wrap me in your skin and bones

The rain had not stopped since they slaughtered your brother.

It came down over the Twins in thin, cold sheets, washing blood from the stones in pink ribbons that ran through the cracks of the courtyard and disappeared beneath the gates as if the castle itself had opened its mouth and swallowed what remained of House Stark. The sound of it was everywhere, soft and endless, pattering against shuttered windows, sliding off slate roofs, dripping from banners that had been raised too quickly over halls that still smelled of smoke, spilled wine, wet wool, and opened men. Frey servants moved like frightened ghosts along the corridors, their eyes low, their mouths shut, carrying buckets and cloths and bundles they did not look at. Somewhere below, dogs barked and were hushed. Somewhere farther away, men laughed too loudly because they were drunk or afraid, and in Westeros there was often no difference.

You sat on the edge of a narrow bed in a guest chamber that had been stripped of every possible weapon. No knife. No pin. No hearth poker. No broken cup. Even the pitcher had been taken from you after you had smashed the first one against the wall and tried to use the jagged handle on the throat of the Frey boy who brought water. They had not beaten you for it. That was worse. They had simply dragged him away bleeding, sent in two older women with gray faces and shaking hands, and left four Bolton men outside your door.

Bolton men. Not Frey.

That was the first answer to a question you had not wanted to ask.

Your gown was ruined beyond cleaning. It had been blue once, dark as the winter sky before dawn, trimmed with silver thread at the sleeves because your mother had said Riverrun colors would be proper for the feast, and your brother had laughed when you told him you would rather wear Stark gray. Robb had touched the braid over your shoulder, boyish for one rare second beneath the crown and war maps and grief that had made him older than he should ever have been, and told you, “Wear blue, then. Mother will be pleased, and I need at least one person in this family who can keep the peace without threatening to bite someone.”

“I make no promises,” you had said.

He had smiled.

That smile came back to you now with such cruelty that you pressed your fist against your mouth until your teeth cut into the skin. Robb smiling in a candlelit chamber. Robb holding a cup at the feast. Robb turning his head when the music changed. Robb trying to rise when the first quarrel struck him. Robb falling. Robb crawling, blood wet over leather, his face full of disbelief, not for himself, never for himself, but for your mother, for you, for the men who had followed him south because he had been brave enough and young enough to make them believe justice could survive outside a song.

Your mother had screamed once. Only once. That sound had torn through the hall more cleanly than steel. You had heard it even after a hand clamped over your mouth and arms locked around your waist, dragging you backward while the feast became a pit of murder and overturned tables. You had bitten until you tasted blood. You had kicked, scratched, twisted, reached for Robb, for Grey Wind, for your mother’s red hair flashing under torchlight, but the man holding you had known his work. Bolton mail beneath a servant’s cloak. A gloved hand like iron over your face. A voice at your ear, low and steady.

“Do not waste yourself.”

You had known that voice.

Every lord had a way of standing in a room. Greatjon filled it, Edmure tried to command it, Frey infested it. Roose Bolton emptied it. He never needed to raise his voice. He did not stride or roar or flash anger like lesser men trying to convince themselves they were dangerous. He simply existed in a place until all warmth retreated from him. He had been your brother’s bannerman. He had sat at Robb’s councils with his pale eyes half-lidded, courteous and bloodless, offering careful words while the rest of them argued. You had never liked him. You had told Robb that once in his tent near Riverrun, while he bent over maps and pretended exhaustion was something kings could refuse.

“Lord Bolton watches people like a maester watches a dead rat,” you had said.

Robb had snorted despite himself. “That is specific.”

“It is true.”

“He is useful.”

“So is poison, if you are careful.”

Robb had looked up then, fondness softening the strain around his mouth. “You are too much like Mother.”

“No,” you had said. “Mother gives warnings first.”

Now Robb was dead, your mother was dead, your guards were dead, and Roose Bolton’s men stood beyond your door as if they had always belonged there.

You had not cried where they could see. You had bitten the inside of your cheek until your mouth filled with copper. You had stared at the opposite wall and refused the food brought to you. Once, near dawn, someone had dragged a body along the passage outside. You had heard a boot scrape wood, then a low curse, then the wet pull of cloth against stone. You had closed your eyes and thought of Winterfell’s godswood under snow, of Bran climbing where he should not, of Arya with mud on her hem, of Sansa singing under her breath, of Rickon asleep with one fist caught in Shaggydog’s fur. Every memory was a knife. Every face came with the same answer now.

Dead. Gone. Lost. Taken.

The door opened without a knock.

You rose so quickly the bedframe struck the wall behind you. A foolish instinct, perhaps, but the Starks had been breeding foolish instincts into their blood for thousands of years. Stand when danger enters. Look it in the eye. Pretend your hands are not empty.

Roose Bolton stepped into the room in a dark doublet that made his skin look even paler. The rain had dampened his cloak at the shoulders, and a few drops clung to the fine gray fur at his collar. He wore no armor now. He did not need it. There was a bruise-colored shadow beneath one eye, not from injury, only sleeplessness, or perhaps the lack of any decent soul behind the flesh trying to operate the face like a lantern with no candle.

Two guards entered behind him. Roose lifted one hand, barely more than a flick of the fingers, and they withdrew. The door closed. The bolt slid into place from outside.

You looked at him for a long moment. Then you spat at his feet.

It landed on the stone between you. The sound was small. Shamefully small. You wished you had blood left in your mouth to make it red.

Roose glanced down at it, then back at you. “A restrained greeting, all things considered.”

Your laugh scraped out of you before you could stop it. It sounded wrong, thin and ugly, but it was yours. “Did you come expecting courtesy?”

“No.”

“Then we both survive disappointment.”

Something almost moved at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Roose Bolton did not smile unless another man had already begun bleeding and did not know it yet. “I came to see whether you had injured yourself.”

“I was busy trying to injure your men.”

“You failed.”

“Yes,” you said. “A tragedy. There have been so few tonight.”

His pale eyes stayed on your face, unblinking, patient in a way that made your skin crawl. He looked at the blood dried along your jaw, the torn sleeve, the bruises blooming dark around your wrists where someone had gripped too tightly during the struggle. If he felt guilt, it did not show. If he felt triumph, that did not show either. With Roose, every feeling was locked beneath ice so old it had forgotten the sun existed.

“You should eat,” he said.

“You should hang.”

“Many have said so.”

“Not enough, apparently.”

“No,” he replied. “Not enough.”

The calmness of it nearly broke you. Rage was supposed to meet rage. Hatred was supposed to strike something solid. You wanted him to shout, to justify himself, to reveal one ugly human crack you could shove your grief into and tear wider. Instead he stood there as if the world had not changed, as if the hall below had not become a butcher’s room, as if your mother’s body was not cooling somewhere under Frey roof and your brother’s crown had not rolled in blood.

“You betrayed him,” you said, and your voice trembled despite everything you did to stop it. “He trusted you.”

“Robb Stark trusted his cause,” Roose said. “That is not the same thing.”

“He trusted his bannermen.”

“He trusted loyalty as if it were a natural law. It is not.”

“You took bread and salt.”

“I did.”

“You sat beside us.”

“I did.”

“You watched my mother speak to you. You watched my brother drink with you. You watched them all lower their guard.”

“Yes.”

For one wild second, you lunged at him.

There was no plan in it. No cunning Stark daughter, no northern dignity, no clever political move worth preserving for the songs. You simply snapped. You crossed the room before thought could catch you, hands raised for his face, his throat, his dead white eyes. Roose moved only when he had to. He caught your wrist, turned with your momentum, and trapped your arm behind your back with such controlled ease that humiliation burned hotter than fear. Your shoulder strained. You hissed through your teeth and tried to drive your heel into his foot, but he shifted again, pinning you against the wall without enough force to injure, only enough to make escape impossible.

His body was colder than you expected. Not truly cold, not like a corpse, but restrained, lean, held so tightly inside itself that even warmth seemed rationed. You could feel the damp wool of his sleeve against your torn gown. His breath touched your temple. His hand around your wrist was firm, careful, impersonal, which somehow made it more obscene.

“Do not make me bind you,” he said.

“Do it,” you snapped. “Let them see how brave the new Lord of Winterfell is, tying up a woman after murdering her family.”

“Lord of Winterfell,” he repeated quietly, as if tasting a title already poured for him. “Not yet.”

You went still.

Roose felt it. You knew he did because his hand eased slightly, though he did not release you. The chamber seemed to shrink around both of you. Outside, rain tapped steadily against the shutters.

“What did you say?” you whispered.

“Not yet,” he said again. “Winterfell is not mine while you remain unmarried.”

The words reached you slowly. Perhaps because your mind refused them at first, recognizing the shape of another horror and trying, out of some last merciful instinct, to turn away before it could become clear. You stared at the wall inches from your face. The plaster there had cracked near the corner. Someone had tried to cover it with limewash, badly.

“No.”

“It has already been agreed.”

“No.”

“You are Eddard Stark’s eldest living daughter.”

“No.”

“Your brothers are dead. Your younger sisters are presumed dead or lost beyond usefulness. Your mother’s line cannot protect you. Your uncle is a captive embarrassment, and your grandfather is ash. In the eyes of the realm, the north passes through you.”

You twisted against him so violently pain flashed up your arm. “No!”

This time he turned you around and caught both your wrists, holding them between your bodies. His grip tightened enough to warn, not enough to bruise further. His eyes were level with yours. Pale gray. Colorless as a winter lake under cloud.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “This is not a proposal.”

You tried to wrench free. “I would rather die.”

“Most people say that before death is placed close enough to touch.”

“You think I’m afraid of dying tonight?”

“I think you are young, bereaved, angry, and exhausted. I think you believe hatred will keep you alive because grief has not yet shown you how heavy it becomes. I think you are Ned Stark’s daughter, which means you were raised to imagine death as an honorable door one may walk through cleanly if the cause is worthy. It is not. It is dirt, blood, rot, and the disposal of bodies by men who complain about the weight.”

You shook your head, breathing hard. “Do not speak of my father.”

“Your father understood duty.”

