Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

    "My radiance, look! There's White Harbor," Malanza called out to Aracely from the large and luxurious ship's deck, pointing to a sun-drenched, pale stone castle in the distance.

    Aracely rushed to the wooden railing for a better view of the keep, her lengthy, silver hair blowing carelessly across her face in the harsh wind. 

    The fortress that was the New Castle sat like a massive crown atop a king's head at the summit of the hill upon which the city was built. Squinting, she could make out copious seafoam colored banners hanging against the white masonry. She couldn't quite tell the sigil on the tapestries, but she knew that this was where they would be staying for the night after being at sea for nearly two entire moon cycles. 

    The first half of the oceanic journey had gone particularly smoothly. Aracely spent the early days of travel soaking up the sun of the Summer Sea off the coast of Dorne, her handmaidens fetching her plenty of fresh fruit all day long such as figs, grapes, and her absolute favorite, pomegranates. 

    The water started getting choppy around the Blackwater Bay, and from there it only got colder, rougher, and windier until Aracely had to begrudgingly trade her bright, gossamer Myrish silks for thicker, velvet gowns with long, flowing sleeves that she found she didn't hate as much as she'd anticipated.

    Aracecly couldn't decide whether she wanted their party to arrive soon or not, knowing she was being shipped off, literally, to somewhere in the North called the Dreadfort to marry its royally decreed heir. The keep's title alone made it sound both very daunting and gloomy. However, she desperately wanted to feel the solid ground beneath her feet again.

    "How long until we arrive? Do you know?" Aracely asked in a bored tone to the dark-brown-haired serving girl while leaning onto the railing beside her. She turned her deep-violet eyes from the waves lightly pounding their fists against the boat's hull to the small flame tattoo on the side of Malanza's face. 

    Malanza was a well-trained and educated temple servant that Aracely's father bought from the Red Priests in Lys; at age seven-and-ten, and she was the youngest of Aracely's servants, who were now technically handmaidens since slavery was outlawed in Westeros. 

    Malanza smiled while keeping her focus locked onto the land ahead. "You speak the common tongue so well now, my lady. I believe we will arrive within the hour," she assured.

    Aracely thanked the girl curtly. 

    Growing up as Magister Lysandro Vyros' daughter in Lys, Aracely had been learning the common tongue unwillingly from the time she was born, whether it be from Westerosi lords coming to trade with her father, or eavesdropping on her parents speaking it, which was typically when they were talking about matters that she was much too young to be caring about, yet she listened in anyway. 

    One day, around age nine, she had become sufficient enough at deciphering the common tongue and heard her mother, Sylvia, arguing with her father about teaching Xaria, her older sister, about a word she didn't yet recognize: alchemy. 

    "It isn't work suited for a highborn lady," she recalled her mom telling her in High Valyrian. 

    Curiosity had gotten the best of Aracely. Later that night, she'd crept into Xaria's bedroom after the city's nightly chant for R'hllor had ceased. Sitting wide-eyed and innocent as ever on her two-and-ten-year-old sister's bed, she sounded out the word her parents recited earlier to Xaria, "Al-kah-mee." 

    That was the night she fully became herself, the night she learned the art of potion making and, of course, alchemy. Over the years, she'd learned all she could ever have hoped to know about potion and poison making, alchemy, and more from Xaria and their father.

    Aracely grinned to herself faintly at a passing memory of the time she and her sister made their first batch of Essence of Lotus, a truth serum. They accidentally made it astronomically more potent than it needed to be. So, upon testing it on their mother, they ended up sending the poor, sweet woman into a coma-like state for days on end. They thought she was sent to the Hall of Light, but their father was familiar with the poison, being a member of the conclave of Lys, and allowed them to think she was deceased until she woke up to teach his daughters a lesson. It was a lesson well taught since the girls never tried out any of their creations on an unsuspecting victim again.

    Aracely was yanked out of her reverie and back onto the deck of the ship by a sharp, frosty gust of wind cutting across her face, accompanied by sea-spray which wiped her smirk clean off her face. 

    "Come, we must be prepared to dock." She ushered Malanza back inside the ship's bowels, arm-in-arm.

    Another one of her handmaidens from Lys, Vara, was waiting in the cabin room Aracely had been staying in. The maid held a silk, emerald green, bell-sleeved dress and a fluffy white fur shawl in her hand. "Ñuha ōris, ikisā sūgīs?" (T: "My radiance, does this suit you?")

    "Issa, sȳrior sūgīs," she replied in her mother tongue, her words dripping like honey. (T: "Yes, it suits me well.") 

    Aracely had been told numerous times by handsome Westerosi lords, who had all been told off by her father, that she had an attractive, almost seductive voice. Most ladies from Lys were told this; they were known to retain the most sumptuous bed-slaves in Essos, after all.

    She sauntered over to the side of the room where Vara was standing, and the girls got to work quickly, braiding Aracely's wavy, pale hair into a half-up, half-down double fishtail twist. They finished right as the ship's captain, one of her father's trusted merchant friends, knocked to advise them the ship was now docked and ready for Lady Aracely to be escorted to the castle.

    Adjusting her silver coiled-serpent charm necklace containing a hidden vial of the Alchemist's mirror, an anti-poison paste she had worn around her neck for as long as she could remember, she took one last glance at her reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall in front of her. There is nothing to be fearful about. I have been dealing with Westerosi men since I was only a girl, I know how to carry myself, she thought in an attempt at self-soothing, a new habit she'd picked up since she departed from her family.

    She could still see her mother’s tear-streaked face when she closed her eyes, begging her father to allow her to travel west with Aracely, but it was no use. Her father prohibited it, saying that he wouldn't risk us both at sea. What he really meant was that he didn't want to risk his wife at sea, but his daughter he was okay with.

    And with one last deep breath in, Aracely was off to White Harbor to meet the noble lord of House Manderly.

    Upon setting foot on the foreign continent for the first time in all of her nine-and-ten years of living, she found that the ground was far more feeble than she expected—and it was cold. The closed-toed sandals she wore, which she now wished she'd swapped for boots, almost sank into the mud beneath her. She lifted her skirts dramatically high to ensure her skirts didn't get spoiled as they trudged through the damp earth to get to the carriage and horses waiting to escort Aracely, her handmaidens, and a dozen of Lysene guards into the castle.

