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Late at night, the northern sky was a vast, cold vault dotted with indifferent stars.
"Iron-Leg" Wharton, accompanied by a few personal guards, made his usual rounds along the dark granite ramparts of the Dreadfort. He cracked his heavy leather whip with a sharp, echoing snap, his voice hoarse as he roared warnings to the shivering sentries. "If Lord Bolton catches you slacking on your watch, you'll be praying for a quick hanging! Keep your eyes on the treeline!"
It was no idle threat. Ever since the Leech Lord's peace proposals had been ruthlessly rejected by the Stark coalition, Roose Bolton's temper had grown darker and colder by the day. Even the news of his wife, Fat Walda Frey, giving birth to a healthy, pink-cheeked son had failed to coax a single smile from his pale lips. With that somber, unblinking expression ruling the keep, no one doubted that the Lord of the Dreadfort would readily flay a man alive just to remind the garrison of the price of disobedience.
If you didn't want your skin stretched over a wooden board, you kept your spear straight and your eyes open.
The atmosphere within the castle was exceptionally oppressive, tight and volatile like a sealed barrel of pitch, waiting for a single spark to blow the entire fortress sky-high. Wharton could only rely on the Bolton family's millennia-old, blood-drenched reputation to suppress the quiet mutiny brewing among the soldiers. They had been trapped within these dark stone walls for two years, cut off from the world.
If not for the fact that their families lived within the inner bailey, if not for the deeply stocked granaries beneath the keep, and if not for the absolute terror Roose Bolton commanded, the Dreadfort would have surrendered a year ago.
Wharton spat over the battlements into the freezing darkness.
In his mind, the fools besieging them outside were the ones who were truly insane. Outside, the world was a frozen purgatory of ice, howling blizzards, and black frost. Even without a single sword being swung, the besiegers suffered casualties every single day, their toes and fingers rotting from frostbite. For every soldier who fell ill inside the warm stone barracks of the keep, ten died in the snow-choked trenches outside.
Feeding a single man inside the fortress required only a handful of grain, some dried beef, and a cup of small beer; maintaining a besieging army in a northern winter cost three to five times as much in lost pack-beasts and frozen supply lines.
The Boltons hadn't slit Catelyn Stark's throat. They hadn't forced Sansa into a marriage bed. They hadn't executed the Stark children. Why was Winterfell willing to pay such an astronomical price, enduring the brutal elements, just to see the flayed man torn down and the Bolton line extinguished?
Wharton couldn't understand it, and he figured Roose Bolton couldn't either. They could only continue to endure, day after grueling day, waiting to see whose resolve would shatter first, the wolves in the snow, or the leeches behind the stone.
He turned and strode toward the stairs, preparing to descend to the inner keep to report the day's rounds to the Lord. It was the same monotonous, grim report every night: the enemies outside hadn't moved, and the men inside were growing more volatile, their eyes harboring a silent, dangerous rage.
Whoosh.
A sudden, heavy sound cut through the howling wind - the rhythmic, low-frequency thrumming of massive wings.
Wharton paused, his boot hovering over the granite step. He looked up.
Amidst the cold starlight, a silver-white gleam streaked across the dark sky like a falling star. It grew larger at a terrifying rate, transforming into a massive, winged shadow that swept directly over his astonished face.
Before he could even shout, the battlements erupted into chaos. Sentries pointed their spears skyward, and crossbowmen pulled their triggers in blind panic, sending a disorganized volley of bolts into the dark. Most missed, clattering harmlessly against the stones, but several stray bolts fell back into the courtyard, piercing two soldiers who had just run out of the barracks to investigate the noise.
Screams, blood, and the frantic shouting of officers instantly plunged the Dreadfort into a frenzy.
Wharton stood frozen on the steps until a brilliant flash of light turned the night into day. A searing torrent of flame washed over the battlements, licking the ancient granite of the southern wall.
Golden-orange fire, laced with white-hot light, swept across the stone. Viserion, the silver-white dragon, circled the keep like a phantom of the storm. He let out a deafening, primordial roar that silenced every human voice in the castle.
Even in the freezing cold of winter, Wharton felt a wave of intense, suffocating heat roll over his face, snapping him out of his paralysis.
"I must find Lord Roose!" he gasped, lunging toward the courtyard.
But the nightmare had only just begun. Two more thunderous roars echoed from the clouds, so close they made the stone beneath his feet vibrate.
A ribbon of black-tinged red flame descended from the northern sky, engulfing the battlements in a column of fire as Drogon made his pass. Moments later, a storm of green and yellow fire washed over the eastern wall, Rhaegal's breath illuminating the dark fortress as bright as a midday sun. Only the western wall remained dark, but as Wharton looked up, the silver shadow was already banking west, and within seconds, the screams of burning men rose from that quarter as well.
"It's over," Wharton whispered, his heart turning to lead. "The gods have abandoned us."
If the Stark soldiers launched their assault at this moment, the Dreadfort would be as defenseless as a naked maid. He scrambled back up the stairs, shielding his face from the intense heat and the smell of roasting flesh, and looked over the parapet.
The siege camp was alive with activity, but there was no sign of a charge. The wolves were merely watching the show.
THUD.
The heavy, metallic groan of iron chains echoed through the yard. Wharton looked down in horror. The gatehouse guards, driven mad by the sight of the dragons, had severed the winches. The massive drawbridge fell heavily into the snow, and the iron-studded oak gates swung open.
The surviving soldiers let out desperate, terror-filled shrieks, pouring out of the gate before their officers could draw a sword. In truth, most of the officers were already gone, turned to grease and ash on the battlements.
