Warnings: Abuse of Power, Morally Ambiguous! Reader, Violence, Death, Blood, Mentions of Physical Torture, Supernatural Powers, Emotional Manipulation, Toxic Mindsets.
A.N. - Already plotting a threequel.
As the flurry of snowflakes wafted out of the darkened sky and melted against the surface of your mask like teardrops, it brought a cold sweetness to the wind pulling your robe. The shadows of tall conifers, their branches forever lush and the home to an occasional raven, filled the wilderness on every side of the road.
Billows of heat sailed around you while the tail of the fire rose higher towards the clouds, and the smell of burnt wood clashed with the aroma of wildflowers and spices in the caravan.
There was nowhere without snow, some drowning in blankets of it and others basking in sheets thin enough for tufts of grass to protrude like spilt paint on a white canvas. Despite the flatness of the land you stood upon, mountains and hills sloped through the countryside in the far distance.
The flames were newborn and had only just begun to surpass the top of the evergreens, yet the sky was grey as if this corner of the world was trapped in an eternal storm.
Soldiers dressed in red and faded pink marched out of the ruined wagon, their necks and arms draped in the metal and fabric they had gathered from crates after pushing the lids or breaking them with the thrust of a sword.
The bodies of merchants hung on the cracked planks and smashed wheels decorating the road. Most of them had been granted a slash across the throat or a stab at the gut, but those who sprung to their final bits of life were scarcely more than beaten by the warriors.
When a man had found you buried in the hay during a search for hidden jewels, it was the man joining him a moment later who stopped him from engaging you in combat. "Don't!" he hissed as he yanked the first man away.
The soldier looked between you and his comrade in confusion before the recognition passed over his face in a wave of slowly understood dread.
You had risen from the hay like an ancient vampire waking from a coffin, and the yellow feed slid down your head and shoulders.
* * *
The men dismounted their steeds in a mob of prideful laughter and appreciation for the loot strapped to the saddles, and the horses whinnied and hopped with excitement still fresh from the raid.
"Well, we did find a funny-looking git." As Ramsay drifted away from the conversation and peered at the spirited men discussing which loot to sell and which to keep, the arrival of a final rider from the snowy banks encircling the fortress silenced all other noise in his mind.
Instead of galloping, the horse you rode into the Dreadfort entered with calm and quiet steps. Its face held a serenity unnatural to one who had emerged from the heart of a bloody onslaught.
The air was colder around you, but no cloud of frozen breath slipped from your mouth. The shadows that fell upon your arrival stretched longer than before, casting the bleak land in a darker shade of grey.
The horse stopped near one of the walls a clear distance from the troop and expelled a burst of air in a snort.
Ramsay turned back just for a second and patted the soldier on the chest, ignoring the way the man flinched at his touch. The Bolton started with a curious saunter that progressed to a speed-walk as he drew closer.
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?"
Iain, who had thrown his sword on another man's table and torn the first piece of bread off the loaf, now found his tongue hesitant to deliver any words. "I was merely extending my compliments on your father's stronghold."
With a tilt of his head, Ramsay judged the physical fitness of the guest. "Yes, well, if I had known an esteemed guest had plans to visit, I would have hunted something far more satisfying."
The Umber raised his cup and swung his arm over the pig. "Nonsense! This is a fine and fat hog!"
Ramsay was successful in maintaining a superficial aura of gaiety until he looked back in your direction, noticing the chunks of food missing from your plate and the reduced volume of wine in your goblet.
Cracks formed in his deception as he glanced between the meal and your concealed face. The young Bolton lowered his drink to the table with unnecessary force, and he snatched the sharp utensils from their resting place on the sides of his dish.
Ramsay jabbed the pork with a downward thrust of his knife, ripping a chunk off the slab of roasted meat as if skinning the animal for a second time. The plate rattled from the aggressive force of his hand and caught the eye of Roose, who watched in disapproval as his son spun the utensil towards his lips and pulled the meat off the blade with a quick bite.
Once the chewy texture clashed with his teeth, the young Bolton shook his head with a chuckle.
* * *
The morning sun stretched down from the overhanging windows and poured into the rich stonework of the throne room. A warm gust of air drifted through the space and brushed the cloaks of various royals as a trio of guards entered via the large doors opposite the Iron Throne, their heads directed at the ground in shame and hesitancy to look the king in the eye. "Nothing new to report, Your Grace."
