Yandere Toons x Reader: An Anthology of Headcanons and Scenarios

Cersei, Jaime & Tyrion L, Joffrey B, Ramsay B (P.S. - "Fool's Mistake 2")

A serf attempted to grab the reins when you disembarked, and the horse neighed with a kick of its legs. The sound of crunching snow pulled your head towards the glint of a red garnet earring on the right ear of a dark-haired skull.

Upon noticing the specks of dirt staining your robes, Ramsay stood far closer than was necessary to greet you. "My men didn't give you any trouble, did they?" An excited gleam brightened his face at the thought of putting someone to the flaying knife.

A soldier who was returning from the raid paused to glance in his direction before taking an alternate route, but Ramsay was preoccupied with waiting for your answer.

"You've stirred up quite the fuss in King's Landing." He was approaching the grand doors to the interior of the fortress when Roose emerged from the dim torchlight guarding the entrance to the war room.

The senior Bolton assessed the enthusiasm of his son with a wary side-eye before presenting an aura of indifference. "My condolences." He nodded his head at you, and Ramsay - whose posture had stiffened at his father's appearance - allowed a bit of disdain to seep into his curling lips.

"Ah, yes. Your dearly departed cousin." The young Bolton did not hide the malicious look on his face and expelled an uncaring chuckle. "Not the pride of the family, was he?" Ramsay looked at you with full confidence as if sharing an inside joke, and Roose closed his eyes for a moment to inhale through his nose and restore his dignity.

When he spoke, his tone was somewhat stern in an attempt to keep his role in the interaction professional and overshadow his son's dark humour. "We would like to extend an invitation to dinner tonight. Iain Umber will be joining us."

* * *

The aroma of roasted pig flowed into the air via a cloud of steam wafting from the dish. Patches of charred flesh decorated the stiff body, which was crackling and reddish-orange from the licks of an earlier fire. Haunches and halves of the snout filled the four plates at the long table, and goblets of wine served to wash down the taste and any slivers caught in the teeth.

Out of the myriad chairs spanning both sides of the table, Ramsay chose the seat next to yours. He lifted his utensils and began to sever the pork into bite-sized pieces like a surgeon handling a scalpel. His gaze concentrated on the meat as if the choice had not been deliberate, only looking askance at you with periodic regularity.

He had planted himself between you and Iain as a result, and the Umber was casting suspicious glances in his direction whenever the young Bolton feasted on the roasted pig like one of his hounds.

Ramsay watched your inspection of the dinner as if it were the most intriguing sight in all of Westeros, his eyes hedging bets on which piece of food you would select and squinting every time you moved your hands or shifted.

From the opposite side of the table, Roose looked between you and his son while tapping his fingers against the wooden surface to create an almost noiseless sound. "Ramsay."

He awaited a direct response, but when the young Bolton offered no more than a hum, Roose nodded and knocked on the edge of the table a bit louder. "Lord Umber is on your right."

Ramsay turned to his father, the barest hint of irritation crawling into his smile. "He is," proclaimed the young Bolton as if that fact were a spectacular discovery. He whirled around with a creak of his chair to confront the Umber, and his knife and fork bumped the plate in a momentary cacophony. "Lord Umber, is there something you wish to say?"