Chapter 93 - The Ruins of the Dreadfort (VI)
"Watch your words, I can be a generous person, but I can also be quite cruel when I want to be." Aenar Targaryen, in front of the Lord and Lady of the North.
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Holding Ramsay's head, Aenar looked at the ruins of the Dreadfort, still consumed by red flames, and nodded, satisfied. He had killed all the guards of House Bolton for obvious reasons. The only people he had ordered out of the castle were the women, women who had been forced to practically become sex slaves.
What he saw in the dungeons of the Dreadfort would stay with him for the rest of his life. There were monsters, and there were real monsters. The entire House of Bolton was a cancer that he had long wanted to eradicate from the face of the beautiful planet he would come to rule.
With a crash, Caraxes landed next to Aenar, kicking up huge amounts of snow. The dragon's neck curved around its rider, unconsciously protecting him.
"Thanks for the hard work, Caraxes," Aenar thanked his partner with a satisfied smile, displaying Ramsay Snow's head.
He would take the head back to Winterfell, as it was Ramsay who would take the blame for the letters sent. Aenar would only add that the bastard had killed Domeric and his own father to inherit the position of Lord of the Dreadfort.
If it were with another noble house, perhaps many would be suspicious of his words, but not with House Bolton, which already had a terrible reputation, worse even than House Frey in Riverrun.
Still holding Ramsay's head, Aenar mounted Caraxes' saddle. Looking once more at the ruined castle, its stones twisted, melted, charred and scorched, he let out a sigh. The crimson dragon took a few steps forward and then took to the sky.
...
With a loud, powerful roar, Caraxes landed outside Winterfell. The castle had no room for a dragon of his size.