Roose bolted upright in his bed, sweat coating his pale skin despite the warmth from the metal pipes that snaked through the Dreadfort's walls. His ghost-grey eyes darted around the darkened chamber, searching for threats that existed only in the fading wisps of his nightmare.
The brass pipes hummed their constant melody, pumping heat through the castle - another of Longshore's creations that had wormed its way into his ancestral home. His fingers clutched the furs draped across his bed, knuckles white with tension.
"My lord?" A servant's voice called through the heavy oak door, one of the ones on duty at night in case he needed anything. "Is everything well?"
"Leave me." The words came out barely above a whisper, yet carried their usual command. Footsteps retreated down the corridor.
Roose pressed his palm against his chest, feeling his heart hammer against his ribs - an unfamiliar sensation for a man who prided himself on control. The nightmare slipped away like water through his fingers, leaving only a deep sense of dread that settled in his bones.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the warm stone floor. Even that simple comfort felt wrong tonight. The mechanical marvels that now infested his castle had always unsettled him, but tonight their constant presence felt suffocating.
A shiver ran down his spine as he stood, walking to the window. Outside, the moon cast its pale light over the courtyard where one of those brass monstrosities - a steam constructor - continued its endless work, methodically maintaining the grounds with inhuman precision.
Another violent tremor shook his frame. Roose gripped the window sill, his normally steady hands trembling. He'd faced countless battles, ordered numerous executions, even flayed men alive - yet here he stood, shaken by a dream he couldn't even remember.
The familiar urge for a leeching session rose within him. Perhaps the dream was his body's way of telling him his humors needed balancing. But even as he considered summoning his servant with the leeches, another chill gripped him, and the thought of exposing his flesh to anything, even his trusted leeches, made his skin crawl.
Roose stood up from his bed and paced silently, his mind wandering and body shaking still.
Two weeks. Two weeks since the royal party had arrived at Winterfell, and nothing. No ravens bearing news of Stark's downfall. No word of the Crown's retribution for the North's presumption. The stolen stalhrim dagger should have been proof enough of their treachery, their unauthorized creation of weapons that could threaten the Iron Throne.
His fingers traced the edge of a letter on his desk - the latest report from his spies at Winterfell. Instead of punishment, the Starks were hosting feasts. Instead of demands for submission, there were negotiations. Even the Lannisters, whom he'd counted on to push for harsh measures, seemed to be seeking compromise after a blunder during the negotiations.
The plan had been perfect in its simplicity. Send evidence of the North's magical weapons to King's Landing, let southern paranoia do the rest. Stark's honor would compel him to admit everything, and Robert's famous temper would ensure swift, harsh justice. In the chaos that followed, House Bolton would emerge as the voice of reason, the loyal servants of the Crown.
But something had gone wrong. His pale lips pressed into a thin line as he remembered the cost of this failure. Good expendable men lost in that factory attack, gold spent, favors called in - all for nothing. Worse still, the stolen dagger provided a trail that could lead back to him if someone looked closely enough.
Roose stopped at his window, watching the steam constructor's rhythmic movements even during night time. These machines that now dotted his lands served as constant reminders of his miscalculation. He had received fewer of them than other houses - a slight that had not gone unnoticed. Even now, they seemed to mock him with their efficiency, their loyalty to their creator.
Owen Longshore. The name tasted bitter in his mouth. That upstart blacksmith, married to Stark's daughter, wielding power that should have belonged to more worthy houses. Houses with ancient bloodlines and proven loyalty. Houses like Bolton.
"Water. Fresh and cold from the purifiers." Roose's voice carried through the door, maintaining its usual soft tone despite his inner turmoil.
The servant's footsteps faded down the corridor. Even the simple act of requesting water reminded him of Longshore's influence. Those purifiers, another innovation that had spread throughout the North, ensuring clean water even in the depths of winter. His lips curled slightly - even the basic necessities of life now bore that man's mark.
