Chapter 2
"Lord Bolton," Eddard Stark greeted, his voice even. "You honor us with your presence."
"Thank you, my lord," Roose replied, inclining his head with measured politeness. "May I present my daughter, Lady Drin, and my son, Ramsay Snow."
Drin curtsied, her movements deliberate and fluid. Across from her, Ramsay dipped into a shallow bow, his lips curling slightly, a gesture more mocking than respectful. She could sense the tension simmering beneath his mask of civility.
"My lord," Drin murmured softly, her gaze fixed respectfully on the floor.
"Welcome to Winterfell," Lord Stark replied, his tone warm.
"Thank you, my lord."
"Lady Stark," Roose continued, turning to their hostess. "It is always a pleasure."
"Lord Bolton," Catelyn Stark replied, her attention shifting briefly to Drin. "What a lovely daughter you have."
"Thank you," Roose said smoothly, resting a hand on Drin's shoulder. "She is my pride and joy. And your children, my lady, how are they?"
"They are well, thank you," Lady Stark replied, her tone cordial.
Drin kept her posture rigid, eyes still lowered. Ramsay stood silent at her side, though she could almost feel his scorn for the polite formalities being exchanged.
"I look forward to the feast tonight," Roose said, his tone turning to business. "In fact, I have taken the liberty of arranging some entertainment for your hall."
"What sort of entertainment?" Lord Stark asked, brow arching slightly.
"My daughter has been blessed with a voice unlike any other in the North," Roose said, his hand settling firmly on Drin's shoulder. The subtle pressure was a silent reminder to perform her role flawlessly. "It would be her honor to perform for you and your guests this evening."
"That would be delightful," Lord Stark replied, his gaze shifting briefly to Catelyn, who offered a gracious nod.
"Yes, we would be most pleased to hear her sing," Lady Stark added, her smile as polished as her words.
Drin dipped into another curtsy, her voice measured and steady. "Thank you, my lord, my lady. I shall endeavor to meet your expectations."
"I shall endeavor to meet your expectations," Ramsay sneered as soon as they left the hall, his voice dripping with mockery. His sharp smile deepened as he sidled closer to Drin. "Many a man will be enthralled by you tonight, sister. Perhaps more than Father intends."
Drin refused to rise to the bait, her tone as even as her steps. "Let us hope so." She paused, turning her head just enough to dismiss him with a polite nod. "Please excuse me, brother. I must prepare for the feast."
Ramsay scoffed, his grin faltering for a moment as their father's shadow loomed at the edge of his vision. He said nothing more, moving away with a muttered curse.
"That was a good start," Roose said, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the air. His eyes scanned her from head to toe, his expression betraying no trace of warmth. "Make sure you look presentable tonight. There cannot be any mistakes."
"Yes, my lord," Drin replied, her voice unwavering.
Roose stepped closer, his gaze narrowing. His tone dropped into a chilling murmur, each word laced with quiet menace. "Do not disappoint me, girl. The consequences... well, I trust you understand."
Drin kept her face carefully composed, offering a small curtsy. "I understand, my lord. I will not fail you."
Her father gave a slight nod of approval before turning his attention to Ramsay. "You could learn from your sister's obedience," he said coolly.
Ramsay's mouth twitched into a forced smile, but his eyes betrayed a flash of resentment. "Of course, Father. I'll be on my best behavior."
"See that you are," Roose replied, his tone sharper now. "This feast is not just for pleasantries."
Drin stood silently, hands clasped in front of her, while Ramsay muttered something under his breath that only earned him a cold glance from their father.
Once Roose had swept away, Ramsay stepped closer to her, his smile stretching wide enough to unsettle. "Ever the perfect daughter," he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "Father's little songbird."
Drin met his gaze with practiced calm. "It's not so hard, Ramsay. You should try it sometime. Pretending to be civilized, I mean."
His smile faltered briefly before twisting into a sneer. "Careful, sister. I might decide to pluck that songbird from her cage."
"I think we both know what would happen if you did," she replied softly, though her tone carried the weight of unspoken warning.
For a moment, they stared at each other, the tension simmering between them, before Ramsay finally stepped back with a mock bow. "Go sing your pretty songs then, sister. Let's hope they don't notice the frost beneath your sweet voice."
Drin didn't respond, turning sharply on her heel and heading toward her chambers. Every step felt like walking a tightrope, balancing her father's impossible expectations against her brother's unpredictable malice.
Once inside her room, she allowed herself a moment to breathe. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, grounding herself. The thought of the feast, the northern lords, and the Stark family's watchful eyes pressed on her, but she reminded herself that she had prepared for this. Every smile, every note, every word had been rehearsed.
