General POV
The door creaked open with all the subtlety of a stampeding direwolf, and Cregan couldn't help but roll his eyes. He knew exactly who it was before Bran's high-pitched, exuberant squeal filled the room. It was as if the kid had just realized he was in the presence of the greatest father figure to ever walk Westeros.
Bran, still one part baby, one part whirlwind, was being held by Catelyn, who entered the room with all the grace and determination of someone who had just survived a battlefield (which, honestly, dealing with Bran was probably harder than any real battlefield). The firelight caught Catelyn's red hair, turning it into a halo of fiery brilliance, though, knowing Bran, that wouldn't stop him from doing whatever it took to make a mess of everything.
"Da!" Bran shrieked, stretching his chubby arms toward Ned, who was sitting at his desk looking like a man who was one letter away from going completely mad.
Ned looked up from his parchment, face softening just slightly at the sight of Bran's enthusiastic greeting. It was one of those rare moments where Cregan could see that, for all the grim duty and brooding that came with being Lord of Winterfell, Ned Stark was still a father—something that not even the harshness of the North could take from him.
"Ah, there's my little man," Ned said, pushing aside his stack of letters. Bran immediately lunged, like a tiny berserker, and Ned expertly caught him. "And what brings my lady and our heir to me this fine evening?"
"We thought you might like some company," Catelyn replied, her voice a mix of affection and a silent plea for a break. "Though it seems Bran's idea of company involves flailing and demanding attention."
Ned smiled, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, though it wasn't the sort of smile that made you think he'd suddenly burst into song. More like the smile of someone who had seen every imaginable mess and still somehow survived. "I can't imagine where he gets such a... um, shall we say, 'spirited' personality," Ned said, bouncing Bran on his knee. "Certainly not from his mother."
Catelyn shot him a look that said, Don't push your luck, husband. She was the kind of person who could speak volumes with a glance, and Ned knew it all too well.
"Well," she said, crossing her arms and giving him that trademark Catelyn stare that could melt iron if you weren't careful, "you have yet to explain why you're so busy with all these letters."
"Ah, the usual," Ned said, with all the enthusiasm of a man discussing the most tedious thing in existence. "Cregan and I were just talking about the future of the North."
Catelyn's eyebrows shot up, and for a split second, her fingers tightened around Bran. "The future of the North? And what, exactly, are you two plotting?"
"Fostering," Ned replied, leaning back in his chair, making it look like a more casual thing than it actually was. "Cregan's idea. We need to strengthen ties with the Northern lords, especially if we want to secure Moat Cailin and ensure our children are properly positioned."
Catelyn's expression shifted from curiosity to skepticism in about half a heartbeat. "Fostering, you say? And who exactly is your esteemed nephew planning to recruit for this little venture?"
Ned gave her a look that was somehow both serious and reluctant to get into it, probably because he knew exactly where this conversation was heading. "Well, for starters, we'll need the Manderlys. Cregan suggests one of Lord Wyman's granddaughters—Wylla or Wynafryd, perhaps. Strong matches for Robb when the time comes."
Catelyn blinked, her fingers gently brushing Bran's hair. "So, you've already chosen Robb's match without consulting me?"
"I haven't chosen anything," Ned said quickly, knowing full well that this wasn't entirely true. "It's more of a... possibility. One that might help tie the North together. Besides, they're faithful to the Seven, and their customs are more in line with yours."
Catelyn sighed, her eyes narrowing just a bit. "And what about the possibility of his future wife having Southern roots, hmm? Isn't that something worth considering?"
"I'm aware of that, Cat," Ned said, sounding mildly exasperated but not angry. He set Bran back on his lap as the little one gave a loud, triumphant shriek, as if to say, Dad! You're not paying attention to me again! "But you know how the Northern lords are. They want loyalty first, then everything else second. I don't think they'll care for a Southern alliance, at least not in the way you're hoping."
Catelyn stood silent for a long moment, her gaze shifting toward the window as if she were searching for an answer there. "I just want what's best for Robb," she said softly, her tone betraying her worry.
Ned, sensing the mood shift, placed a hand on her arm, giving it a comforting squeeze. "I know, Cat. I know. But Robb will need both sides of his heritage to rule well. This match, though it might not seem ideal, could bring some balance—both to the North and to our family."
Catelyn looked at him for a long time, then finally nodded. "Maybe you're right," she murmured, though there was still a bit of hesitation in her voice. "But if I'm going to raise a boy who rules Moat Cailin, I need to understand it better. The North is a strange place, Ned, sometimes."
