The moment one of the four stable boys took the reins of her exhausted horse, Lyarra headed to the forests surrounding the Dreadfort with Domeric at her side. The whispers of the weirwood and ironwood trees sung to her – they sung away her worries, Jojen Reed's odd warning and more. Lyarra loved the quiet song the Dreadfort trees sing so softly one had to cease speaking to hear.

Dried leaves crunched under her and Domeric's riding boots as they walked to the special grove in the forests. It had been some sort of tradition for them both: after a particularly long ride or journey to Winterfell or Barrowton (the home of Domeric's favourite aunt Lady Barbrey Dustin), she and Domeric would visit this one grove – the late Lady Bolton's prized and adored grove.

The grove was small and surrounded by tall trees that populated the majority of the silent Bolton woods. According to Domeric who in turn heard it from Lady Dustin, the late Lady Bethany Bolton only spent a little time in that grove before she tragically passed away. "My mother did live to see the oranges start growing in the grove during summer," Domeric had once said. "Most of the oranges grown in Bolton lands are sour; my mother's are sweet." From time to time, Lyarra and Domeric would sit alone in the grove and speak to the trees as if they were Lady Bolton in the flesh. While her body was entombed deep in the underground crypt, Domeric was convinced her spirit remained in that special grove.

The cold autumn breeze nipped Lyarra's cheek as she approached the largest of the trees there. "We have finally returned," she spoke. At first it'd felt strange talking to a tree, but now she was used to it and found it to some degree, to be an oddly comforting situation. "Highgarden is beautiful, Lady Bolton, a splendid and lovely place. Not as wonderful as Winterfell or the Dreadfort, but still beautiful in its one way. There was a grand tourney and Domeric participated in the joust. He jousted spectacularly." She turned and smiled at her betrothed. "I am most proud of him and you must be too." She stepped back and squeezed Domeric's hand.

"Mother," Domeric said softly, almost as softly as Lord Bolton. "It'll not be long now. I wish you had seen Highgarden with me and Lyarra, but there is something even more magnificent and important approaching – the wedding. I am already a man grown and Lyarra is a woman. One day we will be wed before the heart tree in the eyes of the old gods. That day will be perfect, Mother. Almost perfect. Robb and Jon whom I both love will be my brothers through marriage as will Bran and Arthur and little Rickon. Arya and Gwenysse will be my sisters-in-law and Lord Stark whom I regard as a second father will be my father through marriage. Aunt Barbrey will be there as will her and your brothers and father. It will be the most grandest occasion the north had seen and will lead to everlasting peace between Houses Bolton and Stark. Peace at last, Mother." His pale blue eyes met Lyarra's and they both smiled at each other. "Shall we go inside?" Domeric asked. "It is too chilly for a longer conversation."

On cue, the wind encircled them and swiped the back of Lyarra's neck. It was getting colder. "Winter is coming," Lyarra whispered. Domeric nodded. "It will be a long winter this time," he predicted, squeezing her hand, "but we will survive it like we always do."

"Would it not be lovely to have a winter wedding?"

"I suppose so. If you wish, you can ask my father about winter weddings. Aunt Barbrey told me that he and Mother had a winter wedding."

"Was it a cold winter back then?"

Domeric shrugged. "Perhaps. You know as well as I do that winters here in the north are always cold." He gazed at her for a moment.

"Why are you staring at me?" Lyarra asked with a curious smile.

"I was thinking," Domeric answered. "Do you remember when you were still a little girl singing those songs? Your mother had taught you the Dornish songs she knew and Old Nan taught you traditional northern songs too. Your favourite had always been The Winter Maiden. Do you recall it, Lyarra?"

Lyarra shuddered. "I would sing that for hours. I remember asking you to play it for me on the harp." Her smile turned reminiscent. "You played it so beautifully for such a sad song." She absently hummed the melody of The Winter Maiden. By the gods, it had been so long since she last sang it.

"The maiden died didn't she?" inquired Domeric.

Lyarra nodded. "She killed herself. More like froze to death actually. Some like to say that when summer came, she melted and out of the puddle of her remains bloomed the first blue winter roses. Old Nan told me once that the blue roses are called winter roses in honour of the maiden from that song apparently. Of course there is no solid evidence to prove it was true, but it was an interesting story. I'd like to believe it is true…" She paused slightly. "But life is not a song," she finished abruptly. "Especially here in the north."

"Life is not a song," Domeric agreed. "It never is or was. I find it astounding the southroners like telling their children that a life is a song." He shook his head. "It is foolish. Utterly foolish. Hope is one thing, but allowing girls to believe that they will always be rescued by knights in shining armour…foolish."