Joffrey, his fist clenching as if smashing something in his palm, jumped to his feet. "No, that is unacceptable!" His voice had ascended to a shriek by the end of the protest, and Cersei debated whether to stand and comfort her son or maintain her imperial indifference in front of the gentry.
A bald man with his hands tucked into the sleeves of a yellow robe leaned forward in a half-bow and tilted his head to such a degree that he was not directly facing the king but could still see him. "Your Grace, if I may be so bold, a few of my little birds have whispered that a caravan was recently apprehended on the Northern kingsroad."
Tywin looked at Varys as if he had told a joke. "So, the flayed man is delivering on his threats. I don't expect we'll hear any barking from the wolves." He bobbed his head in a call for seriousness, the amusement leaving his voice. "What of it?"
Varys shifted his attention to the general but preserved his half-bow. "The caravan was rumoured to be transporting sensitive materials."
Finding some encouragement in his grandfather's words, the boy retook his seat. "Place a bounty on them. Twenty thousand Gold Dragons." Joffrey waved his hand. "Someone fetch the chancellor. He needs to hear this."
When the lords exchanged looks of puzzlement that incurred an impatient glare from the king, Varys opened his mouth and contemplated his words before he spoke them.
"You had him executed last week, Your Grace."
Joffrey blinked and shook his head at the reminder.
Varys outstretched his arm to draw attention to the dark-haired lord who proceeded to step out of the line to distinguish himself. "That position has since been filled by Lord Baelish."
Petyr bowed his head at the king before offering a smugness that alluded to the dozens of schemes unfurling behind it. "As your new Master of Coin, I give you my word that the sorcerer will be found and returned to King's Landing."
Varys turned away to obscure the look of distaste that strained his composure, but Joffrey slowly accepted the promise with an inattentive nod and a bounce of his hand on the armrest.
"Send a raven to all the Northern Houses." Despite his gaze landing on Grand Maester Pycelle, multiple lords bowed to him and exited the throne room at once.
* * *
From the moment you stepped into the chamber, none of the torches on the walls nor the candles on the dresser would find the light again. The bedroom was plunged into irreparable darkness that blackened the windows and heightened the common bite of Northern air into a capsule of freezing death.
Forever unlit as if blown out by the sweeping breath of a god, the torches did not indicate your level of wakefulness to anyone outside.
Footsteps plodded in the corridor beyond your room, traversing the length of the hall as if searching for an end to the restless frustration guiding each step. They sometimes ventured into a neighbouring hall and grew quieter, only to return a minute or two later at full speed.
Hours had passed without the sound losing its consistency, but midway through the night, the origin of the noise paused within knocking distance of your door.
Stopping at the intermittent sound of papers shuffling, Ramsay pushed open the doors to the dining area and marched inside with a knife on his hip. The room was cloaked in the darkness of night, its only illumination coming from the light of two candles dancing across the face of his father.
Stacks of letters rose from the surface of the table, some bearing the sigils of Southern and Northern Houses and some bearing a familiar reddish pink. A few had been scattered around the table, but the majority of them resided on either side of Roose.
The sight took a bite out of the young Bolton's composure, his attention dropping to the floor and a bit of haste entering his breaths. He almost considered walking back the way he came and pretending that the call of sleep had reached him sooner than usual.
The senior Bolton moved his eyes across the concluding lines of the scroll, gazing over the top of the parchment at his son. "When was I to learn we're at war with the Lannisters?" He tossed the paper onto the pile beside his hand, and the mound of letters accepted it with a thwack. "The seal was broken on every one of these."
Ramsay did not hold his father's gaze any longer but retained his smile. "I was curious," he murmured as he snatched a goblet of wine from the table and leaned against the wall adjoining the biggest window in the room.
Roose had the steely look of a man astounded by the insubordination unfolding before him. "Curious that the crown is promising to behead us?"
As Ramsay suppressed a chuckle into a quiet hum, the senior Bolton turned his palms towards the ceiling and cast an adamant glance at the scrolls littering his end of the table. "Your proclivities are yours to pursue, but I won't have their return costing my head."
Flaunting the amusement that illuminated his face at the news, Ramsay directed his attention to the nighttime lands outside the window and sipped his wine. "They won't be going back."
Roose shook his head and blinked as if struck by astonishment. "You seem quite invested in their affairs. Do you want their hand?"
Ramsay was silent for a moment, shifting his jaw and eventually lowering his gaze to the goblet of wine in his hand. "Now's not the time for jokes, Father."