Still, a flicker of unease twisted in her chest. Ramsay's parting words lingered in her mind like a shadow. Would he truly leave her in peace tonight?
Drin opened her eyes and moved to the mirror, straightening her posture. Whatever lay ahead, she would not falter. She had survived the Dreadfort. She could survive this.
"Come in," Robb called as a knock sounded at the door. He had just finished fastening his doublet, brushing off imaginary dust from his sleeve.
The door creaked open, and Catelyn stepped inside, her face lighting up with a warm smile. "Robb, look at you," she said, her voice soft with maternal pride. "You look so handsome."
"Thank you, Mother," Robb replied, smoothing a hand through his freshly cut hair.
Catelyn's insistence on a haircut and shave for him, and for Jon and Theon, had been non-negotiable. He could still feel the phantom itch of the razor against his skin, but he had to admit it was worth it for the feast.
"I can't believe how fast you've grown," Catelyn said wistfully, her gaze sweeping over him as if to memorize the moment.
Robb gave her a boyish grin. "Well, my nameday is tomorrow."
"That it is," she agreed, stepping closer to adjust the folds of his collar with practiced care. "But tonight is important too. This feast isn't just about your nameday, it's about Winterfell. Most of your father's bannermen are here, along with their families." She hesitated, then added with a smile, "Including their daughters."
Robb groaned, his grin fading into an exasperated roll of his eyes. "Mother..."
Catelyn raised her hands in a gesture of innocence. "I'm just making an observation. That's all."
Robb crossed his arms, fixing her with a skeptical look.
"All I'm asking," she said gently, her tone placating but firm, "is that you keep your eyes open. There's no harm in that, is there?"
Robb sighed, his posture softening. "I'll keep my eyes open," he conceded.
"Good," Catelyn said, brushing a stray thread from his shoulder with a satisfied smile. She stepped back, giving him one last appraising look. "You're going to make a fine impression, Robb. Your father and I are proud of you."
Robb smiled, the warmth of her words settling in his chest. "Thank you, Mother."
"Now," she said briskly, her tone shifting to practicality, "hurry along. You don't want to be late for your own feast."
Drin stood before the polished silver mirror in her chambers, staring at her reflection as her maid, Larra, worked through the golden waves of her hair with a brush. The room was quiet save for the soft crackling of the hearth and the rhythmic scrape of bristles against her hair. The flickering firelight cast fleeting shadows across her face, giving her pale complexion an almost ghostly hue.
Larra's hands were quick and efficient, twisting and pinning strands into an intricate braid crowned with small silver pins shaped like snowflakes. "Almost done, my lady," Larra murmured.
Drin nodded but said nothing. She had already practiced every line of the songs she planned to perform. She knew her posture, her expressions, and her movements had to be flawless. Yet, for all the preparation, a part of her felt hollow.
In the mirror, her face was serene, a perfect mask of calm and grace. The Ice Princess of the Dreadfort. It was what they called her, wasn't it? The name had started as a jest among the servants, but it had followed her into every hall, whispered behind fans and goblets. She had earned it, after all. No one had ever seen her falter, not even Ramsay.
But behind that mask, her thoughts churned like a storm.
Tonight is not about me, she reminded herself. It is about Father. About the alliances he seeks. About proving that I can serve a purpose.
Her purpose. The word left a bitter taste in her mind. She had been taught from the moment her father had claimed her from her mother that her worth would be measured not by her desires, but by what she could offer others.
A pretty songbird. A strategic marriage. A tool.
Larra finished with the braid, stepping back to admire her work. "You look stunning, my lady," she said, a small, proud smile tugging at her lips.
"Thank you, Larra," Drin replied, her voice soft and polite. She reached for the delicate silver necklace on the table before her, a chain adorned with tiny, shimmering diamonds that caught the firelight. Her fingers hesitated for a moment before fastening it around her neck.
"Are you nervous?" Larra asked suddenly.
Drin blinked at the question, surprised. She turned her head slightly to glance at the maid. "No," she lied. "I am prepared."
As the maid stepped away, Drin turned back to the mirror. She reached out and touched the cool surface of the mirror with her fingertips. The glass distorted her reflection, twisting her features into something unrecognizable. For a brief moment, she envied the warped image. It looked free, chaotic, untethered by the expectations pressing on her shoulders.
There is no room for fear. No room for mistakes. She squared her shoulders, letting the Ice Princess rise to the surface once more.
"Let us go," she said, her voice cool and steady.
She would face the night as she always did: perfectly composed, with no cracks in her mask. Whatever feelings lingered in the depths of her heart would remain there, hidden, where no one could find them.
Not even herself.