Chapter 500

Roose Bolton stood at the edge of a small grove, half a league away from Last Hearth, his face as cold as the snow swirling in the wind.

He was not pleased.

For the sake of sustaining the war effort against the White Walkers, and ensuring rapid troop movements when needed, the Kingsroad, stretching from the Gift to the Wall, was kept clear of snow even in the depths of winter. Special teams were assigned to this task, working tirelessly to ensure supplies could flow north and reinforcements could be deployed swiftly.

But that was only true of the front lines.

The rear was a different story entirely.

The entire North lay buried beneath a snowpack so thick that a grown man could crouch and vanish into it. Beyond castles and winter towns, the endless white wasteland swallowed roads, rivers, and landmarks alike. Even for a northern-born rider astride a sturdy Northpony, specially bred to navigate the snow with ease, traveling across this frozen hellscape was exhausting.

The North was not like the Gift.

It had neither the manpower nor the resources to keep all its roads clear throughout winter. The northern lords were not lazy—they were simply practical.

Crops could only yield so much, and no one could predict the length of winter. On top of feeding their own people, northern lords were expected to supply the Night’s Watch and defend against ironborn raids. In such conditions, the only rational choice was conservation—to stretch supplies as far as possible.

And the best way to save food?

Do nothing.

Lords and their household knights remained within castles, soldiers guarded winter towns, and the common folk followed a practice older than written history itself—hibernation. They hoarded food, gathered their families, and retreated into winter shelters, where they would spend the long, dark months in idleness and sleep, minimizing their need for food and energy.

With no one clearing roads, travel was all but impossible.

And though Roose Bolton was born and bred in these lands, though he rode a northern pony fit for the snow, though he had navigated frozen rivers and skirted lonely mountains on his way here—the journey had still been hellish.

But exhaustion was not the reason for his rage.

He was furious because—in the first place—he should never have had to make this journey at all.
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A Gamble Worth Everything

A Targaryen had returned to the North.

Armed with dragons and Unsullied, she had landed on northern soil, preparing for war.

Roose Bolton had seen the opportunity immediately.

This was it.

His family’s moment.

For decades, House Bolton had been held back by the Stark legacy. The North would never accept a Bolton overlord while even a single Stark remained. But Daenerys Targaryen? She didn’t care about the past. She wouldn’t hesitate to wipe the Starks out if she believed they were a threat to her rule.

Roose had moved quickly, sending Collie Snow, a trusted agent, to Last Hearth. His orders were simple:

Expose the Stark treachery.

His men would claim that House Stark was secretly conspiring to kill Daenerys and her dragons, that Robb Stark’s surviving kin were plotting against her rule, and that only House Bolton was brave enough to stand against them.

If Daenerys believed him, if she ordered her dragons to torch Winterfell, then it would all be over.

The Starks would be ash, and the Boltons would rule the North.

It was the perfect plan.

But it had failed.

Collie Snow and his men had never reached the queen.
----


Blocked at the gates.

The moment his messenger party had arrived at Last Hearth, Aegor’s men had stopped them cold.

They had tried every trick—posing as traders, seeking an audience under false pretenses, even attempting to bribe the guards. But the Watch commander’s forces had been unyielding.

Realizing Last Hearth was a dead end, Collie had split his forces—some headed south to the Gift, hoping to speak directly with Aegor, while others turned back to inform Roose Bolton of the situation.

And yet—

After that first raven, which confirmed that everything was proceeding as planned—every single letter that followed contained nothing but empty pleasantries.

No warnings.

No updates.

No secret marks indicating success or failure.

It was a clear message.

Collie had been compromised.

And there was only one logical conclusion:

Aegor was protecting the Starks.

The bastard had turned on him.

For years, Roose had supported Aegor, speaking highly of him, ensuring gifts of gold and resources flowed to the Night’s Watch, securing loyalty and alliances that he assumed would pay off when the time came.

And now—

Now, the bastard had betrayed him.

Roose could feel his teeth grinding together in fury.

But anger could wait.

What mattered now was securing an audience with Daenerys Targaryen before it was too late.

If he was shut out of the queen’s court, if he was denied the chance to whisper in her ear, then the future of House Bolton was doomed.

And so, even knowing the risks, even knowing that this might expose his true intentions too soon, he had come in person.

No guard would dare refuse entry to the Lord of the Dreadfort himself.
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A New Player on the Board

The news reached him before he even stepped foot in the castle.

The Spider and the Mockingbird had arrived.

Varys.

Petyr Baelish.

Roose frowned.

That was bad.

Varys was one thing—Roose had long suspected that the Spider’s true loyalty lay with no one but himself. Given the right offer, he might even turn against Daenerys and become a valuable ally.

But Littlefinger?

That man had known Catelyn Tully since childhood. He had been raised in Riverrun, had fought for House Tully, and had sworn loyalty to the Starks before.

If Roose tried to poison Daenerys’ mind against Winterfell, there was a very real risk that Baelish would cut him down before he ever got the chance.

He needed to tread carefully.
----


The castle gates opened after a half-hour wait, and a small party emerged, moving through the deep snow toward them.

At their head—a fat man in a hooded cloak.

Roose narrowed his eyes.

Not Baelish, then.

That was Varys.

And that was good.

Unlike Littlefinger, Varys had no loyalty to the Starks.

Unlike Daenerys, Varys would listen to reason.

And unlike Aegor, Varys could be bought.

Roose straightened his cloak, put on his most practiced, most measured smile, and stepped forward.
----


"Ah, Lord Bolton, how wonderful it is to finally meet the master of the Dreadfort in person!"

Varys greeted him warmly, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

"Tell me, my lord—what brings you so far from home on such a bitter winter’s day?"

Roose smiled thinly.

“A warning, Lord Varys.”

“A warning… for the queen.”