Chapter 37

Chapter 37: Flight of the Flayed Man

Roose Bolton, Winterfell, 278AC.

Immediately after the trial, Roose has been taken down into the depths of Winterfell to await the trial by combat the next day. On his way to the dungeons, he was escorted by his father and few Winterfell guards. The group remained silent as they walked, his father looking around as they entered into the dungeons. Roose himself remained quiet in contemplation on what was to come.

"I would like a word alone with my son." Ryden informed the guard as they arrived at a cell. It was barren, with the exception of a ragged looking bed in the corner and a piss pot opposite it. Compared to the dungeons of the Dreadfort, the Winterfell ones were uninspiring. When one was taken within the Dreadfort dungeons, you could expect that you would likely never see the light of day. They were dark, damp and has many tools of persuasion on display. The Starks had plenty of tools, but they lacked the flair of intimidation that the Dreadfort held.

After the guards had disappeared, his father turned to his son. "It was foolish of you to challenge the Wolf to a fight. He maybe older than you, but he is still well within his prime and an experienced warrior. You should have named a more experienced warrior to fight in your place." Ryden chided his young son as Roose stared back with a small smile on his face.

"I have no intention of fighting Rickard Stark." Roose informed him. Indeed, he didn't have any intention of fighting the Stark Lord. By challenging him to a fight, he certainly ensured his mind would be elsewhere this evening. He also quite enjoyed playing with the man in the process in front of the Lords that is also present.

"Then you will plead to take the Black?" Ryden said with a snort. "You wouldn't make it halfway to the Wall before the Black Brothers slit your throat and wrote it off to the work of wildlings."

"You will be seeing about my escape." Roose informed his father, turning his pale eyes on his father, a feature that they shared.

"Your escape?" Ryden said with a humorless chuckle. "Your escape will be through Lord Stark or the grave by his sword. Either way, our house will suffer considerably in the days to come." Ryden dismayed.

"Our house? It will be gone before too long, and with it, the Red Kings. Do you think Rickard will allow treachery to go unpunished? As soon as you are in your grave, he will ensure that Stark blood rules over the Dreadfort and with that, the death of our legacy. I suppose that the Starks have bested you enough that you no longer have the will to fight, perhaps it is best that you let our family's legacy die with you." Roose explained as though speaking of the weather. Judging by the outrage in his father's eyes, he knew he had him in his grasp.

"Even if we are successful in escaping, we have no hope of winning a rebellion, even if the Dustin's were to side with us and the Ryswell's were willing to join at our side. That is a lot of 'ifs' to rely on" Ryden berated his son.

"I don't intend to fight, I intend to flee across the Narrow Sea and bide my time. There are allies to be had if one knows where to look. We have planned for such an occasion after all." Roose informed. His father made a point to keep enough gold on hand to secure an escape if needed, especially after the Lord of Winterfell had discovered his plotting years prior.

"You think the North would bow down to slavers and sell swords at your back? You have always overlooked the value of loyalty. Few, if any, will entertain the idea of backing sell swords, slavers or foreigners, even if you were to muster a great host. You would have to fight the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms with the King backing Stark." Ryden dismissed with a wave of his hand.

"Rewards come to those who are patient. There will come a time when the Starks are weak or the realm is divided. When that time comes, I will strike." Roose devised.

"And if that time never comes?" Ryden questioned.

"Then my son shall follow in my steps." Roose stated.

"Very well, I shall see to your escape, though don't believe it has anything to do with my love for you. You have ruined my house and have I a son to spare; you would have breathed your last breath a long while ago. Perhaps my blood will live on through you, and if not, well, I'd rather have your name go down in history than mine as the last Bolton who failed his house." Ryden stated coldly.

