Author's Note: Hello! This chapter will have our first POV shift since the Prologue. I initially intended this chapter to cover the Battle of Waterhold from Roose Bolton's POV as well as the scouting of the western White Knife villages from Jon Snow's POV. Unfortunately, the word count got away from me and I had to push back the Jon Snow chapter for next time. At any rate, I hope you all enjoy the peek inside Roose Bolton's head and look forward to seeing your reactions in the Comments section!
Chapter 6
Just Outside Waterhold, Shibon 15, 15,367 ABG
Roose watched his bastard ride down the fleeing peasants outside Waterhold with distaste.
'Only a fool enjoys slaughter,' he thought as he saw Ramsay laughing wildly as he cut down some peasant farmgirl.
As he contemplated ordering his son's death for what seemed the hundredth time, his captain of the guard spoke up.
"My Lord, we have captured all the villages south of here for thirty miles. What are your orders?" Steelshanks asked with a vacant look in his eyes.
His own eyes flicked to the man briefly as he considered his reply. His captain's family had served his own faithfully for generations, yet even he had quailed at the brutality of the orders he was given during this short campaign.
The genocide that he had ordered against the eastern villages along the White Knife had disturbed his levy forces greatly, but his professional soldiers only hesitated for a moment before complying.
Disobedience was not something he tolerated, and his men knew this well.
Finished inspecting his captain, he glanced back to the first objective of his campaign, Waterhold castle. Situated south of Long Lake, where the snowmelt run off from the Lonely Hills meets the White Knife, Waterhold was nestled between where those two bodies of water met and was subsequently protected from assault on its southern and eastern sides.
Besieging the castle was not an option as no doubt the Stark Lord was already aware of their presence here, just as he planned.
No, he would have to take the castle by storm.
"Have the peasants begin building ladders. I want them building all throughout the day and night. Come dawn, we will assault the castle from all four sides. Pick two groups of five-hundred of the most useless levies, they will assault the southern and eastern sides," he ordered while he watched Steelshank's reaction.
"I will do as you order, my Lord," the man said with a frown, "but might I ask how the peasants will cross the rivers. The few locals we've questioned have all said that the water is higher and flowing faster than it has been in living memory."
Giving his captain a thin smile, he said, "They will go in the river without armor, and they will have wooden ladders to float on. If they must start their crossing a few hundred yards upstream from where they intend to land, then so be it."
"Aye, my Lord. It will be done," Steelshanks said before striding off.
Focusing back in on the fleeing peasants, he saw that some of his son's men had idiotically gone into arrow range and had been killed because of it. The men on the walls cheered their inconsequential victory as a dozen peasants made it to the drawbridge safely.
'Fools, all of them' he thought as he looked at both his son's men and the Waterhold soldiers.
The honorable Lord of Waterhold had allowed all those fleeing from his army inside a castle that was only meant to house five hundred. Based on his scout's reports, the old fool had allowed upwards of five thousand men, women, and children inside Waterhold. If it weren't for his timetable, he could just plant his army outside and all those within the walls would be dead within three months to sickness and starvation.
Alas, he had his own issues as well. His supply train already stretched over one-hundred-eighty miles and was a mess due to all the rain and snowmelt the north had been inundated with as of late. His decision to order the attacks on the White Knife villages had as much to do with their lack of supplies as it did with the primary goal of gaining system experience for his most loyal and trained men.
As it was, he had about a weeks-worth of food for his army and he needed Waterhold's granary intact if he wanted to meet Stark on close to even terms.
Briefly, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. His decision to rebel had not been an easy one, even with the 'system quest' that he had been given. However, he knew that the Starks would never forget his family's past failed rebellions and their introduction to the Land had caused the chaos that he needed in order to see his family take back the legacy of their forefathers, the legacy of the Red Kings.
'What is done is done,' he thought idly as he watched his bastard ride toward him with his lackeys in tow.
His son rode up to him proudly, as if he thought he was some great conquering King of old.
"Father! We killed all those fools who would rise against us and caused the rest to flee," his son said with a vicious grin.
He let the silence stretch between them as he stared at his fool of a son before coldly saying, "You will dismount when you speak to me and you will address me as 'Lord', bastard."
