No, It's Just a Coincidence (ASoIaF SI) Redux

[Mingo]

The Extraordinary Life of
King Mychel Bolton I, the Conqueror, the Wondermaker, the Father of Dragons
by Archmaester Yandrew of the Citadel, 513 MC​

What can be written of King Mychel of a Hundred Titles that a thousand other learned men have not already said? It is well known by this time that he was born to one of the greater houses of The North, House Bolton, a family known for its history of flaying men alive and had indeed once ruled over a great portion of The North as kings before their defeat at the hands of House Stark. During his childhood, young Mychel would play along the banks of the Weeping Water, would roam across the hills of Ethering, and explore his father's castle and one day his own: The Dreadfort.

Young Mychel proved to be an exceptionally gifted boy, both martially and mentally. At the age of six he could defeat boys five years his elder in the training yard and could beat his father's own Maester at Cyvasse. Indeed, he was so prodigiously talented that by his 11th nameday his father had ceded most of his lordly responsibilities onto the boy, and Mychel was soon Lord of the Dreadfort in all but name. His wonderous inventions, from four field crop rotation, to the seed drill, to his infamous cannons, led House Bolton to become the richest house in The North and led to the town of Weeping becoming a city in all but name as it had received no charter yet.

Mychel also began to earn a reputation as a prodigious lover and by his 15th year he had amassed a large harem made up of over three hundred smallfolk women and several highborn ladies. Indeed, as it stands today, just over 11% of the population of Westeros claim to be descended from –
"MYCHEL BOLTON YOU THIEVING LITTLE SHIT!"

"Oh frack!"

Deep in the halls of the Dreadfort, a young boy, previously hunched over some stolen writing supplies, scrambles back from the door of his bedroom as two of his father's men knocked it off its hinges, a furious-looking old man wearing a long chain entering after them.



"YOU THINK YOU CAN STEAL FROM ME DO YOU!? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH PARCHMENT AND INK COST!?"

The old man, shaking and red-faced, walks up to the small boy, just seven name days old, and slaps him across the face before ripping the parchment and quill from his little hands. He scans the page for but a moment before looking back at the boy, his beady eyes narrowing into points, his deep scowl mutating into a cruel grin.

"Well, brat! I'll tell your father about this when he returns, he can deal with you himself!"

With that the Maester walks out of the room, the two guards a pace behind him, leaving the small boy, a boy with black hair and pale blue eyes which were now wet with unshed tears, alone in his destroyed bedroom, holding his cheek.

An hour later, in the Maester's Tower, Maester Godwyn, now much calmer, looked over the parchment he'd snatched earlier from his Lord's heir, a look of incredulity on his face.

"Father of Dragons!"

What's a dragon?

 

[Mingo]

Timeline (WiP)

1 AD (After the Dawn) The War for the Dawn ends. The Wall is completed.

103 AD Peaceful shepherd folk find dragons in the Fourteen Flames in Valyria, they become the first dragon riders

1360 AD The Valyrian Freehold finally shatters the Ghiscari Empire and starts expanding

1900 AD Some Andal houses begin raiding southern Westeros

1927 AD Princess Rayna Bolton is born to King Rogar Bolton and Queen Myranda Bolton nèe Royce

1930 AD Prince Roose Bolton is born

1935 AD Prince Rickard Bolton is born

1938 AD King Jon IV of House Stark finally unites The North under their rule by defeating King Rogar III of House Bolton and capturing his sons and daughter, whom he marries to his son and heir Rodrick. Roose and Rickard live in Winterfell as hostages while Rayna becomes a Stark.

1940 AD An Andal invasion fleet lands in The Fingers in The Vale. The Andal Invasion of The Vale begins

1942 AD Prince Brandon Stark is born to Prince Rodrick and Princess Rayna

1945 AD A Wildling Invasion occurs when a pair of brothers find a cave system that allows them to travel to the other side of The Wall. The invasion is put down, but King Jon is killed. Roose fights in a battle and gets a scar across his right cheek

1946 AD Roose's "fostering" ends. He marries Myra Glover. In the Vale, First Men houses Brightstone and Shell are destroyed, their lands taken over by the Andal House Corbray

1947 AD Roose and Myra have a son, Roose. Unfortunately, the boy dies a week later.

1949 AD Myra Glover dies in childbirth, they have a son who lives for only a day.

1951 AD Rickard's "fostership" ends.

1952 AD In the Vale, the Andal House Grafton becomes the ruling house of Gulltown

1953 AD King Yorwyk VI of House Royce dies, Roose's cousin, Robar, ascends the Bronze Throne.

1958 AD King Robar Royce declares war against House Corbray of The Fingers. Roose and Rickard sail to Runestone to aid their cousin without permission from King Rodrick or Lord Rogar. They fight in many battles. Qyle Corbray is slain.

1959 AD The Shetts, under Robar, manage to retake Gulltown. Roose marries Alys Shett. Rickard marries Jeyne Redfort. Robar is proclaimed High King of the Vale.

1960 AD Lord Rogar Bolton dies, Roose and Rickard return home with their new wives.

1961 AD The First Men in The Vale led by King Robar win a massive battle at Ironoaks. Roose and Alys have a son who dies three weeks after his birth.

1962 AD Prince Brandon Stark marries Meera Reed. The Andal Houses in The Vale band together around Ser Artys Arryn, the Falcon Knight.

1963 AD Rickard and Jeyne have a daughter, Reyna

1964 AD Roose and Alys have yet another son, he doesn't live a day. The Battle of the Seven Stars occurs, Robar is killed. Artys Arryn is proclaimed the King of the Vale.

