his mercy. If she didn't have an arrow shaft sticking out of her she would have kicked and fought, but as it was any move she made just caused the pain to increase.
"Hurts, dunnit?" the man was sneering now, revelling in his advantage. He licked his lips messily, his eyes wide and bright with imagined riches. "Oh, Stark's gon' be real happy with you, missy. Might even give you a go if 'e's in the mood to try an' wrangle a wildlin' bitch."
Natasha felt her body reacting, but she was too slow. Before she could get to her feet the man was pressing his arrow against her neck, forcing her back and down against the ground, she felt the tip pierce her skin and a cry of frustration tore itself from her throat, and then -
"Let her go!"
A loud thunk, a moment of silence, and quite suddenly the madman went cross-eyed and fell to the ground, unconscious. Natasha rolled away as soon as the arrow moved from her throat, but that made the metal and wood already in her body bury itself deeper and she cried out again, her eyes closing tightly from the pain.
When she looked up there was a familiar dark-haired boy standing above her, his hands reaching out without hesitation. Natasha moved back and away instinctively, but he made a disapproving sound and gripped her knees, pulling her closer.
"Keep still," he hissed, glancing at her face for just a second before returning his attention to her injury. "I'm gonna pull this out, but it'll hurt and it's gonna bleed a lot." Pulling back, he looked over at where Natasha's attacker now lay still against the ground; wrinkling his nose, he shook his head and took off his own cloak.
For some reason - and not just because there was an arrow sticking out of her - Natasha didn't turn and run. Instead she watched as the boy closed his hands around the arrow shaft, meeting his eyes once more before he gave a great tug and ripped the offending object out of her.
She grit her teeth, suppressing a scream, her knuckles going white as her hands balled into tight fists. The boy tossed the bloody arrow aside and immediately began to wrap his cloak around her midsection, moving one of her hands to press against the now-covered wound. "Keep pressing down," he instructed.
"I know," she retorted, unable to keep the bile from her voice. She sounded angry, but it was just leftover adrenaline.
When he was sure she could hold in the blood, the boy sat back and regarded her again. His eyes told her that he was still suspicious, but his guard didn't seem to be up. After a moment, he spoke, his words a peace offering. "My name's James. But most people call me Bucky."
"Bucky." She tasted the name, her eyes trained on his face now, using it as a focus to drown out the pain. She knew there was no reason to, that it was usually a bad idea, that maybe it was the pain causing her to do it; she knew all these things, but she offered her own name in return, anyway. "Natasha."
"Natasha." He tasted it, too. Then his lips broke into the smallest of smiles. "You really shouldn't hunt on this land."
She scoffed, then winced as her bloody abdomen complained. "Doesn't matter if you don't get caught," she mumbled, knowing it was useless to say that now. She looked over at the body that was still lying in the snow, wondering how long he'd be knocked out for, how long she'd have to get away.
"You didn't answer my question," Bucky said, drawing Natasha's attention back to those dark eyes of his. A poor, but handsome, face. He was lucky to have that, at least; he could marry well.
She narrowed her eyes at him. It didn't seem to matter much anymore; her pride was shot to hell. "I'm not a wildling," she said, her voice defensive despite her best efforts. "Not that it matters."
Bucky's smile widened slightly, and he gave her a look - not like she was a thing, not as though she could be acquired and displayed as a trophy, but a look of curiosity, as though he was trying to solve a complex puzzle. She'd never been looked at like that before.
It scared her.
"Who are you?" he asked, without pretence. He didn't seem to expect an answer. Perhaps it wasn't really a question. Maybe he just needed to say it, to put the words into the air, so that the truth might appear someday when he least expected it.
"No one important." It was the truth, or as close as she could get to it without spilling secrets no one else needed to know.
He seemed unsatisfied, but he didn't press the issue. Instead he replied, "Me either. Just a farm hand."
She had been right. That made her smile, despite the burning pain still radiating from her hip. "A farm hand with a pretty good swing," she said, tilting her head in the direction of the man Bucky had knocked out.
He laughed at that, a deep chuckle that vibrated through her bones, and ducked his head. "I've got people to protect. Can't go letting red-haired thieves take all my rabbits, can I?" He looked up again and gave her a look, his eyes mischievous suddenly, and Natasha knew he was smarter than he had first seemed to be.
"They're Stark's rabbits," she corrected, her voice softer now, an edge of mischief creeping into her tone as well. She saw Bucky's lips quirk upwards, and he opened his mouth to speak, but then there was a sound in the distance, a voice:
"Corbus!" It was a woman's voice, high-pitched and rough, as though her throat was raw from screaming. "Corbus, where are you, you bloody fool?"
Natasha and Bucky glanced at the body of the man who'd been knocked out, then exchanged a look.
"We have to get out of here before she finds us," said Bucky, reaching out to pull Natasha to her feet. He looked around, trying to figure out the best escape route, but before he could make any headway Natasha shook her head and gestured upwards.
"The trees," she said, ignoring the flare of pain in her side.
Bucky gave her an incredulous look. "There's no way you can make it up there like this."
