A/N: Thanks to all those who've been kind enough to take a minute and leave a review. It really means a lot to get the feedback.
Our Blades Are Sharp
By Spectre4hire
36: The Maester
He watched the raven fly off until it was little more than a black dot in the cloudless night.
Swift wings, Uthor encouraged his messenger, hoping it reached its destination in haste. He rested his hands on the merlons of the ramparts on the outer walls of the Dreadfort. This small area around his tower was what he called, the perch. His tower's door only a few steps from him. He could hear it creaking softly from the gust of wind that swirled around him.
Red dots lined the walls, signaling the flaming braziers as he could see the shadows of loyal sentries and guards standing watch. Vigilant for riders and threats that could descend upon the castle.
Even with his message sent, he lingered on his little perch. He savored the caress of the cold, northern wind as it provided a calming chill to his aching joints and stiff muscles. He felt the crisp air was sometimes a better remedy then any tonic he could brew.
He chuckled at that, amused that nature not man still offered the best remedies. We are still learning, he mused, and we still have so much to learn. His fingers finding the links of his chain that he had forged as a young man during his days in the Citadel.
Uthor thought fondly of his time at the Citadel, the center of learning, of Oldtown and the exotic wonders that could be found, or at the Quill and Tankard where he and his friends went to debate or celebrate their studies and accomplishments. For more than twenty years, the Citadel and Oldtown had been all he needed, content to stay and study, and live his life out as an acolyte without need of a chain to prove his worth or intelligence.
Then the Rebellion happened, a turning point that shifted his goals and redirected his life from content acolyte to determined maester. Shattering the idyllic bubble, he had built, with news of terror and death, battles and butchery that made the Seven Kingdoms bleed in a way it had not seen in generations.
How could he call himself a learned man and sit idly by when the people suffered? His fingers brushing against the silver link in his chain, the one he forged to signify his knowledge in healing, medicine, and the ways of the human body. The catalyst of his change and what pulled him away from Oldtown, the home he knew for so long and into the ranks of the maesters and then into the service of the Dreadfort once the war was over.
What a long way I've come, now here he stood atop the walls of the Dreadfort, the northern castle he had called come for nearly twenty years. I will be fortunate if I reach twenty years, a sad, disquieting thought that poked through his peaceful reflection.
May they send someone quickly, he thought, so that I have strength and time enough to groom him to prepare him for life not just in the Dreadfort, but of the north. Since most men of their order hailed from the south, and were ignorant and sadly often arrogant when it came to the largest of the Seven Kingdoms.
A twinge of pain came from within his stomach, as if it was pinched and chewed on by some small, nasty beast, and he grasped the stone merlon in front of him to keep his balance as the pain flared and gnawed at him. His grip on the merlon made his knuckles white, and he clenched his teeth to keep the scream at bay, before it diminished. He let out a long and shaky sigh while his breathing remained haggard, his heartbeat erratic.
He was lucky, that pain had been weak and fleeting, other bouts that had plagued him these last weeks could last longer and hurt far more than the one episode he just endured. He would have to make a note of it in his papers, the intensity of the pain and of how long it lingered before subsiding.
Uthor had informed Lord Bolton about his ailment earlier in the day when it became clear it wasn't a passing sickness, and what his fate would be from it. With the Lord of the Dreadfort's permission, he sent said raven to the Citadel to send a new maester to help ease the burden from him and to prepare to take over the duties that have been his these many years.
"Maester Uthor?" A voice came from within his tower, a few seconds later, a boy appeared at the open door. A boy of ten and one, Will, the son of Beron, the Dreadfort's cook. Will, however had dreams of wielding swords not knives, and wanting to serve lords with his shield, and not with a bowl and spoon.
"Yes, Will?" His voice sounded strain to his ears, and he wasn't surprised that Will had been able to pick on it, too. The boy was perceptive and had a sharp mind. Uthor thought he had the potential to forge his own links at the Citadel if the boy put his mind to it.
Uthor had taken the boy, a few months back after he showed an interest in reading. He had done so only after consulting with the boy's father and then Lord Bolton. The former seemed puzzled about his son's interest, but approved of it, only after being reassured by Uthor that it would be free. The latter had deliberated it in that quiet, eerie manner of his before giving his assent but only if it didn't interfere with Uthor's duties to Lord Bolton and the Dreadfort.
