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Sean Bean Saves Westeros - Book 1: Sean Lends a Hand by High Plains Drifter
 A song of Ice and Fire & Game of Thrones Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure, Eddard S./Ned, Eddard S., Words: 109k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 737, Published: Jul 22, 2014 Updated: Feb 1, 2015  423Chapter 5 - Roose (I)
Roose (I)
The Lord of the Dreadfort sat placidly in the saddle pretending to listen intently while a score of his men-at-arms dutifully kept their mounts steady somewhere behind him. They and an unsurprisingly large number of puffed up lordlings and self-important knights formed a wide circle around Roose and the Lord of Winterfell. He supposed he should feel honored that these men's beloved warlord publicly honored him as the sole official envoy to the Bastard King, his mother the Whore Queen, and whatever other remnants of House Lannister cowered behind King's Landing's walls. But he felt none; it was not in his nature to feel such or even care about hollow knightly principles beyond their beneficial use to manipulate lesser men. The important lords present had been at the previous night's council when 'Blessed Ned' announced his selection of Roose for this simple herald's task. 'Why the display?' he pondered, trying to calculate his liege lord's intent.
"They have had war and paid for their presumption!"
Certainly Blessed Ned showed a verbal flare which 'stolid Ned' would never have displayed. No doubt the man enjoyed putting these new mummer's skills to use. Stolid Ned was well spoken, but never prone to wagging his tongue. In fact the man seldom wagged anything, his strongly disciplined humors seldom allowing him to reveal much enjoyment of anything beyond an occasional quaint smile at a familiar song or seeing a skilled craftman at work. By Roose's evaluation Stolid Ned had been practical, extremely competent, totally honorable, sufficiently ruthless when necessary, and utterly predictable. Traits he appreciated in a liege. A lord knew what his expected boundaries were and by default, unless brainless, how to keep his liege out of his demesne. But Blessed Ned? Unfortunately not predictable. Roose sighed so softly that not even his horse noticed.
"Dispute not with her; she is lunatic."
A roar of approval greeted the nicely turned phrase setting the limits of Lord Bolton's envoy duties that morning. Amused shouts of "the Whore Queen" and "death to the Whore Queen!" interspersed the cheering.
Roose stared at Blessed Ned as the man pretended to not soak up the adulation from his little speech and thought he caught a glimpse of eerie green wildfire shimmering within those familiar icy grey eyes. This unsettled him. There was much about the Lord of Winterfell that now unsettled him; though little the Lord of the Dreadfort could do about that now. 'At least he wins,' Roose thought, recognizing the one attribute that for the moment trumped the problems he now faced with his liege's new found unpredictability.
"Make the demands of the true King known to them, Lord Bolton," Blessed Ned commanded as the cries lessened enough for him to be heard, signaling the dismissal his chosen envoy.
"As my lord commands," he replied in a voice that likely none heard over the noise, even his mount. He half bowed and then gently tugged the reins, turning his pale horse around in a scythe like arc to face the wall and the Dragon Gate.
Another cheer erupted from the pack of dogs gathered around the direwolf, the adoring howls were all for the blessed one's pretty speech and not a yelp for him or his slight mission. He knew this without a trace of rancor rising in his blood. Roose Bolton had few illusions about who he was or how he was perceived. Very few were the lordly peers he could claim to be on friendly terms with; his dead wife Bethany's family the Ryswells being the vast majority of them, and few enough from the Rills had answered the young wolf pup's summons. Perhaps Stolid Ned might have qualified as one too; the pair of them had seemed to share an unspoken, yet pleasant enough, understanding of each other. But true friends? Roose was the head of House Bolton. There were almost as many ways for a lord to rule his lands as there were lords: a capable few, sundry amiable or over fierce to cover their indifferent skill, and too many incompetent buffoons who simply held on to their holdfasts through tradition, sheer luck, or the cleverness of an adept steward. He knew which one he was and a capable lord could not afford the distraction of friendship. He ruled the Dreadfort through fear and respect. Fear made a powerful tool, but a tool that could warp a man's humors. For that very reason he chose to cool the heat of his blood with regular leachings. Let them laugh behind his back. What time or need did he have for friendship when he had mastered fear.
Roose dispassionately watched as the last of his banners pulled out of camp and on to the kingsroad heading south as the sun started to dip. His sixteen hundred men composed the back end of the main column. A mile or two ahead the ever amiable and obliging Halys Hornwood held the honor of leading the van. And miles beyond him Robett Glover and the aptly named Black Walder Frey led half the doomed army's horse as scouts. The only troop left, making up the reserve for the coming night's forced march, was the joint contingent from the Rills and Barrowlands, a mere fifteen hundred men between them. Clearly his good sister Barbrey, a Ryswell like his own wife, still held a grudge against the Starks. Foolish, hadn't Lord Eddard allowed her, the childless wife of the Lord of Barrowton, to keep ruling that demesne after her lord husband's demise, despite the rights of the nearest trueborn Dustin cousin? Foolish, but useful. Those two houses' main strength kept safe in the North would not be deleted by this mummer's farce.
