THE BLOODS OF BOLTON | GAME OF THRONES

CHAPTER 11

He laughed. "Well, I do not intend to lose."

"No man ever does. But you see, Ser Eric, I'm afraid I have no favors to give, and to a hedge knight least of all."

His eyes widened. "You refuse?" He glanced at his squire, who merely shrugged his shoulders in response. "Well, if you will not give me your favor, sweet lady, perhaps you would be kind enough to give me a smile at least? One smile from you, and I think I could defeat every man here."

Speechless, Drucilla looked to her governess for help. The old woman stepped forward immediately and said, "My lady, we really must be going. You have dawdled quite long enough, I think." She glanced sharply at the young hedge knight and then turned to leave. Drucilla quietly followed, as did her cousins, but Tally left the knight with a kind word and a gentle wave: "I wish you luck, handsome knight."

As for Drucilla, she looked back only once, and when she did, the knight was still smiling at her.

══════════════════

The young ladies arrived at the gallery just as the horn sounded, signaling the start of the next match. Lord Roose Bolton was sitting in the place of high honor, beneath a canopy of pink and red, with his wife seated on his right and his liege lord, Eddard Stark, on his left. The two lords spoke but a few words to each other and watched the competition with feigned interest. 

Throughout the afternoon, the cup-bearers came and went. At each pass, Lord Bolton refused to drink but one cup of his spiced wine; and what he refused, his wife gladly consumed herself. She was just about to take her third cup when her husband suddenly reached over and seized her wrist with a firm grip.

"I think you've had quite enough wine, dear," he said, keeping his eyes forward; then he made a gesture with his hand, and the servant took the wine cup from his lady and left.

Lady Bolton hid her anger behind a smile. "Your concern for me is most flattering, but I am not a child." The cup-bearer, she called him back and had him pour her the third cup she desired. She gulped it down while her husband watched; then, with a wicked glimmer in her eye, she called for a fourth cup.

Her younger sister, Lady Barbrey Dustin of Barrowton, was sitting with her brothers on the right side of the gallery. Her grey-and-brown hair was tied back in a widow's knot, out of respect for the late Lord William Dustin. The long years spent as a widow had turned her heart bitter and formed tiny wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, but Lady Barbrey was still as handsome as her older sister, with a longer face and fuller figure. She smiled when she saw her niece approaching.

"Drucilla, dear, that collar seems so tight," she said, tugging gently at her own collar. "It must be strangling you."

Drucilla stood proudly. "This is the traditional dress worn by the women of House Bolton," she replied. "My late great-grandmother, Rubina Bolton, favored a similar style, as did her mother before her, and her mother before her. So you see, I'm simply preserving my family's legacy."

Her aunt nodded. "I heard Rubina Bolton was mad," she said, bringing a frown to Drucilla's lips. "I heard she bathed herself in virgins' blood and disfigured the faces of all the beautiful women in the land, slicing at their skin with a sharp flaying knife." She went through the motions with her hand. "In her final years, she became convinced that all her servants were conspiring to murder her, and so she ordered them all to be hanged in the Dreadwood, every last one of them."

Drucilla smirked. "Perhaps they were conspiring against her. Do you know how she died? Days later, she was found at the bottom of the stairs, her frail body bent and broken and her neck twisted all the way around." She made a spiral with her finger. "Some say she fell. Others claim she was pushed, but by whom, nobody knows. The castle was empty, after all." She shrugged. "Maybe the ghosts decided to take their revenge."