Ross couldn't sleep.

They had arrived at Winterfell three moons ago. She rejoiced to be back in the North, her home. Loved the feeling of the biting wind on her face as they rode across wild moorland. Lived for the essence of the ancient forests, dark with thousands of years of undisturbed growth. She had almost cried when she first caught sight of the grim grey walls of Winterfell, and suspected she wasn't alone. Ned and his army hadn't seen home in almost as long as she had been away; they had been fighting a war for the best part of two years, after all.

She rose from her bed, the stone floor freezing cold against her feet; though the hot springs warmed the walls, she could never sleep well without the window open, and a chilly night breeze was blowing through her chambers. Cold, but clean, unlike the lukewarm stench of shit and despair that seemed to permeate every room in King's Landing.

Home hadn't been the same, though. Father was dead. Brandon was dead. Lyanna was dead. Ross had found the bones of her brother and a jar containing the ashes of Lord Rickard a day or so before they left King's Landing. Abandoned in a dark cellar. She was amazed Aerys hadn't thrown them into the sea - she had only found the room after the snivelling eunuch, Varys, presumably hoping to gain favour with the new king, had led her there. Her father's blackened armour had been carelessly thrown inside, whilst Brandon's body had just been dumped and left to rot; his skeleton still wore the rags he'd been imprisoned in. The Tyroshi strangulation device had been left around his neck, like an even grislier noose, and she hadn't hesitated before cutting it off with her dagger and flinging it viciously into a dark corner.

The wind caught the edges of her long nightgown as Ross padded towards the window. Hanging over the dressing screen was her wedding dress, modest, elegant and pale grey. It had been left there after the final fitting earlier that day. She was getting married in the morning. Even if it was a beautiful dress, she hated it regardless.

Ned had ordered statues made for Father, Brandon and Lyanna. Ross had overseen that herself, making sure the stonemason got every inch of their faces right. She had been harsh and overbearing, she knew, but she couldn't let their true likenesses be forgotten now they were dead and buried, sealed in the crypts in the icy tombs. Her siblings had been larger than life, never staying still for more than a minute. It was strange to see them in statue form, no matter how much they looked like them, something wasn't right. They had got her father perfect though, stern, imposing and strong.

It was dark outside, made even darker by the overcast sky. Rain fell from thick clouds - so thick they blotted out the moon and the stars - heavy droplets splashing inside onto the windowsill, wetting the drapes. Ross rested her hands on the ledge, and soon her wrists were soaked, bony fingers white against the stone.

Benjen had changed. She remembered a laughing, happy boy of eleven, not as wild as Brandon and not as solemn as Ned. Good-natured and friendly, longing to be like his elder siblings. She came back to a boy of fourteen who had been the Stark in Winterfell as the body of his eldest brother rotted under the Red Keep, his sisters were raped by Targaryens and his other brother risked his life daily fighting to get them back. Benjen now frowned more like Ned, and though he still laughed at jokes, he was far more cynical than he had been before. The first night after they returned, Ross had heard a noise outside her door. She had grabbed her dagger and gone to investigate, only to find her younger brother stood there, clearly unsure of whether or not he should enter. She didn't give him a choice; Benjen was white and shaking, and to his embarrassment broke down in great heaving sobs when she put an arm around him, clinging to her like a child. Ross didn't begrudge him that - there were silent tears running down her own face, though she didn't think Benjen saw - and neither of them mentioned it the next day. Her little brother would be shamed if Ned knew. Not that Ned would judge him for it, but Ross understood.

She stepped back from the window, letting her hand slip under her pillow and draw out the blade. The dagger was long for a knife, plain, but of high quality, sharp and lethal. Jaime had taught her a little of how to use it, back in King's Landing. She liked the feel of it in her hand, even more so after she learned how to kill a man. It was comforting, to know she could somewhat protect herself a little, even if she wouldn't be much use in a real fight.