    The wheelhouse passed through the Seal Gate to a huge stone gatehouse separating the final evening bustle of the harbor docks from the inner city. Being greeted by a stern-faced Manderly Captain of Guard in silver-and-blue armor, he closely inspected her family's coiled serpent merchant's seal on a letter one of her guards handed to him. 

    The man welcomed them to the city kindly enough, and their carriage began to wind its way up the cobbled streets of the city. It climbed higher and higher up the rocky hill, shaking like a nervous child as it took them towards the New Castle.

    When they passed through the towering outer walls and slowed into the great courtyard, Aracely could finally see the New Castle in its entirety, and her nerves ramped back up, not knowing what the people of the North were like since they didn't frequent Lys as much as the Dornish or other Southern Westerosi noblemen.

    The carriage door opened, and she was instantly greeted by a single male member of House Manderly, along with smallfolk on each side of her. 

    The plump, lofty man with a bald head and a brown mustache from House Manderly stepped forward. "Welcome to the New Castle, Lady Aracely. My father awaits your presence inside by the hearthfires. I hope your travels went pleasantly," he greeted far more kindly than the guard at the Seal Gate had, extending a hand to help her out down the steps of the wheelhouse.

    She accepted his help, curtsying as her feet hit the firmer ground. "I thank you, Lord...?" she lilted melodically.

    "Ser Wylis, son of Lord Wyman Manderly," he told her proudly.

    If he'd been fifteen years younger, his hair had been icy blonde and his eyes purple, he would've looked similar in the face to Aracely's eldest brother, Sylas. They had the same sharp nose and tough look in their eye.

   "Bring any fancy fruits with you from Lys, my lady?"

    Aracely mentally rolled her eyes but returned the smile all the same. "Yes, my lord. You should speak with the captain of the ship about the trading arrangements. I am of small knowledge," she said, elongating her vowels.

   He stepped into place beside her and took her arm in his gently. "You are very well-spoken for a lady from Essos—meaning no offense, my lady," he chuckled awkwardly. "We'd best see you inside. The feast is prepared."

    Aracely fluttered her lashes at him like her brother's ex-bed-slave turned handmaiden, Lyxa, had taught her to do. "Best see to it," Aracely replied.

    Ser Wylis guided her through the entrance and through the corridors to the hefty oak doors into the great hall, her handmaidens trailing behind. Lyxa had already caught the eye of a guard without a helm, Aracely noted as the pair were playing a game of obvious eye tag. She somehow attracted the attention of at least one nobleman everywhere they went, likely due to her undeniably beautiful long, blonde hair and face littered with light freckles.

    The group entered what they called the Merman's Court, according to Ser Wylis. The room lived up to its name; it was entirely built from wood decorated to look like the ocean, showcasing marine animals such as crabs, lobsters, and even a Kraken. The hall was lined with Merman banners and already crowded with boisterous, drunken men and their ladies. 

    Aracely felt like a fish out of water. 

    At the high table, slumped on an oversized, reinforced chair was the rotund Lord Wyman Manderly. He was surrounded by platters of food, orderlies, and casks of wine while stroking his dark, thick beard in one hand.

    Taking a deep, sharp breath into her lungs, she plastered a fake smile onto her face once more, preparing to carry it with her throughout the meal.

    She endured the feast reasonably well, wishing all the while she could simply be alone, or even better, back in Lys, where it was warm enough to prance around in sleeveless dresses and be fed the ripest pomegranate seeds all day long. Plus, Aracely found the Northerners to be much too disorderly for her preference, so she stuck to speaking with Ser Wylis and Malanza, who kept receiving strange looks at the fire symbol on her face.

    When Aracely finally retreated to the guest chambers she was to stay in, she felt the weight of the journey finally pressing down on her. For a lady who had never traveled farther than Volantis before, her lengthy voyage had taken a toll on her; she felt drained and somehow like jelly, like she was still on the open water even though she was planted firmly on wooden plank flooring. 

    Wandering over to the fire already roaring in the hearth, her feet passed over the multicolored Myrish carpet covering half of the floor, which made her feel a little closer to home.

    Vara came rushing in half a second after Malanza and Aracely entered the room. She stopped in the doorway abruptly. "Ñuha ōris, lyxmo pystari istan yne sȳriar kosa emagon īlon gīmagon," Vara spoke in a hushed, serious voice, entirely unlike her. (T: "My radiance, I bring you rumors from the lips of Lyxa that weigh heavily upon your safety.") Her face was flushed.

    "Keliā gliezos lēda īlva rhaenagon jēda vara. Skorkydo sūvior gīmagon?" Aracely whispered. (T: "Close the door behind you and speak freely, Vara. What has you flustered?")She motioned Vara forward, keeping her hand steady as Malanza stripped away her thick gown, refusing to let her trembling show.

     Vara rapidly swung the heavy door shut, letting out a sigh as she sealed the chilly North out. "Dreadforto poñe pystari gīmagon ēdruta. Ziry vala aspo lēda se rāpa jorāelagon, ñuha ladi, se ziry flaying sȳrior sūgīs. Iā zōte gēlen sȳrior issa dāri sepār nybē telgūn issa." (T: "You must be made aware of the whispers of the bastard of the Dreadfort. It is said he keeps a man as a pet, my lady, and he finds sport in flaying. It is the tradition of his family, just as yours is alchemy.") The words spilled out of her mouth quicker than Aracely could truly process them.

    Malanza's head shot up from across the room where she was digging for a nightgown in one of the three wooden trunks filled with Aracely's apparel that must have been brought in by orderlies not much longer ago. "Bisy pystari māgī issa. Ladi turgon emagon daor lēda vīno udrā dāri," Malanza hissed with her chestnut eyes locked onto Vara. (T: "These are only rumors. Do not scare the lady with tales heard through the grapevine.")

    Lyxa was always prone to gossip, but usually only half of her words ended up being true.

