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ourrootsgodeep · 1 year

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demon on a leash.

(ramsay bolton x oakheart!reader)

a/n: listen i like evil men okay. i do not condone their actions i just think it’s kind of hot and silly and i don’t think that is a problem (it is a problem)

warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT OR I WILL HIT YOU WITH A CAR, ramsay bolton is a warning in and of himself, pre-season 4 of GOT, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), biting, breeding kink, murder, stray pickled eyeball, ramsay is a fucking creep, this could probably be described as yandere, the author is bad at writing smut, this author is bad at writing generally, vague mention of joffrey (disgusting), implied bisexual reader but let’s face it all my readers are bisexual, reader is NOT a virgin and ramsay appreciates it, ramsay is pussywhipped as hell

———

the ceremony had been beautiful, but it was so cold up there. she had expected her wedding to be warm and summery, but when her mother had betrothed her to the infamous “bastard of bolton,” all her fantasies were dashed.

y/n smoothed the creamy velvet dress as she stood before the fire. the jewels she was wearing caught the light beautifully, glowing amber in the dim atmosphere. ramsay would be there soon, she thought. he had seemed so odd during the ceremony: cold, and charming, and utterly attentive to her. disturbingly attentive, for someone of his reputation. he poured wine for her, cut her meat. his pale gaze never left her for even a second.

a floorboard creaked suddenly, and she whirled around. ramsay stood there, observing her in the firelight. “my beautiful wife,” he said, in his soft, rasping voice.

she curtsied. “husband.”

he crossed the room in three quick strides, taking her hand in his and directing her into one of two chairs at the fireside. margaery tyrell had one like him, she thought. if only she remembered how margaery had said she handled him.

ramsay hadn’t stopped staring at her for even a second. “forgive me, sweet girl, i had some unfinished business to take care of.”

“it’s quite alright,” she said softly, and hesitated before speaking again. “i am sure whatever it was must have been important. i do not begrudge you your time.”

ramsay’s mouth twitched in a faint, amused smile. “i am glad to hear it. incidentally, i have a gift for you.”

“oh?”

he nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, ornately carved wooden box. y/n took it with murmured thanks and turned it over in her hands, inspecting it carefully. it was carved with oak leaves around the sides, and the flayed man of house bolton on top. as she turned it, she heard a faint thunk inside. she turned to ramsay, feigning delight, dreading what her instinct told her was within. “what is it, my love?”

he raised his eyebrows and smiled cheerfully, but said nothing, merely gesturing for her to open it.

when she undid the clasp and the lid sprang open, a bloody brown eye looked back up at her.

she froze, forcing her face into a faint, impassive smile, her thoughts running through all the people it could be. a friend? a cousin, dear gods, not-

she turned to ramsay, who was grinning delightedly. “whose is it, my love?”

he stood, coming over and leaning over her shoulder, pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to her shoulder before replying. “one of walder frey’s bastards. he had the nerve to ask me when the bedding ceremony was.”

interesting. maybe she could work with this. “thank you for that, husband,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “i do not wish anyone to see my body, save you.” y/n took his hand from where it rested behind her and pressed his scarred knuckles to her lips, looking up at him and making her eyes large and soft.

he preened under the attention. “good girl.” his voice was low and raspy, pupils blown wide in his pale eyes.

alright, she thought. she could work with this.

———

king robert’s fiftieth birthday was held at winterfell, and almost everyone was in attendance, from the umbers of the last hearth to the ullers of hellholt and the redwynes of the arbor. even most of the bastards of the great houses had been invited, leaving ramsay standing in a corner while his father spoke with lord flint.

he had hoped to see lady oakheart and her daughter that night. he had heard of lady y/n’s beauty as she grew, remembering her from when they were children. he scanned the room, sneering at jon umber as he noticed him trying to flirt with margaery tyrell, scowling at rickard karstark’s drunken jokes.

he could see theon greyjoy standing off to the side, eying a woman in gold with robb stark. curious, he followed their gaze, and it led him back to her.

