Winterfell,
It was a cold summer's day today, with the sun high up in the blue sky. Samara hid herself from dawn under the shadows, as was her norm to do. She was still very new here in Winterfell, so she was still getting used to her surroundings. She did know something about where she was within the gates of the castle, nearby the First Tower. It was a massive, arching tower that was falling apart, because every year or so it would lose bricks which would tumble down from a great height. A man could throw himself off the tower and would smash on the ground in bloody chucky pieces.
As Samara stood looking up at the great tower's vast height, thinking to herself that it was the biggest tower she'd ever seen in her youthful life. The Dread Tower, her father's own personal bedchamber tower, wasn't as big as this castle stood. Even if it stood a bit lopsided. It was so old that Maester Luwin told her that they had no idea of it's true age due to it being rebuilt so many times that the First Tower's origins would forever remain a mystery like Winterfell itself. Samara knew the Dreadfort was built around the time Brandon the Builder existed, making it a truly old castle. It was one of the eldest castles in the entire Seven Kingdoms, and they could trace back the age of the castle too, making it a curiosity in the eyes of many Maesters.
She wondered how old the tower was, because it seemed as high as the clouds above in the great blue sky to a small person like herself. She couldn't even see the top of it from where she stood.
Footsteps were loudly heard on the marble Winterfell was built on, so she'd know somebody was coming nearby her at any rate. And some fella was on their way here judging by the sounds of their heels, but Samara didn't care too much. She might be more introverted, but they probably would know more about this part of the castle than she would. So she would welcome the company, at any rate.
"That's the First Keep and it's said that Brandon the Builder once ruled from here thousands of years ago." A young boy's voice was behind her, so she turned around to see Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. He was a boy with a long face and grey eyes. Samara believed young Jon Snow looked like Ned Stark, but much younger than the dour lord in his late twenties he was now. "I've always wondered about its origins too, and sometimes when Robb isn't looking, I go inside of the First Keep. It still has a door, even if the staircase inside is all crumbly and unusable. I like imaging sitting on our wolf throne inside of our so-called new Keep and image being Brandon the Builder commissioning the Wall from the grand fort." His voice was soft and childish, but he seemed friendly enough. He didn't come across as a particularly friendly person at the gates of Winterfell so it was a surprise to her that he was being this friendly.
"Oh? At the Dreadfort, our oldest tower is the Dread Tower. My Lord Father lives there as Boltons have done since the time of the Red Kings. It's been torn down a couple of times, unlike some of our other buildings, but it's still so old that the Maester's say it's a thousand years old or even possibly, older still." Samara rather enjoyed talking about Northerner history & the comment of him pretending to be Brandon the Builder made Samara smile slightly. She could imagine him bringing in a chair from the outside and pretending to be a King of the Old North, as harsh and honorable as they could come. Her brother pretended to be one of the Red Kings once, when they were much younger, and made-pretend to rip out her heart as the old Red Kings were wont to do & she'd fall on the ground, in a dramatic fashion. They stopped playing this game when one of Domeric's young noble friends noted that it made Dom look like a heartless monster. Such was their burden as Boltons of the Dreadfort.
Jon Snow shyly smiled. "Does looking at it make you feel as small as this tower does? I feel like an ant underneath it. I like imagining that Brandon the Builder sat on top of the tower when he was overlooking the construction of the Wall, but since the staircase up to the top of the Tower is destroyed at any rate, I dare not climb up the Tower. I'm not a fool and besides, the fall from such height would likely kill me at any rate."
The girl thought about this for a moment before staring upwards, imaging doing the same to the Dread Tower. The Dread Tower was the most imposing of the towers guarding the Dreadfort and the entire castle was built around it, well supposedly. Samara didn't know for certain, as with legends and such were more often fanciful tales more often than not. This tower was titling but Samara couldn't even see the square rooftop of the tall building from where she currently was standing. No wonder why he felt like an ant in its presence, it was towered over the two of them and made them seem so small & tiny in comparison.
