Chapter Text

Prologue

The horizon to the southeast lit up like dawn. But the sky itself was still too dark for it and it was still too early. Cal recognized the “sun” after a brief moment not as their star, but as an explosion. No. They were north of White Harbor, on the northern bank of the Weeping Water. How could the Lannisters strike this far north? More importantly, why?

Cal sounded the alarm. The horn woke up half the Dreadfort and the shouting did the rest. The captain of the guards ran to where Cal was standing on the castle walls.

“Are we under attack?”

Cal pointed towards the bank of the Weeping Water, “There! The fires still burn.”

A troop of Dreadfort guards looked out into the distance, following Cal’s finger. Where he had sighted the incendiary bloom moments earlier, now there were fires closer to the ground. It appeared as if the river itself was on fire.

“The Lannisters?”

“The war is in the Riverlands. Hundreds of leagues from here.” Indeed, they were but a skeleton crew left behind to man the castle. It boggled the mind that Lannister men could strike so deep into Northern Territory. But if they could, the North was largely undefended, so it was certainly not a terrible option.

“But what’s down that way to attack?”

“Maybe their… weapons weren’t stored properly?”

“Wildfire, y’think?”

No one standing watch over the Dreadfort’s walls had ever seen wildfire before, and did not know that it burned a sickly, corpse green. What they knew were rumors and stories.

“Maybe Wildlings.”

“Maybe pirates.”

The Captain had enough of their chittering and gave a long, high-pitched whistle, “All right. We won’t be answering anything from atop these walls. Every man who can sit a horse and carry a torch, to the damned stables!”

Cal didn’t need to be told twice. He ran with his torch from the wall to the stables. He mounted one of the beasts he knew well before anyone else could, and was one of the first riders out of the gates. Fifty men total rode out of the Dreadfort, crossing the drawbridge over the moat and heading southeast where the bank of the Weeping Water still smoldered.

He expected to find Lannisters or Wildlings along the way, and felt his hand flex and itch towards the blade at his side. But he encountered none. If the enemy had been here, they were already gone.

The Water itself was unaffected. But the grass and reeds still burned as if something tragic had happened here. In the middle of the blast radius was an object about as big as a large oxcart, but it looked like, or what was left of it, no cart that Cal had ever seen. It burned with intensity, casting a bright, disturbing light every which way.

“There!” one of the other men-at-arms pointed with his sword.

Sure enough, there was a body. Two bodies.

Cal dismounted and stepped over some burning reeds. He didn’t draw his weapon, but approached with caution, keeping his hand at the end of his hilt.

Only three steps away from the first body, he could tell it was a man, an older man, with silver hair, and dressed in dark clothes. Cal crouched down and took the man’s shoulder. He turned him over, half expecting to be staring back at a corpse with a face full of ash and sand. But as he turned him, the body groaned in great pain. A small object made of metal and glass fell off of his face and a hand, shaking, weakly came up to brush his great, enormous mustache.

“Good Ser,” Cal said, clear that this man was both too refined to be a Wildling and too old to be a Lannister man-at-arms, tried to rouse him, “Ser? Are you all right?”

But the Northerner next to him kept his sword drawn and laid the blade close to the stranger’s face. He wore a dark jacket and underneath it a white shirt with buttons finely made. Around his neck was a thin cloth, that grew wider towards the bottom until it tapered to a dull point, not unlike a kind of sword.

It was red.

“Lannister colors.”

“It’s red,” Cal said.

“Red’s a Lannister color.”

“And an Umber color. And a Glover color.”

“We’re not at war with the Umbers or Glovers.”

“Exactly,” Cal stood and waved men over, “A survivor!”

“This one’s alive, too!”

The Captain of the Guard rushed to their sides to inspect them, “Two men, one woman. Isn’t much we can do for them out here.” He pointed to some of them, “Search the reeds and rivers for more. Dead or alive.” He whirled back to some of his other men, “Ride back to the castle for something to carry these three back. They may be too injured to walk or ride.”

The Dreadfort men followed their orders.

The stranger stirred at Cal’s feet. He started coughing. Cal crouched down and helped him into a sitting position, “Be still,” he said, “you’re all right.”

Through the coughing, the stranger muttered, “Wa… wa...”

“Water?”

He nodded.

Cal had a small skein on his belt, filled with well water and a bit of wine for flavor. He handed it to the man who began gulping down the liquid.

“What’s your name, stranger?”

“My name?” when he handed back the pouch to Cal, drops of liquid dripped from his mustache. His hand found the wine and glass device which he set uncomfortably on his face, twisting it until he was satisfied, “My name is John.” he finally answered, “John Bolton.”

Lord Brandon of House Overton, Lord of Overton, was assigned to the position of Lord Justiciar in the High Lordship of the Dreadfort. Patient yet proud, Lord Overton was actually interested in the governance of his property, and his liege lord’s. Lord Ramsay, he known only in whispers as Snow, was more often than not off hunting with his gang of misfits, as they were now.

