Fic Entry #2: Red as Blood
Author: housecreepy
Title: Red as Blood
Pairing: Bethany Bolton/Roose Bolton
Prompt(s): this image
Word Count: 1737
Rating & Warnings: Slight gore, animal death
Summary: The lord of the Dreadfort takes his wife hunting.
They raced through the woods, the wind in their faces, their horses undeterred by the snow that lay upon the ground, a fresh coat of white from that morning’s storm, now tapering off. The flakes fell on Bethany’s hair and the thick red cloak that she’d wrapped herself in. To be more precise, it was sanguine, a ridiculously appropriate affectation considering her newly-wedded state, and she had secretly thrilled to her husband’s barely perceptible expression of dissatisfaction. But he had said not a word as they had made their way to the stables with the hunting party, nor had he complained when its shade made her figure, astride her black mare, appear as a scarlet wound against the northern landscape.
It was cold, terribly so, almost unseasonable for the time of year. It had been autumn when she had wed Roose Bolton, the leaves on the heart tree falling round her as she knelt in the Godswood, each one like a drop of blood to mirror the delicately embroidered design on the cloak that he’d wrapped her in, the gold and black of her house cast aside for the odd colors of her new lord’s sigil. The season had lingered through their first few months of marriage, and she had not thought to see the bare branches or the white, lifeless ground so soon. But Bethany paid it no mind, concentrating instead on guiding her mount through the potentially treacherous paths, rocks and gullies hidden by the white blanket, each one a trap that could render her mare useless. And she could not afford to find herself in such a position today.
Roose had taken her hunting, against his better judgment, she knew. Bethany had not pouted, nor wheedled, nor cajoled him, but had merely posed the request as though she were asking permission to hire additional maids or to remake the great hall. She knew that subtlety would get her way, not the theatrical manipulations that her mother had once taught her. Such pretensions would perhaps have suited a more sentimental husband, but she had quickly learned Roose’s grounded ways, no, had understood them from the start. This had brought nothing but relief to her, for Bethany was uninterested in such exhausting efforts, preferring instead to run her household in the same way that her husband ran his domain in the east: quietly but with an unspoken yet understood threat lurking just below the surface. And thus far, it had brought her success. She was not well-loved among the household staff, nor did the smallfolk who clustered round the old mill in the town at the edge of Bolton lands praise her virtues, but she had order and respect, if not affection.
She gripped the reins with one practiced hand, the other resting heavily on a crossbow. The weathered wood snagged on the thin leather of her gloves, and she frowned as she toyed with the trigger, taking care not to loose an arrow before she found a suitable target. As she paused, the steam from the horse’s breath curling back round her face and obscuring her vision, her husband drew up behind her, similarly mounted on one of her father’s best, a red courser. They stood together, not speaking, watching the brush ahead for signs of life. Roose was armed just as Bethany; although he did not clench it with nervously eager fingers, but rather almost apathetically clutched it as though the powerful weapon were a mere trifle. She turned her head, the beginnings of a smile quirking the corners of her mouth, but it was not returned. Instead, her husband raised his hand, gesturing at a small motion in the bushes before them. It was barely perceptible, and Bethany listened, hearing now the bramble snap as the creature foraged, the crunch of hooves in the snow crust, and the snorting and heavy breathing of a frustrated animal gone hungry. A black boar emerged, picking at the sparse, dried plant life that poked through the drift in front of the hedge, its tusks muddy from its futile attempt.
She turned again, watching Roose. His eyes were on the beast, his fingers lax upon the trigger of his weapon. Bethany wondered why he did not shoot, and presumed that such an opportunity presented far too easy a target for a seasoned hunter but when his eyes met hers, she began to understand, and permitted herself to beam broadly for a few seconds, pleased in his confidence in her meager experience.
But she sat, unsure of her aim for the distance was rather large between her and the animal. It was far from the stationary target that she had practiced with when she was alone.
“It’s yours,” Roose said, his voice a whisper in the cold air. Bethany knew that as time passed, she would miss her chance, but she sat there, hands frozen, not from the chill in the air, but from her own indecision, marred by her own pride.
