283 AC,

At the Dreadfort,

A small woman with a swollen belly sat on the battlements, on a small wooden bench, overlooking the vast but currently snowed-in grasslands of the Redlands. She put a hand on her stomach and hoped her Lord Husband would return from war or her son, Domeric, would be the new Lord of the Dreadfort.

She remembered his birth nearly killed her due to blood loss and the maester warned her that another pregnancy might kill her. But her Lord Husband wanted another son, he said, and so saying this, he consummated their marriage before he left to go off to the Trident, to fight a war for some Southerner Lord. Robert Baratheon, it was, but Bethany Bolton cared less for the South and it's meaningless politics. They had no place in the North as far as Bethany Bolton was concerned.

Her ladies were with her wild toddler right now in the playroom, so she was all alone, sitting by herself on the battlements of the Dreadfort, as it's Regentess until her Lord Husband returned from war. If he did at all. Men died in war, that much Bethany knew, so there was a chance he might die on the Trident. Her relationship with the Lord of the Dreadfort was dutiful, lacking love, but he wasn't too bad in bed.

She was near term with this babe, not much longer until the birth of Lord Bolton's second healthy child. The baby was moving and shaking, kicking her stomach with it's tiny fists and feet. Barba had given her lord three stillborn children and two miscarriages so far, but the maester said the babe in womb was strong and healthy.

The wind was strong and cold, not exactly the sort of weather a near term pregnant woman should be sitting in. But Bethany didn't mind the chill of the air, the swirling snowflakes brushing against her pink cheeks. Her petticoat was long and full of thick bear fur, it was an extremely warm fluffy coat so she wasn't all that cold to begin with. Fresh snow fell from the sky as tiny but delicate snowflakes, and the snow piled none-too considerably on the dead, red grasslands of the so-called redlands. Her own bench was full of snow and ice, but Bethany was of the North and she wanted to see the snow & the view the long, tall battlements offered her of the Redlands. One last time, before the baby came into the world, to see Autumn's kiss.

Somehow, she knew it would be the last time she'd ever see this view of the Dreadfort looking like a winter wonderland like it looked like right now.

Snow, as white as dust, as cold as ice, as mushy as mud. She had always enjoyed playing in snow when she was a child at her former home. She'd miss the crumbling, cold touch of it when she was no doubt bedridden for weeks on end like she was with Domeric, her sweet, innocent child. He looked so much like his father, with his ice blue eyes and raven hair she played with from time to time. He had Roose's same average shaped face too, but she thought Domeric was positively handsome. Like any mother… Bethany tried being a good mother to Dom, the messy baby he was.

Ned Stark,

Barrowton,

Barrowton consisted of mostly flat grasslands, besides for the large hill Barrowcastle sat upon. It was said to be a buneral ground to the Barrow Kings of days long since gone or of a giant's tomb. Or it simply might be a hill, but either way, it was the only hill in the famously well-known flatlands.

Whilst Ned had expected to visit Barrowton and the Barrowlands last of all, due to Lady Dustin's known hatred of him. He had decided to forgo with such when news of Domeric Bolton came to his attention. He was leaving for the Vale at the end of this month.

Barrowcastle was made of thick redwood logs, a pure wooden castle. It was similar in design to Deepwood Motte but instead of being in the middle of a woodland, it was on a hill. As they went along, Ned spotted one wooden watchtower overlooking the flatlands. But since the Barrowlands were so flat and treeless, it seemed to him rather than it be about knowing where the enemy was at, it was used as a secondary defense tower.

Lady Barbery Dustin was the widow of Lord William Dustin, and current head of House Dustin after his demise. She was a strong woman, with dark brown-colored hair and narrow brown eyes. Her current heir was Lord Dustin's second cousin, a boy of four-and-ten named Brandon. No doubt trying to vie for his favor, naming him after his dead brother. Lady Mormont tried doing similar by naming her lastborn daughter after his sister Lyanna.

The Widow of Barrowton was waiting for them in the small town of Barrowton. Her eyes were narrow and her dark brown hair was pushed back into a tight bun. She was raven-colored from head-to toes, but the dress she wore was clearly made for a noblewoman. Besides her stood a young boy, with raven-colored hair and icy blue eyes. He was a plain looking young boy dressed in pink, his average face looked downwards as if he was shy.

