It hit Ross, when they had crossed the Neck and she could see the crumbling towers of Moat Cailin ahead, that she truly was going home. Until that moment, it was as though she hadn't let herself believe it. Almost three years, since she was here last. She had left as a stiff, gangly girl of fifteen, who was, whilst cynical, largely naive to the evil people could inflict on others no matter how she thought herself otherwise. Now, she returned as a woman of eighteen, a mother, scarred, stronger in many ways and broken in many others.

At least she was coming back at all. Before, her sister had ridden alongside her, laughing, youthful and alive. Now, Lyanna was bones in the back of a cart, lain alongside Brandon and Father.

Ross had found the bones of her brother and a jar containing the ashes of Lord Rickard a day before they left King's Landing. Abandoned in a dark cellar. She was amazed Aerys hadn't thrown them into the sea; she had only found the room after the snivelling eunuch, Varys, presumably hoping to gain favour with Robert, had led her there. Her father's blackened armour had been carelessly thrown inside, whilst Brandon's body had just been dumped and left to rot; his not-quite-skeleton still wore the clothes he'd been imprisoned in. The Tyroshi strangulation device had been left around his neck, like an even grislier noose, and she hadn't hesitated before cutting it off with her dagger and flinging it viciously into a dark corner.

But she had her son, strapped to her chest. Wylla, like most common folk, did not know how to ride and sat in one of the carts with Jon, and had offered to take Ren too, but Ross was too used to needing to watch her son to know he was safe. Under Aerys' rule, she had not trusted him in the care of anyone for even a minute, and it was a hard habit to break.

"Almost home," She murmured in Ren's ear.

Moat Cailin had never been taken from the south. Even after Aerys was killed, part of her had been concerned she was never going to feel safe again, after all she had been through, but some level of tension did drain from her as they passed the ancient castle. There was a biting wind blowing against her face already, and she smiled, however briefly.

Ross was not made for King's Landing. The idea of staying there, now she'd tasted the North again, was unthinkable. The Riverlands were beautiful, all rolling hills, twisting rivers and airy woodlands. No matter how majestic the mountains of the Vale were, no matter how charming the meadows and orchards of the Reach, no matter the shifting sands of Dorne; there was nothing like the wild moors and ancient evergreen forests of the North.

The grim grey walls of Winterfell might have been the sweetest thing she had seen in three years. She wasn't alone in that thought. Ned and his army hadn't seen home in almost as long as she had been away. Lya should be here. Brandon and Father too.

Ross hardly recognised the solemn boy of four-and-ten who greeted Ned with a bow.

"The castle is yours, Lord Stark,"

Benjen had been a happy, mischievious boy of eleven when she had last seen him, eager to be like his elder siblings and longing for their father's approval. He had been the Stark in Winterfell for as long as Ned had been gone, forced to wait whilst his father and brother were murdered, his sisters taken, whilst Ned risked his life daily fighting a way. Though her youngest brother put on a good show of being a man grown in public, however, Ross saw how his eyes followed them, drinking them in like he couldn't get enough, like they'd vanish if he looked away for too long.

Lady Catelyn was there to greet them with a smile. She had clearly dressed for the occasion, and had the servants running to make sure all the arrangements were perfect. Her son was in her arms, a healthy, ruddy-cheeked baby some months older than Jon. He had a thatch of red-brown hair and big blue eyes. She had not yet seen Jon or Wylla, who was discreetly staying in one of the carts waiting to be unloaded. It would have been rather cruel, to spring a child who was supposedly her husband's bastard upon the woman in front of everyone, the day they came home from war.

"My lord," Catelyn curtseyed as Ned dismounted, no doubt sensing his uncertainty with her, for she smiled at the baby in her arms. "Your son. His name is Robb, after his Grace the King,"

For perhaps the first time since they had found Lyanna dying in a tower, Ned smiled. "Thank you, my lady,"

Ross dismounted beside her brother, and Catelyn looked up to greet her. "Lady Rosennis," Her tone was warm, but laced with pity, particularly as she glanced down at Ren, still strapped to her chest. "I can't begin to say how glad I am to see you well. You must be so glad to be home, after your ordeal. I have had your rooms prepared - and a crib in the nursery for your son, next to Robb's,"

She meant well. Ross knew she meant well, and was just trying to be kind and polite. For this reason - and for Ned's sake - she forced herself to swallow the part of her that riled at being treated like a guest in the castle she had been lady of since her mother died. Throwing her goodsister's pity in her beautiful face would be a poor start to their acquaintance.

And of course Ren would not have the Stark crib that she, Brandon, Ned, Lya and Ben had slept in. Of course that was meant for the lord's heir, not his sister's bastard.

"Thank you, Lady Catelyn," She said, with some approximation of a smile that doubtless came out more of a grimace. "You are very kind,"

Benjen's lips did twitch at that, a hint of his former self shining through. Ross would be the first to admit that Southron courtesies did not come naturally to her.

