Prologue

What do you suppose he wants?" muttered Yellow Dick as the party rode in "Not like Lord Bolton to bring us back from a hunt like this."

"Shut it," said Damon, another of the riders to him "Don't be bothering Master Ramsay with your nonsense."

"Are you sure he said nothing to you, Steelshanks?" asked the titular Ramsay. A pale, young man dressed in finer clothes than his companions, he had neither looks nor charm to uphold him. With blotchy pink features and wormy looking lips, there was little to set him apart as a high-born man besides his eyes.

His Bolton eyes.

"He only said to bring you back," muttered his father's captain of the guard "Said it was important, and your hunt would have to suffer for it."

"Hm."

"Well said, Grunt. I suppose if father thought it was important, then it was important. Ben, take the girls back to the kennels. Lucky for us Steelshanks had come in time, else we might have ruined their fun. Maybe we'll do it tomorrow, Ben?"

"Aye, Master Ramsay. The girls will keep until then."

"Good," said the lordling with satisfaction as he awkwardly dismounted, flushing slightly as attendants rushed to tend to his horse.

"Come Ramsay," said Steelshanks again "Your father is waiting."

--

"Father," said the Bolton bastard courteously enough as he entered the solar "You-"

Whatever he had intended to say, it was cut short as Steelshank's dagger found its way into his back, striking with such force that his victim fell to one knee. As he struggled for breath, his father rose from behind his desk.

"My thanks, Walton. His men?"

"They'll be accounted for soon enough, milord. Reek as well, and the dogs besides."

"Good," said the Lord of the Dreadfort with a nod, as he tried to avoid looking to his dying son "When it's finished, burn their bodies and scatter the bones. I want no one to hear of this, no word to be spoken of this. Is that understood?"

"Yes milord," said the captain of the guards as he leaned down, twisting his dagger out before sinking it back into the boy, stabbing again and again until there was nothing left but a growing pool of blood spreading across the solar floor.

"Walton?"

"Yes, milord?"

"Don't forget to have the room cleaned as well. If you've need of me, send a man to the godswood. I find myself in need of prayer."

"Of course, Lord Bolton."

As the Bolton man-at-arms exited the room to tend to his tasks, he was unable to witness the look of nausea and disgust that came over his lord, as if he were ready to spew.

--

"That's Ramsay done," I said to myself as I kneeled in the godswood, taking small piles of snow to wash the taste of vomit from my mouth and death of my body. He was as odious as made out to be, but killing him, watching him die... that hadn't been easy.

There was a necessary coldness that came with being Roose Bolton. True to his reputation, the Leech Lord felt little, and even my sense of terror at being dropped into this literary hell-hole was numbed by that fact. I'd watched a man die, and I'd almost let it pass without thought.

Ramsay Snow... my "bastard son".

Was I cursed for this? Accursed was the kinslayer, they claimed, but was I truly his kin? Was I Roose Bolton... or me?

"He was a monster," I muttered to myself as I sat down in the snow, careful of eavesdroppers as I rested against the godswood tree. Located as I was in the Dreadfort, I had to act as according to Roose Bolton's ways. I was lord over monsters and killers, the bogeymen of the North if the Skagosi or the Others were unavailable in a pinch. What high fucking company that was.

At that reminder, my hand went to my pocket, where a letter awaited. Read twice already before Ramsay had returned, it had been the first thing my eyes had seen when I had entered this world.

Lord Bolton,​

​

Your house and mine have not always been friends. But you have served my father loyally since King Robert's Rebellion, and I call upon you now to serve him now again, to fulfil your oaths to House Stark. Prince Joffrey Baratheon has arrested my father and sisters with false claims of treason, and demands that the North bow to him in obedience, even as his grandfather's men burn the Riverlands.​

​

This I cannot abide, nor will I. As with you, I call upon all the sworn lords of the North, to raise their banners and march to Winterfell. Gods willing, this host of the North will put paid to the Lannisters, and whatever cronies they can muster. As our ancestors fought against Argos Sevenstar upon the Weeping Water, let Bolton and Stark stand together again.​

​

Robb Stark, Heir to Winterfell​

His penmanship wasn't too bad, I had to admit. Respectful, calling upon the old history of both Houses. Maester Luwin might have a hand in crafting it, but there was glimmers of potential here. Of the boy that was crowned King in the North.

That would be crowned.

Gods, what a mess.

"Shall I assume you are done?" I say quietly as I looked up to see Walton Steelshanks entering the godswood clearing before me.

"Near enough," he says with a nod "The flesh has been carved up and given to what's left of the dogs, the bones to be burnt in the furnaces and cracked before burial. Is there anything else I might do, milord?"

"Yes," I say with a sigh as I rose to my feet with a stagger "Have two ravens prepared for flight. One for Winterfell, another for the Rills."

"Their messages, milord?"

"To Winterfell... that we are coming, with three thousand men of the muster, to answer House Stark's summons."

"And to the Rills?"

"Call upon my goodfather, and ask him if I might have my namesake sent to the Dreadfort. I would have him as a castellan in my absence. Perhaps more, if my loins fail me again."

--