Notes:

(This is a fairly lengthy note, feel free to skip it if you don't care; 'control + f' "prologue" will take you to the start of the actual story.)

Before I begin this there are a few points I want to address. This story is likely going to break with several of my usual conventions for writing; and for you as the reader that may not be all that important. For example at the moment I have broken down the first several chapters into parts 'A, B, C...' so Chapter 1 may be broken up into several parts creating a sub arc that takes place over perhaps a week, or something to that effect dealing with travel time. Another thing, I may, or may not do dedicated perspective switch chapters; that is following specific characters.

However a lot of the 'commentary' given in story will be what can be construed as more opinion or perspective rather than 'absolute fact or truth'. For example certain medieval stereotypes, or in this case regional stereotypes, may be commented on as if they're fact even when they're not. Part of this is because Westeros has very low literacy, and a very weak church, so for example there is a stereotype amongst Westerosi that Lys is basically all brothels, is that true, no, because a city state in not capable of existing as such a caricature, but that would hardly stop someone talking about Lys from inevitably bringing up the whorehouses.

Now onto the prompt which spawned this; this story follows the reincarnation of a PC, an 'Adventurer', from a long running DnD campaign when I was in undergrad. Specifically 'Alaric' is reborn as a surviving older brother to Roose Bolton; too my knowledge the novels have never specifically said what year Roose was born. Now I need to reread a Dance for dragons, but currently I have Roose being born the same year as Eddard Stark, that may be wrong, but it is not overly important. Since in the course of drafts I've changed birth dates around several times, including one version where Alaric was born at the time of the tragedy of Summerhall (but scrapped that idea, because it was silly), but it would have still but Alaric in the same age group as Eddard's generation, as opposed to more midway between them, and the preceding one.

[I know in the current version (as of this writing) of AGOT (v1.8), a CK2 mod, it has his (Roose's) year of birth as 255. I am using material from the mod, but that is not one of them.]

Now with regards to canon, as I said the principle character is taken from a fairly long running campaign. If you have some familiarity with Dungeons and Dragons (2nd and 3.5) some of the lore is mentioned, but its not required. As it the way of tabletop lore was not strictly canonical at all instances for the sake of plot, and development. Additionally the course of the campaign ran using the rules from unearthed arcana, because it was a skill heavy campaign, but the characters were Gestalts builds, and it did progress into Epic. Alaric doesn't actually know how he died, because well in campaign he didn't; especially since the party/DM/campaign never paid mind to the 'canonical' late fifteenth century (read 4th edition).

Again, no actual knowledge of DnD is required for the sake of this story.

As far as timeline in Westeros, or Planetos if you prefer, the prologue opens a few years before the main story. The first 10 chapters, of the main story, at minimum, will probably take place in the year 281 [the Year of the False Spring]. Now that being said, before we begin this is the second draft of this prompt using the Forgotten Realms adventurer idea. So Prologue 277, Chapters 1 lets say 10 will be 281, those after will probably be 281 through 283 and however many chapters it takes to get through Robert's Rebellion, which is currently outlined, but not yet fleshed out.

Further, while this won't be as bad as the Malazan series, there will be a fair number of characters. Since this is set primarily in the North, at and around the Dreadfort there will be several recurring north men who share the same given name. So at some point I may add a 'Dramatis Personae' section to the start here, and even if I don't I'll probably end up referining to them by nicknames, or by surnames in the case of ennobled persons. Which brings us to the next part, this story deals significantly with the prospect of feudal society, obligations, and expectations, and particularly where conflicting obligations clash.

-Break-

- Prologue-

The Year of the Defiance at Duskendale

277 Aegon's Conquest

The North.

He had been born, reborn perhaps was more accurate, on the fifteenth day of the third moon... with the same given name even as he held in a past life. That had been supplemented with a new clan name. The blood of ancient kings.

Alaric Bolton, and now he rode a chestnut roan upon the Red King's road to the Dreadfort. That had been where he had be born into this world. In his furs, and armor he looked the part of a lord of the First Men, of the North. He had never given any cause to question that existence... certainly none would be given, not now that the coronet was his.

The truth of such things...

He was lord of the Dreadfort now... now with Donnel Bolton's passing... which was just a dressing up of the whole grisly affair. It wasn't uncommon for a spike of banditry during winters. Winters that he wondered if were caused by some malfunctioning planar gate to the elemental plane of ice... he had no proof one way or another, if that logic held perhaps the summers were a gate to fire trying to rebalance it... and failing. Who could say?

