Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8724907.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major
      Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Roose_Bolton/OFC, Roose_Bolton/Original_Female_Character
  Character:
      Roose_Bolton, Walder_Frey, Lyra_Frey, Robb_Stark, Catelyn_Stark, Jon
      Snow, Sansa_Stark, Ramsey_Bolton
  Additional Tags:
      House_Bolton, House_Stark, House_Frey_-_Freeform, Murder, mostly_canon-
      compliant, Season_6_Spoilers, Explicit_Sex, Bloodplay, Some_dub-con,
      slight_romance, Angst, Underage_for_a_little_bit, Bondage, Older_Man/
      Younger_Woman, Dark_Romance
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-12-02 Updated: 2017-10-09 Chapters: 4/? Words: 6315
****** Knowledge Is Power ******
by nycgrl
***** Chapter 1 *****
"You have your choice of any of my daughters and granddaughters, Lord Bolton,
to take as your bride. Again.." He adds snidely.


Roose Bolton looks over in slight disgust as the girls file into the room. All
ugly, the product of inbreeding, he supposes. This tired charade again.

The last girl to enter the room, however, catches his eye. She is rather plain,
but there was something about her... How did he not notice her before?

He bites back a smirk at the absence of an enticing dowry. The last had been
the girl's weight in silver, likely how he hadn't seen her. He'd cared only
about the one who could make him the most money. War was expensive, after all.
Walder Frey clearly wasn't about to make the same costly mistake again.

As she she takes her place with the rest, she lifts her chin and meets his gaze
pointedly, a scowl marring her delicate features.

Frey follows his gaze, and cackles hoarsely.

"Ah, dear Lyra's caught your eye, has she? She's the prettiest of the lot, I'll
give you that."

Frey turns on the girl, who flinches away.

"Step forward, girl."

She does so, her gaze still fixed defiantly on his face.

"How old are you, my Lady?" He drawls, looking over her. Her eyebrows arch at
the sound of his voice and he smirks faintly, gaze trained on her expectantly.

"Seventeen, my Lord." She finally mutters, quite obviously resentfully.

"More than old enough to give you children, Lord Bolton. Legitimate children."

The old man was mocking him. He felt a twinge of anger, but suppresses it with
a scowl.

The girl was still glaring at him. She'd be a challenge. More so than her
cowering sisters-- all of them eager to please, yet would likely burst into
tears if you so much as glanced their way. He didn't have time for tears. This
girl, Lyra, the old man had called her, didn't look prone to crying or
sniveling. Her gaze defied his every breath, eager to spite him. She'd do
nicely.

He glances back at Frey, silent understanding passing between them, then looks
back to the girl.

His gaze holds hers levelly, before the corner of his mouth turns up in a
slight smirk, which only serves to deepen her scowl.

"Bow to your Lord, Lyra. He honours you with his decision."

Spots of red flare on her pale cheeks, seeming to be a combination of
humiliation and fury, but she stalks forward another step and drops in a
curtsy, her lips pressed together tightly.

The old man dismisses the other girls with a wave of his hand, and they scurry
off, visibly relieved.

Lyra stands still, hands clasped behind her back, as she stares at the floor
with a small frown.

"Preparations can be made for a ceremony and feast within a fortnight, my
Lord." Frey drones on, and he nods faintly, not wishing to be burdened by
discussions of the matter.

The old man sends for a servant and is momentarily distracted, and he takes the
moment to observe the girl who is to be his new bride.

She isn't as plain as he had originally thought, but she is made up to be. Her
pale face is bare of any of the cosmetics popular amongst noble ladies, a
smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She has a small mouth that
could easily be twisted into a sly smirk, and large grey eyes fringed with dark
lashes, but they hold no emotion within them.

Frey pauses his conversation to give a hacking cough, startling them both, and
Frey glares at Lyra for a moment, a silent conversation passing between them.
She looks away, her hands clasped tightly behind her back.

