"You told your mother!"
Isabelle could scarcely control her anger as she and Robb stood in his chamber that evening. Winterfell was quiet, especially now that his mother had left and Bran was still sleeping. Robb had done his best to be the acting Lord of Winterfell, dealing the problems which his people faced, but all he could think about was returning to Isabelle in the evening.
He should have known that she would not have handled the news well. Not that he could blame her. She had sworn him to secrecy and he was already planning attacking the Dreadfort and exposing the Boltons for the murderous family they were.
"She came to seek you out this morning to make sure you were alright after the fire," Robb told Isabelle. "I was still in bed with you. We did well for her not to question us then and there."
"But you told her about Ramsay," Isabelle worried. "You told her who I really was after I pleaded with you to keep my secret."
Robb shook his head, his hair falling into his face and he ran his hand over his chin, feeling the stubble which was slowly growing there. Isabelle folded her arms over her chest and patiently waited for him to answer her or tell her something.
"But what about the other women?" Robb dared to ask her. "What about the ones who don't escape him? They do not deserve to live in fear of Roose Bolton's bastard and you know that Isabelle. My father is supposed to protect the North from acts like this."
Isabelle could not deny that he had a point on that matter. He was speaking sense and that was the part which worried her. She would often think back to the women who suffered Ramsay's wrath, but she knew that she could not protect them against him. She could do nothing and he would not allow her to try.
"I know," Isabelle mumbled and sank down to sit on his bed, leaning forwards and wrapping her arms around her stomach. She couldn't deny that she felt sick at the mere thought of what Ramsay could do. "And I...I remember them...I remember what he used to do to them. I have seen it, Robb, but your mother is right. You cannot go against the Boltons right now."
Robb ground his teeth together and Isabelle stood once more and moved over to look out of his window into the darkness, remembering what rested further North. Never before had she seen so much pain and suffering in her life.
"Ramsay is careful not to let anyone see his activities. The people of the Dreadfort never thought to speak out against him," Isabelle spoke. "He would wonder who told you of his ways."
Robb took hesitant steps towards Isabelle, stretching his hand out to rest it on her shoulder. She moved her hand to rest on top of his as he stepped closer to her, his arm wrapping around her waist and he felt her press her cheek against his chest.
"He thinks that you are dead," Robb reminded her. "It would stay that way. He would not have a chance to ask who told me."
Isabelle shook her head and turned to look at Robb, a small smile playing on her face. The act was forced; Robb could see that much from her. She took a second to run her hand down his cheek soothingly.
"Just wait for word from your father," she urged him. "That is the only thing to do."
Robb reluctantly nodded. He had no interest in starting a feud whilst his father was gone. That was not the right thing to do. He would keep himself as distanced as possible from the Dreadfort. If only he knew that would not be possible.
...
The news shook Winterfell to its very core. It was little more than a week since Bran had awoken from his slumber when it was announced that Ned Stark had been taken captive. The King had died and King Joffrey now reigned. It was then when Robb told Isabelle what he intended to do.
"March South?" she checked with him as the pair of them stood in the shadows of Winterfell during the afternoon.
Robb had been busy with scarcely any time to speak with Isabelle. It was only when he saw her walking through the courtyard did he dismiss Theon and grab hold of her by the arm, pulling her into the shadows by his side. Robb kept her against the wall, his tall figure hiding her.
"Joffrey wants his arse kissed," Robb said crudely and Isabelle cocked a brow at him. "He has my father as a prisoner. I will not have him think that I will bow down to him. I will march South and have him freed."
"You intend to start a war against the Lannisters?" Isabelle checked.
"I will do whatever it takes to free him," Robb said and pushed Isabelle's hair behind her shoulder, his hand then curling around her neck to hold her delicately. "You have to understand that, Isabelle."
"I do," she promised him. "But have you called your bannermen? You cannot fight this alone?"
"Aye," Robb said and she took a second to realise the glint which was in his eye. She nodded, gulping loudly and moving her hands to hold onto his upper arms tightly. She refused to let go of him and Robb did his best to keep her steady on her seemingly weak feet.
"He won't bring Ramsay," Isabelle whispered, looking around with hesitance and Robb bent down to kiss the top of her head tenderly. "Ramsay may be a bastard, but he will not leave the Dreadfort unattended."
