--------------------------------
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
----------------------
-third person Pov second moon 289 AC
The Finns wasted no time. Without hesitation, they began to exterminate the village's inhabitants, ensuring that not a single witness remained standing. The screams were drowned out by the roar of the flames as huts and granaries burned, reduced to ash so that nothing would betray the attack or its mastermind. What had once been an ally—pure white snow—soon turned crimson with the blood of the fallen. Only Roose Bolton remained alive, gagged and bound, his eyes fixed on the devastation, powerless before the meticulous destruction of his domain.
Yet Aleksanteri was no man to squander an opportunity. One more move remained. Surveying the bodies of Bolton's scattered soldiers, a cold, calculating idea formed in his strategist's mind.
"Collect every suit of Bolton's armor," he ordered, his voice ice-steady. "If anyone asks, Lord Bolton returns victorious from a bandit hunt."
His men obeyed at once. They shed their own furs and donned the charred plate of the fallen. Their trained bodies adapted swiftly to the weight of steel, tightening straps and adjusting cloaks until they looked the spitting image of Bolton's Northern guard.
Reforming into flawless ranks, they mimicked every drill and discipline they'd observed. With Roose Bolton bound and concealed among them, they marched away with the precision of veterans, masquerading perfectly as the force they had just slaughtered.
Their return was swift and remorseless. They scarcely paused to rest, maintaining a pace calculated to reach the castle before any rider or rumor could sound the alarm. Information traveled fast—but they would be faster than doubt, swifter than suspicion, especially since the only evidence left behind was a burned village, scorched with the cruelty Bolton himself was known for.
A rolling drift of snow concealed their tracks and erased any trace of the massacre. As the Bolton stronghold rose before them, Aleksanteri allowed himself the faintest curve of his lips. The first phase of the plan had succeeded—but the most interesting part lay ahead.
Drawing near the ancestral gates, the disguised Finns executed their roles to perfection. They forced poppy-laced milk between Roose's lips, plunging him into a deep sleep to prevent any interruption.
With the lord of the Dreadfort unconscious and secured, the impostors approached the massive doors, drawing the cautious gaze of vigilant sentries.
"Who goes there?" snapped one guard, peering through the swirling flakes.
"Who do you think, idiot? Can't you recognize the banners?" snarled a Finn, feigning indignation.
The guard hesitated. "We had no word of their return."
"Our lord took an arrow in the joint of his armor. He's wounded—open the damned gate before I hang an incompetent scumbag like you," roared the impostor, fury etched on his face.
No further argument. The guards moved aside and the gates swung open, granting them entry into Bolton's heart.
They carried Roose in a litter through the courtyard, then fanned out to secure the corridors, bracing for the battle to come. Their footsteps echoed through stone halls just as the castle's maester burst in, medical satchel in trembling hands. Close behind him, Bolton's highest officers arrived, faces drawn with concern at the sight of their injured lord.
"What happened?" stammered the aged maester, his voice quavering like his hands.
"He was ambushed," replied one of the disguised Finns, even as his comrades struck with lethal efficiency—grasping officers by the throat and subduing them without effort. "And now," he added, blade sliding against Roose's pale throat, "you'll tell every one of the garrison to lower their arms or your lord dies."
A deathly hush settled over the great hall. The officers' faces drained of color—no longer from cold but from absolute terror. Their eyes met in disbelief.
Within minutes, the rest of the garrison was neutralized. From the ramparts to the outer walls, Bolton's men were disarmed or captured; a few tried to flee but were cut down by Finns waiting beyond the gates.
By nightfall, the castle belonged to the Finns—and the world beyond remained ignorant. No messengers rode. No letters were sent. All had been executed in absolute silence. In a single night, Bolton's dominion changed hands, and his people never suspected a thing.
When they ventured into the dungeons, the Finns uncovered Bolton's true legacy: a macabre playground of mutilated corpses, victims tortured and skinned. Aleksanteri strode among the horrors, eyes gleaming as he admired the methodical precision of each atrocity. He found, bound in human hide, a ledger detailing every torture—each procedure and each victim's agony.
"This man was no mere tyrant," Aleksanteri murmured, flipping through the cruel tome. "He was an artist of pain."
He strapped Roose into one of his own grim devices. For hours, he pored over Bolton's diaries and supplemental volumes, correcting assumptions and preparing his instruments with meticulous care.
When at last Roose Bolton stirred, the first thing he saw was Aleksanteri's smiling face—white teeth glinting in torchlight.
"Goodness, you sleep well… Roose," Aleksanteri murmured, his hands drifting over his torture apparatus as he added a few of Bolton's own instruments.
Roose Bolton's eyes snapped open, horrified to find himself in his own dungeon. "How… what…" he stammered before Aleksanteri cut him off.
