A Dance With Dragons

them again.”
    The elder Bolton sighed. “ Again? Surely you misspeak. You never slew Lord Eddard’s sons, those two sweet boys we loved so well. That was Theon Turncloak’s work, remember? How many of our grudging friends do you imagine we’d retain if the truth were known? Only Lady Barbrey, whom you would turn into a pair of boots … inferior boots. Human skin is not as tough as cowhide and will not wear as well. By the king’s decree you are now a Bolton. Try and act like one. Tales are told of you, Ramsay. I hear them everywhere. People fear you.”
    “Good.”
    “You are mistaken. It is not good. No tales were ever told of me. Do you think I would be sitting here if it were otherwise? Your amusements are your own, I will not chide you on that count, but you must be more discreet. A peaceful land, a quiet people. That has always been my rule. Make it yours.”
    “Is this why you left Lady Dustin and your fat pig wife? So you could come down here and tell me to be quiet ?”
    “Not at all. There are tidings that you need to hear. Lord Stannis has finally left the Wall.”
    That got Ramsay halfway to his feet, a smile glistening on his wide, wet lips. “Is he marching on the Dreadfort?”
    “He is not, alas. Arnolf does not understand it. He swears that he did all he could to bait the trap.”
    “I wonder. Scratch a Karstark and you’ll find a Stark.”
    “After the scratch the Young Wolf gave Lord Rickard, that may be somewhat less true than formerly. Be that as it may. Lord Stannis has taken Deepwood Motte from the ironmen and restored it to House Glover. Worse, the mountain clans have joined him, Wull and Norrey and Liddle and the rest. His strength is growing.”
    “Ours is greater.”
    “Now it is.”
    “Now is the time to smash him. Let me march on Deepwood.”
    “After you are wed.”
    Ramsay slammed down his cup, and the dregs of his ale erupted across the tablecloth. “I’m sick of waiting. We have a girl, we have a tree, and we have lords enough to witness. I’ll wed her on the morrow, plant a son between her legs, and march before her maiden’s blood has dried.”
    She’ll pray for you to march, Reek thought, and she’ll pray that you never come back to her bed.
    “You will plant a son in her,” Roose Bolton said, “but not here. I’ve decided you shall wed the girl at Winterfell.”
    That prospect did not appear to please Lord Ramsay. “I laid waste to Winterfell, or had you forgotten?”
    “No, but it appears you have … the ironmen laid waste to Winterfell, and butchered all its people. Theon Turncloak.”
    Ramsay gave Reek a suspicious glance. “Aye, so he did, but still … a wedding in that ruin?”
    “Even ruined and broken, Winterfell remains Lady Arya’s home. What better place to wed her, bed her, and stake your claim? That is only half of it, however. We would be fools to march on Stannis. Let Stannis march on us. He is too cautious to come to Barrowton … but he must come to Winterfell. His clansmen will not abandon the daughter of their precious Ned to such as you. Stannis must march or lose them … and being the careful commander that he is, he will summon all his friends and allies when he marches. He will summon Arnolf Karstark.”
    Ramsay licked his chapped lips. “And we’ll have him.”
    “If the gods will it.” Roose rose to his feet. “You’ll wed at Winterfell. I shall inform the lords that we march in three days and invite them to accompany us.”
    “You are the Warden of the North. Command them.”
    “An invitation will accomplish the same thing. Power tastes best when sweetened by courtesy. You had best learn that if you ever hope to rule.” The Lord of the Dreadfort glanced at Reek. “Oh, and unchain your pet. I am taking him.”
    “Taking him? Where? He’s mine. You cannot have him.”
    Roose seemed amused by that. “All you have I gave you. You would do well to remember that, bastard. As for this … Reek … if you have not ruined him beyond redemption, he may yet be of some use to us. Get the keys and remove those chains from him, before you make me rue the day I raped your mother.”
    Reek saw the way Ramsay’s mouth twisted, the spittle glistening between his lips. He feared he might leap the table with his dagger in his hand. Instead he flushed red, turned his pale eyes from his father’s paler ones, and went to find the keys. But as he knelt to unlock the fetters around Reek’s wrists and ankles, he leaned close and