SER RHYS BOLTON of THE DREADFORT attends the season within the capital! before the court, they are ADAPTABLE and CALCULATING. but every man has his shadows, and when darkness descends, they are QUICK TO ANGER and COLD. another face appears in duskendale, reminiscent of bloodied knuckles gripping a sword too tightly and gritted teeth bared in hatred for those who've wronged you, but what can they possibly hope to achieve in the aftermath of the flames? to solidify his name in the white book of the kingsguard and kill his father's dreams of greatness. gods protect them from these dark winds. —LEE PACE, FORTY, CIS MAN & HE/HIM
mentions of : childbirth, death in childbirth, pregnancy, child abuse
you are born in a cold winter, screaming with steam curling off of your body from the hot blood that covered you. your mother holds you but for a moment before she breathes her last, her spirit mingling with yours before she joins whatever cruel gods tear her from you.
your father does not despise you. it is only an inconvenience. and he is betrothed again before winter finishes. he calls you the youngest killer of the seven kingdoms. he says you will make a great and terrible lord of the dreadfort.
his second wife is cruel, but her strikes are not as hard as your father's. your brother's birth brings some relief. he is doted on by your stepmother, but he is not the heir. you are. and you are expected to rule the dreadfort and carry on your father's name.
you marry when you are old enough and after you are anointed by the seven oils. leah ryswell is your wife, and she is beautiful. you love her. you cherish her. you kiss and hold her in wanton fever, your marriage bed warm most nights.
she tells you that she is expecting your child. and dies of spring fever not a fortnight later. you grieve her. it is not enough. you turn to drink. it is not enough.
and so you pledge yourself to the kingsguard.
your father screams at you for hours, and he raises his hand to hit you like he had when you were a boy. defenseless. you stop him this time. and you hold him back. and you tell him he will never harm you again.
you love your brothers in arms. you love your lord commander and look up to him. you feel proud to have to a purpose. and to thwart your father's plans for you. you miss leah.
and then comes the fire. and the king you swore to protect is dead. along with some of your new brothers. and the surrogate father you loved.
what else can be taken from you that has not already been stolen? a wife. a child. a family. new faces surround you, but you are no longer here. your heart and your spirit are as cold as the winters you come from. your blade is sharp, and your heart is cold.
you are a bolton of the dreadfort, the bloody red knight. and you will show no mercy.
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The coronation was stuffy and she was sure there were many nobles speaking harshly behind her back. The fire had wrought devastation and chaos to the land, yet Willow could hardly care for it. She worried about the servants and smallfolk that might have gotten caught in it. Some of them were former friends from before her father claimed her.
Willow had found herself in the godswood after wandering off. Her internal compass off a beat since traveling from Oldtown. She supposed she was long for an adventure, maybe she'd even come across an old friend or two if she navigated her way into town.
She saw a man standing by the heart tree. Perhaps she should leave before she found more trouble?
Willow stepped on a twig, only freezing once the man turned around. "Its...its fine. I got lost." She turned to leave the garden "I was just leaving"
rhys gives her a small inclination of his head. "perhaps i might help you find your way, my lady."
it is clear what he is. the white cloak of the kingsguard is almost... painfully bright against the dark godswood. He walks forward, and he gives her an almost imperceptible smile.
"i am ser rhys bolton. and if you simply wish to explore the godswood, i would be happy to give you your peace if you'd prefer it."
where: the dun fort godswoods
when: an evening after the coronation
status: open
the heart tree was not a weirwood. it was to be expected. the further south of the neck, the fewer weirwoods there were. it was strange, being in a place your gods could not see you. he pressed his hand along the strength of the oak heart tree, and he sighed. there were days he yearned for his home in the dreadfort. cold though it had been, it was the only place he had known before traveling to king's landing to pledge himself to the king.
the heart tree, the weirwood, in the dreadfort matched its name. there was no comfort in the thing, but rhys had spent hours of his childhood speaking to the bone white tree. he would tell it of his father and of his step mother. he would talk to it about leah too, even after he was grown. that tree knew almost everything about him. he had not spoken to a true weirwood in ... years. and it felt wrong to speak to an oak tree. there was power in living wood; the crannogmen said that often when he would speak to them during the winters when he and his family would make the trek to winterfell.
the godswood in winterfell was not like his at the dreadfort. it knew little about him.
a snap of a twig brings him out of his reverie, and he turns to face the newest addition to the garden.
somewhere on the grounds, after all the pomp and circumstance.
open to all
his shoulders sag like rotted wooden poles holding up the weight of his snowy white cloak. it is unbecoming of a kingsguard—no, the lord commander of the kingsguard—to be out and about with a bent spine. but it’s inevitable, what with all this gravity and reality and duty. he figures it’s fine. night is here and no one’s nearby, not in this corner of the sprawling garden, behind these bushes, far from any eyes. he takes a break. his first breath of the day. pinches his nose, rubs his eyes. he’s meant to rest, see his chambers for the first time since swinging down from his horse at the dun fort’s front steps, but his head is splitting beneath his intricate white enameled helm.
everyone packed like sardines for miles, it was stupid or arrogant or optimistic to think he’d found the one empty place in all of duskendale. he lifts the helm free—cool air to his temples like a lover’s kiss. jael exhales and leans back, letting the stone wall take all the ache. hunk of head-shaped metal resting on his knee. the heavy wind a soft whisper between silver-streaked strands of overgrown black hair brushing his shoulders… his eyes pry open. lips curling, thin as moonlight.
rhys had always considered the kingsguard his true family. even the new faces were growing on him. there had been so much death. he could not afford to be picky with his friendship.
but he did not have to be so with jael. that was a comfort at least.
"are you all right?" when rhys shifts, his armor can be heard shifting too. his helm is easily removed as well, sat beside him as he comforts his new lord commander.
"we haven't had time to talk much since... well, since the fires. if you wish to talk, we are brothers in arms. i am willing to lend my ear."
after leah, he had never been as warm as he wanted to be. the dreadfort made cold men, and rhys was no different. he was not good at this.
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