"Welcome Lord Eddard Stark, to Barrowton. I hope your stay here is sufficient enough." There was an irrefutable coldness behind her voice. It made Ned's neck hairs jump as if they were to be panicked by some woman.

"I hope it is and I hope our stay is welcoming as it comes, Lady Dustin.." He stared at the young boy next to him who was staring at Samara with clear longing in those icy blue eyes of his. "Why hello Domeric. I remember your visit to Winterfell, with your lord father. You seemed like a good young boy, although a bit shy, like your sister here."

"Thank you Lord Eddard Stark, I don't mean to be good, I mean to be strong. Father told me that a Lord must be strong or people will… stomp all over you and I don't mean to be that sort of Lord." Ned had to smile at the young lad. He certainly had spirit, even if Roose Bolton had influenced him to think such. He wasn't entirely wrong about that statement either, a Lord must be strong or else his lords will stomp all over him.

"Roose Bolton isn't wrong about that, or else people will think I'm easy to dispose of. But a bit of kindness does much in the way of making your people love you. You want that, don't you Domeric?"

"I guess I do, um, my lord." He shrugged. "But my father says a Lord must be feared not loved, because fear is the best medicine to any rebellious attitudes. Love means nothing, a Lord can be loved and be disposed of just as easily with the right arrow. But I dunno, I would like my people to like me, I guess."

Ned nodded, dropping the subject. "A Lord must think about his people before anything else, a wise and true sentiment. But would you like to spend some time with your sister before you go off to the Vale? Did you know when I was little I was fostered by Jon Arryn, my son's namesake, and my foster brother of sorts was the current King. Robert Baratheon. I had such a fun time there as a youngling, so long ago, that I hope your experience is the same way." Ned remembered the Vale, like one would remember a happy dream happening so long ago.

"Uh… of course, my lord." He bowed before giving him a shy smile of sorts. "Thank you for bringing my s-sister here."

Samara Bolton took a step forward and looked at her brother. Domeric took his blood-red Princess somewhere else, gently escorting her by the arm. His two boys behind him stared at them but were silent.

Domeric Bolton,

Dom had to live without Samara's kindness for two years now. He remembered their goodbye to one another at the Dreadfort, when Sam was going off to Winterfell and himself off to Barrowton. They didn't know they'd get to spend another second together, until now that is.

Until Lord Stark decided to unite the siblings one last time like the nice man he was. He'd treasure every last moment he had with Samara.

Samara looked so grown-up from when she was ten and had hid in her chambers to keep away from folk. Her eyes were far colder and icier than before, like his own became after seeing that terrible flaying. Her hair was in a braid, her manners were shy but distant. After Lord Father's flaying of that man in front of them, she had become remarkably distant and seemed even more afraid of people if possible. Whilst no longer hiding under beds as she used back when she was five, it didn't mean that she didn't hide herself any less.

"Samara, you look so much older than beforehand. " He said, staring at her. She had indeed grown an inch or so. Her face which used to be so full of baby fat, was becoming progressively thin-cheeked.

"And you are going to be a different man when you come back here, to the North. I might not even know you, Domeric. "

"I'll always be that shy boy that protected you from the Dreadfort's Heart Tree when Lord Father went off to war. I'll always be that boy that played you songs on my harp to your delight during your eighth namesday. Did you know I practiced that song for days before I sung it for you? I'll always be the brother you've known, little sister, you needn't worry. I shall not come back any less horse-loving or harp-singing then beforehand, trust me sister. "

She nodded before hugging him softly. "You look like our father, hasn't anybody told you that?"

He nodded. Barbery told him he looked like Roose Bolton at the same age, same plain, average face and the same chilling eyes. But he was different from him.. He hoped at any rate. He wanted to be a good lord, like what Lord Eddard Stark told him. He wanted his people to love him, to adore him, not for him to be feared or something, even though that was a part of being a Lord ruling over lands. Making people fear him, but he didn't want to do flaying in his time as Lord of the Dreadfort someday…

"I'll miss you sister, even though we'll be away from one another I'll still write letters to you and our Lord Father."

She gave him a small smile before she separated from him. "I wouldn't expect anything less from my gallant older brother."

They walked back to the others and he thought about seeing Samara pregnant with that ginger-haired boy's baby. When she was much older and mature than the girl standing next to him currently. Domeric supposed he might find himself looking at a completely different matured woman. The thought of seeing her as an adult found himself looking at a beautiful young woman, because she was very pretty now.