1966 AD Rickard and Jeyne have a son, Rickard.

1967 AD Roose and Alys lose another son, Roose's fifth. Alys' body is found a few days later hanging from a rope.

1968 AD Denys Upton, a Lord of Andalos, begins raiding the eastern coast of The North. Andals from Andalos and The Vale begin streaming into The Riverlands. Jeyne, Rickard's wife, dies in childbirth, delivering a stillborn.

1969 AD Denys and his son Mychel raid the Bolton lands and burn the town of Weeping. Enraged, Roose captures one of the men and learns their launching point, he takes a thousand men, including his brother Rickard, by boat across the Narrow Sea and sacks Upton Keep and it's castle town. Lord Denys is crippled in the aftermath and Mychel is brutally killed as well as half the town. Margaery Upton, Lord Denys' daughter is taken as a hostage.

1970 AD Roose and Margaery marry, and over many moons, fall in love. Neither expect to ever have children due to an accident Margaery had as a young girl. Lord Denys disowns his daughter on hearing the news.

1971 AD The Fall of Maidenpool

1972 AD Prince Theon Stark is born to Brandon and Meera

1973 AD Margaery miraculously is discovered to be pregnant. The pair have a son whom she names Mychel after her brother. Roose doesn't object to the name, bitterly thinking the boy would die soon anyway. While small, Mychel survives.
In the same year, Rickard sires a bastard, Balthasar, with a scullery maid.

1975 AD The Battle of Bitter River in the Riverlands

1980 AD Start of the story

 

[Mingo]

 

[Mingo]

Roose Bolton - Lord of the Dreadfort - "The Hammer of Gulltown"


Margaery Bolton - Lady of the Dreadfort


Mychel Bolton - Heir to the Dreadfort - The Insert


Rickard Bolton - The Dreadfort's Master at Arms


Rayna "Ray" Bolton - Rickard's Daughter


Rickard "Rick" Bolton - Rickard's Son, Mychel's Bully


Balthasar Snow - Rickard's Bastard - "The Bastard of the Dreadfort"


Willem Bones - Mychel's Best Friend


Godwyn - Maester of the Dreadfort - "The Tireless"


King Rodrick Stark - King in The North


Queen Rayna Stark - Wife of Rodrick - "The Bolton in Wolf Skins"


Prince Brandon Stark - Heir to the Throne


Prince Torrhen Stark - Senior Ranger of The Night's Watch - "The Wolf on The Wall"


Prince Theon Stark - Son of Brandon - "The Hungry Wolf"


Princess Arya Stark - Daughter of Brandon

 

[Mingo]

Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, sat in his solar and listened to the cracking of the firewood whilst thinking about his son and heir, Mychel. The grizzled old lord, now 50, cut a rather imposing figure despite his age, knots of dense muscle still present on his arms, legs and back, though they couldn't be seen under the mountain of furs he wore, being that it was the dead of winter. Those furs, as well as his long greying hair and full beard, helped hide the numerous scars running across his body from a hard life of warfare, all but the deep line across his right cheek, given to him by a Wildling savage many years ago when he was still a green boy. His most prominent feature though, was the black eye-patch he wore over where his left eye had once been, a gift from his wife's brother if you can believe it, but this was not a time for self-reflection.

Roose again brought up the papers given to him by the Maester, angling them to catch the hearthlight, his lone pale green eye scanning the page, before narrowing again in confusion.

Roose did not understand his son. Perhaps it was the age difference, he had been well over 40 when the boy was born to his third wife, his first son to survive infancy. He'd had five sons previously, Roose, Rogar, Royce, Ramsey, and Rickon but none had lived longer than a month. He had actually given up on having children, content to let his brother Rickard inherit after him, but then his third wife, previously thought barren, was discovered to be pregnant.

The boy was strange, even as a babe, never crying much and refused to drink from his mother's breast, something that had brought her no end in tears. As a result, he was rather small, and everyone thought he'd soon perish like his brothers had, but he proved that he was strong, a survivor like his father and mother. Roose felt pride swell up in his chest at the thought, he loved his son fiercely, let no man think otherwise.

Still, Mychel's small size was the least of his problems, the boy was brilliant, aye, too smart for his own good, but that brilliance was unfocused, his bedroom was littered with half-built items that seemed brilliant but were never finished. The boy was also willful, constantly disobeying his tutors whilst simultaneously insulting their intelligence, talking down to them as if they were the children and he was a lord already. This incident was just the latest in a long line of them, the boy had stolen Maester Godwyn's parchment and ink and had holed himself up in his chambers. The first dozen pages were filled with half-completed drawings of... well, things that neither Roose nor his Maester could ever make much sense of, but soon the boy apparently got tired of drawing and began fooling about with the remaining pages. To Roose's eye, the diagrams, while not well drawn (his son was no artist,) were brilliant, the one he could make the most sense of showing a great wheel connected to a series of gears, if Roose was right it was a grain mill, one powered by the river and not a mule like the ones he'd seen smallfolk use, but it was the last couple pages that drew his attention.

Certainly, a vivid imagination, he thought with a smirk, what's this about a harem? Where'd he even hear that word? His mother and I haven't even given him The Talk yet and he's writing about having hundreds of mistresses, ha! Must have been the sailors coming up the river to trade.

The bit about dragons though made him furrow his aged brow. I've heard of that somewhere before, but I just can't think of it. That word 'dragon' itched in his mind, filling him with a strange sense of foreboding. Then he remembered something, something Margaery mentioned once, I can't remember. I'll have to ask her; she needs to see this anyway.

With that, Roose drew himself up from the comfortable chair and warm fire to look for his wife in her sitting room, bringing the pages with him down the freezing halls of the castle, passing servants and guards. He strode into her chambers, which were much less cold than his, holding up the pages in his rough calloused hands.