he inhaled sharply when he saw her, in soft silks draped carefully over her soft curves, with golden pins and jewels holding it delicately in place. he hadn’t seen her since they were thirteen years old, but in the five years since then, she was a woman.

he could see greyjoy walking over to her, which meant he had to act fast. he crossed the distance between them as quickly as possible, bowing before her as he reached her and noting greyjoy’s annoyance with delight. “sweet lady,” he said, looking back up at her after a moment.

her lips parted in a pretty smile. she looked like a goddess, in a halo of candlelight, resplendent in gold. “my lord,” she said with a slight chuckle.

he stared at her for a moment, his breath catching in his throat before he remembered himself. “would you dance with me?” he asked.

she raised her eyebrows, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “i don’t even know your name.”

“ramsay.”

“y/n.” she took his arm gently, allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor.

he settled his hands onto her hips as the slow, elegant song began, delighted to feel the soft flesh so warm under the thin fabric. “how do you find the north so far?” he asked, looking down into her eyes.

“cold,” she replied. “i thought people were exaggerating the summer chill.”

he could see that. her hard nipples were poking through the dress. he wondered what her skin would taste like if he were to lick and suck at the pointed nubs. “i never particularly notice, myself. you get used to it the more you stay up here.”

“are you from here, then?”

“near the dreadfort.” he spun her carefully in his arms, watching her earrings catch the light. her perfume smelled like vanilla and sweet amber. “i’m in service to lord bolton.”

“oh really?” she was so close to him he could feel her breath. he silently thanked the old gods, or whichever gods were out there, for the crowds on the dance floor. “i was betrothed to his son, before he died. lord domeric.”

“were you now?”

“mhm. it was such a tragedy. i did not know him well, but he seemed a very kind man.”

kind indeed. he remembered the slight look of disdain she had had for him when they met. how lucky that she was now available to marry ramsay. “are you betrothed now?” he asked.

“not yet. i’ve had an offer made to me by theon greyjoy’s father, but nothing is settled.”

he clenched his teeth, but kept a straight face. “the greyjoys are an old and proud house. you could do well there.”

“mm, perhaps. too proud for my taste, though. and it’s so dreary there. i would miss my home.” ramsay looked down at her face, eyeing her lips, painted with red ochre. in the candlelight, it looked like she had been drinking blood. “besides, if i were to marry anyone, it would have to be someone like you.”

he had to do a double take to be sure he wasn’t imagining things. he’d been dreaming of that for so long. “you’d what?”

she chuckled, her cheeks flushed. “well, not you specifically. but someone who isn’t the heir of a great house like the starks or the greyjoys, who wouldn’t get in the way of me inheriting my own lands..-.”

she was still talking, but he wasn’t listening. all he could think of was her words. she would have to marry someone like him.

———

the fire was still crackling in the hearth, but ramsay was uncomfortably silent.

y/n could still feel his pale eyes on her as she stared at the frey man’s eye. he was working at undoing the elaborate braided hairstyle she had been married in, carefully plucking out the pins and placing them on the vanity next to them. “i should go down to the maester tomorrow and get a good jar of vinegar for this,” she remarked, trying to break the silence.

she could see his eyebrows crease through the mirror. “what for?”

“it’ll preserve it,” y/n replied. she tilted her head back and smiled up at him as the last lock of her hair came undone. “so i can keep your sweet gift forever, my dear husband.”

he smiled broadly and kissed the top of her head. “you are the sweet one, little wife.” at least she now knew what seemed to please him.

she stood up, pulling the thick locks of her hair over her shoulder, exposing the laces of her dress to him. “will you undress your wife?” she asked softly.

he let out a noise that was half chuckle, half groan and stepped closer to her. he pressed a lazy kiss to the junction of her shoulder, grazing the soft and delicate skin with his teeth. “i will.”

