CHAPTER 34

The yard was quiet and joyless as all of Winterfell awaited Drucilla Bolton's arrival. Jon was standing in the bastard's place of honor: behind the great family with all the servants, squires, and guardsmen. They huddled together in the cold, whispering. Jon looked around and was surprised to see so many present. Nobody had summoned them to the yard, yet they had gathered all the same, drawn like crows to carrion on a battlefield, eager to catch a rare glimpse of Roose Bolton's reclusive daughter, to pick her apart with their eyes and lick her bones clean. It was the only thing that would satiate their morbid fascination with her.

Jeyne Poole was standing nearby, tucked behind her father with Beth Cassel to her right. "Whatever you do," said Jeyne to Beth, "don't look at her eyes. Those are witch's eyes, and they will pull you in and steal your soul if you're not careful. Daryn Hornwood looked her in the eye once, and do you know what happened to him? She cursed him with the redspots. Nearly killed him, he says, but of course Daryn was too strong for her."

"Oh, how brave," Beth cooed, glowing.

At that, Jon snorted behind his fist. Jeyne heard him anyway and threw a glare over her shoulder; then she cupped her hand over her mouth and whispered something into Beth's ear. Both girls erupted into giggles, glancing his way every now and then. Jon scowled. Jeyne was always quick to forget her courtesies when Sansa wasn't around to correct her. He still remembered how she had sneered at him during Robb's twelfth name day feast. His half brother had pushed him to ask the maiden to dance, and she cruelly rejected him in front of everyone. She didn't want to be seen dancing with Ned Stark's bastard. Jon turned and bolted before any of them could see him cry.

But that was long ago. Jon was a man now, almost fourteen years old. Jeyne was still the same. She hadn't yet stopped talking about the Bolton girl. "If you ask me, Drucilla made Daryn fall from his horse at her brother's tourney. He broke his arm, Sansa told me, and now he may never be able to hold a sword again."

The fool could never hold a sword at all, Jon wanted to say. The heir to Hornwood would put on a show for the ladies, strutting about the yard like some great swordsman, smiling that perfect smile, but place a sword in his hand and he quickly turned into a quivering maid. After a few good swats, he would start wailing for mercy. Jon recalled fondly how quickly the young lord had fallen during their last match. When he arose, his face was stained with dirt and tears.

And yet, Jon reminded himself, it didn't matter. The ladies had still flocked to Daryn like he was an injured bird, treating him with great care. And they looked at Jon like he was the most evil boy in the world. It wasn't fair.

At last the girls fell silent when Sansa came walking by, dressed elegantly in the colors of her house. She was kind enough to smile at Jon when their eyes met, and then she waved at her companions before settling into her position nearest the gate's entrance. His lord father was already there, waiting patiently, calm as Jon had ever seen. His little brothers and sister were coming too. Arya had Rickon by the hand, and Bran dashed by with an excited grin. Jon couldn't help but smile himself, until Theon Greyjoy arrived to claim the spot beside him. The boys exchanged unfriendly glances, then proceeded to ignore each other. Theon carefully adjusted the golden pin on his cloak, making sure the kraken was sitting perfectly upright. It glimmered when it caught the light. Jon wondered why the older boy was bothering to make himself pretty. The Bolton girl was unlikely to notice him all the way back here.

Last to come was his brother Robb, leading Lady Stark by the arm. Their eyes met for a brief moment as Robb turned around, and in them Jon saw nothing but worry. But why? Jon wondered. Because of a little girl? It didn't make sense.

They had taken their positions just as the first riders came trotting through the gate. They were nameless soldiers, looking cold and miserable and eager to return home. A small few carried the Bolton's pink-and-red banners. All the young girls shuddered at the sight of flayed man, some gasping quietly into their hands. Jeyne Poole went as pale as a ghost and seemed about to faint. Jon took some pleasure in that.

"Wow," Arya whispered, stepping out to get a closer look. His little sister was not so easily frightened, and Jon loved that about her. Sansa wasn't so pleased. She yanked the younger girl back and told her to stay put. The wheelhouse was coming now, its large wooden wheels creaking through the mud. It groaned to a stop in the middle of the yard, and a male servant went to open the door.

Jon felt his heart quickening with anticipation. The curiosity had gotten the better of him as well. He wanted to see the eyes which haunted so many, the eyes which his brother dared not speak of. The eyes of winter. He moved to get a better view.

