Chapter 543

Since Aegor had preemptively convinced House Stark to submit to Daenerys, the Bolton forces—who had been sharpening their blades in anticipation of toppling their old overlords—found themselves without an enemy by the time they reached their destination. And with the Queen’s rule over the North still in flux, they also lost the chance to vent their frustrations on the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.

With Winterfell already hosting the Unsullied and two dragons, there was no room left to accommodate more soldiers. Forced to camp outside in abandoned farmland, the elite troops of the Dreadfort were suffering, both physically and mentally. Tension brewed.

On the day of the incident, a small logistics squad from the Bolton camp had gone into the nearby town of Frostmarket to purchase food and drink in an attempt to improve morale. There, they happened to encounter some soldiers from the Gifted Lands army, who casually mentioned that there was a place in town where men could enjoy some company.

With energy to burn and nowhere to release it, the Bolton men followed the directions they were given.

They arrived at a respectable house—one that, from the outside, looked entirely unremarkable. They knocked.

Now, while House Stark prided itself on its honor, the simple fact was that neither morality nor noble principles could erase the practical realities of life. There had always been brothels outside Winterfell’s walls, even in Eddard Stark’s time. And now, with winter closing in, crops failing, and the number of war widows and orphans rising, it was hardly surprising that such places persisted.

Frostmarket, like any town, had its share of these establishments—some public, some private, some open, some discreet.

But on this day, the Bolton men had been deliberately misled. The house they had been sent to belonged to a well-off, well-respected family—one that had no connection to such business.

When the men, dressed in their flayed man sigils, barged inside and began harassing the women of the household—demanding they provide their “services”—they were, unsurprisingly, met with fierce resistance.

And then, coincidentally, another group of Gifted Lands soldiers happened to be passing by. Righteously, they intervened. The scuffle that followed quickly drew the attention of an Unsullied patrol, who happened to be patrolling the area, and once they arrived, the outcome was never in doubt.
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The captured Bolton men howled that they had been set up. But the soldiers who had misled them? Nowhere to be found. The ones who had “intervened”? Gone the moment the trap had sprung.

The Unsullied, on the other hand, had truly been on routine patrol. The householders, their neighbors—none of them had been in on the scheme.

There were victims. There were witnesses. The evidence was overwhelming.

The Bolton men had been caught, quite literally, with their pants down.

Daenerys didn’t like the Starks, but that didn’t mean she didn’t consider the people of Winterfell her people. As both a woman and a queen, she was enraged that such an incident had occurred right under her nose.

Summoned to answer for his men, Roose Bolton stood in silence beside Varys, the two of them barely able to mutter a word in defense. They both knew what had happened. They knew who was responsible.

But they couldn’t prove it.

And so, they endured the full brunt of the dragon’s wrath.

Petyr Baelish, barely even pretending to be impartial, urged the Queen to make an example of them—to hang the men at the city gates as a warning to all. It would not have been unreasonable.

But two things stayed Daenerys’ hand.

First, the victims’ male relatives had taken up arms before any real harm had been done. And second, at least one of the captured Bolton men had exercised restraint, refusing to cross a final line.

Considering the crime had been attempted rather than committed, and that the Boltons had been the first Northern house to swear fealty, the Queen opted for a compromise.

Roose Bolton would personally apologize to the family and compensate them.

His men would be publicly flogged in the town square.

And he would ensure that nothing like this happened again.
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Justice was served.

The guilty were dragged off by the Unsullied to receive their punishment.

Naturally, neither Petyr nor Aegor wasted time watching the flogging. They had won another round against Varys, gaining a 3:2 lead in this war of shadows, and they had more important things to discuss.
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“A shame,” Petyr sighed as they strolled through the castle. “If only the Unsullied had arrived a few minutes later—or if those fools had been a little less cowardly. One drop of blood. One scream too many. And they would have been dead men.”

“But this is enough,” he said with satisfaction. “We were never aiming for a few nameless soldiers’ heads. The real goal was to humiliate Varys. And to remind Roose Bolton of his place.”

Aegor, truthfully, found the whole thing distasteful. He had no illusions about the Game, but using innocent people as bait in a trap left a foul taste in his mouth.

Still, this wasn’t even close to the worst of what politics could be.

So he kept his face impassive and replied coolly, “The Queen’s order to keep the Boltons confined to camp effectively cripples one of Varys’ assets. But the Spider is nothing if not persistent.”

Petyr smirked. “Oh, I intend to keep him busy. In fact, I’ve already started digging the next pit.”

Then, his tone shifted.

“News from Sevenshold. Robb has convinced most of the Northern lords there to follow him to Winterfell and swear fealty to the Queen. Only the old Karstark fool resisted—he stormed back to Karhold in a rage. But the other four houses have agreed to come.”

“What about the search for the next Umber heir?”

“No real candidate yet. But we have a fake one ready, should we need him.”

“Hold on to him for now. Don’t rush it. If we overplay our hand, Varys will find a way to turn it against us.”

Petyr nodded. “Still, this is a significant victory. Half the North’s nobility is already with us, at least in name. But the closer we get to the finish line, the more dangerous the game becomes. A desperate opponent is a dangerous one.”

“I’ve already ordered the Gifted Lands army to be locked down under wartime discipline. No unsanctioned leave, no private excursions—no chances for retaliation.”

“Smart.” Petyr approved. “But aside from our own safety, we also need to watch the Northern lords when they arrive. If Varys tries anything, that will be the moment.”

“I’ll handle it.”
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That Varys would counterattack was a certainty.

They didn’t need to say it. It was self-evident.

Aegor and Petyr had prepared for every angle. They had strengthened their positions. They were ready for whatever the Spider’s next move might be.

But Varys—always unpredictable—didn’t go after them directly.

He didn’t target their soldiers.

He didn’t move against the arriving Northern lords.

Instead—he struck somewhere neither of them had expected.

Right under their noses.

And by the time they realized it, the damage had already been done.