The Dreadfort had always been a rather imposing castle, especially for a Stark. Often when her husband looked at her, all Ross could think of was that the Boltons had a special room to hang the skins of their enemies, some of those belonging her ancestors, several Kings of Winter who had been dragged beneath the castle, only their bones coming back out. The Dreadfort consisted of thick, high outer walls, built of dark stone and dotted with triangular merlons, that looked like pointed stone teeth biting at the sky. Inside the walls, a great keep, smaller but taller than Winterfell's, rose up, along with several massive towers strategically placed. Every wall she saw was sheer steep, no chance of anyone scaling them. No wonder Harlon Stark laid siege for two years, rather than take this place by storm.
The Weeping Water ran to the west of the castle, cutting its course southeast in an icy torrent, swift and dangerous despite its frozen banks. A few tress grew nearby, although there was a forest in the distance, along with a series of hills. Directly surrounding the Dreadfort, however, was a broad, largely flat plain. Any approaching enemies would be seen from miles away, she thought, feeling a chill northern wind blow across her face. The sky at the moment was overcast, promising more snow. Strangely enough, seeing the grim castle in this grim weather did not make her any more uneasy. If anything, it was the opposite. Even a dragon might have trouble breaking this.
Her chambers as Lady Bolton were bigger than her childhood rooms at Winterfell, large and spacious. They were in the great keep, high up and facing west, away from most of the castle, so she could see well over the walls and far into the distance with little else in the way. Surprisingly, the windows were large and arched, paned with glass; she had expected a dim little room with little natural light, but got quite the opposite. The drapes at the windows and around her bed were black, red and pink, Bolton colours, though thankfully no flayed men made any appearance, sigil or otherwise. The fireplace was large, with a great grey direwolf skin rug in front of it, and she had to smile at that. She wondered where they kept the two-legged wolfskins.
In truth, married life was not the horror she'd imagined. Her husband clearly wanted to strike a balance between intimidating her into not daring to pull a knife on him again, and earning her begrudging loyalty so she wouldn't do it anyway out of spite. He was hardly a loving man, but she was decidedly not a loving woman, and wouldn't have wanted anything else. He gifted her a new horse on their arrival, as well with promises of a fitting for a new wardrobe - all the clothes she had left in Winterfell came from before the rebellion, when she was skinny and fifteen, rather than the slightly less skinny, slightly taller eighteen year old she was now. Best of all, though, was that her son had his own room, a tiny sleeping cell near the servant's quarters, well out the way, but a room nonetheless.
The largest complaint by far was the fact that the old Lady Bolton still resided in the castle. Not her husband's former wife, but rather his mother. Lady Margaret was an old hag of at least sixty years, with a pointed, pinched face and beady eyes the same colour as her son's, and had been a Bolton cousin before marriage. That explained a great deal. With eyes too dim to read a page, the woman insisted on being a part of running the household - apparently she hadn't bothered for decades until Ross arrived - constantly sniping, tutting and cackling at her own jokes, which were usually at Ross' expense. Anything that came out of the woman's shrivelled lips was rewarded with a stony stare from Ross, which the old shrew only cackled at more. Never had Ross wanted to punch an old lady more. Fortunately, her husband seemed to dislike his mother as much as she did. It wasn't noticeable, but Ross saw the way his eyes narrowed a fraction whenever she spoke, and how his jaw tightened whenever the woman started griping at him, usually about 'that Stark bitch'. At least Margaret had the honesty to say it to her face.
With the help of the steward, a shrewd but witty man in his fifties named Evan, Ross found ways to avoid her goodmother when dealing with the accounts, and together they managed fine. Those duties were second nature to her, having been doing them at Winterfell since she was a child, and slowly she began to turn things in the castle to more her taste.
Her husband wasn't bad company, in truth. That he was a cruel, cunning man she was under no doubt, but he had another side which he often indulged in private, not hating her company and finding her blunt manner somewhat amusing, particularly when dealing with members of his household who wouldn't take orders from her, as well as his own mother. He was not a fool, which was both a blessing and a curse. She didn't have to love him, nor him her, they just had to tolerate each other. Nonetheless, it was relief when three months into the marriage she found herself pregnant and he no longer visited her bed; he wasn't like Aerys, but he wasn't Jaime either. He wasn't violent, but he was cold, clearly doing it out of duty. He preferred sleeping with various whores, serving girls and mistresses than with her, whilst she preferred to be left alone.