Roose moved to his desk, lighting a single candle. The flame cast dancing shadows across the scattered papers - reports from his remaining spies, letters from various houses, and most importantly, the correspondence regarding Domeric. His son had departed for Ice Crest weeks ago, after receiving acceptance as Longshore's student. The letter lay open on the desk, its contents memorized but still worthy of review.
His pale eyes scanned the parchment again. Longshore's acceptance had been cordial enough, even warm in its tone toward Domeric. But Roose detected the underlying message - this was a gesture of reconciliation, perhaps even a warning. By accepting Domeric as a student, Longshore demonstrated both power and mercy. Or at least that what he thought it meant.
The servant returned with the water, placing it silently on the desk before withdrawing. Roose lifted the cup, the cool liquid offering momentary relief from his troubled thoughts. The dagger - that cursed piece of cold magical steel that now threatened everything. His carefully laid plans had unraveled so completely that he couldn't even be certain of its location. Was it still in King's Landing, presented as evidence to the Small Council? Or had someone in the royal party brought it north? The uncertainty gnawed at him.
Roose pressed his fingers against his temples. The headache that had been building all night throbbed with renewed intensity. He had always prided himself on careful planning, on considering every angle. Yet somehow, this situation had spiraled beyond his control. The stolen dagger hung over his head like a sword, threatening to fall at any moment.
His gaze drifted to another letter on his desk - the latest report about Domeric's arrival at Ice Crest. His son wrote of magnificent innovations, of technological wonders that made the Dreadfort's modest improvements seem like children's toys. Each word spoke of growing admiration for Longshore and his achievements. Roose could almost hear the excitement in his son's usually measured tone as he described his visit.
The irony was not lost on him. While he had plotted against Longshore, his own son might become the man's most devoted student. Perhaps, Roose mused, taking another sip of water, that had been Longshore's intent all along - to turn heir against father, to bind House Bolton through Domeric rather than destroy it through force.
Roose sighed deeply, feeling the tremors in his body subside as the cool water slid down his throat. The headache that had been pounding against his temples eased, clarity returning to his thoughts. Perhaps he had let his fears run wild, seeing threats where none existed.
His ghost-grey eyes fixed on the letter from Domeric. What did it matter if Stark discovered his role in the factory attack? Eddard Stark was not his father Rickard, who had ruled the North with an iron grip beneath his noble facade. Nor was he Brandon, that wild wolf who would have torn out Roose's throat at the mere suggestion of treachery.
No, Eddard was different. His honor bound him like chains, making him predictable, manageable. Even now, with the power to crush his enemies through Longshore's creations, Stark chose negotiation and compromise. The thought made Roose's lip curl slightly. Such weakness.
Rickard Stark would have used these advantages differently. Roose remembered the old Lord of Winterfell - a man who understood power, who knew when to bare his teeth. Under Rickard's rule, no southern lord would have dared demand concessions from the North. And Brandon... Roose allowed himself a small, cold smile. Brandon would have already marched south with an army of those metal monstrosities, consequences be damned.
But Eddard? He would probably summon Roose to Winterfell, speak of duty and loyalty, perhaps even offer forgiveness in exchange for some public display of contrition. The thought should have been reassuring, yet it made Roose's skin crawl. Such mercy was more insulting than any punishment.
Roose set the empty cup down on his desk, his limbs feeling heavier with each step as he made his way back to his bed. The night's anxieties had drained him more than he cared to admit. Even the most carefully laid plans required rest to execute properly.
He pulled back the furs, preparing to climb into bed. Tomorrow would bring clarity. Tomorrow he would begin to untangle this web of complications, find a way to salvage his position. Perhaps even turn this situation to his advantage somehow.
"Is now really a good time to be sleeping, Lord Bolton?"
The calm, measured voice froze Roose in place. His blood turned to ice as he slowly turned toward the window he'd been standing at mere moments ago.
Owen Longshore perched on the windowsill as if he'd been there all along, his form silhouetted against the moonlight. The young lord's presence struck Roose with a wave of bone-chilling dread unlike anything he'd experienced in all his years.
