18 Lord Bolton

The sigil of House Tyrell was a rose, a symbol of the most radiant beauty and perfection. Highgarden castle truly complied with such a daunting standard to live up to. Nestled on the banks of the Mander River, sparkling waters glinting in the sun as they flowed to the Western Ocean, the white castle walls oversaw all for miles around from atop a lone hill. Vibrant green and other colors dotted the slopes under the battlements - roofs equally colorful - from the apple, citrus, and magnolia trees carefully maintained by the groundskeepers. Across the landscape as far as the eye could see were the flat wheatfields of the breadbasket of Westeros, stalks fluttering in the tranquil breeze as the farmers tended their newest record harvest.

Once Tyrell but now watched over by the golden lion banners of House Lannister hung over the castle walls, Highgarden intrigued Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King. Even with the sheer gloom and decay that infected the once shining example of Westerosi nobility following the deaths of their Lord and Heir, the rose gardens were carefully maintained and the grounds immaculate. Sullen from seeing countless smallfolk and prisoners rounded up for "retributive labor" - as Lord Baelish put it - by the hated Lannister armies of the despised King Joffrey, the groundskeepers never shirked from their duties. Intriguing, but ultimately one question that Tywin found quick to dismiss.

"My Lord," stated Kevan Lannister, Tywin's cousin and a trusted commander - it had been he who kept the Tyrell army pinned while Tywin marched to save King's Landing from Renly Baratheon. "We have proof that the Red Woman was here."

Tywin nodded, hands spread over the map table, face blank as stone. "She must have warned them then. Margaery and the Queen of Thorns could be anywhere at this point." It was… unfortunate, but didn't change the calculus one bit. The Reach was firmly in Royal hands.

Then again… there were always potential problems with any certainty. "While the rightful heirs to Highgarden are still at large, your hold over the Reach will always be in doubt, Lord Tywin." Leaning casually on the far wall, Prince Oberyn Martell's presence irritated Tywin to no end. Required to be included in any strategy conference due to leading the Dornish armies as a direct result of his brother's illnesses, there was no love lost between them. Oberyn hated Tywin for the actions of the Mountain during Robert's Rebellion, and the hate had only grown in the years since.

Nevertheless, Dorne was an ally of King Joffrey of House Baratheon, first of his name - only secure due to the lack of any other recourse and the betrothal of Tywin's granddaughter to Prince Tristyn, but an alliance nonetheless. Dornish armies had invaded the Reach from the south, secured the fealty of House Tarly at Hornhill, and prevented any real resistance from forming along with the stronger Lannister pincer to the north. Hence Prince Oberyn. "They have no army, nor much treasure. The Tyrell coffers are only a small amount less than what our intelligence were forecasting."

"Believe whatever makes you happy, Lord Lannister," though flippant, Tywin could detect the hidden contempt in Oberyn's tone. "Still, I will obey my brother's commitments to the letter. I hope that certain… individuals in the capitol are as loyal to their official masters as I am." Dropping the innuendo, he chuckled and headed off to find Elyria. 'The girls of the Reach are beautiful indeed.'

Narrowing his eyes, Tywin shrugged it off. Oberyn could be blowing smoke out of his ass, but he would investigate upon getting back to King's Landing. Currently, the Tyrell treasury would have to be loaded and shipped out. Plenty to ease the realm's crushing debt and help pay for his grandson's building projects.

Empty of all but the small council and the most loyal of all the Sovereignguards - having been renamed to highlight the changed nature of the King's authority - the cavernous hollow of the throne room served to amplify the booming anger in the King's voice. "How have they not been captured?!" Joffrey's face was red, screaming his lungs out. The propaganda persona crafted by Littlefinger portrayed the King as the wise, precocious leader guiding the Realm to a new age of glory. With the vast majority of King Robert's staff purged until only a few loyalists remained, Tyrion was one of the only people who knew the real Joffrey of House Baratheon, First of his Name. "I ordered her head on a pike!"