Father and son then brought their heads together to plan the escape. The Bolton men would infiltrate the Stark guard tower and liberate uniforms and secure their flight from the castle. His father and a number of guards would visit under the pretense of delivering his armor for the battle tomorrow, where they would neutralize the guards and work their way out of the dungeons and from the castle, all under the eyes of the Lord of Winterfell. It was a pity that Roose wouldn't be here to see the look of rage on Rickard Stark's face when he found out they had escaped under his very nose quietly into the night.

Jon Umber, Winterfell, 278AC.

It was a good day for Great Jon Umber, as it should be throughout the North at the plight of the Bolton Heir. If it were up to Jon, he would kill the lot of those cowardly scum. His grandfather often spoke of how the Bolton's had stirred trouble up in the North, specifically on Skagos. Had those fucking cunts have been successful, it would have been the Umber lands to suffer under raids, not the likes of the Boltons who were to the south. The only thing that would make this day any better was if he would have been selected to fight against the Boltons himself.

Lord Rickard has proven himself a man worth following as his grandfather had always spoken. Instead of naming someone his champion to fight the Bolton himself, he proclaimed that he would fight. Jon could respect a man who was willing to fight his own battles and it was someone who he would gladly follow into battle. The Lord of Winterfell has always treated the Umbers well and Jon wouldn't soon forget it. He led them to glory on the Stepstones when Jon was just a babe, worked to secure the Nights Watch and even supplied them with a hostage to ease their minds after the unrest on Skagos.

The Isle of Skagos has been an ancient enemy of the Umbers, not unlike the wildlings. According to ancient histories, they would come in their ships and raid and pillage their coasts during times of hardships. The war against them had been a brutal one, costing many Umber lives, but in the end the Isles has been pacified and banned from the sea. In recent years though, they had earned that right back under the leadership of Baldur Crow, who had united the Isles and defeated the Bolton backed clans in the process. Jon's been initially hesitant to trust the likes of the Skagossons, but his grandfather assured him of the good intentions of the young Baldur, whom Hoarfrost had come to know during the war on the Stepstones. When his cousin has been a hostage at Last Hearth to ensure their good behavior, Jon had grown to become friends with him. Rolf was his elder in years, but he was a fine warrior, one that Great Jon had looked up to as he grew.

Across the hall, Jon could see the group of Skagosson's occupying part of the long tables with the Ryswell's seated not too far away. The large Skagosi known as Baldur sat in their midst next to his southern wife who was talking amiably with Lord Ryswell while Vilkas and Rolf were in conversation with Mark Ryswell a few seats down. Rising out of his seat, Jon moved across the hall intent on greeting his old friend.

"Rolf!" Jon greeted as the brown long haired man turned towards the voice and gave him a smile.

"Well if it isn't the Great Jon Umber!" Rolf called out. "Come on over, take a seat." He said motioning to an empty space next to him.

As Jon took a seat on the bench, he was introduced to the others around the table. "Jon, this is my father Vilkas and this brilliant man here is Mark Ryswell." Rolf introduced as Jon shook hands with each of the men.

"My son speaks fondly of his time in Last Hearth, I thank you for that." Vilkas greeted with a firm handshake. The man was older in years, his hair showing grey, though he still looked to possess great strength if his large arms were anything to judge by.

"My Lord." Mark Ryswell greeted in a soft tone with a nod as Jon likewise shook his hand.

"Get the man a brew!" Rolf called out as Jon soon found himself with a brew in hand, a Skagosi one if he wasn't mistaken. "We were just discussing a sellsword company for Essos, a fine idea, lots of killing to be had and one can't ever kill enough slavers." Rolf informed him with a grin. The man was slightly unhinged, even Jon could admit that, but he had the right idea. A good slaver was a dead slaver.

"Aye, I'll drink to that." Jon agreed raising his cup as the group took down a swallow. It was a rather sour tasting dark brew known as the Defiance. He always enjoyed the brews of Skagos and was likely one of their top customers. He would have to see to it that he got a shipment of their newest brew to sate his thirst throughout winter.