Nearly a year after her wedding, she gave birth to twins. Edrick came first, then Aileen, both healthy, with the raven black hair of the Boltons rather than the Stark's dark brown, and grey-blue eyes that grew more pale each day. Both were fussy, noisy babies, but she loved them both nonetheless. Her husband's only son by his previous wife - Domeric, a boy of six, who was a rare case of Ross liking a child that wasn't her own - had been fascinated by the babies, his half-siblings. Ren, who was almost three years old, had been rather wary of them but was slowly warming up to the idea of being an older brother, albeit a bastard, which Lady Margaret went out of her way to remind him he was. Ross' goodmother, upon being shown the babies, had sniffed and said that at least they looked like their father, and hopefully Aileen wouldn't turn into a whore like her mother. Ross had been tempted to give the old shrew a good kick, but she still felt the pain from the birth and didn't want to worsen it on account of that woman.
During the fifteen or so months that had passed since she left Winterfell, she had been back to visit several times. It was nice to see her remaining family, even if she had to put up with Catelyn. The Tully woman irritated Ross, particularly with her cold manner where it came to Ned, who deserved better after all he had gone through to ensure the family's safety. Her brother had given his southron wife the warmest rooms in the castle, doted on their son and even built her a sept for gods sake, and though Catelyn was forever ladylike and proper in public, she was rather cold and formal in private too. The way she treated Ned's bastard Jon annoyed Ross greatly. The boy would never be a Stark - and would never be any threat to her own children's inheritance even if he was legitimised, because Robb was older than him - yet she still actively despised him, a baby. Ross had once pointed out to the woman that if Jon was treated with love, as part of the family, he would never rise up against his siblings, whereas if he was ostracised his whole life he may indeed grow up bitter, ambitious and everything she'd ever feared. Catelyn hadn't taken well to that, and they had been cold with each other ever since, which suited Ross just fine.
Her husband wasn't best pleased by her frequent visits to Winterfell, and nor was he pleased that she brought Ren with her whether she was at Winterfell or the Dreadfort - she wasn't a mother who babied her son, far from it, she just didn't trust Roose Bolton enough to leave her bastard alone with him - but he said little on it. He had his heir, spare and broodmare already, after all, what more could he want?
Now, however, six moons after the birth of her twins, she found herself riding south. It was strange, coming this way again after all this time. The last time, Ross had been with Lyanna and Brandon, riding to meet Ned and Robert Baratheon before continuing on to the fateful tourney Harrenhal. That was over five years ago, and now only Ned rode with her. She had been a girl of fifteen then, worldly in many ways but ignorant in many others. Now she was a grown woman of twenty, married, a mother three times over.
It felt wrong, leaving the North. Not only were her twins remaining behind at the Dreadfort - of course they were, they were far to young to travel at the end of winter - but a feeling of dread had stuck with her the closer they got to the Riverlands. Starks did not fair well in the south, it hardly needed to be proven to her any more than it had been already. Brandon had died, Lyanna had died, Father had died. Her brother felt similarly too, she knew, though neither of them voiced their feelings; they didn't have to, they understood each other well enough. But one did not disobey a direct order from the king, and Robert Baratheon had insisted that the Starks south to Riverrun for a tourney held by Hoster Tully to celebrate Prince Joffrey's first nameday, claiming to want to 'see Ned's frozen face' again. Ross had brought Ren with her, though Ned's children had stayed with in Winterfell - Robb and Jon Snow weren't even three years old - and so had Catelyn, to Ross' relief, pregnant with her second child.
The Starks rode into the castle to be greeted by a welcoming party of not only Lord Hoster and his young heir Edmure, but also King Robert Baratheon, as strong and muscled as he had been when he had ridden victorious into King's Landing. Robert had roared in delight and embraced Ned like a brother, and Ross as well, much to her surprise and unease, not having forgotten the drunken incident the night Ned brought Lyanna's bones to the Red Keep. Robert's queen stood beside him. This was the first time Ross had ever seen Cersei Lannister, and the woman was even more beautiful than they said. Her smile was lovely, her eyes sharp. She looked radiant in a dress of sea-green silk trimmed with gold, and so much like Jaime that it hurt. Ross - dressed in her dark travelling clothes, with her unremarkable face and skinny frame - could fully appreciate now how poor a replacement she had been.
