He raised his head and looked at the flames in the hearth, remembering Domeric, his eldest son and the only heir he had ever truly acknowledged.
Domeric had not been as cold as he was, nor as adept at scheming, but he had been steady, honorable, and capable of upholding House Bolton's dignity. And being less skilled at scheming did not mean he failed to understand it. He had been clever.
While that boy had lived, Roose Bolton had never worried about the Dreadfort's future. But Domeric had died too young, taken by a deeply suspicious fever.
Everyone knew there were unspoken undercurrents behind that fever, but Roose Bolton had understood and never exposed them. Ramsay's filthy tricks could not fool his own father. Back then, Roose had regarded that bastard as nothing more than a vicious dog chained outside his door. If he truly got out of hand, crushing him would have been no harder than crushing a foul, stinking louse.
Yet he had never imagined that this mad dog would bite his master so savagely, cutting off House Bolton's most legitimate line so early and leaving the Dreadfort's future tangled with thorns. For the sake of the house's stability, however, he had been forced to swallow his anger.
After all, House Bolton could no longer produce another descendant like Domeric, someone capable of securely shouldering the Dreadfort's legacy. Only Ramsay had any real ability left.
Though Ramsay would most likely only continue to tarnish House Bolton's name, the other bastards were not worth considering at all.
Most of them had already been disposed of by Ramsay. Even if any bastards remained, since Ramsay had failed to find them, Roose doubted he could do any better himself. In this respect, he still trusted Ramsay's abilities.
Now Ramsay, Jon, and