———

she saw the power she had over him, he knew that, but ramsay couldn’t bring himself to care. he finally had her, and everything was coming together.

he undid the strings holding her dress carefully, feeling the smooth velvet on his hands. he had been concerned, sometimes, when he was fucking his fist or myranda late at night, that they would be too rough for his pretty darling. he’d heard she liked the pretty boys down south. pretty boys and pretty girls both. his spies had at least been helpful in that regard. but she hadn’t seemed to mind his hands much when he was undoing her hair. he had noticed that she was wearing the same vanilla and amber perfume as at that ball two years ago. the scent permeated her hair, and since he had touched her neck he could smell it on his hands.

she was turning to him now, the firelight catching in her hair and turning it to a halo again. her dress hadn’t yet fallen down.

he noticed her lips moving and blinked, fixing his mouth into a winning smile. “pardon me, love, i wasn’t paying attention. what was that?”

she smiled back at him prettily. “i asked whether you’d like me to undress you, husband.”

he shook his head. “not yet. take off your clothes.”

she inhaled sharply through her nose and let the dress fall.

———

ramsay looked down at domeric, watching him writhe in his bed.

domeric’s eyes cracked open, watching him approach. “you did this,” he croaked. “you poisoned me.”

“mm. yes, i did.” ramsay shoved his hands in his pockets, taking a seat in the chair at the side of the bed.

domeric coughed. “why? i was always kind to you. you were my brother.”

ramsay laughed harshly. “your bastard brother, as you reminded me every day.” he leaned closer. “you stole my father, my birthright. you tried to steal the woman i love. i stopped you.”

“woman?” domeric frowned. “you love y/n? ha!” he coughed again, glaring up at ramsay with a red-rimmed eye. “you don’t love anyone.”

ramsay smiled at him coldly. “certainly not you.” he picked up a pillow idly, pretending to inspect it closely before standing up and smiling cheerfully at domeric. “happy dreams, dear brother.”

the pillow descended over domeric’s face.

———

y/n didn’t want to admit it, but ramsay’s words had gotten to her. perhaps it was something to do with the way he said it, in that low rasp, or the way his eyes looked at her so hungrily. the dress slipped down her body, leaving her in her under clothes. she heard him inhale sharply when he saw the sheer, delicate lace chemise hugging her breasts, pushed up beautifully in the corset. she undid the clasps holding it up, heat rising in her belly when he groaned as her breasts fell free.

“on the bed,” he ordered, and she complied, quickly sitting on the edge and waiting for him.

instead of pushing her back and undoing his trousers as she thought he would, he knelt in front of her. she watched his hands closely, watched them pull her legs apart, begin to pull down the delicate lace stockings. she shivered in the new cold against her legs, then shivered again when he pressed a kiss to her thigh, just above her knee. he grinned at her reaction to him, then pounced forward quickly and but down harshly at the tender skin of her inner thigh.

y/n cried out at the feeling of his teeth sinking into her, and ramsay looked up and hushed her gently. “quiet, sweetling. you’re mine now. i get to mark you as i please. i will not hurt you too badly.”

her chest rose and fell in quickened breaths, and she looked down at him with eyes that she knew were blown wide with lust. “i did not say it was a bad pain.”

ramsay laughed darkly, looking up at her like a starving man. “i believe i must be the luckiest man in the world.”

he reached upwards and tore through her smallclothes, ignoring her protests and diving into her core, lapping at it like a man dying of thirst. he nipped slightly at her swollen bud and she moaned his name loudly, reaching down and grabbing a fistful of his hair. he groaned at the mix of pain and pleasure and reached down, using one hand to hold her legs apart and the other to fist his cock. y/n could barely hear it over the rush of blood in her ears, but as she came over his face and tongue she could hear him muttering things like, “so beautiful… wanted you for so long… no one else deserved you.”

she collapsed back on the bed, chest heaving and cheeks flushed. ramsay chuckled softly. “not yet, pet. let me see you.” he pulled her up and took her lace chemise off of her body carefully, setting it aside. finally, he lay her back on the bed, admiring the many bruises and bites that now littered her thighs and shoulders. “are you a virgin?” he murmured hoarsely. at her hesitation, he added, “do not worry, sweet girl, i won’t be angry. you didn’t know yet.”

