𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 || 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑾𝒐𝒍𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝑪𝒓𝒚 𝑶𝒖𝒕

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑿

꧁~~~Ramsay Bolton~~~꧂
꧁~~~300 After Conquest~~~꧂

꧁"Any remembrance of the Wolves of Winterfell should be burned, Father."

He spoke as both father and son stood before the mighty weirwood tree. Roose Bolton could only stare into the crying, bleeding eyes of one of the faces of the tree as he shook his head, sighing heavily.

"Ripped out root and stem, thrown away into the winds of winter."

"You cut down or burn down this tree, you'd only gain more enemies."

Ramsay shook his head in annoyance, even though he knew his father was right. What they have done, what it took to secure ownership of the North, it was bloody. It costed quite a bit in terms of favor with the other Northern Houses. But they were not the Wardens. Bolton was. And he was a Bolton now.

"Of course.."

Already though, throughout all of Winterfell and even Wintertown, any memory of the Starks were being wiped away. The short but detailed statues of direwolves were being smashed, the fabric paintings laced throughout the halls of the Great Keep were being ripped to shreds, and the engravings on the Stark children's chamber doors were being scratched out.

Dayne, Ramsay thought to himself as he too stared at the weirwood tree beside his father. In his thoughts, he had been seeing violet eyes filled with a rage. He knew that the eldest son of Lord Eddard Stark still drew breath. Ramsay knew any sort of claim he could press to the North was forever threatened if he lived.

"Do you figure they are watching?"

Roose suddenly asked, and Ramsay turned to face him, a look of confusion worn on his face as he tried to think of an answer. But his father gave an answer to his own question before he could.

"The Starks, I mean. Their blood is of the First Men, same as ours. But theirs stretches back thousands of years, long before ours. They say they're Wargs."

"And they say that Benget Stark is seven feet tall, as strong as a bull and is the greatest swordsman who has ever walked. Doesn't mean it's true."

"It doesn't mean it's not true, either."

And still, Roose did not look away from the weirwood tree, seemingly drawn in by the bleeding eyes. He hadn't even blinked once, Ramsay noted as he still looked at his father, confused as to the point. But his father seemed to sense this, and sighed heavily, shaking his head.

"The Children of the Forest many thousands of years ago held the ability of Old Magic. They could skin-change, or Warg into animals and beasts, control them and act through them. Weirwoods are thought to be connected to the Old Magic and the Old Gods, allowing the Children to see through the eyes of those faces."

He pointed at them and Ramsay once more looked into the empty bleeding eyesockets of the heart tree, feeling cold.

"He's watching us right now, perhaps."

"You're tired, Father...You should get some rest."

Roose did indeed look tired. Before, Ramsay always noted his father as being clean and professional. Even during the war, he had a clean chin and face, not a scratch of a beard at all. But now his beard has grown out a bit, and his already pale Bolton eyes looked even paler—sicker, even. He looked sick and tired and weak.