THE BLOODS OF BOLTON | GAME OF THRONES

CHAPTER 30

AS THE SUN rose on another misty morning, Lady Bolton drew the curtains around her bed and surrendered herself to the darkness.

It held her in its cold embrace as she lay beneath her blankets, shivering and sobbing with grief. Scarcely she slept, but when she did, she dreamed of the Rills, of its grey-green hills and babbling brooks, and her father's prized herds galloping freely from dawn until dusk. 

How she had loved to ride alongside them, with the wind in her hair and the sun shining high above her. The wild wolf nipped hungrily at her heels. Fast as she was, it never abandoned the chase, and she never noticed it behind her. The sun was all she saw. It burned so brightly, turning her whole world gold, and then, just when she was about to touch it, it burst into a thousand flames and scattered across the sky.

Bethany gasped, her mount bucked wildly beneath her, and she fell to the ground, screaming. The wolf was waiting for her, its eyes the color of frostbitten steel.

I know those eyes, she realized. It seems so long ago now. I was just a silly girl, and you ... Do you remember?

The beast came at her, snarling and growling. It took a chunk of meat off her thigh. Bethany didn't fight it. She couldn't even feel it. 

This is what you deserve, she thought as the beast tugged at her body, tore off her arms and legs. It ripped through the soft middle of her belly. My heart, take that too. I'm already dead. The smell of copper filled the air. My children, all my sweet children. All around her, the grass was stained red. It's all my fault. It should have been me. It should have been me.

When Bethany woke, the candles were crying tears of hot wax, but her own cheeks were dry and cracked, and her tired eyes ached with every blink. She reached over and snatched the cup off her bedside table. It was a potion Maester Uthor had made, of honey and herbs. He had forced it upon her at his lord's command, told her to drink a cup every day until her nerves calmed. He'd said her nerves were to blame for her outburst in the crypts. A mother's grief, he'd called it, like it was some disease. It had caused her to act impulsively, violently.

Of course, the maester was wrong. It wasn't grief that made Bethany slap her lord husband across the face. It was pure rage. She would have killed him if she could. He had desecrated the final resting place of her children, disturbed their peaceful slumber. What else was a mother to do?

"How dare you show your face down here?" she had screamed at him, her right hand red and pulsing. "Have you no shame? Get out! Get out!"

Her lord husband said nothing, but those soulless grey eyes, they came alive and passed over her entirely, moving toward the little stone coffin that hid in the darkness. Bethany hadn't hidden it well enough.

"No," she uttered desperately. "Not her."

She had tried to shield it with her body, protect it, but it was too late. All at once, the freshly picked wildflowers seemed to wilt beneath his gaze and shrivel into dry, brown husks of their former beauty. No, please no. She didn't want to think of her daughter like that. She was sweet and good. She didn't deserve to die for my mistake.

But he took her all the same, ripped her from your breast and drowned her in the river. It'll be easier once you accept it. 

Bethany drank the rest of her potion, rolled onto her side, and went back to sleep.

After a time, the good maester permitted Bethany to leave her bedchamber for a few hours during the day, and so she sought the comfort of her solar. She could think of no better place. Maude served her tea and cakes and bread with jam. Then, when the weather allowed it, she would open all the windows in the tower and take in the afternoon air while Maude and Helicent recited all her favorite ballads from memory.