"That is my hope," Robb said, his jaw firmly set as he thought about what he would say once he saw Lord Bolton. It would give Robb more pleasure to have him stay at the Dreadfort, but he needed all the men he could gather. The Dreadfort was a vast place, full of able men. Robb did this for his father. After his father was a free man; then he would extract revenge.
"And my father?" Isabelle wondered. "Has he answered your raven?"
Robb pursed his lips together and nodded at her. He wondered how much she really cared for her parents after they had ignored her pleas for help.
"Your father is sending his men, but he is unwell, Isabelle," Robb warned her. "Your mother was the one to reply to my raven. She did not say what illness he was diagnosed with...only that he was too ill to go to war..."
Isabelle nodded and leant back against the wall, feeling her head begin to pound. Robb kept his hands firmly on her waist and she dropped hers by her sides, a smile of disbelief on her lips.
"It's odd," she whispered. "I feel nothing for him...not even when I hear that he could be dead before the week has finished..."
"Your parents sold you to a sadist," Robb replied. "I can see why you do not care for them as much as you wish you could. You have nothing to feel sorry about, Isabelle."
She bit down on her bottom lip then and nodded her agreement with him. She didn't particularly wish to discuss her parents with Robb. She knew that it would only anger her as much as it seemed to anger him. She recalled his relationship with his mother and she wished that she could have had that.
"I would keep you in my chamber whilst the bannermen are here," Robb said. "I do not want Lord Bolton to notice you."
Isabelle nodded. "And when you march South? What would you have of me then?"
Robb knew that this conversation had been bound to come up in conversation. Isabelle swiftly moved upwards to press her lips against his, knowing what he was probably say to her. War was no place for a woman, especially not when her husband's father was going to be in close proximity. Robb could sense the urgency in her actions and he continued to press his lips against hers before pulling back for breath.
"I can help in the battlements," Isabelle promised him, taking hold of his hands.
The thought of him going off to war without her was not a notion she wanted to entertain. It was a notion which Robb would enforce though. He shook his head hastily.
"No," he said sternly. "I need for you to stay in Winterfell. War is no place for you. What would you do, Isabelle? I have men who can cook for us and men who can heal the sick."
"Do you wish for me to plead with you?" Isabelle wondered.
"I wish to come home and see that you are still alive," Robb gruffly informed her and she did her best to hold her tongue. "I am serious, Isabelle. I would not see you harmed."
"I would not come into war with you," Isabelle responded. "I would if I could, believe me, but I know that I am unable. All that I ask is for you to let me come and help. I can tend to the injured...I have read about it in multiple books...different things..."
"No," Robb said firmly. "We are not having this discussion, Isabelle. You will stay here and wait for my return. That is it."
"And is this an order?" Isabelle wondered, recalling all of the times she had been ordered around by Ramsay. How many times had he demanded her to do things for him? How many times had she detested every single demand which left his mouth?
"Yes," Robb curtly snapped and Isabelle pushed past him, moving his body to the side as she stormed through the courtyard, ignoring his yells for her to return to him. She continued to move, unsure of where she was going as she decided to take a walk through the village. It was only when she came to the gates did she see the horses approaching.
She looked to the banner and fear instantly took a hold of her. The flayed man of House Bolton.
Isabelle stood still as they passed out of respect, bowing her head down to hide her face. She could make out the figure of Roose Bolton moving forwards. She peeled her eyes up and saw his tall figure, the coldness of his eyes glancing over her as though she were a lowborn. She bent her head then, his pale eyes enough to scare her. Roose's orbs narrowed at the sight of her, but he said nothing, allowing his horse to trot forwards.
He could not help but think of how striking her resemblance was to that of the Lady Eleanor.
...
Isabelle did her best to ignore Robb, refusing to go and hide in his chambers whilst a great feast went on in order to discuss the preparations needed for war. Robb did not look for Isabelle, his anger getting the best of him at the end of the day. He went to see to Bran and Rickon before he left for battle and Isabelle remained in the kitchen.
She sat at the table in the serving staff's quarters. The smell of food still lingered in the room and the fire still roared from the firewood in the fireplace. Isabelle remained seated, the sound of boots not once disturbing her from her thoughts.
"Excuse me."
She looked up then, turning her head over her shoulder and feeling the blood drain from her face to leave it pale. His own eyes swept over her and she stood up, her hands holding her skirts and she dipped into a sloppy curtsey.