Lady Margaery Bolton was still as beautiful as the day they met, the day he and his men stormed her father's castle on that foreign shore, the same day he lost his eye. She had the classic Andal look, with smooth skin, golden hair and beautiful blue eyes, eyes that, whilst looking like ice somehow always held such warmth in them.

"Look what our son has been doing." He said gruffly before sitting down across from her, offering her the pages. Margaery took the pages and turned them in her dainty hands before reading and flipping through them, a warm, wistful smile slowly spreading across her face, matching Roose's.

"Silly boy" she sighed fondly as she began reading the second to final page. But the smile soon slid away from her face and Roose could see where she'd been reading, it was the 'Father of Dragons' bit. She continued to read the final pages, some of her smile returning but her eyes looked worried. Once she'd finished, he asked her:

"What are dragons? I remember you mentioned them once, but I can't quite recall..."

His wife looked up at him and he could tell this worried her too.

"I've never seen one, no one I know has ever seen one, but the dragons are meant to be massive, winged beasts that breath fire and crave human flesh. There are people, the Valyrians, who supposedly ride them like horses, and use them to conquer." Margaery then looked at him, pain and sorrow crossing her features. "My father was worried that our people, the Andals, were next, that's why he raided..."

Roose stopped her from continuing, needing no reminder of what her father and brother did or what Roose had done to them in turn. They'd both come so far since those days, those early days when she both hated and feared him with equal measure, it didn't need to be revisited.

"So, you told him?" he asked gently.

Margaery shook her head in denial. "No. I never did, never would! I thought it was best forgotten." a single tear ran down her face.

"Then how did he learn of it?"

"I don't know." She resolved, getting up. "Let's go ask him."

With that the two left the sitting room to look for their boy, their hands clasped together for warmth.

 

[Mingo]

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

Mychel was tired and achy all over.

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

After the good Maester had his door broken down and had slapped him, the Dreadfort's Master at Arms, his own uncle Rickard, had put him through the wringer in the training yard, twice! After that his whole body was sore and bruised and he very much needed a nap. He'd thought his punishment was over. But no, it had only just begun.

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

Maester Godwyn had told him to write that out 200 times like Bart Simpson.

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

At first Mychel was confused, Maester Godwyn didn't have a blackboard, they didn't seem to exist, all he had was parchment. So, he got in trouble for stealing the Maester's parchment and ink, and his punishment from the Maester was to use up more?

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

At his question the prick had just smiled before pointing to a shelf in the corner of the tower. On the shelf were several dozen wax etching squares.

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing suplies without permission ever again.'

Just writing this out 200 times on parchment would have been punishment enough in Mychel's mind. But with Etching Squares? Where you have to press really hard with an etching knife into a dense, uneven slab of wax?

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

IT'S FRACKING TORTURE!

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

Two hours, a severe hand cramp and several finger nicks later, he was almost finished, thank the gods!

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

Just one more...

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

AND DONE! Mychel got up from the wooden table and brought the squares over to Godwyn's desk before sitting down on a much more comfortable stuffed armchair, happy to finally rest. The old man carefully examined each tablet before turning back to him with a smug look.

"My apologies Your Excellency, but you misspelled 'supplies' here" he said in a fake simpering tone, pointing out the mistake. "Ten more and then you're done."

Outwardly Mychel was calm, but inwardly?

AAAAAHHHHH!!! YOU FRACKING LOUSY PRICK! FRACK YOU, YOU FRACKING FRACK! AHH!

Walking back to the table, Mychel sat down to write another ten.

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

Meanwhile Maester Godwyn put the other wax squares over the fire to heat them up, to partially melt the wax and make them blank, clearly doing it to erase the evidence of his torture of Mychel.

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

It was all made worse by the taunts the Maester and his uncle had sent his way. Calling him 'Your Excellency' and his uncle making him, who was only seven in this life, fight against boys who were twelve because he was 'so prodigiously talented.'

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

It was Mychel's mistake to not write it in English, at this point he's so used to writing in the runic script of the Old Tongue that he'd done it by default.

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

Mychel remembered when he was just a baby and had to slowly learn the language just from listening, though thankfully his mother would occasionally speak to him in English, as it was the Andal language somehow too. Mychel was glad he was not a linguist in his past life, or else that fact would have killed him all over again!

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

He could still remember his death, he'd just gone off work late and needed to catch the bus. He stopped at the intersection, dark but well-lit, and slammed down on the button, but it took too long and the nearest car was half a block away. He checked!

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

He never saw the car that hit him, but he felt it. One second, he was running, the next he was lying on the cold pavement, unable to breathe and in so much pain! But soon the pain ebbed away, the world was ebbing away, he could hear yelling, then... nothing.

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

Westeros was hardly his idea of the perfect afterlife. And he would certainly never have chosen to be named Mychel Bolton of all things! That alone convinced him that this was a cosmic joke at his expense. He missed his real family.

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

But he'd gotten to know the people here. He got to know his new mother and father, and he'd come to love them. He even loved the Dreadfort and his dick of an uncle.

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

But he would NEVER feel anything other than cold, black hatred for that prick Godwyn! Who took EVEY opportunity to make Mychel look and feel like an idiot even though he was anything but! The arsehole was probably enjoying watching him write this!

'I will not take Maester Godwyn's writing supplies without permission ever again.'

WELL NO MORE! That's the last fracking one! Getting up once again, Mychel dropped the slab of wax on the prick's desk. The bastard looked it over before motioning for the door.



"Very well done, Your Highness. You may go visit your harem now" he said with a smirk.