The young woman has braided hair, pinned up tightly, but the severeness of the
hairstyle failed the hide the fact that when unbound, it would fall in a mass
of loose curls.

His gaze slides over the girl's figure, hidden by a dress in a washed-out kind
of no-colour, somewhere between green and brown and faded with years of age,
likely having been passed down from sister to sister. It was too big, having
been made for a frame heavier than her, and the cloak around her shoulders was
frayed on the edges, but she wears them well, her head held high, ignoring the
petty inconveniences.

She glances sideways at him during his observation of her, and she flashes him
a faintly curious look, but quickly turns away when her grandfather sends the
servant off.

The man continues to watch her, hoping she would face him again so that he
could see that curious look again. Lyra obliges his unspoken thoughts by
turning slightly, but this time her face is blank and not a single muscle in
her expression moves. He may just grow to fancy that.

~


His head turns as Walder Frey enters, Lyra on his arm, and he stares. His
betrothed is dressed in a sweeping gown of royal blue, the soft fabric hugging
her curves, a cloak of silvery grey about her shoulders. Frey colours. Her hair
is pinned up, and she appears to be allowed the use of cosmetics for the
occasion, her eyes lined with kohl, her lashes darkened with the same powder.

Allowed feminine indulgences, he realizes that she's really quite pretty.

She stands at his side as the priest blesses their union, and he removes her
cloak and replaces it with a soft red one, his own house colour, to bring her
under his protection.

Her small hand is warm in his as their hands are bound with a strip of cloth,
and she holds his gaze steadily as they repeat the words together. She sits
impassive when he kisses her, but he doesn't miss the flash that passes through
her eyes when he draws away.

The priest gives her then to those assembled as Lady Lyra Bolton, and like
that, they're joined.


He observes the room over the rim of his wine goblet, and she does the same,
her light eyes missing nothing. He notices her glancing his way every so often,
but she doesn't speak, hasn't spoken the entire evening, the exception being
when one of her sisters comes up to whisper something to her.

Lord Frey has been attempting to make conversation, of which he passively
tolerates, and his new wife outright ignores, which seems to bother the old
man, his squinting eyes narrowing even more as he scowls at her. But she is no
longer his to chastise, so he holds his silence.

The crowd of family and nobles feasting in celebration seems to disgust her,
her mouth fixed in a displeased grimace for the majority of the evening.

Eventually, Frey stands, raising a hand to quiet the crowd.

"As we all know, although they have been joined in matrimony, they are not yet
truly man and wife. A sword needs a sheath-" he pauses to laugh raucously,
joined by the crowd. "And this wedding needs a bedding!"

That tired joke again? He fights the urge to roll his eyes, glancing at Lyra.
He's not sure if it's a relief or an even greater frustration to her that it's
time to leave, as her expression remains unchanged while her brothers and
uncles drag her from her chair, loosening the ties of her dress. He has a
moment to observe in faint amusement before he's mobbed by her giggling sisters
and dragged after her, the people making cheerful jabs at them as to what will
come, before they're both shoved into the room that will serve as their
honeymoon chamber and left suddenly alone.

The instant silence is a shock, and she stands still for a moment, before
finally taking the opportunity to look fully at him, her eyes passively
observing his face.

"You understand, of course, what is to happen."

The faintest hint of a sneer curls her lips.

"Do you think me a witless child, my Lord? Of course I do."

He arches an eyebrow and she falls silent, her expression changing to one of
apprehension as she gauges his reaction to her rudeness.

"Careful, girl.."

Her lips press together tightly for a moment and she looks away from him,
holding her tongue.

She drops her gaze to the floor, fumbling awkwardly with the back laces of her
dress. He watches for a moment, but she sends him a desperate glance, and he
strides over to assist her, a faint smirk twisting his lips.

He finds it difficult to sort out the laces, even after her sisters have so
graciously loosened them, and resorts to retrieving his dagger and simply
slicing through them, pulling the dress from her.

