Roose I
The lowest chamber beneath the Dreadfort was colder than the grave, though no grave ever held such patient screams.
Torchlight flickered across walls of damp stone, casting shadows that danced like flayed men trying to remember how to stand.
The air stank of iron, salt, and the sweet rot that came when life clung too long to flesh that no longer wished to bear it.
Roose Bolton sat on a low stool of blackened oak, legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded neatly in his lap.
He wore no cloak; the chill suited him.
Before him, suspended by wrists and ankles from iron chains bolted into the ceiling beams, hung a boy.
The boy's abdomen had been stripped in a perfect rectangle from ribs to pelvis, the raw muscle beneath glistening wetly in the torchlight. Blood dripped in slow, deliberate rhythm onto the flagstones below, pooling in a wide, dark mirror.
His head lolled forward, sweat-matted hair plastered to his face, but his eyes, those mad, pale eyes, still burned with something that refused to be called defeat.
"Father!" The word tore from Ramsay's throat, raw and ragged. "Father, please—"
Roose did not answer. He merely tilted his head, the pale curve of his cheek catching the firelight like polished bone.
"Proceed with care, Domeric," he said quietly. His voice was soft, almost gentle, the way one might speak to a skittish horse. "The line must be clean. No ragged edges. Precision is courtesy."
Domeric Bolton, tall and lean, clad in a leather apron stained dark from years of similar lessons, stepped forward. In his gloved hand he held a thin, curved blade—more like a paring knife than a flayer's tool, delicate and cruel. He glanced once at his father, then at the suspended wreck of his half-brother.
Ramsay's lips peeled back in a snarl. "You're nothing. A milk-blooded Dustin whelp playing at lord's son. I'm the one who—"
Domeric did not pause. The blade kissed the skin just below Ramsay's left nipple, tracing a slow, deliberate spiral outward. Ramsay's scream rose, high and keening, then broke into wet sobs.
Roose watched without expression. His mind, however, wandered elsewhere.
A raven had come that morning. The parchment still rested in the breast pocket of his doublet, folded once, the direwolf seal broken but not discarded. Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell, betrothed to Arianne Nymeros Martell, Princess of Dorne. An alliance sealed in ink and blood, binding the ice of the North to the fire of the south. Dornish spears, Dornish gold, Dornish cunning—all tied to House Stark by marriage bed and cradle.
Roose considered the implications with the same cool detachment he applied to the boy bleeding before him.
Eddard Stark had always been honorable—tediously so. But this? This was something else. A lord paramount reaching across half a continent for allies who owed the Iron Throne nothing, whose house nursed grudges of the Targaryen dynasty.
The Martells was no fool; he would not send his heir north without purpose. Spears and ships were one thing. A Dornish princess in Winterfell, bearing Stark children with sand in their veins and venom in their smiles—that was another. The North would grow stronger. House Stark would grow stronger.
And strength, Roose knew, was not always shared.
He had hoped—quietly, patiently—for a different path. A fracture. A moment when the Young Wolf stumbled, when the bannermen remembered old slights, when the Boltons might rise from the shadow of the direwolf. But this betrothal closed doors Roose had thought still ajar. Dornish eyes would watch the North now. Dornish blades would guard it. The game grew narrower.
He would write to Lord Stark, of course. A courteous letter, full of concern. The North was harsh; a southern lady might find the winters unkind.
The smallfolk were superstitious; they whispered of foreign ways, of septs and sand vipers.
Perhaps the match could be reconsidered—for the good of the realm, naturally. Subtle barbs, wrapped in silk. Enough to plant seeds of doubt without ever showing the hand that sowed them.
A fresh scream yanked him back to the present.
Ramsay thrashed against the chains, blood spraying in fine arcs. "I'm better than him, Father! I'm the one who hunted for you, who brought you sport! He's weak—he pities me, the fool! I'd have killed him years ago!"
Domeric paused, blade hovering above the fresh strip of skin he had begun to peel. He looked down at Ramsay with mild distaste, as though examining a poorly cut joint of meat.
"The only reason I have not killed you until now," Domeric said softly, "is pity. But pity dies when one learns the truth. You hunted farm girls for sport. You raped them. You hunted them again when they tried to run. I have heard the stories—every one has. The North remembers, bastard. Even when lords pretend not to."
