son of night III
297 AC
Jon wasn’t sure what to think of the young lord sorcerer who had newly landed in Westeros by magics unknown and unthought of in this part of the world. The boy was selfish, but not devoid of compassion. He looked waifish, then wielded unimaginable power at his fingertips.
The boy wondered how common the boy’s abilities was in the distant – and unheard of – land of Albion.
Surely he must be one of a kind.
Never mind the fantastic tales the servant of Lord Bolton had told about Lord Nott’s takeover of the castle, Jon had seen him levitate a book and create light out of nothing with his own two eyes. What shocked him most was how mundanely the young sorcerer was treating such acts, as if this was only scratching the surface of what he could do.
While Jon Snow was wondering about the magics of Albion, the rest of his company had more pressing concerns.
“Your story is all well and good, lad, but it doesn’t give you the right to make yourself at home in the castle of Lord Bolton, let alone to lock the man in his own dungeons without due process,” said one of Jon’s father’s vassals.
The boy swept a lazy eye over the gathering of men, who, save for Jon, were all seasoned warriors, veterans of at least two wars and countless skirmishes.
“And what is, pray tell, the due process when one is found guilty of flaying?”
“If Lord Bolton really has done what you said, son,” started Jon’s father, “then he will be executed. I will see to it myself, as his Lord Paramount. But I will need proof of what you say.”
The sorcerer hummed. “Proof. I can do that.”
“My Lord,” said the servant girl at his side nervously, “Rodrik is still in a healing sleep. You said he was not to be woken for another day.”
Theodore Nott blinked at her. “Why would he need to be woken?” Then as if in realisation, he clarified. “No, I’ll drag Bolton and his beast of a son here and feed them some veritaserum. Then they’ll be all too willing to explain to our guests how they and their soldiers liked to entertain themselves in the Dreadfort. It’ll make for a lovely discussion before the luncheon.”
And sure enough, the Boltons talked. They said more than enough to turn the stomach of a lesser man, and Jon found himself dry heaving against a wall at the end of it, his eyes closed to try and forget the graphic details in which Ramsey Bolton described his rape of several young girls.
“You have my thanks and my apologies for doubting you. You were right to act, and you saved a lot of grief to my people,” said Jon’s father with difficulty after they took some time to compose themselves, moments during which the sorcerer was calmly reading his books with the tranquillity of someone so used to violence and barbarism that he was unphased by both its retelling and others’ reactions to it.
What must he have lived through, Jon couldn’t help but think, to find such a tale only mildly distasteful?
The sorcerer waved away the words of gratitude and apology. “I am a stranger to you. It would have been foolish to trust me at my word.” He straightened then and weighed them all with his gaze before settling on Lord Stark. “Now that this is settled, I would like to know what you plan to do with this fort and the people in it. We can discuss it over some food, what do you think?”
Jon blinked.
He was not expecting that.