This wasn't the hot fear of battle or the cold anxiety of political maneuvering. This was something deeper, more primal. The kind of fear prey feels when it realizes the predator has already closed its jaws.
Roose's ghost-grey eyes met Owen's steady gaze. In that moment, he understood with terrible clarity that all his careful plans, all his subtle machinations, had been as effective as a child's game against this man.
Owen watched Roose's reaction with a mix of amusement and predatory interest. The Lord of the Dreadfort's composure, even in this moment of surprise, was remarkable - though Owen could detect the slight tremor in his hands, the barely perceptible quickening of his breath.
"You've gotten... bigger," Roose observed in that characteristic whisper-soft voice of his.
Owen couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing off the chamber walls as he dropped gracefully from the windowsill. The observation wasn't wrong - the transformation in the Temple of Solomon had made many of the northern lords who saw him during the southern visit wonder where his sudden growth spurt had come from. But trust Roose Bolton to focus on such a tactical detail even now.
As Owen's boots touched the floor without a sound, he noticed Roose's careful, measured movement away from the bed. The older man's ghost-grey eyes darted briefly toward the weapon rack where Bloody Heart hung in its ornate sheath. The ebony blade had been Owen's gift to House Bolton, presented before all the lords of the North. Owen had crafted it with particular care, knowing full well how the Boltons might put such a weapon to use.
Owen could practically see the calculations running behind those pale eyes - the distance to the blade, the speed needed to reach it, the likelihood of success. Even now, Roose's mind worked like a master swordsman, measuring angles and opportunities.
Owen watched with mild amusement as Roose's eyes kept darting to the blade. The tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife - and there happened to be quite a fine one mounted on that wall.
"Please, Lord Bolton. Take your blade if it makes you feel more secure." Owen gestured casually toward the weapon rack. "Though I must say, the name feels a touch dramatic now that I think about it."
Roose didn't hesitate. In one fluid motion born from years of experience, he crossed the room and grabbed the ebony blade. The metal sang as he drew it from its sheath, the black material seeming to drink in what little moonlight filtered through the window. Owen had to admire the man's form - even in his nightclothes, Roose moved with the practiced grace of a skilled warrior.
Bloody Heart's edge gleamed as Roose brought it to bear, pointing directly at Owen's heart. The older lord's stance was perfect, his grip steady despite the earlier tremors Owen had noticed. But there was something desperate in those ghost-grey eyes now, something that hadn't been there before.
Owen shrugged, spreading his hands in a gesture of casual indifference. "Was all this drama really necessary, Lord Bolton? I simply came to have a conversation." He glanced at the blade's tip, still unwavering in its aim. "Though I suppose you've never been one for simple conversations, have you?"
Owen watched as Roose's composure shifted, the mask of cold calculation giving way to something harder, more desperate.
"We both know you didn't come here in the dead of night for conversation," Roose whispered, his voice barely audible even in the silent chamber. "You're here to kill me."
The words hung in the air between them, and Owen had to admire the man's directness. Even now, facing what he believed to be his executioner, Roose Bolton maintained that eerily soft tone that had struck fear into so many hearts.
Before Owen could respond, Roose moved. The attack was masterfully executed - a swift, economical thrust that should have opened Owen's chest from collar to hip. Bloody Heart's ebony blade cut through the air with deadly precision, aimed perfectly at its creator's heart.
But Owen had crafted that blade. Had imbued it with more than just superior materials and expert smithing. As Roose's hand tightened around the grip, Owen flexed his will ever so slightly.
The handle of Bloody Heart flared brilliant red, its temperature rising instantly to searing levels. Roose let out a sharp cry of pain - the first time Owen had ever heard the man raise his voice - and the blade clattered to the stone floor.
Owen watched with mild interest as Roose stared at the fallen weapon, his burned palm cradled against his chest. The look in those pale eyes as they fixed on the blade was almost comical - pure betrayal, as if the weapon itself had turned against its master.
