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The Dreadfort | The Twilight Hour
The fire provided no warmth.
Nor would it be expected to grant such mercy to the hardened heart of the bare-chested warrior that sat with pensive stature nearby, wearing nothing but a pair of breeches as he contemplated the now discarded missive which lay carelessly discarded upon the stone floor beside him. The crackle of wood was his constant companion in the silent deep hours of the night. It was so quiet here in the North, with the sound of the woodlands trapped beneath the cruel blanket of snow. Briefly his thoughts turned to the sounds of the sea from his youth, the pounding rhythmic waves of the ocean that could be found at the Targaryen ancient home of Dragonstone. But such comforts had been taken from him by duty, responsibility, and a sincere desire of his closest relatives to have him as far from them as could be reasonably found in Westeros. The only other sound that reached his ears in this long night was that of his paramour, his companion, though hardly a kindred spirit, the rather striking Alys Bolton. From her place on the bed, wrapped in furs, every so often he would hear the faintest exhale caught somewhere between sigh and snore. Let her rest, he thought to himself, other matters churned in his mind this night than the familiar feel of her taut backside.
And who was this man who had been granted the company of a woman as deadly, and beautiful, as the Bloody Fox? Who was it that sat with commanding presence in the ancestral seat of House Bolton, wiling away the midnight hour at the Dreadfort? None other than Vaemond Targaryen. Prince of Dragonstone, Uncle to the King and Queen of the Andals, the Black Dragon. Peerless, some would have claimed, naturally gifted with both sword and strategy. Though such acclaim had done little but blunt his aspirations, forced repeatedly by Machiavellian scheming to turn his skillset to the betterment of his House, while strangely finding himself further from the throne and the hallowed halls of power. Though never let it be said that he did not commend the machinations of his deceased sibling, nor the mental acuity of his son, Aenyr, in blockading any betterment that did not come granted from the throne itself. It was respect that he could begrudgingly grant even if it curled a deep-seated bitterness within his chest. Unknowingly his right hand curled tightly into a fist, corded muscle straining beneath his forearm, as steely eyes narrowed intently. And what was it that this terrible man contemplated in the dead of night?
The release of hostages hard fought and paid for in blood. The uprising among the northern houses had been unexpected, but a drought in the breadbasket of Westeros had created a trade shortage which left storehouses empty and hungry mouths to feed. It could have been something overlooked, in truth, yet events had conspired to create perfect conditions for rebellion. Grain Seizure, Over taxation, Incompetent Governance, and Banditry all played their role. But most importantly had been a harsh early winter in which the crown failed to respond quickly to their plight. Rumors spread by wagging tongues of the dynasty ignoring their pleas, fueling the hatred and anger. Once more, the Black Dragon lacked respect for these Northern warriors and their strength, far from it, but it was not his way to show mercy to the beleaguered. But these Northmen were not made of fine alloy steel, but a brutish iron ore. And once hammered you did not seek to temper iron, you hammered it again to remind it what shape to stay in.
Suddenly he stood, approaching the mantle and placing his hand upon the cool stone. Even so close to the heat struggled to cast off the encroaching cold. How he longed for warmer climates. The light cast itself across his distinguished form, as he gazed down into it, searching for his answers.
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