CHAPTER 13: BLOOD AND WINE
All the lords and ladies stopped their loud chatter when Roose Bolton arose from his great chair.
Even the dancing couples, amidst their whirls and their twirls, ceased their spinning and stared about with confusion. Young Myranda stood in the back of the hall, among the honorless guests, with a bowl of candied prunes in her hands. She held it out to an old petty lord with a sour smell, whose wrinkly fingers had stopped just short of the bowl. For a moment she thought he had died in mid-reach. "M'lord?" she said, giving the bowl a light shake.
"Who's that there?" the old man asked.
Myranda turned and looked herself. "Who, m'lord?"
Then she saw him. Then everyone saw him, and nobody could look away. Domeric Bolton, with yellow cake crumbs clinging to his lips, sat up in his chair. His betrothed held back a gasp. The boy, dressed in grey wool, had arisen from the benches and approached the dais with a commanding stride. Every noble man and woman stepped out of his way when he came walking by, even men twice his size. And from every person he passed came the same questions: Who was he? From where had he come? He had just appeared out of nowhere, like a ghost, and he walked with a ghost's confidence.
Myranda pulled the bowl away and rushed ahead to get a better view. In her ear, she could hear the old man asking where she was going with his prunes, but Myranda brushed him off. She had to see his face. So she boldly wove her way through the crowd, bumping and pushing as she saw fit, until she at last reached him. She needed only to see his face once to know who he was. She'd recognize those grey eyes anywhere. He was the bastard that everyone whispered about, the one who had hurt the little lady. Everybody thought he was dead, but Myranda knew the truth. Her father had let it slip one night while he was laying her down to bed. He told her not to tell a soul because it would upset Lord Bolton's daughter.
And how the little lady was squirming now, trembling like a pathetic child. It made Myranda smile.
The bastard, he stole a sleeping lord's wine cup off the table, drank it down, and then tossed it over his shoulder. It landed somewhere behind him, with a loud clang. All the nobles chuckled, thinking it a drunk mummer's comedic performance. The bastard took in their laughter and carried on with a smile.
"My lords, my ladies ..." He gave a deep bow, earning more laughs and a few curtsies from his audience. "I would like to propose a toast." He paused dramatically, leaving everyone hanging on his silence. "But I suppose I need a cup first, don't I?"
The hall roared with laughter and men slammed their tankards on the table with a steady thwack, thwack, thwack. Drucilla looked at her father. His face was hard and humorless, and his eyes were like steel. The bastard snatched the nearest cup and raised it high into the air. The other lords and ladies did the same, even Domeric Bolton, who was too polite to refuse. Sansa hesitantly followed, her hand shaking ever so slightly. She swallowed the knot in her throat.
"I would like to propose a toast," the bastard announced, "to my lord father."
At those words, smiles faded and cups lowered. Some were too drunk to fully understand the boy's words. To them, everything sounded sweet and merry. One lord even offered up a jolly "Aye, to his lord father!" before taking a drink. Everyone else stood in silence while the fire crackled and popped and coughed up smoke.
Next, the bastard tilted his cup toward Domeric Bolton. "And to my dear brother on his name day. Happy name day, brother."
More cups fell, including Domeric Bolton's pewter goblet. His jaw fell with it. He looked to his lord father for answers but received none, so he turned to his betrothed for comfort. He reached across the table and gently took her hand in his. Her skin was warm and soft as summer. Sansa might have blushed if she hadn't been so frightened, but she squeezed back with all the strength she possessed. She knew she had to be strong now, for him.
"And finally ..." The bastard spun around to face Drucilla. "... my sweet sister."
Lord Bolton's daughter had that same look on her face, the one he'd seen in the forest when they were struggling and her blood was splattering them both. How fiercely she had glared at him on that night, with the perfect mixture of fear and anger, the same anger which burned deep inside him. He'd waited five years to see that face again. It was was even more beautiful than he remembered. He brought the cup to his lips and gulped down every last drop.
The guards came after that. They took him by the arms and dragged him out of the hall. The bastard didn't even struggle. In fact, he went willingly, with a smile on his face.
Lord Bolton slowly sank back into his chair. When he looked out beyond the dais, he found his daughter staring at him with a single question in her eyes. Eventually he would have to answer it, but not now. He made a gesture with his hand and the feast resumed. The serving girls came out with more candied fruits and cheeses, and the boys brought more wine. The band broke into "The Bear and the Maiden Fair," but only the shadows danced.
After the feast was over, Domeric stormed through the great keep while the night was still and the full moon was high in the sky. The guests had already retired for the evening, returning to their tents and bedchambers. He had personally escorted Sansa Stark back to the guest house and bid her good night with a kiss on the hand. Her septa's stern gaze prevent him from trying anything else, not that he ever would. Now he found himself outside his father's chambers. He didn't even bother knocking.