"If we gather a thousand men, we are sure to find plenty of work within the Disputed Lands." Mark continued as Jon settled in to listen. His people would need him during winter, for wildling raids may still crop up, though he knew a few good men who would certainly be interested in going along. Jon was half tempted himself, but his duty was to defend his house first, not play soldier in Essos.

POV: Rodrik Ryswell, Winterfell, 278AC.

"It was brave of you to offer up your sword." His daughter praised the young Brandon Stark who sat at her side.

"Aye, father is none too happy about it though." Brandon grumbled.

"You'll get your chance, don't you worry. What matters is you stood up." Rodrik pointed out to the heir of Winterfell.

"Aye, I could run him through if given the chance." Brandon promised. No doubt he could too, he had seen the boy spar on occasion and he was gifted with the sword.

As a new song started, he looked towards his daughter and gave her nod. Lords and Ladies from around the room were rising from their seats to make their way to the dance floor as his daughter nudged Brandon on the arm and leaned forward to whisper something in his ear.

The Lord of House Ryswell pretended to focus on the great hall while this happened. To his right, the Skagosi were amiably chatting with all manner of people, including his brother Mark. Mark had spoken well of them and planned a joint venture with them again to the Disputed Lands to fight during the winter. Today, he would be recruiting amongst the Lords to find any volunteers. The Skagosi were the prime targets, as having Lord Crowl join in would surely draw a great amount of the younger warriors who were burning to get their taste of battle. The Skagosi man was a growing legend in the North and one that Rodrik had encouraged Mark to get close to.

"Lord Rodrik, might I take Lady Barbrey for a dance?" Brandon asked him politely.

"Go right ahead, Lord Brandon. You know my daughter would give me no rest if I were to deny her that!" He said with a laugh as the young heir to Winterfell grinned, sweeping a laughing Barbrey with him to the dance floor.

Rodrik encouraged his daughter to seek out the young heir, though it was said that he was betrothed to Catelyn Tully. The heir to Winterfell seemed to be taken with his daughter, but then he was taken with quite a few maidens, if word was to believe. Rodrick knew his daughter idolized the young man which was for the best if he could indeed manage to get a marriage to him. That was of course his fall back plan, should his newest plan fail to secure a more likely Stark marriage for his daughter.

With the fall of the Bolton's, he come up with another plan as he rose from his seat to pursue it. He originally hoped to marry his elder daughter to the Bolton heir, though now that was out, but perhaps the Dreadfort wasn't out of his reach. He always pride himself on his ability to adapt quickly in circumstances, like a steed in the heat of battle.

"Lord Henry." Rodrik spoke, approaching the table the older Lord was seated at. "William." He greeted warmly towards the man's son. William was a constant companion of Brandon's and often rode to visit in the Rills, enjoying the sloping hills and plains of his lands and no doubt the sense of adventure they offered. The boy has quite an interest in horses and he would often engage the Lord of the Rills in discussion over horse breeding and jousting, both favored past times of his.

"Lord Rodrik, please take a seat." The man spoke, motioning him over.

"William, why don't you go rescue Brandon from my daughter?" Rodrik requested with a wink as William laughed.

"Certainly, though if I get harmed you owe me." William jested back as he rose.

"Come to console me on my loss?" Lord Henry said with a sigh, clearly upset that his nephew had fallen so far from grace. It certainly hurt House Dustin to be associated with the likes of the Bolton Heir by blood.

"I had come over to discuss the match of my Bethany to your William, among other things." Rodrik informed him, giving the depressed Lord some bit of hope.

"Given up the idea of my Bolton nephew have you?" Henry snorted. Indeed Rodrik had, even if he survived, no Northern house of any standing would willingly marry into his. It wouldn't be a politically sound move at all.

"Better options have arisen, that work to both our advantages." Rodrik informed him as he leaned towards the other Lord.

"Oh?" William asked intrigued.