Ross herself had been quiet before the rebellion, always a reserved and naturally wary child, but now she was outright mistrustful of most things. It hadn't been obvious in the Red Keep because she was bound to be miserable there, but here, back home, it suddenly came into sharp focus. She rarely smiled, or showed much expression at all really; at times, she might as well have been replaced by a statue, like her dead brother and sister. She was harsher now, colder, harder. She tried to hide how she flinched from physical contact from anyone who wasn't Ned or Benjen. She often woke up with a gasp in the middle of the night, her eyes wild and her nightgown clinging to her, drenched with sweat, as flashes of mad purple eyes, scratching long nails and licking green flames of wildfire danced through her mind. There was no hiding her sleepwalking. Many times the Winterfell guards had told her they had had to escort her back to her rooms at night after finding her wandering the corridors. It was eerie, Jory Cassel had told her. Many of the men thought she was a ghostly spectre the first time they'd seen her doing it, a lone grey lady walking the halls in her nightdress, with blank, glassy eyes and dark hair streaming down her back. More recently, she had been getting flashbacks during the day. A glint of green cloth, the same acidic shade as wildfire, had made her drop what she was holding and freeze in the middle of the courtyard, images of Father and countless others going up in flames flashing before her eyes. It was odd, because she had had none of that nonsense in King's Landing itself. She had thought that being far away could only help matters, but it hadn't, not really. The memories were still there, and apparently wouldn't leave her alone.

She ran a long finger over the blade. A small bead of blood bloomed on the tip, and the sting woke her up more than the cold breeze had. She remembered the conversation earlier today, remembered the exact look in Roose Bolton's unnaturally pale eyes as he told her that her bastard son would be remaining in Winterfell. She would be permitted to see him on visits, but he would never set foot in the Dreadfort, and would certainly never take the name Bolton like his mother. Good. Renan was not a Bolton. He was a Snow, but Stark blood ran in his veins, as strong as Ned's two boys. Her son looked more Stark than Robb; though Ned's heir shared the grey eyes of his father, he seemed to take after Catelyn more in the face and with his red-brown hair, only a shade or so darker than his mother's. Jon Snow looked more Stark than either of them, the spitting image of Ned; her brother had not yet revealed to her who the boy's mother was, and honestly Ross couldn't bring herself to care much. He was Ned's son, that's all that mattered. She didn't think much on it, she'd rather her brother simply didn't tell her than lie. Not that Ned ever would, not to her. If he didn't want anyone to know, then so be it.

She couldn't decide if Ren looked more like her or his father. His hair was dark, and his nose and chin looked to grow as sharp as her own, but his face was certainly not as long as hers, and his cheekbones were too high even at barely more than an infant. He'd be a handsome boy for sure, especially with those green eyes she often lost herself in. She couldn't leave him, couldn't not watch her son grow into a man whilst she resided as Lady Bolton in the Dreadfort.

She had been promised to Roose Bolton since she was four-and-ten. Before the man had arrived in Winterfell a week ago for the wedding - accompanied by Domeric, his four year old son by his previous wife Bethany Ryswell - she had only spoken to him once before, when her father brought her to the Dreadfort to meet her betrothed several months before they all left for the tourney at Harrenhal. It was important for Starks to marry into the North, he had said. What was unsaid was that the handsome Brandon and beautiful Lyanna were getting spouses from great southron houses to fuel Father's ambitions, whilst the plainer Ned and Ross were being quietly married off to House Bolton of the Dreadfort and some Northern girl to appease the bannermen. At the time, Ross hadn't complained. She knew her duty, and it would suit her well being married into the second most powerful house in the North. Lord Bolton was cold, but was no fool, and she thought that would be enough. She didn't particularly care much about liking her husband; she had never truly thought of it. It had been Lyanna who dreamed of romance and adventure. Ross had indulged her sister, but never let herself believe it. Now, though...