Lord Bolton was sitting at his desk, head bent, right hand scribbling on parchment with his favorite goose feather quill. To his left sat a single unopened scroll bearing the Lannister sigil.
When did the Lannisters start taking interest in the North? Domeric thought as he glared at the proud lion pressed into the wax seal. Nothing good can come of this.
"Do you have something to say?" Lord Bolton asked, his voice thin with impatience.
"Is it true?" Domeric asked. "Do I have a brother?"
"Yes, it's true. You have a brother." He stopped to dip his quill in the inkwell and then calmly resumed his letter. "Come tomorrow, you'll be free to mourn him as such."
"You're going to have him executed? For what crime — for being a bastard or for embarrassing you in front of your guests?" With that, Domeric had won his father's attention, though he immediately wished he hadn't. All of Domeric's confidence died when his father cast those eerie eyes upon him. They stole all the strength from his words and rendered them powerless. "Please, Father, I beg you to spare his life."
"No," Lord Bolton firmly answered. "I've already shown him a father's mercy — twice in fact, which is more than he deserves. The boy may be my blood, but I owe him nothing. He's a Snow, not a Bolton. My kindness saved him from a swift drowning when he was a babe, and it spared him from death once more after that, but it will not save him today. He knew the risk. He made his choice. And now he will die because of it."
"But what will the Starks think?" Domeric pressed. "Ned Stark, he has a bastard of his own. What will he think when he learns that you so easily killed yours? I remind you, Father, that my marriage to Sansa is still but a contract, a contract which can be broken at any moment. We can't afford to lose face with the Starks now. Or with the gods. No man in this world is more cursed than a kinslayer. You told me that when I was a boy, and I remember it still. Do you?"
Lord Bolton set down his quill. "Yes, I remember." He breathed deeply and focused his thoughts. "Very well then, I will consider releasing the boy, but in return you must do something for me."
At last, Domeric could see his first victory in his sights. "Anything, Father. Just name it."
Lord Bolton didn't smile, but he seemed pleased. "Within the fortnight I will be traveling south to King's Landing. I have business with the queen and expect to be gone for a long while, at least two month's time. While I am absent you will serve as acting lord of the Dreadfort. Consider it a test of your commitment to this house. I'm placing all my faith in you."
"What business do you have in King's Landing?" Domeric asked. He looked once more at the Lannister scroll and wondered. His father was looking at it too, and then he pulled it away and hid it from view.
"If the queen allows it," Lord Bolton went on, "your sister will soon be going to King's Landing to serve as a handmaiden to Her Grace, or to the little princess when she comes of age. It makes no matter who. Drucilla's talents are wasted in the North. Any man can see that. She belongs at court. I'm sure you would agree."
"Yes, she would shine in King's Landing, but Drucilla will never go south. You know that as well as I."
His father smiled — not a natural fatherly smile but a deliberate one that hid a thousand secrets. "She might," he said, "if it will win her a husband. As it happens, I've already entered into negotiations with Tywin Lannister. Drucilla will marry his son Tyrion."
"Tyrion Lannister? The Imp?" Domeric had never seen the halfman with his own eyes, only heard stories about him from others who had. They all said the same thing: he was a filthy drunk who gambled and whored. He couldn't picture his beautiful sister standing beside the dwarf in the sept, between the alters of the Mother and the Father. Of course, he couldn't picture Drucilla in a sept at all. She had no love for the new gods. "Drucilla will take this as an insult. She will never accept it."
"You need not worry about your sister. Drucilla will do her duty, that I know for certain, because she understands the importance of family. So she will marry Tyrion Lannister, unless a smarter match presents itself."
And I suppose any Lannister is better than none at all, thought Domeric, but still he feared for his sister's welfare. She would find no safety in King's Landing, with the Lannisters least of all. If Domeric had his way, he would send her to Redfort to live under the protection of Lord Horton. He would come to love her as one of his daughters, and when the time came he would find her a much better match, perhaps even with one of his own sons. Jasper was of marrying age and heir to Redfort. He would treat her well, better than any Lannister.
"Is there anything else?" his lord father asked. Domeric shook his head and showed himself out. Once alone, Lord Bolton reached for the Lannister scroll and broke the seal. "You may come in now, Drucilla." She had been standing outside his chambers for quite some time.
Drucilla entered the room without a word, her hair long and unbound, her forearms tightly bandaged and concealed by the sleeves of her grey bedrobe. She closed the door behind her and claimed the chair in front of her father's desk. He offered her a cup of hippocras, but she politely refused.
