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Betad by Priapus, Mike God of Lore,
The Unbound
Chapter 40: Winterfell
– King Orys Baratheon –
Winterfell is in sight. The end of this campaign is so damn close.
After slaying Ramsay, we didn't let up and pushed forward to Castle Cerwyn. Only half a day's ride from Winterfell, and smaller than the ancestral seat of House Stark. It fell under our combined might, but marching on Winterfell itself is no easy feat.
Last Hearth has fallen to Prince Oberyn, reclaimed by House Umber, giving us dominance over the northern parts of the region. House Mormont and their allies have taken Deepwood Motte and Torrhen's Square. Roose is cornered, and his attempts to drive back the Mormont forces have failed with Hircine blessing them in the Wolfswood.
This isn't just the Royal forces coming to save the day, the entire North has risen against Roose, and his unholy powers aren't enough to stop them. He can't go north or west without having to go through the Wolfswoods and face the hunters of Hircine. He can't go south or east without facing the gathering forces. Ramsay's Skagosi allies are soon to be facing House Umber, Karstark and Prince Oberyn who are all eager to put them in their place for this treason.
Winterfell, his trophy, has become a trap. He can't leave. That doesn't make him weak, because a cornered rat is the most dangerous type. In another world, he might have been able to force the different Houses into submission, but Lord Stark returned too soon and the North is loyal to its liege.
I wonder if the 'awakening' of the Old Gods did work in stopping them from swapping sides. It made Roose and the Boltons heretics, traitors to the old ways, and the fact that the vampires are hurt by weirwood has only made that stick all the more. It is clear proof that their gods hate the Boltons. It would be like someone claiming the Iron Throne only to be hurt any time they stepped into a Sept. Hells, look at the stories of Kings and Queens being cut by the Iron Throne!
They used the fact that Queen Rhaenyra cut her arms and legs on the throne as a sign that the realm itself refused her as queen, and that's just one of the many Kings and Queens who the Throne took blood from. I'm always careful for that exact reason, because the damn thing is sharp and a careless move could leave my clothes shredded and skin sliced.
"Is there anything that can be done?" Eddard asks after I return, but I don't have good news for him. I've examined Jon Snow, his bastard son, but while Ramsay's control has been broken, Molag has a grip on his soul and curing him of his vampirism is no easy feat.
"Not easily," I admit. "And not while Roose Bolton draws breath… or whatever passes for it with their misbegotten kind. The power of their dark god remains within Jon, and if I try to break its hold over his soul, it'll kill him first."
Molag Bal is a petty god. I could cure Jon, but I can't do it fast enough to stop Molag from simply murdering Jon and claiming his soul first.
"We need to weaken Molag's hold on the North, and that means ending whatever heretical rituals Roose is doing within your castle. Much like the Eyrie, we need to stop the root cause before we fight the symptoms," I explain, seeing Eddard nod deeply, that ever-present frown on his face unchanging. "Jon is to remain in Castle Cerwyn under heavy guard. His will is his own for now, but Roose has a hold on him and could dominate him with a word."
"Understood, Your Grace," Eddard bows. As if he needed another reason to want Roose Bolton dead. Dark clouds swirl above Winterfell, the entire area plunged into eternal night. Roose isn't leaving, unwilling to give up the advantage of Winterfell's defences and the rituals he has performed, but besieging the castle is going to be no easy feat even without his magic to consider. We could try to starve him out, as he requires blood, but he has plenty of Bolton men left, and those from the mountain clans he managed to turn. Enough to feed himself for months. Winterfell is likely equally stocked for winter, and his men could last a long time in there.
And yet, I'm not willing to wait either, and for a reason I can only call selfish. I've been away from home for over five months now. We've cut down on plenty of travel time by using the ships and thanks to the discipline of the Stormland forces because my father is a far better commander than he was a King, but if I get caught in a prolonged siege, I won't make it home in time to see my children born.
…I miss my wife. Yes, my bed is rarely empty between Brienne, the septas and the red priestesses, but there is a difference between pleasure and making love to Margaery. I want to go home, damn it all.
"Lord Manderly is sending siege weapons from White Harbour, but it will be a slow matter due to the worsening snow," Eddard reports, now that the personal matter is out of the way. "I have sent a small force to escort them up the Kingsroad."
Sieging Winterfell. I doubt Eddard ever thought he'd be in this position.
"And House Umber?" I ask. Taming the Skagosi won't be difficult because Ramsay took most of their warriors and we slaughtered them at the White Knife crossing. Plus, they just don't have the ships to move the full forces of House Umber and Karstark to the islands.
"Are moving to take the holdfast to the north of Winterfell. Greatjon Umber has taken his forces to Skagosi, while his son Smalljon Umber has taken the remainder to join the siege. House Umber remains strong, I believe they will take the Holdfast with little resistance as long as we keep pressuring the Boltons," Eddard explains. "Lord Daryn Hornwood has secured the Dreadfort, and the crossings. The Boltons have nowhere left to go."
I suspect it pleases Daryn to hold Dreadfort, if only for a time. His father died fighting Ramsay at Hornwood, and now he holds the Boltons' ancestral home and cuts off their passage to safety.
"Continue communicating with the gathering forces. We can't let the noose loosen, if Roose manages to escape it could be months, even years, until we have another chance to end his madness," I order. A lone vampire lurking in the night is almost as dangerous as a Lord holding territory. He will be free to strike where he pleases, and flee without an army slowing him down.
Eddard agrees, leaving me to head back to 'my' solar where I have my maps and plans. The advantage to being King is that any solar becomes my solar. We don't even know what happened to Lord Cerwyn and his family as this was held by a Bolton cousin of relative unimportance. The bloodstains aren't encouraging, and Lord Stark fears they were flayed.
"Ser Barristan. What do you think?" I ask, looking over the map.
"The intel the Starks gave us is helpful, but damning. Winterfell is a true fortress, and even without their magic, any mildly competent force could hold it for months," Barristan agrees. "Two layers of thick walls, separated by a moat. Months of supplies. Endless locations for archers to fire down at attackers, or unleash boiling oil. We have the numbers, but any attempt to storm it will be immensely costly. That isn't even mentioning the foul magic in the air and whatever powers Roose lays claim to. That said, we have power of our own. The Red Priestesses are practically living siege weapons, and the werebeasts have the strength of a dozen men. We have a constant influx of supplies from Lord Manderly, but the nights are long and cold. Colder than they should be for this time of year, by Lord Stark's estimate."
We can't afford to get dragged into a protracted siege. Winter is as dangerous to us as the Boltons. Melisandre and Kinvara have been incredibly useful in warding off the cold but you can't fight nature itself. I'll have to bed them both before we move, they'll need a… boost to their gifts.
But we need a way to end this quickly. Winter is coming, as the Starks keep telling people, and I can't have the North weakened so much by this. They've already lost so many, and a regular siege could bleed them dry right before what is bound to be a harsh winter.
Looking over the map, I pause as I spot one of the features of Winterfell. The Godswood is likely worse for wear, given that even the Heartree of Castle Cerwyn was burnt, but… hmm.
– Dacey Mormont –
King Orys was an enigma. It was clear to her that he had the favour of Lord Hircine, and she had wondered if he was loved by the Old and the New Gods. The Seven clearly favoured their champion greatly, but the signs that the Old Gods approved of him were more subtle.
She supposed it made sense. He was the King of the Seven Kingdoms, not just the Southrons. After seeing him in action, she was pleased to call him her king. He might not have his father's legendary strength but Orys was a wise and cautious leader, outmanoeuvring and outsmarting his foes.
Her dreams of a crowned stag had brought her south, but she didn't truly know what Lord Hircine wanted of her. Orys was the crowned stag, of that she was sure, but what was it Hircine wanted her to do? Given the King's… proclivities she wondered if she was meant to bed him. She wouldn't be opposed, as he was a handsome man, but she wasn't entirely sure that was what she was intended to do.
She knew Robb longed for her, and he was a handsome man too. In other situations she would have accepted him as a lover, happily so, as it would benefit House Mormont to have her marry the next Lord Stark and yet- she wouldn't make any decisions until she had worked out why she was being pulled toward Orys Baratheon.