    Vara scrunched her nose at Malanza and crossed the room to reach Aracely, beginning to take down her plaits for the night. "Pystari ry daor, kosa gīmagon mēni se gieral rāpa ao nybē issa, ñuha ōris," she hummed. (T: "Rumors or not, I presumed you would prefer to be notified of these words and decide if you believe them yourself, my radiance.")

    Aracely narrowed her eyes, honing in on a single crack in the masonry on the far, shadow-covered wall. She took in the information she received from Vara and stored it in the back of her mind, deciding that she needn't worry about matters that were not of the utmost importance in that moment; she knew the second her head hit the pillow that night, she'd be sleeping like a rock. There was always tomorrow to dwell on it.

    "Aōho iotāpteno syt kirimvose avy rytsuran," she told Vara flatly, who had completed unbraiding her hair. (T: "Thank you for bringing this to my attention.") 

    Vara took a step back, allowing Malanza to lift a cream-colored linen nightgown over Aracely's head. 

    "R'hlloro zūgī rhaenagon rāpa īlon kessa?" Aracely asked. (T: Should we start the chant for R'hllor?")

    Both of the serving girls nodded fiercely and they all moved toward the hearth.

    Malanza closed her eyes and took a breath, cupping her hands before her chest as did the other girls, and began the call. "Hen syndrorro, oños," she murmured, her voice steady. (T: "From darkness, light.")

    "Hen ñuqir, perzys," Aracely and Vara responded together, their voices blending harmoniously in the drafty room. (T: "From ashes, fire.")

    "Hen morghot, glaeson," Malanza continued with her eyes now open and fixed on the flickering fire, drawing strength from it. (T: "From death, life.")

    They bowed their heads with shut eyelids as they raised their voices together one last time in a synchronous, hushed chant to finish the prayer. "Āeksios Ōño, ilōn misās. Kesrio syt bantis zābrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys. (T: "Lord of Light, defend us. For the night is dark and full of terrors.")

Chapter Text

    After breaking fast with the Manderlys, who seemed less thrilled with her presence than yesterday, Aracely's travel party wasted no time embarking on their expedition north against the bustling current of the White Knife River. They traded their immense cargo ship for a river galley, oared and sailed by men as gruff as bears. The boat was also heavily armed with Manderly guards. 

    The water seemed to dance gracefully around the shallow-bottomed vessel compared to the vicious waves they dealt with at sea. Although, the river was louder than the open ocean with its energetic, rushing waters.

    In a small aftcastle during the first night up the tributary, Aracely prayed with Malanza to R'hllor for the rest of their trip to go fluidly. 

    The handmaiden claimed to have glimpsed a vision in the flames of the night of Aracely's wedding; she saw the girl wearing a genuine smile throughout the celebration, which eased the worries she still held from Lyxa's hearsay.

    It took them around four more nights of sailing until they docked near a well-traveled road that branched off of the Kingsroad. They could have traveled further upstream, but the river began to turn into rapids, forcing them to travel the rest of the way by wheelhouse and horse.

    The group, consisting of Aracely, her servants, and the Manderly men, was met by stone-faced Bolton escorts draped in dark-pink cloaks. Treating Aracely more like a piece of high-value livestock rather than a future bride, they sneered at her accent as she greeted them courteously. 

    "The Bastard will love his new exotic toy," one of the escorts sniggered. 

    Aracely pretended not to hear them, turning her focus on the wretched sigil of House Bolton, the flayed man. Perhaps Lyxa was being truthful... 

    The longer she observed her attendants, the more unsettled she felt. Instead of lustrous, silver plate armor, they wore ominous oil-brushed steel, chainmail shirts, and spiked iron helms.

    Shortly after meeting the brutish men-at-arms, the Manderly escort departed on a much faster journey downstream back to the New Castle.

    The Bolton men didn't help her to her carriage, but she foresaw that after they mocked Vara speaking High Valyrian in front of her face. Vara was clueless since she was monolingual, but it made no matter, Aracely took offense to the taunting of her language. 

    Being helped into the wheelhouse by Malanza, she instantly closed the windows in annoyance upon entering. She huffed, throwing herself against a cushioned, maroon seat and allowing herself to melt into it. 

    Malanza began to pour Aracely a silver goblet of wine from a flagon already placed in the cabin by Bolton men.

    A second later, Lyxa and Vara climbed up the steps, seating themselves on the seats across the way. 

    "Ñuha ōris, ilōn pystari istan rhaenagon emagon daor kessa," Lyxa informed Aracely while biting down on her bottom lip. (T: "My radiance, I must recite to you the words that I have heard uttered.") Having been adequately educated in Lys, she could speak the common tongue, but preferred to speak in High Valyrian.

    Aracely tossed her head back, combing her slender, porcelain fingers through the hair of her scalp. "Kessa pystari rhaenagon emagon? Nūmō jēda sȳrior dāri umbagon kessa," she sighed. (T: "Must you recite your whispers? I should like to sit in silence for a while.")

    "Ao jōrre kessa, bosa rāpa, ñuha ladi, bisy gīmagon jōrre ao." (T: "If you wish, but please, my lady, you want to hear this.") Lyxa's yellow-green eyes stared into her amethyst orbs with a desperate, pleading look that was difficult to say no to.

    Aracely widened her eyes in irritation, grabbing the goblet of red wine poured for her. "Kessa rhaenagon jēda, māgī."  (T: "Get on with it, then.")

    "Ramsay Bolton, ao daor kosa, sȳrior māgī gīmagon daor. White Harboro azantys yne pystari istan ziry gēlen īlva, Domeric, morghon kessa dāri hēir rāpa. Bisy mēni sȳrior istan," she muttered as if the men surrounding the carriage could have comprehended what she was saying. (T: "Ramsay Bolton, your betrothed, has terrible accusations against him. The servants in White Harbor informed me that he has killed his father's trueborn son, Domeric, in hopes of being proclaimed his heir. It seems his plan has gone splendidly.")

    All three of the other girls perked up at this news. Vara looked frightened, like she wanted to jump right out of the wheelhouse and run back to Lys. If Lyxa hadn't fed Aracely so many falsehoods over the years, she too would've been in a similar condition.

