THE BLOODS OF BOLTON | GAME OF THRONES

CHAPTER 3

"WHERE ARE YOU, little lady?" taunted the boy as he followed the girl's boot tracks through the forest. In one hand, he carried a torch to light his way; in the other, a knife with which to gut his prey. "Where are you?"

The wind whispered its secrets to the trees' rustling leaves, but it would not tell the boy where his prey was hiding. Was she squatting beneath the soldier pines or hiding behind the hawthorns? Had she climbed a giant beech tree or scaled a towering oak? Was she that smart? Or had she doubled back to the riverbank in hopes of finding a friendly fisherman or, at the very least, a boat in which to float away?

A sudden crunch beneath his leather boot put an end to his questions. Upon lifting his foot, he noticed a small wooden toggle button, now splintered to pieces and squished into the dirt.

He smirked. "Did you lose a button, m'lady?" he asked, his grey eyes focused on the old oak tree that stood before him. Its trunk was wide, wide enough to hide a little lady. When the wind stopped, he could hear movement behind the tree: the soft crunch of dead leaves, the snap of a small twig, and the quiet whimpers of a frightened child.

"Are you scared, m'lady?" asked the boy as he slowly approached the tree. The fingers on his knife hand started to itch and ache with anticipation. Too long had it been since he'd had a decent hunt. Too long had his skills gone untested, his knife unsoiled.

"Don't be scared," he said, preparing his weapon. "It's just a game."

With his blade high and ready to strike, the boy slowly peeked around the trunk and flashed a victorious smile, but that smile faded once he realized he'd been tricked. Sitting at the foot of the tree was not a girl but a raccoon, its paws fumbling around with a fallen acorn. When it sensed the boy's presence, the animal snarled and growled and then sped off with its prize.

The boy lowered his knife. "Well done, m'lady." He stepped back and searched the nearby trees. "You're good at this game!"

Finding nothing, he eventually gave up and moved on to the next section of the forest. Unbeknownst to him, his young playmate was watching him from the sturdy branch of the oak tree he'd just abandoned. She'd climbed up there as soon as she spotted the light from his torch, and she found shelter beneath the tree's thick shroud of leaves. For a long while she sat there, clinging to the trunk like it was her mother. She would have stayed up there all night, but she knew she had to get to safety. By now, her lord father had undoubtedly sent his men to find her. She just had to hold out a little longer.

Slowly, Drucilla climbed down and continued through the wood. From tree to tree, from bush to bush, she scurried along the forest floor: always on the run, always alert, always fearing what lurked in the darkness. He was out there somewhere, that boy with eyes like hers. She could hear him calling out to her. His voice sailed through the wind and sent chills down her spine.

"Come out, little lady," he kept saying in a pleasant, playful tone. "Come out, come out wherever you are."

When she saw the approaching torchlight, Drucilla rushed over to the nearest tree and reached for a low-hanging branch. But then she saw another torch further away, then a third and later a fourth, and she heard the voices of her father's men and the sighs and snorts of their horses.