didn’t know what? she wanted to ask, but refrained. instead, she slowly shook her head. “i am not, no.” he didn’t seem like a person to lie to.

his lips parted in a wide and utterly unexpected grin. “thank the gods.”

he flipped her over onto her belly, manhandling her into the position he wanted on the bed. he raised her hips into the air and climbed up behind her, undoing his trousers and letting his cock spring free. it fell against her center, and he rutted against her a few times, soaking his painfully hard length with her slick and then plunging into her, setting a rough, almost punishing pace from the start. y/n mewled, her hands curling into the sheets and fisting the soft material. he would bruise her hips, she was sure, with how hard he was gripping them, muttering between his grunts of pleasure about how pretty she would look round and swollen with his heir. he reached up and palmed her tits, pulling her backward into his chest and pinching her hardened nipples. “you see these?” he panted, making her whine as the rough pads of his thumbs brushed over her sore flesh. “these will feed my son in a few months, pretty wife.”

y/n’s head tilted back, falling onto his shoulder, exposing her soft neck to him. he bit down at the tender place just under her jaw as he finished, reaching down to rub harshly at the pearl between her legs and making her tremble and squeeze around him as she came, leaving her limp-boned in his arms. he panted harshly for a few moments, letting her collapse back onto him, before carefully pulling out and laying her down on the bed, chest still rising and falling quickly. y/n saw him get up through half-lidded eyes, admiring the muscles of his back as he moved. he rifled through his desk for a moment as she caught her breath before turning back and walking to her, holding something small in his hands.

he looked down at her spread legs, where a few drops of his seed had leaked out of her swollen, puffy cunt. “careful now, sweetling,” he murmured. he used his free hand to push the sticky white spend back inside her, grinning at the whine she let out at the intrusion into her sensitive core. “have to make sure there’s a baby in you by next month.”

y/n nodded sleepily, eyes half shut. she gestured towards the small thing in his hand. “what’s that?” she murmured.

“oh, this?” he held it up. “it’s a collar.” the jewelry was rich, fine gold, studded with rubies and emblazoned with the sigil of house bolton. “do you know what collars are for?”

y/n blinked up at him sleepily, dreading what he was going to say.

“they tell you who owns the bitch, sweet wife.” he caressed her face gently, then pulled her up into a sitting position and fastened the collar around her neck. it sat prettily at the base of her throat, the rubies gleaming like fresh blood. “now, whose bitch are you, my love?”

y/n’s voice was hoarse and quiet from moans and cries and no small amount of fear. “yours, husband.”

“i didn’t quite hear you.” he tugged her head forward until her lips were close enough to kiss. he spoke slowly, emphasizing every word. “who. do you. belong to?” the collar was digging into the bruises on her neck, but y/n looked up at him and cleared her throat. her mind was whirling with fear, with escape plans, with the question of how she was going to survive this. “answer me, my love,” he said again, gripping the collar tighter. y/n’s eyes seemed to clear as a realization came over her, a new plan for survival. she looked up at him with hazy, false, lovesick eyes, and answered him.

“you. i belong to you.”

#game of thrones x reader #ramsay bolton x you #ramsay bolton x reader #ramsay bolton #got x you #got x reader

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drakoneve · 2 years

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Game of Thrones Masterlist

Requests are OPEN. Who I write for below the cut;

Eddard/Ned Stark

coming soon…

Robb Stark

coming soon…

Jon Snow

coming soon…

Sansa Stark

coming soon…

Jaime Lannister

coming soon…

Cersei Lannister

coming soon…

Tywin Lannister

coming soon…

Ramsay Bolton

coming soon…

Theon Greyjoy

coming soon…

Viserys III Targaryen

coming soon…

Daenerys Targaryen

coming soon…

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hazywrites · 2 years

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As My Witness (Ch. 5)

Good Girls and Going to the Dogs

Summary: You’re crazy, toxic, and above all, dramatic. So what else can you do when your long-term boyfriend cheats on you but run away across state lines in the middle of the night? A chance encounter with a certain bastard might be everything you need to escape your old life- or it might be your worst nightmare. You’re running with the big dogs now. Hope you can handle it.

