A puddle of rainwater swelled in the storm, mingled with blood flowing from the guardsman's throat. A lord and seven men sheltered beneath the imposing archway of the gate, cold water dripping sharp and rusty teeth of the portcullis hanging in the darkness above them.
Lord Bolton knelt next to the dead guardsman at their feet, leaning over it closely, a great stench of decaying flesh rising from a slit in its exposed neck as he turned it over. Walton 'Steelshanks' wrinkled his nose in disgust but knelt with his liege, steeling himself for the identity of the murdered guard as he bent over the corpse to get a closer look.
"Seven hells…" he muttered. Maron's lifeless face stared back at him. Flecks of blood covered his face from eye to chin like rust on a dagger. Maron's opened mouth was rimmed with blood, as was his nose. Walton swiftly recoiled, but he remembered what lord would judge him, so he forced his head closer until his nostrils were filled with the putrid smell of death.
As captain of Roose's guardsmen, it was his duty to be in Lord Bolton's presence, and most importantly, never to complain. Many of his men called to him by the name Steelshanks for the expensively decorated greaves he had despoiled from a corpse during Robert's rebellion. Not a single fleck of rust ever tarnished the surface of these costly plates since they came under his possession.
Roose gave him a queer look from over the corpse, as if he had noticed Walton's suppressed expression of hunger.
"How long is he dead?"
"I asked the patrolmen who came in through this gate not long ago. Recent ones entered less than an hour ago and they swear he was still on his feet when they saw him."
Roose pried the slit throat open, putting his eyes so close Walton thought he intended to see inside the body. Blood-colored fluids seeped through Lord Bolton's fingers in the manner of juices from a sumptuous plum as the corpse's stench intensified. The lord of the Dreadfort payed it no heed, widening the gash as if he was peeling an apple, until it was wide enough for a man to slide a hand through.
Boltons certainly benefit from their experience when it comes to peeling flesh, he supposed. Especially rotting flesh.
"The latest patrols have yet to return?" Lord Bolton said over the thunderous pattering of the rain, removing his hands from the corpse and climbed to his feet.
"Yes, milord." Walton patted his leather pouch for the familiar clink of coins. "I would give orders that any man who enters this fastness be questioned… at your pleasure of course. Would you permit that I may dispatch them to the men expediently and in your name?"
Roose just nodded, wiping his bloodstained fingers on the sodden red cloak hanging about his shoulders in such a way southrons would surely be offended. Walton allowed himself a brief upward curl of his lip in a grim smile. His liege did not need insincere courtesies to attain respect from underlings like him.
"Very well. I trust you arranged for them to be questioned in my solar?" said Lord Bolton. Roose always has his way of knowing these things, doesn't he, thought Walton as he nodded, drops of water shaking off his chin as he did so. The Lord of Leeches could read his men like a scroll; it was said amongst the smallfolk that the leeches whispered him secrets in return for the blood they sucked from his pale body at night.
"Yes, my lord," replied Walton. "May I ask who—."
"Have you more to say?" said Roose calmly. Glistening water droplets covered his face yet it remained emotionless, as if he had been merely examining tracks on the ground. Walton would have shuddered, but he had served this lord ever since the Trident.
"No. I do not. But do you have any idea who killed him?" said Walton, glancing at the guardsman's soaked corpse. His lord just looked at him with his dead grey eyes. No signs of anger marked his face, but the rest told him enough. Roose Bolton gestured at two of his guardsmen behind his back to step forward and pick up the body.
"Bring it to Qyburn and tell him I would have him prepare it for burial in the godswood."
The lord turned back to face Walton as the two guards carried the body off. Here it comes, he thought.
"Gather men from the barracks and double the guard at the gates. Use trustworthy men… not our turncloak mercenaries." Roose lowered his voice as he said the last few words. "Send word if a servant or soldier is missed. And have a keen eye fixed on the Brave Companions. It is very possible it was one of them. Are you capable of that?" Raindrops shook off Walton's face as he quickly nodded.
The scoundrels of Vargo the "lord of Harrenhall," were known for their violent tendencies. It would not be the first time one killed supposed friends. Even though ended favorably for him his men, these men were not to be trusted. Men who loosen the links of gold, swords, or oaths, are apt to slacken them further. He was not surprised at hearing Tywin Lannister's servantry's tales of how swiftly innocent exchanges between Lannisters and Brave Companions turned from words to steel. No wonder they had been so gleeful when parading Amory Lorch around the courtyard naked and into the bear pit, whipping his skin red all the way.