*

Catelyn, thankfully, had some level of tact, realising that she was little more than a stranger to all of them except, oddly, Benjen, and giving them some privacy. Once they were finally in private, in Father's solar - Ned's solar - the three remaining Stark children eyed each other for a moment, unsure. There was so much to be said, and no one knew where to start.

"What happened to Lya?" Benjen broke the silence, his voice cracking on their sister's name.

"She was alive when we found her, and died within the day," Ned said, repeating the same lie they had told everyone. The less people knew, the less people would be blamed if the secret ever did get out. For all intents and purposes, Jon was Ned's son now, and would never be anything else. "A fever," He did not have to fake the sorrow in his voice.

"She tried to come home, Ben," Ross said, knowing that would not be enough. "None of it was her fault. She said that she loves you,"

Her little brother made a good show of not crying, though she could tell he was close to it. "I'm glad you were there," Was all he said. "She didn't deserve to die alone. Or at all," He cleared his throat, hastily moving on, not wanting to shed a tear in front of his elder brother. "And why in hells name do you have a son, Ross?" He gestured to Ren in her arms.

"Not just me," She easily shifted the focus onto Ned.

Benjen looked stunned. He had evidently heard of Ross' bastard already, but the idea of Eddard Stark having one too made his eyes bulge in shock. "How?"

"You're old enough to know that already," Ross muttered.

He pulled a disgusted face. "Of course I know. That's not what I meant. Who's the mother?"

Ned was deeply uncomfortable, which meant that his face went cold and stern. "None of your business. I'll not answer any questions on the matter, from you or from anyone," When Benjen looked unsatisfied, he continued, "Ross doesn't know either. Or Robert,"

"Does Cat know?"

"Cat?" Ross gave a short laugh. "Gods, Ned, he's more familiar with your wife than you are,"

Benjen flushed slightly. "She's been here for months!" His protests reminded Ross that he was still a boy, no matter how he'd grown. "I felt sorry for her, she seemed so out of place in the North, what with being a Tully. I think you'll like her, Ned, she's kind. Very prim and proper, though," A pause. "Brandon would have hated her. And she'd have hated him,"

"That's what Ross said," Ned sighed. "Perhaps I could dine with her, later,"

"No," Benjen grinned for a moment, looking more like himself. "She's planned a welcome feast for you and everyone who's returned. As I said, ever the perfect lady," His smile fell. "Don't tell her about the bastard, tonight. Wait until tomorrow, at least,"

"Jon," Ross corrected. "His name is Jon,"

*

Finding herself in her childhood bedchamber was surreal. All the clothes in the wardrobe fit her when she was fifteen, even skinner than she was now - she was no longer entirely flat-chested - and a few inches shorter. In a box at the back of her wardrobe were her childhood toys, dolls in tiny dresses and well-loved wooden horses. Her notebooks from her maester's lessons were still stacked on the desk, just how she had left them. It was a room meant for someone else, and brought her the closest to tears she had been since Lya died. She had truly been a child, when she had gone to King's Landing. Not that she'd stayed that way for much longer.

Curiosity, or self-flagellation, got the better of her. Ross could not stop herself going to Lyanna's chambers, next to her own. For a moment, she was frozen in the doorway. Her sister's room hadn't been touched either; their father must have ordered the servants to leave it be. Lya had been messier than Ross. There was a dress strewn over the back of a chair, a pair of muddy riding boots next to the door, a messy stack of loose papers on the desk from lessons covered in her sister's scrawl. The notebook where Lya wrote all the places in the world she wanted to travel to, sketching pictures of what she thought they might look like, was open at the end of the bed. The clothes in the wardrobe were those of a young girl, not a woman. She even used to sleep with one of her old dolls in her bed - there it was, buried under the sheets - though would have thumped Ross if she said as much to their brothers.

It was too much. Even being in her own room was not as bad as this. All she could think of was what had happened to that little girl, her sister, dying in a bed of blood in a godsforsaken tower in Dorne. Please don't let me die, Ross, I'm so scared. She had stitched herself up, for gods sake, and it had done no good at all -

She couldn't get out of that room quick enough, though took care to close the door properly. For some time, she just stood there outside the door, trying to calm her own breathing.

"Milady," Wylla came across her this way a few minutes later. "I heard there's to be a feast. Will you want me to look after Ren, so you can enjoy yourself?"

Ross was grateful she didn't say a word about how she had found her, straightening up, welcoming the distraction. "Enjoying myself is a strong word," The last thing she felt like was a feast, but it was important to show her face. The last thing Ross wanted was people whispering that Lady Stark was hiding her face in shame over her bastard. "But yes, do take him tonight,"

The maid smiled, not making a thing over the fact she had never been trusted with Ren before without Ross being close by. "Of course, milady," A pause. "If you need anything, during the night, I'll be in the nursery with the little ones,"

Having shared a room in King's Landing, and a tent on the road, Wylla was familiar with the nightmares Ross had been having. She hoped now she was home they would get better and she would not need a maid soothing her in the night like a child. The only thing that stopped her feeling pathetic was that Wylla too often woke with a start, or talked in her sleep.