    "Sȳrior mēni, ziry sȳz kosa istan," Malanza murmured, crossing her arms defensively. (T: "Well, I've only heard that he is quite attractive.") 

    Aracely snapped her head forward, her eyes suddenly flashing with disquieted anger directed at Lyxa. "Skorkydo bisy māgī? Skorkydo ao daor lēda udrā dāri rāpa jēda?" (T: "Where is this coming from? How can you so blindly go along with the word of foreigners?")

    "My radiance, this story would not exist without a cause," Lyxa countered in the common tongue. 

    The wheelhouse suddenly threw them a few inches into the air, running over an unusually big rock and causing half of Aracely's red wine to spill onto the oak floor of the cabin.

     "Pardons, Lady Aracely!" the man conducting the vehicle called out.

    Vara exhaled in an exaggerated puff of air, pouting as she smoothed out her traveling cloak. "Valyrio rhaenagon, bosa rāpa. Ao gīmagon Westeroso udrā dāri rhaenagon daor kessa, Lyxa." (T: "Speak my language, please. You know I do not yet speak the tongue of Westeros, Lyxa.")

    "Daor, sūgīs daor. Būbni udrā māgī rhaenagon jōrre daor kessa," Aracely commanded, cutting Lyxa off before she could even speak. (T: "No, don't. I wish to hear these follies no more.") Chugging the rest of her cup of wine, she held it out towards Malanza to be refilled.

    After she replenished the lady's goblet without another peep from anyone, Aracely exhaled wearily and turned her focus to the carriage's open window. The ironwoods surrounded them from every which way. 

    "Malanza, vārego vāgī rhaenagon rāpa ao, kessa?" (T: "Sing a song for me, will you, Malanza?")

    The handmaiden obliged and began to sing a beautiful ballad in High Valryian, soothing Aracely.

    And so, for the next week, they travelled all day in the wheelhouse, setting up camp somewhere different in the woodland every night where Aracely would forage the woods for potion-making ingredients such as herbs and spices, or send one of her handmaidens to.

    The men-at-arms didn't pay much mind to her. They sat around smoky fires, drinking ale and chattering amongst themselves, having not a clue as to why the foreign girls kept bringing back leaves and mud.

    When Aracely wasn't foraging, she and Malanza made sure to properly worship R'hllor away from the censorious eyes of the Northerners, who from what she'd heard, idolized unnamed gods of the trees. 

    The surprise of having to sleep practically outside was absurd to Aracely; she hadn't spent a single night of her life without expensive silk comforts and a feathered mattress.

     The strangest thing about their travels, possibly, was that the smallfolk didn't come out of their homes to greet their new lady when they neared the Dreadfort. Frankly, it struck Aracely as exceptionally rude. In Lys, they would be lashed for this sort of behavior.

    Finally, their party crested a definitive, bleak ridge, and the Dreadfort emerged in front of them like a sickly, living thing. Aracely's mouth dropped to the ground as she peered out of the window, taking in the humongous fortress built of pure black, volcanic masonry against the bruised purple sky. Whoever built the castle unquestionably constructed it to the dreariest of their abilities.

    "That is where I am meant to spend the rest of my days? Forever?" she questioned incredulously. Aracely could scarcely tolerate how unappealing the keep was; it was the ugliest structure she'd ever seen with its countless sharp iron spikes lining the parapets like teeth.

    Malanza swiftly moved from her spot beside Lyxa to Aracely's side, glancing out towards the castle as well. "Maybe the true beauty lies within the walls..?" she offered.

    Aracely doubted it. Hopefully, my husband will make up for the castle's unloveliness.

    "Bisy dāri būbni gūgī issa. Ñuha ōris, bisy dāri rhaenagon morghon bantis issa. Sȳrior sūgīs syt dāri daor!" Vara piped up, brushing her black hair out of her face while peeking past Malanza's head to get a better view. (T: This castle is an ugly nightmare! My radiance, this castle looks like a corpse left in the dark. It certainly does not suit a lady!")

    Aracely let out a bright laugh, the first real one she had produced in days. But when she ceased laughing, her smile immediately left her face. 

    Letting out a short sigh, she leaned her head against the wall beside the open carriage window. "Būbni sȳrior, vara. Bōsa bisy rhaenagon morghon umbagon jēda bantis īlva morghot kessa," she murmured, her voice laced with heavy finality as her eyes drifted away from the keep, out over the unappealing landscape. (T: "Ugly, indeed, Vara. But this is where we shall lay our heads to rest until the end of our days.")

    As her words exited her mouth, she felt the weight of them. Her heart started to beat against her ribs like a bird trapped in a cage; she was only minutes from meeting the man whom she would wed and bear his heir. 

    Not wanting to bother the girls by yapping about her anxiety, Aracely began to chew on the inside of her cheek while gently playing with the end of her tightly braided hair.

    A few hours prior, Malanza had suggested she wear a traditional hairstyle to greet her Northern lord, and Aracely had acquiesced. Now, she was fighting the urge to rip out the two tight plaits, her scalp feeling as though it were being slowly flayed—much like the banners she'd been surrounded by for the last week. 

    "Nothing beautiful lives without aching," Malanza had assured her.

    I pray that cannot be true, she'd thought.

    Back in the wheelhouse, Aracely stared out at the looming castle and tried to bargain with herself internally, attempting to see past the uninviting architecture—if that was conceivable.

    "Āeksios ōño bisy māgī ao syt gieral kessa. Ñuha ōris, morghon bantis ry daor, rāpa bantis ziry prētsos rāpa jēda." (T: "The Lord has chosen this path for you, my radiance. Grim shadows or not, we must find our purpose in this darkness.") Malanza smiled optimistically at Aracely, noticing her trepidation.

    Aracely offered her a reassuring grin that she didn't completely resonate with. "Skorkydo ao bisy mēni kessa, Lyxa?" she asked, lifting her head slightly from the wall to look at the freckled girl. (T: "What do you make of it, Lyxa?") 

    When Aracely lived in Lys, she wouldn't have cared for the opinions of her servants, but over the course of their journey, the girls had become her valued companions.

