When their journey ended and they were finally at the Dreadfort, Arella didn't know how many of them knew she was a girl.
She thought none, but she could never be certain, for every now and then she'd catch one of the men staring at her, but when they met eyes, they'd either growl or quickly look away. She wondered what they were thinking, if they wanted her...the dark haired girl looked up at the strong fortress suddenly; it had high walls and triangular merlons.
She wondered how long it had been around.
Once she heard people saying they held torture chambers still and a special room for the flayed skins of their enemies.
I shall have a room like that for you, Theon.
Arella spent most of her time alone, avoiding any sort of conversation, and making her water only when everyone else was asleep. She decided a fortnight after they were there, that she would steal a horse, go south, and look for Sansa and Arya, and all her other old friends. She would save them, for she knew she could, because she was strong and knew how to fight. If she was smart, and she knew she was, she would even get some people to help her, perhaps whatever northmen she could find that would help her. But she knew that was unlikely, with this war. Everyone just wanted to be safe, not burden themselves for highborn children that didn't really matter to them.
But they mattered to Arella, for they were the only family she had left.
That night, when everyone else was asleep, Arella snuck of in the darkness to steal a horse, but was stopped by the Bastad of Bolton, or so that was what everyone else called him. He was cruel, she knew, and he wasn't dumb. So around him, she would have to be smart and snicky.
"Where are you going?" he hissed angrily, circling her, eying her with a cold look in his pale eyes.
Arella's back stiffened up and she stared ahead, not meeting his eyes, "Off to make my water, my lord."
He looked her up and down and waved ahead, even though he was still in front of her. He smirked and said, "Make your water then. Right there."
Arella felt her eyes filling with tears and her stomach flipping about crazily. She began to undo her breeches when Ramsay grabbed the back of her neck, murmuring to her, "I never saw you with my group before. Who are you?"
"I am a bastard of Robert Baratheon and a tavern wench," She said shakily, staring at the tree in front of her. She could feel her legs shaking and her vision just the same, wondering if the Bastard of Bolton would rape her then flay her, as he did other girls, or would he rape her then kill her, and lastly flay her.
She wanted none of that.
He let go of her neck and flipped her around, staring into her eyes, the paleness of his stilling her brilliant blues, making her freeze in place, all but her shaky knees.
"A Baratheon bastard, are you?" he grabbed her chin and forced her to look up. He roughly pushed her face from one side to the other, and then he stroked her cheek with his nail, breaking skin. He ripped apart her tunic and found a breast and smirked at her, saying, "A Baratheon girl."