He couldn't predict how the young pup's rebellion would end, other than badly. In the resulting chaos that would sweep the North from their inevitable defeat, the Lord of the Dreadfort fully intended to remain in power. Strong allies in the coming years would be necessary to survive. It could not be accomplished obviously, but he intended for his flayed men, the Dustin's crossed axes, and the Ryswell's bronze horses to suffer the least on the next morning, regardless the outcome. The only problem being that the Hornwoods lay between his lands and theirs. Luckily Halys, so valiantly commanding the van, had but one trueborn heir, a son. Roose hoped that Daryn, riding in the forlorn hope to breach Riverrun's siege, would fall prey to his vigorous youthful humors and prove as foolishly valiant as his father by being in the van there.
Roose had just started contemplating what to do with the Freys, powerful but perhaps too suspect to rely on as an ally, when his thoughts were interrupted.
"Banners, milord," Walton called just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the men. "On horses. Quite a few."
Roose looked over at his captain. The man raised a chainmail clad arm and pointed to the north. The Lord of the Dreadfort readily hid any surprise for he knew they couldn't have been outflanked by any Lannister outriders and turned to watch the direction from which they'd marched just that morning. Their little camp here had simply been to take a last break for rest and food before the night's long march.
"Frey … Tallhart … and … Manderly," Walton announced, grunting the last house name with surprise.
Wylis Manderly, a hardened Stark loyalist like all his forefathers going back a thousand years, rode at the front of the main column. Fewer mermen would be convenient both for that and because Lady Hornwood was a Manderly by birth. Manderly lands abutted her lord husband's. 'Perhaps more of Wylis' honor loving cousins have simply come late to this doomed war,' Roose pondered, searching for a reasoned explanation as to why near one hundred riders would show up now.
Suddenly a shout went up amongst the Ryswells and Dustins. "Stark!" "Stark!" "Stark!"
Then Roose saw it, a grey banner unfurling in the breeze, the distinct direwolf sigil becoming visible. Unconsciously Roose put spur to horse, eager to discover what last minute message the boy lord Robb had sent him via the Twins.
The shouts of "Stark!" swelled louder.
Roose rode closer, an anxious knot forming in his usually docile belly. The cheering men parted so the two parties of mounted men could approach each other. Roose felt his pale face turn paler.
"Lord Roose," the familiar voice called out.
"Lord Stark," he hailed back, struggling for once to keep his voice no louder than absolutely necessary. "I rejoice to see you free of the Lion's grip. All the North has risen for you. Have you …"
"No time, Lord Roose," Eddard Stark cut in.
There was something odd about his liege lord's demeanor. Nevertheless he promptly bobbed his head once in acquiescence.
"Have you crossed swords with the Lannister's yet?!" the Lord of Winterfell demanded, with a hint of a quiver in his voice.
"I meant to sneak a march on them tonight and attack their camp at dawn, my lord," he responded, watching relief flash through Eddard Stark's familiar grey eyes. The longer he looked at them though, the stranger they appeared, revealing glimpses of things never before reflected from them.
"It would be a disaster," the man blurted. "Send riders immediately. The army is to turn around. We march back towards the Twins."
Roose lightly pursed his lips, calmly accepting that his plan had just fallen apart for better or for worse. He pointed at Walton. "See that my lord's command is followed." Then spying the senior captains of the Ryswell and Dustin banners, he called, "Lord Errold, Ser Ronnel, turn your men around, you are now the van. March now."
The knight from House Stout, face darting between Lords Stark and Bolton, began to ask, "How far are we to …"
"Go," the Lord of the Dreadfort hissed.
Despite the almost overwhelming desire to stay with the returned Lord Paramount of the North and hear his tale, the two men obeyed. Even a fool could see that if they were not to attack the Lannisters on the morrow, here was not the place to defend against the lions. Orders began being barked and the gathered men-at-arms started moaning as they too had wanted to listen to the very man whose capture had caused them all to march to war.
Finally satisfied his commands were being properly followed, Roose succumbed to his own curiosity and returned his attention to Eddard Stark. He found an angry visage plastering his lord's face. The man's knuckles whitened from gripping the pommel of his sword too tightly. The Lord of Winterfell's eyes shone with a look familiar to the Lord of the Dreadfort from other men, but one he'd only seen a time before or two from his liege, and that during the heat of the last rebellion. He saw hate.
"I take it that you escaped, my lord; not released or pardoned by the King?" Roose asked.
"Yes," Lord Stark ground out.
"So we are still at war with the Lannisters then," he continued. "My lord should know that his son Robb …"
"Has captured the Kingslayer and broken the siege of Riverrun," the Lord of Winterfell interjected.