"You know it better than you think," Ned said quietly, his voice more tender than usual. "And Robb will need both of us to show him the way."
Just then, Bran chose that exact moment to grab a fistful of Ned's tunic and attempt to yank it off his father's chest in an act of pure toddler defiance. Ned winced but couldn't help but laugh.
"And this little one?" Catelyn teased, looking down at Bran as he wriggled to escape Ned's grasp. "Any plans for him, Lord Stark?"
Ned chuckled and ruffled Bran's hair. "For now, I think his plans involve terrorizing the kitchens. But one day, he'll be a Stark too. And the North will be waiting for him."
Catelyn smiled, her hands resting gently on Bran as she looked at her husband. It wasn't perfect, this life they were carving out of the stone of Winterfell, but it was theirs. And for now, it would have to be enough.
—
The ravens flitted through the icy winds like messengers on caffeine, clutching the weight of Stark decisions that could make or break alliances. And in Winterfell's Hall of the Direwolf (yes, that's what Ned liked to call it now, after all the banners were raised), the ink on his letters had dried, and the seals—pressed with a little too much enthusiasm—bore the unmistakable Stark sigil. There it was, the direwolf, fanged and fierce, ready to defend the North. Except today, instead of gnashing its teeth at invaders, it was gnawing on something far more dangerous: the future.
Ned Stark sat at his desk, quill in hand, brow furrowed. He wasn't contemplating anything deep like, "Why is the sky blue?" or "What does a man really need in life?" No, he was wrestling with the mind-bending conundrum of spelling "Manderly"—which, for the life of him, seemed like an unnecessarily complicated word. It wasn't that he was illiterate (though he had nearly erased that possibility after the third attempt). It was just that—who names their kids that?
Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, he finished writing the letter to Lord Wyman Manderly. There, done.
To Lord Wyman Manderly:
Lord Manderly, Winterfell welcomes you. I, Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, do send you my regards and hope to strengthen the bonds between our families. To further this, we would like to propose that your granddaughters, Wylla and Wynafryd, be fostered at Winterfell. Their presence would not only reinforce our alliance but also provide a promising future for our children. Particularly Robb—he could benefit greatly from having strong Northern women around. A match between him and one of your granddaughters might be advantageous for both of us. After all, who doesn't want a future filled with strong heirs? Looking forward to your favorable reply, and—naturally—a grand feast.
Respectfully, Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North
Ned paused, reading over his words. He squinted at the parchment as if expecting it to explode in his face. "Well, it's not exactly poetry," he muttered to himself. "But it gets the job done." With a final flourish, he signed it.
Next up: Lord Roose Bolton. Ned wasn't exactly thrilled about writing to the man. Roose Bolton's idea of warmth was a fire—one that was usually made from the bodies of his enemies. But here he was, the next letter to be written. Time to play the diplomacy game.
To Lord Roose Bolton:
Lord Bolton,
Winterfell seeks your cooperation in fostering your son, Domeric Bolton, here at our seat. This opportunity would ensure his alignment with the North's values and traditions. Domeric will be exposed to the training that makes the North strong. Perhaps, by the time he returns to the Dreadfort, he will have a greater respect for our ways. If not, we'll at least teach him how to ride a horse properly.
We look forward to your response.
Respectfully,
Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North
Ned sighed. "I sound like a… well, Cregan." He'd never been one for unnecessary formalities. But he had to admit—sometimes, when you're in the North, there's just no avoiding it.
The next one was… tricky. Lord Gregor Forrester. Now that was a family with more drama than a full season of a southern soap opera. Asher Forrester, young and impulsive, was hardly the kind of man you'd want to foster. But hey, Winterfell was nothing if not full of second chances. Or at least, it was until they ran out of food.
To Lord Gregor Forrester:
Lord Forrester,
Winterfell extends an invitation to foster your son, Asher Forrester. This is not only an opportunity to heal the rift between House Forrester and House Whitehill, but also to give Asher a chance to learn the ways of the North. Trust me—he'll be swinging a sword before he can say "blood feud."
We hope you will give this proposal due consideration.
Best regards,
Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North
Ned snorted. "Mend the rift? He's probably going to start another one with the first glance he gives a Whitehill." But again, he didn't have the luxury of choosing who to work with. The North needed alliances, even the weird, drama-filled ones.
