something in the way.

a hand pressed to her chest, a short gasp escaping her. "count yourself lucky. usually i'm on the seventh or eighth by now," she chortled. "but that, my lord, was no lie. do you never wonder at why the people who have the best luck never seem to deserve it? it's because lady luck is a woman. the harder you try, the less interested she is in you. she'll always turn her favour upon those who give her little regard at all. thrill of the chase." sh was deflecting from his point, all casual smiles and toothy grin, brushing entirely past the fact she had robbed him. "second lie," she scoffed, repeating it again. "didn't realise you were keeping a tally."

her eyes drifted to the tavern, and she shrugged her shoulders. "you're not really selling the place to me, you know." and yet, she stepped forward anyway, gathering her skirts in one hand. "but it'll do. are you familiar with it, or just inns of a similar nature?" unless he was particularly familiar with gulltown, it would likely be the latter, but that was something devani understood. she'd travelled enough to know the character of a tavern just by looking at it, down to the taste of the drink and whether or not there would be sawdust on the floor.

he followed her to the table at an unhurried pace, shrugging his cloak loose from his shoulders as he sat. the room smelled of stale ale and salt, the floor scattered with dust and dried mud, just as he expected. his eyes swept it once, instinctively, before settling back on her. “i’ve seen enough places like this on the road to know what to expect,” he said, resting one arm against the table. “no matter the path to gulltown, or pretty, flowery highgarden, they’re much the same beneath the noise. men drink, talk too much, and forget what they should remember. you’d make a small fortune if you lingered long enough.”

she noted he was keeping count of her lies, and he couldn’t help the brief grin that crossed his features. “yeah, well, i tend to keep track of grudges, what can i say. you lie twice, i find twice as many reasons for you to owe me something in return,” he said simply. “though i will allow lady luck to settle her debts with a drink and spare herself any grudge i may hold.” his fingers tapped once against the wood, slow and deliberate. “though if your luck favors you so often, i suppose i should be cautious.” there was a pause, his gaze sharpening just slightly. “especially when it seems to take an interest in my belongings.”

nasir let edrick speak—he had no intention of interrupting. the man’s voice had that slow, measured weight of someone convinced silence was a weapon, as though restraint could pass for wisdom. but as the words unfurled, all nasir heard was the familiar rhythm of northman nostalgia, dressed up in reverence and half-buried threats. memory, blood, bones—he could practically recite it before edrick did. and by the end of it, nasir’s face didn’t shift. not in anger, nor disdain. only the slight lift of his brow betrayed him.

“you’ve said much, lord bolton,” he murmured, folding his arms across his chest. “and yet, you haven't said a single sentence that actually tells me what you would do differently.” his eyes flicked over the man, cool and sharp. “all this talk of soul and memory—pretty, yes, but empty. they’re the same stories your side has told for centuries."and still you’ve offered me no plan. no policy...." and it was in that moment a glimpse, a spark of almost taunting amusement filled the gaze of nasir mandery: the ruling lord of white harbour knew how his presence, his position, left the other feeling a sense of anger. resentment.

"nothing."

his gaze didn’t waver, and when he spoke again, it came with the edge of iron. “as for the high septon—don’t mistake me. he’s not a concern of yours. you may think him southern, foreign, irrelevant—but it is my people who pray in those halls. my septs that have fed the poor. so if you think to wield that as some distant threat, be very clear: if you involve yourself in the faith, i will take it for what it is—a strike at me and mine. and i do not take strikes lightly.” what happened within the walls of white harbour was of no concern to the likes of people like him; all brute and savage, hiding behind a veil of civility. they knew well enough what this was.

the air between them grew still. not quiet—just waiting. “i know your kind. all talk about tradition and history...we know what you really mean. ain't no need to be explaining yourself.” nasir said, voice lowering. “i know exactly what your soul stands for. it's in every look cast my way when i was named hand.” he stared at him directly: it was the same rhetoric, the same thought process which had resulted in masses of smallfolk joining the umber, the false king. even if that were with pitchforks rather than a quill, or the title of lordship - he saw no difference between them. only this time, nasir manderly swore to himself time and time again: he was here to stay.

he folded his hands before him, posture open, unthreatening. “you are right in one regard, lord manderly. plans matter more than poetry. and my plan is patience. influence earned over time, not seized in moments of outrage. the north does not need another banner raised in defiance to tear itself apart. it needs its lords speaking to one another before they speak past one another.” his gaze softened, just enough to seem conciliatory. “if that appears slow to you, so be it. winter teaches us the value of waiting.”

at the mention of faith, his tone remained courteous, though something cooler settled beneath it. it were clear to him that nasir manderly would not back down so easily. “the seven have their place, as the old gods do,” edrick said evenly. “i would not see septons driven out, nor prayers silenced. but nor would i see northern governance steered by voices that answer beyond our borders. influence is rarely loud when it is most dangerous.” he offered a small, polite smile. “i trust you understand the concern, even if you do not share it.”