He pauses as he finds her still dressed in a shift, corset, and multiple layers
of underskirts, and stares blankly at her. She glances up at him and sighs,
shrugging faintly.

"Don't look to me, my Lord. I'm at a loss, as well."

"Are you not used to it, by now?"

"This is nothing similar to what I normally wear."

"Then you would have no complaint with me cutting it off of you?"

She spreads her hands in welcoming, looking exhausted.

"By all means.."

He slices through the layers of fabric, having to tear some of it by hand as it
tangles together, but he finally gets her down to her shift and stockings, and
steps back to lay aside the knife.

She's breathing deeply now, her hands resting on her hips, but whether it's
from nervousness over what's to come or if she's simply relieved to be rid of
the corset, he doesn't know.

She arches an eyebrow at the pile of fabric pooled beside her, a faint smile
toying her lips, and he returns the expression when she looks up at him. She
smirks widely then, and turns to go and sit on the bed, stretching her legs out
as she unfastens the garters holding her stockings up. Managing to pull them
off, they join the pile on the floor, and she turns her attention to him.

She slides forward and slips her legs so they rest on either side of his, and
reaches up to unclasp his cloak. It falls to the floor and his overcoat quickly
follows, leaving him in a vest and loose shirt. He's never liked the strictness
and frills of formal clothing, much preferring his simple leather armor and
trousers. But he's happy to have his little wife strip him of the layers of
brocades, faintly surprised at her taking initiative.

He stops her when she attempts to remove his shirt, and she frowns, but curls
her fingers in the waist of his trousers and gently tugs him towards her.

"You don't seem bothered by any of this." He observes quietly, and she looks up
at him.

"Should I be?"

"No. But most are."

She shrugs delicately. "I don't see much use. It will happen whether I want it
to or not."

"The first time, yes. It is required."

She's managed to work the laces of his trousers loose without his notice, and
he starts as she slips a hand into them, grasping him suddenly.

A short gasp escapes him and she seems startled, looking up at him quickly,
seeming afraid she's hurt him. He sends her a faint smile of affirmation and
she returns to her attentions, stroking him curiously.

He works his trousers down enough for her to have free reign over him, and she
seems intrigued, so he lets her explore as she wishes, figuring it's likely
this is the first time she's seen a naked man before.

Her thumb swipes over the bead of clear liquid pooling at his tip, and she
examines it for a moment, then experimentally touches it to her lips. Her gaze
flickers to his as her tongue pokes out to taste it, sucking her fingertip into
her mouth, and he shudders faintly at the unconcealed lust in her eyes.

He takes the time to kiss her, exploring the softness of her lips, and later,
the wet heat of her mouth. She whimpers softly as his strong hands slide over
her body, and he grasps her shift, a sharp tug splitting the thin fabric
easily.

Her bared skin is feverish under his hands, and he pulls back to find her pale
cheeks flushed with pink, her eyes wide and curious as she pants softly. Her
chest is rising and falling rapidly as he pulls the ruined fabric from her,
leaving her bare before him, and for the first time, she seems nervous,
awaiting his approval of her body.

His answer to her fears is to push her to her back, her legs draped over his
shoulders as he kneels, and buries his face in her cunt.

She gives a shocked squeal at the lapping of his tongue, but he holds her
tightly as her hips roll forwards and she drops back to the bed, whimpering
softly.

He traces the flat of his tongue around her clit, bringing a hand up and slowly
pushing a finger into her after a moment. He lays a bite to the inside of her
thigh as he pushes another finger in, and she shoots up to scowl at him. He
simply smirks at her, lips soothing the sting, and she pouts, but relaxes
again, to which he responds by adding a third digit, thrusting them harder.

She props up on her elbows to watch his fingers disappearing in and out of her,
and bites her lip, a soft, shaky moan escaping her.