Owen watched Roose's pained expression with detached interest. "Not so nice when something or someone betrays you, is it?" he said mildly, extending his hand toward the fallen blade. Bloody Heart lifted from the floor smoothly, floating to his grasp. He twirled it expertly, admiring how the ebony metal caught the moonlight before sliding it into its sheath, which had flown obediently to his other hand.
Roose cradled his burned palm against his chest, those ghost-grey eyes narrowing as understanding dawned. "When?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "When did you make it betray me?"
Owen clicked the blade fully into its sheath, the sound echoing in the quiet chamber. "As soon as I forged it," he replied matter-of-factly. "Did you really think I would be stupid enough to leave powerful weapons in the hands of men and women I didn't fully trust?" He gestured at the sheathed blade. "Every weapon I've forged at the northern lords' request - every single one - is magically bound to never harm me, my bloodline, or my wife."
He watched realization spread across Roose's face - the understanding that all those magnificent weapons he'd distributed throughout the North weren't just symbols of favor or tools of power. They were leashes, carefully crafted controls woven into the very metal itself. And Roose, in his arrogance, had never suspected a thing.
Owen watched as Roose's calculating mind worked through the implications. The older lord's ghost-grey eyes narrowed slightly, his burned hand still pressed against his chest.
"Does Lord Stark know?" Roose's whisper carried across the chamber, barely louder than a breath.
Owen shook his head, running his fingers along Bloody Heart's ornate sheath. "It's none of his business as far as the security of my family is concerned." He met Roose's pale gaze steadily. "None of the lords know."
A strange expression crossed Roose's face then - something between appreciation and dark amusement. Despite his obvious pain and the precarious situation, the Lord of the Dreadfort couldn't seem to help himself.
"You're more like me than you know, Longshore."
Owen watched as Roose moved slowly back to his bed, lowering himself to sit on its edge with careful dignity despite his injury. The older lord's composure, even in defeat, was remarkable.
"How so?" Owen asked, genuine curiosity coloring his tone.
"My wife," Roose whispered, his ghost-grey eyes distant. "Bethany was the only one I ever truly trusted, and even then..." He flexed his injured hand slightly. "Even then, I kept certain things from her. For her protection, I told myself. But perhaps it was just habit."
"And Domeric?" Owen asked, genuinely curious about the relationship between father and son.
A flicker of something - pride? regret? - crossed Roose's pale features. "My son... yes. I trust him, as much as I'm capable of trust. But even there..." He met Owen's gaze directly. "You understand, don't you? The necessity of keeping everyone at arm's length. Even those closest to us."
Owen was silent.
"You present yourself well," Roose continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "The friendly smith-lord, generous with his gifts, welcoming to all. Yet each of those gifts is leashed, each piece of technology controlled." His burned hand twitched. "You understand that no one can truly be trusted but yourself."
"The difference between us, Lord Bolton," Owen replied, "is that I don't take pleasure in that fact." He gestured at the sheathed blade. "I build these safeguards out of necessity, not desire. You, on the other hand..." He left the accusation unspoken.
Roose's thin lips curved in what might have been a smile. "Perhaps. Or perhaps we're more alike than either of us would care to admit."
Roose settled more comfortably on the bed's edge, owen noting how the older lord's posture remained rigid despite his obvious attempt to appear at ease. The moonlight cast strange shadows across his pale features, making those ghost-grey eyes seem almost luminous in the darkness.
"I've always wondered," Roose whispered, his soft voice carrying clearly in the silent chamber, "why you never thought to build your mechanical creations in secret. Build up an army." His eyes gleamed with genuine curiosity. "You could have conquered all of Westeros before anyone realized the threat."
Owen couldn't help it - he snorted, the sound sharp and derisive in the quiet room. "Tell me, Lord Bolton, is there truly anyone who actually wants to be king of Westeros?"
"Plenty," Roose answered immediately, his voice carrying absolute conviction.