What if I miss and it runs off? He will bemoan his prideful, foolish wife.
What if I should err and wound the horse? She is dear to me and I will not have another.
What if it runs away before I can shoot? He will scorn me then, surely.
She bit her lip, tasting copper, and slowly, almost gracefully, pulled the crossbow into position. Guiding the arrow carefully into the notch, she loosed the bolt and fired.
It struck, embedding itself in the shoulder of the boar, and it let out a scream of pain and rage. It struggled a bit, head unable to reach the place where the arrow protruded, tusks interfering, banging against the wood of the shaft. It began to stumble into the path, bumbling along, running and walking in starts and fits, never ceasing its eerie squealing. Bethany dug in her heels and pursued it, tracking the animal to the road. A steaming red trail betrayed its agonizing path, and she followed slowly, quietly, lest it rear back and spook her mare. She could hear Roose behind her, following her lead, and as she followed, she bit her lip again, harder, willing herself to stop trembling, wishing that her heart would stop its painful progress in her chest.
When she found it, it lay on its side, breath still streaming from its snout, chest heaving with the effort of breath. It had lost so much blood in the pathetic chase that it had led Bethany that it seemed barely to have the strength to even do that. She dismounted, standing at a distance, watching as it struggled, and her husband drew his courser behind her.
“Finish it, Beth,” he said, his voice still hushed. It was like the wind in the dying leaves, or the echo of footsteps in the silent halls of her new home. She turned to him, her hair whipping about her face, loosened from its bonds, her cloak hanging heavily about her. The hem was soaked through now, a congealed puddle behind her. It was likely spoiled, but Bethany did not concern herself with such matters as she held out her hand for the knife that he proffered her. It was a heavy burden, weighing down her hand, the handle fashioned in the shape of a man’s body, stripped of skin, screaming in agony, the blade honed to a fine edge, the steel a dazzling gleam that caught the rays of the sinking sun. She stared at it, transfixed, running her fingers over the carving, notched with age, contemplating how long it had served House Bolton, and wondering what sort of deeds it had known.
“Bethany.” Her husband prompted her, startling her from her reverie, and she approached the animal, its sides frothed with sweat, barely moving now. She knelt in the snow beside it, gazing upon the dying beast, her own gaze taking in the cloudy surface of its own small eyes, the notch in one ear, the tusk with a broken end. She noticed the nipples then, dripping milk, and hesitated.
A mother. What will become of the children then?
“Finish the job, Bethany,” Roose goaded her, his voice slightly chiding, and Bethany knew that even that inflection was a warning. She’d done this before, in another life, when she’d stood by her father’s side in the Ryswell stables, watching one of the destriers that had been wounded in a tourney, two legs broken by a bad fall. She’d applied the knife quickly, giving it a good death, and although she had wept in Barbrey’s arms later that evening, she had never permitted her father to see the doubt that now twisted her features.
“Cut its throat and be done with this business.”
She saw no choice. Bearing the blade, she pressed it to the boar’s neck, feeling for the jugular. The pulse was weak, but it was there, beneath the prickly black fur. Bethany brought the knife across it quickly, severing the vein, feeling the heat of the blood that she spilled through her gloves, shuddering slightly at the sensation, but she did not shy away from the task. She stood as the blood puddled into the snow, marring the clean white blanket, backing towards her mare. She did not turn from the sight though, waiting until the animal was dead, and as almost an afterthought, she thrust the knife into the snow, cleaning it, and handed it back to Roose. Their fingers brushed as he took it, and their eyes met. Instead of the frustration with her womanly affectations, no matter how small, that she expected, she saw a quiet sort of approval there, and a flush, not quite from the cold, spread across her cheeks.
I suppose the children do not matter. Likely they will make someone a fine dinner.
“My men will be along shortly to deal with the body.”
Best not to mind it then.
She turned then, her back now to the spot where the beast had died, and climbed onto her horse again, with only one destination in mind. As she rode, slightly behind Roose, letting him lead the way, she could see the towers and merlons of the Dreadfort rising in the distance, the dying sun turning the sky behind them a crimson haze, red as her ruined cloak, red as her cheeks, red as the blood in the snow, red as the blood on her hands.