"My father's tower has more presence, but I feel like it would be tiny in comparison to this tower if they were put side by side. No wonder why you feel like an ant underneath it's gaze, Jon." She hoped her Lord Father never heard those words or he'd build his tower even higher than before. She wasn't sure she wanted to see a super imposing Dread Tower, with it's shrieking ghouls and ghasts statues serving as one would call protectors of the fort. Such an image would make Samara sigh besides herself, as it would be frightening to behold indeed.
"You don't seem that bad for a noble girl, which is good. In the past, several other noble girls didn't like me very much and shunned me. They call me 'Snow' in such a patronizing voice when they were actually addressing me for once and never call me Jon. I'm glad you call me Jon, and not just Snow."
Samara was not like a typical noblewoman, who more often than not was snobbish and pretentious to those of a lower rank than themselves. Samara addressed whomever she pleased in whatever way she saw fit, damning the consequences of said choice. "I am not like most noblewomen who consider bastards to be dirt under heels. I talk to whomever I want and whomever objects to it, be damned with yee. My Lord Father would however, call you a Bastard or Snow. But I'm not him nor more than I'm one of those noblewomen."
Jon actually smiled at that, a real genuine one, like he was actually happy. She could even see it in his grey eyes so similar to Lord Eddard's own eyes.. "I enjoyed our conversation about the First Keep, Lady Samara. It was most enlightening and educational, I never knew Lord Bolton lived in a high tower himself. Thank you, um, so my father sent me here to collect you for lessons with Septa Mordane. Robb and Theon are fighting right now in the Courtyard, leaving me to collect you. Sansa would've done so, but she… had no idea.. Where you are, so they sent me to collect you. Um, I'm thankful I could find you, Samara Bolton, as it is." He sounded so awkward it was cute in Samara's eyes & she found it very enduring, if she was being honest.
"Thank you for collecting me, Jon." She had been in truth, avoiding the Septa because she wasn't in the mood to be lectured about her poor needlework abilities. She was an awful clutz with her needlework, with her hands being about as useful as sausages when holding the hard metal object. The Septa thought her small white hands were as useful to needlework as Sansa was at sums, which was to say none-at- all good. But she wouldn't tell Jon that though. "Bring me to the Septa, wherever she may be." She wondered if the Septa of the all-mighty noble seven would lecture her from her lateness.
The Dreadfort,
The air in the Dreadfort was cold and clammy, as Lady Samara entered the bleeding castle with her huge wooden suitcase of her pink and blood red dresses her Lord Father gave her.
Her Lord Father awaited her inside the huge red-painted gates of the Dreadfort in the Red ack Courtyard. He was dressed in pink chainmail armor and the dread sigil of House Bolton was painted on it. Her Lord father had her same raven-colored hair and ghost grey-colored eyes, as all House Bolton members have possessed since their founder created their house, a man known as Ice Eyes. He was a son of one of the Barrowton Kings, or so they said, who was famously well known for his ghost grey eyes and for flaying Skin-changers who came into his domain. Eventually, he created House Bolton, after taking a maiden from House Stark, as his wife & queen, making him the very first Red King. Samara didn't know how much of this legend she should trust, but it was an interesting enough of a tale.
The Red Courtyard had transformed in her mind as a place of ghosts and horrors, with thick red blood dripping from its crusted rooftop overhead onto the pink tile of the Courtyard below. It was a place of horrors, with the sounds of screaming men and people's unjointed voices wailing in pure blood-curling agony from whatever torture befell them. Some voices and untold shadows were pushing towards the great, raven-colored barb gate that was the entrance of the dread castle.
Winterfell had its own shadows, but none were as pitch-black and ghastly as the spirits that inhabited the Dreadfort. The ones at Winterfell was more kinder than the ones here, well besides for the Stark Kings of old whose presence was brooding and cold
Her Lord father smirked at her when she arrived through the great gates, although he had no such smile in those stone-cold blue eyes of his. Her Lord Father never smiled with his eyes, nor did he show obvious signs of emotions. Unless he was angry, but he hardly ever was.
"My dear, sweet Sammy, back to home at last. How was your stay with the Starks, dearest one?" Her father's voice was as soft and gentle as always, but Samara could understand him if he stood a hundred feet apart from her.
