
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1586837.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major
      Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      Multi
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Character:
      Roose_Bolton, Ramsay_Bolton, Ramsay_Snow, OC-Bolton, Barbrey_Dustin, The
      Bastard's_Boys, Bethany_Bolton, Reek_(ASoIaF), Theon_Greyjoy
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Torture, Loss, Hurt/Comfort, Death
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-08 Updated: 2014-06-17 Chapters: 12/? Words: 12483
****** Stories Writ in Blood & Flesh ******
by PiercdFromWithin
Summary
     Some years before A Game of Thrones, Roose & Bethany Bolton had a
     daughter. Due to his wife's crumbling mental state, she refused to
     believe the baby was not stillborn. Roose brought the child to live
     with Bethany's sister, Barbrey Dustin. Now that his wife and only
     trueborn son are dead, Roose and his bastard, Ramsay, go to recover
     the girl. Hilarity does not ensue.
Notes
     All characters and settings belong to George RR Martin, and even my
     Alys Bolton would not exist without his influence. I receive no gain
     from the use of his works except my own pleasure.
***** Roose I *****
Chapter Summary
     Roose reminisces over his dead wife's body, then makes a life-
     altering decision for a girl in Barrowton.
Chapter Notes
     This thing starts slowly. I'm trying to get a feel for the
     characters, get into their minds a bit before any action happens.
     That's why I've kept these early POV chapters short. I want to know
     where they're coming from, as that will influence their later
     actions. Sorry if you find it a bit boring in their heads! Patience,
     dears. The tags & rating are there for a VERY good reason.
Roose I
Lady Bethany Ryswell Bolton died of a consuming fever in the bed she had shared
with her husband through all of the miscarriages, still-births, and the death
of her beautiful, accomplished, polished, courteous, and almost-perfect son,
Domeric at only 19 that filled her marriage to the lord of the Dreadfort.
Considering that only months had passed since her only son born alive had died
of a sickness of the bowels (both Lady Bethany and Lord Roose Bolton agreed he
was probably poisoned by Roose's own bastard son), even her subtle, precise,
and completely ungiven to fancies husband knew she truly had died of a broken
heart.
Roose was fond of his silent, organized, proper wife, feeling that they
complimented each other. As he stood over her cooling body, he reminisced on
their comfortable silences, her ability to run the daily managerial
requirements of the Dreadfort, and her odd silence in the marriage bed. The
servants might spread rumors to the townsfolk that she was monstrous and cruel,
that her cold was a mask for brutality, but he had valued her pragmatism. But
the yearly losses of their children had stripped her of swathes of herself,
much as he stripped chosen people of their skins, despite flaying having been
long outlawed. Roose had been unable to comfort her. He was willing, but he
knew that he lacked the capacity.
He was not pleased that her death, so shortly after his only proper heir's
death, left him with such unpalatable choices for inheriting his legacy. For
the eighth time, he found himself regretting that she had learned of the
bastard he had fathered on that wretched woman, and for the thousandth time he
wished he had dispatched of her as he had all of his other dalliances. When he
thought about it, eyeing her wasted corpse dispassionately, her mental decline
began when she heard the rumors and went to see the boy for herself. Ramsay
Snow had been a lad of three, already possessing coarser features than his
father, but the child's clear, pale grey eyes left her no doubt as to his
parentage. She had been late in a pregnancy at the time, but she still threw
herself upon the lord of the Dreadfort in a rage when she returned. Roose
almost smiled at the memory - his first memory of seeing his wife show passion
after fifteen years of marriage, and it turned out to be his only such memory
of Bethany Ryswell Bolton.
That pregnancy had caused him to feel pain. A daughter, one Bethany insisted
had been stillborn, one whom she had refused to see or to nurse, was the
result. Roose was still perturbed by her reaction fifteen years later.
His face betraying no emotion, he turned to the maester, saying in a whispery
voice that caused the elderly man to lean forward to hear, that he should
prepare her for placement in the crypt below the dungeons. Turning abruptly on
his heel, he walked down the hallways of his ancestral home, deep in thought,
toward the mean chambers he had reserved for his bastard. Without knocking, he
opened the door and gazed impassively upon the boy who was obliviously skinning
one of the barn cats. When he addressed his son, his soft voice bore an air of
command. "Ramsay, my wife has passed." He paused, a significant look in his
frozen eyes. Roose Bolton was please to see the fear build in his bastard's
eyes then spread through his ungainly body. But, so it was with bad blood.
Still, the boy had his uses, and a certain low cunning his father almost
appreciated. "You must get dressed for a ride, but this will be no hunt. We are
going to retrieve your trueborn sister."
***** Alys I *****
Chapter Summary
     Alys Snow sees riders, and learns she has been living with lies.
Chapter Notes
     I apologize my introductory chapters are so short. Once I'm further
     into this thing, they will get longer. I'm still practicing how to
     write GRRM's amazing characters and trying to plunk Alys into this
     world. Patience is a virtue!
Alys I
Alys Snow loved to ride. For her fifteenth nameday, the widowed Lady Dustin who
was her caregiver had offered her the choice of any of the Ryswell horses, and
she had chosen a hot deep chestnut destrier. It was far too valuable a horse
for an orphaned bastard, but Lady Dustin treated her like family in her own icy
way, and even the Ryswells treated her as if she were far more than the mere
nobody Alys knew she was. Unlike most bastards and orphans, she had been taught
to read, penmanship, the intricacies of embroidery, learned the histories of
the Seven Kingdoms and its greater and lesser houses, and the artifice of
civility. Any who saw her or spoke with her would have believed her a true
lady. Alys knew different. Further, Alys knew she was different. She named the
horse Blood.
Alys was still trying to break the green stallion to ride without breaking his
spirit, which was proving a delicate battle. Occasional odd, dark thoughts
would enter her thoughts. "Might the horse respond more quickly if she bloodied
him with her spurs, and that after she had skinned a bit of flesh off his
flanks?" She was glad when these thoughts left her mind, as they disturbed her,
and she knew she could not go to Barbrey Dustin with her concerns. She was not
the mothering sort; she made it clear Alys had not been her bastard child, and
that she had been well compensated for taking her in as an infant.
Once the horse had bored himself circling like an ouroboros, bucking, and
rearing, Alys gave Blood his head, and they began to chase the shadows of birds
across the hills of the Barrowlands. Her long, straight hair streamed like an
oilslick black banner behind her as she lost herself in the steady rhythm of
the horse beneath her. These were the moments Alys cherished most of all - she
was most comfortable escaping into a world punctuated by silence apart from the
jangle of stirrups and bit, and the creaking leather of her saddle. She was
glad she had no name or lands because that afforded her freedom from being wed
to a man who might not allow her such freedom. Riding cleansed her mind of
those darker ideas that occasionally plagued her.
As girl and horse topped one of the hills, she could see riders coming from the
east, and her heart lept into her throat. She could not see banners, much less
faces, but she saw strangers, and turned Blood back toward the only home she
had ever known, pushing him into a hard gallop. When she reached the holdfast,
Alys left the foaming horse in the hands of a groom and rushed to greet Barbrey
Dustin to warn her of the riders without even changing out of riding clothes.
Following a hurried curtsy, the words came pouring out of the girl in her
whispery purr, "My lady, riders from the east, at least fifty men, too far off
to see their banners but they appeared to be shades of red, are we expecting
anyone, if not to whom else shall I go with this warning?"
Barbrey Dustin's lips curled in amusement at the normally calm girl's obvious
discomfiture. Her sharp voice was tempered with false honey when she told Alys
the truth. "I had a raven just this morning. You had best get that stench
washed off you and make yourself presentable. Wear your nicest dress, the red
wool would suit best." Lady Dustin paused, and when she continued her voice was
cold. "Now that my dear sister has passed, your father is coming to take you
home, Alys."
Before the import of those words could register, Lady Dustin dismissed Alys,
who stood rooted on the spot, her eyes wide and uncomprehending. Had Lady
Dustin truly said her father was coming for her? Did this mean she was not an
orphan? Why would a man come for his bastard child after 15 years, anyway?
