No tales were ever told of me.

// Roose Bolton // [CEO Dreadfort Holdings] for Blood and Glory RP see slots & openings

[barrowton]

bend and break // barbrey & roose, flashback 2011

[barrowton]

Barbrey twitched her lips and one couldn’t tell if it was a smile or a scowl. She wouldn’t. Barbrey thought. She was never content with that marriage but the Ryswells and the Dustins did always what was best for their families and so did her sister. Her life with Bolton was only illuminated by the presence of Dominic and Barbrey’s too. She was rather fond of the boy, she dared to admit with a certain pride. He was talented at everything he tried, smart, handsome, better offspring than Bolton could had ever hoped for and the opposite image of the monster he had now. 

She chuckled softly to shake off her train of thoughts; perhaps the only reason she endured her ties with this family was because her spite against the Starks surprised anything she could ever feel for the Boltons. And now they were kin, truly, if not by marriage, by death and property. She turned around, her back at the grave, there was no point in lingering there and the air was getting cold. She raised her chin, she would not dare to look weak now, not by his side and at this land; she had to carry the legacy of both her names now and she was determined to do so. She fixed the collar of her dress. She was no stranger to black, she had been wearing it ever since Willam died.

Barbrey took a step ahead. There were several miles between this spot and the entrance where her limousine would be waiting, the walk would be long enough to speak what they had to speak and she did not like wasting time standing around in the same place.

"You take my words as an insult when they did not mean such thing", she continued, "I admire you, you and your opportunism, brother", she mimicked her tone as she could, "My sister did not quite know how to make the best of our estate but I do, it is wrong of my to say but perhaps Barrowton will now meet its better days, specially with you and I managing what we own", she paused, "What the Starks own", the two families were the direct managers of the Stark Group’s finances. Barbrey had always been amused to be put in such favourable position. 

[roose--bolton]

She starts forward and he falls into pace half a step behind her. The landscape around them is sparse and vast, only the vague green of the Scottish hills and the grey stern stones breaking it apart in places to jut free towards the overcast sky.

"Opportunism," he lets the corner of his lip pull into a smile, "That's quite generous of you indeed." He'd always thought of himself as a man whole carefully forged his opportunities rather than fell upon them.  

The wind was knocking the rough tops of the grass amicably side to side around them. Standing where he was he could smell her perfume when the breeze caught against the edges of her hair just right. She smelled of something dark and eastern, opium or jasmine perhaps. Subtle. Just on the edge of the wind.

"There is nothing wrong with a simple acknowledgment of fact, and you need not fear appearances of immodesty in front of me," he answered, "No one would deny your 'knack' for financial management. You've grown a modest estate into something with direct impact on the course of this nation and that is no small feat. It's admirable. To say the least."

He couldn't help but notice the frown tempting her lips and the distain sparking in her eyes at the remembrance of the Starks. He was tempted to step along, raise his pace and move from her towards his own car. But there was new value in this conversation suddenly peering over the horizon.

"What do you think of their current situation? Of their ownership?"

[brynden-the-blackfish-blog]

Dialogue -> [ Brynden & Roose; 19th September ]

[brynden-the-blackfish-blog]

[He gave the man’s hand a light squeeze as it meets his while his eyes holds Bolton’s gaze. There was always something about those eyes that never quite sat well with Brynden. Eyes that saw matters of the world with icy nonchalance, even disdain. Eyes that saw only the brutal reality of life, and watched it as went past him. Those eyes reminded him of a spectator- no, a director of a play, who moved his actors across the stage from his post at the top box.  Those eyes observed and studied, sometimes amused by the pieces on his board. Those were eyes that knew more than anyone else knew, and saw more than most could bear to see.

He let his hand go and pulled the other chair out and seated himself, focusing himself on the work at hand. This was politics he reminded himself, this was no place to make paranoid assumptions like these. He was not Brynden here, but Blackfish. ] Have you been waiting long?