Alaric in his past life had never been especially keen to ruminate on such things. There were, as always, more pressing things. It was hardly the only feature of this world he found queer. That it was all humans for example that was very strange. The children of the forest sounded as if perhaps they had been halflings... or gnomes. Whatever they had been they were gone. There were supposedly giants beyond the Wall still, but he had never been beyond that colossal structure. There were no elves... and it would have been one thing had they just been prudish isolationists, that much he at least could have understand. No. All wasn't all bad... not having to deal with Drow... or Orc slavers was a plus.

It was still weird as he had grown old enough to recognize it. He had lived his entire life here with the bulk of his academic education retained, there were bits and pieces he remembered, but processing that had required him growing into it... he supposed. At one and ten he had back his first level magiks. Not that he had much use for it. He hadn't had much cause for magic at all until that trip into the disputed lands, and none of his sailings east had required much sense.

His brother, Roose, knew about the magic... but not of the past life. Some of his closest retainers knew about the magic as well. Most of his sworn men though were more impressed by his talents ship wright, and architecture... as if anything he built in this world would have been much of anything in Toril.

His memories, even smiling as he rode it didn't reach his eyes, were no whole. He suspected he had died violently. Perhaps Hextor's Blackguard, but he doubted that. He had had many rivals, and there was no reason to assume it had been by a human hand he had been felled by. It didn't really matter he supposed... there was magic in this world regardless of those that would deny that.

There was a hedge witch in his own western borderlands... the crone might have been nearly a hundred but could only cast what he recognized as second level magics. Another in a village in the Wolf's woods. That didn't say much of course there were others who had been to commoners lots, but magic was not common to this world. He had heard tales of what could be druids, and shifters, and other things, but scant proof... so he had not pursued them.

He had met a warlock in service to the red god across the sea, and there were others he had said, but he admitted they were few. Perhaps that red god was one of the arch fiends, or perhaps one who had been cast from the infernal hells... perhaps he was something else. He suspected that if he expended the effort for it he'd find other clerics worth the name, but thus far only he.

"Its good to be home." The man beside the trailing horse said as they passed under the manned battlements of the gate.

It had been several months now... since Donnel Bolton's passing... it would be a year soon. "There were things that needed to be put to rights," He replied easing back on his reins. Donnel Bolton had died as he had lived. His death had been the vain glorious sort of thing marred by the stark realism of such things. He'd been struck in the head hunting winter bandits, and taken ill. Alaric had he even been within the boundaries of the Bolton lands might have been able to do something... but he hadn't... not that Roose faulted him for his absence. He'd been at sea.

Donnel Bolton might not have been thrilled with such adventures, but he had liked it better than books, and that had been something. He wondered how heavily his father had been in his cups during the last fight of his life. Besides even if he had been there, it would have meant Alaric having to explain magic, and it would likely only delayed Donnel's demise rather than prevented it. If it hadn't been this collection of outlaws it would have been another this year, or the next, or whenever... he would have only been delaying his ascension to the coronet. Donnel Bolton's carousing through their lands and hunting was always going to be the end of him rather than old age...

To the extent Roose had wanted to prohibit public drinking and carousing during the period of morning. It had been hard not to scoff, as if that would have worked. Roose might not have wished to prohibit alcohol in total, but his brother would have happily taxed it as heavily as he could have gotten away with without revolt. Roose had been a mess, and had lashed out over it all... for whatever faults that Donnel had had, the smallfolk had mostly liked him. House Bolton might have meant fear, but the smallfolk had also known that the lord of the Dreadfort took the threat of banditry on the roads, of wildlings, and other outlaws seriously. That had been enough. Not enough for Roose though, not enough for a five and ten second son.

Men in mail and plate shifted at the call of 'Rider!' as they approached the juncture of the road. One fork leading south and eastwards; a road he had taken many times to make for Overton and the small port it held. The small posse of men who had travelled with him narrowed around his roan since most of even those men were unaware the ring he wore conveyed protection against arrows, and he did not intend to advertise such.

"Make way, make way I ride for the Dreadfort, and Lord Bolton." the messenger cried to them from his lathered horse.

Beside him the older form of his captain of his personal guard... and thus likely the marshal of all Bolton armsmen de jure, scoffed. "Hold man," He shouted back, lifting his shield emblazoned with House Overton's crest on it, "I'm Braxton Overton, and we are returning to the Dreadfort, come and tell us what this is about." The Overton messenger jolted in his saddle, and fought to bring his mount under control. No doubt he'd been pushing hard from the coast, which quite like meant word from White Harbor. That left the men around him disquiet with tension, as while sail was fast a raven's wing could cover much and with greater certainty... but then Donnel Bolton had always distrusted Maesters, even if their rookery talents could not be denied. There were things that a Maester of the Citadel would not spread word of.