The timing had been a blessing, as Uthor found his energy and strength draining, it was appreciated at having more helpful hands at his disposal. Work that Will didn't seem to mind. He enjoyed feeding the ravens, but not so much scrubbing their cages of their droppings, but he did it still without complaint.
"Did you send the raven?"
"I did," he answered, realizing he was still clutching the merlon as if it was the only thing that was keeping him from falling. He released his grip of it, and took a step back, aware of Will's watchful eyes.
"I thought I was gonna write it?" He frowned, "To work on my letters."
"There will be other letters for you to write," Uthor assured him, sensing the boy's disappointment. "Besides, tonight, I think we should work on your reading." The boy's penmanship was poor, and he didn't think he had the patience or the energy to decipher the boy's scribbling this night.
"Can I pick it?" He perked up.
Uthor chuckled, "To start," He already had an idea of what letters the boy would want to read.
"Let me help you, m'lord," Will appeared at Uthor's elbow.
"I told you, Will, I am no lord," Though he didn't resist the help, slinging his arm over the boy's shoulder before slowly putting some weight off his tired legs. Will's knees shook for a second as they adjusted to the weight, before he moved forward to help lead Uthor back to his tower.
"Sorry, m'-I mean Maester," Will's cheeks flushed, at the constant slip he continued to show when it came to trying to serve and show proper respect to Uthor.
Uthor took to his seat with a grateful sigh, turning in his chair to see the numerous letters spread out on his desk.
"Can it be the one from Lord Domeric?" Will asked, trying, but failing to hide his eagerness, "About his accomplishments in the Tourney of the Hand."
Uthor gave the boy smile, his suspicions confirmed on what he would chose. He then grabbed said letter and beckoned Will closer so that he could read it beside him.
"Maester," The all too chilly and familiar voice of Lord Roose Bolton immediately brought Uthor to stand and to turn to see the Lord of the Dreadfort was standing off to the side, causing the maester to wonder had he just arrived or had he been waiting.
"M'lord," Will bowed quickly.
"Lord Bolton, what is it that you need?" Uthor bowed his head.
"Your time."
"You have it, my lord," Uthor replied, "I serve the Dreadfort and its Lord," he then turned to Will giving him an apologetic look. "Your session will have to wait."
Will bobbed his head, eyes darting around the room, clearly uncomfortable at being in the presence of Lord Bolton. "M'lord," with another bow, Will excused himself from the tower.
"Beron is a good father, and a loyal servant to your household," Uthor found himself saying after watching how Lord Bolton was looking at the boy with an amused glint in his eyes as he shuffled off.
"As is expected from anyone who dwells in this castle and pledges their service to me," Lord Bolton noted. The Lord of the Dreadfort was dressed in dark ringmail even within the protection of his formidable castle, a pale red cloak was pinned at his collar with a flayed man brooch.
"I didn't come here to discuss servants," Lord Bolton stepped out of Uthor's office and onto the perch.
"Of course, my lord," Uthor followed him out. "How may I serve?"
Lord Bolton's hands were resting on the merlons of the ramparts, his pale eyes reflective as they gazed down on the Weeping Water that flowed below them. "A betrothal," he answered softly, "I need your counsel for a betrothal."
"A betrothal?" Uthor parroted, unable to hide his surprise at this unexpected request from the Lord of the Dreadfort.
"Yes," he confirmed, "It is for me."
This was the first time he had ever spoken of a betrothal for himself since he buried his previous wife in the Dreadfort crypts more than ten years ago. However, Uthor put that aside, knowing he still hadn't answered him, which prompted him to speak the first suggestion that came to him. "There is Lord Cerwyn's daughter."
"Yes," a contemplative expression covered his face, "an older maid, but Castle Cerwyn is not far from Winterfell," he smiled at that.
"Lord Frey has also sent ravens in the past to lords," Uthor pointed out, "Offering his daughter or granddaughter's weight in dowry."
