Aboard the King Robert's Warhammer…
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Daveth stood in his private chambers with his family—holding his daughter Cassana. Sansa held their son Lyonel in her lap with Myrcella playing peek-a-boo with her nephew. The twins were nearly a year old and had grown from infancy to entering the first stage of toddlerhood; their teeth were growing in, their black hair were growing (though Cassana's had been even longer and straighter with a tiny strand depicting the Tully color). Lately, one in particular was being a bit playful.
"Where's the baby?" Myrcella said, covering her face with her hands before moving them away. "There he is!"
Lyonel giggled at his aunt's antics. Sansa smiled as she bounced her son on her lap. Jaime Lannister, meanwhile, looked on at this family gathering whilst the ship was one week away from returning to the capital.
"Where's the baby? There he is!"
Daveth looked on as his son let out another wave of giggles. The Young Stag was looking more tired and slightly pale; his left arm didn't ache, but he still often felt a slight pinch on his shoulder from where the assassin's hounds bit him. A Tyroshi healer on deck, Serella Vhassaar, checked on him earlier believed it to be the case of emotional exhaustion and had recommended he take at least two or three days to rest and inform her if there were any complications.
"Dada," Cassana piped up, patting her hands against Daveth.
He looked down at her. "Yes, firefly, I see you."
Sansa smiled as she watched Daveth poke Cassana's tiny nose, listening to their daughter squeak with surprise before giggling whilst stretching her hands out—snuggling against her father. The warm sight was soon interrupted when a tiny pair of hands reached up and grabbed her red hair, tugging downward quite roughly.
"Ow, ow, ow!" Sansa winced, gently unfolding Lyonel's hands from her hair. "Sweetheart, don't pull on mama's hair like that, all right?"
The male twin looked amused. "Mama," he simply said to her.
"No, Lyonel, no; that wasn't very nice."
Jaime found this somewhat entertaining. "Well, well; seems as if he's got a natural talent for roughhousing."
Sansa rolled her eyes, visibly not amused. "My, how funny you are as of late, Ser Jaime. Need I remind you that raising children is harder than it looks the older they get?"
"Figuring that you grew up with three brothers, you'd be more accustomed to handling boys."
Myrcella chimed in. "Well, I think you two have been doing a very good job at raising them."
"Well, you're not the first to tell us that," remarked Daveth wearily. "Bringing children into the world and raising them is not as easy as one might think."
They all noticed his tone of voice. He sounded so… drained; burned out.
"Dearest…" Sansa spoke up.
"Come now, Sansa. Don't give me that look—"
"Dearest," she repeated more firmly.
Daveth sighed, knowing he wasn't going to win this argument this time. "Fine… I'm just worn out. The journey these last four years has been… very long."
"Perhaps a bit too long for some of us," Myrcella suggested. "Maybe once we've all returned to King's Landing, the two of you could afford to use some personal relaxation time?"
The Wolf Queen appeared to nod her head in agreement. "I concur. Our duty has been keeping us from spending quality time with our loved ones for quite some time now. With peace restored to the Seven Kingdoms for good, sometimes the most productive thing we can do is relax; especially with the children."
'Oh, how I wish that were possible…' the Young Stag thought to himself. "Then, I suppose being selfish for a while couldn't hurt…"
Jaime glanced at his nephew; somewhat surprised with his compliance, he knew Daveth was never the kind of person to just sit down on his laurels doing nothing. Yet the Kingslayer suspected this was mostly for his health, to get his mind off the tasks at hand just to get him to relax for a moment.
"Which reminds me," he begun, "isn't your first anniversary just around the corner?"
"Already? Feels like as if it were just yesterday," exclaimed Sansa.
"Well, I should get you something nice," Daveth offered.
"Please, dearest, you don't have to go out of your way for me. Already have what I want: you, and our children."
Cassana gave a quiet yawn and rubbed her eyes. Daveth looked down at his daughter climbed up to bury her face in his neck.
Jaime rolled his eyes. "Should we take that as a cue to leave you two alone for a while?" he asked.
Myrcella stifled a teasing chuckle. "If you wanted privacy, all you needed to do was ask."
"Very funny, 'Cella." the Young Stag shot back.