* * *
Wandering the halls of the Dreadfort was a repetitive if not tedious experience, delivering wall after wall of barren stone cracking from neglect and closed doors as unwelcoming as the bitter frost swirling around the gates.
A whiff of illness and unwashed servants was carried on the old air coasting through the fortress, and the atmosphere of hopelessness contrasted with the fruit bowls and perfume of the Red Keep.
It was a trek you were on the verge of abandoning until a flash of black sped into your path.
Rounding the corner, Ramsay skidded to an abrupt stop as if he had been planning to run for a while longer. Faint smears of red glazed his forehead, and quivering in his hold was a small but saw-toothed knife. "Dear friend," he breathed with pleasant surprise, "come with me."
The young Bolton lurched forward and clenched your hand, pulling you to follow him as he sprinted down the corridor from whence he came.
The creak of aged wood reverberated through the hall when Roose opened the door to his and Walda's chamber. He refrained from jumping or brandishing a longsword in response to his bloodstained son hurrying past him, but he tensed his shoulders and blinked a couple of times before casting a look of annoyance at Ramsay.
"Iain Umber is our guest," shouted the senior Bolton to ensure that his words penetrated the bloodlust commanding his son.
Ramsay paused at his father's call and turned around with the anxious fidgeting of someone unable to dismiss their current impulse.
"I expect him to be entertained as well." There was a knowledgeable glint in the slight smile that graced Roose's lips, which dropped to a thin line of apathy once he broke eye contact and marched around the corner out of sight.
"Sorcerers," grumbled Iain as he spewed a line of saliva onto the floor. "You think your fancy robes and hand-waving make you too good for a real battle." He stepped closer to you while clenching his sheathed weapon, and his voice dropped to a low growl. "You've never held a sword, not for one moment of your vile life."
Before you could summon a reply, Ramsay was in front of you with his arm partially outstretched and his serrated knife hovering just short of the Umber's chin. "You have a big mouth." The dark residue of old blood dotted the shine of freshly cleaned metal, which had teeth like a dog and a curved shape like a crooked spine.
Despite having to turn his head down to meet the young Bolton, the courage that had propelled him fluttered away from Iain, swept into nothing by the look of malice and the promised death he shuddered to imagine.
The twinge of a smile on Ramsay's face begged the Umber for the flimsiest reason to stick the blade in his neck and wrench it like a corkscrew.
Iain glanced between the steel and its wielder, releasing his grip on his sword one finger at a time and slinking a few steps back. The young Bolton observed his retreat in growing anticipation, and when he started to pursue, Iain winced as the thick furs surrounding his body devolved into a sweaty and oppressive cage.
"I wonder-" Ramsay's eyes trailed over the length of the knife "-how much of this blade can fit down your throat?"
Raising his head high, the Umber fought the dread threatening to spill out of him and mustered a fragile imitation of calm. "You would defend this Lannister pet?" He spat the word "pet" with as much grace as a nobleman cursing a peasant's marriage proposal to his daughter.
Tilting his head with a smile, Ramsay squeezed Iain's shoulder to the point of bruising it through the winter coat and yanked him forward onto a steel tip he had positioned near his torso. The frigid edge pierced the soft flesh of his stomach with a squelch, and warm blood oozed from the gap in his leather before trickling across the young Bolton's hand.
A metallic flavour, sour and pungent like an old sword rusting under the sun, bubbled in the top of his throat and drenched his mouth in a red flood. The unblinking gaze of Ramsay - marvelling at the way his face contorted in pain - struck a greater fear in the Umber than any opponent on the battlefield.
The Bolton denied him the relief of relaxing his hold on the weapon, slowly turning the blade and pressing it deeper into his belly to admire the slight changes in his expression when a more sensitive area was punctured. "I trust," whispered Ramsay as he leaned close enough to feel the bursts of strenuous breath rolling against his cheeks, "this will be the end of our little disagreement?"
He pulled back with a curious "hmm" and shifted his head back and forth to keep his eyes locked on Iain's wandering gaze as if the two were having a heartfelt conversation.
A wave of agony exploded in the Umber's gut, and his lungs constricted in a fit of shock. Ramsay jerked the knife from left to right in a series of harsh twists that unravelled the man's intestines as if they were a loose thread, tearing it out of his body every other second and plunging it into the same spot just as rapidly.