Lastly, the Whitehills. Lord Ludd Whitehill was everything Ned disliked in a man. Stubborn, prideful, and about as charming as a troll under a bridge. But, much like the Boltons, they were an inevitable part of the landscape. The only hope here was that the Whitehills weren't completely beyond redemption.
To Lord Ludd Whitehill:
Lord Whitehill,
Winterfell extends an invitation to foster your daughter, Gwyn Whitehill, here at our seat. We believe this will be an opportunity to foster unity between your family and the North. With any luck, Gwyn will learn something about the value of alliances, and perhaps she'll stop eyeing all Forresters like they're a pile of meat at a feast.
Your cooperation in this matter would be greatly appreciated.
Yours sincerely,
Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North
Ned folded the last letter with a tired sigh. "And now, we wait." He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. There would be replies, of course. And probably feasts, because no one in Westeros did anything without a feast.
But before he could even get the words "Let the games begin" out of his mouth, a raven swooped through the window, dropping a letter. Ned blinked. "Oh, joy," he muttered, looking at the fresh ink. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. It seemed the first reply had already arrived.
"Well," he said, standing up and adjusting his fur cloak, "let's see what madness this brings."
And with that, Ned Stark took a deep breath, bracing himself for whatever storm the ravens were about to unleash. After all, in the North, things never got boring.
—
Alright, buckle up, because we're diving back into the icy cold halls of Winterfell, where not even a direwolf's fur can make the place feel warm. But fear not! Eddard Stark, the brooding but honorable Lord of Winterfell, has a few letters to send off, and honestly, it's kind of a big deal. This batch of ravens is flying out faster than Jon Snow running to stop his brothers from killing each other, and each letter carries a little piece of political maneuvering—like a chess game, but with more swords and fewer rules.
Now, before you get all nervous about Ned Stark's no-nonsense seriousness, let's not forget that he's still human (mostly). Sure, he's the epitome of Northern honor—tall, brooding, with a face that looks like it's been carved out of granite—but there's still a bit of warmth in there. Somewhere. If you look hard enough, under all the layers of ice and honor, there's a heart that still beats. Not that he'd ever admit it.
Lord Greatjon is the kind of guy who'd probably yell at you for even thinking of stepping foot on his land without a good reason. He's massive, loud, and probably hasn't met a battle axe he didn't like. So, naturally, Ned's going to try to be nice.
—
To Lord Greatjon Umber,
Lord Umber,
I write to you from Winterfell, where the cold is biting but the hearth remains warm. As I'm sure you know, the bonds between our houses are as important as any steel we've ever wielded. With that in mind, I offer you a proposal—though I know that proposals from me might sound more like challenges to you.
Allow me to welcome your son, Smalljon Umber, to Winterfell as a ward. Don't worry, I won't be putting him in charge of any castle walls, but I will give him the finest training we can offer, including lessons on how to avoid getting too drunk at feasts (which, frankly, I've yet to master myself).
May your axe remain sharp—and your temper, perhaps, a bit sharper.
Eddard Stark, Regent of Winterfell
—
Now, Medger Cerwyn is a quiet guy. He's not exactly throwing any grand feasts or leading wild hunts. No, Medger is the guy who makes sure the horses have enough oats and that the stables don't smell like a battlefield. So, what do you say to a guy like that?
—
To Lord Medger Cerwyn,
Lord Cerwyn,
I hope this letter finds you well, and that you're not knee-deep in snowdrifts or worse—drownings from an overly enthusiastic stable boy. Winterfell is extending an invitation for your son, Cley Cerwyn, to stay with us as a foster. It may not sound like much at first, but I assure you, Cley will leave with more skills than he arrived with, and perhaps even a few new friends who are not made of snow.
I look forward to hearing your thoughts.
Eddard Stark, Regent of Winterfell
—
The Karstarks? Oh boy. If the North had a family that could win a prize for "Most Likely to Start a Dramatic Showdown," it'd be them. Harald Karstark's reputation for brooding intensity and not-so-subtle grumbling makes Ned's letter sound like an attempt to keep the peace.
—
To Lord Harald Karstark,
Lord Karstark,
In these tumultuous times, I find it prudent to offer your daughter, Alys, a place at Winterfell. Alys' stay here would serve to strengthen the ties between our houses and teach her the art of Northern leadership—which, as you know, requires more patience than a hunting trip with your son, Torrhen.
Let's call this a step toward building a future that is stronger than a single battle.
