Arrana Stark and Amadora Bolton (my ocs)
Amadora Bolton had always shared a strange bond with her brother, Ramsay. One twisted far beyond sibling affection.
There was something unspoken between them, something wrong. A disturbing intimacy that had festered since childhood and never faded. For Ramsay, it was convenient — Amadora was loyal, blindly devoted, always at his side. He used her trust like a dagger tucked in his sleeve. Using her for what he needed. Manipulating.
But for Amadora, it was something far more dangerous.
She needed him. Craved him. Obsession clawed at her throat like a beast that refused to be fed. Ramsay was hers and only hers.
So when she heard of his betrothal to Arrana Stark, something inside her snapped.
She had seen the girl before, sitting at feasts, prattling on about honor, duty, and the Old Gods. Always so proper. So soft. Too soft. Everything about her made Amadora’s skin crawl. Arrana was the opposite of everything House Bolton stood for, and yet she was to be Ramsay’s wife?
Unthinkable. Unforgivable.
Still, Amadora didn’t act. Not yet. She watched and seethed, and swallowed the bile rising in her throat every time she saw them together. The servants whispered that Ramsay favored Arrana cause of her charm and willingness but also because she resembled Amadora in some ways . And perhaps, in a way, she did — they both had pale Northern skin, high cheekbones, long dark hair. But Arrana’s eyes… those eyes were the difference. Icy blue, like fresh snow under moonlight.
By comparison, Amadora felt like a corpse — her skin too lifeless, her brown eyes dull. She envied her. Hated her. And worse, she hated how much Ramsay looked at her.
She would lash out at Arrana in small, subtle cruelties — a cutting remark here, a passive threat there. Nothing that could be seen as treason, but enough to be felt. Amadora knew what her brother did to the things he owned. She’d heard the screams coming from his bedchambers during and after their wedding night. And yet, even that didn’t deter her.
As the days dragged on, Amadora’s obsession festered. If Ramsay truly wanted Arrana and not her… then she would consume Arrana as a whole and become her.
At first, it was subtle. She mirrored her wardrobe. Painted the same delicate symbols on her fingers. Slipped into their chambers while they were away to steal pieces of Arrana’s jewelry. Slowly, she built a second skin from the pieces of the girl who had stolen what was rightfully hers.
But everything unraveled the day she saw the gift.
A wedding gift — silver, cruel, and beautiful. Engraved with both the Stark direwolf and the Bolton flayed man. A symbol of their union. A dagger.
It should have been hers.
That night, something broke that couldn’t be mended. Amadora spiraled. She screamed, raged, clawed at her chamber walls. Ramsay was supposed to gift her things, not that pathetic Stark girl.
So, one night not long after, Amadora followed Arrana through the quiet halls of the Dreadfort. No one else was around.
She didn’t speak — just tore the dagger from Arrana’s belt and plunged it into her. Over. And over. And over. And over again…
By the time it was done, Arrana Stark layed in a pool of blood, her skin pale as the snows outside. The hall was silent. Unnaturally so.
Amadora didn’t run. She didn’t hide. When Ramsay found out, she stood tall — proud almost of what she had done. Her competition was gone. Surely now, he would love her like she deserved.
But Ramsay didn’t speak. He didn’t touch her. He looked at her like something rotten, something broken beyond repair.
And that silence shattered what little of Amadora’s mind remained.
Days passed. Then weeks. And still, Ramsay wouldn’t look at her the way he once did. So her obsession turned from Ramsay… to Arrana.
She began to believe she needed more than clothes, more than stolen jewelry. She needed those eyes. The pale, perfect eyes Ramsay had loved.
In a frenzy of madness, Amadora took the dagger — still bloodstained — and turned it on herself. She laughed, unblinking, as she raised the blade and drove it into her own eyes.
Again. And again. And again.
She collapsed on the cold stone floor of the Dreadfort, surrounded by her own blood, muttering about blue eyes and love and becoming what Ramsay truly wanted.
Her broken body was buried in a shallow grave behind the keep.
As for Arrana, her body was never found.
Some say Amadora flayed her, carved her into pieces and fed her to the hounds. Others believe she wore Arrana’s face for days before madness overtook her. All that remained were bloodstains no one could scrub clean.
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