"The Boltons have always been as cruel as they were cunning, but this one seems a beast in human skin." -Robett Glover
Stone and wood burning. People screaming. Metal clashing with metal and wood and flesh. Those were the sounds by which an ancient House, an entire kingdom, died.
Winterfell had fallen, and the Starks with it.
In the courtyard, King Royce IV Bolton advanced slowly toward his captive. He had won, there was no reason to hurry. Besides, this was a great moment, and he wanted to taste it slowly. His captive, a Stark princeling whose name he hadn't bothered to learn, looked at him with barely concealed hate and rage. He was standing, restrained by Bolton guards, had his hands bound behind his back, and was naked from the waist up. He was bleeding from a minor wound to his head, but was otherwise unarmed. Royce had given specific orders to his men. The last Stark was his to kill, and his only.
He took a flaying knife from a scabbard on his belt and smiled.
The Stark boy grit his teeth. "The Others take you, Bolton! You think you won? You may have taken our castle, but you will never defeat us! My father and brothers will kill you and piss on your bloody corpse!" he roared defiantly.
Royce chuckled. "That's were you are wrong, boy. I already took care of your kin and their bannermen. Their corpses are feeding the crows as we speak." He arrived just in front of the boy and stopped.
The boy looked at him in disbelief. "No...you are lying! You murderous piece of shit! You will pay for this! My..."
"Scream as much as you want. It won't change your fate." He pointed the knife toward the boy's belly. "Give your ancestors my warmest regards."
With one quick move, the blade penetrated the Stark boy's flesh. He screamed and twitched, but the Bolton guards held him still. Royce moved the knife downward, so as to open a gash. Once he was done, he put the knife back in its place, and showed the Stark boy how he had earned his infamous nickname.
He tuck a hand in the gash, and, as soon as he found the entrails, he began to pull them out as brutally and slowly as possible. His victim's screams covered any other sound. Royce laughed at that. He continued until his hands and forearms were red and the boy's entrails lay in a bloody puddle on the ground.
He then stopped and took a moment to admire his work. Finally, it was done. His victory was complete. The last Stark was dead.
"Give the entrails to the dogs, but put the body on a cart and have it brought to the Dreadfort. His skin will make for a nice cloak." he told his men.
"Yes, Your Grace." answered their commander.
"Then, join me and your comrades in the Great Hall. We will celebrate our victory with a feast. And then..."
He took a look around. At first he had had half a mind to leave the castle standing and give it to one of his sons, but later had changed his mind. Winterfell was the symbol of his sworn enemies. It had no more reason to stand, since the wolves were all dead. As soon as the feast ended, the castle would follow in its masters' footsteps.
"...then we raze the castle to the ground."
AN: Since I had nothing better to do, I decided to write this. I hope you liked it. And in case you're wondering, this was just a stand-alone story. There's not going to be a sequel. However, if any of you feel so inclined, feel free to write one. Just remember to PM me first.
Long days and pleasant nights to you all!