Watching as the king knelt in prayer before the burned Weirwood, she could hear the whispers of the northern men. They were shocked that a King so loved by the Seven would kneel before a symbol of the Old Gods, a soft golden glow leaving him as he communed with the Gods. The Kingsguard remained on guard, knowing their King was distracted with the divine, and vulnerable to the terrestrial. She didn't take it personally, as their enemies would love for Orys to die before the siege, and had shown strange talents in dominating the minds of men.
Her musings were disrupted as the glow began to increase, almost blinding as they watched in awe at the sight of a miracle. The burnt Weirwood began to move, hacked-off branches regrowing, blackened trunk returning to its pristine white as the faces reappeared, eyes open and staring at them. No, at Orys.
She didn't know if he could hear the gasps and chatter, but he didn't react either way. He remained knelt, eyes closed and face focused as the light pulsed off him in soft waves, the leaves of the large Heart tree before him moving in wind she couldn't feel.
He remained still, as if carved from stone, for most of the evening. Unmoving, unspeaking, but clearly doing something even to her inexperienced eyes. When he finally opened his eyes, his face turned to a soft smile and he rose to his feet, placing a hand on the tree for a moment before he turned to them.
"Lord Stark. If we could move a small force into the Godswood of Winterfell, who would be best suited to retake the castle from within?" Orys asked plainly, and Lord Stark paused, momentarily shocked before he regained his composure.
"How small of a force?" Lord Stark asked plainly.
"A dozen or two, no more. Lady Kyne, one of the awakened Old Gods, can transport them from this Hearttree to the one within Winterfell. She will stir up a storm during the siege to blow away the dark clouds," Orys said confidently, and nobody dared question him. "We will siege as expected, and turn Roose's eyes to the forces before his gate so he doesn't see the knife in the dark until it is too late. Those inside will have to retake the gates, opening up the passage for the rest of our forces before they realise our gambit…"
"Because if they realise we are within, it will be a dozen men against hundreds," Lord Stark. agreed with a deep frown. "Myself, and Robb. We know Winterfell best. Lady Dacey as well, her strength will be needed."
"It would be my honour," Dacey agreed easily.
"Myself and Father will lead the siege. If we aren't there, Roose may grow suspicious. We cannot rely on him being as foolish as his bastard son," Orys explained, getting a nod from Lord Stark as several others were picked for this mission.
Ser Rodrik Cassel who survived the fall of Winterfell, and Smalljon Umber whose strength would be of great use, along with some of the best knights and warriors of the North. Soon enough, they would drive the darkness from the North, led by the Blessed King to victory.
Perhaps the battle would help enlighten her to just what the hell Hircine wanted from her. She was ever grateful for his gifts, but could the god not be a little clearer? A part of her pitied Orys, because she was frustrated dealing with communing with a single god and he was stuck with seemingly all of them.
– King Orys Baratheon – Days Later –
We knew this wouldn't be easy.
Fire fills the air above us, Melisandre burning away the hordes of bats that were harassing our archers, as I rush forward, swinging my blade and cleaving through the walking dead. So many people have gone missing with no sign of them, and the truth was revealed in horrific fashion as the siege began and the dead began to swarm from the walls.
Rather than open the gates, the undead simply threw themselves from the battlements down onto us, shambling, durable monsters. They are long dead, but they move forward with hunger and hatred of the living all the same.
"Aim for the heads! They survive anything else," I shout, watching Barristan remove two heads in a single swing of his sword, already using his shield to bash another away from him before he moves forward and strikes down, piercing its skull.
Lopping off limbs, crushing bones, piercing organs, these abominations resist everything else. Fire works, but Kinvara has gone with the infiltration squad. What we do have are fire arrows, as Melisandre blesses the archers and their shots rain down on the lumbering creatures.
At the same time, Bolton crossbows fire down on us but they are more hesitant as nodding to Harrold, I swap back to my bow. A Bolton crossbowman pokes his head out, and before he can fire down on us, an arrow pierces his skull.
They think they can beat me at range? The fools.
