III-2: Dreadful Men
The night was dead cold, colder than a witch's tit.
Unusual even for the North.
Each and every one of the men felt it in their bones as they worked under the dim light of a clouded moon. Frost crackled beneath their boots, the sound sharp as breaking bones in the stillness. The air carried the bitter bite of winter and something fouler - the sickly-sweet stench of decay wafting from the grotesque cargo sprawled in the back of the first cart.
"Seven hells, but it reeks," Darrick muttered, pulling his battered cloak tighter around his shoulders. A levy from the Dread Land's outer holdings, he was unused to such grim work. His companion, an older man-at-arms named Gareth whose face bore the weathered look of too many winters, shot him a hard look.
"Keep tha' bloody gob shut," he barked, voice thick and nasal, his words clipped like he'd no patience to waste on them. "Yer'll bring worse than the stink down on us."
"Oi, keep yammerin', Darrick," hissed Karl the Crow, his black eyes glinting in the darkness. The veteran Bolton man-at-arms had earned his name from his habit of picking through the dead after battle, though none dared say it to his face. "See if I won't have yer tongue an' and serve it to t' hounds meself."
The body lay in a twisted heap, frozen on the cold ground, what was left of its face barely a face at all—bloated, blackened, and reeking like death itself. Even the hardened men among them, men who had seen their share of death and many years, found their eyes drifting elsewhere, as if looking as it too long might curse them.
The stench hung in the air, thick and clinging, impossible to ignore — not in the way it stuck to their throats like tar.
"Can't see why we're cartin' that mess back," muttered Darrick, his voice low but cutting through the quiet. His fingers fiddled at the frayed edge of his cloak, unease plain for all to see even before the sun could rise.
"Mind yer tongue, lad," growled Gareth, cuffing him across the ear hard enough to make the damn thing sting. "You'd best remember whose blood runs through them veins now." His tone was sharp, carrying' the weight of a man who'd served under the flayed man banner longer than he cared to remember. "Never forget whose blood yer servin', boy. You're under Lord Bolton's flayed man, not some muck-smeared hedge lord."
A nervous laugh rippled through the group, but it was short-lived. Darrick scoffed but said nothing more, his eyes flicking to the cart where Ramsay Bolton's body lay within, half-rotted but fully stinking. The sickly-sweet stench of death wafted up, even with the tarp barely covering him, carried on the bitter wind as it clung to the air, thick as fog.
"Wonder what done 'im in," whispered Alyn, a fresh-faced levy barely old enough to grow proper whiskers. His words came out in white puffs of steam that dissipated quick in the cold.
"Shut yer bloody mouth, you daft little bastard," snapped Karl, his hand falling to the knife at his belt. "Less jawin', more workin'. Lord Bolton's waitin', and he don't wait nice."
Near the village gate, a second group worked with grim faces in grim silence, careful not to make much sound and warn those inside. Tom Stone-Arm, a massive man-at-arms whose strength was near legendary, stood with four others around the sword thrust into the frozen ground. Its white steel gleamed, catching the faint moonlight that pushed through the clouds like it didn't belong to the muck and chill of the North.
"How's summat like that stay clean?" Willem the Wan muttered, his thin face pinched tight like he'd tasted something fowl, small eyes narrowed as he studied the blade. No rust marred its surface, no dirt clung to its length despite days exposed to the elements. "T'ain't natural, that. Not right."
"Who the fuck asked yer, ye damn donkey?" growled Harlon, a grizzled veteran with more scars than skin. He spat to the side, a toothless gap showing amid his blackened mouth. "Now shut it an; lift when Tom says."
"Don't matter," said Tom, his voice a low rumble as he wrapped his calloused hands around the hilt. His arms strained, muscles thick as oak branches taut against the weight of it. His breath came in short huffs, mist freezing as soon as it left his lips. "It's goin' to Lord Bolton, clean or not."
The sword didn't seem to agree.
"Old gods an' new," wheezed Saw Dick, one of the men struggling with the blade. His weathered face had gone pale with effort. "What manner steel weighs like this?"
"Mind that edge," barked Gareth, wandering over to watch them struggle. "Seen it lop a man's arm clean off wi' nowt but a nudge. Yer'd be wise to handle it careful."