The lady's hand appeared first: pale and delicate, cradled by the hand of her servant. She emerged from the wheelhouse gracefully, her gaze downcast as she carefully navigated the steps. The lady was smaller than Jon expected, scrawny like Arya and shorter than Sansa. She wore a pink-and-red cloak over a modest black dress, and her dark hair was pulled back into a tight knot. Her wardrobe carried no jewels or ornaments of any kind, and yet it needed none; such trinkets would have merely distracted from her beauty. And she was beautiful. Theon Greyjoy had noticed it, too. When the sunlight touched her grey eyes, they sparkled brighter than the finest diamonds.

The servant cleared his throat and spoke. "My lord, my lady, I'm honored to present my lady Drucilla, of House Bolton." He bowed and stepped out of the way.

The lady came forward and gave a long, deep curtsy. "Lord Stark, Lady Stark, thank you for so graciously welcoming me into your home and sheltering me during these grievous times. I appreciate it more than I can say, as does my lord father. House Bolton is honored and humbled by your kindness."

Lord Stark nodded. "Winterfell is glad to have you, my lady."

His lady wife was silent, but her eyes spoke for her. They were not so welcoming.

After that, the usual formalities were observed. All the children were brought forth and properly introduced. Robb's bow was stiff and awkward, but he spoke all the expected courtesies, and the lady seemed pleased. Sansa was all smiles when the girls were reintroduced. She expressed her sincerest condolences and prayed that Lady Drucilla would find peace in her family's home. The lady thanked her for her kindness, but her smile was forced. The youngest children were less friendly. Bran and Arya still seemed uncertain and curious, while Rickon outright refused to leave his mother's side. His lord father tried to coax the boy out of hiding, but his attempts proved futile. Lady Drucilla appeared not to mind.

And she looked relieved when it was over. They all did. Afterwards, the lady and her modest household were promptly shown to the guest house by Vayon Poole. All of Winterfell seemed to watch her go, and behind her back they whispered words of mockery and ridicule. Jon didn't care to listen. He had heard enough. He left the yard and made his way back to the great keep.

The courtesy of Winterfell was wasted on Drucilla Bolton. In fact, it was suffocating her. The main bedchamber was large and beautifully decorated with embroidered curtains and elegant fur throws. A fire crackled in the hearth. Candles stood at every table, sitting upon pillars and trays of polished pewter. Even the air smelled sweet, kissed with vanilla, lemon, and honey. And yet no sooner had Drucilla entered the room than she started throwing open the windows one by one. "It's too hot," she murmured, moving on to the next. "Why must they insist on keeping it so hot?" She tore off her traveling cloak and tossed it onto the bed.

Her new handmaiden, a young girl called Mara, was there to pick it up again. "Winterfell was built over natural hot springs, m'lady. It keeps the castle quite warm."

"Yes, I'm aware of that." The lady's tone was shrewd. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

The handmaiden blushed. "No, of course not. Forgive me." She folded the cloak and placed it neatly in the chest with the rest of her lady's clothes. "What dress will you be wearing to supper tonight? The grey one, perhaps?" It was more elegant than the others, made of crushed black velvet and black-and-grey brocade. The others were cheerless, rigid and lifeless. Mara pushed those to the bottom and pulled out the grey one. She laid it out across the bed. "It's rather pretty, don't you think?"

"Oh?" Drucilla looked at the dress as if it was a corpse pulled from a tomb. It might as well have been, for it was the last dress her mother had ever made her. "No, not that one." That one should stay buried. "One of the others, any one."

Mara bent her head. "As you say." She returned the dress to the chest, then proceeded to clear the small table of the fruit, cheese, and bread that had been put out for her lady. The dishes chattered together in her trembling hands. The stack leaned to one side, plates sliding. Mara struggled to keep it steady. "I'll have a bath drawn for you, m'lady. Nice and hot." Slowly, she reached for the flagon. It was still half full.

"Leave the wine," Drucilla said without turning. The long journey had left her with a woman's thirst. And she would be supping with the Starks tonight. Doubtless, she would be permitted but a single cup at their table.

Mara nodded. "As it please you." She returned the flagon to the table and hurried out of the room. The door closed quietly behind her.

Drucilla stayed by the window for a while, gazing into the busy courtyard below. Young men-at-arms were hard at work, grunting and cursing as they swung their wooden swords under the guidance of Winterfell's master-at-arms, a white-whiskered knight by the name of Ser Rodrik Cassel. Elsewhere, horses were being led to the stables and servants were carrying baskets full of fresh fruits and vegetables down from the glass gardens and into the kitchens. Drucilla watched them come and go. Not a familiar face among them. How unnerving. Is this how Domeric felt when he first arrived at the Vale? No, I don't believe so. Domeric was easy to love. They probably accepted him straight away. I won't be so lucky. Even my own handmaiden fears me.