His son's face flushed red and morphed into a rictus of hatred for but a moment before he dismounted and kneeled before him.
"I apologize, my Lord. I have done as you asked," he finished with a whine in his tone, like a dog that doesn't know why it had been kicked.
"You have," he agreed with a short nod of his head.
"You and your men have proven yourself well against unarmed smallfolk, bastard. I imagine you have leveled several times due to your work," he said with a slightly raised brow.
"Most of my men have reached Level 3 while I'm Level 4, my Lord," his son said proudly, before he remembered who he was speaking to and adopted a meek pose.
"Truly," he said, affecting that he was impressed. "You might just prove yourself capable of the task I have for you," he mused aloud.
"What would you have of me, my Lord?" Ramsay asked eagerly.
Searching the bastard's expression for a hint of disloyalty, he said, "You will take three hundred cavalry and find a ford across the White Knife. Sack the villages and route all the supplies back to the army. I have no doubt that Stark will send some Lordling to protect those villagers. Bring me his head. If you succeed, you will have earned my name," he said while withholding a grimace. "If you fail, don't bother returning."
"I will not fail you, my Lord. I will earn your name," Ramsay said with a mad light in his eyes.
"Good," he said disinterestedly. "You will leave as soon as the men are prepared."
Ramsay bowed before turning and mounting his horse. His son rode back to his men who let out a shout of glee after hearing their orders.
'With any luck, he'll kill Stark's scouts and be killed himself,' he thought with a hint of a smile.
'And on the off-chance that he actually succeeds, well, success washes away many stains.'
Looking once more at the castle before him, he allowed a thin smile to come to his face as he thought of what the dawn would bring.
'All of the histories will say that tomorrow was the day the Red Kings were reborn,' he thought in satisfaction.
Turning to his manservant, he said, "Bring the leeches to my tent."
The terrified man resignedly nodded his head before rushing off.
'Yes,' he thought. 'It begins tomorrow.'
Just Outside Waterhold, Shibon 16, 15,367 ABG
As the dawn Sun began to rise over the horizon, rays of light shone down and glinted off the weapons and armor of the massed ranks of his army.
His northern and western hosts were made up of his elites, men who had benefited greatly from the slaughters they had taken part in since their coming to the Land. He, himself, would lead the northern host of one thousand men as they stormed the thirty-foot-high walls. His infantry was placed in front, four hundred yards away from the castle. The enemy archers, atop their high walls and empowered by the system, could likely reach out over three hundred yards with their bows, so it was best to be cautious. His own archers, two-hundred-fifty in number, were behind the infantry and would hopefully blunt the arrow storm that would likely greet his men as they crossed the field. Lastly, he had two-hundred-fifty cavalry on his flanks, ornamental until his infantry had gained a section of the walls.
He glanced at the flagbearer a quarter of a mile away and noted that he had yet to raise the flag indicating that the peasants had begun crossing the river on the southern and eastern sides.
Looking to the west, he saw his Western host, equal in numbers to his own and led by Steelshanks, looking at him and waiting for the signal to advance.
'Come on, you useless shits, cross the river' he thought as he looked back at the flagbearer.
Minutes passed without change and his temper began to fray. Just as he was about to order the advance, he saw the flagbearer raise the sigil of the flayed man.
'Good,' he thought, relieved. 'They will draw the arrow fire away from my trained men.'
As he ordered the advance, his thoughts turned prophetic. There were maybe thirty archers attempting to cover the entire northern side. Still his men fell. The height advantage and the skill of the enemy's trained archers was telling and as he walked forward, shield overhead, he noted dozens of his men that had fallen with arrows embedded in them.
Finally, they reached the wall.
He watched as his men efficiently placed the ladders against the stone walls. As the first men began their climb, stones were dropped from overhead crushing helmets and breaking bones. The arrows from the walls were coming less and less though as his own archers got in range and were firing overhead, covering the men climbing.
What happened next shocked him. Peasant men on top of the walls rushed about and began to drop clay jars on top of his men's head, doing little but showering them in liquid. His confusion morphed to horror as he saw an archer with a flaming arrow knocked to his bow lift his head over the wall.