Alaric turned his reins and let his mount saunter up besides his captain, but didn't identify himself. It was entirely unreasonable to expect every Bolton bannerman to recognize him onsite... though he really would have expected at least Overton men to know him. He had taken enough of them with him along for his little Essosi adventure the year before. Father had been surprisingly enough sober when they had returned from that, and in good spirits. "Hail ser," He called, "I am Alaric Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort." If anything the rider's eyes widened further turning from Braxton's weather worn face to the younger noble.

"My lord," The rider stammered swallowing, and panting, "There is grave news from the capital... from King's Landing sire. His Majesty King Aerys has been seized." There was a shift at the declaration as the discomfort passed through the men, and the horses they road felt it.

It was no secret that the Warden of the North, its overlord Lord Rickard, the Stark of Winterfell had all but naked ambitions regarding the South. The ties with the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale were all done to enrich the North. Aerys II Targaryen was a poor king, but he did have grandiose ambitions entertaining but rarely committing to projects. The idea of a canal through the Neck for example... it would have bankrupted the realm. The irrigation terraces, or whatever, for Dorne had been another. In fact he was sure by this point Aerys had talked about one or more of such things for every one of the seven kingdoms of Westeros... and nothing had ever come of it.

"Explain," Alaric demanded shifting his weight back on his saddle, "Who has seized the king?"

The words spilled out as quickly as he made the demand, "House Darklyn, milord. Lord Denys Darklyn, they say there was a dispute over taxes." He gestured for one of the fresh mounts, and they ambled on after the man had switched to the new horse, and he listened as they continued along the old Red King's road. Truthfully, this was a southron affair, and probably should be treated as such... but he doubted Lord Rickard would see it that way. Rickard Stark had grand ambitions to be Cregan Stark reborn anew. It was a grand dream surely, but no doubt the Hand of the King was already working on resolving this.

- scene break-

He found Roose scowling, and sulking over the maps with the maester assigned by the Citadel to tend the Dreadfort's lands. Roose didn't care for the man... but then again Donnel Bolton had gone through maesters like a scythe to wheat at the harvest. Part of it was probably paranoia; the late lord Bolton's distrust that was. Part of that distrust had likely contributed to him putting things off. Donnel had been a warrior first, and everything a distant third if they were lucky. Besides the bandit problem, and salivating at the prospect of the wildlings managing to slip past the useless layabouts of the Night's Watch most of everything else had been about drinking. It had left the land fallow, and hence the maps. Since while Donnel hadn't been a bad lord, and certainly not unpopular, but it was truth that he had been an ineffective one.

Before the Andals had come from across the sea the North hadn't really been unified. For that matter there hadn't been real unity in the time after. The North's Great Houses had been cattle, and barley farmers in the far expanse of land, and still were. While they had gone to iron weapons, and the stirrup, as it had become available they had not raised the great seats as idle fancy. Grazing land, woodland, and grain land. Fen, marsh, hill, and all the rest might not have been tremendously productive but it broke up the lands between ancient clans and had allowed many kings before the Starks had crowned themselves Kings in the North. Northern fighting men excelled at melee not because there wasn't pastureland to feed horses, but because there had never been a traditional use for the stout lances Southron tourneys employed since it had taken the Andals coming to introduce the stirrup.

Karlon, another of his armsmen, made a show of dragging a large chair over from against the wall to the map table of the solar. The man could have easily picked it up and lifted the dark oak over his head, but exalted as the reachman, the maester, flinched at the noise. Alaric dropped into the chair when it was proffered to him. He rested an elbow on the table, and leaned his face down against his palm surveying the map. The Cromby's had been surprisingly prompt in their work, and he wasn't sure whether that was a good sign or not. Most likely Stepan Cromby, the lord of the House, was angling to be steward since certainly that would be putting one over on the Overtons. There were other houses as well... the Waltons for example. Once the Boltons had been the Red Kings, and of the Lords of the North, and certainly those on the Eastern shore they were powerful still.

With the racket abated though the reachman simpered slightly, "My lord, as you can clearly see the lay of the land," The new census... the first since probably his father's father's reign, "Is uh progressing. We expect word from the Etherings by the next moon turn," Another week or so, "And of course the coastlands have been quite prompt." Braxton snorted. "If you are still entertaining the notion of granting your brother rights to raise his own holdfast we may have sufficient grasp of the lands to make a judgment of such."