"Yes, milord," replied Walton, and waited a few moments for his liege lord to continue.
"Now go and set to it," said Roose, and strode off towards the keep. To the warmth of hearth and bed, thought the captain, waving several Bolton men to accompany him as he set to do his duty, doing his best to ignore the pangs of hunger.
It was suspected the next morning that a group of servants murdered the guard, who that night. Walton agreed with Roose's explanation: three of the servants did the deed with stolen knives and fled the fastness with the three stolen coursers found to be missing the morning. Lord Bolton's late cupbearer was found to be missing, as well as the smith Mathis's young apprentice and a plump pantryboy. How they had managed to kill him, an experienced member of the house guard, was beyond him, but the young smith was supposedly really strong.
The procession of Brave Companions seemed to be angry enough about it at the morning meal, although he had no idea why the bastards would care about some guard. Seven hells, it was doubtful they would care if one of their own had been the one murdered. Fat Zollo, though, he looked livid, as he reached for the plate heaped with roasted trout, although Walton had to admit that was not uncommon for him. Shagwell the fool waddled to the bench, the silver bells hanging from his cap ringing raucously through the hall, and reached for a platter piled high with roasted trout.
Vargo himself was not present, having taken an early breakfast before striking out with twenty men and his boy-fucking septon in search of the missing servants.
As Walton sat on a bench next to Roose Bolton's empty seat, carving into a browned cut of fish with a knife he noted it was fortunate that the Brave Companion's steeds had not been pilfered as well. The sellswords under "Lord Vargo of Harrenhal" and "House Hoat" would have rapidly started killing soldiers and loosened the already weak knot the army consisted of.
Walton had to admit, the trout was well cooked. It truly was a shame Lord Bolton was not here to eat it. Some of his men had said while waiting for the food that they had seen him enter the Wailing Tower with Lame Lothar, perhaps to alleviate the tensions with the ever-numerous Freys living inside.
Reflecting on this, Walton noted that it was fortunate the Brave Companions had not taken fancy to killing a Frey yet; Men from the twins made up a large proportion of the men garrisoned in the fortress, and should they leave, the army would be significantly smaller. Lord Roose and Lothar managed only to keep a tenuous grip over the rest, most of whom wished to return home over Robb Stark's broken betrothal.
He peeled off the skin and put it in a pile at a corner of his plate for later, and did the same with the flesh, putting the sharp spines on the other side. Most men of Bolton knew the ironic tale of Bold Mischlad Greyiron, who conquered White Harbour from House Manderly after numerous victories against the Starks but finally died when his guts were punctured by a sharp fish spine he had swallowed. The corners of his mouth curled upwards slightly. T'would have been most kind of the Old Gods if he had managed to finish off the bloated Manderly line before his fateful fish… but alas, the world was not governed by ones who favored House Bolton. Perhaps their fortunes would change for the better after this war.
Walton's musings ended as a conversation on the adjacent table caught his ear.
"Vargo wanted that cupbearer, faithful Urswyck told me," said Shagwell from across the table in an exaggeratedly high voice. "He seeks for a bedwarmer, methinks."
"Well he still has one whore…" replied a fat, surly-looking Dothraki by the name of Zollo. "What was her name?"
"Pia?" asked Shagwell, cocking his head to the side with a clamor. "Young serving girl, mess of brown hair atop her head, and a scar on her inner thigh right next to her cunt. You would remember her well, given how many times I saw you shag her arse red.
"Aye, that is her. I fought with my bedfellows every night to keep her but I never thought to remember her name." Zollo gave a hearty chuckle and heaved a cut of fish into his voluminous mouth. "She will be sorely missed when Vargo takes her for himself."
"She will be." Shagwell said it almost longingly. He gave a deep sigh. "We should get ourselves a brothel's worth of fucks with her before Hoat strips her from us." Zollo grunted his agreement and the two returned to eating as Walton looked on.
He averted his eyes and resumed eating. He was no southron septon; he had made whores of fair womenfolk as his blood was still up from a fight, but to be so cruel as to use the same serving girl for weeks on end was beyond him. Walton deeply regretted that Roose had to allow such deeds in Harrenhal. If the Brave Companions still served the Lannisters, he would have found it easy in his heart to kill such brigands.
Soon his plate was empty and he reached for strips of dried stockfish to chew on his way out. He had two in his hands, but then he thought better of it and put them back. No longer hungry, Roose's captain climbed to his feet and marched out of the hall, hoping to bend his line of thought somewhere else.