“My father would have cut your head from your shoulders.”

“Your father is dead because he mistook the world for a colder version of himself.”

The slap landed before he stopped you.

For once, you saw his head turn with the impact. Not far. Not dramatically. This was not a song. Your palm stung. A red mark rose slowly across his cheek, obscene in its life against his bloodless face. He did not strike you back. He only looked at you again, and there was something there now, not anger, not quite. Interest, perhaps. That was worse. Of all the reactions you might have dragged from him, interest felt the most dangerous.

“Good,” he said softly.

Your stomach twisted. “Good?”

“You still have spine.”

“You murdering bastard.”

“Yes.”

“You skinless coward.”

“Not skinless.”

“You will never have Winterfell through me.”

“I will.”

“You will have a corpse.”

His gaze moved over your face, not lustfully in the simple way of drunken Frey men with their flushed cheeks and wet mouths, but with a more unsettling attention, as if he were reading the structure of your defiance and deciding where it could be cut without destroying what he wanted to preserve. “No,” he said. “A corpse gives me less than a wife.”

The word wife made your throat close. You had imagined marriage once, like a fool, though perhaps all girls imagined it until the world corrected them. You had imagined a northern lord, maybe, someone steady and kind enough, with weathered hands and a laugh that did not ask permission. You had imagined children with gray eyes running through Winterfell’s halls, your mother correcting their manners, Robb teaching them sword forms he would pretend were only games, Jon visiting from the Wall if the gods were merciful, Arya climbing the kitchen roof to prove she still could. Small hopes. Ordinary ones. The sort that got butchered first because they could not defend themselves.

“You were promised me?” you asked, forcing the words through numb lips.

“Yes.”

“By whom?”

“Lord Walder gave consent. Lord Tywin gave assurance. Your brother’s cause was already failing. The Red Wedding merely hastened what had become inevitable.”

You stared at him. “You speak as though this were weather.”

“Would it comfort you if I lied?”

“It would comfort me if you choked on your own blood.”

“That may yet happen. Men are fragile.”

“Not fragile enough.”

He released you then and stepped back, giving you room as if room meant anything with a locked door and his soldiers outside. You rubbed your wrists, hating yourself for the instinct. Hating him for seeing it.

Roose looked toward the small table near the window, where untouched bread and broth had gone cold. “Eat. You will need strength.”

“For the wedding?”

“For surviving what comes before it.”

A chill moved through you that had nothing to do with the rain. “What comes before it?”

“The Freys are drunk on victory. Some believe promises made to me can be renegotiated. Some believe a Stark girl in a locked chamber is a prize that ought to be inspected, threatened, or used as leverage before she leaves the Twins.”

Your skin crawled. “And you are here to protect your property.”

“Yes.”

At least he did not pretend otherwise. That honesty was another blade, thin and clean, sliding where armor had already been removed.

“You disgust me,” you said.

“I know.”

“No, you do not. You think you do because men like you think knowing a thing is the same as feeling its weight. You have no idea. You stood under my brother’s roof. You spoke his name. You watched him try to avenge my father, and all the while you were counting how much his death would buy you.”

Roose tilted his head slightly. “I counted what his life was costing us.”

“Us?”

“The north.”

“The north followed him.”

“The north bled for him.”

“The north loved him.”

“Love fills graves quickly.”

Your vision blurred. You hated that too. You turned away before the tears could fall where he could watch them properly. “Get out.”

“No.”

You laughed again, but this time it broke halfway. “You have what you came for. You told me. You threatened me. You looked at your prize. Go crawl back to whatever pit raised you.”

“My father raised me at the Dreadfort.”

“That explains the smell.”

Another almost-smile, colder than the first. “You have Catelyn Tully’s tongue when cornered.”

“Do not speak her name either.”

“She died bravely.”

The tears stopped as if frozen.

You turned back to him. “What?”

“Your mother,” Roose said. “She died bravely.”

You searched his face for mockery and found none. That was worse than if he had laughed. “You watched?”

“I saw enough.”

You stepped toward him, slowly this time. “Tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“It will not help you.”

“I did not ask for help.”

For the first time since he entered, Roose was silent long enough that the rain filled the space between you. His eyes lowered briefly to your bloodstained sleeve. “She knew before the end. She understood betrayal before your brother did. She saw the mail beneath my coat. She warned him.”

Your breath shook. You could see it. Gods help you, you could see her hand catching the sleeve, her eyes widening, the mind that had raised you and Robb both realizing too late that the world had already turned inside out.

“She took Lord Walder’s grandson hostage,” Roose continued. “Threatened to cut his throat if they spared your brother.”

“She would,” you whispered.

“She did. Lord Walder did not care.”

No sound came from you then. Something inside you simply fell. Not shattered. Not broke. Fell, like a stone dropped down a well so deep there was no noise when it reached the bottom.

Roose watched you with that awful stillness. “Your brother was already dead by then.”

“You killed him.”

“Yes.”

The simplicity of the answer struck harder than cruelty. You had heard rumors in the chaos. Men shouting that Bolton had given the final wound. Men laughing about the words. The Lannisters send their regards. A neat little message from a lion too cowardly to swing the blade himself. You had not known whether to believe it because belief required space, and you had been drowning in one horror after another.

“You put a knife in his heart,” you said.

“I did.”

“Did he know?”

Roose’s face remained unchanged. “Yes.”

You pressed your hand to your stomach because sickness rose so hard you feared you would be ill on the floor. Robb had known. Robb had looked into the face of one of his own bannermen and known that the north itself had opened beneath him.

“I will kill you,” you said.

“Perhaps.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“No,” you whispered. “You do not. You do not know anything about me if you think I will stand beside you, say vows, give you sons, wear your colors, let the north call you lord because you chained me to your name.”

“I do not require your affection.”

“You will not have my obedience either.”

“I require your presence. Obedience can be negotiated later.”

“You speak as if marriage is a treaty.”

“In your case, it is.”

“My father would never have allowed this.”

“Your father is dead. So is your mother. So is your king. You may keep summoning them into the room, but they cannot answer.”

That was when the tears finally escaped. You hated them, but there they were, hot and silent, cutting clean tracks down the grime on your face. You did not sob. You would not give him that. You stood in the candlelight with your ruined gown and your empty hands and let grief show itself like a wound no one had been able to bandage in time.

Roose did not move closer.

That, too, was unbearable.

A monster should have enjoyed it. A monster should have leaned in, stroked your cheek, called you beautiful in your misery, made some vulgar proof of wanting you. Instead he stayed where he was, remote and precise, and you understood with dawning horror that he did want you, but not in any ordinary way. He wanted the living Stark blood, yes. He wanted Winterfell, certainly. He wanted the line, the claim, the future children who would carry wolf and flayed man together because politics had always been a butcher pretending to be a priest. But beneath that, under the cold arithmetic, there was another hunger. Not hot. Not clumsy. A pale, disciplined thing that had watched you in Robb’s camp and remembered every time you had held your tongue before lords twice your age, every time you had stepped between quarrels, every time you had looked at him as if you already suspected the rot behind his courtesy.

“You wanted this before tonight,” you said, and the realization made your voice go quiet.

His expression did not change.

You swallowed. “Didn’t you?”

Roose looked at you for a long moment. “I considered many outcomes.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one you will get tonight.”

“You watched me.”

“Yes.”

The room tilted slightly. “At Riverrun?”

“Yes.”

“In my brother’s war tent?”

“When you argued with Lord Karstark over the prisoners. When you told your brother mercy without control was only a prettier kind of weakness. When you convinced the Blackfish to send scouts east before the ravens confirmed Lannister movement. When you stood beside your mother after news of Bran and Rickon came and did not faint, did not scream, did not ask for comfort until the room had emptied.”

Each memory came back stained by his gaze. Private moments you had thought belonged to your family, your grief, your duty, now touched by the knowledge that Roose Bolton had been noticing you with the patience of a man choosing a blade.

“You are vile,” you breathed.

“I am thorough.”

“You are old enough to have known better.”

That did draw something from him, not amusement exactly, but the faintest crease beside one eye. “Knowing better rarely changes what men want.”

“Men. Always such tragic victims of their cocks and ambitions. How terribly difficult for you all.”

“There is your mother again.”

“I hope she haunts you.”

“I suspect she has better targets.”

For a second, despite yourself, despite the bodies below, despite everything, you almost laughed. It came as a small, broken exhale that you smothered at once because it felt like betrayal. Roose heard it anyway. Nothing decent ever escaped unnoticed.

“You should hate me,” he said.

“I do.”

“Good.”

“Do not say that to me.”

“Hate is cleaner than despair.”

“And you care about my despair now?”

“I care about what despair makes people do. They refuse food. They leap from windows. They bite through their own tongues. They mistake dying for victory because they cannot bear waking.”

You stared at him. “Would that trouble you?”

“It would inconvenience me.”

“Honest again.”

“You prefer it.”

“I prefer my family alive.”

“Yes,” he said. “But we are past preferred things.”

A knock came at the door.

Roose did not look away from you. “Enter.”

The bolt shifted. One of his men opened the door enough to bow his head. “My lord. Ser Aenys Frey asks if the girl is fit to be brought down. Lord Walder wants the matter settled before the riverlords are sent off.”

“The girl,” you repeated softly.

The guard’s eyes flicked to you, then away.

Roose’s voice remained mild. “Lady Stark will be brought down when I decide she is ready. Tell Ser Aenys that if another Frey comes to this chamber without my leave, I will return him to Lord Walder in pieces small enough for ravens.”

The guard bowed lower. “Yes, my lord.”

The door closed.

You looked at Roose. “Lady Stark now?”

“You have always been Lady Stark.”

“They called me girl.”

“The Freys have poor instincts.”

“They helped you.”

“I did not say they had no uses.”

“You despise them.”

“Yes.”

“And still you let them murder my family.”

“I did not let them,” Roose said. “I joined them.”

You flinched. He watched the movement, and you cursed yourself for giving him even that small victory.

“Why?” you asked. “Not the politics. Not your cold little lecture about Robb losing the war. Why did you do it?”