He kissed her forehead, and held her close. "I'll always be there for you, Sam. No matter how far away I am. Our Blades are Sharp Samara, and you my sister forevermore, forever in my heart. Offering me kind advice and sweet whispers in the dark about disturbing things. Ghosts full of blood and malice, screaming in agony. I'll always remember you sleeping with me in my room, scared as can be, until you fell asleep in my arms. You make me feel braver than I usually would be, Samara. I feel like I wouldn't be brave enough to do this if not for you." He said softly against her ear. He was serious, she made him brave enough to do this. If she could withstand Winterfell being as shy as she was, he could withstand going to the Vale to a totally new place. If she could do it, so could he.

"I'll always remember you as my warm brother who loves puppies and kittens enough to feed them beef from the Kitchens even though Lord Father was against it. I'll always think of you, Dom, and the thought of you warms my heart towards people, socially awkward and shy I am. I'll always think of you as a kind, sweet boy although when you return from the Vale, you'll be a man." She gave him a sad, soft smile on those full ruby red-colored lips of hers. She had always been so beautiful, so warm, so lovely, ever since their lady mother died giving birth to her. Their Lord Father had remarked that often when they were little, Dom would climb into her crib and sleep with his newfound sibling. Their Lord Father had been very disappointed by Samara's sex, according to Helena, their old nan. He had wanted a spare heir, not a useless daughter but he had since gotten over his disappointment over Samara's birth.

Domeric let go of her and wiped his tears away. He had been crying somewhat, because he was going to find courage from another space now. She was going back to Winterfell with Lord Ned Stark, he accepted this but she was a source of strength to him. Her and her problems inspired him to do things about his own problems.

"Let's go back to the others, my lovely sister. You will grow up to be a great beauty of the North no doubt, whilst I'll grow up to look plain looking, like our Lord Father. I hope to come back and be a man you're proud to call brother."

"Domeric, I am already proud to call you my kin and brother." She said softly behind him, filling his eyes full of unbidden, unwanted tears once more. He wanted to be the greatest Lord of the Dreadfort since Lady Samara Bolton, who ruled over the Dreadfort during the Dance of Dragons.

I'll always remember you saying those words, sweet sister. Domeric thought to himself and said nothing, for fear he might end up crying on her shoulders. So he took her by the arm and brought her back to Lord Stark.

Jon Snow,

He & Robb were playing a game of catch with a ball of thick leather, all tied together and fascinated into a ball-shape. It was a fun game, them kicking it about and chasing after one another. They were outside of the warm wooden castle known as Barrowcastle, the home of House Dustin. House Dustin was an old house relating back to the Barrow Kings, who were said to be the very first Kings of the North and Westeros before they lost all land in an unknown calamity. Their lands were windswept and poor, but hey, at least it was flat and so the ball was easy to kick around. That much was a huge positive in Jon Snow's eyes.

Lady Barbery was a shrewd woman, but undeniably cool towards his lord father. Robb and himself were playing around with one another, as bored boys were wont to do in times of boredom.

The adults were discussing something Jon cared nought about, until Samara and her brother reappeared after an hour of private conversation. Her brother's ghost grey eyes were teary, like he was upset. Jon didn't think Domeric was that bad of a boy, shy and curious maybe, but not malice-filled. Neither Bolton children were full of malice in his bastard viewed eyes, and he had met malice people before, who hated baseborn children & any relating to them. Like Catelyn Tully, who loathed him for being his father's son, taught him about how cruel nobles could be.

"Saying goodbye is hard isn't Domeric?" Jon knew that he was going to the Vale and said this in a soft, comforting way to the Bolton heir. Or at least tried too. Some people didn't want to be comforted, but Jon didn't know what else to say but words of comfort. Something to clear the awkward tension in the air.

Domeric didn't answer him besides for a slight nod of the head. That was enough of an indication in Jon's eyes. That Roose Bolton's heir loved his little sister and saying goodbye to her made him feel upset. He couldn't blame him, if he said goodbye to Arya and went away to the far South he'd probably feel the same way.