But she couldn't let herself think like that. He was in the south, she was in the north. He had his sister, she had her soon-to-be husband. And she had their son. Ren should know his father. But he never would. Ross felt angry with herself at the grief she felt that she would most likely never see Jaime Lannister again. He was just a man, for gods' sake. A stupid, golden, pretty, southron knight. Who had made her smile when she thought she could never smile again, who had held her at night despite the scars and bruises marring her skin, who had made feel like her heart was made of something more than ice and stone.

Her betrothal had not been broken even after she came back ruined by Aerys Targaryen (though few knew of that specific fact, they knew she had a bastard nonetheless). Roose Bolton was not likely to refuse his chance to get himself a Stark wife over such a matter. But for the first time, Ross truly did not want to marry, rather than just being apathetic to the idea. In King's Landing the idea had seemed so far off as to be irrelevant, but now it galled her. She could barely stand the embrace of her brothers without cringing away, and tensed even when one of the old stablehands she had known since she was a child clapped her on the back as she dismounted a courser. The thought of the coming wedding night - and all the nights to come that Bolton would surely claim as his marriage rights - caused a nasty sick feeling in the pit of her stomach and an irrational desire to steal the fastest horse in the stables and ride to the end of the world.

But despite all that, she would have done it. She would have married Bolton, even if she was screaming inside, for Ned's sake, for her house's sake, for the memory of her dead father. But that was before. Ren was the only thing holding her together, if he was gone she was sure she'd finally crack.

Ross hadn't slept at all that night. It was the hour of the wolf, but she had merely stood at the window in her nightdress for hours, staring sightlessly out at the black night. She had thought to get some sleep, but merely lay on her side staring at the wall, Bolton's words churning about her head, until she got up again. There she stood now. He will never set foot in the Dreadfort. You may see him only on visits. It is a high insult for Lady Bolton to raise a child who is not her husband's in his own hall. The dagger caught the moonlight on its polished edge, glinting coldly.

The realisation was rather easy, once she'd come to it. Ross couldn't leave her son. Nor could she be a doll for a man to do whatever he wanted. Not again. The Targaryens were all dead or fled - she smiled vaguely, as she always did at the memory of Aerys' blood on a golden sword - but she was still not free. She had sworn to herself as she rode out of King's Landing beside her brother, Ren held tightly in her lap, that she would never be that weak again.

And that she would never leave her son. She had sworn that before, too.

Ross was as silent as a ghost as she slipped out of her chambers, keeping to the shadows. Her bare feet made no sounds as she traversed the familiar halls, knowing all the nooks and hidey-holes to duck into whenever any guards came in sight, strangely numb to the idea of being caught, numb to what she was doing. It was stupid, reckless, futile, but she just didn't care. She knew which room Bolton was staying in. It just so happened that that particular guest chamber had a hidden entrance, which she'd found as a child with Lya. It meant bypassing the guards on the main door, and she used that entrance now, slipping unheard into the rooms from behind a tapestry.

There. He lay flat on his back in the bed, motionless, no sound other than his quiet breathing and her own, slightly ragged. She tilted her head as she drew closer. Strange. It was somehow unnatural, seeing him like this. He didn't look very peaceful even now, thin lips frowning even as he slept.

She felt a draught from somewhere, wafting at her ankles and making the hairs on her neck stand on end, a whisper of the night breeze from her rooms. It sent a shot of energy up her spine, electrifying, and in that moment she had never felt more alive in her body, yet so completely empty in her head. Outside, she heard the sounds of rain start to drum on the windowpane, oddly muffled. She stared at her betrothed, feeling neither hatred, anger or sadness. Merely practicality. She knew how to kill a man, Jaime had made sure of that.

The dagger plunged down, right towards his heart. At the last fraction of a second, Roose Bolton's pale eyes snapped open, catching her very nearly red-handed. Before she could even blink, a knife of his own was pressed to her side.