A soft chuckle escaped Lord Bolton, "That could provide me a plump wife, and a tidy sum." His fingers scratched his clean-shaven face, "The Freys are powerful, but greedy," His face conveyed his dislike of that last trait. "They could try to supplant Domeric with any get that I'd have with Lady Frey." His jaw tightened. "I will not have that. The Dreadfort is Domeric's, and it shall pass to the son he has with Lady Sansa."
"As it should be," Uthor voiced his approval.
"Shall I contact Lord Cerwyn then, my lord?"
"I want a list first," Lord Bolton decided, after taking a few seconds to consider it, "of potential brides."
"Of what kingdoms, my lord?"
"The North, Riverlands, and the Vale."
"Very well, you will have it when you break your fast in the morning, my lord," Uthor replied, "If that suits you?"
He nodded, "It does."
With that, the Lord of the Dreadfort left, leaving Uthor to wonder what could've happened to convince Lord Bolton to marry again.
"We should've heard something by now."
The next morning brought the unannounced visit of Barbrey Dustin, Lady of Barrowton, arriving with a small retinue of men-at-arms.
Uthor sat quietly in Lord Bolton's solar, as he broke his fast with the Lord of the Dreadfort, and Lady Dustin. The former not outwardly bothered at the unexpected visit of his good-sister, he welcomed her in his courtyard with courtesy, offering her a roof, and bread and salt before having her led to his solar while her men-at-arms were provided their rooms and food.
Uthor ate tentatively from his plate, not wanting to upset his ailing stomach. Sleep had been difficult for him due to the lingering pain from his body and the distraction of his mind with his thoughts drifting on the unforeseen intentions by Lord Bolton to remarry. A choice that had surprised and confused the maester, having him trying to consider a reason for such an unanticipated move by Roose Bolton.
Regardless, of his confusion on the change of heart by Lord Bolton, it still fell on Uthor to find suitable brides for the Lord of the Dreadfort. After more than two hours by the candlelight, he put together his list for Roose Bolton to go over. Said list seemed all but forgotten now with the presence of Lady Dustin. Even with her arrival, Uthor couldn't shake his attention on Lord Bolton's decision. "Patience," Roose's quiet voice was still commanding enough to pull Uthor out of his thoughts and back onto the company around the small table within Lord Bolton's solar.
"It is a long way between White Harbor and the capital, even by sea."
Lady Dustin didn't look placated. "Are we certain he left the capital?"
"Yes," Roose answered calmly, sounding more amused than annoyed at Lady Dustin's questions, "He and the Lady Sansa are no longer guests of the royal family." His quiet voice stressing the reminder of the ignored betrothed to Domeric Bolton she had chosen to leave out.
A frown touched Barbrey's lips at the mention of Lord Stark's eldest daughter before she hid away her dislike for the Lord Paramount of the North and his family. A peculiar trait that Uthor had slowly picked up on over the years in his service of Lord Bolton, noting a tone there or an expression here, and with what he already knew of her former husband and his death, the pieces had come to him eventually.
"Dom never should've went to that rat's nest," her face softening at the mention of her nephew before turning to disdain at both his choice and of the capital itself.
"He made the right decision," Lord Bolton was sopping up bacon grease with his bread before taking a small bite. "If he didn't, there was a chance their betrothal could've been broken by the king."
Barbrey didn't try to hide how unaffected she would've been at that prospect. Uthor could recall that the Lady of Barrowton had disliked the idea of her nephew marrying Lord Stark's oldest daughter. She had offered more than a handful of alternatives including daughters from Houses Manderly, Mormont, and Karstark as well as a few southern houses, none of which matched the prestige that House Stark held.
Thankfully, Lord Bolton agreed with Uthor's assessment that House Stark should be their first choice and approach in terms of Domeric's prospects. Support that didn't endear him to the Lady of Barrowton, but that hadn't bothered him since his role was to serve and counsel Lord Bolton not her.
My vow is to the Dreadfort, not Barrowton, the links in his chain jingled softly against one another as he adjusted himself in his seat to try to keep his body from getting too stiff or sore. Due to his interactions with Lady Dustin, he pitied the maester who served Barrowton, to have a lady to serve who seemed to dislike their order and treat them with suspicion at every turn.
