Summer, for the Dreadfort beneath the volcanoes of the North, amounted to little more than drafts that were not quite so biting. The snowline on the mountains retreated, rivers swelled and ran swift, and the farmers on the Bolton lands hurried to bring in the harvest. Count Roose Bolton, too, treated the season's yield as a matter of importance, spending several days in a row touring his domain with his attendants.
A glossy black raven flapped its wings and landed on the windowsill. The boy Ramsay excitedly untied the letter from its leg and read it carefully—this was a letter written by a royal prince to him! Someone even his father would have to treat with respect! He still remembered the first time such a letter arrived: the looks throughout the castle, even his father's gaze, had all changed—
Of course he could seize this opportunity.
Ramsay nodded, clearly convinced by the contents of the parchment. "Reek!" he called to his personal servant, who was no longer smelly at all. "Let's go to the lake and keep catching leeches! Pick the big ones—raise them in the castle so Father can use them whenever he comes back."
Reek nodded. Master and servant both enjoyed those soft, greasy worms, and Reek had an even better idea. "Master, we could raise a whole vat of leeches… then toss those annoying women inside."
Ramsay's eyes lit up. He smacked his lips—fat and slick, just like leeches. "That really is a good idea!"
The two burst into hearty laughter. The person Ramsay trusted most in the castle was Reek, who had grown up alongside him. He listened as Reek told him countless stories of the Bolton ancestors' former glory: how even the Kings of Winter, the Starks, had never truly conquered the Dreadfort; and the dreaded Red King—after flaying the Stark, the man had still been alive! Turned pink all over!
Ramsay found this endlessly fascinating. His small eyes appraised the people around him: the plump cook, her body wobbling with flesh—once skinned, she would surely make the hounds drool! And back at the mill where he had lived, there was a girl who brought wheat to be ground—she was much slimmer and prettier. Once flayed, she would be a lovely, smooth, pink person!
Ramsay couldn't help licking his lips. He would try it! But before that—first, go catch leeches. After they sucked the blood dry, then flay them. Would the color be a pale pink-white?
That very day, when the count returned, Ramsay waited eagerly at the gate to greet his father, presenting the leeches he had raised in fresh water to Roose Bolton.
He behaved like a humble, courteous, considerate son: personally placing each leech on his father's legs, letting them drink their fill of blood, then removing them and returning them to the earthen jar.
This had long been Count Bolton's favored method of "health maintenance." In fact, from a scientific perspective, thanks to the anticoagulants in leech saliva, the count was unlikely to suffer from blocked vessels or a stroke.
"Do you have anything else?" Roose Bolton asked calmly once the "treatment" was over, his complexion paler than usual. He lowered the silk trouser legs and looked at his bastard son.
"Father." Ramsay's gray-ice eyes were the same as the count's. He spoke softly. "This castle… should have a lady of the house, and more children, shouldn't it?"
"Oh?" Roose Bolton examined him. Ramsay did not resemble him much at all—if anything, he was a stark contrast to Dominic—
"I want brothers."
—The way he said it was eerily similar to Dominic's pleas in King's Landing. Was he imitating his elder brother? The count asked gently, "Bastard brothers with the surname Snow, like you?"
Ramsay shook his head. "Brothers like my elder brother Dominic—skilled in riding and archery, bearing the name Bolton. Father, I know I have no talent for the sword—you said I swing it like a butcher. But new brothers… perhaps they could be as outstanding as big brother Dominic."
"You're rather clever," the count said, his expression still mild and composed. "So I should take a new wife, then?"
"Of course. You're still so young," Ramsay flattered him. "You're like seeds sown in a long summer—they'll grow into strong descendants. You should marry a woman who bears children well, to match you. For example, a daughter of House Frey of the Twins. Old Lord Frey has twenty-three sons! Their family is extremely fertile."
Roose Bolton thought for a moment. "You've been keeping correspondence with Prince Viserys, haven't you?"
"Yes. I'm grateful to the prince for persuading you to bring me back to the castle for education."
"No matter what your mother may have told you, you should understand that with Dominic and other legitimate sons, the inheritance will never be yours," the count said bluntly, staring at his bastard.
In his heart, Ramsay replied: Let's talk about that once there actually are other legitimate sons. Aloud, he nodded. "Though I bear the name Snow, I live in the Dreadfort and have a brother like Dominic. I believe my future is secure. Brother Dominic should have more helpers, so that House Bolton may flourish."
Roose Bolton fell silent for a while. "Very well. I am willing to remarry. However, since you've been in contact with the prince, your status is awkward and ill-matched. I will consider allowing you to change your surname—to Bolton."
That was exactly what Ramsay wanted. In his letters, Viserys had told him the same: please his father, enter the family, then begin managing Bolton manpower. At the very least, some people had to answer to him. Ramsay nodded, convinced he would truly become a Bolton.
Watching him leave, Count Roose Bolton sat deep in thought. He knew perfectly well that Prince Viserys's purpose in corresponding with his bastard son was to elevate the boy's status. Years ago, the prince had told him that Ramsay's mother had deliberately urged him to fight for his rights—but with Dominic now at the crown prince's side, what could Ramsay really do? He was unlikely to threaten the eldest son's position. Granting him the Bolton name suited all parties. Since the Targaryen royal family showed favor and support to House Bolton, what harm was there in having a few more children?
The raven carrying Ramsay's reply flew southward. Its black pupils looked down upon a Winterfell bustling with joy, preparing for a wedding procession. It stopped at White Harbor's docks to snatch a fish for food. More happily still, in King's Landing it encountered one of its own kind—
That female raven flew out from the stained-glass window of a brothel. To a raven that loved shiny things, that was a princess living in the royal palace. By coincidence, her destination matched his own: the raven eagerly played guide, leading the "princess" to land upon the welcoming terrace of Summerhall.