"Protect the king!" Barristan orders as my Kingsguard forms around me, giving me cover as I teach the Boltons to keep their heads down and away from the archer slits. The sun shines down on us, Lady Kyne banishing the dark clouds with her storm, lightning striking down at the battlements and undead. More importantly, with his artificial darkness stolen away, Roose cannot leave the castle. Their strongest weapon is stuck inside, fearing the sun.
Catapults fire rocks at the battlements and gates, but we knew it was never going to be the siege weapons that took the castle. We're nothing more than a loud distraction, making a fuss and keeping the Boltons facing us.
The simple truth is that we don't want to damage Winterfell. Every damaged rock is one we're going to have to replace later. Gods, the cost of rebuilding once this campaign is over is going to be- I see you there, you little bastard.
Firing again, I hit the Bolton who was trying to peek over at us.
"In the name of the Stranger, send these suffering souls back to their deserved rest," I say, glowing with divine might as I switch back to my sword. They seem to have learnt their lesson and if not, my Squire can have my bow back in my hand before they can finish peeking down at us. Lord Arkay blesses me as I move forward, my light weakening the undead that approach me.
Somewhere to my side, I see a corpse flying back and laugh. I see father is in his element. They seem resistant to bludgeoning attacks… but resistance isn't immunity and merely resisting father's hammer doesn't stop it from reducing you to a bloody smear.
Movement from the battlements distracts me once again, but this time I smile as I watch a Bolton being thrown from them, screaming as he plummets to his death. My hearing picks up the sound of fighting from above, knowing that our gambit has succeed.
"Push forward! To the gates!" I order, leading the charge as the Kingsguard flank me, cleaving a path through the undead. As we approach, the East Gate begins to open, the portcullis rising to allow us entry. The men let out a cheer as we pass through the gatehouse uncontested, the second gate opening as Rodrick Cassel waves down at us. Pandemonium overtakes the Boltons, entirely unprepared for the army that was meant to be stuck outside to suddenly be charging into the courtyard. "Take no prisoners, any wearing the Bolton colours die this day."
– Lord Eddard Stark –
With the northern and royal forces having free entry to Winterfell, the next matter of importance was clear. They had to capture every key location while surrounding the Grand Hall where Roose awaited them.
Orys, Eddard and Robert had spent many a night planning this phase and everyone knew their parts as they spread out, flooding to every part of Winterfell except for the Great Keep and Grand Hall. If Roose was anywhere, he'd be in one of those two places. Robert stormed the Armoury, and Eddard sighed as he watched Robert break down the door without even checking if it was unlocked. Meanwhile, he moved to the North Gate and fought to the top, slaying the Boltons left in control and opening it up so the Umber forces could join the fray. Robb would do the same at the Hunter's Gate for the Mormonts, leaving the three main entryways exposed to the attackers.
The walls were taken, Bolton crossbowmen and archers unprepared the attackers to be on the same walls as them, and Eddard gave no quarter as he sliced through them. This was his home, and they had tried to take it from him. A swift death was a mercy.
House Bolton had betrayed the North and the Crown with this covetous grasp for power. They'd betrayed the very gods, and their lives and souls were forfeit.
"Lord Stark, the King has taken the Great Keep. He's sent word for you to join him in taking the Grand Hall," a runner said, and Eddard simply nodded, giving command of this section to one of his bannerman. He had never wanted to see Winterfell like this, but for each loyal soldier who fell, five Boltons met their end.
Moving down from the walls, he reached the gathering forces before the Grand Hall, seeing Robert, Brynden Tully and the Kingsguard forming up to storm the second to last place he could be. The only other place they hadn't checked was the crypts, but by the gods, old and new, did he hope Roose wasn't hiding in those winding tunnels.
They had men watching it, of course, but the idea of fighting a vampire down in those endless pitch-black tunnels filled him with dread.
As they prepared to enter, with Robert breaking open the barricaded doors, he joined the charge into his own grand hall and found… nothing.
The place was a mess, blood everywhere, but what he didn't see was Roose Bolton.
"Well. Fuck," Robert said, putting to words what everyone was thinking.
Because that meant they were down to a single place for Roose to be hiding.