“Because Robb Stark could win battles and still lose kingdoms. Because he broke oaths in public and expected private loyalty to remain untouched. Because he married for desire while other men buried sons for his crown. Because he trusted outrage to keep the north united, and outrage burns hot but not long. Because Tywin Lannister understood power better than your brother did.”

“My brother understood honor.”

“Yes.”

“And that means nothing to you?”

“It means enough that I knew it would destroy him.”

Your hand rose before you could think better of it, but this time Roose caught your wrist in midair. His grip was faster than it should have been, almost lazy in its precision. You glared at him, breath uneven.

“You do not learn quickly when angry,” he said.

“And you do not bleed quickly enough.”

His thumb rested against your pulse. You felt the pressure there, light but undeniable. His eyes lowered to that place, as if the proof of your life interested him more than your threat.

“There is Stark in you,” he said. “But Tully too. Your brother burned. Your mother endured until endurance became teeth. You are more like her.”

“Do not turn my dead into compliments.”

“I was making an assessment.”

“Then assess this. If you put your hands on me after this wedding, I will make every night of your life a war.”

Something in the air changed. Not much. Enough.

Roose looked back to your face. His voice dropped, almost gentle, which made it colder. “When I put my hands on you, it will not be in a Frey hall while your family’s blood is still wet beneath us. I have no taste for haste.”

Your body went rigid.

“I did not say that to comfort you,” he added.

“No,” you said, throat tight. “You said it because you think restraint makes you civilized.”

“No. I said it because I want you listening.”

“I am listening.”

“Good. You will be dressed. You will come downstairs. You will stand before witnesses. You will say the words required. You may hate me while doing it. You may tremble, weep, glare, or imagine every method by which I might die. You may even try one eventually, though I recommend patience. But you will not throw yourself from the battlements, starve yourself, or force me to drag you half-conscious before the realm. Your life is the last useful piece of House Stark.”

“Useful,” you echoed.

“Yes.”

“Not sacred. Not mourned. Not protected. Useful.”

His gaze held yours. “Protected things are often useful.”

“And when I have given you Winterfell?”

“Then you remain my wife.”

“You say that as if it means shelter.”

“In time, it may.”

You stared at him, stunned by the audacity of it. “You think I could ever come to you willingly?”

“No.”

“At least there is one living brain in this castle, moldy as it is.”

Another faint movement near his mouth. You hated that you could recognize it now. “I think willingness is a word singers use when no one is paying them for accuracy. Most marriages in Westeros begin with bargains, pressure, fear, land, coin, bloodlines, or a father’s command. Affection comes later if the gods are bored and generous.”

“You compare this to a marriage pact?”

“I compare it to power.”

“My father loved my mother.”

“After time.”

“My mother loved him.”

“After time.”

“You are not my father.”

“No,” Roose said. “And you are not your mother.”

The words struck deep, though you could not have said why. Perhaps because you had spent your whole life trying to be enough of Catelyn to honor her and enough of Ned to belong to the north. Perhaps because now both were gone, and Roose had named the terrible truth left behind, that no imitation of them would save you.

“Do you know what she told me once?” you asked. Your voice had gone hoarse. “My mother?”

Roose waited.

“She told me a woman’s duty could become a cage if she mistook silence for strength. She said there would be times I would have to bow my head because the world gives men too many keys, but I must never let them convince me the cage was my shape.”

For once, his gaze seemed to settle more heavily on you.

You stepped closer, ignoring the warning in his stillness. “So put me in your cage, Lord Bolton. Dress it in vows. Line it with furs. Call it Winterfell if it helps you sleep. I will know what it is. And so will you.”

He released your wrist slowly. “Yes,” he said. “I will.”

That answer unsettled you more than denial would have. Roose Bolton did not need illusions. He did not need you grateful, softened, fooled, or seduced by pretty lies. He could live with the cage being a cage. Perhaps that was why the horror of him felt so complete. He had no dream of being loved by the thing he trapped.

The door opened again later, not by his command this time, but after his signal. Women entered carrying a basin of hot water, cloths, a comb, and a gown of dark gray wool trimmed in black. Stark colors, almost. A cruelty or a calculation. With Roose, those were often twins.

You looked at the gown and felt your mouth twist. “How considerate.”

“It was found among your chests,” he said.

Your chests. Your things, packed for a wedding feast and now repurposed for a funeral procession of the self. You remembered your maid folding that gown three days ago. You remembered thinking it too plain for the hall, too northern for a Frey celebration. You wanted to sit down on the floor and laugh until your lungs failed.

“I will not undress in front of you.”

“I do not expect you to.”

“You expect many things.”

“Yes. Not that.”

He turned and moved toward the door. Before he left, you spoke.

“Lord Bolton.”

He paused.

You almost did not ask. Pride clung to your throat, stubborn and useless, but grief forced its hand through.

“My mother,” you said. “Where is she?”

His back remained to you. “Taken with the others.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No.”

“Will they return her to Winterfell?”

“No.”

Your nails dug into your palms. “Robb?”

“No.”

“Grey Wind?”

Roose was silent.

Your stomach turned. “What did they do?”

“Do not ask me that.”

“What did they do?”

He turned his head slightly, not enough for you to see his full face. “Do not ask questions whose answers will only give you new shapes for nightmares.”

A sound left you then, wounded and small, gone before you could stop it. The women near the basin froze. Roose did not. He opened the door.

“I will send men to find what remains worth burning,” he said. “If anything can be done discreetly, it will be.”

You wanted to thank him. The impulse came from some pathetic drilled place of courtesy and horror, and you strangled it before it reached your tongue. “You do not get to be merciful.”

“No,” he said. “I get to be practical.”

Then he left.

The women washed you in silence. One of them cried without sound while cleaning blood from beneath your fingernails. She had a daughter’s face, too round, too soft for the work she had been given. Frey, perhaps, or a servant married into the household, it hardly mattered. Her hands trembled so badly she spilled water over your lap. You looked at her, this stranger who had likely carried platters past your family hours before they died, and for one exhausted second you hated her because she was alive. Then you hated yourself for it, because grief had made you crueler than you wished to be, and there were already enough cruel things breathing.

“Leave it,” you said when she tried to scrub at a dark stain near your collarbone.

“My lady, it will not come out if I do not.”

“Then let it stay.”

She looked at you, eyes shining. “He said you must be made presentable.”

You met her gaze in the small mirror propped against the table. Your own face looked back hollow and older than it had that morning. “I am presentable enough for a house of murderers.”

The older woman behind you made the sign of the Seven beneath her breath.

You almost told her the gods were not here. The old gods had not come when Robb fell. The Seven had not stopped Lord Walder from staining his hall. No god had reached down to close your mother’s eyes. Gods were like kings, perhaps. Much invoked, rarely useful, always demanding something from the people already bleeding.

They braided your hair because loose hair made you look too wild, apparently, and murderers did prefer proper aesthetics during forced dynastic transfer. The younger woman reached for a silver pin shaped like a trout, then stopped as if realizing the insult too late. You took it from her and set it on the table.

“No.”

“There is a wolf pin, my lady.”

You swallowed. “Use that.”

It was small. Smaller than the one your father had given you when you first left Winterfell with the royal party years ago, before everything went wrong in the slow, stupid way of politics. This pin had been made for travel, not ceremony, a simple direwolf in darkened silver, its head raised. You watched the woman fasten it near your shoulder, and the sight of it almost undid you.

When the door opened again, Roose stood outside with a cloak over one arm.

You turned from the mirror. He looked at you in gray and black, with your bruised wrists half-hidden by sleeves and your face too pale beneath the fresh braid. His gaze rested on the wolf pin. He noticed everything. You wished, pettily and viciously, that he would one day notice poison too late.

“The hall is ready,” he said.

“How lovely. Did they clean the blood first, or are we keeping the ambiance?”

One of the guards shifted. Roose did not. “The smaller sept.”

“So the gods can be insulted privately.”

“The gods have endured worse.”

“Not from me.”

He held out the cloak.

You looked at it, then at him. “No.”

“It is raining.”

“Then I will get wet.”

“The passage crosses an outer walk.”

“Then I will get very wet. Civilization may collapse.”

The guard behind him made the mistake of breathing too close to a laugh. Roose’s eyes moved sideways, and the sound died unborn.

“You will wear the cloak,” Roose said.

“You will put it on my corpse.”

“That remains an inefficient solution.”

“Maybe efficiency is overrated.”

His gaze returned to you. “You are shaking.”

You looked down. Your hands were trembling. Not much, but enough. Fury rose again, saving you from shame. “I watched my family die.”

“Yes.”

“If I shake, Lord Bolton, it is because there is a war inside me and no blade in my hand.”

He stepped into the room, close enough now that the women retreated without being told. “Then let the war keep you standing.”

You hated him for the line. Hated him more because some part of you seized it greedily. Let the war keep you standing. Fine. If hatred was all he would leave you, you would use it better than he expected.

You snatched the cloak from his arm and fastened it yourself. “Walk, then.”

The passage outside smelled of damp stone and tallow. Four Bolton men fell in behind you. Two more walked ahead. No Freys came near. That was Roose’s doing, and you resented needing the protection of the man who had helped create the danger. It was like being saved from wolves by a colder wolf with legal documents.

As you walked, the castle watched.

Servants lowered their eyes. Men turned away too quickly. A few Freys stared with open curiosity, those slack-mouthed little heirs of treachery, dressed in rich cloth and moral sewage. One older Frey knight looked you up and down with a grin that made your skin prickle. Roose stopped.

The corridor stopped with him.

The knight’s grin faltered. “Lord Bolton?”

Roose spoke mildly. “You are in our way.”

The Frey man glanced at the open space wide enough for three men to pass. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

You could hear the rain outside, harder now, blown against the walls.

The Frey looked at you again, perhaps trying to salvage pride from stupidity. “Pretty enough, for a wolf. Shame about the circumstances.”

Roose’s face did not alter. “Give me your dagger.”

The Frey blinked. “What?”

“Your dagger.”

“My lord, I meant no offense.”