"Oh, I will!" Mychel crowed. "But first I'd like a blank one of these please."

Godwyn shot him an inquisitive look before nodding and wordlessly dropping a blank square into Mychel's bloodstained hands.

He didn't even offer me bandages, the prick!

With that, Mychel marched down the steps of the tower and went to his bedroom, gingerly closing the door behind him so as not to upset the new hinges. After adding more wood to the fire, he sat down in his bed and started to write on the slab once again, this time in English.

Dear Etching Square of Wax,

My Maester's an arsehole, also, I'm from a different universe.

Sincerely Yours,
Mychel Bolton

P.S. No relation

 

[Mingo]

Margaery and her husband walked through the cold hallway, passing the odd servant along the way.

She'd lived in this castle for over ten years now, and still didn't feel like she belonged here, not fully. Reading her son's musings had reminded her of something she'd tried to forget, which in turn reminded her of how she had come to live here in the first place.

It all started when she was still a girl, just 15 or so and soon to marry. Her father had begun ranting about dragons and how her people, the Andals, would all be enslaved. He saw his brethren in The Vale winning their war and decided that migrating to Westeros was their only hope of escape. But he wanted The North, so he began raiding Northern coastal towns and castles, slowly building up his warchest, but one day he stole from the wrong house.

And so the Boltons came.

Margaery turned to look at her husband, who was still holding her hand. They'd been comfortable together for a long time, and she had come to love him eventually, but deep inside, Margaery knew she never really had a choice. She still resented him for that. A part of her always would, but she used to hate him. The birth of Mychel, her son, changed all that, it was when she stopped pretending and began to love her husband in truth.


She felt it when he first held him, their little boy, the love on his face but also the fear and resignation. He was so sure they'd lose him, and it was true that he was so small, but every day Roose's fear lessened and his spirits raised. In the following months Roose's whole demeanor changed. Where he used to be so hard-edged he softened, and his usual broodiness soon gave way to joy.

Yes, their son was a gift from the gods, both those of her homeland and those of Westeros, but no more thinking about that for now.

They're here.

Letting go of her lord husband's hand, Margaery raised her own to knock on her son's door, but it opened before she could. Looking down, Margaery let out the breath she'd been holding in surprise. She'd been struck speechless.

Oh my poor boy.

She'd just seen her son earlier that morning when they broke their fast together, he'd been so exuberant, talking animatedly about some new ideas of his, and all she could do was smile, nod, and occasionally repeat a bit of what he'd said to show that she was listening, because certainly most of the things he spoke about completely flew over her head. But he was so excited, so full of joy just at being able to discuss them with her...

Now he looked as if all that joy had been beaten out of him. His face was blank, apart from the massive bruise on his chin and another around his eye. He was holding his side and was standing awkwardly, so possibly a limp as well, his hands were covered in dried blood.

She still hated the barbarity of this place. She sent a glare at her husband, who didn't look nearly as angry as he should be. The savagery of The North still shocked her at times.

Rickard is too rough with him!

As soon as he saw them, Mychel took a quick step towards her, as if wanting to run into her arms, but stopped himself. Instead, he straightened his back and let them inside, looking neither in the eye. The sight made Margaery's heart break just a little bit more.

Once they sat down beside a warm fire, Roose began to speak.

"Mychel, Maester Godwyn told me what you did."

Margaery looked at her husband in shock, will he not even comment on his only son's injuries? It seemed not, as Roose continued.

"You stole half the castle's supply of parchment, which would be bad enough, if we weren't in the midst of winter, even if it is a mild one. It will be difficult, not to mention expensive, to replenish our stock."

Mychel's eyes went as wide as saucers. He must not have known the value of what he took. Roose started to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

"As punishment, you will be doubling your training under your Uncle Rickard, and you will apologize to Maester Godwyn." Margaery and her son began to protest but Roose put his foot down "Enough! You will tell him you are sorry and mean it! He is not the villain you childishly think he is."

Margaery could take no more of this.

"You are not sending him back to that savage brother of yours!" she exclaimed. Roose opened his mouth to speak but she yelled over him "I forbid it! LOOK AT YOUR SON!"

Roose didn't raise his voice, he rarely did, but his demeanor became cold and controlled, he simply waited for her to finish before replying a tone that brook no argument.

"My brother is making him into a warrior. He is my son, my heir, how can my men follow him if he won't fight beside them? The lessons my brother teaches will keep him alive."

"By all the Gods Roose, HE'S SEVEN!" Margaery yelled. Roose simply nodded, before replying, more gently this time.

"And I am fifty. My grandfather died at sixty name-days, my father at 52, both died in their sleep. I will not be here forever." He turned to his son, "you understand, don't you? You need to be ready." Mychel nodded his head solemnly, though wincing at the movement. Margaery was having none of it though.

"He's just a boy, Roose!"

Roose just smiled a bitter smile and ignored her, concentrating fully on Mychel. "Age doesn't make a man, it's a choice, to leave childhood behind, to put your people, your family, before yourself! It's a choice! You could be seven or seventy, it's never too early or too late to make that choice, and it's not a choice you only make once! It's a choice I make every day! It's a choice your Uncle Rickard makes every day! And it's the choice YOU must make Every. Single. Day! You understand, don't you?" Another quick nod. "Good! And do you know what that makes you?"

"A man, Father"

"And what do men do?"

"We do what we must."

"Exactly! So, you'll double your time in the training yard, you'll apologize to Maester Godwyn, and you won't complain, will you?"

"No, Father"

For the first time in years Margaery feels powerless, because the truth is that she has no control over how her son is raised. The only power she has is what Roose gives her. Something she's always known but... it really is a man's world, isn't it? She opens her mouth again, but this time not to argue but to beg. Anything for her son.