    "Ramsay dāri ao syt sūgīs sȳrior mēni kessa daor lēda bisy dāri rhaenagon, ñuha ladi," Lyxa answered, putting on a tentative smile. (T: "I should hope Lord Ramsay pleases you more than the castle does, my lady.") She leaned over to even out a few wispy hairs at the edges of Aracely's hair. 

     "Ñuha mēni ryda," Aracely said, her voice flat and hollow. (T: "My exact thought.") 

    The talk of foolishness heard about Ramsay from Lyxa or the other two girls ceased completely after Lyxa had attempted to bring up yet another tale of the atrocities he had allegedly committed. On the third night, she told Aracely that he was what they called a "kinslayer," no doubt according to one of the guards whose tent she'd found herself in at night. Aracely had lashed out at her around the fire during supper, startling a couple of guards around them as she vented furiously in High Valyrian.

    The sudden, deafening CLANG of the iron portcullis of the main gate lifting made Aracely jump a little. The creaking echoed off the keep's dark walls that completely blocked out the weak sun. 

    As the carriage drew them into the courtyard, the sound of the lightly howling wind was replaced by the guttural growling of dogs that sounded far too large for the likes of Aracely. 

    She quickly straightened out her posture and her elegant, deep-crimson dress embroidered with small silver flames along the hem that Malanza picked out.

    They came to an abrupt halt, hurling the girls forward and then back. Thankfully, the wine had been put away this time.

    There was a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. It was as if there were nothing but ghosts inhabiting the courtyard, even though Aracely could clearly see people lined up on either side of the carriage.

    The door to the wheelhouse swung open, revealing the middle-aged man who had been leading their conveyance. "My lady, House Bolton awaits you," he announced, lips pursed. He then extended a hand to help Aracely down the steps.

    With a pounding heart, she stood up and accepted his hand, drifting down the stairs as gracefully as a falling feather. 

   The first thing she noticed wasn't the people as she glanced around the courtyard for the first time; it was the dour, utilitarian nature of a palace with no tapestries or decorative carvings. 

    When her eyes drifted to the line of servants and other Northerners around her, she caught sight of the way they came across as cold as the land they inhabited, much like her escorts. Even the armed sentries looking down from the parapets seemed to stare at her with an unrelenting, judgmental curiosity. 

    She fought hard against her instincts to cower as one of the hounds she'd heard from earlier barked viciously only to be quieted by the kennel-master. He was holding four black, drooling canines and their leashes in one large hand.

    Then, she spotted him—or who she assumed to be him at least. Lord Ramsay Bolton was standing in the middle of the spectacle with his well-aged father positioned directly to his right. He didn't look like anyone who would have murdered his brother; he was quite a fetching young man with dark brown, almost black hair. He might have been around two-and-twenty, dressed in a doublet of charcoal-grey wool trimmed with fox fur. 

    Standing perfectly poised, he bowed when their eyes caught each other's. She returned the favor, curtsying as elegantly as she could. Then he took a couple of extended strides toward Aracely with a pleased grin on his lips. 

    "Lady Aracely, you are even more beautiful than I could have imagined. Welcome to your new home," he greeted her with a welcoming smile on her face, a stark contrast to their environment. "I must apologize for the weather—the North is a frigid place, but the sight of you standing here warms my heart completely," he purred, gesturing for her to reach out a hand. 

    Smiling radiantly, she presented her right hand for him. "You flatter me, my lord. I am pleased with the looks of you as well," she responded honestly in her posh, alluring accent.

    He laid a tender kiss upon the back of her hand, his strikingly icy-blue eyes never leaving hers. "Well, I should hope so," he chuckled warmly before stepping aside to allow his father to properly greet his bride-to-be.

    "Lady Aracely," Lord Bolton enunciated, but there was no reflection of warmth in his tone like his son's. Bowing, he offered his courtesies, "It is our pleasure. We are very grateful for this alliance, especially with the upcoming winter."

    "Lord Bolton," she said, a slight shudder running through her back from a chilly gust of wind. "Thank you for accommodating me."

    Ramsay took her arm in his firmly. "Look at you, you're shivering. Come inside, quickly. I've had the hearths in the Great Hall stoked just for you, and a proper feast prepared. I promise you, under my care, you will never have to feel cold again," he hummed.

    A sweet smile dawned upon her face and her grip on his arm tightened confidently.

    To her astonishment and good fortune, the heir to the Dreadfort didn't seem to be anything like the ludicrous gossip that came from Lyxa. Aracely was completely delighted with him already, grinning from ear to ear as they started toward the Great Hall. 

    Glancing over her shoulder, she threw a look at Lyxa as if to mock her in her wrongness. 

    Yet afterwards, her eyes drifted over to an extremely envious-looking girl with dark hair and a face that was easy on the eyes. She was standing next to the kennel-master and a group of other girls likely of lowborn status. Aracely found it tricky to differentiate social status in the North since no one wore collars here; nonetheless, the look on the girl's face was a universal symbol of jealousy. 

    I wonder what her issue is. Perhaps she is jealous of my costly attire that she could never attain, or is it my handsome betrothed? Foolish girl, she laughed internally, maintaining her sunny smile.

    As the doors of the keep were opened for them by two towering guards, Ramsay lowered his voice into a more intimate register. "Do mind the girls, though. My hounds aren't used to such delicate, highborn guests just yet. But don't you worry, my sweet," he murmured while moving a stray piece of hair from her forehead, "as long as you are a good, obedient wife to me, they won't bite."

    A pang of apprehension flooded through her body starting from her toes and extending quickly to her cheeks, flushing her pale skin into a light pink color. What he meant by that, she wasn't sure, but it sounded suspiciously like a threat. 

    She grabbed at the hidden vial necklace hanging from her neck, knowing it could only protect her from so much. Walking through the damp, torchlit hallways of the Dreadfort in Ramsay's borderline possessive grip that tightened by the second, she no longer felt like a fish out of water, but a bee drawn to poisonously sweet honey.

Chapter Text

     Ramsay and Aracely strode through the central corridor lined with torches held aloft by what appeared to be real human skeletal hands. 

    They cannot be genuine human bones, right? Aracely wasn't sure; the Bolton banner did depict a gruesome flayed man.