Eddard Stark, Regent of Winterfell
—
Howland Reed, the only man in Westeros who probably doesn't get involved in drama unless it's necessary. He's quiet, mysterious, and basically the Gandalf of the North. He'd rather be wandering swamps than dealing with all of this politics stuff, but Ned's had a long friendship with him. So this letter? It's more like a family obligation.
—
To Lord Howland Reed,
Lord Reed,
I trust this finds you far from any muddy swamp—or, at the very least, not too deep in one. I extend an invitation for your children, Meera and Jojen, to spend some time at Winterfell. There's much they can learn here—though, between you and me, they'd probably prefer the swamps. But we all have our duties, and this is one of theirs.
Please consider this a step in ensuring that the House Reed remains strong within the North.
Eddard Stark, Regent of Winterfell
—
So, there you have it. Four letters, each one a little stitch in the intricate tapestry of Northern politics. These are no simple invitations to a feast—they're moves in a much larger game. Each letter carries the weight of Ned Stark's careful diplomacy, and if they're lucky, the recipients will read between the lines. Or maybe they won't.
In any case, Winterfell is on the move—slowly but surely. And hey, if all goes well, maybe these lords will remember that alliances are meant to last, not crumble like old stone. If not, well… let's just hope Ned's axe isn't needed anytime soon.
Stay tuned, folks. Winter is still coming, and it's about to get a whole lot colder.
—
Lord Wyman Manderly, the enormous, jovial ruler of White Harbor, sat in his solar surrounded by the usual—fish pies, fish stews, fish this, fish that. It was like someone had opened a door to the sea and tossed every fish within a five-mile radius onto a table. But Wyman didn't mind; after all, fish was practically a Manderly family heirloom.
The raven that had arrived from Winterfell wasn't the kind of letter that was going to sit quietly on the table and get ignored, though. No, this letter had "big deal" written all over it. Wyman unfolded it with all the drama of a man about to announce his entry into a great hall—or, more accurately, a banquet hall.
"Gather 'round, everyone! This could very well be the most important piece of parchment we'll see all year," Wyman boomed in his deep voice, grinning like a man who had just caught a particularly large trout. "Winterfell has extended an invitation for Wylla and Wynafryd to come live with them. You heard me right—Winterfell, the land of eternal winter, where the sheep wear jackets and the trees shiver."
Wylis Manderly, Wyman's elder son, leaned forward, a bread roll clutched in his hand. He looked about as thrilled as someone who'd just been told to attend a week-long fish-tasting competition. His face was serious, but there was a glimmer of concern in his eyes—though it might've just been the reflection of his bread roll. "Father, are you sure about this? I mean, Winterfell's cold enough to freeze the ambition out of a man, and I've heard they don't even serve decent pie."
Wyman shot his son a knowing look. "Wylis, my boy, when they offer you the chance to send your daughters to Winterfell, you don't say no. Trust me, this isn't just about pie or the fact that the air in Winterfell is colder than your Aunt Bertha's stare on a bad day. This is about securing our place in the North. The Starks are as powerful as a direwolf on a good day—and you can bet they don't have to worry about any pesky fish smells either."
Leona, Wyman's wife and the Manderly matriarch (who had a suspiciously keen interest in making sure no one dared overeat fish in her presence), gave a wry smile. "And don't forget that the Starks have an excellent knack for picking the right people to cozy up to. I dare say they'll have Wylla and Wynafryd eating their meals in a warmer hall than this one."
Wendel Manderly, Wyman's younger son, who had the same broad shoulders as his father but lacked the same "jovial" vibe (he had more of the "grumpy uncle" energy), scratched his beard. "True, though if we're being honest, I don't think either of them would mind the cold so long as there's fish pie involved. But this does sound important."
Wyman waved his hand dismissively. "Important? It's vital, Wendel! Vital. This is how we gain influence in the North. We send Wylla and Wynafryd to Winterfell, and the Starks will see us as family. Maybe not family family, but the kind of family that gets invited to important feasts. The kind of family that gets access to, oh I don't know, maybe a few good alliances. The kind where you're not the last to be asked to the party, but rather the first."
Wylla, the ever-optimistic younger daughter (who had the kind of smile that could melt ice—but didn't try to), raised her hand. "Wait, so what's in this for us? I mean, do we get to come back and have banners flying for us? Or do we just… you know… live there?"
