The door to her room opened, the torchlight illuminating more of the gloom and barrenness that surrounded the Lady of Winterfell. Her bed was little more than a simple cot with a straw mattress that had no more thickness than a gold dragon, with a stiff pillow and a scratchy blanket that not even a city beggar would use.
She had a simple table and chair off in the corner of her ridiculously tiny room, both of which were nailed to the floor. Even though the only window was a small slit set high on the wall, her captors seemed to think that Catelyn would be able to escape using either as a way out.
Or a way to beat her captors senseless.
Catelyn sat up in her bed, garbed in a simple grey dress, her auburn hair dirty and loose around her shoulders and back. She had been the Boltons prisoner for a few weeks now, but she still had a spark in her eye. She would not break for these men. She was Catelyn Tully, wife to Eddard Stark, daughter to Hoster Tully. The Blackfish was her uncle and the Young Wolf was her son. These men could kill her, but they would not break her.
"My lady." Roose's whisper tone greeted as he walked into the room, one hand holding a three-legged stool and another one the dagger at his side.
The treasonous lord of the Dreadfort was dressed for war in leather and chainmail, his stupid pink cloak still clinging to his shoulders. Catelyn wanted to smack the calm look from his face.
"What do you want." Catelyn snapped, sitting on the edge of her bed, her posture perfect, her back as straight as a sword edge and her head held high.
"I trust the accommodations are to your liking." Roose continued, ignoring Catelyn's biting tone as he sat on the stool, leaning against the opposite wall.
"It's a cell." Catelyn scoffed. "Do not give me sludge and call it wine, you pig!"
Roose rolled his eyes. "I'm trying to be civil."
"What do you want Roose!"
The lord of the Dreadfort wagged his finger. "Come now, my lady, there are niceties that must be acknowledged here. I am the lord of this castle, you will address me as 'Lord Bolton' or 'my lord'."
"You are a traitor and naught but a piece of filth." Catelyn snarled. "You will receive nothing but hatred and scorn from me."
"So be it." Roose sighed. "If you do not show me the respect I deserve, I will have you stripped to nothing but your underclothes and thrown in an actual cell with the poachers, rapists, murderers, and thieves that I have yet to ship off to the Wall. Now tell me, would you rather be with them where my guards won't be able to protect you, or are we going to have a conversation here?"
Catelyn put all the hatred she could into her glare but still managed to nod slightly.
"Fine, my lord." She gritted out.
"That's better." Roose said with a slight smirk. "Now, let's catch you up with what's happened. Let's start with your son, the young and foolish wolf-boy. He fought Tywin on the banks of the God's Eye and was sent away with his tail between his legs and most of his force dead thanks to the dornish cavalry."
Catelyn frowned when she heard that last part. She knew that the Martells had hated both the Lannisters and Robert Baratheon for the part they played in the death of Elia Martell and her children at the hands of the Mountain. It makes no sense as to why they would be allies now. The only reason that would make sense would be that Joffrey was now arranged to marry Prince Doran's eldest daughter, meaning that Sansa would not have to marry the little monster.
The Lady of Winterfell got a small amount of pleasure believing that Sansa wouldn't have to deal with the blonde boy king.
"Is Robb dead?" Catelyn asked quietly.
Roose shook his head. "Unfortunately not. He and his army have retreated to High Heart where they are waiting for Tywin to arrive and finish them off. Now, how about your uncle and Ned's bastard? The combined might of the North and Riverlands have recently taken the Twins, but the northern lords are marching north alone under the command of the bastard Jon Snow."
The Leech Lord leaned forward. "How does that make you feel, my lady? Your son sent the bastard to save you. Oh, how Robb Stark loves his family."
Catelyn did not give in to the goading, merely shaking her head. "Perhaps he does not see you as a threat." She replied crisply.
Roose shrugged again and leaned back against the wall. "Be that as it may, Robb will soon be dead, and since your other sons are as well, the northern lords will abandon the bastard."
"You seem certain that Lords Umber, Karstark, and Glover will follow you?" Catelyn said curiously. "Dangerous arrogance for a man who has no true heir himself."
Roose smirked. "Joffrey legitimized Ramsay. I received the declaration myself a few days ago."
Catelyn smiled slightly as well, but it never reached her eyes. "The northern lords do not owe loyalty to the King in the Iron Throne, but the King in the North. They will never acknowledge your claim. It means nothing to them. And as much as I hate Jon, he is still the son of my husband, and you are a fool if you believe that the lords with Jon will put aside their love for my husband to follow you."
Roose's smile faded slightly. "Agree to disagree." He replied tersely. "But the dornish have marched to Tywin's aid, and the Vale is now doing the same."
The blood drained from Catelyn's face, and from the smirk that now reappeared on Roose's face, it showed.
"That's right. Your dear sister is helping the lannister destroy your son and his little rebellion. So much for Family, Duty, Honor." Roose gloated.
Catelyn shook her head, not believing what she was hearing. Lysa had declared the Vale neutral. The lords of the Vale would never fight against Robb, never against the son of Eddard Stark. It was impossible.
Or it should have been.
"What are you going to do with me?" Catelyn asked quietly, doing everything she could to keep her composure.