"You did well tonight," her father told her, pouring himself a cup. "I'm very proud of you. Soon you will be ready for King's Landing. Everything is going as planned." He handed her the message. "I received Tywin Lannister's response. He's agreed to my terms. You should be pleased."
She carefully read it over. "And I am, truly, but Tyrion Lannister will inherit nothing from his father. Lord Tywin has made that perfectly clear. When we marry, I will be the lady of a pleasure house and the nobles will mock me more than they already do. It seems uneven, this match. Am I worth so little?" She had her queer habits, yes, but Drucilla thought herself worthy of more than a Lannister dwarf. She was young and beautiful and the daughter of one of the most feared lords in the North.
"Patience, Drucilla," her father said. "This game is constantly changing. For a time you may be the lady of a pleasure house and the wife of the halfman, but one day you might find yourself rising much higher. And if you wait long enough and make the proper moves at the proper times, Casterly Rock will soon be yours."
"I never wanted Casterly Rock," Drucilla said as she tossed the parchment aside. Other ladies may have dreamed of being draped in Lannister gold, but not Drucilla. She preferred wolf pelts. "I wanted Winterfell. You promised me Winterfell."
He stopped her with his hand. "You're clinging to a sinking ship, my dear. It's best to let go before it drowns you with it. You will never marry a Stark, and Winterfell will never be yours. Your actions have guaranteed that. It was a grave mistake on your part, but we cannot dwell on it any longer." His face softened. "This match is our best option for the time being. I know you understand."
Drucilla nodded. "I trust you, Father." She went to stand. "May I leave now? The hour is late and I am tired." She waited for her father's nod of approval and then started toward the door.
"You are not angry with me?" he asked just as her hand was nearing the handle. They both knew what he was talking about, and they both knew how this conversation would end. Drucilla almost saw no point in answering, but she did anyway because he was her father.
"I'm sure you had your reasons," she said. "You always do. The gods may curse kinslayers, but I wonder if they would make an exception in this case. What else is a father to do when his son tries to murder his daughter? Perhaps I'll ask them." She opened the door and stepped through. "Good night, Father."
She descended the stairs of the great keep, passing guards and servants who dropped their heads as she went by. It wasn't unusual for them to see the young lady walking about at such a late hour. Most nights she couldn't sleep, so she just ... wandered. On this particular night, she was wandering right into the Torturer's Tower. Two guards stood in front of the main gate, but she knew a secret way inside, a better way. Her lord father had shown it to her when she was young, after the guards had caught her in one of the torture chambers. Lord Bolton realized he couldn't stop his daughter from enjoying her hobbies and saw no reason to try. "A man should be free to indulge in his passions," he had told her as they walked together through the dungeons, "as long as he does so quietly."
Drucilla could be very quiet.
She found the prisoner on one of the upper levels, above the murderers and the rapists, in a small cell with a narrow slit for a window. He was chained to the floor by his wrists and ankles with heavy irons. Drucilla could hear them jangling as she stared at him through the bars on the door. She didn't have the courage to open it.
"I was wondering when you would come visit me," the bastard said. "Took you long enough." He turned his head. "Don't be scared now, little lady. I can't hurt you." He rattled his chains as proof. "See? You're perfectly safe."
Drucilla inserted the key into the lock and gave it a turn. When she entered the cell, the light from her torch filled the room and illuminated the bastard's grinning face. His right eye was puffy and half-closed; the left side of his face was beginning to swell; and his lower lip was cracked and bleeding. Still, he smiled at his sister.
"This brings back memories, doesn't it?" he said. "I wonder, do you still have the scars I gave you?" He could see the bandages poking out from underneath the sleeve on her raised arm. "I bet they look ugly, don't they? Is that why you keep them hidden?" She didn't answer. "I think it is. I think the possibility of any man seeing those naked, hideous arms frightens you to death. Because then he'll ask who made them, and you'll think of me every time." He leaned forward. "Consider that my gift to you, my dear, sweet sister."
"And your last gift, bastard." He sneered at the word. "You die tomorrow."
The bastard slumped against the wall and got comfortable, as comfortable as he could. "That's what you think. But you aren't the first Bolton to visit me tonight, and you won't be the last. I'm not going anywhere."
"We'll see," Drucilla said, and then she passed through the gate and slammed the door behind her.
The bastard watched her go. "We still have a game to finish, little lady!"
She stopped and spun around. "The game's over, bastard! You lost."
Suddenly, the bastard leapt to his feet and lunged for her, his heavy chains rattling with a fury. "Oh no, little lady, our game has just begun! And when it's over you'll be begging me for death!" He threw his head back and laughed a madman's laugh. Drucilla locked the door and fled the tower with his voice echoing in her ears.