[A waiter arrives by their table side and places two menus in front of them before floating away]

[roose--bolton]

Brynden Tully looked as he'd expected, worn, slightly askew, eyes edged with concern. He of course had that Tully appearance of worry for too many other lives weighing on his shoulders. But that was the thing about Brynden - there was always something lurking in the corners of his face. On the surface he appeared as most of them, shallow and simple, but he wasn't. There was something there, something unpredictable. And that was interesting. Or at least amusing enough to entertain him temporarily.

Roose watched Brynden ease into his seat, shaking the damp off of his jacket. He gave a glance to the menus as they slid in front of them.

Hardly. He smiles briefly.

[redhelm]

the murderers, steep'd in the colours of their trade | september 25th | roose and ramsay

[redhelm]

Roose’s gaze was focused and only half as tenacious as Ramsay thought he merited. Had he not just orchestrated a death, acted like the hand of Fate itself? Had he not come here triumphant? His father perceived him as if he had become slightly bored of ambition. It fanned the hate in him, knotted the contempt tighter. 

He tried to scowl and found it pained the bruises Torrhen Karstark had left behind. Ramsay didn’t understand his father’s subtitles or slow movements just like he didn’t understand how calm he could be on a night like this. Roose set traps, Ramsay set them off - but his father hardly seemed hungry for prey. 

"It doesn’t matter," he said, defensively, waltzing into Roose’s study and collapsing into a leather chair. It was too small for him - or, rather, he was too large for the space in general. There were too many breakable things, too many tenuous ties."I took care of that too.”

He reached out for the desk, picking up an antique paperweight and feeling the drag of it in the centre of his palm. Skinner had been the one to turn up with the information on the league of murderers. Ramsay was down twenty-thousand pounds for the cost of Torrhen Karstark’s disappear and Rickard’s resulting grief, but he presumed that his finances would be more than cared for now that Ned Stark was dead. 

Ramsay considered his father, one pair of eyes finding its matching set. 

"Aren’t you proud of me, dad?” he said, abrasive, daring Roose to step into his role. He felt a snarl at the edge of his mouth, tugging at his torn lip. “Domeric would never have had the guts for this.” 

[roose--bolton]

Roose had always known the value of a mask. It made you invisible in all the most vital ways. He'd worn his mask for so many years now he's not even sure he could find the edges to peel it back if he wished to.

But Ramsey, he'd never had that knack. He tried. He tried with painful ferocity, but it was as if his mask had a crack he could never hide. The mask was rich and well crafted but there was always that crack, nasty and deep, turning any facade of calm control into something else entirely.

The crack was clear tonight as he smiled at Roose from that chair and the bruises on his face twisted it in grotesque directions. He slumped against the leather, handling the antique with the same lack of disregard that tainted all his actions.

Domeric's name did not slice the way it was quite transparently intended to. But it settled, deep against him, a steady reminder of how much work his loss incurred, how much effort the crack in Ramsey's mask continued to cause him.

But one must work with the tools he's given, and jagged edges can be as effective as honed blades when wielded correctly, even if they were messier to clean up after.

"It seems to me you've given very little care to anything," Roose said. "And it is not 'guts' that are called for but delicacy, something I'm starting to suspect you will never possess."

He leaned forward, creating a steeple of his fingers neatly in front of him.

"These are fragile matters. They must be treated as such."

[barrowton]

bend and break // barbrey & roose, flashback 2011

[barrowton]

Barbrey chuckled. It was without thinking and without preparation. She knew it was a bitter gesture, a childish gesture, yet it had escaped her mouth before she could hold it back and then there was no going back at all. 

She looked from the corner of her eye but without turning her head around, her frame focused on the direction leading to the grave of her late sister. For a second she wondered if Bolton was truly feeling some sort of loss but the thought left her imagination as fast as it came; she knew she shouldn’t dwell in such pondering, that she should remained focused and logical, specially when treating with this man. 

And yet she was to speak with some truth, as she would always do. She would disguise truth behind a layer of convenience, she would disguise the truth with her own personal gain but she would always partake in the rightful side as well as in the winning side. It was the only way to maintain the family legacy that now relied in her hands and only in her hands.