Title: Red as Blood
Pairing: Bethany Bolton/Roose Bolton
Prompt(s): this image
Word Count: 1737
Rating & Warnings: Slight gore, animal death
Summary: The lord of the Dreadfort takes his wife hunting.
They raced through the woods, the wind in their faces, their horses undeterred by the snow that lay upon the ground, a fresh coat of white from that morning’s storm, now tapering off. The flakes fell on Bethany’s hair and the thick red cloak that she’d wrapped herself in. To be more precise, it was sanguine, a ridiculously appropriate affectation considering her newly-wedded state, and she had secretly thrilled to her husband’s barely perceptible expression of dissatisfaction. But he had said not a word as they had made their way to the stables with the hunting party, nor had he complained when its shade made her figure, astride her black mare, appear as a scarlet wound against the northern landscape.
It was cold, terribly so, almost unseasonable for the time of year. It had been autumn when she had wed Roose Bolton, the leaves on the heart tree falling round her as she knelt in the Godswood, each one like a drop of blood to mirror the delicately embroidered design on the cloak that he’d wrapped her in, the gold and black of her house cast aside for the odd colors of her new lord’s sigil. The season had lingered through their first few months of marriage, and she had not thought to see the bare branches or the white, lifeless ground so soon. But Bethany paid it no mind, concentrating instead on guiding her mount through the potentially treacherous paths, rocks and gullies hidden by the white blanket, each one a trap that could render her mare useless. And she could not afford to find herself in such a position today.
Roose had taken her hunting, against his better judgment, she knew. Bethany had not pouted, nor wheedled, nor cajoled him, but had merely posed the request as though she were asking permission to hire additional maids or to remake the great hall. She knew that subtlety would get her way, not the theatrical manipulations that her mother had once taught her. Such pretensions would perhaps have suited a more sentimental husband, but she had quickly learned Roose’s grounded ways, no, had understood them from the start. This had brought nothing but relief to her, for Bethany was uninterested in such exhausting efforts, preferring instead to run her household in the same way that her husband ran his domain in the east: quietly but with an unspoken yet understood threat lurking just below the surface. And thus far, it had brought her success. She was not well-loved among the household staff, nor did the smallfolk who clustered round the old mill in the town at the edge of Bolton lands praise her virtues, but she had order and respect, if not affection.
She gripped the reins with one practiced hand, the other resting heavily on a crossbow. The weathered wood snagged on the thin leather of her gloves, and she frowned as she toyed with the trigger, taking care not to loose an arrow before she found a suitable target. As she paused, the steam from the horse’s breath curling back round her face and obscuring her vision, her husband drew up behind her, similarly mounted on one of her father’s best, a red courser. They stood together, not speaking, watching the brush ahead for signs of life. Roose was armed just as Bethany; although he did not clench it with nervously eager fingers, but rather almost apathetically clutched it as though the powerful weapon were a mere trifle. She turned her head, the beginnings of a smile quirking the corners of her mouth, but it was not returned. Instead, her husband raised his hand, gesturing at a small motion in the bushes before them. It was barely perceptible, and Bethany listened, hearing now the bramble snap as the creature foraged, the crunch of hooves in the snow crust, and the snorting and heavy breathing of a frustrated animal gone hungry. A black boar emerged, picking at the sparse, dried plant life that poked through the drift in front of the hedge, its tusks muddy from its futile attempt.
She turned again, watching Roose. His eyes were on the beast, his fingers lax upon the trigger of his weapon. Bethany wondered why he did not shoot, and presumed that such an opportunity presented far too easy a target for a seasoned hunter but when his eyes met hers, she began to understand, and permitted herself to beam broadly for a few seconds, pleased in his confidence in her meager experience.
But she sat, unsure of her aim for the distance was rather large between her and the animal. It was far from the stationary target that she had practiced with when she was alone.
“It’s yours,” Roose said, his voice a whisper in the cold air. Bethany knew that as time passed, she would miss her chance, but she sat there, hands frozen, not from the chill in the air, but from her own indecision, marred by her own pride.
What if I miss and it runs off? He will bemoan his prideful, foolish wife.
