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Rodion was dreaming. Or at least so he thought.
It was one of those dreams where he was a hound. A wild beast, running through the woods. He recognized the forest around the Dreadfort, he rode through them many times. But the perspective was now completely different - riding on a horse or walking couldn't compare to running free as a dog, pads hitting the ground, with all of his senses sharpened. Was he one of the hounds from his kennels? It was hard to say. Rodion didn't sense any other presence in this furry body, and he didn't feel in those dreams like Kyra or Lys, he felt like himself. He was still Rodion Bolton, even if the idea of being a human, and his identity sometimes blurred in those moments.
He managed to pin down a deer and ripped apart his throat. He didn't expect himself to be such a strong predator, after all in his everyday human life he was rather easy-going and chill. But perhaps inhabiting dog's body changed him a bit. Or maybe it was Bolton’s blood calling?
Rodion buried his muzzle in the killed animal. Open carcass was steaming in the cold air, as he ripped apart the fresh meat and lapped at the hot blood. If that butchery gave him so much pleasure, how much would his father love that? If he lived, of course. But the infamous Bolton Bastard died before his son was born, so Rodion never had a chance to meet his father, let alone ask if he also ever dreamt about being a hound?
Rodion wasn't sure whether he would ask the question if he could. It seemed weird and nonsensical, but not so out of place in this household. After all, when his mother got emotional and sentimental on some evenings (especially after ale or two), she talked eagerly and openly about her lost lover (sometimes too openly, in his opinion; after all neither he, nor his sister, really wanted to know how they might've been conceived). And she mentioned that when Ramsay was still alive, they talked about how it would feel like to be a hound. Yeah, she mused, reminiscing by the fire, staring into the flames as if she could see her man there. It would be so simple and easier to be a dog. Perhaps then me and your father still would be happy together. We would hunt together and then curl up in some cave, or somewhere else, and I would lick his muzzle, and maybe we would have a litter… maybe you two would be puppies...
At this point, it was clear that liquor was working.
But Rodion had to agree - being a hound was truly freeing, easier than human existence restricted by rules, hierarchy or history. At least in his dreams. Here, he only focused on getting his next meal. And he was sure that - freed from his need to prove himself as a powerful lord - his father would thrive, being a hound. He already spent most of his life hunting and ripping his people apart, so he would probably love to do the same with his teeth. And judging by whispers that Rodion heard about his parents love life, Ramsay Bolton could certainly focus his life only on hunting and rutting with Rodion's mother, as if in constant heat.
Rodion shook his head and continued to pull on the piece of meet from deer's leg. He didn't need to think about dogs mating and imagine that they are his parents. It's much better to focus on the pleasant moment.
He finally left the carcass for other animals to finish, and trotted through the snow.
When he woke up in the morning, he felt fur on his body, but after opening his eyes, he remembered with disappointment that those are just furs in his bed in the Dreadfort, and he is, in fact, again a human. Or rather, he always was one. Dreams shouldn't be taken seriously, as his tutor would say.