The feral strength behind each stab was accentuated by his dilating pupils and the curl of his lips, which exposed his teeth in a hateful snarl. A periodic twitch affected his eye after a streak of crimson followed every push of the blade and painted the floor beneath his shoes.
Ramsay cradled Iain's head with one hand and held it in an upright position, retracting the knife to examine the lifeless pallor tinting the Umber's face. The Bolton dropped him with a sigh of disappointment, and the stench of a fresh corpse incited a host of barking from distant hounds. "I would have liked to do more with that one."
Once a servant wandered into the hall from an adjacent door, Ramsay fixed the man in rags with a look of cheer. "Give my hounds a treat."
The servant hugged the bucket of water in his arms, its contents sloshing but never spilling over the rim. He shambled further into the corridor as he glanced between the door and the young Bolton. "Lady Walda," mumbled the serf in a hoarse and timid voice, but Ramsay did not allow him a chance to finish pronouncing the woman's name.
"I said get a treat for my hounds." Despite his calm tone, the vitriolic stare he sent to the man betrayed inner unrest.
The servant adjusted his hold on the bucket and, with an inaudible mutter, peered at the corpse still leaking blood at the Bolton's feet. He hurried to set the wooden object on the floor and scrambled to the side of the dead lord. Looping his arms around the cold limbs of the cadaver, the serf began to drag him away in the direction of the kennels.
Ramsay turned to you after the men disappeared past the corner, and he beckoned for you to enter the door behind him. "Shall we?"
The rocky ground in the room was littered with clumps of hay, some soft and still smelling of horses and some of which had rotted from the lack of daylight and crunched underneath your shoes like twigs.
A large structure in the shape of an 'X' was positioned in the centre, and as you gazed at the metal bindings on each end of the device, the stench of pain prolonged wafting through the air swelled to a nauseating cloud.
It was the stink of old sweat left to marinate, with the odour of a body in disarray emitting from the man bound to the structure. His head quivered up and down in an inability to lift. His hands and feet turned back and forth as if the right angle would free him, and the cracked skin of his face was rife with dehydration.
As you noted the scars of various ages on his fingers and exposed chest, Ramsay approached him like an art enthusiast beholding a magnificent painting.
"Do you recall my most recent letter?" The Bolton turned slightly in your direction, not taking his eyes off the prisoner. "Where the poor thief met his end for a piece of bread?" His voice was rich in false sympathy for the criminal's fate, and he pointed a finger at the man ahead. "This is his brother."
Ramsay's gaze travelled to yours to flash a look of childlike excitement, only for his joy to dull when he realized that you were observing a different portion of the room.
A soldier reclined on a wooden chair in one of the darker corners. His face was dimly illuminated by a torch hanging on the wall, a fork and a plate of meat rising and falling from his mouth as he took careless bites and studied the shadows.
The Bolton wondered why you were paying the guard any mind, and he dismissed the man in favour of redirecting your attention to his work. "Leave us." After the door closed behind the guard, he looked at you. "No? Not even a word?"
Ramsay fidgeted with the unrest and discomfort of a reality tumbling short of a fantasy. He had built and pampered the idea of the situation to such impossible heights that the real experience, so tainted by obstacles that he lacked the patience to consider, could not have begun to match it, and the dream teetered on the brink of collapse.
For a moment, his stellar image of you was threatened until his malice locked onto someone with no way to argue their innocence.
"I bet you sang for the lords down South." He twirled the pointed end of the knife against his fingertips. The longer your silence endured, the quicker and heavier his breaths became. Ramsay skulked towards you in an ominous fashion that was not unlike a snake hunting a field mouse in the tall grass.
He stopped at a place far too near, yet your stillness remained absolute.
A downward glance preceded his abrupt swing of the weapon.
Just before the blade reached your abdomen, you seized his hand.
Ramsay pushed to drive the knife forward, and the struggle elicited a pleased laugh from the Bolton. The veins in the back of his hand started to bulge as you tilted the sharp object in his direction, your limb quivering from the massive exertion it was taking to delay his strike.
The breaths coming from him were choppy and influenced by the ecstasy reflected in his stare.
Ramsay looked between you and the blade to judge its short distance from his torso, and he began to lean closer as if thrilled with the danger that the motion wrought. He raised his other hand to your mask and slowly ran his palm across it as if caressing a beloved's cheek, his fingers hooking the base of its corner and tugging to remove it.
You twisted the hand clutching the knife, not enough to snap the bone but enough for that possibility to loom.
