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I decided to post a bit earlier than usual due to me having an accident with my laptop charger on Christmas as my members know, so laptops dead. Now i can only write on my work computer so enjoy as updates will be a bit slow as writing from work will be a bother. At home i can only type on my phone
Roose Bolton's footsteps echoed across the flagstones of the Dreadfort's courtyard, each step measured and deliberate. The pale morning sun shining through the massive glass structures that dominated the eastern section of his castle grounds. His ghost-grey eyes tracked the movement of servants as they harvested the bounty from within, their backs bent in careful labor.
The steam constructors clicked and whirred, their metal legs carrying them between the rows of crops with inhuman precision. One paused in its work, rotating its head toward him before continuing its predetermined path. Roose's fingers twitched - even after four years, the machines still unsettled him. But their efficiency was undeniable.
"My lord." A servant bowed low as Roose passed, nearly dropping his basket of blood-red grapes. The man's voice barely rose above a whisper, just as Roose preferred.
Inside the first glasshouse, warmth enveloped him despite the autumn chill outside. The air hung heavy with moisture, thick with the scent of earth and growing things. Fruit trees lined the central path, their branches heavy with apples and pears. The harvest had exceeded expectations again.
"The wheat yield?" Roose's soft voice carried to his steward, who materialized from between the rows of crops.
"Three times what we'd expect from open fields, my lord, as has become per usual. The surplus alone will fetch a handsome price at White Harbor once more."
Roose ran a pale finger along one of the metal support beams. The structure was flawless - no joints visible, no seams where water might leak. The work of Owen Longshore's machines. The man's creations had changed the North these past 4 years, though Roose wondered if Lord Stark truly understood the power he'd brought into their midst.
A second constructor skittered past, carrying a watering can in its articulated limbs. The machine's movements were smooth, purposeful. Like a well-trained soldier, it knew its place and purpose. Roose could appreciate that, even if he kept his own servants under watch when they worked near the things.
The profits from these glasshouses had filled the Dreadfort's coffers beyond expectation. Even in the depths of autumn, fresh fruits and vegetables flowed from his lands. The smallfolk were better fed, stronger - though no less quiet. A peaceful land, a quiet people. The steam constructors had helped ensure both.
But as he was no fool. Roose's mind catalogued the discrepancies as he walked the length of the glasshouse. Two structures - that's what Lord Stark had granted the Dreadfort. The same number House Dustin and House Ryswell received. Enough to feed their people, enough to generate modest wealth, but nothing more.
Yet his network of informants painted a different picture across the North. House Manderly's lands flourished with five glasshouses at New Castle alone, and three more in each of their villages. White Harbor had transformed into a cornucopia of fresh produce even as autumn deepened. Their coffers swelled with the profits from preserved foods and exotic crops.
The Glovers, once a modest house, now boasted five structures at Deepwood Motte. Robett Glover's elevation in status hadn't gone unnoticed - his keep practically glowed with prosperity. House Mormont, despite their remote location on Bear Island, enjoyed the same bounty. Even the Umbers, wild as they were, had been granted five of the magical structures.
The pattern was clear to Roose's calculating mind. Eddard Stark had divided the North into circles of trust, though he'd done it quietly enough that most wouldn't notice. Those houses who'd proven their absolute loyalty received abundance - enough glasshouses to generate significant wealth and influence. The Manderlys, Glovers, Mormonts, and Umbers prospered far beyond their traditional means.
Meanwhile, houses like his own received just enough to maintain contentment - two glasshouses, no more. The message was subtle but clear: Lord Stark remembered old grievances and ancient rebellions. The Boltons would be permitted to benefit from Owen Longshore's innovations, but never to the same degree as Stark's most trusted bannermen.
"My lord?" The steward's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Shall I send a request to lord owen to have the constructors adjust the irrigation schedule?"
Roose waved his hand in dismissal. "Leave them to their work." His pale eyes followed the mechanical servants as they tended the crops with inhuman precision. He wondered what other marvels Owen Longshore had gifted to Stark's favored houses - what secrets lay hidden behind their walls while the Dreadfort made do with the bare minimum of innovation.