"I wrote you a letter about it." She responded as one of the bagmen picked up her baggage and brought it to her chambers. Theon Greyjoy was a jerk who made fun of her, called her a horsey girl and not so frightening that she'd let's say, flay him on a stick like her family was well known for doing. Samara wondered if Theon had brains saying such things to her and she just stared at him in a state of shock. She wondered if he'd ever actually been to the Dreadfort before and was tempted to ask him to say this in front of her Lord Father. He hated the Ironborn after their rebellion. Theon's response to her stare was to back down, as people usually did when she stared at them, and leave. At least that was wise, unlike any other statements he made in relation to herself & family..
"You did indeed, my little love. It was a very good, well-written letter. Did you write it yourself, child?" Her father bent down to her level and stared at her with his icy blue eyes. They had the same coloring, of course, her being his daughter and all that. "I think that as a lady of our House that you, my dearest girl, aren't quite there yet. Ladies of our House are formidable ladies, my sweet little one. Your nature does not allow you to be that, and even though I know your nature is that warmth & kindness, a Lady must be ruthless to get to her goals Besides, you like Jon Snow as more then a friend, do you not?." Her Lord Father's eyes filled with amusement at the question, and the truth was, she did. Jon Snow and herself shared many similarities, like they were both introverts and both were terribly misunderstood, her for being a Bolton and him for being baseborn. She couldn't help but feel a kinship for him. What did her like of Jon Snow have to do with anything though? Was it a weakness to like somebody now? Besides Lord Stark was friends with the King, who could legitimize him as a Stark instead of a Snow.
"Jon Snow is still a son of Lord Ned Stark. Father, what do you plans to get me hardened and formidable as you put it." Samara wondered if he was going to make her kill somebody and the thought made Samara's eyes grow large with worry. She didn't want to kill anybody if she couldn't help it, and beside her Lord Father was ruthless when he wanted people to do things. He could make her do.. Unthinkable things.
Her father smiled at her, before he patted the top of her head. "He's not a Stark nor heir to Winterfell, darling." He stood up before taking her by her hand, leading her through the Red Courtyard. He instructed the men to continue taking her luggage back to her quarters within the Children's Barracks, where her & Domeric's quarters were.
He'd lead her to where three men were standing, surrounded by quite a few Dreadfort Guards and hands were bound by leather. It was a public event, it would seem, and whatever was she doing here? Was she here to see them being tortured? They were standing on a wooden platform, and their long hair was all scraggly & dirty looking. They were covered in huge, black bruises from presumably where the guards kicked them, and even though their months were covered by leather straps, Samara could still see red spittle leaking from their bruised black lips. Samara wondered why she was here, before these broken, bruised kneeling men. Was she to see them be executed or what?
"These men are wildings who invaded the Redlands and we must teach them a public lesson on what happens to raiders. I didn't do this lesson to the raiders from Essos, even though I should've. Alas, even men like me make mistakes every once in a while, and besides, It didn't take anything from my reputation as a fearsome leader. I still captured them and killed them as it was. The reason I bring you here before these fellas is because I'd like you to whip two of them until their backs are covered in bloody marks. The third one, well I'm going to make him a public example by flaying him in front of everybody. He's their Leader, you see, and I'm going to send his skin to that useless Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, for all he failed to contain the wildings raids in recent years. This is the third wilding party to rape and pillage my people this year, and none of them have learned from what happened to the very first party. You remember them, don't you, sweet one? I flayed their leader too. I'm getting awfully tired of having to defend my good, peaceful smallfolk against such foes." Her father had a whip in his hands. It was a huge, wiry thing that he proceeded to fling against one of the wildings faces. The man in question recoiled back from the power of the attack, his eyes looked huge and oval-shaped like two pears. Half of the man's face was taken back by her lord father's strike with the rod. The common folk smiled and cheered as their Lord punished the wrong-doers, who had raided their lands and raped their daughters.
