Callidora fumed silently as she listened to what the supposed Lord Atal who'd captured her said. She stared at Roose Bolton with hard but blank eyes. She knew he was behind her capture despite how much it would be denied by himself -sly old man. Having another man capture her with Bolton forces but claim he had no part in it, only that he 'loaned' out his forces.

He was as much of a bastard as his son for being as cunningly sly for doing that.

Speaking of whom, his son was staring at her interestedly with a sick smirk that made her want to run off and hide from sight. That look made a not too nice feeling bubble deep inside her. His eyes flickered up and down her body, travelling over her just finished developing womanly curves. At just seventeen summers old, almost eighteen, she had just finished gaining those that which all women had.

And he seemed pleased with what he saw too, much to her chagrin. The wind blew a lock of auburn hair in front of her eyes, blocking the sight if his cruel, ice cold blue ones from her sight. It was as if the God's had saved her from his vile stare.

She turned her eyes back to Roose, having drowned out the conversation he was having with this Lord Atal. She glowered at her booted feet. How dare they take her and use her to be whored off to a bastard? Legitimized or not, he was still a bastard who'd be legitimized by a bastard, so how did that make him a legitimized heir? In her eyes, it didn't.

"Your highness." And now the mastermind behind this plan was addressing her! "Why don't we get out of the cold and you can get settled in your chambers?" He suggested, waving a hand to the large glooming fortress walls of the Dreadfort. She had heard stories about this place, about how flayed men were forever on display here. She didn't want to see that, not ever.

She nodded solemnly, following them up the steps that led to the fort. Her fur lined garments swished around her ankles, the insulating supposed warmth doing nothing to soothe the chill that crept up her spine as she followed them. There was no point in escaping here...yet. She was too heavily guarded and it would be common knowledge that she would head in the direction of her brothers. She would be hunted down and brought back in an instance, and life would be much harsher than it had been previous too.

Callidora didn't like the feeling she was getting from being within these walls. They reeked of death and agonised suffering and of men that had breathed their last breath within these walls. Innocent people had died in these walls, no doubt about that.

And she would suffer too.

They came to a stop outside her chambers and she went inside silently, hearing someone shut the door behind her. Rude. She looked around the room with a forlorn look. There was a large bed against the far wall, a window facing it from the side. A small chill blew into the room and she was grateful for the dying but still there fire that burned in the fireplace. It gave off a dull warmth that she could even feel from the other side of the room, and numerous lit candles gave the dark room its light. A table and two chairs were in front of the fire, a couple of chairs against the wall and a small bookcase and some shelves beside the window. It was cosier than she would have expected.

She didn't want to be here at the Dreadfort. She didn't belong here -she belonged back at home. Would her brothers be furious? Her oldest brother -Georgion- would be foaming at the mouth. She knew she was going to be whored off to produce an heir that would have strong claims to the Northern lands, much stronger than any of the Bolton's had that was. Being blood of the true Warden of the North had its disadvantages as well as its advantages. She hated it sometimes.

Dinner was a dull affair. She ate in silence, the warmth of the broth seeping into her bones and warming her everywhere. She didn't speak once despite the fact her 'betrothed' looked at her as if daring her to speak. She didn't like him. Despite the fact that he hadn't been a lord for very long, she had heard rumours and tales about the bastard son of Lord Roose Bolton, about how cruel and what a backstabbing bastard he was. She didn't want to know him more than supposed rumours.

"Your highness, is Dreadfort to your liking?" She looked at Roose, her eyes startled. What on earth did he hope to gain from asking her that? "I don't know, my lord. I haven't seen more than the four walls of my chambers, have I?" She replied and he hummed while spooning another mouthful of food into his mouth.

"You'll have to be shown around then, won't you? Can't have you wandering off to places a woman such as yourself has no place in being. You'll be spending a fair amount of time here until we secure a way to Winterfell and then you'll move there."

That caught her attention. "Winterfell?" She echoed. Surely they couldn't take Winterfell?

The older Bolton nodded while watching her carefully. "Being blood to the Stark house, I'm sure you've been there." He commented breezily and she knew he was digging for more than just curious answers to suspicious questions.

She nodded slowly. "Yes, many a time. Those were good times." She said quietly with a smaller smile than was possible.

"Well then, surely you remember Reek then, or Theon as he was once called?"

Her mossy green eyes flickered to the man who was cowering by the bastard's side and her top lip curled down slightly. "I don't associate myself with those who murder those I love, but then again, didn't you all have a part in the Red Wedding?"

Roose gave her a look. "So, are you pleased with your chambers then?"

As she rattled off a satisfying reply, she didn't catch the smug and sly smirk of the dark haired man sitting beside her, or the cunning look in his ice cold blue eyes.