Truth left her lips before she could hold it back, “As much as this place can provide, the sighting is terribly dreadful", she said in a disregarding tone, “But the dead are dead and they don’t care about ceremonies, they leave us behind rather unceremoniously, don’t they? My sister did, my sister left her whole legacy and properties intestate and with no living children, you have the winning hand to grab it all", she smirked and finally turned around to face the man, “You don’t need to come and be courteous to me, Roose, you’ve won this round, after all".

[roose--bolton]

He truly did enjoy watching her mind work. It wasn’t very often one was able to see such a thing after all. He was so surrounded by idiocy. Some days it felt almost like drowning, it would be indeed, if it weren’t additionally and unintentionally amusing.

But she was clever. She had always been clever. Her weakness was she he never been able to hide it. Some women did, and found success there, some men as well if the point was to be made. They stared vacantly, seemed to hardly understand or listen, and all the while they stash and stow things of value for their own uses when it pleased them, leaving no one to suspect as much. He himself was particularly adept at such a charade. 

But Barbrey Ryswell, she was something else entirely. Her eyes were always bright, her attention ever sharp. There was never any denying just how clever she truly was. It was a part of her, eased into her skin and never separable. 

People did not assume he was the type of man to distribute respect. But some things did earn it. He respected his country. And he respected those things about her.

Her eyes sparkle, even in their rage and her honestly slips out. He respects that as well, how she can’t quite seem to help herself.

He’s tempted to smile at her words, and almost lets himself, but no, not yet. Perhaps if they were alone, but not today, that would be quite foolish.

“You never liked it here, but your sister always did. I’d like to think she would be contented.”

He can feel her mocking smile on him. Even if she cannot wear a mask, he is not so fortunate, especially here. 

“Is that how you see me, sister?” He let’s his tone jibe a little on the familiarity, lowering his voice, “A rakish opportunist? Have I earned such distrust?”

[jimmy-mcgill]

[brynden-the-blackfish-blog]

Dialogue -> [ Brynden & Roose; 19th September ]

[ Three weeks. He shivered slightly at the ice rain and pulled his coat closer. It got so cold so quickly up here, it was only September wasn’t it? The chill was biting at his bones and the scars his body had collected were aching dully. He stepped quickly and lightly across the road, head down so as to not get the rain in his eyes. The bellboy at the doors opened them for him as he arrived on the welcome mat.  The lobby was warm, or rather, was less cold than it was outside. An attendant offers to take his coat and he gratefully shrugs out of it, thanking the man and returning his smile. There was a lone violin playing from somewhere upstairs, and the soothing, sad music echoed against the marble, becoming eerie. But, perhaps that was just him. He wasn’t in the best mood anyway. ( His hand found his left shoulder and rubbed it a little. ) He stepped across the lobby, appreciating for a moment, the golden lighting and the large tapestry hung behind the reception counter. He turned his head the other way and found the sign to the restaurant and he quickly followed it. He could see waiters and waitresses scuttling back and forth, setting up the tables for the night’s dinner service. When he asked about the reservation that was made for he and Bolton, he was led to an area away adjacent and apart from the dining area, and there he entered a room where a set of cool grey eyes greeted him ] Mr. Bolton, [ He said, and steadily took two steps forward to his seat and extended his hand ] Brynden Tully. Thank you, for meeting me.

[roose--bolton]

It was raining again. He had expected as much. 

You could never truly know the weather here, and he’d long since grown accustomed to anticipating the worst, and therefor minimizing disappointments. Not that he’d ever truly minded the rain. People in the rain were always fascinating to watch. Some scampered like lost children away from it, almost terrified of something so simple as falling water. Others pulled their coats close, furrowed their brows, and soldiered through as if were merely another disappointment of life. And some even turned their faced up to let it cleanse them, or walked on as if they hardly noticed it at all. There was much in that, the way people walked in the rain, little clues that were amusing enough to pass a few idle moments observing and guessing at.

