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Chapter 49 - Cleaning
🕑 Added 2025-09-26 22:14:19 +0000 UTCWhite Harbor
Properly rested, restocked, and dressed, Robert left the smallest of the six major cities two days after he had arrived. He had discussed business with Lord Wylis during his stay in White Harbor, promising to continue his purchase of timber from House Manderly.
His next target was Dreadfort, not to sample the hospitality of a house with a flayed man as a sigil, but to deal with Roose Bolton. The lord’s crimes were numerous, not in the least raping the wife of a miller after having the man hanged for marrying without his permission, and producing Ramsay Snow, a monster in human skin.
He might as well do some cleaning while in the north.
—
Dreadfort
After resting for the night a couple of miles away, Obelisk and Slifer perched on the walls of Dreadfort while its inhabitants covered in fear.
“Lord Robert, what brings you to Dreadfort unannounced?” Pasty-skinned and unremarkable, the Lord of Dreadfort hid a cruel and sadistic personality under his unassuming face.
Robert rubbed his chin as if in deep thought. “Where do I start? Does anyone here think having a miller hanged for marrying without permission and then raping his wife under his cooling corpse is a good way to bring down some righteous punishment on himself?”
The courtyard was silent, but several eyes turned to Roose Bolton.
“No? You don’t think that way, Roose?” Robert asked with a sly smile, resting his chin on his palm.
“How do you know that matter?” Roose was not ashamed of what he had done but rather unsettled that Robert knew about it and came here.
Robert’s smile dimmed and no longer reached his eyes. “Your bastard son from that rape, Ramsay Snow, was an absolute monster. I had the displeasure of dreaming of all the horrible acts he committed, not the least of which was killing you, Domeric, and your third wife and third newborn son.” One good thing about not having actual dragon dreams was that he could avoid dreadful visions.
“So, in the interest of not burning down everyone in this castle, which I will if you don’t do as you’re told, I’ll give you and every man that was there the day you raped that woman the chance to hang yourselves.” Robert offered generously. He didn’t want to kill innocents, but he wasn’t going to start a war either, so the Leech Lord had to die here and now.
The garrison trembled at the warning, but Roose Bolton did not back off. “If we refuse?”
“Believe me, dragonfire is a very painful way to go, and unlike the noose, it does not discriminate. You wouldn’t want your line to go extinct now, would you?” He didn’t know enough about Domeric Bolton to care whether he died or not.
“What gives you the right to punish a lord of the North?”
Robert was not amused by the token resistance Lord Leech put up, because if he thought that argument would stop him, Roose Bolton was dumber than he thought. “Roose, you broke a law, one that I support wholeheartedly, and you will pay the price, or I will make you.”
“Come down and do it then.” And now he was trying to goad Robert into coming down on his dragon.
Idiot.
Robert held his massive hammer, the tip of the hooks shining in the dim sunlight. “Do you think it is a good idea, Bolton, to bring me down there? Because I will rip everyone in this castle apart, and by the time I am done, you will be begging for the mercy of dragonfire.” Because he would actually flay Roose Bolton alive for the trouble.
“Either hang yourself, just as you hanged that man, or die here knowing your line will be extinct, because Ramsay Snow will be next.” Robert delivered his ultimatum, and the garrison looked ready to turn on their liege lord.
Resigned to his fate, Roose nodded. “Will you spare Domeric if I do it?”
“Yes, I have no quarrel with the boy.”
“Very well.”
Roose Bolton, Lord of Dreadfort, along with twenty men who were dragged to the gallows by the garrison, was hanged for breaking the law forbidding the right of the first night.
Domeric Bolton looked at Robert Baratheon with contempt as his father dangled on the gallows like a common brigand, and he decided to give the boy a piece of advice. “Your father would have allowed Ramsay in, and that creature? He would have killed you without hesitation. Now that you have a chance at life, Domeric Bolton, I suggest you use it well, because if you come after me, there will be no mercy.”
—
“How evil is that boy for you to kill him?” Sandor asked as they were flying towards the village where Ramsay Snow lived.
