The Long Winter | Jaime Lannister X Stark OC | GOT/ASOIAF

As The River Runs

The Dreadfort was an imposing place. The castle had thick, high outer walls, built of dark stone and dotted with triangular merlons that looked like pointed teeth biting at the sky. Inside the walls, a great keep rose, smaller but taller than Winterfell's, along with several strategically placed, huge towers. No wonder Harlon Stark laid siege for two years, rather than take this place by storm. Strangely, the grim castle did not make Ross any more uneasy. The opposite, if anything. Even a dragon might have trouble breaking this.

Married life was... not terrible, in truth. To her surprise, leaving Winterfell was, whilst gut-wrenching, in many ways refreshing. She no longer slept in her childhood rooms that felt like they belonged to someone else, no longer had Lya's ghost facing her around every corner, no longer felt like a useless accessory to Catelyn, who was the Lady of Winterfell now, not her. Here, Ross was Lady of the Dreadfort, a role which she took to with determination. She was no longer the gaunt, hate-filled creature who haunted the halls of the Red Keep, and no longer trying to fit into the role of the girl she had been last time she lived at Winterfell.

Whilst she was saddened to leave her family, Wylla had come with her as Ren's nursemaid. Ross was grateful to the woman, wanting someone she trusted around her son at all times. Aside from Wylla, the rest of her household were Dreadfort people. The guards, the servants, and her handmaid, a girl a couple of years younger than Ross named Alys, who was quiet at first, though had started to warm up somewhat after Wylla befriended her.

Three months after the wedding found her sat in her chambers, whilst Alys helped ready her for the day. Ren played with a pair of wooden soldiers on the floor, as Wylla sewed in the corner. She was a handy seamstress, and once Ren grew out of needing a nursemaid, Ross would likely keep her on as such.

Ross was not in the best of moods, despite the winter sun shining bright through the windows, reflecting off the snow. She had spent the early hours of the morning bent over the privy, throwing her guts up, and her stomach was far from settled.

"You must be with child, my lady," Alys was saying as she did Ross' hair, with all the knowledge of a girl of six-of-ten. "My sister was just the same,"

"I was just the same, when I was pregnant with Ren," She said. "Though knowing my luck, it will be that the stew last night had gone bad,"

"It would be lucky, to fall pregnant so soon after the wedding," Wylla said, smirking. "Not implying anything about his lordship's prowess in the bedchamber, milady,"

Alys flushed pink, but Ross snorted with laughter. "Imply all you like, I will say it outright. I tire of lying on my back, staring at the ceiling,"

Her husband was not the Mad King. He wasn't violent, but he was cold, both of them sharing a bed out of duty alone. Lord Bolton preferred sleeping with various whores, serving girls and mistresses - she could not care less, as he was discreet about it - whilst Ross preferred to be left alone. The first time, she had frozen, waiting for it to go how it always did with Aerys, and had blinked in surprise when she realised it was over and she was not bleeding or in pain. After that, it was not so bad; a chore, certainly, but not an ordeal as it had been before. Once, she had tried imagining Jaime, though it was so different as to be impossible.

"At least you do not loathe each other," Alys said, optimistic. "My Ma remembers the old Lord Bolton and Lady Margaret used to fight like cats and dogs,"

Perhaps that was why the Dreadfort now, under its current lord, always had an air of hush to it. A peaceful land, a quiet people, her husband had said once. From anyone else, it would have sounded like the sentiment of a kindly lord towards his vassals. From him, it sounded sinister.