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jaeedraszaerysz · 11 months

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YOU CANT EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED ☆ JOFFREY BARATHEON

Masterlist

Warnings: joffrey obviously, swearing, mentions of murder and war, mentions of incest.

Summary: being joffrey baratheons cupbearer as the last targaryen in Kings landing was bound to be eventful, just not in the way that pleases you. Until...

Notes: reader is FEMALE also to fit in with the context of this fic, joffrey is around 17-18 and the reader is 19 ish making her 6 years younger than viserys and 4 years older than daenerys in season 1

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Being born a targaryen was like a game of Russian roulette. You were either blessed with great kindness and gentleness or cursed with madness and cruelty. In your case, it had been the former thankfully.

According to the maesters and other occupants of Kings landing you had been the most peaceful of the three targaryen babies to have been born of aerys II, the mad king. You had never cried or wailed or screamed, only smiled and attempted to befriend any lord, lady, knight or servant who came to cross your path.

But when the rebellion came and your father was dethroned and executed by jaime lannister your life had been flipped. Your brother rhaegar was dead along with all of his children, your other brother viserys and your mother, pregnant with another targaryen had fled, leaving you.

You didn't know why. You were still only a child of 3. No one else seemed to know either. So, Robert baratheon, the new king of the seven Kingdoms, decided to keep you. You were to be raised in Kings landing by a nurse and tywin lannister, having worked on your father's council before his death, made sure that you were educated properly.

By the time you had turned ten years of age, it was almost that your taragryen lineage had been forgotten, except for the obvious snowy hair and violet eyes. But no one that actually mattered seemed to pay attention to it any more.

You had grown close to cersei lannister in your teenage years, despite her being almost twenty years older than yourself. She was nice to you and as you grew, so did her eldest son, Prince joffrey. And then her others, princess myrcella and Prince tommen.

You were a bright girl, smart and kind. You had even been known to summon a smile from the Knight commonly referred to as the hound, sandor clegane. However, you had very little friends and were often seen wandering around or sitting by the flowers in the gardens, staring out into the sea or the city below.

By the time you had turned ten and seven you were truly a sight to behold, having inherited the targaryen beauty of your ancestors. But, as the small council came to realise that marrying off the only targaryen in westeros to a rich or powerful lord may not have been the most amazing idea, the king decided to appoint you as joffreys cupbearer.

You were good for the job, you listened attentively, you were smart and quick. And most importantly there wasn't anything distinct about you that joffrey could complain of and have you removed for.

So that's what became of you. You became his cupbearer and followed him around the red keep, accompanied him on his hunts or his short journeys and poured his wine, brought him his food, or anything else he asked for. Of course you were not immune to his cruelty, the opposite actually. He often mocked your unnatural eyes and Strangely perfect competition, he called you a witch, trying to enchant the castle and accused you of whoring about with the knights although you had never been with anyone.

He overworked you and reprimanded you but you were always there to listen, happy to be given a chance. He noticed this and it aggravated him. To see someone who was supposed to be miserable so joyous at the idea of bringing the king his meals and wine and suffering his abuse day and night for the rest of his or her life.

It confused him, how he had his ways so easily with you but not through fear, anger or blackmail, but through pure loyalty and gratitude that your life had been spared and you had been given a chance and something other than death or imprisonment.

He wasn't stupid. He heard the Lords and ladies whisper as you walled behind him. He heard the knights mock as you passed by. Eventually it grew to anger him slightly whenever your name was put down or insulted.

Only he was allowed to do that. And that in mind, joffrey became rather possessive of you in a way.

You listened to him rant. Listened to his drone on about his parents or the peasants or his siblings. About the food and the weather and the sheets. About everything.

And that is how you ended up here, stood in his chambers, listening to him speak of the lady sansa stark and his new betrothal to her. And listening to him rave about how he was still expected to marry the traitors daughter. And you knew ned stark was no such a man, and you were sure he did to, but you listened all the same.

He paced quickly around the room, hands behind his back, until he was called for a meeting of the small council. He was quite busy as of late, what with stannis baratheons army, renly baratheons army aswell now. And the north's new rebellion, robb stark, son of the late ned, proclaiming himself king in the North and marching closer by the day.

Joffrey was the king now, and he was much more cruel as of late, and you thought about it on your way back to your chambers that night. They had been decent enough to give you a separate room in the servants quarters, what with your family name and the risks of you forming alliances that had become more prominently discussed in the recent months you had noticed.

You had heard that viserys was marrying off your sister to the dothraki khal in exchange for an army but the conversation was dropped a while ago.

You had changed into your nightgown and were now stood, brushing your hair gently and staring out of your window to the crashing waves below. They calmed you, but that calm was interrupted by a harsh collection of violent knocks at your door.

You had set aside the brush and quickly gone to answer. Noticing it was joffrey which was unusual as he always sent someone for you, never venturing anywhere near the servants end of the castle.

"Whatever is the matter, your grac-"

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, burying his head into your neck. He held you in an embrace and you were stunned for a moment, eyes wide and staring at sandor clegane who stood across the hall and shrugged and you.

You had slowly and anxiously returned the hug, moving your hand gently up and down his back as he slowly began to cry. It was almost silent hut you could feel him shaking.

"Your grace, do you-" you let out a breath. "Do you want to come in and sit for a moment?"

He nodded into your shoulder and you guided him into your room, ignoring the silent laughs from the hound as you closed the door, sitting joffrey down on your bed, he rested himself against the headboard, on the side closest to the window.

You had quickly grabbed him a cup of water and offered it to him, he took it and you stood infront of him cautiously.

"Are you alright, your grace?" You asked quietly.

He stopped his slow crying for a moment and looked up at you, his eyes meeting yours.

"I'm a terrible king. I don't know what to do about all the stupid Lords and ladies constantly wanting my attention. I don't know what to do about uncle renly or uncle stannis, about robb stark or my mother or anything."

Your face softened with sympathy for the boy king slightly as you replied.

"You are no such thing, your grace. War is a strange and chaotic thing, no one ever really, truly knows what to do. You're handling it well I'm sure of it, your grace."

He looked down into his lap and them out if the window and into the dark sky.

"Do you really think so?"

"I do, your grace."

He paused and and studied your face, your beautiful eyes and hair, your skin and lips, your figure and everything else about you.

"Why are you nice to me? I am nothing but cruel to you and yet you are happy to serve me. You listen and you don't tire of me. Why?"

"Because, your grace," you spoke softly. "I cannoted ever repay the generosity your family had shown me and I do not find it a chore to listen to you. I do not have any friends, I do not have people to speak to for no one ever wants the risk of speaking to the mad Kings Daughter. But you, your grace, you speak to me, about everything. About your problems, about your feelings. You don't see me as the targaryen girl, you see me as your cupbearer. Nothing more, nothing less, your grace."

You say nervously on the end of your bed, gazing at him. He gestured for you to sit closer and so you shuffled up the bed until you too were leaned against the headboard.

"Your grace, it is improper for someone such as yourself to be laying in such a room, are you sure I cannot escort you back to your chambers, get you some food or some wine?"

He didn't not reply, he just yet again stared out of the window.

"I think of you as much more than that you know." He mumbled.

"I'm sorry, your grace?" You asked, confounded by the statement.

"I think of you as much more than just my cupbearer. Much more."

"Your grace, i am afraid I do not understand quite what you are implyi-"

He lent forward slightly as cupped your check with his hand, his beautiful brown eyes staring into your own vivid, violet ones. He tinged his head slightly and kissed you.

His lips were soft and warm, his kiss gentle. Not at all like you had expected. He pulled away slowly, still keeping eye contact.