Roose blinked once in surprise. With the distances needed to be marched, there was no way the young pup could have won such a victory any sooner than yesterday. Even with the fastest raven, this news couldn't have … why was his lord lying? "Great news, my lord. Perhaps with his son as our hostage, you might parley with Lord Tywin and negotiate a peace?" he suggested, very interested to see how the Lord of Winterfell would respond to the bait.
Eddard Stark stared a long time at Roose Bolton before answering. "No, we crush the Lannisters, join up with Robb, and seize the Iron Throne for the true king."
'Folly,' Roose thought. The Lord of Winterfell intended to take an unnecessarily daring course, which surprised him, for he had at last recognized what else looked out of those usually icy grey eyes. What he saw was fear. But of whom or what, he still needed to discern.
The walls loomed larger. The finer parts of the pointlessly ornate reliefs carved into the obviously named Dragon Gate came into focus. His escort kept a wary eye out for any deceit from above or an ambush coming out a sally port. Roose ignored that, trusting to his men's competence. Instead he kept pondering why Blessed Ned had chosen him for this mission fit for a jester and not a flaying man; though one viewed as an honor by most of fellow lords. Mayhap his lord wished a nervous gold cloak would drop wildfire on his head.
Blessed Ned's poor display of courtesy to him the previous day, no matter the Lady Catelyn's discreet attempts to bridge the awkward moments, simply confirmed for Roose the low standing the Lord of Winterfell had held him in since his return. The first few days as they had retreated back up the kingsroad from the Lannisters, when the hate and fear still broke through that icy face in his presence, the Lord of the Dreadfort thought his liege suspected him of his planned treachery. But knowing of Eddard Stark's honor, he knew the man would not act without proof and Roose had wisely chosen, as with all the best guarded secrets, to tell no one of his intended perfidy.
The campaign along the Green Fork had caused him to make his first reassessment of the Lord of Winterfell. Victory changes many things. The death of Tywin Lannister and the destruction of his army had certainly altered Roose's calculations of whose lands would now be cursed with fire and sword, rape and pillage, the ravages of chaos. Yet it had not been Blessed Ned's proclamations of visions, his brilliant strategy for outflanking the Lannisters, nor his clever tactics on that final battlefield that had changed Roose's opinion of the man so much. It had been Eddard Stark's willingness to throw away a lifetime of his precious honor to secure victory that struck him most.
Such a man would not hesitate to kill another if he believed him a traitor. Never. Yet Roose still lived. And after the battle the sheer hate and fear he saw his lord's eyes direct at him had faded. Oh there were still minor slights, as if his dislike periodically boiled up in his blood so hot he must release it or explode. Nevertheless, when the Lord of the Dreadfort offered sound counsel at the "staff" meetings Blessed Ned held almost nightly, the man accepted it without willingly. His ill humors only seemed to arise at the oddest, most unexpected of times. But the displays of yesterday had almost seen his behavior return to that of the retreat up the kingsroad. Yet Blessed Ned kept this lord whom he despised close to his side. The unpredictability of it all near brought on a fever that only a leeching would cool.
'Why?' he wondered with frustration, the heat growing. Then, for perhaps the first time in his life, the thought struck Roose Bolton that another might be using him for his own ends.
"Milord, we're here," a voice called.
"You may begin," he said softly to the rider beside him.
"Hail the Wall!" Walton bellowed. "Lord Roose, the envoy of the North brings a message to King's Landing from the True Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, the True King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, the True Protector of the Realm! Who will speak for the usurper of the Iron Throne!"
His captain's mighty roar rang uncomfortably in Roose's ears. Apparently the shout had been loud enough and a white cloak swirled in the breeze as a knight leaned between the merlons to look down upon him. A Kingsguard, Roose knew not which one. According to Blessed Ned's visions Barristan Selmy had long since fled King's Landing and of course Jaime Lannister was prisoner somewhere in the multitude of tents behind him. The current lot protecting the Bastard King were a pale imitation of those that had protected Mad Aerys; yet their illustrious names had been insufficient to save the burner. What chance these feeble straws for saving the incestuous fruit of the Lannister twin's uncontrollable lust? Mad as Aerys they were in their own way and just as destructive though they'd played with a different kind of fire.
Sounds issued forth from the red bearded face high above, but no intelligible words reached their ears.
"What did he say?" he whispered to Walton.
"I did not hear either, milord. Too much wind," his captain answered with a frown. Then Steelshanks extended his long legs to stand in his stirrups, fully revealing the source of his nickname amongst the troops. "Say again!" he shouted. "We can't hear you!"
Realization dawned on Roose and he started to chuckle oh so very softly. 'Of course, that's why he selected me. He wants to force me to yell.' As the mirthless chuckle died away as quickly as it arose, he immediately wondered whether the Lord of Winterfell had already shared this feeble jape with the other lords or if, like with so many of the newly odd things about him, Blessed Ned only intended to keep this amusement to himself.
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