    The grand doors to the Great Hall were open for them already, and inside she noticed that there were a lot fewer men dining at the long, trestle tables than there had been at the New Castle. And they all seemed to be moving mechanically, almost uncomfortably. 

    Once she, Ramsay, her handmaidens, and Lord Bolton were inside, the large doors creaked shut ominously. 

    The room was thick with smoke from the hearths inside. In fact, the rafters appeared blackened from decades, if not centuries, of trapped smoke.

    Ramsay didn't give her much time to look around, though; he hastened toward the back of the hall, bringing her before the dais to the high table. 

    Laid out on scattered silver plates and ceramic bowls on the table was the first course of the meal: a beef-and-barley stew, large wheels of white cheese, various vegetables, and the blackest bread Aracely had ever seen—she wasn't totally sure it was edible. 

    To her dismay, there was not a single fruit in sight. A small frown fell onto her lips.

    Ramsay didn't seem to notice though. Smiling at her, he silently pulled out a chair for her next to the lordly seat reserved for Lord Bolton. The chair scraped against the stone flooring loudly as he did so. "Are you still cold, my lady?" he asked, shaking off his black fur cloak.

    She took a seat, then shook her head politely while looking up at him. "What of you, my lord? Won't you be cold?"

    But her words fell on deaf ears as he draped the heavy pelt over her, swiping her plaits out from under the fur as he did. "I insist. I've survived a true Northern winter, and it is only autumn," he countered.

    Leaving her no room to argue, Aracely promptly nodded once. "You are too kind," she hummed while practically drowning in his cloak that smelled of cedar, woodsmoke, and something like iron.

    His eyes lit up at her compliment. He then took his seat next to her, sharply followed by Lord Bolton, who sandwiched her between the two.

    Her serving girls from Essos were made to sit in the far left corner of the room near a group of disheveled, rowdy young men. Aracely made eye contact with Malanza, a small conversation passing through a single look, checking in on each other.

    Over the duration of their travels, she had come to be Aracely's favorite handmaiden. She wasn't as talkative as Lyxa or as immature as Vara. The girl was very similar to herself in countless ways, which had served as a breath of fresh air when they were flanked by Northmen.

    "You did eat real meat in Lys? Not exclusively fish?" Ramsay turned her attention away from Malanza, speaking louder than necessary. "I've heard on some islands in Essos that the only game able to track down is fish. Was that the case for you, my sweet?" His tone was overly endearing, bordering on mocking. However, the way he was staring at Aracely like she was the only thing in the room that mattered completely threw suspicion out of her mind.

    "No, my lord," she giggled, grabbing a silver goblet of red wine adorned with vein-looking designs filled for her by an orderly on the table. "My father is a merchant prince—as you know. We ship out wine in return for food on occasion, but there is livestock back home." 

    Taking a sip from the cup, her eyes lit up. It was Lysene Red, a taste of Summer that warmed her up faster than any hearth could.

    Ramsay smirked as she rapidly gulped down many more mouthfuls. "A taste of home, my sweet. I went to great trouble to secure a vintage from Lys just for you. Does it taste exactly as you remember?"

    She peeled the cup away from her lips and back to the table, faintly embarrassed. "I would say so, yes."

    "Good. Drink up. I want you to feel entirely welcome in my halls."

    Not catching the slightly demanding tone in his voice, she continued to drink the sweet wine blissfully.

    When the goblet was more than halfway empty, Aracely set it down and took a spoonful of soup, not yet brave enough to try the blackened bread. Looking up at him from her plate momentarily, he was watching her intently, not bothering to look away upon her noticing.

    His eyes flicked briefly to her hair. "Your eyes and hair—You have similar features to the Targaryens," he paused, widening his eyes, "Tell me, are your parents siblings as well?" Ramsay tilted his head like a curious dog with one side of his mouth curved.

    Aracely presumed he was joking, but there was no grin on his face anymore. Even when he wasn't smiling, his eyes stayed wide with his pupils dilated, she realized. A facial expression that, perhaps, was to make her feel seen, but only made her feel awkward.

    "I do have dragonlord blood, but no," she stated firmly, taking another gulp of her wine. "My parents are merely cousins."

    "Whew," he let out a performative breath of relief as he leaned back in his chair, then took a long, slow sip out of his cup. "That would have been a slight problem."

    "Good thing it is not," Aracely told him simply as she finished the last of her wine. 

    As if on cue, a serving girl came to refill her chalice.

    "Yes, good thing," he said, satisfied.

    Around thirty minutes later, the kitchen servants brought the second course out. During that course, she had been more talkative, asking him questions about himself in an attempt to get to know the stranger she was to marry. However, he seemed to be more interested in talking about her, which she didn't mind at all.

    She was careful not to speak of her interests in potion-making and alchemy, understanding the adverse stigma around a lady doing that sort of work in Westeros.

    During the third course, haunches of roast venison were carved at the table right in front of them. As the butcher cut the meat off the skewer, Ramsay watched intently with pupils blown wide.

    When the man was finished carving meat for the table, Ramsay requested—or told—the butcher to give him the hefty cleaver the man used. To which Ramsay then used the oversized blade to cut his and his lady's piece of venison. 

    "I had my fastest hounds track down this beast today. They have never let a living creature escape their sight alive," he disclosed to her nonchalantly after cutting the meat on her plate into perfect, bite-sized pieces. 

    Aracely tried to hide her nervousness behind her goblet, taking a deep drink. Was he threatening her? Surely not, but with the wine beginning to dull her senses, she couldn't be certain.

    "Do you have brothers? Are they hunters?" he questioned vigorously. He was still holding the cleaver in his hand, carelessly waving it around as he spoke.

    "My twin brother, Maelyx favored hunting. My eldest brother Sylas, I would not say so. He prefers dueling. Much like a knight," she replied, inching herself away from the blade slowly.

    Aracely had to hold in her laughter at the sight. She would have been more frightened if he hadn't looked so boyish with his unrelenting smile and oversized knife, like Sylas as a lad playing with his first sword.

   "He's a sellsword?" Ramsay prodded.

    "Not quite. He is a high-ranking guard," she corrected. 