"Thank you," A pause. "The same to you,"

Wylla's eyes widened in surprise. "That is most kind of you, milady,"

"Hardly," Ross smiled faintly. "The fact you go through it too helps me keep my pride intact,"

The woman laughed at that.

*

She sat at the high table, on Ned's right hand side, whilst Catelyn sat at his left, Benjen beside her. Little Robb had already been put to bed, and seeing as Wylla had managed to get Ross to relinquish her own son for the evening, they were the only family at the table. It hit her then, that whilst they may be home, home was not the same. No Father. No Brandon. No Lya.

"What is your little boy's name, Lady Rosennis?" Catelyn enquired politely, attempting to make conversation in the face of Ned's silence, though Ross got the impression the woman thought she was being extremely progressive, asking after a bastard. She still had not been told about Jon.

"Renan," She replied. "Ren,"

"Is he an easy baby? My Robb has a strong pair of lungs on him, that's for sure,"

"Now he can almost walk, you can barely look away before he's almost pulled something heavy onto him, or somehow grabbed a knife from somewhere," Ross smiled. "Though he's never cried overmuch. Thank the Gods, or I'd have gotten no sleep at all,"

"You didn't have a nursemaid?" Catelyn looked astonished.

"I wouldn't have trusted anyone in the Red Keep with him, even if they had seen fit to send one,"

"You don't mean - " The woman's eyes widened. "Surely they wouldn't have harmed a baby,"

How could Ross even begin to explain that she had seen children burnt alive in that place, how she had not felt safe from the moment she entered, until - well, ever since.

Ned chose to cut in. "Let's talk of more pleasant things at dinner," He said. "My lady, are your rooms to your satisfaction?"

Catelyn smiled on cue. "Of course, my lord. They are most comfortable. Much larger than at Riverrun,"

Ross and Benjen shared a look, of mixed amusement and second-hand awkwardness. Seeing two people who were married and shared a son act so uncertain of each other was entertaining.

"You were just saying last week that you were too cold at night, Cat," Benjen piped up. "Even with all the furs you could find,"

"Oh, it's no bother - "

Ned smiled faintly. "You don't have to stay in those rooms, my lady. They were given to you because they were our mother's old chambers - she had Stark blood, and would sleep with the windows cracked open in the middle of winter, so chose the coldest ones she could. Winterfell is your home now - we could move you to the warmest rooms in the castle, if you liked?"

Catelyn seemed surprised, and touched. She smiled for true this time. "That is most kind of you, my - "

"Call me Ned," He said. "Please,"

"You might as well call me Cat, seeing as your brother does already,"

It was less awkward, after that. Benjen and Catelyn got along well, and Ned and his wife were slowly getting to know one another. Whilst Ben had grown up a lot since they had been gone, and like all of them was grieving their lost family, he was still their little brother, and liked to tease both Ned and Ross.

"You still haven't told me how you ended up here with a one-year-old son and no husband," He grinned at her.

Catelyn gasped slightly, shooting Benjen a chiding look, no doubt expected Ross to be mortally embarrassed or upset.

"I fail to see why that is any business of my brat of a brother,"

"Did you fall for a handsome Southron knight?" He teased. "Did he read you sonnets and bring you flowers?"

She thought of Jaime, of them clinging to each other, traumatised and terrified and too proud to admit it, finding comfort where they could in the blessed quiet and solitude of her chambers. No one saw that side of him; he was far too proud to need comfort during the day, as was she. Gods, she missed him more than she wanted to acknowledge. He didn't bring me flowers, just the blood of a King. Not to mention, Jaime didn't find it easy to read a letter, nevermind poetry.

Ross had to laugh. "If I tell you it was a local pig-boy with pimples on his chin, would that shut you up?"

"Ren had sort of green eyes, when I saw him," He said wickedly. "Was it a Lannister?"

"Of course not," She scoffed, a bare-faced lie she told without blinking.

Benjen laughed with her, but Ned looked more skeptical.

There was a moment, when Ross absently scratched her wrist, that she felt her brother's eyes on her. She remembered the scars, and quickly pulled her sleeve back down.

"The feast was lovely," Ross stopped Catelyn on the way out.

"Thank you, Lady Rosennis," Her goodsister smiled, a little more at ease around her.