And there he was. Stood with the other members of the Kingsguard, in his white cloak and armour, looking the same as he had done the last time she'd seen him. Their goodbye after the rebellion had been rather hollow and forced, rushed too, as Ned was watching. Jaime had seemed saddened then, but only because she was taking Ren with her, she thought; he had been more attached to their son than Ross had expected any man to be to their bastard before she's seen her brother's. Perhaps he had been a little sad to see her go too, but she didn't even begin to contemplate that there was anything more to that than saying goodbye to a friend you had gone through hell with and seen practically every day for almost three years. She told herself that was what she was feeling too, though she knew it was more than that. What could she do, though? His father would never have let him marry the Whore of Winterfell (as she had heard several people mutter after learning about Ren, her goodmother amongst them), and Ned would never have agreed to a match with the Kingslayer. He was sworn to the Kingsguard, besides, and she'd had a betrothal to honour. Most importantly, he couldn't wait to get back to his beloved sister, whilst Ross had just wanted to go home.
Those more than legitimate reasons seemed weak now she was faced with him again and he smiled at her, that same smile as before, and it was like she was a girl of fifteen once more, staring flatly and unimpressed at this dazzling golden knight who laughed at her for being grim-faced and blunt. She turned away abruptly to help her son down from their horse - only to find Ren had already slid down without her help, looking around at everything with his usual curious suspicion - and felt Jaime's eyes on them both the whole time.
The feast that night was surprisingly... bearable. Ross had never particularly enjoyed feasts. Robert was as she remembered - loud, brash and the centre of any room - but that night she found him rather amusing company. Perhaps it was because of the wine she'd drunk. As before, he seemed to like her well enough too, but not in the same way that he liked most women; she wasn't especially beautiful, she was Ned's sister (who sat between them) and she was married, and though one, or even two, of those factors may not have been enough to deter him, all of them together were. She was glad. He spoke with her now like he spoke with Ned, like a friend, roaring with laughter at the stories she could tell of her brother and not bothering to patronise her, which was nice.
Queen Cersei was a different matter. Whilst Ned and Robert began to talk alone, of battles and other such things, the woman turned to Ross with a slight sneer on her face. It was clear the woman disdained everyone who didn't bear the name Lannister (and even some who did, if the rumours of her hatred of her younger brother and sister were true). With no one else to talk to, it seemed like she would turn to Ross, littering the conversation with insults veiled with charming smiles and false courtesy. The queen had something against her from that start - perhaps something to do with her sister being Robert's former betrothed, or maybe Jaime had even told her about Robert's drunken proposal - yet the feeling was mutual; this woman had, after all, slept with the father of Ross' child.
Yet Ross' surprise - and she suspected Cersei's too - they both started to become more involved in their conversation after Ross mentioned her reluctance to return to her husband. Cersei had smiled nastily, sharing her own woes about Robert - of which there were many - and Ross had actually been able to understand. Though she liked Robert well enough, she could not deny that he treated his wife badly (not that she could imagine Cersei treating him much better; how many times had this woman slept with Jaime after swearing before the gods to love no other but him?). The difference between her and the queen was that Ross did not care whether her husband laid with other women or not (unlike Cersei, who was glaring daggers at the serving wench the King currently had on his lap). Ross was under no delusions that Cersei Lannister was a good person, but she herself had attempted to murder her betrothed the night before their wedding, so she was hardly one to judge. She would not kid herself that this made them friends. The queen might be being relatively civil to Ross now, but that was most likely as she deemed her no threat, and she was not as vapid as the other ladies here tonight. And she wanted to badmouth her husband to anyone who would listen.