Wyman chuckled, giving his daughter an affectionate pat on the head. "You'll be living there, dear. But you'll also be forging relationships that will last longer than any of us. Think about it. You'll have ties to one of the most powerful houses in the realm. The Starks don't forget their friends—or their alliances. And if you play your cards right, you may even have a say in who gets married where. You can't beat that."
Wynafryd, who had been quiet until now, clearly unsure of her role in the whole thing, finally spoke up. "So, we're not exactly going to Winterfell for the sightseeing, are we? This isn't a trip?"
"Exactly," Wyman said, slapping his hands on the table for emphasis. "This is about power, influence, and maybe, just maybe, getting out of here long enough to not smell like a fish for a while. Do you really think the Starks are going to let you wander around their halls for nothing? No, they'll train you, show you the ropes. It's not a trip, dear. It's a stepping stone."
Wynafryd, who had always been the more skeptical of the two daughters, glanced over at Wylla, who was looking entirely too cheerful for someone about to embark on a trip to the land of eternal frost. "And what if we don't like it there? What if we don't fit in?"
Wylis leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. "Well, you're going to have to make the best of it, aren't you? There's no way to change what's already been decided. Plus, if Winterfell doesn't suit you, we'll be here waiting for you, fish pies and all."
Leona, who had been quietly listening, shot her brother a look. "I'll have you know, Wylis, that they don't take kindly to whining in Winterfell. You two will be on your best behavior. And if you happen to find a Stark or two who doesn't like fish? Well, that's just a bonus."
Wyndafryd raised an eyebrow. "And if we find a Stark who does like fish?"
"Then you've earned a feast," Wyman said with a wink. "Now, go pack your things. You'll be leaving soon enough. And don't forget to look presentable—we might be cold, but I expect you to leave a warm impression on Winterfell."
As Wylla and Wynafryd exchanged looks, clearly a bit uncertain about the sudden turn of their lives, Wyman leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh. Yes, there would be some cold, and yes, the fish would be missed, but this was the kind of opportunity a Manderly couldn't afford to pass up.
"Now," Wyman said, glancing down at his fish pie with a satisfied smirk. "Who's up for seconds?"
—
The Dreadfort was as cheerful as a wet blanket at a funeral. Imagine a place so dreary even the crows looked depressed. The stone walls looked like they hadn't been cleaned since someone decided "hey, let's just make this place a place of doom and despair," and the air had that musty, "I haven't seen sunlight in 50 years" vibe. Sitting in his usual chair—a craggy, uncomfortable monstrosity that made you wonder if Roose Bolton had a secret vendetta against chairs—was Roose Bolton himself. His pale eyes, the kind that made you think he could stare into your soul and leave a permanent mark, flicked over a raven in his hands as though it might suddenly bite him. (Which, honestly, it might. It was that kind of day.)
Standing over in the corner like he was auditioning for the role of "shady bastard of the year" was Ramsay Snow. He was still not officially a Bolton (and honestly, probably not ever going to be, not unless he started being less of a total sociopath), but that didn't stop him from looking at everyone like he knew all your secrets—and probably enjoyed them.
Then, there was Domeric Bolton. Picture the "good son" trope, but with a whole lot of earnestness and a serious case of misplaced optimism. He was sitting across from Roose, looking like a puppy that had just been told he was going to be adopted by a family of dragons. (And no, not the cool kind of dragons, the ones with all the honor and morals, the kind that think things like "respect" are still a thing.)
Roose broke the silence with the kind of cold, dry tone that made you question if your soul had been frozen already, or if it was just the morning chill. "Domeric, I've received a letter from Winterfell," he said, making it sound like he was casually delivering the worst news of the century. "Lord Cregan Stark has requested that you be fostered there."
Domeric's face went from 0 to 100 real quick. It was like he'd just been told he won a ticket to the land of endless knowledge, experience, and a free set of Stark-approved winter boots. "Winterfell? That's— that's incredible, Father!" Domeric practically bounced out of his seat, his eyes wide and shining with excitement. "Think of the possibilities! The knowledge! The experience!" He clasped his hands together like he was about to thank some higher power. "This will strengthen our ties with House Stark. It could—"
Roose cut him off with a look that could freeze a wildfire in its tracks. "Yes. It's an opportunity," he said, each word weighted like it had just been carved into stone. "But remember, Domeric," he continued, letting the words drag on like an ominous storm cloud. "You don't just go to Winterfell to make friends. You go to secure alliances, and to secure them, you need to know where your loyalties lie."
He leaned in, his icy stare locking with Domeric's. "You are a Bolton. Not a Stark."
