Chapter 3
"A toast!" Lord Umber bellowed, his voice carrying easily over the chatter of the Great Hall. He stood, towering over most even seated, his goblet raised high. "To Lord Stark and his son!"
"To Lord Stark and his son!" the hall echoed in a rumble of voices, the clinking of goblets filling the space.
Robb raised his own cup, his movements deliberate, and offered the Greatjon a polite nod.
"Not a boy anymore," the Greatjon continued, grinning broadly, "but a man!"
A round of hearty cheers followed.
"I'll drink to that!" came a shout from one of the lesser lords, prompting laughter and more calls for refills.
The feast carried on around them, the energy of the room infectious. Servants moved quickly between tables, refilling goblets and piling plates high with roast venison, freshly baked bread, and steaming bowls of stew. The scents of spiced meats and sweet honey cakes mingled with the warmth of the fires blazing in the hearths.
Robb leaned toward Jon, seated beside him. "I suppose this is what happens when the Greatjon's had his fill of ale before the first course is done," he murmured, keeping his tone light.
Jon smirked, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. "Better him than Theon giving the toasts."
Robb huffed a quiet laugh, glancing down the table to where Theon was already deep in conversation with a group of visiting bannermen's sons, his gestures animated and his grin unmistakably smug.
"Enjoy it, Robb," Ned's calm voice cut through the hum of the hall. Robb turned to his father, who had leaned slightly toward him. "These moments of celebration don't come often."
"I am, Father," Robb replied earnestly.
Robb's gaze drifted across the hall. His bannermen had gathered for him, for Winterfell, and he felt the weight of their loyalty and expectations settle squarely on his shoulders.
As the Greatjon called for another toast, this time to the strength of the North, Robb raised his goblet again, this time with a touch more confidence.
Robb noticed Sansa whispering with her closest friend, Lady Jeyne, and a few other noble girls. They concealed their giggles behind their hands, occasionally glancing at the young lords nearby. Arya, on the other hand, appeared to be engaged in a spirited debate with two boys seated beside Bran and Rickon.
A servant approached Lord Bolton, leaning in to whisper something in his ear. Roose Bolton inclined his head and then addressed Ned, who promptly stood.
"My lords and ladies," Ned announced, his voice carrying over the hall. "Lord Bolton has kindly arranged for our entertainment this evening. His daughter, Lady Drin, will now honor us with a song."
As Ned's voice carried through the hall, the lively chatter dimmed to a murmur, then silence. All eyes turned toward Lord Bolton, who gave a faint, controlled smile and gestured toward the young woman, who had just entered the Great Hall. She moved with measured steps, her posture flawless, the picture of ladylike composure. The flickering torchlight caught the fine embroidery of her gown, glinting off pale silks that shimmered like frost.
All eyes were on her as she reached the center of the hall. She curtsied deeply, her movements fluid and deliberate, before straightening to meet the expectant gaze of the gathered lords and ladies.
"My lords, my ladies," she began, her voice soft but steady. "It is my honor to perform for you this evening."
She cast a quick glance at her father, who gave her a nearly imperceptible nod. She folded her hands before her and began to sing.
Her voice, rich and haunting, rose into the hall. The melody was one of love and loss, the kind that Northern ballads often told, where the biting winds of winter mirrored the aching hearts of lovers parted by war or death. Her tones were clear, each note precise yet deeply emotive, as though the song's sorrow belonged to her alone.
Robb found himself captivated, as did many others in the hall. Even Arya, who had been squirming moments before, seemed frozen, her eyes fixed on the singer. Sansa leaned forward slightly, her expression softening, while the Greatjon wiped a tear from his cheek with a loud sniff, unashamed.
The song wove through the air, binding the room in its melancholic spell. When the final note faded into silence, there was a brief pause before the hall erupted into applause. Lords and ladies alike clapped and cheered, their admiration loud and genuine.
Lady Drin curtsied again, her head bowed slightly. "Thank you, my lords and ladies," she said softly before gracefully moving to take a seat beside her father. Robb found himself staring at the lady. She was beautiful. Stunning even. And her voice… It was unlike anything Robb had heard before.
"I didn't know Lord Bolton has a daughter," Jon stated.