"Your grace, i-"

"Joffrey."

"I, I'm sorry i-" he placed a finger over your lips, shushing you softly.

"Just joffrey."

And he kissed you again, this time much more passionately, your lips moving in sync with each other and your heartbeats rising, bodies getting closer and closer.

And that is how you stayed until the morning when cersei found you both, but she never said a word, to either of you, instead choosing to leave quietly.

As she walked back down the corridor, she was joined by tyrion lannister and she looked down at him.

"Well that certainly was not expected to happen any time soon." He stated.

"Well, dear brother, you can't expect the unexpected, can you?

#joffrey baratheon #joffrey lannister #game of thrones #got imagine #joffrey baratheon x reader #joffrey #game of thrones x reader #imagine

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tinfairies · 1 year

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can I get headcanons for joffrey baratheon and what it would be like to be his lover?

Joffrey is fiercely protective of his lover. If anyone looks at them with anything but adoration (but not too much adoration) he'll have them hurt.

He's also jealous to a fault. His lover will have very few friends and only select members of their family can communicate with them.

As isolated as he makes his lover, he will give them anything they could ever want.

If they even mention liking something, it's in their chambers the next day.

Clothing, jewelry, books, they name it, they have it.

Joffrey always has them by his side when he makes public appearances. The whole kingdom will love their queen/king, he makes sure of it.

If they mention any dislike for someone, that person either comes up missing or is plagued by misfortune.

He's cruel, and will sometimes pick a random lord out at a party. He asks him if he thinks his beloved is beautiful, a double edged question.

If he say yes, he is imprisoned. If he says no, he gets his tongue cut out.

Joffrey also likes to bring them animal pelts from the ones he's killed.

He is very clingy, moreso in private.

Loves to just cuddle in bed with them, wrapped around them with his head on their chest.

He's constantly coming to the them throughout the day to bury his head in their neck and exist in their space.

Joffrey requires a lot of attention, and will pout and throw fits when he doesn't get it.

#Game of thrones x reader #game of thrones headcanon #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones #got x reader #got imagine #got headcanons #Got #joffrey baratheon x reader #joffrey lannister #joffrey baratheon #Fluff #Headcanons

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dragons-and-handcuffs · 7 months

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Would Joffrey make The Mountain "ravish" his (Joffrey's) twin sister in front of him in the throne room? Or in his chambers late at night? Perhaps, knowing Joffrey and Gregor, the action is even more sadistic than the prostitutes spanking each other (in the show when Tyrion sends prostitutes to Joffrey as gifts to him). What do you think? Would it be that way? Joffrey possibly punishes his sister for being too nice towards Gregor and his delusional mind thinks she's seducing the guard

Joffrey thinks his sister loved that kind of attention, otherwise why would she be so nice to the guards? He call her to the throne room. The guards immediately hold her and drag her in front of Joffrey. He tells her a princese should be punished for seeking attention and seducing the royal guard. He orders the guards to take off her dress and make her stand naked in the throne room. He then orders Gregor to spank her till he believes she has learned her lesson. Gregor is not kind or gentle at all. She screamed and beg as Gregor's big hands spanked her. She could feel her skin turning red. Joffrey believes Gregor did a good job and as a result offered his sister to him for the night, thinking this will definitely teach her a lesson. Gregor forced his big cock inside the princess right there in the throne room as Joffrey watched. His sister cried and beg which annoyed Joffrey. Can't she see that this is for her own good? Gregor started to roughly fuck her like an animal, slapping and pulling her tits, spanking her already sore ass. He love how tight she is and his cock hit the wall of her inside everytime. Joffrey saying humiliating things to her and ordered her to keep her eyes open. Gregor cum inside of her and then fucked her again standing. Joffrey was so disappointed on his sister when she cum as well. Maybe she has not learned her lesson? After she was ruined and used Joffrey ordered for a crop stick and hit her tits, cunt, and ass as a punishment for cumming. But Joffrey is not a monster like everyone believes him to be. He kissed his sister and told her this is a for her benefits. He went easy on her but some more punishment are still pending. He won't allow her to walk to her room after that and so told Gregor to carry her. The rest of the punishment will be give the next day

#joffrey baratheon #joffrey lannister #hotd #game of thrones #game of thrones imagines #hotd headcanon #hotd fanfic #hotd imagine #hotd imagines #hotd one shot #house of the dragon #house of the dragon imagine #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones fanfic #game of thrones fanfiction #got fanfiction #Joffrey x reader #joffrey baratheon x reader

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chic-beyond-the-wall · 6 months

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A bracelet Joffrey Baratheon would gift Abigail Lannister

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gotpineapple · 2 years

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Under his mane (Part 7) // Tywin Lannister x Baratheon!Fem!Reader

”A Golden wedding for a golden pair”, someone whispered as the people watched the mighty Old Lion take the Gentle Doe into his arms as the music began to play.

The way their eyes never left each other’s, the way Tywin’s tall form lead them around the dance floor and the way the bride’s dress swayed in their steps was the epitome of a golden couple. Graceful, powerful and enigmatic.

”I feel like an animal in a cage with all these stares”, Y/n whispers as she feels the eyes boring holes into her. Tywin lets a small smirk cross his face.

”Let them stare. You are a Lannister now and-”

”A Lion does not concern himself with the opinions of a sheep”, the new Lady Lannister finishes gently for her husband. It felt surprisingly easy to be in Tywin’s arms in front of all the people. The time she had spent with him over the years was more than just enough for her to feel at ease with him.

And she knew he would be her strength and stay if needed, no matter his reputation or his own volatile thoughts of himself.

”Now now, my lady. You might be my wife now but one should still remain careful when laying in bed with a lion”, Tywin says face serious but voice teasing. She gives a slight smile at him and raises her brows.

”I would think it’s safer to lie with the lion rather than lie waiting for it to bounce on you”, she shrugs. Tywin raises his brows at her statement, making her blush as she realizes how her words must have sounded. ”That is how it is for all the women in this realm. Your father and your husband are the beasts that can protect you and give you the most power. But they also are the ones that have the power to take all of yours away in the eyes of the realm”

”Do you think I married you just to have you as a pet?”, Tywin scoffs tightening his hold on her, mindful of pulling on her hair.

”Do you think I would be a good pet , my lord?”, Y/n challenges him. Asking questions was more entertaining than answering them. If Tywin was in the mood to entertain her questions, she knew she would get entertaining answers.

”You may kneel to me in the safety of our bedroom but I would be an idiot to make you kneel in the council room” Tywin’s answer is softer than what she had ever expected. A gentle warmth blooms in her chest as she nods at his words. He was not a man who was intimidated by the idea of a council from women, he was a man who was irritated by the council of people who thought themselves smarter than they were.

She also cannot help but blush at the beginning of his answer. Oddly there was truth to that too. She wished to have a husband who she could kneel to if she so wished. Who she could give all of her vulnerability to when she needed to level her head.

She was always so in control and aware of herself, she needed someone who she could give that power to so she could rest for once.

As the music comes to halt, the pair turns to walk back to their table arm in arm.

”Grandfather! Aunt!”, sounds a cry from the King’s table. Sure enough the blonde boy king stood on his feet, a goblet in his hand and a nasty grin on his face. Y/n’s jaw tightens as she stares at the boy with fire, her hatred burning as strong as wild fire.

”The night is young but that’s when young lovers usually like to retire is it not?”, the King’s joke gains a couple of laughs of pity but those come to a quick silence as they see the look on the face of the Hand of the King.

Tywin licks at his teeth as he waits for his grandson to make another wrong comment. Another wrong comment and the King would be asleep for the rest of his life. If only he could snap that boy down to the deepest hell he was born from.