    He seemed bored with her answer, and put down the blade, turning his attention to his father to ask him a question about wedding preparations.

    Peering to the left side of the room again, Aracely rolled her eyes; Lyxa had taken to sitting on some gruff-looking man's lap. Meanwhile, Vara and Malanza were chatting about something while keeping their heads down like frightened puppies. 

    She couldn't blame the girls. They were in an entirely different environment than they were used to, much like her, but they didn't have a handsome lord by their side.

    Aracely shook them out of her mind and took a large bite of roasted pheasant, but it wasn't seasoned how she liked, so she ate the venison Ramsay cut for her instead.

    After they shared a light dessert, he insisted on showing her to her guest chambers.

    They advanced through the hallway arm-in-arm, his cloak still draped over her shoulders, which hung below her ankles when standing up, dusting the floor. Turning right out of the Great Hall, they entered the smoky hallways lined with the unsettling torch holders once more. 

    He didn't speak a word to her until they began ascending a spiraling stone staircase. "We're in luck, my lady. The full moon is ahead of us. We will wed tomorrow at dusk," he purred, searching her face for a reaction.

    "So soon? But—"

    "Do not worry about anything. My father has taken care of the preparations, and I trust that your handmaidens will wash you up nicely. If they do not, I will see to it that you are properly attended to," he cut her off, squeezing her arm.

    She smiled at him softly. "I suppose it makes no difference. I only thought we would have more time to accustom ourselves to one another," Aracely admitted.

    They passed the first landing and reached the second story, stepping into a long, drafty hallway. 

    Ramsay kept his grip firm on her arm. "You need not worry about time. We have all the years ahead of us to master one another's secrets," he laughed brightly.

    She laughed as well, finding his laughter contagious. "You are right, my lord."

    Strolling along the dark stone slabs past the small slit windows overlooking the courtyard, their boots echoed in sync.

    He stopped them in front of an oak door bound in rusted iron at the end of the corridor. "Here is where you sleep tonight. Only tonight. You will sleep in my chambers soon, don't you worry, my sweet." Ramsay stepped closer to her, close enough that she could smell the venison lingering on his breath. Dropping his head down to her level, he planted a kiss on her cheek as soft and warm as the fur of his cloak. 

    A swarm of butterflies invaded her stomach, and Aracely could feel heat flood her cheeks.

    "Sleep well, Lady Aracely," he said, opening the guest chamber door for her. "I will see to it that a maid makes sure the fire in the hearth keeps you warm throughout the night."

    Still blushing, she curtsied and looked at the ground submissively, the way she knew lords favored. "Thank you, truly. Goodnight, Lord Ramsay."

    He bowed, and with that, he left her by herself in front of the entry to the guest chamber.

   Closing the door behind her, she went to her knees near the hearth straight away. 

    Usually, she prayed before dinner and nightly rest, but since she was surrounded by people who worshiped different gods, she anticipated moving her devotions to after mealtime in the evenings. And since Malanza wasn't there, she had to recite her chants to herself. It was no issue, but Aracely had always been disposed to worship with others.

    After praying, she stood up and felt a wave of anxiety from being entirely alone for the first time in two moons, even though that's all she thought she'd been craving.

    Without thinking, she scurried over to one of her chests in the room. Taking a fortuitous guess, she opened the closest one to her, searching the hidden compartment at the bottom for the long, glass vial containing Ghost's Breath. 

    To her relief, she found the compartment holding the container with the deadly, invisible substance floating around, and pulled it out. She simply held it in her hands while crouched next to the trunk for a long moment, relaying the events of the day. 

    Lord Ramsay is nothing like what I anticipated, although, I wasn't sure what I expected after hearing about him from Lyxa, she thought, deciding that she was unwise for believing her. The only thing that made her raise an eyebrow about Ramsay was the mini-threats he had dropped, but he was caring for her in ways he wasn't obliged to, perplexing her. She remembered the way he looked at her during the feast. Even if he was too expressive with his eyes, the light they held, and the way he kissed her so tenderly were undeniable. 

    Suddenly, Aracely's stomach fluttered again, compelling her to forget all about any negativity that may or may not have come from him. Why would he have cause to threaten his future bride? She shook her head side to side, laughing at herself as she placed the vial back where she found it.

    Grabbing a double-hemmed nightgown from the trunk, she realized that she had forgotten to give Ramsay his cloak back. It would be far too improper to give it bacon to him by now, and it was far too nippy in the room. 

    So, after changing into the nightgown, she slid into the dark furs of the bed and pulled the cedar-smelling pelt over her. When she shut her eyes, she quickly fell into a deep, much-needed slumber, having not enjoyed the luxury of a feather-stuffed mattress since leaving White Harbor.

    The following morning she was awakened by Malanza, carrying a large basin of steaming water, and a young handmaiden she didn't recognize.

    The room held the warmth of the hearthfire from the night before. Looking over at it, she saw the fire was still strongly ablaze, and realized that she had not once awakened in the night and been too cold; Ramsay was true to his word.

    "M'lady," the young girl beside Malanza greeted, bowing her head. "Lord Ramsay sent us to prepare you for your wedding."

    Aracely rubbed her eyes as Malanza slowly opened the curtains and greyish-white light enveloped the room. Sitting up in bed, she let out a small yawn. "Can't I break my fast first?" she asked in an aggravated tone, wanting more sleep.

    The Northern maid side-eyed Malanza awkwardly before returning her gaze to Aracely. "Has Lord Ramsay not made you aware of the bridal rites?"

    Letting out a loud sigh, Aracely narrowed her eyes at the serving girl. "What is your name?"

    "Hasel, m'lady." She dropped her eyes to the floor and cowered a little as if she was waiting for a strike.

    "I may not be aware of any 'bridal rites,' Hasel, but I know that I am going to be exceptionally bitter if I do not have food within the hour," Aracely huffed, offering no remorse.

    Malanza, unblinking, moved to the vanity made of ironwood in the corner of the room, grabbing the brush on the tabletop.

    "But you must do this—" Hasel started.

    "What did I just say?" Aracely snapped powerfully, pulling Ramsay's cloak off her body, along with the furs of the bed in one motion. 

