Chapter 83: Leech Lord
Roose Bolton, the lord of the Dreadfort, arguably the second most powerful man in the Nord...was having a terrible headache.
No amount of food could soothe this headache.
No matter how lavish the feast spread before him, with its array of succulent meats and exotic delicacies, the pain persisted, gnawing at his temples like a relentless beast.
No amount of hot spiced wine straight from Highgarden could dull it.
Despite the warmth that flooded his veins with each sip, the pain persisted, a drumbeat in his skull that refused to be silenced by even the finest libations.
Not even invoking the First Night and exercising his right as the Ruler of Dreadfort to "taste" a few youthful wives of his peasants could alleviate his symptoms.
Despite the temporary distraction provided by these indulgences, the pain persisted, as if mocking his attempts to find solace in depravity.
'At least I might have seeded another few half-bloods' He thought in derision.
The only thing that barely helped was his tried and trusted method of blood leeching, but even those results were minimal.
He knew that something was wrong when his mood wasn't lifted even by the old maester's screams of pain as he tortured him for not performing the leeching procedure well enough.
His pale grey eyes felt empty each time he gazed into the mirror, and he felt his body thinning.
Now, he gazed through his bedchamber's window as he slowly sipped his wine, pretending to enjoy the desolate scenery he had seen every damned day ever since he was a child.
His mind churned and churned, forming ideas and plans yet discarding them just as quickly. He was in deep waters and he knew it. Everyone in the North knew it by now.
With each passing day, he felt the waves grow stronger and stronger, and he couldn't help but wonder whether today would be his day to be pulled to the bottom and drowned.
"I've sent too many letters to that damned Squid" he muttered to himself.
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It all started with a few villages. Travelers found them desolate and filled with corpses (-)
They spoke of curses and the wrath of gods and that damned Baratheon brat whose balls suddenly dropped one day and decided to turn the world into his FUCKING PLAYGROUND!
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He didn't even know how his chalice ended up shattered on the floor or when his fat wife slipped away from his bed to find somewhere else to be.
Roose didn't bother with the wine-stained rug on the floor. A slave would eventually replace it, and if "eventually" didn't mean 10 or so minutes, someone would be flayed and whipped to death.
He felt his headache receding the slightest bit as he concentrated on calming his breathing.
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Some things were simple, natural, comprehensible...
The Plague of sudden death spreading through the North was anything but.
Roose didn't pay it any mind at first.
Why would he care if some peasants died off?
It happened all the time, after all, and it wasn't like they weren't replaceable.
But then, this Disease spread...more and more small villages turned into mass graves as the whispers of divine punishment turned into shouts.
At that point, Roose was forced to listen, and yet he dearly wished that he didn't.
What was this about Stannis the Filthy?
And what did it have to do with the Nord?
Roose Bolton was never religious.
He was always the type to do instead of wishing and praying.
He hated the idea of a predestined destiny and higher powers and secretly laughed at any and all the septons he saw...but could he do so anymore?
When living proof of said higher beings existed in the form of Joffrey fucking Baratheon? When his spies swore on their lives that they saw the kid fucking WISH the Iron Throne into a statue?
If that was all, he might have accepted it.
If the 7 gods existed now, they clearly did before as well, yet he never heard of smiting those whom didn't believe in them or personally punishing the so-called heathens who didn't adhere
The so-called gods didn't seem to care about mortal affairs all that much.
They were Gods after all...such matters were beneath their notice...or so it should have been.
But...
IT
WAS
NOT
Because the Gods, in their unlimited wisdom were punishing the people of the North because Stannis Baratheon, a Southerner, dared to CLAIM his right to rule the realm.
These Insane, BEEINGS decided that instead of sending down a bolt of lightning to end the disillusioned fool's life, it was better to send a plague upon people half a world away, who DIDN'T EVEN KNOW WHO THE FUCK STANNIS BARATHEON WAS.
Roose tried, he really, really tried to control himself. He couldn't afford to attract the wrath of these so-called gods.
He had his suspicions, of course, that these things weren't related whatsoever, that this was some kind of natural phenomenon that scared the peasants so much they turned to their precious religion...but then that thrice-damned prince claimed that it was true...that this, indeed, was the wrath of the gods...
Roose Bolton took a deep, deep breath.
"I will get over this...the Boltons will get over this. Even if we have to crawl and kiss the boots of these so-called divine...we will survive..."
His gaze was steely, unwavering, as he stood tall and resolute, his back ramrod straight as he made his vow.
Clad in robes the color of dried blood, their rich crimson hue a stark contrast against the pale stone of the Dreadfort, he exuded an aura of quiet menace.
His steely grey eyes, cold and piercing, seemed to bore into the very soul of anyone who dared to meet his gaze.
With each word of his oath, he spoke not just to the world and the gods—if they were watching—but most importantly, to himself.
Each syllable dripped with the weight of his conviction, a solemn promise etched in iron that he would see fulfilled, no matter the cost...
But, suddenly, a chill swept through Roose Bolton's body, an unnatural cold that seemed to seep into his very bones.
