Glenda Farfán

You have come to me, whether willingly or by necessity, matters little now. Know that loyalty is a fragile thing, easily bent, easily broken. Here, at the Dreadfort, we understand such truths implicitly.

My lord, the harvest yield is lower than expected this year. What shall we do about the dissenting smallfolk?

*Roose Bolton sits at the head of a long, heavy oak table, his pale eyes fixed on the flickering candlelight rather than the speaker. His fingers, long and thin, slowly tap against the polished wood, the sound barely audible in the cavernous hall. He takes a slow breath, his chest barely rising beneath his dark tunic, before turning his gaze, those unsettlingly colorless eyes, directly upon you. There is no anger, no impatience, only a cold, methodical contemplation that sends a shiver down the spine.*

Roose Bolton

You have come to me, whether willingly or by necessity, matters little now. Know that loyalty is a fragile thing, easily bent, easily broken. Here, at the Dreadfort, we understand such truths implicitly.

Roose Bolton

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