Figure hunched over, Littlefinger angled his body towards the Iron Throne. It was now policy to never gaze upon the sovereign. Something about the "mere mortal" eyes that weren't fit to even behold the figure of their King. Tyrion couldn't believe that his predictions of how his nephew would govern would be wrong - of how the "Vicious Idiot King" would outdo even his most terrifying nightmares. "All Highest, it appears that they were warned of the combined attack by Lord Tywin and Prince Oberyn by the Lady Melisandre…"

"I KNEW SHE'D BETRAY ME!" Joffrey thundered, standing from his throne. Aside from the guards, the King's Fool, and a servant girl - meek and trembling as she and the Fool were the only persons who could set eyes on him, and Joffrey had a high turnover among personal servants - Baelish, Tyrion, Lord Varys, Maester Pycelle, and Queen Cersei were the only souls before him. "How could any of you not know that the bitch was set to save the Tyrell whores?!"

"If I may, All Highest." Stepping forward, Tyrion found it far easier to avert his gaze than the others - he could feel Cersei's dagger like eyes trained on him. "I am sure that Lord Baelish's lack of oversight over the Red Witch wasn't intentional." The Imp felt a sense of schadenfreude at lessening Littlefinger's loyal advisor image. "She had hidden her true intentions from all of us. On my orders, the Sovereignguard searched her room, and they found this letter addressed to you personally." Tyrion had read it, and it made no sense to him:

Enjoy the fruits of your realm, King of Gold. The golden one will come so far, come so close to achieving the great victory and rule over all he sees, only to fall.

Azor Ahai is reborn. The Prince that is Promised will fulfill his destiny. The mark will find you, King of Gold. And with it, so shall the Lord of Light.

Joffrey's gloved hand smacked the servant girl on the back of the head. "Bring it to me, whore!" Scurrying to Tyrion, matted hair covering her eyes from his vision, the frightened mouse of a thing gave the parchment to Joffrey. Out of the corner of his eye, Tyrion watched as Joffrey struggled to parse the lines - he had never been the best reader. But eventually he did, and it was as if all blood had drained from him.

Minutes passed before he spoke once more. "Find her, Varys." His voice was low, as if all the anger had been replaced with dread. "Destroy her from existence."

"As you wish, All Highest," the Master of Whisperers replied.

"All Highest." Cersei stepped forward - all happiness, whatever amount she had ever had, was gone with the deterioration of the relationship between her and her eldest son. Not even Jamie's return had changed that. "Perhaps it is time to make sure your hold on the Realm is secured." After an almost inaudible acknowledgement from Joffrey, she continued. "The Riverlands are under our control, as well as... Dorne." From the way she ground out the last word, Tyrion knew that if Joffrey turned on him, Cersei wouldn't bat an eye - she still hadn't forgiven him for sending Myrcella away. "We need to secure the Vale, as well as the North."

"Mother, I presumed that Grandfather's deal with Lord Bolton gave us the North already."

'Where is she going with this?' Cersei may have been an overly emotional bitch, but Tyrion would never claim she wasn't smart. "The northerners are a wild lot, and what I propose would solidify the Vale as well. We give Lord Bolton's son Sansa Stark." Now this sounded like the Cersei Tyrion knew. With Robb Stark dead and the North vanquished, there was no need for Sansa to remain in the south.

Littlefinger approached, a bit frantically. "All Highest, allow me to accompany Lady Stark to the Eyrie and Winterfell. I can represent your interests in dealing with the Boltons and Arryns."

"Very well," Joffrey said, his voice still hesitant. "Anything else?"

Tyrion noticed Littlefinger recovering from his little episode over Sansa Stark. 'He still loves Catelyn.' Had it not been for him, the dwarf knew, all the Starks would have died at the Red Wedding. Baelish hated the wolves of Winterfell, but Sansa was all Tully, at least in looks. Tyrion pitied her, that being one of the reasons Joffrey despised him. "All Highest, the Iron Islands are still in rebellion against you, and have yet to submit."

"You must kill them all." Unlike the past literal screaming sessions, Joffrey's heart wasn't into the bloodthirsty command. 'All this over the Red Woman?' Everyone ignored it out of self-preservation, but Tyrion still pondered the turn of events.

"There is another way, All Highest. The brother of Balon Greyjoy has reached out to me, asking for the great King of Gold's backing in ruling the Iron Islands for himself. He has offered his alliance, and a fleet of ships once the take over is complete."