“You meant a small one. Men often do when they lack the courage for large offenses.” Roose extended his hand. “The dagger.”

The knight hesitated, then drew it and offered it hilt-first with a laugh meant to make the moment harmless. Roose took it, examined the edge briefly, then passed it to one of his men.

“You will apologize to Lady Stark,” Roose said.

The Frey flushed. “For what?”

Roose turned his pale eyes fully on him. “For making me pause.”

The apology came quickly after that, muttered and ugly. You did not acknowledge it. As you passed, you looked at the knight and smiled with every bit of dead Stark courtesy you had left.

“Careful,” you said softly. “He likes his halls tidy.”

Behind you, one of the Bolton men coughed. Roose said nothing, but when you glanced sideways, there was that faint almost-smile again, gone before anyone else could have recognized it.

The sept was small and mean, tucked into a lower part of the castle where the air smelled of old incense and wet rushes. Candles burned before the Seven in wavering rows, their flames trembling whenever the door opened. Lord Walder Frey sat near the front in his carved chair, bundled in furs, his ruined face stretched with satisfaction. He looked less like a lord than something dug from beneath a bridge and taught to demand grandchildren. Beside him stood several of his sons, all with the same cowardly hunger worn in different shapes. A septon waited near the altar, pale and sweating through his robes.

There were no songs. No feast. No cloak of white and gray from your father’s hands. No mother standing behind you with tears she would deny later. No Robb pretending not to cry. No sisters whispering, no brothers restless in polished boots. Only enemies and candles and rain and Roose Bolton at your side.

Lord Walder’s eyes crawled over you. “There she is. The she-wolf. Thought you’d bite through your leash by now.”

You looked at him. “I am saving my teeth for better meat.”

A hush.

Walder wheezed, then cackled. “Hear that? Still proud. Good. Good. Put a pup in her before the pride fades, Bolton. Starks breed stubborn. Might be useful.”

Your face burned cold. You took one step toward him before Roose caught your arm. Not painfully. Publicly. A reminder and a claim in the same gesture.

“Lord Frey,” Roose said, voice soft.

Walder’s grin thinned. “What? She’s yours, isn’t she?”

“She is mine,” Roose said. “Which means the manner in which she is spoken of is no longer your concern.”

You went still beside him.

Walder stared, then barked a laugh. “You always were a chilly bastard. Fine, fine. Marry her. Take your wolf. Take your castle. Take all the north, if you can keep it from biting your arse off.”

“I intend to.”

His hand remained around your arm as the septon began. You heard only pieces at first. Names. Houses. Vows. The Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone, the Stranger. The words moved around you like water around stone. Marriage was supposed to transform. Girl to wife. Daughter to lady. One house into another. But you felt no transformation. You felt only theft with witnesses.

The septon’s voice wavered when he came to your name.

You lifted your chin.

He said it again, clearer. Stark. Daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark. Eldest living issue of Winterfell.

Living issue. What a hideous phrase. As if your mother had delivered estate documents instead of children.

Roose spoke his vows evenly. No hesitation. No triumph. He sounded as he might have sounded ordering scouts through a pass or discussing grain stores before winter. You wanted to hate him more for that, but part of you, the part too tired for theatrics, was almost relieved he did not mock the words by pretending tenderness.

Then it was your turn.

The septon looked at you with open pity, the fool. Pity was useless unless it came with a knife.

You said nothing.

The silence stretched.

A Frey shifted. Someone whispered. Rain beat against the stones beyond the narrow windows.

Roose turned his head slightly. “Speak.”

You looked at him. “Or?”

The septon nearly dropped his book.

Roose studied you in the candlelight. “Or they will say you were forced.”

“I am forced.”

“Yes,” he said. “But there is power in making them hear you choose the shape of your survival.”

You almost laughed in his face. “Is that what this is?”

“That is what remains.”

Your throat tightened. You looked past him to Lord Walder, to the Freys, to the Bolton guards, to the sweating septon and the trembling candles. If you refused, they would make it happen anyway. If you screamed, they would say grief had unbalanced you. If you fainted, they would drag you upright. If you died, Winterfell would become a carcass fought over by men who had already proven they could stomach any feast.

Your mother’s voice came back to you. The cage is not your shape.

No. It was not. But sometimes a wolf survived a trap by chewing slowly, not wildly.

You turned back to the septon.

“I take him,” you said, and every word tasted of ash, “as the gods and men have arranged.”

The septon swallowed. “As your husband, my lady.”

You looked at Roose while you said it. “As my husband.”

Roose’s gaze did not leave yours.

The cloak ceremony was worse. You had worn Stark colors into the sept, and now Roose removed the cloak from your shoulders while the room watched. Beneath it you felt suddenly exposed, though your gown covered you from throat to wrist. He handed your cloak to one of his men, then lifted another.

Bolton colors.

Pink and red, muted by candlelight but unmistakable. Flayed man hidden in the folds like a wound pretending to be fabric.

Your breath caught.

Roose saw. For one second, the cloak hovered between you.

“Do it,” you said.

Something in his eyes changed, not softness, never that, but acknowledgment. He set the Bolton cloak over your shoulders and fastened it himself. His fingers brushed the wolf pin beneath it. He did not remove the pin.

That, somehow, nearly broke you.

The septon declared you wed. Lord Walder clapped his shriveled hands. The Freys followed, some laughing, some bored, some already turning their minds toward wine and whatever songs men sang after betraying guests. Roose took your hand. His palm was dry and cool. You wanted to claw the skin from it.

He leaned close enough that only you could hear him. “Do not stumble.”

“Afraid I will shame you?”

“No,” he said. “Afraid they will enjoy it.”

So you did not stumble.

You walked from the sept as Lady Bolton, the eldest living Stark daughter, with your family’s blood still beneath the floors and your enemy’s cloak heavy on your shoulders. Men bowed. Not deeply. Not yet. But they bowed, because the world loved power more than decency and always had. You kept your face still. That was your first victory. Small, bitter, nearly meaningless. Naturally, it had to do for now.

The chamber they gave you afterward was larger than the first. Warmer. Worse, because someone had tried to make it suitable. A fire burned in the hearth. A tray of food waited on the table, fresh this time. Wine. Bread. Stewed apples. Roasted fowl. A basin for washing. A bed dressed in heavy linens.

You stopped at the threshold.

Roose entered behind you and closed the door.

For several heartbeats neither of you spoke.

Then you reached for the Bolton cloak and tore at the clasp. Your fingers fumbled once, twice, then got it loose. You dragged it from your shoulders and flung it into the fire.

The flames caught the edge quickly.

Roose watched it burn.

“There,” you said, breath shaking. “That is my first act as your wife.”

“The cloak was expensive.”

“You can skin someone and make another.”

His eyes moved from the fire to you. “Do you feel better?”

“No.”

“Few gestures survive contact with reality.”

You turned on him. “Do you ever tire of being unbearable?”

“No.”

“Convenient.”

“Very.”

You paced to the table and grabbed the wine cup, then stopped before drinking. Roose noticed. You set it down untouched.

“You think I poisoned it?” he asked.

“I think everyone in this castle has earned suspicion.”

“A fair assessment.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“As though I should believe you.”

“If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

“You truly say these things and wonder why people want you murdered.”

“I have never wondered that.”

You almost smiled again, and that infuriated you so much that you picked up the cup and threw it at him. He moved aside. It struck the door and spilled wine down the wood like dark blood.

“Better?” he asked.

“You are determined to die tonight.”

“I am determining the boundaries of your grief.”

“You do not get to touch my grief.”

“I already have.”

The room went silent.

That one landed. You saw he knew it by the way his face stilled further, as if even he recognized he had stepped onto thinner ice than intended.

You moved toward the fire, watching the Bolton cloak blacken and curl. “You have touched everything. My family. My name. My home. My future. My body, when it suits you. My grief is not another province for you to occupy.”

“No,” he said after a moment. “It is not.”

You looked back, startled despite yourself.

Roose stood near the door, the wine slowly reaching his boot. In the firelight, the slap mark on his cheek had faded to a faint flush. He looked tired now, though not in any way that invited sympathy. More like a blade looked tired after being used too many times without cleaning.

“You will sleep alone tonight,” he said.

Your fingers tightened around your own sleeves. “How noble.”

“Not noble. Strategic.”

“Everything is strategy with you.”

“Yes.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow we leave the Twins.”

“For the Dreadfort?”

“For now.”

“Not Winterfell?”

“Winterfell is burned. Broken. Infested with ironmen, rumors, ghosts, and inconvenient memories.”

“My home is not inconvenient.”

“No,” he said. “It is dangerous.”

“Good.”

He looked at you, and for once the silence between you did not feel empty. It felt like two armies watching across a field.

“You love it,” he said.

“Winterfell?”

“Yes.”

“It is mine.”

“That is not the same answer.”

“It is the only one you deserve.”

“Perhaps.”

You folded your arms to hide the trembling again. “What will you do with me at the Dreadfort?”

“Keep you alive.”

“How romantic.”

“You asked.”

“You will parade me.”

“When necessary.”

“You will use me to make lords bend.”

“Yes.”

“You will put your child in me when you decide the timing is useful.”

His gaze did not move. “Yes.”

The honesty hit like a slap, colder than any threat. You looked away first, because if you kept staring at him, you would either attack him again or start crying, and neither would change the room.

“I hate you,” you said.

“I know.”

“I will hate any child you force into me.”

“No,” he said.

You turned back, fury rising. “Do not tell me what I will feel.”

“You may hate me through the child. You may hate the getting of it. You may hate the name it carries. But you are Ned Stark’s daughter and Catelyn Tully’s as well. You will not hate a child for being born.”

You wanted to deny it. Gods, you wanted to spit denial so fiercely he would step back from the heat of it. But the words lodged in your chest, because he was right, and being known by him even in that small way felt like another violation.

“Do not speak to me as if you know my heart.”

“I know enough.”

“You know nothing.”

“I know you kept your youngest brother from crying during storms by telling him the old gods were only moving furniture in the sky. I know you gave your lemon cakes to your sister when she was homesick on the Kingsroad and pretended not to want them. I know you argued with your mother because she wanted you safe and you wanted to be useful. I know Robb listened when you spoke quietly, which means he valued your thoughts more than most men valued their sworn swords.”