"Your nephew will no doubt fall in battle tomorrow." Rodrik informed him bluntly as William inclined his head in agreement. "Lord Stark will then look for support to claim the Dreadfort in time as his own. As you have told me of Lord Ryden's… issues." Lord Ryswell spoke lowly. "He will likely not be producing a replacement." He added. Indeed, Lady Bolton has not failed to inform her brother of the particulars of his problems in bed.

"So, you would be willing to marry your Bethany to William in exchange for what exactly?" Henry asked, getting to the point.

"In exchange for your aid in backing Lord Stark's taking of the Dreadfort with me. Perhaps I may not get Brandon Stark, but Eddard Stark in the Dreadfort will do just fine for Barbrey." Rodrik plotted. Henry seemed quite interested, and why wouldn't he be? Politically, House Dustin had taken a hit, first with Lord Bolton's dealings on Skagos, which had in turn cast suspicion on them by Lord Stark and now with Roose's actions to drive the nail in. He would be hard pressed to find a suitable bride for his son with that looming over him. Some would say that bad blood on both sides had caused the Bolton Heir to go bad. With the lady of the Dreadfort being a Dustin, that certainly harmed William's chances.

"Very well, you have my backing on those terms." Henry agreed.

"Excellent, let us go talk to Lord Stark shall we?" Rodrik said, feeling pleased that his plan was coming together quickly. It was no simple thing to confiscate a holding such as the Dreadfort, despised as they were, as it would set precedent for a Lord to do it in the future. By having the backing of the largest houses in the region behind him, it would certainly make such an option more readily possible for Lord Stark and ensure the Bolton name died out as well.

Vilkas Crowl, Winterfell, 278AC.

He was proud that his people had come so far since his youth. He often dreamed growing up of ending the decline of his people and reshaping them to join the world. They had long dwelled in the glories of the past instead of looking towards the future of what they could be. It was he who convinced his nephew and brother that going out into the world was for the best, and it had taken them to what they were now.

Skagos could now feed its people and it was home to the fiercest of warriors in the Seven Kingdoms. As the years passed, so did the memories of distrust the North had for them, something that Vilkas was more than happy to see. Though not ideal, a match had been made with a prominent southern house and the Skagosi had risen in prestige to be trusted by the King himself. Vilkas was certain that in a thousand years, the world would remember the name Baldur, much to his nephew's pleasure.

Baldur was an ideal Skagosi leader of old, a fierce warrior and an admired leader of men. The Skagossons both feared his wrath and loved him for his strength and larger than life persona. On the Isles, the politics were often simpler, the strongest of men often led and the warriors would follow. Those of strength brought riches to the warriors and women to their beds, it had always been this way and Baldur was no exception. While Baldur loved his people, of that he had no doubt, he lacked in many areas that were vital to the future of Skagos itself.

He tried to instill the importance of politics and knowing when to use your mind and when to use your axe, though he was only been half successful in his attempts. Baldur had done well in following Lord Stark and the King, his success no doubt helping him along the way, but he often lacked in propriety and political awareness. He improved over the years, though he still viewed the world through the lenses of a Stoneborn of old more often than not. While he curbed some of the more unsavory traditions and abided by the law, there was certainly a wildness about him that would never abide. It was for this reason that Vilkas backed the marriage to Lady Helena so strongly.

Helena has the wits and will to keep his nephew in check, and the drive to make something of the Skagos people to please her father. Vilkas saw that and knew that she would fight to keep the Skagosi people on a path to success, even if unpopular. Together, Vilkas and Helena had seen to the finer details of ruling that his nephew struggled with and they had done so successfully. It pleased Vilkas to know that she would raise competent children that could help shape Skagos further and secure his people's future for many years to come. Though a bit reliant on books and what things should be according to texts, she learned to better apply that knowledge to the difficult culture of the Stoneborn and rather well at that. While she would never be loved or even liked on Skagos, they had grown to at least accept her in her position, fearful of both Vilkas and Baldur's wrath should they seek otherwise. The strong ruled on Skagos, that wouldn't likely change for many years to come, though many were at least seeing the value of doing things differently.

