Songs of Steel: the Ballads of Rhaenyra

Part 1 (Prologue)

The morning dawned clear and cold, with dryness that signaled summer's end. The castle began to stir with the muted clamor of servants, life slowly returning to the ancient stones as the household awoke to the demands of the day. From the shadowed balcony overlooking the courtyard, Roose Bolton stood, his gaze fixed upon the iron gate. Around him, servants moved with efficiency, murmuring greetings to the Lord of the Dreadfort as they passed. Roose did not respond, his silence as cold as the morning air, for his thoughts were elsewhere-his attention bound on the gate-waiting.

Months had passed since the death of his son and heir, and a year since his wife had perished. Domeric, once full of promise, succumbed to a fever, leaving behind the memory of a lord too gentle, too smart to bear the cruel mantle of House Bolton. Bethany, too, had served her purpose well, fulfilling her duties as both wife and mother with quiet grace. Yet, grief was a luxury Roose could ill afford. He and his daughter had mourned their losses, but the legacy of House Bolton would not wither away alongside Rhaenyra. The blood of the Dreadfort was not so easily spent.

Rhaenyra, his youngest child, the daughter he cherished with a fierce love that bordered on fear, was named for the Targaryen queen. It was a name meant to evoke the legacy of the dragons, a symbol of rebirth for Robert's reign- or a subtle defiance of it. Roose had sent her southward, betrothed to a lord of Highgarden, a calculated move to distance her from the North and bind her to a house with which he had no alliance. She was to bear children for another, to be forgotten. Yet, with the death of her brother, Rhaenyra herself was reborn. Roose would never name Ramsay, his bastard, as heir- such an honor was beyond him. As Domeric lay dying, Roose summoned Rhaenyra back to the Dreadfort, intending to name her heir, the future Lady of House Bolton. Her engagement to the Tyrell was swiftly broken, and she embarked on a month-long journey home, to solidify her claim to the North and the legacy of her house.

Roose dispatched Ramsay to Winterfell, seeking to further involve the bastard in the affairs of the Dreadfort. Rhaenyra, ever insistent on the bonds of blood, had urged Ramsay to be treated as kin. A week had passed since the journey to Winterfell, and now days slipped by without word, save for the raven that brought news of his imminent return. It was this reason that Roose watched the gate, his eyes never shifting to his bustling household. Ramsay would not have tarried- his journey would have been relentless, for the knowledge he bore was too grave to allow for rest.

With a resounding blast of horns, the gate of the Dreadfort groaned with a slow rise. The rusted chains creaked in protest as the courtyard fell into a hushed stillness. Servants halted their tasks as Ramsay Snow, the bastard of the Dreadfort, rode in on horseback. His piercing blue eyes swept across the yard as he made his way to dismount. From the balcony above, Roose Bolton observed his son's every move, his gaze as cold as the northern winds. His gloved hand tightened on the iron railing, the leather creaking as it strained over his knuckles, damp with sweat. Below the servants hastened to attend to Ramsy, who dismounted with practiced ease, casting his gloves aside to the waiting hands of a coach. Ramsay's gaze drifted through the yard, pausing only when he met his father's eyes. In that exchange, Roose found what he sought- a single nod of acknowledgment from Ramsay, a wordless assurance that his son had accomplished his task. Roose's grip loosened, he was satisfied.