"Yes," Owen said, shaking his head slightly, "and they're idiots."
The look of pure shock that crossed Roose Bolton's normally composed features was something Owen would treasure for years to come. The Lord of the Dreadfort's mouth actually fell open slightly, his ghost-grey eyes widening in genuine surprise. It was perhaps the most human expression Owen had ever seen on the man's face.
For a long moment, Roose just stared at him, clearly struggling to process this response. The mighty Lord Bolton, renowned for his calculating nature and unflappable demeanor, looked utterly gobsmacked.
"Yes," Owen replied, settling against the windowsill. "They're idiots. Every single one of them."
He watched Roose process this statement, those ghost-grey eyes still wide with disbelief. The Lord of the Dreadfort seemed genuinely thrown by Owen's dismissal of continental conquest.
"Nobody actually wants to be king because they know what's best for the Seven Kingdoms," Owen continued, his voice tinged with contempt. "None of them dream of leading the realm into some golden age of prosperity and peace. No - all they want is power."
Owen's fingers traced the ornate carvings on Bloody Heart's sheath as he spoke. "Power to do whatever they want. Power to order men to march to their deaths on a whim. Power to take whatever woman catches their eye, noble or smallfolk, without consequences." His lip curled in disgust. "Power just to call themselves king, as if the title means anything when it's held by men like them."
Roose's expression shifted from shock to something more calculating. "And you're different?" he whispered, that soft voice carrying a hint of challenge.
"I don't want to be king," Owen stated flatly. "I've seen what power does to men. I've watched them scheme and plot and murder for even the smallest taste of it." He gestured at the castle around them. "Look at what you did, betraying your liege lord just for the chance to curry favor with the crown. Or take over as lord paramount of the north. And for what? A pat on the head from Tywin Lannister?"
Owen watched as his words struck home, seeing the subtle shift in Roose's expression. The Lord of the Dreadfort remained silent for a long moment, those ghost-grey eyes studying Owen with newfound interest.
"Then you would be the first good king Westeros has seen since the likes of Jaehaerys the Conciliator or Good Queen Alysanne," Roose whispered, his soft voice carrying an odd note of... respect? Wonder?
Owen couldn't contain his derisive snort. "Yes, and what would that bring me?" He pushed away from the windowsill, pacing the chamber with restless energy. "Mountains of paperwork. Endless disputes between ignorant lords fighting over strips of worthless land. Smallfolk bringing me every petty grievance, expecting the great good king to solve all their problems."
He ran a hand through his dark hair in frustration. "There would be no end to it. And the worst part?" Owen turned to face Roose, his expression pained. "The absolute worst part is that my own nature would force me to keep being good, to keep trying to help, because that's just who I am."
His voice rose slightly, genuine emotion breaking through his usual control. "No! No thanks. I'd rather forge weapons and build machines and actually accomplish something meaningful than waste my life drowning in other people's problems."
Owen watched as understanding dawned in those ghost-grey eyes. "Then we are nothing alike after all," Roose whispered, his voice carrying a note of... disappointment?
Owen shrugged, the gesture casual and dismissive. "Your only real problem, Lord Bolton, is that you're a sociopath."
Roose's pale eyebrows drew together slightly, genuine curiosity crossing his features. "I don't know this word," he admitted softly.
"It means exactly what you are," Owen explained, studying the older lord with clinical detachment. "Manipulative and cunning. Someone who lacks remorse, guilt, and shame." He met those ghost-grey eyes directly. "Someone completely incapable of real human attachment to another."
"That's not true," Roose protested, though his voice remained barely above a whisper. "I loved my wife Bethany. I love my son."
Owen tilted his head, regarding the Lord of the Dreadfort with something approaching pity. "Do you? Do you truly love them, or did you simply favor them like cherished pets above all others?" He watched Roose's expression carefully. "Think about all the secret things you've done with your power as a lord to those who had none. Do you regret any of it? Truly regret it?"