“so let us be civil,” he concluded, eyes steady on nasir’s. “let us sit at the same tables, speak in the same councils, and see where interests truly align over time. winterfell stands because its stones were laid to endure, not to impress.” a pause, deliberate, unprovocative. “i am content to play the long game, lord manderly. the north has always belonged to those who can.” the manderly’s may not have settled in the north as long as many of the other high families, but they made their way quickly, and for that alone, edrick knew that they were formidable.

"assuming makes an ass out of you and me," she said, sweetly. "tell me what makes a name worth knowing, and i'll tell you if mine fits the the bill." she was being deliberately slippery, elusive to the point of annoying, and enjoying every second of it, as much as she had enjoyed slipping his coin purse from his belt, untying his sturdy knots with lithe fingers and utterly escaping his notice in doing so.

and he knew it, too. she could see in his features that he had pieced it together, could tell her stumbling across his purse was no happy accident. but he could not prove it, nor could he argue her thievery when she was offering the purse back, not a single coin lighter.

when she pressed the purse into his palm, his hand closed around it, the leather warm from hers. the weight felt different now—not the loss or the recovery, but the exchange itself. he studied her briefly, deciding whether or not there may be more up her sleeve yet. “lady luck’s favor comes cheap,” he repeated, lips twitching. “i think that may be your second lie to me, already.”

his eyes followed her line of sight toward the tavern ahead, its windows glowing gold through the encroaching dusk. the harbor’s din was louder there, sailors shouting, bards striking up tunes meant to drown out regret. “you’ll find the ale here thin,” he said as they began to move, tone low, steady. “the sort that tastes better when you’ve no other choice.” his words might have sounded dour, but there was the faintest curve to his mouth now, a humor so subtle it might have been imagined.

“The Harclay is as true as the North has been for centuries,” she said, her voice calm but certain, repeating the words her father would have chosen himself. “He cares not for the changes the King in the North has brought and seeks to keep bringing”. Her gaze held on Edrick’s, conveying the message the leader of her clan wished to relay to the Lord of the Dreadfort. Vilde herself did not believe firmly in any of it. Everything changed, always, regardless of how steadily a man wished to cling to something. She had no quarrel nor loyalty to the vision of the King in the North, nor did she have it for her father's stubborn reluctance to see the world shift around him. The long winters and the short summers would continue, people would die and be born through them, and no one truly held the reins in any of it. Death was the only certainty in their world.

When the Bolton lord spoke of wanting The Harclay at his table, more an equal than a vassal, she thought that was well enough. The Harclay would never bow. “The Harclay wishes to see the North remain as it has been, not melt into Southron ways”. The words were her father’s, but she spoke them as if they were her own. “If that is what you wish as well, he will sit at your table,” she added, knowing her father was simple in that way. “He, too, wishes for more than only his clan's survival”.

“then we are alike in that,” he said at last, voice low, deliberate. “i’ve no wish to see the north bent into southern shape. not by crown, not by coin, not by any man who believes our winters can be softened by parchment.” his thumb tapped once against the table before stilling again. “but i know this, clinging to what has been without shaping what comes next will break us faster than any southern law. survival alone is not enough. the north must hold together, or we’ll be carved apart.”

he leaned forward slightly, the weight of the dreadfort’s cold walls behind him, the ghosts in the stone lending their silence. “tell your father this: if he sits at my table, it is not to bow, but to stand. when the king looks northward, when southern ways creep across our borders dressed as counsel, harclay and bolton will answer together. not as rebels. not as beggars. as northerners loyal to their king, but unyielding in what the north is.” his gaze lingered on her, unblinking. “if he seeks to preserve our way whilst guiding the king’s hand away from southern rot, then we are aligned. if he seeks only to survive, then he will find no shelter here.”