"Please. Please, Roose. He's our son, our little boy. How can he lead your people if Rickard cripples him? Can't you see the damage he's already suffered?"

Roose stands up, looks at Margaery, then Mychel, then back to her.

"I'll talk to him." he says gently.

That's it? 'I'll talk to him.' That's all I get?

Margaery stands as well; she needs to get out of this room. She follows Roose to the door, but once they're out of the room he turns around, addressing Mychel.

"Oh, I almost forgot. You mentioned dragons in your... whatever you call that. How do you know about them?"

Mychel looked his father straight in the eye "The sailors talk, Father, I heard about them from them."

Roose nodded, his suspicions confirmed.

"You'll keep this room clean, won't you" He gets a nod. "Yes, Father."

Roose nods sharply. "Good, and I'll be expecting a marked improvement in your sword training in eight moons time."

"Yes, Father. Why eight moons?" Mychel asks.



"Because my boy..." Roose gives him a small smile.

"...the Starks are coming."

 

[Mingo]

AN: You all deserve it and I've already got two more chapters locked and loaded, so it's a double post today! This is the second one.

---

Mychel stepped out onto the training yard just after dawn, the sun not yet peeking over the walls of The Dreadfort. The older boys had already cleared out all the snow from the night before so there was only a couple of inches on the ground at that point.

The yard was about half the size of a Football field and was surrounded by a dirt track. One side was dominated by the keep itself, the dark grey castle looming menacingly overhead, on the opposite side was one of the castle's main walls, terribly high and with a row of triangular merlons on top, looking like sharp teeth from a distance. In the yard itself there were rows of straw and cloth dummies for training, as well as several open areas for sparring and a great selection of training swords and weapons of various sizes. On the other two sides of the training yard were the stables and a healer's tent. Everything was blanketed in white.

Looking around, Mychel let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Mychel had never thought of himself as a coward, but as an average guy from the 21st century US, he had a natural aversion to fighting or getting hit. Before waking up in the Game of Thrones universe he'd been in exactly one fist fight and had gotten his butt kicked. But here, he needed to become a warrior.

He looked at his friends beside him.

Balthasar "Bal" Snow was Mychel's bastard cousin, the son of one of castle's maids and his own uncle Rickard. He had messy black hair and dark green eyes. Like Mychel, he was seven years old. The kid also had a serious chip on his shoulder, he lost his temper very easily but would viciously defend Mychel whenever someone bullied him. He tended to take a lot of hits meant for Mychel whenever there was a real fight, but on the other hand, his constant mouthing off to the bigger kids meant he usually dragged Mychel into more fights, so Mychel probably got just as many bruises as he would have gotten, if not more.

Willem "Billy" Bones was quite the opposite. He was the Kennelmaster's son and Mychel's best friend. He had short light brown hair and brown eyes and was bigger and stronger than most children his age, which was eight. He was more creative, like Mychel, but was shy, preferring his own company over anyone else's. Bones wasn't his actual surname. Rather, Bones was the name given to whomever the current Kennelmaster of the Dreadfort was, a practice over a thousand years old. Because Bill's father recently started making him work as his apprentice, the training yard was the only place Willem and Mychel could spend any real time together.

Mychel was just getting done telling them about his recent troubles. "...and then suddenly men are breaking down my door and that prick Godwyn comes in, slaps me, and yells in my face!"

Willem shook his head slowly. "That's not right, he should not have done that."

"But we'll get him back, right Mychel?!" Bal asked excitedly.

"Definitely!"

The three began walking toward the-
"Well, if it isn't the runt!" a voice drawled out. Mychel swore under his breath before turning to face one of his bullies.

Rickard "Rick" Bolton was, like Bal, his cousin, the trueborn son of his Uncle Rickard. He had long black hair and pale green eyes. At 14, he was twice Mychel's age and was heavily muscled and very strong. Usually brought in by his father to help train the younger kids, Rick rarely hit Mychel maliciously, but was constantly making jokes at his expense and belittling him.

"I hear it's King Runt now!" yelled one of Rick's no-name friends. Mychel resisted the urge to facepalm. Along with Maester Godwyn, his uncle had begun mockingly calling him 'Your Excellence' or 'Your Grace,' and while most didn't know the story behind why he was being called that, that hasn't stopped it from catching on.

Rick perked up and grinned. "Oh yeah! King Runt is a bit too long a nickname though! Better shorten it to cun-"
"LADIES! This isn't a sewing circle! FORM UP!"

Rickard Bolton, Mychel's uncle, was a beast of a man. With a mane of wild black hair and fierce pale green eyes, he was ridiculously muscled, especially in his arms and torso. His mind was about as sharp as the wooden sword Mychel trained with though, so he fit the big strong dumb guy trope pretty well. Mychel had fond memories of playing with him but since his training began this year, Uncle Rickard been different, not meaner, but tougher with him.

Mychel lined up with the twenty or so other boys. Rickard walked down the line, looking at each one of them before continuing. "This morning you're using the axe and shield and will be sparring one-on-one! Put on your armor, grab an axe and shield and I'll pair you off."

Mychel and the rest did as they were told. After putting on his armor and helm, he took a blunt training axe from the rack and a round shield that was almost half his size. Getting back on the line, he waited to be assigned a partner, and already Mychel was dreading this.

After he had stolen half the castle's supply of parchment, something he was still kicking himself for by the way, Mychel's parents came to his room that night, shortly before bed. That night, his father made it clear that his punishment was that his time spent training under his uncle Rickard would now be doubled. But there was another reason why that visit was so important:

It was one of the last times his parents had spoken to each other.