Helena had given birth to a daughter recently, a girl that would make a good match in the days to come. Astrid would be raised a noble lady and an educated one of great potential. With Baldur's rising fame throughout the Seven Kingdoms, she would surely make a suitable match for the many young boys growing up hearing tales of her father, perhaps even a Great Lord like the Starks. Who would have thought twenty years ago that the blood of the Stoneborn even had a remote chance of ruling alongside their ancient enemies? His son had also done well, his Clan Stane wife having birthed another daughter by the name of Ragna. While Vilkas and his son hoped that it would be a son, they were both pleased none the less with a daughter.

Since arriving, Vilkas and Helena had been quite busy, taking advantage of House Bolton's fall from grace by courting the many Lords who held trade deals with them that wished to distance themselves from House Bolton. Helena wisely saw the opportunity to secure a great many contracts for supplying ores to the Karstarks, Umbers and the many petty and masterly houses throughout the region as well. With Vilkas at her side, they approached and convinced a good number of Lords that it would be in their better interests to take up contracts with House Crowl instead. Having the favor of Lord Stark and the King had certainly helped in those regards. Baldur may not know how to use his favor wisely, but his wife certainly did.

They weren't the only ones making deals by the sound of it either. Not long ago, Lord Stark, Dustin and Ryswell had disappeared towards the direction of his solar in deep conversation, no doubt about the events come morning. Lord Stark wasn't an overconfident man, but he would surely defeat the green Bolton Heir in battle. It was hardly a fair fight, the boy had been a fool to challenge Rickard. If it were Vilkas, he would have gambled a good mainlander knight against the likes of Rickard's champion instead. Even if Baldur were to have been selected, a knight certainly had a better chance at defeating him than the young Bolton did at defeating the Stark with his Valyrian great sword. While most great swords would be hard pressed to do much damage to a heavily armored foe outside finding gaps or weak points in the armor, a Valyrian great sword wasn't as lacking. A powerful strike from its sharp blade was capable of leaving lasting damage in well-built armor and multiple strikes in the same area was surely able to penetrate where a regular sword couldn't. Vilkas, of course still preferred the axe in battle like most Skagosi.

He was disturbed by his thoughts as Lord Rickard came rushing back into the hall, his sword Ice in his hand. "To arms!" He shouted out, silencing the celebrating crowd of Northern Lords. Vilkas, no stranger to strife during a feast, drew his axe from his side as he rose to his feet along with many others in the hall. "To the dungeons!" Rickard ordered, leading a number of guards and Lords behind him in the process.

As the Northern Lords piled out of the great hall they were led to the dungeons in the cover of darkness. The moon was bright as it lit their path, the shimmering of the moonlight off Lord Stark's blade alerting Vilkas of his position at the head of the group as they rushed towards their destination. Baldur and his son weren't far behind as they charged to the front of the group, weapons in hand.

They arrived at the doors of the dungeon just in time to see them pushed open, revealing the Bolton Lord himself in the company of a Stark clad guardsmen who had blood on the front of his uniform. Following closely behind him was none other than the condemned heir to the Dreadfort himself. Vilkas should have suspected such treachery from the likes of the Boltons after what they had done to his brother. At least now, he would get his pound of flesh in revenge.

Time seemed to stand still for a moment as the two groups stared at one another in silence, before it was broken by the roar of Baldur charging forward. "Kill the traitors!" Lord Stark ordered as the two groups clashed together in a mash of flesh at the base of the tower. Vilkas joined the fray with little hesitation, planting his axe in the shoulder of the first man who crossed his path.

