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298 AC
The trip had been uneventful, disappointingly so. He had not seen the imp, despite quietly hoping for it. Tyrion Lannister was a creature of sharp wit and sharper instincts; observing him in the North might have proven useful in a way. Still, not all opportunities presented themselves when one wished.
He had almost been caught entering the crypts beneath Winterfell, and worse, he had nearly been discovered by young Brandon Stark, the boy forever climbing where he ought not to. The child had seen him months earlier during his visit to Winterfell, and it seemed he had not forgotten his face.
'How sad it would be,' he reflected sorrowfully, when that same boy was crippled by those incest-loving Lannisters.
But even so fate, it seemed, was already aligning itself neatly.
In another month or so the king would be off back down south, with Eddard Stark in tow. Ned Stark the Honorable fool he was would attempt to play fair in a den of liars, vipers, and cheats. And in doing so, he would meet his end within weeks. All of this could've been avoided if he had a little sense to himself , all of this could've been prevented if he acted with a bit more scrutiny and care.
But alas such a thing would not happen.
His conviction of crimes then death would start it all. After which the War of the Five Kings would begin in earnest.
How wonderful that would be for him.
The opportunity he had planned for, waited for, and carefully shaped over years had finally presented itself. The North would turn in quiet betrayal, misdirection, and blood spilled in the dark. His control was imminent.
The end of Stark rule had now begun.
And with it, the beginning of Bolton domination.
The flayed man's banner would soar higher than it ever had before.
Preparations were already underway. His armies would be readied for the coming storm long before the first raven flew or the first banner was ever called. Granaries were filled to bursting; salted meat and grain lay stacked in hidden storehouses throughout Bolton lands.
The armory had not rested in years hammer and anvil ringing day and night as swords, spears, mail, and arrowheads were forged in quantities that would have alarmed his neighbors had they known.
He would not send his full strength south when the banners were called. That was the folly of lesser lords, eager to prove loyalty through sacrifice. Why should he bleed his house dry for a man he intended to overthrow?
Four thousand men would be the most he would commit.
Five hundred riders—hard men mounted on strong northern horses—capable of swift strikes and sudden withdrawals. Three thousand foot soldiers: disciplined spearmen, seasoned archers, and auxiliaries drilled relentlessly over the years to operate machines of war and siege and alongside them would march their weapons rarely seen in the North's campaigns scorpions and ballistas, dismantled for transport and reassembled when needed.
Quality and precision over sheer numbers. Would be his motto that would be what he stood by.
That would be enough.
The other lords did not know the true strength of House Bolton, nor the depth of its presence.
Neither would Robb Stark. The young wolf would see only what was shown to him, loyalty, generosity, and restraint. A dependable bannerman who did not overreach, who did not boast, who did not clamor for glory.
Appearances mattered more than truth.
Grain and food would be sent south in abundance, wagon after wagon rolling into Stark camps. Steel weapons, freshly forged and well-crafted, would be "donated" to the cause. Robb Stark would see these gestures and believe them proof of unwavering commitment. He would never doubt Bolton loyalty not when coin, steel, and men were freely given.
How could he?
He could not name Bolton treasonous when such visible support propped up his campaign. To do so would fracture his own cause, and Robb Stark was nothing if not desperate to hold his fragile alliance together by then.
And blindness would perhaps be his fatal undoing.
In otl when the war dragged on, dissent would inevitably creep into the camps. Robb would make mistakes, too many mistakes. A boy forced to wear a crown too heavy for his head and unable to be a proper ruler. He would trust the wrong men, spurn the right ones, and allow emotion to guide decisions better left to logic and reason.
If his predictions went as they should as in otl then the real work would begin. Gentle reminders of old grievances, bribery, unfulfilled promises, and Stark arrogance disguised as honor. Allies would be courted carefully, never too openly. Some would be bought with gold, others with marriages, still others with the simple promise of survival when the wolves finally fell low.
And if things unfolded as planned, the Red Wedding could still occur but he would not stake his future on that butcher's farce. Guest right was a sacred thing in the North, and even now he could sense the disgust it would breed. The Freys would take the blame, all of it, their name forever stained with treachery. And when the time came, House Frey would be eliminated entirely, their usefulness spent, their lands divided among more deserving hands.
Pun intended.
The North would need a strong ruler after the chaos, a firm hand to restore order, not a soft-hearted Stark that couldn't do what needed to be done as a ruler. He would present himself as that hand.
A man who had refused Stark dominance over him. A man who had acted only to preserve his house ideals and lands from failure and decrepitude.
History was written by survivors, after all.And he would be one of its survivors.
The Starks had ruled for centuries, but time eroded all things. Their strength lay in reputation and legacy , and as we've seen reputation and legacies could be destroyed far more easily than castles.
Winterfell itself was old stone and memory impressive, yes, but weighed down by tradition and complacency. It was weighed down by old beliefs and lack of innovation and with it the rest of the north became stagnant.
Now he had set the standard for the north of the wealth it could acquire, of what could be achieved in such short periods of time, the growth that could be realized if they put their minds and hands to it.
He imagined the banners already—the flayed man rippling in the northern wind, raised not in rebellion but in friendly ties of loyalty and truce with its neighbors. Lords kneeling not out of fear alone, but acceptance to something better. The North and the world respected strength after all and money.
But until the first swords are drawn for the grand play of events our blades would remain sharp.
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