Satisfied she's properly prepared for him, he pulls her fully onto the bed,
situating himself over her. Her lips part slightly, eyes wide, but he makes
sure to be as careful as he can, stopping when she gives utterances of pain and
pushes at his chest. Normally he wouldn't bother with such things, but when it
comes to such delicate situations as providing an heir, it wouldn't do to have
her be afraid of sex. Him, maybe, that didn't matter, but not the act itself.

Her pale eyes are huge, brimming with tears, as he inches in, but he kisses her
slowly to distract her until he's seated fully within her, his hips flush
against hers.

She sniffles quietly and he breaks away from her kiss, reaching down to pull
her legs up so she wraps them around his waist.

She's blinking rapidly, seeming overwhelmed, and he rubs his thumb over her
clit, satisfied when she whimpers and tightens around him, enough to leave him
gasping. Seven hells, she was tight. It was becoming far too difficult to stay
still.

Her eyes are closed when he glances back at her, keeping her breaths deep and
even, and she sighs quietly after an agonizingly long minute, her eyes
fluttering open. She smiles sweetly at him, bringing her arms up around him,
and seeing his reaction from before, tightens hard.

He inhales sharply and draws back, but before she can utter the complaint he
sees on her face, he thrusts in hard, and she gives a startled cry, but simply
gasps as his thrusts stay slow but deep. It's torture, but for her first time,
he allows her the comfort of making it as easy as possible. Pain will come at a
later date.

Swallowing hard, she throws her head back, exposing her pale throat to the
exploration of his mouth, and he leaves several purple marks on her skin.

She's panting softly, lips forming silent words, and his hand comes up to
stroke an escaped curl of her hair from her face.

"What is it?"

She stares at him, and shrugs faintly, unsure what to say.

"Stop?" He asks, pausing his movement. It's an empty offer, but he gives her
the illusion of a choice, regardless.

"No!" She exclaims forcefully, startling them both by her outburst.

"No." She says again, softer. "I'm fine. I-I need--"

He gives a flicker of a smirk, beginning to move slowly again.

"More?"

She nods quickly, flushing pink, and he obliges her, hips clashing against her
soft skin as he fucks her harder.

Her nails dig into his shoulders as her back arches, and she clamps down on
him, hard.

The trembling of her legs shows she won't last much longer. But then again,
neither will he.

His fingers find her clit again and she cries aloud, eyes shut tightly as her
expression seems almost pained. Her lips part as she stiffens against him, then
she gives a soft scream as her body spasms in orgasm.

He grunts as he can feel every bit of her pleasure and it sends him spiraling
as well, leaving him gasping as he shudders against her, his seed spilling into
her.

They stay wrapped tightly together for a moment, steadying their breaths,
before he draws away.

He finds a rag to clean up with and returns to the bed, finding her still
sprawled where he'd left her. He cleans her up carefully, finding a few drops
of blood on the sheets, and is satisfied. As will be her family, in the
morning.

He settles in beside her and she curls up to him, as his hand absently drags
through her hair.

They're silent for a long time, to the point he'd think her asleep were it not
for the sounds of her breathing, and she finally looks up at him.

"Can we do that again?" She asks softly, and he gives a startled chuckle.

"Didn't get enough the first time?"

"Liked it too much." She muses. "Everyone said it would be awful.."

"Because I didn't rape you." He says factually. "It makes all the difference."

She makes a noise of agreement, stretching luxuriously against his side.

"Just wondering.. Was that a no, then?" She asks after a moment.

"You need your rest. We leave tomorrow."
She sighs, but rests her head on his chest, and soon, her breathing is slow and
even with sleep.
 