May I serve the Dreadfort with all the strength and conviction in my last days as I did in my first days, he quietly hoped. Time, I will use to find a new bride for Lord Bolton, assist the new maester that the Citadel brings, and hope to see the marriage of Domeric and the Lady Sansa. A young man who he was privileged to watch grow up, eager in his studies, polite and quiet in his demeanor, and a gifted rider. Even when he left the Dreadfort, Uthor corresponded with the young man to discuss books to read, the histories of Westeros and Essos, horses, and other subjects.
The Dreadfort and House Bolton will thrive under his guidance with Lady Sansa at his side, and knowing that truth brought comfort to the dying maester to know the castle he served for so long would be in such capable hands long after he departed from this world.
"Enough," Roose chided his good sister on her thoughts and feelings towards the Starks, "Your selfish grievances and petty gripes will not be allowed to undo my work." He ignored her scowling, "The match with Lady Sansa is the best one a Lord of the Dreadfort has had in many generations." He raised his glass filled with hippocras, "Mayhaps, even ever." He took a sip, "The key to Winterfell."
"A key?" She scoffed, unimpressed by his machinations or his intentions, "Stark's oldest son is betrothed to a princess."
He smiled, "A princess but mayhaps, something else," he remarked vaguely, "A betrothal that could help not harm our cause."
She frowned, brows furrowed, trying to decipher the meaning behind his statement.
Uthor too didn't understand what his lord was implying at how the marriage between princess Myrcella and the heir Robb Stark could help his son and progeny's future claim to Winterfell.
"What of the bastard?" Lady Dustin never shied away from either her opinion or subject she wanted to speak, "I believe it's time to put the mad dog down."
"Do you?" His pale eyes on her, his voice soft, but the challenge behind his words was clear.
She met his stare, dark eyes unflinching, "I do," she took a bite of her cut up eggs while she kept her eyes on him, "He is a threat to Domeric, and I will not allow it." She used her knife to cut up some more. "My nephew will rule the Dreadfort and no bastard will deny him his birthright."
Roose's lips twitched as if amused at a joke and not the unspoken threat given to him by Barbrey beneath his roof, "You do not have to worry about Ramsay," Roose picked up his cup, swirled it in his hands before adding, "He's dead."
"What?" Lady Dustin unable to hide her gaping response to such a revelation.
Uthor felt his brows climb in disbelief. That is why he sought a bride, the pieces coming together for him, because the spare was dead. A statement that brought a feeling of relief to swell within, he even took to his drink, to commemorate the good news. An ill notion to celebrate the demise of another, but Ramsay Snow was not one to elicit pity or grief, and Uthor found his ale tasted better now with such sweet news.
"The Bolton Bastard," Roose mused, as if Lady Dustin hadn't asked him anything, "He was of my blood, but he will not be mourned or missed."
"For good reason," Lady Dustin didn't seem to care about Lord Bolton's musings about his bastard and didn't shy away from being pleased that he was dead. "The boy was a menace and a monster," she sniffed, "He should've been put down a long time ago."
Uthor found himself at one of the rare times he agreed with the Lady of Barrowton in terms of their shared dislike of Ramsay Snow, and of their advice on having him sent to the Wall or for an accident to be arranged to have him removed as a potential threat to Domeric's inheritance. Such callous thinking in regards of a man's life would've shocked his brethren in Old Town leading to scolding and dismay, but they didn't know the man, they didn't know the stories of Ramsay Snow.
"A fate he has earned," Roose shrugged, uncaring about the death of his bastard son, "And was expected," he sipped hippocras, "Tainted blood flowed in his veins, giving him delusions of titles beyond his birth. He saw himself a smart and cunning man," his lips twitched, amusement not grief coloring his tone in reflection of his dead son, "But he was a fool, and no man can defy their nature."
He then went to his pocket and pulled out something before placing it on the table-a ring, it was partly burned, and dirtied, but even in the dim light, Uthor could see the infamous flayed man that had been etched onto the ring. He understood the significance of this small item at once. It had belonged to Ramsay Snow.