"Me neither," Robb murmured absently. "She is…quite something."
"You can say that again," Theon hummed. "I wouldn't mind having a private…concert from her."
Jon gave Theon a sharp look, his tone laced with disapproval. "You might want to keep such thoughts to yourself, especially around her father."
Theon shrugged, grinning mischievously. "Just saying what we're all thinking."
Robb ignored Theon's comment, his attention still lingering on Lady Drin as she sat beside Lord Bolton. Despite the applause, her expression remained serene, her hands resting neatly in her lap. She exuded a composed dignity that Robb found intriguing.
"Father never mentioned her," Robb muttered, his brow furrowing slightly.
"Bolton isn't exactly known for sharing family details," Jon replied. "And she… doesn't look like him."
Robb tilted his head, studying her features from afar. Jon was right, Drin's pale complexion and delicate features were a stark contrast to Roose Bolton's colder, more severe countenance. If anything, she seemed out of place beside him, as though she belonged to a different world entirely.
"She's beautiful," Robb admitted quietly, almost to himself.
Jon glanced at his brother, raising an eyebrow. "Careful, Robb. You know how the Boltons are."
Robb didn't answer immediately, his gaze distant. He knew Jon was right, dealing with the Boltons required caution. Still, there was something about her…
The applause died down as servants began bringing out the next course of the feast, the lively chatter resuming. Yet, Robb found his thoughts wandering back to Lady Drin, her haunting song echoing in his mind.
It didn't take long for him to notice he wasn't the only man in the hall watching her.
Across the hall, Drin sat perfectly still, her face unreadable. But within her, a whirlwind of emotions churned. The applause had been gratifying, a momentary reward for the years of training and discipline. Yet, as always, it was fleeting. Her father's hand rested on her shoulder, a silent reminder of the weight she bore.
"Well done," Roose murmured under his breath, his voice cold despite the praise.
"Thank you, Father," Drin replied softly, her voice steady.
She could feel Ramsay's gaze on her, sharp and probing, but she did not look at him. The hall's attention had shifted back to the feast, but she felt several pairs of eyes lingering on her.
"You caught their attention," Ramsay muttered with a sly smirk, leaning closer to her. "Maybe Father's plan is already working."
"Quiet, Ramsay," Roose commanded, his voice low and sharp.
Drin said nothing, her mask firmly in place.
"The dancing will begin soon," Roose continued. "I expect there will be many who will want to dance with you. I trust you know what to do."
"Yes, Father," Drin replied, her voice steady.
It still felt strange to call him Father. She had always addressed him as my lord, but he had instructed her to use Father while they were here.
"Also, you will perform again tomorrow at the nameday feast," Roose added.
Drin inclined her head slightly. "Yes, Father," she replied, her voice even.
The prospect of performing again didn't unnerve her; she had been trained to withstand much more. But the idea of dancing, being in such close proximity to strangers, subject to their scrutiny and whispers, was a different challenge entirely. Still, Drin knew what was expected of her. She would smile, curtsy, and play the part of the dutiful, enchanting daughter.
As servants cleared empty plates and refilled goblets, the musicians began to tune their instruments, signaling the start of the evening's dancing. The murmur in the hall grew louder, a mixture of excitement and anticipation.
Roose leaned closer to Drin, his voice a mere whisper. "Remember, charm them, but not too much. They must find you desirable yet unattainable, a prize worth pursuing. Do not forget your role in this, girl."
"I understand, Father," Drin replied.
From across the hall, Robb noticed the exchange, though he couldn't hear the words. Drin's serene expression didn't falter, but there was a tension in her posture, a subtle stiffness that hadn't been there before.
The first notes of a lively tune filled the air, and the hall came alive with movement. Lords and ladies rose from their seats, pairing off and stepping onto the cleared space in the center of the room.
Robb stood, his gaze briefly meeting Jon's. "Well, no sense sitting idle," he said with a small smile.
"Let's see if you can impress anyone," Jon teased lightly.
Robb laughed, though his attention was already drifting back to Drin. She was still seated beside her father, her eyes lowered, until a young lord approached her and bowed deeply. With a graceful nod, Drin rose, taking the man's offered hand.