"And..." She paused. "I know you wanted to marry Brandon," She held up a hand as Catelyn attempted to protest. "I loved my brother, but he would have been a terrible husband. You'd have been forever looking twice at any woman who visited Winterfell, wondering which ones he'd spent the night with. He had a hell of a temper, too. Ned will be good to you,"

*

When Ross heard the sound of shuffling footsteps outside her door, she was not expecting it to be Benjen. The noise came with all the familiar heart-jumping panic and flashbacks to sharp nails and a leering, hateful face, but she gritted her teeth and got to her feet, shrugging a robe over her shoulders and slipping a dagger into her pocket before going to investigate.

Her little brother was stood outside, clearly not knowing whether or not to knock. She didn't give him a choice; Benjen was white and shaking, and to his embarrassment broke down in great heaving sobs when she put an arm around him, clinging to her like a child. Ross didn't begrudge him that; Gods knew she had cried enough. Ross shut the door behind him, lighting a candle and sitting down on the edge of the bed with her brother.

"It was awful," He said through the tears. "Waiting here, knowing and not knowing what was happening to all of you, and not being able to stop it. I felt so useless! You leaving was horrible, and Brandon and Father was worse, but - poor Lya,"

Lyanna had been his favourite, of all of them, no matter how he followed Brandon around like a puppy. Being left at the bottom of that list made Ross feel better, for it meant he had no idea what had really happened to her. For all he knew, she had sat around in King's Landing doing nothing for three years, lonely but safe.

"How could Rhaegar do that to her?" He continued, angry now. "She was so brave, and funny, and she wanted to do so many things - how could he take her, and lock her up and leave her to die of a fucking fever? And - " He broke off. "Everyone said he - he violated her too. They don't say it to me, but I hear all the whispers. But he had a wife, he had children, a daughter, how could he - ?"

He wanted Ross to deny it. As if she could.

"Because he was a mad, entitled scumbag who just hid it better than his bastard of a father,"

The savagery in her tone took even Benjen aback. He paused, looking at her with red-rimmed eyes, as though seeing her for the first time. Then he took her wrist in his hand, holding it up to the candlelight.

"I noticed them, earlier, at dinner," His fingers traced the scars on the skin that showed from her sleeve. There were many, lots of them deep and ragged. Benjen's eyes dropped to her neck and slightly below, where, unlike her gown during the day, her nightdress did not quite cover the scars there. "Please tell me he didn't. People whisper about that, too, but I didn't want to believe them,"

"Aerys was a monster," Ross took her wrist back. "Which is all I will say on it,"

Benjen looked like he'd been stung. "And I was joking at dinner about - Ross, I didn't mean - your son - "

"Is not Aerys'. And I swear to all the Gods, if for the sake of morality you'd rather he was a product of rape than someone I willingly - "

"Of course not!" He protested, then paused. "I'm glad all the Targaryens are dead. Even the children. Is that bad? I know Ned was angry with the King for not punishing Lord Tywin, but after everything that family did..."

"No," Ross said. "I'm glad too,"

Neither of them mentioned the conversation the next day. Benjen would be shamed if Ned knew how he had cried in his sister's arms. Not that their brother would judge him for it, but Ross understood.

*

Catelyn did not take the news of Jon well. That first day, she and Ned had fallen into an almost companionable dynamic; hardly the great love that young girls dreamed of, but something that could be built into a strong marriage. Now, after he had taken her aside and told her of his own bastard son, she was extremely cold. Even when her belongings had been moved to the warmest rooms in the castle.

"It's not even the bastard she's angry about," Ned said to Ross, weary. "She said that's no more than what she was taught to expect, that a lady should bear her husband's indiscretions with grace and dignity. It's the fact that he's to stay here. She wants him sent away, not raised alongside Robb,"

"Well, he's not being sent away," Ross said. Lyanna's son deserved to grow up in Winterfell, surrounded by family, not shunted off to a stranger's halls to be forgotten.

"She said that it's cruel, to shame her each day with proof that she's lacking," Her brother repeated, his distaste at the words clear.

"Gods," Ross pulled a face. "You'd known her for a day before you went off to war. Even if he really was your son, it's hardly a great betrayal. Most likely what it is, is that Jon looks very Stark and Robb does not. She doesn't want Jon growing up the favoured son, and threatening her own child's position,"

"As if that would ever - " He broke off. It took a lot to make Ned Stark this openly irritated.

"It's happened before," She shrugged. "Look, both of you are on edge with the other. Her, because she believes that you are shaming her by keeping Jon here. You, because you think she would have preferred to marry Brandon and that you're not worthy enough. You can't let it grow cold now, or your marriage will freeze over forever. No matter how cold she is with you, try to talk with her. She's moved away from her home and her family, and the North is so different from the Riverlands. She knows she's an outsider, when a Stark hasn't married outside the North in centuries. That's partly why she's so insecure of her position,"

"I cannot tell her the truth about Jon,"

"No, you cannot," Ross said. "And you will not. Just... think of something you could do that will make her more at ease here,"

Ned, as it turned out, was better with women that Ross had given him credit for. The same day he commissioned the statues for Father, Brandon and Lya down in the crypts, he also told the workers to construct a small Sept in Winterfell's grounds, so that his wife could pray to her Gods like the rest of them prayed in the Godswood. Where she had been faultlessly polite but painfully cold for the past week or so, him showing Catelyn the site of where her Sept was going to be made her soften a little.

