Winter's (GOT) Nothing on Me #95

Gripping the stones tightly, I swung myself with one hand from the weathered, cracked stone perched high atop the walls of the Dreadfort's inner keep. With the agility bestowed upon me by newfound superhuman strength, I reached out and firmly caught hold of the balcony ledge, hoisting myself up and into it.

Climbing had never been my forte in this life or any previous one, but these enhanced abilities made scaling the balcony a remarkably easy feat. Clad in dark attire, my heightened speed, and sharpened senses allowed me to navigate without detection, despite my lack of experience in stealth.

Having superpowers unquestionably proved convenient in these moments.

The journey from the walls to my destination took several minutes, the time passing swiftly as I moved swiftly and quietly. I left the astute soldier at the walls behind without killing or even rendering him unconscious—a risk, indeed.

However, I couldn't help but admire his intellect, and it didn't sit well with me to extinguish a life that hadn't posed a threat. Smart people were a rarity in this world, and I couldn't bring myself to end such a rare creature.

Furthermore, leaving him with the knowledge that I could expose him if caught served as a deterrent; he was smart enough to comprehend the peril awaiting him should the Boltons discover his involvement in my intrusion.

Thus, I presumed he had taken the wise decision to vanish, seeking safety from the potential repercussions of our encounter.

Shaking off stray thoughts, I cautiously approached the door of the balcony, half-expecting it to be securely shut. Lord Roose Bolton didn't strike me as someone who'd leave his chambers vulnerable, given his inherent paranoia.

To my surprise, however, the door yielded with a soft, welcoming click. I pushed it open gently, allowing a sliver of dim light to spill into the chamber, illuminating the opulent decorations within. The room boasted extravagant embellishments—ornate paintings, silver candle holders, and furnishings crafted from the finest woods.

In the subdued light, Lord Roose Bolton lay upon a luxurious double bed, seemingly lost in deep slumber. "No point delaying this," I mused to myself, drawing forth an obsidian dagger concealed within my cloak.

In my previous life, I often questioned why fictional assassins favored such close-quarter weapons with short reach. After an entire year in this brutal world, and much bloodshed later, I had come to understand the practicality of daggers in these situations.

Its precision outweighed that of longer weapons like swords, particularly in situations requiring stealth and control.

Silently, I approached, ensuring my steps were light and deliberate, closing the distance between Lord Bolton and myself without disturbing his slumber.

The obsidian dagger, a tool honed for such precise tasks, poised in my hand as I readied myself to fulfill my objective.

Not wanting to take any risks, I swiftly covered the man's mouth with one hand, unfazed by his immediate struggle against my grip. With precision, I positioned the dagger against his neck and sliced it open, the warmth of his blood spreading over my hands. The muffled screams gradually faded, and Lord Bolton's resistance ceased.

Exhaling heavily, I sensed the life draining from Lord Bolton's body as I turned him over, confirming his identity. It was indeed Lord Roose Bolton. I closed his widened eyes and swiftly shrouded him with the bed sheets.

'Now, with the father gone, I only need to take care of the son, and then I can leave,' I thought as I made my way towards the room's exit.

Naturally, I had inquired about Ramsay's quarters from that clever soldier; fortunately, they were nearby, situated at the other end of the hallway, and once he's dead, I'll make my escape.

I was slightly concerned and curious about the masked woman the soldier mentioned, but I had no intention of interfering or getting involved with her in any shape or form. I had enough problems as it is.

Whatever plans and schemes she had in store would most likely not come to fruition with Roose Bolton and Ramsay Snow dead, and even if they did, it was none of business.

I had no intention of making it my business either.

...

As Gale departed Ramsay's room via the balcony, believing he had completed his grim task in the Dreadfort's inner keep, the door to the room soon swung open, revealing none other than Ramsay and the masked woman.

Ramsay, his signature twisted grin spread across his face, sauntered over to inspect the corpse lying on his bed, a visage eerily resembling his own.

"No signs of struggle... No struggle at all... the poor sod met his end swiftly, clueless until the very last moment..." Ramsay remarked, his grin unaltered by the gruesome sight before him.

"Not how I would have done it, but the bloke seemed to know what he was about..." His chuckle carried a hint of twisted admiration. "Still... doesn't sit right letting him slip away like that..."..."

Ramsay's gaze shifted, his eyes narrowing as he turned to the masked woman, his demeanor suggesting a brewing storm. "Who was that fellow anyway?" he demanded, his curiosity tinged with a flicker of menace.

The masked woman shook her head, the veil obscuring her expression, rendering her true intentions inscrutable.

Her voice, however, remained composed. "As I've said... I don't know his identity..." Her words were measured, withholding any discernible emotions. "All I know is that confronting him would have ended in many deaths... including your own..." Her tone carried a subtle warning, betraying a deeper knowledge that she wasn't divulging.

Ramsay's lips curled into a wry grin, a mix of amusement and annoyance at the lack of information. The bastard son of Roose Bolton was no fool, and he didn't trust the masked woman one bit, realizing she was withholding her knowledge for whatever reason.

He wanted nothing more than to have her dragged into the dungeons, where he'd have her spill everything she knew, but Ramsay knew better. With her mercenary thugs filling the castle and her mysterious powers, the young lord didn't fancy his chances against her as things stood.

He'd let her be for now, but the time will come when he gets his answers, and the head of the bastard who dared break into his castle in an atttempt to assasinate him on a pike sooner or later.

"A mysterious stranger then, how intriguing..." He pondered aloud, contemplating the possibilities with a devious glint in his eye. "But we'll uncover the truth soon enough, won't we?" His words dripped with anticipation as he turned back to the lifeless figure on the bed, plotting the repercussions of this unexpected intrusion.

The masked woman remained an enigmatic presence, silently observing Ramsay's reactions, her intentions veiled behind her inscrutable facade. In the charged atmosphere of the room, an unspoken understanding lingered—an understanding that this encounter was but a prologue to a more complex and treacherous sequence of events yet to unfold.

...

As Rayder arrived at the Wall flanked by a retinue of wildlings, he encountered Qhorin Halfhand and a small group of rangers. Catching sight of Qhorin's familiar visage, Rayder couldn't contain a smile. "It's been a while, Qhorin... always good to see an old friend thriving in these troubled times," he remarked, pausing momentarily.

Qhorin met his greeting with an impassive expression. "I wish I could reciprocate, but that would be dishonest," he calmly replied. "I can't say I'm pleased to see an enemy of the Night's Watch alive and well," he added with a touch of solemnity.

Rayder let out a sigh, maintaining his amiable demeanor. "I once considered you a brother back at the Shadow Tower, Qhorin. I'm no longer the Night's Watch's adversary... soon to be an ally, in fact," he explained, holding onto his smile.

"We each follow our convictions... but I earnestly hope that despite our past, we can still consider each other friends at the very least," he added, seeking reconciliation.

Qhorin shook his head in response. "Let's not linger... King Robert is likely nearing Winterfell as we speak," he stated, turning toward the tunnel entrance leading to Castle Black. "We have much to attend to," he declared, setting off purposefully, prompting the rangers to fall in line behind him.

With a lingering sense of unresolved tension, the group moved forward, each step echoing the weight of their divergent paths and the impending challenges they were about to confront.