-One-

Roose

It could never be said that Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, did not love his children. In fact, he did so very much, in his own way, and though they spent more time outside their family's ancestral keep than in it, it in no way diminished the Leech Lord's subtle, albeit strong, fatherly sentiments. Sentiments which, for the past three days, had relegated the lord to a period of intense, self-imprisonment within the dungeons of the Dreadfort.

The haunting, agonized screams emanating from beneath the keep, more beast than man in their last moments, were testament to his dedication to his family, as well as the enormity of his rage – and grief. Apart from those screams, it was eerily quiet in the Dreadfort. No one dared speak a word, for fear of disturbing the final repose of Domeric Bolton, former heir to the Dreadfort. He lay, dead and cold, far removed from the dungeons. Dead of sickness, some said. Others claimed it was poison. Either way, it had happened shortly after the boy made it his personal mission to integrate the Leech Lord's bastard son into the Bolton fold –a sentimental and very foolish venture, one which Roose had mightily opposed, knowing the nature and proclivities of his firstborn. Domeric had not. And now retribution was the Leech Lord's.

Merciless, some thought him. He put his own reputation to shame in those days. Every servant, every guard, who had contact with the Bolton heir during his fool's errand fell to Roose's blades and imagination. Even the maester who failed to find a cure was not exempt.

At last, when the Leech Lord did emerge, paler and gaunter than ever, no one dared come near him. He went directly to his chambers and, with the haunted gaze of a rabid dog, began feverishly drafting a missive.

Eddard

"My Lord, I've received a raven. From the Dreadfort." Ned Stark looked up with a frown at the approaching maester. Roose Bolton only sent correspondence when the need was dire.

"I will take it, Luwin. Thank you." The maester inclined his head.

"Of course, my lord."

Ned examined the miniature flayed man imprinted into the wax seal before breaking it. The Lord Bolton was not one to mince words and his letter reflected as much. It was confined to three lines, all short and direct, bordering on insolent. Ned's expression darkened with each one.

"What does he want of you?" Luwin inquired, genuinely curious.

"His son is dead. He will be here by the end of the week." The old maester raised both white brows.

"Losing his only son… that is quite the blow. The poor man."

"Do not let him hear you say that," Ned chuckled, "I must tell Catelyn and the children. Write back to him, if you will. Tell him we will be happy to play host to him and his company."

In truth, Ned was far from happy. Of all his bannermen, Roose Bolton was the one he trusted the least. The Starks and the Boltons had clashed in the past, with the latter having risen in rebellion on multiple occasions. Furthermore, Ned possessed little insight into the current Lord Bolton's mind and would not have liked to go against him in armed conflict. Undoubtedly, Bolton would fall, but not without heavy casualties on both sides. Far better was it to keep the Leech Lord happy and far removed from the Stark family.

Lord Bolton arrived with limited fanfare a few days later, looking worse for wear and particularly implacable. Ned, Catelyn, the children, and some other of the premier members of the household assembled to greet him. Ned took stock of them all, his children stood tall and proud as befitted their rank, especially Robb and Sansa, of whom he was particularly proud; behind them were his bastard son Jon Snow, taciturn as ever, and Theon Greyjoy, his ward, who fixed a disdainful expression upon the arriving party. Roose Bolton slid languidly from his horse and fixed his pale, unnerving eyes solely on his liege lord.

"Lord Stark, I appreciate you meeting with me on such short notice," he said briskly, and without decoration. Ned inclined his head respectfully.

"I am very sorry to hear of your loss. My family and I offer our condolences." Bolton said nothing after that, at which point Catelyn tactfully suggested they go inside. The few men the accompanying the Leech Lord were taken to their quarters while Ned accompanied the lord himself to one of the guest rooms. Supper was a quick, tense affair, during which it fell to Catelyn and the children to keep the conversation flowing. Lord Bolton said practically nothing, choosing instead to observe the Starks with those pale eyes of his. Ned could not pinpoint where his interest primarily lay.

"How long will you be staying, Lord Bolton?" Cat asked cordially, the picture of highborn ladyship. Roose looked at her with a slightly bewildered expression, as though he hadn't expected to be spoken to.

"A day, perhaps two," Ned practically had to strain to hear his voice - no doubt that was his intention. Catelyn seemed to have no trouble, or if she did she was masterful at hiding it.

"You are welcome to stay longer, if it pleases you," Ned prayed he wouldn't. It had been hard enough trying to convince Arya to mind her manners for this one night; he didn't wish to have to cajole her into doing so for longer.

"I cannot, my lady Catelyn. Though I thank you for the offer," Bolton looked back at his plate, which he scarcely touched. Ned supposed it was not out of the ordinary for a man who had just lost his son and heir, though if he were honest, the man was far too calm for his liking. In the end, he credited it to Lord Bolton's nature - he was not one to wear his heart on his sleeve – but that did not mean Ned had to like the way he looked at them, as though they were all pieces of meat, ready to be devoured. The sooner he found out what it was he wanted and was gone, the better it would be for all of them.

"Is it true you keep the flayed skins of your enemies?" The stunted conversation stopped dead when Arya spoke. Silence reigned, except for Sansa's gasp and Theon's snicker. Arya sat up straight and tall, unaware or simply uncaring of her rudeness. Catelyn was on her in an instant, eyes blazing.

"Arya!" she hissed, "You will leave now, go to your chambers. I will have words with you later." Ned's youngest daughter opened her mouth to protest but the look on Cat's face silenced any and all dissent. She pushed her chair back from the table and meekly exited the great hall.

"My Lord Bolton, you must excuse my daughter's vulgarity. She is out of sorts tonight."

For Roose Bolton's part, his face remained impassive as he gazed at Ned.