Meanwhile, Ross oversaw the carving of the tomb statues. She had been harsh and overbearing in making sure the stonemason got every inch of their faces right, she knew, but she couldn't let their true appearance be forgotten now they were dead and buried. The workers had got her father's likeness perfect; stern, imposing and strong. Her siblings had been larger than life, however, never staying still for more than a minute. It was strange to see them in statue form. No matter how much the stone figures looked like them, something was off.

She watched, stood between her brothers, as the lid of the tomb slid shut over Lyanna's bones, one last glimpse of what was left of her sister. Ross had lain a wreath of blue winter roses in the tomb, her favourite flower, as well as a sprig of sentinel pine from the Wolfswood. After, she took her horse for the first time since coming home and raced as fast and reckless as she could through the forest, alone, no guards in sight. If she had fallen and broken her neck, no one would have found her. Perhaps she would have been lain beside Lya in that cold stone crypt.

*

Misery in King's Landing had been expected. And separate, like a new life, happening to someone who wasn't Ross Stark of Winterfell. Returning home, seeing the servants and places she had grown up with, sleeping in her old chambers, whilst still being plagued with the memories and scars from her time in the Red Keep, was somehow more painful. It brought the two sections of her life into a sharp, brutal collision, and made her realise in full that things would never be how they were before. If she wasn't happy here, then how could she be happy anywhere?

Before the rebellion, Ross had still been a reserved and naturally wary child. She was known for her sharp tongue and stubbornness, but otherwise was the well-behaved, dutiful daughter, unlike Lyanna, who was wild, and absolutely their father's favourite of the five of them. Any ambitions she had, she shoved down, knowing her lot in life was to be the stable, grounding one, a foil to Lyanna's dreaminess.

She was colder now. Harsher, harder. Outwardly, at least. Inside, she felt like she was a bag of broken glass, raw, brittle and crunching. In many aspects, she cared much less of what others thought of her. Where once she might have minded her tongue, or backed down, she was not doing so any more. Though in other aspects, she was determined to keep the cold, strong mask up, refusing to let anyone see how she was not mending inside.

It was hard to hide, sometimes. Ross often flinched from physical contact from anyone who wasn't Wylla or one of the children. She frequently woke up with a gasp in the middle of the night, her eyes wild and her nightgown clinging to her, drenched with sweat, as flashes of mad purple eyes, scratching long nails and licking green flames of wildfire danced through her mind. And there was no hiding her sleepwalking. The Winterfell guards often had to escort her back to her rooms at night after finding her wandering the corridors.

"Gave me the fright of my life, my lady," Young Jory Cassel told her with a good-natured grin the next morning, the first time it happened. "Thought you were a ghostly spectre come to haunt us,"

She couldn't blame him. A lone, pale lady walking the halls in a long, white nightdress, with blank, glassy eyes and dark hair streaming down her back. Her face, long, gaunt and cheekboned, hardly helped the image. No wonder he thought she was a ghost. Sometimes she felt like one, going through the motions. Ross had hoped being back in Winterfell would solve all of these problems, but it was just getting worse. More recently, she had been getting flashbacks during the day. A glint of green cloth, the same acidic shade as wildfire, had made her drop what she was holding and freeze in the middle of the courtyard, images of Father and countless others going up in flames flashing before her eyes.

When she found herself having to stick a chair under her door handle at night, she decided enough was enough.

*

It wasn't exactly unexpected, when Ned called her to his solar to talk about her marriage.

Ross had been betrothed to Roose Bolton since she was four-and-ten. She had only met the man a handful of times, and all of them but one, he was only there to speak to her father. She had been to the Dreadfort once, with her Father, to finalise the betrothal, which was the only time she had spoken to him. That was half a year before they went south to Harrenhal. She had been prepared for marriage, then. It was expected of her, for her and Ned to wed into the North, whilst Brandon and Lya were getting Southron marriages. Ross hadn't felt one way or another about it; marriage was an inevitability.

Now, of course, she felt very strongly.

It was clear that Bolton had been holding out for a Stark bride. The man was now two-and-thirty, the sole member of his house unless you counted his ageing mother, yet still unwed and childless. That made him fourteen years older than she was - twice her age, at the time of their betrothal - but his age was not the problem. Women suffered worse; Catelyn's sister Lysa was married to Jon Arryn, who was old enough to be her grandfather. Bolton was one of the most powerful Northern lords, a match worthy of a Stark. That was not the problem either.