Teasing aside, Myrcella stood from her seat and hugged her brother and poked her niece's cheek.
"Be good to mommy and daddy now, all right?"
Cassana looked confused as she watched her aunt leave the room with Jaime following close behind her. Now alone with his wife, Daveth shook his head. He was slowly becoming more tired as the day went on; glancing out the window, he watched the bright, sparkling light of the sun reflecting from the water waves of the Narrow Sea and listened to the sound of the waves brushing against King Robert's Warhammer. Sansa carried Lyonel on her hip, stood up and approached Daveth.
"Daveth," she brushed his shoulder.
"Yes?"
Sansa brushed her hand across Daveth's forehead, brushing his black hair upward before pressing her brow against his. The Young Stag felt the tip of his nose touching his wife's, knowing full-well that she was taking his temperature. If he tried to push her away or attempt at lying, she'd immediately know about it and call him out for it.
"Hmm. You do feel a bit warm," she said. "Tell me. Are you actually feeling alright? Don't tell me otherwise just to make me feel better. I know you."
"Dada?" both the twins whined.
Daveth shook his head, transferring Cassana to Sansa. "No," he admitted. "No, I don't feel well at all. I'm tired, my shoulder hurts, my throat's dry… and now I've got a headache."
The Wolf Queen carried both twins on each hip, hoisting her posture straight upwards. Leaning her head downwards a bit, Sansa narrowed her eyes slightly and noticed a stitch was coming undone. "I'll send for Serella and have her check on you."
Before Sansa could leave to fetch the vessel's onboard healer, she heard her husband call out from behind her.
"I'm sorry."
She raised a curious eyebrow. "For what?" she asked.
Daveth turned to look up at his wife. "For putting you through so much—whether it's by my words or actions. Kept problems private and locked away; tried not to make an issue out of it. I thought I was keeping you safe at the time, in spite of everything, but I realize now that all I did was made you worry. Can you forgive me?"
Sansa felt a pang; taking in what Daveth admitted to her. How long was he keeping this to himself? Had it been years ago, she would've pressed on the matter even further. But now that she's grown, matured… a full-fledged mother and a Queen, Sansa had learned more than many appeared to have let on.
"Dada?" the twins piped up again.
"I don't think less of you, if that's what your concern is," Sansa said. "But what I do know is that you care about me—about us, our children—in your own way."
"Sansa—"
"I forgive you. Just… don't keep anything hidden from me again. If something's bothering you, then tell me."
Daveth nodded. "I promise."
Sansa understandingly nodded, pleased with her husband's self-reflection throughout their long journey. "Now unless if there's anything else you'd like to share with me, then I suggest you get to bed and try to get some rest. I'll get Serella."
Daveth gripped the arms of his seat and stood up, making his way to the bed in compliance with Sansa's request. As soon as he kicked his feet up and lied down on his back, Daveth watched as his wife and children took off.
"Dada," he heard Cassana call out once more from the hallway.
The Young Stag inhaled through his nostrils and exhaled through his mouth. Bringing his right hand up, Daveth placed his knuckles on his forehead—clearing his throat which soon turned into a dry, rough cough; Daveth's chest started hurting as he coughed up more phlegm. He shut his eyes tight, momentarily, before reopening them and turned his head sideways to avoid direct contact with sunlight.
"Ah, Seven hells…" he groaned.
Brushing his hand against his brow, Daveth started sweating and his eyes were looking as if they had started becoming bloodshot. He felt miserable; shoulder still ached, his bones felt like they were made of napalm, he couldn't keep his thoughts as he felt a strange taste in his mouth. Daveth's face twisted and contorted, feeling as if a foreign liquid iron-like substance assaulted the back of his throat and taste buds.
After another round of hard coughing, Daveth stuck two fingers into his mouth. Pulling the digits out, the Young Stag was surprised at the thick red coloring on the tip of his fingers. Blood!
'Fuck… No, no, no,' he privately complained to himself.
Roughly throwing his head back on the pillow, ignoring the pinch in his shoulder, Daveth wiped his mouth with a napkin, cleaning his hand and tried to get some sleep… to no avail. Indeed, he felt miserable.
But one thing was a certainty: King Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name… was ill; the worst he's ever felt since the Greywater Fever epidemic seventeen years ago.