Luc turned in slight surprise. not by the voice which felt low and worn like stone but by the fact that it had answered him at all.

He hadn’t expected a reply, not from the man like him. Tall, cloaked in northern attire that looked out of place among the lilac silks and gilded brocade of Highgarden, the stranger had stood so still through the forum that Luc had assumed him a guard or someone tragically misdirected. But now, as the man turned toward him, half-shadowed beneath the silken canopy, Luc caught something else not dismissal, but precision. Thoughtful. Honest.

Luc’s nervous grin didn’t disappear, but it softened into something quieter.

“I…yes. Well. I did study at the Citadel,” he said, lifting his notebook slightly as if it explained everything. “Didn’t take my vows, though. Life… went another way.” A shrug, self-conscious, but not regretful. “I was drawn to trade, navigation, history. The practical parts. I suppose it’s easier to argue philosophy when your ships are still afloat.”

He glanced toward the path the speakers had vanished down, his expression thoughtful. “You’re right, though. There was no grounding. It’s easy to talk about harmony when you’ve never had to enforce it. Easier still to forget that some systems don’t bend. they break.”

A beat passed before Luc straightened, embarrassed at his own forwardness. “Sorry. I-I'm Lucerys. Luc, if you’d rather. Of Greenstone. luc estermont” He extended a slightly ink-stained hand with an apologetic smile. “And you are?”

after a moment, he shifted slightly beneath the canopy, enough to dispel the illusion of being some forgotten shadow. “edrick bolton,” he answered at last, the name carrying a weight of its own in a place like highgarden. his hand extended to grasp the others', firm and without hesitation, though there was little warmth in the gesture. “you’re not wrong to choose what is practical. ships afloat feed mouths, keep families from starving. philosophy doesn’t do that. but it can remind men what kind of world they’re feeding those mouths into.” the faintest trace of something softer passed his face then, gone as quickly as it came, leaving the usual gravity in its place.

she turned her head, giving the perfect appearance of a woman scanning the crowd. she had always been a talented actress, but the fly in the ointment today was the fact she was enjoying herself far too much to keep a straight face. turning away from him served a dual purpose, part of her little game, but also to conceal the smirk playing on her face.

"tied tight?" she repeated, her voice thoughtful. "whoever took it must have been awfully light-fingered." she was quite pleased with herself for this one. it had been tied tight, but not tight enough that her quick fingers hadn't made short work of the knots. she had no reason to take it other than for her own enjoyment, for the fact she hadn't stolen anything in ages and she had felt the urge to do so. she didn't need his coin purse.

she'd give it back, she decided.

she laughed when he queried her name, in a way that made her sound utterly delighted. "you can call me lady luck, if you'd like. I'd take it as the highest of compliments," she pressed her free hand to her chest. "but that's probably because i've been called far worse things," she did not elaborate further, instead leaning a little heavier on his arm as she hopped over a puddle of ale upon the floor. "you expect correct, though most people do tend to have one, so it's not the biggest leap of logic. my name is devani." she didn't explicitly ask for his, expecting that it would follow.

a theatrical gasp left her then, and she dropped his arm, moving to a barrel resting in the mouth of an alley way. as she crouched to the ground in an effortless swish of silk, one hand subtly reached into the folds of her silks, removing from it a coin purse, dark leather, half full, and worn smooth at the edges. she made a show of retrieving it from the ground it had never touched, catching his attention as she arose from where she had bent.

“tied tight,” he echoed, again, more to himself than to her, his mouth a hard line. “and yet gone.” he didn’t look at her, not yet. his eyes moved through the crowd like a blade through cloth, cutting each stranger into something known or unknown, danger or not. even as she leaned on him, laughing, playful, his attention was elsewhere. focused. the world didn’t turn on smiles, in his experience. it turned on small mistakes and quiet betrayals.

he gave a shrug of one shoulder. "some do not have one worth knowing." edrick stated dryly, glancing towards her. "but i assume you do." she wore fine clothes, held herself with enough grace she must be a lady of a noble house, or an incredibly talented actress. "bolton. edrick bolton." he offered in return.

he turned at her gasp, half expecting trouble. his brows pulled together at the sight of her crouched by the barrel. the motion had grace, but the place, shadowed, off the main path, set his instincts prickling. when she stood, purse dangling in her fingers like a trinket, his jaw tightened. for a moment, it seemed he might snap. the lines of his face held the shape of frustration, shoulders squared like a man ready to reprimand.