"Lady Stark," He said, ever-soft voice sounding as loud as a battle commander's roar to her ears in the dead silence. For several moments, she forgot how to breathe, but then she remembered that her dagger was at his chest, he couldn't move without her killing him too. He was clever enough to know that. There was a long pause. She was too shocked to speak, her words dying in her throat, though her hands didn't shake. He eventually broke the silence. "I have a preference for keeping incidents like this... quiet. I'm sure you feel the same," Milky-grey eyes stared deep into her own, making her feel for the first time in a while the young woman of eighteen she was. He was only ten or so years older, but somehow the dry, almost casual tone he used made her feel like a chastised child. No, she corrected herself. He's too still, as still as I am. He doesn't know me. Doesn't know if I'll listen to reason, or if I'm just a mad, damaged woman beyond all that. For all he knows, I could just kill him and not care about the consequences. Bolton was tense too, though he hid it well. For a moment, she considered if she was indeed mad and damaged and didn't care about the consequences, or if she was reasonable. In the end, she went with the latter.

She nodded a fraction, and they both lowered their weapons, very slowly, Ross against her better judgement, as he would surely be able to overpower her in a fair fight. And he had two of his men stood outside the door -

It happened too fast. A shuffling noise behind her, and she had whirled around in an instant without thinking, her dagger sinking deeply into flesh, slicing the throat of the guardsman that had just entered and tried to sneak up on her from behind. The man choked and spluttered, falling against her, nails tearing at her arms as he let out a strangled gargle. Ross stood there stunned, eyes wide, then stepped back, letting the still choking man fall to the floor with a muffled thud. There was more blood than she thought there would be. A lot more. She hadn't realised until she felt the warm, wet liquid trickling down her hands and wrists, spreading down her white sleeves and onto her skirts.

It was as though the nasty feeling brought her out of a daze she hadn't even realised she was in. I've killed a man. She suddenly heard the loud drumming of the rain outside again - had it been that loud before? - and looked down, seeing more blood dribble from the guardsman's slack mouth as he gasped his final throes, one hand stretching out to claw at her ankle. She let go of the dagger, bringing both hands up to her mouth by instinct as it clattered to the floor. She stopped before they touched her face, but it was too late. Blood had already dripped down onto her bodice - had already sprayed, from the force she had cut the guard's throat - staining the cloth further. It didn't appear red in this light, but the dark stain was unmistakable.

He died rather easy, some part of her noted dully as the corpse fell silent. It was like Aerys. The blade went in, the man died, and somehow it didn't feel like enough. Though Aerys was lucky it was Jaime who got to him first; Ross wouldn't have made it nearly as quick as a sword through the throat. But killing the man who haunted her nightmares was different to killing someone she didn't know. At least she knew Aerys deserved it.

She didn't know what to do with her hands, holding them in front of her, scared to touch anything. Roose Bolton stood behind her, a pale shadow, face expressionless, hand raised to stop the other guard approaching. He picked the dagger off the floor in one smooth movement, his short, strong fingers turning it over in his hands.

"Who taught you to kill, Lady Stark?" His tone gave little away. He could easily kill her with her own blade, she noted.

"I learned in King's Landing," Her own voice sounded distant to her ears, forcing her to shake her head and pay attention. She looked hard at Bolton. "You were going to take me from my son,"

"I thought that would be it," He gave a small, tight smile. "That, or too much time spent in Mad Aerys' company," Ross' jaw set at the mention of the former king.

"I'm not mad," She said tightly, the blood dripping off her hands contradicting her every word. "Just practical," Bolton actually laughed at that, albeit in his usual soft manner.