Ramsay clenched his teeth with a barely audible hiss. He relaxed his grasp until the weapon slipped out of his hand and generated a bang as it met the stone floor. Your grip on him was relinquished within seconds, his pain fading into adrenaline and satisfaction.
"Oh," he sighed while bending his head towards the dark ceiling, "you have not lost your touch!" When his gaze returned to you, he was dripping with a frantic energy that made the damp and noxious room appear all the more hostile and sent you marching to the exit.
The torch resting on the wall beside the door flickered and cast the area into darkness for no longer than a moment or two. It reignited just as quickly, but you were gone and had left the Bolton facing an undisturbed door.
In the dank enclosure of the kennels, a servant passed under the overhang and lost much of his balance from the darkness swamping his vision. Strips of orange light swayed in the breeze wafting in from the open door.
Shuddering breaths broke through his shaky lips as the cold nipped his arms and chilled the inside of his mouth. The weight of the corpse pulled his upper body down and jabbed his lower back with throbbing pain, and the stiffening of its limbs added another layer of difficulty to moving the heavy furs.
Blades of hay encircled its boots and dragged a trail of exposed stone across the floor. The bitter weather had hardened the blood and curbed the onset of decay, something which the serf was thankful for when the usual smell of death was lessened.
Despite the relief to his nose, the trained senses of the hounds sniffed the blood and descended into a frenzy of barks and growls.
The chainlink doors of the cages began to rattle as the dogs leapt at them again and again, and the servant reeled backwards with a yelp. The corpse thudded against the stone and earned a frightened look from the serf.
He searched the room for the kennel master in a growing panic, finding the man setting a few bits of bread on a plate in front of the farthest cage.
After the servant retreated to the wall, the remainder of the pens were unlocked with the chink of a key. The hounds descended upon the cadaver like starved vultures and tore the leather armour with the ease of a bear shredding the pelt of a rabbit.
A few of their noses turned up to the serf, and he was barely able to produce a scream of terror before the foul-smelling jaws of the dogs closed their rows of fangs around his neck.
* * *
Joffrey slammed the heel of his wine goblet onto the table. "Enough!" He shoved his chair back and stood with a roll of his shoulders, the unconcerned gaze of Tywin lifting from the report to observe his grandson's outburst. The king paced behind his chair for a moment before raising his hand to point a finger at the letter. "They swore an oath!"
The boy's voice shook with a petulant edge, but Tywin countered it with a louder and more outstanding tone of disbelief. "They swore nothing!" A slight shiver escaped Joffrey as the general looked him in the eye and detailed his failure as if the simplicity of it was shameful. "You had them here for two days, and they held one conversation - if that - with your mother."
Cersei lowered her head at the inclusion of her name in the argument, crossing her legs and preparing a fake smile.
As Joffrey whirled around to look at his mother, she intertwined her hand with his own and spoke in a comforting attempt to placate him. "We must be patient, my sweet boy. They will see the error of their ways and return to us."
Before Joffrey could protest further, the clink of glass resounded from the opposite end of the table.
"I wouldn't be so sure." Tyrion squinted at the flagon as he held it above his goblet and poured the blackberry wine into the crystalline glass. "Judging by their letters, they have quite the welcome party expecting them up North."
He turned to his family in a drunken stupor and raised the drink for a half-hearted toast, taking a swig of the liquor while Jaime dared to be amused in his seat across from the dwarf.
"We could send a sternly worded raven," jested the Kingslayer, and Tyrion gazed over the rim of his cup at him with the first hint of positive emotion he had shown for the entire meeting.
"With promises of wine!" As the brothers shared a laugh, Jaime leaned over the table and placed both palms on its surface. He glanced at Cersei and stifled his next chuckle into a grunt as if he had merely been clearing his throat, tapering his smile to a thin line and reclining on his chair once again.
Tywin eyed Jaime in the disappointment only a father could portray and waited for the noise to be gone from the air for several seconds before he filled it.
When the Kingslayer met his gaze and Tyrion cocked his head back to down the rest of his glass, the general looked away with a tired blink and turned his head to the king. "I won't divert any more men to Bolton territory."
Joffrey, who had been on the cusp of berating his uncles, confronted the older man with a look of indignant surprise. "That isn't your decision, Grandfather." He pressed a hand to his chest and contorted his face into one of spiteful wrath. "I am the king! If I tell you to invade, I expect bloodshed by daybreak!"