Her fingers brushed the rough fabric of her breeches, a subtle grounding gesture as she studied the man across from her. “The North has always been divided in one way or another”. As a woman of the clans, she knew. “Now, it is merely more visible for all”. That was a sentiment her father had spoken, and so she was simply repeating the message.

he did not drink either. his fingers rested on the carved edge of the table, still, save for the slight movement of his thumb. the lord studied vilde harclay for a breath longer than most would find polite, then inclined his head, not in deference, but recognition.

“so he sends his daughter,” he said quietly. not surprise, not condescension. merely observation. his gaze remained fixed on her, pale and unblinking. “not a raven. not a spear. but you. that tells me more than any oath would.

his fingers tapped once against the table, a soft sound against ancient wood.

“a king is only as strong as the silence of the men behind him. if the clans grow restless, if the north tears itself open again, he won’t survive it. none of us will. and what comes after... may be worse.” his tone never rose, but there was steel in it now.

“i do not seek a banner war. i seek something quieter. firmer.” he leaned back slightly, the chair groaning under his weight. “i want harclay at this table. not as vassals. not as followers. as voices. when the next law is passed, when the next southern edict creeps into our soil, i want men who remember the old ways standing beside me, not sharpening knives in the dark.”

his gaze flicked to her hand where it brushed her breeches, then returned to her face. “your father is wise to send you. you're clear-eyed, and you speak without fear. that tells me harclay still remembers who it is.”

lucerys had been warned to pace himself — “it’s a weeks-long event, luc, not a sprint” — but it was proving impossible. highgarden had never looked more alive. music drifted faintly through the winding garden paths, punctuated by bursts of applause or thoughtful murmuring from the open-air forums.

he stood at the edge of one such pavilion now, a leather-bound notebook tucked under his arm, cheeks still flushed from the last discussion he’d stumbled into — something on the ethics of alchemical advancement and the moral obligation of progress. he hadn’t meant to speak, but someone had misquoted maester edryn on the nature of equilibrium, and, well… it would’ve haunted him all week if he hadn’t corrected it.

now he lingered, scribbling half-formed thoughts onto the page. his glasses had slid down his nose again, ink smudged on the side of his hand.

"gods," he whispered to himself, grinning. “it’s like the citadel if no one ever told you to shut up during a lesson"

a breeze stirred the silken banners above. somewhere nearby, someone was demonstrating a waterwheel-powered loom. elsewhere, he could hear laughter — or maybe debate; it was hard to tell here.

luc turned, scanning the growing crowd with quiet excitement. familiar faces, curious strangers, potential allies — or perhaps just someone to talk philosophy or anything with.

he adjusted his spectacles and smiled, open and eager. for once he felt….social? like his normal nerves just melted away “did you catch the last forum?” he asked, the person next to him who had also stopped at the debate. “i think the speaker misattributed that bit on civic harmony but overall it was very interesting”

and yet. he had lingered at the edge of a debate. not for the topic, not really. he could not care less about civic harmony in theory. but there was something in the tone, passionate, flawed, reaching, that made him stay. when the discussion ended, edrick remained, arms crossed, expression unreadable as the crowd thinned.

the boy next to him spoke, sudden and bright.

the lord of the dreadfort turned slowly, gaze moving from spectacles to ink-stained fingers to flushed cheeks. another academic, it seemed. the sort who thought debate a kind of courtship and knowledge its own armor. he might’ve scoffed, but there was no arrogance in the young man’s voice. just genuine interest. it disarmed him.

“i caught it,” he said. his voice was low, gravel rough. “they fumbled through more than civic harmony. barely touched on the realities of governance. too much theory, not enough blood.” he glanced toward the retreating speakers. a cluster of robes and confident laughter.

“still. better than most. at least they weren’t quoting songs and pretending it was philosophy.” his attention returned to the boy, man, he supposed, and the notebook under his arm. he looked like he belonged here. not just comfortable, but lit from within.

