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At the Dreadfort…
Lord Roose Bolton did not have a strong likeness to his bastard son, Ramsay Snow. At the family dinner within the Dreadfort, he sat at a table with Ramsay and his new wife Walda—commonly referred to as 'Fat Walda'. Though occasionally mild-mannered, never raised his voice and been in many battles, Roose was not pleased with Ramsay's blatant disregard of his authority despite repeatedly being warned. Barely even gripping his chalice, Roose stared at Ramsay.
"You said you wanted something to discuss with me?" he said chilly.
Ramsay couldn't help but grin, remaining indignant as he put up a polite façade. "Allow me, mother," he said – pouring his stepmother some wine.
"Thank you, Ramsay," Walda smiled.
There was a long silence which lasted a while before Ramsay stood from the table; now, ordinarily Roose would be considered surprised since his bastard son never referred to Walda as mother… unless there was something to be gained from it—if only for himself claiming it was for House Bolton.
"You'll be pleased to learn, father," Ramsay begun confidently, "that the rumors have been repressed and none remain the wiser. It wasn't easy and it took quite a deal of bargaining, the other northern houses have apparently backed off."
Dontar, one of House Bolton guardsmen, remained off to the side of the room – paying no heed to the conversation, for even he knew the consequences of intentional eavesdropping on a powerful lord of a powerful, yet feared house.
Roose, however, was not entirely convinced. "And what were the exact details?"
"Initial reports indicated that… Locke had inside help; several men were apprehended and questioned night and day. When each of them… confessed their treason, I flayed them living. Made their families watch."
"And?"
"Officially, House Bolton still denies any sort of wrongdoing and publicly condemned Locke and his men for the assassination attempt on the King's life."
Roose believed there was something more. "What else?" he pressed.
Ramsay snapped his fingers, motioning for Dontar to open the dining hall's doors to reveal a young girl, dressed in grey wool broidered with white satin; over it she wore an ermine cloak clasped with a silver wolf's head.
"I believe we've found a way to strengthen our relations to the other houses and the entire North," he said proudly. "Father, I'm sure you recall Lady Arya Stark?"
Roose narrowed his eyes to thoroughly examine the girl up and down; she was slim, and taller than he remembered, but that was to be expected. 'Girls grow fast at that age,' he thought. Dark brown hair fell halfway down her back. Her eyes on the other hand… 'That is not Lord Eddard's daughter,' he realized. 'That's Sansa's little friend, the steward's girl. Jeyne, that was her name. Jeyne Poole.'
By comparison, Arya Stark had her father's eyes of House Stark and was much less attractive. A girl her age might let her hair grow long, add inches to her height, see her chest fill out, but she could not change the color of her eyes.
Noticing Ramsay glaring at her, as if motioning her that it was her cue, Jeyne Poole steadily (yet shakily) entered the room – trying to hide her fear.
"Lord Bolton," Jeyne dipped down before him. "I… I pray that I will be of good service to your house, a-and your son Lord Ramsay."
Roose noticed that was wrong as well. 'That will not do at all. The real Arya Stark would have spat at my face,' he shook his head disappointedly.
"That you will," promised Ramsay, "and soon. Stark and Bolton will be bound together by blood, if not by blood. It'll be the strongest alliance the North has ever seen. We are all a family, we northerners. Remember? Our blood ties go back thousands of years." He turned to Jeyne, glaring at her to keep quiet and continue the façade. 'You are the real Arya, remember? Arya of House Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter, sister to the Lord of Winterfell and Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms. Now act like it or else…!'
Jeyne flinched and averted her eyes as Ramsay takes a large sip of wine. Walda noticed this girl's growing discomfort – her watery eyes that somehow begged her 'please help me'; reaching across the table, Lady Bolton placed her fat hands onto Jeyne's shaking palms.
"It must be difficult for you being in a strange place," Walda tried to make conversation.
Jeyne looked at her, but before she could say anything Roose interjected his way into the conversation.
"Before we can get to that," he stated, "Walda and I have some good news as well, since we're all together."
Walda squeezed Roose's hands excitedly. "We're going to have a baby," she announced.
"Congratulations, Lord Bolton," one of the guards praised.
"From the way she's carrying, Maester Wolkan says it looks like a boy."
