Chapter 103 – The Curse of Dismemberment
The thick fog that had smothered the Wolfswood for days suddenly vanished without warning.
Big Jon, who was leading the vanguard to scout ahead, was thoroughly baffled by the change—but it didn't stop him from resuming normal operations.
After dispatching messengers to inform the main army, he led his forward troops onward, preparing to attack.
Without the fog to hinder them, their advance went astonishingly smoothly. Guided by locals familiar with the Wolfswood, they reached Deepwood Motte in less than half a day.
And what greeted them left everyone stunned.
The banners atop the walls had collapsed. The soldiers stationed along the ramparts wandered aimlessly, as if they had lost all purpose.
The gates of Deepwood Motte stood wide open.
At the entrance, an Ironborn soldier sat on the ground, clutching a hairy leg and gnawing at his own blood-soaked toes.
"Did the Others screw them all?" Big Jon blurted out, staring in disbelief. "What in the Seven Hells am I looking at?"
---
In an endless gray ocean, a single blue "star" shimmered quietly.
It was the soul of the Ironborn female commander Charles had captured at Deepwood Motte.
Curious about the power backing the invaders, he had absorbed her into the scepter after her death, rather than raising her as an undead corpse.
Unfortunately, she proved useless—no matter how he questioned her, she knew almost nothing. Everything she'd done, she insisted, had been ordered by her father.
With the scepter's Judgment ability in effect, lying was impossible.
As for why her soul glowed blue instead of the usual translucent gray, Charles had studied it carefully. The color came from some strange "pigment" embedded within her spirit—likely tied to her faith.
Now sealed within the scepter, that power was slowly fading.
---
Back in his bedroom at Winterfell, after finishing his questioning of the Ironborn woman named Asha, Charles had planned to search for the bald eunuch.
Unfortunately, Arya's sudden arrival ruined that plan.
"Have you eaten yet?" the girl asked immediately upon entering.
Seeing her bright, mischievous smile, Charles instantly sensed trouble.
"No," he replied flatly, barely looking at her.
Unfazed, Arya plopped herself into the chair across from him and muttered indignantly,
"That Ramsay is disgusting. Mother's actually planning to let him go!"
"Let him go?" Charles raised an eyebrow, his attention caught despite himself.
"She says it's for the greater good," Arya pouted, then looked at him expectantly.
"Can you teach him a lesson?"
"So that's why you came?" Charles asked.
"Of course!"
"You want me to deal with that bastard?"
"Yes! Letting him off like this is way too cheap."
She nodded vigorously, then quickly dragged someone else into it.
"Sansa thinks he's horrible too—she's just too embarrassed to ask you herself."
"And you're not?" Charles deadpanned.
"Of course not," Arya said cheerfully. "We're close, aren't we?"
Charles rolled his eyes.
He didn't like the bastard either—but he also didn't enjoy unnecessary trouble.
"Too much hassle," he said. "If they're letting him go, then let him go."
"Not a hassle at all!" Arya said quickly, thrusting her hand toward him.
In her palm lay a small bundle.
"…Hair?" Charles stared, speechless.
"So you planned this already?" he asked.
"Obviously," Arya said solemnly.
"I worked really hard to get this. So—help me out, yeah? I'll owe you one."
"Owe me one?" Charles laughed despite himself.
"Who taught you to say that?"
"Idiot Adder," Arya replied honestly.
"Every time he asks Maester Mikken to fix his sickle without paying, he says that."
She didn't realize she'd just sold someone out.
Shaking his head, Charles accepted the strand of hair.
Recalling what he knew about the bastard, he thought for a moment—then bent down and began rummaging beneath his bed.
This behavior was clearly taken as tacit approval, and the girl was instantly encouraged. Still, when she saw Charles pull a doll and a sheet of densely scribbled paper from a bag under the bed, her curiosity flared again.
"You don't sew your spells yourself?" she asked.
"Why would I?" Charles replied without looking up. "Last time, didn't you sew it for me?"
"Then where did this doll come from?"
"Custom-made in King's Landing."
"You—"
"Quiet. Don't interrupt."
