Hello everyone!

Before we start with this week's chapter I have to address something again: today I had to take down 2 guest reviews because they were offensive. I have said it before but apparently I need to say it again, being anonymous on the internet does not give anyone the right to insult others. I appreciate all the reviews you send me as long as they are polite. You can ask me questions, you can express your liking or disliking of the story, you can criticize me, you can comment, the ONLY thing you cannot do is being disrespectful. If you do, I'll take the review down.
I hope I will never have to write such a warning again. Though I would like to point out that there are very few of these hateful reviews, so thank you to all the other reviewers. Please continue reviewing, it motivates me greatly.

Now that that's done, welcome to chapter 53. As promised, we will have some action here.
Please be warned that there are descriptions of torture in this chapter.

Enjoy!

Chapter LIII: House of Terrors

The Dreadfort was a strong fortress for many reasons. The castle was smaller than Winterfell by at least half, but its walls were as thick if not thicker than the seat of House Stark. They were made of the grey rock Daeron could see composed the cliffs that fell into the upper Weeping Water. The river protected the west side of the castle, making it almost impossible to attack from there unless the attackers had strong boats and skill on them. On top of the walls, the triangular merlons looked like sharp teeth. No doubt a trick to impress Bolton enemies. At each corner of the square that was the Dreadfort stood a square tower. The only round tower was linked to the main structure by a rope bridge, standing on the side of the river. Daeron wondered what was in there. Either the dungeons – to make it even more difficult to escape – or the lord's quarters – to make it even harder to attack – Daeron thought, maybe both. In the middle of the square made by the walls, stood a great keep, square also. There was nothing pretty about the Dreadfort. It was only an efficient castle, far from the Water Gardens, the Red Keep or even Winterfell. The only thing of beauty could have been the view on the river, but the stream looked wild and uninviting and its banks looked sterile.

There was not even a town like the Winter Town to bring some liveliness to the place. Daeron could not say he was surprised, with the Boltons' reputations, smallfolks most likely preferred moving to the Winter Town or Karhold or Hornwood than here during winter. It was only about a fortnight farther on foot.

It looked like… death. No wonder the castle was said to be cursed. Daeron knew the legend, that there was a special room in the Dreadfort that the Boltons used for torture and where they hung the skin of their enemies. He sincerely hoped it was not true. It would not matter though. As Bran had said, by nightfall not one stone would remain of the fortress. Yet, for now, the simple view of the dark grey stones terrified the men of Daeron's army, especially Stannis' who were not used to Northern castles and their lack of… embellishment.

"Is everyone in place?" Daeron and his commanders had stopped on a small hill facing the gate. He had tasked Lord Cerwyn with supervising the placement of the troops and the young lord was just coming back from it.

"They are, your Grace." The youth nodded.

"Are you sure you don't want to spread around the castle your Grace? In case some of them escape." Lord Stannis intervened. It was the third time he asked the question.

"If they want to escape, let them." Daeron replied with a sigh. "Neither Roose nor Ramsay are here. These are smallfolks and a few lordlings guarding this castle. Any who surrenders shall be spared. It is the building itself we're after." He reminded his war generals.

"Yes, your Grace!" They replied as one.

"The men are in place. How do we proceed now? We have not had the time to build the siege weapon's we had talked about at Castle Black." Lord Glover asked and Daeron chastised himself. The lord of Deepwood Motte had been in charge of the rear as they walked, and he had forgotten to inform him of the change in plans.

"We have three giants now. No need for siege weapons." He explained.

Lord Glover raised a brow and burst into laughter. "Fair enough! Gods, I thought giants were a legend. If only my nursemaid could see them now. I wonder if she would be proud of herself for the stories, she told me or if she would piss herself in fear." He kept laughing and was joined by Tormund who then proceeded to tell the story of his alias for the hundredth time.

Compared to the battles Daeron had already lived – at Riverrun, at the Gold Tooth and at the Wall – he was much more relaxed and so were his men. They were confident. Yet, he knew he could not be too confident. Robb had been too confident when he married Talisa, he was too confident at the Red Wedding. Daeron could not afford to make the same mistakes. There would be no lost king with dragons to save him. Well, there could be Daenerys, but she was half a world away and not entirely reliable. He could not count on her.

Daeron, Stannis and Tormund climbed back on their horses. The other lords would stay at the back, on the hill and observe the army and the surroundings in case of a surprise attack from the outside. Also, this was supposed to be an easy victory, but even in easy victories, there were casualties. Daeron did not want one of his commanders to be unfortunately killed by a lost arrow. There was no need to put them in danger. The three of them placed themselves behind the giants, surrounded by two dozen of men with long spears.

Now that he was closer, Daeron could see the Bolton soldiers on the battlements. They were pointing their crossbows at them, yet they were probably trembling with fear. It was most likely the first time they saw giants. Daeron counted on the surprise and… dread, the legendary beasts inspired.