The sight of the ring brought a feral smile to Lady Dustin's face, savoring the truth of the bastard's death, she took to her wineglass. Uthor noticed her dark eyes never looked away from the ring as she drank deep from her glass, and he had no doubt, that she'd have more to rejoice in the death of the Bolton bastard, with the threat he posed to her nephew's life and inheritance finally gone.
Domeric is safe, Uthor was thankful, The Dreadfort is his, the future of House Bolton is secure.
Uthor stood quietly watching as Lord Bolton broke the Stark seal from the letter before reading it.
He had been tending to his books when the raven arrived, cawing as it landed, demanding to be noticed and fed. Believing the letter to be from Castle Cerwyn regarding their interest in a potential betrothal between Lord Bolton and Lady Jonelle Cerwyn. He had been quite surprised at seeing the running direwolf impressed into the grey wax. With as much haste as he could give, he went to deliver the message to the Lord of the Dreadfort, finding him in his solar.
"The Pup is calling his banners," Bolton chuckled, "Bolder than I expected." He folded the letter before putting it down, "Send for Steelshanks," he instructed a servant, who had been standing by the door, the servant responded with a bow before leaving.
"Is it war that he wants?" Uthor couldn't believe it. The last two times the banners of the North had been called had been for that very purpose. Once against the Targaryens and later the Greyjoys.
"His mother's lands are being ravaged," Roose said mildly, "While his father wastes away in a cell in the Red Keep." With a flick of his hand, a servant came forward to pour a pitcher of hippocras into his waiting glass. "This is all," he paused to sip, "unexpected." When he lowered the glass, a frown was on his lips.
The news from the south was disconcerting. The pillaging in the Riverlands, Lord Stark's arrest, and the Westerlands marching under Lord Tywin Lannister. All of these moves in the south had upended Lord Bolton's carefully construed plans for his family and the north. Uthor knew how diligent his lord had been in putting these plans in motion, but he was confident that Lord Bolton would adjust and react accordingly in keeping his dream of a union between Winterfell and Dreadfort from being dashed before it could truly form.
"To do nothing would be folly," Lord Bolton chided Uthor, "For the pup to fret behind his walls while his father languishes in prison and the Riverlands burn would sever any hope the boy would have of ruling the north."
"You wanted to see me, Lord Bolton?"
Both men turned to see Walton standing in the doorway, known as Steelshanks due to the steel greaves he wore over his long legs. Tall and strong, he had brown hair that fell just above his shoulders, an equally colored beard that covered his face. In talking of him, Lord Bolton had said he was 'a soldier of iron loyalty.'
"Yes," Lord Bolton answered, "Robb Stark has called his banners," pointing to the proof, the open letter with the broken Stark seal, "And we will answer the call."
An answer that Robb Stark will be thankful for, Uthor thought, few houses could call more men then House Bolton. A reason why they had been the strongest rival to the Stark's dominion over the north. Not to mention their recent ties to Houses Ryswell and Dustin now gave them the largest number of men that any northern family could rally that wasn't named Stark.
Now the Boltons have become one of the Stark's strongest backers, Uthor mused. He had no doubt that Lords Bolton and Ryswell, and even Lady Dustin would press for that agreement to be a consummated marriage sooner rather than later now that their numbers would be heavily needed for this march south against the Lannisters.
"What will you have of me, my lord?"
"You will oversee the preparations as our levies trickle into the Dreadfort, and to make certain the forces will be ready to march."
"I will see to it." He served as a captain for Bolton, nothing more, but if he was surprised or overwhelmed by this task, he hid it well, beneath a brown beard and a stoic demeanor.
"In two days' time, you will take a hundred men and you will lead them to White Harbor," Bolton's whispery voice commanded, "There, my son will relieve you. We will regroup with you at Moat Cailin."
"I shall not fail you, my lord."
"Good," Bolton nodded, "You are dismissed." His pale eyes watched him leave before they turned to regard Uthor. "It seems we must be hasty, Maester. We have a wolf to save."
A/N: Not much is known about Uthor just that he use to be the maester to the Dreadfort but was replaced by the time of the later books. Wanted a perspective within the Dreadfort not named Bolton, so picked him and used some liberties, hope no minds.
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Until next time,
-Spectre4hire