Chapter 488: Prelude
Lord Roose Bolton rode into King's Landing through the Dragon Gate, leading a winding procession of soldiers.
The banners of northern houses snapped sharply in the cold wind: the multicolored horse heads of House Ryswell, the chained roaring giant of House Umber, the mermaid of House Manderly, the black battle axe of House Cerwyn—and of course, the flayed man of the Dreadfort.
These were the armies of the northern lords, now nominally under the command of Roose Bolton, the Warden of the North.
Yes, the King had appointed Roose Bolton as Warden, granting him control over the northern forces.
Yet, strangely, the title of Duke remained with the young Lord of Winterfell—a boy of merely seven years.
This peculiar arrangement left the Starks as the figurehead rulers to whom the northern lords swore allegiance, while Roose Bolton wielded actual military command.
Such a setup seemed reasonable enough; no one could expect a seven-year-old to command armies.
But whether Roose Bolton was content with this arrangement was something only he knew.
The streets of King's Landing were eerily deserted. Citizens either gathered at Visenya's Hill to witness the events unfolding at the Great Sept of Baelor or stayed locked in their homes, fearful of being caught in the chaos.
Recent history had taught the people of King's Landing to recognize the signs of approaching strife.
Under the watchful eyes of countless residents peeking from behind shuttered windows, Lord Bolton's procession moved toward the Sept. His pale, emotionless face and icy gaze betrayed no hint of his thoughts.
At the corner of Steel Street, Roose encountered another northern contingent.
"Lady Barbrey," he said evenly.
"Lord Bolton," replied Lady Barbrey Dustin, astride a small white horse as her group merged with the main northern forces.
"Ser Calon of House Poole was just taken by the City Watch," she said without preamble.
Roose did not react.
"And Ser Bael of House Norrey, along with Ser Tollett of House Tallhart. Word is they were caught secretly meeting with members of the Faith."
Roose's pale eyes remained unreadable. "Fools are unworthy of sympathy," he said coldly.
Lady Barbrey frowned, clearly dissatisfied with his response, but she dared not push too far. After a brief silence, she ventured cautiously, "Are you satisfied with being Warden of the North? It's a title, but it's not hereditary."
Roose turned to her, his pale, calculating eyes scanning her as though peeling away her layers.
"My patience is well-practiced," he finally said. "Winter has only just begun. The snow buries much, but it also awakens much. Tell me, Lady Dustin, have you visited the crypts of Winterfell?"
"The crypts?" She blinked in confusion. "No, I haven't."
"You should," Roose said, his lips curving into a chilling smile. "They hold not only the Starks of old but their secrets as well."
"What secrets could the Starks have that you'd know?"
Roose's smile widened, his expression both sinister and unreadable.
"The Boltons and Starks have clashed for millennia," he replied. "Perhaps we know them better than they know themselves."
Barbrey hesitated, unsettled. The Boltons' infamous history of flaying their enemies alive gave credence to Roose's claim. After all, as the northern saying went: "A flayed man has no secrets."
"What changes do you foresee for the Starks with winter's arrival?" she asked, probing further.
Roose's response was cryptic. "All will be revealed in time. The secrets buried beneath the ground will rise with the snows. Justice or evil, the Long Night or the dawn, life or death—we will all face a choice."
Lady Barbrey fell silent, unwilling or unable to continue the conversation.
---
In a tower near the Sept of Baelor, Tyrion Lannister listened to a report. His mismatched eyes swept over the gathered western lords.
"Remember this," he said sharply. "We serve King Samwell. Whatever happens today, we stand with the Crown. Is that understood?"
The room was quiet for a moment before murmurs of assent spread through the group.
Tyrion noted the unease in their expressions, the flickers of ambition and doubt in their eyes. He ignored them all, dismissing the lords with a wave of his hand.
Once the room was empty save for himself and Kevan Lannister, Tyrion turned to his uncle.
"Uncle, did I make the right choice?"
"You did." Kevan's voice was firm, though his lined face betrayed years of wear and sorrow.
Kevan had been released only recently after House Lannister's surrender. Nearly two years of captivity had left the once-formidable second-in-command of Casterly Rock aged and weary, though his resolve remained intact.
No matter how much bitterness lingered in his heart, Kevan knew House Lannister could not afford another misstep.
Even when Tyrion had ordered his son, Lancel, to be arrested, Kevan had offered no resistance.
"I plan to take Genna and Lancel back to Casterly Rock," Kevan said suddenly. "From now on, King's Landing is your responsibility."
"You're leaving?" Tyrion's surprise was evident.
"I am. The climate here doesn't agree with me," Kevan replied with a dry smile, patting his slightly hunched back. "And I think it's time I retired. House Lannister's future rests with you now."
Tyrion hesitated but eventually nodded. "Take care, Uncle."
---
"Ser Stevron, the King cannot see you now."
"Why not?" Ser Stevron Frey demanded, barely restraining his anger.
Ser Loras Tyrell, standing calmly at the stairway to Maegor's Holdfast, replied with icy composure.
"The King has made it clear that he will not receive visitors today. Besides, didn't Lord Edmure Tully give the Riverlands nobles their orders? Don't you have tasks to attend to?"
"I…" Stevron gritted his teeth. "I only want to know why my son was taken!"
"I understand your concern," Loras said, his tone steady. "But rest assured, Ser Walder will receive a fair trial. You will be present to see justice done."
Ser Stevron clenched his fists, his expression shifting between fury and fear. Finally, he backed down, unwilling to escalate further.
At that moment, a massive shadow darkened the skies above Maegor's Holdfast.
Looking up, Stevron saw the enormous white dragon descending onto the castle.
At the same time, a radiant figure leaped from the balcony to land gracefully on the dragon's back.
It was Samwell.
A single powerful beat of the dragon's wings sent a furnace-hot wind sweeping across the courtyard, forcing those below to steady themselves.
As the dragon soared higher, carrying the King into the skies, Stevron's anger melted into fear.
"Very well," he muttered, his voice trembling. "I trust His Majesty will give House Frey a fair resolution."
(End of Chapter)