Even in the light of the midday sun the Dreadfort lived up to it's name. The stones used in it's construction were large and jutting, like jaws snapping shut in the air over some invisible, unassuming prey, may times in the past, that prey had been a Stark prince. And here I am, about to ride willingly into them, Robb mused. The drawbridge lay flat across the moat, the wood tinged red like a tongue held out to catch the sweetest of treats but the portcullis, the iron teeth of dark and twisted iron was firmly shut. Hopefully it would raise when the sentries caught sight of the Direwolf flying high above them, and hopefully Lord Bolton would consent to releasing Tristan a month before his service was up. He pulled his horse to a stop facing the imposing fortress, that had once held out for two years under siege, all Robb could conjure in his mind was the image of the room, the dark dungeon in the Dreadfort where the skins of the enemies of House Bolton were kept. He knew that flaying had been outlawed in the North for many years, but there was a reason that Bolton lords in ages past took the Flayed Man as their sigil.
"My lord?" One of the ten guardsmen accompanying Robb said, clearly curious as to why Robb had halted them. Robb looked back, it was Heward, one of the best swords in Winterfell, who had a basket slung over his saddle containing the wolf that was for Tristan, Robb's own pup was in a basket over Robb's saddle. They let the pups out when they stopped, but otherwise they were in the baskets, for their own safety, the horses could trample them easily. No wolf liked to be caged, and Tristan's wolf shared that sentiment with it's master. Just a little longer, brother.
"It's nothing," Robb said, feeling giddy as he kicked his horse into a trot and they approached the Dreadfort. His initial fears were assuaged as they entered the dark castle, it's muddy courtyard occupied by guardsmen of House Bolton, servants and stableboys too. "My Lord," Robb turned to see a lanky man in mail and breastplate bowing at the waist. "Lord Bolton was not expecting you for nearly another month."
"Another matter has come up," Robb replied, dismounting his horse with his guardsmen, "I need to see your lord."
The guard raised his eyebrows, but nodded, and indicated for Robb to follow him. "Follow me my lord," he said, "Lord Bolton is in his Solar, I believe his leeching should be finished by now." Robb held back a shudder at the mention of the leeching, and followed the man up the steps, through the dark great hall, where skeletal stone hands held flaming torches casting flickering shadows upon the walls, where fingers became swords and daggers in the dark, up more steps and towards Lord Bolton's solar. The man knocked. "Lord Bolton, Lord Stark's son is here to see you."
"Enter," a cool voice said and the man opened the door and stepped aside for Robb to enter after him. Robb entered to see a maid departing with a sealed pot. Lord Bolton himself was folding a robe over his body, looking satisfied with his leeching. Robb saw little red blotches on his otherwise milky skin where the leeches had suckled at their red milk. "My Lord Robb," Bolton bowed his head, "forgive me, we were not expecting you."
"It is no matter Lord Bolton," Robb replied, bowing himself. You are always a guest in another's hall , even if that other is your bannerman, one of his father's first lessons. Tristan had skipped that one, among many others.
Lord Bolton nodded and said, "if you were here to see your brother, he is not here at present, he should be returning shortly." He sat down on a soft chair. Robb couldn't help but feel glad that Lord Bolton didn't offer him a chair. The only other one in the room was a hard thing, not meant for comfort, and ropes hung from the arms like snakes from the branches of a great oak.
He couldn't wait to see his brother, but his while he was gone, Robb remembered his other task. If he'd been here to greet me, like as not I would have forgotten. "My father bade me deliver this to you." He held out the letter and Lord Bolton took it, slit it with a small knife and read it, his face expressionless.
"You wish me to release your brother a month early to attend the King's visit." Lord Bolton remarked and Robb did not answer, fearful that he would say the wrong thing. The man was still as stone, his face not moving and his pale eyes giving nothing away. Lord Bolton nodded, "very well," he said finally, "it is not too great a request, there is little more the boy could learn from me anyhow," he added, "I believe he is humouring me, eager to be home." If Tristan is humouring this man, I'm not sure I want to know how.
