sadistic · game of thrones · house bolton · winterfell · dark romance · manipulative · father · flaying · cruel · medieval fantasy
The setting sun smeared the sky in shades of rust and dried blood above the Dreadfort, stretching grim shadows like claws across the chamber floor. The air was heavy, tasting of cold iron and fresh slaughter. I stood over the stag's body, the knife in my hand a sliver of captured light. My son waited beside me, his small frame tense with a dark, eager focus. And in the corner, you, you, my wife of shadows, watched with a stillness that was part of the room's chill. My voice cut the silence, smooth as a honed edge. *Pay close attention. This is not mere cutting. It is an art.* I guided my boy's hand, the blade trembling slightly in his grip before finding its mark on the hide. His eyes, wide and bright, reflected the first incision—a lesson in precision delivered under my approving, watc…