He wasn't all that surprised that Ethering was behind. It was more hilly in that county, and the land better supported sheep than it did cattle grazing. He was willing to be patient. Roose's grimace didn't go unnoticed either, as raising a new fort would not be a small task. Realistically Roose was unlikely to be able to spare the time for such a new holding in the face of wider duties. Donnel Bolton had ruled for thirty odd years, admittedly including his regency, and had never bothered with a census of his demesne... and Roose was right to dread trying to raise a new holding while they 'cleaned house'.

Ethering itself was another issue. Ethering was a charted town. Within the capacity of feudal custom the merchants within it were used to a certain degree of autonomy. Plopping a castle on the best hillside without considering their influence would have been foolish. Besides he was lucky enough he wasn't having to contend with a regency, Roose certainly wasn't ready for his own fief. There would have been trouble otherwise. So part of that was they were really waiting for time to survey, but discussing that would have been in poor taste.

The maester sucked his lower lip and glanced at Braxton, taking a half step further, "There is the matter of Lord Overton,"

"What, is, it, now?" Alaric leaned his head back. It wasn't like Eamon Overton's complaints were somehow new. He had subjected Donnel Bolton to the same complaints about the roads, the mines, tolls, and taxes and everything else since he'd come into his own coronet. It was the man's nature to complain about things; he nagged. The maester would get used to it, but it was hardly the thing that was foremost on Alaric's mind.

In a somewhat surprising turn of events it actually involved the South. Or more accurately the King... since he had been seized by Denys Darklyn. The entire cause of all of this had been rights and privileges... and taxes. Technically all the royal impositions on narrow sea trade still held sway, merchants and tradesmen needed to be taxed. Most likely Eamon had probably been short changing the royal tariffs for a dozen years. He had no proof to that assertion, and legally there were a number of noble privileges Eamon could cite since he wasn't himself a smallfolk tradesman. There was a good chance, better than even at the minimum, that such things were why Duskendale was upset with the crown. Duskendale being in the royal demesne, and more important within easy reach of the royal fleet meant they couldn't get away with such near as easily.

"As if he isn't fat enough," Braxton muttered in regards to his older brother.

It was one thing in this world Alaric had never fathomed in his other life naval power was significantly more respected. This tradition of lords burning their ships was... very surreal. Though he could remember word of the kingdom of Alba doing it once to make nice with Astur after a particularly nasty feud. So the idea wasn't completely alien. It just seemed wasteful.

"I mislike like this," Roose grunted crossing his arms over his still slim boyish chest, which would have been more impressive if it didn't make him look almost petulant. Still his brother had held most of the administrative tasks of day to day running for the fortress for the last few moons. Even so...

It wasn't as if Roose didn't have a point. On the other hand, Rickard Stark's southern push made any trade over the narrow see lucrative. Eamon's wheeling and dealing would never match the Manderly juggernaut, but it didn't need to. The Targaryen taxmen actually kept office in White Harbor, not that it likely stopped them... and who knew just what the western shore got up to. There were nasty rumors on the far side of Westeros... though there were the Iron born on that side of the land.

Alaric Bolton sipped his pepper beer, and eyed the collection of maps again. "Who all is still at sea, any of your cousins?" He asked Braxton.

"Aye Joran said he had planned to ship for Braavos a moon's turn back," The man replied, "Timber for their yards. Surely others though have sailed,"

It was too much opportunity for coin. "The Pirates in the channel will be swarming Pentos, possibly even further north." The Bravosi fleet had a reputation, but occasionally they still found the need to make good on it, and with the Iron Throne in disorder there would be plenty of opportunists. They weren't all together likely to bother the whalers, but slavers were known to be stupid at times.

Roose fixed him with a look.

"I've got no plans to make for Essos," The one trip had accomplished what he had been searching, but he understood the point. On the outside that trip had seemed to be about nothing but personal wealth, and adventure. He also hadn't been lord of the Dreadfort then either. He hadn't expected it to be necessary to make a trip so soon either. Though, admittedly he hadn't expected to be succeeding to the coronet so soon. "There is too much to be done at home to try and sail for Myr, or Volantis on new ships." Now there was this business with the king.

-scene break-

The most likely explanation was that the message to Winterfell had been sent through White Harbor, and it explained Lord Stark's promptness. As lord paramount Tywin Lannister had probably penned a missive especially for him... likely to stay out of it. Rickard Stark though had not given indication of what he was going to do, though there were no directions to summon his banners.