"gone, just like that?" the hand that had grasped for her purse found its way to her chest, splaying out as though the very idea of it was shocking. "honestly, you get all sorts at these kind of things, don't you? how dreadful." there was a slight twitch to her lips, but nothing else to show her amusement. he may have mistaken it for awkwardness, if she was lucky, which devani frequently was.

it had been a while since she'd needed to take from someone else. certainly, not since she had returned to dorne. even in essos, most of the time she had relied on wit, wiles, and favours she never intended to return. still, her light fingers had come in handy more than once, and there was always that secret, private thrill in taking what did not belong to you, an invisible triumph she had missed. she had seen his purse dangling on his belt, and it had felt like an easy mark. so far, that instinct had proven right.

the wind tugged at the banners strung between the rooftops above, faded cloth rippling with each gust that swept in from the harbor. gulltown’s cobbled streets glistened underfoot, damp from sea spray and the scattered dregs of spilled ale. lanterns bobbed overhead, their flickering glow casting long, shifting shadows across the press of bodies still winding through the festival. music echoed distantly, pipes, drums, a woman’s voice raised in a song about sailors and saltwives.

edrick kept his stride even as they walked, letting the crowd swallow them again. he didn’t try to shake her off, at least, not yet. it might’ve drawn more attention. her grip was light, almost absent-minded, like this was all perfectly ordinary.

“leather,” he answered at last, eyes scanning a row of stalls where a fire-eater gathered a small crowd. “dark brown. worn smooth at the edges. half-full, give or take. no sentiment.” he paused, then added, “but it was tied tight. whoever took it was fast.”

he didn’t sound angry, only matter-of-fact. the kind of man who’d catalog a problem rather than rage at it. his eyes moved as he spoke, sharp and restless, watching pockets, fingers, the subtle shifts in movement that might betray a cutpurse. but he didn’t look at her.

“you’re right, though,” he said after a beat, tone softening just slightly. “this lot’s thick with thieves. people travel from all over for the harbor festival, sailors, sellswords, half the dregs of the narrow sea. no one notices a missing purse in the middle of a song or a crowd leaning toward fire.”

he glanced her way then, just briefly, the corner of his mouth tugging into something that might’ve been a smile if it weren’t so fleeting.

“still. generous of you to help a stranger. most would just keep walking.”

he let that sit a moment, the clamor of the festival rising behind them, bells chiming, a pig squealing in the distance, someone shouting about oysters. edrick tilted his head toward the next lane, narrower and quieter, but no less busy with tables full of wears and idle chatter.

"gods, edrick, do your winters never end?" he was unable to keep the chatter from his teeth, even as he continued to speak. "the chill here is no normal cold. it's personal. like it knows i have no business north of the neck and is determined to punish me for it." he was being dramatic, but even as he spoke, a smile was breaking out across his face." he pulled off his gloves, and half expected to find his fingers frozen solid beneath them, but they were miraculously still intact. he flexed them experimentally. numb, but the feeling would return.

"but enough about my brave journey through the elements," he chuckled. "you're looking... well." was he? edrick's face gave away little emotion, but norbie thought he looked well. a little on edge, but then, he supposed that was to be expected. what was the state of relations between the boltons and their half-brother? norbie dared not ask either party.

"i’ve been considering some changes," edrick said, his voice carrying easily through the hall now that they were out of the wind. "this place is sturdy, but there’s room for improvement." he paused, eyes flicking to the high ceiling, where the dark rafters stretched overhead. "the walls here could use better insulation—especially for the cold months. something to keep the heat in. and the stonework around the hearth could be reinforced, so it holds better. it's not just for comfort, you see."

edrick continued, his tone more focused now. "i also want to expand the lower levels. not much, but enough to create storage spaces that are secure and out of sight. we can’t afford to be too lax with what we’ve got." he looked at norbie then, meeting his gaze. "and a few changes to the fortifications. the north needs stronger walls, especially now."

he walked a little further, eyes scanning the rafters above them. "and the hearths themselves...they need reinforcement. better stonework, so they can hold longer and heat more of the keep."

edrick paused for a moment, his gaze settling on a distant corner. "i also want to look into expanding the lower levels. create more secure storage areas, out of sight, where we can keep what we need without it being too vulnerable. this place is old, norbie. but we need to make sure it’s ready for anything."

Edrick's hesitation, his admission of uncertainty, was not lost on Domeric. He had always known his half-brother to be a man of pride and strength, even when those qualities veiled the cracks beneath the surface. And now, standing here, seeing Edric vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed, Domeric felt the pull of something he wasn’t accustomed to—compassion, or perhaps the weight of responsibility that he had always ignored in favor of cold pragmatism.

