Chapter 20

Dreadfort, The North

(After leaving Moat Cailin, Aryan Stark immediately went to his cabin in Marauder to get some 'rest'.)

Sitting in his solar, Lord Roose Bolton looked very disturbed. Since he was alone, he did not have his usual expressionless and calm facade. He looked irritated. His eyes were red, not from crying, but due to the lack of sleep. His son, Domeric, was dead. But Roose was not exactly sad or hit by that.

The boy was weak, more interested in his harp than the ways of his ancestors, he thought. Initially, Roose had high hopes for his heir. He had sent him to Redfort in the Vale to foster. Since he had returned, Domeric had been doing a good job in his duties as heir too. But he was too soft.

Then Domeric came to know of his bastard brother. Despite his warning, Domeric sought out Ramsay and brought him to the castle. Within a few days, Roose understood that Ramsay was a foul creature. He was cruel and sadistic, but cunning and ambitious. But Domeric could not see it.

And then yesterday, he had died. Domeric had paid the price for his naivety. He was poisoned by Ramsay. But Roose made sure that it would remain a secret. He had sent the news that Domeric had died due to sickness. He just hoped that everyone believed it. Honestly, other than the Ryswells and his good sister Barbery, no one would be interested. Sometimes it was good to be hated by everyone. They left you to your business.

Thankfully, the boy Lord Stark, had left Winterfell and was on his way to Dorne. Roose had known that Aryan Stark was more dangerous than he looked. That was why he had avoided several tempting offers from the Lannisters since the Greyjoy Rebellion. But now that Aryan Stark would be out of the North, Roose had decided that it was time to consider those offers. He had decided to side with the Lannisters, as they had more to offer. He had just sent Tywin his terms and conditions: a lot of gold and the title of Lord Paramount of the North.

He had decided that by the time Aryan Stark returned, he must do something to destabilize Aryan Stark's rule. Roose had thought the issue of bringing Wildlings into the North by the Starks would find him some support. But surprisingly, nobody had responded to his feelers positively yet. But he was a patient man. It's not like much time had passed. He should try to get some hired swords into both Wolfbay and Moat Cailin... hmmm, now that can work. He just had to cover his tracks well in case they failed.

What have you done to make everyone agree with you, Lord Stark? he wondered. But he had time. If not now, then within a few months. The Red Kings will replace the Winter Kings.

His door opened suddenly. Roose looked at the door, irritated to see who had entered without permission. He mentally groaned. It was the bastard. To keep Ramsay's unnatural tendencies in check, he had allowed him to discreetly use certain smallfolk. Their disappearances were chalked up to bandits.

"Why are you here, Ramsay?" the Leech Lord asked expressionlessly.

In a straight voice, Ramsay spoke, "I came to talk to you, father."

Roose was surprised. Ramsay was speaking in a strange way. Gone was his twisted and mocking way of speech. And his sadistic and cruel eyes today looked vacant.

"What do you want to speak about?" Roose asked.

"Why are you betraying the Starks, Father?" Ramsay's voice was vacant.

Surprised, Roose now paid his full attention to Ramsay and asked, "What are you saying, boy?"

"You are conspiring with the Lannisters to bring down our liege Lord," Ramsay said and took a letter out from his pocket and placed it on the table.

"I do not consider them my liege lords, and neither should you," Roose said and reached for the letter in front of him. Roose felt a chill run down his spine. This was the letter he had sent to Tywin, which contained his terms and conditions. "How did you get this?"

"Lord Stark gave them to me, father," Ramsay said.

Roose asked angrily, "This is no time for your jokes, bastard. Tell me where you got this?"

A new voice came, surprising him, "Ramsay is speaking the truth. It was I who gave it to him."

Roose looked at the source of the voice, which was coming from the chair in front of him. Slowly, a figure faded into the chair, and it was the Bloody Wolf.

What? How? were the questions that came into his mind, but instead, he said, "Magic."

"Hello, Roose," Aryan Stark greeted him. "Pleasant day, isn't it?"

Roose felt a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck. Already knowing his fate, Roose swallowed his fear. He discreetly tried to move his hand to the hidden dagger below his desk, but his eyes widened. It was not there.

He heard the blasted boy laugh again. "Are you looking for this?" Aryan Stark asked, twirling his dagger in his hand.

"I am ready to accept my fate, Lord Stark," Roose said calmly.

Aryan then said, "We will get back to that part later. Why did you do it, Roose? Many had warned me against you. Even I didn't believe you were loyal to me. But you had this chance to prove us all wrong."

"Ambition, Lord Stark. The Boltons always wanted to be the Warden of the North. There is nothing wrong with being ambitious. And I have no qualms about doing anything to achieve my ambitions," Roose said with a cold smile.

"I like your honest reply, Roose. So, you decided to send Tywin your terms and conditions?" Aryan asked.

"He would have accepted it," Roose replied, eyeing the dagger and planning to lunge for it.