There was a silence, Daeron had learnt there was always one before the fighting began. It was as if both sides took one last deep breath. For some, it would indeed be the last.

Daeron's army had no need for a war horn. Instead, they had a dragon. Rhoynax arrived from her hiding place right behind the hill and roared above the men. It had very different impact on each side. The royal army cheered and chanted war cries while the Bolton men on the battlement completely panicked and lost focus. The crossbows were not pointed at them anymore and most of them either looked up into the sky or tried to hide behind the merlon.

Taking advantage of the state of their opponents, two of the giants started sprinting toward the gates. The ground trembled underneath them with each of their steps. It perturbed the horses. Daeron and Stannis who had been riding for most of their lives managed to keep control over their mounts. Tormund, the most inexperienced of the riders was not so lucky. He was expulsed from his saddle and landed on his side. Daeron feared for the blunt Free Folk leader, he had grown fond of the man's humour and happy spirit. Thankfully, a few curses indicated to him that the man was perfectly fine save for a bruised behind and a bruised ego.

The wooden gate of the Dreadfort might have been built to withstand a siege, but it was not made to resist two adult giants charging at it. The giants threw all their weights at the door twice before it cracked open. Their orders were to open the door and then fall back to let the men through. They did not need the full power of the giants, and since they only had three, Daeron did not want to risk one of them getting killed.

Unfortunately, the one on the left had put a little too much force into the gate. When it gave way, he lost his balance and fell right into the courtyard of the Dreadfort. However, the army was already running and almost at the gate, so by the time he stood again, Daeron and his men were already there, and he was in the heart of battle.

In the rush of the beginning of the fight, Daeron decided to dismount from his horse. They were in closed quarters and a horse was more of a handicap than an asset. Not only that, but it also risked injuring his own men. Apparently, Stannis was of the same mind and Tormund had never gotten back on his. The wildling man was screaming loudly and waving his battle axe in the air. If the enemy soldiers had not already been frightened by the giants and the dragon, no doubt they would have been deadly afraid of him.

In the courtyard, the men Roose Bolton had left in charge had placed about two hundred men. About as many were on the battlements. All in all, about four hundred men. Enough to withstand a siege, as long as the attackers did not bridge into the castle. In any case, Daeron doubted Bolton had anticipated his ancestral home would be under attack. In fact, he had hesitated for a long time before setting it as their first target. But it was a symbol, he hoped to break the morale of the Bolton troops by taking it. And it also meant Roose and his bastard would have nowhere to flee to when Daeron would take Winterfell.

During the fight, Daeron parried more than he lunged or slew or sliced. Yet it was enough to kill half a dozen men in the span of a few minutes. The arrows were more problematic. They were easy targets for the men on the battlements above them. He realised that, when he saw one pierce through the skull of a Glover man in front of him, from the crown of the head through to the chin. After that, he held his shield painted with the three-headed dragon above his head at all times. Considering the lack of skill from the men defending the courtyard, it did not bother him to fight.

As quickly as he could, he went to the stairs that led to the battlements, Stannis, and a dozen more men on his heels. Bows were not weapon made for close combat. The Bolton soldiers were clumsy with them and died like flies. It was not a battle, it was a slaughter.

The defendants soon realized that. The battle had not been going on for long when the first cries of "I yield!" and "Mercy!" went up. Sounds of weapons being thrown to the ground also joined the clamour of clashing swords. The Bolton soldiers were surrendering.

The sound level lowered and – as most men bearing the flayed sigil – knelt down, one man became very obvious. Contrary to the soldiers who wore either chainmail or boiled leather, he was in full armour, the flayed man on a cross was embossed on the breast plate. "What are you doing? Fight you cowards! Do you want to be skinned alive? Fight idiots!" He vociferated from the top of his lungs. He kept going until his orders were the only sounds left.

Realising he was now crying alone, he stopped. Silence was a welcomed thing in the Dreadfort. The man panicked, realizing the battle was lost. He turned and started to run, no doubt he hoped to flee. Who is the coward now? But two wildlings were close by. They seized him, he did not even have the time to take three steps. He started weeping visibly, it was clear his men were disgusted by his behaviour. If they had hoped he would stand for them, that hope had been misplaced.

Daeron took his time to walk to the place the man was held. He stopped before him as the man fell to his knee making great noises with his armour. "What is your name?" Daeron demanded without even looking at him.

"Walton…" The man replied uncertainly. A reeking smell appeared suddenly, Walton had soiled himself. "I am Lord Bolton's captain, my Lord." He apparently felt the need to add.

"It is not 'my Lord', it is 'your Grace'." Daeron pointed out acidly. "You're not the smartest of the bunch, are you Walton? The world will be a better place without you. Any last words?"

