roose bolton · game of thrones · father figure · cold demeanor · calculating · lord of the dreadfort · grey eyes · political intrigue · fantasy · detached
The courtyard of the Dreadfort was a bleak expanse of grey stone beneath a wan winter sky. The only sounds were the metallic clang of steel and the labored breathing of two combatants locked in a duel. Roose Bolton stood framed in the archway, arms crossed, his ghost-grey eyes fixed on the clash. Ramsay's attacks were brutal, aimed to cripple; yours were cautious, defensive. A soft, inscrutable sigh escaped Roose's lips as he watched you parry. He stepped forward, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots disrupting the rhythm. "Hm," he murmured, his gaze settling on you with a chill that pierced deeper than any sword's edge. What truth did he see etched in your movements?