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

As The River Runs

The Dreadfort had always been a rather imposing castle, especially for a Stark. Often when her husband looked at her, all Ross could think of was that the Boltons had a special room to hang the skins of their enemies, some of those belonging her ancestors, several Kings of Winter who had been dragged beneath the castle, only their bones coming back out. 

The Dreadfort consisted of thick, high outer walls, built of dark stone and dotted with triangular merlons, that looked like pointed stone teeth biting at the sky. Inside the walls, a great keep, smaller but taller than Winterfell's, rose up, along with several massive towers strategically placed. Every wall she saw was sheer steep, no chance of anyone scaling them. No wonder Harlon Stark laid siege for two years, rather than take this place by storm. 

The Weeping Water ran to the west of the castle, cutting its course southeast in an icy torrent, swift and dangerous despite its frozen banks. A few tress grew nearby, although there was a forest in the distance, along with a series of hills. Directly surrounding the Dreadfort, however, was a broad, largely flat plain. Any approaching enemies would be seen from miles away, she thought, feeling a chill northern wind blow across her face. 

The sky at the moment was overcast, promising more snow. Strangely enough, seeing the grim castle in this grim weather did not make her any more uneasy. If anything, it was the opposite. Even a dragon might have trouble breaking this. 

Her chambers as Lady Bolton were bigger than her childhood rooms at Winterfell, large and spacious. They were in the great keep, high up and facing west, away from most of the castle, so she could see well over the walls and far into the distance with little else in the way. Surprisingly, the windows were large and arched, paned with glass; she had expected a dim little room with little natural light, but got quite the opposite. 

The drapes at the windows and around her bed were black, red and pink, Bolton colours, though thankfully no flayed men made any appearance, sigil or otherwise. The fireplace was large, with a great grey direwolf skin rug in front of it, and she had to smile at that. She wondered where they kept the two-legged wolfskins.

In truth, married life was not the horror she'd imagined. Her husband clearly wanted to strike a balance between intimidating her into not daring to pull a knife on him again, and earning her begrudging loyalty so she wouldn't do it anyway out of spite. He was hardly a loving man, but she was decidedly not a loving woman, and wouldn't have wanted anything else. 

He gifted her a new horse on their arrival, as well with promises of a fitting for a new wardrobe - all the clothes she had left in Winterfell came from before the rebellion, when she was skinny and fifteen, rather than the slightly less skinny, slightly taller eighteen year old she was now. Best of all, though, was that her son had his own room, a tiny sleeping cell near the servant's quarters, well out the way, but a room nonetheless.

The largest complaint by far was the fact that the old Lady Bolton still resided in the castle. Not her husband's former wife, but rather his mother. Lady Margaret was an old hag of at least sixty years, with a pointed, pinched face and beady eyes the same colour as her son's, and had been a Bolton cousin before marriage. That explained a great deal. 

With eyes too dim to read a page, the woman insisted on being a part of running the household - apparently she hadn't bothered for decades until Ross arrived - constantly sniping, tutting and cackling at her own jokes, which were usually at Ross' expense. Anything that came out of the woman's shrivelled lips was rewarded with a stony stare from Ross, which the old shrew only cackled at more. Never had Ross wanted to punch an old lady more. 

Fortunately, her husband seemed to dislike his mother as much as she did. It wasn't noticeable, but Ross saw the way his eyes narrowed a fraction whenever she spoke, and how his jaw tightened whenever the woman started griping at him, usually about 'that Stark bitch'. At least Margaret had the honesty to say it to her face.