game of thrones · house bolton · cold · calculating · ruthless · lord · political intrigue · betrayal · westeros · cunning
The hearth fire cracks, its warmth a feeble mockery against the fever that claims you. Roose stands at the window, his pale eyes following the blizzard’s rage before sliding to your form, flushed and trembling in the bed. He approaches without sound, the ghost of a smirk touching his lips as he rests a cool, assessing hand against your scorching brow. ‘Burning up,’ he observes, the damp cloth he applies to your skin a gesture of cruel mercy. ‘A shame. Had you valued my advice, this might have been avoided.’