His mother didn't want her young son in that kind of danger, which in Mychel's world would have in no way been a bad thing, but this is Westeros, and if Mychel is ever to be respected, he'll need to be a great warrior. It didn't help that he was already covered in bruises when they'd had this talk, but afterwards, things between Roose and Margaery had seemed to be slowly improving. At first, he assumed his parent's marriage would be OK, after all, it was clear to everyone that they loved each other. But a few days later, Mychel had gotten his butt kicked in the yard yet again and everything got so much worse. Now she wasn't even speaking to his father, and it felt like every bruise or cut he received was one more nail in their marriage's coffin.

So yes, Mychel had been dreading this. The old him probably would have refused outright, to save his mother pain, and would have been forever labeled a craven like that Whitehill kid. But Mychel wasn't that person anymore.

It was his father's speech that night that had tipped the scales. He didn't know if his father had pulled it out of his arse or had rehearsed it ahead of time, and to Mychel's modern sensibilities it was rather toxic, but it had done its trick. Mychel realized he'd been such a child, not just in this life, but before that, as an adult, he'd never really grown up. Well, it was time now.

Time to put away childish things.

During his quiet introspection he'd missed half the trainees getting assigned opponents, but thankfully he hadn't been called yet. Eventually he heard "Bones against Mikken, Mychel against Balthasar."

Mychel suppressed a grimace. While Bal had always defended him, that was only when they were on the same side! When fighting each other, the other boy would turn all of that fury onto Mychel, getting especially vicious whenever Uncle Rickard was watching, perhaps hoping to earn his father's love or pride. As Mychel and Bal walked onto the field, far enough from the others, out of the corner of his eye Mychel saw his uncle settling nearby to watch.

Great! He thought sarcastically.

He also felt sympathy for Bill, because, despite his size advantage, he wasn't exactly terrific at martial endeavours. He was also up against Mikken, who was an absolute beast at twelve and was the one responsible for Mychel's bruises earlier in the week. Billy just couldn't win this one.

Mychel refocused on his own spar against Bal.

Ok. I can work with this. Bal's a berserker, his attacks are fast and hard but are hardly accurate, he never defends himself much, preferring pure offense. It's like he enjoys pain or something! He also broadcasts his movements with sloppy footwork. I could pull a Bronn and try to tire him out, but he's wearing the same armor as me... or I can go on the offensive.

Father would go on the offensive.

With a plan in place, Mychel didn't wait for Bal to attack him, he attacked first, something he'd almost never done before! In a moment, he crossed the distance between them and swung his axe in a quick diagonal strike, aiming for Bal's dominant hand. Bal's eyes widened at the unexpected attack and reeled backward in surprise, causing Mychel to miss but giving him another opportunity. While Bal fought to regain his balance, Mychel swung a powerful side-strike, trying to knock Bal to his feet. The dull axehead slipped past Bal's shield and slammed into Bal's left side, knocking the wind out of him but not knocking him down. Both boys needed to right themselves after such a heavy blow, and soon enough they were on an even footing. This time Bal attacked, launching a flurry of strikes at Mychel very quickly which Mychel blocked and parried. With Bal continuously going on the offensive, Mychel's concentration was fully on defending.



The truth is that neither were very good fighters yet, both were making countless mistakes in footwork. Their forms were sloppy and they were both under-utilizing their shields. Bal, however, made one mistake too many, his preference for powerful overhand strikes made fighting him more predictable, and Mychel took advantage by following Bal's next strike with a slash to the face.


Bal's helm rang like a bell and the attack seemed to daze him somewhat. Going on the attack once again, Mychel once more swung his axe in a diagonal strike at Bal's right hand.

This time it worked!

The instant Bal dropped his axe Mychel began raining strike after strike down on him, slipping past his shield each time. While Bal was never one to give up, he didn't have a choice as the rules of sparring here were that if you received five hits to your head, limbs or body you lost the spar, simple as that!

"VERY GOOD, MYCHEL! That's what I like to see!" came the booming voice of his uncle. Looking around, Mychel was pleased to see that he was one of the first to win their spar, most everyone was still fighting. Not Billy though, he looked severely battered and was limping his way to the healer's tent. Mychel felt bad for his friend but was ecstatic to have won his fight without taking a single hit! There'd be no injuries for his mother to not talk to his father over tonight!

Lost in his thoughts over his spectacular win, Mychel didn't see his cousin Rick walk over to Rickard and start talking to him. He was too far away to have made out the words anyway.

"Right, MYCHEL!" Rickard yelled out. "Since you've finished so quickly you can fight Mikken, if it pleases Your Grace."

Damn!

 

[Mingo]

Tireless. That had been Godwyn's motto when he was still Godwyn Prester, the third son of the Lord of Feastfires, and as the Maester for The Dreadfort, it was still his motto, even if he no longer had his family name. He still had fond memories from his childhood such as reading beside the Great Hearth, riding his horse throughout The Westerlands and exploring his family's gold mine. He remembered the ambitious boy he had been when he joined The Citadel at just twelve namedays, dreaming of giving wise council to kings, formulating battle strategies, and most importantly, educating princes, guiding them, shaping them.

Halting his introspection briefly, Godwyn looked over at his favorite pupil, sitting across the table from him.

He was honestly quite proud of Rick.

Still, this wasn't how his life was supposed to go! When he first arrived at The Dreadfort in 1935, it was still the capital of a kingdom, and for three years his dream had been achieved, he was an advisor to a king and a mentor to princes. For the first time in his life, he had the influence and power he craved!

And then the Starks came...

And his king went off to war, leaving him behind to care for his sons and daughter. Godwyn had four iron links and had been recognized as a brilliant tactician at the Citadel, but he was left behind.