”It would be a shame for my Lady Aunt to not experience the appreciation of the men as you experienced the love of the ladies when you were first married, Grandfather.”, the King giggles as his mother and Uncle both look nervous at the way he is behaving, knowing full well what their father was capable of.

”Let the bedding begin!”

”Very well, let us not keep our YOUNG king awake longer than he should be”, Tywin sneers glaring at Joffrey sharply. The boy let’s out a little gulp and has the sensibility look away.

When the hollers of the men start, Y/n feels the urge to panic, all her memories flooding to her. But before any hand can be laid upon her, her husband is kneeling down, her feet are taken from under her and she thrown over a very high shoulder.

Tywin was carrying her to their bed chambers. Tywin Lannister was carrying her in front of all of the guests. The hollers die down at the sight. With a soft squeak she grabs onto the leather of Tywin’s coat. The absurdity of the situation almost causing her to laugh.

This was not an act to humiliate her, no. This was an act to dare anyone to hurt her and live with the consequences. She knew that the common people in the keep needed no warning. The servants and town’s people were rarely malicous when it came to people who treated them well. They were people who worked to live, they did not work to gain petty power.

The reminder was to the knights and Lords and Ladies. To the King and the Queen regent.

No one in the room dares to touch the pair as the husband carries his wife across the hall towards the tower of the hand. Tywin looks at the men around the room with the eyes of steel. Daring them to take a step closer.

No one moves until the couple is out of sight.

***

When the pair arrive to the steps leading to the Tower of the Hand, Tywin gently places Y/n back to the ground.

”I must say, you surprise me, my lord husband”, Y/n says with a soft mischievous smile. ”I never expected such show of strength from such an old man”

Her jest causes Tywin to let out a short laugh. ”My my wife, there are more than enough surprises to come”, he says jovially as they began ascending the steps. ”That boy needed a lesson, no one seems to be keeping the brat in check”, he says lowering his voice slightly.

”I used to think that boy needed some benefit of a doubt for his youth. I pitied him for how my brother treated him.

He is far too gone to be saved anymore, Margaery is his only chance for becoming a beloved King. But should she fail…I never want to see that fate fall on anyone”, the Doe says shaking her head slightly.

”And what say you of your remaining brother’s claim to the Throne?”, Tywin inquires laying a hand on the small of his new wife’s back.

A soothing or domineering gesture. In this case: Both

”In an ideal world birth right should not matter to who sits on the throne. In ours it makes it easier to choose who leads but do you truly think birth right gives anyone the quality to sit on a throne? Most people cleaning the sewers have more sensibility than us born in the great houses.

No matter what we claim, all we are fighting for is our own power. Marriages, wars, they are selfish deals for people of nobility, we just try to justify them to ourselves so we can keep living our status”, she near whispers the end as they arrive in front of the guards who immediately open the door for them.

Once they are let inside the chambers Tywin leads her to have a seat in front of a dresser. The bed chamber of the hand was everything that was to be expected, red and gold, and regal. Yet the things that laid inside spoke of a pragmatist living inside of it. The fishing rods and sets of knives laying on top of a chest were not the common sight for a bed chamber of a man in his boots.

Looking at each other through the looking glass, Tywin speaks lowly. ”Family is all that matters, family is what keeps on living. We are a family now. It is no longer my legacy or your legacy, it is our legacy that matters.

My children never learned that blood does not give you wisdom, tact or capability. If one doesn’t build their own legacy it will die down, no matter what the generations before us built”

While speaking he walks over to a pitcher and pours out two goblets of wine. Walking back and placing her goblet on the dresses he takes her chin into his hand and turns her to face him.

”You understand more than you should in the eyes of many, you fool many but you won’t fool me. You did not answer my question of Stannis which leads me to my answer. ”

”Do not hide things from me”, his tone turns dangerous at the end of his speech causing Y/n to gulp.

Gently pulling Tywin’s hand off of her face, she takes a sip of her wine and stands up, stepping right in front of her husband. ”I am at your mercy Tywin. Bare and scarred, as I have been since I was laid in front of you”, she admits looking down at her feet.

Gentle hands lift her crown of antlers off of her head, a sound of metal softly touching wood following the action. The feet of her husband disappear from in front of her as she feels his hands meticulously starting to untie the laces of her gown.

They stand in silence as he works on the lacings, soon helping her arms out of the sleeves. Leaving her only in her chemise and tubular bodice.

Offering her his arm, he guides her to step out of the dress and stand once again face to face with him. His hands cup the back of her neck as he brings their faces closer to each other before speaking ”I am a hardened man Y/n. I am a cruel man. But no mark will taint your skin apart from the marks of passion from this day on”

The low timbre of his voice causes a shiver to rise up the spine of the new Lady of the Casterly Rock causing her to let out an audible sigh. Never had she doubted how attractive Tywin Lannister was, no matter his age, he was still a handsome, authoritive man. A man who commanded attention without begging for it.

Staring into his green, gold flecked eyes, she softly leans up and kisses the edge of his mouth before lowering her forehead to rest against the side of his chin.

”Mark me then, bring me under you mane for good”, she whispers vulnerably.

Her request causes Tywin’s chest rise and his nostrils to flare.

I am no savage,

Tywin thinks, before his hand tangles itself into the hair of his new wife, pulls her face back, just to bring her back closer to lock their lips together with overwhelming desire.

Y/n can’t help the whimper that rises out of her mouth as Tywin bites on her lower lip, his other arm circling her whole back to hold her impossibly close. Raising her own arms she bring one of her hands to cup his cheek while the other finds itself on his shoulder blade.

”My Lord”, she moans as he pulls on her hair to get room to nibble on her neck, his scruff scratching her sensitive skin.

Tywin pulls back with a ferocious look in his eyes. ”There are plenty of Lords in Westeros but there is only one Tywin Lannister and my wife will only call on my name in the throes of pleasure”, he growls .

”Tywin”, his lady wife says softly looking up at him with wide glistening eyes. Once again, her husband bends his knees and her feet leave the floor. This time her legs end up around his waist and lips locked with his.

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#Tywin Lannister #tywin lannister imagine #tywin lannister x reader #game of thrones #baratheon oc #Joffrey Baratheon #house lannister #house baratheon #Tyrion Lannister #Cersei Lannister

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anxiousnerdwritings · 2 years

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What does the Baratheon *cough* Lannister *cough * siblings think about Joanna lookalike?

Myrcella and Tommen would really take to them, especially given that they’re nothing like Joffrey. I think they’d cling to and look up to Joanna!lookalike!Reader. They’d adore having an older sibling who doted on and cared for them how an older sibling should, unlike Joffrey. Having heard and witnessed how Cersei, Jaime, Tyrion and Tywin are towards Joanna!lookalike!Reader it wouldn’t be much of a stretch for their antics to wear off on Tommen and Myrcella, especially coming from Cersei. She wouldn’t hide how much meaning the Reader had to her or House Lannister as a whole and she would definitely influence her children to think the same.

Joffrey on the other hand would hold quite a bit of resentment towards Joanna!lookalike!Reader for the attention they get. Especially if they were younger than him. But if Reader were to feed into Joffrey’s attention seeking and want for validation I could see him growing increasingly selfish of having their attention directed towards him. If they were older than him then I think he’d hold a lot of admiration for them, probably also due to Cersei’s influence/encouragement. He, along with Myrcella and Tommen, would have been taught to admire and appreciate their lovely sibling who reminded the whole family of the woman they had all been robbed of.