Ramsay spat blood. "You're no true Bolton. You're—"
Domeric's knife moved again—quick, precise. A thin ribbon of skin came away clean. Ramsay howled.
"I will not waste your meat," Domeric continued, calm as though discussing the weather. "The hounds have been hungry. They'll appreciate the meal more than you ever appreciated the girls you broke."
Roose felt a flicker of something that might have been pride. Not enough to speak it aloud—praise was a blade best sheathed—but enough to note it.
Domeric had come back from Winterfell changed. The boy who had been fostered with the Dustins had been soft, bookish, timid. Letters from Lady Barbrey had described a quiet lad who preferred harps to swords. Then Robb Stark had ridden to Dreadfort on one of his sweeps against outlaws, and Domeric had ridden out with him, Roose had given his permission after learning about the other Houses had men in the Winter Sons.
Domeric was determined.
When they returned, weeks later, the boy who stepped through the gates was colder, quieter, his eyes holding a new stillness. He spoke less. He watched more. And when Ramsay had tried his usual game, taunts, threats, the casual cruelty of a bastard who thought himself untouchable, Domeric had simply looked at him, and Ramsay had faltered.
Roose had seen the shift. Had approved of it silently.
Now, watching his trueborn son flay his bastard with the same dispassionate care one might use to carve a roast, Roose allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.
Domeric would make a better Lord Bolton than Ramsay ever could.
The North would require such men in the years to come—men who understood that mercy was a luxury, and that power was kept by those willing to skin it from the bone.
Ramsay's screams grew weaker, dissolving into wet gasps. His eyes rolled back, but Roose knew he would not die yet. Not until the lesson was complete.
Roose rose from his stool, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves.
"Enough for today," he said quietly. "We will continue tomorrow. Salt the wounds, Domeric. Keep him alive."
Domeric inclined his head. "As you command, Father."
Roose paused at the foot of the stairs, glancing back once at the ruin that had once been his bastard son. Ramsay's lips moved, forming silent curses or pleas—Roose neither knew nor cared.
He climbed the twisting stair, the screams fading behind him until they were only echoes in stone.
In his solar he would write the letter to Winterfell. Courteous. Concerned. Concerned enough to sow doubt, but never enough to earn rebuke.
The North was changing. Alliances were shifting like sand underfoot.
Roose Bolton would make certain that when the ground opened, it opened beneath House Stark.
And when it did, the flayed man would be waiting.
—---
Robb VIII
He stood before the heavy oak door of Arianne's chambers, the torchlight in the corridor flickering like uneasy spirits.
The castle was quiet at this hour, the distant howl of wind through the battlements the only sound echoing his restless heart.
He had paced his own room for what felt like an eternity after supper, the dream from the night before still clawing at his mind—the colossal eyes in the sky, the direwolf head glowing blue, the world cracking apart. It had left him moody all day, and now, here he was, drawn to her like a moth to a desert flame.
He raised a hand, hesitated, then knocked softly. The door creaked open almost immediately, as if she had been waiting.
"Come in," her voice called, warm and inviting, laced with that Dornish lilt that always made his pulse quicken.
Robb pushed the door wider and stepped inside. The chamber was dimly lit by a single brazier in the corner, casting a golden glow over the stone walls draped with southern tapestries—scenes of sunspear towers and blooming cacti, a stark contrast to Winterfell's austere grey. The air smelled of sandalwood and spice, heavy and intoxicating.
Arianne stood by the window, her back to him at first. She turned slowly, and Robb's breath caught in his throat.
She wore a silk gown, thin as a whisper, the fabric clinging to her curves like water on skin.
It was sheer enough that the firelight silhouetted her form perfectly—nothing beneath it, no smallclothes, no barriers.
Her nipples peaked against the silk, dark and inviting, drawing his eyes despite his best efforts to look away.
The gown fell to her ankles in a cascade of crimson, but it hid nothing, teasing everything.
She smiled coyly, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief. "Robb. I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind."
He swallowed, closing the door behind him with a soft thud. "No. I... I came."
"Good." She gestured to the bed, piled high with furs and pillows. "Sit. Make yourself comfortable."
