**I'm basing this on the TV show I have read the first and second book and parts of the others but obviously the narrative changes so I have gone with the TV show series 5 narrative and have taken it off in a new direction**
Fiyona
Fiyona sat silently looking out of the frosted glass of her private chamber into the dull distance, she could see the approaching horses, they are like the scratches on the window pane she thought, insignificant now, but these scratches will soon turn to cracks and eventually the window will break. Fiyona Bolton knew, even in the solitude of her chamber, that the cold silence of the castle was a sign. The last Stark was returning to Winterfell. Her face fell at the thought; if her father was to marry Ramsey to Sansa Stark he would have to tread more carefully if he wanted heirs, Ramsey's heirs. Even if Stark blood was much rarer these days Fiyona doubted a direwolf would just lie down and roll over for the Bolton's. She couldn't help but flick the corners of her mouth upwards into a wicked grin as she pictured a flayed direwolf. I wonder if a direwolf has ever been flayed. She thought as she caught her faint reflection in the glass.
There was an abrupt knock at her chamber door. "Milady" came the raspy voice of one of Winterfell's handmaidens "Yes Arby?" Fiyona recognised the hoarse croak of the elderly servant but refrained from moving from the chair she sat in. "Milord Bolton asks that ye dress for the arrival of our guests, and that yer to visit 'im in 'is council chamber as soon as yer ready" After a long intake of breath the Lady rose from the dark wooden seat saying "Would you help me dress Arby?", she opened the door to see a large grin on the old woman's face. "Still not used to fine gowns Milady? Don't worry Miss I've been lacin' corsets in Winterfell since-" she stopped suddenly and swallowed. "Since Lady Catelyn was here Arby? Yes I'm sure you were, well you better make me look as beautiful as her then hadn't you?" The old woman smiled sweetly, more out of relief than genuine affection thought Fiyona, either way it was surely much better to befriend the smallfolk than make enemies, who else would help her dress otherwise?
She ought to have more fine dresses Fiyona supposed as she considered her only two suitable dresses, one of black velvet the other red silk. There were no Lannister mines underneath Winterfell so she knew in her heart dresses like these would come few and far between, after all who would notice one of her plain grey dresses under her fur cloak. The black seemed both more appropriate and warmer, no doubt the wind would be especially harsh today, and she wouldn't freeze to the bone for the sake of a dress. Once undressed and in her small clothes, Arby helped Fiyona into her layered underskirts, then the corset, tightening laces beyond the realms of reason, as the young Bolton gripped the oak post of her bed, gasping for air. Looking down at her chest she wondered if dresses were not to make women pretty but to make men happy, her waist was now sculpted in such a way it made her chest heave to catch the little air she could hold. Even her handmaiden couldn't help but giggle as she saw her lady's breasts rise and fall sharply at her shallow breaths. "I might 'ave to loosen my lacin' Milady, otherwise ye just might fall out of yer dress." Arby untied the bows and pulled a nimble finger through one of the strands and the whole dress loosened, Fiyona could not say she was comfortable but now at least she would not faint. "Sorry Milady, noble women usually 'ave such childish figures, not ye Milady, birthin' hips they call 'em. Born to be a mother I'm sure." Fiyona caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection on the window and felt as a pig might in dress, nothing but a pig in a dress waiting to birth piglets; the thought of it brought a welling to her eyes. "Breasts as well Milady, I can't say I've seen many a noblewomen wi' such wonderful breasts as yers, as I see it Lady Fiyona men don't want boys, unless they're inclined that way o' course, they want real women and ye look like a real woman Milady. It's a good job yer father keeps such a close watch on ye totherwise we wouldn't be able to keep the men off of ye, my sons included!" Arby started laughing then, for a moment Fiyona felt touched by the old woman's kindness. As she continued dressing her thoughts drifted to Arby's sons, there was no doubt the woman was an old crone but she'd served Winterfell all her life and half of the smallfolk left at the castle were her offspring. Arby had four sons that Fiyona knew of, one in particular sprung to mind, Grenn was twice as tall as his mother and as twice as wide. He worked in the forge at Winterfell, whenever she had seen him he'd been covered in dirt or shining with sweat mostly both. Fiyona felt a smile creep up unto her face; she bit into the gums that walled the inside of her cheeks to stop herself. "Sit on the chair Milady and I'll tidy up yer 'air" Fiyona did as she was told wondering fi the old woman spoke to her father with such confidence, she supposed not, but why did she speak so easily with her. Fiyona did not care much, yet it was curious to her, she thought about it as Arby tugged at her hair without a thought about how much it hurt her lady's scalp. "Such beautiful 'air Milady, so thick, and as dark as the earth, gets longer by the day" When she was done there was a surprisingly neat and intricate plait that started at the crown of her head and fell down to the small of her back, the front gently twisted back away from her face. "Thank you Arby, it was kind of you to help me" Fiyona rose from the chair "Did my father say to meet him in the council chamber?" She walked to the door with a sigh "Yes Milady he did, and tis a pleasure Milady." Arby bobbed a little in a half attempted curtsy and followed Fiyona out of the room.
She was glad when she reached the council chamber as she knew there'd be a roaring fire inside to keep out the cold, she'd lived at The Dreadfort all her life until Winterfell, Fiyona knew the cold well but the glow of a fire was still a comfort to her. The girl saw her father stood by the fire; the light casting shadows across the lines in his face, her brother however was sat in a great armchair his boots caked in mud up upon her father's desk. Her father spoke "Our guests, Lord Baelish and Sansa Stark are to be here soon. We will stand and greet them and we will behave ourselves, do you understand?" It seemed less of a question and more of a threat, she simply nodded. "I do Father," Ramsay began "it's whether my sister here can watch her mouth; a tongue of steel is hard to hide." Ramsey took an apple from the table taking an overambitious bite from it. "Your sister isn't the one who is to be married, a Stark or no she is to be your wife Ramsay, I shan't have you fucking this up." Her brother's face soured a little, the tone in their father's voice had hurt Ramsay she thought. "I won't let you down father." Fiyona heard a touch of earnestness from her brother just before he took another bite. "This wedding must go ahead; I have invested too much already. I have had wedding outfits made for you both." Fiyona's eyebrows raised, she hadn't expected this "I won't have the Stark girl look down her nose at us, everything will be in Bolton colours and represent our house; she must learn that I am the Warden of the North now." The sternness in his face only hardened as he spoke, Ramsey butted in "I have seen the dress little sister, pink and red brocade, you shall look like a flayed man." He smirked at her like a child might after swearing "I see, and what shall your Lady wife wear? A wolf's head and a dress bound in fur? Shall we cover Littlefinger in feathers and give him a perch? Perhaps you could go naked and show them the bastard you were born as." Ramsay took his feet off the table, swung them down with a thump onto the stone floor staring at her "I had hoped we could flay you, stick an apple in your mouth and have you as our centre piece sweet sister, its shame we couldn't find an oven big enough to bake you in." Fiyona's face didn't move an inch, she didn't even swallow, she merely blinked slowly at him before saying "You'd better not brave brother; I wouldn't want to upstage your new wife on her wedding day. There's nothing more upsetting for a bride than for her bridesmaids to look prettier than her." Her brother threw his apple core at her, she turned her head face and it just missed her face hitting the wall behind her. "You act like wildlings, both of you are a disgrace to your name get out and greet our approaching guests, before I skin the pair of you." Her Lord and father bellowed, his tone and expression did not change but there was the understanding of playfulness between them. Bolton humour was an acquired taste.