Warnings: This is an explicit fic! Please do not read if you aren’t prepared for mature content.

Words: 11414

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22813183

Dedication: So, this is my first published fic! I have so many wonderful influences to thank for that, seriously y'all are all sorts of talented and amazing. But this particular fic I would like to dedicate to my darling @neoncrowpen, who gave me the confidence to put my work out there back when I was just a shy lil anon who needed the advice from one of my most admired authors. Thank you for your faith, I hope I can do it some justice <3

Chapter 4

Domeric’s car was sleek, black, and shiny like Ramsay’s, but it looked more classic than sporty, with rounded fenders and a detailed grill clearly meant to mimic an older style. Regardless, you soon found out it could drive just as fast as Ramsay’s, as the Bolton brothers seemed to have a shared affinity for speeding. Your heart thrummed and the scent of Domeric’s cologne mixed with the leathery interior gave you a headache. Your mind was spinning a million miles a minute at the implication that Robb was even remotely aware of this strange, foreign world, let alone a member of one of its great houses. You knew the only way to find out more was to ask, but you felt too nauseous to open your mouth.

Domeric looked calm in comparison to how you felt. Where Ramsay would have seemed angry and tense, his brother was contemplative. You shyly looked over his handsome side profile, and when he caught your gaze he offered you a small smile.

“Apologies,” he offered, “for scaring you earlier.”

“You didn’t scare me,” you said, tucking your knees to your chest. No one said anything for another minute, until you finally asked, “What was Miranda for?”

“Hm?”

“You said to get Miranda up there. Does she have some sort of ability…?”

“Oh,” Domeric laughed, his eyes still trained on the road ahead of him. “My brother and I thought it would be a good idea to keep our little discovery a secret. She’s going to go up there and pretend to be the girl we found. Throw the Starks off our scent, so to speak. She’s quite a good actress,” he mused. “We hadn’t given them too much information, anyway, so it shouldn’t be too hard to convince them that Ramsay needed to question her for a crime, or that some crazed fan showed up wanting attention. Whatever excuse he comes up with, it’s in his hands now.” “But you were going to have the Starks question me,” you pressed, confused. “What changed?”

“That you know him,” Domeric answered simply. “You don’t know anything about our world. Even people who have heard of the dragonmarked houses don’t know a lot about the inner politics. Your ex-boyfriend obviously kept secrets from you, but the Starks are ridiculously territorial. If they found out about your abilities, they’d insist you were theirs and take you back.” You shuddered at the thought.

You remembered Robb’s family. His father was always away on business, but his mom, Cat, was always sweet to you, and his siblings seemed so nice and… normal. You had felt normal when you were with him. The fence you had envied him suddenly flashed in your mind, and you realized a different sort of fence would be awaiting you if you were forced to go back with him.

“Thanks for saving me, then,” you mumbled. It was genuine, but Domeric quirked an eyebrow.

“You know, most people wouldn’t thank their kidnappers.”

“You didn’t kidnap me. Ramsay did. And I ran away from Robb for a reason. I don’t want anything to do with him or his family.” Your arms were crossed and your lips settled into a pout as you said it. You felt Domeric’s gaze on you for a moment longer before he finally spoke.

“Let’s hope you feel differently about us, then.”

Domeric drove you back to the safe house, where you hung back at the doorway as he made himself at home. You were wondering who to talk to, what to do next. You’d always been pretty social, and even if Ramsay was a dick, Domeric and Ben were friendly. You settled on going to the kitchen and filling a kettle with water for tea. As it brewed, you leaned on the counter and daydreamed about what would happen next. Maybe Ramsay would kill Robb. You knew he didn’t actually deserve it, but a small part in the back of your mind told you still…

You readied three mugs of tea, carrying one out to the living room where Domeric sat, ankle across his knee, foot bouncing impatiently, one arm across the back of the seat and the fingers of his other hand pressed to his lips as he stared at his phone on the coffee table. When you set the tea down, he looked up, surprised.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he said gratefully. You gingerly leaned on one of the other seat’s armrests. “You’re being very gracious about all this. I appreciate it.” You smiled at him.

