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She thought about mourning Ramsay, even with all the things he was, he was still a good son. He’d always come up the little hill, his dark hair falling on his face, he could almost see him now, from the front door. But there was no barking, no sound of stomping feet, the feeling that came with that figure was the same from all those years ago, the day she met-
‘ROOSE!’ she broke into a sprint, but not in the man’s direction, she ran inside her little mile, seeking for refuge. All she got for protection was the kitchen table she climbed under.
‘Stop with your screaming, Sylvia’ always whispering, there he stood, closing the door behind him. He was believed dead, but she was from the North, if you’re dead and walking here, you don’t look like her does.
The hair was like Ramsay’s used to be, long and wild, full of knots and dirt. Those calm and dangerous eyes found her already, but he wasn’t edging on her, he was leaning on a chair, throwing himself on it. No noble grace remained on him, and that scared me even more. They killed Lord Bolton in that war, but they left a much more dangerous man, a wilding Roose on it’s place.
‘I will take your horse and your bread, woman’ still from beneath the table, I nod, there is nothing for me to do, but to comply. ‘And I will rest here for the night’
She only hoped that he would leave her with another bastard, when he left. For this time there will be no help for her or it.