Flayer

54. Ramsay

I found myself sitting by Edda's bedside day and night. The nurses who came and went warned me that her state was very fragile, and that due to the massive loss of blood she'd gone through during the birth there was a chance she might never wake again.

Now a nurse stood next to my chair, trying to give a reasoning for Edda's state as she breastfed my baby boy. "Lady Bolton first gave birth when she was nineteen, my Lord. And need I remind you her first labor was a near death experience as well. Her body has only weakened since then. She's... much too weak to carry any more children-"

But I could only hear excuses. "She was built for childbirth." I cut her off, "If she dies it won't be because of her. It'll be someone's fault."

She looked down at her feet. "I understand my Lord-"

"No," I clenched my jaw as my eyes gazed at Edda's sleeping body. "You do not. You do not understand."

The nurse handed me my newborn son: Roderick Bolton. Red haired and every bit like his mother. "The good news is that the bleeding has stopped." The nurse announced. "All we must do now is wait."

I nodded, relieved, "Have Lady Arena bring in my daughter and eldest son here. We will await her awakening as a family."

She bowed her head "My Lord... Lady Arena ended her own life before you came back to Winterfell. Lady Wylla watches over your children now."

I sighed, "Then call that whimpering bitch over here and make it quick."

"At once, my lord," she agreed, leaving me at peace.

Roderick had kept me up at night, and so I was quite tired. I leaned my head back against my chair as baby Roderick grabbed my index finger.

With a tired huff I mumbled "What are you doing, my son?"

He put my finger in his toothless mouth and sucked it, beginning to open his eyes a little more. "You already ate little Lord," I smirked. He had the same eyes as his mother and sister.

What if one of us dies when he is young, as did my mother? I asked myself. I, who didn't particularly love my mother, wondered what I would be like if she hadn't died when I was a child. Trying not to think about it too long I quickly concluded that I would desperately fight to stay alive just so he, his sister, and his "brother" could have a father and mother to protect him.

The silent handmaiden of Edda waddled in holding almost one-year-old Erika with her single arm as two-year-old Willard held onto her skirt.

"Children," I greeted, "Whimper." 

Willard stumbled towards me, and the handmaiden set Erika on the floor to crawl my direction. "You may leave," I told her as soon as I remembered I'd cut out her tongue.

Lady Wylla nodded quickly and left.

"Pa" Willard lifted his arms for me.

I laughed lightly, pointing at Roderick "I'm afraid my arms are quite full at the moment."

He started to whine as he always did. He liked it when I held him. All the while Erika had sat herself on my boots. I made room on my lap by carefully placing Roderick against my chest. I lifted Willard onto my left leg, and little Erika onto my right.

My little girl was so silent, nothing like Roose Bolton's youngest son. She'd grown black curly hair quite like my own.

"This is Roderick," I referred to him as he lay on my chest, "He is your little brother."

Willard took an immediate interest, staring at him intensely. But then he saw Edda and extended his arms for her. "Sh... Will... She's asleep-"

He started to whine again, and so I placed him by her side. It turns out all he wanted was to lay on a bed so that he could fall asleep, which Erika had already succeeded at before the sun had even set. And not too long after, while I watched the sun disappear from the sky, Roderick did the same.