The raven for Hornwood arrived during the morning hours. Maester delivered the letter to Rodrick with the seal broken, and from Luwin's grim expression, the knight knew the letter brought dark tidings indeed. After he read the letter himself, Rodrick understood the maester's dismay.
Lady Donella needed her steward to put her words to parchment because she could not. Though the letter did not say why the lady could not use her own hand, Rodrick could guess. Snow had tortured Lady Donella into marrying him—and in all probability started with her fingers.
The knight was not a man who believed in chance, and that "Reek" matched Lady Donella's description so closely could not be dismissed as a coincidence. Undoubtedly, it was Ramsay Snow locked in their dungeons. Lady Greyjoy had the right of it from the start, and Rodrick felt a fool for not seeing the truth himself.
Despite rarely calling attention to himself, Roose Bolton was not an easy man to forget. Lord Bolton spoke with a quiet, well-measured voice that commanded one's undivided attention. His skin was the shade of milk, passing to translucent, and oddly smooth for a man of his reported years. His hair was dark—darker even than lady Quenln's—it was black as a moonless night. Lord Bolton's eyes were perhaps the most striking his most striking feature. They were blue, yet so pale they seemed silver. And when Rodrick visited Reek in the dungeons and demanded the man look at him, the knight saw a similar pale-skinned face, and the same midnight hair—but most damning of all, moon-gray eyes reluctantly met Rodrick's.
Rodrick took no notice of those distinctive eyes back in the Hornwood. Ramsay Bolton's supposed servant had been careful to keep his head bowed, and rarely made eye contact when he was captured. Rodrick thought little of it at the time, it was not unexpected for small folk to keep their gaze averted when addressing those of a higher station. Living under a severe lord such as Roose Bolton would have reinforced the behavior, so there was little reason to be suspicious of Reek's refusal to look Rodrick in the eyes.
Ramsay Snow had used his subservience to trick Rodrick and showed the knight exactly what he expected to find: An abandoned, cowed, and lowly servant all too willing to surrender himself once there was no chance at escape. Snow even smeared himself with the feces of the dead girl her raped and murdered to further conceal his identity. To make it so no one would want to be near him long enough to pay him much mind.
The scheme once again proved the bastard's shrewdness and quick thinking. While both bought him a temporary reprieve, they did not save him from his fate. Thanks in no small part to lady Greyjoy.
Rodrick wondered how long Snow's ruse could have lasted had she not seen through his disguise somehow. Perhaps until wars end, which many feared may stretch throughout the year if not longer. Despite the bastard's trickery, Ramsay Snow's luck had finally run dry. Once Rodrick's report on Snow's survival reached King Robb, the knight hoped the order to execute the bastard would soon follow. Rodrick looked forward to ending the wretch after all he's done.
Killing Roose Bolton's bastard was a concern meant for the future and would be decided by those other than Rodrick—that future could wait, he needed to focus on the now.
Rodrick made his way to the Great Keep and to lady Quenlyn's chambers. The guard on her door, Donnor, gave a brief nod of greeting as Rodrick approached. Before Rodrick reached for the latch on the door the door opened. A scullery maid came out and she carried a tray of dishes that still had food on them. Rodrick would have ignored the servant before he received Lady Donella's letter, but the revelation of Reek's true identity caused the knight to look twice at the maid.
Though the servant kept her head down and the white, frilled mob cap she wore covered her dark hair and obscured her appearance, and so did her long, gray cloak, Rodrick recognized Osha. The wilding recently earned freedom from her ball and chain and was given the same run of the castle as any other loyal servant of Winterfell.
"M'lord," Osha mumbled.
Rodrick scowled at the wilding but said nothing as he watched her stride away. She'd been assigned to the kitchens last he knew, not to the Keep. Though the wilding could have volunteered to bring lady Greyjoy meals from the kitchens. It was not unknown for servants to trade tasks and chores, especially when the winter snow falls. Not all Northerners appreciated trudging through six feet of snow every day just to bring someone soup.