Firmness began to return to Joffrey, the idea of an ocean-going Navy to extend his power quite appealing. "Do what you need to do, Lord Littlefinger. Dismissed." And with that, he whisked himself away, servant scurrying behind him. Leaving the throne room, Tyrion noticed Cersei talking with Pycelle. As soon as they locked eyes, her look blazed fire.

As soon as his sister was out of sight, Tyrion collapsed onto the stone wall. Breathing hard, the weight of every atrocity bearing down on him, it became unbearable. 'That monster will destroy us all, corrupt us all.' Baelish had unleashed a force that no one truly understood, he and the Mountain fitting Joffrey with the same self-confidence in himself that were possessed by Aegon the Conqueror and Robert Baratheon. While Aegon's drive was ambition and Robert's was torpor and gluttony, Joffrey's was madness. With the initial thousands of smallfolk "serfs" gathering to begin labor on Joffrey's monument to his own thirst for self-aggrandizement, death had become mortal.

"My Lion." Shae's gentle hands were like cool water to an overheated body. Tyrion's breathing slowed, enough to bring his wits out of the cloud of terror that had engulfed him - a cloud not even alcohol could solve. "What is wrong?" Tyrion looked up, seeing the concern in her eyes.

Clarity dawned on him. "We have to leave. We have to escape this."

"And I know just the place." Neither had noticed Lord Varys approach right behind them.

Slamming the door shut to his private quarters, the King of Gold found himself sucking in labored breaths. The walls were closing in, crushing his chest like a vice. Not even torturing his servants, or his Fool, would break his mood. All the talks of his growing empire and consolidating the gains passed over him, the message from the Red Witch searing itself into his black soul.

Hunched over, sweat pouring down his brow, suddenly an arctic chill permeated the room. "No, it can't be!" Turning, Joffrey was surrounded by the corpse of his father - same as years ago.

"The King of Gold, long shall he reign, no mortal man, no normal bane."

"So I shall rule forever?" he asked hesitantly.

"The Lord of Light, the previous son, his rule will win, his time soon come."

"How do I stop him?"

"A woman born of storm, fair of skin and eye, the golden face she sees, a realm divide."

His mind was racing. "I must stop this woman. I must never see her."

Blood seeped from his gutted belly. "The mark of the warrior, branded by one employed, one God she crowns, one God destroyed."

An overwhelming headache blinded Joffrey, and a split second later, he opened his eyes. The specter of Robert Baratheon had vanished.

An arrow sailed past his head, embedding itself into the ground several yards away. Cursing, Robb Stark cracked the reins, urging his horse ever forward. 'Almost, almost there.' The icy towering sheet of the Wall loomed large in the distance, the huts of Mole's Town only a hundred yards to his right. Robb could taste the safety of the battlements of Castle Black.

Trouble was, so did Walder Frey's bounty hunters. They found his trail only days before. And like a dog with a bone, they weren't giving it up. If Robb didn't get to Castle Black quickly enough, his head would be in a basket heading for the Twins soon enough.

Behind him, the ragged line of horsemen charged across the unpaved, dirt road, clumps of grey-brown soil kicked up behind them. Mounted archers aimed their reflex bows, many just missing vital portions of Robb's body. He urged the horse to go faster. The animal might be blown because of this, but with the dark walls of the castle looming nearer and nearer below the towering ice and stone carved by magic, it would only be a sprint to the finish.

"Kill him!" screamed the lead bounty hunter, watching as his quarry neared the still open gates of Castle Black. One of his archers readied his reflex bow to make one last shot when a javelin embedded itself into his midsection, toppling him from his horse. "All stop!" Obscenities tumbled from his lips as the castle gate swung shut.

Burly men in black cloaks muscled Robb Stark to the top of the castle walls. "Who are you?! What are you doing here?!" Eying him over, the Night's Watchman hollered down the battlements. "Where is the Lord Commander?!"

"He's here!" yelled the reply. Robb's eyes widened, recognizing that voice. 'Is that… the Lord Commander?' Sure enough, Jon Snow emerged at the top of the stairs - older and bearing the scars of experience. Behind him was a young kid, and a red-bearded man in furs that had to be a wildling. Jon's eyes widened at spotting Robb, then shifted back to the milling bounty hunters. His men tightened their bowstrings. "I am the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. What business do you have here?"