He exhaled softly, then rose, facing Edrick with a measured calm that was unmistakable. "You never asked me to stay," Domeric said quietly, his gaze steady but not without a flicker of understanding. "And I don’t expect you to need me, Eddie. But I’ve always known you’d need something... or someone. There’s always a price to pay for power, even if it’s not obvious at first." His voice was low, deliberate, as though each word was a calculation, a silent bargain being made between them. "You know what’s coming. What I’ve done, what you will do. You’ll walk through this fire, one way or another. But I can’t walk it for you."

He stepped closer now, his expression softening just the faintest bit, as though he was letting a crack of humanity show through the mask he wore so carefully. “What you need to do is survive, Edrick. You’ve always known how to do that. And you will—because you’re Bolton, through and through.” His words held weight, but they didn’t offer comfort—only cold, hard truth, as always. Domeric’s eyes lingered on his little brother, the flicker of concern barely perceptible behind his usual detachment.

"You can carry what comes next, even if it feels like too much now. But only if you trust yourself. And in the end, you can only trust yourself." The room felt tighter now, as if the distance between them had shrunk, yet there was still that invisible wall Domeric had built between himself and his half-brother. He turned back toward his bag and lifted it, settling it over his shoulder with deliberate finality.

"you think I don’t know that?" edrick finally said, his voice low but edged with something sharp—something that wasn’t quite anger, but close enough. "that i have to be the one to carry it?" he scoffed, shaking his head. "maybe you were always going to leave. maybe i knew it, deep down. but that doesn’t mean it had to happen like this."

his fingers curled slightly at his sides before he exhaled, forcing himself to loosen them. this was pointless. there was no changing it now. no undoing what had already unraveled. he knew why his brother had to leave, but the feeling of abandonment weighed heavily on him all the same.

he stepped forward, just enough to close some of the distance between them, and for a moment, it looked as though he might say more. that he might demand an answer, an explanation, something to make sense of why this ending had felt so inevitable.

instead, he reached out, putting a hand on the other's shoulder, a quiet moment of understanding despite the turmoil he felt welling deep within, one that could be seen lighting a fire behind icy blue hues.

but no more words passed between them. there was nothing left to say.

edrick watched as domeric turned away, his bag slung over his shoulder, his departure as quiet and deliberate as every other choice he’d ever made. the fire flickered once more, and then the door shut behind him.

nasir manderly’s gaze lingered on the fire for a moment, its flames dancing in uneven patterns, unpredictable and consuming. his lips tightened slightly, but his composure held steady as he turned to face edrick bolton fully. the flicker of contempt was well-hidden behind a mask of pragmatism, but it simmered beneath the surface. he clasped his hands behind his back, the weight of edrick’s words pressing against his thoughts like the oppressive chill of winterfell’s stones.

the words of his brother danced in the forefront of his mind; words of desperation, of yelling how they would never be like the others - in this moment, nasir realised he was right. but in all his stubborn and prideful nature, rather than meeting anyone in the middle, he was adamant they would need to see the light. "what exactly is it," nasir began, his tone measured but laced with a sharp edge, "that you think we’re abandoning, lord bolton? the heart of who we are, as you so fervently put it. define it for me."

he took a step forward, the soles of his boots striking against the cold stone floor with deliberate precision. his voice lowered, not out of fear but out of calculation, the quiet intensity of a man who knew the value of a pointed question. "is it the stubborn pride that keeps us tied to isolation while the world evolves around us? the refusal to adapt that has cost us not just lives, but opportunities? or perhaps it is the insistence on being a tree, as you say, with roots so deep in unyielding soil that it cannot bend without breaking." nasir tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes narrowing.

"you speak of pride as though it is our weakness," edrick said, his voice low but carrying. "but pride is not what binds us. It is memory. it is blood. it is the bones of those buried beneath these stones, who stood when others knelt."

he took a slow step forward, boots scraping against the stone, the subtle weight of his words pressing into the space. "the old gods watched over this land before the seven ever whispered from their septs. they watched when the snows came, when the dead marched, when the south left us to face ruin alone. and when they look down now, what do they see? a north asked to bow its head once more—this time, not to a king’s sword, but to the whims of a god who was never ours."

his fingers flexed briefly at his side before returning to stillness. his voice softened, though the tension in it remained. "i understand the lure of opportunity, lord manderly. trade routes, alliances, coin in our coffers—these things matter. we cannot thrive on snow and honor alone. but what good is gold if we sell the soul of the north to earn it? what is prosperity, if it demands we forget the faces carved into our trees?"