I think that no matter how Joffrey takes to Joanna!lookalike!Reader, whether with admiration or distain, he would have his own twisted obsession towards them. ‘Good’ or bad, Joffrey would not be trusted unsupervised with them. Especially not after he shows his more cruel and psychotic tendencies. It wouldn’t matter if Joffrey had no intentions to ever hurt Joanna!lookalike!Reader, Cersei, Jaime, Tyrion, and Tywin wouldn’t be able to bring themselves to muster any trust in Joffrey to not try something to harm their Reader, even if it were only a joke. If anything it would even be advised that Joanna!lookalike!Reader spend more time with Myrcella and Tommen rather than Joffrey.

#anxious answers #yandere joffrey baratheon #yandere myrcella baratheon #yandere tommen baratheon #yandere house lannister #yandere game of thrones #yandere game of thrones concept #yandere concept #game of thrones imagine

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yandere-toons · 2 years

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A Fool's Mistake 3: Taking the Black | Platonic Scenario

Yandere!Cersei Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Tyrion Lannister, Joffrey Baratheon, Ramsay Bolton

WARNING: abuse of power, morally ambiguous reader, reality warping, strong and bloody violence, mentions of physical torture.

WORD COUNT: 7.825

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (You are here)

The silhouettes of free folk dashed between trees and rocks in the silverish light of the full moon. They were clothed in the skins of woodland animals, and they wielded with much dexterity a combination of bows, axes and spears crafted from the forest.

Droves of the free folk had begun to scale the Wall at yesterday's sunset and, from midnight to daybreak, had reached the point where falling meant certain death. Despite enough time passing for the sun to peek over the mountaintop, the space that surrounded the free folk remained dark as night.

The sky was black but held no stars as if drapes had been thrown over the earth. The top of the Wall, a summit that appeared taller than the clouds, was covered in impenetrable darkness. Glimmers of sunlight skirted the darkness, and the scarce light traced the shape of a bubble around the free folk who dared to rise.

The ground was no longer visible to those who looked down in the hope of descending the Wall and testing the climb another day. The ice wall in front of them and the makeshift tools used to hook it was all that met their eyes beyond the shadows.

Whispers seeped into the ears of the free folk, whispers that resembled the faint voices of the people climbing with them. The voices asked for the location of the other free folk, asked after their health and encouraged them to resume the climb.

Once the first ragged antler and stake impaled the ice at the top of the Wall, the free folk realised that their vision had been dulling. In the final moments of heaving oneself onto the Wall, each member of the expedition noted themselves to be the only living thing there.

The sight that greeted them flashed back and forth between the bodies of their fellow free folk and an empty stretch of ice. The shadows warped their eye and seemed to drill into their heads before the darkness took them to the ground far below.

When no birds sang and the air became colder than the depths of a northern pond, you watched for creatures with blue eyes and ghostly skin.

Except for the occasional lash of shadows at the base of snowy trees, the woods lay motionless and free of dark magic on this hour. The current flowing from the distant Bay of Seals was tumultuous and churned as if locked in a storm, but it carried nothing more than the rare howl and rush of icy breath.

* * *

With his wrists bound to the back of a chair and his ankles tied to the wood legs, the sole mercenary to survive the recent battle at the Dreadfort sat in his own sweat. A mob of Bolton soldiers encircled him with their swords raised and their eyes locked on whichever part of him they were most inclined to cut.

The large door to the dining hall creaked open in an outward swing of metal and bending joints. Ramsay Bolton stormed into the room, his fingers playing with a gore-drenched knife.

After a moment of examining the mercenary, the immediate wrath flaring on his face waned and evolved into morbid curiosity. “I remember you.” Ramsay tilted his head and scanned the man's visible wounds and foul odour to confirm his suspicion.

It was then that the mercenary's stomach dropped to bottomless depths, and he began to whisper prayers for the mercy of the Mother.

Unlike the frantic turns and agitated stomps of earlier, Ramsay's next movements were slower and dominated by quiet steps that struck a greater panic in the heart of the mercenary each time. “You took a long look at them.”

From his pocket came the glint of a knife, prompting the mercenary to squirm against the ropes and expel a whimper. Ramsay twirled the weapon in his right hand and conveyed a taste of future pain with unrepentant eye contact. “Just before you tried to kill them.”

Before the tip of the steel could blind the mercenary, the harsh voice of Roose Bolton echoed in the dining hall and overpowered any wails spilling out of the mercenary. “Ramsay!”

The sound was little more than a growl, and Ramsay paused with his knife hovering just in front of the mercenary's eyeball.

The violent shake gripping his arm did not cease, spreading to his lips and upper body as he stared into the mercenary's terror with bubbling insanity that flailed against the bridle he was compelled to put on it. Ramsay vented slivers of his untapped rage through the tremulous breaths whipping past his bared teeth.

While the soldiers beside him kept a tight hold on their swords, Roose did not allow his voice to waver: “We need this one alive.”

The blade was so close that the mercenary's eyelashes brushed it every time he blinked. It quivered with the threat of twitching too far and impaling his skull before he could release a full scream, but Ramsay seemed to find enough delight in his father's command that he turned his head away.

“Oh, he'll live.”

Just as the knife reeled back and then plunged forward, a booming announcement sounded from Roose. “We're going on a diplomatic mission to White Harbor.”

Ramsay listened to his father with a distracted mind plagued by runaway thoughts and bits of emotion he could not manage, his eyes flitting between Roose and the nearest objects while his fingers twitched with ideas of what pain to inflict on the captured mercenary. “When will you return?”

Roose looked upon his struggle with amusement and indifference. “You should know. You're coming with me.”

As if Roose had revoked his legitimacy as the heir, Ramsay raised his head and widened his eyes. The tension clenching his shoulders and jaw shifted to confused glances, and his lips moved to search for the appropriate response that changed with each surge of dissatisfaction and the sense of a goal stepping out of his reach.

“My place is here. I have rallied the men.”

Roose began to approach the main entrance to the fortress and did not slow his stride. “Your place is where I say it is.”

Ramsay stopped walking, but Roose ignored the vicious stare drilling into the back of his head. “Father,” murmured Ramsay, and his next words were spoken through gritted teeth. “I need to find them.”

Roose took a final, definitive step forward and turned, the bottom of his cloak gliding across the floor. “There will be a time for that. Right now, what you need to do is mount a horse and ride with me to White Harbor.”

* * *

The chambers of Tyrion Lannister stank of wine on most nights, but the scent was especially potent on this night. An empty flagon sat at the foot of a luxurious chair, which Tyrion used to rest his legs while he put his mouth to the work of downing every glass he could fill.

With his knuckles pressed underneath his chin, Tyrion observed the half-full goblet with a curious glint in his eye. He laid his hand over the top of it and waited in silence for many a second.

When he retracted his hand and peeked into the cup, a foolish part of him hoped that it would be full again. A layer of wine at the bottom was all that greeted him. Tyrion hurled the goblet at the wall, and a thick wave of blackberry wine exploded onto the stone.

The glass clattered to the floor and rolled into the leg of a chair, streaks of reddish-purple cascading down the rock and draining into the crevices. Droplets continued to seep from the rim of the cup as trails of the dark liquor mixed with the red of a Lannister banner and fell behind a dresser.

As the door slammed behind him, Tyrion stamped past the duo of guards protecting his chambers and snapped his fingers. “With me.”

The guards lifted their shields from the floor and hurried to follow.

Tyrion marched down the corridor with a palace guard on his left and his right. Flanked by the men, he rounded a corner and leaned forward to place his hands upon an ornate set of double doors.

He pushed open the door to Cersei's chambers and found her sitting at the table beside the balcony, a glass in her hand and red wine on her lips. The rattles of the guards' swords and armour must have been loud in the silent halls, for she was facing the entrance without a lick of surprise.

She lowered the glass and eyed him as if he were an insect that had crawled into her bedroom from a hole in the wall. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Tyrion widened his eyes and removed his hands from the door, allowing it to shut at his back. “I was concerned,” he lied, feigning fear in an exaggerated, deliberately obvious manner. “Just the other day, a man had his throat slit for sleeping.”

Cersei kept her voice low as though others were in danger of listening. “I believe that to be the work of our mutual friend.” She placed distinct acrimony on the word “friend,” her lip curling.

As her gaze drifted off to the cityscape outside her balcony, Tyrion wondered if the bitterness came from her belief that the word was untrue or the implication that the two of them could ever share a companion. “Don't tell that to the king. He was quite upset at having his prized day interrupted.”

The hand that held onto the wine glass began to shake, and Cersei refrained from looking at her brother. “Joffrey won't see me.” A heaviness existed in her words, a quiet misery that she was attempting to drown in wine.

Tyrion kept his frown level. “Oh, yes. Not since you promised the sorcerer would find their own way back to him, a promise that has yet to be fulfilled.” He tilted his head upon saying the second bit.

Cersei shut her eyes and clenched her teeth slightly, refusing to let the posh smile on her lips fall. She opened her eyes and glanced in his direction when the soft thuds of footsteps came near the table.

A chair squealed as it was pulled from under the table, and Tyrion plopped on it with his hands resting close to Cersei's. “If I say it, I would be branded an enemy of the crown and lose my head within the hour. Perhaps Jaime?”

She turned farther away and fixed her eye on the open doors to the balcony. “Joffrey's working him like a dog.”

A slight sigh rolled out of him, and Tyrion closed his eyes for a pensive instant before opening them with a degree of sympathy. “If Jaime could be here with you, he would be.” He unfurled his arms, turned his palms to the ceiling, and gestured to the bedroom.

Lifting the glass, Cersei took another sip. “I'm not so sure.”

* * *

The courtyard of the Red Keep smelt of pollen as a medley of berry bushes and wildflowers bloomed in the light of day. The leafy grass was green as the coat of arms from House Tyrell of Highgarden, and it swayed in a cool breeze that was welcomed by the lords and ladies dilly-dallying in the sun.

From the generous lengths of the surrounding corridors, Varys and Petyr Baelish strolled into the small garden. Each one moved in tandem with the other just enough to keep up the illusion of leisure and signify that the interaction would not end until one of them deviated from the path.

“The Boltons are a minute settlement thousands of miles away in the North with one fiefdom no larger than my biggest brothel,” said Petyr.

A slight nod of the head came from Varys. “Yes, but some of my little birds have flown north for the summer.”

“And what songs do they sing?” asked Petyr, his lips casting the shadow of a smile as he walked past a servant girl consorting with a visiting lord.

Varys spotted similar goings-on in a corner of the garden ahead, and he cast his gaze in the direction of the man beside him. “They sing that the Bolton's youngest is unbalanced yet terribly ambitious. Certainly one to watch.”

Petyr slowed to a stop and turned on the heels of his boots. He blinked slowly and released a modest sigh, his eyes flickering to his surroundings while his voice quieted. “He's one man with neither the stomach nor the mind for the South.”

Varys looked askance, tilted his head, and raised his shoulders a bit as if considering Petyr's words. “One man nearly toppled the realm not so long ago,” he replied.

The subtlest chuckle—no more than an audible exhale—slipped out of Petyr. His neck bent towards the ground slightly, and his attention remained on the cobblestone patterns flowing beneath him for a contemplative instant. “Indeed,” he conceded. “I have to go.”

Varys bowed his head. “Ah, very well.” He lifted his eyes to catch sight of Petyr slinking to the edge of the garden. “Perhaps we can speak again soon, Lord Baelish.”

As the shadow cast by the arch of the Red Keep fell over him, Petyr turned and offered a glib smile. “Perhaps we can, Lord Varys.”

* * *

Every man atop the Wall was struck by an unearthly coldness that night.

No matter how thick the coats around their shoulders were, the wind sliced their face and nipped any exposed skin with its frosty claws. The cold dove into their bones and seemed to chill them from the inside out.

Despite being rekindled every other minute, the light of the torches was dimmer here. The fog of the night was murkier than the bottom of a bog. The fires were short-lived, swept away into simmering embers by sudden and isolated gusts.

The same light that would have illuminated your body was extinguished by the wind. The brother in charge of relighting it swore under his breath. When he peered at you in wonderment of your apparent resistance to the frigid weather, a shiver ran through him as if he had been stuck with a frost-tipped spear.

It killed the words on his tongue.

The dark around you seemed deeper and more foreboding than any cave, unaffected by light even as the moon beamed down upon it. The brother saw the outline of you hidden in the darkness, and it was all he needed to see to decide that the remainder of his watch was someone else's responsibility for the night.

In the ensuing calm, your head surveyed one end of the forest below to the other.

No figures had crept out of the woods yet.

The clanks and grinds of the lift rising to the top of the Wall sounded from behind, and Samwell Tarly stepped off it into the snow. The soft, pearly white material was crushed under his heavy boots. After a brief pause, his footsteps approached you and stopped at your side.

Your head slowly turned, which allowed you to catch Sam peeking in your direction. He glanced downwards and released a bashful chuckle upon being caught, but a look of childish excitement soon washed over his full face. “Jon says you're a wizard!”

The snow crunched as Sam shuffled his feet, his gaze darting from his shoes to you. “I've never seen a real wizard before!” He shifted again and failed to restrain the huge grin breaking out across his lips. “Only read about them in books,” he added, somewhat lowering his voice.

Sam leaned forward and looked up and down at your iron mask and dark robes. “Do you all dress like that?” He outstretched his arms to push his cloak back and looked at his own black coat and armour. “Maybe we're more alike than I thought!” What escaped him next was a quick, “Ha!”

He turned his head back to you and kept his mouth open slightly as if expecting you to agree, but your continued silence prompted his smile to falter.

As his eyes searched the snowy darkness that lay in front of him, Sam shook his head. “My father detests wizards. Thinks magic's for nellies who don't want to fight.” There was a layer of distaste and pain to his words as though repeating his father's opinion had poisoned his tongue and caused a bad memory to churn within his mind.

“Not me,” he blurted, his head bouncing towards you before moving back again. Sam leaned over and patted his chest with both hands once. “Big fan.”

As Sam marvelled at his proximity to a real magic user, the lift descended into the bowels of Castle Black and then rose to the top of the Wall after a few minutes of rasping. The dark-haired Jon Snow emerged from the fiery light of the lift with a torch in hand.

“Sam,” was all he said, and Sam fell silent.

Jon nodded at him with a tiny smile when Sam turned and offered a happy, “Hello, Jon!” Sam stepped back to allow Jon room to walk forward and stand diagonal to him.

Although he was addressing more than one person, Jon kept his eyes focused on your mask. “If it's all right with you, I'd like to speak with Brother Black alone.”

Sam lost his smile for a moment, but it returned with a shrug of his shoulders and another shift of his feet. “Of course! Of course!” He distanced himself from where he had been standing and motioned for you to go with Jon. “I'll just be here.”

Jon bid him farewell before marching farther down the Wall, the light of the torch undulating in the icy wind.

As the orange glow started to vanish from sight, Sam looked away and faced the edge of the Wall. “I ought to be checking on Gilly.” Fond memories of the woman softened his voice and provided some warmth against the cold. “Sweet Gilly.”

No one answered but the howl of the wind.

Sam inhaled through his nose and allowed the silence to live for a couple of seconds before he sighed: “Boy, it's cold up here.”

The journey ended after roughly ten minutes of walking, and Jon turned to give you a cursory scan. In his eyes were suspicion, curiosity and more than a token of discomfort. His breath was visible in the cold, flowing upward as he turned to overlook the cliff.

“The other brothers don't feel safe around you. They need to know they can trust the man standing next to them.” A flash of uncertainty overtook him in a sweep of cold wind, and Jon turned his head to look at you as if for the first time. “You are a man, right?”

There was a carefulness to his words as though you might shed your veil of humanity and lunge at him before he took another breath, his legs shifting with a rattle of his heavy armour and his hand confirming its place on the pommel of his sword.

A gust of air wafted from the lower slit in your mask and floated into the night sky.

Holding the silence as the grey cloud dispersed into the darkness looming above the castle, Jon chose not to pursue such thoughts and gave a single nod. “Right.”

* * *

The flaps of wings preceded the caws of a raven, and the bird landed its coat of snow-dappled feathers on the stone frame of the window. It raised its left leg as if it were limp and turned its black eyes to Jon, revealing a scroll tied to its lean body.

Jon approached the raven as it continued to caw and move its head in sudden, jerky motions.

“I haven't sent for any wandering crows,” mumbled Alliser Thorne, who waved at Jon to receive the letter when he paused at his comment.

The bird twitched and hopped whilst the scroll was taken from its leg, and once the gloved hand released it, the raven flew into the white skies with a string of caws.

As Jon brushed his thumb across the reddish-pink seal, the emblem of an upside-down flayed man sent a wave of apprehension over his body. The impulsive part of him said to toss the letter into the fire and never wonder about its contents, but the impatient gaze of Alliser demanded that he push his misgivings aside.

“Well?” came the older man's disgruntled voice.

“It's the sigil of House Bolton, ser.” Jon glanced between the Lord Commander and the scroll, struggling to void all of his concerns but stepping forward with dutiful haste.

Alliser nodded his head and quirked his eyebrows as if coaching a child. “I can see that. Would you care to read it?”

Inspecting the seal one last time, Jon broke it with a snap and unfolded the parchment. “Dear the men of the Night's Watch, it has come to my attention that you recently brought a sorcerer into your ranks.”

His volume tapered after every few words as if seeking to lessen the blow of an expected threat, but as the inky texture of the crooked and misplaced lines stretched and fell before his eyes, he realised it was a continuous promise of danger:

“Their allegiance belongs to House Bolton. If you do not return them to me, I shall flay you living and make you watch as I tear your brother's still-beating heart from his chest and feed it to my hounds.”

Jon lost much of his interest in reading the message and looked askance at Alliser for the sake of averting his eyes from the letter. When the Lord Commander returned his gaze with stunned silence and a minor shift in his position, Jon proceeded to the end.

“Two fortnights it will take for me to march on your pathetic excuse for a castle, so two fortnights you shall have to act.”

Despite the reluctance plaguing his hold on the scroll as if touching it would transmit a disease, Jon took only a second to recuperate and finished with a weary drop in his tone. “Signed Ramsay Bolton, Acting Lord of the Dreadfort.”

He tucked the parchment and lowered his arms to his side, casting a pensive look over the glow of the fire before turning his eyes to the Lord Commander.

“Inane ramblings from a madman,” spat Alliser with a sharp turn of his head. The man tugged a quill out of the inkpot on his desk and slammed a piece of blank paper onto its surface.

Jon watched the quivers of his hand and the words they wrote becoming clearer as the ink dried, but the scratches of the quill marking the parchment were overshadowed by a quick step forward. “Ser, the Boltons are a ruthless people. We shouldn't take anything they say to be idle threats.”

The Lord Commander refused to look away from his writing or slow the motions of his hand. “Roose Bolton is a few steps short of a wildling in lord's clothing. As for his son, I've never met him.” He finished the letter with a flourish. “And I'd like to keep it that way.”

The thud of a seal echoed in the room before it was replaced by the creak of a chair sliding across the floor, and Jon clutched the letter that was pushed into his hand.

“Give this to Maester Aemon. Tell him to send it immediately. When it's done, have a brother ride to Mole's Town.”

As Alliser marched out the door to his chambers, Jon followed and overheard his yells to the congregation of Night's Watchmen standing below. “Increase the patrols! I want a fresh man at those gates for every hour!”

The group lifted their swords and scattered throughout the courtyard, while Jon hastened his walk to the library. Orders were shouted into the wind, and the collective rattle of armour and thump of boots faded into the background.

Jon entered the library a bit louder than he intended. The door slammed behind him when a strong wind pulled it forward, causing both he and Maester Aemon to jump.

A mumble slipped out of Maester Aemon as he ran his fingers across the Braille in the book of dragons he had been delighting in reading. The table at which he was seated was strewn with a variety of books. It stood in the centre of the room, and it was bordered by tall bookcases full of centuries of knowledge.

Stepping forward, Jon extended the scroll and approached the table. “Maester Aemon, I have an urgent scroll from the Lord Commander.”

Maester Aemon took the sealed scroll from him, running his fingertips along the seal and parchment. “Oh,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. He turned back to the books in front of him and heaved himself from the rickety chair.

As soon as he had started to drag himself forward, a chill washed down his spine as if dunked in ice water. He slowly turned his head and fixed his blind eyes on the farthest corner of the library.

There existed a deep shadow, swirling and spreading like tar. It seemed to emanate from the wall itself, and Maester Aemon took notice of whispers filling the back of his mind. They spoke in ancient tongues with otherworldly inflections that echoed in every part of the library.

His chapped lips struggled to find his brittle voice. “Who are you?”

Jon stilled and followed his gaze, but he saw nothing more than ordinary darkness. “Maester Aemon?”

A few mumbles crept out of Maester Aemon, each one disjointed and confused. He turned his head back and forth between the stone floor, the nearest bookshelf and Jon. His eyes were lost and searching for something unknown to Jon.

“Oh, never mind,” he said softly, for the whispers had ceased.

Tucked away behind a wood column, on the corner of a table set against the wall, was a rectangular coop. Tufts of hay and wheat laid on the bottom and provided the footing for the assortment of ravens scuttling inside.

Maester Aemon shambled to the coop and peeled open its small door. With both hands, he lifted a raven from the enclosure. The bird went limp in his hold, its head facing downward and its legs sticking out.

He equipped the raven with a leather cylinder on its left leg into which he inserted the scroll. Once the latch on the cylinder was pinched shut, Maester Aemon retreated to allow for the raven to take flight with a flutter of wings.

Jon watched as it glided through the short window at the base of the ceiling, and he wondered why a raven was necessary if a brother was riding to the town. His first thought was the scroll contained additional information that the brother was not privy to learn.

The answer came when he caught sight of the raven flying southeast instead of towards Mole's Town.

Before he could question the destination, Samwell Tarly burst into the library. Sam doubled over and placed a hand over his palpitating heart, breathing as a runner would after a race. “Jon!” he panted, “We're needed at the King's Tower!”

Two pairs of footsteps rushed to the walkway outside the library.

Jon collided with the guardrail and grasped the top of it, leaning forward to get a closer look at the discord unfolding in the courtyard.

Night's Watchmen streamed into the corridors overlooking the main entrance, a group of five rangers rode astride on horses, and the brassy call of a horn sounded over the din of brothers hauling weapons and scaling sentry towers.

As the rangers poured into the stables, Jon looked farther and noticed a circle of brothers marching in tandem with you to the opening doors.

* * *

The chairs of Merman's Court were cushioned with the finest silk. They complemented the long table stretching from the foyer to the throne, which lay decorated with a nautical tablecloth and various plates of pork pies, roasted eels and fried lampreys.