"Please, please, mercy! Please, they made me! I'm inno…" He was cut in his pleading when Dark Sister sliced through his neck like butter.

Daeron swiped his sword on his leather before turning back toward the surrendered garrison of the Dreadfort. "You don't have to end as your captain." Daeron yelled to their attention. "Any man who wishes to live can do so after surrendering his weapon. I, Daeron Targaryen, the Third of My Name, give you my word. No unarmed occupant of the Dreadfort, shall be killed of mistreated. But you have to leave! Take you belongings and exit the castle! Spread the word!" He ordered.

...

The evacuation of the Dreadfort went pretty well. Well enough for Daeron to leave Stannis to it as he went and explored the castle with Lord Glover.

Most of it was normal-looking enough, only a little glim. In the Great Hall, he discovered hundreds of torches held by skeletal human hands. The smoke from the fires had nowhere to evacuate, making the place dark and slightly suffocating. The vaulted ceiling and its wooden beams were blackened from the soot. Lord Glover, who was older than Daeron coughed a lot while they crossed it.

Daeron was most curious about the small round tower. After a few rounds in several living quarters and an accidental trip to the armoury, he finally found the rope bridge. He had been right in his guesses earlier, the first room he stepped into was a small study with only a bookshelf and a simple desk. Probably a place where the reigning lord could get some peace and quiet away from the tumult of the keep. But Daeron did not stop at the study, he went further down into the gutters of the tower.

The first few floors, he found cages getting smaller and smaller. The more he kept going down the stairs, the more anxious he grew as to what he would find. As could have been expected, the lowest floor was the worst. The stench was horrendous. On a device he could only describe as a torture table, he found the body of a woman in an advanced state of decomposition. Pus and other fluids were oozing out of her. Underneath the layer of filth, distinct bite marks covered her body. Her genitals had been mutilated and one of her breasts had been eaten away. Unfortunately for Daeron and Lord Glover, it was not all. There were also two skins hanging from the ceiling and a human head preserved in some liquid in a jar.

It was too much for Daeron. First, he bent over and vomited, mostly bile since his stomach was empty. The acid burnt his throat. One more look at the remains and then he fainted.

The woman standing in front of him was stick thin. Whatever clothes she had been wearing in the past were nothing more than brown and black tatters and revealed the bag of bones she really was. Daeron guessed her hair had been silver-gold once, but they had lost their shine making them appear greyish. They were matted and filled with dust. Same with her eyes which she had purple; you could see very little of the colour since they were so bloody.

Suddenly she started screaming. A very high-pitched scream that tore through Daeron's ears. He held his hands to the sides of his head and squatted down such was the pain it caused him. At the same time, he started to see things move under her skin. Swellings appeared and disappeared on her belly and bumps did the same on her arms, face and legs. She kept screaming non-stop as if she did not need air anymore. Her skin turned redder and redder and the swellings grew larger. The look of suffering deformed her bony face.

"Please kill me please!" She interrupted her scream to yell at him. Daeron did not know what to do. He took a difficult step forward and reached toward her, but he could not approach. She was burning hot, like a fire. "There are fates worse than death!" "I want to die." "Mother!" Were some of the things she yelled in between continuous screams.

Daeron watched powerless as she collapsed to the floor, unable to stand under the pain. She looked like she was cooking from within. Her skin and flesh were starting to crisp as they would over an open fire and thick smoke emanated from her ears, mouth and nose. When her eyes burst and liquified, Daeron was so shocked he fell to the ground. But she was not dead yet. She kept screaming and pleading for a kick death.

From her empty eye sockets, things started to crawl. It was like hundreds of worms, but they looked like nothing Daeron had ever seen, he did not even know how to describe them other than they were monstrous. He could distinctly see two red and black dots on them that resembled eyes. He did not get too close, but he also could swear that the worms had mouths with a single sharp and pointy tooth.

By the time her screams and probably her suffering too ended, she had black patches of skin, burnt away, her hair had burst into flames and monstrous worms crawled all over her body. Daeron was curled up into a ball, crying. He too wanted things to stop.

"Your Grace! Your Grace!" He realised Lord Glover was above him and shaking him. He blinked a few times before he remembered where he was. "You fainted your Grace."

He swallowed with difficulty, trying to forget what he had just seen. "How long was I out?" He whispered the question.

"Only a few seconds, your Grace." The lord replied. "I'll have my men come down and give these poor souls a proper burial." The man added. Daeron nodded his approbation. "Roose will pay for what he's done here!"

"I don't think it was Roose." Daeron observed, doing his best to keep his gaze away from the tortured bodies. "I think Ramsay Bolton did this. Roose hasn't been here since before Robb called the banners. The bastard was acting Lord of the Dreadfort."

...