***** Chapter 2 *****
The morning light wakes him early, much as he wishes to go back to sleep, and
he turns his head to find Lyra sprawled at his side, her features still with
sleep. What an interesting week this has turned out to be.
Her eyebrows furrow suddenly and she shifts around, moaning softly, before her
eyes flutter open. She squints at the light filtering through the drapes, a
small frown twisting her lips, but then she looks up at him and smiles faintly.
She rolls over onto her back and stretches out, or at least attempts to,
getting halfway before she freezes and gives a yelp of pain.
She immediately curls up, teeth sunk into her bottom lip.
There's a sudden knock on the door before it swings open, and Lyra's eyes fly
open, going wide as she scrambles for the covers. A servant has appeared in the
room, as is standard, to collect the bedsheets stained with her blood to take
to her grandfather as proof that their marriage has been consummated.
Lyra gets up from the bed with a sigh, finding a dressing gown quickly and
pulling it on, as the servant nervously averts his eyes.
He vacates the bed so the servant can do his work. The man strips the sheet
from the bed and leaves the room quickly, the door banging shut behind him, and
Lyra watches him go with a smirk. She'd never taken her hair down from the
style it'd been twisted into from the evening prior, and he watches as she
pulls out a handful of hairpins, her hair falling in long curls down her back.
He steps over to her, brushing his fingers through her locks.
"Your hair is beautiful, little one, and will make good reins while I pound
into you from behind.."
She whimpers as he speaks quietly in her ear, and he smirks at her reaction to
his words, reaching past her to take a clean shirt from the wardrobe to replace
the one he still wore.
"We ride for the Dreadfort after the meal." He comments, and she glances up at
him, nodding curtly. Her face has returned to the mask of indifference that
seems to be her most utilized expression.
Perfect.
She pushes pins back into her hair, twisting it into a simple coil, and he
watches with faint surprise at her not waiting for a maid to come and put it up
for her. Self-sufficient and headstrong, then. Why wait when she could do it
herself? Perfect, she would not be some soft little wife that needed his love
and constant protection. He expected she was perfectly capable of handling
herself.
She notices his cool observation of her and arches an eyebrow at him, her pink
lips pursed together tightly. He strides away, fastening his leather armour
over his shirt as he leaves her to her devices in the room.
He orders his horse to be saddled, motioning to Jacob, the captain of his
guard, who follows after him.
"Lord Frey wants to serve a celebratory feast at noontime before we depart, my
Lord."
Roose sends him a disbelieving glare.
"After the ordeal of last night? No. We leave as soon as the morning meal is
finished, that's staying more than long enough. It is a two day's ride back to
the Dreadfort and I will not delay any longer. Go find my Lady wife and ensure
she is ready to leave."
Walder Frey complains and makes thinly veiled threats, until Roose finally
consents to staying, grimly sending a raven to Ramsay that they would be
delayed in their return another day.

Lyra was watching the noise in the room again impassively, the feast almost
more raucous than the night before, but there's a slight pinch to her eyebrows
that shows she has something on her mind. Walder Frey was again droning on
about something or another, and Roose thinks he might go mad if the old man
doesn't stop his endless prattle.
Lyra seems to have the same thought, pushing back her chair with a loud scrape,
and turns to him.
"My Lord, come dance with your Lady wife."
His gaze flicks up to hers.
"I don't dance, my Lady." He replies, but his eyes narrow at the thought of
having to stay and listen to Walder Frey any longer.
Lyra smiles thinly, her fingers tightening ever so slightly on his arm.
"With all due respect, my Lord, that really wasn't a request."
Her head dips closer so she can speak close to his ear as he glares up at her.
"I have something I wish to discuss with you away from my Lord Grandfather's
ears."
He sighs, but acquiesces, rising and allowing her to pull him down to the group
of couples already spinning about.
She arches an eyebrow as she looks up at him curiously.
"You don't drink, you don't dance.. What do you do for leisure?"
"It's been so long since I had leisure time, I'm not entirely sure any longer."
He replies dryly, and she purses her lips.
"What did you want to discuss?"
She fixes her gaze on a point just over his shoulder.
"I'm sure you know that my grandfather, while he will give the support of his
house to one side of a fight, is.. Not the most loyal of people. He cares most
about who has the deepest pocket."
"I do know this."
Her eyes narrow faintly. "He will not partake in campaigns that have a great
deal of risk to them. Too much money could be lost if his victory is not
absolutely assured."
"Why do you tell me this?" He asks, eyes cold. "What do you know?"
"Nothing specifically." She replies quietly. "However, I do know one thing."
Her gaze flickers up to his, a hardness in her grey eyes. "He will ask me to
spy for him."
He stops abruptly, and she trips over his foot, grasping his shoulder tightly
and frowning at him.
"And will you?" He asks coldly, and she sends him a grim smile.
"Do you take me for a fool, my Lord? I'm not stupid enough to spy on you for
him, for anyone."
Her hands tighten their grip on him, compelling him to keep moving before they
draw too much attention.
"However, should you give me choice pieces of information to feed him, he may
send me information in return." She adds quietly, and his eyebrows arch.
"How quickly you change your loyalties."
She laughs suddenly without humour.
"Loyalty to your family, is that not how it should be? You're my family now, my
Lord. Regardless of my blood, if you think my loyalties lie with Walder Frey,
you are sorely mistaken."
"He's your grandfather."
"He's a slimy old man and a fool." She snaps. "I do not trust him, and I hold
no love for him."
"Why should I believe I can trust you?"
Her lips press together thinly. "You can't. All you have is my word for it. My
loyalty is hard won and not easily given, but once you have it, you can be
assured you will never lose it."
His eyebrows arch faintly at that, but he doesn't comment, ensuring she's
finished before taking her back to the table.
Dancing was such a tedious pastime.
 