"You know, I have more plans for the North. A powerful nation that would never be mocked by others again. I am on my way to achieve that. It is regrettable that you will not be a part of that."

Seeing the Stark in front of him seemingly distracted in his own monologue, Roose lunged forward—or tried to lunge—but surprisingly, he could not. He couldn't even twitch a muscle below his neck.

"Don't be foolish, Roose. You cannot kill me," Aryan said, somehow knowing Roose's intentions.

"You are a sorcerer?" Roose asked.

"I prefer the term 'Wizard.' But for a soon-to-be dead man, you can call me whatever you want. For dead men tell no tales. Your name, your legacy, and your house will disappear. Did you think I wouldn't find out about your plans to betray me?" Aryan snarled.

"When I was at Moat Cailin, I received a report from my spy that Tywin had sent you another offer. I knew that this was the best time for you to betray me. First, I thought to not see you and let my men deal with you, but then I thought to at least check on you before I left the boundaries of the North and never get to see what you were planning with my own eyes. It turned out to be better than I imagined. I will savor your last moments, Roose," Aryan said with a small smile on his face. My ancestors wiped out their own kin, the Greystarks, for their betrayal. Then why did they left the Boltons alive, after all these betrayals? Well now I have done, what should have been done a long time ago.

Then, looking at Ramsay, he said, "Do it, bastard."

Ramsay stepped forward, took the knife from Aryan's hand, and went near Roose. He stabbed once, twice, several times over his chest and stomach.

"Don't worry, this bastard will also be killed like the mad dog he is," Aryan told him, referring to Ramsay while he started to fade out.

Compelled by something, Roose shouted for guards in a desperate voice. Soon, he heard footsteps outside, and his men rushed in. By then, Ramsay had made his final attack and slit his throat.

Bleeding and gasping for breath, Roose heard a whisper, "Tywin will follow you in a few years. I want him to see his precious legacy crumble before his death."

And then, Roose Bolton, Lord of Dreadfort, closed his eyes forever.

Few minutes later, Marauder

Aryan activated the communication mirror and spoke calmly. "Jaqen, I went to the Dreadfort to see Roose Bolton's plans for myself before leaving the boundary of the North. I found a letter he had written to Tywin, stating his terms for betraying me. So, I had Roose killed—by his own bastard, Ramsay."

He let the words settle before continuing. "Now, take care of the situation. Frame Ramsay for both Roose's and Domeric's deaths. Domeric was already poisoned by Ramsay, so the truth is not far from the lie. Spread word among the Northern lords that Roose was plotting treason, ready to sell out the North for gold and power. Provide them with proof—send men to 'investigate' Roose's death. Make sure they uncover the letter he wrote to Tywin and any other incriminating documents we conveniently leave for them to find."

Aryan's expression hardened. "At the same time, let Ramsay's crimes be known—his brutality, his savagery. But ensure that my name is never connected to any of this."

He leaned forward slightly. "Some lords will demand Ramsay's blood, but have him taken to Moat Cailin instead. If they object, remind them that such a matter is too grave to settle without my judgment. Once the time is right, I will give Uncle Ned instructions on how to deal with him. Tell the others that you have already sent letters to inform me of what has transpired."

Jaqen spoke in an emotionless tone "A man understands. A man will see it done. The lords of the North will find what they need to find. A letter mislaid, a servant's whispered fears, a scribe who remembers too much—evidence, piece by piece, until the truth cannot be denied. The Dreadfort will be stripped bare of its secrets. The Bastard of Bolton will be feared, reviled. A man will ensure his sins are known. And when the time comes, he will be yours to judge."

Aryan gave a satisfied nod. "Good. Make sure it is done swiftly and cleanly. The North must see the Boltons' treachery for what it was—without ever suspecting my hand in it."

Jaqen's voice came one last time "A man will leave no traces. Only truths that were always waiting to be seen."

With that, the connection was cut.

Aryan leaned back, exhaling slowly. The pieces were in motion. Soon, the North would be cleansed of one more snake.

Roose Bolton was dead. Soon, Ramsay Snow would follow.

It seems like Tywin Lannister is begging to be killed by his hands.

After few weeks, Moat Cailin

Eddard Cailstark sat in his solar, the heavy wax seal of House Stark unbroken on the parchment before him. Seated before him were those most wronged by Ramsay Snow's crimes—Lord Ryswell, Lady Ryswell, Lady Barbrey Dustin and Lord Hornwood. They had suffered loss, grief, and terror at the hands of the Bastard of Bolton.

Breaking the seal, Eddard unrolled the letter and read aloud.

"By the command of Aryan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, the fate of Ramsay Snow has been decided. Ramsay Snow's crimes of murder, abduction, rape and torture are too grievous. He is unworthy of the mercy of the Wall. For his atrocities against the people of the North, he is sentenced to death."

