Chapter 6: The Dreadfort's Fall and the Price of Vengeance
The march on the Dreadfort was swift and grim. Ciel, at the head of a thousand picked men, rode with a cold purpose that infected even the most seasoned warriors. Sarx loped beside him, a silent, grey shadow, his golden eyes scanning the horizon. The news brought by Theon Stout had ignited a fury in the Northmen that transcended even their usual stoic reserve. The torture of a lord by his own bastard son, the flaying of loyal men – these were acts that violated the most fundamental laws of hospitality and fealty. The Boltons had always been viewed with suspicion, their ancient customs a source of unease, but this was beyond the pale. This was an affront to the very soul of the North.
"We will make an example of the Dreadfort, Sebastian," Ciel said, his voice low but carrying. "We will show the realm what happens when a man betrays his oath, his blood, and his people."
"A fitting punishment, my Lord," Sebastian agreed, his crimson eyes gleaming with a hint of anticipation. "And a useful demonstration of your… resolve."
They reached the Dreadfort under a sky the color of iron. The ancient castle, a brooding, forbidding structure of black stone, stood on a low hill, its battlements lined with silent figures. No banners flew, no gate was opened. Ramsay Snow had chosen defiance.
"He is a fool, Sebastian," Ciel observed, surveying the unyielding fortress. "He could have bought himself some measure of grace by surrendering. Now, he has sealed his fate."
"Perhaps he believes his walls can protect him, my Lord," Sebastian suggested. "Or perhaps he simply enjoys the… drama of a siege."
"Then let us give him a show," Ciel said, a cruel smile touching his lips. He raised his hand, and the Northern army halted, forming a semi-circle around the base of the hill. Ser Rodrik Cassel, a veteran of countless battles, rode forward, his voice booming across the silent landscape.
"Ramsay Snow!" he bellowed. "By order of Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, you are commanded to surrender the Dreadfort and present yourself for judgment! Your crimes against your father, your men, and your Queen will be answered!"
Silence. Then, a figure appeared on the battlements – a young man, tall and lean, with long, dark hair and a pale, unsettlingly handsome face. He wore black leather armor, and a cruel smile stretched his lips. It was Ramsay Snow.
"Cregan Stark," he called back, his voice surprisingly clear and almost mocking. "I am the Lord of the Dreadfort now. My father is… indisposed. And I owe no fealty to a Targaryen whore or a boy who plays at being a wolf."
A collective growl rose from the Northern ranks. Ciel's eye narrowed.
"You have chosen your path, bastard," Ciel said, his voice laced with ice. "Prepare to face the consequences."
He gestured to Lord Manderly, whose men had brought up a large trebuchet. "Give me a volley, Lord Wyman. Let us see how strong these walls truly are."
The trebuchet groaned, and a massive stone hurtled through the air, crashing against the Dreadfort's outer wall. Dust and stone erupted, but the wall held. Ramsay laughed.
"Is that the best you can do, Wolf Pup?" he taunted. "My walls have stood for a thousand years! They will not fall to your childish games!"
"We shall see," Ciel said, his gaze unwavering. He turned to Sebastian. "You and I, Sebastian. We will take the gate."
"As you command, my Lord," Sebastian said, a flicker of dark excitement in his crimson eyes.
Before any of the Northern lords could protest, Ciel and Sebastian rode forward, alone, towards the Dreadfort's gate. It was a massive, iron-bound structure, seemingly impregnable. But Ciel had no intention of battering it down.
As they approached, Ciel dismounted, Sarx staying close at his side. He looked up at the gate, his single blue eye glowing with an unnatural light. He reached out a hand, and a ripple of energy spread from his fingertips, washing over the ancient wood and iron.
The gate groaned, then shuddered. Cracks appeared in the wood, and the iron bands began to buckle. The Northern army watched in stunned silence as the seemingly impossible occurred. The Dreadfort's gate, its pride and its defense, was being undone by magic.
With a final, shattering crack, the gate collapsed inward, leaving a gaping hole in the Dreadfort's defenses. Ciel turned to Sebastian, a grim smile on his face.
"After you, Sebastian," he said. "Let us introduce ourselves to Lord Ramsay."
Sebastian bowed, then moved with a speed that blurred the eye. He was through the ruined gate in an instant, a dark whirlwind of motion. Screams erupted from within the Dreadfort as the demon butler began his work.
Ciel followed at a more measured pace, Sarx padding silently beside him. As he entered the Dreadfort, he saw the carnage Sebastian had wrought. Bolton men lay scattered, torn apart, their faces frozen in terror. Sebastian moved among them with a cold efficiency, a predator among prey.
Ramsay Snow, however, was nowhere to be seen.
"He has fled, the coward," Ser Rodrik said, entering the courtyard with a contingent of Winterfell men. "He has taken refuge in the keep."
"Then we will smoke him out," Ciel said. He raised his hand, and a gout of flame erupted from the ruined gate, licking at the walls of the keep. The Bolton men who still lived scattered in panic.
The siege of the keep was brief and brutal. The Northern army, fueled by rage and the sight of Sebastian's handiwork, stormed the ancient structure. The remaining Bolton men fought with a desperate ferocity, but they were outnumbered and outmatched.