***** Chapter 3 *****
It was a long, dreary ride to the Dreadfort, nearly fifteen days of travel, and
Lyra holds a seemingly rather bitter silence for much of the time, something
he's thankful for. They’d stopped for the night, a few hours north of Moat
Cailin, and he watches her across the fire from him. She was clutching her fur
cloak about her tightly, staring resolutely into the flames.
 
“My Lady.”
 
Her cold gaze flickers up to him.
 
“You've hardly spoken since we left the Twins, are you well?”
 
“I’d have figured you’d prefer it that way.” She says lowly after a moment, and
he concedes.


She doesn't speak again until they're nearly there, asking simply for the name
of the village outside the Dreadfort. Barrowton, he tells her, and she nods,
looking about with a small frown.
 
The servants are there to welcome their new lady home, and Lyra seems pacified
for a time, her pale gaze flickering about as they walk the halls of the keep,
missing nothing. She isn't impressed, or if she is, she doesn't show it, but
not disdainful, observing everything she sees with passive interest, listening
to her new handmaid chatter on.
 
He busies himself in work until dinnertime, and she is there again, dressed in
a soft blue gown, her long curls left loose. He studies her during the meal,
and she does the same, holding his gaze impassively for some time. She's
learned, this one, he thinks. She watches, observes, and learns all she can.
 
She already hates Ramsay, he can tell, though she says nothing as his son goes
on about some subject. She answers Ramsay’s questions with as few words as
possible, her gaze not leaving Roose’s. Perhaps she thinks that if she looks
away, if she shows any sign of letting her guard down, that she'll be attacked.
He could break her, this little girl, and he thinks he would enjoy doing so
very much.
 
When he gets up from the table, begrudgingly returning to work, she disappears
from the room, avoiding Ramsay, he notices. The boy will torture her, in any
way he can. He already knows it.
 
She's sitting on the floor by the fire reading a book when he comes to her
chambers later, her gaze again fixed unwaveringly on him as he crosses the room
to her. He kneels in front of her and takes her book from her hands, which she
relinquishes without protest, tossing it aside as his fingers tangle in her
curls.
 
He takes her there on the floor before the fire, true to his words to her
before, as he pushes her down on her hands and knees, dress shoved up around
her waist, his hand grasping tightly in her hair. She can't stifle her moans as
well as she thinks she can, and when he's finished, he fixes her dress for her
and smooths a palm over her now-tangled locks. She looks at him silently, but
there's a glint in her eyes that tells him they already understand each other.
A look he’ll have to squash. He doesn't want anyone knowing him, doesn't need
it. Perhaps she was a mistake, maybe he should have taken one of her sniveling
sisters, at least they wouldn't invade his mind, they'd keep to themselves. She
sees, yes, but she sees too much.
 