Barbrey intruded on Alys' reverie, snapping, "Go ready yourself, girl. As soon
as you barged so rudely into my chambers stinking of sweat, I sent a maid to
fill your tub with hot water and scented oil."
***** Barbrey I *****
Chapter Summary
     Barbrey reminisces on dead sisters & dead lovers
Barbrey I
Barbrey Dustin clutched the note from her goodbrother in a trembling hand. She
knew her sister Bethany's mind had been failing slowly since the birth of her
daughter, but she had not expected to hear she was dead though not yet forty.
She blamed Roose Bolton for everything that had fractured her sister. The
miscarriages were somehow his doing, as were the still-births, and the babes
who died within weeks of being born. Even Domeric, precious Domeric who had
squired four years with the Ryswells, his death was Bolton's fault. The worst
was when Roose brought his uncouth bastard to live with them. To shove the
fruit of his infidelity into sweet Bethany's face and into her home was
unforgivable to Barbrey.
Long before he brought the bastard home, he had stripped Barbrey's sister of
her laughter, transforming her into something as quietly efficient as himself.
And to think, there had been a time Barbrey was jealous of their union, jealous
of her sister wedding into so ancient a house as Bolton. This jealousy was
amplified when the only man she truly loved, Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell
and Warden to be of the North, was betrothed to Catelyn Tully. The
disappointment was bitter as ashes in her mouth even after nearly twenty years
had passed. Her father and she had then set their aims on Lord Rickard Stark's
second son, Eddard, but with the deaths of both Brandon and his father for the
amusement of King Aerys II, the auburn-haired trout was also given to Eddard.
Barbrey was left to wed the jovial Willam Dustin, only to lose him after six
months of marriage, a fatality in far Dorne to Robert's Rebellion.
And Lord Eddard Stark had brought back the beautiful red destrier she had
gifted Willam without the man who proudly told his wife he would return from
war to her astride that very mount. Stark had seemed sincere in his
condolences, but while he brought his sister Lyanna's body to rest in the
crypts beneath Winterfell, he left Willam's bones beneath some nameless
mountain in the heat of Dorne. Barbrey had never forgiven, and in her
loneliness & mourning she had developed an abiding hatred for the Starks.
By the time the lord of the Dreadfort came to her with his precious bundle,
Barbrey was a font of bitterness, and being tasked with raising her sister's
rejected daughter did little to dispel her negativity. Still, she was well
compensated for caring for the infant, and came to grow somewhat fond of the
child, despite her similarities to her father. While the child was solemn and
never raised her voice, she was studious, wrote songs and poetry, and took to
riding as much as her elder brother who was a squire at Barrowton. It was none
too difficult to keep brother and sister apart, and Barbrey silently applauded
herself for the cunning ways she had managed it. The fact that Domeric was so
busy with his fellow squires made it easy for him to overlook the little
orphaned bastard.
Now, Barbrey's haughty and mentally unsound sister was no more, and her
goodbrother was crossing the North to reclaim the child his late wife had
refused. Barbrey did not mind giving up Alys, as she bore no actual love for
the girl, but she would have preferred to send the girl to her father under
escort rather than seeing Roose Bolton again. Her hatred for him was almost as
virulent as her hatred for Starks, for he had taken the light from her sister's
eyes and the laughter from her voice.
Barbrey Dustin was of the North. The North remembers, and it does not forgive.
***** Alys II *****
Chapter Summary
     In which Alys meets her father
Chapter Notes
     I promise, after all this introductory fluff, the action is coming. I
     just want to get the characters and setting well established before
     anything real happens.
Alys wished that she had time to soak in the hot, fragrant water of her bath,
relax muscles aching from her hard ride on the green stallion, and think.
Mostly, she wanted to think. Lady Dustin never told her that she had a father.
She still had not told Alys whom to expect riding to Barrowtown to pick her up.
As she washed her hair, she hoped it would have time to dry before meeting her
father, though she doubted it, as it was both long and thick, and typically
took a few hours to dry. She scrubbed herself until her pale skin glowed pink
and stung in the hot water, trying to rid her body of any imaginable offensive
smell. She then took a dagger to scrape the dirt from beneath her nails,
wondering how it would feel to slide the dagger under someone else's nail and
pop it off. Unbidden, the hand not holding the knife slid between her thighs,
but as soon as a fingertip brushed over the small bundle of nerves above her
entrance, she shuddered and stopped. This was not the time to indulge in her
fantasies, especially not with a handmaiden hovering by the fireplace. Huffing
softly, she put down the knife. Such thoughts were unsuitable for a girl of any
social caste, and she was certain that her father would be horrified to know
his daughter harboured such thoughts, and worse.
She hurriedly got out of the tub, banishing all thoughts but those of getting
ready to meet the father who had not wanted her for fifteen years. Lady
Dustin's own handmaiden was attending to her, drying Alys' lithe body with
linen, touching her pulse points with perfume that matched the bath oils, and
wringing as much water as possible from her smooth, blue-black hair. Alys, used
to tending to her own needs, was a bit frustrated by the girl's ministrations
and constant chatter, but did not let it show on her face. Yes, she was pleased
that she would finally meet her father. No, she did not know who he was. Yes,
she was perfectly content to wear the red woolen dress Lady Dustin had
suggested. Even though the inane conversation grated on her nerves, Alys never
raised her voice.
As the little handmaiden was lacing her into the dress, Alys was thankful that
her daily rides through the barrowlands and other athletic and unladylike
pursuits had gifted her with a small, tight waist requiring no corset even in
this close-fitting dress with its flowing skirts. She could not abide by the
thought of her breathing or movements being restricted, though she did not mind
wearing dresses. Even at fifteen, she still sometimes dreamt that this life was
a mistake, and that she was truly a princess who had been stolen from her real
family, not an orphan and a bastard. In her dreams, when her real parents
finally found her, they allowed her to kill her kidnapper slowly. She imagined
cutting strips of flesh from the man's body, one strip for each year she had
lived without her parents.
And now, her real father was coming for her! Alys had to consciously reign in
her enthusiasm. It was exciting and novel, but she still burned with the pain
of knowing he had cast her aside, and she could think of no good reason to give
away a baby girl and never visit her. Even though she was a bastard, and if his
wife refused to see her, if he could come now, he could have come before.
Bitterness rose like bile in her throat, and she resolved to be cold to the
man, to never show him the affection he had denied her. And so died her
enthusiasm. The familiar still and cold came over her, and she took comfort in
it.
The handmaiden continued to try to do something with Alys' heavy, still-wet
hair, finally deciding on some braids, into which she deftly wove some pale
pink flowers. While Alys' face remained impassive, the older girl flitted about
in excitement. "Isn't m'lady a pretty little sight! If only you had some
jewelry, rubies and moonstones would so flatter your colouring!" Alys was not
interested in how she looked, though after a glance in the mirror she could not
deny that the whole ensemble was flattering. Neither could she deny that the
effect would be enhanced with some jewels, but a girl in her position was
fortunate enough to have a roof over her head. She wondered just who she was
supposed to be impressing. She assumed it was one of Lady Dustin's uncles or
cousins, probably either a Ryswell or a Dustin, and decently highborn if Lady
Dustin insisted on her wearing her finest dress.
Finally, the handmaiden seemed to be pleased with Alys' appearance, and the two
went to Lady Dustin's solar for inspection. Barbrey nodded her approval, and
took Alys by the elbow, leading her down the stairs and out to the yard. "I
shall leave it to your father to explain your situation. I would say it has
been a pleasure to raise you, but we both know that would be a baseless
formality with little truth in it. You will likely find your position vastly
changed, but do not expect warmth or affection in your new life. Good luck,
Alys," Lady Dustin said with an enigmatic smile.
Alys merely stood, waiting, listening for the familiar sounds of the
approaching men. To her shame, she found her palms were sweating, and she
surreptitiously wiped them on her skirts. Looking through the double gateway,
she could see the men before she could hear them, and now she recognized the
pink and red flayed man of House Bolton. Alys knew that Lady Dustin's sister
was wed to the lord of the Dreadfort. This must be what Lady Dustin meant when
she said her sister had passed. Alys presumed that her father was riding along
with the Dreadfort men coming to give their condolences to their late lady's
widowed sister, though so large a contingent of men seemed odd.