"Winterfell is ours. Now all that is left is to deal with the vermin infesting your crypts, Lord Stark," King Orys said, giving him a nod. "Melisandre, Kinvara. We're going to need fire down there. And a lot of it."
"Lady Meridia will guide our way, Your Grace," Kinvara agreed immediately, her eyes glowing with power.
"And bring the Septas. We'll need their incense to ward off the corruptive power. Steel yourselves, this is the last push before the North is put to rights," Orys continued, sheathing his blade. "We have until nightfall to start the raid of the crypts. I want Winterfell searched from the highest tower to the lowest dungeon. I don't want some Bolton backstabber jumping out from the pantry or latrine."
"At once, Your Grace," Eddard agreed, giving the orders as his men began to go over every room with a fine toothed comb.
It took no time at all to prove that Orys was right to be paranoid, after Robert found a Bolton hiding under Arya's bed with a knife. The man refused to come out. Robert took offence.
Arya would need a new bed.
– King Orys Baratheon –
I was really hoping Roose would be as prideful as his bastard son, waiting for us in the throne room, but in the end I think we are suffering from our own victories. We hit them too hard, and desperation proved that Roose is just as cowardly as his son.
But unlike Ramsay, we didn't leave him an opening to flee through. No, we left nothing for him, and so he went as far from the sunlight as he could. The Winterfell Crypts are endless passages of the long-dead Starks of old.
Generation after generation of Eddard's ancestors are laid to rest here, such heroes as Artos the Implacable and Cregan, the Wolf of the North. It makes the fact that our every step has to be carved through the risen corpses, some so decayed that they are barely holding themselves together even with Roose's necromancy, all the more tragic.
Lord Stark says nothing as he cuts down another, but what parts of his face are visible tell enough of a story of his thoughts. Which ancestor was that, he must be wondering. Was it his father, his brother, or his sister?
"If he's touched Lyanna's tomb, I swear I'll rip his heart out and eat it," Father threatens, but even his lust for battle is dulled by the endless swarm. Our path is dark, lit by the torches carried by brave squires, but there's a fine red mist filling the air and hacking at our lungs, chanting and a red glow coming from deep within. The burning incense is warding it off, but only somewhat.
Eddard confirms that the light seems to be coming from the direction of his father, brother and sister's grave. A final injustice by a doomed man.
"Assuming he even has one," I grunt, my eyes moving to the shadows. Not all the undead charge us, many lurk in the darkness and wait for us to pass. We don't have the numbers down here, it's just too narrow for us to flood it with men. Only the best of the best are with us, because every lesser knight or warrior is another body blocking our path.
Step by step, passage by passage, we carve our way through until we finally lay eyes on the mastermind behind all this suffering.
It is wrong of me, but as I stare at Roose Bolton standing in the middle of a ritual circle drawn in blood, my first thought is thus…
I was right to not take Molag Bal's offer because by the Gods, Roose is one ugly bastard. Long black clawlike nails and toenails, greyed skin, batlike ears and a misshapen face. I've never seen Roose Bolton, having only heard Eddard and Father's descriptions, but the winged abomination before us is unrecognisable beyond some minor features.
"You-"
Roose gets one word out before I send an arrow screaming through the air, because fuck his dramatic speeches. I've wasted enough time on him and his ego. Funnily enough, he seems genuinely surprised even as he bats it out of the air, as if the idea that I wouldn't just let him talk never occurred to him.
"Very well," Roose says, raising his left hand as it glows with sickening purple light. Behind him, three figures rise from their graves. They aren't as old as most, and the cold has done well to preserve them. Father growls in fury and even Eddard lets out a quiet growl as Rickard, Brandon and Lyanna Stark stare back at us with hungry, dead eyes.
He really is a cunt.
"Melisandre!" I demand, already switching back to my sword as I charge forward. A bolt of searing red flies over my head, and I raise my shield to cover my face as it explodes into a ball of flame, Roose letting out a hiss before he extends his hand.
To my surprise, I feel myself pulled from my feet, flying toward him as I feel a pressure around my throat as he tries to choke the life out of me. Not a bad plan, as it bypasses my armour but-
"GET OFF HIM, CUNT!"
