Chapter 1: Transfer of Power
"Bend the knee, and you will live, refuse and you and all of your men will burn," the tall white haired man said matter of factly.
"I'm afraid I must consult my lords on this matter, you will receive my answer on the morrow," the slightly shorter black haired man replied.
"This matter concerns the entire North, and as such I will leave the decision to you, my lords. I will not make a choice without your support"
"House Karstark knows no King but the King in the North, whose name is Stark," the man to the right of the King with a silver sunburst pinning his ashen gray cloak around his broad shoulders.
"House Umber knows no King but the King in the North, whose name is Stark," a huge man at the end of the table spoke, followed by a slightly overweight lord with a mermaid pin on his chest, then a young man with a silver bear worked into his breastplate, then all the rest. Except one.
"And you, Lord Bolton. What are your thoughts on the matter?" The King asked the silent man to his left who wore black armour and a blood red cloak pinned with a silver X made of bones.
"I will follow wherever you ask me to, my King. My personal beliefs are irrelevant," he said with a cold, emotionless voice.
"Well said, Lord Bolton. You will stay here, the rest of you may leave," King Torrhen said, gesturing to the flap that led from the command tent to the frozen campsite if their army.
"Wine, Lord Bolton?" Torrhen asked politely, and held up a decanter to him.
"You didn't ask me to stay behind for wine," it was a statement, not a question.
"No, I did not. I asked you to stay behind for something far more important," he said pulling out four letters from a pocket sewn to the inside of his cloak. "You will take half your men and ride for Winterfell immediately. Give the plain envelope to the guards at the gate, as for the marked ones, one is a decree by me proclaiming you Lord Paramount of the North should me and my sons all perish in battle and the other two are for my wife and daughter. Protect my family, Domeric. Please."
"I will do what I can, but what are my orders beyond riding to Winterfell as a glorified messenger?" The Lord of Bolton asked with his piercing gray eyes fixed on his King.
"Should we be defeated you are to surrender to the Dragons. Haughty and insufferable, but at the moment they do hold the advantage, so if our armies are destroyed you are to yield. As the most powerful remaining Lord plus my letter you shall become the Lord Paramount of the North. You will be their loyal subject…"
"Until I'm not, correct?" Bolton said with the beginnings of a sly smirk on his face, " a most ingenious plan. Our houses have had our differences, but you are the best king we could have had at a time like this, Torrhen Stark. Doing what honour demands and playing the long game at the same time, very wise." The smirk had turned to a full on grin as his King's next words made him aware of the full scope of his brilliance.
"After you arrive in Winterfell you are to await word of the battle. If my male line has been extinguished, you will marry my wife and my eldest daughter shall marry your eldest son. My letters instruct them both on these matters very clearly, they will know what to do and how to act. Then you will offer my youngest to the Lord of the Eyrie and my middle daughters Alliana and Lyarra to the heirs to Casterly Rock and Pyke respectively. This, along with some other details in my letters, will help buy their loyalty for a future dethronement of those Sisterfucking Targaryens. When will obviously be up to you and your heirs, but make sure they're weak. If you march against their dragons you will die. Be patient Domeric and you will not fail."
"You're a sneaky fucker aren't you Torrhen," Lord Bolton spoke with a kind of amazement at the detail of his King's foresight.
"Aye, Lord Bolton. I am a sneaky fucker. And one with a vested interest in the continued independence of the North. These are my plans Domeric, you are obviously instrumental. However I will need to paint you as a coward who's running away from the fight in order to divert suspicion from your true mission, sorry in advance, my Lord." Torrhen spoke darkly at first, then almost teasingly.
"So the plan is for me to seem as if I've broken faith with House Stark in order to make my loyalty to House Targaryen more convincing if it comes to that? And if you win against the Dragon bastards?" Bolton asked.
"Then I will tell my Lords the truth. That I commanded you to leave in order to preserve at least one Northern House which could rule in the stead of the Targaryen puppet we would have received otherwise." King Torrhen was seemingly cool in his speech and mannerisms, but to Domeric's trained eye the worry and fear were evident.