What started out as a joyous day (at least for some) quickly deteriorated with Ramsay Snow by the end of the day. He took a big gulp of his wine and angrily set his cup down, nearly slamming down onto the table with Jeyne Poole looking at him. The longer she stayed at the Dreadfort as a captive, the more desperate in her desire to escape grows. But at the same time, however, Jeyne noticed Dontar staring at her – his stern, ruthless scowl reminding her of what awaits her should she try anything. So long as Jeyne took care not to anger Ramsay or Lord Roose, neither one should find cause to harm her.
"Arya," he whispered threateningly into her ear. "Your name is Arya Stark."
Come nightfall, snowflakes had begun falling from the midnight skies. Visibly upset with the announcement of Walda's pregnancy, Ramsay had already left the hall and across the frigid yard to the Great Keep – dragging Jeyne by the arm up three flights of stone steps to Ramsay's bedchamber as he knew his position in House Bolton was immediately threatened by this unborn child; his prize, forlorn and seemingly ignored, clutched a silver goblet in both arms.
All the furnishings were new, brought up from Barrowton in the baggage train. The canopy bed had a feather mattress and drapes of blood-red velvet. The stone floor was covered with wolfskins. A fire was burning in the hearth, a candle on the bedside table. On the sideboard was a flagon of wine, two cups, and a half wheel of veined white cheese. There was a chair as well, carved of black oak with a red leather seat.
Ramsay was apparently in a bad mood. "Dontar," he called out, obviously drunk and frustrated.
"My lord. How may I serve you?"
"Let's have a look at Ned Stark's little daughter."
'No! I'm not Lord Eddard's daughter! Please get away from me! I want to go home!' Jeyne froze in terror. She backed into a nearby bedpost, trembling like a doe as Dontar approached her.
"Turn your back," he ordered. "Your gown needs to be unlaced."
"No," Ramsay poured himself a cup of wine. 'So father thinks he means to replace me after all I've done for him?! WITH THAT LITTLE BASTARD THAT FAT BITCH'S CARRYING?! I'll show him. I'll show them all!' "Laces take too long. Cut it off her."
Dontar drew a dagger and grabbed a handful of Jeyne's dress. "Stand still, you brat." The gown was loose below the waist, so that was where he slid the blade in, slicing upward slowly, so as not to cut her. Steel whispered through wool and silk with a faint, soft sound. The girl was shaking. Dontar grabbed her arm to hold her still, tightening his grip. "I said stay still! You'll make Lord Ramsay here angry. You wouldn't want that to happen now, would you?"
Finally the gown fell away, a pale tangle around her feet. Jeyne instinctively moved her hands across to cover her small breasts, but Dontar roughly yanked them away – causing a slight 'eek!' to make itself known. Her breasts were small and pointed, her hips narrow and girlish, her legs as skinny as a bird's. Theon had forgotten how young she was. Despite the fire in the hearth, the bedchamber was chilly. Jeyne's pale skin was pebbled with goosebumps. There was a moment when her hands rose, as if to cover her breasts, but Dontar glared a silent no and she saw and stopped at once.
"What do you think of her, Dontar?" asked Ramsay.
"Hmm. She is beautiful, my lord."
"Please, let me go home," Jeyne whispered; her voice was breaking and shook.
Wrong thing to say. Ramsay took another gulp of wine, then threw the cup across the room to shatter off a wall. Red rivers ran down across the stone. Ramsay quickly closed the gap between him and Jeyne and slapped her face.
"You will stay here and do as you're told, Lady Arya," Ramsay berated her. "Get on the bed. Yes, against the pillows. Now spread your legs. Let us see your cunt."
Jeyne trembled and brought one hand to her cheek, the flesh was pink and stung. Wordless, she reluctantly obeyed. Dontar and his men took a step back towards the door, ignoring Myranda's frightening sneer of jealousy and anger. Ramsay sat beside Jeyne, sliding his hand along her inner thigh then jammed two fingers inside her. The girl let out a gasp of pain.
"Ow! Please, my lord! It hurts!" screamed Jeyne.
"You're dry as an old bone," Ramsay frowned, the firelight shining on his face. "Dontar, get my things. Aren, get over here. Get her ready for me."
Dontar obeyed and did as he was told, leaving the room as soon as he heard clothes being ripped and a belt being undone. Treading down a flight of steps onto one of the Dreadfort's battlements, Dontar could only hear from the towers above him…
"YOU'RE HURTING ME! Aaaooww! PLEASE TAKE IT OUT! Oaww! PLEASE STOP! Aahhhh!" he heard Jeyne loudly sobbing.
'Foolish girl won't learn to keep quiet,' Dontar shook his head.
If nearly everyone within the castle could hear Jeyne Poole's crying, word of this could possibly spread to nearby regions in the North – possibly even Winterfell. Even Dontar knew this would not be permitted to leave. As soon as he was able to gather the supplies Ramsay asked him to get, the sudden silence was broken abruptly when a sword was plunged through his back – the tip of the blade shot straight out of his chest.
*SCHLOOOK!*
"Blurgh!" Dontar gargled as he spat blood out of his mouth. Barely glancing at the sword sticking out of him, a dagger was roughly pressed against his throat and sawed across the Bolton bannerman's throat.
The mysterious assailant then shoved Dontar's body over the edge of the battlements, making a loud thud once the corpse hit the ground. Once the flames lit the corner to illuminate the battlements, the assailant was revealed to be Yara Greyjoy – bloodied and bruised from her escape from Deepwood Motte.
Tossing down a rope attached to a hook, Yara climbed her way down the Dreadfort's walls and hoped into the nearest canoe. Pushing the boat off the banks of the Weeping Water, Yara wrapped the traditional House Greyjoy cloak around her shoulders and began rowing the oars through the black water—her eyes full of determination.
"Anything with a cock is easy to fool," she muttered brazenly. "But I'll soon need a new fleet. If Theon won't come with me voluntarily, then I'll head to Essos by myself then…"
At the Red Keep…
Queen Sansa Stark sat on the Iron Throne, holding each of her twins Lyonel and Cassana on her lap. Today she was holding court with Lord Hand Tyrion Lannister in place of her husband King Daveth Baratheon, who still remained bedridden due to illness. Sansa figured she would at least lessen the burden of her ill husband and assume more responsibilities in governing the Seven Kingdoms. She eased and uncomfortably shifted her position on the throne, brushing her fingers against the pommels that made up the throne itself.
And yet, there she stood. Regal, elegant, defined befitting a monarch. Sansa's new outfit donned a protective jet-black scale-type ensemble dress made of thick leather with raven feathers sewn onto her shoulders and a chain necklace around her neck.
"Today's session should be… an interesting one, Your Grace," Tyrion spoke up. "Today's dignitaries include Lord Axell of House Florent and Lord Elden of House Estermont. Both of whom have been making petitions to the crown to address some… uh, 'unpleasant activities' near Brightwater Keep and Storm's End."
Sansa nodded her head and motioned for a royal steward to pass a plate of bread and salt in observation of the Westerosi tradition of guest right. Lord Florent and Lord Estermont (whom Sansa had met once during Daveth's nameday almost a year ago) each take a piece of bread, dip it into the salt and eat it while keeping their focus solely on the Wolf Queen.
"Thank you for traveling this far, my lords," Sansa said regally. "Be welcome within our walls and at our table. One behalf of His Grace King Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, I extend to you our hospitality and protection in the light of the Old Gods and the Seven."
"We thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace," Lord Axell said graciously.
Even though the two religions Faith of the Seven and Old Gods of the Forest have coexisted for more than 6,000 years following the Andal Invasion, there still tension between the most devout adherents of the two faiths. Even the High Septon raised his concerns and voiced his objections of Sansa's following both the Old Gods and the Seven from time to time; but considering how well-loved and popular the Wolf Queen was among the populace of King's Landing, some grumbling among the religiously devout have been quiet once in a while.
"You may speak."
Tyrion cleared his throat. "As I've mentioned before, there have been rather disturbing reports in certain parts of the Stormlands – even two houses of the Reach have raised their concerns about private gatherings, sighting of unfamiliar cults—"
Lord Elden spoke up. "Our people have been taken from their homes, their captives making insidious demands that their subjects convert to a foreign religion!" he proclaimed, causing a few courtiers to murmur.
"I along with our fellow lords follow the Faith of the Seven, Your Grace, as have our fathers and grandfathers before us," Axell concurred. "But when these… cults began ransacking Greenstone, Brightwater Keep, our subjects were subjected to a brutal, inhumane execution for refusing to renounce the Seven!"
Courtiers were gossiping, in shock and in horror; even Sansa Stark, who remained calm and composed, found such allegations disturbing.
"What could these cultists hope to gain by kidnapping innocent people and forcing them to convert to a religion?" she requested.
"It's difficult to say. This is not our field of expertise."
"Were they carrying a sigil?"
Elden nodded. "A crowned black stag enclosed within a red heart surrounded by an orange flame, Your Grace."
Tyrion leaned in close to Sansa. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Someone… not too far from us yet related to the royal family itself? An accomplished soldier, but is generally unpopular among the highborn and lowborns in Westeros?"
The Wolf Queen furrowed her brow as Lyonel and Cassana gripped their mother's dress and stretch their tiny hands up. She put pieces of the puzzles together, though she was not particularly fond of it.
"You're referring to Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone?" Sansa said.
'The King's own uncle…? I knew it! What a disgrace,' Elden fumed; Axell, on the other hand, was somewhat more reluctant.
"The Queen has asked you as question, my lords," implored Tyrion.
"Imp—" one courtier exclaimed, but was abruptly cut off.
"That's enough," Sansa interjected. "Lord Tyrion is Hand of the King. You will treat him with respect," she turned to her guests. "Continue, my lords."
"My sister… Selyse, is Lord Stannis's wife," Axell answered. "Ever since the red witch showed her face, Selyse… Selyse was no longer the same woman as she used to be. I fear that this witch has been manipulating both my sister and Lord Stannis into committing such sacrilege."
"As long as my nephew keeps that red witch around with him, the Stormlands and the rest of our people are in danger from these religious fanatics," interjected Elden.
Sansa shook her head in disbelief. 'By the Gods, this is not going to end well,' she thought. "And you are absolutely certain of the charges?"
Both Elden Estermont and Axell Florent nodded in confirmation; judging by their stances, Sansa knew that they were not going to budge from their accusations. Should this be ignored, questions would be raised within the Faith of the Seven's leadership and would set the stage for a clash of faith… the worst since the Andal Invasion and Faith Militant uprising. Sansa sighed and motioned her hand over.
"Judging such accusations will affect many, but that doesn't mean the crown will sit idly by while innocent people are threatened and live in fear," she spoke. "Lady Reina Fishport."
Walking from the shadows behind one of the Red Keep Great Hall's columns with Bronn in tow, Reina knelt before the Iron Throne.
"How may I serve, Your Grace?" she asked politely.
Sansa glanced down at her. "My husband considers you to be one of his best agents. I would ask that you investigate the rumors surrounding Storm's End and Brightwater Keep. Gather whatever evidence you can and report back, but be as discreet as possible."
Reina nodded. "For King Daveth, it shall be done. The lords and ladies won't even see or hear me coming."
Nodding in understanding as Reina departed with Bronn, Sansa rose from the Iron Throne. "In the name of my husband Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, each of the regions affected by such abuse are hereby placed under the crown's protection. Those who are caught engaging in horrid rituals will be investigated and punished accordingly to the extent of the law."
Both Lord Estermont and Lord Florent were somewhat pleased, though they both remained uncertain of what the outcome might be. When they departed, the royal steward hurriedly approached the Iron Throne.
"Pardon the interruption, Your Grace," the steward panted.
Sansa raised a curious eyebrow. "Wha—"
Before he could say anything further, the Wolf Queen noticed a familiar figure approaching towards her—accompanied by Northmen guards. Although her face was covered by a blue hood, Sansa recognized her fair skin, long auburn hair, blue eyes, long fingers and cheekbones with a few wrinkles edging the corner of her mouth.
"Sansa," Catelyn lowered her cloak.
"Mother!" Sansa acknowledged.
Both mother and daughter met each other in the middle of the throne room, with the Stark matriarch embracing her eldest daughter in a warm hug. The royal steward and Lord Tyrion assumed this was their cue to leave and give them a moment of privacy. Once alone, both Catelyn and Sansa spoke to each other.
"What are you doing here?" Sansa asked, noticing how her mother's posture was slightly off. She instinctively knew that something was wrong.
Catelyn noticed too. Taking a moment to glance down at both her royal grandchildren who were eagerly stretching their hands out towards her, Catelyn forced herself to put on a smile before looking back up at Sansa.
"I apologize for not sending a raven, but I fear this is a rather serious problem I could not discuss around lingering eyes nor could we trust anyone to carry our words," she explained. "Sansa, your sister Arya, has… has disappeared."
Sansa felt stunned. 'Gods, Arya… what have you done now?' she privately scorned her sister. "What do you mean 'disappeared'? Hasn't anyone seen where she might have ventured off to?"
Catelyn shook her head. "No one knows, which is why I came all the way back down here to the capital to ask a favor."
"Of course, mother. Just ask."
"Can Daveth help us find Arya?" she asked.
Sansa's expression changed; she looked concerned. "My husband… is not feeling well, mother. But perhaps I could send for the Master of Whisperers, Lord Varys. If anyone can find something or someone, it'll be him."
Catelyn and Sansa felt increasingly unnerved; both Lyonel and Cassana looked at both of them in relative confusion. A moment's pause was soon broken by the abrupt barging and entering of Ser Olyvar Frey, who by now at this point was covered in sweat and his dress shirt unbuttoned.
"Your Grace!" Olyvar called out, panting heavily. "The *huff*… I *huff*"
"Steady yourself, ser," Sansa firmly told him. "What's going on?"
Olyvar took a deep breath. "It's King Daveth. He… he…"
Sansa's eyes widened and felt as if the wind was knocked out of her. A quiet gloom had fallen over the Red Keep, over all of King's Landing. Taken by surprise at such troubling events, it seemed that more and more trouble would always appear to threaten the very foundation of all held dear and close to one's heart. But what Olyvar told Sansa… threatened to rock her to her very core.
"…He's stopped breathing."
Chapter End
Author's Note: Well… a dark chapter ending with a cliff hanger. I absolutely hated writing the first part of the chapter and feel an overwhelming desire to accelerate the plotline to have Robb Stark attack House Bolton once word of "Arya" was being horribly mistreated at the Dreadfort – not yet knowing that it was in fact Jeyne Poole. And Sansa Stark is also going to be so furious when she learns that her childhood best friend is being abused by such an evil bastard.
But the dreaded news Olyvar Frey spat out… any interpretation as to what Daveth Baratheon's fate would be? Thoughts? Let me know.
Moshi: Oh look, the fall of House Bolton. Honestly, Roose should have had Ramsey arrested and personally handed him over to Robb or Daveth. Keeping him around will be Roose's ruin, though it couldn't have happened to a nicer family! Unfortunately, my worry is for Walda, she and her child never deserved the fate they suffered and gods, Jeyne! I want to see the Wolf Queen in action, if she can get her hands on Ramsey...can he have a poetic death?
Fucking Rh'llor! You know, I've read a meta on how Azor Ahai isn't the savior, but the opposite (it also hypothesised that Daenerys is AA. As to the PTWP and Last Hero, that would be Jon and Bran)
oneironaught101: I can feel Tyrell poison seeping in Tommen's mind...
C.E.W: Great so Ramsay is continuing cause trouble in the North, worse with Jayne Poole disguised as Arya there. Once the North finds out Jon let an army of Wildlings past the Wall, Ramsay will have his rallying cry to rebel against House Stark. I hope Daveth doesn't die because if he does, then the stability of the realm will follow him to the grave. There is Margaery Tyrell who desires to become Queen, and there is the Sparrows who will take advantage of Daveth's death, I'm sure they don't like the idea of someone from the North ruling them. Tommen desperate to see his brother alive may ask Vaeraleah to heal him but probably not before the Sparrows and trouble starts going.
mpowers045: No Daveth! Noooooooo!
10868letsgo: I know that is Daveth life is not over. Vaeraleah will resurrect him and the Tyrells will not take advantage of this situation or else he will give them the same death as his Queen Mother, Cersei Lannister. Great thrill you gave me and i know a lot of people are going to be upset at this chapter, but don't worry that is the best part of grabbing people's attention.
RHatch89: Awesome update... it seems to me that Red Mel has read the signs wrong and backed the wrong stag while Vaeraleah has made her hand known for the other remaining stag.
mitchn: Well, this ain't good. This could motivate Margery and the High Sparrow (and Melisandre?) to make a move for power. It will be interesting to see Margery and Sansa (maybe they become allies and join forces) spar with these religious fanatics. They both want to protect someone they love: Sansa to Daveth's peace and Margery to Loras. Tommen will be the key to power, but maybe he will become stronger thanks to Daveth nurturing him and pull a Sansa, "I am a slow learn, that's true. There is still a lot for me to learn. But I learn." Oh, and happy almost 100th chapter!
LunaEvanna Longbottom: He's fine...right?
Hear My Fury: Daveth's dead but Vaeraleah will resurrect him. As for Ramsay. I really hope the Dreadfort burns to the ground.
The Last Kenpachi: He is gonna get magic-ed back to life right?
―Stay tuned for more updates.