Despite it all, he finds himself pressing his fingertips to her soft cheek as
he rises, a gentler gesture he hadn't counted on. Even she seems a little
surprised, but thankfully he knows she won't dare comment on it. He leaves her
chambers before he does something, says something that he might later regret,
grimacing to himself as he does. The girl has barely said a word and already
she begins to unravel him. And he was certainly not a man to be undone.
 
He doesn't see her for another day, and finally goes to her chambers, gaze
flickering around to find Lyra nowhere in sight. He paces over to the
bedchamber door, but only then notices the huge pile of furs next to the
hearth. Nearly every fur in the Dreadfort, it seemed like.

A curious examination of it finds grey eyes glaring back at him a moment later,
and he can't help his mouth twitching into a small smirk.

"What are you doing?"

"It's bloody freezing here. I can't feel my hands, my feet, or my nose."

Her voice is bitter and somewhat muffled, and he removes furs until he can see
her face.


"Come here.." He mutters, and she pushes furs off until she can stand.


Even wrapped in furs and sitting before the fire, she's shivering. The Twins is
in a much warmer climate than the Dreadfort, and he doubts that she's ever been
north of the Neck, never experienced bitter cold.


"I have something that might help."


He wraps one of the larger furs around her shoulders and leads her downstairs,
to the baths.


Her expression lights up at the sight of the pools, filled with steaming water
from the natural hot springs that run beneath the fort.  Stripping off the furs
and her dress, she pokes her toes into the water, then jumps in, splashing
water everywhere, but for the first time, she seems happy.  He sits at the edge
of the pool a moment later, watching her paddle around, her face flushed pink
from the heat of the water.

 "This is heaven."
 
She hums happily, ignoring his stare and non-responsiveness, and seems
satisfied. Happier than she had been, anyways.
 
Finally she paddles over to him, and squints up at him for a long moment.
Reading him again.
 
“I appreciate it, my Lord.” She says quietly after a moment, and he frowns at
her, prompting a sly smirk. She already likes him, by the Gods. Such a strange
girl.
 
“Careful, Lyra. You're being nice and smiling. It's disconcerting.”
 
“Much the same as it would be if you did so, I suppose.”
 
His cheek twitches in forcing back a laugh at that. He takes back anything he
thought about them being a strange match. No, she understands.
 
As quickly as it came, her smirk is gone, and she's resumed her careful
watching, her cold composure regained.
 
An icy heart to rival his own. He'd have it burning soon.

~~


“My Lord.”
 
He takes the rolled note Steelshanks passes to him, gaze flickering passively
over the message.
 
“We must return to the battle, within a fortnight. Send for my Lady wife.”
 
Steelshanks nods and disappears for a bit, returning with Lyra in tow. She
looks at him for a long moment, taking in the maps on the table, the message in
hand, and the weariness on his face.
 
“My Lord..”
 
She speaks quietly, probably already knows what he's going to say to her, and
he crumples the message and feeds it to the fire.
 
“We must return to Robb Stark, to continue our fight.”
 
“Why did you bring me here?” She says after a moment, her eyes narrowed a
little. “You travel all the way to the Dreadfort, just to turn around and go
back?”
 
“I wasn't planning to take you with me.”
 
Her eyes narrow even more, and she scowls a little.
 
“And what am I to do, in your absence?”
 
“You'll be the Lady of the Dreadfort.”
 
She scoffs. “Like any would listen to me. I'm useless to you here. Ramsay is
more than capable, from what I've heard..”
 
“You'll be safe here.”
 
Her jaw tightened, recognizing she wasn't going to win this, and she inclined
her head rather mockingly to him, turning for the doors.
 