If Godwyn had gone with King Rogar, he might have warned him not to trust the Hornwoods, the King wouldn't have been betrayed at the worst possible moment and his children wouldn't have been taken as hostages! He would have recommended retreat before the disastrous Battle of Ethering and the unconditional surrender could have been avoided. But no! Instead, the Hornwoods rose to become great lords in their own right, and the Starks took the Grey Cliffs and the lands surrounding it for themselves. Roose and Rickard were taken as "wards" of King Jon and Rayna was forcibly married to the prince. In the span of a single year, Godwyn saw his dreams turn to dust.

He had no longer served a king, but a lord, and one with no allies or treasury at that, and he couldn't educate the children as they weren't even there! Instead, he helped administrate his lord's vastly diminished holdings, treated wounds and tended to the ravens.

When Roose's "fostering" ended, he arrived back home with a new wife who was soon pregnant and Godwyn realized that he could still shape the next generation of Boltons, could still make something of himself!

It wasn't my fault the babies kept dying!

The first time was a fluke surely! The second time was clearly the mother's fault and how fortunate it was that she died! The third was troubling, and Godwyn was beginning to wish he'd earned more than a single silver link for healing. The fourth confirmed to him that Roose simply was incapable of fathering strong enough children, Godwyn hadn't even tried too hard to save the fifth son, what would have been the point in trying? Thankfully, the spare, Rickard, did his duty and had a son. Since it seemed clear that Roose couldn't have sons of his own, it was obvious that Rickard the Younger would one day inherit, so Godwyn put everything he had into raising young Rick. He taught him his letters and numbers, and most importantly, how to think! Most everything that didn't involve swinging a sword, riding a horse or sleeping with a girl Rick learned from him!

But then Mychel was born.

At first, Godwyn thought nothing of it, the child was weak, wouldn't even drink his own mother's milk to save his life, though he was taking longer to die than the others had. But slowly, Godwyn realized that the boy, as small as he was, was going to make it. He cursed himself for investing so much precious time and energy into the now inconsequential Rick and started the same process with Mychel. He began by spending time with Mychel, from when he was scant few months old, sometimes reading to him, other times just saying whatever was on his mind, his plans, what he really thought of people, all to get Mychel used to the sound of his voice, the first step in endearing himself to the boy.

Instead, it seemed to have the opposite effect.

The babe was calm with him at first, in fact he almost never cried, but then for months he would just start wailing whenever Godwyn approached him. If that wasn't bad enough, once his teeth came the little bastard would bite him, just him! But once another person came into the room, he'd be perfectly normal! Were Godwyn a religious man, he'd think the child were possessed!

Dragging his mind back to the present, Godwyn glanced at the etching tablet Rick was writing on.

"No, I told you to multiply, you're subtracting."

Not meeting his eyes, and with a bored look on his face, Rick responded. "You asked me to multiply 822 by 9, I realized it would be easier to subtract 822 from 8,220, which is 822 times ten, the answer to both is 7,398."

Godwyn fought the swell of pride growing in his chest. He's thinking! His face still stern, he taps the etching square again. "That's not what I asked you. Multiply and show the work!" Rick grumbles but complies and starts work on the problem.



Rick doesn't like to show it, especially when he's with his friends, but he's actually quite bright, which is odd, considering how dim-witted his father is. If only Rick was the heir instead of that brat!

Not for the first time, Godwyn considered the possibility of Rick supplanting Mychel as Lord of the Dreadfort once Roose passes. While a succession crisis is the last thing House Bolton needs, it wasn't a leap to think that the champions, soldiers and subjects of House Bolton would prefer Rick as Lord to Mychel. Rick was gregarious and made friends easily, Mychel just had two, a bastard and the baker's boy. Rick had a sharp mind, if somewhat underutilized, while Mychel's mind seemed a jumbled mess. He was also twice the boy's age and was the beneficiary of Godwyn's wisdom and mentorship.

Yes, if Roose dropped dead tomorrow, or at any time in the next few years, Godwyn was confident that Rick would have more than enough support to make his claim.

"Godwyn," came Rick's voice, interrupting his train of thought, "I've finished."

Godwyn checked over the work. Good! "Well done, Rick," he praised. "Now, the journey by ship from Weeping to The Wolf's Den is 390 leagues. One ship leaves Weeping for The Wolf's Den travelling 30 leagues per day. Five days later, your uncle sends another ship out and instructs that it arrive on the same day the first ship is scheduled to arrive. How many leagues per day must the second ship now cover?"

Rick thought for a minute. "I don't suppose there are pirates?"

"No pirates."

Another grumble.

Seeing that his protege was unsure how to solve the problem, Godwyn leaned forward in his seat and spoke in his teaching voice "You see, in this case we first need to multiply thirty by five, getting 150. Subtract that from 390 and you get 240. Divide that by 30 and you get eight, that's the number of days left in the first ship's journey, understand?" He gets a nod. "Well, 390 divided by eight is 48 and three quarters and that is how many leagues per day the second ship will need to go!"

Rick looks unsure "I suppose that makes sense."

Godwyn gives him a small smile. "It does. You'll solve this next one on your own, it's similar to last one. A raven is sent to Runestone from the Dreadfort..."

 

[Mingo]

It was early in the morning of the second day of the third moon, that two boys were sitting on the banks of the Weeping Water, each holding their own fishing pole and casting their lines into the river's cold waves. The dawn's rays just beginning to poke through the branches. This day was special, as it was the first in a long while that the river was not frozen over. To the boys, it was surely a sign that Winter was coming to an end. The boys were Mychel Bolton, son of the Lord, and Willem Bones, son of the castle's Kennelmaster.