Owen watched as Roose fell silent, those ghost-grey eyes growing distant. The moonlight cast strange shadows across the older lord's face as he seemed to search within himself. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft whisper of wind outside the chamber windows.
Finally, Roose spoke, his voice softer than ever. "Regret..." He tested the word carefully. "When others speak of it, they describe this... weight. This gnawing feeling that eats at them." His pale eyes met Owen's. "I've never felt that. Not once."
Owen nodded, unsurprised. "And shame? Guilt?"
"No." Roose's admission carried no pride, no defiance - just simple statement of fact. "I understand these feelings exist. I've studied them in others, learned to recognize their signs." His burned hand flexed slightly. "But I've never experienced them myself."
Owen moved away from the window, studying the Lord of the Dreadfort with genuine curiosity. "Then I have to ask - have you actually cared about anything? Truly cared?" He gestured at their surroundings. "All this maneuvering, all these plots - sending that dagger to King's Landing to betray the North, betraying the Starks who've protected your family for generations since they knelt..." He paused, watching Roose carefully. "Was it real ambition driving you, or were you just... going through the motions?"
Roose's ghost-grey eyes widened slightly, genuine surprise crossing his features as he considered the question. For perhaps the first time in his life, the Lord of the Dreadfort seemed to be examining his own motivations with real honesty.
"I..." Roose began, then stopped. His whisper, when it finally came, carried an odd note of uncertainty. "I don't know."
Owen watched as something like confusion crossed Roose's pale features. The older lord stared at his burned palm, his voice barely audible. "All these years, all these careful plans... and I never stopped to ask myself why." His ghost-grey eyes lifted to meet Owen's. "Is that not strange?"
Owen sighed heavily, running a hand through his dark hair as he studied the man before him. The reddit posts had been right after all - Roose Bolton was absolutely unhinged. Not in the typical way most feudal lords were when handed power, with their greed and ambition, but in a far more unsettling manner. The complete lack of basic human emotion, the inability to even understand why he did the things he did... Jesus Christ!
He straightened himself, noting how Roose's posture shifted subtly in response. The Lord of the Dreadfort recognized their philosophical discussion had reached its natural end.
"What will happen to Domeric?" Roose's whisper carried across the chamber, those ghost-grey eyes fixed intently on Owen.
Owen adjusted Bloody Heart's sheath at his hip. "Your son will be untouched," he stated firmly. "Unlike you, Domeric actually has a conscience. He's currently enjoying his stay at Ice Crest, from what Jon tells me." Owen watched Roose carefully as he continued. "He'll remain there until news of your death reaches him."
Owen watched as Roose nodded slowly, accepting his fate. Then confusion flickered across the older lord's pale features.
"But... did you not come from Ice Crest?" Roose's whisper carried genuine puzzlement. "The ravens said you and Lady Sansa were..."
"No," Owen interrupted casually. "We're still at Winterfell actually. The southern visitors still keeping everyone quite busy."
Those ghost-grey eyes widened slightly. "Then how..." Roose's voice trailed off as he calculated the distance. "How did you reach the Dreadfort so quickly?"
Owen shrugged, adjusting Bloody Heart's sheath. "I flew."
For a moment, silence filled the moonlit chamber. Then, something extraordinary happened - Roose Bolton laughed. Not his usual quiet, calculated chuckle, but genuine mirth that seemed to surprise even him. The sound was rusty, as if long unused, but unmistakably real.
"By all the gods, old and new," Roose managed between wheezing laughs, "if you actually had the ambition to rule..." He shook his head, those ghost-grey eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "With all this power at your command, you could be emperor of the known world."
Owen shrugged again, the gesture casual and dismissive. "Too much work," he said simply.
Roose's ghost-grey eyes studied Owen carefully in the moonlit chamber. "How will you do it?" he whispered, his soft voice carrying clearly. "Do you have the stomach to slay me yourself?"