Ciel, with Sarx at his side, led the assault. He moved through the chaos with a deadly grace, his sword a blur of motion. He felt a strange detachment, as if he were watching a play, a grim spectacle of violence and death. But beneath the detachment was a cold, burning anger. He wanted Ramsay. He wanted to look the bastard in the eye as he delivered justice.
They found him in the Great Hall of the keep, the same hall where his ancestors had feasted and plotted for centuries. He was surrounded by a handful of his most loyal men, their faces pale with fear. He held a sword, but his hand was shaking.
"So, the Wolf Pup comes to play in my kennel," Ramsay said, his voice trembling slightly. "You will regret this, Stark. The Greens will reward my loyalty. They will make me Warden of the North."
Ciel laughed, a cold, humorless sound. "You are a fool, bastard. The Greens will not save you. No one will save you." He gestured to the carnage outside. "Do you see what you have wrought? You have destroyed your house, your name, your legacy. You will be remembered only as a monster."
"I am the Lord of the Dreadfort!" Ramsay screamed, lunging at Ciel.
Ciel sidestepped the attack with ease. He disarmed Ramsay with a swift, brutal movement, then grabbed him by the throat. He lifted the bastard off his feet, his single blue eye burning into Ramsay's terrified face.
"You are nothing," Ciel hissed. "You are a stain on the North, a disease that must be purged."
He tightened his grip, and Ramsay's struggles grew weaker. His face turned purple, his eyes bulging. Then, Ciel felt a presence behind him.
Sebastian.
"My Lord," Sebastian said softly. "May I… offer a suggestion?"
Ciel hesitated. He had intended to kill Ramsay himself, to feel the life drain from the bastard's body. But he knew Sebastian's… talents. And he knew that the demon butler could inflict a punishment far more exquisite than a simple death.
He released Ramsay, who collapsed to the floor, gasping for air. Ciel stepped aside, and Sebastian moved forward, a cruel smile on his face.
"You have been a very naughty boy, Lord Ramsay," Sebastian said, his voice a silky purr. "You have defied your lord, tortured your father, and flayed innocent men. Such… transgressions… deserve a… fitting response."
What followed was a scene that would haunt the nightmares of even the most hardened Northern warriors. Sebastian, with a surgeon's precision and an artist's flair, began to… reshape… Ramsay. He used his demonic powers to manipulate the bastard's flesh, to twist his bones, to inflict a level of pain that transcended human comprehension.
Ciel watched, his face impassive. He felt a strange mix of revulsion and satisfaction. This was justice, Northern justice. Cruel, brutal, but just. Ramsay had earned this.
When Sebastian was finished, Ramsay was no longer recognizable as a man. He was a twisted, broken thing, a living testament to the consequences of his actions. Sebastian presented his… work… to Ciel with a flourish.
"A masterpiece, if I may say so, my Lord," Sebastian said, his crimson eyes gleaming. "A fitting tribute to the… artistry… of the Boltons."
Ciel nodded, his face still a mask. "Leave him," he said. "Let the ravens carry the tale of what became of Ramsay Snow. Let the North see what happens when a man defies his lord and betrays his oath."
He turned and walked out of the Great Hall, leaving Sebastian to his… handiwork. He could still hear Ramsay's screams, but he did not look back.
The fall of the Dreadfort was swift and decisive. The remaining Bolton men, horrified by what they had witnessed, surrendered without a fight. Ciel, with a cold efficiency, reorganized the castle's garrison, placing loyal Stark men in command. He sent word to the surrounding Bolton lands, informing them of Ramsay's fate and demanding their fealty to the Queen.
He also found Ethan Bolton, chained in a dungeon, barely alive. The sight of the old lord, broken and tortured, filled Ciel with a fresh wave of disgust. He ordered Ethan to be brought to Winterfell, where he could receive proper care. But he knew, looking at the broken man, that the Lord of the Dreadfort was beyond saving.
With the Bolton problem resolved, Ciel turned his attention back to the war. He sent word to Jonos Brackenwold, urging him to hasten his journey to Dragonstone. The North was ready to march, but it would do so on its own terms.
As the Northern army prepared to leave the Dreadfort, Ciel stood on the battlements, looking out over the ravaged landscape. The castle, once a symbol of fear and oppression, was now a monument to Northern justice. But as he looked at the black stone, stained with blood and fire, he felt a strange unease.
"Was it necessary, Sebastian?" he asked, his voice low. "What you did to Ramsay… was it truly necessary?"
"Necessary?" Sebastian echoed, his crimson eyes gleaming in the fading light. "Perhaps not. But it was… satisfying. And it sent a message, my Lord. A message that the North will not be trifled with."
Ciel sighed. He knew Sebastian was right. The North needed to project strength, to show the South that it was not to be underestimated. And Ramsay's fate would serve as a grim warning.
But as he looked at the setting sun, casting long shadows over the Dreadfort, Ciel felt a chill in his heart. He had won a victory, but at what cost? He had delivered justice, but he had also unleashed a terrible darkness. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was only the beginning. The war for the Iron Throne would demand more sacrifices, more brutality, more… darkness. And Ciel Stark, the boy who would be king, would have to decide how much of his own humanity he was willing to sacrifice to win it.