Roose's hand went to the sword at his side. Made of pure steel and embedded with ores of ebony according to Lord Owen. Roose had named it Bloody Heart. The weapon's grip felt cool against his palm, the leather wrapping worn smooth from hours of practice. Every lord of the north had received one such special weapon, whether a mace, sword, spear, daggers or Warhammer - a master-crafted weapon made of special ores that only Lord Stark and Owen knew of its location.
His spies had informed him the only ones who hadn't received any were Lord Stark, Wyman and Robett, the two having apparently bought a large selection of special weapons from Owen before they knew who he was. The weapons had been how they found him in the first place. Another advantage three houses had over them.
He felt for the handle of Bloody Heart. The blade was perfectly balanced, its edge never seeming to dull no matter how much use it saw. Even now, after countless practice sessions, it remained as sharp as the day Owen had presented it to him. It was a good blade anyway, something Domeric would take when Roose died. His son had admired the weapon from the moment Roose had brought it home, though he'd never asked to wield it. Domeric understood patience, at least. That was something.
Roose's thoughts drifted back from his sword to the disparity in resources as he watched another constructor methodically prune a row of fruit trees. The uneven distribution of these magical glass structures across the North rankled him, though his face remained an impassive mask. Two glasshouses - a pittance compared to what Manderly and the others enjoyed.
He understood Eddard Stark's reasoning, of course. Centuries of mistrust didn't vanish with a bent knee and sworn oaths. The Starks had always kept the Boltons at arm's length, using their fearsome reputation when it suited them while maintaining a careful distance. Tales of Bolton cruelty served the North well enough when enemies needed frightening, but that didn't translate to trust.
Roose's ghost-grey eyes settled on a particular flagstone in the courtyard. Few knew that it marked one of the entrances to the maze of tunnels beneath the Dreadfort. Fewer still knew what lay in those dark passages. The flaying chambers weren't just stories to scare children - they were very real, their stone walls still stained with centuries of blood.
In one particular chamber, deep below where he stood, four flayed skins hung in a place of honor. Four Stark sons, taken during the age of the Red Kings, before House Bolton finally knelt to Winterfell. Their preserved flesh served as a grim reminder of the power House Bolton once wielded. Roose never spoke of them or even hinted at their existence - there was no need. The very existence of those chambers, and what they contained, explained why House Stark would never fully trust a Bolton, no matter how many generations passed.
Roose's thoughts drifted to his father's last words, spoken from his deathbed fifteen years ago. "One day, the Boltons will rule the North. The Starks will fall by our hand." Those words had echoed in Roose's mind countless times over the years, a prophecy passed down through generations of Bolton lords after they had knelt to stark rule.
But as he watched another steam constructor methodically tend to the crops, Roose felt that ancient dream slipping away like water through cupped hands. The North had transformed beyond recognition in the four years since Owen Longshore's arrival. Gold flowed freely through White Harbor's and Ice crests ports, the coffers of every major house swelling with profits from preserved foods and exotic crops. The Northern fleet, once a joke among the coastal powers of the world, now patrolled the waters with ships that seemed to spring from legend rather than any known shipwright's plans, too fast to be seen by southern eyes yet armed to the teeth.
Most troubling were the metal sentinels - those towering constructs that Owen called "Dwemer Colossi." They patrolled the major roads and fortifications along with armies of Dwemer automatons and steam constructors, their heavy footfalls echoing through the Wolfswood day and night. Each colossus stood thirty feet tall, armed with massive swords and weapons that spat fire like dragons of legend. The Dreadfort had been granted just one for its protection, while Winterfell housed a dozen, White Harbor five, and even distant Bear Island boasted two. Though he wondered if the colossus was there for the dreadforts own protection or to be turned on him should he…step out of line as it were.
Where once the harsh winters had driven many to seek warmer climates in the south, now that flow had reversed. Northerners with First Men blood were returning in droves, drawn by tales of prosperity and abundance. But they didn't settle in Bolton lands. No, they flocked to Winterfell, White Harbor, and the newly established seat of House Longshore at Sea Dragon Point.