As the company approached, Alys wondered at how unmatched the two head riders
appeared. The elder sat trim and tall in his saddle, riding with easy grace,
and simply clad in black with a pink cloak. Alys immediately recognized him as
Roose Bolton himself, as he had visited several times during Alys' wardship at
Barrowton. The young man riding next to the lord was thick with muscle,
rawboned, and she could see he had thick lips and a heavy brow even from a
distance. But his outfit was truly ludicrous, especially when seen next to the
simplicity of Lord Bolton's staid attire. It was a hodgepodge of pink silks and
red velvets, and what appeared to be a teardrop ruby hung from his ear. Were
she not familiar with Lord Bolton's lack of humor, she might have thought him
the fool of the Dreadfort. The corners of her slightly thin lips twitched both
at the sight and the thought of humorless Roose Bolton keeping a fool.
Lord Bolton and the unfamiliar young man in his ostentatious outfit rode up to
meet Lady Dustin and Alys. Alys looked through them, trying to surmise which of
the men waiting just outside the gate might be her father, as the two men
dismounted and approached. The stable boy grabbed the two destriers' reins and
held them, as both Alys and Barbrey sank into curtsies, Alys' far deeper and
more graceful thanks to youth. As she was focused on the men outside, she
failed to note the predatory look the young man at Lord Bolton's side was
giving her. Alys could barely hear the lord as he bade the ladies stand, his
voice even more whispery soft than her own yet somehow commanding. As she rose,
her eyes downcast, Alys heard her guardian introduce her. "Roose, it is with
pleasure that I present your daughter, Alys."
At that, Alys looked up into strange, blue grey eyes that were almost
colourless, resembling nothing more than chips of dirty ice, eyes identical to
her own.
***** Ramsay I *****
Chapter Summary
     Ramsay and Alys find some common ground, which Ramsay finds
     delightful
Chapter Notes
     Yes, /things/ are starting to happen. But who could win? The older
     boy, already adept at killing, or the slight girl haunted by bloody
     thoughts?
Ramsay I
Ramsay Snow had difficulty controlling his temper for the whole week-long ride
from the Dreadfort to Barrowton, and it was his horse that suffered most for
it. By the time Barrowton was in sight, the beast's flanks were bloody from his
spurs, his ears pinned back, and his eyes rolled wildly any time Ramsay jerked
on the curb bit in his mouth, which was far more frequent than necessary. Now
with both Domeric and Bethany out of the way, he assumed that he would be his
father's heir despite being a bastard. Gods, he hated that word, and it had
dogged him all his life. Even though Domeric had sought him out and convinced
his father to let Ramsay come live with them at the Dreadfort, Ramsay could not
help feel that it was some sort of jape at his expense, much like when his lord
father had sent him Heke as a manservant while he still lived with his mother.
With Heke, the joke was really on Lord Roose, as in Heke Ramsay found something
of a kindred spirit, and the boy greatly enjoyed the lessons he learned from
the man, despite the unrelenting odor of purulent decay and fish that permeated
the man's body, no matter how many times a day he bathed. Once, the man even
drank a bottle of Lady Bethany's perfume, which nearly killed Heke, and did
nothing to endear her husband's bastard to her. The nickname Reek was wholly
appropriate.
Ramsay resented that his father would not allow him to bring his Reek along on
this trip. Even more than that, he resented the purpose of the trip. He did not
want a little sister, especially not a trueborn sister who would be a true
Bolton and ahead of him in the line of succession. Had he not done everything
his father ever asked of him? He wished the girl had indeed been stillborn as
Lady Bethany insisted she was. He found himself smiling toothily as he thought
of the various ways a fifteen-year-old girl could accidentally die, and he
wondered idly whether the girl was a maiden. He and Reek could have so much fun
welcoming his sister to the family, even after the light had left her eyes and
her body began to cool. That was when Reek liked them best. Ramsay preferred
the buildup, when they were screaming, begging, and hopefully fighting.
Ramsay's father said that Reek's stench was the exterior manifestation of the
man's rotten core. Ramsay liked to think that he might be the only man alive
who knew more about what truly lay inside people than his father.
As he rode beside his father, in what he considered his rightful place, through
the gates at Barrowton, he looked over the two women standing in front of the
servants. He spared barely a glance for the haughty-looking older woman who did
not even deign to look at him, but rather kept her eyes on his father. He could
not stop staring at the girl next to Lady Barbrey. While she was not quite a
beauty, having inherited her father's thin lips and her mother's mask-like,
expressionless face, he admired what of her body he could see under the thick
wool of her well-fitted dress, and tried to think of how she would sound when
she screamed, perhaps when he yanked back on that lustrous black hair to expose
the marble-pale column of her throat to his teeth or his blade. Something about
the set of her shoulders made Ramsay think she would be a fighter, that his new
little sister would be so much more fun than her older brother, Domeric.
Once he and his father dismounted and the stable boy took their horses, the two
women curtsied, and when his father bade them rise Lady Barbrey introduced the
girl as Alys Bolton. Alys looked genuinely shocked, and Ramsay was quite amused
to see the blush rise in her cheeks, though he was almost unnerved to see the
eerie eyes he shared with his father appraising him coolly from a delicately
feminine face. She stood still even as his father placed a hand on her
shoulder, and said in his whispery voice, "We have much to discuss, my Alys,
and I assume you must have many questions for me." She merely nodded her head,
not displaying fear or any other emotion, then looked pointedly at Ramsay.
Roose bared his teeth in what might have been a smile, and told her, "Dear
child, this is my bastard son, your half-brother Ramsay Snow."
At that, even though he was bristling inside at having been revealed
immediately as a bastard, Ramsay grabbed Alys' small white hand that seemed so
delicate he could easily break it with a squeeze, and brought it to his mouth
for a kiss. He made certain she could feel his hot breath on her hand, and
scraped it with his teeth. A slight tremor was the sole reaction he received in
return, but that was enough for Ramsay, at least for now. Ramsay held her hand
a few moments longer than was comfortable, a wolfish grin twisting his thick
lips and exposing sharp teeth. "It is a pleasure to meet you, little sister. I
certainly look forward to getting to know you better."
The corners of Alys' mouth twitched into a semblance of a smile that reminded
Ramsay exactly of his father's expression, even though this was obviously the
first time the two had met. Her voice came out like a quiet purr or claws on
silk. "I am indeed pleased to learn I have a family."
Even though her answer was perfectly polite, Ramsay resented it for being
enigmatic and impersonal. He was furious that she was so similar to their
father even though they did not know each other, more similar than he ever was,
even though he practiced imitating his father's whispery voice, air of
authority, and command over his emotions, and had since his parentage was first
disclosed to him. He thought he hated his sister when his father first
mentioned her existence, but now that he had met her, he realized what true
hatred was. He had been jealous of Domeric, but was unable to hate the older
boy who had sought him out and pleaded with his parents to allow Ramsay to come
live with them. Because he did not hate his half-brother, Domeric died gently
by Ramsay's standards, only three days of cramping, bloody diarrhea, and
vomiting. Ramsay already knew he would give Alys no such mercy.
Lady Dustin interrupted Ramsay's assessment of his half-sister, just as his
gaze was sliding down from how her budding breasts pressed against the tight
bodice of the crimson dress to a waist he suspected his large hands might reach
all the way around, requesting that they come inside and make themselves
comfortable before the feast, that her steward would see to the lodging and
comfort of their men.
As they followed Lady Dustin inside, Ramsay wrapped a heavy, muscular arm over
Alys' narrow shoulder in what appeared to be an affectionate gesture, but the
full weight of his arm was in it. "Little sister, do you enjoy riding horses?"
He asked, his breath hot in her ear.
She turned her face to him, and while her slight smile never broadened, her
pale eyes appeared to become lit from within. "Riding is my passion, um.
Ramsay."
