House Bolton

Our blades are sharp, and this we know...
because the flayed man tells us so.
His screams resounding in our halls
The audible trappings for our walls.
And our floors are crimson true.
The only thing they lack is you.
Your cries and anguish, these conflate:
The Dreadfort shall ye decorate.

A naked man has secrets few
But everything comes into view.
A Bolton knows the truth that's whole
hidden deep within your soul.
Beneath the surface that we peel
And then the wholeness is revealed
From the breast, we take it from:
A flayed man, he has secrets none.