Tywin maintained a visual facade of calm, but his tone was icy and bore the tiniest pinch of sarcasm. "Then as Commander of your army, I strongly advise against it."
* * *
"I hunted my first bear when I was fifteen years of age. Its skin was one of my first gifts to Father and one of the few he didn't throw in the fire the next day." Ramsay peeked over your shoulder. "What are you doing?" He stepped around you without any care for your response. "May I see?"
He was interrupted by Roose crossing the courtyard with a team of guards at his flank.
The senior Bolton had a swiftness to his gait that day, and he met his son with a certainty in his words and a coldness in his voice that stole a bit of Ramsay's enjoyment. "Could you explain why a servant and Iain Umber were found mauled to death in the kennels?"
Ramsay offered a lackadaisical glance between the kennels and his father, a strain of dark amusement creeping onto his face. "They must have gotten too friendly with the hounds."
Roose looked as though, if it were not for the myriad potential spies available to witness and relay it to interested parties, he would have backhanded the young Bolton across the mouth. "When Lord Umber asks for his son back, I can't very well give him a slab of meat with no face."
A quietness fell over Ramsay as he allowed his gaze to drop among the snow. The smile never left his lips, but it shrank and hung by his determination not to cower where his father could see.
When he mustered the will to look the senior Bolton in the eye, his answer was bereft of remorse. "The boy Umber wanted to go on a hunt, and the woods are so filled with danger these days. He stumbled into the way of a mother bear and her cubs."
"I wouldn't believe that story if I was drunk on milk of the poppy." Decades of battle-worn intolerance for mind games burned in Roose's gaze, but despite this verbal slap in the face, Ramsay had no intention of admitting to anything different.
Roose looked around the courtyard and the nearby balconies as if expecting a pair of eyes to be watching through the veil of the peasantry. "Still, the truth would mean a war we can't afford."
In the buzz of idle chatter among soldiers, it was the clop of hooves against snow and rock that brought much of the fortress to a standstill. Lone servants continued their assigned chores and kept alive the sound of the occasional murmur, but the garrison huddled above and in front of the main gate to watch as a mounted troop rode forward.
No banners flew in the hands of the men, their attire consisting of dark brown furs and black leather. "We've heard rumours of a wanted criminal in the area. Sorcerer, mask, black robe - not easy to miss."
Roose straightened his back at their arrival and inspected their lack of sigils from a distance. He took careful steps across the stone pathway with his hands slowly clasping together, and multiple guards raised their shields off the ground to accompany him.
Ramsay tilted his head back and forth to evaluate the thickness of the mercenaries' armour, his fingers twitching closer to a hidden blade.
Several of the men noticed your cloaked figure in a more isolated section of the courtyard, and Ramsay stepped in front of you while drawing his knives from the small loops on his trousers.
The chief mercenary watched for another second before his head snapped back to Roose. "By order of King Joffrey, we demand that you open your gate."
Roose was not swayed. "Get off your horses, and we'll talk like men."
The chief mercenary held his gaze for a minute of tense debate between his own reluctance to surrender the advantage and Roose's stoicism. He finally dismounted and motioned for his comrades to do the same when the senior Bolton made it clear that he gave no weight to their threats, his eyes unblinking and as glassy as the ice of the Wall.
The gate retracted from the ground with the strenuous rolls of a wheel that pulled a chain attached to the metal, which cost an unlucky guard most of his strength and granted him an ache in his wrists.
The mercenary troop stomped into the courtyard as if the Dreadfort was now under their control, but the garrison surrounded them and obstructed their path to you. One of the mercenaries peered over the shoulder of a guard and voided his bowels at the murderous stare he received from Ramsay.
"Perhaps you couldn't read the raven, Lord Bolton." Taking the look of one delighted with himself and his humour, the chief mercenary used the title as if Roose was not worthy of it. "Anyone found harbouring this criminal is to be declared an enemy of the crown."
The senior Bolton slowed to a stop, and he turned his head to see that the man had not followed. Roose fully turned around and retraced his steps with the calculated ease of a hardened warrior.
The fabric of the mercenary's thick gloves crinkled as he barely lifted the hilt of his sword, shifting his boots in the snow.
Droplets of water slipped from the icicles sprouting on the exterior ceilings and plopped onto the wooden handrails of the wraparound balcony. Far away on a tall branch, a raven's crowing echoed in the snowy stillness blanketing the land.
