Songs of Steel: the Ballads of Rhaenyra

Part 3

Rhaenyra refused to pack her belongings. She sat on the edge of her bed, clutching Fat in her arms, while the handmaids bustled around, fumbling with her things. The room felt suffocating as each maid carefully folded the life she had known into neat bundles, preparing to leave it behind. These women, who had dressed her since infancy, who had watched her grow, would soon be nothing but distant memories, forgotten pieces of the Dreadfort. They would be replaced by strangers loyal to House Stark, and her life would be stripped of its familiar comforts. Only a few dresses, a handful of jewelry, and the barest reminders of her home would accompany her on this journey. She was expected to embrace the traditions of her new family, to forsake her past for the sake of duty.

As the first light of dawn crept through the narrow windows of the Dreadfort, her father entered the chamber. The rest of the household still slumbered, unaware of the quiet departure that was about to take place. Roose had arranged for a small, select group to accompany them to Winterfell-few men, just enough to maintain appearances until the noble houses of the NOrth arrived for the wedding celebrations. Lord Ryswell, her mother's father, would join them soon, along with House Dustin. Roose had insisted that every loyal member of his late wife's family be present, a calculated move to strengthen the ties that bound them to the Boltons. It was all part of making House Bolton a symbol of hope and renewal, with his daughter at the helm, the female heir to secure their future. But for Rhaenyra, it felt like the end of something irreplaceable.

She remained silent upon her horse, the chill of the North biting through her layers. Roose, his voice urged her to press on, repeating the virtues of the marriage he had arranged. He emphasized her destiny, a Stark for a match would elevate her. He insisted the throne of Winter would pass to her child, his grandchild. Yet Rhaenyra offered no reply. Her gaze drifted across the Northern landscape of desolation and ethereal beauty. The barren, frost-bitten lands of the Boltons faded to the verdant splendor of the North, where snowflakes danced on the evening breeze as twilight deepend. The days of travel stretched interminably, the vast expanse of the North seemingly boundless. The air, thick with mist, clung to her as the Bolton party pressed forward.

Rhaenyra braided her hair to keep it from her face, her fingers moving with ease. When not absorbed in the frozen nature, her eyes fixed upon her father's figure- a silhouette etched against the darkening sky. The back of his head, his shoulders, and the cloak that once belonged to her grandsire. Her gaze lingered on the intricate embroidery of the flayed man of House Bolton, its crimson threads catching the moonlight, a contrast to the rain that began to fall. This detail, the symbol of her heritage, she vowed to remember. Her father decreed their paths would diverge until his death- a fate she was destined to endure.

She offered a hand to the waiting squire to assist in getting off her horse. Winterfell was a day away. The riding party would rest for the night. The weather settled to a typical chill. The previous snows of the barren land stopped, replaced by a cool dryness that Rhaenyra welcomed. She rolled her fingers into her palm, the leather of the gloves creasing as she moved her hand. Her heeled boots sunk into the mud as she made way to her father.

"We shall make camp here," he declared, dismounting from his horse. Roose offered a curt nod to the men, who began to clumsily set about their tasks. Rhaenyra's lips tightened as she watched them stumble over one another. "You must present yourself well for the morrow."

She rolled her eyes at his condescension, slipping her hand through the crook of his arm as he offered it. With a dismissive huff, she followed him towards the trees. "You dismissed my maids. The Starks should be grateful I am capable of dressing myself," she said. Roose chuckled softly as he led her to a patch of woodland. He released her arm and bent to gather kindling, while Rhaenyra observed him closely. She attempted to crack the damp sticks together with a gloved hand, the effort producing only a muted sound. Her father pushed aside her braid, his fingers brushing against her neck as he adjusted the loose strings of her dress. She ignored him, "None of these are dry. Not suitable for kindling."

With a sigh, Roose returned her braid to its place and resumed his search for proper wood. "I refused your maids only because it is not customary. Not customary for a bride to bring the ways of her former house into her new home." His thoughts turned to the women who cared for his daughter far longer than his own wife, to the old crone who tended to her in her mother's final days. His voice remained firm, "And you shall have strong and loyal Stark women to serve you."