Ser Rodrick knocked before he entered lady Quenlyn's rooms as a polite formality. A few moments went by before lady Quenlyn gave permission for Rodrick to enter. Lady Quenlyn was no longer restrained to her bed or forced to wear nothing but small clothes and now could wear more substantial clothing. Though still dark in color, lady Quenlyn's gown was of a softer design than one of the black and dark gray dresses she typically donned. Her short, dark, straight hair was plaited in a waterfall braid. It too was much different than the severe hairstyles she often wore.
The Greyjoy smiled at Rodrick, and it seemed genuine enough, but the knight did not smile in return. Lady Quenlyn's lips, painted a rosy red, were a vivid contrast to the paleness of her face. The girl rarely wore paints, just as she rarely wore her hair gently. Rodrick did not trust this effete veil lady Greyjoy chose to wear when it suited her. While her ravings about Ramsay Snow had proven true, Rodrick could no longer trust what may truly lie coiled behind her lady's composure.
"Ser Rodrick," lady Quenlyn greeted, a welcoming smile curled on her painted lips.
"My lady."
The woman folded her hands together over her stomach, bringing to Rodrick's mind Lady Catelyn, which surely was lady Quenlyn's intention.
"How may I be of service, ser?" she asked. Lady Greyjoy's voice sounded steady, and one might not believe it ever quivered and shrieked so recently with startling madness.
Rodrick brought out the letter from Lady Hornwood and walked over to lady Quenlyn and gave it to her. She held eye contact with Rodrick when she took the parchment, and her façade of modesty momentarily dropped away while worry creased her brow. As she went on to read the letter, her expression straightened to the point her face became a still, blank mask.
Rodrick watched lady Quenlyn's face carefully as she read, astonished that she could have no reaction to the contents of the Hornwood letter. Other than the glint of concentration in her eyes, no other emotion showed. When she finished reading lady Greyjoy looked at Rodrick and her lips were pressed into a pale thin line as she returned the parchment to him.
"It is a blessing Lady Donella survived her ordeal and is well," she said, her voice filled with unspoken sympathy.
They both knew Lady Hornwood was far from well after what Ramsay put her through, but tact and propriety compelled them to maintain the conceit even now.
"Yes, it is."
"And Ramsay Snow?"
The woman's eyes had gone flat and cold. So did her voice. How easily did Lady Greyjoy's gentle demeanor collapse when she spoke of Ramsay Snow.
Rodrick never expected lady Greyjoy would crow that she had been the one to uncover Ramsay Snow's efforts to escape justice, but Rodrick thought the woman would express some anger at her captivity and demand an apology from him. Yet, lady Quenlyn's steady forbearance made it seem as though her mistreatment over the last month didn't matter—or that it ever happened at all.
The woman's only concern was Roose Bolton's bastard.
"What of him?"
"When will his execution take place?"
"Impossible to say, but I fear when he is put down it will not be in the North."
Rodrick half-expected madness to return to Greyjoy's eyes at the statement. Rodrick's refusal to kill Snow had driven her to the edges of sanity before, after all, but madness was not lady Quenlyn's response. Instead, shock, then outrage flared brightly in her green eyes. The fervor burned so intensely that she could not cloak it behind her false mask of composure.
"May I ask why not, ser?" she asked, her tone temperate, but a core of steel lurked not far beneath the surface.
"Before I came to see you, I sent a raven to King Robb informing him of Snow's survival, as well as his crimes against Hornwood, including those committed on its Lady. The decision of his fate is out of my hands until a raven returns with the king's commands. Though I expect once word reaches him in several weeks' time, His Grace will want Lord Bolton's bastard brought before him so he may pass the sentence himself."
"It will provide an opportunity to have Lord Bolton answer for Ramsay's wrongdoing, and discover how deeply he was involved in them, as well," lady Quenlyn said, her gaze turned to the floor.
Rodrick nodded. Though it was unlikely Lord Roose was to receive much more than a reprimand from King Robb. Were Robb to enact a harsher punishment without explicit evidence of Bolton's collusion with Snow it would be seen as a grave insult to the High Lord and endanger the war efforts.
Roose Bolton currently controlled the second largest army in the North and his command has been largely successful throughout the war in the South. He handily won all but one campaign he waged against Lannister forces. Even then, Jon Snow saved the battle from being a more devastating defeat. Bolton's success meant King Robb could ill-afford to lose Bolton's support, not over the actions of the man's feral bastard.