“Right now? I don’t know. In ten years or so, he would be a monster on par with Gregor Clegane, much worse in some aspects.” Gregor Clegane killed and committed atrocities because, to him, it was no different than stepping on an ant.
Ramsay Snow was a sadist who savored torturing and degrading his victims.
Sandor snarled at the mention of someone like Gregor. “Shit. How old is he?”
“Six.” If nothing had changed, of course.
That the Hound did not expect, thinking that the bastard would be older. “You are going to kill a six-year-old boy for the crimes he will commit in the future?”
“Quite the dilemma, isn’t it? If I kill Ramsay Snow now, I would be killing an innocent boy who had not done any evil, all to prevent the atrocities he would commit in the future. Of course, I can afford to leave him alone now and kill him in a decade, but who knows what that little demon could do in ten years? How many men and women, regardless of age, would he torture, kill, and humiliate? Perhaps now that Roose Bolton is dead, he will be a good person, but since I had no dreams indicating it, I won’t take the risk.”
There were several methods he could have employed to neutralize Ramsay Snow, such as sending him to the Wall. However, it was uncertain what that bastard might do there, and the Wall itself was too vital to risk having that maniac nearby.
“Fucking hell.” Being Robert Baratheon was not as great as people thought it to be.
—
The village where Ramsey Snow lived did not have a name but was easy to find, since settlements in the North were rather lacking compared to the other kingdoms. Finding Ramsay Snow, who was busy torturing a leveret, was even easier.
“See? Already a sadist.” Robert called out to Sandor, who watched Ramsay with loathing, probably drawing parallels between Roose Bolton’s bastard son and the Mountain.
“Y-you’re the dragon lord.” Ramsay, afraid for the first time in his life, stammered.
“That I am. Tell me, where is your mother?” If she were close by, he would at least kill the sadistic little bastard somewhere away. No need for her to witness it.
“Working.” Seeing as they were out in the forest, then she must be far away.
Ungrateful little shit. “Uh huh, and here you are, torturing a poor animal for the amusement of it.”
“I—I have my horn.” Ramsay grasped his horn, as if it would save him from the big, bad dragons.
Robert chuckled. “The one that will summon Boltons to help you? A bit late for that; your father just hanged himself.” If he had more time, Robert would let him blow the horn, just to crush his hopes.
“You’re lying.”
“Yes, of course, because Roose Bolton is a threat to me and my dragons.” Robert shook his head.
“Regardless, you can ask him what happened in hell. Any last words?” Robert asked the terrified boy before changing his mind. “Or you know what, don’t bother. Ignis.”
Obelisk opened his maw, and snow around them started to melt rapidly, before a small burst of fire burned Ramsay Snow and the already dying hare to ashes, putting an end to a boy who would become one of the most despised people in the North.
He pitied Ramsay’s mother but left without wasting any more time.
—
Last Heart
Robert had no intention of visiting Last Heart. Not only did he not have any business there, but the Umbers were die-hard loyal to House Stark.
Instead, he and Sandor camped far away from the keep, the raging inferno inside his dragon keeping the two warm.
One issue was that the lands of House Umber were not safe from wildlings, and as the two were eating dinner while the dragons were out hunting, half a dozen raiders surrounded them.
“Look at this, boys, a pretty southern kneeler. I didn’t know they made them that big.” The wildling sneered, and Robert thanked the cold, because he was sure the raider would be stinking.
The Demonslayer of Asgard ignored the wildlings and focused on finishing the stew. Sandor, on the other hand, had already pulled out his sword and was ready to gut the raiders.
“You don’t look scared.” One of the wildlings realized that Robert wasn’t worried at all.
Swallowing his last mouthful of food, Robert pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his hands. “The last enemy I fought was almost three times my height. Go and bring back a giant or two if you want me to get up.”
“Fucker.” The wildling leader spat, and the dozen men attacked. Putting down his empty bowl, Robert rose and twisted far faster than the raider could have reacted to and caught the barbarian-looking man’s arm.
His other hand grasped the wildling by the neck, and Robert pulled.
With a scream, the man’s arm was torn off at the elbow before the hand around his throat squeezed and his neck broke.
Dropping the corpse, Robert looked at the mortified wildlings with a grin showing his teeth, pulling his hammer off the ground and taking a quick step forward.
