Chapter Text
When they left Winterfell, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. But upon arriving at Dreadfort, the sky was grey and there was a thick fog covering the ground. It gave Dreadfort a haunted and creepy aura.
Arya never felt more excited to meet one of her father’s bannermen. She, Sansa, and Robb had accompanied Lord Stark to meet Lady Dreadstark. Bran was grounded both figuratively and literally. As for Jon, he was visiting the wall to meet his uncle and learn a bit about his father’s side. Catelyn was feeling under the weather, having thrown up for the past two mornings.
Sansa shivered as they entered the castle, huddling closer to their father who wordlessly wrapped an arm around her. Robb’s eyes darted around, scanning their surroundings, trying to detect any threat.
Arya was taking in her surroundings as well, but for a less practical reason. She wondered if it were true that the floors of the banquet hall were still stained with blood. Perhaps, she could go down to the catacombs and find the ancient torture chambers left behind by the flayed men.
“Welcome Starks of Winterfell. Dreadfort is yours as am I.” Ravenna Dreadstark stood in the main hall, in front of her household. If Dreadfort was spooky, its mistress was ethereal. She had pale skin, waist long black hair, smokey grey eyes, and she wore a black dress. She curtsied with a flourish. “I am forever at your disposal. Please just give me a command and I shall obey.”
“That will do, Ravenna,” Ned said in a tired tone. His lips curved upwards as if he were trying to suppress a smile.
“And what is this?” The lady’s eyes lit up. “You have brought your darling children. How delightful!”
Arya immediately straightened, eager for the lady’s praise. She was the truest Stark among her siblings, having changed into her wolf form when she was just a small babe, her siblings had been late bloomers compared to her. Everyone said she looked exactly like her Aunt Lyanna which only proved it more.
To her disappointment, Ravenna went to Robb first, studying his features intently. “My my. You have your father’s long face and his most exquisite jawline. But your mother blessed you with your crimson locks. Kissed by fire. You have been doubly blessed, young one.”
Robb nodded politely, not quite sure what to make of those words. He still thanked her graciously.
“And you!” Ravenna turned towards Sansa, a smile spreading across her face. “You dress in silk and bows, but in your eyes, I see the wolf, powerful and strong. Let her out more often, child. You will not lose yourself in process.”
Sansa seemed to be trying to puzzle out whether the woman was insulting her or not. But like Robb, she only thanked her and curtsied.
Arya was fighting the urge to tap her foot impatiently as Ravenna stepped in front of her. She raised her chin, locking their grey orbs, wanting to show the older she-wolf that she was not afraid.
“You are your aunt reborn,” Ravenna proclaimed. For a moment there was a flicker of melancholy on her countenance. “Oh, my sweet Lyanna. Brave, fierce, and proud. I pray you remember what she did not: that a wolf is stronger with her pack.”
She then smiled again. “I hear you have been pestering your father about the story behind my house.”
“I have,” Arya confirmed, her eyes lighting up. “Will you tell me about it?”
“At supper mayhaps,” Ravenna told her with a sly wink. “But I warn you. It is a grim and dark tale.”
“The best ones are,” Arya declared with a smirk. Sansa never liked those kind of tales. She preferred the ones with knights and heroes. It just showed how Southern she was, barely a Stark at all.
The lady threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, I like you.”
“Ned!” A stout brown-haired man, dressed in furs, entered the main hall. “I hope you will forgive my tardiness in greeting you. I was out hunting when I received the news of your arrival.”
“It is quite all right, Mark,” Ned assured, greeting the man with a hug. “We just arrived. It’s good to see you, old friend.”
Ravenna swept up to her husband. “Anwylyd, did you manage to find that nasty she-wolf who has been terrorizing our lands?”
Mark’s expression was similar to the one Arya had seen on her mother’s face before her parents disappeared for an hour at least. “No. The wolf escaped me again, Anna. But I hope to capture her tonight.”
His wife licked her lips and rubbed an odd bruise on his neck. “Well when you do, make sure to tie her up. You know how she bites.”
