THE BASTARD WAS WAITING for her across the Weeping Water. If Drucilla squinted her eyes, she swore she could almost see him standing on the misty riverbank, and smiling, always smiling.
That smile had tricked her brother's merciful heart. While the two were breaking their fast in the morning room, Domeric told her that he had visited the bastard in his cell. "And I pitied him, Drucilla," he confessed, because the boy was a bastard born of rape, cursed and forsaken. "The midwives, they used to say that monsters, not children, come from rape, and they should be smothered before they draw their first breaths or else they'll become murderers and rapists themselves. Do you remember that, Drucilla? Bad blood, they called it, and man's punishment from the gods."
Of course, Domeric refused to believe that. Because Domeric is a fool, Drucilla thought. She might have said it to him if she thought it would make a difference.
"Drucilla, dear," Lady Dustin said, making her voice light and pleasant as a summer song, "step away from the window before you catch a chill." She beckoned her niece with her hand and motioned toward the empty chair. "Please, come, come. Sit down and join us for tea, won't you? We're having such a very lovely conversation, aren't we, ladies?"
All the ladies voiced their agreement, and Drucilla discreetly rolled her eyes. Lady Bolton had invited the visiting ladies to afternoon tea in the solar. Drucilla hadn't wanted to go, but her lord father insisted on it. Such pastimes were common in King's Landing, he'd said, so if Drucilla wanted to blend in she would have to put on a smile and bear it.
And so she would.
The solar smelled of vanilla and honey, with a hint of lavender from the incense her mother regularly burned. Good for calming the senses, she always said. The walls were covered with fine tapestries of flowers, fair ladies and brave knights, and so many horses. The floors were strewn with ornate Dornish rugs, all gifts from Lord Bolton to keep his wife happy and, most important of all, quiet. Over the years, this tower had become her sanctuary. It was the only room that got any sun at all, and it overlooked a barren courtyard that Lady Bolton hoped to one day turn into a small garden, if the soil allowed it. She'd tried once before, when she first arrived at the castle, but all the flowers wilted and died before long. Nothing beautiful ever grew in the Dreadfort.
Drucilla quietly sipped her honeyed tea. Her aunt was reciting her favorite poem, "The Maiden and the Mockingbird." It was much too sweet for her taste, the tea and the poem as well. Beside her, Tansy was reaching for another apple cake, her fourth of the day, but her sister swatted her hand before she could get it.
"You've had quite enough, Tansy," Tally said with a decisive nod. Tansy reluctantly agreed.
Sansa Stark was there as well, and so was Alys Karstark and the Manderly sisters, Wylla and Wynafryd. The two girls wore blue silk dresses that rippled like the sea when they moved, and they kept their long hair in loose fishtail braids which rested on their shoulders. Tally wouldn't stop talking about how lovely they were, especially Wynafryd. She was as kind as she was beautiful, Tally said, and that frustrated Drucilla to no end.
Wynafryd smiled at Sansa Stark. It was a perfect and effortless smile that made her whole face light up. And she had a voice to match. "You sang beautifully last night, Lady Sansa." Sansa blushed and thanked her. "My sister and I, we could still hear your voice as we lay down to sleep. Couldn't we, sister?" Wylla nodded. "I bet you were even singing in our dreams. What was it called, that song?"
"Two Hearts That Beat as One," Sansa answered. It was a popular love song in Westeros.
Wylla nodded while stirring her tea. "Yes, yes, that sounds right. Such a beautiful song." She tapped the spoon against the rim three times and then set it aside. "Lady Drucilla, it's a shame you didn't treat us with a song of your own. I hear you have a very unique voice." She turned to her sister. "How did they describe it? Like a cat yowling in heat, was it?"
Wynafryd dismissed her sister's comment. "Not everyone can be blessed with the gift of song, sister. I myself can barely carry a tune. Even my own grandfather has banned me from singing in his halls. He said to me, 'Wynnie, darling, you are good at many things, but singing is not one of them. Best leave that to the bards.'" She chuckled quietly to herself. The other ladies laughed too, and Sansa giggled into her hand.
"I should like to hear you sing," Sansa said when everyone had settled down. "I bet you're just being modest."
Wynafryd put her hand to her heart. "Oh, I wish I was, sweet girl. But the dogs would start barking if I tried singing now, and that would ruin this wonderful afternoon." She tipped her head to Lady Bolton, and the older woman graciously returned the gesture. Drucilla thought it was all a bit much.
The afternoon carried on pleasantly. The servants came and went with fresh fruit and cakes and kept the teacups full. The women told stories, read poetry, and gossiped about the maidens' marriage prospects. Tally Ryswell wholeheartedly expressed her desire to wed Benfred Tallhart, but that was a secret to no one. She was always whispering about him when she thought nobody was listening. As for Tansy, she desperately desired to marry Cley Cerwyn from the moment she saw him at the tourney, but when asked by Lady Dustin, she said that she would be happy with any match made by Lord Bolton. In the end, both girls would have to settle for whatever match their uncle-by-law negotiated for them.