“Well, it’s not like my life in New York was that exciting,” you conceded.

“Is that what you want?” He asked, an eyebrow quirking as he took another sip of tea. “Excitement?” You thought for a minute.

“Maybe not if I were you,” you confessed. “But I don’t have any stakes in all this. There’s no pressure on me to make my daddy proud or to be a steward of a dragonmarked house. I just get to follow you guys around and eat pancakes and touch your weird tattoos. It’s kind of fun.” Domeric chuckled into his mug a little, making steam rise up, mist covering his face.

“It’s good tea.”

“You’re British?” You asked.

“Kind of. Our family is originally from here, but Father insisted we go to private school across the pond,” he said the last words with a funny lilt that made you giggle.

“You seem calmer than Ramsay, and even your dad. He’s calm, too, but like in an intense kind of way,” you observed. Domeric shrugged.

“I just got back into all this. I took a couple of years off. I wanted to travel the world, study a little more. Father understood. Ramsay’s entire life has been this, though. He wants to inherit the company more than anything. To be the new heir of Bolton. He feels threatened by me, I think. Because Father prefers my mild temper and because I’m older. But I truthfully couldn’t be arsed about any of it. Sometimes I think my brother will slit my throat in my sleep.” He grimaced at the last words and you thought about them for a minute.

“Well, have you told him that?”

“Ah, of course. But Ramsay is suspicious by nature. It’s a wonder my father doesn’t like him more, for all that he resembles him.” You hummed in response.

“How come you came back, then?” You asked curiously.

“I felt a sense of duty, a little bit. Responsibility. Or maybe I’m being self-aggrandizing and I just got bored.”

“That, I understand,” you said. You sat in silence for a minute longer when Ben entered the living room. You hopped up and brought him his own mug, which had cooled enough to hold without burning your fingertips. He smiled at you and sat across from Domeric on the other long sofa, pulling one knee up and leaning an arm on it.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he said and you lifted your mug to him. You each raised your mugs in the air and took a sip before you spoke again.

“How did you meet the Boltons, Ben?” You asked.

“Weirdly enough, I trained Ramsay’s dogs,” he said. You raised an eyebrow.

“Ramsay is a dog person?”

“Oh, yeah! He loves them. He has a Cane Corso—“

“Princess Lilah?” Domeric chimed in. Ben nodded.

“A Blue Bay Shepherd, that’s—“

“Duchess!” Domeric cried. Ben smiled.

“Yes! A Pomeranian called Jack Daniels, a mini Aussie named Maverick, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel called Apollo Creed and a Blue Nose Pitbull called Teacup.” You were doubling over in laughter as Ben finished, and Domeric smirked alongside you. Ben looked utterly confused. “What’s so funny?”

“Why—“ you managed through fits of giggles, “why did he name his dogs like that?”

“Oh! Because he thinks it’s funny that his tiny dogs have menacing names and his big dogs have delicate names,” he explained as if it were obvious. There were tears in your eyes at this point, and Ben began laughing alongside you. He finally gave in and began flipping through videos on his phone.

There were videos of Maverick at the park running a few feet, then staring back at the camera with a dopey smile on her face every five seconds, Ramsay firmly yelling for Princess Lilah to sit only for her to jump on him and give him kisses, effectively knocking him on his ass, Apollo Creed being too lazy for a walk and being literally dragged on her leash, Jack Daniels shredding an entire roll of toilet paper on the bed and spinning in circles barking angrily when they laughed at her, Teacup sitting with her butt directly on Roose as he looked less than amused, and Duchess howling at the treats cabinet like she was singing an opera. By the time you watched them all, even Domeric cracked at your reactions and you were all falling off the couches laughing. That’s how Ramsay found you— cracking up with tears in your eyes on the floor of the safe house living room. He was too shocked to even speak as he stood above you all, staring especially at Ben and Domeric. You vaguely noticed a little black book tucked in his crossed arms.