He could see out one window from where he sat, surrounded by the lilting harmonies of the violin, mingling in-between the polite calm tones of opulent conversationalists. He turned his gaze from the window to watch the faces in the dining room just off from where he’d been seated privately. They smiled easily and frowned even quicker, but they were shallow emotions, concerns that were locked within the confines of their own small glittering worlds. After all, nothing had shattered around them, not yet anyhow.

He guesses at the face approaching him even before the man turns in his direction. He recognizes the shape from where it stands in supportive posture behind his family every once in a while on the national news. Brynden Tully seems to share that world-worn appearance Roose has long since associated with the Tullys. It’s not so much exhaustion with the world as exhaustion with the faith they continue to have in it, despite all temptations otherwise.

The man smiles, small and sincere as he approaches him, hand already extended. Roose rises in one fluid motion and grasps it.

Yes, of course. He meets the man’s eyes firmly. The pleasure is mine, I assure you.

[asoftskeleton]

Rob Breedlove / The Fall

[redhelm]

the murderers, steep'd in the colours of their trade | september 25th | roose and ramsay

The darkness was late coming in, even though summer was stale now and the sun was quick to drop out of the sky. For a long time, the horizon bled a bright, deep blue and the trees in the park were on fire with the amber glow of street lights, all its leaves raised like hands in prayer. A silent vigil for Eddard Stark. Ramsay waited until the day was soaked in black ink and the stars were coming out before he walked across town and made his way to his father’s house. 

It wasn’t the ancestral estate from Ayrshire, but Roose Bolton had held host there for some years and Ramsay knew the place well from walking around it and past it but never through the door. His palms cracked in the first breath of the autumnal air. He’d scrubbed his hands and beneath his fingernails seven times over at Carrick Knowe before Damon had given him a lift back to the Old Town and he had to hope that clean hands absented him from any suspicion. The night and shadows hid the evidence of Torrhen Karstark’s fists still colouring his face with blue and green bruises, but they were deep enough to still earn glances.

He came to the door of the house and knocked. If the staff did not know the arrangement of his features, they at least recognised the glassy, grit-coloured eyes and bade him quiet entry. For a moment, Ramsay stood and took in the dark, military panné of the place. His father had little time or taste for luxury but contained comfort was at least amenable to him. The main stairway was red-stained wood and narrow. When he climbed it, the steps creaked only just enough to announce his presence.

“Dad,” he said, hard and smug, when he’d reached the study door. Roose’s home office was medieval in its composition, all heavy furniture and gleaming studs buried deep in the leather and oak. 

Ramsay leaned against the doorway. His father did not look up, which suffered to infuriate him in an instant.

“Dad,” he said again, the word growing increasingly foreign and strange in his mouth. He whistled, to try and get his attention. “I did it. It’s done. He’s dead.”

[roose--bolton]

The house was at it's most pleasing during this time of the day, when the evening light filtered through the ancient glass of the windows, burning deep against the red wood for the long moment of twilight and drowning the house is sanguine before finally slipping into the inevitable darkening stain of dusk. 

It was the silence he valued the most here. The servants had long since learned to restrict their movements to the necessary, and as the darkness consumed the landscape beyond his office windows he often imagined it smothering all else, a steely blanket of silence and stillness eating up the world. And then it was just him, surrounded by the close comfort of nothing, in which he could switch on his desk light, illuminating his workspace as if bringing to life a small sphere of existence while the rest remained drowned in the black. It was a fancy he had often, the deliciousness of pure isolation, but it was merely that, a fancy, truthfully such circumstances would be viciously dull.

His office always brought him a sense of comfort. It exemplified order and conscious  Each item had it's place and function, both in the most practical sense and for the ambient metaphorical murmer that formed in the minds of those who came here. Wealth but not excess, lineage but not lost utility, foreboding but not dramatic concern. Often times he imaged that this was a center, a well almost, and from it's depths he stretched out ducts and tracks that poured it's murky waters wherever he directed: across borders, into closed offices and newsrooms, down gasping throats and into eager ears.