At that, Ramsay tightened his grip on her shoulder to the point where she
should have winced, and was pleased to see her slight smile falter. Grinning
broadly, he rejoined, whispering in her ear, "Riding is one of my passions,
too," his low voice somehow equally sweet and threatening, heavy with
implication.
Making sure that nobody was looking, he quickly dropped his hand to her chest
and tweaked her nipple through her woolen dress hard enough to make Alys yelp,
then wrapped his arm around her in what would have appeared to anyone watching
to be a brotherly hug. When his father looked at them sharply in response to
Alys' cry, Ramsay was already asking, "Did you step on a sharp rock, sweet
sister?" The girl must have felt trapped between her father's ice-like look and
her brother's vulpine smile, and she softly replied, "Yes, it was a right sharp
rock. I am afraid my boots need new soles."
The party began to follow Lady Barbrey into the great hall, but Ramsay, still
gripping Alys' shoulder tightly, held her back. His smile only grew broader,
revealing more sharp, crooked teeth. "Since you enjoy riding so much, I would
be honoured if you would join me and my boys on a hunting trip, as a chance to
bond as siblings should. I only had so short a time with our brother Domeric,
and I fully intend to make the most of my time with you."
***** Roose II *****
Chapter Summary
     What it actually means to be a Bolton
Chapter Notes
     I kind of feel like switching from POV chapters to an omniscient
     narrator. Not sure yet. I may tell most of it either through Alys'
     eyes or maybe Ramsay's. Hell, I may choose one of the Boys as the
     main POV. I know the plot and where it ends, just not who should be
     telling the damned little tale of my AU.
Roose II
Despite the recent losses of first his much-admired heir and his wife, the lord
of the Dreadfort found himself pleased. Sending the daughter whose life Bethany
had denied to be raised by Bethany's coolly practical sister Barbrey was an
idea that had borne truly sweet fruit. In his eyes, Alys was a charming young
lady, her words careful, her movements and expressions subtle. He noted with
relief that she was far more reserved than Domeric had been. The Dreadfort had
its secrets, and any who were to live there must know discretion.
While the bastard had his uses and skills, he lacked discretion. At the age of
18, he had already developed a reputation for dark deeds, and the smallfolk on
Bolton land were afraid to speak his name. Roose found this disappointing, and
he never missed an opportunity to attempt to turn Ramsay's failures into
lessons. Ramsay reveled in the fear of others, much to Roose's dismay. His
activities differed little from those of his bastard, but he had practiced
caution, while Ramsay seemed to be practicing terror. This flew in the face of
the most important lesson Roose persistently tried to teach his son, the lesson
that had allowed him to continue the outlawed tradition of the First Night, the
lesson that allowed him to go for hunts, the lesson that allowed him to
continue the Bolton family tradition of flaying their prisoners, another
outlawed practice: "Be discreet. A peaceful land, a quiet people."
Roose maintained his patience and calm through leeching out any bad blood, and
it worked well for him. He could not recall the last time he had to raise his
voice. He was very pleased to see that Alys sat before him, her hands steady in
her lap, not showing fear of the father she only knew by sight and reputation.
He asked her questions in his spider soft voice, and she responded in a quiet
purr he knew was no affectation or imitation, unlike his bastard's attempts to
imitate him, his attempts at subtlety.
She met his eyes and did not tremble, even though there were battle-hardened
lords who could not bear his gaze. "Alys," he asked softly. "Do you know what
it means to be a Bolton?"
Her expression gave away nothing, though the pause before she answered spoke
volumes. Roose found himself leaning in to hear her soft response. "My lord,
your House words are "Our Blades are Sharp, your sigil is a red flayed man on a
field of pink, and your seat is the Dreadfort. House Bolton is as old as any in
Westeros, tracing its roots to the First Men. For generations, Boltons and
Starks were bitter enemies, and Boltons took pride in wearing the flayed skins
of dead Starks, though now you are a Stark bannerman. Lady Dustin said that you
have said, of an occasion, that while a naked man has few secrets, a flayed man
has none."
Roose found himself amused by the girl's disconnected, factual description of
their family history. Everything was accurate, but impersonal. He picked up
Alys' hands in his, absently noting that her fingers were long and elegant like
Bethany's had been rather than short and strong like his own, though they were
callused, likely from riding based on what Barbrey had told him.
"Alys, you are a Bolton. My wife was your mother. I am your father. You just
spoke our House words and told the history of our family." Despite never
raising his voice, he emphasized the word "our." He watched a faint blush
suffuse his daughter's pale cheeks.
Roose was pleased when his daughter squeezed his hands. "I do not know what it
means to be a Bolton, my lord, though I suspect that it means waiting in
shadows while pretending to be in the light, waiting for the opportunity to
take what should belong to us no less than it does to the Starks, and to bring
back the Old Ways."
His thin lips pulled back in a semblance of a smile, and he drew Alys into an
embrace. He was the lord of the Dreadfort, and as such he would not apologize
to this girl for having given her over to a bitter aunt to raise, but hearing
her quietly earnest and mature replies to very adult questions filled him with
pride. He might not have raised this girl, but she was his blood. She was a
Bolton. Even though his bastard had been raised in the shadow of the Dreadfort,
even though Domeric had taken the younger boy under his wing, and even though
Ramsay had spent two years living as family within the Dreadfort, he had not
yet picked up what the girl seemed to perceive naturally. "This is further
proof that blood will tell," Roose told himself.
Roose did not often experience regret, but it upset him that his daughter was
almost a woman grown, and that he would be bringing Alys home just in time to
start working on the politics of a marriage. He wondered how well he could get
to know her before he had to give her away, and that thought made him angry at
Bethany, and angry at himself. While hugging his daughter for the first time,
the lord of the Dreadfort was damning himself for having spilled his seed in
Ramsay's lowborn mother, damning himself for not having scraped the growing
babe out of her with his greatsword, and in all ways damning himself for not
having ended his bastard son before his wife learned of the boy's existence.
Just then, he looked up, and his eyes met those of the bastard whose existence
he had just been wishing had ended before it even began, and the knowing
mockery he saw in those eyes so like his own enraged him.
No matter how apt Alys might prove in understanding and living up to her
newfound heritage, Roose could not imagine the fair, slender girl with her
solemn expressions to be capable of all that holding the Dreadfort required.
Her mother had only followed him once into the dungeons beneath, and he had
been forced to carry her unconscious body up to their room before he had
finished lifting the first strip of skin from the flesh beneath. Domeric had
been competent, viewing it as a duty not a pleasure, much as his father did,
and Ramsay had already proved himself adept at the art of flaying.
Roose still found it distasteful to remember just how many squirrels, rabbits,
cats, and people had been messily butchered before Ramsay's heavy hands finally
learned the delicate art of flaying, not because of the loss of so many dozens
of lives, but because in his zeal, Ramsay's earliest attempts had been so
untidy as to assault Roose's sensibilities. The young man seemed to lose all
sense of decorum when flaying a prisoner, and on more than one occasion the
lord of the Dreadfort had found his bastard naked and shamelessly rutting
against or into the wounds he was inflicting. Just recalling such sights caused
his blood to become heated, and he suspected he would need to see the maester
for a leeching before bed. His bastard son's bad blood inflamed his own,
especially when he thought of the boy's eyes glazed with lust as he slashed at
a body, mindless of where or why he was cutting. This was utterly unlike the
emotionless precision Roose himself exhibited when preparing a prisoner.
Roose did not expect he would have the opportunity to share that aspect of
Bolton heritage with his daughter, which increasingly disappointed him as the
evening passed in quiet conversation and he truly began to get to know his
daughter.
***** Alys III *****
Chapter Summary
     In which the Ryswells show up just in time and Lady Dustin hosts a
     feast
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
By the time a servant came to summon them to supper, Alys was surprised at the
din that greeted her ears. Her arm looped in her father's, they walked up to
the dais, her father taking the place of honor at the head table, with Lady
Barbrey on his right and Alys herself on his left, and next to her, her bastard
half-brother Ramsay. Roger Riswell, Lady Barbrey's brother, sat on his sister's
other side, flanked by his other two brothers. Alys had never before supped at
the head table, generally taking her meals either below the salt or, as was her
preference, in the kitchen alone, but she was not about to admit this fact to
anyone present.
