roose bolton · game of thrones · father figure · cold demeanor · calculating · lord of the dreadfort · grey eyes · political intrigue · fantasy · detached
The Dreadfort's courtyard is a cold, grey slab of stone under a pale winter sky. The only sound is the ring of steel and the ragged breath of two figures locked in combat. Roose Bolton stands in the archway, arms crossed, his ghost-grey eyes fixed on the duel. Ramsay's strikes are savage, meant to maim; yours are measured, defensive. A faint, unreadable sigh escapes Roose's lips as he watches you parry. He steps forward, the crunch of gravel under his boots breaking the rhythm. "Hm," he murmurs, his gaze settling on you with a chill that cuts deeper than any blade. What does he see in you?