Even the smallfolk who might once have settled in his territories chose other paths. The Dreadfort's reputation for cruelty, though greatly exaggerated in Roose's time - he saw no practical value in torturing the smallfolk as his ancestors had - still cast a long shadow. He knew his forbears had likely earned that reputation through boredom as much as malice, but the damage was done. New settlers avoided Bolton lands like a plague, preferring the welcoming arms of Stark loyalist houses.
This shift meant more than just empty fields. Each settler who chose Manderly over Bolton, Glover over Bolton, or Stark over Bolton represented not just lost tax revenue but lost military potential. The armies that each house could field were determined by their population, and the Bolton's traditional advantage in numbers was eroding with each passing season.
Roose sighed quietly as he left the glasshouses behind, walking towards his keep. The morning mist still clung to the ground, wreathing his feet in grey tendrils that reminded him of smoke rising from a battlefield. He had toyed once with the idea of sending armed rogues to capture Owen and bring him back to the Dreadfort for some... persuasion in knowing how to control his creations, but he knew that would probably lead to failure and suspicion. Young as he was, Owen did seem to be too observant for his own good - an admirable trait as long as it wasn't pointed at Roose. The young lord seemed to notice slight details, and if a kidnapping failed, it wouldn't be long before the great smith lord knew who was behind it.
The thought brought a bitter taste to Roose's mouth. If only Owen had agreed to let Domeric join his house as a ward and student of his teachings. His son would have found out how to forge these weapons or where Lord Owen mined these exotic ores. When Roose had made the suggestion during the harvest festival four years ago, Owen had politely declined, citing that his methods were gifts from the Old Gods meant only for him. The excuse had been diplomatic enough that even Roose couldn't take offense without seeming unreasonable.
Domeric had taken the rejection with grace, though Roose had seen the disappointment in his son's eyes. The boy had a passion for learning that sometimes worried Roose - too much curiosity could be dangerous in their world. Still, Domeric's intelligence and patience would have made him the perfect student to learn Owen's secrets. Instead, his son spent his days managing the Dreadfort's expanding trade operations, a task he performed admirably but one that fell far short of what might have been.
Roose was not stupid though. Owen seemed an amiable person, but he knew exactly where that rejection had come from. This had Eddard Stark's hands all over it. The Wolf Lord's influence was clear, especially considering how Jon Snow, Stark's bastard, had joined Sea Dragon Point as Owen Longshore's master-at-arms. Another slight the wolf had given the flayed man.
He walked into the keep, feeling the warmth rise as the "heating system," as Owen had called it, warmed the whole structure of the Dreadfort. Of course, it was serviced and controlled by an automaton beyond Roose's bidding. He watched the metal creature adjust valves and check gauges with its precise mechanical movements, maintaining the perfect temperature throughout the castle. The heating systems had been another of Lord Owen's inventions, ensuring every castle and the houses of their smallfolk villages stayed warm through even the harshest winters.
Along with the heating came the "water purifiers" and "showers" - more innovations that had transformed daily life in the North. It actually amused Roose how many smallfolk took regular showers now that hot water was just a turn of a metal knob away. The servants in his own keep seemed almost eager to use the facilities, no longer dreading the cold wash basins of old. Though at the very least, their Northern men and women looked much more... comely now they were clean. And healthier too - the maesters reported fewer illnesses since the introduction of the purified water systems for clean drinking water.
Roose walked through the stone corridors, his footsteps echoing off the walls despite the thick carpets Owen's trade had brought them. The now familiar weight of Bloody Heart at his hip provided little comfort as he approached his solar. He already knew who waited within - he'd seen Domeric's expression at breakfast, recognized the determined set of his son's jaw. The same look his mother had worn when she wanted something.
He pushed open the heavy oak door to find Domeric standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out at the courtyard below. The boy had his mother's build - tall and lean rather than Roose's stockier frame. But there was something of the Bolton coldness and ruthlessness in him too, hidden beneath his courteous exterior.