He heard the steps on the stairs well before they approached his door and frowned down at his desk. The presumption was something he'd feared, known it would raise it's ugly sneering head, he was almost surprised it took this long, but still, it was no excuse and would have to be curbed with care and immediacy. 

He didn't even knock. 

Dad.

It was objectively quite sad, a clumsy stretch for familiarity. Words crudely formed into the most basic tools for emotional excavation. There had always been too much emotion in him, balanced in the most precarious of places.

The whistle set his teeth on edge and for a moment he was tempted to throw him out but he swallowed it. This was the piece he'd chosen to play, the investment he'd decided to make- foolish to waste it now, at least not yet...

"I am well aware, and it certainly does not require recitation." He put his fountain pen down neatly, "And you will inform me before you make yourself known here in the future, is that--"

His voice trailed as he caught sight of his face for the first time. Even in the shadows where the boy always lurked the evidence was apparent.

"What's happened to your face?" Roose continued carefully, "Or should I ask 'who'?"

[barrowton]

bend and break // barbrey & roose, flashback 2011

Her sister’s body must had still been too warm. Or so Barbrey imagined, it went against all logic but it didn’t feel like it had passed time at all since she received the call from Bethany’s husband, until now that the funeral was over. It was all - surreal. 

She had experienced death in her time. Too much of it, from her parents to Brandon Stark - to her husband. But it felt different this time, as if one last thread holding her to something less dark had been killed along with Bethany and now there was nothing that could hold her back. She hadn’t shared a tear, she didn’t feel the need. Her grief was not meant to be displayed in that way, her grief wasn’t - it wasn’t grief for a sister, it was just… odd. She was the last one of her name.

She sighed and eyed Roose Bolton moving closer to her, surely he meant to speak of legal matters - she imagined; and she would too, of course. Bethany had died intestate. The owner of a financial company hadn’t taken the time to write a testament. The irony made her chuckle. Now the Bolton man she chose as husband could take the part that rightfully belonged to Barbrey, half of the company at least, and she couldn’t let him do that of course, what else would she have left?

All that mattered was the family name and their legacy, that was all that would be remembered one day. And yet there she was, the last Ryswell - even her sister’s son died. Now all she had was the company their grandparents built. But her sister had made sure that it wouldn’t go so smoothly for her, now she had to be all charm and sugar with this man who threatened to be part of her life for the rest of her life. 

And his bastard son as well. 

Plenty still dared to call her Mr. Dustin, as if she hadn’t a name of her own. She refrained from sighing, keeping her hands inside her coat. They even took her sister’s body from her. Barbrey loved her, but she was dead now and she hadn’t much love left inside her. “I haven’t had the opportunity”, she spoke softly once she felt the other by her side, “to pay my respects to you properly, I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Bolton”.

[roose--bolton]

The funeral lasted longer than he'd thought it would. The service had been exactly what was to be expected, the minster's voice echoing coldly around the tall grey stone walls of the church in the town off of the Dreadfort. He hadn't been inside the place for years, not since their marriage in fact. Strange, a connection forged and severed between the same icy stone. But it was merely formality, set dressings, a context that seemed necessary to so many. He and his wife's connection had formed long before the old man muttered over their joined hands, before loose lipped words and swaying objects imbibed with significance out of that strange human necessity to find meaning.

Roose took a moment to glance down at the bible spread out in his hands, at the faces surrounding him. He found himself musing over the way they held the small leather bound things, the manner in which some of them clutched at crucifixes wrapped around strained wrists or pale gaunt necks. They were listening to the babbling man up there, listening, as if it mattered at all. How strange to think any of it made the slightest bit of difference to them. Did it give them comfort? What comfort could there be in the belief that control was something alien and distant.

Of course a funeral was necessary, it was pretense he'd learned long hence had it's role. But for him, it was meaningless. He had defined his relationship with his wife. He had set it's terms, it's purpose, marked it progress and followed it accordingly. A form of distant metaphorical dictation of their union of or her passing did not define, merely recognized.