Life had been difficult for the two as of late. Mychel's training had been doubled following one of his escapades, and recently his parent's marriage had turned to ice. Mychel only hoped that, like the river, that that ice would thaw in time. As for Willem, or Billy, as he preferred to be called, his father had recently become much stricter, forcing Billy into being his apprentice and making the boy work long hours. Suffice to say, neither boy had had a break in weeks and the river finally being unfrozen gave them the opportunity for not just one, but two of their favorite pastimes.

"And then, Ser McFly grabbed the almanac off the back of the evil Biff's horse, but Biff saw and tried to ride him down before the knight could escape the ravine. But just before Biff could reach him, Maester Brown appeared above them and threw a rope down to Marty, allowing him to escape with the book! Biff was so surprised he fell off of his horse into a pile of manure!"

"Manure? No way! Just like last time!"

"Exactly!" Mychel nods animatedly. "On Maester Brown's recommendation, Marty burned the book, but before they could return to the future, the storm got worse. A lightning bolt struck the time machine and it and Maester Brown disappeared!"

Bill almost drops his fishing pole as he turns to Mychel in shock. "No way! Then what happens!"

Mychel smiles. "Ser McFly was despondent, but a minute later a stranger arrived, claiming to have a letter for him. The letter was hundreds of years old and uncountable generations of his family had been charged with protecting it, occasionally copying it, and to one day to deliver it on that exact day at that exact time! The letter tells him that he's alright but is stuck in the year 1080!"

"Whoa! That's almost a thousand years ago!"

"Yeah! So, Ser McFly goes to the 1950 version of Brown who just helped his past-self return to the future, but when he sees McFly he yells 'But I just sent you to the future!' and faints!"

"Ha-ha! What happens next?" Bill asks.

"Well, that will have to wait until next time!"

"Aww, still good story Mychel! Though I liked the first one, where he meets his parents, better. That one was pretty wizard!"

"Me too, and ugh, I really regret teaching you that phrase."

Bill blinks owlishly at him. "Why is that?"

Mychel shrugs his shoulders, refocusing on fishing. "Oh, no reason." Bill shrugs as well, and a silence settles between the two, the only sounds being the lapping of the waves on the shore and the chirping of the birds. After several minutes, Bill breaks the silence.

"Mychel?"

"Yeah?"

"I missed this, us hanging out, just the two of us."

Mychel put his arm around Bill's shoulders, "Yeah, me too."

After another minute of silence, Billy speaks up again.

"Mychel?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how my father's made me his apprentice and has been pushing for me to take over for him one day?"

Michael nodded.

"Well," Billy fidgeted, "I was wondering if you could talk to your father and have him double my martial training, you know, like he did with you."

Mychel nodded but shot his friend an inquisitive look. "Sure, but why do you want to do that? You hate going to the training yard, you get beat up worse than me!

"I just- I can't!" Billy cradles his head, a tear running down his cheek "I thought it would be fun, you know? Being Da's apprentice? The last five generations of my family have been kennelmasters. But I guess to be one you have to beat and break the dogs, and I can't do it, I won't hurt the dogs!" More tears start to run down Billy's cheeks, his chest heaving. "Da said that if I don't start helping him break the dogs soon, he'll kill Hooch! He doesn't even care that she's pregnant!"

Despite the seriousness of what he's hearing, Mychel can't help but release a small snicker as he remembers the day he suggested Hooch as the name for Billy's puppy. Thankfully Billy doesn't notice and continues.

"If Rickard began training me to be a warrior like he is with you, I wouldn't be able to apprentice for Da anymore, Da would have to find a new apprentice and he wouldn't have any reason to kill Hooch!"

Mychel nodded in understanding. "But Billy, you hate training! And you never win!"

"I know, I know!" Bill hung his head. "But I hate this more! I can try harder, like you are. I can be a warrior too!"

"Warriors have to hurt people though, sometimes even kill them."

Glumly, Billy responded, "I know, but it's dogs I love, not people. I don't really like most people anyway."

"Ok. Ok," Mychel repeats, "I'll ask my father. He knows how hard I've been working in the yard and knows that I've improved a lot, I think he'll say yes if I ask it as a favor."

"You will?!" Bill plants his fishing pole in the dirt and wraps both arms around Mychel, giving the other boy a crushing hug, which Mychel returns. Another minute later, the emotional display is over, and the boys are back to fishing.

After a while Mychel turns to Billy, "You know, if you don't become Kennelmaster then at some point you'll have to change your last name. Bones is the Kennelmaster name, it's inherited with the position."

"I hadn't thought of that! I suppose I'll lose the name."

"Well," says Mychel, adopting a thinking pose, "Maybe if you get landed someday you can make your own name!"

"You would do that? For me?"

Mychel nods.

Billy shoots Mychel a bright smile. "Then what name should I pick? You're great at coming up with names! Maybe McFly?"

"No," Mychel said, thinking, "it doesn't suit you. Hmm." Mychel thought for a minute until his head shot up and Billy could see the big smile on his face. "I got it! Joel! Billy Joel!"

"Joel." Billy tested the word. "I like it! What does it mean? Is it the name of some hero in your stories?"

"No. I mean, there was a massive fire once, and while he didn't ignite it, he did try to fight it. But no, it's just a good name and it suits you!"

"I like it!" Bill nodded animatedly. "Still, it'll be a while 'til then. I'm still Billy Bones for now."

"For now." Mychel echoes, patting his friend on the back. "So, after Maester Brown faints, Ser McFly brings him back to his tower, but when he wakes up the next morning, he doesn't remember..."

---

AN: Thanks to Beleriond for helping with this chapter and general story planning.