Chapter 2: Welcome to Winterfell
"Lord Bolton," said my vassal lord cautiously "If I might trouble you my lord... just why are we marching so strongly in response to Robb Stark's summons?"
"Because he summoned us," I answered simply "And a bannerman must always serve obediently and without question, unless given reason otherwise. Or does the concept of fealty elude you, Lord Overton?"
"No, of course not!" said the Overton house head with a furious shake of his portly head.
How the man found it in him to be so fat so far north was beyond you, but if Sam Tarly managed it at the Night's Watch, why be surprised by an actual lord?
"I am merely saying that this is... more than I expected of you. Considering the situation, I mean. And the history between the houses."
"Ned Stark and his daughters are trapped down in the capital," I say with a shrug of my shoulders "The last time a Stark was in the capital, Olyvar, it didn't end well for the Starks. Does that suffice, or are you intent on interrogating me tonight? I could have Walton send for some knives, if you'd like."
"No, no, that's quite all right."
Fat fool. Acting out the role of Lord Bolton was difficult as fuck considering all I had to go on were secondary character perspectives that pretty much amounted to "That fucker's a scary dude" and little more. So far acting stiff, with a little lean on snark and threats of flaying was keeping me above water. That, and this almost instinctual coldness that I kept drawing upon, kept up the veneer that I was Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and heir to the Red Kings of old.
Behind me marched three thousand men, drawn from all corners of my fief, chosen for the purpose of war. I had left behind more than enough men to till the field and garrison the Dreadfort, but the idea of marching south as the wildlings prepared to march upon the Wall left me more than a little uneasy. I'd toyed with the idea of taking the black, using the excuse of kinslaying to do so to take a more direct hand at the Wall. The Dreadfort could have gone to Olyvar Overton or any of my more powerful bannermen, or even to a Ryswell if Robb accepted Roose's namesake to the seat. But the war in the south was were the great armies of Westeros would be spent and lost, and effecting what changes I could southwards were more important.
I had to entrust the Wall to Jon Snow, to that he would do as much as he did in the books to rally the brotherhood. If all went according to plan, I might well be able to replace Stannis's arrival with his surviving loyalists with a grander host.
My hands are trembling, and despite the weather, I can't find it in me to blame the cold.
--
"Lord Bolton," said the muscular bearded man as he rode to a stop before me "I am Hallis Mollen, captain of Winterfell's guard. In the name of Lord Eddard Stark and his heir Robb Stark, I welcome you to Winterfell."
"Kind of you to do so," I offer with a small smirk "Seeing as I haven't actually entered it."
Indeed, we were perhaps a quarter of a mile away, the sight of the great keep in the distance. It looked rather grand, if grim and foreboding. The home of House Stark... of the Kings in the North.
"Aye," he says with a serious nod "But my men will be directing your men to the wintertown so as to decamp. We're still waiting on the Lords Karstark and Umber to arrive, though your men are a welcome sight. Lord Robb is waiting to welcome you at Winterfell."
"Walton," I said after a moment's decision "Go with the men, and see to it their bellies are filled and their thirsts quenched. Remind them that we are guests here, and that any troublemakers will answer to me."
"Aye, milord."
"Now then," I offered as my captain rode back to the column "Lead on, Captain Hallis. We wouldn't want to keep Robb Stark waiting."
--
Entering Winterfell was ... something different. Though from outside the structure had already struck me as grand and grim, travelling under its gate and into it's walls drove a shiver down my spine. In another life, Ramsay Snow and Theon Greyjoy had brought ruin to this great keep, played their part in the destruction of House Stark, and the rise of House Bolton as Wardens of the North. But Ramsay was dead now, struck down by Walton Steelshanks on my command.
"Lord Bolton," said the Stark guard captain as we entered the courtyard with my bannermen in tow "We've arrived."
"And here I thought we'd left," I said in half-whisper to myself as I dismounted, my eyes already locked away, my attention taken.
Before me stood a trinity of youths, boys almost. Dressed in finer clothes than many around them, it was the sigils they bore that told me their names. Two, wearing grey wolves, the sigil of House Stark. A third, older than the others, wearing a golden kraken upon his chest. Looking away briefly, I saw no third child, hoisted by giant or carried by wheel-barrow.
Robb Stark. Rickon Stark. Theon Greyjoy.
With a small flourish, I strode forward, holding back a small smile as the guards around them stiffened. Even here, even now, the reputation of House Bolton drew fear. Outnumbered, outmatched, ostensibly present under reasons of fealty and loyalty... and I was the one all eyes focused on.
"Lord Bolton," said Robb suddenly as he extended a hand in greeting "Welcome to Winterfell."
"Lord Robb," I said with a small smile as I took his hand in mine, my cold palm drawing a shiver from him "I am honoured to be here."
--
With my arrival being the last for the day, the waiting party quickly retreated back within the keep wall, waiting servants escorting my company to freshly prepared and warmed rooms as the dining hall began filling in with other lords and knights who had arrived prior. My memory of names was poor, though Roose's own provided some cover in that. Cerwyn, Glover, Tallhart, even several of the hill clans had arrived in some small number to feast from their lord's larders. As the guest of honour for the night, I found myself seated on the high table, taking a place of honour besides Robb on his right, while his brothers sat to his left. Theon sat to my other side, and unfortunately, seemed determined to make conversation.
"I've heard you called Leech Lord," japed the Greyjoy lordling "because you let leeches feed on you. What possible use could that do?"
"It settles the temperament," I quietly say, though truth be told I had forgone the treatments since entering Roose's body "We Boltons are known for our terrible tempers, you see. The very stuff of legends."
As I said that, I held up my knife between, holding it casually as if I couldn't skin the bastard here and now with it. It was a fine make, no doubt one of Mikkel's-
No. No flaying. There were those little moments where Roose's personality came back full force, and I found myself absently studying knives or leather, guessing at their usage. There had been a ... room, beneath the Dreadfort. A private dungeon, separate, meant only for the Lords of the Dreadfort. I had gone down there after Ramsay's death those weeks past, as Roose's memories rose unbidden in my own mind. I'd found a living man there, flayed yet living. I'd found dried skins and bones, memories of Starks long dead by Bolton hands.
I killed the man quickly, took the skins and bones and added them to those burned and buried by my command.
The thought it brought shudders to me still.
Domeric Bolton hadn't deserved that.
"Terrible tempers." I repeated again to the Greyjoy boy as I lowered the knife.
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