Assembled on the hill above the Dreadfort, its former occupants – servants and the soldiers who had surrendered, the few nobles left had been killed in the battle – were merely four hundred and fifty. The Dreadfort was a sort of castle that could house at least a couple hundred serving men and women and could be garrisons by about a thousand guards. It was half empty, indicating to Daeron that Roose never thought someone would be in capacity of attacking his home.

He was mounted on Rhoynax, the dragon making her happiness clear at seeing him unharmed. Well, he was unharmed physically, but his psyche was another story. As traumatizing as what he had discovered in Bolton's torture chamber was, it was not the mutilated woman he saw when he closed his eyes. It was the woman from the vision he had when he fainted. It was not a vision, he knew that, it was a dream. And since he doubted Bran would deliberately send him such dream, it could only mean that the destroyed young woman was one of his ancestors. Yet, he had never heard such story before. Could it be a lie protected by the royal family? It would not be that surprising. He guessed there were many things his family would have concealed over the years. Like the ability to ride dragon…

Daeron shook his head to get the thoughts out of his head. As Arianne had suggested once, when faced with trauma, he should find a distraction. He had one just waiting for him, a task he could not postpone. "Sovegon." He whispered to Rhoynax who elevated them into the cold air of the dusk. The Dreadfort looked only like a dark and massive shadow in the setting night. Daeron took one last steadying breath. "Dracarys." He ordered.

Rhoynax's flames engulfed what was left of the gates and the surrounding walls. Apart from the door which was made of wood and burnt, the fire did not do much. It blackened the stone and crumbled one or two of the merlons. Rhoynax let a small flame escape in what sounded like a scoff. She went back to the wall. Slowly but surely the stone started to melt. But she had just scratched a small portion of the monstrous castle.

Frustrated, Rhoynax went higher into the sky, taking Daeron with her. This time, she attacked the roofs, destroying them with ease. Some stones fell down with the roofs.

Then, she directed her fury to the tower of horror. It was thinner and, by directing her fire at the base, she managed to weaken it. A slap of her wing sent it toppling down and into the river.

She looked like she had understood that her body could be as effective as her flames if not more. She used a combination of the two from then on. First, she destabilized the structures with fire, then she used her claws to destroy big chunks of walls and towers.

Once she had access to the inside of the different castle parts, it became easier. There were many flammable things inside. Tables, chairs, beds, tapestries, doors, anything that had no value they had left inside, taking only the little gold they could find as well as some jewels and weapons. The fires started to spread and some walls or small structures started to fall without Rhoynax touching them.

Her moves to get the best access for her claws were highly perilous for her passenger. Daeron thanked the Gods – and the craftsman – for his saddle. If he was not attached to it, he would probably had fallen a dozen times already as Rhoynax flew vertically to get a grip on the corners of the towers.

It was well past midnight when they were done. The Dreadfort was nothing more than a pile of half-melted stones and charred beams now. Though, one small wall, about four feet tall by six feet wide remained. Rhoynax had apparently noticed it too. She landed on it and jumped a few times turning it to dust. Then, she flew back to where they had started and Dearon dismounted.

"A good thing done, your Grace." Stannis commented. "No one will ever suffer at the Dreadfort again. It is surprising how well this place was named." He observed.

"I would have called it the House of Terrors personally." Daeron shrugged. "And other places are well named. The Red Keep is a red keep…"

They were interrupted by one of the former occupants of the Dreadfort. He was one of the oldest servants of the castle. He looked frail and grey. "Forgive me, your Grace, but where will we go?" He asked pointing at his companions of misfortune.

"Wherever you want." Daeron replied before detailing. "If some of your men want to join our army, they can. They will be provided food and tents for the journey to Winterfell. If you want to follow us and live in the Winter Town after the battles, you can. Or you could stay here and build something knew. A new village. The stones and materials left from the Dreadfort are yours to use. If you need help, or have another idea, you can bring it to the Starks once they have been reinstalled."

"Is it true then? The Starks are coming back? They're alive?" The man seemed hesitant.

"They are." Daeron confirmed. The man nodded, but Daeron saw he was holding something back. "You can tell me anything, I won't hold it against you."

The old man seemed surprised, pleasantly so, by Daeron's remark. "My son accompanied Lord Bolton south. He fought in the War of the Five Kings and died for Robb Stark. I am a Northerner through and through, your Grace, I respect the Starks and I believe they should be our liege lords even though I worked for the Boltons most of my life. But I cannot imagine living near the castle of a man who took my son to his death. I will stay here. I will give the others your offer and with whoever decides to stay, we will build something new. Something good out of this bad." He declared with determination.

"I respect that." Daeron said. "My army will leave in the morning. Have those who want to join or follow us be at our camp before that." He asked the old man who looked proud to have been given responsibilities.

The first battle was easy... but at least the Dreadfort is no more!
What did you think? Any guess on who is in the dream?

Next chapter: A resourceful dream. Daeron's army marches to Winterfell.

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