Looking around, Alys was surprised to see how many of the Ryswells had arrived
while she and her father had been getting acquainted, and she was amused as
always by the different-coloured horses on their banners. Years ago, Lady
Barbrey had told Alys that her various uncles and cousins could agree on
nothing, not even their colours. The fact so many were here implied to her that
far more time had gone into planning this meeting than she initially realized.
Just as Alys was starting to wonder just how many people here had known her
true identity all along, her father looked to her and murmured, "Lady Dustin
and her father were most discreet. Your heritage cannot have been an easy
secret to keep given your striking resemblance to your lady mother, and the
ghost grey of your eyes."
Alys thought her father sounded grudgingly impressed by their ability to have
kept her identity a secret for fifteen years. She was too ashamed to tell him
that she had avoided large gatherings at Barrowton, preferring to keep to
herself to avoid answering questions about who she was. In fact, the last time
Lord Bolton and his retinue had come to Barrowton, she had taken every meal in
the kitchen. She looked to her side at Ramsay, who appeared perfectly
comfortable sitting at the high table among people with names despite being not
only a bastard but one with a commoner for a mother, and he was already deep
into his second cup of wine. He must have noticed her glance, because he leaned
into her, leering. Her skin crawled as she could feel the heat radiating off
his body, and her stomach felt hollow despite being filled with sumptuous food
when she heard his words.
"Would her ladyship grace her bastard brother with a dance when the time
comes?"
Ramsay's voice was overly loud and carried, causing her to blush, especially at
how he put a grinding emphasis on the word "bastard," and a bit of spittle
accumulated at the corners of his mouth. The high-pitched and oddly incongruous
giggle that followed did nothing to ease her discomfiture, but she tried to
hide her reaction behind the mask of civility. She did not want her newfound
father to see just how uncomfortable she was around his bastard, especially not
after the painful way he had tweaked her breast only hours earlier, managing to
keep that small cruelty hidden despite the presence of Lady Dustin, his father,
and several servants. Something inside her called for vengeance, even as she
wore her sweetest expression.
"It would be a pleasure, Ramsay," she replied coolly, a raven brow arched,
definitely challenging him. She suspected that the bastard would be the only
one to take any pleasure in the dance, but she hoped to be able to make him
feel uncomfortable, possibly make him look even more a fool than his garb
already did. Alys had long ago learned to take her pleasures in small things,
given her station in life.
And, in the dance, the opportunity did present itself. The bard began to sing a
song with which Alys was unfamiliar, but the rhythm was similar enough to some
other dances she knew that she had no trouble. Ramsay, however, was an awkward
dancer, and he dragged her into the middle of the throng where those sitting up
on the dais would not see so clearly. At least that was Alys' initial
supposition. Not only was he an awkward dancer, but he seemed to grow
increasingly angry at Alys' grace. The first time he stepped on her foot, he
growled, "Stupid bitch, the man is supposed to lead, and you should follow me."
Alys chuckled at that, replying, "It would be easier done if I were dancing
with a man."
While her tone was light and merely teasing, Ramsay's response frightened her.
He grabbed her and pressed her so tightly against him that she could feel his
cock was hard and pressing into her stomach, and his breath smelled like sour
wine when he leaned in to whisper with his wet, wormy lips against her ear, his
skin rough where it rubbed her cheek. "The Dreadfort will be mine, and you will
be meeting your trueborn brother soon enough, but before that we will have a
great deal of fun, you and I."
She was unable to repress a shudder of disgust when he ground his hips against
her, and she tried to shove him away. As she pushed against him, he let go of
her, and Alys found herself off balance and unable to recover before falling to
the floor. She blushed, and it took all of her will not to burst into tears.
The day had already been emotionally overwhelming, and her half-brother's easy
cruelty was almost too much for her. Still, when he offered her his hand to
help her to her feet, she took it with a faint smile that did not falter when
he jerked her painfully back against him, and she said nothing in response when
he chided her for her clumsiness.
Alys was numb with horror, but finished the dance with Ramsay, and then she
danced with Lady Barbrey's brothers Roger and Rickard Riswell, men she had only
just discovered were her uncles, and then with Harwood Stout before she felt it
appropriate to plead exhaustion and return to her place beside her father. Part
of her hoped that Lord Bolton would ask her to dance, but she truly was
exhausted from the long and eventful day, and it was with gratitude that she
took her father's arm when he excused them from the festivities and escorted
her to her room.
Chapter End Notes
     I think the rest of the chapters will likely be essentially Alys' POV
     and thus have names instead of numbers, with occasional insights into
     others, which will be named as POV chapters. I'm looking forward to
     leaving Barrowton and getting to the Dreadfort already.
***** Alys IV *****
Chapter Summary
     Just a little look at Alys' thoughts - a short one.
Chapter Notes
     I'm writing slowly right now due to a heavy caseload this month.
     Tomorrow (in the story), there will be a meeting of stallions named
     Blood. Ok, some hilarity might ensue then, depending on what you find
     funny.
Alys IV
Alys' head was spinning. The lady of Barrowton was her aunt. Her mother was
dead, but only recently, and she had a father and a bastard half-brother. She
had a name and a House, both ancient. Her lineage could be traced to the First
Men.
She sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair, thinking about the bastard's
unprovoked malevolence toward her. Alys was used to having no family and no
real position, and therefore being ignored by everyone from servants to knights
or lords or smallfolk. She was very unsettled to find herself an object of
envy. She knew instinctively that Roose Bolton would not be sympathetic. To
her, he was enigmatic. He had not been warm to her, but he had appeared very
interested in her life, asking probing questions that had required her to think
about who she was, her very character, what she desired from life. She was
certain her explanations of herself sounded very provincial to him, but she was
relieved that at least she had not caught him giving her the looks of
disappointment she noticed him giving Ramsay Snow whenever he raised his voice.
Occasionally, Ramsay slurred his vowels, and she would have known Lord Bolton
("no, my father," a small voice inside her reminded her, emphasizing the word
"father.") had not raised him even if he had not told her a bit about Ramsay's
position within his household, as his speech was so far removed from the
carefully measured tones the elder employed.
Thinking back on her earlier conversation with her father, she realized that
while he had provided her with many facts about her history, his history, and
what he expected of her, but he had not told her what he felt about anything.
"How could anyone be so self-contained?" She wondered, "How could such a calm
man be the object of the black rumors that trailed after him like sharp-edged
shadows? And - does he even have feelings?"
Alys did not want to admit to herself that those black rumors had always
fascinated her - that the ice-eyed, quiet lord of the Dreadfort had hunted two-
legged prey in the dark eastern woods, exercised the forbidden right of the
First Night, still performed the outlawed practice of flaying his enemies.
There were similar stories circulating about Ramsay, but they were cruder,
somehow, base & degenerate rather than intriguing.
The thought of what her bastard brother was reported to do to young women
snapped Alys out of her reverie, and she set down her comb, which had been in
her hand hovering unused over her hair for several minutes. She heard a
distressingly familiar, oddly high-pitched male giggle from the doorway and
looked up into a pair of ghost-grey eyes that shone like twin moons in the
writhing flickering of a tallow candle.
"I came to wish my new sister sweet dreams," Ramsay said, doing an impression
of Alys' own mocking tone from earlier in the night.
Or was that his mocking tone, just another similarity born of shared blood?
***** Alys V *****
Chapter Summary
     A morning ride
Chapter Notes
     Sorry I've been so long without posting - the LCD interface of my
     iPad died, so no writing for me.
Alys V
Alys slept only fitfully, her dreams a miasmic whorl of blood and sharp blades,
and her time awake full of fear of what Ramsay would do to her if she unbolted
the door. She finally gave up on sleep around the time dawn's grey tendrils
began to crawl over her windowsill and slink across the rushes covering the
floor of her chamber. She dressed slowly, feeling as though she were wading
through chest-deep waters with occasional waves crashing over her head. This
was no way to start the day when they were to leave Barrow Hall for the
Dreadfort. This was certainly no way to start a day that would be spent in the
company of her newly-discovered family and their entourage. (Were they also her
entourage? Alys suspected they were, or at least that they would be if they
recognized her from the feast the night before).
