there is always someone worse than you

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-third person Pov second moon 289 AC

The blizzard roared in the heart of Westeros' winter, shrouding the landscape in a mantle of snow and frozen silence. Atop a hill, Aleksanteri observed Roose Bolton's imposing castle through a spyglass. Beneath his sharp gaze, his men, all clad in white masks that made them look like ghosts in the storm, remained vigilant against the cold and lurking danger.

"What do you see?" Aleksanteri asked, handing the spyglass to one of them as the wind lashed mercilessly.

"He's a creature of habit," the soldier replied, pointing toward the dark silhouette of the castle without taking his eyes off it.

As the snow continued to fall, another Finn, his mask pristine and his voice steady, added, "Once a month, Bolton leaves his castle to visit the villages under his rule. There, he takes those who break his laws, making them disappear into his fortress. Rumors speak of unspeakable acts committed there, executed with such meticulousness that no trace is ever left behind."

Aleksanteri nodded slightly, his eyes never leaving the castle. "What do you suggest? We have permission to storm the fortress if necessary."

The first Finn adjusted his mask before responding, "The walls are smooth, well-built, and heavily guarded. Not even on the darkest night could we approach unnoticed. Bolton is a calculating man—he leaves nothing to chance."

Aleksanteri considered his words, tilting his head slightly before asking with interest, "Then we should lure him into a prepared zone... How often do his tax collectors make their rounds?"

The second Finn, his mask catching the cold glint of the storm, answered confidently, "At the first harvest of the year, then every month afterward to collect what's due from hunting and mining."

A subtle smile played on Aleksanteri's lips as he continued, eyes still locked onto the castle. "Good. That's where we strike. One of our own will infiltrate a nearby village, disguised as a merchant or traveler. When they encounter the tax collector, they'll act immediately—we'll eliminate him in a secluded spot, on a lonely path, where no one will witness it. We'll make it look like a simple bandit attack. No witnesses, no traces—just the undeniable sense that Bolton's grip is slipping."

With the plan set, Aleksanteri turned away from the hill, vanishing into the thick, snow-covered forest. His men, silent as shadows in the storm, dispersed among the villages, adopting the guises of travelers and merchants, their white masks blending seamlessly into the snowfall.

The snow covered the ground like a frozen shroud as the tax collector made his way down a desolate path on the outskirts of the village. He was flanked by four of Bolton's guards—battle-hardened men, clad in dull armor and dark cloaks that billowed in the wind. The collector, a fat and pompous man, glanced around with the arrogance of someone who considered himself untouchable.

From the cover of a nearby thicket, Aleksanteri watched the scene with meticulous calm. He had studied these men in silence, with the precision of a predator stalking its prey. The tax collector always took the same routes, made the same stops. He had never changed his routine—because he had never had a reason to. Until now.

There were no witnesses. Only the snow and the trees, muted by winter's grip. Aleksanteri had instructed his infiltrator, a trusted man disguised as a traveler, to make the first move. Everything was set for violence to erupt like a lightning strike in the storm.

When the first blow fell, it did so with brutal efficiency. A rock, hurled with surgical precision from the undergrowth, struck the collector square in the temple. A sharp crack rang out before the man stumbled, blood running down his face. The forest's silence shattered in an instant.

The guards barely had time to react before the ambush unfolded in its full fury. From the snow and among the trees, the Finns—masked and camouflaged by the storm—emerged like wraiths.

One soldier barely had time to lift his sword before a knife slit his throat in a crimson arc against the snow.

The second guard, a burly man, drew his sword and lunged wildly. Aleksanteri sidestepped with the ease of someone who had foreseen every move. With a fluid twist, he severed the man's tendons with a single clean strike, sending him crashing to his knees before plunging a dagger into the base of his skull.

The third guard, seeing the slaughter around him, turned to flee. He didn't get far. A rope snapped tight from a tree, yanking him off his feet. His boots kicked at the air for a moment before the strangulation ended his struggle.

The last soldier, realizing his fate, let out a desperate cry as he tried to shield the tax collector. But Aleksanteri had no intention of leaving loose ends. With precise aim, he flung a dagger, embedding it deep in the soldier's eye, killing him instantly.

The tax collector, panting and kneeling in the snow, could barely comprehend what had just happened. Blood dripped from his wound as he stared at Aleksanteri in pure terror, his lips trembling—trying to form pleas that would never be heard.

Aleksanteri leaned toward him, his expression cold and unyielding. "Tyrants like you think fear lasts forever," he murmured. "But fear always finds a new master."

With a single, decisive motion, he drove his knife into the man's throat, silencing him for good. Blood stained the snow.

The forest fell silent once more, broken only by the whisper of the wind. Aleksanteri looked at his men and gave a nod. Within minutes, the bodies would be gone, the scene altered to resemble nothing more than a simple bandit attack on the road.

Quickly, the men seized the tax collector's cargo and disappeared into the night, vanishing into the storm like wandering phantoms.

By dawn, as the storm began to fade and the first light of the sun cracked through the gray horizon, the only traces left would be whispers carried by the wind—and the growing unease in Roose Bolton's cold heart.

Weeks passed before anyone noticed the tax collectors' absence. Just as they had anticipated, Roose Bolton left the safety of his castle to punish the "bandits" who had dared to rise against him, accompanied by a strong escort of his men-at-arms. As he moved away from the walls, figures clad in white watched him from the shadows of the snowstorm.

"Attention, gentlemen," a voice murmured through the freezing air as one of the masked men pointed toward the horizon. "Lord Bolton has left his defenses. It's time to act."

At that signal, thousands of men, moving like specters through the landscape, began to gather, creeping closer to encircle their prey. Their white masks gleamed under the pale winter light, and with each step, their unyielding resolve was palpable.