Your eyes burned. “Stop.”

“I know you are alone now.”

“Stop.”

“And I know alone is when people become easiest to break.”

You crossed the room and struck him again, harder this time. The sound cracked through the chamber.

Roose let it happen.

Then he caught your wrist before you could do it a third time.

You were breathing hard. So was he, though barely. His cheek reddened beneath your handprint. You were close enough to see the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint silver in his hair, the unnatural restraint that made him seem less like a man than a winter that had learned to wear skin.

“You do not get to call me alone,” you whispered.

His hand remained around your wrist. “Then who is left?”

You could not answer.

That was the cruelty of it. Not because there was no one in the world. Somewhere, perhaps, Jon breathed at the Wall, if the gods had not taken him too. Sansa might still live in Lannister hands, though news had made her more rumor than sister. Arya had vanished into war. Bran and Rickon were ashes in every raven’s telling. But here, tonight, in this room, under this roof, after that hall, there was no one who could come through the door and take you home.

Your knees nearly weakened. You refused them.

Roose released your wrist.

“You will not be alone forever,” he said.

The words were quiet. More dangerous for it.

You looked at him with hatred so deep it felt almost calm now. “If you mean yourself, I would rather remain alone until my bones freeze.”

“I know.”

“Then why say it?”

“Because hatred is not prophecy.”

“No. But it is honest.”

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

He moved toward the door.

You watched him, wary. “Where are you going?”

“To arrange departure.”

“You leave me unguarded?”

“You are guarded.”

“Inside.”

His eyes flicked to the shattered cup near the door, then the burning cloak, then your face. “There is little left in here you can turn into a weapon.”

“Do not underestimate me.”

“I married you. I have not.”

He opened the door, then paused as cold corridor air slipped in around him.

“Eat,” he said again.

You laughed softly. “Still giving orders.”

“Still alive to give them.”

“For now.”

He looked back at you. “For now.”

Then he left, and the door closed between you.

For a long time, you stood in the center of the chamber and listened to his footsteps fade. Only when they were gone did you move. You crossed to the fire and watched the last of the Bolton cloak collapse into ember and ash. The flayed man disappeared first. The red threads curled, blackened, vanished. Smoke rose up the chimney, taking with it nothing important and everything symbolic, because symbols were cheap unless someone was willing to die for them, and too many had already died tonight.

You sank slowly to the floor before the hearth.

The grief came then.

Not prettily. Not like a lady with a handkerchief and lowered eyes. It came like drowning. You bent forward with both hands pressed to your mouth to keep the sound inside, but some of it escaped anyway, raw and broken, dragged from places no one had touched before. You cried for Robb’s smile and your mother’s hands. For your father’s solemn eyes and the way Winterfell smelled of pine smoke after snow. For Bran’s laugh, Rickon’s wildness, Arya’s scowls, Sansa’s songs. For Jon, far away and perhaps unknowingly orphaned all over again. For the men who had called your brother king and died with cups in their hands. For the wolf you could not save. For the girl you had been that morning, annoyed by Frey music and bad wine, still living in a world where tomorrow might contain regret but not annihilation.

When the storm passed, it did not leave peace behind. Only emptiness. You wiped your face with the heel of your hand, rose unsteadily, and went to the table.

You ate.

Not much. Bread first, because it required no trust beyond hunger. Then a little broth. Then water, after smelling it like some half-feral creature. The food sat in your stomach like stone, but it stayed there. That mattered. Survival was suddenly a vulgar little act. Chewing. Swallowing. Breathing. Enduring. The songs never mentioned how much rebellion began with not letting yourself collapse before the bastards were finished with you.

Near dawn, you found the wolf pin under the edge of the Bolton cloak where it had fallen before the fabric burned completely. The metal was hot enough to sting when you picked it up. Blackened at one edge, but intact.

You held it in your palm until it cooled.

Then you pinned it inside your gown, beneath the outer layer where no one would see unless they came close enough to earn the teeth you still had.

When the first gray light entered the chamber, the rain finally softened. You had not slept. Your eyes ached. Your body hurt in places you had not noticed during the night. Outside, men began shouting orders for horses, wagons, departure. The Twins stirred like a satisfied beast after feeding.

A knock came.

You stood.

Roose entered without waiting, dressed for travel in dark leathers and fur. His cheek still bore a faint mark from your hand. Good. Let him carry something of you too.

His gaze swept the room. The burned cloak. The broken cup. The half-eaten food. You, upright before the hearth in gray wool, hair coming loose from its braid, face pale but dry-eyed.

“You ate,” he said.

“You sound pleased. Careful. Someone might mistake you for human.”

“I will risk it.”

“Brave.”

“Rarely.”

He stepped farther inside. “We leave within the hour.”

You lifted your chin. “Then I should pack my mourning gown.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You will travel as you are.”

“In a stained dress?”

“In Stark colors.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because men need to see what they helped make.”

You studied him, trying to understand whether this was cruelty, strategy, or some worse combination. “You want them ashamed.”

“I want them reminded.”

“Of what?”

“That the north does not forget faces.”

It was the first thing he had said that sounded almost like something your father might have believed, if stripped of warmth and fed through a grave.

“You are not the north,” you said.

“No.”

“You never will be.”

“I do not need to be. I need to rule it.”

“You think those are different things?”

“I know they are.”

You walked toward him slowly. “Then know this too. They may bow. They may call you lord. They may send men, coin, grain, daughters, whatever scraps you squeeze from them. But in their hearts, every true northern house will remember what happened here.”

“Yes.”

“And when winter comes, Lord Bolton, memories grow teeth.”

Roose looked at you for a long time. Then he offered his arm.

You stared at it.

“Appearances,” he said.

“Lies.”

“Yes.”

You wanted to refuse. You wanted to walk alone. You wanted to make every man in that courtyard see that no part of you chose him. But then you thought of stumbling. Of Freys watching. Of pity. Of Walder’s rotten grin. Of Roose’s words in the sept, irritating because they were not entirely wrong. There is power in making them hear you choose the shape of your survival.

So you placed your hand on his arm.

Not gently. Not as a wife. As a warning.

His arm was steady beneath your fingers.

You walked beside him through the corridors of the Twins while servants bowed and killers looked away. No one laughed now. Perhaps it was Roose. Perhaps it was you. Perhaps grief, when carried upright, made its own kind of crown.

In the courtyard, the rain had left the stones slick. Men had scrubbed, but not well enough. Blood remained in the seams, dark where water could not reach. Your boots passed over it. You did not look down for long.

Lord Walder watched from a covered balcony, wrapped in furs, his mouth twisted in pleasure. “There goes the wolf bride!” he called. “Try not to bite too deep, girl. Boltons like that too much.”

Roose stopped.

You felt every man near you tense.

Then you looked up before Roose could answer.

“Lord Frey,” you called, voice carrying through the wet morning air with a clarity that surprised even you. “When I return north, I will pray before my father’s godswood that the old gods remember your hospitality.”

A hush fell.

Walder’s grin faltered.

You smiled then. Not because anything was funny. Because your mother had known how to smile at men who mistook courtesy for weakness, and you were her daughter too.

“And they remember longer than men do,” you said.

Roose said nothing. He simply guided you toward the waiting horses.

But as he helped you mount, his hand at your waist for one brief, controlled moment, he looked up at you with those pale eyes and said quietly, “There she is.”

You leaned down just enough that only he could hear.

“Enjoy it while you can,” you said. “One day you will wish I had broken.”

His gaze did not waver. “No,” he replied. “I chose you because you would not.”

Then he stepped back, mounted his own horse, and gave the order to ride.

The gates of the Twins opened.

You did not look back when you passed through them. Not at the towers. Not at the balcony. Not at the river running swollen and gray beneath the bridge. Not at the place where your family had been butchered under guest right while music played.

You looked north.

The road ahead was long, soaked, and full of enemies. You rode with your husband’s men around you and your husband’s name forced over yours like a second skin. Somewhere behind you, your dead waited for justice. Somewhere before you, Winterfell lay broken beneath a sky that had not yet finished with any of you.

Roose Bolton rode at your side in silence.

You kept one hand hidden beneath your cloak, pressed against the small wolf pin over your heart.

As his mother's heir, Jace knew he was little more than a pawn to be moved around a board, a pawn made to enter into matches and alliances. His entire life, he had known his mother would choose his wife, and he would have little say in who that may be. His wife had been decided scarcely before he truly knew what marriage meant.  Alliances were built around him before he could even walk, but when war broke out, everything changed. The betrothal brokered between himself and Baela broke, and he was left traversing the realm, reminding lords and ladies of their oaths. Given his first taste of power and the opportunity to prove himself. And he did, he had houses pledging loyalty, support, and men. And then he arrived in Winterfell, and found himself leaving with more than the pledge of men and support, but with you as his wife. 

He had been struck by you the second he saw you, and wed you before the raven announcing your betrothal had even reached Dragonstone. Jace rationalised it easily: you were the half-sister of Cregan Stark, your mother was a Tully, and with you, not only came the North but the Riverlands too.  It was an advantageous match, and though his mother had been frustrated, she had wished to leave his hand as a leveraging tool in the war to come, she knew the alliance brought two kingdoms on her side.

The alliance was exactly what Rhaneyra needed, it brought strength, helped to stabilise her cause and made her heir happy. 

He loved you dearly. You were beautiful, a little too naive and idealistic, but Jace didn't mind that, no, he loved it. Loved how you observed everything, how you observed everything, how smart you were despite your ideals. His love for you was clear to anyone. So clear that when you arrived on Dragonback to Dragonstone, the rumours began almost immediately.

Rumours that he had only wed you after Cregan had caught Jace in your bed. Rumours that Jace had won the support of the north by sliding between your legs. Rumours that you were a northern whore. Those rumours had reached the smallfolk, including the dragon seeds of Dragonstone. 

