It was a cold grey morning when Roose Bolton, the newly appointed Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, made his way out from the great hall of the Twins. The cold atmosphere of the room was enough to chill anyone right to the bones, blood still hanged heavily in the air, the serving wenches desperately trying to rid the red stains off the walls, carpets and floors.
His meeting and negociations with old Walder Frey, having left him with a terrible headache, Roose welcomed the crisp air on his face as he stepped out of the castle and into the yard, fires were still burning low, burning to ashes the bodies of the men he once fought alongisde with, crows could be heard fighting over the carcasses and the smell of death lingered in his nose.
Frey and Bolton men bowed their heads in respect as he passed, he ignored them continuing on his way to the dungeons, there waited the few present Northen Lords lucky enough to survive the massacre, and his son's prize, all of them waiting to hear of their fates, wether it be death or being bargained to their respective houses in order to gain their allegiance.
Roose passed the cells, one by one, prisonners of low birth packed into cells too small for them all to stand in, but they were overflowing, they would soon be sent on their way home after swearing fealty to House Bolton anyway, and those who didn't would be swiftly put to the sword. He carried on his way, until he reached the cell he had been informed she was being kept in, he signalled the man standing guard to open the door.
The old lock did not easily give way, but it eventually did and the door slowly creaked open as Roose grabbed the flaming torch on the wall and stepped into the cold dark room. There she was, her hands and ankles chained to the walls, sitting on the damp cold floor, her long dark hair a mess of braids undone, a reminder of the style it had adorned a couple of nights ago. The wood green of her gown tainted with dry blood, and the material ripped in several places. He studied her face, she sported a split lip aswell as a black eye coupled with a cut and bruised cheekbone, probably resulting from a hard hit, but he was taken aback when he met her gaze, her piercing green eyes bore into him; furiously glaring, hauntingly hating. Here we Stand were her House's words and even in chains, the proud She Bear stood tall indeed.
- Lady Mormont, we meet again.
She does not reply, only continues staring at him with that daunting look, she knows, knows of his bretayal, knows he was the one to plunge his dagger in her precious King in the North's heart, she saw the SmallJon's head fall from the ground and rolling to her feet as she was dragged out of the hall howling and fighting.
But Roose is not here to make amends, Robb Stark was a fool, and now the belongs to him, he feels no regret and his voice is sharp and menacing when he breaks the silence once more.
- Me and my men leave for Winterfell on the morrow, you are to come with us, as a reward for my Bastard for delivering me Winterfell.
Her stare becomes even more intense, a dark cloud settling in her eyes, and and her voice is cold when she replies.
- Flay me alive if need be but by all the Old God's I swear, I will never become one of your son's whores.
Roose smirks, he knows if any woman can survive Ramsay long enough to give him an heir, it is her, she was a warrior and the fire in her still burned fiercely, he turned on his heels and made his way to the door, as he exited the room, he turned around.
- Not his whore, his wife.
He spinned back on his feet and exited the cell, leaving Dacey to stare at the cell door being closed and hearing the click of the old lock, before she finally dropped her gaze and took a shakey breath.