Her movements were fluid as she stepped onto the dance floor, her gown flowing like water around her. The young lord, some heir to a minor house, Robb guessed, looked both awestruck and nervous. Drin's smile never wavered as they began to dance, her steps precise, her demeanor flawless.
Robb watched, unable to look away. He didn't fully understand why, but something about her presence commanded his attention.
"She's quite good," Jon remarked, following Robb's gaze.
"Yes," Robb replied absently.
"And judging by the way you're staring, I think I know who'll be asking for the next dance," Jon added with a smirk.
Robb shook his head. "I'm just watching, that's all."
"Of course you are," Jon replied, his tone thick with amusement.
Robb tried to refocus, but as the dance ended and Drin curtsied to her partner, he found himself wondering how it might feel to take her hand and step into the swirling crowd.
Before Robb could act, Theon was already bowing to Lady Drin, asking her to dance. She gave him a smile and accepted his outstretched hand. Theon's hand lingered lower on her back than necessary, and he pulled her closer with a grin.
Robb's jaw tightened as he watched Theon lead Drin onto the dance floor. His friend's smug expression was all too familiar; Theon always enjoyed pushing boundaries, particularly when he knew it would provoke a reaction.
Drin, however, remained composed. Her movements were as graceful as before, her smile poised, though her eyes betrayed nothing of what she might be thinking. The way she allowed Theon to lead suggested practiced restraint, an ability to adapt to any situation.
Jon leaned closer to Robb, his voice low. "Well, there goes your chance."
Robb huffed softly. "It's just a dance, Jon."
"Maybe," Jon replied, though his knowing smirk said otherwise.
On the dance floor, Theon whispered something to Drin, his lips close to her ear. She responded with a polite smile, but Robb noticed her steps quickened slightly, maintaining more distance between them. Theon, undeterred, leaned in again, earning a few chuckles from onlookers as he spun her dramatically.
Robb crossed his arms, muttering under his breath, "Idiot."
Jon stifled a laugh. "If it bothers you so much, you could always cut in."
"Not everything's a contest," Robb replied curtly, though the idea had already planted itself in his mind.
The dance ended, and Theon bowed exaggeratedly, earning another round of chuckles. Drin curtsied with the same polished grace, but Robb thought he saw a flicker of relief in her expression as she stepped back.
Before Theon could say anything further, Robb was on his feet. Crossing the room with steady purpose, he reached Drin just as she turned to leave the dance floor.
"Lady Drin," Robb said, bowing slightly. "May I have the honor of the next dance?"
Drin blinked, caught off guard for a fraction of a second, before she offered him a serene smile. "Of course, my lord."
As Robb took her hand, leading her back to the center of the hall, he felt a strange mix of anticipation and triumph. Her hand was light in his, her touch cool, yet he couldn't help but notice the elegance in every movement she made.
The music began, slower this time, a melody of quiet dignity. Robb adjusted his grip, meeting her gaze briefly. "You sang beautifully earlier," he said, his voice low enough to keep the conversation private.
"Thank you, my lord," she replied softly. "It was an honor to perform."
"Will you be singing again tomorrow?"
"I believe so," she replied politely. "If it pleases Lord Stark's son. It's his nameday, after all."
"Oh, I can promise you it pleases him very much, my lady," Robb assured, unable to hide his amusement.
Drin kept a polite smile on her face. "You are too kind, my lord."
"Forgive me, I am Robb Stark. I should have introduced myself earlier."
If she was surprised, she didn't show it; she simply smiled at him. "It's an honor to meet you, my lord."
"The honor is mine, my lady."
Robb found himself drawn to her composure, the way she seemed entirely unruffled by the attention she had garnered tonight.
"You must have worked hard to sing as you do," he ventured, guiding her through the next step of the dance.
"I have," Drin replied, her voice steady. "Music has always been a part of my life. My father believes it is…an asset worth cultivating."
Her choice of words intrigued Robb, though he didn't press. Instead, he said lightly, "Well, it's clearly paid off. I've never heard anyone sing like you before."
Drin inclined her head in acknowledgment. "That is kind of you to say."
For a moment, they danced in silence, the soft strains of the music filling the space between them. Robb felt strangely at ease, yet at the same time, he couldn't shake the sense that there was more to her than met the eye.