Robb moved to the edge of the bed, lowering himself onto it.
The mattress dipped under his weight, and he felt suddenly aware of his own clothes—the heavy wool tunic, the cloak pinned at his shoulder, the boots still laced tight.
He was overdressed, armored in northern restraint, while she moved like liquid fire.
Arianne approached slowly, her hips swaying with that deliberate grace he had noticed so many times before.
She closed the distance between them, pressing her body against his knees, her warmth seeping through the silk.
Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders as she leaned in, her breath hot against his ear.
"Now," she murmured, "tell me what troubles your sleep."
Robb's hands twitched at his sides, itching to touch her. "Nightmares. Sometimes... they come unbidden. Shadows and cold. Things I can't explain."
She pressed closer, her breasts brushing his chest, her lips grazing his neck.
"Shadows and cold? In the North? How unusual." Her tone was teasing, but her body was insistent, grinding softly against him. He could feel the heat of her through his clothes, the soft yield of her flesh.
"Arianne..." He trailed off as she nipped at his earlobe, sending a shiver down his spine.
"Maybe tonight," she whispered, "I can help you forget them."
With that, she climbed onto his lap, her legs spreading wide to straddle his waist.
The silk rode up her thighs, exposing smooth, sun-kissed skin.
Her weight settled against him, intimate and bold, her core pressing against his growing arousal.
Robb's hands instinctively went to her hips, steadying her, feeling the curve of her beneath the thin fabric.
She reached up, her fingers deftly unclasping his cloak. It fell away with a rustle, pooling on the bed behind him.
Then her lips found his neck, kissing softly at first, then with more insistence—sucking, nibbling, her tongue tracing patterns that made his breath hitch.
"Arianne," he said again, voice rougher now. "Is this... right? We're betrothed, but—"
She pulled back slightly, her eyes locking onto his.
"Even if we weren't," she said, her voice low and husky, "I might have done this before I left the North. You're a man worth tasting, Robb. So don't think about anything tonight but me."
Her words ignited something in him—a spark that chased away the lingering shadows of the dream.
He captured her mouth in a kiss, gentle at first, his lips brushing hers tentatively, exploring.
She tasted of sweetwine and spice, her tongue meeting his with eager response.
His hands roamed her back, feeling the silk slide under his palms, the warmth of her skin beneath.
Arianne moaned softly into the kiss, her fingers working at the laces of his tunic. She tugged it open, exposing his chest, her nails raking lightly over his skin.
Robb broke the kiss to pull the tunic over his head, tossing it aside. Her gown was next—he gathered the hem and lifted, sliding it up her body.
She raised her arms, letting him peel it away, revealing her fully naked form.
Her breasts were full and firm, nipples hardened in the cool air; her waist curved into generous hips, and between her thighs, a dark thatch of curls that promised heat.
"Gods," he breathed, his eyes drinking her in. "You're beautiful."
She smiled, pressing her bare chest to his. "Show me."
Robb's hands cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples gently, eliciting a gasp from her. He kissed her again, slower this time, savoring her.
His mouth trailed down her neck, to her collarbone, then lower—to one breast, taking the peak between his lips, sucking softly. Arianne arched against him, her fingers tangling in his hair.
"Yes," she whispered. "Like that."
He was gentle, worshipping her body with touches and kisses, exploring every curve. His fingers dipped between her thighs, finding her already wet, slick with desire.
He stroked her slowly, circling her clit with feather-light pressure, drawing moans from her lips.
She rocked against his hand, her breath coming in short gasps.
"Robb... please..."
He stood, lifting her with him, then laid her back on the bed.
He shed his breeches quickly, his cock springing free, hard and aching.
Arianne's eyes widened appreciatively, her hand reaching out to stroke him. He groaned at her touch, but pulled away gently.
"Not yet."
He knelt between her legs, spreading them wider.
His mouth found her core, tongue delving into her folds, tasting her sweetness.
She cried out, hips bucking against his face.
He held her down with one hand on her thigh, the other slipping a finger inside her, then two, curling them to find that spot that made her tremble.
Arianne's hands fisted the furs, her body arching as pleasure built. "Robb... oh gods..."