Owen shook his head, surprising the Lord of the Dreadfort. "I've never actually killed someone personally," he admitted. "And I doubt I have the will to do it in such an intimate way as with a blade. The thought of watching someone's life drain away as I hold the weapon..." He shuddered slightly. "No, I don't think I could. At least not now."
Fire suddenly erupted along Owen's arms, casting the chamber in flickering orange light. The flames danced across his skin without burning him, illuminating his face from below as he spoke.
"I'm going to burn the Dreadfort," Owen stated matter-of-factly. "Not just the castle, but that flaying dungeon you keep hidden beneath it too. I'll reduce it all to cinders."
Roose didn't even bother denying the dungeon's existence. Those ghost-grey eyes reflected the dancing flames as he nodded slowly, accepting his fate with characteristic composure.
"At least Domeric will have a fresh start," Roose whispered, his soft voice carrying no trace of fear. "A new beginning, without the weight of our house's darker legacy."
Owen nodded, the magical flames dancing along his arms growing brighter and hotter.
"What of the servants?" Roose asked, not out of genuine concern but simple curiosity.
"They're all gone," Owen confirmed. "I placed a compulsion spell on them hours ago. They've returned to their homes in the nearby village, taking their families with them." He shrugged casually. "Only you will die tonight."
The flames flickered, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls as silence filled the chamber. Roose absorbed this information with his characteristic composure, those pale eyes studying Owen with renewed interest.
Finally, the Lord of the Dreadfort's soft whisper carried across the room. "Was it Lord Eddard who sent you to kill me?"
Owen shook his head, the magical flames casting shifting shadows across his features. "Lord Stark wanted to give you a trial. He wanted all the northern lords to hear your crimes and judge you properly." The fire along his arms pulsed brighter. "But I can't allow that."
"Oh?" Roose's ghost-grey eyes gleamed with interest. "And why is that?"
"Because you're too dangerous to live that long," Owen stated flatly. "You'd find some way to twist things, to manipulate events. Maybe even escape." He gestured at the castle around them. "The official story will be that one of your servants tried to adjust the Dwemer heating systems and accidentally started a fire. By morning, the Dreadfort will be ash."
A dry, wheezing sound escaped Roose's lips - something between a laugh and a sigh. "Going against Lord Stark's wishes?" Those pale eyes studied Owen with newfound respect. "Perhaps I was wrong earlier. Perhaps we are alike after all."
"We're nothing alike," Owen snapped, but Roose just smiled - a dead thing that never reached his eyes.
"No?" The Lord of the Dreadfort's whisper carried a note of dark amusement. "Here you stand, defying your liege lord's explicit orders, preparing to murder me in cold blood and burn my ancestral home to cover your tracks." That corpse-like smile widened slightly. "Sounds exactly like something I would do."
"I'm doing this to protect my family," Owen growled. "To protect the North."
"Of course you are," Roose agreed softly. "And one day, mark my words, it will be your blood that rules Westeros." His ghost-grey eyes glittered in the firelight. "Not because you want it, but because you'll do whatever is necessary to protect what's yours. Even if that means going against good Lord Eddard's precious honor and taking control."
Owen's eyes hardened at Roose's words, his jaw clenching as he recognized the manipulative attempt to get under his skin. The magical flames along his arms pulsed brighter, casting wild shadows across the moonlit chamber. He wouldn't give the Lord of the Dreadfort the satisfaction of a response.
With a sharp downward thrust of both arms, Owen slammed the concentrated inferno onto the floor. The magical flames exploded outward in a devastating wave, engulfing Roose Bolton in an instant. The Lord of the Dreadfort didn't even have time to scream - one moment those ghost-grey eyes were watching Owen with that eerie calm, the next they were consumed by searing magical fire that burned hot enough to melt stone.
The flames roared through the chamber with supernatural intensity, reducing Roose Bolton to ash in seconds. The last thing the Lord of the Dreadfort felt was that initial rush of impossibly hot fire before his existence was snuffed out completely, leaving nothing but scorched stone where he had stood.