Before he could issue an order to kill the man, one of his own archers put an arrow through the archer's eye. Breathing a sigh of relief, he watched as the first of his men made it to the top of the walls. The man was quickly killed but his death was not in vain. Dozens of other men reached the top on the other ladders and the numbers began to tell.
Waterhold was not a populous holding. Given the speed with which his army marched, he would be surprised if they had their full five-hundred men on their walls. The resistance by the enemy was valiant but too little.
Ten minutes later and his men had cleared the northern section of the walls and they let the enemy know it by letting out a cheer.
Nodding his head at the inevitable conclusion, he made his way up one of the ladders and joined his men atop the battlements where he heard a grizzled old sergeant barking orders.
"…the western walls! The rest of you will hold this section of the wall from any sorties from the fish-men from the eastern walls!"
As the man turned and noticed him, the veteran blanched and went to a knee.
"Pardon me, milord," the man said fearfully "I was just ordering the men to stop celebrating and help Steelshanks' men take the western walls."
"I do not pardon you, man, for you did nothing wrong," he said coldly. Looking at the somber soldiers observing the scene he said, "Why are you men standing around, do as this man says, we have a battle to fight," he finished in a louder tone than he was accustomed to speaking.
A roar went up at his words and the majority of his men rushed toward the western walls. The old sergeant remained on a knee until he walked up and laid a hand on the man's shoulder.
"You will hold this section of the wall, sergeant. Do not fail me," he said quietly.
"I will do as you say, milord," the man said fervently.
Nodding his head at the man's words, he walked to the inner portion of the walls and looked out over the battlements toward Waterhold proper. The frightened peasants were packed against each other as they looked up toward him with faces begging for mercy.
"If you do not raise a hand against my men I will grant you mercy," he said as he looked over the crowd.
Most seemed to sag in relief at his words while the smart ones in the crowd looked at him with suspicion. Shrugging slightly, he began walking toward the western walls where he could still hear the clash of arms.
As he reached the ongoing confrontation, he noticed that the battle for the western wall was all but over. The few defenders could not defend against an enemy on top of the walls while they prevented others from storming forth from the ladders. In short, it was a massacre.
After clearing the west, he met with Steelshanks and ordered him to take the south while he would press forward against the few defenders remaining on the eastern walls.
Thirty minutes later and the walls were his. After an hour of back and forth with his commanders, he decided to funnel his trained infantry into the courtyard to corral the peasants while his archers overlooked everyone atop the walls.
Making his way down to the courtyard, he noticed that some of his men were holding what looked to be the battered form of one of the Waterman boys, the middle one if his memory served.
Walking toward the boy, he grabbed his chin gently and forced him to look him in the eye. The boy's eyes, dilated in what had to be due to an injury, soon focused on him and the boy thrashed in his men's grip.
"Murderer!" the little wretch spat at him.
Calmly wiping the spittle from his face, he ordered the men to take the boy to his tent outside the walls and to keep him under guard.
Walking through the throng of cowed peasants, he began looking for the castle's Lord. One of the servants soon volunteered that the old man was last seen ordering oil to be brought to the granary.
Grimacing at the news, he quickened his pace, his loyal soldiers behind him.
They found the old Lord, lit torch in hand with a line of oil at his feet that lead to the sacks of grain in the granary.
Walking forward slowly, he called out to the enraged Lord.
"Lord Waterman," he began calmly "you have lost. Show honor and grace in your defeat," he finished quietly.
"Honor," the gnarled old man spat. "That for your honor, Lord Bolton. You have invaded my lands and taken my castle unprovoked. Stark will hear of this," he threatened.
"Indeed, I should hope Eddard hears of this after all the trouble I have gone to in getting his attention," Roose said mockingly.
"I will tell you this now, Lord Waterman. Should you set fire to that oil I will visit untold horrors on all those peasants you so nobly granted sanctuary to."
"Treacherous Bolton dog," Lord Waterman spat at him. "What guarantees do I have that you won't do those things anyways."
"Would a system guaranteed blood oath be enough for you?" he calmly inquired.
Lord Waterman looked confused before saying, "What in the seven hells is a system blood oath?"
"No, no, Lord Waterman. I will have your answer. Yes or no?"
The enraged Lord nodded his head jerkily as he watched Roose with distrust.
Roose unsheathed his flaying knife before quickly running it over his left hand.