She made her way downstairs nearly blindly as if swimming through an ocean of
fog. The leather of her riding breeches creaked softly as she walked, the sound
a pleasant counterpoint to the dry crunch of the rushes beneath her boots. As
she crossed the threshold, the unfiltered grey morning light left her stumbling
blindly toward the stables. She felt winesick though she hardly drank the night
before. She did not feel like fighting her stallion just to bridle him, so she
climbed up into the hayloft to rouse a stable boy.
"Please go and saddle Blood for me," she asked as soon as a boy's sleep-slack
face appeared.
Alys was pleased that her voice did not betray the fog that still slowed her
mind and her movements. She was thinking that a brisk ride in the rills would
clear her mind when the stable boy, a lad she did not recognize by sight
startled her by asking a question.
"Which Blood, m'lady?"
She looked at the boy as if he had sprung tentacles.
"Blood. The 17 hand deep-chestnut destrier." She hesitated as the boy gaped at
her. "The one that broke the groom's skull last month?"
The boy bobbed his head frantically. "Oh, aye m'lady!" the boy said before
scrambling down the ladder and into the depths of the stable.
Alys did not think much of the boy's reaction to her request for her stallion,
dismissing it as the confusion of a new hire. The stallion fighting the bit
with every step distracted her from the stable boy, discovering her family,
setting out for the Dreadfort when the sun had risen high enough to burn the
dew off the grass, the nightmares of the earlier night, and the permeating
mental fog that had characterized the morning. Her mind and body were wholly
focused on the lunging stallion beneath her.
By the time Blood quieted and accepted the bit, the sun had fully risen and the
dew had evaporated into mist in the chill air, so it was time for Alys to guide
the green stallion back to the stables. She was relieved she owned so little;
she doubted it would take more than a few minutes to pack her clothes. Thinking
about the bedroom she had slept in as long as she could remember, she realized
that she truly owned nothing but her clothes and her brush, and she was not
entirely certain the brush was not actually Lady Barbrey's.
Alys' anxiety replaced the fog that had permeated her morning, steadily
increasing as she closed in on Barrow Hall, and the stallion seemed to pick up
her mood, shying at the shadows of buzzards and crows circling overhead, not
very far removed from Barrowton.
"Something is dead out in the Barrowlands," Alys thought, "Something that was
not when I rode this very route yesterday."
She wondered what it was, how it had died, and how long it would take the
carrion beasts to pick the body clean. Knowing the Barrowlands as well as she
did, she expected the bones to be cleaned of all traces of flesh and scattered
before the next dawn.
Everything was different yesterday. There was nothing dead in the sparse woods
large enough to attract the airborne scavengers. If Alys were to be completely
honest with herself, she would admit that she was perfectly content to live as
a nameless orphan leading a comfortable, simple existence within the cheerless
but familiar confines of Barrowton. She admitted to herself that she was not
ambitious. She recognized that she was of a marriageable age, had flowered a
full two years earlier, but she had not reciprocated the interest of household
guards or stable boys, and she had not joined the serving girls or handmaidens
as they fantasized about various knights from history and their possible modern
counterparts.
How much would things change when she arrived at the Dreadfort? Would she have
to become a wholly different young woman. She had the grace and manners to be a
lady, she knew that Lady Barbrey had made certain of that though at the time
she had not understood why, which made her feel superior to Ramsay Snow, whose
speech and lack of decorum made it painfully obvious he was baseborn and not
castle-raised.
She was thinking about how uncouth the bastard was as she rode into the yard of
Barrow Hall just in time to hear his strident voice coming from the stables.
For a moment, Alys worried that she was late in returning, that she would not
have time to pack her meager belongings, or gods forbid that she was holding up
Lord Bolton and his entourage.
Alys wondered whether she would ever think of him as her father first and lord
of the Dreadfort second.
She dismounted and led the high strung stallion to the hitching post just
outside the stable. She could hear voices from inside, one the youthful voice
of the possibly-new stable boy who had not known her horse, and the other the
grating voice she had come to associate with Ramsay Snow. She slipped the
halter over Blood's bridle and went to hurry into Barrow Hall, hoping to avoid
seeing the bastard any more than absolutely necessary, and now, when she had to
pack to go to a home she had never seen, was not a time it was necessary to see
him.
However, luck was not with Alys, and she had taken a scant three steps toward
the doorway before she heard the meat sound of flesh striking flesh followed by
a sharp yelp, and then the stamping of boots on scattered hay and packed dirt.
Before Alys had time to decide whether she ought to check on the stable boy or
hurry inside to avoid Ramsay, she felt a heavy hand with short, thick fingers
pressing down on her shoulder and breath redolent of stale wine in her ear.
"What is a little lady like you doing with such a nice piece of horseflesh?"
Alys straightened her shoulders and turned around to look at Ramsay. She
resented that she had to look up at him, wishing she could look down her nose
at him, thus expressing her disdain without having to waste words on the young
man she had already deemed unworthy. Even when she was an orphaned bastard,
Alys felt that she would have thought Ramsay unworthy of her attention.
Looking up into his eyes so like her own, she smirked.
"Blood comes from some of the best Ryswell stock -"
Ramsay interrupted Alys with his odd giggle, his head thrown back and sharp
white teeth flashing.
"You named your horse Blood?"
Ramsay laughed again, the high-pitched sound causing Alys' skin to prickle,
then the young man shocked her by sweeping her up in his arms and spinning her
around, placing an unpleasantly wet kiss on her mouth before setting her down.
"I may just decide I like you after all, little sister. Would you believe I
call my mount Blood, as well?"
With that, the bastard sauntered off, leaving Alys bewildered, disgusted, and
more than a little curious as she furiously wiped his unwelcome kiss off her
mouth with her sleeve until her lips stung.
***** The Barrowlands *****
Chapter Summary
     Where a hunter was yesterday, scavengers are today - this is why Alys
     saw the crows and buzzards circling as she rode back to Barrow Hall.
     Ramsay, upset by the turn of events, had himself a bit of fun while
     her father was getting to know her.
Chapter Notes
     The aftermath of Ramsay's impromptu hunt is quite gory, and a taste
     of what's to come.
     This brief little chapter is not for the weak-stomached.
The Barrowlands
She had been a pretty girl, big-breasted, pink and plump with hair the colour
of straw, silken atop her head and crinkly between her legs. Her lips, too,
were pink and plump, naturally curling into a smile ripe to the point of
bursting with laughter.
Yesterday, just before the sun disappeared behind the tops of the sentinel
pines, she was doing the washing for her mother and little brothers in the
creek only a few yards behind the one-room A-frame cottage that housed all
seven of them. She had been singing when the unfamiliar man on horseback rode
up, and though her laughter was always sweet, her singing sounded like a
parliament of rooks squabbling.
She had laughed to see a man on a warhorse in a pink cloak.
She had not stopped laughing when he reached down and grabbed her arm to sweep
her onto the horse before him. She had turned around, still smiling with
crooked teeth as she looked into eyes so pale they might have been colourless.
Her mouth still hung open in a glistening smile, but no laughter threatened to
erupt. One of her teeth was embedded in a smear of coppery brown in the bark
tree against which she was leaning off-kilter, well above the lolling red ruin
of her face. Still more teeth were spread about her, misshapen pearls in
trampled grass. The hard dirt on which she sat, legs splayed and stripped in
places to yellow fat or purple muscle, was stained, cracked and flaking. A
gelatinous, blue-veined white mound tipped in pink winked obscenely up from
between calves divested of their skin at the flies that covered her and formed
a macabre, iridescent-black and buzzing restoration of defleshed modesty.
Animals of the inhuman sort had their time with her body after the man, humming
tunelessly and smiling, had departed. A fox had carried a firm orb that popped
between her teeth back to her den, and would return the next day for whatever
oily flesh braver scavengers than she would leave clinging to the girl's yellow
bones. Strips of skin, carefully excised, were laid out with a certain artistic
flavor among strands the color of straw that glinted merrily whenever the sun
broke through the shadows of the circling carrion birds.