By the time the wildlings leaped to action, the massive hammer had already smashed the head of another free folk, with blood gushing out of the neck and painting the snow red.
Sandor had thrown himself into the wildlings, his superior weapon, strength, and skill making them simple targets, especially with how they were terrified at the sight of Robert tearing one of their own apart.
Cutting down the crude spear thrust at him, Sandor decapitated the wildling in question, kicking another one in the knee while letting the last one’s bronze axe harmlessly hit his Valyrian steel armor.
His next swing slashed the downed wildling’s throat open and took the axe carrier’s arm off. Sandor gripped the screaming man by the head and ran his sword through the heart.
The last wildling, seeing everyone else was dead, made a run for it, but Obelisk came down, crushing the raider under his claw.
Now he had to visit Last Hearth. He would have left the wildlings be; after all, Umbers were no friends of his, but now that they attacked him, Robert would warn Greatjon Umber.
—
Last Hearth
Landing his dragons right outside Last Hearth, Robert waited for the lord of the keep to come out.
“The fuck do you want?” Greatjon Umber was taller than Robert and had plenty of spite in him to talk without any regard to dragons.
That, or he was dragon blind.
“You are talking as if you could have anything that I desire. I came here to warn you that there were wildlings in your territory, down the Last River.” Maybe he should just organize the wildlings and set them on the North for Lord Umber's attitude towards Robert.
“Fuck. How did they get there?” Considering his niece was taken by wildlings, Robert understood the hatred, though not why Greatjon asked the question to him.
“Why are you asking me? These are your lands. I only came to tell you because they attacked us and we killed them.” Which he was beginning to regret. Robert should have just kept Greatjon in the dark and let him deal with the problem once it was further out of control.
“And what were you doing in my lands?” Jon would deal with the wildlings later, but Robert Baratheon was the greater trouble.
Robert rolled his eyes and ordered Obelisk to fly without another word to Greatjon Umber.
—
The Wall
The Wall.
Three hundred miles long and seven hundred feet tall, it was a barrier of ice meant to keep the wildlings out.
At least that’s what common knowledge told the people, as eight thousand years had passed since the Long Night, and with the Others keeping their presence a secret, there was no reason for anyone to suspect otherwise.
Robert looked down at the massive structure, considering whether to go down and mock Arthur Dayne for the heck of it, before deciding he had more important things to do.
There still was distance to cover, and a greater filth needed to be cleansed.
His dragons were hesitant to cross the wall, most likely feeling the Others, but Robert was not going to have it. “Listen, you ate the heart of an archdemon; you better not embarrass me now.”
—
“Why did we stop?” Sandor asked as the dragons hovered over a small house beyond the Wall.
“I am considering whether to kill someone or not.”
If he killed Caster now, there would be no way to keep all those women alive, since he doubted that bastard would teach his wives any skills on survival to keep them docile.
He couldn’t trust the Watch to take care of them in return for supplies from Asgard, and staying beyond the wall to teach them how to survive wasn’t possible.
Taking them to Asgard was doable, but leaving who knows how many women and girls with only Sandor to escort them would not be a good idea. There was no way for him to protect and watch after all of them.
Just killing Caster and leaving the women was the same as killing them. Slaying the villain was easy; ensuring there was no collateral damage was the hard part.
“Fucking hell. I’ll just kill him on the way back, and we’ll try to find a way to bring the women to Asgard.” Sometimes being Robert Baratheon was hard.
—
It was getting late, and they decided to set up camp near the Fist of the First Men, far away enough from the Wall, but not close to the Lands of Always Winter by any means. Checking his map, Robert looked east, where the cave of the three-eyed crow was located somewhere between the Fist and the Antler River.
Tomorrow, he would rip Bloodraven’s head off and bring it to Storm’s End as a trophy, after finding something like honey to dunk the head in, of course.
But for now, he needed to rest and let the dragons hunt. “Stay together, and if you feel any danger, don’t hesitate to burn everything down.” He didn’t care if anyone got hurt; better safe than sorry.
Comments
Adrian Bohnenberger
Yes! Thank you for the new chapters
