Chapter 249

The wolf girl perhaps should not have refused the marriage proposal. Thinking of the legendary figure of the North possibly departing in an absurd way, he felt regret. But he had no choice; he was not the true Duke of Dreadfort, and even his heir status was not secure.

The wolf girl should have sneaked into Holloway Castle and killed the red-robed monk; if possible, he thought, he could go further and kill the Duke Bolton... He swore that if that situation occurred, he would lead the Dreadfort forces back under the banner of the Ice Plains Wolves, provided, provided the marriage alliance. He believed the wolf girl had no room to refuse.

It's such a pity; if she were a bit more daring, he could even guarantee that afterward he would use all his strength to ensure she could leave safely.

She should also trust him.

Everyone knows she is a mongrel, but what about him? He isn't even sure whether he is his father's son; she feels her mother often hints at this, "Look, you look just like him!"

After he learned the concept of bastard, this sentence practically became his inner demon. If his mother were willing to replace "him" with "your father," how nice that would be! He also has other unreliable evidence.

However, after his mother accidentally died of a cold, the risk of him being a bastard completely disappeared. Afterwards, his uncle took him back to his own home, raising him as a son, expecting him to inherit the manor someday, but in his aunt's eyes he was no different from a bastard; when he became the heir of Dreadfort, her attitude began to change.

He still remembers what the children on the estate called him when he first arrived at his uncle's house—they never used the worrying terms "mongrel" or "Bolton bastard," but instead called him "fatherless Bolton brat."

That couldn't hurt him. The former term would only hurt Ramsay Snow, yet a noble bastard is still higher than a cadet branch bloodline.

After Domrick Bolton died, the infamous bastard Ramsay Snow was taken in by Lord Bolton to Dreadfort; he seemed to bear ill will toward everyone surnamed Bolton, and if it weren't for his blood being too close to the main Bolton line... Rick should thank this bastard's arrogance, otherwise it wouldn't have been his turn to become the heir of Dreadfort.

The one most deserving of thanks is Ramsay for killing that elegant heir.

If Domrick Bolton were still alive, the lord duke would certainly not have gone so mad, nor would he have introduced an evil god into these northern lands. And that natural heir would surely have prevented the lord duke from recklessly using the evil god's power, and would surely have prevented the lord duke from slaughtering key allies.

Actually, if Domrick Bolton had not died, according to the current succession law, he would still be the heir of Stream Land.

They are dead. The dead make way for the living.

He glanced at the duke seated in the place of honor; people say he is the silent ruler, but now he looks more like a pale ruler—the duke who returned from the south in such a short time has become this weak.

This is not the first time Rick Bolton has felt he should replace that originally lofty duke.

Kings contend, battles clash—how could the victor be a leech? Blades remain sharp, yet now they cut themselves to feed the evil god heresy... Does anyone win wars and thrones by relying on evil gods?

The blood-red fish beam wood on the mural looks like blood splattered on the wall.

If the wolf girl stormed Holloway City and killed the red-robed monk and the duke, how great that would be! I could convince Halfilint to turn to me; Captain Hanks could help me control the Bolton core infantry; Leo and Ang could likewise help me command the cavalry; Benedick and Elmont, once the duke dies, would surely bow before me and take charge of the duke's guard and the five hundred direct cavalry—enough to secure victory.

But this is far from his limit.

Viscount Barta sa will lead the Ye Creek River soldiers to pledge allegiance at once; with the help of my mother's connections, I am confident I can win over Viscount Moer; when the duke is absent from the North, I get along well with Viscount Motmormo of Shanyang City; if I propose marriage to Miss Motmormo, I can quickly win him over; the Frost Hall Viscount Snowwen Sans and the Iron Salt Viscount Lafort Bolton have always been at odds; in the struggle against Rick Bolton, he hardly needs to think about his choice; as for the Iron Salt City Viscount Domnick Lucini, he is greedy, but I have promised him a mine and pasture beneath Iron Salt City, so he cannot resist... As for the widows and orphans of other viscount domains, they will merely be spectators of this battle, watching the stags contend and awaiting the fortunate female beasts.