He let the words settle

"However" he continued, "I recognize that the wounds Ramsay Snow has inflicted upon your houses are too deep, too personal. His crimes cannot be measured in mere words, nor his punishment dictated by tradition alone. Therefore, I have decided that while my uncle, Lord Eddard Cailstark, will carry out his execution, I will leave the method of his death in your hands. Either he will be beheaded, or in accordance to the old ways he will be hanged by his own entrails from a weirwood tree. The choice is yours."

Lord Ryswell, Lady Ryswell and Lady Barbrey exchanged a knowing glance. Domeric Bolton—Bethany's son, their grandson and nephew—had been stolen from them. Poisoned by Ramsay Snow. His death had left an emptiness in their hearts that nothing could truly fill. But revenge is now within their reach.

Lord Hornwood's fingers curled into a fist. His people, his lands—Ramsay Snow had terrorised them. The bastard had taken smallfolk from his lands, tortured them, broken them for his amusement. He had seen the bodies. Some weren't even recognizable as human anymore.

Lady Barbrey spoke first with rage in her voice "The old way. Let that bastard feel the fraction of pain he so easily inflicted on others."

Lord Hornwood gave a sharp nod. "Agreed."

Lord Ryswell, his face carved from stone, exhaled slowly. "Beheading would be a mercy. Hang him by his own entrails."

And so, Ramsay Snow's fate was sealed.

The execution was carried out at dusk beneath the ancient weirwood. The godswood was silent, save for the rustling of the cold wind and the muffled breathing of those gathered to witness justice. Lord Ryswell, Lady Ryswell, Lady Barbrey Dustin, and Lord Hornwood stood among the assembled Northmen.

Ramsay Snow was dragged forward, his face bloodied from the beatings he had taken. Gone was the smirk, the mocking glint in his eyes. He struggled, his wrists bound tightly behind his back.

Ramsay lifted his chin and sneered, then after sometime chuckled with fear "Go on. Let's see if you have the stomach for it."

Eddard Cailstark stepped forward, unsheathing a long, curved blade. He plunged it into Ramsay's gut. The bastard of Bolton let out a strangled gasp, his eyes going wide as blood gushed from the wound.

The blade sliced upward, tearing through flesh and muscle, parting his belly. Ramsay's screams filled the godswood. His body convulsed as his insides were pulled from him. The executioners worked swiftly, looping the glistening ropes of his own entrails around his neck.

He writhed, hands clawing at nothing as his own body betrayed him. He gagged, choked, his face turning a sickly shade of purple as his weight slowly dragged him down. His feet kicked feebly in the air, blood dripping in a steady rhythm onto the snow. The weirwood's bark, once pale, was now stained red.

It took far too long for him to die. His struggles weakened, his body jerking sporadically until, at last, he went still. The Bastard of Bolton was no more.

Lord Ryswell and Lady Ryswell exhaled, a breath he had been holding for far too long. Lady Barbery watched without blinking, as if memorizing the sight. Lord Hornwood crossed his arms, and nodding in satisfaction.

After the execution Eddard Cailstark turned to the second decree in his nephew's letter. Seated before him now were Lords Karstark, Umber and Ryswell. The great matter of the Bolton lands had yet to be resolved.

"Lord Stark has also decided upon the fate of the Dreadfort and Bolton lands," Eddard announced "House Bolton is no more. Roose Bolton has stained their lands with treachery. The lands will be divided among those who have remained loyal."

He turned first to Lord Karstark and Lord Umber. "Some of the lands will go to your houses, in recognition of your loyal service."

"The remainder of the lands, including the Dreadfort itself, will be granted to Rodrik Cassel," Eddard continued. "House Cassel has always been loyal to House Stark, and Lord Stark believes that House Cassel will rule those lands loyally and ably."

There were no objections. The Karstarks and Umbers had never trusted the Boltons. And Rodrik Cassel was a good and loyal man.

Eddard then turned to Lord Ryswell. "Lord Stark has also instructed me to arrange a marriage between Jory Cassel and a daughter of your house, to strengthen these ties and ensure stability in the region."

Lord Ryswell considered the match carefully. The Cassels were a small house, but they were loyal, steadfast, and will now be the lords of the Dreadfort. So he nodded. "A wise match. The Cassels are loyal and true. My granddaughter will be happy to honor this arrangement."

As the gathering dispersed, Eddard allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. There had been no grumblings of discontent. His nephew's decisions had been accepted without question. The Bolton name was gone, and their lands were in hands that would serve the North, not betray it.

The Red Kings, the rivals of the Winter Kings were finally wiped from history.

But there was also disgust. Ramsay's deeds were worse than the most nightmarish tales. Words of his atrocities had spread throughout the North.

He has to give credits to the High Steward of Winterfell. Somehow he was able to control Lord Ryswell, Lady Ryswell, Lady Babery Dustin and Lord Hornwood—they were out for blood. And he was able to sent the bastard to Moat without any further Incident. In his humble opinion, everything had been settled as smoothly as possible in this situation.