"When the northern lords see that their cause is lost, they will be welcomed under my banner," Roose explained, standing up and grabbing his stool. "Your son will be executed as a traitor, the riverlords will be ruled by whatever Frey makes it out of this war alive, and the Reach and Stormlands will heel and return to the fold of Joffrey's rule. As for you, you shall become my wife after the war is over and give me a proper heir."
With that said, the Lord of the Dreadfort strode out of the room, leaving a pale and shaking Catelyn behind him.
Line Break
Mors
"You're a bloody cunt, Arnolf!" Mors snarled, leaning forward and glaring at the crooked man sitting across from the two castellans of Last Hearth.
"Known each other for years! Fought with Ned in Robert's and the Greyjoy rebellions and now you show up on our doorstep with an army at your back!"
The uncle of the lord of Karhold glared back at the two massive men, one gnarled hand gripping the pommel of his blackthorn cane. The armor he wore seemed to hang off of his bent shoulders. The belt at his waist was pulled to its last notch.
He was a pitiful warrior to behold, but he had his second son, Arthur, behind him. The lad was young and well built, with the same grey eyes and gaunt face. His hand never left the pommel of the broadsword at his side.
"This does not have to end in bloodshed." Arnolf spat back. "Surrender to my men, pledge your loyalty to Bolton and let us be done with this business."
"Like hell we will." Mors' brother Hother growled. "The Greatjon is still alive, and until he says otherwise, House Umber is still loyal to House Stark."
"Don't you remember your oaths, KarSTARK?" Mors added savagely.
"The boy is about to be destroyed by the Lannisters and he's set aside his northern lords to marry a southron. Is that the king you want?" Arnolf argued.
"I've seen the woman in the North. I'd take a southron too." Hother said dismissively.
"Aye, I bet you would Whoresbane." Arnolf snapped, taking a jab at Hother's nickname. He had earned it when he had been at the Citadel in Oldtown training to be a maester. He had gutted a whore who had tried to rob him, though the story is not talked about around Hother because the whore had apparently been a man.
Hother staggered to his feet, his hand going to the knife at his side, but Arthor stepped forward, half-drawing his sword.
"Careful old man." The young warrior snarled. "We come under a banner of peace."
Mors put a hand on his brother's arm and pulled him back down into his seat as he got to his feet, walking around the table till he was chest to chest with the Karstark lad. Mors towered over the boy, his good eye glaring down at him.
Mors was a fearsome man; one-eyed, massive, and garbed in a cloak of a snow bear with its head as his hood. He did not need armor nor weapons to look dangerous. He had killed the crow who had taken his eye by biting its bloody head off. This boy playing at war did not scare him.
"Watch yourself boy," Mors warned. "I dislike oath breakers, but Rickard Karstark despises them. I wonder what he'll do to you when he gets his hands on you?"
"Rickard won't touch us." Arnolf scowled. "Bolton will make sure of that."
Hother chuckled darkly. "If you believe that then you're more of a bloody fool than we thought. Bolton cares about nothing and nobody. You are nothing to him."
Arthor looked between Mors and Hother before smartly taking a step back behind his father. Mors scowled under his bushy beard.
"Get the blazes out of our home," Mors growled.
Arnolf bobbed his head and quickly left, his son hot on his heels. When they were gone, Mors turned to his brother.
"How much food is in the larders?"
"Two months' worth," Hother answered.
"And men?"
"Two hundred swords, another fifty bows." Hother said. "What will we do when we run out of food?"
"Eat the bloody crows," Mors grumbled as he stormed out of the room.
Line Break
Theon
The last son of Balon Greyjoy groaned in pain as he regained consciousness. There wasn't a part of his body that didn't hurt. His hands were a bloody mess wrapped in blood-stained stripes of cloth. That's where the bastard had started before making his way to Theon's feet.
Finally, there was a large splatter of red on the front of Theon's pants.
The bastard himself was eating at a table in front of Theon, munching happily on fat, juicy sausages. He finally noticed that Theon was awake, a wide, cruel smile spreading across his face.
"Hello there." He said excitedly. "How'd we sleep?"
"What the hell did you do to me?" Theon groaned, barely able to keep his head up.
Ramsay regarded the sausage he had on his fork, wiggling it slightly. "The whores I had brought in, they gushed over the size of your cock. So I took it."
The Bastard of the Dreadfort had said it so casually that it took Theon a moment to realize what he said. His head snapped up, his eyes wide with shock and horror as his mouth tried to form words.
"You did what!" he cried.
Ramsay giggled madly. "I must say, the hounds loved it almost as much as the whores loved it." He laughed. "Unfortunately for them, they couldn't fucking shut up about it. So we went for a little hunt. Reek had quite a lot of fun with them."
Theon could barely breathe, his breath coming heavy and fast. He glared at the bastard. "You're a fucking mad man." He managed to shout finally. "You're a dead man!"
Ramsay chuckled and stood up, grabbing a thin knife as he did. He strode over to Theon, gazing him up and down like a butcher with a newly slaughtered pig.
"Oh, I don't know about that." Ramsay mused. "The fun is just about to begin."