"You would not rescue me if I am abducted like my aunt?" Lyarra jested. She'd never jape like that at Winterfell. With even the smallest mention of Aunt Lyanna, Father's lips would tighten and his eyes would grow greyer and colder.

Domeric looked at her steadily. "If you were abducted, your captor would face the wrath of House Bolton. I would march with an army of Bolton soldiers and I'll not rest until you are returned to me. There will be no diplomacy; I will return to Winterfell and gift your father with your captor's head on a plate. If he refuses to hand you to me, he will find himself in utmost pain."

"You will…flay him?"

"If I feel particularly…angry. If your captor cooperates and hasn't harmed you in anyway, I will decapitate him with one swipe of my sword."

Lyarra smiled. "See? Knight in shining armour."

Domeric pulled a face. "Furious betrothed would be a better term."

"What if it is Prince Orys who abducts me?"

Domeric snorted scornfully. "Are you trying to launch another Robert's War? I truly hope not, Lyarra. We did not have a tourney at Harrenhal and Prince Orys is not what I call an infatuated prince. Last we saw of Orys Baratheon, he seemed to be more interested in returning home than abducting noble ladies."

Lyarra laughed. "That is true," she agreed as they approached one of the large, iron doors at the back of the Dreadfort. "Prince Orys is no Rhaegar Targaryen. In Highgarden, I heard from other ladies that Prince Orys Baratheon is more like his uncle, Lord Stannis Baratheon, than his father the king."

"I have not met Lord Baratheon so it would be hard to say."

"Indeed." The door creaked open slowly. Even though it was still daytime, the Dreadfort was dark. Domeric swiftly lit a torch that looked eerily like the human face, its mouth and eyes twisted into a scream of agony. It seemed all the Lords of the Dreadfort enjoyed frightening their guests. Lyarra was not at all scared. Well, she once was when she first arrived, but not anymore. The screaming torches, as she liked to call them, were everywhere in the Dreadfort. There were even two in her chamber and at least a dozen in the corridor around her room. Even the vast Dreadfort library had those torches.

Strangely, it felt even colder inside the castle than outside. "I'll have one of the servants make a fire in your chamber," Domeric told Lyarra. "Do you want a bath before we sup with my father?"

"That would be wonderful," said Lyarra gratefully. She had no desire to speak to her prospective good-father in a mud-stained gown. "Your father would not be offended if I bathe first and then sup with him?"

Domeric shook his head. "Not at all. You go ahead to your chambers. I will tell my father that we have arrived. He is often busy with land and border disputes. It is odd though, as he also mentioned wildling raids in the last letter."

"Wildling raids? Here?"

"Oh, not this close, but near the Lonely Hills and Weeping Water apparently."

"The Lonely Hills is Umber land."

"Most of it yes. The border dispute only happened a few days ago. No doubt at supper Father will discuss it with us. I will come and escort you to the Great Hall in say…an hour, my lady Lyarra?"

Lyarra nodded. She watched Domeric head off before she went straight to her rooms. It was the same chamber she stayed in last time and as she pushed open the door, she was surprised to see a different maidservant waiting for her. As one of the daughters of Lord Stark of Winterfell and Warden of the North, she – and her sisters – were permitted to have two or three maidservants. If she was one of the daughters of a southron great lord, no doubt she would be served by more. At Winterfell, Lyarra only had one maidservant whom she shared with Daenerys. At the Dreadfort, Lord Bolton had assigned her a maidservant, a sweet, timid girl by the name of Kyra. Lyarra had liked her – who would not like a hardworking and a little frightened girl?

"Who are you?" asked Lyarra, frowning slightly. "Where is Kyra?" There was a sort of slyness about this new maidservant she did not like.

"Mydea milady," the girl responded, flashing her a suspiciously crafty smile. "I am afraid your previous maidservant Kyra, has greatly displeased milord Bolton only a mere few days ago. She was dismissed immediately and Lord Bolton chose me to be your new maidservant milady." She beamed, her smile showing rows of sharp, white teeth. "I heard so much about you milady. Good things of course. I'm quite eager to serve you while you are here milady. Shall I go and draw you some hot water for a bath milady?"

Lyarra nodded warily. "Yes, that will be quite…excellent, thank you. May I ask which House you are from?"

Mydea's smile broadened. "I am the descendant of bastards, milady. Both my mother and father are bastards, my grandfather and grandmother bastards…I am a member of the illustrious House Snow milady."