Roose settled into the chair behind his desk, noting how his son remained silent until he was seated. Good manners, always. That was Domeric's way.
"Father," Domeric turned from the window, his grey eyes meeting Roose's own. "I wish to meet my brother."
The words hung in the air between them. Roose kept his face carefully blank, though inwardly he sighed. He'd known this day would come eventually, had dreaded it even.
"You have no brother," Roose said flatly. "The boy you speak of is a bastard, nothing more. He is not to be bothered with."
"He is still of our blood-" Domeric started.
"He is nothing but a rabid dog," Roose cut him off, his voice sharp as a blade. "You would do better to focus your attention on continuing your letters to Lord Owen. Perhaps he will finally grant you that visit you seek, allow you to witness his newest creations."
"Ramsay," Domeric said quietly.
Roose's eyes widened just a fraction, the only outward sign of his surprise. "How do you know that name?"
Roose studied his son's face, waiting for an answer that didn't come. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sounds of steam constructors working in the courtyard below. Finally, he sighed, a barely audible exhale that spoke volumes about the inevitability of this moment.
"Very well," Roose said, his voice as soft and cold as falling snow. "I will write to Lord Owen myself, requesting a week's stay at Ice Crest. Perhaps longer, if he proves amenable." His pale eyes fixed on Domeric. "I will attach it to your own letter. The combined weight of our requests may sway him."
He paused, measuring his next words carefully. "And when you return from Sea Dragon Point - assuming Lord Owen grants this request - I will personally take you to meet your... brother."
Something flickered across Domeric's face - not quite a smile, but close enough to one that it made him look younger, more like the boy he'd been before his fostering at the Redfort. "Thank you, Father." He bowed slightly, the gesture precise and proper as always, before turning to leave the solar.
Roose waited until the door closed behind his son before reaching into his desk drawer. He withdrew a fresh sheet of paper, the kind that Owen's constructors produced - smooth and pristine, without the rough edges of traditional parchment. Taking up one of the new "pens" that had become so fashionable among the Northern lords, he considered its strange design. The metal tip didn't require constant dipping like a quill, drawing ink smoothly from some internal reservoir.
Owen had mentioned these were now common in Essos, particularly among the money-changers and merchants of the Free Cities. Roose could see why - the convenience alone made them worth their considerable price. Lord owen would complain as well, seeing as both paper and pen were also his creation. When the maesters finally knew lord longshore made them, they would fight tooth and nail for whole ships of them no doubt.
Roose set aside the strange new pen for a moment, reaching instead for a more traditional quill. Some messages were better written with older tools - it felt more fitting somehow. The ink was thick and black, another of Owen's creations that didn't fade like the watery substances of old.
His first letter was brief and to the point. Six hundred gold dragons would be delivered to the miller's widow, along with passage to Braavos on the next ship. The warning was clear - return to Westeros, and her life would be forfeit. It was more generous than she deserved, but Roose believed in tying up loose ends neatly, even if not by death.
The second part of the letter dealt with Ramsay and his companion "Reek". The instructions were precise - both were to be eliminated quietly, their bodies disposed of where they would never be found. Roose had considered having them brought to the Dreadfort's dungeons, but that carried too much risk. Better to have it done quickly and cleanly.
He sealed this letter with plain wax - no sigil, nothing to trace it back to him. His men would know what to do.
Then Roose picked up Owen's pen again, appreciating its smooth flow as he began the second letter. This one would need to appear genuine, concerned, a lord's duty to report troubling matters to his liege. He chose his words carefully, writing of strange ships seen off the northern coast, of whispers about foreign powers taking interest in the North's newfound wealth and military strength.
The letter painted a picture of potential threats, of the need for the crown to perhaps investigate these matters personally. After all, what loyal lord wouldn't want to ensure the realm's security? And if such an investigation led to questions about the North's rapid rise in power, well, that was hardly Roose's concern.
He wrote steadily, his pale eyes focused on the task, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. The North had grown too strong too quickly, and someone needed to restore the "balance". If he couldn't have lord Owen's power for himself, perhaps it was time for others to take notice of it.