II-26: Dread Lord I

The ancient stones of the Dreadfort whispered beneath Roose Bolton's boots as he strode through its shadowed corridors, each measured step echoing with the weight of centuries. High above, massive oak rafters stretched like the ribs of some long-dead beast, their weathered surfaces catching the guttering torchlight. The flames cast strange shadows across walls that had witnessed generations of Bolton rule, their dancing shapes reminiscent of men writhing in torment. How fitting, he mused, watching a particularly grotesque shadow twist across the rough-hewn stone.

The air was thick with the peculiar chill that seemed to permeate the fortress regardless of season, carrying with it the faint metallic tang that no amount of scrubbing had ever quite managed to remove from the stones. Blood has its own sort of permanence. Roose's pale eyes, the color of dirty ice, took in every detail of his surroundings with the dispassionate attention of a master studying his domain.

A serving woman, no more than nine-and-ten, pressed herself against the wall as he passed, her breath catching in her throat like a frightened bird. The corner of his mouth twitched fractionally—not quite a smile, but something altogether more unsettling. Another servant bobbed a hasty bow, his weathered face gone as pale as curdled milk, while a third simply vanished into a darkened alcove, swift and silent as a shadow.

A serving girl, barely more than a child from the look of her, trembled as she bowed, her hands twisting in her apron. Practically tastes of terror.

"M-my Lord Bolton," she stammered, her words tumbling out in a clumsy rush. Roose's gaze flicked over her, pale eyes taking in her trembling form with a dispassionate, almost clinical detachment. Unremarkable. Plain. Easily replaced.

He continued on without acknowledging her, the soft swish of his cloak against the flagstones the only sound in the yawning silence of the corridor. The missive his Maester had delivered was a leaden weight against his chest, the parchment smooth beneath his fingers as he reached up to touch it through the rich fabric of his doublet.

The weight of the message pressed against his chest where it lay secured within his doublet, its presence a constant reminder of the delicate game he now played. Young Stark must not catch the scent, he thought, his fingers absently brushing the spot where the parchment rested. The boy was green as summer grass, desperate to prove himself worthy of his father's seat, and all the more dangerous for it.

Like a pup with new teeth, liable to bite at any perceived threat.

His own expression remained as unchanging as the stone beneath his feet, every feature schooled into perfect stillness through decades of practice. Not a single line creased his forehead, no telling twitch betrayed his thoughts. The servants who scurried past saw only what he wished them to see: their lord, composed and unreachable as the winter moon.

The missive that had arrived with the dawn weighed on his thoughts, though no outward sign betrayed his contemplation. Its contents could crack the foundations of the careful peace he'd built, if whispered in the wrong ears. Peace through strength, he reflected to himself, remembering the words he'd once and would never again speak to his bastard. A peaceful land, a quiet people.

The great hall of the Dreadfort spread before him like the maw of some ancient beast, its vaulted ceiling vanishing into darkness far above where century-old rafters lurked in perpetual shadow. Torchlight caught the weathered stone walls where mounted heads of stags and bears gazed down with glass eyes, their expressions frozen in eternal terror. As all things should look upon House Bolton, Roose mused, his footsteps whispering against the worn flagstones.

A palpable wave of tension rippled through the assembled household as he entered, backs straightening and breaths catching. The sound of nervous shuffling echoed off the high walls like a soft susurration of fear.

He took his seat at the high table with fluid precision, each movement carefully measured and controlled. The chair, carved with flayed men and worn smooth by generations of Bolton lords, received him like an old friend. Though his gaze remained fixed ahead, his pale eyes, the color of morning mist over a frozen lake, drifted across the gathered faces below. Every twitch, every averted glance, every bead of sweat told its own tale.

Steward Elmar approached with the day's matters, his shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller. "My lord," he began, voice barely rising above a whisper, "the granaries report sufficient stores for winter, though the southern fields yielded less than expected." He paused, swallowing hard enough that his throat bobbed visibly. "The fishing villages along the Weeping Water speak of strange occurrences. Boats found empty, nets torn."

"Continue," Roose commanded softly, the word barely stirring the air between them.

"Hunters from the woodland holdings tell of massive beasts, my lord. A moose the size of two warhorses atop each other was seen near the Last River. Giant rats in the root cellars of Weeping Town." Elmar's hands twisted together like mating snakes. "And..." He hesitated, eyes darting to the shadows as if seeking refuge.