The men exchanged uneasy looks but said nothing.
It took five men nearly a full hour, all straining and cursing, to pull it free from the ground, buried deep as it was. The thing wasn't massive—just a hand-and-a-half sword, no bigger than any they'd seen before—but it felt like trying to lift a smith's anvil. The gem in the crossguard, blue and strange, caught the light like it had a pulse of its own.
In the end, it had taken another full hour to move the thing over to the cart. Five men to lift, and another five to steady the cart as they loaded it. The weight was something else entirely - something they couldn't explain but all felt the moment their hands touched the smooth, unmarred surface. Even Tom, who'd never found an axe too heavy to swing, could barely keep his hold on it. Sweat clung to his brow, freezing the moment it dripped.
"Don't even look sharp," Willem muttered, sucking at the cut on his thumb. The blade had cut him as quick as a whisper, the clean edge parting his skin like it was barely there. "How's summat like that cut so easy?"
"Keep flappin' yer lips, and I'll show yer how easy," growled Harlon, his patience worn thinner than his ragged furs as he tapped the man holding the reins to the cart. ""Don't matter," he added, eyes fixed on the massive blue gem sitting where the crossguard should've been. "Lord Bolton wants it. That's all we need t'know."
The sword now sat in the second cart, wrapped tight in thick canvas, but even Tom Stone-Arm shifted uneasily as he helped secure it. Something about the damned thing felt like it was watching them, somehow. Even the horses shied away from it, their ears flat and their eyes rolling white in the dim light.
"Bloody thing feels cursed," muttered Willem the Wan, his voice low and rough as they heaved the cart onto the trail. His usually sallow face had gone even paler, sweat freezing on his brow despite the bitter cold. "Like it don't want us touchin' it or…."
"Cursed or not, it ain't our job t'ask questions," interrupted Tom with a bark, his broad shoulders tensing as he worked. The old scar slashing down his cheek seemed to darken in the weak moonlight. His words cut through the muttering like a knife. "Load it up, shut yer gobs, and get movin'."
Saw Dick gave a dark chuckle, the sound low and bitter as northern frost. "Tell that to Greig. Did ye see 'is face? Pale as milk when 'e touched it. Looked like 'e'd seen 'is own ghost." The grizzled man nodded toward a younger soldier who stood apart from the others, obsessively wiping his hands on his cloak.
"Bloody thing's cursed, I swear it is," Willem muttered again, glancing nervously at the cart. His gloved hand wiped fresh sweat from his brow, though the air bit with winter's teeth.
"Then why're we takin' it?" hissed Mal One-Eye, a scarred veteran whose remaining eye constantly darted between the sword and the pressing darkness of the forest. The trees seemed closer than they had any right to be, their shadows thick and heavy as burial shrouds.
"Orders," Tom snapped, his glare sharp enough to silence them. Frost had gathered in his thick beard, making him look older than his years. "Yer fancy tellin' Lord Bolton no? Be my guest."
Harlon's patience snapped like winter ice. "Enough!" he barked, his tone making even the grizzled veterans straighten. "Get the carts movin'. We're leaving afore first light."
The men grumbled but fell in line, their breath misting as they hauled the creaking, groaning carts onto the narrow trail. The forest loomed around them, shadows clinging to the trees like a shroud. The sword and Ramsay's body were bound for the Dreadfort, but none of them had much taste for carrying either.
Not that anyone dared say it aloud.
"Never seen a blade like that," muttered Artos, one of the riders assigned to guard the cargo, his voice barely carrying to his companion. His eyes kept flicking toward the canvas-covered cart, unease plain on his weathered features.
"Don't think I ever want to again," came Derrick's reply, quiet but tense. The young rider's hand never strayed far from his sword hilt.
Artos snorted, though it lacked conviction. "Yer talkin' like it's alive. It's just steel, no different from the rest of 'em."
"Not like the rest," Derrick shook his head, his hand instinctively checking his own blade. "That thing... it ain't right."
The carts rolled on, creaking under their burdens, as the shadows pressed closer. None of the men spoke much after that, and those who did kept their voices low, as though scared to wake something sleeping in the dark.