Roose turns to mist just in time to avoid a hammer being introduced to his malformed skull, flying through us as he reforms. One of Lord Stark's men, who I was told is one of the best swordsmen in the North, dies with his head ripped from his body before they can even finish turning, another hand reaching out as Arys Oakheart cries out, a red mist leaving him as Roose drains his lifeforce. His wings bat with such force as to knock people back, the mist swirling around him as the battle begins.
I take note of the Stormlander Squire who, upon having a vampire lord appear before him, decided the best way forward was just to smack the monster in the face with the lit torch.
I watch as Eddard fights his brother, the zombie far stronger than the others, as claws meet Valyrian steel. Father hesitates for the first time in this long, bloody campaign as Lyanna Stark charges him, frothing at the mouth. Somewhere, Robb Stark is fighting his grandfather. Not the best first meeting.
Gods, I want to go home.
– Robert Baratheon –
Fucking cunt Boltons. Ned should have cut off all their scheming heads and torn the Dreadfort down brick by shitty brick.
He wasn't in danger. The claws failed to puncture his armour as he used the shaft of his hammer to push her- it away, but as he went to swing, he felt himself hesitate again. Lyanna stared back at him with ravenous hunger, no sign of recognition in her eyes as she lunged, trying to bite and claw at him. It wasn't her. She was dead and gone, with her gods. Fucking Rhaegar the Dragoncunt had seen to that. This wasn't her.
To his side, Eddard kneed Brandon in the stomach hard enough to fold him over, sidestepping and bringing Ice down with a face as cold as the winter he never shut up about. Robert was the better warrior, he was sure of it, but maybe Eddard had more steel in his spine as he ruthlessly decapitated Brandon.
Meanwhile, Robert was still hesitating because despite the decaying flesh, despite the animalistic expression, it still looked like Lyanna too damn much for him to end this. All it would take is a single swing of his hammer. Orys was fighting Roose right now.
Killing was the only damn thing he was ever any good at, and right now he couldn't even do that. The sound of violence from behind him reminded him of his duty. Orys needed him, and Lyanna would think he was pathetic for hesitating. As she lunged again, he swung and closed his eyes, hearing the all-too-familiar sound of metal meeting flesh and a meaty thud of her hitting the crypt wall. Opening his eyes, he saw that she was already rising, because she was never one to give up, but he moved forward and swung hard and fast before his nerve failed him.
He wished he had a sword. He wished these undead would just die from regular blows. He wished he didn't have to crush Lyanna's skull like an overly ripe grape. He wasn't getting any of those wishes as he brought the hammer down and watched the explosion of blood, broken skull and brain matter burst from under his hammer.
Resting against his hammer, he panted wildly as he stared down at the mutilated corpse, his breakfast threatening to make a reappearance as the blood pounded in his ears. He- he needed to-
A shout rang out but he barely noticed until the piercing pain from behind brought him back to the moment, a shout of pain accompanied by a mouthful of blood as he looked down, a greyed, clawlike hand bursting through his chest, clean through his armour. He could see the way the edges of the broken armour were burning Bolton's hand, but his main focus was on what he was clutching.
Were those his intestines? He wasn't a maester, but he was fairly certain they were supposed to stay inside the body. His head felt light, his body cold, but Robert knew what to do in these situations.
"RAH!"
Swinging his hammer, he spun around, uncaring of the hand inside him as he pulled the bastard with him, clubbing Roose right over the head with the blood-caked spikes on his warhammer, the hand retracting as Roose stumbled back and clutched his head in pain.
With a laugh, spitting out more blood, Robert stumbled back and fell.
– King Orys Baratheon –
I've never been one to rage. Rage just distracts you from getting the damn job done. It hinders your judgement, blinds you to all but the target of your rage. I don't get angry, I just get the job done. Well, I do get angry but I don't let it distract me.
If I did, I'd have solved that Littlefinger mess far faster and laughably less efficiently.
And right now, the job I need to get done is to cut Roose Bolton's fucking head off as I charge at him, gripping my blade with both hands on account of the fact that I threw my shield at his head.