The girl's name was Serra, and she had died screaming less than a mile from her
home a fortnight before her fourteenth nameday.
***** Alys VI *****
Chapter Summary
     Ramsay tells stories. Alys reacts, losing some degree of control.
     Roose may notice. The Dreadfort enters stage left. The players are
     assembling and the stage is set.
Chapter Notes
     And so the (rancid) meat of the story begins! I'm starting to have a
     LOT of fun writing this. Probably too much. I'm considering re-adding
     Roose and Ramsay's POVs. I'd love to get some feedback - criticism,
     thoughts, reactions, ideas?
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Alys VI
Lady Barbrey offered a wheelhouse for her niece's comfort on the ride to the
Dreadfort, but Alys preferred to ride Blood. She could not tell whether or not
her father approved of her dressed like a squire and riding astride with him
and Ramsay Snow at the head of the Bolton host. Her aunt told her why there was
faraway look on her father's normally impassive face while she rolled her
dresses and smallclothes to pack in the leather bag Roose had given her for
that purpose.
"The last time Roose Bolton brought a child of his home from here, that child
was dead within a month. Your long-suffering mother never recovered from
Domeric's death."
Lady Dustin had made it clear to Alys that she believed Domeric Bolton's death
was unnatural, and that Ramsay was responsible for the death of the older
brother Alys would never know. Alys was more upset that she had not gotten to
know Domeric. They had lived under the same roof and eaten in the same hall,
yet Alys did not believe they had ever exchanged a word. She had never been
close enough to him to see if he, too, had the distinctive eyes she shared with
her father and Ramsay. What harm would it have done for Lady Dustin to have
introduced them? Bitterness roiled inside her, consuming any joy or excitement
she felt to be going to her ancestral home with her family.
Alys' sense of family was as broken as the neck of a fallen nestling.
Thoughts of the four years in unknown proximity to the brother she would never
actually know drove all but the most fleeting thoughts of the half-brother she
already felt she knew better than she ever would have wanted from her mind.
Alys tried to recall everything she could of Domeric Bolton, but all she had
were fragments: a careless smile, dark hair, lean limbs. There was no voice to
hear or words to recall. Alys felt empty when a servant came to carry her small
bag of belongings.
She felt no less empty riding between her father and baseborn brother, when
they stopped to eat, when the two stallions called Blood pinned their ears and
snapped, or when she slept under guard alone in her tent. So passed the ride
across the North. Her father rode in almost complete silence. Ramsay spoke
loudly, regaling them with tales of his hunting prowess. Alys suspected the
young man sought an approving word from his father, but none such was
forthcoming. The first night, she dreamed of a hunt, but when her arrow found
purchase in the flesh of a proud young buck with gaudy antlers, it turned and
looked back at her with sad, dark blue-grey eyes in a face that was all-too
young and all-too human. It opened its mouth to speak, but the skin sloughed
off its face and its lips squirmed worm-like in a mask of blood. The night
before they were to arrive at the Dreadfort, she dreamt she was fishing from a
dock with Ramsay and caught nothing but blobs of tar while Ramsay pulled in a
malformed, darkly oozing creature with broken tentacles. The next day when
Ramsay began telling of slaying a wolf and her pups deep in some dark wood,
Alys felt awkward, and she felt empty.
The day they arrived at the Dreadfort dawned sunless, a frozen mist settling
heavily on the grass and sinuously winding around the twisted trunks of the
ancient trees. The line of men rode the last leagues in a silence broken only
by Ramsay's description of skinning the wolf pups to make new gloves for
himself and his mother. Out of the corner of her eye, Alys thought she saw her
father wince at the Bastard's mention of his mother, but like so many of Lord
Roose's gestures, it was so subtle that he might merely have shifted in his
saddle.
Unable to stand another minute of Ramsay's wet-lipped recitation of his petty
atrocities against the wolf and her pups, Alys rolled her eyes and kicked at
his leg with her spur. She very nearly smirked when he gasped with blood just
beginning to well out of the tear in his boot. But Ramsay's face quickly
settled into a false smile that showed far too many jagged teeth.
"I went for a hunt while you and father first spoke. I heard it rustling by a
creek side and shot blindly. It turned out my quarry was some farmer's pretty
pink piglet. She snuffled and grunted prettily while I sliced off her teat."
Ramsay's eyes had glazed in ecstasy as he recalled the tale, and he held both
reins in one hand while the other dropped to press the heel of his hand into
his lap. If Roose noticed, his body gave nothing away, but Alys was transfixed.
She could not avert her eyes from Ramsay's face, shivering slightly as he
caught her eyes and the pointed tip of his tongue protruded between his wormy
lips.
"I pulled the little sow's nipples and made her squeal for me, but nothing
could compare to her squeals when I strung her from a branch and thrust my
blade under her fresh, pink skin, thrusting and thrusting until we came undone,
thrusting while her skin came undone and fell around her ankles like a whore's
discarded dress. I just left her there, a stripped little pig for the farmer to
find."
Ramsay's voice had dropped low, and Alys felt caught in a strange intimacy.
Heat sat low in her belly, causing her thighs to tighten around the stallion,
and her breaths came out in irregular gasps. She felt her father's eyes freeze
the back of her head but she found herself unable to escape the trance created
as her half-brother's words caressed her in places she could not touch.
The moment ended when her father's near-whisper pierced her blood-stained
reverie.
"Ramsay, I have heard more than enough of your "adventures". Alys, can you hear
that rushing? It is the Weeping Water. We are almost home."
Even the thought of her first glimpse of her true home was empty. Instead, Alys
pictured the Bastard, blood-dripping blade in a large hand with strong, short
fingers, standing over a pink body that flickered between porcine and human.
She merely feigned an interest in her father's descriptions of everything they
passed, a softly insistent monologue that barely penetrated her erotic trance.
In her daydream, the hand on the blade became slender and white, and the
thought of the wet warmth pouring over her hand and sliding between her fingers
drove her to rock her hips in the saddle.
The Lord of the Dreadfort had fallen silent again and was appraising his
daughter with what Alys thought was mild curiosity, yet there was an
undercurrent of something she could not define in the ice probing her features.
She knew her face was flushed. She could feel the pink heat in her cheeks as
much as the moist heat between her thighs. Ramsay's eyes, too, penetrated her,
and his words teased her ears.
"We came undone . . ."
Alys could not but wonder if Ramsay would prove her undoing. His dislike of her
and his menace were tangible things. She felt that he could chew her
trepidation between his uneven teeth. But his pale eyes were not the only ones
that devoured, she knew that much.
Ramsay's smile was unfaltering when the Dreadfort rose into view, its sharp
crenellations and pointed-merlon topped walls and towers casting phantasmagoric
shadows that perfectly reflected the Bastard's smile, and Alys found herself
consumed. She could feel no breeze, yet the twisted boughs of surrounding trees
bent and waved, twigs straining for the grey sky. The thick towers build of
age-darkened stone were hardly welcoming, yet the warmth that had started low
inside her with Ramsay's tale of the piglet -
"Was the subject of his story truly a piglet?" Alys wondered. The circling
vultures over the Barrowlands seemed to suggest something larger, something
meatier.
- spread through her body, replacing the emptiness. Alys knew this was where
she belonged. How had she ever lived anywhere else?
They rode at the head of the host through formidable gates ornamented with
spikes that were not mere decorations. Her heart hung heavy and pounding in her
throat as she looked upon the ancient fortress. This was home. The people
scurrying in the mud and snow of the courtyard clad in dark wool, bits of fur,
and leather were her people.
The lord dismounted and offered his daughter a hand down from her lathered,
jigging stallion. Her thin lips curled up, their ghosts of smiles perfectly
matching. She could feel the strength resting unused under the dark mail he
wore as she slid down her father's chest. She felt his gloved hands steadying
her as his soft voice intoned, "Welcome home, Alys."
Chapter End Notes
     I hope y'all noticed that Ramsay was allowed to stay at Barrow Hall,
     though Barbrey Dustin did not extend him the same courtesy in "A
     Dance with Dragons."