"I have been putting it off since we returned," Her brother looked truly regretful. "I even heavily implied you are still recovering from your ordeal in King's Landing, in a way that he would have no doubt as to what I was referring to, and mentioned your son, but Lord Bolton has assured me he does not require his wife to be a maiden," He said that with distaste. "The next step is an outright refusal and a breaking of the betrothal. Which I can do. Say the word and I will write to him. It is your choice, Ross,"

"Breaking the betrothal will cause more grief with the Boltons," She swallowed. "You're being very kind, but if I don't marry him, I will never marry, and the Starks cannot afford to appear ungrateful to their bannermen after the Rebellion by having an unmarried, spinster daughter. Give me one more month until the wedding, at least,"

A month to sort herself out.

In King's Landing, the idea of marriage had seemed so remote as to be irrelevant. Ross had focused on surviving each day, and, honestly, doubted that anyone would want to marry her, particularly after Ren was born. After Aerys died, it once again became a possibility, but a vague one, distant and faded in her wave of grief for Lya, Brandon and Father.

Now, the thought of being someone's wife galled her. Sometimes she could barely stand the embrace of her brothers without cringing away, and tensed even when one of the old stablehands she had known since she was a child clapped her on the back as she dismounted a courser. The thought of the coming wedding night - and all the nights to come that Bolton would surely claim as his marriage rights - caused a nasty sick feeling in the pit of her stomach and an irrational desire to steal the fastest horse in the stables and ride to the ends of the world. Was this how Lya felt, that whole time?

Before Harrenhal, Ross did not particularly care that Lord Bolton was a cold stranger. She had never expected to like her husband; being civil would be enough. It had been Lyanna who dreamed of romance and adventure. Ross had indulged her sister, but never let herself believe it. Now, though, the idea of letting anyone touch her like that who wasn't Jaime made her sick to the stomach.

But she couldn't let herself think like that. He was in King's Landing, a place she loathed, whilst Ross was in the North. He had his sister, she had her soon-to-be husband. It was foolish, her sadness at knowing she would most likely never see Jaime Lannister again, that her son would never know his father. He was just a man, for gods' sake. A stupid, golden, pretty, Southron knight, who had made her smile when she thought she could never smile again, who had held her at night despite the scars and bruises marring her skin, who had made feel like her heart was made of something more than stone.

In truth, Ross did not know how she would react to marriage until she was there.

*

"Your son will, of course, remain in Winterfell," Bolton watched her with unnaturally pale grey eyes, that made the cold Stark grey look practically warm.

She did not quite process that, when he first said it. Ross blinked, as though he had told her he was planning a blood sacrifice at the wedding.

"He will come with me,"

Bolton smiled, as though she was being mildly amusing, or particularly naive. "You may see him on visits, of course, my lady," He inclined his head as though he was being gracious. "He can hardly set foot in the Dreadfort without bringing you shame,"

He did not know, did he, that Ren was the only thing holding her together? If he was gone, Ross would finally crack. She couldn't leave him, couldn't not watch her son grow into a man, raised by people who were not her whilst she resided as Lady Bolton in the Dreadfort.

Ross did not trust herself to speak, and Lord Bolton made his leave.

*

She couldn't sleep.

For what felt like the hundredth time that night, Ross rose from her bed, the stone floor freezing cold against her feet. Though the hot springs warmed the walls of Winterfell, like her mother, she could never sleep well without the window open, and a chilly night breeze was blowing through her chambers. Cold, but clean, unlike the lukewarm stench of filth and despair that seemed to permeate every room in King's Landing.

The wind caught the edges of her long nightgown as Ross padded towards the window. Hanging over the dressing screen was her wedding dress, modest, elegant and pale grey. It had been left there after the final fitting earlier that day. She was getting married in the morning. Even if it was a beautiful dress, she hated it regardless.

It was dark outside, made even darker by the overcast sky. Rain fell from thick clouds - so thick they blotted out the moon and the stars - heavy droplets splashing inside onto the windowsill, wetting the drapes. Ross rested her hands on the ledge, and soon her wrists were soaked, bony fingers white against the stone. The only light from outside was from the flickering torches on the walls, and the guards changing shift.

She stepped back from the window, letting her hand slip under her pillow and draw out the blade. The dagger was long for a knife, plain, but of high quality, sharp and lethal. Jaime had taught her a little of how to use it, back in King's Landing. She liked the feel of it in her hand, even more so after she learned how to kill a man. It was comforting, to know she could somewhat protect herself, even if she wouldn't be much use in a real fight.

She ran a long finger over the blade. A small bead of blood bloomed on the tip, and the sting of it woke her up more than the cold breeze had.

Ross hadn't slept at all that night. It was the hour of the wolf, but she had gone between tossing and turning in bed, to being stood at the window in her nightdress, back and forth, staring sightlessly out at the black night. Whenever she tried to sleep, Bolton's words churning about her head, until she got up again. There she stood now.

He will never set foot in the Dreadfort. You may see him on visits. The dagger caught the moonlight on its polished edge, glinting coldly.