But it didn't matter. She would win them over no matter the cost. "Make them love you," her lord father had commanded. Somehow, she would.

Tansy had arrived while Drucilla was soaking in the tub, head thrown back and eyes closed in relaxation. The serving girls had scrubbed her from hand to foot until her skin tingled and gave off a rosy pink shine, then left her to soak for a while in the lemon-and-herb water.

Tansy found a chair and pulled it close. "I heard you were invited to sup with the family tonight." She sighed enviously. It wasn't fair at all. Drucilla would be dining in the great hall with the Lord of Winterfell, his lady wife, and all their darling children. Meanwhile, Tansy would be supping with her governess in the small hall, alone, over fish stew, beef-and-onion pie, and braised carrots mixed with prunes. There would be no handsome young lords to delight and charm her, just an old woman and a few sworn swords. It made her sad. Tansy's evenings were far lonelier without her sister. The nights were even worse. "My bedchamber feels so empty without her. Some nights, I don't even sleep. I just lay there, thinking ... thinking about what that monster did to her."

A shiver crept up Drucilla's back. She sat up in the tub. "Fetch me that towel, will you?" The water had gone cold.

Tansy didn't seem to hear her. "I wonder where he is now. Reek. He could be anywhere."

Anywhere? Drucilla thought, fearful. No, she didn't want to think about that. "He's probably dead by now, Tansy. Captured and killed. Or rotting in a dungeon somewhere, the loathsome creature. In any case, it doesn't matter. Free your mind of him. He's gone. He'll never haunt us again." She stood confidently, beads of water rolling down her bare skin. "Now, hand me the towel. We will not speak of him again."

The sun was beginning to set as Drucilla finished getting ready. Tansy brushed her hair until it shone and felt like silk in her hand. Then she helped her into her dress. The sleeves were long and dagged, and the bodice so tight Drucilla had to hold her breath when laced into it. She did so effortlessly, without complaint. Tansy stood back and fluffed the skirt once more, watching the fabric fall noiselessly into place.

"You look perfect," she said.

They went down the stairs together, Tansy leading the way. "I wonder where they'll have you seated. At the high table, I should assume, next to Lady Sansa. She's grown so very fond of you. You'll have to tell me everything that happens: every course, every story. Listen well and commit it all to memory. Promise me you will. I want to hear every detail."

They stopped on the landing, and Drucilla seemed unwilling to go further. She touched her cousin lightly on the shoulder. "Perhaps you should go in my place, Tansy. You're far more excited than I am."

Tansy smiled and took her arm. "You're just nervous, surely. You'll do just fine as long as you mind your manners."

They went through the small hall, which was still being set for the other supper. The lesser supper. The guardsmen were already sitting on the benches, drinking ale and laughing. The dogs were there too, waiting for scraps beneath the tables. One came up and started sniffing at Drucilla. Tansy shooed it away.

"Dogs," she said miserably, "I'll be supping with dogs tonight."

Drucilla smirked. "And I shall be with wolves. Is it really so different?"

Tansy held in a laugh. "You really shouldn't say such things."

"I know, I know. I'm in the wolves' den, after all." She tossed around the phrase carelessly, while two Stark guardsmen walked by. They hadn't heard her. The girls giggled and crossed the yard briskly, arm and arm. "Of course it's not the wolves that worry me. It's the trout. How it flops about in a panic. Creates a lot of unwanted attention, don't you agree?"

"Trout?" Tansy seemed confused now. She had gotten lost somewhere along the way. "Oh, yes, I bet you'll have trout for supper. Baked in clay, maybe. Or better yet, roasted and wrapped with bacon." Her stomach made a loud gurgling noise. "I think I saw sardines being placed on the table. Sardines." Her face scrunched up with disgust. "With any luck, they'll be brined and smoked. At least then they'll have some flavor."

Drucilla rolled her eyes. "It's always food with you, Tansy. Have you a mind for anything else?" She dragged her cousin along.

The sky had turned a dark purplish-red by the time they left the guest house, and the first stars had started to shine. Tansy pointed each of them out to Drucilla and noted how much brighter they appeared here. Drucilla didn't see the difference. The torches were burning brighter than all of them, flaring up from every tower to summon shadows in the night. The sentries stood like gargoyles atop the innermost gatehouse, their eyes glowing yellow in the firelight. Drucilla could feel their stare as she passed through, or perhaps she had only imagined it. After all, when she turned back, they hadn't seemed so intimidating. They were merely small men in black cloaks, struggling to keep warm in the cold. Little girls were of little interest to them. Drucilla was just being silly.

