Winter's (GOT) Nothing on Me #97

Standing atop the formidable walls of Winterfell, I surveyed the scene unfolding in the castle's courtyard below. The gathered nobles engaged in their mundane discussions—typical matters of dull politics and intrigues that one could expect from such titled individuals. 

It had been an additional two days since my somewhat strained conversation with Rayder, and the following events weren't worth recounting in detail. 

Securing Lord Stark's agreement to meet Rayder outside the castle grounds, to negotiate the terms of Rayder's presence during the impending feast, had required considerable effort on my part. 

However, I managed to arrange it. Now, with Rayder quietly present within Winterfell, recognized only by Lord Stark and a select few trusted men, I held hope that discussions could proceed toward a potential alliance in the presence of the king if nothing else.

Speaking of the king, there he was, King Robert Baratheon, a formidable figure in the yard. He stood laughing heartily, consuming drink after drink in a jovial manner, engaged in conversation with some of the North's highborn individuals. 

His larger-than-life presence (literally) loomed over the gathering, embodying both mirth and authority simultaneously. The man was a fatass slob with zero ability to rule, but he was as charismatic as they came. I had to give him that much since he really didn't have much else going for him. 

The royal family graced the event with their presence. Cersei Lannister, the world's most charming and venomous snake, gilded among groups of ladies, wearing a smug smile that exuded dominance over the northern nobility. 

Myrcella and Tommen Baratheon also circulated, doing their best to avoid the political scheming and simply enjoy being children.

Then there was Joffrey Baratheon, ranking among the top ten wretched assholes in all of fiction, accompanied by Theon Greyjoy. Joffrey half-boasted about fictitious valor while simultaneously basking in Theon's sycophantic praise. 

Between the two of them, I honestly didn't know which one was worse,  Jeffery or Then. The crown prince caused much more death and misery, but one could argue he didn't know any better, that he grew to be such a little cunt due to his mother's upbringing. 

Theon Greyjoy, on the other hand, had no such excuse. He was raised by the Starks, who treated him lovingly as one would treat his own blood, yet he ended up stabbing them in the back and causing two of their children to die.

The insecure prick always felt conflicted about his actions, but that honestly just made them that much more heinous and despicable, in my opinion. Out of all the reformed characters in the show, his redemption felt the least deserved, even if he suffered an entire year in the Dreadfort's dungeons with Ramsay Snow as his playmate. 

The Hound stood guard, his gaze keen as a hawk, while Jaime Lannister subtly observed the scene. The gathering felt like a congregation of reprehensible individuals, enough to ignite a desire within me to leap down, draw my blade, and commence a slaughter, a cleansing of sorts. 

These individuals, responsible for incalculable death and suffering, seemed deserving of such a fate. Yet, the importance of this gathering overshadowed my urge.

Finalizing an alliance between the Seven Kingdoms and the wildlings to combat the Night King and his legion of undead. Giving in to such urges amid such crucial negotiations wasn't an option.

Lost in my thoughts about the potential ease of ending it all then and there, my reverie was abruptly shattered by the echo of approaching footsteps. Swiveling to the side, I spotted Benjen striding toward me, wearing an inscrutable expression. 

It had been quite some time since our paths crossed, since my departure from Castle Black, but his countenance was unmistakably intense. He seemed furious—probably had caught wind of the events at the Dreadfort. 

Closing the gap swiftly, he wasted no time in confronting me. "What did you do, lad?" Benjen's voice carried weight, his concern evident.

I shrugged, maintaining a calm facade. "Surely, news of it has spread by now," I retorted, a blank expression on my face. "Is there any point in asking me that now?" I countered, my tone tinged with nonchalance.

My response seemed to agitate Benjen further. "I'm asking because I'm clueless about your actions... what have you been up to all this time?" He pressed on, demanding answers. "Did you conceal everything? How?" His questions flew at me.

His words puzzled me. "What on earth are you talking about, Benjen?" I queried, genuinely bewildered. "I didn't conceal or mask anything... or are you suggesting that an entire highborn house—" My sentence trailed off abruptly, interrupted by the sudden sound of hooves thundering outside the castle.

As I pivoted to investigate the source of the commotion, an overwhelming sense of dread washed over me. A battalion of knights clad in crimson armor advanced toward Winterfell Castle's entrance, led by three distinct figures—two men and a woman. 

Among them stood Roose Bolton and Ramsay Snow, individuals I had personally ensured were no longer among the living. Yet, there they were, striding purposefully as if death had not claimed them.

My gaze lingered on the woman riding alongside them, seeking to comprehend this surreal sight. Her complexion was fair, etched with mature features, and a mane of red hair cascaded behind her as she rode, clad in robes of crimson. 

"Melisandre of Asshai..." I uttered, barely able to believe my eyes as I began to connect the dots and comprehend what truly happened. 

And in that moment, she turned towards me, almost as if sensing my presence. Our eyes met briefly, and an unsettling smile graced her lips as if she knew something beyond my understanding. 

Then, as swiftly as she had acknowledged me, she turned away, riding onward as though our encounter hadn't occurred.

I turned to Benjen, whose confusion mirrored my own, and a defeated sigh escaped my lips. "I'm so utterly and incomprehensibly fucked..." I muttered, the frustration building within me, an overwhelming urge to vent my frustration brewing. 

It all fell into place suddenly. 

Ramsay Snow and Roose Bolton were the sole surviving members of House Bolton. Killing them should have triggered an uproar throughout the Northern Realm, perhaps even across all of Westeros. 

Yet, there was no uproar, no outcry—as if their deaths were inconsequential. I had been overly confident, too blinded by my certainty, disregarding rumors and potential warnings. This was the consequence of my hubris.

No, I couldn't allow myself to think like that. Why would I go sniffing around for information regarding two supposedly deceased nobles when it would only draw unwanted attention? I had personally ended their lives, for the gods' sake. 

How was I supposed to anticipate that Melisandre, the infamous red fucking woman, would materialize and resurrect those two wretched souls? It was beyond comprehension.

I stood in disbelief, regret gnawing at me like a relentless adversary. My mistake—failing to investigate the masked woman that clever soldier mentioned when I interrogated him. It hadn't even crossed my mind that she could be Melisandre. 

I should have delved deeper, but I didn't, and now the consequences loomed over me like a storm. Damn it all! The pressure on my teeth was enough to shatter them, consumed by my own frustration when Benjen's voice sliced through my turmoil.

"What the hell is going on with you, Gale?" His hand landed on my shoulder, his expression filled with concern. "You're acting off, and your face is as white as snow..." he added, his voice laced with worry.

I met his gaze, forcing a bitter smile. "you'd act like that too if you killed someone only to see him alive and kicking days later..." I muttered, the weight of the situation heavy on my shoulders.

Benjen's brow furrowed in confusion for a moment, but as he turned toward the approaching riders nearing Winterfell's gates, his eyes widened with horror. "You... you killed Roose Bolton..." His disbelief echoed in his words. 

"Slit his throat while he slept... and yet, here we are..." I admitted, watching helplessly as the guards swung open the gates, allowing Lord Bolton and his retinue to enter Winterfell unimpeded.