Barristan knows me better than I know myself, because he moved to cover my charge before I'd even started it. Roose's arm didn't pull out of Father's back fast enough to avoid his blade, the dazed vampire screeching as Barristan swings and cuts right to the bone. To my surprise, it doesn't cut his limb off entirely but Roose doesn't seem to enjoy having a blessed steel blade lodged into his wrist bone.
Brienne and Loras move in, both stabbing their blades into Roose's thighs because the fucker is just too fast, and removing his legs should make things more manageable. Ice swings and cleaves into Roose's back.
Arkay and Stendarr's power flows through me as I shine brighter, denying him his aggravating mist form, and he barely manages to turn in time to see me lunging at him, sword swinging for his neck. There's nothing disciplined about this, Barristan is going to beat my ass for it later, and it's a miracle I don't hit one of my allies in the process, but none of that matters as blade meets neck and digs in deep, Roose screaming as blackened blood spurts from the deep cut. His spine is made of fucking steel because my blade catches on it, not quite decapitating him but I'm past reasoning as I grab one of my arrows and simply stab it right into his baleful red eye.
Ordering everyone back, I kick Roose away, his wounds weakening his stance enough for him to stumble back as two red bolts of flame strike him, igniting the vampiric bastard. His screeches are music to my ears as I grab the closest weapon and charge again.
It's only after I swing that I remember I'm not supposed to be strong enough to lift Father's hammer, but in true Baratheon fashion, I also don't care as I bring it down on Roose and smash him to the ground. Planting my foot on his chest, I let out a roar as I raise the hammer and bring it down on his hideous face, then again and again until there is nothing left resembling a face, breathing heavily as I glare at the smear.
Was it worth it, Bolton? Was it everything you dreamed of?
Dropping the hammer, I give the order for him to be burnt and rush to my father, eyes locked to the bloody wound.
"O-Orys, it's- it's alright-" Father tries, but I interrupt him.
"No. Shut it, you're not dying here," I order, glowing with light as I pause before grabbing his intestine and pushing it back inside before I place both hands on his chest and focus. Lady Mara guides me with every pulse, the skin stitching back together slowly as his insides go back to where they are supposed to be. I've healed hundreds of wounds since the start of this campaign, and this is nothing different, no matter how much worse it looks.
He will live, because I demand it.
I ignore the gasps and mutterings as I watch father's skin finish closing, not even a scar to show off the next time he's ten cups in, rising to my feet and offering him my hand. He hesitates before he takes it and I pull his fat arse up with some effort.
"War fucking sucks," I decide, getting a laugh from him as I feel the adrenaline fade, stumbling and almost falling before he catches me. "I want some wine, a good steak and my wife."
Father laughs, patting me on the back but whatever he says goes in one ear and out the other as I let the exhaustion overtake me.
I fucking won.
— Bonus Scene — Euron Greyjoy
Frowning, he rubbed his chin in thought.
It wasn't encouraging that Roose failed. Wasn't surprising either, the Boltons didn't strike him as particularly smart. Sunlight, he knew, was going to be a threat, but King Orys was no easy prey, and the Old Gods had awakened to defend their land. It was good he didn't just try to storm King's Landing himself, as those arrows were a major threat.
Still, the North was weakened as planned. The Night's Watch being strengthened was less than ideal, but still manageable, as it would take them far too long to rebuild and repopulate the castles.
Still, as he opened his eyes and broke his connection with the bats he'd been using to observe the battle, he smiled at the sight of the Land of Always Winter. As the Starks loved to tell people, Winter was Coming, and with it came the end of men.
They should enjoy the warmth while they still could, because when winter arrived, it was never leaving again.
The nights would grow longer and longer until only night remained.
But he would have to bide his time, clearly. Roose had shown that the might of a Vampire Lord was not enough to best the Blessed King. He needed more. Luckily, he knew where to find it.
Author's Note: Euron continues to be a pain in the ass. Unfortunately for him, he's a follower of Molag so pain in the ass is something he's getting far too used to.
I'm kidding. There's no getting used to Molag's spiky penis. Ask Serana.
Written: 05/07/2026