The great hall stood before her now. It was a massive structure made of grey stone, but inside it was warm and inviting, every window aglow with candlelight. Tansy gasped at the beauty of it. There was nothing else like it. Outside its wide iron-and-wood doors stood two guards in halfhelms of tarnished iron, garbed in heavy mail coats, wool doublets, and boiled leather. One held open the door. The girls parted ways there, and Drucilla passed through to the other side.

"Details," she heard her cousin shout as the door closed. "Remember the details!"

A servant was waiting to show her to her seat. The hall was already half full, lively and jovial. The men were gathered around the trestle tables — freeriders, hardened Northern knights and their young squires, and so many guardsmen — sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on hard benches. Most hardly noticed her as she passed through the middle of them. They were grizzled old men-at-arms, and deep in their cups.

But one stood as she approached: a dark-haired youth in a black velvet doublet and lambswool breeches. A golden chain gleamed from his neck, swinging as he bowed. Drucilla didn't know him by name, but she recalled seeing his face in the crowd earlier, smiling as he was now, and she knew the kraken embroidered on his breast. Greyjoy. Yes, I remember now. Father mentioned that Lord Stark had taken a Greyjoy son as his prisoner. But he doesn't look like a prisoner to me. Drucilla acknowledged him with a tip of her head and pressed on.

The servant brought her to the high table, to where Lady Stark was sitting upon a cushioned chair with her children around her. She smelled faintly of flowers and vanilla, and her eyes were warm but watchful. "Lady Drucilla, we are glad to have you at our table this evening."

Dutifully, Drucilla curtsied. "It is kind of you to have me, my lady."

Lady Stark motioned toward the empty chair on her left. "Please, sit."

Drucilla did as the lady bid, and a servant filled her cup with wine. Drucilla was quick to drink from it, but only a sip. Sansa did the same, smiling as her cup touched back down. "I do hope you find the guest house comfortable," she said. "It can be quite drafty at night. You must let us know if it gets too cold."

"I will, my lady. Thank you." Drucilla looked across the table and saw two big blue eyes staring back at her. Little Rickon Stark took a grape from the serving dish and stuffed it into his mouth. Sansa offered Drucilla bread and cheese to sate her hunger. They would not start the soup course until the Lord of Winterfell arrived. For that, Sansa apologized.

"And where's Jon?" Arya pipped up, looking about the hall. "We can't eat without him."

"It's his habit to be late," Sansa said. "You know he fickle he can be. Perhaps he preferred to eat alone tonight."

"Or he felt pressured to." Arya threw a sour look across the table, and Drucilla knew it was intended for her. What had she done to anger the little girl so suddenly? She had only just arrived.

Lady Stark raised her chin in disapproval. "That's quite enough, Arya. Not another word, either of you. You had better cease this childish bickering when your father arrives. He won't be so patient as I, not when we have a guest at our table." Her tone softened. "In any case, it's probably for the best that Jon isn't here tonight. We wouldn't want to make Lady Drucilla uncomfortable."

Why would I be uncomfortable? Drucilla opened her mouth to speak; then the answer came to her all on its own. Jon Snow. That's who they're talking about. Ned Stark's bastard son. He was discouraged from attending out of respect to me, or at least that's what Lady Stark would have them believe. She leaned forward. "I hope he wasn't disinvited on my account. I wouldn't want anyone left out."

Sansa glanced her way. "No, it's not your fault at all. Ignore my sister. She forgets her manners all too often."

"But he should be here," Arya insisted, sitting up to make herself tall. "He's our brother."

"Half brother," Sansa corrected. "Don't confuse her."

It was a small mercy that Eddard Stark arrived when he did. The girls fell silent once they saw their lord father enter the great hall. The captain of the guard, Jory Cassel, pushed himself to his feet, and the rest of the men rose with him.

The Lord of Winterfell looked abashed. "Be seated," he said. "I'm sorry to have kept you all waiting. My lady, you should have started without me, for the children's sake if not your own. They shouldn't be forced to starve while their father loses track of time." He settled into his chair and signaled for the meal to begin. The servants came out with the first course: a thick, creamy soup made of roasted mushrooms, onions, garlic, and herbs, served with fresh-baked bread.