Robb bowed, grateful, his twin was coming home, to where he was supposed to be. "Thank you Lord Bolton," he said, "but," he began to ask, curious at the lack of emotion the man displayed. "If you don't mind me asking, you seem rather… unconcerned by what Tristan did, may I ask why?"
Roose didn't even hesitate, "my bastard meant little and less to me, and he tried to murder my son Domeric. In part I am glad for the actions of your brother, for, without becoming a kinslayer, I could take no action against him myself. I am not however," Lord Bolton added with a certain ghostly clarity that he couldn't help but be alert to, "glad that he exacted his justice on my land without my consent. It is no inconvenience to me, but that behaviour was not acceptable. He has made it up to me with a good year of service, however." Robb was glad, it would not do for Lord Bolton to be snubbed by the removal of his year-long ward a month early, for Lord Bolton would be his bannerman, if he survived his father. "If you wish to await him in the courtyard, I shall be there shortly myself, he should be returning with my son before long."
Robb thanked Lord Bolton and left the room, walking as fast as he could with any dignity, eager to see his brother again. He paced the courtyard impatiently, the two baskets containing the Direwolf pups at his feet, both still and silent, though that was likely to change the minute the lids were opened and Grey Wind and the as of yet unnamed pup were revealed to the air and those around them, guardsmen and servants all. "Open the portcullis!" A voice called out from a tower, "Lord Domeric approaches.
Domeric Bolton, that was the name of Roose Bolton's son. Tristan. The portcullis cranked open and a single rider burst through. He couldn't be anyone but Lord Bolton's son, they shared the same dark, lanky hair and pale skin and eyes, though the son looked more alive than his father, a little more colour to his cheeks and life in his features. His cloak was soft pink and he wore dark ringmail under a leather jerkin, a sword at his hip. But he was alone, no sign of Tristan at all. The man, not much older than himself, did not notice Robb or the men from Winterfell and instead turned to look out of the still raised portcullis. Soon a dozen riders came hard through the gate, one of them bearing a banner upon which was blazoned the flayed man of the Dreadfort, the way the banner was flapping in the breeze made it seem like the man as writhing in agony under the flaying knife. "Fuck you Bolton," called out a very familiar voice, "how can you still be so much faster than anyone else," the riders parted for another to be revealed from the centre of them. This one looked very much like a younger version of father, he had brown hair framing his face like dark curtains, steel grey eyes and a long face with a healthy beard along his jaw line and chin. He had a lithe, lean build, with broad shoulders from which a fur cloak hung, pinned at the neck with a direwolf pin. He wore lighter ringmail than the heir of the Dreadfort, and his leather jerkin had a direwolf emblazoned upon it. Unlike Domeric, but as Robb knew it would be, his sword was slung across his back. Robb had not seen his twin in eleven months, but he still looked much the same, if only a little taller.
"Easily," Domeric replied, smiling, "I just am."
Tristan shook his head angrily, and then caught sight of Robb and the Stark guardsmen. "ROBB!" Tristan swung of his horse and tore across the courtyard, Robb met him part way and then embraced each other fiercely, Tristan's grip digging into his back like a wolf's claws. "What are you doing here?"
"I am here for you," Robb replied, clapping his brother on the back, "father wants you home"
"What's that," said Domeric Bolton, approaching and pulling his gloves off, "Lord Stark wants him back, but Tristan has another month here, don't you?"
Tristan had been smiling but it faltered a little at Domeric's words, "father must be mistaken, I still owe Lord Bolton a month of service." That was possibly the most dutiful response Tristan had ever given to anything said in his general direction.
"A month forgiven," they all turned to the sound of Lord Bolton's voice. He was gliding down the steps from the keep so smoothly that if Robb hadn't seen his feet touching the stone he'd have sworn the man was floating. "You have my permission to leave, Tristan, your father wants you home in time for the visit from the king."
"What visit?" Tristan asked, curious, looking to Robb for an explanation.