A fire lighting up the courtyard from the stables caused a distraction soon after the two groups had met outside the dungeon tower, casting a light over the area for all to see and plenty of mayhem as well. The screaming of loose horses as they stampeded out from the stalls in fear caused further chaos amongst the battle as the courtyard broke into disarray as the Lords and guards tried to avoid the charging steeds. Vilkas saw more than a few get run over, but kept his eye on the target as he saw the Bolton Heir and Lord make for the castle wall with a group of guards and a length of rope.

"Baldur!" Vilkas shouted, pointing his axe up towards the side of the wall. Baldur followed his line of sight and spotted the pair as he broke off in pursuit, followed by Lord Stark, Mormont and Stark clad soldiers. Pushing his body forward, Vilkas gave chase as well, being closer than the others as he planted his axe in the back of one of the Bolton guardsmen, though doing little to hinder the group as they proceeded towards the top of the wall.

As Vilkas fought his way through, he was joined by Lord Stark and his company as they battled the Bolton guardsmen up the wall and onto the side of the great castle where the Lord and Heir of the Dreadfort had made their stand. Two men were busy tying the rope off to the side of the wall as the Bolton heir held the end of the length, staring at the scene unfolding around him with a slight curl of his lips.

He was disturbed from his enjoyment as Vilkas drove his axe into the skull of one guardsman and used his free hand to crush the nose of another, sending him to his death as he fell from the wall, opening a path to the Bolton heir as he leapt forward and forcing the younger man to defend himself. Axe and blade met in a ringing of steel as Vilkas quickly proved his strength greater, shoving the Bolton heir back into the stone wall with little effort, despite him nearing fifty name days old.

The Bolton heir calmly collected himself as he rose back to his feet before delivering a high blow towards Vilkas head, which he fended off with his axe. The two continued to exchange blows, Vilkas gaining the upper hand as he slashed across the man's shoulder, causing him to grunt in pain as he faded back, clutching a hand to the shallow wound that Vilkas had landed.

"And now it ends." Vilkas said, stepping forward as the Bolton heir watched. He was interrupted from finishing the young man as a sword came flashing out to meet his, as a guardsman attacked from his side. He was quick enough to hack the man in the abdomen, but in his distraction a sharp pain jutted from his side as he glanced down to see a sword protruding from his side. Reacting on instinct he delivered a wild blow at the man, slashing him across his torso, causing them to both fall to the ground with wounds, though Vilkas certainly had it worse.

"Vilkas!" Baldur shouted, rushing forward, only to be met by Lord Bolton himself as he stepped in the way. He watched as the two fought a short battle as the Bolton Guardsmen secured the Dreadfort heir and carried him over the wall, clearly wounded but alive despite Vilkas's blow.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before he saw the head of the Bolton Lord bounce to the ground, severed at the neck as it came to a rest within Vilkas line of vision. His pale moon colored eyes were wide open in a look of shock, even in death as they stared back at him. Vilkas swore he would see the man dead before he himself joined his brother, at least Baldur had insured him that last bit of revenge.

"Father!" Rolf shouted, kneeling down next to him as the fighting quieted down. "My Son…" Vilkas spoke through the coming darkness. "Do us Skagossons proud." Vilkas bade him as his son inclined his head and grasped his hand, Baldur and Lord Stark coming to look over his fallen form as well.

"Get the Maester over here!" Lord Stark ordered loudly as he knelt next to Vilkas, a grimace on his face, no doubt his fate was clear to the Stark of Winterfell.

"I'm not long for this world, but at least I saw that cunt die first." Vilkas grunted as he motioned towards the severed head of Lord Bolton. "You did well Baldur, Rolf. Now listen, you must keep our people on a path to the future, the old ways are dead. See to it that Erik looks after the Isles as Castellan so I can rest at ease knowing that a pair of fools aren't in charge." Vilkas urged as the two nodded, use to his uncle's harsh criticism by this point. "Good, now see to it my body rests in the Stone Isles and don't fuck up all the work we've done." He ordered, his mind fading to darkness. Thus passed Vilkas of Clan Crowl, Warrior and Castellan of the Isles.