Prologue
Roose Bolton crossed his arms as he looked at the two bundles lying on the bed. A boy and a girl. The miller's wife had brought them to the Dreadfort, claiming that Roose had fathered them. At first Roose had almost told his men to kill the woman and the children, but after taking a closer look, he had been convinced that the twins were indeed his.
Their mother didn't want them; she had said that Roose could do whatever he wished with them. What should he do with them? That was a question he didn't have an answer yet. The boy could perhaps be useful to him, but he doubted that the same could be said about the girl. Yet she was his flesh and blood. He was still pondering his dilemma when a timid wet-nurse entered the room and curtsied.
"You called for me, my lord?"
"Yes," Roose replied absentmindedly and pointed at the girl. "Take that child, she won't stay here."
The wet-nurse hurried to the bed and picked the girl up. Both children had been quiet, but now the boy started to scream at the top of his lungs.
"Do something," Roose demanded, feeling irritated.
The wet-nurse placed the girl back on the bed in order to lift the boy up, but he stopped screaming immediately when the girl was beside him again. The wet-nurse tried to lift the girl up again and the boy started to scream. Cautiously she looked at Roose.
"Shall I take the girl, my lord?"
Roose frowned and looked at the boy who was quiet now as the girl was with him.
"No. She seems to calm the boy, so she can stay here. I want you to take care of them."
"Yes, my lord."
Roose sighed and looked at the twins. He should probably name them; the miller's wife hadn't done that. He thought about it for a brief moment.
"I will name the boy Ramsay," he stated. "And the girl Rhona."
"Those are good names, my lord," the wet-nurse said.
Roose didn't really care about that, any more than he cared about the children. They were merely his bastards. He had a trueborn son and an heir, Domeric. These children would be nothing more than useful tools for him.