"The King rides for Winterfell brother," Robb explained, "father wants you there to meet him, and the royal household."
"All the royal household?" Tristan asked. Now which are you thinking of, brother, the women or- "Kingsguard as well."
Some things never changed. "I expect so," Robb replied, "he is the king."
"Excellent," Tristan was smiling and Robb knew what he was thinking.
"No Tristan," Domeric said, half punching Robb's twin on the shoulder, "you cannot fight the Kingsguard."
"Why not?" Tristan asked, "I want to see if they are all they're made up to be."
"Of course you do," Robb said, sighing. Ever the same with his brother. A giant clad in Valyrian Steel could walk through the gate of Winterfell and Tristan would challenge it to single combat.
"Well," Lord Bolton said, climbing down the steps onto their level. "Let us forget talk of Kingsguard and queens for now, when you arrived you did not apologise for killing the bastard," he was looking pointedly at Tristan, "do you now?"
"No," Tristan said at once, "he tried to murder my friend, I will not apologise for my actions."
Robb could not read Lord Bolton's lifeless features, instead Lord Bolton merely nodded, and continued. "Very well then, your things are being gathered, best you go and make sure they get everything. I wish you well on your future endeavours, and hope you have learned not to exact justice without permission again."
Tristan then dropped to one knee, "yes Lord Bolton," Tristan said in a more solemn voice than Robb had ever heard. "I may not apologise for what I did, but I have learned, it will not happen again." Solemn and dutiful. How has lord Bolton managed it, brother?
Lord Bolton nodded, and bid Tristan rise. "Then go and be well Tristan Stark."
"Thank you, Lord Bolton," he said and turned to Robb, "I will be back shortly, wait here, I did not bring much."
Robb considered showing Tristan the direwolf, but instead decided it would be better to wait until everything was packed and ready to leave.
When Tristan came down a short while later, so short the sun had barely moved, there were some servants carrying saddlebags that were strapped to two other horses that were to come with them. Tristan made his way over to Domeric Bolton, they said some words and embraced tightly, clearly having grown close. He had heard, in Winterfell, that Tristan's group of young fighters had grown to include Domeric, who had previously been in the Vale as a squire, now Domeric Bolton, Cley Cerwyn, Daryn Hornwood and Tristan Stark had a reputation across the North. It was strange though. From what they had heard Tristan was the de facto leader of the four, but of all of them, he was the only one that would not be a high lord of them. Robb, leave the fighting and the fucking to me, you're better at everything else; it was his perfect life. Tristan had never said, nor did Robb think he ever would, but Robb suspected that he had slept with Beth Cassel back in Winterfell. Certainly, she was not willing to admit that she had if that was the case, but she had always been rather enamoured with Tristan.
His twin returned smiling rather sadly, presumably at leaving his friend, but Robb could see a burning desire to return home in his eyes. "Before we go," Robb said, beckoning for Tristan to follow him, "I have something to show you." Tristan followed curiously as Robb led him to the guardsman who bore the basket of Tristan's Direwolf.
He gestured to it and Tristan took it from the horse, lay it on the ground and flipped it open. He blinked before looking up at Robb, "it's a dog," he noted.
Robb shook his head. "It's no dog," Robb told him, "it's a direwolf."
Tristan looked between him and the direwolf pup disbelieving, so Robb retrieved his own and told Tristan of how they had come across them. "So, this is my pup?" He asked. Robb nodded and so Tristan gingerly lifted the pup out of the basket and held him close. The pup nuzzled him, much calmer than it had been when Robb had been taking care of it. He laughed at the pup and stroked it's fur.
"Come now," Robb told his twin, "there will be plenty of time for that at Winterfell. It's time we went home, and many are eager to see you."
Tristan nodded and placed the pup carefully back in his basket, slinging it over his own horse and mounting it. Robb mounted his own and kicked it into action, leading the party out of the Dreadfort. In through the mouth dread and back out again. I wonder how many Starks can say that?