Ramsay, who had been lurking in the corner like a snake waiting to strike, suddenly decided to grace everyone with his presence. His voice was sweet, like the kind of honey that might kill you if you're allergic. "Careful, Domeric," he drawled, lazily pushing himself off the wall. "The Starks might try to fill your head with honor, loyalty,* and all that other soft nonsense." He grinned, stretching the sides of his mouth into something that resembled a wolf showing its teeth. "Wouldn't want you to become... well... one of them, would you?"
Domeric, ever the dutiful son and unfortunately a sucker for doing what his father asked, ignored Ramsay and kept his focus on Roose. "I understand, Father," he said earnestly, nodding with way more sincerity than the situation called for. "I'll make sure to represent House Bolton with the respect it deserves." He almost looked like he believed his own words. Almost. "I'll make sure our interests are protected."
Roose nodded, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you could almost see a glimmer of approval—like a ghost haunting a room that didn't have enough sunlight to keep it around. "Good," Roose said, as though he were praising Domeric for doing something basic, like remembering to feed the family dog. "I expect nothing less."
And just when it looked like maybe this meeting might end without someone getting verbally eviscerated, Ramsay's voice piped up again, laced with sarcasm and bad intentions. "And what about me, Father?" he asked, his grin widening like a cat who'd just found the family's stash of cream. "Don't I deserve a little taste of Winterfell too? I'm still a Bolton, even if I don't have the name yet, right?" He looked positively gleeful at the thought, like he was about to get all the drama and chaos he could possibly need for the week.
Roose's eyes flicked to him, as cold and sharp as a dagger made of ice. "No, Ramsay," he said, his voice so cold it might as well have come with a warning label. "Winterfell is not the place for you. You will remain here."
Ramsay blinked as if Roose had just told him his favorite toy had been burned alive. "Ah, pity," Ramsay said, clearly not bothered in the slightest. "I was looking forward to meeting the Stark children. I hear they're good at being insufferable." He practically purred the last part, as if he enjoyed the idea of tormenting the very people he was meant to keep in check.
Roose didn't even flinch, just cast Ramsay one of those "I've dealt with your nonsense before, and I'm already planning your demise in my head" glances. "Stay here and keep your... talents in check, Ramsay," he warned, voice low and dangerous. "Winterfell is a place for men with honor—something you have yet to earn." He leaned forward slightly, as if the words could carve themselves into Ramsay's brain. "And do not make the mistake of thinking this is a game. Cregan Stark is not a man to be trifled with."
Ramsay gave him that grin again, the one that said, "I'm totally in control here." "Of course, Father. I wouldn't dream of causing trouble."
Roose didn't dignify that with an answer. Instead, he turned back to Domeric, who was still sitting there, looking like he had just discovered what the word adventure meant. "Domeric," Roose said, his tone turning slightly more business-like, "There's another matter we need to discuss. The Lannisters." He let the word hang in the air like an uninvited guest. "They're powerful, and they know how to play the game. We could make use of them."
Domeric's brow furrowed, like someone had just offered him a horse made of poisonous frogs. "The Lannisters?" he asked, clearly uncomfortable. "But Father, the Starks—"
Roose cut him off, giving him that smile of his that looked like it had been taught to him by the Devil himself. "Loyalty is complicated, Domeric," he said, his voice smooth but dangerous. "The Starks are our allies, yes. But loyalty to House Bolton is the only loyalty that matters. Don't forget that."
Domeric swallowed hard, his mind clearly trying to process the mental gymnastics Roose had just put him through. "I understand, Father," he said, sounding like he was trying his best to convince himself as much as his father. "I'll keep the balance."
Roose nodded, his icy eyes glinting with a mix of approval and calculation. "Good. Now, prepare for your journey to Winterfell. Make sure you represent us well."
Domeric stood up, filled with as much confidence as a man who was about to walk into the lion's den wearing a "pet me" sign. "I won't disappoint you, Father," he said, his voice full of enthusiasm and delusion in equal measure. "I'll make you proud."
As Domeric left the room, Ramsay's eyes followed him like a hawk tracking its prey. "Such a good boy, our Domeric," he muttered, his voice all too sweet, but still coated in venom. "Let's hope he doesn't get too comfortable with the Starks."
Roose didn't respond immediately. Instead, he stared at the door through which Domeric had just exited, his mind already moving ahead to the next move in this cold, twisted game of thrones.
---
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