He gave her the rod next, but not before gently brushing his hand against her cheek and smiling. "You still have such lovely skin, love. Do me proud, will you?" Samara's eyes widened and accepted the bloodied black rod in hand. She wondered if her brother was forced to do something as barbaric as this… to torture their prisoners…
She whipped the rod on the two men's backs and giant, red slashes appeared on their hairy white spines. They were screaming in pain though, even through the straps preventing them from making noises and one of the men fell down from the kneeling position he was in currently. She swung the whip at least several times until her dress was covered in dark blood from having whipped them at least five times. By then, Samara could see the thick, dark marks of the whip visible on their skin. It was horrific to look at, to hear their pain, but her father wanted her to do this. She couldn't say no to his requests because he was her lord, her father, and her current master, she was bound to do whatever he willed her to do. She had no choice in the matter. Their flesh flung aside onto the platform each time she whipped them, she could see bits and pieces of bright red flesh landing on the wooden platform. Each time she whipped them, their wounds sprayed fresh dark red blood on the lovely pink dress Lord Stark had given her. He had told her how much he loved her, Lord Stark, who would never make her do something as monstrous as this act.
After the tenth strike, her lord father took back the rod from her fumbling hands and gave her a hug. "I'm so proud of you, sweetie. You did great by our house my little love, and you sure taught these rapists a lesson they shall never forget." Samara's eyes were filled with unwanted tears because she didn't want to whip them, to hurt them like she did - Samara was no monster, truly, and all this act did was prove them right. That House Bolton had no reasonable, nice members of it's house. But then again, these men had hurt her people, had raped innocent little girls about her age, and had stolen grain from hard working farmer folk. They had deserved this, being whipped until their backsides were covered in huge, bloody marks from the whip's strikes against them. They deserved more than that even, they deserved to be made into eunuchs and for their balls to hang on her bedroom door for any future-to be rapists to think about what could happen to them.
Samara nodded her eyes unclogged with tears and were replaced by a look of determination "They deserved it for hurting our people. They deserve more then that even, you should send the Night's Watch these men's pathetic, wormy penuis's. Rape is an unacceptable crime by any law and worthy of such punishment, father."
Roose Bolton nodded and got down to her level. "The Night's Watch would hardly object to such, but they wouldn't know what to do with them, dearest. They hardly ever use their balls there anyhow." He laughed and it was a sound as cold & chilling as a winter night. "But if you'd like, I can make the man's ball hang off your doorframe. I'm sure any future invaders to the Dreadfort will think twice about harming you if they saw them hanging on there. Do you want that, dearest? I can make it happen, just for you." He bopped her nose gently in response, as if he were on Ned Stark's level of friendliness. Sometimes the Lord of Winterfell would do that to his own children, but he never forced them to whip prisoners or see them be publicly frayed. She had never told him the truth of that, out of fear and because she didn't want her Lord Father getting in trouble with the law. So she told Ned Stark nothing, none of them anything in relation to her father's crime and kept that incident a secret in her heart.
"No... no, why am I enjoying this cruelty father? I'm... not a sadist... what's wrong with me?" Samara then begun crying, suddenly and heavily, with huge fat hot tears falling onto her cheeks. She wanted to run away from the gorey, awful scene in front of her. She wasn't a stereotypical Bolton sadist, no, she didn't enjoy the pain of others. No, no, Samara ran away as far as her short legs could drag her, tears running down her face blocking her view of everything. Her Lord Father shouted for her and left the platform to collect her, but she was gone before he could get her. She continued running down to her chambers, where she fell into utter pieces as she lay on her pink-colored bed. She felt so utterly dead, like she was a terrible person. She hurt people hurt them, and she found pleasure in it, making all the most sinister and evil in her youthful mind.
I'm an awful person, suggesting that we cut off their dicks to give to the Night's Watch. I'm awful for enjoying their pain. I'm just what everybody thinks I am, an evil girl. I sure proved them right...
OOC: I was really trying to get samara to be a morally good person and I'm sorry I failed ya'll on this chapter. And while I was currently stuck on filler chapters (because book canon will not start for a couple of more years) i've decided to do a time skip. Thank ya'll for reading this folks.