“Oh.. By the way..” She glances back at him over her shoulder. “If Ramsay so
much as lays a finger on me, I will put a dagger in his brain.”
 
“Why would he?”
 
She sends him a patronizing look. “He’s already tried.”
 
Roose began to retort to that but she was already gone, the doors slamming
behind her.
 
He sneers his irritation, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. He needs
Ramsay there to keep the Ironborn at bay, and had no intentions of being
burdened on his return to battle with a distraction, but it pains him to think
of giving in to what she wants. Did she lie, about Ramsay? He hoped she was,
and that his bastard would leave her alone, but didn't believe for much that
his son would allow her to roam unchecked. If she showed any indication of
fighting back, as she would, there was no saying what Ramsay would do to her.
Steelshanks was watching him silently, and he glanced to the man with a
tightened expression.

"See that Lady Bolton will be ready to depart at first light."
 
***** Chapter 4 *****
It was a long, dreary ride to the Dreadfort, nearly fifteen days of travel, and
Lyra holds a seemingly rather bitter silence for much of the time, something
he's thankful for. They’d stopped for the night, a few hours north of Moat
Cailin, and he watches her across the fire from him. She was clutching her fur
cloak about her tightly, staring resolutely into the flames.
“My Lady.”
Her cold gaze flickers up to him.
“You've hardly spoken since we left the Twins, are you well?”
“I’d have figured you’d prefer it that way.” She says lowly after a moment, and
he concedes.

She doesn't speak again until they're nearly there, asking simply for the name
of the village outside the Dreadfort. Barrowton, he tells her, and she nods,
looking about with a small frown.
The servants are there to welcome their new lady home, and Lyra seems pacified
for a time, her pale gaze flickering about as they walk the halls of the keep,
missing nothing. She isn't impressed, or if she is, she doesn't show it, but
not disdainful, observing everything she sees with passive interest, listening
to her new handmaid chatter on.
He busies himself in work until dinnertime, and she is there again, dressed in
a soft blue gown, her long curls left loose. He studies her during the meal,
and she does the same, holding his gaze impassively for some time. She's
learned, this one, he thinks. She watches, observes, and learns all she can.
She already hates Ramsay, he can tell, though she says nothing as his son goes
on about some subject. She answers Ramsay’s questions with as few words as
possible, her gaze not leaving Roose’s. Perhaps she thinks that if she looks
away, if she shows any sign of letting her guard down, that she'll be attacked.
He woils break her, this little girl, and he thinks he will enjoy it very much.
When he gets up from the table, begrudgingly returning to work, she disappears
from the room, avoiding Ramsay, he notices. The boy will torture her, in any
way he can. He already knows it.
 
She's sitting on the floor by the fire reading a book when he comes to her
chambers later, her gaze again fixed unwaveringly on him as he crosses the room
to her. He kneels in front of her and takes her book from her hands, which she
relinquishes without protest, tossing it aside as his fingers tangle in her
curls.
He takes her there on the floor before the fire, true to his words to her
before, as he pushes her down on her hands and knees, dress shoved up around
her waist, his hand grasping tightly in her hair.
She can't stifle her moans as well as she thinks she can, and when he's
finished, he fixes her dress for her and smooths a palm over her now-tangled
locks. She looks at him silently, but there's a glint in her eyes that tells
him they already understand each other. A look he’ll have to squash. He doesn't
want anyone knowing him, doesn't need it. Perhaps she was a mistake, maybe he
should have taken one of her sniveling sisters, at least they wouldn't invade
his mind, they'd keep to themselves. She sees, yes, but she sees too much.
Despite it all, he finds himself pressing his fingertips to her soft cheek as
he rises, a gentler gesture he hadn't counted on. Even she seems a little
surprised, but thankfully he knows she won't dare comment on it. He leaves her
chambers before he does something, says something that he might later regret,
grimacing to himself as he does. The girl has barely said a word and already
she begins to unravel him. And he was certainly not a man to be undone.
 
 
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