As it was Alaric would have considered that wasteful.

The door cracked open, and he glanced at it. In the week previous Braxton had ridden to check on the Overton lands, and he was expected back soon. Karlon, and several others, were all similarly predisposed preparing for the possibility the banners were called regardless of how unlikely that was. It was the most he could do at the moment. The man who entered was, as most of Alaric's companions, taller than the lord the Dreadfort. Even in his previous life he hadn't been especially tall, so he was quite resigned to the notion that even if he grew a half span he would never be considered tall. Roose unfortunately seemed likely to also be merely average in height. The essoi surgeon's skin was nearly copper in color. "I do not think your chained man likes me overly much," He remarked as he came into the room... no doubt he must have passed the maester in the hall.

"He doesn't have to," Alaric grunted, "I'm certainly not going to trust that craven shit to go into battle."

The man's laugh was deep, "True, I doubt he could string a bow very well. I thought we weren't going to war?" The essosi notion of war was just battle.

"Not unless another Blackfyre appears, Arasmes" The two men chuckled, sharing in the joke, "Or the Golden company moves, but I doubt that. I have Karlon, and some others, acting only out of an abundance of caution." He disliked the idea of trying to organize the houses, and lands sworn to the Dreadfort in the present condition. Only the Lords of High Point had 'knights' amongst their sworn men, which was about par the course for the North... Lord Stark had been knighted but really he wasn't sure what that, those gold spurs, distinction was worth. Of course the Lords of High Point were Seven worshipers much like the Manderly for that matter. That actually didn't bother him as much as it had originally. He still held to the beliefs of his previous life, and his magics worked, which was reassuring... not that planar travel was something he was capable of. Certainly not in his weakened state. "And?"

Arasmes tilted his head, and splayed his scarred hands, "The boy is fine, the horses are fine. There should be no issue with any of it." His tone clearly implied otherwise... and in that Alaric could guess what he meant. "Speaking of horses? Are you sure we are not to battle?"

The Essossi impression of Westeros was that the military aristocracy always rushed to resolve things with sword... and perhaps if there were armies in the field it would have been different. It was just as likely that hand of the King hadn't called the banners to avoid causing the rebels to murder their hostage in a panic. Whatever troops Lord Lannister had on hand were likely enough to do what he wanted of them... at least for now.

"I may convene a council of my lords." Not that it was likely to yield much. There hadn't yet been word from Winterfell, and he doubted as fresh as he was to his position that anyone expected him to provide advice. On the other hand... this was precisely the sort of affair to solidify his respectability amongst his vassals but hosting them here. "Has there been word from High Point?"

"No," The man replied, "I know of no riders, and certainly the maester has not said of any ravens from there."

Then he'd have to pen one, "If anyone knows how to make sense of whats going on south of all of this well, its the one who's had to live through this sort of southern foolishness before." And it was true the Lord of High Point was unquestionably his oldest vassal. He had held his coronet for half a century, since his father had died in the 4th Blackfyre revolt actually. Alaric hoped that that was not the direction this was heading in. "I'll summon lord Whitehill," It would take him a week or more to get to here, but hopefully by that point there might something from Winterfell. The problem was Edric's age, at this point he had already survived two sons who had lived to see adulthood. "if word comes from Winterfell make sure I wish to be informed immediately, is Joran still out in the hall?"

He nodded, but truthfully any surprise word was unlikely. The North was the largest and most untamed of the Kingdoms. Not even the Reach truly compared in size, and their verdant plains were far from small. Worse the North's Wolf Road, and Kingsroad were the only main proper roads to speak of, and they were limited in what they touched.

No, if Alaric had wanted to send a message to his neighbors he had to send a boat down the Weeping to Overton, and ship the messenger by sea to take it along the coast. That wasn't practical per se. By the same accounting he could have done that had some sail south for the White Knife, up it and to Winterfell, but that would still take time, but at least twice as quick as overland... unless the river froze over... and that unfortunately was a very possible turn of events. IT was why it was better to sail south, and then up the white knife rather than trying to just ride for White Hill though, and go south from there... in winter at least. If this were summer it would have been different.

Six months. The Defiance at Duskendale had lasted half a year. It should have told them what all it was to come. No one could have expected what would come to pass. Of what the Defiance at Dusknedale's fallout held out as a portent for what was to come for the realm. It would have been best had Ser Barristan Selmy to have left Aerys II Targaryen alone. It would have been better perhaps for the Realm that Aerys II died in captivity.