"My Lord," she spoke and Roose Bolton continued to look at her with wonder.
"M'lord," he corrected her suddenly and she remained dipped with her head held low. Roose took a seat at the table, doing his best to satisfy his interest in the girl. He had been thinking of her ever since he saw her at the gates. There was something in her stare which made him remember her.
"Apologies," Isabelle replied. "What can I do for you, my lord?"
"And how does a serving girl know how to speak properly?" Roose wondered suddenly and Isabelle looked to him as he sat at the table, a knowing look held on his face.
Isabelle gulped for breath and remained where she was. "My parents taught me manners," she responded.
"And what were their names?"
Isabelle faltered and a smirk played on his face before he stood up and moved over to her, taking hold of her chin and holding it firmly in his grasp. Isabelle didn't bother to squirm as Roose moved the back of his hand down her blonde curls, twirling them in his fingertips as he moved his other hand to the laces of her dress.
"Did you honestly think that I didn't recognise you when I saw you?" Roose wondered. "How long were you married to my son?"
"I don't know what-"
"-I suspect you can drop the act now," he assured her, pulling her laces loose and allowing her dress to pool to her feet, leaving her in her underclothes. "There is only one certain way to make sure that you are her."
Roose turned her in his grasp and moved his hands to the shoulders of her underclothes and peeled them from her skin. Isabelle tried to fight, the action completely wasted as Roose looked at her back, noting the scars which remained there.
A smirk played on his face and he allowed her to go free.
"Get dressed," he demanded and sat back down in his seat, folding one leg over the other as Isabelle pulled her dress onto her body, her eyes on the ground and she felt tears swell in her orbs. Worry took hold of her and Roose looked to his fingernails as though they were more interesting in comparison to the girl who was lacing her dress over her body again.
"Lady Eleanor," Roose spoke her true name. "How surprising it is to find you alive and at Winterfell posing as a maid."
Isabelle said nothing, recoiling from her true name and Roose motioned to the chair which she had sat at before he had disturbed her.
"Sit down," he demanded and she did so, her motions cautious and she folded her hands onto her lap. "When I saw you at the gate I couldn't forget your face. You always did have a generous face. Ramsay always told me that he would leave you pretty. Your suicide ate him up."
"I doubt it," Isabelle replied lowly.
Roose glowered, but ignored her comment. "I had to come down here to be sure that you were her before I sent you back to your rightful place."
Isabelle shook her head at him, refusing to go anywhere with Roose Bolton.
"I am a maid of Winterfell-"
"-You are scarcely a maid," Roose said. "You said the vows to my son and you are to honour them. I cannot promise you that Ramsay will be kind once you return to the Dreadfort. The Gods know that my son has grown crueller through the years. Be fortunate that he does not set his bitches onto you. He has more respect than that for the woman he married."
"No," Isabelle shook her head, standing up and preparing to flee from Bolton. It was only when she rushed to the staircase did she see three of his men already stood there, waiting for her.
She turned back to look at Roose and he stood slowly, nodding at her.
"You shall go back to him and you shall do your duty to him as a wife," he informed her. "He never did a get son out of you."
"Please," Isabelle tried. "Speak to Lord Robb-"
"-And why would Lord Robb care?" Roose enquired. "You have lied and been deceitful. I would care to know how you faked your own death, but I assume the Maester had something to do with it. You two always were close."
"Lord Robb will tell you," Isabelle spoke as she felt two men grab hold of her arms. "Please, Lord Bolton...you know your son..."
"Aye," Bolton agreed, pulling his leather gloves from his pocket to slip them over his fingers. "And I know that he will be most happy to have you back where you belong. Do your best to please him, Lady Eleanor. I fear he is becoming more and more...well...unpleasant..."
"No," Isabelle sobbed, tears falling down her face as she did so. "Please...do not..."
Her pleas were silenced as a man pressed a hand over her mouth and another pulled the cork from a bottle of vial of some sort. He pressed it against her mouth and she slowly felt herself growing sleepy as Lord Bolton stood in front of her, his hand on her cheek and he kissed her forehead tenderly.
"If only you had stayed," were his last words. "You could have avoided this pain."
...
A/N: So thank you to everyone who is following and to jean d'arc and Kathy for reviewing the previous chapter. It would be great if you could leave me a review, just to say what you think!