"I believe you," He sounded surprised at himself. "Go," She blinked. "You heard me. You can keep your bastard boy after the wedding, just keep him out of my sight,"

"You're lying," She said simply. Whilst his face was impassive, his tone even, the look in his eyes scared her. "You'll have me killed for this the moment I'm alone. Or you'll wait until I've given you a son, then off me some time after. I'm not simple, whether you think me mad or not. The north remembers, and any Bolton would die before he forgave a Stark anything,"

"You underestimate the value of a Stark bride," Bolton said with a half-shrug. "What use are you to me in the crypts next to your sister? In a few hours, you shall become my wife, so obey me now when I tell you to leave this room. In return... That guard deserted some time in the early morning. You were in your rooms all night, anxious for your upcoming wedding. I heard nothing, saw nothing. This never happened," He raised an eyebrow at the second guard, who nodded slightly without hesitation. Bolton still held onto her dagger. "Now, I won't ask again. Leave,"

Ross left, after a glance at her knife, then down at the slowly spreading pool of blood from the prone body of the guardsman. She only remembered brief flashes of the journey back to her rooms, though she had the sense to wrap her bloody hands in the folds of her nightdress so as not to leave a trail - the folds of fabric were clutched in her white-knuckled right hand like a lifeline. Her door was shut with a click, but she remained with her back against it, slowly sinking down to the floor as the facade of composure she had kept in front of Bolton came crumbling down. She sat slumped against the door, and let out a small, strangled moan, clutching both hands to her mouth to silence her. She felt the blood, sticky now as it began to dry. She retched as the iron taste suddenly filled her mouth, spitting into her sleeve. She'd killed a man in front of her husband to be - a Bolton for gods sakes - who she had attempted to slaughter in his sleep. I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead. He would either tell the whole of the north by tomorrow and Ned would be forced to execute her; or he would get a catspaw to kill her on his behalf, sooner or later. But no, it was worse than that, she realised suddenly. He was telling the truth when he had said he wouldn't do either of those things, because now he had complete control over her with that incriminating piece of blackmail. He wouldn't kill her, not with the opportunities that would bring.

And she had killed a man.

Ross moved over to the washbasin as though in a daze, searching her mind for any guilt, regret, horror at her actions. She found nothing. She felt nothing. She was scrubbing a man's blood off her hands, so much it turned the water a murky red, and she simply didn't care. That realisation was the worst of it all.

The sun was starting to rise, pale light filtering through the open window. Slowly, she set down the cloth, as red as the water in the basin, and let out a long shuddering breath, looking at her reflection in the mirror. The white material of her nightdress was ruined, stained with huge patches of dried blood. She quickly undressed, bundling up the dress and shoving it under the loose floorboard she had used since she was a child to hide things from others. The rag followed it, and the red water was tipped down the privy. She changed into another nightdress and made sure that no trace of blood remained on her face. Her wrists were scratched, she idly noticed, and bruised, from where the guardsman had used the last of his strength to claw at his killer. She pulled down her sleeves then set about with her hair. It didn't take too long to comb through - it had always been poker straight, unlike Lyanna's wild curls - and she mussed it up with a hand before settling into bed. It was all methodical, practiced, and that made her calm slightly.

Rosennis Stark became Lady Bolton in name under the heart tree at Winterfell the next morning. No one asked why her hands looked like she'd been in a tavern brawl - perhaps they didn't notice, her sleeves almost covered them anyway - although her now-husband gave her a glance that said everything as their wrists were bound together. She didn't flinch from his pale stare, returning it with a stony one of her own. 'Well-suited', was what she heard several guests muttering amongst each other about them as they made their way back to the main castle. The quiet, unnerving lord of the Dreadfort and the cold, hard lady of Winterfell. At least she still had her reputation; if people still thought that of her, then maybe that's what she could be. Better cold and hard than weak and broken.

She wore black to her wedding feast. Bolton colours, she claimed, though there was not a hint of pink on her. It was a rather washed-out colour, she had always thought, a faded red. But though her skirts and cloak were black, her bodice and underskirts were Stark grey, and she wore a silver direwolf on a chain around her neck. The most colourful thing on her was sewn into the folds of her skirts around her waistline. An embroidered flower - so small that it was near unnoticeable unless you knew it was there - in a rich shade of blue, the colour of winter roses.