"Oh I'd probably feel the same way if I had to say goodbye to Sansa. I feel like I have to protect her from the world of bad things, considering she's always fascinating about Southern Ser Knights and such from old tales. I may not be a Prince, but I feel like one to my little sister." Robb said from behind them. Robb and Sansa had always been deeply close as siblings. Robb was extremely overprotective of Sansa's safety and general well-being, her clearly being his favorite sister out of the two girls. Jon's favorite was without any question Arya, because they shared the same coloring and she seemed to be an outsider to the rest of the Stark children like Jon felt he was, whenever Catelyn Tully was about.

"T-thanks for the comforting words, both of y-you." The Bolton Heir sounded like he had something stuck in his throat. "I just wanted to say that I'm going back to my quarters. Thank you for the nice words, Lord Robb, Jon Snow, I appreciate them greatly." The boy walked away from the lot of them, as shy as one could be. Samara watched him go with a slight smirk on her lips and waved her hand a little, as he departed from the scene.

Ned Stark POV,

They'd stay at Barrowton for the weekend at the very least, before going back to Winterfell. In that time, he'd think about pampering Jon to be Lord of Moat Cailian and a Stark in his own right. He had been thinking of that possibility for awhile now, but it now seemed more real now that he was dragging the boy to a windswept, desolate place like the Barrowlands.

Lady Barbery and himself discussed giving her nephew Brandon in marriage to one of Lord Glover's kin. She said it was a strategic, well placed marriage and Ned was not one to disagree with the engagement between House Dustin and House Glover, since their union may very well help to unify the North regionally.

The game of thrones and lords alike, however, is alway on-going, no matter what the struggle entails in the end..

The North,

The Dreadfort,

Six months later,

Thick, darp red blood ran hard on the cold dark pale pink flooring of the Dreadforts prison cells, the blood-curdling screams of guilty men filled the gloomy, damp place. Sharp metal knifed pale, white flesh and pools of deep red blood splattered on the tiles like a lake. Dark tidings, dark words, a raider from Essos had come, raided the areas of the Redlands and the Weeping River with his pack of pirates. It had taken Lord Roose Bolton several weeks to catch the lot of them, and even then, one or maybe two had escaped beyond his reach.

The man screaming on the cold, black rack with his previously handsome features mangled, was their leader, the filthy scum Jarold of Lys. He had been caught by the Dreadfort men with a peasant woman he had caught during one of their raiding attempts, and with him, were four-dozen other men. All of them had been gutted of their internal organs before being hanged from trees, like common criminals. But this man? The Lord of the Dreadfort had plans for him, indeed.

"Scum like you reminds me of the pirate lord Balon Greyjoy. Did you know I made a pair of boots out of one of his raiders? But human skin isn't as durable as cow hide, or else I'd gladly make you another." The Lord of the Dreadfort personally did his own cow-hiding of prisoners - and besides, seeing the man's gruesome red face staring at him was worthy of a site. He once had a sly smile full of shiny white teeth before one by one, he pulled out the man's teeth. Of course he screamed for mercy, but the Lord of the Dreadfort was no such man.. No mercy would be shown for such dirt, not even if he begged for his own mother's life. But Roose Bolton didn't feel enjoyment out of this bloody work, no, only a man consumed by madness would enjoy such gruesome work.

He of course couldn't speak, but just stared at Roose with those brown eyes of his, that used to be so cocksure confidence. But now, all it was gore. Roose's clothing was full of rusted, dry blood and he smelled terrible, no doubt. It was messy work, torturing & flaying men like this, but it had to be done. He could've left one of his torturers to deal with this sad excuse of a man, but Roose liked dealing with his own prisoners & their punishment. Not as a sadist, but because lessons needed to be learned and because Roose Bolton was unafraid to get his hands dirty.

The man did still have a face, although his nose was broken and beaten-into a gorey red mush. His eyes were swollen and black. Although, somewhere else he had been flayed - and his bloody skin was in a silver bucket next to the torturous device he was laying on currently. The man had a full set of golden-blonde hair caked with dried blood. He had been flayed on his stomach, which had been a rightfully painful experience for the man who screamed like a banshee, so loud and full of terror. It was such a terrible noise that Roose Bolton had put a muzzle on the man's skinny pale lips, so he wouldn't have to hear the sounds of the man screaming anymore.