The food, warmed still by the steam of the fires, smelt of spice and gravy. The dead and cooked fish swam in the sauce and drank mouthfuls in a vile parody of life, a life that the oceanic paintings lining the walls and ceiling illustrated in vivid colour.

The guards who watched over the feast resembled the type of warriors one expected to see in a submarine kingdom, for the weapons clutched in their hands were tridents.

Lord Manderly sat in a velvet chair similar to his throne, which he had joked about bringing to the table more than once. The Boltons were seated opposite him, and sitting beside them were Lord Cerwyn and his son Cley.

While Roose met the eyes of each lord, Ramsay turned his gaze downwards and divvied his attention between the various items of food covering his plate. Roose glanced in his direction when Ramsay's hand found its way to the knife.

“Forgive my son's lethargy. He is weary from our travels.”

Lord Manderly drew his eyebrows to his receding hairline and stretched his lips in a royal imitation of surprise. “Is he an old man?” Lord Cerwyn joined his chuckles with bountiful enthusiasm, neither lord acknowledging how Ramsay slowly lifted his head.

Malice radiated from the young Bolton like foul breath from a dog's jaws, but, sensing the gaze of his father, he mustered a polite smile.

Roose waited for the laughter to fade into a pregnant silence before he seized control of the discussion. “Our merchants are reporting that they've been turned away from the gates of White Harbor, some at swordpoint.”

Lord Manderly tore a chunk of bread from the strudel and ate it at a comfortable speed, peering across the feast rather than at Roose. “Aye, you'll have to find somewhere else to dump your subpar goods.”

A screech resounded in the dining hall as Ramsay yanked the blade of his knife a short distance across the wood, and he looked at Lord Manderly without raising his head. “Watch your tongue.”

Lord Manderly stopped chewing and faced the young Bolton's desire to maim him with a combination of surprise and umbrage.

At the stern look of Roose, Ramsay lowered his gaze and resumed carving a furrow into the table.

Lord Cerwyn shared an unsettled glance with his son, turning his eye to Roose when Roose looked away from Ramsay and spoke with far more elegance. “The Boltons have traded with the other Northern houses for years, and I haven't had complaints from House Cerwyn or House Umber.”

The weathered face of Lord Manderly acquired a sombre quality. “Ah, Umber. I heard what happened to Gareth's fifth-born. A right tragedy, that.”

A stillness came over Ramsay, his hand pausing and his eyes refusing to look anywhere but at the plate.

There was no visible change in Roose's demeanour, but he offered no words of sympathy.

Lord Cerwyn picked his tankard off the table and turned to Lord Manderly. “One less Umber. That's a start.” The two men descended into a hearty roar of joy and bumped their cups together, while the Boltons watched in quiet amusement.

When the lords joked and drank without a care for the original discussion, Roose spoke with enough strength to regain their attention but not appear demanding. “As Warden of the North, our trade is essential to Northern commerce.”

Lord Cerwyn, who had been gulping alcohol like a direwolf gorging itself on meat, lowered his cup to the table. With an eye roll, he muttered, “Oh, great. More Bolton furs and flayed skin. Just what this city needs.”

The hiss of a blade rang in the ears of every lord when Ramsay jumped from his seat and slammed the knife through Lord Cerwyn's finger. The bone was just barely visible, peeking out of the skin's edge as blood gushed from the exposed tendon in spurts.

A howl of agony bellowed from Lord Cerwyn, and he clutched his injured hand while reeling in his chair. His legs began to kick the stone floor, distress growing louder and more wild with each surge of pain that lashed his mind and dragged shrieks from him as if his finger were aflame.

As Cley started to shiver and seemed on the verge of tears, he stood with a sharp creak of wood on rock and rushed to help his father.

The corners of Ramsay's mouth twitched in a small release of tension, his pupils dilating at the screams and his hand squeezing the utensil. He did not blink once to sever his view of the desperate eyes and paling skin of Lord Cerwyn.

It was not until he turned to his father with a jerk of his head that he allowed his enthusiasm to wither, for Roose was looking at him with the unforgiving coldness of someone who regretted his son's birth.

Smile dropping, Ramsay attempted to win back his favour. “Father—”

Roose interrupted him with a frigid scowl. “Leave.”

Ramsay faced his father's tranquil rage in momentary shock, as though the man had ordered him to leave the realm instead of the room, his fingers tapping the knife before curling about it. He glanced at various spots on the walls and the table without focusing on any.

Hatred of the glare Roose was sending him and his own failure to meet the man's wishes quickened his breaths, and the young Bolton tore the blade out of the wooden surface.

A thin crater became visible on the table next to the disembodied finger, with jagged chips of wood rising to decorate there.

Ramsay took fervent and aggressive strides to the door and shoved it open. Gales of Northern wind swept into the hall like ice water, lifting his cloak as he stormed outside.

The slam of the door behind him cut the chilling breeze like a sword to the head of a great beast, and the return of the torches' warmth redirected the spotlight to the weakening cries of Lord Cerwyn.

“My wedding finger,” groaned Lord Cerwyn, his neck drooping and his eyes fluttering. “He took my wedding finger!”

The limb sitting on the table was adorned with a gold ring that glittered under the candlelight of the chandelier. Only droplets of blood still leaked from his knuckle, dripping onto the plate and tablecloth.

Cley guided him to his feet and positioned himself under his father's left arm, while Lord Cerwyn scrambled to retrieve his finger and cradled it in his other hand.

Lord Manderly tossed his napkin onto the fresh bloodstain infecting his tablecloth and peered at the man with an irritated side-eye. “Pipe down, Medger. It's not like you were using it for much.”

Lord Cerwyn squirmed in his son's grasp, continuing to whimper and holler as he was hurried to the door. Another gust of wind followed their exit, and Roose shifted to a more comfortable position on his chair and clasped his hands together. “So, the trade routes are to be reopened?”

Lord Manderly cocked his head and seemed to repress a scoff. “The chopped-off finger of a twat won't buy our obedience. Do you expect House Manderly to cower in fear?”

Roose presented a look of callous certainty. “I know you're going to lose more than fingers if another Bolton caravan returns empty-handed.”

This sparked a burst of resentment to twist the mouth of Lord Manderly. “You'd threaten a man in his own home? Need I remind you whose wine you're drinking?”

Crumbs from a pork pie tumbled down his fat chin as he took a greedy bite of one, and Roose eyed the meat pie sitting on Lord Manderly's plate. “Need I remind you who hunted the pigs you're eating, Wyman?”

Lord Manderly stopped his chewing. There was a threatening sort of emphasis placed on his first name, like someone dangling a steak over a hungry dog. The remaining chunk of pork pie hovered in front of his mouth, untouched.

A battle of eye contact came and went between the two lords before Lord Manderly dropped the chunk on his plate.

With a subdued sigh, he looked down and pushed his fork away from his dish. “Aye, you're a tough old codger, Roose.” Roose offered a slight smile at this, and Lord Manderly reclined on his chair. “I'm only doing it 'cause of pressure from the Lannisters.”

The mask of composure slipped from Roose's face for just a moment. “I see.” His eyes widened a bit before narrowing in discontent, looking over the feast once more. “It's a shame that the crown feels such a powerful need to meddle in our friendship.”

A laugh bellowed from Lord Manderly as if he had just been informed that the Dothraki had laid down their arms and become a peace-seeking civilisation.

Roose swung his cloak over his shoulder and left his chair with his mind far away in the depths of planning, but he remembered enough pleasantries to nod at the lord. “Be seeing you.”

When the senior Bolton pushed the door open, the sight of an agitated Ramsay fiddling with the bloody silverware eliminated any satisfaction he had gained from learning a piece of the truth.