Ulf the white had a strange sense about him. He was rude and proud and far too arrogant. He acted with a sense of entitlement, an entitlement that had only been gifted to him by the grace of his queen, and yet he took full advantage of it. Advantage enough to corner you. 

“It’s surprising Rhaenyra would keep you married to Jace,” Ulf spoke, leaning against the table of the library as he watched you closely. 

“Queen Rhaenyra, and Prince Jacaerys, ” you corrected, trying to focus on the book before you, and ignore the man and his unwelcome company “Why would she not permit me to remain married to my husband?” 

You looked up, locking eyes with Ulf, a feeling of discomfort washing through you at the look in his eyes. You searched around the room, eyes locking on the door, praying for Jace to hurry up and meet you as he had promised. Ulf smirked, his eyes trailing your body as he walked towards you, “We’ve all heard the truth, how you lured Jace into your bed.”

“That’s not true,” you gasped, standing up quickly, trying to move away from Ulf, who had seemed determined to get closer to you, “those are rumours, nothing more.” You continued to back away from him, your eyes looking to the door as it opened, revealing Jace.

Each step you took, Ulf seemed to follow, his eyes continuing to trail your body, “rumours?” He scoffed, “You're a whore,” 

“What did you just call her?” Jace demanded, his voice, the smile he had gifted you as he walked through the door long gone, as his face hardened at Ulfs words. 

“Jace-“ Ulf began, a cocky smile on his face. 

“Your grace,” Jace corrected, storming towards him, “you are acting above your station,” he spat, his voice like venom. “Now,” Jace spat, waking closer to Ulf, forcing him against the desk he had leaned on earlier. “What. Did. You. Call. My. Wife.” Jace's hand flew to Ulfs shirt, keeping him in place. 

You stood to the side watching as Ulf swallowed roughly, his cocky demeanour faltering. “I'm just calling her what she is,” he spat, leaning his head back as if to escape the glare Jace was giving him. 

“She is no whore!” Jace raged, pushing Ulf further into the table. “Apologise to her,” he spat,  his eye flickering to you, his face red from anger. 

“Jace,” you spoke, walking slowly towards him, your voice calm.

His eyes softened at your voice, but the scoff from Ulf had him turning his full attention back to you. He pushed him roughly back into the desk, “apologise,” he repeated, his hands balling into fists on Ulf's shirt. Ulf swallowed, his face flushed, but he made no effort to speak. Jace scoffed, moving back from the desk and slamming Ulf down, “Apologise or I shall have your tongue ripped from your mouth”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his eyes darting to yours as you slowly approached your hand reaching for Jace's shoulder.

“I didn’t hear you,” Jace seethed, slamming him down again. 

“I’m sorry!” Ulf shouted, his eyes pleading as he looked at you. 

“Jace, he’s not worth it, my love”, you muttered, your hands sliding to his shoulders and easing him off Ulf. 

“Get out of my sight,” Jace spat, pushing Ulf as he stumbled out of the library. “Fuck,” he mumbled, turning to face you and pulling you into his chest. “These lowborns claiming dragons are a disgrace,” Jace muttered “, they make a mockery of us, insult us and for what?” 

“My love,” you soothed, reaching to place a soft kiss on his lips, “they will be mere footnotes in history, you need not worry about them.”

“But what if they aren’t? They question the crown's legitimacy, they question my legitimacy,” he breathed, his head leaning against yours, his breath heavy as he spoke. “And to question you, my wife.” He scoffed, “How dare he, that mongrel." 

“My love, calm yourself”, you breathed, placing a soft kiss to his lips, “you will be a king, and they mere footnotes in history, you should not worry yourself,” you placed another kiss to his lips, “don’t waste your breath on them, you are worth so much more than them,” 

He smiled softly against you, his head still leaning against yours as he reached forward to kiss you, “What did I do to deserve someone as sweet as you?” He hummed, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer to him. 

“I only treat you how you have treated me”, you hummed, kissing him once more. “You are the prince every lady dreams of marrying,” you hummed, “I dreamt of a man like you every night.” 

Jace groaned at your words, turning you to sit on the desk, “too sweet for me,” he hummed, his hands moving to bunch your dress around your hips, “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he hummed, “how sweet you are, how sweet you taste,” kissing your lips between every word, “your cunt,” he groaned, dropping to his knees as he spoke, “all I can think of is the taste of your cunt” his breath ghosted your heat, a shiver shaking through you at the feeling, “how sweet it is, how perfect,” he groaned into you, pressing soft kisses to your thighs as his thumb reached for your bundle of nerves, rubbing soft circles as it his mouth slowly made its way to your cunt, his tongue swiping a through your folds.

“Jace,” you gasped, your hand flying to your mouth, as he placed another lick down your slit. “Oh gods,” you moaned, as his fingers reached to spread your folds, groaning at the sight of how wet you were. His tongue placed another long lick across the length of your folds. His thumb still circling your clit as his tongue began to feast on you, lapping at your pussy, feasting on you, like a man starved. A loud moan tore through you, your hand falling from your mouth to grip the table as Jace hooked your legs around his head, his tongue fucking you. His hands reached to grip your waist, pulling you even closer to him. Your hips bucked into his face, riding his tongue as he feasted on you. 

Moans of pleasure echoed around the library as you rode his face, his fingers swapping with his tongue, a loud gasp tearing through you as his fingers slowly pushed into yo, “so good,” Jace groaned, his voice vibrating through your body, as a wave of pleasure began to wash over you, his fingers thrusting into you as your peak began to wash over you, your back arching off the desk, his name slipping from your lips as you came.

Jace slowly rose from between your thighs, pressing a slow, messy kiss to your lips. “I love the taste of you,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips as he pulled you closer to him.

You hummed, your hands reaching to play with the curls on his head. “So sweet,” he groaned, “so perfect,” 

You smiled, tugging his hair to have him look at you, “You're sweet.” 

It’s the boy’s fault, the one up on the stage. They called the boy first today; they alternate each year. If they had called your name first, someone surely would have volunteered and gone to the Capitol in your place. But the boy chosen to represent District 4 in the 47th Annual Hunger Games could pick up the much-feared Jackline Humboldt and snap him in half. From across the crowd, Commodore watches you. He’s 6’4 and close to three hundred pounds, prodigiously large for an eighteen-year-old. He has deep-set brown eyes, broad shoulders, flaxen hair sheared close to the skin so nobody can get hold of it.

No one wants to go to the Games the same year as Commodore. The Careers who are sixteen or seventeen will wait for the 48th Games; the eighteen-year-olds will forgo the fantasy entirely, and learn to be content here on the shore with their boats and their nets and their stews and their salt-stinging skin.

Then your sister Misty screams and the spell breaks, the sunlit liminal haven evaporates, and the Peacekeepers march forward to collect you.

“No!” you shriek when they grab your wrists and begin to haul you towards the stage. You always believed you’d never fight, that you wouldn’t be chosen to begin with but if you ever were, you would go to the Games with dignity, and somehow—illogically, and yet certainly—you would win.

But I can’t win against Commodore!!!

So now you are yowling and writhing like a trapped animal, begging, refusing, your best sandals scraping against the splintering nail-studded planks of the boardwalk as you try to resist being dragged to your death, death by poison, death by beasts, death by blades, death by fire, death by drowning, death by a thousand different designs but death nonetheless, and weren’t you supposed to be back on Daddy’s fishing boat this afternoon? Weren’t you supposed to be eating sourdough bread and fisherman’s stew tonight, laughing with your family around the rough wooden dinner table, the lanterns glowing warmly, the waves rumbling outside?

Your other sisters are all screaming with Misty now, and Daddy is too. You are the youngest; none of your siblings can volunteer for you. You’re barely still old enough to be reaped yourself.

“No, I’ll be nineteen tomorrow!” you’re pleading with the Peacekeepers, who take no notice. Commodore observes your hysteria with a dark-eyed, impassive gaze. The Capitol escort for District 4 tributes, Charm Wesleyan, sighs and checks her glittering gold pocket watch. “I can’t go, you have to pick someone else, I can’t go, I can’t go! Please!”

Then you hear your brother Fleet shout over the melee: “Stop fighting, they’ll hurt you!”

He’s right; and they’ll hurt your family too. Your arms go still in the Peacekeepers’ iron grasps, and you walk with them to the stage, the shadow of it falling over you and blotting out the sun, the air turning cold. You ascend the steps, your knees and ankles trembling wildly, almost losing a sandal twice. The crowd watches you go, solemn and silent except for your family’s weeping. You can hear Ariel whimpering to Misty that they can’t let this happen, and Fleet tells her to shut up. Then he says he’s going to get the knife set.

The Peacekeepers position you beside Commodore and then stand nearby to intercede in the event of any further disturbances. The viewers won’t have seen any of that, of course. The footage is “live” but on a delay; any unpatriotic diversions are neatly snipped from the record, everyone knows that.

“Smile,” Charm hisses at you. She is dressed like a glistening golden koi, false fins jutting out from her gown, dangling chandelier earrings that cast scintillations. In each of her transparent platform shoes swims a petrified goldfish, encapsulated in the tall thick heel, receiving a battering every time she takes a step. Charm is in her fifties and nearing retirement, but she’s still more beautiful than most women you’ve ever seen in your life. She has been blessed from birth and can’t imagine what it’s like not to be; she has green eyes, small bones, smooth unmarred skin, short but voluminous hair that is presently sprayed gold to match her gown.

You don’t comply immediately and Charm snaps her fingers at you, as if you are a dog. You force a smile. Beside you, Commodore beams and waves at the camera. He’s already playing the game, and you need to catch up.

If I don’t give them what they want, they won’t help me win.

Oh God, you think, your throat burning, constricting, choking. How the fuck did this happen? Why can’t I go home?

You swipe away your tears and try to smile more convincingly. You swish from side to side a little bit, letting the shirt of your sundress, butter-yellow plaid, flutter in the breeze. You pose with one hand on your waist. You wave with the other, an open secretless palm.