The realisation was rather easy, once she'd come to it. Ross couldn't leave her son. Nor could she let a man do whatever he wanted. Not again. The Targaryens were all dead or fled - she smiled vaguely, as she always did at the memory of Aerys' blood on a golden sword - but she was still not free.

She had sworn to herself as she rode out of King's Landing beside her brother, Ren held tightly in her lap, that she would never be that weak again. And that she would never leave her son.

Ross was as silent as a ghost as she slipped out of her chambers, keeping to the shadows. Her bare feet made no sounds as she traversed the familiar halls, knowing all the nooks to duck into whenever any guards came in sight, strangely numb to the idea of being caught, numb to what she was doing. If she was caught, they'd just think she was sleepwalking again.

It was stupid, reckless, futile, but she just didn't care. She knew which room Bolton was staying in. It just so happened that that particular guest chamber had a hidden entrance, which she'd found as a child with Lya. It meant bypassing the guards on the main door, and she used that entrance now, slipping unheard into the rooms from behind a tapestry.

There. He lay flat on his back in the bed, motionless, no sound other than his quiet breathing and her own, slightly ragged. She tilted her head as she drew closer. Strange. It was somehow unnatural, seeing him like this. He didn't look very peaceful even now, thin lips frowning even as he slept. He looked dead already.

She felt a draught from somewhere, wafting at her ankles and making the hairs on her neck stand on end, a whisper of the night breeze from her rooms. It sent a shot of energy up her spine, electrifying, and in that moment she had never felt more alive in her body, yet so completely empty in her head.

Outside, she heard the sounds of rain start to drum on the windowpane, oddly muffled. She stared at her betrothed, feeling neither hatred, anger or sadness. All it came down to, in the end, was what mattered more to her. Her son, her beloved Ren... or some man, a stranger who wanted to make her his wife. How could ever think she would choose anything else?

She knew how to kill, Jaime had made sure of that, in case it ever came to it with Aerys when she truly thought he was going to murder her. The dagger plunged down, right towards Roose Bolton's heart. At the last fraction of a second, the man's pale eyes snapped open, catching her very nearly red-handed. Before she could even blink, a knife of his own was pressed to her side.

"Lady Stark," He said, ever-soft voice sounding as loud as a battle commander's roar to her ears in the dead silence.

For several moments, she forgot how to breathe, but then she remembered that her dagger was at his chest, he couldn't move without her killing him too. There was a long pause. She was too shocked to speak, her words dying in her throat, though her hands didn't shake.

He eventually broke the silence, tone far more casual than she would have liked. "I have a preference for keeping incidents like this... quiet. I'm sure you feel the same," Milky-grey eyes stared deep into her own, making her feel for the first time in a while the young woman of eighteen she was.

No, she corrected herself. He's too still, as still as I am. Bolton didn't know her, didn't know if she would listen to him, or if she was just a mad, damaged woman beyond all reason. For all he knew, she could kill him right now and not care about the consequences. Yes, he was tense too, though hid it well.

For a moment, Ross considered if she was indeed so mad and damaged that she didn't care about the consequences, or if she was reasonable. In the end, she went with the latter, nodding a fraction. They both lowered their weapons, slowly, Ross against her better judgement, as he would surely be able to overpower her in a fair fight. And he had two of his men stood outside the door -

It happened too fast. A shuffling noise behind her, and she had whirled around in an instant without thinking, her dagger sinking deeply into flesh, slicing the throat of the guardsman that had just entered and tried to sneak up on her. The man choked and spluttered, falling against her, nails tearing at her arms as he let out a strangled gargle.

Ross stood there for a moment, stunned, eyes wide, then stepped back, letting the still choking man fall to the floor with a muffled thud. There was more blood than she thought there would be. A lot more. She hadn't known how much, until she felt the warm, wet liquid trickling down her hands and wrists, spreading down the white sleeves and skirt of her nightdress.

The nasty feeling brought her out of a daze she hadn't even realised she was in. I've killed a man. She suddenly heard the loud drumming of the rain outside again - had it been that loud before? - and looked down, seeing more blood dribble from the guardsman's slack mouth as he gasped his final throes, one hand stretching out to claw at her ankle.

She let go of the dagger, bringing both hands up to her mouth by instinct as it clattered to the floor. She stopped before they touched her face, but it was too late. Blood had already dripped down onto her bodice - had already sprayed, from the force she had cut the guard's throat - staining the cloth further. It didn't appear red in this light, but the dark stain was unmistakable.

He died rather easy, some part of her noted dully as the corpse fell silent. It was like Aerys. The blade went in, the man died, and somehow it didn't feel like enough to end a whole life. Though Aerys was lucky it was Jaime who got to him first; Ross wouldn't have made it nearly as quick as a sword through the throat. But killing the man who haunted her nightmares was different to killing someone she didn't know. At least she knew Aerys deserved it.

