[center][h3]Another Skagosi Approaches[/h3][/center]
The Shivering Sea gave way to the Weeping Water, or at least, that was what their reluctant guide had told them. They had started with ten, but accidents, misunderstandings, and ineptitude had reduced that to the final man who guided them to a safe harbor. Yrsa had led her men ashore, their guide bound and dragged behind them. He was silent at least, he did not wail or sob as those before him had. The woman was not sure if it was resignation or defiance. He seemed to know he was a dead man walking, though he would last at least another few days. “We follow the river inland, surely we cannot miss a castle called [i]The Dreadfort[/i].”

“Yes, Tvisal.” Her captain snapped his fingers at the men behind him. [i]Two-souled[/i]. The title they used that melded reverence and fear. Yrsa’s father did not understand the nuance of the term and had seemed content that it meant they respected her. Yet Torwynd’s daughter was more Skagosi than either Westerosi or Wilding. There was a depth to the word that was difficult to articulate in the common tongue. Much as the Skagosi themselves were too easily dismissed as just brutish heathens. They were brutish. They were cannibalistic. They scorned the mainland and their soft ways. Their lives tended to be short and hard. But there was something more to the people of Skagos, something ancient and true. She felt a kinship to them her father never would, even if she would never be fully Skagosi either. 

“Keep him alive until we reach the fort. He betrayed his people, we will offer him to House Bolton in their custom.” She shifted from foot to foot, her lithe body still bundled beneath layers of leather trimmed with fur. 

Yrsa had ordered the majority of her men to stay back in the forests that surrounded The Dreadfort. She had kept only a dozen men as an escort for the final approach. Surely they would not have been missed but Torwynd had been clear that they should not appear an outright threat. They were not there to seize the castle. At least, not yet. If all went well they would have a few more weeks before they raised their weapons in battle. 

Initial forays towards the castle returned unexpected news. It seemed most of the men had gone far south to attend a tournament. The words felt utterly foreign to the Skagosi. What opportune timing for their rebellion, to have so many men distracted by soft war games. Clearly their advance was favored by the gods. At night with a fire roaring, they agreed that Torwynd would likely have encountered the same. Their main force must have certainly been victorious. Yrsa knew her father considered himself their king, though she also knew the title there was also not so literal a translation. He was stuck in the terms of his birth. She knew better. They would follow Torwynd for as long as he could maintain control. They would follow him for as long as she submitted to his wishes. She could hear it in the way they spoke of him now. He had achieved much, but he was and always would be one wrong step from losing it all. 

"We begin at dawn.” 

They were a people of few words, the dozen men grunted their agreement before settling into the pine beddings they had pulled together for the evening. They roasted the bits of small creatures they had killed that day and passed around skeins of their fermented milk. Yrsa took a long, deep drink, dragged her hand across her mouth, and leaned back to stare up to the night sky. 

It was quieter here, gentler, easier. It was unsettling, and she knew her men felt it too. Torwynd had promised them much with this rebellion, yet now that their boots were on these shores, Yrsa felt a shift in the men’s attitude. They would gladly plunder and kill, but to stay? She questioned how her father would achieve that. It had taken nearly her entire life for him to bring them to these lands. She felt their discomfort in her bones. Still, she had been charged to bring House Bolton to their aid, and they had a reputation that reached even the island of Skagos. Yrsa looked forward to testing their mettle to see whether it was truth or exaggeration. 

She was up before dawn, awake even before her men. Sunrise was not far off, but for now, the sky was dark still. They had bound the guide to a tree, cloth stuffed to his mouth though he had been silent for days now. His clothing had become barely more than scraps, his body bloodied and bruised. Even if they were to cut him loose, he would not last a fortnight.  

“You will die today.” She spoke harshly, deeply, rugged edges around each word. 

The man lifted his head, but his eyes remained as empty as they had been days ago. She would have guessed that he was older than her father, face worn and rugged, stringy hair fully grayed. He had lived enough of a life, perhaps he would view his impending death as a release. 

“It will not be a gentle death.” 

He dropped his head down, his shoulders sagging as much as the bindings would allow. Yrsa thought she heard a stifled grunt or sob, but it passed so quickly she questioned whether it had been a trick of the mind in the dark twilight hour. 

“You’ve accepted this, then. How unexpected.” She cocked her head in thought, her hand resting on the obsidian axe at her waist. Behind her she heard movement at last.Her men would be waking now. “You’ll be flayed alive. Slowly, to keep you alive as long as possible.” Yrsa approached the man and roughly grabbed his chin, pulling his face up so his eyes would meet hers. “The Boltons flay their enemies, or so we were told. But we are Stoneborn. Once you have been flayed and your last breaths leave you in excruciating pain, we will slice you from chest to groin.” She pushed his head back, her lips caressing his filthy ear with a gruff whisper. “We’ll rip out every last organ from your body.” Yrsa pressed her cheek to his in a cruel tease. “We’ll leave your carcass for the scavengers. Your wife or children, they’ll never have a body to bury.” 

She stepped back, the man held his head even, staring at her still. For a moment she thought she saw a spark of fire, but it was quickly extinguished. Emptiness returned to them even as he maintained her gaze. Yrsa barely heard Wull behind her, but she had been trained by the best. And her game had offered her no entertainment. “You’re ready to move out?”

Her captain grunted his answer. “And this one, he ready for us?” The short warrior spoke, his voice heavy with blood lust. 

Yrsa gave him a short nod. “We break camp as soon as you are finished with him. We’ll reach the Dreadfort by the evening. Make sure this gift stays fresh for the offering.”

[hider=tl;dr]
Yrsa arrives at the Dreadfort with a small contingent of men - 100 total, a dozen to join her in approaching the Boltons directly. They bring with them a flayed gift.
[/hider]