And Drucilla would have to settle for her own match. As she traced her finger over the rim of her half-empty cup, she overheard Sansa asking Wynafryd Manderly about Ser Creighton Redfort. "Do you think he will ask for your hand?" she asked. Drucilla heard nothing else after that. She sat on the edge of her chair, waiting for Wynafryd's answer, but her aunt spoke before she could get it.
"So, Drucilla," Lady Dustin announced as she started on her third cup of tea, "your mother tells me that you may soon be heading to King's Landing. How very exciting." At that, all the ladies stopped their conversations and turned a curious ear. Her aunt was smiling, so obviously pleased with herself. Drucilla picked up her cup and brought it to her lips. In that moment, she wished it was wine. "You'll be serving as one of the queen's handmaidens," her aunt went on, "and before long you'll have yourself a little Lannister husband. You must be very proud."
Little Lannister. How clever her aunt was.
"What?" Tally said, getting all flustered. "Drucilla's going to King's Landing? And marrying a Lannister?" A beautiful golden-haired Lannister, Tally thought, getting swept up by the splendor of it all. She could think of nothing better than to live in a large keep overlooking the Sunset Sea. All her dresses would be made of silk and she would own fine jewels of every color. Drucilla didn't deserve such a life, nor would she ever fully appreciate it.
Lady Dustin nodded. "Yes, Drucilla is set to marry Lord Tyrion."
"Lord Tyrion?" Tally paused. In her silence, Wylla Manderly was snickering. "The Imp?"
The teacup came down so hard it cracked in two. Tally yelped into her hands and Tansy flinched. Sansa Stark gasped, eyes wide and afraid. Wylla Manderly choked on her laughter while her older sister looked down with discomfort. Nobody said a word. Drucilla's lips tightened into a thin, hard line.
"Yes," she said as her dish puddled with golden brown tea. She still clenched the broken cup in her hands. "Yes, I am marrying Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, and I should be proud to do so." She threw a glare at Tally. "You see, dear cousin, I'd rather marry the Imp than some no-name son from some petty house that nobody has ever heard of!" She stood up and left the room, slamming the door behind her. Her cup came apart and lay in pieces upon her plate.
Moments later, Tally reached a quivering hand toward her own cup. "Well, that seemed uncalled for."
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From the window of her bedchamber, Drucilla had a nearly perfect view of the training yard. There, her brother and some of the young lords were practicing their swordplay under the guidance of Steelshanks Walton. Robb Stark was among them, armored and unafraid but yet untested. He stood among the spectators and watched Domeric Bolton and Jarron Umber circle each other with blunted swords. Creighton Redfort was calling out both encouragements and insults to his dear friend as Domeric struggled against the older man, who was twice his size and struck twice as hard.
"Quit dancing around, little lady!" Creighton shouted. "Are you at a ball? Swing your sword, you fool! Now! Now! Why are you afraid to strike?" He threw his hands up in defeat. "Gods be good, Domeric Bolton has forgotten how to fight."
Domeric craned his head around and yelled something back, but his voice became muffled when Jarron dealt an unexpected blow. Domeric managed to block the blade, but the force of it knocked him off balance and he fell onto his back. Creighton fell over too, from laughing so much. Drucilla suppressed a laugh of her own. Jarron Umber bent over to offer his opponent a helping hand. Steelshanks shook his head and called for the next match-up.
"Who wants to go? Hmm? Robb, you're fresh. How 'bout you have a go? And the Karstark boy, whichever you are. Come on, let's see what you've got."
Domeric gathered himself and dropped his sword into the rack. Robb was still searching for a sword to use, as if it was the most important decision of his life. Domeric said something to the younger boy and then pointed toward one of the swords. Robb nodded and claimed it for his own. Domeric walked over to Creighton and punched him on the shoulder. His friend grinned and seemed about to say something, but then he stopped and looked up suddenly, as if he felt eyes upon him.
Drucilla gasped and ducked out of view before he could spot her. He didn't see me, she thought as she pressed her back flat against the wall. Gods I hope he didn't see me. Then she pushed off and proceeded on.
Much to her surprise, Alys Karstark was standing outside her bedchamber. Her hand was positioned in a way to suggest that she was just about to knock, but she backed away when Drucilla opened the door. She didn't speak, only stared with a shy, close-lipped smile on her face. If not for her teeth, Drucilla thought, Alys Karstark might have been beautiful, perhaps even more beautiful than Sansa Stark. She was taller than most girls her age, and not in a brutish sort of way, and her eyes were a striking shade of blueish grey. But the gap in her teeth was neither small nor charming. That's why Daryn always told her not to smile with teeth.
"Do you want to hear something terrible?" Alys asked, keeping her voice low. Drucilla didn't really care to hear, but she said yes anyway. "I wished for Daryn to fall from his horse the other day. Honestly, I hoped it would kill him. Isn't that horrible of me, to wish such a cruel fate upon someone I hardly know? We've only met once before now. He said I wasn't pretty enough to be his bride. I knew then that I hated him and didn't want to marry him. Father said I didn't have a choice. We're waiting until I've flowered to marry. That will be the worst day of my life, I think."
