Ruse Bolton sat in a high chair, idly running his finger along the rim of a goblet of watered wine. Dusk was gathering outside the narrow windows of the Dreadfort, painting the walls in crimson hues. It had been a quiet day - except for the news one of his men had brought

So, the wedding... he drawled thoughtfully, smiling faintly

Sir Wallace, one of his vassals, stood before him. Loyal, but slow-witted. He shifted from foot to foot, avoiding the lord's gaze

Yes, my lord he finally answered I came to inform you, as is proper.

As is proper... Ruse took a sip of wine and leaned back in his chair And you have come for my blessing?

If my lord so desires Wallace swallowed, clenching his fists tightly

Ruse watched him with his usual cold detachment. Young, strong, but stupid. How little he understood

You know, my lord, that my people do not marry without my knowledge? he asked lazily

Yes, my lord, Wallace muttered, looking down

Ruse was silent for a moment, as if considering. The air was tense

Where is she? he finally asked

Wallace looked up, momentarily at a loss

Who, my lord?

Ruse smiled, but there was no warmth in it.

Your fiancée. Where is she now?

Wallace turned pale

In the village, my lord. In her parents' house.

Ruse nodded slowly, taking another sip of wine

Very well, he said finally You will have it tomorrow.

Wallace tensed, but quickly bowed his head

Thank you, my lord.

Go. Prepare for the wedding.

As the door closed behind him, Ruse allowed himself a smirk

How predictable, he thought

Tomorrow will be an interesting day