The parchment stripped from its leg, along with countless pieces of information, was delivered to the prince's weirwood desk. Viserys did not even lift his head at first, skimming through his soldiers' intelligence reports. Beside one Westerlands man's name, he added a note: Subconscious desire for revenge.
Next, Lucifer—who had wandered the deserts of Dorne for many years—caught his attention. Viserys circled the name heavily and wrote: Guide in Dorne.
The candlelight within the glass lamps burned steadily, turning Viserys's silver hair into pale gold. Expressionless, he finished reading all the letters, putting some away and burning others. In the long night, he took out his obsidian pendant and examined it, trying to slip it onto his finger—
How ridiculous. It actually fit perfectly now.
He studied his ring finger, then suddenly went madly searching for that dark-red tasseled fabric—it had once been an ornament at Rhaegar's waist armor.
Viserys used it as a cloak, draping it over his head, playing a lonely wedding game by himself. "Yes, the bridal cloak must be exchanged like this…" he muttered. "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger… I belong to him, and he belongs to me… right?"
He knew his behavior was laughable, but he had to do something to keep the thought spinning in his head from driving him insane—
Brother… brother at this moment—was he playing the harp for Lyanna? Would Dragonstone soon have a little baby, a new heir born?
He felt himself gradually losing his brother. That was the truth. No matter how many times he played the wedding game, his brother would not act as he wished anymore. Viserys clenched his teeth, removed his brother's keepsake, put it away, returned to the desk, and gripped the quill so tightly that it snapped with a crack. Ink stained his hands—
He stared at them, let out a short, choking whimper, and did not call the night servants to bring water.
Instead, he pressed his blackened hand directly onto the parchment, bent over the desk again, and wrote a secret reply to Littlefinger in King's Landing.
…In some way, Littlefinger and I share the same misfortune. We both have to watch the ones we love marry Northerners. He at least challenged Brandon to a duel. I brought this upon myself—I don't even have that chance.
Petyr surely already knew that Brandon would marry Catelyn next month. The tall, valiant heir of the North would lead a grand procession of young retainers and noble sons to Riverrun to fetch his bride. This time—heh—Viserys thought bitterly, that brute probably wouldn't rush to King's Landing again, shouting arrogantly and getting himself killed by the crown prince.
He instructed Littlefinger to prepare a lavish gift for the North—something that would surely add a different flavor to the Stark newlyweds' marriage.
Did you remember Rebekah, the woman who tearfully claimed she had a fleeting romance with Robert and even bore him a child? Viserys had been deeply impressed by her superb acting. He liked women like that—heartless, loving only gold dragons—capable of great deeds.
He had long since recommended her to Littlefinger. According to reports, Brandon felt pity for her and had been providing her with living expenses. Heh—Brandon probably thought himself very chivalrous, didn't he?
Viserys had Littlefinger secretly summon the girl to King's Landing, bring her under his wing, train and instruct her—then send her back north.
A simple-minded fool like Brandon would definitely take the bait. Viserys absolutely did not believe he would remain faithful to marriage. Such a clever girl should be arranged to enter Winterfell as a handmaiden. To have an affair with Brandon right under Catelyn's nose—just imagining it was delightful.
In their correspondence, he taught Littlefinger all sorts of ways to play the pure, innocent "white lotus," even providing lines, such as: "Lowly as I am, I never intended to destroy your family, my lady! I only wished to use my love to make my lord happier and more fulfilled—"
So much so that when Petyr received them, he was dumbstruck, filled with utter admiration for the true dragon of House Targaryen, and used these ideas as a foundation to "train" the women in his intelligence network.
At present, Viserys was venting his malice toward Brandon and Catelyn's marriage without restraint. He knew it was displaced anger. He couldn't tear apart his brother and Lyanna, so he would tear apart Lyanna's brother instead. After all, since Lyanna, as a Northern woman, was not his brother's true love, then her meaning of existence—
First, to bear his brother's children. And secondly…
The familiar faces of Benjen and Eddard flickered through his mind. He had spent time with them; it had been pleasant enough back then. But now, Viserys felt nothing for past bonds. He thought coldly: by tradition, if all the Stark men of the North were to die, then his brother—as Lyanna's husband—would justly inherit those vast lands. That was the advantage of marriage alliances.
He also recalled another betrothal: just today, Tyrion had told him that his brother Jaime was likely to be engaged to Lysa of the Riverlands. Jaime himself was unwilling, Cersei violently opposed it, but Lord Tywin insisted. The matter was all but settled—
Heh.
At least a year would pass between engagement and marriage. There was still time.
I will never allow the Westerlands and the Riverlands to successfully ally, to band together and gain a foundation to oppose the Crownlands. Just wait. Just wait. Purple fire burned in Viserys's dark eyes. Sleepless, he thought of the Crownlands' map when his brother became king, of the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms—
Just like when he persuaded Littlefinger, he would use a grand, earth-shaking cause to heal the pain of romantic failure.
He stared at Dorne on the map of the Seven Kingdoms, then reached out to touch another place, digging in hard, tearing a piece loose, stacking it atop the Crownlands.
"…Chaos is a ladder," Viserys murmured, quoting Littlefinger's words. "I have so much Greek fire and wildfire now… it's time to release the bait."
This young dragon sneered, grinding his fangs, trying to gnaw on a bone no one before him had dared to chew.
...
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"Game of Thrones: Dragon Prince"
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"Game of Thrones The Glory of a Knight"
(End Chapter)