"Why are you telling me this?" Drucilla asked. "Are you trying to sympathize with me? Save it. I don't need your pity."
"Oh, but I don't pity you," Alys said. "I rather admire you, actually. I think you would say to Daryn every word I've ever thought. He says such horrible things about you, so many lies ... about what happened to your sister."
"I don't care what Daryn Hornwood says," Drucilla interrupted. "He's an arrogant fool, nothing more."
"Well, he'll soon be my husband. As for me, I'd like us to be friends one day, if that's all right." She took a step back. "I must go now. Daryn is traveling back to Hornwood today. Father says I have to see him off." She stopped in mid-turn and spoke over her shoulder. "By the way, there are worse matches than Tyrion Lannister. Far worse. You should feel no shame if you do end up marrying him. But then again, things change and people die every day, don't they?"
Drucilla watched the girl disappear around the corner; then she left the quiet keep and entered the godswood. The wind was tugging at her black cloak and tearing through her tight knot of brown hair. She had the lost the protection of her hood shortly after she stepped outside and made no effort to lift it again. Beyond the wood, Drucilla could hear the steady clang of steel on steel. It sounded like a good fight, evenly matched. She would have liked to have seen it for herself, but women weren't typically welcome in the training yard. Instead, Drucilla knelt before the heart tree and whispered a quiet prayer. Above her, the red leaves rustled and the white branches stirred. She knew then that the gods were listening.
"I wonder, is it wrong to pray for someone's death?"
Drucilla's eyes snapped open and her head turned toward the sound. Robb Stark was standing beside her, his eyes fixed on the tree's solemn face. He had removed his armor, but the shine of sweat remained on his brow.
"Why do you ask?" Drucilla replied. It was as if he had read her thoughts.
He shrugged. "I don't know. The question just came to me suddenly. To be honest, I don't know why I came in here at all. I was on my way to the guest house when something compelled me to stop — a whisper in the wind I suppose it was. Then I saw the godswood." He looked around. "This is nothing like the godswood in Winterfell. This one, it feels darker and colder somehow, more wild. It makes me a little uncomfortable."
"You're a Stark in the Dreadfort. How else should you feel? In the past, this is where Starks came to die."
Robb shivered, and not from the cold. "Yes. Yes, that explains it then." A second question entered his mind — about that room — but he didn't have the heart to ask it, not while she was staring at him. Instead, Robb politely bowed his head and took his leave. "Sorry to disturb you, my lady."
Drucilla watched him go. Then she turned around and finished her prayer.
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From the solar, Lady Dustin watched Drucilla leave the godswood. Such an intriguing girl. Of course, Lady Dustin had always thought so, even when the girl was very young. The news of Drucilla's upcoming departure to King's Landing had come as a great shock to her aunt, for she had planned to bring the child back with her to Barrowton. She had discussed this with her sister several times over the course of the year. Perhaps her brother-by-law had gotten his hands on one of her letters. It would certainly explain the perfection of his timing.
Lady Dustin stepped away from the window. "The bastard is still alive. Tell me, sister, how did that come to happen?"
"How? Only the gods know for certain." Lady Bolton reached for the tea kettle and went to pour herself another cup. Empty, without a single drop left. She frowned and set the kettle aside. Then she called for wine to quench her thirst. "Perhaps my husband was suddenly overcome with fatherly affection."
"And perhaps we really do live inside the eye of a blue-eyed giant." Lady Dustin scoffed. "Regardless of why he did it, it was a great mistake to let him go. Did you see that performance he put on last night? That boy knew exactly what he was doing. He isn't through with your family. He'll be back before you know it. And when he comes back, your children will be in danger. My niece and my nephew will be in danger."
"What's your point, sister? Make it while I'm still sober enough to listen."
Lady Dustin leaned over and placed both hands on the table. "Say the word, and I could have a knife at the boy's throat before sundown. Nobody will know. And your children will be safe."
A servant came with a flask of wine. Lady Bolton accepted the flask and then immediately sent the servant away. She spoke again only after the door had closed. "So now we're plotting to murder bastards in their sleep? Gods, Barbrey, you should be the Bolton." Laughing, she went to take a drink. Her sister slapped the cup out of her hands before a single drop of wine touched her lips. The vessel clattered to the floor and spat wine all over the rug.
Lady Bolton calmly wiped away the wine from the bodice of her dress. "Dear sister, it seems widowhood has made you paranoid. Perhaps you should return to Barrowton and rest."
This time, her hand made direct contact with her sister's face. When it was over, Lady Dustin's hand stung half as much as her sister's reddening cheek. "Say what you want about me, but I know that a mother who isn't ready to kill for her children is no mother at all. So what does that make you? Just a pathetic drunk who sits in her tower and wastes her life away. You make me ashamed to call you my sister." She started toward the door.
"Wh-Where are you going?" Lady Bolton asked in a weak voice.
"Back to Barrowton. I don't know why I came at all, with all these Starks lurking about. If you need me, sister, send a raven." And she slammed the door so hard the table shook.