"I…see." Lyarra had never met a Snow who was so proud of his or her bastard heritage before. Her brother Jon often brooded and disliked his position and rank as their father's natural child.

"Shall I go and prepare your bath now milady?"

Lyarra nodded again. "Thank you Mydea." She kept the door opened and a few seconds later, Lady padded in. Lyarra smiled and patted her. Ever since she was a pup, Lady had learnt to wait patiently and silently outside the doors. Such a well-behaved direwolf. As Lyarra peeled off her riding gloves and removed her riding cloak, she thought about her siblings' direwolves. Nymeria and Arya were quite attached to the hip. If Arya commanded Nymeria to wait outside, Nymeria would obey – for a couple of seconds before bounding into the room to prowl around or sit down at Arya's side. Robb's wolf, Grey Wind, was equally as loyal. When lords and other northerners visited Winterfell, Grey Wind would growl warningly and sniff at the guests suspiciously. Lady would never growl or sniff anyone in such a protective manner, but Lyarra did feel safe sleeping with Lady in her room. Lady did not sleep on Lyarra's bed; she slept on her own constructed of a pelts and fur and a plump pillow.

"Milady! Your bath is ready."

Shaking away a shiver of distrust, Lyarra hurried to her privy room where the tub was already filled with steaming hot water. "It's very hot milady," Mydea told her. "Shall I wash your hair for you milady?"

Lyarra shook her head. "Not today thank you. I would like to wash alone." She bit in a wince as she dipped her right foot into the tub. Mydea smiled. "As you say milady." She dipped her head and slowly walked out, closing the door behind her. Lyarra slipped further into the bathtub and closed her eyes. She was not fazed by the hot water anymore, yet she still felt uncomfortable.

What is the matter with me? Lyarra thought, reaching for the bar of soap. I've bathed here many times before. I was here alone that evening when there was an awful storm – the most fierce of storms. I was unafraid then. Why now? This is to be my home…the home of my future children too…and grandchildren…She allowed all her thoughts to wander as she continued washing herself. It was quite unlike her to be drawn into those…strange vibes.

Extremely strange vibes indeed.


"Is something the matter, Lady Lyarra?" The soft voice of Lord Roose Bolton interrupted Lyarra's train of thought. "You hardly touched your stew today. Does it not appeal to you, my lady?"

Lyarra blinked. "Oh, no," she said swiftly as she saw both Lord Bolton and her betrothed stare at her with their pale eyes. "It is not the stew at all."

"What is it?" said Domeric, concerned. "Are you unwell?"

"Unwell?" Lord Bolton questioned. He scrutinised her silently. "Forgive me for saying this Lady Lyarra, but you do not look unwell," he commented. He spooned up some of the stew and sniffed it. "I too find this stew disagreeable," he declared softly, pushing it away. "Overcooked. Believe me, Lady Lyarra, this will not occur again. I will ensure that."

"It is not the stew my lord," Lyarra said again. "It is…" Her voice trailed off. She could not tell the Lord of the Dreadfort and future good-father that it's his home that sent chilling shivers down her spine. "It is my moon blood," she lied. "I never experienced the painful part of it much before, though my mother had warned it might happen from time to time." Both the two men continued staring blankly at her as if she had spoken in a foreign tongue.

"I see," said Domeric finally. "Shall I take you to the maester? He might have a potion or herbs to help soothe the pain."

"Thank you Domeric," said Lyarra gratefully, standing up. "Yes, I think I might need to see your maester. Please excuse me Lord Bolton." Taking Domeric's hand, she slowly descended from the dais and made her way through the almost empty Great Hall to the iron doors. As she approached the doors, apprehension crawled up her spine. Lyarra stopped and glanced around, her purple eyes briefly met the cold pale eyes of Lord Bolton. He cannot be the only one watching me. Her heart pounded faster. As Lyarra stared at Lord Bolton, she felt Domeric's curious gaze – and another pair of eyes.

Whose eyes?

Were they human? An animal's?

Lyarra broke contact with Lord Bolton and looked around the Great Hall. Like always, it was dim and smoky. The walls had skeletal human hands jutting from them, grasping rows of torches and in front of the dais were long tables, the one closest to her covered in a thin layer of dust. Clearly those tables haven't groaned under the weight of thousands of dishes in a very long time. Lyarra glanced up at the vaulted ceiling and wooden rafters that had turned black from smoke. At first when she saw it, it surprised her; now it was a normal sight.

"Lyarra?"

In some sort of daze, Lyarra allowed Domeric to lead her out. "Something has upset you," Domeric said flatly, "or someone. What is it? You can tell me. I do not want you afraid in your own home-to-be."

