𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐁𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐒, ramsay bolton

ooi. one

°∗.°∗.°∗.° || chapter one.

• rhea bolton ii.

297 A.C. // the Dreadfort

          𝕯𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖈 𝕭𝖔𝖑𝖙𝖔𝖓 was not yet cold and in the ground when Rhea's father informed his last living child - his daughter, a girl of five and ten - that he would be bringing his bastard son by a miller's wife to the Dreadfort. A boy bearing the name Snow and yet sharing the same father as her own would come to live in her home even if he was responsible for the death of her beloved brother.

Rhea had heard the tales, how could she not? The story of the miller who had not asked the Lord of Dreadfort leave to wed was murdered by the Lord of Dreadfort and his wife forcefully taken under the tree in which the poor man hung. The dreadful act led to the conception of a son the miller's wife named Ramsay.

Rhea's long-dead mother had never spoken of it and tensed up when the woman and her son were mentioned. Yet she was a lady who brushed off the rumors and the whispers that circulated through the Dreadfort. Her young daughter had asked of her older, half-brother brother and the woman bid her to never speak of it, never to speak of his name.

Ever the faithful and loyal child, Rhea had never uttered the name since. That is until she walked through the corridors of her home and towards the courtyard. She was dressed in all black with a gown of warm fabric that was tight around her torso and flowed into loose skirts at her hips. Her breasts were slightly noticeable as the dress was for a woman, for that was what she was then and on - a woman and a lady of House Bolton.

Her shoulders were adorned with black furs of an unfortunate wolf that Roose had shot down with an arrow. He had it commissioned for his only daughter and presented it to her upon Domeric's death. It was his way of comforting her in his own way.

She had thanked him most graciously for the gift.

Black locks, the color of ink, fell down her back and to the beginning of her skirts. The two front pieces of her hair were braided and clicked at the back of her head, tumbling down to meet with the rest of her hair. Her pale skin glowed in the faint light of the halls and her eyes were the same as her father "paler than stone and darker than milk." Many complimented her on her looks and even she knew she was a beauty.

Her father commented on it from time to time, calling her "his beautiful ghost." She could only agree with him for her skin was as pale as snow and it often looked as though she was more dead than alive.

Behind the last two surviving Boltons, three of the Little Lady's Boys followed them. They had been given such a name a few years prior for Lord Roose had either assigned them to watch over his daughter or they had sworn fealty to her for their own motives none could quite understand.

She felt safer with Alton - the kennel master's son - a man of twenty; Gaylon - the bastard son of Lord Glover - a man of six and ten; and Elam - a guard of the Dreadfort - and a man of five and thirty trailing behind her and her father. They were her protectors in a way and gave her a courage she would not have if they were not there.

She only despaired as Damon was not there, trailing behind her with a greased whip in hand and a glint in his blue eyes.

She gripped her father's arm tightly as they entered the courtyard, a cold wind hitting her face and making the paleness of her cheeks crimson. Her hair blew slightly in the wind and her breath was white when it escaped her soft, pink lips.

"Are you cold, my dear?" Her father asked in a stiff, unfeeling voice. His eyes darted down to her for a moment only to see her shake her head, "Good. Your half-brother should be here soon, very soon."