"Don't worry, Torrhen. All will be well. Whether you win now or get your revenge later, your dream of a free North will be fulfilled," Lord Bolton reassured his old friend.
"I know, Domeric. I'm not worried about either of our abilities. I'm worried about our successors. I'm worried that neither of us will have enough time to instill the proper temperament into those who will take up our mantels when we are but dust." The King vented his fears.
Taking a few steps away from the table Domeric glanced out the tent flap to peer at the height of the moon.
"Yes, of course. You must take your leave, old friend, and I have kept you far too long. You will take your cavalry only, for you.must make haste. Three thousand men was it? More than I'd like to lose but the acting Lord if the North must have something at least resembling and army." Torrhen japed weakly.
"Goodbye, Torrhen. Utors wempt agos." Until we meet again. Bolton spoke as he mounted his horse outside the tent.
"Utors wempt agos, old friend," the King replied with a sad look on his face as Lord Bolton rode off to assemble his men. "In this life or the next Domeric."
As the train of cavalry rode past Moat Cailin, they heard the distant sound of a monstrous roar and saw the distant glow of flames. "Dragons," muttered one of the men just behind the Lord of Bolton, "they don't stand a chance."
"Quiet, or I'll have your tongue cut out and shoved up your ass," Bolton yelled down the line, " any man who doubts our Kings endeavours can go back to lend his support in his time of need."
There was some scattered groans at that but mostly silence, which is exactly how Lord Bolton wanted it.
It had been three days and four nights since the Bolton cavalry had departed the camp of the Northern army, and they were no more than a league away from the crossing at the White Knife by the Wolfswood. From there it would be another day until Winterfell. Just as the sun peeked over the horizon to signal the start to their day the clip-clopping of hooves were heard coming toward them at breakneck speed. A few Bolton soldiers who had been already prepared for their ride formed up with spears across the road to protect the rear of the line. The men braced as a lone rider broke over the horizon at top speed. There was ash on his face and the flanks of his white horse and the shield that bounced from his saddle on its straps was dented to the point where the wolf sigil was barely recognizable. There was an empty sword sheath at his side and a half crumpled iron helmet was still on his head. He gripped the reins with all the fervor of a man kept alive by a singular purpose and nothing more. As he reached the Bolton lines he fell from his horse and revealed he also suffered from two arrows in his back. They had punched through his backplate and penetrated deeply enough to wound and cause extreme pain, but not kill.
"What is all this din about. The sun has barely crept above the horizon and already I am disturbed by…" Lord Bolton stopped shouting as soon as he saw the ash-painted horse and the similarly coated man laying on the ground. The horrid silence of realization that they had lost was infinitely worse than any noise. " Well, men? Get him up! I need the poor wretch to recount the battle before he expires!" Lord Bolton once again took charge.
The man was lifted by two Bolton men as the battle line that had formed broke apart just as quickly. The man was brought to Bolton in his tent where he was offered wine, which he gratefully accepted. "For a while it looked as though it could go either way. The King's brother succeeded in killing two of the dragons but the third proved less simple. The Black Dread they call him in the South, and rightfully named. A monstrous beast. Just as our charge broke their lines he came diving down and burned the entire front to ash. Hundreds of men gone in a second to the Targaryen bastard's dragon. We fought bravely for two days. We defeated most of their main army, but the dragon was invincible. Arrows and spears alike bounced off its toughened scales with little fuss. One man was sure he had managed to wound the Dragon King, but we'll probably never know for sure. Near the end I was commissioned a task by the King. 'Tell Lord Bolton what happened here. He'll know what to do'. What will you do, Lord Bolton?"
"I will follow the King's instructions. That is a I can tell you, I'm afraid. Well, here's to the dream of a free North, mag it one say be true again," said Bolton as he raised his tankard alongside the wounded man. The man drank deeply and drained his cup, while Bolton only drank about half his.
The man sighed contentedly, "that was the best wine I've ever had… I thank you for that… Lord Bolton," the man sighed once again this time expelling his last breath as life left his body and his eyes stared emptily across the table at Domeric Bolton, the new Lord of the North. Long May He Reign!