She didn't know what to do with her hands, holding them in front of her, scared to touch anything. Roose Bolton stood, a pale shadow, face expressionless, hand raised to stop the other guard approaching. He picked the dagger off the floor in one smooth movement, his short, strong fingers turning it over in his hands.

"A strong arm. Who taught you to kill, Lady Stark?" His tone gave little away. He could easily kill her with her own blade.

"I learned in King's Landing," Her own voice sounded distant to her ears, forcing her to shake her head and pay attention. "You were going to take me from my son,"

"I thought that would be it," He gave a small, tight smile. "That, or too much time spent in Mad Aerys' company,"

Ross' jaw set at the implication. "I'm not mad," The blood dripping off her hands contradicted her every word.

Bolton actually laughed at that, in his usual soft manner. "We'll see. Go,"

She blinked in surprise.

"You heard me. You can keep your bastard boy after the wedding, just keep him out of my sight,"

Whilst his face was impassive, his tone even, the look in his eyes scared her.

"You're lying. You'll have me killed for this the moment I'm alone. Or you'll wait until I've given you a son, then kill me some time after. I'm not simple, mad or not. The North remembers, and any Bolton would die before they forgave a Stark anything,"

"You underestimate the value of a Stark bride," Bolton said with a half-shrug. "What use are you to me in the crypts next to your sister? In a few hours, you shall become my wife, so obey me now when I tell you to leave this room. In return... That guard deserted some time in the early morning. You were in your rooms all night, anxious for your upcoming wedding. I heard nothing, saw nothing. This never happened," He raised an eyebrow at the second guard, who nodded without hesitation. Bolton still held onto her dagger. "Now, I won't ask again. Leave,"

Ross left, after a glance at her knife, and down at the slowly-spreading pool of blood from the corpse of the guardsman.

She only remembered brief flashes of the journey back to her rooms, though she had the sense to wrap her bloody hands in the folds of her nightdress so as not to leave a trail. The folds of fabric were clutched in her white-knuckled hand like a lifeline. Her door was shut with a click, but she remained with her back against it, slowly sinking down to the floor as the facade of composure she had kept in front of Bolton came crumbling down.

She sat slumped against the door, and let out a small, strangled moan, clutching both hands to her mouth to silence her. She felt the blood, sticky now as it began to dry. She retched as the iron taste suddenly filled her mouth, spitting into her sleeve. She'd killed a man in front of her husband to be - a Bolton for gods sakes - who she had attempted to slaughter in his sleep.

I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead. He would either tell the whole of the North by tomorrow and Ned would be forced to execute her; or he would pay someone to kill her on his behalf, sooner or later.

But no, it was worse than that, she realised suddenly. He was telling the truth when he had said he wouldn't do either of those things, because now he had complete control over her with that incriminating piece of blackmail. He wouldn't kill her, not with the opportunities that would bring.

Ross moved over to the washbasin in a daze. She was scrubbing a man's blood off her hands, so much blood it turned the water a murky red. A man she had killed.

The sun was starting to rise, pale light filtering through the open window. Slowly, she set down the cloth, as red as the water in the basin, and let out a long shuddering breath, looking at her reflection in the mirror. The white material of her nightdress was ruined, stained with huge patches of dried blood. She undressed, bundling up the dress and shoving it under the loose floorboard she had used since childhood to hide things. The rag followed it, and the red water was tipped down the privy. Ross changed into another nightdress and made sure that no trace of blood remained on her face. Her wrists were scratched and bruised, from where the guardsman had used the last of his strength to claw at his killer. Well, that was nothing new.

She pulled down her sleeves then set about with her hair. It didn't take too long to comb through, though she mussed it up with a hand before settling into bed. It was all methodical, practiced, and that made her calm slightly.

Rosennis Stark became Lady Bolton in name under the heart tree at Winterfell the next morning. No one asked why her hands looked like she'd been in a tavern brawl - perhaps they didn't notice, her sleeves almost covered them anyway - although her now-husband gave her a glance that said everything as their wrists were bound together.

She didn't flinch from his pale stare, returning it with a stony one of her own. 'Well-suited', was what she heard several guests muttering amongst each other about them as they made their way back to the main castle. The quiet, unnerving lord of the Dreadfort and the cold, hard lady of Winterfell. At least she still had that to salvage from the shreds of her reputation. Better cold and hard than weak and broken.

At her wedding feast, she wore black. Bolton colours, she claimed, though there was not a hint of pink on her. It was a rather washed-out colour, she had always thought, a faded red. But though her skirts and cloak were black, her bodice and underskirts were Stark grey, and she wore a silver direwolf on a chain around her neck. The most colourful thing on her was sewn into the folds of her skirts around her waistline. An embroidered flower - so small that it was near unnoticeable unless you knew it was there - in a rich shade of blue, the colour of winter roses.

*

Edited November 2024