A Dance With Dragons

son.
    “You did not find our missing Freys.” The way Roose Bolton said it, it was more a statement than a question.
    “We rode back to where Lord Lamprey claims they parted ways, but the girls could not find a trail.”
    “You asked after them in villages and holdfasts.”
    “A waste of words. The peasants might as well be blind for all they ever see.” Ramsay shrugged. “Does it matter? The world won’t miss a few Freys. There’s plenty more down at the Twins should we ever have need of one.”
    Lord Roose tore a small piece off a heel of bread and ate it. “Hosteen and Aenys are distressed.”
    “Let them go looking, if they like.”
    “Lord Wyman blames himself. To hear him tell it, he had become especially fond of Rhaegar.”
    Lord Ramsay was turning wroth. Reek could see it in his mouth, the curl of those thick lips, the way the cords stood up in his neck. “The fools should have stayed with Manderly.”
    Roose Bolton shrugged. “Lord Wyman’s litter moves at a snail’s pace … and of course his lordship’s health and girth do not permit him to travel more than a few hours a day, with frequent stops for meals. The Freys were anxious to reach Barrowton and be reunited with their kin. Can you blame them for riding on ahead?”
    “If that’s what they did. Do you believe Manderly?”
    His father’s pale eyes glittered. “Did I give you that impression? Still. His lordship is most distraught.”
    “Not so distraught that he can’t eat. Lord Pig must have brought half the food in White Harbor with him.”
    “Forty wayns full of foodstuffs. Casks of wine and hippocras, barrels of fresh-caught lampreys, a herd of goats, a hundred pigs, crates of crabs and oysters, a monstrous codfish … Lord Wyman likes to eat. You may have noticed.”
    “What I noticed was that he brought no hostages.”
    “I noticed that as well.”
    “What do you mean to do about it?”
    “It is a quandary.” Lord Roose found an empty cup, wiped it out on the tablecloth, and filled it from a flagon. “Manderly is not alone in throwing feasts, it would seem.”
    “It should have been you who threw the feast, to welcome me back,” Ramsay complained, “and it should have been in Barrow Hall, not this pisspot of a castle.”
    “Barrow Hall and its kitchens are not mine to dispose of,” his father said mildly. “I am only a guest there. The castle and the town belong to Lady Dustin, and she cannot abide you.”
    Ramsay’s face darkened. “If I cut off her teats and feed them to my girls, will she abide me then? Will she abide me if I strip off her skin to make myself a pair of boots?”
    “Unlikely. And those boots would come dear. They would cost us Barrowton, House Dustin, and the Ryswells.” Roose Bolton seated himself across the table from his son. “Barbrey Dustin is my second wife’s younger sister, Rodrik Ryswell’s daughter, sister to Roger, Rickard, and mine own namesake, Roose, cousin to the other Ryswells. She was fond of my late son and suspects you of having some part in his demise. Lady Barbrey is a woman who knows how to nurse a grievance. Be grateful for that. Barrow-ton is staunch for Bolton largely because she still holds Ned Stark to blame for her husband’s death.”
    “ Staunch? ” Ramsay seethed. “All she does is spit on me. The day will come when I’ll set her precious wooden town afire. Let her spit on that, see if it puts out the flames.”
    Roose made a face, as if the ale he was sipping had suddenly gone sour. “There are times you make me wonder if you truly are my seed. My fore-bears were many things, but never fools. No, be quiet now, I have heard enough. We appear strong for the moment, yes. We have powerful friends in the Lannisters and Freys, and the grudging support of much of the north … but what do you imagine is going to happen when one of Ned Stark’s sons turns up?”
    Ned Stark’s sons are all dead, Reek thought. Robb was murdered at the Twins, and Bran and Rickon … we dipped the heads in tar … His own head was pounding. He did not want to think about anything that had happened before he knew his name. There were things too hurtful to remember, thoughts almost as painful as Ramsay’s flaying knife …
    “Stark’s little wolflings are dead,” said Ramsay, sloshing some more ale into his cup, “and they’ll stay dead. Let them show their ugly faces, and my girls will rip those wolves of theirs to pieces. The sooner they turn up, the sooner I kill