"Tis of no matter to me, Lord Stark," he said in quiet, silken tones and supper resumed with an uncomfortable hastiness.

Ned met with Lord Bolton the following morning. He sat behind his desk, the Lord of the Dreadfort before him, and tried not to feel unnerved by the man's penetrating gaze.

"You indicated in your letter that you wished to discuss a matter of great importance. So, what is it I can do for you?"

"As you know, my son is dead. Though the circumstances of which are not what you have been lead to believe," Ned inclined a brow, "Domeric was murdered, I am sure of it, by someone with a vendetta against House Bolton."

"If that is true, then justice must be served," Ned said seriously, his eyes narrowed. Lord Bolton did not move.

"I have dealt with the perpetrator."

For a long moment Ned just looked at him, trying to discern what he meant by 'dealt with,' before deciding that he'd rather not know. He supposed he could not begrudge the man his vengeance. After all, what wouldn't one do to avenge one's son?

"Then what is it you would have of me, if not justice?" Bolton tented his fingers, peering at Ned with an inscrutable stare.

"Marriage."

Catelyn

Arya was put under the care and confines of Septa Mordane and her sister for the whole day. She was to be kept in the sewing room, far away from Roose Bolton and her brothers until the lord concluded his stay, else she face the grim retribution of her lady mother. Other than her daughter's transgression, Cat was quite pleased with her family's presentation. Robb was respectful and chivalrous, Sansa compassionate and sweet, and young Bran held himself remarkably well in the chilling presence of the Leech Lord of the Dreadfort. Even Theon Greyjoy managed to keep his witticisms and remarks to himself. Catelyn preferred not to think of the bastard, Jon Snow.

Ned found her shortly before noon in the sewing room with her daughters and the grim-faced septa. She pricked her finger on the needle when the door burst open, an uncommonly disconcerted Eddard Stark standing there and motioning for her urgently.

"Septa Mordane, if you would watch over my daughters, I will return shortly." She followed Ned out into the hall where he addressed a servant brusquely.

"Find Maester Luwin and tell him to meet us in my solar." Catelyn trailed after him, nearly jogging to keep up with his long stride.

"Ned, what is it? What has happened?" She went to him the instant the door shut behind them, grasping his sleeve. Ned only shook his head.

"We will discuss it with Maester Luwin present."

Said maester arrived shortly thereafter, red-faced and breathing heavily.

"My lord, I hear you have need of me?"

"Yes, I do. Please, both of you, sit down. I require your council." Ned sat at the wide table in the center of the room. Upon it lay a detailed map of the north lands.

"Tell us, my lord, what troubles you?" Luwin pressed and Catelyn nodded, looking at her husband concernedly.

"According to Lord Bolton, his son's death was no accident. He suspects him to have been poisoned by a man with significant animosity against his house." Catelyn bristled at that. It was terrifying to think that one man with a grudge and a bit of poison could be the downfall of an entire line.

"Has he been executed? Surely he would be put to the sword for such a crime!" Ned nodded.

"The murderer has been brought to justice, but that is not the crux of the matter," Catelyn and Luwin exchanged a glance, "Lord Bolton has a daughter."

"A daughter? I thought Domeric was his only progeny?" Luwin said.

"How do we know this is true? We have heard nothing of another true-born Bolton child." Catelyn declared fiercely, with good reason, she thought.

"I asked the same thing. Lord Bolton says his wife died birthing the child. She has been fostered with her aunt, Lady Dustin, for most of her life. It is my understanding that they are somewhat… estranged."

"I see," Luwin nodded, "And what does this mean for us?" Ned took a long and Catelyn prepared herself for the worst.

"For the sake of the continuation of his house Lord Bolton proposed to ally our houses through marriage," At this, both Catelyn and Maester Luwin were struck speechless, "The girl has not yet reached her majority, but once she does Lord Bolton wants her settled. He is desperate for an heir."

"A marriage…" Catelyn had to take it all in, "Why us? Why not one of the other noble houses?" Ned opened his mouth to answer but Luwin was faster.

"None of the other houses trust the Boltons. If House Stark were to ally with House Bolton, it would be seen as a gesture of good faith."

"Indeed. I'm certain he would see anything less as an insult."

"Well, he will not have our Robb, if that's who he wants." Catelyn said firmly.

"No, certainly not. Robb must marry a lady of higher standing."

"Indeed," The old maester rose from his seat and went to the window. Below, the male children practiced their swordplay with Ser Rodrick. Young Robb struck downward, his blade clashing with that of Theon Greyjoy, who danced back, taunting the future Lord of Winterfell. Robb went after him - a mistake; Theon pivoted and, with a triumphant whoop, knocked the blade from his hand. Luwin hummed in contemplation.

"Have you thought of something, Maester?" Catelyn inquired.

"What of young Greyjoy?" Both Lord and Lady Stark looked at the old maester with wide eyes.

"Theon?" Ned repeated.

"Yes," He turned back towards them, "He is of a great house, like Robb. He has advantage, if mostly symbolic. And would it not be fitting to keep him tied to the North with a Northern bride? Two birds with one stone, as it were."

"Yes, yes!" Catelyn concurred eagerly, "An ideal solution!" Truthfully, if it would get Theon out of their household, she would agree to just about anything.

"Assuming Roose agrees to it," Ned stipulated, "Not to mention we must contend with Balon and his people."

"Bolton is in no position to be choosy. Why shouldn't he agree to it?" Catelyn smiled, rather pleased with things, "And as for Balon, allow Theon to return to the Iron Islands after the marriage, along with a sizeable dowry and perhaps an heir on the way. If he refuses, we keep him indefinitely."

"Such a thing might work," Luwin opined, "If Balon will be willing to swallow his pride long enough to agree to it."

"He would be a fool not to," said Ned, "I will discuss it with Roose."