He didn't stop until she shattered, her walls clenching around his fingers, her cries echoing in the chamber.
When she came down, panting, he rose over her, positioning himself at her entrance. "Ready?"
She nodded, pulling him down for a kiss. He entered her slowly, inch by inch, gentle and careful, giving her time to adjust.
She was tight, hot, enveloping him perfectly.
He groaned into her mouth, burying himself to the hilt.
They moved together at first—slow, rhythmic, her legs wrapping around his waist. But as the heat built, something shifted in Robb.
The gentleness gave way to a fiercer need. He thrust deeper, harder, his hands pinning her wrists above her head. Arianne gasped, but her eyes burned with approval.
"Yes," she moaned. "Take me."
He did. His pace quickened, hips snapping against hers, the bed creaking under them.
He marked her neck with bites and sucks, leaving red blooms that would bruise by morning.
One hand gripped her breast, squeezing as he drove into her, the other holding her hip in a possessive grasp.
She came again, crying his name, her nails digging into his back. But he didn't stop.
He flipped her onto her stomach, entering her from behind, one hand fisting her hair gently, pulling her head back to kiss her shoulder.
His thrusts were relentless now, dominating, claiming.
He reached around to stroke her clit, pushing her over the edge once more.
"Robb... I can't... again..."
"You can," he growled, voice rough with desire. "For me."
He pulled out only to turn her onto her side, lifting one leg over his shoulder. Deeper this way, he pounded into her, sweat slicking their bodies.
She trembled, overstimulated, but her moans were pure ecstasy.
He came finally, spilling inside her with a guttural groan, but even then, he wasn't done.
After a brief respite—kissing her softly, letting her catch her breath—he started again.
This time on his back, her riding him. But soon he took control, hands on her hips, guiding her up and down with increasing force.
He marked her breasts, her thighs, leaving hickeys like badges of his possession.
By the third round, Arianne was limp, exhausted, her body quivering from multiple climaxes.
Robb held her close, thrusting slow and deep now, drawing out her pleasure until she begged for mercy.
"Enough... Robb, gods..."
He finished with her, collapsing beside her, both spent.
---
Arianne lay tangled in the furs, her body aching in the best possible way. Sweat cooled on her skin, and every inch of her throbbed with the aftermath of Robb's passion.
She turned her head to look at him—his auburn hair tousled, chest heaving, blue eyes dark with satisfaction.
He was a possessive lover, this Young Wolf of hers. From the moment his gentleness had cracked, giving way to that dominant fire, he had claimed her utterly.
She traced a finger over one of the marks on her neck—a deep red spot, already blooming into a bruise.
He had left them everywhere: on her throat, her breasts, the insides of her thighs. Like a wolf marking his territory, possessive and primal.
She smiled to herself, enjoying the sting. In Dorne, lovers were free, but this... this was something fiercer.
He had dominated her, tiring her out with round after round, his stamina seemingly endless. Gentle at first, yes—those soft kisses, the careful touches that made her melt. But then he had taken control, pinning her down, thrusting with a force that left her breathless.
She had loved it. The way his hands gripped her hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, the way he growled her name as he drove into her again and again.
He had flipped her, positioned her, used her body like it was his to command—and she had let him, reveling in the surrender.
In Sunspear, she was the one who led, the princess who took what she wanted. But with Robb, felt like a thrill, a release.
His possessiveness stirred something deep in her, making her feel desired, owned in the most intoxicating way.
"You're insatiable," she murmured, rolling onto her side to face him. Her voice was hoarse from crying out.
He chuckled, pulling her closer, his hand resting possessively on her ass. "You bring it out in me."
She nuzzled his neck, tasting the salt of his skin.
The marks he left would be visible tomorrow—spots scattered like stars across her body.
She didn't mind. Let the North see. Let them whisper about the Dornish princess and her northern lord.
It only made the heat between them burn brighter.
As exhaustion pulled her toward sleep, Arianne thought of how he had tired her out—three rounds, each more intense than the last.
Her thighs trembled still, her core aching from his relentless pace. But gods, she enjoyed it.
The way he had left her marked and sated.
She would invite him again tomorrow night. And the next.
For now, she closed her eyes, content in his arms, the shadows of his nightmares forgotten in the fire they had kindled.