Drucilla was spooning hot soup into her mouth while Sansa went on talking about the splendid time they would have together. Drucilla pretended to listen, but she couldn't make out a word amongst all the chatter going on around her. The men on the benches were talking about wars and women. The children were playing and having a laugh. Ned Stark was swept up in a conversation of his own, with his guest for the evening, Septon Chayle, who kept going on about books, more books, and nothing else. In fact, the only person not talking was Robb Stark, who had hardly touched his soup. His silence distracted Drucilla more than anything.

It didn't take long for Sansa to notice. "Are you all right? You look sickly."

Drucilla felt sickly, and her head was ringing. "Forgive me, my lady. I'm not used to such lively suppers. Ours were much quieter back home." In the Dreadfort, meals were taken privately, often in silence, and they certainly did not permit servants at their table.

Somehow, Catelyn Stark had heard her over all the noise. "If it bothers you so, perhaps you should take your suppers in the guest house from now on. You are here as a guest, after all. You may do as you like."

Do as you like, you mean. Drucilla saw right through her.

"Oh please, Lady Drucilla, you mustn't take all your meals alone. How terribly lonely that would be. I can't even imagine it. No, I insist you eat with us as often as you're able."

Drucilla smiled. "I would love that, my lady. Thank you."

The servants were bringing out the next course: a rack of roasted lamb, crusted with herbs. Drucilla saw it and was instantly reminded of the feast her father had held on Domeric's name day. It had been a splendid evening, a lady's dream. Robb Stark had played the gallant all night, cutting her meat and serving her, smiling, complimenting her. That man was absent now, and the boy sitting in his place was quiet and cold. His sister had to remind him to slice off an extra rib for Drucilla. It landed on her plate with a splat, and the hot juices splashed onto her chin, and onto her dress.

"Robb!" Sansa gasped, horrified, and the little children started to laugh. Drucilla lowered her face to stare at her plate. The red meat was bleeding.

The table clatter had stopped for a moment, and everyone was looking at her. The children continued to snicker even after their mother had hushed them. Drucilla's fists clenched beneath the table. She wanted to scream. A hand appeared, gently dabbing her dress with a napkin. She shooed it away. Very well, she thought, if that's the way he wants it. She arose from her chair and put on her best smile. "Please, excuse me. I've lost my appetite."

Before anyone could stop her, Drucilla left the great hall as Sansa called loudly after her. She didn't slow down. The night had swallowed every sound but the frantic beating of her heart. Tears burned in her eyes, and she wiped them away angrily, refusing to cry.

It would be a long and lonely walk back to the guest house.

All the stars were out by then, sparkling in the sky. Drucilla stopped for a moment to look at them. They were, indeed, brighter than back home, but Drucilla realized that she didn't like it that way. In fact, she didn't like anything about Winterfell at all. If given the choice, she would have greatly preferred to return home. Drucilla hung her head and kept walking, ignoring all she passed.

All except one.

A boy had stepped out of the darkness, coming from the direction of the kitchens. Their paths crossed in the middle of the yard, near the water well. The boy was sitting upon it and looking down into the water when Drucilla stumbled across him. She knew who he was straight away. "You must be Jon Snow," she said. He had the Stark look about him after all, with that long face and sullen expression, and he didn't seem to want to be bothered. "You were missed at supper. What kept you?"

"I wasn't hungry," he said gruffly, clearly agitated.

"Apparently not." Drucilla didn't bother to hide her amusement. "Of course, since you're the bastard, you're probably used to being pushed aside. Most bastards are." She thought of her own bastard brother for a moment — only a moment, she would grant him no more than that — and she felt her chest swell with anger.

The boy had raised his head to look at her, truly look at her. His eyes were full of scorn.

"Did I offend you?" She tossed her head to one side. "Sorry, I've never quite warmed to your kind. I have a bastard brother of my own, I'm sure you've heard. He is a spiteful little creature, capable of nothing but deceit. If you ask me, my father should have ripped him from his mother's womb and drowned him in the river. That's how you deal with bastards where I'm from, lest they grow up and become murders and usurpers."

Jon moved away from the well, cursing under his breath, and charged past her. Drucilla stood her ground. A coldness ripped through her when his shoulder brushed against hers, making her shiver. Then she started to laugh quietly to herself.

"Not you, though," she said, watching him go. "No, I'm sure you're perfectly harmless, Jon Snow."

Thanks for reading! In the next chapter, we're going back to the Dreadfort to see how Ramsay is adjusting to his new life.