Roose eyed the slight movement of the weapon, and his impassive gaze flitted back to the mercenary. It remained apathetic before, slowly, he mustered a bit of amusement. "Then it's a good thing we won't be found guilty of it for much longer."
The pride drained from Ramsay's face, replaced with a rare glimmer of uncertainty and anger born of confusion. As he looked through the ranks in search of anyone who had interpreted his father's words as permission to arrest you, Roose brandished his sword and ripped the mercenary from his stomach to his neck with one swing.
Thin stripes of red travelled from his midsection to his throat and pooled in the snow at his feet. The ring of the blade lingered in the air and faded into the lifeless weariness that conquered his face and dragged his twitching body onto the stone with a cold thud.
Shock spread through the troop of mercenaries like the whip of a strong tide on the coast, but then, fury roared with the yanks of battle axes and various swords from their sheaths.
The kennel master descended into yelps and erratic pleas when a hand grasped his coat and yanked him forward, only for silence to claim him at the fierce gaze of Ramsay.
"Let my hounds out to play." The Bolton shoved him towards the kennels and returned to the fray before he could respond.
For a fearful instant, the kennel master stood in the snow with a light shake, but the cries of warring soldiers propelled him across the courtyard. He nearly fell on several occasions both to avoid the presence of the mercenaries and because of the nerves rattling his limbs, plunging his hands into the freezing snow just long enough to push himself back up.
When he stumbled into the hay-ridden and barely warmer confines of the kennels, his fingers were beginning to stiffen and turn purple. Clouds of his breath wafted around him, and the keys were lifted from his pocket by quivering hands that threatened to drop them at any moment.
The din of the jingling agitated the dogs into a chorus of barking. The animals lunged at the front of their cages, sticking their paws and fangs through the slits in the metal bars.
The kennel master kept his eyes on the ring of keys and fumbled with each one as he inserted them into the locks and scrambled to move, for the hounds were busting the doors open at the first sign of release and sprinting to the conflict.
Seconds after their paws hit the snow and a pack of black blurs flooded into the ranks of men, a frightened and agonized scream tore through the Dreadfort. A mercenary was tackled by one of the hounds, his body writhing as the animal mauled him.
The commotion attracted the wrath of another mercenary, who bellowed a nasty cry and rushed to aid his comrade.
As the mercenary braced his sword to cut the dog, the rapid swing of a spiked mace collided with his nose and mouth. His legs flew into the air - strings of snow following the toes of his boots - as his upper body was knocked to the ground and his skull cracked against the stone.
Teeth littered the snow beside his head, all indistinguishable from the white substance if it were not for their yellowish colour and the droplets of blood staining them.
Ramsay panted above him, taking a deep breath and widening his eyes before proceeding to smash the mace into the man's helmet until it resembled bean paste.
Roose and a collection of soldiers marched past the scene and headed for the stables.
In the corner nearest to the main gate, you hovered in the shadows provided by the overhanging balcony and observed the chaos. A mercenary approached you with a sheathed sword, but his face was one of caution.
"A horse is waiting-" the man was interrupted by the ring of a knife splitting his collarbone like a vegetable on a chopping block. He gurgled as Ramsay held the blade in his throat while his body slid off it and gushed blood out of his mouth for the dirt to absorb.
The slow turn of the young Bolton's head to find you witnessing his kill produced a look of exhilaration and revealed his wide eyes fixating on you, the brutality of the assault having made his dark hair tousled and slick with sweat and snowflakes.
Crimson dots were sprinkled across his face as if they were freckles, and he shook with the insatiable itch to tear the skin from another. The confines of his leather coat stretched as he took laborious breaths and revelled in the surrounding carnage like a child making a mess in the playpen.
Ramsay adjusted his hold on the knife to a more comfortable position, swaying it at you in a joyful wave.
When he wiped the side of the blade on his thigh, a cry of valour sounded from behind you. The roar of the mercenary turned to painful grunts as you whirled around and caught the man's neck in your hand, lifting him off the ground with a perfectly straight arm.
The daylight on your mask was eclipsed by the steel frame of his helmet while he gasped for air, and the young Bolton stalled his attack on another foe to be enthralled by the display.
A dark fluid oozed from the bottom of the mercenary's nose and acquired a crimson glow in the dim light of the Northern evening. As his struggle to break free of your grip weakened to faint and irregular tugs, similar colours flowed from his inner ears and drenched the sides of his head.