The Stark children swapped confused looks. They were even more perplexed at the titters of some of the members of the Dreadstark household. The Dreadstark heir seemed to want the ground to swallow him up. Ned inhaled sharply, covering his face with his hand in embarrassment.
Hours passed before they had supper, and Arya was dying with anticipation. She tried to sit still and listen as Mark regaled Sansa and Robb with the story of the fight at the Tower of Joy where Ser Arthur Dayne had acted like a one-man army. She fought against the urge to interrupt her father and Ravenna as they discussed wildling raids on the Umber lands (strangely only supplies were stolen with no lives lost).
Finally, Ravenna whispered something in Eddard’s ear, nodding her head towards Arya with a smirk. She nodded at her eldest son, Farlen who quickly left the room. She then rose from her seat, tapping her wine glass with a spoon. “My friends, my loves, my honored guests, it is time to tell the Fall of the Boltons.”
A hush fell over the banquet hall, and everyone was still, staring at the dark-haired lady with rapt attention.
Ravenna was clearly in her element, her tone light and playful. “Long ago, these halls held the most disreputable of men. The Boltons. The Red Kings. The bane of the Starks. Their hands were bloody, their cloaks were made of human skin, and their blades were always sharp.”
She snapped her fingers and a nearby servant ran forward, uncurling an old and torn banner of a flayed man. Upon closer inspection Arya noticed that the tears were in the shape of three claw marks.
“They loathed being under the thumb of the Starks,” Ravenna continued. “They wanted to rule over the North. They were a treacherous lot, but our ancestors forgave them and accepted their allegiances time and time again. In fact, an old King of Winter hoped to bind the Starks and the Boltons by offering a daughter to the Bolton heir and taking a Bolton lass for his heir in return.”
She grimaced, her expression growing dark. “A pact was made. A deal was struck. A feast to celebrate the newfound friendship was planned in these very halls. The soon to be brothers by marriage went for a hunt before they shared a meal.”
Ravenna paused, allowing her words to sink in, giving her eager listeners a sense of foreboding. Even those who must have heard the tale a thousand times were visibly shaken as they began to recognize where this was going.
“Instead of waiting for them to return, the Boltons and the Starks decided to begin their meal,” she continued. “The Starks feasted on bread and salt. They drank and danced, unaware of the storm brewing. And then, just as the hour of the owl…”
Suddenly there was a clap of thunder just before the doors flew open and Farlen Dreadstark strode in, wearing a pink cape, dark red paint on his face and hands. He held up what appeared to be a wolf’s head and crowed, “No Stark shall have what is mine, but I shall have all that is his!”
“And then he threw the head of the Stark’s heir onto the high table,” Ravenna continued. Farlen tossed the presumably fake wolf head at Robb. The current Stark heir caught it instinctively, unable to tear his gaze from the storyteller. Sansa was pale as a ghost and moved away from the severed head. Eddard and Arya were just enjoying the show.
“Winter has come for House Stark!” Farlen was clearly enjoying himself, having his cloak billow around him. “Let us flay the wolves so we can make clothes out of their fur!”
Ravenna waved her hands with a flourish. “Believing their foes were drunk and disoriented, the Boltons answered his call. They were certain it would be a slaughter, and they were right! But what they failed to anticipate was instead of House Stark’s destruction, they had secured their own demise!”
She grinned toothily. “Rather than being weakened, the Starks were emboldened by their rage and grief. They turned into wolves and dispensed their justice on every unfortunate soul that was under this roof.”
Farlen turned his cloak around, to reveal a badge with a black wolf’s head on a white field. He threw it at his mother who recited, “Once it was all over, the King of Winter declared his fourth son the new lord of Dreadfort. The boy took the name Dreadstark, for all enemies should dread the Starks and their ruthless justice.”
Ravenna’s eyes sparkled with mischievous delight. "If you hear a wolf howling, watch out. For it means you have angered a Stark and they are now out for your blood."
She then cupped her hands over her mouth and let out an eerie howl that sent shivers down everyone’s spine.
Arya decided then and there that Lady Ravenna Dreadstark was everything she wanted to be when she grew up.