The remaining Bolton men, the few sent on behalf of nearby bannermen, the levies and other gathered rabble, gathered at the village's edge, the faint light creeping over the horizon. Their breaths clouded in the cold air as they prepared for the assault, mismatched weapons and piecemeal armor glinting in the pale light of the rising dawn.
"Me missus makes better porridge than this muck," grumbled Bert Stone, a thick-set man with a patchy beard, scowling at the dregs in his bowl as he scraped it clean. "Mind, she's got a face like the arse end of an aurochs, she has."
"Aye, but ye married 'er, didn't ye?" laughed Todder, checking the edge of his axe. His scarred hands moved smooth over the blade, with the ease of a man who'd swung it plenty. "Must be good at summat, eh?"
None of them, not a one, wore the flayed man, not for this. Their armor was a mismatched collection of leather and mail, deliberately chosen to hide their allegiance. This was no war, this was simple butchering on the edge of Umber lands.
The men chuckled, a harsh sound that didn't carry much mirth. Nearby, Hobb the Miller's son, his fresh face barely old enough to grow stubble, leaned in with an eager grin.
"Heard they got a pretty tavern wench," said Hobb the Miller's son, voice cracking just a bit. "'Er with the yellow hair, soft-lookin' she is."
"Won't be so soft when we're done," growled Old Wat, his ruined mouth twisting into a snarl. The veteran's face was scarred and pockmarked, nose half hanging off, and his laugh came rough, dragging' the others along with it. "Ain't that right, lads?"
The laughter grew darker, like the kind of noise wolves make when they've found a wounded deer.
But the levity didn't last.
They all knew the stakes. If the Lord of the Dreadfort's name got tied to this, they'd all face a personal visit to the Dreadfort, punishment for the murder of his bastard or not.
"Lord Bolton wants this done clean," said Master Alec Blackcloak, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. Though his accent carried the faintest polish of a highborn, the Dread Land grit in his words marked him as one of theirs. "No delays—but when it's done, ye can have yer sport. Hit 'em hard, hit 'em fast, and after that, take yer bloody time."
The men nodded, though unease hung heavy among them. The night's business—the cursed blade, Ramsay's corpse—had soured their guts.
Still, they didn't dare speak of it.
"Gonna get me some new boots," muttered Pate, a lanky lad with a pox-scarred face, fiddling with the strap of his gauntlet. "Them leatherworkers always got the finest hides."
"Fuck the boots," spat Dick the Quick, leaning against his spear. "I'm after that blacksmith's daughter. The one with the—"
"Save yer cock for after we've done the killin'," Ser Alec snapped, his tone sharp enough to shut them up. Even Dick muttered an assent, though his lip curled.
"What if the stories are true?" piped up young Hobb, his earlier bravado faltering as he glanced toward the village.
Master Alec turned his sharp glare on him. "What stories?"
"The sorcerer," Hobb stammered, his voice small now. "The White Blade of the North, they call him. The one who killed Ramsay."
"Aye, there's a song 'bout 'im. Heard he lifted a boar wi' one hand," whispered Pate, his tone full of nervous awe. "Big as three men, they say."
"And I heard ye've got shit for brains," sneered Old Wat, his crooked yellow teeth flashing. "It's just tales to scare bairns and womenfolk."
The group fell silent, save for the clink of armor and the low creak of wood from the wagons behind. Then Master Alec laughed, the sound cold and sharp. "Yer afraid o' a green lad with a blade we've already taken? We've got numbers, steel, and Lord Bolton's orders. That's all that bloody matters."
"Aye, and when we're done," added Dick the Quick, cleaning dirt from under his nails with a dagger, "might be we'll have ourselves a proper feast. Been too long since I've had a warm bed—or a warm woman."
There was muttered agreement, though it came with sidelong glances at the village ahead. The smoke of cookfires curled lazily into the air, and the toys scattered in the dirt spoke of children playing not long ago.
"Mount up," Master Alec ordered, his tone brooking no argument. "We finish this before the sun's fully up."
Grumbling curses and muttered prayers followed as the men obeyed, their mismatched armor rattling like bones as they swung into their saddles and formed into lines. The quiet before the charge was deafening, the stillness broken only by the distant cry of a cock.
As the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon, the Bolton men, the levies, and the guards with them, all six and fourscore of them began their assault, their war cries splitting the dawn.