The soldiers were all standing at a considerable distance from Ramsay, their eyes darting between him and the snowy land to avoid being noticed.

At the sound of boots crunching snow, Ramsay whirled about with a shudder. “Father, I—”

He was struggling to meet Roose's gaze, but his father walked past him. “Be quiet, Ramsay. Mount your horse.”

Hoofprints littered the snow from where Lord Cerwyn and his son had fled to obtain the services of a maester, their tracks disappearing into the blizzard in the northwestern direction of Castle Cerwyn.

Roose lifted himself onto his steed with minimal difficulty and turned his attention to the frosty water of the White Knife babbling nearby rather than grant his son a second of acknowledgement. “We're going home.”

Ramsay was slow to heed this command, his eyes drifting across the snow and clenching the knife so that it would have snapped if made of anything weaker than metal.

When he curled his lips in a question of whether to speak and squinted to deflect the rays of sunshine peeking over the rolling hills, the clop of hooves leaving the entrance to New Castle broke his concentration.

Roose had spurred his horse to trot in the opposite direction, and Ramsay clambered onto a horse of his own to follow.

The journey back to the Dreadfort was far longer and more tedious than last. The path meandered over hills and winded round rivers like a serpent slithering in the grass, with the overcast sky looking bleakly at the snow-covered ground below.

When Roose dismounted and allowed his horse to be spirited away to the stables, he said nothing. He did not grant Ramsay the briefest glance or quietest mutter, nor did he wait to see him return safely and dismount his own horse.

Listening to the footsteps tailing him grow louder and more erratic, Roose relented and turned with a dreary, if not vaguely sarcastic, frown. “The fault is mine. I thought you could better control yourself.”

Ramsay stopped to look at his father in an inability to process the discomfort preventing his mind from resting, his breaths slowing to allow for clearer thinking.

“You've embarrassed our house and disgraced our family name.” Roose watched as the last shard of restraint broke within his son, and he gave no chance for an apology or protest to grace his ears. Instead, he walked down the hall until his footsteps had quieted into nothing.

Abandoned to brood, Ramsay was no longer comfortable in his skin and found himself overtaken by a restless and inflamed energy.

The guard who stood at the door to the kitchens nearly yelped when a gloved hand clutched his throat and yanked him downwards. The noise was silenced by the pressure constricting his windpipe, and it took all of his training and discipline not to attack or look away from the wild eyes glaring into his own.

“Gather the men.” The order slipped through Ramsay's clenched teeth as a whisper. “Tell them we march tonight.”

He released the guard, only to shove him a moment after the man failed to sprint out of arm's length. “Go!” Ramsay turned in the direction his father had gone as the rapid thuds of steel boots echoed against the stone floors.

* * *

A rush of cold wind burst into the Lord Commander's chambers as the door swung open. The thud of leather boots on wood marked the entry of a panting Night's Watchman, his forehead slick with a layer of snow and a hand resting on his abdomen.

“News from Mole's Town, ser.”

The focus of Alliser's squinting eyes crumpled with dismay, and the Night's Watchman stepped further into the chamber. “Three armed strangers arrived last night—” he took a breath “—together.”

Alliser let his gaze fall upon the scrolls littering his desk, searching for a reason not to assume the worst. “Were they bearing any sigils?”

Despite his limited understanding of the situation, the brother saw his commander's desperate hope and shook his head as if fearing the implications of his answer. “No, ser.”

Alliser was unsure of whether to be relieved or troubled by that fact. The possibility that the strangers were merely bandits or deserters with impeccable timing was one he clung to like a monkey to the last branch, but the paranoia creeping up his spine drove him to rise from his seat. “'Two fortnights', he said. Not forty-eight hours!”

The Night's Watchman looked between Alliser and the door, his feet shifting to the exit and his hand twitching closer to his sword.

A tense silence of unspoken orders and obscenities reigned as Alliser swerved his head back and forth across his desk. “The Boltons have shat on their promise,” he finally declared. “Not that I expected anything less.”

After a moment of deliberation, Alliser waved the brother away. “Ride to the Shadow Tower. Request an audience with Denys Mallister, and tell him we need as many men as he can spare.”

A brisk “yes, ser” flew out the Night's Watchman's mouth. A gust as cold as ice blew his cloak into the air when he opened the door once again, his boots thumping away from the chambers and then descending the stairs.

Another pair of footsteps replaced his and thundered to the door with haste. Alliser jerked his head up in preparation for scolding what he assumed to be the same brother returning in confusion.

The man who greeted him was Jon Snow, and Jon hurried to the desk while looking upon him in a frenzy of bewilderment. “You're having Brother Black escorted from the castle?”

Alliser narrowed his eyes at the name, his lips pressing together and parting into a straight line. “I am.” He gave a swift nod. “They're a fugitive from justice.” The chair squeaked as he rose and collected a scroll lying on the desk, unfolded with a broken red seal.

“Ser,” said Jon, his tone disbelieving. He looked behind himself for a brief moment and then put forward his hand. “Brother Black—”

Alliser spun towards him and yelled, “They're not a brother, Jon! They never trained! They never took the oath.” A moment of silence passed before he began again at a slightly more controlled volume, “They're a runaway scratching at our door.”

Jon took a few seconds to collect his thoughts, and when he pointed a gloved finger at the Wall, Alliser knew his words before Jon uttered them: “They've killed more wildlings in a week than most of these men have in years.”

With a heavy sigh, Alliser shook his head. “The crown issued a royal decree for their return. Would you have me branded a traitor?” He turned back to the desk with an upward swing of his hand, and his voice lowered to a frustrated mutter. “Now we have Bolton spies skittering about in the dark like rats.”

At this, Jon opened his mouth and glanced round the room. “The Bolton army can't march on Castle Black.” He stretched an arm towards the open window as if the army were marching forth at that very moment. “The lords have no jurisdiction here. It's neutral territory!”

Alliser looked over his shoulder to bob his head at Jon. “Tell that to them when they're peeling the skin off your bones.”

* * *

Far outside the Lord Commander's Tower walked a group of four Night's Watchmen, each of whom exchanged a cautious glance with the man beside him. All carried a sheathed blade on their hip as well as a torch to chase the shadows of tall trees away.

The shadow that dragged across the ground at your feet, however, did not fade, no matter how many sources of light were waved over it.

The forest ahead was devoid of singing birds and howling wolves, and the giant trees partially blocked the golden and pinkish rays of midday. Every man slowed his pace and watched the tree line, some expecting to see a Bolton sigil flying and others fearing that a bear was likely to hurl itself at the nearest man.

From behind a thicket hopped a rabbit. The appearance of the small animal elicited a hushed chuckle from the brother on your right. “That'd make a nice feed,” he whispered, nodding his head and waving his torch at it.

The brother on your left turned to him and talked without a care for his volume. “Don't bet your supper on it.”

Long ears twitching and flattening at the noise, the rabbit scurried away into the bushes.

The man who had spoken first cocked his eye at him, and the brother on your left continued: “I caught me one of them hares down in Dorne. Ate the whole thing before the guards came and said it was some lord's pet.” The brother put his hands together, then spread them apart to visualise his meal.

He shrugged as if he could still taste the hare and knew it to be worth the punishment, a slight smile forming on his lips. “Now here I am.” This sliver of a smile fell to a frown, and he shook his head. “It's too bad. I hear Dorne's nice this time of year.”

You peered beyond your shoulder to spy the wooden doors of Castle Black, which were comprised of hefty logs that reached thrice above your line of sight. Somewhere warm, you thought, was an apt place to hide from those who lived in the cold.

Do anything you want with my work, but never make me boring!

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