Fear makes men see giants in shadows, Roose reflected, though something in the steward's manner gave him pause. The reports were too specific, too consistent to be mere peasant superstition.

"M-my Lord?" Elmar's voice cracked like thin ice, his throat bobbing. "There is one other matter..."

Roose tilted his head a fraction, the slight movement causing the steward to flinch as if struck.

"Ramsay, my Lord. He was seen near Last Hearth, riding with his... the men of his that you allowed him." The single syllable was spoken with distaste, the castellan's lip curling, as if he didn't believe they were deserving of even that.

The high seat of the Dreadfort creaked softly as Roose leaned back, his long fingers meeting beneath his chin in a practiced gesture. Shadows from the guttering torches danced across the weathered stone walls, casting strange patterns that seemed to writhe and twist like men upon the rack. The familiar weight of centuries pressed down upon him, heavy as a crown of iron and twice as cold.

The news was unsurprising. Expected, even.

Still, the question bore asking…

"And what, pray tell," he began, each word falling into the silence like drops of water in a deep well. His voice was barely above a whisper, yet it carried to every corner of the great hall. "...was my natural son doing by Umber lands?" The emphasis on 'natural' was slight but deliberate, sharp as a flaying knife's edge.

The castellan's discomfort was a tangible thing, sweat beading on his brow despite the perpetual chill that clung to the ancient stones. His eyes darted between the mounted heads on the walls, as if seeking counsel from their glassy stares. Fear has a particular scent, Roose mused, watching the man's hands tremble. Like copper and salt.

It was new to him, even with the power he'd still managed to clutch to, this odd sense and innate aura of dread these last few weeks. Would that he could, the lord of the Dreadfort would have sought answers but neither books nor men could truly help him here.

"Hunting, my Lord," the castellan managed, his words stumbling over each other in their haste to escape. "So the scouts reported. Though what manner of prey, they did not see." A drop of sweat traced its way down his temple, catching the torchlight like a tear.

How very interesting, Roose thought, remembering the weight of the message that still pressed against his chest. The morning's raven had brought more than mere rumor, it seemed. Old knowledge of the Red Kings stirred in the depths of his mind, memories older than the very stones around them. The white birds fly again.

"I am aware of my natural son's whereabouts," he said softly, measuring each word with the precision of an apothecary weighing poison. The firelight caught his eyes, pale as morning mist over a frozen lake. "In fact, I received word from one of my bannermen near Last Hearth. It seems Ramsay has met his end at the hands of a stranger. Some odd boy of possible noble birth."

The castellan's face went as white as fresh-fallen snow, his mouth working soundlessly for a moment. "My Lord...that merchant..." The words seemed to stick in his throat like bones.

"Yes." Roose's voice was softer still, barely a breath in the stillness. Memories of the merchant's screams echoed in his mind, sweet as summer wine. "It appears my pointed conversation with him was not entirely necessary. He spoke only the truth. But no matter."

He waved a hand in dismissal, the gesture smooth final. "You shall dispatch a raven to my nearest bannermen near this village. Have them mete out a punishment with the caution and duty I expect. Above all, they should return my blood to the Dreadfort."

"Understood, my Lord." The castellan's voice quavered like a bowstring drawn too tight. "And the boy..."

"The boy." The ancient name rose unbidden in Roose's mind, carrying with it the weight of centuries. White as snow, pale as death, crowned in frost. "They say he calls himself...Veder."

The castellan's breath caught audibly, a small frightened sound that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. "V-Veder, my Lord?"

Roose fixed him with a stare that seemed to stretch across ages, memories of blood on snow and crowns cast down flickering behind his eyes. "Yes. Veder." The name hung between them, heavy and old. The white birds fly still, after all these years.

The question of 'how' went unanswered.

Silence stretched between lord and steward taut as a victim's skin, before Roose's lips curved into a smile that never touched his eyes. Cold radiated from him like winter wind off the Shivering Sea. "You have your orders. See that they are filled. In addition to my blood… I require a new blade."

"A new blade, my lord?" asked Elmar, with all the deference one should have when approaching their lord with a question.

"Indeed."

The castellan stood frozen, terror holding him in place more surely than chains as a slow and rare smile spread even further across his lord's face.

"A white blade."