At the Dreadfort…
Further in the North, in the forest surrounding the Dreadfort, the seat of House Bolton, three dogs were barking in the distance. A peasant girl was running through the forest in a state of panic, panting heavily and tears streaming down her cheeks. She wore a white dress, but was so dirtied from the grass stains, mud and puddle backsplashes; her blonde hair hung past her face as she leaned against a tree.
"Tansy!" a female distant voice called out to her from far away. "Tansy!"
"Tansy!" a male voice called out.
*ARF-ARF!*
*RUFF-RUFF!*
Desperation and fear gripped the young woman tightly and she immediately started running as fast as her legs could carry her again. Behind her, three dogs barked and growled loudly as they chased after her. Behind them, however, ran Ramsay Snow with his sadistic lover Myranda, armed with a bow and arrow and holding hands with one another.
Ramsay and Myranda appeared visibly happy, excited and enjoying themselves. One of the Dreadfort's servants crept up behind them, feebly trying to keep up. The hunting dogs continued barking.
*ARF-ARF!*
*RUFF-RUFF!*
"Tansy! Tansy!" shouted Ramsay.
Tansy runs through the woods, the hunting dogs barking in pursuit. In her desperate attempt to escape, she nearly trips over a tree root and exclaims.
"Aaah!" she shrieks.
"Ah! There you are!"
"Nooo!"
Myranda sadistically laughs. "I can't see her, Ramsay!"
Thoughts flooded through Tansy's head; she was a servant of House Bolton in servitude to Lord Roose and was one of his bastard son's Ramsay Snow's bedwarmers. She did everything Ramsay told her, whatever he wanted. But when she was told that he grew 'bored' of her and took her onto a hunt, Tansy realized that she was next on the list: along with Violet and Kyra. She was about to be killed for sport! Tansy quickly hid behind a tree, trying to catch her breath.
Ramsay and Myranda, with bows in hand, each fire arrows at Tansy as they go.
*T'CHI!*
*SCHHWAFF!*
"AAaH!" she shrieked and ran off again. Ramsay's arrow strikes the tree, just inches from her face.
"If you make it out of the woods, you win!" Ramsay exclaimed gleefully. "Run, Tansy, run!"
Myranda expertly notches an arrow and lets it fly.
*T'CHI!*
*TWANG!*
The arrow flies past Tansy, who stumbles down into a muddy stream, gasping and screaming. She scrambles on all fours in panic, hands and knees, pausing only for a few moments to hide in one of the nearby shadowed stream beds, sobbing.
"Tansy!"
"Where is she?"
Looking left and right for any possible escape routes, Tansy quickly turns to notice the hunting dogs barreling down the stream towards her.
*ARF-ARF!*
*RUFF-RUFF!*
Shrieking and whimpering, Tansy runs again. The dogs chase her through a small tunnel and back into the woods proper.
"Tansy, Tansy, Tansy!"
Stretching her bowstring back, Myranda takes aim and fires off another arrow with concentration and precision.
*T'CHI!*
*TWANG!*
*WOOSH!*
*THUNK!*
"GAAAHH!" shrieked Tansy.
Myranda's arrow landed a direct hit in Tansy's right leg, sending her fall down into the ground hard. She sobs in agony, clutching her leg with the arrow penetrating her skin and stained her dress with blood. Unable to move and left completely helpless, Tansy cried as the three hunting dogs surrounded her on all sides and closed the gap—still barking and bearing their teeth at her, terrorizing her.
This sudden end to the hunt allowed Ramsay, Myranda and their servant to finally catch up.
"Good girls," Ramsay beckoned to his hounds. "Down, girls. Down. Well done." He turned to Myranda. "You, too."
"I only wounded her," she stated plainly.
"You brought her down. That's what matters. A fine shot. Wasn't it, Dontar?"
He nodded. "A fine shot, Lord Ramsay. My lady."
"Please, my lord! It hurts!" sobbed Tansy, referring to the arrow in her leg.
Ramsay noticed. "Oh, sweet. Don't cry. It will be over soon."
Myranda notches another arrow and takes aim, pulling it back in her drawstring. "She thinks she's pretty. Let me put one through her face."
