Chapitre 68: The Masked Woman #68
I secured the Iceblade onto my back after carefully wrapping it with cloth and turned to face the group assembled before me. Qhorin Halfhand, Dolorous Edd, Longspear Ryk, Tormund Giantsbane, and Threya Snowrider—all standing ready for our journey beyond the Wall.
Though I didn't relish the idea, it was time to depart from the Wall once again. Luckily, this time, our destination wasn't too far. Val had set out for the wildling encampment a week prior to informing them of our request to relocate them into the Haunted Forest.
It was a strategic move, allowing easier contact with the Night's Watch compared to their former distant location near the Frostfang Mountains. With no concerns about being discovered, our journey would be on horseback, significantly shortening the distance.
Initially, Val intended to stay within Castle Black as a gesture of goodwill. Yet, I managed to persuade her against it. There was an undercurrent of discontent among some within the Night's Watch since the news of our alliance with the wildlings spread.
Leaving a solitary, captivating, wildling princess in the midst of a stronghold filled with frustrated and often hostile exiles and criminals would be a recipe for disaster, regardless of Val's capability.
I had spent enough time with Val to not feel as guarded and wary around her, but I still preferred to steer clear of her company whenever possible. That woman was a distracting force in many ways, and I couldn't afford any distractions at this critical juncture.
Sending her back to the wildlings seemed like an appealing prospect for me, one that I supported with zealous eagerness, allowing me to focus on the task of procuring a wight and preparing for King Robert's impending arrival in relative peace.
It wasn't that the group I was journeying with wasn't unruly—far from it. They were a rowdy bunch, but I understood how to manage them. Threya and Tormund remained unchanged, and Ryk was a pleasant enough man, though he tended to be reckless and foolhardy.
Edd and Qhorin, dependable as they were, posed no issues, although Edd seemed somewhat displeased at the notion of collaborating with the wildlings himself. Yet, I knew Edd was wise enough to realize the potential benefits of working with them, and he wouldn't jeopardize our chances.
Hopefully, this journey would go smoothly and put his mind at ease, and it will, provided that Tormund kept his mischievous tendencies in check and refrained from testing my patience.
I glanced over the assembled group, each member readying themselves on their mounts, and I wasted no time in signaling our departure. "Alright, enough delay," I announced firmly, swinging onto my horse.
"Let's make our way to the wnew ildling encampment and get to work immediately," I commanded, observing the group silently comply, mounting their own steeds without a word.
I had ample rest to clear my mind and refocus on the task at hand, and I was back in the fray, locked in a battle against my greatest enemy: time itself. With Lord Arryn dead and King Robert's impending journey to Winterfell, every moment counted.
If Eddard was forced to go to King's Landing and take up the role of Hand of the King, disregarding the looming undead threat, chaos would follow. I couldn't afford a single wasted minute. The impending storm of disaster that could result from Eddard Stark sticking his nose where it didn't belong wasn't something I could allow.
One misstep, one wrong move, could dismantle all I'd worked tirelessly to build. I refused to let that happen. So, with the determination to avoid a shitstorm of scheming, skullduggery, and incest, I led the group forward, a silent resolve fueling my will.
...
Leading a contingency of his knights alongside the Weeping Water River, Roose Bolton furrowed his brow upon reaching the western shores of his territory. His gaze fixated on a sizable group of armed men boarding a ship, swiftly departing from the shore.
Since the ambush at Moat Cailin, he had ceaselessly scoured the land in pursuit of the culprits behind the attack, tarnishing his name and incapacitating him due to the suspicions cast on his house. Finally, he had found them.
The audacity of these individuals to infiltrate his territory undetected perplexed him. How had they managed to evade his scouts and launch an assault on Ser Baristan's party without detection?
It was evident now that their intent was to implicate him in the attack, possibly more. Why else would they brazenly choose to launch their strike from his lands, risking discovery in one of the most influential houses' territory?
He yearned to capture just one of them, to unravel their intentions and make them regret the day they were born. However, such hopes dwindled as he observed the men vanishing into the vastness of the Shivering Sea aboard their departing vessel. His clenched fists betrayed his frustration at the missed opportunity.
"Ser Bartimus," he called out to one of his commanders, his tone eerily calm. "Prepare a scouting party. I want these waters combed thoroughly. Find out where those men came from and what they aim to accomplish. I will not be made a pawn in someone else's game."
Ser Bartimus, a seasoned knight in Roose's service, nodded solemnly. "At once, my lord," he replied, organizing a group of scouts to investigate the incursion and uncover any trace left by the retreating assailants.
Roose Bolton's jaw tightened as he watched the ship diminish into the horizon. He knew the storm of political machinations and power struggles had only begun, and he refused to be swept away in its tide.
...
Meanwhile, deep within the ancient ruins of a temple nestled amidst the Lonely Hills between the Dreadfort and the Long Lake, Ramsay Bolton ventured to meet an enigmatic figure, unbeknownst to his father.
A sinister grin played on his lips as he dismounted his horse, relishing the sight of the weathered and desolate ruins. His hand casually rested on the hilt of his long sword as he strode purposefully towards the entrance.
Upon entering, Ramsay found himself encircled by armed men, an assortment of mercenaries clad in various armors and wielding an array of weapons. The dilapidated halls echoed the presence of these hired soldiers.
Further within the ruins, a woman, her hair concealed by a hood and her features veiled behind a mask, sat regally on a makeshift throne. Beside her stood a man adorned in a horned helmet, obscuring his identity.
Cutting straight to the matter at hand, the masked woman spoke. "Is it done?" Her voice echoed through the ancient halls.
Ramsay nodded with a twisted smirk. "Aye, my father took off in pursuit of the men once I hinted at their whereabouts..."
"Excellent. With Roose Bolton out of the way, Vargo's men can more easily infiltrate and replace some of the guards at the Dreadfort..." The woman mused thoughtfully, gesturing to the man standing beside her. "With the list of targets you provided, we can execute our plans without raising suspicion," she added, her voice laced with anticipation.
"These men are already on my father's shit list; no one would mess them or give them a second glance for that matter...." Ramsay said, nodding knowingly. "Now then, can I count on your support when the opportune moment arrives?" Ramsay inquired eagerly, his eyes gleaming with ambition.
"Rest assured, young lord. We shall assist you in ingratiating yourself with your father," the masked woman replied, a concealed smile evident in her voice. "And when the time is ripe, and your father has legitimized you... we shall see you as the master of the Dreadfort," she affirmed calmly, her words carrying an air of assurance and calculated cunning.
...
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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
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