She rolled her eyes. Really, this kid was too naive for his own good. "We don't have time to argue," she said, pushing herself away from him and towards the closest tree trunk. "Give me a boost, hurry up."
Bucky hesitated for a second, but then the woman's voice cried out again, closer this time. Shaking his head, he crouched down and cupped his hands together. "Alright, c'mon."
Natasha didn't waste a second. Placing one foot in Bucky's cupped hands, she pulled her body close together; then, as she felt him lift her into the air, she sprang upwards, extending her small frame, and reached out to grasp the lowest branches of the tree. With a grunt she pulled herself upwards and onto one of the thicker branches, then curled close to the trunk, hiding herself.
Glancing downwards, she saw Bucky making to follow her - but she also noticed the scarlet splash of her blood against the snow where she'd been laying. He was climbing the tree trunk before she could tell him to hide it, though, so all she could do was pray the woman didn't take notice of it.
He made it just in time, because as soon as he was nestled in the branches next to Natasha the loud woman came stumbling through the underbrush.
"Corbus!" Her voice grew frantic and she rushed to the fallen man's side. After grabbing his face and contenting herself that he was still alive, she began to look around, her expression wild. "Who did this?!"
In the tree, Natasha didn't dare to breathe. She could feel Bucky's weight next to her, and she hoped their combined weight wasn't enough to snap the branch beneath their bodies.
The woman stepped around the small clearing, her grizzled face wary, her body tense and ready to strike. She approached the tree, her eyes on the ground - where the blood still stood bright against the snow.
Natasha forced herself to be even more still, if that was possible. The woman circled the tree, her eyes still on the ground, looking to see where the blood trailed off to - but of course it went nowhere. After what seemed like an eternity she returned to Corbus' side, shaking her head and mumbling something about the Children of the Forest. With a strength that Natasha was not expecting, the woman dragged Corbus' larger body over the snow and away, disappearing into the trees.
It was silent for a few moments. Then, when Natasha was confident the woman was gone, she slipped down from the tree, landing heavily on her feet and releasing a grunt as the wound in her side reminded her of its presence. She did her best to ignore it and began to walk away, in the direction opposite the one the woman had taken.
Behind her, Bucky jumped down and ran to catch up with her. "Where are you going?"
"Away from here. She'll be back." It was a bad idea to stick around - Corbus was going to wake up sooner or later, and Natasha wanted to be as far away as possible when that happened. As sneaky as she could be, her red hair gave her away, and the man had seen her face up close. If he spread the word about her poaching, his friends would come after her, too, no doubt hoping for a reward of their own.
"But you're hurt," Bucky was saying, frowning at her. "You should come back to the farm. Let me take a better look at it."
Natasha shook her head. "Bad idea. I can deal with it myself." She didn't want to get mixed up with this guy any more than she already had - connections were dangerous. Emotions made people weak, and there was something about Bucky that made her feel... well. She didn't need to name it to know it would make her vulnerable.
"You could die if that gets infected," he argued, his face suddenly stubborn. He planted himself in front of her, but she weaved around him effortlessly.
"I said I can deal with it. I've had worse." Not much worse, but she knew she could patch herself up well enough. "Go back to your farm, James. Forget about me."
He was quiet as he walked beside her. Then, softly, he said, "I don't think I could ever forget about you."
Shit. Natasha sped up, trudging through the snow and focusing on the ground in front of her. Somehow this ridiculous boy had grown enamoured with her - maybe she was mysterious and exciting to him, with his simple life and simple means. It didn't matter. She had to get away from here.
"You talk too damn much," she said eventually, not making eye contact. Something compelled her to add, "If I was a wildling, you'd be dead by now."
He stopped following her. She went on for a few paces, but for some reason she stopped and turned around. She looked at him, at his handsome face and dark eyes, at the intelligence hiding within him, and for a moment she allowed herself to wonder.
A farmer's wife. A small house. Children. Weathering the winter together.
But that was impossible.
Without warning, she tossed his now bloodstained cloak into the air towards him. He caught it easily, his reflexes impressive. He'd make a good soldier.
"Don't think about me," she told him, knowing it was useless.
He didn't answer.
Natasha turned again, clutching her side, and continued on through the woods. She didn't stop until the night fell around her, its cold feathers brushing against her skin, making her wish for the warmth of another body. She wondered if he was home, by the fire, maybe laughing about something with that blond friend of his.
She'd always been bad at taking her own advice.
Natasha left the North soon after that, pursued by a growing reputation that endangered her less-than-lawful survival methods. She found her way east, to Braavos, though she did not fare as well as she'd expected to. When she came to the last of her hopes, a strange girl appeared and took her to a place called the House of Black and White. It was there that Natasha, as she had been known all her life, disappeared, and where a faceless woman was born.
She gave up her name and her life and her memories, and in return she was given everything she needed to survive. As she carried out the missions given to her, as she took countless lives in the name of the Many-Faced God, she began to forget who Natasha was and what she had done.
Until, one day, a boy with one arm and empty eyes stumbled into the House of Black and White. A boy with a poor, but handsome face.
A boy who should never have helped her all those years ago.