The atmosphere thickened with an almost supernatural tension as whispered voices blended with the soft crunch of snow beneath their feet. "Let them prepare," another voice announced. "Tonight, we fulfill the king's command." Each of them knew that this was the moment they had been waiting for.

Like predators, the Finns followed their prey in absolute silence, using the northern snowstorms to blend in and bide their time. For days, they shadowed Bolton's forces across the frozen plains until they reached the village where the robbery had been staged.

Meanwhile, Bolton's men, blinded by rage and thirst for vengeance, descended upon the settlement, unleashing a massacre on the defenseless villagers—perhaps hoping to flush out the bandits quickly. The Finns watched in silence, hidden within the mist and snowstorm, waiting patiently for their prey's moment of greatest vulnerability.

That moment arrived when, satisfied with the terror he had sown, Bolton himself entered the village to "restore order" and punish those he believed had rebelled against his authority.

It was then that thousands of figures clad in white began emerging from the snow. Like ghosts in the storm, they positioned themselves at every entrance to the village, securing the lord's horses, blocking every escape route, and tightening the noose around him.

The tension became suffocating. The deceptive calm vanished in an instant as the certainty of impending doom filled the air.

"Well, well, well, it seems our little tyrant has taken the bait," Aleksanteri said, clapping slowly as the masked figures emerged from the storm.

With the precision of predators, thousands of men and hunting dogs slid soundlessly through the snow, surrounding the hundreds of Bolton's soldiers who still clung to their weapons. Aleksanteri stepped forward, his voice firm and steady, surveying the scene. The torchlight flickered in the village, reflecting off the white masks of his warriors, who blended seamlessly into the frozen landscape.

Roose Bolton had placed his faith in strength and the terror he inspired; however, the ambush was imminent.

As Bolton's men attempted to regroup, disoriented by the sudden appearance of the snow phantoms, the Finns tightened their formation. The dogs, trained for hunting and pursuit, let out only the barest growls—allowing their deadly presence to speak for itself. The tension could be cut with the edge of a blade, the silence broken only by the unsettling crunch of snow beneath advancing boots.

Aleksanteri watched as his men secured every exit, taking control of the horses and cutting off any possible retreat. The trap was closing, and at the heart of the growing confusion, Bolton himself stood still, beginning to grasp the full scope of the situation.

Roose Bolton, ever cold and calculating, did not panic—but his usually unreadable eyes betrayed an icy realization. He was a man who understood danger better than anyone, who had built his legacy on manipulation and fear. But now, at this moment, he knew that fear was no longer on his side. He had fallen into the web of a predator even crueler and more patient than himself.

Aleksanteri approached with calm, each of his steps echoing in the silence like the sound of an impending verdict. Bolton's cold stare met his, searching for any trace of mercy or a chance to negotiate. But he found only the gaze of a predator savoring the moment.

"You messed with the wrong people, Bolton," Aleksanteri murmured, removing his mask with a cruel smile. "You take pleasure in the suffering of others, but tell me… how does it feel now to be on the other side? How does it feel to know that death won't be swift, but slow, meticulous… that every moment from now on is a gift that I decide when to take away?"

He leaned in slightly, his eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement. "But don't worry…" his voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "I'll make sure every second counts."

Bolton made one last attempt. His sharp mind still searched for a way out, a sliver of salvation. His eyes, once filled with cold confidence, flickered with a restrained spark of desperation. "Attacking a great lord of the North will not go unnoticed… not even… the Lord of the Prussians could escape the consequences." His voice trembled slightly at the end, as if uncertainty had finally seeped into his soul.

Aleksanteri smiled with the assurance of an executioner whose decision was already made. "There will be no evidence of anything." His words were a final sentence.

Then, with a short and decisive gesture, he signaled his men.

The air filled with the whistle of arrows. The projectiles rained down like the wrath of an unforgiving god, piercing flesh and steel with equal ease. The first to fall were Bolton's scouts, their bodies collapsing onto the snow before they even understood what was happening.

The enemy archers attempted to retaliate, but their movements were sluggish and disorganized, no match for the deadly precision of the Finns.

The agonized screams rose as arrows found their marks. Bolton's men dropped to their knees, their faces contorted in pain as they were struck with lethal accuracy. Some writhed in the snow, clawing at the shafts embedded in their bodies, their hands turning red in a futile attempt to cling to life. Horses reared and screamed, their riders toppling into the chaos.

The second wave of the attack came with the hunting dogs. Trained to tear apart flesh without mercy, the beasts lunged at the survivors, ripping throats, tearing limbs, sinking their fangs into the exposed bellies of fallen soldiers. The cries of Bolton's men turned into hysterical shrieks as their comrades were torn apart piece by piece. They tried to flee, but the deep snow denied them speed.

The Finns, methodical and ruthless, tightened the circle. They were shadows in the storm, silent, without battle cries, without war drums. The last remnants of Bolton's army were isolated, broken into small groups, each surrounded by a dozen hunters who cut them down with knives and arrows with terrifying efficiency. One by one, Bolton's men fell.

When finally, silence replaced the screams, the snow had become a crimson battlefield. The last whispers of life faded in the frozen air, bodies spasming in their final moments. There was no mercy. There was no surrender.

Aleksanteri surveyed the scene with the satisfaction of an architect admiring his masterpiece.

Roose Bolton, covered in the blood of his own men, collapsed to his knees, finally understanding that death was inevitable.

But Aleksanteri had other plans. With a slight motion of his hand, his men seized Bolton and dragged him before him.

"Welcome to hell, Bolton."

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Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.

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I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.

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