"I hated you, you know," Cersei said idly, after she had drunk rather a lot of wine. Ross raised an eyebrow. Jaime must have told her about Robert. "Your dear dead sister still holds Robert's heart. I'll never be good enough compared to darling Lyanna,"
"You're not the only one," Ross had replied without thinking, and Cersei actually laughed. Ross hadn't meant that, not really. She didn't regret her words often, but she regretted saying that to get a laugh out of the queen. She wasn't made for southron flattery and lies, she knew that already.
What was most interesting about the whole conversation with Cersei, however, was her reaction to any mention of Jaime, no matter how small. Ross hadn't been able to refrain from throwing in several innocuous remarks about him, and to her surprise Cersei scowled whenever his name came up, and when speaking of him she practically sneered the words 'my brother' with the same dislike as when she spoke of Tyrion and Giana. Odd, Jaime had only ever given the impression that they were entirely too close. Had something happened? Ross tried not to get her hopes up.
Walking to her chambers that night through the deserted hall of Riverrun - she had left the feast earlier than most people, to check on Ren, who was fine - she stopped dead as a figure stepped out of the shadows with usual catlike grace. She knew it was him before he spoke.
"I spoke with your sister," Ross said when he said nothing. "Better company than I expected, although she doesn't seem very happy with you,"
"I saw," Jaime said, chuckling slightly. "She's not so fond of me anymore. Cersei never liked being refused," Ross frowned, suspicious.
"What do you mean?"
"You left," He said, stepping closer. "And I was overjoyed to see her again. To sleep with her again," Closer. "I was furious when she married Robert, even if she came to my bed more often than his. But then I started to see her, truly see her, for the first time. I started to remember you," He was so close now she could reach out and touch him. She didn't. "I started comparing her to you. And soon... I couldn't stand to touch her," Her breath caught in her throat. She wanted to speak, but no noise came out. Surely this was a jape, or she was dreaming, or this was some kind of mistake or misunderstanding, because this could not mean - he could not mean -
He kissed her and for once she stopped thinking, stopped worrying, just melted into him like she had done so many times before.
The door to her chambers had barely been pushed to before he had grabbed her and pulled her forcefully against him. He tried to kiss her again, but she held back for a moment.
"What?" He snapped impatiently, eyes dark as he looked down at her. She was silent for a long moment, running her eyes over him as he held her, taking in every inch of his handsome face, his mane of golden curls, his sharp jaw, his familiar smell, how his strong, calloused hands on her arms felt. "Ross,"
"I want to know what I'm doing," She murmured, meeting his eyes with her own, unable to stop the rare grin spreading across her face. Somewhere in her head she was screaming, so happy she could burst, unable to believe this was truly happening. "So I can remember exactly how good it felt to break my vows to my husband next time I have to face him," He'd kill me if he found out I'd been unfaithful, stupid... best make sure he never does. Jaime laughed then, as irreverent and mocking as ever. He wasn't changed much, not really. She wasn't either. They had both gained new, unwanted titles - Kingslayer and Lady Bolton - but he was just as arrogant as before, she was just as prickly, he was as infuriating, she was as blunt, he was as radiant, she was as cold. The thought came to her again - why me, of his choice of everyone? - but she brushed it aside. She suddenly found she no longer cared.
He was about to say something, but she cut him off then, pressing their lips together. She had to stand on her tiptoes; she'd forgotten, Jaime was taller than her husband. He responded immediately, threading one hand through her hair and sliding the other around her waist. It wasn't slow and sweet - he'd never been one for slow, whilst she'd never been very sweet - but neither was it rushed and frantic. Rather, strong, intense, consuming. He was graceful where she was stiff and wooden, slowly coaxing the warmth out of her as he always had done. His hands were strong and skilled, so different from the coldness of her husband that never failed to make her at least slightly uneasy. It was breaking his vows and hers what they were doing, but neither of them were saints as it was. Both had blood on their hands. Both had sinned before. And apart from all that, Ross simply didn't care. She had no time for meaningless honour after the life she had lived, and the idea of passing up Jaime for the promises she had made to a man she felt nothing for was a repellent one.
Neither of them noticed the small dark-haired figure appear, green eyes blinking through the tiny crack where the door hadn't properly closed for several seconds before vanishing.
"So?" He asked her, after, as they lay together in the dark in her bed. She wasn't one to want to be held at night, but now - as she lay against his chest, his arm around her waist - she didn't entirely mind. "How do I compare to your lord husband?" She couldn't see his smirk, but she could hear it.