"Do you enjoy it?" he asked suddenly.
Drin's brows lifted slightly. "Singing?"
"Yes," Robb said. "You said it's a part of your life, but is it something you enjoy?"
Drin hesitated, her steps faltering for the briefest moment before she recovered. "Of course, my lord. I am grateful for all the opportunities I have been given."
"Well, you truly have a gift," Robb said earnestly.
The music began to fade, signaling the end of the dance. Robb slowed their steps, reluctant for the moment to end. As they came to a stop, he released her hand with a slight bow.
"Thank you, Lady Drin," he said, his smile genuine.
"The honor was mine," she replied, offering him a graceful curtsy.
As she turned to return to her seat, Robb remained where he was, watching her go. Jon's voice cut through his thoughts.
"You're staring again," Jon murmured from his seat, amusement clear in his tone.
Robb ignored him, his mind still lingering on the enigmatic lady with the haunting voice and guarded smile.
As the night went on, Robb danced with a few other ladies, but his attention kept returning to Lady Drin. She danced with one lord after another, some of them already quite drunk, their hands wandering a little too freely, but her smile and grace never faltered.
When she finally returned to her father's side, Robb had made his decision. He marched toward her determinedly and greeted Lord Bolton with a polite nod.
"Good evening, Lord Bolton."
"Good evening."
"May I ask your daughter to take a walk with me tomorrow? With a chaperone, of course."
Roose Bolton regarded Robb with his usual inscrutable expression, his pale eyes studying him intently. For a moment, the silence between them felt heavy, the sounds of the feast fading into the background.
Finally, Bolton inclined his head slightly, his voice measured. "You honor us with your interest, Lord Stark. If Lady Drin finds the proposal agreeable, I see no reason to object."
Robb turned his gaze to Drin, who had remained still throughout the exchange. Her expression remained poised.
"Lady Drin," Robb said, his tone softening, "would you accompany me tomorrow? I'd like to get to know you better, if that would please you."
Drin's lips curved into a polite smile, though her eyes held a quiet wariness. "If it pleases my lord, I would be honored."
"Very well," Roose said, his tone brisk, as though the matter was already concluded. "A walk it shall be. My daughter's maid will serve as chaperone."
Robb inclined his head respectfully. "Thank you, Lord Bolton. Lady Drin, I look forward to our walk."
Drin curtsied gracefully, her demeanor unchanging. "As do I, my lord."
As he returned to his table, Theon leaned toward him with a sly grin. "Making moves, are we?"
"Be quiet, Theon," Robb muttered, keeping his voice low.
Jon, ever the voice of reason, interjected. "Are you certain this is wise? The Boltons are... peculiar."
Robb shot him a look. "And what do you mean by that?"
"I mean," Jon said evenly, "you don't court a wolf without knowing if it's hungry. Lady Drin may seem pleasant enough, but the Boltons always have an agenda."
"I'm not blind to that, Jon," Robb replied, his voice tinged with a mix of frustration and conviction.
Across the hall, Drin remained seated beside her father, the picture of composure. Beneath her mask, however, her thoughts churned.
She had seen the way Robb Stark looked at her, and though his demeanor remained respectful, there was no mistaking the interest in his eyes.
"I must say, I'm impressed, girl," her father whispered, his voice low. "You've caught a bigger fish than I expected. Make sure you please him tomorrow."
Drin kept her expression serene, nodding faintly at her father's words as if they were praise rather than a thinly veiled command. Beneath the surface, however, her thoughts swirled uneasily.
"Yes, Father," she replied softly, her voice devoid of inflection.
Roose's hand briefly rested on her shoulder, a gesture that could have been mistaken for paternal pride but felt more like a weight pressing down on her. "Good. Do not forget what is at stake here."
"I won't," she assured him, her tone as composed as ever.
Her father's words echoed again in her mind. "Make sure you please him tomorrow." It wasn't about her; it was about the Boltons' place in the North, their power, their survival. She was a tool, finely sharpened and wielded with precision.
Drin clasped her hands tightly in her lap, her gaze lowering for a moment. Tomorrow would be another performance, though this one far more subtle than the song she had sung that night.