Arya puffed out her cheeks but obediently stopped asking questions. Still, when she watched him skillfully slit the doll open and stuff the strand of hair inside, she couldn't help herself.
"Are you going to kill him?"
"What nonsense are you thinking?" Charles said calmly. "Kids shouldn't be obsessed with killing."
"I was just asking…"
Charles shot her a sideways glance and ignored her. When the incantation ended, the parchment burned away, and intricate runes imprinted themselves across the linen surface of the doll.
He placed it on the table, picked up a silver dagger beside him, examined it briefly, then looked up.
"So—how do you want to punish him?"
I get to decide? Arya's eyes lit up.
"Father says rapists should be castrated, murderers beheaded. Mother doesn't want him killed, so… castrate him."
At her age, she clearly had no real understanding of what that punishment meant—there was even a trace of disappointment in her voice.
It was a trivial matter. Charles nodded, reversed his grip on the dagger, and drove it down hard into a specific spot on the doll.
The blade pinned the doll straight into the oak table.
[You have activated the Dismemberment Curse: Target – Ramsay Bolton]
[Due to environmental suppression, your Authority of Death cannot manifest]
[Spell mutation unavailable]
---
When Steelshanks Walton arrived to collect Ramsay, the scene before him was… difficult to look at.
Inside the cell, the bastard stood facing the wall, head lowered, fiddling anxiously with a certain part of his body. His expression was tense and irritable, completely unaware of Walton's arrival.
"Master Ramsay—are you all right?"
"Walton?" Ramsay spun around, froze for a second, then burst out laughing. "My father sent you to fetch me, didn't he? Hahaha! I knew he wouldn't abandon me!"
"Of course," Walton replied smoothly. "Lord Bolton often speaks of you."
His eyes flicked downward—carefully. What he saw made his scalp prickle.
That thing… was hanging limply like wet string, utterly lifeless.
What's this? Shock-induced impotence?
Walton wondered silently. But Ramsay, sensitive as ever, noticed the glance. The smile vanished from his face. He rested a hand on Walton's shoulder, his tone eerily calm.
"My dear Walton. Tell me—what did you just see?"
"N-nothing, my lord."
Cold sweat broke out instantly.
"Hm. Let's pretend you saw nothing, then."
Ramsay glanced around the dungeon, a flicker of fear and hatred crossing his eyes. Then he burst into laughter again.
"Come, Walton. I can't wait to see my hounds."
"Master Reek has taken excellent care of them."
"Reek?" Ramsay snapped. "That bastard dared touch my dogs?!"
Muttering furiously, the two left the dungeon and headed for the gates. Not long after, Ramsay suddenly stopped, clutching his abdomen.
"Are you all right, my lord?" Walton asked again.
"I'm fine. Drank too much water. Hurry—we need to leave. I need to piss."
"Lady Stark has been quite accommodating. There's no need to rush."
"I don't want to stay here one second longer!"
Ramsay couldn't possibly tell anyone that he'd tried for half the night and couldn't feel anything—as if that part no longer belonged to him.
He assumed it was fear. Winterfell unnerved him. He needed to leave—needed to test things elsewhere.
Seeing his resolve, Walton said nothing more.
They hurried to the gates, where several Bolton knights joined them. Ramsay greeted them cheerfully, mounted his horse, took the reins—
—and suddenly frowned.
"Are you sure you're all right?" Walton asked uneasily.
"I said I'm fine. Let's go."
"You look pale. Should we ask the maester—"
"I SAID IT'S FINE!"
His voice dropped into a growl. Then his face twisted in pain. He doubled over, teeth clenched, trying desperately to endure something.
No one dared ask again.
But after a short ride, the jostling became too much.
"Aaaah—!"
With a cry of agony, Ramsay clutched his stomach and slid off the horse, hitting the ground with a dull thud. He passed out instantly. Ironically, with his face pressed into the dirt, his expression finally relaxed.
A sharp, acrid smell spread through the air.
The soldiers glanced over.
A dark stain had soaked through the front of Ramsay's trousers, glistening wetly in the sunlight—impossible to ignore.