The Bolton bastard, however, stopped her. "We have to reward the hounds, love. They did all the hard work?"
"Why?" Tansy beseeched through her sobs, pleading for mercy with fear in her eyes. "I did whatever you asked!"
"But you made Myranda feel jealous."
"Me?" she said, a bit taken aback. "Jealous of her?"
"My lord, please!"
Ramsay turned to Tansy, turning from jaunty to mocking the terrified girl with a sadistic grin on his face. "You can see that your presence has become a bit of a problem." He quickly turned ferocious. "Rip her!" he ordered. "Rip her! Rip her!"
One by one, the hunting dogs lunged at Tansy and started tearing her to shreds. Her screams filled the air as one bit into her leg, the other clamped down onto her arm whilst the third sank its teeth into her throat and tore it out; Tansy's shrieks were silenced as she gurgled on her own blood—splattering everywhere as her lifeless body shook and trembled as the hunting dogs resumed their feasting.
"Not so pretty now," Myranda commented.
Ramsay Snow grinned wickedly at the sight. Today was a good hunt. Sounds of ripping flesh filled the woods. As the Bolton bastard watched his hounds, a meek messenger from the Dreadfort limped his way through the forests.
"P-p-pardon me, L-Lord Ramsay," he said.
Quickly feeling irritated at his hunt being interrupted, Ramsay quickly glared at him. "What?" he said indignantly.
Fumbling his hands through his sleeves, he pulled out a rolled parchment.
"Lord Bolton has… has requested your pr-presence. S-says it's i-important."
"Fine…"
Agitated that his hunt was brought to an end by his father's orders, Ramsay and Myranda and their hounds were eventually led back to the castle of Dreadfort. In the courtyard, the Bolton bastard had already dismissed his lover Myranda back to the kennels where her father was waiting him.
Standing by the gates, Ramsay watched as his father Lord Roose Bolton and his new stepmother Lady Walda of House Frey, who is clearly intimidated by her new surroundings. She had a kind face, though she was quite large and round—clearly as seen as she needed help dismounting from her horse. He couldn't believe how fat the woman in front of him was, but was smart enough to keep his mouth shut as they dismounted and approached.
"Father," he greeted. "You wanted to see me?"
Roose Bolton, now a bearded man, coldly stared at him. "Walda, this is Ramsay Snow, my bastard."
Ramsay smiled, stepping forward to kiss her cheek. "A pleasure to meet you, mother."
"Oh, uh, hello," Walda said feebly, smiling awkwardly.
"See that the horses are fed, watered and rubbed down. And take Lady Walda to her chambers," the Lord of the Dreadfort instructed a nearby servant.
"This way my lady."
As soon as Walda and the servants were finally out of earshot, Roose guided Ramsay inside the Dreadfort. He sat down by the fire, aching and exhausted.
"Well?" he demanded.
Ramsay look dumbfounded. "'Well' what?"
"I know about Locke. His escape."
Ramsay frowned; clearly knowing that Roose had figured out of Locke's release from confinement. The Bolton bastard suspected that deep down he knew the plan to assassinate Princess Myrcella Baratheon, to start another war… had somehow must've ended in failure. Otherwise his father wouldn't have approached him like this.
"I leave the Dreadfort in your hands during my absence," Roose continued, "and when I returned I find myself facing more criticism and accusations."
"You can't let these lesser lords get to you, father," he deflected.
"If it comes down to another war, and should it be primarily focused up here, then we don't have enough men to hold the Dreadfort if the entire North decides to attack us. Do you understand that?"
"Our last agreement with the Starks and the Oathkeeper ensured that—"
Roose cut him off abruptly. "I had to make a multitude of concessions to our fellow Northmen to ensure that House Bolton's social standing wouldn't be jeopardized, and parleying alliances into greater power," he scolded Ramsay. "I had to make a pact with Daveth Baratheon after liberating Moat Cailin during the war and yet word had already traveled fast about a 'renegade Northmen's assassination plot' in Dorne. Locke was one of my best hunters, and you played your games with him. You played your games with my own men. Do you think lifting a siege is the same a facing a prepared, provisioned and united Westeros?"
"No."