The air in the Dreadfort was as cold and unforgiving as its inhabitants' reputation. Vilde Harclay pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she stepped into the great hall, her boots echoing on the stone floor. Her walk was that of someone who hid nothing, yet teetered the line of wanting to be seen and not seen at all.

Her gaze swept the room, searching for the man she’d been sent to meet. Lord Edrick Bolton stood at the far end of the hall, his figure illuminated by in flickering firelight of the hearth. He looked every bit the calculating lord she’d heard about. His posture was measured, his eyes as sharp as the blades the Bolstons used to skin people as punishment.

Vilde squared her shoulders and strode toward him, her pace brisk, her chin held high. By her father's command, the clan stopped bending to the Northern king some time ago. They did not bend to lords either. Not until the turmoil in the North settled, and The Harclay was betting on those who called themselves of the True North.

“My lord,” she said, her tone steady yet respectful. “The Harclay sends his regards. He thought it best I deliver his words to you directly rather than rely on ravens and letters in these troubled times”. Her tone was firm, though not unkind —direct, like the swing of a Moon Circle axe.

"lady vilde," he said, his voice low, but his tone warmer than expected for a bolton. "i’m glad to see the harclay stand firm in these uncertain times. i had wondered how long it would take before one of your clan would come to speak with me directly." his smile deepened slightly, but it was tinged with the cold logic of their situation. "a wise choice, given the instability in the north. there's little time for subtleties when the winds are shifting like this."

he gestured toward the long table set in the center of the hall, where a few flickering candles and a jug of dark wine sat. "please, sit. we can speak of your father's words and the current state of the north," he added, after a moment, his gaze steady. "it seems there's little room for neutrality now. i’m glad you came. it seems the true north has a few allies left. but we must decide where we stand soon."

“Do ye think I don’t know what I’m askin' of ye?” Domeric’s voice was quiet, low, almost a whisper of guilt that passed quickly, hidden beneath his usual composed tone. "I know what it means to abandon ye like this. I’ve not been a good brother, Eddie, I am not a good brother. I’ve not been the kind ye needed me to be." He let out a small breath, eyes flicking to the door as if the weight of the room might collapse on him. “But I do this to protect ye, lad. Not just from the king, but from a world that’s not kind to men like us.”

He stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate, as if he wanted to convey everything without saying it aloud. “You’ll lie for me, and you’ll do it well. They’ll believe ye, and that’ll keep ye alive. But the throne—our family—it’s fragile now. We’re in the dark. I’m no fool, Edric. And neither are ye. There are powers movin' that we cannae even begin to understand. And the truth about our blood—about what we are—it’s not something I can leave behind.”

Domeric’s gaze hardened, his jaw set. "There are no easy answers, only choices. You’ll do what you must, but don’t ask me to stay and lead ye into a battle ye cannae win. There’s too much at stake now, more than our pride, more than our family." His voice dropped, the last words heavy in the air. "Trust no one but yourself. You’ll need that more than any answer I can give ye."

he took a cautious step forward, trying to suppress the frustration that burned beneath his skin. it was all too much—his brother was leaving, and despite the cold words they had exchanged, edrick realized just how desperately he needed domeric. without him, there was no one else he could trust. the uncertainty gnawed at him.

domeric's words, however cryptic, struck deeper than the dagger in his side. trust no one but yourself. a warning, but also a burden he wasn’t sure he could carry. he moved closer, careful not to show too much weakness, his voice low and steady.

“i never asked ye to stay and lead me anywhere, domeric. just…” he hesitated, swallowing the frustration. “just...i don't know what i need to do from here. i do, but i don't.”

his brother's back was still turned, but edrick could feel the hesitation in his silence, the weight of unspoken things. he wasn’t asking for answers anymore—just direction, something to cling to, even if it was nothing more than a sliver of hope in a dark room.

when domeric finally turned and beckoned him forward, the sight of his brother kneeling by the bag brought a sharp, unexpected pang to edrick’s chest. he moved forward, drawn by the motion, but as he reached domeric’s side, his words spilled out, raw and unguarded.

“i wish the truth weren’t what it is,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper.