Chapter 15:
Hubert Bolton:
Hubert Bolton was an observant young man.
One had to be- growing up in the Dreadfort, under the watchful eyes of Roose Bolton.
Perhaps others might find it… strange, or unnatural. But Hubert had never once trusted his father.
There was just an inkling, some tickle, at the back of his mind for as long as he could ever remember.
Fathers weren’t to be trusted.
Domeric hadn’t held that feeling. Domeric, if Hubert were to compare, was more Stark than Bolton. Kind in his way. Accepting. It made Roose think him an unworthy heir. Hubert had noticed it. Warned Domeric; But Domeric hadn’t listened.
‘We have our disagreements brother, but he is still our father.’
That trust, that belief in family… it had been what got him killed, in the end.
Actions and deeds, observing people’s motives. That told you who you could trust. Not blood.
Hubert still slept soundly at night, remembering the moment he’d plunged his sword straight through Ramsay’s throat… and then took his bow to shoot the already thrice shot Roose for good measure.
After all- what father, who pardoned the murder of his firstborn didn’t deserve to die for it?
Kinslaying was a crime detested by Gods and men both.
Well… Men did not know, and Gods would likely be silent for many years at the pace they acted in. If they chose to act at all.
He would take his chances.
The King’s arrival in Winterfell had been a surprise, to be sure. But a welcome one. He hadn’t expected that the death of Ramsay, Roose and Domeric, his rise to be Lord of the Dreadfort would coincide quite so neatly with the coming of the royal party, but all of the activity, all of the people, they served as a good distraction.
Less eyes on him.
It also let him watch… and learn.
Not the Starks, not really. Weeks with them before the royal party’s arrival had let him take their measure. The Lord Stark lived up to his reputation. Dutiful, responsible, honorable. A man who could be predictable, and malleable, if one framed things in the right way of course.
The Lady Catelyn was a southern woman, with southern sensibilities. A stranger still in strange lands. She had looked on him with nothing but pity and kindness, and her venom towards the Lord Starks own baseborn had only grown ever more poisonous with Hubert’s presence here.
An unfortunate but useful side effect in its way.
The Household was devoted. Not like the men of the Dreadfort who obeyed out of a mixture of fear, habit and duty. The people of Winterfell adored Ned Stark in a way Hubert had never seen under the Bolton household.
From Mikken the Blacksmith, to Old Nan, Poole, The Cassel’s. Even the chambermaids it seemed.
The only one who had any complaints was the kennel master, who found himself needing to wrangle seven direwolves while the Stark children were busy entertaining royalty.
Speaking of the Stark children- Hubert wondered how he might have turned out if he’d been raised in Winterfell as a page, or a squire. Fostering here rather than remaining under Roose’s watchful and untrustworthy eyes.
But such thoughts were useless at best, so he didn’t entertain them much.
Robb Stark, and Felix Stark were the ones he watched the closest. The heir, and the spare. He might very well be their bannerman one day.
Robb Stark smiled easily, made friends easily- trusted too easily too. He welcomed Hubert with open arms; where his swordsman brother eyed him with naked suspicion- though from what he’d observed that was normal for him even amongst his own family. A Black sheep, even more than his baseborn brother Jon.
He’d even picked an odd name for his Direwolf. Glenn. None of his siblings knew why.
The only other person Felix seemed to get along with was his baseborn brother and Marianne Manderly; like begets like, and odd people liked odd people he supposed.
Perhaps that’s why they were all leaving. Felix to the south, the Bastard to the Wall, and Marianne to return to the Manderly’s visit her family before taking a ship from white harbor to meet up once more with the Starks in Kings landing with the Poole girl.
Hmm.
Of the two, Hubert preferred Robb. A lord should be honest, and good; it was his men that needed to be the iron clad fist hiding beneath the velvet glove.
The younger one, Brandon took after his eldest brother. If something did happen to Robb… well… Felix Stark had a spare that could replace him if need be.
He did not make much note of Sansa Stark at first, thinking her out of reach; he’d genuinely been surprised when the King hadn’t proposed a match with her and the prince.
He had time to re-evaluate and reassess. Sansa Stark would not be married off tomorrow
But Hubert was an observant man.
And an observant man observed before acting.
And when the Royal party arrived he had oh so much to observe.
Most interesting had been the mercenaries. Jeralt’s Ashen Beasts were somewhat famous for their commander’s role in the rebellion. He’d saved both Robert and Ned; the figureheads of the cause.
Jeralt himself was a warrior with a fearsome reputation. Arthur Dayne with a spear, some men whispered.
But it was his band that was interesting.
His second in command, if he understood the command structure correctly, was a woman. A woman who looked at the rest of the world like a viper might look at mice.
He had no doubt she was skilled. She’d need to be. But the way she moved wasn’t like other women he’d seen, or even other men. She had two blades and two knives and he had no doubt she knew how to use either.
She stalked the halls of Winterfell, watching everyone, everything. Jeralt might have been the face of it all, but she was the eyes.
And Alois was the ears.
Always, the man was talking, making friends, telling jokes. He was no spymaster, but he did tell Jeralt of all the latest rumors and gossip, gathered in friendly chats in guard barracks or wagers in the training yard.
And people shared their information. Told their secrets. Because he was an honest man. A trustworthy man who was far too simple to be dangerous.
It was the other woman though, the daughter. Byleth. The woman who rode in on a monstrous Dothraki Blood Steed. Who Jeralt picked to train the princeling. Who had never held a blade in Hubert’s presence but he knew, somewhere deep down in the marrow of his bones that she was good with that blade.
There was nothing interesting about her. Nothing at all.
She rarely spoke more than a few words. And she only seemed truly happy when she was teaching.
Most would think her simple. Touched in the head, much like the Starks harmless giant, Hodor.
But Hubert was an observant man.
The way the men of Jeralt’s company spoke of her. Went to her, when they wanted to clarify an order, or an unclear task and couldn’t find Jeralt.
Not Shamir.
Not Alois.
Her.
They weren’t playing lip service to obeying the captain’s daughter; they were deferring to her.
And the threat of her. More than once he’d heard Jeralt, or Shamir threaten the men with training with Byleth if they slacked off too much during their stay, and those same men, warriors all, would almost pale at the thought of it. Turning as white as a wildling in winter before jumping into renewed training regimes with gusto.
There was something there. Something she hadn’t shown yet not here; but it was oh so curious.
And yet that was all it was. Curiosity. For as interesting as they might be, they, in the end. Were only mercenaries.
And Hubert, was an observant man.
So his interest, and his efforts, needed to go to the royals.
He was not impressed. In fact, it was almost dismaying.
‘This is what leads our seven Kingdoms?’ He’d thought with absolute disdain upon first witnessing the party in their entirety.
As much as he tried to shake the first impression, every passing day only cemented it ever more firmly in his psyche.
The King was a fool. Physically strong, Hubert had no doubt of that. Even with his clear weight gain, there was power in that man’s frame, hiding beneath the layers of blubber.
But still a fool.
He drank himself into a stupor almost daily.
The Queen was a creature of pride, vanity and cruelty.
He knew cruelty. He’d seen it in Ramsay’s eyes, in Roose’s eyes. He could see it in hers and in her second born. That one would need to be put down like Ramsay’s rabid dogs; before he caused trouble and dragged the Kingdom into yet another war.
Of the seven Kingsguard only one was truly worthy of the white cloak. One other still merited it by skill if not reputation. And one last one was at best a middling man with middling skill.
The rest?
Degenerates, cut-throats, knaves and lickspittles in gilded armor.
The only thing of the royal family that seemed at all worth their reputation were three of the four children.
Tommen was a boy still, but kindly, simple. Arya Stark already had him wrapped around her finger and neither even realised it; the boy too caught up in her energy and she delighted to find she had a budding friend in her new betrothed who followed along with her foolish schemes.
Myrcella, in the few exchanges they’d shared, was a kind, bright girl, even sheltered, or naive. But better that than spoiled or entitled. Even as a Princess, such qualities would make enemies.
And then, there was the crown prince.
Most would see the ideal prince of the realm. Strong. Good. Noble. Honest. Brave in his way. Kind and generous.
And all that was there yes.
But Hubert was an observant man.
And he could see how Felix Stark looked at the prince, a naked, open hostility. Not just distrust- but disgust.
What did he know? What caused a look like that? There must be something the Prince had done. Some hidden enmity.
He saw Claude Connington at the Prince’s side. A man who’s smile hid cold, detached eyes.
A lone ambitious man? Perhaps. But the Prince kept him close. Perhaps as his own iron fist hiding beneath the charming veneer.
He saw how the lady Catelyn looked at the Prince’s squire with thinly veiled mistrust, how Ashe was always at Bernadetta’s side, almost as a sentinel.
He saw how the Prince himself often had a distant, near haunted look in his eyes. How he sometimes seemed to catch himself, as though remembering where he was. The strange looks that he gave to Marianne, Felix and the mercenaries.
He noted these things. But he could not tell what the cause was.
Not yet anyway.
But Hubert was an observant man.
And so he kept observing.
Day by day the time passed. He spent time with the Starks, and the Royals. Lord Stark’s men at long last returned from their investigation into the events of Roose, Ramsey and Domeric’s deaths.
They reported their findings and Hubert was cleared of wrongdoing. Lord Stark officially offered his condolences for the loss.
And Hubert was Lord of the Dreadfort.
Just in time for the Royal party to declare their return to King’s landing.
And Lord Stark's appointment as hand of the King.
But Hubert was an observant man.
And so he saw the only one pleased with the declaration, was the King, and the crown prince too.
The Queen was not pleased. Lord Stark was not pleased. Lady Stark was not pleased. Ser Jeralt watched with a smile that tried to hide the tension behind his stance and eyes.
When it was declared Tommen would remain in Winterfell with his betrothed for a time- The Queen’s fury was remarkable for Hubert to see. Hidden in a cage of frosty courtesy. Enraged was a small word for what Hubert saw.
But the declaration brought relief to Jeralt, it made Connington’s eyes narrow, and once more, only the King and his crown prince seemed oblivious to the events around them.
And Hubert watched it all, and wondered.
Why be Hand of the King if he did not wish for the role?
To avoid offending the King?
Perhaps.
But Ned Stark was dutiful. Ned Stark was honorable.
He would not lie to the King.
Why keep Tommen here?
The King’s suggestion? No.
The Lord Stark’s suggestion.
But why? A hostage? By the Honorable Ned Stark? Why would he need a Hostage at all?
Hubert watched and considered before putting it away. .
Whatever that reason was, it was beyond Hubert’s concerns.
Because Robb Stark would be Lord of Winterfell while his father was away. And that presented opportunity.
And so he stayed by the young Lord’s side. Ingratiated himself further. The Lady Sansa would travel south, as would Felix Stark and Brandon.
Winterfell would be emptier. And a new Lord of Winterfell alongside the new lord of the Dreadfort…
Yes. There was plenty of opportunity here.
Stark were the Lords paramount, and unlike Roose he had no desire, at least while there was no need, to supplant them.
But his house would not be second fiddle to other, lesser men with lesser houses. Manderly, Karstark, Umbers. No.
He had every intention of becoming indispensable to Robb Stark before he returned to his own lands.
Winterfell moved and danced to the tune of men moving pieces on the board. The King’s retinue prepared for the long journey south. The Lady of Winterfell prepared quarters for her daughters betrothed. The new Lord began to prepare to take his father’s seat while he acted as hand.
And throughout it all Hubert Bolton observed.
For he was an observant man.
And mere days before the royal party were set to finally be on their way, Hubert’s hand reached out- to act.
Fingers grasped at cloth, pulling.
Brandon Stark stumbled, turning with wide eyes to look up at him.
“It would not be very wise to go climbing where the King and Queen might see my lord.” He said, patting the boy on the shoulder.
“I never fall!” Bran protested.
Hubert shook his head, the cold smile making the little lordling shiver as he looked. It was an effect he enjoyed seeing. “Perhaps you don’t. But if the King or Queen saw you. They might be afraid to let you come south with them. A lord paramounts son falling to his death in the red keep would look bad. They wouldn’t want to risk it.”
Brandon’s eyes widened, and he looked around as if searching for anyone of the royal party that might have seen.
Hubert brought a single finger up, pressing it to his lips in the universal gesture for silence. “I won’t tell if you don’t… little lord.”
Brandon nodded and before long left, no doubt prepared to lay low. At least until they left and his permission to head down wouldn’t be revoked.
Hubert however, remained there. Waiting by the broken tower’s entrance, quietly smiling at the passers by, who each shivered and beat feet as quickly as they could.
And when the door opened, and out stepped the Queen… and her brother-
“Your Grace.” He crooned.
The Queen jumped in fright and ser Jamie went pale as winter snows both rounding on him with wide eyes.
Hubert’s smile towards them was downright malevolent.
“B-Bolton!” The Queen tried to put steel in her voice but it was shaky, fearful.
She knows she’s been caught.
“What are you doing here Lord Bo-”
“Enjoying the tower for some… private time I see.” He interrupted the Kingslayer, casting his eyes upwards towards the broken rooftops. “I must admit… the view is magnificent… if a bit drafty when not… fully clothed.”
The Queen’s horror was exquisite, Ser Jamie looked like he was ready to draw his sword.
Hubert turned away, smiling and waving at two of his own bolton guardsmen a… fair ways away. “Hullen.” He called the Guard nodding.
“Yes Mi’lord?”
“The King and Lord Stark will return soon, do you think?”
I suppose so Mi’lord.”
Hubert nodded, turning his gaze back towards the royal… twins…
The Kingslayer’s hand lost its tension.
He wouldn’t be drawing his sword.
Hubert turned smiling towards the Queen.
“Now. Your Grace.” He crowed. “Forgive me for being so forward, but seeing as how you and your party will be leaving soon. There’s something I would… ask of you.”
He wasn’t asking- and she knew it.
She forced the smile onto her face. “And what is that, My lord Bolton?”
He smiled back. “I was wondering, might I have permission to send letters to the Princess Myrcella in King’s landing?
The muscles in the Queen’s jaw tensed, fingers tightening. Her fear and her rage all mingled together somewhere in her stomach and it twisted her up something fierce.
But she didn’t dare deny him.
Not yet anyway.
But she would try.
He would win regardless.
After all,
It pays to be an observant man.