    Before she could raise her voice any louder, Malanza stepped in front of her. She waved the brush in front of Aracely's incensed expression. "Hāgela skoros zȳla bēvilza ivestragon. Ao sēte rēbagon sȳz, ao syt lēda tēgī, ñuha ōris." (T: "Listen to what she has to say. It is in your best interest, I assure you, my radiance.")

    Rubbing her eyes again, Aracely decided to adhere to Malanza's advice. "Forgive me. I am angered easily when I do not eat. Like I just told you," she said, exhaling sharply through her nose. "Well, go on."

    Hasel continued in a less confident inflection, "The bride must fast until she stands before the Godswood. No food may pass your lips until the Old Gods have witnessed the vows."

    A laugh of unadulterated disbelief flew out of Aracely's mouth before she could contain it. "You mean to tell me I may not eat until evenfall? After the ceremony?" 

    Malanza moved behind her and began to take down the braids Aracely had left in her hair, easing the lady's irritation the smallest bit.

    "I'm sorry, m'lady. You should have been told about this sooner," Hasel apprised. A compassionate smile flashed across her face.

    But her sympathy did nothing for the hunger Aracely could sense growing in her stomach. "You're correct?" huffing, she crossed her arms.

    A couple of minutes later, more Northern maids slipped into the room, delivering even more buckets of near-boiling water to fill the large, copper basin in the room.

    She was bathed by Malanza and Hasel from head to toe with plain lye soap—a far cry from the floral-scented soaps she was used to. At least the water is scented, even if it is the scent of the forest, she thought.

    While they scrubbed her clean, Hasel caught Aracely up to speed on all of the customs of a Northern wedding. 

    Aracely was stupefied to say the least. The concept of being carried and stripped down to her underskirts by ragged men was almost inconceivable. Hasel had to explain it three times before she realized the handmaiden, in fact, was not jesting—that fate was awaiting her after the cloaking ceremony in the Godswood.

    Once her hair was completely dry after her bath, Malanza sat her down at the vanity to braid her hair into two thick, silver plaits. 

    Aracely was then dressed in a white velvet dress with sleeves that flared at the ends. The neckline was low, showing off her cleavage a little, hemmed with silver.

    The maids cascaded her maiden's cloak gracefully over her shoulders. The cloak was shiny white, made of pricey Essosi silks that displayed a green coiled snake on the back.

    When they were finished getting her ready, they left her in the room alone on "Ramsay's orders."

    Apparently, his orders were to keep her locked in the room all day since it was twilight when she was startled by a rapping on the door. Her head flew up from the book she had been reading to pass the time, only for the door to open and reveal Lord Bolton's stiff glare.

    "Lady Aracely, I have come to escort you to the Godswood. It is time," he announced flatly.

    Closing the book, she tread over apprehensively and took the balding man's arm in hers without a single word. That was how the rest of the walk to the so-called Godswood went. Apprehensively.

    During the entire promenade, thoughts were racing through her head faster than Tears of Lys takes to kill. My hands are shaking. No, I'm just cold. I'm just starving. That is all it is. I am not afraid. I am not, she told herself. There was nothing to be afraid of that she'd seen, but still, she couldn't shake that strange, uneasy gut feeling.

    As they neared the flurry of strikingly red-leafed trees, her eyes scanned the gathering. There were many Northerners all around, forming a makeshift aisle. Her handmaidens were situated near another group of serving girls. 

    Then her eyes fell upon Ramsay standing in front of a tree that appeared to have a face with bleeding eyes. But she looked past the anomaly altogether. Under the full moon's light, Ramsay's radiantly blue eyes shone brighter than ever, drawing her in with a simple glimpse. It was impossible to ignore that he looked remarkably stunning that evening, sporting a black velvet doublet with pink silk and red garnet teardrops that resembled blood, paired with high boots of grey leather.

    He took her in fully. Her hair, her face, her dress. And he grinned like he had won a prize.

    Lord Bolton and Aracely came to a stop a yard away from him and the tall, grey-haired maester beside him.

    "Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" the maester cleared his throat.

    "Aracely of the House Vyros comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?" Lord Bolton asked.

    Ramsay stepped forward with his gaze focused on her so intensely that it made her weak in the knees. "Ramsay of House Bolton. Heir to the Dreadfort and Winterfell. Who gives her?"

    "Roose of House Bolton. Lord of the Dreadfort," his father said as he let go of Aracely's arm.

    "Lady Aracely, will you take this man?" the maester asked.

    She took one final deep breath. "I take this man." Stepping forward, she raised her head so that he could have better access to the snake pin keeping her cloak together.

    His hands were warm against her collar as he unclasped it, allowing the metal to fall to the ground carelessly with a light thud. Her fine, silk cloak would have fallen to the dirt as well, but somebody stepped behind her to grab it.

    Ramsay was handed a light-pink cloak trimmed with white fur that he unraveled to reveal embellishments of the same blood-red gemstones he wore. The centerpiece was a horrifying, intricately embroidered flayed man stretched across a white cross. To Aracely, it looked less like a noble house crest and just like a grotesque display of skinless flesh that made her stomach twist.

    He took a silver, flayed-man pin out of the cloth. Wrapping it around her shoulders slowly, his hands lingered on her back a moment longer than necessary before coming around to fasten her new house's sigil on the bridal cloak.

    Aracely turned to face the human-like tree and dropped to her knees before it, Ramsay following after. They shut their eyes and pressed their foreheads to the roots of the tree.

    Aracely thought it was silly. Regardless, it was meant to be a silent prayer to bind their souls, so she took this long minute to pray to R'hllor for an abundance of love and fortune.

    When they stood, they arose as man and wife, tied together from that day, until the end of their days. 

    Ramsay wrapped an arm around hers, eagerly guiding her out of the Godswood. "Now for the more—" he paused, searching for a word, "—rousing part of the night."

    Aracely wasn't sure about what that word meant, but judging by the way he said it, she could guess. 

    Forcing a grin to her face, she nodded and thought back to what Malanza had told her—how she saw Aracely with an honest smile on her wedding night. Sighing, she could only hope that Malanza was correct.