“Give us a wink, baby!” the cameraman yells at you, and you do it, then blow a kiss for good measure. Charm and the camera crew laugh, delighted. Charm rests her hands—no wrinkles, elegant fingers with nails painted gold—on your shoulders and leans into you, as if you are dear friends, as if she’s not a glimmering angel of death. The goldfish in her shoes quiver. The crowd watches gravely, no cheers, no applause. Then they begin to disperse to go home, a place you’ll never be again.

Charm announces to the camera: “And there you have it, the District 4 tributes for the 47th Annual Hunger Games! A genuine Beauty and the Beast situation, am I right?”

The camera crew howls. The audience is no longer listening. You keep smiling, your cheeks beginning to ache, your lips twitching. You’ll need to figure out how to get better at that part.

Charm continues: “We’ll be seeing all of you again very, very soon, but in the Capitol! What adventures will our tributes have as they live in unprecedented opulence for the coming two weeks? What will they reveal to be their unique strengths and weaknesses? Who will be allies, and who will be bitter enemies? Who will receive the highest and lowest training scores from our Gamemakers? All that and more next time! Ta-ta for now!”

A little red light you hadn’t noticed before on the camera goes dark. Charm abruptly skitters away from you, earrings jangling, assaulting the goldfish in her shoes. She makes a snorting noise and whips a tiny compact out of a hidden pocket in her gown. Swiftly, she checks her hair and makeup in the circular mirror and snaps it shut again.

Charm says to the camera crew: “Let’s get out of here. This whole district smells like a fucking tuna melt.” And then, when Commodore blinks at her quizzically: “Yeah, I know you can’t tell.” She trots down the stairs with a flurry of assistants in tow, leaving you and your fellow tribute alone on the stage.

You peer up at Commodore. He looks down at you, like a heron at a flounder.

“I don’t want to be the one to kill you,” Commodore says. “So stay out of my way.”

They have you in a shack on the beach, an old storage facility used for fishing equipment. The nets make you think of being trapped. The hooks make you think of being gutted. Two Peacekeepers stand by the door to make sure you don’t try to escape or kill yourself. You have no immediate plans to do either. You have no immediate plans at all.

The creaky wooden door bangs open, and your family rushes in, Daddy and Fleet and your sisters. They are all trying to hug you at once, all speaking in the same desperate chorus. You keep telling them the same lie over and over again, because you don’t know what else to say: “I’m okay, I’m okay.”

“Maybe Aemond can help you,” Misty says, her eyes shimmering like the wave crests outside. “He gets at least one of our tributes into the final day of the Games every year, and he’s had two winners, and the girl wasn’t even a good fighter, and…maybe…maybe the District 1 and 2 Careers will take out Commodore, and then you’ll just have to…”

Have to what? Murder those same Careers?

You aren’t a killer. And Misty knows this, so she starts sobbing. You aren’t coming back.

Am I?

“Here,” she says, thrusting the box into your hands. You already know what’s inside. It’s Daddy’s filleting knife set, and it’s been in his family for three generations at least, and no one can remember anything before that. You open the box: sharp thin mirrorlike blades, opalescent mother of pearl handles, a honing rod, a scaler, a gut hook. Each handle has a small hole at the end so the tools can be hung within easy reach while working. “You’re good with knives. Aemond can figure out how to use that.”

“But if I take them with me, you’ll never get them back.”

Misty smiles, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Maybe we will.”

“That’s how you know people don’t care about nothing,” Charm says. She is gazing out the window as the train zooms east towards the border you share with District 1, and then beyond that the Capitol. She takes out her compact again, flips down the mirror, reveals another skinny compartment behind it. She scoops out white powder with her fingertip and rubs it around her nostrils, inhaling in a dainty sniff. The goldfish in her shoes are dead. “When they let their homes fall into disrepair. Look! Shutters not painted. Weeds in the yards. Lazy, lazy. Sloth is a sin, you know.”

You and Commodore sit across from her at the table, wide-eyed and afraid to say the wrong thing. The carpet is plush and white. There are marble columns everywhere, and a large rectangular fish tank sparkling with goldfish. Miniature chandeliers swing from the ceiling as the train rocks. The tabletop is made of kaleidoscopic stained glass and covered with plates of cake; you’ve placed the thin wooden box containing your knife set on the floor by your feet. There is a small long-tailed monkey on a leash affixed to one of the legs of the white leather sofa, hopping in place and grinning sinisterly.

“It’s like me,” Charm continues, increasingly animated. “There are women who don’t invest in looking their best, and then they’re resentful when their life is sad and short.” She waves a glittering hand at you. You stare back blankly. “But you must make the best of things. Districts 1 and 2, now they know how to take care of themselves. Lovely clean streets. Historic homes. Flourishing gardens. And wouldn’t I have liked to end up being the escort for tributes from a place like that? But no, I get the district with the…the…” She reaches over to frenetically pat Commodore’s massive shoulder. “The Loch Ness Monster over here. But do I neglect my responsibilities? Do I complain? No, I get on with it. And I conduct myself with diligence and dignity. And one day, who knows, one of those other escorts, Lapis and Citadella—vapid bitches, both of them, you’ll see—might get themselves in trouble, and then I’ll be next in line for a promotion.”

She stops and glares at you and Commodore, expecting a contribution.

“Right!” you say. “You deserve it!”

“Anyway, what I’m trying to express is that it’s the same way with you two.” Charm plucks the remote control off the table and turns on the television mounted to the wall. News coverage of this year’s reapings appears; there is a montage of winners standing on their respective stages across Panem. You see a terribly young male tribute from District 5, an athletic blonde girl from District 1, a wiry smirking boy from District 2 with freckles and unruly hair the color of a red dusk. “You could waste your time being bitter about the cards you’ve been dealt. Or you could have a good attitude about it. Work hard. Be productive. Be grateful. Plenty of kids younger than you have died without getting a two-week taste of paradise first.” Then she gestures frantically to the cakes, as if they will soon disappear. “Eat!”

You and Commodore—though you have to assume he’s as nauseous as you are—promptly begin taking pre-cut slices off the elevated, crystal cake plates and plopping them on the dishes placed in front of you, white and painted with scenes of a blue desert, dunes, camels, vultures picking at skeletons. Commodore opts for the strawberry and the banana cakes; you try the key lime and the blue velvet. You only recognize the flavors from broadcasts you’ve seen of prior Games. The Capitol tries very hard to keep the tributes happy. This prevents rebellions, and escapes, and free-falls from skyscraper balconies.

“Do you like the plates?” Charm asks, and then she leers at both of you, a strange grin, a little taunting, a little desperate. “They’re bone china.”

“They’re nice,” Commodore dutifully replies.

“You don’t want any cake?” you ask Charm.

She kneads more white powder into her nostrils and bolts to her feet, the dead goldfish thrashing in her shoes, pale bellies up. “Nope! I’ll go see if Aemond is ready for you yet.”

“He’s here?” Commodore says, brightening. He must idolize Aemond. Any aspiring killer would.

“Of course he’s here! He always watches the reapings from the train. Jots down his notes, plans his evil deeds.” She rubs her palms together and giggles and bounds off, vanishing through the door to the next train car.

You and Commodore are alone, except for the Peacekeepers who linger in the corners to make sure you don’t decide to try stabbing each other’s eyeballs out with your forks. There is a long awkward lull, the only sounds the squealing metal of the train and the clinking of silverware as you both eat cake you don’t want.

“Do you remember that song?” you say.

Commodore’s Neanderthal brow furrows. “Song?”

“The one about the train. The one all the old people sing. You know…” You start humming the tune, and then he recognizes it and laughs for the first time today.Commodore begins, and quietly you sing together:

“Good morning, America, how are you?

So don’t you know me, I’m your native son

I’m the train they call The City of New Orleans

I’ll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.”

“What the heck is New Orleans?” you say, smiling and poking at your blue velvet cake with your fork, and Commodore chuckles as he shakes his head.

“I have no idea.”

Charm bursts back into the train car, winded, almost tripping in her heels, scraping her faux fins on the doorframe. “Okay, you first!” she chimes, pointing at you.

“Me?”

“Yup. One at a time. Go on.”

As you rise from the table, taking your knife set with you, Charm hobbles over to the fish tank and yanks off her right shoe. She opens a tiny trap door in the bottom and shakes until the goldfish pops out and lands in the water, limp and bobbing. She doesn’t seem to notice that it hasn’t survived Reaping Day.

Charm says when you hesitate by the door, shooing you along with both hands: “Go! Go! He won’t bite!”

You turn the knob and step into the next train car. At first, you don’t see anyone. It’s a study: some bookshelves, some brown leather chairs, taxidermied deer heads and owls, a desk with a banker’s lamp and a single notebook in which you can glimpse neat black-ink musings. By the desk, there is a door that leads to yet another train car. The room is as earthen as the dining room was pearly white. Do they each get their own color? How extravagant. How wasteful.

You sit in one of the leather chairs and rest the knife set on your lap, not knowing what else to do. You cross your ankles and anxiously smooth the skirt of your yellow plaid dress, your very best, the one you once wore to weddings and birthday parties. Then the door by the desk opens, and you meet your mentor.

You’ve never seen him in person—not that you can remember, anyway, although you might have crossed paths as children before he was reaped—only on television each year during the Games, and they can work a lot of magic with camera angles and recoloring. You’ve learned this from Victory Tours, when Capitol celebrities descend upon the districts and oftentimes are remarkably shorter, sadder, skinnier, stranger than they appear through the screen. But this Aemond Targaryen is just like the one from his posters and interviews. He is tall and methodical, long artful hands, striking face, maroon scar, a shock of silver hair. He was fifteen when he was reaped, so he’s twenty-five now. He wears a black suit and a sapphire in his left eye socket. That was the name of the girl from District 1 he killed to win his Games: Sapphire.

“How do I win?” you say immediately, and Aemond stops in his tracks to stare at you. “I don’t want to die. How do I win?”

He recovers, sighs, and sits opposite of you in one of the brown leather chairs. He crosses one leg over the other, lights a cigarette with a cylindrical crystal lighter, takes a drag. “Can you fight?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried it.”

Aemond doesn’t seem heartened. “Are you a fast runner or swimmer?”