"Bigger," Was her short reply, smiling as he laughed, nudging his side with her elbow. "Who says I meant you?"
"You did," He replied, pulling her closer with the arm wrapped around her shoulder. "But not in so many words. You've never been that enthusiastic before. Everything about you tonight was screaming dissatisfaction,"
"Was?" She raised an eyebrow that he couldn't see, but, like his smirk, he could probably hear it. "You've a high opinion of yourself,"
"Ah, you've known that for a while," There was a silence.
"I missed you," The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and she immediately felt like a fool. Perhaps it was the wine, for she'd never have been so open ordinarily. She quickly continued. "No one else knows what it was like,"
"You had it worse than me," He shifted slightly, and she ended up nestled tighter in his arms. "I didn't have to fuck him. But I know what you mean. Everyone seems to think I was off on a grand adventure, then killed the king for the hell of it, just because I could," The disdain in his tone was tangible. "I dread to think what they think of you,"
"I'm certain my goodmother thinks I sat around like a princess in a tower for two and a half years, sleeping with whatever Targaryen guardsman took my fancy until I got pregnant," She rolled her eyes, and he chuckled.
"Isn't that what happened?" He said wickedly. "Just with a few bits missing," She turned to him with a flat look, but couldn't help but smile.
"You didn't take my fancy," She said.
"What do you call it, then?" He asked, amused. "The seductive northern temptress taking advantage of the good, innocent knight of the kingsguard?" She snorted at that, the entire idea being absurd.
"You're thinking of two other people," She looked him in the eye. "Did I tell you I tried to kill my husband the night before my wedding?" It didn't feel strange to say it aloud for the first time, not to him. He laughed, not as surprised as he should've been.
"No," His eyes were gleaming. "Do tell,"
Her second daughter was born nine months later, after she had returned to the Dreadfort. Morganna Bolton, she was named, and though her hair was dark and her eyes were steel-grey, Ross could see little else Stark about her. And there was certainly more Snow than Bolton in her pretty face. Her daughter was stunningly beautiful, where Ross and her husband and her twins were not; perhaps she could get away with saying she looked like Lyanna? She'd need a story for when Lady Margaret came nosing around. The last thing she needed was her goodmother going round proclaiming her as much a whore as she'd always claimed.
The nursemaid brought in her children and Domeric Bolton to meet the new baby. Edrick and Aileen weren't even a year and a half old, too young to understand that they even had a new (half) sister. Seven year old Domeric loved Morganna from first sight - a shame they weren't actually related - whilst four year old Ren seemed slightly less wary when he first saw her than he had with the twins. He was most likely more used to babies now; if anything, he seemed fascinated by Morganna, little face frowning in concentration. Ross smiled as her eldest son peered at her newest daughter.
"She's very red," He said. "And Aileen wasn't this small,"
"You were barely bigger than she is," Ross replied, and he frowned more, carefully reaching out a hand to touch the baby. He seemed startled when Morganna reached out a tiny baby hand and gripped his finger with her own, looking to Ross with wide eyes, and she laughed. He moved his finger experimentally up and down. A small smile tugged at his lips when Morganna didn't let go, her hand moving with his as he stared at her.
"Her eyes are like mine,"
Ross' stomach gave a nasty lurch. Ren had many of her own sharp features, but his eyes were all Jaime's. Morganna's, whilst a different colour, matched.
"She's your sister," She said. "You're bound to look alike. She's got your hair too, and mine,"
"Half sister," He corrected automatically, which saddened her. He was old enough now to know what a bastard was, that his name was Snow and that Edrick, Aileen and Morganna (to the rest of the world) were not his full siblings. Though he got along as well with Domeric as if they were actual brothers - rather than his bastard stepbrother - even at this age he knew he shouldn't ever give Lord Bolton reason to notice him. Her eldest son was more perceptive than any boy that age had a right to be. He wasn't especially bookish, but was capable in his lessons, and was already learning to read and write; at least he hadn't got his father's skill in that regard, his letters were better than Jaime's already. He was due to start training in the yard in the next few months. Ross could only guess how that was going to turn out.