At most, Bolton will be compelled to make restitution to Lady Hornwood, likely in gold or material. Beyond that, Rodrick believed Snow's death at the end of King Robb's blade will be the bloody end of the matter. For what Lady Hornwood and her fiefdom suffered it was petty and inadequate compensation, but it was the only justice any of them could hope for. Though there was little doubt enmity would linger between both houses for years to come.
"Good. Then you understand the situation as it stands."
The young woman's eyes darted up to Rodrick. "Yes. I do understand," lady Greyjoy said.
Though her tone remained sedate, the steeliness in her green eyes caused the hairs on the back of Rodrick's neck to rise.
"You are no longer confined to your rooms, and Prince Bran has bid you may resume your duties as Lady of Winterfell."
Though with caveats. Lady Quenlyn had been right about Ramsay Snow, yes, but the shocking madness she displayed could not be ignored. Thus, her powers as Lady of Winter would be curbed, and she will be closely watched for further instability.
"Mayhaps," lady Quenlyn said, "the problem of Ramsay Snow can be resolved in a more… expedient manner."
Again, Rodrick felt uneasy. The woman's air of indifference towards any discussion that did not involve Roose Bolton's bastard was off-putting.
"What do you mean, my lady?"
"King Robb is fighting a war for justice and independence, and Lord Roose, his most powerful bannerman, commands the backbone of his army. This scandal is an unnecessary distraction that will cause undo tension when unity between Northmen needs to be strong."
Rodrick frowned.
What lady Greyjoy said was right, obviously so, but there was some hidden implication behind her statement he could not decipher.
"I do not grasp the meaning of your words, lady Greyjoy."
"What I mean, Ser, is that Ramsay Snow is just a bastard whose grasp has exceeded his means, and his actions should have no more weight nor importance than any other bastard should."
Rodrick's frown deepened.
"Speak plainly, lady Greyjoy," Rodrick growled impatiently. He did not care for the labyrinthine manner of her speech.
"Very well, then let me be clear," she said, hiking her chin before approaching Rodrick. She stood before him after two sweeping strides, her pale, slender hands still clasped primly over her stomach. "I believe it would benefit all if Ramsay Snow died after another attempt to escape justice."
Rodrick stared down at the woman and Lady Greyjoy stared back, brazenly, as if she did not just speak aloud a plot to commit treason and the cold-blooded murder of a man. A foul, deplorable man, to be sure, but a man. This time the woman did not have the pardon of madness. It was nakedly apparent her demeanor was cold, sober, and deliberate when she put forth her ruthless plan.
"Lady Greyjoy, I will take into account what you have endured recently and forget the disgraceful scheme you have proposed to me."
At this, the expectant, almost hopeful expression on lady Greyjoy's face fell into one of blinking surprise. Her shock that he would reject her treachery only inflamed Rodrick's ire. Did she truly believe he would discard every scrap of honor he held to his name to go along with such a devious undertaking?
Rodrick shook his head in disgust. She did not know him at all if so. The knight also realized he did not know lady Greyjoy, it seemed, but she'd revealed her true nature with her conniving.
Grimly, the knight realized he had allowed himself to forget from where the roots of her first grew—the barren, rocky black soil of the Iron Islands. Where hardly anything of worth ever flourished. Sadly, lady Quenlyn's years raised in Winterfell amongst the Starks had not gentled her as they'd all hoped. She remained the product of Balon Greyjoy's loins—perhaps nothing could have cleansed lady Quenlyn of the stain Balon Greyjoy's blood left in her, so deep was the contamination.
"Ser Rodrick—"
Greyjoy's duplicity made what Rodrick said to her next easier.
"Prince Rickon and the Frey wards are no longer under your lone supervision," he said. "Guardsmen will now accompany you and the boys at all times."
Rodrick felt some satisfaction when lady Greyjoy's hands dropped to her sides and a pained expression rippled across her face.
"I would never harm—"
"And know this, my lady: I will not entertain, or ignore such talk from you again," Rodrick added warningly.
Tears welled in lady Quenlyn's eyes, but Rodrick could feel no sympathy for the woman. Not after the dark deeds she advocated be done here today. His heart hardened, Rodrick turned and left Greyjoy's chambers.