     Mmmmm, I wonder what changed her mind about him sleeping under her
     roof?
     Also, coming up next: Reek and the Bastard's Boys.
     Does Yellow Dick deserve a POV? How about a conversation between Alys
     and Grunt? It's bad that I make myself giggle so much.
***** Alys VII *****
Chapter Summary
     Welcome to the Dreadfort, Alys.
     Our cast of characters expands a bit.
Alys VII
A groom came to lead Blood away. Alys' ears seemed to hum as she looked around
in mixed interest and awe. The dark, grey-veined stones sang an almost-
unbearable melody to her bones, and her anger over having been denied a
relationship with her brother slunk into a corner to be forgotten. She could
accept this life because it simply was right. She formerly nameless bastard
girl knew that she belonged to the Dreadfort.
Out of the corner of her eye Alys saw a man approaching. She only noticed him
at first because there were pink and red flowers woven in his shoulderblade-
length light brown hair, but Ramsay's reaction to the appearance of the man
ensured she could not ignore him. The Bastard's voice was positively ecstatic
when he greeted the older man.
"Reek! Oh, how I missed you!"
Ramsay swept the man he called Reek into an embrace and Alys wrinkled her nose,
suddenly aware of a pervasive, oily odour of rotting fish and undefinable
decay. Ramsay let go of the man and grabbed Alys' hand.
"I must present the new lady of the Dreadfort, Reek. This charming girl is my
little sister, Alys Bolton. And Alys, this is my manservant, Heke. Heke has
been with me for years and is my best-loved companion. We call him Reek, but
affectionately, that. I assume you can . . . smell why."
The man bowed to Alys who, for her part, was unable to keep the look of disgust
off her face. The smell did indeed come from the man as Ramsay implied, and it
was pervasive, even intolerable. Alys thought it almost worse that amid the rot
and fish she could distinctly smell soap. With a glance, she took in the man's
wavy hair that was no more than a single shade too dark to be darkest blonde.
His nose was high-bridged, long and narrow. He had a receding chin and red-
rimmed, protuberant eyes that could not decide if they were blue or green that
appeared moist to the point of running. He was tall, or at least taller than
Ramsay, but his posture was stooped and his legs bowed out somewhat from his
spare frame. When he spoke, his voice was only slightly better modulated than
Ramsay's.
"Aye milord, she does appear a charming little thing, and so like her mother!"
Reek then focused his watery eyes on Alys, letting them roam up and down her
body, sizing her up like a horse at market with a yellowing smile so cold she
had to stop herself from unconsciously shivering.
"'Tis surely a pleasure to meet you, milady. I am certain you and Ramsay will
fast become close, as brother and sister ought to be."
Despite the antipathy she immediately felt for the man, she managed a small
smile for the man even as she corrected him.
"Ramsay is only my half-brother and a bastard at that, Heke, but I do believe
we will find as much common ground as can be expected in these circumstances."
She found herself smiling archly. She could feel anger building in Ramsay when
she pointed out his base birth, but she did not care. It felt good to remind
him of his place, a place she had occupied (albeit based upon lies) until mere
days earlier. She resented the effect his story about the pig he slaughtered
had on her, and even more she resented how his smirk had grown when he saw that
their father was watching her. She was glad to observe him favouring the leg
she had stabbed with her spur. It was a small thing, petty revenge for when he
squeezed her nipple through her dress and made her squeal, but pleasurable
nonetheless. Even in the glow of her gestures of defiance, her skin rippled
uncomfortably under the appraising gazes of the two men, and she welcomed her
father's intercession.
"You must be tired, Alys. There will be time enough for you to explore outside
later. Come inside."
The glare he afforded Ramsay and Reek melted when he placed a possessive hand
on her shoulder, and Alys was grateful for its weight. She really was tired.
Her father guided her through the arched doorway into the main hall where her
eyes struggled to adjust to the dim light. Sconces shaped like skeletal hands
("Flayed hands?" Alys found herself wondering) holding too few torches to shed
much light jutted from the walls at irregular intervals. Their guttering filled
the room with smoke, and the sheltered arrow-slits that served in place of
windows failed to either vent the smoke from within or let in light from
without. It should have been forbidding, but with the warmth of her father's
hand on her shoulder, Alys felt no fear, only curiosity.
"The Dreadfort has been the seat of House Bolton since the time of the First
Men, Alys. When we rose to cast off the pernicious rule of King Harlon Stark,
in the days before the Starks bent the knee to the Iron Throne, it withstood
siege for two years. In the crypts beneath the dungeons lie the dust and bones
of your ancestors. Their blood built this fortress, sustained it through famine
and winters that lasted through years, and now flows through your veins. You
are their legacy."
Alys looked up at the blackened beams, not realizing that her smoke-burnt eyes
had begun to tear until she felt her father's thumb brush her cheek. She
thought she read disapproval on his passive face, so she smiled up at him. She
felt a strong yet inexplicable need to reassure him that she was not given to
emotional outbursts.
To Alys, shedding tears over hearing her father speak of her heritage with
obvious pride would be an emotional outburst.
"There is smoke it my eyes, lord father, nothing more. I should like to see
more of the Dreadfort."
Roose inclined his head to her, the faint lines between his brows smoothing,
much to Alys' relief. She found herself dreading the thought of her father
laying one of the disappointed looks he so frequently appeared to give Ramsay
upon her. She wondered if that was the nature of a filial relationship -
fearing to disappoint the other.
The corridor off the Great Hall was darker still, though less smokey, high
ceilinged and narrow. She walked a half-step behind her father, looking at the
mouldering tapestries in shades of crimson, vermillion, pink, green, and white
lining the walls, thoroughly enthralled. They all appeared to depict great
battles, the stylized figures wrought in thread on linen cementing the
antiquity of the works. Even though he was in front of her, Lord Bolton seemed
to sense her fascination and stopped in front of a length of embroidered fabric
longer than Alys was tall that was more crimson than the others.
"For too long has Bolton been Stark's banner, too long have we been
subservient. Ours is a glorious history steeped in blood. When the time is
right, child . . ."
Alys was not entirely certain if her father was trailing off or if the young
man with the shock of light blonde hair who came hurrying up had interrupted
him. Alys only knew that she was annoyed by his intrusion. Roose, on the other
hand, immediately fixed his attention wholly upon the other man.
"Do you have news for me, Damon?"
The man (or maybe he was a boy - he hardly looked older than Alys herself)
called Damon gave Bolton a confident smirk, cocking his hip and resting a hand
on the whip at his side.
"The outlaw band in the Eastern Wood won't be a-bothering you no more, m'lord.
We've got their leader and the few of the men what survived us down in the
dungeons for you."
Roose gave Damon a faint, curt nod.
"I shall see to them later. See they do not expire in the meantime."
Damon then turned his gaze to Alys, smiling jauntily.
"What's this, the daughter you went to fetch? She favors Lady Bethany, gods
assoil her, and you as well. You'll not have any problem a-finding the lass a
husband, will you?"
Damon's smile grew as Alys' cheeks grew hot. The lord remained impassive.
"Alys is a dutiful young lady, and I have little doubt she will serve my House
well. I would have you and the other 'boys' watch her as you do my bastard, but
to keep her safe not as spies. Dangers lurk in strange places, do they not?"
The young man ankled up to Alys and gave her an openly boyish smile. So close
to him, Alys could see that his cheeks sported fine, golden down that looked
impossibly soft. She returned his smile but without any real warmth.
"'Twill be a pleasure to watch a nice little lass like you, m'lady. You'll come
to like us, you will."
Roose fixed Damon with a frosted glare.
"It matters not if the girl likes you. You know your duties - now go ingratiate
yourself further with Ramsay."
Thus dismissed, Damon turned on his heel and sauntered down the hall, his gait
loose and relaxed, leather pants slung low on his narrow hips.
Her father met Alys' curious gaze. Roose's expression was enigmatic.
"Everything in the Dreadfort is mine. Ramsay is a fool if he believes his men
are not ultimately loyal to me."
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