The three survivors of the blast were brought to the Dreadfort’s main hall and presented to Lord Overton. The Lord Justiciar wore a heavy brown cloak made of fur. A large chain around his neck bore a medallion carrying his house’s sigil: sable, made of onyx, a fess chequay silver and gold, made of their appropriate metallic elements, “Tell it again.”

Cal stepped forward in front of the three survivors, and retold the story. From witnessing the explosion to hearing the man’s name. The House of Bolton was small. By sheer numbers, perhaps the weakest it had been in recorded memory. There was only Lord Roose and his son. So a stranger washing up on the bank of the Weeping Water claiming to be one of them, in literal fire and blood, no less, was cause for concern. It was good that Ramsay was gone. No telling what he might do. Ramsay was very much a flay-first-ask-questions-later sort.

“You come to our shores and claim the name of our liege lord. Speak in your defense, or we will assume you for an impostor and detain you in the dungeons.”

The man with the mustache stepped forward, “I apologize for the confusion,” he said, “But there must be some sort of mistake. My staff and I were in Washington, preparing for a deposition on… well, an important case, when our car exploded. It must have been an assassination attempt.”

Lord Overton grasped onto the words he understood, “Assassination? You were attempting to assassinate someone?”

The mustachioed man calling himself John Bolton looked at a sudden loss for words. If he was a spy, he was an exceedingly poor one, “No… no!”

“And why would someone try to assassinate you?”

The room bristled with tension. If someone was trying to kill John “Bolton” then surely they would soon find out they failed. And return to finish the job. Perhaps these three were worth a reward…

“Please,” Bolton said, “This… this has all just been a big misunderstanding.”

“Are you familiar with the traditions of the Dreadfort, Master… John?” Lord Overton stood.

“This… what fort?”

“Traditions here are sacred. And a man’s name is his bond. If you claim to steal the name of our liege lord, you claim to steal his bond. And that is punishable.” Lord Overton moved aside his cloak and set a hand on his sword.

The other stranger, the male one, jumped up and in front of the man claiming to be John “Bolton” and dropped to one knee. He was dressed similarly as his surviving fellow, in a jacket, and buttoned shirt, with a length of fabric around his neck, as if he wanted seldom for food. He had sandy-blond hair, and was clean shaven, “My Lord. If I may? My… liege here is clearly shaken from the attack, but I believe I may be of some help in clarifying our situation. Why we are here.” He held his arms out in a gesture of supplication.

Lord Overton sat back in the throne, removed his hand from his sword and gave a short wave, “Speak.”

“In the Wars of the Red Kings, my Lord’s ancestors, of younger sons, fled east for safety. There they made their living in exile as sellswords, armorers, scholars, masters-at-arms, and eventually, as bankers. We were ingratiated into the defense and security apparatus of Banks from Braavos to Lys and Volantis, and Qarth. For many, many generations did my Lord’s ancestors successfully ingratiate their lives and ways and cultures with those of our hosts. Hence our strange dress. The glass, my lord wears on his face, corrective lenses – glass for seeing – from Myr. However, they never forgot their noble origins of the great House of Bolton, and wore the name with great pride even among folk for whom it meant so little.”

“Then why are you here? Why did you not remain across the Narrow Sea as you did all these generations?”

“The conflicts among bankers can be as deadly and destructive as those among the Lords of Westeros. Especially when the Warlocks of Qarth are involved. My Lord was on the receiving end of the conflict, and our fellows in Braavos tried to sell him to the warlocks. We managed to escape, but only just, and it was then that my Lord made the decision to return, after many generations, to seek safety and refuge among the land of his ancestors.”

“You arrived on the Weeping Water in an explosion.”

“We believed we were safe when we arrived on the shores of Westeros, but we were wrong. The warlocks of Qarth must have set a trap for us.”

Lord Overton considered the story. He looked from John to his apparent assistant, to the young woman, “And who’s she?”

“She?” the young man stopped, looked back at her, and then to Lord Bolton, said, “She… is Maria. Maria Bolton-Sanchez.”

Maria looked unlike either of the two men. She had light brown skin, that was smoother and cleaner – despite the ash and soot – than any that Cal had ever seen. Her teeth were perfectly straight and so white they nearly glowed, but her hair was so blonde that it re-invited Lannister comparisons.

“My Lord Bolton is a widower these past five years. His wife was a beautiful Dornishwoman, daughter of a merchant prince of Plankytown. Maria is her heir in both beauty and grace.”

“O.K.” Maria finally said, and immediately returned her gaze to the floor.

“And you are?”

