❝SHE'S GOT A SICKNESS, THAT ONE. IT'S IN HER BLOOD. SCARY TO THINK WHAT SHE'LL BE LIKE WHEN SHE'S FULL GROWN. IF THE GODS ARE GOOD, SHE'LL DIE BEFORE THAT.❞
In the North, there are whispers of a cruel and sickly girl lurking in the Dreadfort. Her sk...
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NOWHERE IN WESTEROS was summer more sweetly felt than in the Vale of Arryn.
After the snow melted and the ice thawed, the fertile valleys of the Vale became lush and beautiful. Wildflowers awoke from their slumber and burst into bloom. The deep waters glistened like sapphire and flowed like satin. Nowhere was the grass greener or the fruit sweeter, not even in Highgarden.
This paradise, however, was short-lived. As soon as summer ended and the fierce winter winds started to blow, the snow would silence the Vale once more.
It was there, nestled deep within the secluded southern valley, where the seat of House Redfort lay. The founders of the house had designed Redfort to be well hidden from unwelcome guests. The valley was accessible only by a series of perilous mountain passes, which were subject to frequent rockfalls and stalked by hungry shadowcats. The castle itself had been carved into the high cliffs which flanked the Red River at either side. Ornate caves, most considered them, but they were neither dark nor damp. Instead, they were rather warm and pleasant, with green gardens and grand fountains and a library tower that housed more books than a man could read in his lifetime. Outside, a great stone bridge stretched across the river and connected the two gatehouses. During the winter, when the river froze over and the heavy snows filled the valley, Redfort stood out like a drop of blood in a pit of snow.
Indeed, the Redforts enjoyed their seclusion, but they enjoyed their warfare just as much. Lord Horton was a dangerous man, many knew. Even though old age had bent his body and turned his hair grey, he was still someone to be feared and respected. The old man knew the ways of war, and he knew how to turn young boys into seasoned warriors and gallant knights. For that, Lord Bolton considered himself lucky that his son and heir had been invited to Redfort to serve as a squire to Lord Horton.
There the boy had lived for four long years. At first, Domeric hated Redfort, but soon it felt like home, and he came to love Lord Horton's sons as the brothers he never had.
But, he had to remind himself, they were not his true brothers and Redfort was not his true home. Domeric was a Bolton by blood, and he belonged in the Dreadfort. One day his lord father would call him home, and he would have no choice but to obey.
Until that day came, Domeric cherished his time in Redfort, and nothing pleased him more than his daily ride through the valley. According to Lord Horton, the boy rode like he'd been born on a saddle, and he had a natural talent for the joust. With the right training, he would be tourney champion one day.
"Just think of it, Domeric," said Creighton Redfort as the two stood upon the high hills which overlooked the vast farmlands beyond. "Soon, you and I will be named knights of the Vale, and the whole world will open up to us. We can go to the Eyrie, to Highgarden, or to King's Landing even, and participate in the tourneys. Have you ever been to a tourney? I swear, there is nothing else like it. As long as I live, I will always remember the first one I attended.