What if I should err and wound the horse? She is dear to me and I will not have another.
What if it runs away before I can shoot? He will scorn me then, surely.
She bit her lip, tasting copper, and slowly, almost gracefully, pulled the crossbow into position. Guiding the arrow carefully into the notch, she loosed the bolt and fired.
It struck, embedding itself in the shoulder of the boar, and it let out a scream of pain and rage. It struggled a bit, head unable to reach the place where the arrow protruded, tusks interfering, banging against the wood of the shaft. It began to stumble into the path, bumbling along, running and walking in starts and fits, never ceasing its eerie squealing. Bethany dug in her heels and pursued it, tracking the animal to the road. A steaming red trail betrayed its agonizing path, and she followed slowly, quietly, lest it rear back and spook her mare. She could hear Roose behind her, following her lead, and as she followed, she bit her lip again, harder, willing herself to stop trembling, wishing that her heart would stop its painful progress in her chest.
When she found it, it lay on its side, breath still streaming from its snout, chest heaving with the effort of breath. It had lost so much blood in the pathetic chase that it had led Bethany that it seemed barely to have the strength to even do that. She dismounted, standing at a distance, watching as it struggled, and her husband drew his courser behind her.
“Finish it, Beth,” he said, his voice still hushed. It was like the wind in the dying leaves, or the echo of footsteps in the silent halls of her new home. She turned to him, her hair whipping about her face, loosened from its bonds, her cloak hanging heavily about her. The hem was soaked through now, a congealed puddle behind her. It was likely spoiled, but Bethany did not concern herself with such matters as she held out her hand for the knife that he proffered her. It was a heavy burden, weighing down her hand, the handle fashioned in the shape of a man’s body, stripped of skin, screaming in agony, the blade honed to a fine edge, the steel a dazzling gleam that caught the rays of the sinking sun. She stared at it, transfixed, running her fingers over the carving, notched with age, contemplating how long it had served House Bolton, and wondering what sort of deeds it had known.
“Bethany.” Her husband prompted her, startling her from her reverie, and she approached the animal, its sides frothed with sweat, barely moving now. She knelt in the snow beside it, gazing upon the dying beast, her own gaze taking in the cloudy surface of its own small eyes, the notch in one ear, the tusk with a broken end. She noticed the nipples then, dripping milk, and hesitated.
A mother. What will become of the children then?
“Finish the job, Bethany,” Roose goaded her, his voice slightly chiding, and Bethany knew that even that inflection was a warning. She’d done this before, in another life, when she’d stood by her father’s side in the Ryswell stables, watching one of the destriers that had been wounded in a tourney, two legs broken by a bad fall. She’d applied the knife quickly, giving it a good death, and although she had wept in Barbrey’s arms later that evening, she had never permitted her father to see the doubt that now twisted her features.
“Cut its throat and be done with this business.”
She saw no choice. Bearing the blade, she pressed it to the boar’s neck, feeling for the jugular. The pulse was weak, but it was there, beneath the prickly black fur. Bethany brought the knife across it quickly, severing the vein, feeling the heat of the blood that she spilled through her gloves, shuddering slightly at the sensation, but she did not shy away from the task. She stood as the blood puddled into the snow, marring the clean white blanket, backing towards her mare. She did not turn from the sight though, waiting until the animal was dead, and as almost an afterthought, she thrust the knife into the snow, cleaning it, and handed it back to Roose. Their fingers brushed as he took it, and their eyes met. Instead of the frustration with her womanly affectations, no matter how small, that she expected, she saw a quiet sort of approval there, and a flush, not quite from the cold, spread across her cheeks.
I suppose the children do not matter. Likely they will make someone a fine dinner.
“My men will be along shortly to deal with the body.”
Best not to mind it then.
She turned then, her back now to the spot where the beast had died, and climbed onto her horse again, with only one destination in mind. As she rode, slightly behind Roose, letting him lead the way, she could see the towers and merlons of the Dreadfort rising in the distance, the dying sun turning the sky behind them a crimson haze, red as her ruined cloak, red as her cheeks, red as the blood in the snow, red as the blood on her hands.