Roose Bolton supposed that he should bring his shimmering slicking wet blade to the man's throat to kill him. He was not one to enjoy a man's suffering, at any rate. He couldn't even speak due to what Roose did to the man and his tongue was bright red & sticky, always coming in and out. He probably wanted Roose to kill him, so he decided to put the knife across his throat. "Lucky for you, I don't take much joy in torturing you. I may be a monster, but I'm not that much of a monster. A monster who takes joy out of suffering is not what I am." So in saying this, he released the man from the world by slitting his throat.

After the man died, Lord Bolton took out a red washing cloth and wiped the blade of the fresh dark blood dripping off of it's sharp tip.

His clothes were a right mess, full of thick blood stains and gore, he probably smelled like bloodied flesh too. After this he'd take a bath with his leeches before he got busy with his mistress, a shapely young woman of low birth. Roose Bolton had taken a liking to whoring, ever since his second wife giving birth to Samara.

As for the body, he requested to the head Gulager that they remove and burn it. The Head Gulager was a small man with narrow milky-white eyes. Most people said he was a formidable, but intimidating man, despite his small stature. He was a balding man, with thin wispy nearly white-blonde colored hair on his head. He had a broken nose, and a large scar going from his left eye to his chin. Roose believed he was a perfect gulager due to his nearly inexhaustible patience, and so upon his instructions the middling man nodded without saying a word & he and the other gulagers picked up the body before presumably doing what he said.

He'd leave the dungeon and head up to his apartments, where his mistress usually hung about. Her name Josselyn, and she was a buxom wench of twenty. He had a thing for lady flesh & after his second wife died, Roose Bolton decided to whore about whilst waiting for Samara and Domeric to grow up. Of course Domeric was to succeed him when he died - or It'd be Samara if Domeric died mysteriously, but one thing was for certain, Roose rather die than let… him have the Dreadfort. The Dreadfort was not to be given like a handbag to some degenerate bastard who can't even read much less deal with other lords, due to his lowly birth and status. He'd rather the Dreadfort be inherited to a woman then to to such dirt.

He'd be busy getting changed from his gorey, blood-covered outfit into a fresh pair of pink chainmail & blood red myrish silk pants but most importantly, it was fortunate his mistress wasn't here. Or he might loss her forevermore. Which would be unfortunate for her actually, as Roose didn't want to rip her lush tongue out of her mouth meant for sucking. He'd also put on fresh perfume too, to hide whatever horrible smell remained on his person.

Today was the day Samara visited him from Winterfell, considering she is his only child currently in the North. Well, not the only one but the only one Roose Bolton cared about as an actual father. The other one , well he wasn't worth speaking about. He was a nobody living on a Miller's farm and neither one of his true born welps knew of his existence & neither would ever know about it.

When his lady wife died whilst he was at the Trident, she had given the newborn girl the name Samara, of whom was named after the most famous Lady Samara Bolton of the Dreadfort. Lady Samara Bolton ruled the Dreadfort in the time of the Dance, and was a fominable, strong woman with an iron steel will. She was one of the Dreadforts most fearsome lords, even though House Bolton & the North hardly took much part in the Dance itself. That didn't mean the Lady of the Dreadfort was one to ignore the troubles in the South, or to ignore it like many of the Northerner Lords did, hoping that the Dragons wouldn't trouble them. She planned the defenses of the Dreadfort against such enemies and when Lord Cregan Stark offered his allegiance to Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone, the Lady of the Dreadfort offered to assist him in rousing the sleepy Northerner Lords. She as the Lady of the Dreadfort would become known as the Battlemistress because of what she'd do to assist Lord Stark.

It was a suitable enough name for a lady of their House, he consigned. Besides, his Samara had such a lovely little heart shaped face that such an attractive name only belonged to an alluring child.

Samara Bolton was on her way to the Dreadfort after spending six months with the Starks, such as their arrangement went. His only true born child in the North right now, since Domeric was in the Vale currently. Such a lovely child in a great marriage contract. She would serve his needs as a dutiful daughter ought to her lord father.

It was only right, because he had plans for his little rose of a daughter. Plans to make her the greatest Bolton Lady since her own namesake was alive in Westeros The original Samara Bolton had destroyed a rebellion in her region, being only merely half-a child by then. The way she ruthlessly destroyed her enemies was akin to what Lord Tywin Lannister did to the Tarbucks. Nobody would ever dare challenge her by the time he was done transforming the shy, but solemn girl into a proper lady of their house.