ASOIAF: King of Winter

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Chapter 38

Roose Bolton

The grey sky mirrored the cold temperament of Roose Bolton as he rode through the gates of the Twins.

His banner fluttered in the wind—a flayed man, red and raw against the pale pink.

As his small retinue dismounted, the Freys stared down from the battlements, their expressions ranging from amused disdain to open suspicion. Roose stood by the gate until someone brought bread and salt.

Inside, the hall of the Twins was as dour as its lord. Walder Frey, shrunken with age but still vibrant in spite, awaited them atop his dais, surrounded by his endless progeny. Frey's eyes, sharp and calculating, flitted to Bolton like a hawk spotting prey.

"Lord Bolton," Frey rasped, his voice carrying through the hall. "You honor us with your presence." His tone dripped sarcasm, his thin lips curling into a smirk. "As much honor as your lord deigns to bear, anyhow."

Roose stepped forward, unperturbed, his face as blank as freshly fallen snow. "Lord Frey. I come to fulfill my promise to unite our houses by blood, as you and my lord agreed."

Walder snorted. "Promises from the North have always been fickle. He ekes passage through my bridge with close to no payment, and he lets that old fish murder my son and grandsons, not even allowing them to take the black, nor sending their bones to their home to be buried!" Spittle falls off his mouth. "Your lord has much to promise, Lord Bolton."

"But blood, you say? Oh, Bolton, you must mean marriage!" His laughter filled the hall, sharp and shrill. He gestured grandly toward his daughters and granddaughters, who lined the walls like goods on display. "Take your pick, my lord. They're yours, with dowries enough to weigh them in silver."

The women flinched under Roose's unblinking gaze, their nervous eyes darting away from his pale, calculating stare. Bolton hummed low in his throat, stepping closer, inspecting each woman like a butcher assessing livestock. His gaze lingered on the largest of the group, and his lips twitched—a facsimile of a smile that froze the air in the room.

She was a short thing, a large girl with watery blue eyes, three chins, a huge bosom, and blond hair.

She fearfully curtsies. "My lord." Her voice fluttering as squeaky.

Her cheeks burned with shame and fear as Walder Frey burst into raucous laughter. "Ah! Merret's brood, Walda! A fine choice, Lord Bolton!" The source of his amusement was clear, the Late Lord promised the bride's weight in silver, so Roose chose the fattest one.

Roose's attempt at a smile grew, his pale eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "She will suffice," he said, his tone even, but something in it made Walder's grin falter.

The hall grew quiet as Bolton turned to the Frey patriarch. "A private meeting would be best, Lord Walder." Roose murmured, his tone soft as silk but heavy with suggestion.

Walder Frey hesitated for a moment, his amusement tempered by the unnerving presence of the man before him. "Aye," he finally rasped. "Come. Let us talk blood and promises behind closed doors."

As the Freys whispered among themselves, Bolton followed Walder to the solar. The laughter and jeers of the hall faded, leaving only the echo of boots against the stone—a prelude to whispers of alliances and betrayals.

*-*-*

Roose took a slight sip from his offered cup, Walder's current wife, some unfortunate young woman from House Erenford, also fills Walder's cup before leaving.

Once he does though, he puts the cup away. He wasn't one for wine, and this one wasn't watered down enough for him to pretend.

From his inner pocket, he pulls out the two letters.

Walder smacks his weathered lips after gulping down his own.

"What is this?" He glances at the letters, noticing their sigils. "Love letters from our overlords?"

The irony didn't escape his mind.

"Not far off, actually."

Bolton stays silent, letting Walder parse through the messages.

"What is this?!" Walder exclaims, he turns to Bolton with bulging eyes. "You're an inspector?!"

"With your permission, of course." Roose Bolton answers, completely nonplussed.

Walder scoffs. "Oh, so if I say no, it will be over? People won't moan and bitch about how the "Late" Lord Walder keeps traitors into his household?" He glares at Roose. "Cease your prattle, boy. I know an ultimatum when I see one."

Roose's gaze hardened, as he leaned forward menacingly.