When the farce was finally completed he stood neatly with the rest. He was careful to keep his eyes lowered, to stay silent. There was the assumption of his mourning, still, best to maintain it's appearance. Several individuals approached him, but none touched him, merely waiting meekly for him to acknowledge their presence and perhaps accept a handshake of condolence.

There was a certain pleasure to the nonsense or at the very least a fascination. Their trepidation in the face of the lingering specter of death, the confused need to express something, anything to prove themselves above it's mystery.

Once outside he caught sight of Barbrey Ryswell's smartly clad figure. He'd seen her inside, noted her several times. She'd stood out. She always had. She hadn't struggled with grief, or fiddled with her clothing in distraction. She'd simply sat, and he'd had the distinct impression that he was not the only one who found the entire affair ultimately useless.

Standing there, out in the grey fall afternoon with the wind catching over the spreading hills and juts of grey stone, he took a moment to take her in. There was a sincerity to her countence that was exceedinly rare. She had her sister's rounded yet slim waisted figure and her peering eyes, but there was a clever tilt to her lips and her chin rose in a slightly arrogant manner that commanded stronger attention. She had an immovable and starkly beautiful air to her, quite complimentary to the landscape in which she stood. Quite Scottish, quite gallus.

He found himself walking towards her. There were matters to discuss after all, the business primarily, the assets, the will.

She didn't turn to him, but she addressed him all the same. Sorry for your loss--

He'd thought her above cliche. But perhaps she simply meant to measure... well, he could assume that pretense just as easily.

"Nonsense," He says, turning his lips upward in a way he knows typically resembles something pleasing, "It's your loss as well. Was the ceremony to your liking?"

[roose--bolton]

NAME:  Roose Bolton

AGE: 49

CURRENT OCCUPATION: Founder and CEO of Dreadfort Holdings

PUBLIC ALLEGIANCE: Stark

PRIVATE ALLEGIANCE : Personal Interest

CHARACTER INFO: The Boltons are and old and powerful family tracing their heritage back with strong Scottish blood for centuries. As true Scots they believe that it is not kings that rule but strong men and ultimately it is strength that carries a country not a lineage or a dynasty.

Business came naturally to Roose, evaluation of worth was always his strong point, be it in peers or shares, everything had is value and it’s use calculated and correlated. He found it strange that such things did not seem as apparent to others but learned quickly to make use of it, building Dreadfort Holdings on that principle, buying out failing businesses and quickly stripping them into valuable assets for resale to other interested parties. 

Despite lineage, Roose’s family it is now a somewhat limited affair. His wife and first son died in mysterious circumstances within the past several years, leaving him with an even larger fortune than he had previous accrued by his own means, and only a bastard son resulting from a rather uncharacteristically careless tryst. Ramsey had proven himself to be a unsteady individual, falling into dangerously indulgent behaviors which, while initially ignored, were now gaining sufficient traction that Roose could not let them go unchecked. By legitimizing Ramsey he ensured his ability to keep the proper leash on his bastard child’s unusual habits and make use his unique enthusiasm for his own purposes.

The Starks move for independence is one to be admired for it’s more traditional motivations: a free nation with it’s own independence and control, but the personal and emotional aspects of this declaration are more cause for concern. Emotional commitment is a sloppy business that leads to even messier ends and that is something that Scotland cannot afford to suffer.

FUTURE PLANS FOR CHARACTER: I’d love to explore the “Roose plays with men” aspect of his personality more, get him pulling some strings, making some deals, weaving some webs, especially towards the end of seizing control of the north and making alliances with england on the sly to better serve his interests. 

PLAYED BY (PB): Michael McElhatton

CHARACTER QUOTE: “No tales were ever told of me. Do you think I would be sitting here if it were otherwise?”

CHARACTER HEADLINE: Roose Bolton pledges strong support for Stark’s move towards and independent Scotland

_____________________________________

PLAYER INFORMATION NAME: Lyra TUMBLR: fortinbrasftw AIM/MSN/SKYPE: MLDibbs TIME ZONE: Eastern (US)