“I am Joshua Gansewitz.” Joshua stood proudly, straightening his stance and adjusting the cloth around his neck. “My father was a sellsword of the… Stormlands. And during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, settled in Essos where business was good. My mother was a Lysene… woman. A descendant of old Valyria. But my father wanted me to know craft beyond war. So I was apprenticed to Lord Bolton.”

The whole court just stared. Cal found it hard not to. As did the two other guests.

“Have you records to verify any of your story?” Lord Overton finally said, breaking the silence.

“We had brought the Chronicle of House Bolton-Across-the-Sea,” he said, and scratched his face, “Though it may not have survived the explosion.”

Again there was silence. Lord Overton rose from the throne and paced in front of it before commanding an attendant, “Bring bread and salt.”

Cal watched the young man, Joshua, breathe a great sigh of relief. Though Maria and John didn’t seem to understand the significance of Westerosi guest right. Maybe it wasn’t a thing over the Narrow Sea.

“We will send a message to Lord Roose,” he said, “Before we make any find judgments on who you are or what we shall do with you. Clearly, you are men and women of station and learning, and you will be treated as such in this castle, given room and board until a time proving that you are undeserving of it. However, you will not be allowed access to the rookery nor leave of this castle until further notice.”

Joshua bowed, “We deeply thank you Lord… Castellan.”

“I am the Lord Justiciar,” Overton said, “Lord Ramsay has been left Castellan of the Dreadfort.”

Based on the way Joshua’s eyes widened, Cal could tell he knew what that meant.

“If you are lying, it is likely that he will sit in judgment of you.”

Outside of the Dreadfort, facing the west was the castle town, what outsiders called Dreadfort Town, but which the local dialect has shortened to “Dretton.” Cal’s sister married a cooper who made quite a prosperous living in Dretton, and when he wasn’t stationed in the castle, he usually stayed with her. Tonight, however, he felt a change in the air and instead of turning in at his sister’s, stopped at the mill, which everyone knew doubled as a brothel.

The two women who ran the place were Dretton natives. But they had managed to recruit a couple girls from different parts of the North, and one Wildling who managed to make it over the Wall, willing to do anything for a hot meal and a place to rest her head. Despite the way people treated her outside of the mill/brothel, the young Wildling woman was considered the most popular of the working women there. Cal was certain it said something about the nature of hate, or the nature of sex, but he wasn’t sure what.

He walked into the millhouse and was greeted by an older woman with rouge on her face and long, red, wavy locks, “Mornin’ Cal.” she said, “long night?”

“What have you heard?”

“Not much. Lannister spies. Braavosi strangers. Explosions on the other side of the Water.”

“That’s about it,” he said, “Is Alla available?”

“She’s just freshening up after her last client. Why don’t you go in and wait for her?” The Mistress led Cal into the room Alla used. The door wasn’t a proper wooden door, but the hide of some creature that she called a “shadow cat.” Inside the fireplace was kept, but decorated with bones, beads, and more. The “bed” was little more than a pile of hay with skins and furs laid over it. Alla put dried herbs and flowers underneath the bedding with each new client.

Alla was in a corner of the room washing herself with flower scented water. She didn’t even turn her head hearing Cal enter, “Take a seat. Would you like something to drink?”

“Do you have any of that rak-rak?”

“Rakshi.” she corrected, going to a pouch hung on the wall and pouring a deep up of the fermented-berry liquor. She walked over to Cal, still half-naked, her tits framed by heavy furs that she left tantalizingly open. She handed him the drink and smiled, “Enjoy.”

“Can I ask you a question, Alla?”

“Of course,” she went back to her previous corner to continue her cleansing ritual, “Ask away.”

“Is all of this… real? Or just for show?”

“All of what?”

Cal drank and then waved idly around the room, “All of this.” He pointed to a pair of crossed spears underneath a shield. The spears were made of malformed, rusted steel, tied to their shafts with red thread decorated with beads and bones. The shafts were carved with runes. The shield was… shaggy, like bear fur made a significant portion of it, and it was marked with runes along the rim, “Like those spears and shield. Did you really come to Dretton with them?”

“No, Master Cal. I came to Dretton with barely the clothes on my back.”

“And you collected these things since then?”

“Some. Some I made.”

“So it is for show.”

“Yes,” Alla said, “I’m the Wildling whore. My clients expect a Wildling experience.”

“But it’s not an authentic Wildling experience?”

“My clients are inside a real Wildling. Just because the spears on the wall aren’t real Thenn spears or the fur isn’t actually that of a shadowcat means it’s not real?”

“At least the rakshi is real.”

“And brewed by a real Wildling.”

“Of course it was. More difficult to make a living among you Southerners.”

Cal didn’t take the bait. He knew that Alla liked to call anyone south of the Wall “Southerners,” despite them living in the North, “You managed it, though.”

“I’m resourceful.” she said, “When you’re dropped into a whole new world, with nothing more than your clothes and your wits, you have no choice.”