"Word of this cannot be allowed to spread any further. If it does, a reckoning will come. House Bolton remains in servitude to House Stark, and the Starks have a Queen. The North won't bother reasoning with us if they believed one of their own is threatened."
Ramsay thought of an idea, and fast. "I'll have a team of men to ensure that what happened was just a rogue madman. Nothing more. And House Bolton had absolutely nothing to do with it, even swearing by both the Old Gods and the New that we remain in good faith in compliance with the pact we made."
Roose looked unconvinced. "I placed far too much trust in you," he said simply. "Do what you have to to quiet the rumors and be swift. I'll not have my banners dragged through the mud with another one of your games again."
Leaving the room in a huff, Ramsay went into his chambers and slammed the doors loudly. Gritting his teeth, his father's scolding only served to confirm his suspicions that Locke had indeed failed his mission and a reprisal was bound to arise at some point.
"Ah, no matter," he uttered once he calmed himself down. "This changes nothing in the end. Father wants the rumors to be silenced, then they'll be no more."
Kneeling down, he threw back a curtain to revealed a tied up and gagged, Jeyne Poole. Ramsay had captured them during one of his hunts and discreetly brought them to his private chambers in the Dreadfort, avoiding Stark sentries in the progress. Her father, Vayon Poole, was also taken captive and tied up on an x-shaped wooden cross, also gagged into silence.
"Word has already spread about a third Stark just up and vanishing without a trace. Heard the Young Wolf himself is rather unnerved by it all. Can't say I blame him, but what does it matter?" he grinned, pressing a knife at Vayon's cheek. "You know, my mother taught me not to throw stones… but my father taught me, 'aim for their head'!"
Vayon tried moving his head away, but Ramsay forced it back down. Jeyne, meanwhile, muffled protests and pleas but was simply ignored.
Ramsay continued his menacing torture. "Then again he also told me, 'A naked man has few secrets; a flayed man, none.' Such as when my ancestor Royce Bolton the Fourth dealt with his enemies when he pulled out their entrails. I admire that."
Removing the knife from Vayon's face, Ramsay surprised both by shoving his knife deep into the elder Poole's gut and disembowels him in front of his daughter Jeyne, tearing his insides apart and killing him. Jeyne shouted behind her gag, visibly distraught at the brutal murder of her father before Ramsay turned his gaze towards her.
"Oh? If you think this has a happy ending, you obviously haven't been paying attention." He pressed the blood-covered knife at her dress, tearing it slightly. "I have a role I'd like for you to play. To pretend to be someone you're not."
Jeyne remained motionless, stricken with fear and grief.
"You will be Arya Stark from now on. And you… are mine."
Chapter End
Author's Note: Get rid of one problem and another takes its place. In this case, there are two. One, the dreaded illness that almost killed Daveth when he was a child is believed to be coming back though the Tyroshi healer apparently had no idea about this; the second, Ramsay is on the move again with his sick, twisted plotting. How will this reach Winterfell or even Sansa Stark's ears—being stuck in a difficult position. How will the Starks themselves react to the news? Thoughts? Let me know.
Moshi: There is no way the Jeyne Poole plan will work, take one look at her eyes or even word gets to Winterfell about this supposed Arya and he will bring on the wrath of Winterfell and the North.
RHatch89: Awesome update :)
―Thanks.
Silent Wolf Singer: Wait, the babies were like five months in Dorne...how are they one year old?
―I mentioned a few chapters ago that Daveth and Sansa were not intimate for almost an entire year, plus an extra month.
Hear My Fury: Oh for the love of the Seven. Daveth just cannot catch a break can he? Well hopefully Vaeraleah will be there to heal him when he supposedly dies again. As for Ramsay, Yeah, Robb's gonna unleash all the Seven hells on the Boltons if Ramsay leaks this out. Nice to also see that you are somewhat adapting the books where Jeyne Poole was supposed to impersonate Arya to make the North believe she was her so that the Boltons could have some legitimacy in the North. And I really hope Ramsay gets burned by Stannis. He has almost 30,000 men as well as the entire North if the Karstarks and Umbers behave, which i doubt considering the show. And Roose's days might be numbered too. Anyway that's it, I look forward to the next chapter.
The Last Kenpachi: Stark's are gonna fuck him up if he pisses them off.