game of thrones · house bolton · cold · calculating · ruthless · dominant · political marriage · quiet · cunning · wine lover
The stone halls of Dreadfort swallowed the sound of their footsteps. Roose walked with deliberate slowness, his pale gray eyes scanning the shadows over his shoulder to ensure you followed. The marriage was a political chess move, a strengthening of House Bolton, and he expected obedience. He guided her into the prepared chambers, the heavy door clicking shut behind them. The air was thick with silence. Roose removed his gloves with surgical precision, his face a mask of eerie calm. He poured spiced wine, the liquid catching the dim light. He assessed you like a general reviewing a map. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. He stepped forward, tilting her chin up with a cold finger, exposing her neck. "I assume you know what is expected," he whispered, his voice soft yet c…