When lady Greyjoy approached Rodrick the next day, the woman's manner of dress greatly differed from the day before. Now she wore a heavy cloak, a quilted gray doublet made of wool with a high collar lined with brown wolf fur, and black kid leather gloves. The legs of her gray trousers were tucked tightly into a pair of heavy leather boots.
Lady Greyjoy once more wore her hair in a familiar design of a neat braid ending in a tight bun. The style sharpened the appearance of the angular, indelicate features of her unpainted face. A face that was flushed deeply red from the cold.
The knight could hardly fault lady Quenlyn's choice of garb. Though it was inappropriate attire for a highborn woman on most any other occasion, but more than a foot of snow had fallen overnight and blanketed nearly every surface of the castle. The snow brought not just harsh cold, but also searing winds that would grow ever more ferocious as true winter encroached and tightened its grip over the land. Even with all the layers of wool, fur, and armor he wore, Rodrick wasn't entirely insulated from the brutal temperature.
The winter air had kept many of Winterfell's residents indoors. Only those with tasks that could not be ignored went about their everyday business. Mikken's forge still burned hot and bright, the brightest light shining in Winterfell. There was always iron and steel in need of crafting or repair. The stable hands walked through the barns and tended to fire kettles to ensure the horses did not freeze in their stalls. Joseth, the master-of-horse, also kept his hand in and lent his eyes and attention.
Guardsmen skulked the walls, walkways, and castle grounds in greater numbers than any other inhabitant. One hundred and fifty in all. Another hundred took part in the daily training routine Rodrick conducted, which he would only end once the winter snow piled high as the walls of Winterfell. The rest took to their quarters in the castle or made shelter in winter town until called back to service.
Rodrick had just sent the last group of guardsmen off the Training Yard and waited until the next group took their place. As those men filed in, Rodrick noticed the determination in lady Quenlyn's eyes as she marched towards him. It was possible from her garb, the Greyjoy woman had come to train with her blunted sword and bow, but he doubted it.
It was more likely, he feared, that she'd come to draw Rodrick into her wild scheme once more. The knight would roundly turn her away in either case. Lord Eddard's rule still stood, and the appalling suggestion lady Quenlyn had put forth to murder Ramsay Snow had unsettled Rodrick greatly, and the ire he felt towards her for doing so had not diminished in the slightest.
Lady Quenlyn's boots squelched with her every step as she came closer, and the hem of her cloak was heavy with a thick lining of mud by the time she stood before him. Neither spoke for several moments. Lady Quenlyn used those seconds to force the intensity in her gaze to temper. Deciding perhaps to make soft her next words to him as well.
"Ser Rodrick."
"Lady Greyjoy. Good morn."
She gave a short nod, then said, "On the matter of Ramsay Snow, I wish to speak further if I may."
"Now is not the time nor place to discuss such matters," Rodrick said, mindful of the silent audience that watched them. Though it might be truer to say all eyes were on lady Greyjoy. Many were curious to see if the woman was still in the throes of her rumored madness. "If they are to be discussed at all, as I have made my position clear when it comes to Lord Bolton's bastard."
Lady Greyjoy offered another quick nod. "So, you have, Ser, and I would like to apologize for my words to you before. I misspoke and I—"
"You do that quite often," Rodrick interrupted. Lady Quenlyn's face took on a questioning air and the knight continued. "You speak words you come to regret and need to apologize for. First, to Lord Robb, then Bran in the wolfswood, now to myself. Perhaps you should find wisdom in your past missteps and remain silent from now on."
Lady Quenlyn bowed her head, and her gloved hands clutched at the loose edges of her cloak. Then she took a deep breath and uncurled her hands from the fabric of her cloak and met Rodrick's gaze. Rodrick expected to see tears in her eyes, or timid acceptance of his chide, but he didn't. There was only resolution, not tears in lady Greyjoy's eyes.
"I cannot remain silent, not when it comes to him, ser knight," she said. "But… nor will I ask you to sully your honor again. I was wrong to do so."
"What more is there to discuss, then?"
"As Castellan is it not within your authority to try Snow here in Winterfell?"
Rodrick nodded. Had Ramsay Snow been brought back alive—which Rodrick now supposes he was—the bastard would have been tried and beheaded in Winterfell.
"It is."
"And is it not certain beyond all doubt Ramsay Snow is guilty of not only the abduction and rape of Lady Hornwood but also the brutal murder of eleven of Winterfell's men-at-arms?"
"Enough! Do you think I have forgotten the crimes that lowly, fell creature has committed for even a moment?" Rodrick said, careful to keep his voice low despite his anger at lady Greyjoy's words. There were already too many eyes on the pair and the knight did not want to attract more witnesses to their confrontation.
"Then I implore once more to dispense the justice Snow deserves! Should you carry out his sentence, none would find fault in your decision!"
"You believe you understand what it would mean to do so, but you do not grasp what it means to a man, especially a man in Roose Bolton's position, to lose his last son," Rodrick scoffed. "Nor do you comprehend the subtle politics at play."
For a moment lady Greyjoy's expression narrowed, clearly insulted, then her expression changed to one of surprise.
"Last son? What do you mean?"
"Lord Bolton's eldest, trueborn son fell ill and died some years ago."
Were Domeric Bolton still alive—if Roose Bolton had any living trueborn children at all—dispensing with Ramsay Snow would not be so thorny a prospect.
Rodrick did not know Lord Bolton well enough to guess at his true feelings for Ramsay Snow, be they affection or indifference, but the knight knew the man must have concerns regarding the continuity of his house. Without children to carry on his bloodline, or a wife to give him another heir, nor the opportunity to fill her belly with a babe if he did, the Lord of Dreadfort would consider the blood flowing through Ramsay Snow's veins to be of great value. It would not be passing strange if were he hesitant to surrender his surviving offspring, no matter what the bastard had done to earn the blade's kiss.
Hornwood ironically told the tale of what happens when every trueborn male of a house died. That house may fall extinct. House Bolton was ancient—they were once Red Kings, and second only to the Starks in terms of power and stature in the North. To allow the direct Bolton line to die out was doubtlessly unthinkable to Lord Roose.
Yet, Ramsay's fate is sealed—the bastard will die when brought before King Robb, and there was nothing Roose Bolton could do to stop that.
Lady Greyjoy's brow rose before she turned her head. Rodrick saw her eyes, dark with worry, darting rapidly from side to side as if she were quickly reading words on a page.
"Oh. Yes. That didn't… I had forgotten…" The woman returned her attention to Rodrick, her gaze was not as frantic as when she fell to madness, but it was a near thing. "Then it is even more so imperative that Ramsay be tried and sentenced here in Winterfell! Quickly!"
Rodrick took a deep, sighing breath before he crossed his arms over his chest and said, "How so, my lady?"
"You may patronize me all you like, ser, but you disregard me to all our peril!" Lady Greyjoy said through gritted teeth.
"And why should I heed such a warning? When he is brought before the king, Ramsay Snow will be granted no mercy, and he will die on his knees."
"If he reaches Robb at all," lady Greyjoy said darkly.
At first Rodrick thought the woman had once again suggested that he should slay Snow on his own accord, but from the fear in her eyes, the knight understood she meant something else.
She cannot mean…
Incredulous, Rodrick asked, "You think Roose would attempt to steal away his bastard?"
"You said so yourself: Lord Bolton is unmarried and without legitimate heirs. He also fights a war that has already claimed the lives of many lords and devastated many houses. One stray arrow or a Lannister's sword thrust could end the Bolton line for all time in an instant."
"Thus, you believe a great lord would commit such treason? Risk his lands, title, even his very life should he be found out just to protect one mangy bastard? And then what, my lady? Will Roose hide Snow away from the world forever? To what ends?"
Lady Greyjoy pursed her lips and said nothing. Though it was obvious she struggled to hold back her reply. Whatever words she kept to herself did not matter, for Rodrick's patience was depleted. He'd indulged the woman long enough.
"Indeed, you can say nothing because there is nothing sensible you may say." Rodrick shook his head at lady Quenlyn. "I will hear no more from you on this matter, my lady. Your claims are baseless, and they have driven you to believe outlandish conspiracies dance around a bastard who will be disavowed by his father, if he has not been already, not saved by him."