"I don't know," Lyarra murmured. "At first I thought it odd your father chose to assign me a new maidservant…but it was not just that. This will sound foolish, but throughout supper, I felt…I thought someone was watching me." She wanted to slap herself for sounding so much like a frightened southron rose. She was no weak Tyrell girl who would scream at the sight of a mouse; she was a Stark of the north, fearless and strong.

"New maidservant?" Domeric frowned. "I wasn't aware of that. What on earth happened to Kyra?"

"Mydea said she was dismissed. It is not just Mydea-"

"I can see you are unhappy with Mydea," Domeric interrupted. "I will speak to my father tonight and insist he reinstate Kyra as your maidservant."

"Thank you, but you do not have to do that. It is not just Mydea. After we went to your mother's grove, there was something…different about this castle. I know I sound like an utter fool, but it…it is the truth." Lyarra bit her lip. "Maybe I'm just imagining all this. Perhaps we should have stayed here instead of travelling with my family south to Highgarden. Your father did suggest for us to make a progress around Bolton lands instead of going to the Highgarden wedding. If we didn't get a taste of the south…"

"It has naught to do with Highgarden, Lyarra." Domeric lowered his voice to a spider soft whisper. "I too have a new manservant."

"What happened to Donnel?"

"Reek said he was caught stealing. Donnel was sent to the Wall."

Lyarra frowned. She could not picture Lord Bolton sending anyone to the Wall for thievery, rape, murder or any other crime. "Donnel had always been so loyal," she said doubtfully. "He was part of your uncle Roger's household was he not? It is unlikely your uncle would send a thief to serve you. Who is this Reek? I do not remember that name." When she first arrived at the Dreadfort, she ensured that she remembered the names and faces of every member in the Bolton household, including the most obscure of servants.

"Reek is my new servant," explained Domeric. "I only met him today, but he is an odd sort of fellow. Smiles as if everything is a joke. I suppose I will get used to him in time." He sighed. "But Donnel a thief…" He shook his head.

"It is odd is it not? When we return and both our old servants dismissed?"

"Odd indeed," Domeric agreed. "Both loyal servants too."

"A mystery…"

Domeric nodded. "There is something familiar about Reek," he admitted. "I do not know what though. It's like I had seen him before…" He shook his head again as they walked closer to the library door. "Impossible though. I only met him. I do wonder why his parents named him 'Reek' though."

"Perhaps it is a nickname?" Lyarra suggested with a smile.

Domeric snorted. "A nickname? For what name? Reekos?"

Lyarra laughed. A tint of warmth seemed to have returned to the Dreadfort. "I think it could be for Rickon?" she offered.

"You will give your brother that nickname?"

"By the gods no!" Lyarra giggled. "An awful nickname!"

Domeric laughed with her. "Do you still need to speak to the maester about ah, your moon blood?" he asked, his small smile remaining on his face. Lyarra shook her head. "I am cured," she said, gazing at him fondly. "It seems that speaking to you was the remedy." She considered it. "Or perhaps it was the stew too. What do you think the meat was? Venison?"

"Or bear even. I heard rumours that my father is planning to ally our House to the Mormonts of Bear Island. Maybe Lady Mormont sent some bear meat as gifts to symbolise the impending alliance?"

"Bear meat," said Lyarra thoughtfully. "The stew did not taste much like bear." She had never tasted bear before though.

"Come to the library with me," Domeric invited. "I found a new batch of books on the table. Have a look at them with me. Afterwards we can play some music in there and then a light supper? I know we already ate with my father, but I doubt that stew was what you would call a good, hearty supper."

Lyarra's smile widened. Domeric squeezed her hand comfortingly and pushed open the library door. Before Lyarra went in, something caught her eye. Standing near the statue of a Red King and staring at her was the ugliest young man she'd ever seen. Big boned and slope shouldered with long, dark hair framing his pink and blotchy skinned face. It was not his rather creepy smirk that frightened her – it was the sense of amusement that glittered in his small, close-set and pale pair of eyes the colour of dirty ice chips.

Run! A voice shouted in her head. Run! Run back to Winterfell! Lyarra stared at the stranger. How long was he there for? How much of her conversation with her betrothed did he overhear? He was a stranger to her, but a name already came to her. A horrid name.

Reek.


I decided to move the story back north for a few chapters and chose to write a Lyarra POV as I'm eager to introduce Reek into the story. I'm sure by the description you can already guess who 'Reek' is...If all goes well, the next chapter will be a Reek chapter. My early apologies if it doesn't work out and you get a different POV next chapter instead.