You were Lady Bolton, and the daughters you carried in your womb were heirs to the Night's Blood. Two girls already ran through the dark halls of Fort Fear, and a third grew in your womb, another future maiden with pale eyes and a sharp smile.

Roose could never be described as a loving father. But on the rare occasions when the girls dragged him into their games, something strange happened. He would kneel on the stone floor, his voice soft as poisoned velvet, telling stories of ancient Boltons who flayed their enemies, adapted, of course, for children's ears.

"And then the Red Lord took his favorite knife..." he would murmur, while the little ones laughed, imagining it was a fairy tale.

You watched from the doorway, hiding a smile. No one would believe that the Terror of the North let himself be tangled in his daughters' dark hair with fingers that had once ripped out hearts. But blood, after all, was thicker than even Bolton cruelty.