"You wish for honesty? Very well." He says. "The truth is that both Edmure and Hoster Tully are dead, leaving Robb Stark and his siblings next in line through their mother. Not only that, but Edmure Tully died because of a scheme facilitated by Emmon Frey and his sons -your son and grandsons- sending "The Red" on a berserk rage. The only reason your house wasn't attained and your bloodline put to the sword is that Robb Stark is on his way to Harrenhall to get crowned, it is Luck."

Walder purses his lips, but Bolton doesn't let on.

"It is Luck that my Lord has developed a fondness for your eldest, and has a wish to secure his succession, and in turn, your house's resources for his forces. It is Luck that Brynden Tully doesn't march to your door and split your head from rage. It is Luck, that there is a war at hand, and so no resources could be diverted to houses that express rebellion." He explains. "It seems that there is a misunderstanding, those-" He gestures toward the letters. "-are not an ultimatum, they are an easy way out."

"All you need to do, is simply accord me the authority to "investigate" your house, my lord was frank on his letter, none of your riches, lands nor authority are to be affected in any way."

Walder purses his lips, his face heating up from anger.

"None of the other houses would agree to this." He bites out. "The matters of a noble household is up to members of the bloodline, this is a breach of tradition."

Roose thought the old man to have enough low cunning to be able to realize his predicament. His reaction was frankly disappointing.

"It is why my task is to be done only with your permission." Robb Stark was much too canny to alienate the other nobles, in fact, the Frey's were hated enough for this to be considered more than fair by their part. "And not to reiterate, your son was in part responsible for the heir of the Riverland's death, this no longer simply concerns your household."

Walder grunts once again, and Roose could see the thoughts storm through his brain as the offense started to fade.

After what seemed like an eternity, Walder finally lowers his head.

"So be it." He exclaims. "But you cannot be seen amongst my family as the one dealing out the punishments. I will choose who is to be punished, and how they are punished."

'Ah, I might have underestimated how shameless and scheming this man is.'

Bolton realizes that his earlier defiance went much deeper, if the Lord of the castle allowed any man run roughshod through his house, punishing any member he deemed offensive. Then some of the family members might -in concern- think the he became too alienating to the ruling houses, and that someone else, Stevron Frey perhaps, might be a more friendly face to take control of their house.

'What a chaotic family.' Roose thinks. 'A Bolton would never allow things to devolve to this extent.'

He chooses to tilt his head instead of shrug.

"If the Lord of the house is willing to do my work for me, then so be it."

Walder grunts once again, and Roose thinks he may have overstepped his welcome.

"I shall head to my quarters then; I should expect a moderate marriage ceremony in the way of the Old Gods on the morrow." He stands. "After which I suggest you keep to your castle, Ser Stevron has been an excellent representative to the house of Frey."

*-*-*

The next day, there was a simple ceremony of marriage that went fairly quickly, festivities were kept to a minimum, and his wife, unflattering that she was, was obedient and seemed content to listen to her betters.

Apparently, during the consummation, Lord Walder held a private trial whereupon he punished a great number of his progeny, most of them his sons or grandsons who were vocal or ambitious enough to plot for his seat after his demise.

Most were disinherited and exiled, and were sent back to their mother's lands as things tended to go. Some, like Walder Rivers, were too problematic and were thus forced to swear the black.

He honestly thought it was a long time coming, such large houses need to have a clear structure of inheritance or have their family name tarnished by infighting. The family name must always come first, after all.

The day after that, Roose left on a carriage to head back to Harrenhall, his heart not nearly content but almost relieved by the quick nature of this debacle.

Roose admits he was a bit forceful, but he had to make sure to assert the urgency and the importance of this task, or else that old coot would think of some meandering scheme to drag him into, or worse, attempt to convince him to join.

The Starks were up, and the Lannisters are losing ground as we speak. Robb Stark was also smart enough to suspect any wrongdoing, and would not let himself get blindsided so easily, or at least, that was Roose's read on the man.

Boltons knew how to be patient, rebellion cannot be borne from naught, and doing so against a popular and successful overlord is the height of folly.

No, what he needs to do is to wait, keep his wits on and be as useful and unthreatening as possible, and wait for the perfect opportunity to drive a knife through the Starks chest.

If that opportunity doesn't come during his life, then so be it, his heir will keep on and take his blade.

Boltons keep their blades sharp, after all.