The lead hunter spat on the ground. "I bear the authority of Lord Walder Frey, Warden of the Riverlands. A dangerous fugitive and enemy of His Grace, Joffrey Baratheon, is within the castle. Return him to us at once."

Glancing at Robb with a quizzical look on his face, Jon hardened his stare upon the bounty hunters. "Why does it seem that you never really had this fugitive in the first place for me to return him?" Nearly all of the brothers in black started laughing - even Robb managed a smirk. 'Oh, I missed you Jon.' "The Wall is a refuge for all willing to fight to hold it. If you dare to enter, it will be your heads decorating our battlements." By the reactions of the watchmen, Jon's threat was not an idle one.

By the looks of the reactions below, their foes thought the same. "You'll regret this, bastard." Making obscene gestures, one by one the bounty hunters galloped off.

Two Starks stared at each other, the first glimpse each had for the other man since that sunny summer's day three years before. Both had changed, grown, hardened, suffered, lost… "Lord Commander," Robb finally said, respect clouding his tone.

"Lord Stark," Jon countered, nodding his head.

Emotion finally overcoming the two brothers, their arms wrapped around each other in a crushing, fraternal hug.

"Attention!" came the barking command in low Valyrian. The column of men - all freedman recruits from among the slums of Meereen - halted in perfect order. "Form left!" As if controlled by some unseen force, they swiveled into a row, a hundred wide and three deep. "Advance!" And with that they marched toward an imaginary foe hundreds of yards away on the parade ground. From her perch above on the lower balcony, traditionally used by Kings of Meereen to address their subjects while remaining inside the Great Pyramid, Daenerys watched her newest soldiers. "Magnificent, aren't they?"

"Indeed, Khaleesi," replied Ser Jorah, standing beside her. "They are far from the caliber of the Unsullied, but skilled soldiers they are."

A small chuckle left Dany's lips. "Amazing how Theodosius was able to whip them up into shape so quickly." She could see the dashing figure below atop his horse, clad is light Westerosi garb emblazoned with the Targaryen sigil. It brought satisfaction to Dany seeing fluttering flags bearing the Three-headed Dragon interspersed among the men. It had also been Theodosius' idea, to make the army one of the Targaryen realm rather than that of the individual factions fighting for her - the Unsullied had already adopted the same "color bearers," but the wild Dothraki were resisting and the Second Sons absolutely refused.

"The program has been an overwhelming success, Khaleesi," Missandei stated. "We were planning for conscription, but the sheer amount of volunteers made that unnecessary. Grey Worm told me that all of them are enthusiastic to fight for Mhysa." Overhead, two loud screeches didn't even turn heads among the marching soldiers - indifference to the presence of the two mighty dragons being one of the first things Theodosius and Grey Worm taught the recruits.

Dany glanced to the sky and smiled at Balerion and Edderon play-fighting above the city. Despite some teething problems - especially for Balerion, who had the nasty habit of attacking the livestock of the mountain sheep and cattle ranchers - they were beginning to exert their aggression through less dangerous means. They loved the twins, and their mother, Dany even starting to ride her New Black Dread. Although, she thought with sadness, the tempering of their anger may have been as a result of their brother's disappearance. She missed Rhaegal. 'The second of my loved ones to leave me.'

A thought occurred to Dany, one that she had been putting off - but now was as good a time as any. "Missandei, will you check on the twins. I believe it is time for their reading lessons."

"Of course, Khaleesi," the Narthi translator stated, bowing and stepping out. It was just her and Jorah now, alone.

"I heard things at home, your Grace, things I have just now pieced together. Ask him where his real loyalties lie."

Ser Barristan's words echoed in her head. What was she supposed to think - her oldest advisor, the closest person that she ever had to a father. Did he betray her? Dany could count on her fingers the number she could trust implicitly. 'My babies, my children, Missandei, Grey Worm, Ser Barristan, Jon…' Could she not even count on his loyalty? The grey-blue dress that fit her curves snugly suddenly felt constricting. It couldn't be true.

Out with it. "Ser Jorah, I have been informed that you may not be as completely loyal to me as I have thought."

Turning, Dany saw his breath hitch. 'It is true.' She felt like vomiting. "Khaleesi," his eyes begged for forgiveness, "I was in a desperate state. Stateless and unwanted…"

"And so you turned against me? Gave your oath to another?" Her hand tightened on Saracen, always strapped to her hip. Suddenly it made sense. "What did you do for this person?"