The rims of his eyelids became stained with red lines before streaks of blood cascaded down his cheeks. With a groan muffled by the liquid clogging his throat, the mercenary lost control of his hands from where he had been striving to peel your fingers off his jugular and dropped his sword to clatter in the mud.
The skin of his face began to wither and grow pale, splotches of blue and purple filling his cheeks as the quivers of his head evolved into desperate twitches. The white of his eyes was poisoned by a red tint that deepened and expanded with each second that they bulged from their sockets.
He stared into the eyes of your mask like a man witnessing death for the first time, and a few droplets of blood gushed past the edge of his lips when he sputtered a final, indistinct plea.
From a short distance away, Ramsay watched the slow agony of the man as if seeing his most coveted wish be granted. He tilted his head to appreciate how your touch wrung the mercenary's soul, embracing the rapid breaths heaving his chest. The sight of it crushing the man's insides spurred his heart to throb like the snaps of a rabid beast.
The chilly winds of the North presented no threat to the warmth of excitement heating his body, and every other piece of carnage on the battlefield - swinging swords and hollering in his peripheral vision - was a disappointment compared to yours.
The battered form of the mercenary fell into the loose dirt, your hand retracting into the depths of your robe.
Ramsay sprinted in your direction with the look of a frenzied predator, his eyes wide, his teeth baring a smile infused with bloodlust, and the knives clenched in his hands shaking from the pressure applied by his tight fists.
After the sound of his boots tearing grass from the earth and flinging it into the air prompted your head to turn, he seemed to consider hugging you until the memory of the weapons he was holding dashed the idea.
You allowed Ramsay to grasp your forearm and stick one of his knives on the palm of your hand. "I want you to stay in the North," he panted while curling your fingers around the hilt and refusing to break eye contact for a single blink.
A war cry drew his attention to a mercenary rushing near with a raised sword, and the young Bolton pulled another knife out of his coat before jumping to plunge both blades into the man's neck. "Didn't your mother teach you not to interrupt others' conversations?"
The question escaped him like a wild shout rather than an honest inquiry, descending into mad chuckles and agitated grunts when the man collapsed under the force and was pinned to the ground beneath him.
Balancing the gift on each finger to gauge its weight and shape, you hurled it into the eye socket of an enemy soldier who was running towards you. The man collided with the soil in a heap of dirt-stained metal, and you strolled past the corpse without bothering to retrieve the knife.
Ramsay looked up at the noise and recognized the weapon in an instant, prideful glee overtaking his face. He abandoned the mercenary below him to choke on blood and rose with a shake of the head and a delighted laugh that echoed over the clamour of death rattles and clanging blades.
The young Bolton crouched to yank the knife out of the dead man's skull, and he broke into a forceful march to reach you before imitating your leisurely pace. Ramsay surveyed the environment laden with chaos and lunged at anyone else who came within arm's length, gutting a host of mercenaries and nearly slicing his father's soldiers on multiple occasions.
More than once, you attempted to meander through the ranks of warriors locked in combat and disappear from his sight among the banners and armour. You quickened when he paused to butcher someone and slowed again once he reclaimed his position at your side.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were toying with me." Ramsay offered a playful glance but devoted the majority of his attention to watching for his next victim, a fresh set of smears on his leather and a stronger thirst for blood in his eyes.
You continued to amble towards the outskirts of the fighting, for the long shadows cast by rotting men and banners flying in the pull of the wind were darkest under the tall majesty of the Dreadfort.
The young Bolton darted in front of you just before your shoes touched the land beneath the gates.
"The fun's not over! This way, friend," he instructed with his dual knives outstretched on either side of him, stepping forward in a willful effort to herd you back to the fight like a shepherd coercing a rebellious sheep.
The rumble of many hooves pouring out of the fortress alerted Ramsay to the sight of his father atop a horse and a collection of elite soldiers riding behind him.
Roose's voice boomed across the distant howls of men clinging to life, and he made no show of stopping despite his son residing in the middle of the path. "Clear the way!"
The young Bolton turned to push you aside, only to grasp nothing and find the shadow at his feet stretching longer. He did not flinch or seek shelter from the thunderous passage of the horsemen, his eyes tracking the last rider while Roose focused on severing the neck of the closest mercenary.
Upon searching the ranks and seeing the same reds and pinks, Ramsay gained a furious tremor in his entire body and slowly turned his cold stare in the direction of his father.