Despite the warmth of his chambers and the flickering flames of the torches, he felt an icy hand grip his heart, sending shivers racing down his spine.
For a moment, he stood frozen, his breath catching in his throat as he struggled to shake off the unbidden sensation of dread that gripped him.
And then, the screaming started...
He watched in horror as green flowers of flame blossomed before his eyes upon all the walls surrounding the Dreadfort.
The infernal blooms, made of literal fire, danced and swirled, their eerie glow casting sinister shadows across the ancient stone.
He watched in silence as the screams grew in intensity.
With each passing moment, the heat grew, the flames licking hungrily at the citadel, consuming everything in their path with relentless fervor.
Roose Bolton didn't know why he began laughing in front of his death.
Was it due to the unfairness of the world?
Due to the sheer stupidity of his own impending demise?
Due to sadness, that his legacy would end?
The Leech King didn't know but his own maddened laughter was the last thing he heard before the pale green flames enveloped him.
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Nestled amidst the rugged terrain of the North, the Dreadfort used to stand as a grim testament to the dark legacy of House Bolton.
Perched on the banks of the Weeping Water, its ominous silhouette loomed over the landscape, casting a shadow of fear and dread upon all who behold it.
Tall, obsidian walls rose up from the earth like ancient sentinels, their blackened stones weathered by centuries of harsh northern winters.
Turrets and battlements jutted out from the fortress walls, each bearing silent witness to the castle's turbulent history.
Passing through reinforced iron gates, one would greeted by the sight of a sprawling courtyard, surrounded on all sides by the castle's walls.
The was is thick with the scent of burning hearths and the sound of clanging metal, as the inhabitants of the Dreadfort went about their daily tasks.
The interior of the castle was no less foreboding than its exterior. Dark corridors twisted and turned like a labyrinth leading deeper into the heart of the fortress.
Torchlight flickered off the cold, stone walls, casting eerie shadows that seemed to dance and shift with each passing moment.
Throughout the castle, the presence of House Bolton was keenly felt. Banners bearing the sigil of the Flayed Man hang from the rafters, their blood-red hues serving as a reminder of the family's reputation.
Torture chambers and dungeons lay hidden beneath the castle's surface, well maintained despite the long-lasting peace in Westerns.
Despite its grim facade, there was a certain austere beauty to the Dreadfort.
In the great hall, ancient tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of conquest and victory from House Bolton's storied past. Ornate furnishings of dark wood and polished metal spoke to the wealth and power of the family that called this fortress home.
Outside the castle walls, the lands surrounding the Dreadfort are equally forbidding. Dark forests stretched out as far as the eye can see, their twisted branches reaching towards the sky like gnarled fingers grasping for the heavens. In the distance, the icy peaks of the northern mountains loomed ominously, their snow-capped summits shrouded in mystery and myth.
For generations, the Dreadfort has stood as a bastion of strength and defiance in the harsh northern wilderness.
Though its walls may crumble and its banners may fall, the dark legacy of House Bolton would endure, casting its long shadow over the land for centuries to come...
...or so it was supposed to be...
Where yesterday the imposing Dreadfort stood sentinel, now lay naught but ruin and desolation.
The fortress, once a bastion of fear and dread, had been reduced to a hellish
landscape, consumed by the relentless fury of green fiendfyre.
The walls, once mighty and impregnable, now lay twisted and warped, their stones melted and fused together in grotesque formations.
The turrets and battlements that had once bristled with the weapons of war now hung precariously, their once proud banners reduced to embers by the searing heat.
Within what little remained of the castle, the scene was one of utter devastation. Dark corridors, once bustling with life, now lay eerily silent, their stone floors warped and buckled by the inferno that had raged through the fortress.
The stench of burning flesh hung heavy in the air, and one could almost hear the screams of the dying that once echoed through the halls, their agonized cries drowned out by the roar of the flames that consumed everything in their path.
Where once the banners of House Bolton proudly hung, now there were only charred remnants of cloth, blackened and scorched if not entirely turned to ashes.
The sigil of the flayed man, once a symbol of fear and terror, was nowhere to be seen.
The courtyard was now a scorched wasteland, littered with charred remains. The bodies of men, women, and children lay twisted and contorted, fleshless and blackened.
The very air seemed to shimmer with the intense heat, and the sky above was choked with billowing clouds of acrid smoke.
Dreadfort was transformed into a vision of hell itself.
Even now, hours later, the fire raged on, consuming everything in its path yet somehow not spreading beyond the boundaries of what was once a fortress.
Whether this had anything to do with the purple spirit floating away from the site of destruction was anyone's guess...
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(Negary pov)
My flesh golem's eyes snapped open as my soul lodged itself within. I pushed myself up from the makeshift mattress I had been lying on and took a bite from the mint-flavored herb sitting on a plate beside me.
This body didn't require food, water, or sleep but, ironically enough I still had to deal with bed breath.
With a push, I thrust the tent's cloth flap aside, a burst of light and fresh air hitting my face.
I was greeted by shouts.
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
FangYuan1234
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Also, I started writing a fic called Danmachi-Depthless Hunger if you would like to check it out.
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