“Not especially. I get around good in sand though.”

“Are you skilled with any weapons, like a trident or spear?”

“No.”

“What were you doing before you were reaped?”

“I worked on my dad’s fishing boat.”

“What was your job, exactly?”

“I did most of the gutting, descaling, and filleting. Daddy and Fleet caught the fish, my sisters took them to market.”

Now his eyebrows go up, one scarred, one whole. “So you know how to butcher.”

“Yes,” you say uneasily. “Fish.”

“Fish and people have a lot of the same parts.”

“Not that many,” you object. “No fins, no tails.”

Aemond smiles, soft, a bit wistful. Cigarette smoke wafts soundlessly into the still air. Afternoon sunlight streams in through the windows to glow on his cheekbones and set his sapphire alight, and you think: My God, he’s beautiful. With the lit end of his cigarette, Aemond gestures to your knife set. “What’s in there?”

You open the wooden box to show him. “They’ve been in Daddy’s family for generations. My sister Mistica…we call her Misty…she told me I should take them to the Games.”

“She was right,” Aemond says, examining the knives. He picks one up by the iridescent mother of pearl handle, turning it slowly to the left and then the right while his cigarette smolders in his other hand. Then his eye flicks back to you, a pale electrifying blue, lightning, turquoise stones, sharks. “You’re going to wear one of these.”

“A filleting knife?”

“I’ll have it put on a chain for you.” He places the knife back in the box and closes the lid. “Can I hold on to this?”

It’s odd that he’s asking. You don’t have many choices anymore. “Sure.” You pass him the box and he turns to slide it onto the desk behind him. He doesn’t have to get up to do this; long arms, roped with lean muscle. He’s killed people, you think dizzily. And I’ll have to do it too.

Aemond returns his attention to you. He finishes his cigarette, then puts it out in a gold ashtray built into the chair’s armrest. You’re surprised by the smoking. No one except old people smoke in District 4; everyone knows it’s dangerous. Aemond asks, watching you fixedly: “Are you serious about surviving, no matter what your life will look like afterwards? Because I’ve known too many victors who walked out of the arena only to commit to killing themselves with booze or drugs or violence.”

“I want to live.”

“Even if you have to sell your soul? Even if you have to sell your body?”

Sell my body? What? “I want to live,” you insist nonetheless.

“Then I’ll give you the best chance I can.” Again, he’s looking at you; not like he’s critical, not like he’s resentful of being saddled with an unremarkable tribute from an upstart district. Like he’s curious. Like he wishes he could have met you someplace else. “Do you trust Commodore?”

You startle. “What?”

“Do you believe he would be your ally in the arena?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know him that well. We never really hung out before all this and then…back at the reaping…he told me he didn’t want to kill me. But he also said I should stay out of his way.”

Aemond nods. “Then I’ll train you separately, for the most part.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Not at all. Only one of you can win.”

You swallow noisily. “That’s true.”

Perhaps with some reluctance, Aemond stands to end your first meeting. He looks troubled, or maybe he’s just distracted. Thinking. Machinating. He puts his hands in the pockets of his black suit pants as if he’s hiding them. “I should introduce myself to Commodore now.”

“Yeah, totally, of course, I just…” You aren’t sure if you want to know the answer to your question, but you can’t shake it out of your skull. Aemond waits. “What you said about…selling my body…?”

“That’s often expected of victors, and you should know it going in.”

“Oh,” you reply, your voice small, your stomach dropping. You thought victors got to do whatever they wanted. You thought victors lived in mansions with their spouses and their children and their servants, and they were never hurt, and they were never afraid. They earned their freedom. They paid for it. “You…you have to do that?”

“A few times a month. There are brokers assigned to handle the transactions. Women pay for me to do things to them. Men too, occasionally. Then once in a while a man pays to do things to me, and that’s more challenging. But we must endure.” He smiles, off-kilter, no humor. “I’m not trying to scare you. I just want you to know what winning means.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Sometimes there is an adjustment period,” Aemond continues. His words are toneless, businesslike. But his face is sympathetic. “If the victor still looks young and hasn’t filled out yet. If they aren’t considered as desirable. If there’s something else the Capitol wants more from them. But you won’t have that luxury. You’re already an adult. And men are going to want you.”

You gaze up at him, bewildered. “Why?”

He can’t believe you don’t understand. After a moment, he shakes his head and says: “They just are.”

Then Aemond goes to the desk to jot down his notes about you, and you leave.

Home is beaches and boats and stilt houses and piers, but the Capitol is made of towers, tall white buildings that block out the sun, underground tunnels, cold metal automatic doors. But you see shades of District 4 in the people here whose designers use it as inspiration: bejeweled pendants in the shapes of dolphins and stingrays and angelfish, suits made of pelican or heron feathers, gowns fashioned from pearls and sand dollars, spiny hats like sea urchins. They admire your home from afar, or at least what they imagine your home to be, its aesthetic, its reflection, its ricochets through their television screens and magazines.

There is a riotous crowd waiting at the train station, clamoring for a glimpse of this year’s tributes. They shriek your name because they already know you. They’ve seen your Reaping Ceremony, they’ve heard the news reporting your biographical data, they’ve seen your family’s tear-streaked faces. But you and Commodore are both quickly hustled into an elevator and out of sight. It’s not time for your official introduction yet, and the Gamemakers want the audience to be rabid for the Tribute Parade tomorrow. No one is permitted to dampen the anticipation.

With Charm cantering alongside him—chatting with the other escorts she passes, big ingenuine mirror-image smiles—Aemond leads you and Commodore to a seemingly endless metallic hallway with tiny pods branching off of it like sea grapes. Each pod has its own sliding partition for privacy. You see other tributes going in and out, some having just arrived like you, others freshly scrubbed and swathed in downy white robes, their skin dewy, their eyes dazed.

The sinewy red-headed boy from District 2—you can’t recall his name, it’s something weird—comes sauntering out of one of the pods in a cloud of steam. He is wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist. He spots the female tribute from District 1, who is admiring her newly-polished fingernails, and pretends to be about to take off his towel. “Brookie, Brookie, want a lookie?”

She cackles. “I’d rather eat glass, thanks though.”

“Last chance, girl. Thirteen days from now I’ll be picking tiny little pieces of you out of my hair.”

“What are you going to do, throw a grenade at me?”

“Oh, say that louder, let’s give the Gamemakers some ideas.” They both laugh, then he whirls away from her and spots you. He winks and blows a kiss, just like you did at the camera after you were reaped. Then Aemond glares fiercely at him and the boy hurries off towards the elevators. His escort grabs his bare arm and hisses something that sounds like a reproval.

Aemond points to a pod. “You’re in that one,” he tells you, then follows you like a shadow while Charm takes Commodore to the pod next door. Inside you find a platoon of people in gloves and smocks, your prep team. They immediately swoop in to drag you up onto a cold metal platform, like a doctor’s exam table. They’re introducing themselves, but you can’t keep their foreign names straight; a blinding light is flicked on, and they’re yanking off all your clothes.

Aemond turns around to face the wall. You try to relax, but you hate the feeling of these strangers touching you. You think of the thousands of fish you’ve butchered, spilling their innards, scraping off their scales, filleting their muscles from their fragile translucent bones. Faintly, you can hear Charm complaining from the next pod: “Did you see the way Citadella acted like we’re best friends? What the fuck’s wrong with her? Everyone knows she only got the District 2 escort job because she’s the Head Gamemaker’s mistress. They should call her Clitadella, if you ask me. Hey, Commodore, sea monster, are you listening? Commodore!”

The prep team is lathering you with soap and spraying you with lukewarm water. You suspect it’s supposed to be hot—the District 2 boy got hot water, judging by the steam—but they’re so busy gossiping with each other that they haven’t noticed. They’re talking about the other tributes’ outfits and hairstyles as they assail you: plucking, waxing, measuring, deliberating, polishing, exfoliating, moisturizing, scrubbing, rinsing, scrubbing, rinsing, more scrubbing, more rinsing. Finally they seem to be done, and you wait impatiently for your own robe. Too suddenly for you to protest, a woman pries your thighs apart. You glimpse a long cotton swab, feel a pinch.

You yelp and close your legs. “What are you doing—?!”

“It’s just a screening for sexually transmitted infections,” the woman says cheerfully, smiling as she secures the cotton swab in a plastic tube.

You titter nervously, your heart still pounding. “Well, there’s no need for that.”

“Cover her up,” Aemond snaps, glancing in your direction. The prep team obediently tugs on your robe and even ties the knot for you, which is fortunate; your hands are shaking so badly you might not have been able to do it yourself. Then they slip the softest slippers you’ve ever felt onto your feet and lower you carefully to the floor, as if you are made of glass, porcelain, bone china.

“She’s ready!” one of the men announces, beaming at Aemond. Aemond doesn’t smile back. Instead he nods to you and slides open the cold metallic partition. Time to go.

When you are alone in the elevator together, Aemond lights a cigarette and says: “You and me, we don’t have any secrets.”

“Okay.”

“Because if I’m going to help you, if I’m going to protect you, I have to know everything.”

“Okay.”

“And I’ll be honest with you in return.”

“I appreciate that,” you say, meaning it. You need a friend here. You’re not in another district; you’re on another planet.

Aemond asks: “What have you done with a man?”

“Nothing.”

“What have you done with a woman?”

You laugh out of shock. “Still nothing.”

Aemond scrutinizes you. “What do you mean by nothing? You’ve had boyfriends, right? Even innocent ones? Obviously you’ve kissed somebody before. You’re freaking nineteen years old.”

You should probably be offended, but you’re not. “No.”

“Really?”

You shrug. “The boys who liked me were dumb or mean. No one I liked ever liked me back. I’m not that special, I guess.”

Aemond stares at you as the elevator ascends, and he doesn’t speak for a long time. His cigarette smolders between his fingers, forgotten. You are opposites, your benign white robe, his armored black suit. At last he says gently: “Happy birthday.”

“What?”

“Today’s your birthday, right? At the reaping you said you were turning nineteen tomorrow. Now it’s tomorrow. So happy birthday.”