"I, Roose Bolton, do swear that I will grant mercy to the smallfolk that reside within these walls should Creel Waterman surrender himself freely with the granary and its contents intact" he said somberly.
As soon as he finished speaking, notifications flashed before both men's eyes.
Know This! You have made a Blood Oath of Truth. In the Land, your words have meaning. You have pledged to "grant mercy to the smallfolk that reside within these walls." Actions that run counter to your words and intent will cause a permanent loss in Charisma equivalent to the severity of your violation.
You have received a Mark: Blood Oath of Truth.
Lord Waterman looked at him in shock before he schooled his expression.
"I will take you at your word then, Bolton," he said as he grimaced.
Roose simply nodded before motioning his men forward. Once they had taken custody of the Lord and ensured that the granary was secure, he turned to give orders to Steelshanks and his other commanders.
"Hear me, men, and do exactly as I command. No Bolton soldier or levy will rape or steal from any of the peasants within these walls. The men-at-arms will quickly and cleanly kill all of the men, women, and children while the archers provide cover fire."
His men looked shocked while Lord Waterman bellowed in rage as he tried and failed to break free of the Bolton men holding him.
As he walked toward the old Lord, he quickly dismissed the notification he received for later.
"Honorless cur. I should have known better than to trust a Bolton," the old man sagged in defeat before raising his head defiantly. As the old man's eyes took in his visage, he recoiled.
"What have you become?" the old man said, horrified.
"Whatever I have to," Roose replied, stoically. "Regardless of whatever the system thinks, what I have granted to your people is a mercy to what they would have received."
"You are a monster," the broken Lord said simply.
"Perhaps," Roose said quietly as he slit the old man's throat.
As he reveled in the satisfaction of a job well done, he opened his notifications.
Know This! You have violated your Blood Oath of Truth. As your words caused Creel Waterman to justifiably rely on your mercy, the universal definition of which is, "compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone whom it is within one's power to punish or harm," you have been Judged by the local Auditor, whose duty was to determine the severity of your violation. Because of your Alignment: Evil (-1), your Quality: Dishonorable, and your personal definition of mercy, the severity of your Judgment is Minor. Permanent effect of: -30% Charisma.
Frowning at the message, he decided that it could be worse. Deciding to look through the rest of his notifications, he pulled up the next one.
Congratulations! You have discovered your first Quality: Dishonorable. You chose to order the death of innocents for your own gain after promising to grant 'mercy'. Be true to yourself to find your specific power. -2 Charisma, +3% increase in critical strike chance and critical strike damage.
Your Mark: Blood Oath of Truthhas evolved to Minor Violation of Blood Oath of Truth.
Pulling up his status, he looked over what he had gained so far.
Name: Roose Bolton
Level: 5, 87%
Age: 41
Race: Human
Alignment: Evil (-1)
Languages: Andalos 'Common Tongue'
Reputation: Level 1 "Who are you again?"
STATS
Health: 160
Mana: 100
Stamina: 140
ATTRIBUTES
Strength: 14
Agility: 18
Dexterity: 22
Constitution: 16
Endurance: 14
Intelligence: 10
Wisdom: 10
Charisma: 5
Luck: 10
RESISTANCES
None
SKILLS
Skinning: 3, 16, 100
Small Blades: 9, 36, 97
Swordsmanship: 4, 12, 83
Administration: 7, 35, 81
Deception: 7, 81, 95
War Leader: 6, 98, 89
ABILITIES
Legacy of the Red Kings: +15% Dexterity, +5 Dexterity
Skinning Savant: +10 skill levels to Skinning when using skill on Sapients (Grants skill Skinning)
MARKS
Master of The Dreadfort
Minor Violation of Blood Oath of Truth
Slaughterer of Innocents
Humming softly to himself, he looked over his status in satisfaction. Cocking his head to the side, he realized that the screaming from above seemed to die down. Perhaps he would try and level his Skinning skill on the Waterman boy this afternoon. It would be a waste of his Ability if he didn't, after all.
Sighing, he realized after all the excitement he would likely have to be leeched again tonight. It wouldn't do for him to become intemperate like his fool of a son.
'The things I do for my legacy,' he thought, as he shook his head.