The rout was a flood breaking through a rotten dam. When three fire-breathing monsters descended from the heavens, no amount of discipline or flaying could keep a man standing his ground.
"DESERTERS WILL BE FLAYED!" Wharton roared, picking up a discarded crossbow and shooting a fleeing guard through the back.
But no one listened. The men surged down the stairs, trampling their comrades' bodies in a frantic, blind rush to escape the stone oven. They wanted to end their terror, even if it meant running straight into the pikes of the waiting Northmen outside.
Wharton drew his longsword, desperate to hold the inner door.
SPAT.
A cold, sharp pain exploded in his back. A silver spearhead, thrust with desperate strength by a fleeing guard, pierced his chainmail and emerged from his chest, dark blood dripping onto the cold stone.
Wharton felt his strength evaporating, a bone-deep chill replacing the heat of the dragonfire. As he fell, his gaze drifted upward. The silver dragon, Viserion, had landed heavily atop the inner keep, his golden eyes glowing like hot coals in the dark.
Then, the darkness claimed him.
Eddard Karstark, clad in silver plate and his dragon-circlet helm, leaped from Viserion's neck. He drew Heartsbane with his right hand, his left hand waving in a brief, magical gesture.
Active Skill: Magic Arrows triggered.
Six shafts of shimmering, iridescent light appeared out of thin air, streaking through the smoke to pierce the throats of several crossbowmen who had been brave—or foolish—enough to aim at his dragon.
Five heavily armored Bolton house guards, their shields emblazoned with the flayed man, charged up the stone stairs of the keep, their axes raised. "For the Dreadfort! For the Leech Lord!"
Eddard met them at the landing. Heartsbane hummed, the Valyrian steel shearing through the first guard's heavy wooden shield and the neck behind it in a single, fluid arc. A second guard lunged, but Eddard's blade took his hand and his throat before the man's axe could descend.
He kicked the third guard, sending him tumbling down the steep stone steps. The heavy impact of his plate armor hitting the granite echoed like a falling boulder. The remaining two guards took one look at the headless corpses, shared a glance of pure horror, and bolted back down the stairs.
They ran into the lower corridor, shouting for reinforcements. The inner keep was filled with the Bolton family's most loyal retainers, and though they didn't understand the nature of the attack, they surged toward the stairs, a wall of steel and spears.
Eddard heard the heavy, rhythmic clatter of their boots. He turned to the dragon behind him. "Viserion. Clean the path."
The silver dragon stepped forward, his massive claws gouging the stone. His slender, cream-colored neck stretched into the stairwell, his horned head appearing like a serpent of legend before the terrified guards. His golden eyes flared, and a column of liquid gold-and-orange fire roared down the corridor.
The narrow passage became a furnace. The Bolton soldiers had nowhere to run; they were incinerated where they stood, their armor melting into their skin.
When the screaming stopped, Eddard stepped onto the stairs. The stones were hot enough to crack his boots, the air thick with the smell of sulfur and charred flesh. He followed the corridor, bypassing the black, silent husks of his enemies, and entered the private quarters.
He kicked open a heavy cedar door, finding a maid cowering beneath a table, her hands covering her face.
"Where is Roose Bolton?" Eddard asked, his voice muffled by his linen mask.
"The... the study," the girl wailed, her body shaking. "Down one level... the third door on the left. Please, don't burn me!"
Eddard turned and left, his silver boots squelching in the blood-slicked stone of the corridor. He had no interest in killing servants.
As he descended to the lower level, a final pair of house guards blocked his path. They were giants of men, wearing double-layered chainmail and heavy iron greaves, their faces hidden behind full full-helmets. They held massive, iron-studded tower shields planted into the floor, their short spears thrust forward like the fangs of a pit-viper.
They had turned the narrow corridor into an impregnable wall.
Eddard didn't draw his sword. He raised his left hand, his fingers tracing a quick, geometric pattern in the air.
Active Skill: Fireburst triggered.
A fan-shaped column of liquid fire erupted from his palm. The intense heat, equivalent to a dragon's breath engulfed the guards, turning their "turtle-shell" defense into a metal coffin. The heavy oak door behind them was reduced to ash in seconds.
Eddard stepped through the smoking ruins of the doorway.
Roose Bolton sat behind a blood-red desk, his pale, unblinking eyes wide with an unprecedented, cold terror. His lips parted, but as he looked at the silver-clad Karstark King, the words died in his throat.
"Why?" Roose whispered, his voice a flat, dry rasp.
"Because you and your bastard are monsters," Eddard said, his voice level as he approached the desk. "Heartsbane has tasted the blood of kings, Roose, but it will taste yours gladly. You have no moral restraint. Given the chance, you would flay the world just to see it bleed. Why should a house like yours continue to exist?"
"Lord Eddard-"
A cold gleam flashed in the room.
Heartsbane cut through the air, the dark Valyrian steel slicing through Roose's gorget and throat with the ease of a knife through butter. A thick, hot spray of crimson erupted, soaking the blood-red desk.
The Leech Lord clutched his throat, his pale eyes rolling back as he drowned in his own blood.
Eddard reached down, grabbed the dying lord by his collar, and dragged him to the window. With a single, powerful heave, he threw the last Lord of the Dreadfort out into the night.
SPLAT.
The body hit the rocky courtyard below with the heavy, wet sound of a dropped melon.
Outside, the shouts of "The Lord is dead!" rippled through the ruins of the castle. The remaining defense dissolved into a panic-stricken scramble for survival. The flayed man had fallen, and after two long years, the Dreadfort belonged to the living.
[System Notification: The Fall of the Dreadfort: Complete.]
[Strategic Status: House Bolton extinguished.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.