"Shh… silence. What matters now is that you understand this castle belongs to me—no, to my beloved king. If you were not mistaken, the King of Prussia ordered your death, and I obey. Though I would relish dragging you south to torment you in one of my immaculate chambers, duty calls me eastward to Essos. So everything must happen here, without delay."
With the calm of an artist surveying a blank canvas, Aleksanteri turned one of the stretching rack's wheels. The timber groaned ominously. Bolton—still weakened by the poppy milk—struggled against his bonds, but it was futile. Leather straps secured his wrists and ankles snugly enough to immobilize him without yet tearing the skin.
Aleksanteri paced around his prisoner, eyes studying every line of the man who had ruled the North with terror. He had seen Bolton on battlefields and in council—always that same impassive mask, the same muted voice, as if nothing in the world could startle him.
But here, beneath the torchlight in his own cold, dark dungeon, Roose Bolton displayed something new.
Fear.
He did not scream or tremble like a common man. No—but his pale eyes betrayed him. His fingers twitched; his breathing came faster than he would admit. And Aleksanteri savored each moment.
"Roose," he said softly, drawing out the name like a blade, "I never imagined I would see you like this. Is that… fear? No—no, it cannot be. The great Roose Bolton—the Lord of the Dreadfort—a man without compassion or weakness. You cannot feel fear, can you?"
Bolton tried to speak, but his tongue remained sluggish. Only a strangled sound escaped.
Aleksanteri smiled, leaning in so that his fingers brushed Bolton's cheek. "So many years skinning men alive, perfecting your craft. And now, at last, someone comes to teach you what real pain means."
He turned the wheel once more, slow and deliberate. The leather straps creaked as pressure began on Bolton's joints—only discomfort at first, easily borne by a hardened soldier. Aleksanteri knew it.
He kept turning.
A sickening crack of bone under strain echoed through the chamber. Bolton clenched his jaw, every muscle straining to resist. Aleksanteri watched, fascinated, as clinically detached as a surgeon at his table.
"Do you know what I love most?" he murmured, pausing to relish Bolton's suffering. "The way the human body fights itself. Survival instinct is mesmerizing. Even when death is inevitable, it fights."
He twisted the crank again.
A dry snap—Roose's right arm popped from its socket.
A convulsion ripped through Bolton's form. His lips parted in a silent gasp. Yet still no cry.
Aleksanteri arched an eyebrow. "Nothing? How disappointing. I thought you'd at least give me a scream. But patience."
He set aside the wheel and drew a slender, curved scalpel from his belt—a tool of precision, not war. He pressed the blade gently to Bolton's chest, slicing beneath the skin just enough to draw a thin line of blood.
Bolton inhaled sharply; rage flickered in his eyes.
"There," Aleksanteri purred, "that fire in your gaze. You hated helplessness, didn't you? Hated being on the other side."
He lifted the scalpel toward Bolton's forearm. "I've studied your methods—i forgive your novice touch, but I have my own innovations."
With swift precision, he peeled back a layer of flesh, exposing raw muscle as easily as peeling fruit.
Bolton's breath rasped, but still no shout.
Aleksanteri chuckled, reaching for a small clay jar. "Vinegar," he explained, uncorking it so the sour scent filled the air. "An ancient antiseptic…but it burns like molten iron on living flesh."
Bolton's eyes widened at the sight. This time he tensed.
Aleksanteri grinned, pouring the vinegar over the open wound.
Bolton ground his teeth so hard the rasp echoed. His back arched, as if trying to flee the searing pain that licked at his nerves like liquid fire.
The jar shattered on the floor. "Oh? That reaction? You disappoint me. I thought you were stronger."
Bolton panted, sweat matting his forehead. Yet he neither pleaded nor moaned.
He blinked once, lips trembling—but no plea for mercy. Aleksanteri wiped his hands on a pristine white cloth, feigning regret. "Forgive my lack of professionalism—I got carried away." His smile twisted into a gleeful snarl. "There are steps before flaying. Nails first."
He seized a pair of heavy iron pincers from the table, torchlight gleaming off their cruel edges. "You've done this countless times, haven't you?" Aleksanteri taunted. "So you know the ritual—heat, then pressure…" He pressed the pincers to Bolton's ring finger, squeezing slowly. The nail held fast—the true agony lay in the anticipation.
Bolton closed his eyes, neck muscles taut like ropes.
Aleksanteri sighed theatrically. "No scream? Not even a groan? Truly disappointing."
Then, with a swift twist, he tore the nail free. A wet snap echoed as blood spurted from the exposed nail bed. Bolton emitted a low, guttural groan—his first sound.
Aleksanteri held the bloody nail aloft. "There it is," he whispered, voice dripping with triumph. "Now we are making progress....But we still have 19 more to go"