And then once again, Rodrick turned his back on the lady. As he made his way towards the training yard Rodrick spied many of the men milling about pretending as though they had not been watching the confrontation. From their expressions, despite attempts to keep their argument discreet, he and lady Quenlyn had not entirely succeeded.
"Get back to your drills!" Rodrick bellowed at the men and grimly eyed each one until they resumed their training.
Rodrick did not turn back to see where lady Greyjoy went after he left her. In truth, he cared little about where the lady took herself, so long as she dragged her paranoid babble away with her. Rodrick knew he perhaps owed the woman more than chiding and dismissal, but it was time to move on from whatever mood caused her to obsess over Ramsay Snow especially now that his death was all but assured.
There is war in the South and Winter has come. The sooner normality returned to Winterfell the better. Lady Quenlyn would do well to remember her place and her own duties and leave the matter of Lord Bolton's bastard to those better suited to the task.
As the next group of guardsmen was filing onto the training yard, Ben, one of the guards Rodrick assigned to the dungeons, came towards the knight with a by now familiar trot.
It has to do with lady Greyjoy.
Rodrick knew he was right even before Ben reached him and began reporting on the happenings in the dungeons in quick hushed words. After the guardsman finished his telling, Rodrick headed to the dungeons with gritted teeth.
If you will not, then give me the sword!
Seven hells, Rodrick thought. He should have known. She's gone to dispense with Ramsay Snow herself!
Once again Rodrick found himself descending into the dungeons. This time he didn't hear lady Greyjoy's wailing screams as he walked down the stairs, but the sound of a man's voice did reach his ears. When he stepped into the dungeon proper, he saw four people at the end of the immediate hallway that led into the depths of the dungeon.
One of them was Lew, another guardsman Rodrick placed in the dungeon to keep watch. The man was writhing, and groaning on the floor while his armor scraped noisily against the stone. Gavin and Donnis were also there. Gavin held his halberd in a defensive posture, the look on his face a cross between confusion and alertness as he tried to maintain eye contact with lady Quenlyn, though the sword point she leveled at his chest vied for his attention.
Donnis also held himself in a defensive manner, his hands raised as his eyes darted from the conversation between Gavin and the lady and the halberd held in place under her boot. Lady Quenlyn stood before the guardsmen; her legs parted in a stance Rodrick recognized instantly. He'd spent decades teaching it to every man and green boy who carried a sword in Winterfell.
Who taught her? Robb? Jon Snow? Rodrick wondered.
Indeed, in lady Greyjoy's hand was a sword, and even from his position behind her Rodrick saw the blade was a dull practice sword. The one she'd brought with her from Pyke. A sword the knight was certain he'd had removed from lady Quenlyn's quarters after her confinement.
The training sword wasn't the only thing Rodrick took note of. Opposite where Lew groaned on the ground, was his halberd. Immediately Rodrick understood why it lay so far from its owner's hands. The knight also pieced together how the scene before him came about.
Lady Greyjoy entered the dungeons, with her blunted steel sheathed, drawing little apprehension from the guardsmen who recognized the training sword and dismissed it and its wielder as a threat. And why not? From the moment lady Greyjoy picked up a blade everyone could see she'd wielded her sword with stiff arms, weak, unconfident swings, and a faulty grip. Rickon Stark posed more of a challenge with a switch found in the godswood. Lady Greyjoy had also discarded her cloak, revealing the men's attire she wore underneath, which would certainly look laughable to the guardsmen, further putting them off-guard.
Lady Greyjoy then asked them, Gavin, at least, as he was in charge, to let her pass. Gavin and the guards were under strict orders not to let anyone but Rodrick himself deeper into the dungeon where Ramsay Snow was held, and she was refused. Lady Greyjoy then made demands to be let through and was again rebuffed. Gavin knew his orders and knew those orders included turning lady Greyjoy away.
Then lady Quenlyn's words turned into a surprise attack. Lew got it first. 'It' was a swift boot to the manhood, and that put him down hard just as quick. Lady Greyjoy then kicked away Lew's fallen halberd at around the same time she disarmed a shocked Donnis, taking advantage of his surprise at her sudden attack. When the lady tried to go for Gavin, she hit her first hindrance. Gavin may have been caught off guard during the first few seconds after Lew dropped, but he was ready for her after Donnis lost his weapon. At that point, lady Greyjoy had no choice but to try again to talk her way through to Snow again, bolstered by the threat of violence and the intimidation of her station.