If the duke dies, he can swiftly gain complete control of the Dreadfort forces, but all this is merely wishful thinking while the duke still lives...

He is preparing to give his last ounce of strength.

"Duke, Halfilint, I hope you can pardon him. You haven't forgotten that Robb Stark killed Lord Rickard Stark of Karhold, have you?"

"Of course I haven't forgotten. Lord Karstark is the earl of Karhold, and the Halfilint you mention is a wastrel of Widow's Watch." The duke said with a hint of amusement, as if waiting for him to say something more valuable. "I would not behead a general just to slay enemy prisoners, but the Halfilint you spoke of... he killed hundreds of Bolton infantry, leaving their spirits to wander, never to find rest..."

He didn't understand the last words, so he decided to ignore them.

"He is not just a wastrel; he is also the nephew of Leysan Filint." Surely the duke understands this? "If our intelligence is correct, it is precisely because of him that Widow's Watch has completely turned to us—Rickard Stark being beheaded by Robb Stark counts for nothing; he deserved it," he said, "he harmed the guards of Benton City, defied the king's orders," "yet his death also means the Stark have lost important strength."

"Filint's soldiers belong to Leysan Filint, not Halfilint; I believe these soldiers can distinguish their true master..."

The duke's tone was flat, as if speaking of something irrelevant, yet he could not accept it and actually interrupted the duke's words... He didn't know where he got the nerve, "They will now only know that their military commander and their true master's confidant you have sent to the flaying rack and beacon tower; they can only hear screams and wails," plus the smell of scorching and stench. "They only know they are in danger and uncertainty."

He noticed the cold flash in the duke's eyes, yet he did not prepare to stop.

"He indeed made a grave mistake, but it was unintentional—who would have thought the city would suddenly change hands, the snow would suddenly melt, and even in deep winter heavy rain would fall?" He spoke ever more urgently, "If you wish to assign blame, the monk beside you is the culprit of all this; if he truly had the ability, this snow would continue, the wolf girl's great army would be buried in the snow, unable to advance or retreat, our sneaking soldiers would bury them in the camp, trap them in the valley with no escape."

As soon as he spoke, the whole room fell silent, and he also felt a hint of fear.

"He lost an eye in front of everyone." The duke coldly stared at him, then spoke in defense of the red-robed monk, "This shows the wolf girl has already used magic to counterattack; if our intelligence is not wrong, she has taken in the red-robed monk Soros from King's Landing and the red woman Melisandre from Stannis. This has already become a great magical war; do not think the wolf girl lacks magic, the Stannis lack magic... Without magic, she could not win battle after battle; even earlier, the Stannis would not be the masters of the North—just look at the Wall and Winterfell—you'll see—the duke understood this too late, but it's not too late now." The duke said lightly, as if speaking to the air in the hall, "You are my heir, I tell you these things; as for the Halfilint you mention... he made my hundreds of soldiers into ghosts; this is the price he must pay; he is valuable only in death, and it conforms to Bolton discipline."

What ghosts?

"He is the sacrifice chosen by R'hllor." Asaluo smiled, saying, "When we need him, he appears—is this not the arrangement of the gods? Moreover, I have heard he claims to be a purer orthodox line of the first men than the Starks or the Boltons, and R'hllor will like him."

Filint originally was like that; they never intermarried with non-first-men clans, and he does not need to claim so.

"My lord..." Just as he wanted to continue, the guards pushed open the doors of the council hall, the gate creaking loudly and interrupting him.

"My lord, the Iron Bank people have arrived."

"What do you think the Iron Bank people are here for?" the duke asked the red monk beside him.

Sir, although affected, the answer was already given in the firelight; in the firelight, the sea king of Blavros secretly transported slaves from outside the Great Wall, but ran aground on your coast, captured by your patrol soldiers; they have come, I see, most likely to ransom them.