Rooted in place, Jorah knew he had to come clean or face her wrath. "I sent him letters, of what transpired in your life. From the time we left Pentos to the time the twins were born…"

"Is that why Drogo was poisoned? Did Robert intend to poison me because of what you told him?" It took every bit of her willpower not to scream.

"Of course not, Khaleesi. It was not Robert whom I sent it to."

"Then. Who?"

"Ned Stark."

Silence descended over the two of them. Knees weak, Dany took a step back. Her jaw dropped. "Ned Stark?"

Jorah nodded. "He found me before your wedding." His hand reached into a small pouch beneath his shirt, drawing out a piece of parchment. "He offered me this, a full pardon, in exchange for my oath to protect you." Dany took the pardon in her hand, reading the contents. It was dated the day before her wedding. "He said that he had to protect his family. It wasn't until the twins were born that I truly knew what he meant."

Sitting, Dany felt tears prick at her eyes. "You are dismissed, Ser Jorah." And he did, leaving her to ponder the munificence of someone supposed to be the arch nemesis of her family.

'The grandfather of my children.'

Celebration should have been the mood at Winterfell, and for good reason. For the first time since Robb Stark departed for the South - soon to be King in the North - the castle's Lord had finally returned to dwell within its halls. However, none of the usual throngs of happy subjects and wreaths of blue roses greeted Roose Bolton. As the man that killed their Lord, the pregnant Lady of Winterfell, and sent the beloved former Lady to the Lannister dungeons, Bolton was hated. Branded a traitor and an oathbreaker, the vilest of insults. No one would say it out loud, but the Boltons would have no love from their new subjects.

This fact was not the cause of Lord Roose's sullen mood. Truth be told, he could care less what the smallfolk thought of him. If they so much as looked at him the wrong way, he'd have no compunction ordering his men to slaughter them as he did to the pregnant wife of Robb Stark. No, his anger was directed at something else entirely - or rather, someone. "Do you have any idea the jeopardy you have put our cause in?"

"Calm down, Lord Bolton," Ramsay Bolton remarked back. His father had legitimized him as his heir soon after arriving at Winterfell - by the looks of things he was regretting it. "Do you not realize how much of an opportunity this is for us?" A hand gestured to the figure of Viserys Targaryen, once more clad in the royal garments suitable for a person of his stature. "He is the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms."

"In exchange for your loyalty Lord Bolton," Viserys said magnanimously - a rather hard tone for him to master. "I will grant you complete dominion over the North, as well as name you my hand."

Roose regarded the Targaryen as one would regard a slug - Ramsay did too, but was more inconspicuous about it. "And you consider yourself in the same caliber as Tywin Lannister of Petyr Baelish?" He turned to his bastard son. "Obtaining power is noble, but only smartly! If King's Landing found out about this, both our heads would be on a pike!"

Rage was bitten back. "I have spoken with Ned Karstark and Smalljon Umber, and they are both willing to back us in installing Viserys on the throne." Not exactly, but who would begrudge a little white lie? "I am sure both the Freys and the Vale would back us, not to mention Dorne and the Reach."

"I have prepared ravens to be sent at your command, my Lord," said the new Maester, sent by the Citadel upon Maester Luwin's death.

Narrowing his eyes, Roose sighed. "You are still my trueborn son, and I cannot undo it. You will still be my heir." 'Until a new son is born from my new wife.' The words were left unsaid, but Ramsay understood them all the same.

"Of course... father." Smiling warmly at Roose, a split second later the elder Bolton found a knife embedded between his ribs - impaling his heart. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. A cackling laugh left Ramsay, getting hard at the sight of his father's shock. "Poor, naive Lord Bolton. So busy betraying others, couldn't see how you were the one being betrayed." Ramsay pulled out the knife, watching his father collapse lifeless on the stone tile.

"Reek, clean this up!" he yelled at what was once Theon Greyjoy. Wicked, twisted grin faded into a sad frown. "Maester, inform the men. Lord Roose Bolton has died. Poisoned, by his enemies."

Swallowing, the Maester nodded. "Poisoned by his enemies." Viserys couldn't help but smirk. Now Ramsay was Warden of the North, and now - secretly - hand of the Targaryen King.