"I command you to give me the keys to the cells and then stand aside," lady Greyjoy said. Her voice was sharp and carried an authority Rodrick never heard the women use before. Not even with Rickon or the Frey boys.
"Nay. I have my orders. Leave here, milady."
When Donnis made to lower his hands, Lady Greyjoy kicked her leg back, the one holding down the guardsman's halberd, and sent it skittering along to the floor until it stopped inches from Rodrick's boots.
"Don't move," she said to Donnis, though her attention was still fixed on Gavin.
Donnis's hands shot back up in front of his chest. Neither man knew what they should do—though lady Quenlyn's blade was dull, it was steel and dangerous nonetheless. If they rushed her they could be seriously injured if she was fast enough to fend them off. And hostage though she may be, lady Greyjoy was highborn, and in terms of status, the woman outranked every man there. Even Rodrick himself, in some regards. Low-born attacking nobility and possibly harming them carried its own dangers as well.
"Milady, we have our orders. I will not let you through to the prisoner."
Gavin's words and his clear resolve made lady Greyjoy's sword waver, but her confidence quickly returned, and Rodrick saw her shift her weight and change her stance as if she were about to attack. Gavin noticed the movement as well and his grip tightened on his halberd.
"You will allow me to pass, or—"
"Or, what, lady Greyjoy?" Rodrick said, drawing the eyes of the group in front of him and Ben who'd followed him down. "Will you shed these men's blood? And what about me?"
When the woman turned to face him, Rodrick almost gasped. He was an old man and done with romantic notions such as love and beauty. He abandoned such things after the loss of his wife. Rodrick believed they should be left to young men and boys burgeoning on manhood. Rodrick only wanted to spend the remainder of his years raising his girl and serving the Starks and Winterfell.
He often mused when Jory and the other summer boys in the castle made swooning eyes at lady Quenlyn. The young woman could be pretty enough when she tried, though none would ever claim her a great beauty even then. Her features were too angular—she had a wide brow, a nose too big, and a chin too blunt. Wiry and lean, her thinness stole away any feminine figure that a man might desire.
No, lady Greyjoy would never be called anyone's ideal of loveliness and delicate charm.
Yet when Lady Greyjoy turned, her sword still pointed at Gavin and the intent to attack still tensed throughout her body, Rodrick wouldn't say he was suddenly struck by her beauty, but he was staggered by the radiance of her fierceness. Her narrowed green eyes blazed with the intensity and focus of someone who was without doubt and knew no hesitation. A warrior ready and able to do battle, no matter how bloody. And if there was any fear in the burning emeralds that made her eyes, Rodrick could not find even a shadow of it.
This was a woman who would not be stopped. Not by man nor god. And the wrath lady Greyjoy exuded at that moment gave her a raw beauty that was all her own.
"Tell me," Rodrick continued once lady Quenlyn's gaze finally landed on him, "will you then turn your blade on me as well?"
Barely an instant went by after the lady's eyes went wide and whatever had set them aflame with furious passion died. And she dropped her sword as if its handle burned her hand. Then lady Quenlyn turned full around, her arms were down at her sides and her hands shook so violently her fingers tapped against her thighs. Her body was bowed in a posture Rodrick could only interpret as one bent by profound shame.
The Lady Greyjoy who looked as formidable as any warrior from the legends of old just moments ago, now stood before Rodrick a broken, vanquished girl.
"Donnis, gather up that sword," Rodrick said.
"Yes, ser!"
"Lady… Lady Quenlyn, do I need to have you dragged back to your rooms, or will you return of your own volition?"
"I—I will…" She closed her eyes, and after a moment Rodrick saw her squeeze her hands into fists to stop them from trembling. She opened her eyes and looked at him with flat green eyes when she answered. "I will do as you command."
Rodrick studied her for a few moments and came to believe he could trust her words.
"Then go."
She nodded then lowered her head and marched passed the knight, flinching away as she did. Then she slowly made her way up out of the dungeons.