“Would anyone care to fill me in?” He finally asked. You looked at him, clutching your stomach as you willed your abs to stop contracting so you could have a break.

“Rams… Ramsay you,” you breathed out through giggles. “You have to let me meet your dogs.” He raised an eyebrow at Ben, who was curled in the fetal position laughing. He finally cracked a smirk as he sat down at the seat across from you, crossing an ankle over his knee, twirling the little notebook in his hands as he waited for you all to settle down.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, sweetheart,” he said. Your head was tossed back on the seat behind you, your disheveled hair in front of your face, the column of your neck exposed, and droplets of sweat decorating your collarbones, but you peaked down at him. You weren’t expecting that. You’d thought maybe he would yell at you, or scoff his disapproval.

“Really?” You asked.

“Mm,” he hummed in agreement. “In fact, we can leave now.”

“You’re joking,” you said. He shrugged.

“I don’t see why not. I’d prefer to have you right under my nose and the safe house is such a drive.”

“Thank you!” You squealed, sitting up suddenly. “Can Domeric and Ben come, too?”

“I would expect nothing less,” Ramsay sighed, standing back up and facing the door. He turned around for a split second, his blue eyes sparkling as he tossed the little black book at you. Your sketchpad. You opened it to find the sketch you'd drawn of him in the car. He'd autographed it in obnoxious black pen, which would've made you roll your eyes, had you not been caught up on another detail.

The drawing had changed. Where before it had been a side profile of him staring fixedly at the road, now its lips were etched into a smirk, eyes staring hypnotizingly back at you. You looked up from the book long enough to see the exact same expression mirrored on Ramsay's face.

If you’d like to be added to the taglist for this fic, please let me know! <3

Taglist: hnslchw

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bumblesimagines · 20 days

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The Wolf's Guard

Request: Yes or No

Summary: The love between a wolf and their darling is unbreakable, even if that darling is a Bolton.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

~~~

If the Starks were known for anything, it was their honor, duty, and family values. Everyone in all of Westeros knew it, from the poor to the rest of the Great Houses, as many had bore witness to those traits at play. The wolves of the north, the pack that'd once been called Kings, had bent the knee willingly during Aegon's Conquest and from then on, were known as Wardens of the North.

The glorious House Stark of Winterfell. Robb still vividly remembered the days in which he and his bastard brother, Jon Snow, were taught the history of their ancestors. Brandon the Boisterous, Cregan Stark, Rodwell Stark, Rickard Stark... Robb knew their names well, knew the significance of their importance to his bloodline. They were his ancestors, warriors with wolf's blood coursing through their veins, and blood that ran through his. Just like them, Robb is heir to Winterfell, the firstborn son of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark. And while Robb's heart valued honor, duty, and family over all else, there were times when he wished he hadn't been born first.

The first time he took his mind off his duty as heir (a duty everyone constantly reminded him of every waking moment) was when Roose Bolton brought his second-born son, (Y/N) Bolton, to Winterfell when they were children to become a ward under Eddard Stark. He'd heard about the stories and rumors surrounding the family and their ancestral home, the Dreadfort. Their history was as lengthy as the Starks, with their own ancestors having been once called the Red Kings. While Starks were honorable, Boltons were cruel, cunning, and dishonorable with a tradition of flaying their enemies that they were forced to give up upon being bannermen for the Starks. However, there were rumors they still flayed their prisoners after days and weeks of torture.

Robb and Jon exchanged whispers while their father spoke with Roose Bolton, an unremarkably ordinary-looking man despite the eerie aura that surrounded him and his sons. His eyes were striking, a color so pale and odd that they made shivers run down the spines of the two boys when he looked in their direction. But the prickle of uneasiness that poked at Robb vanished when (Y/N) looked toward him. Jon immediately ducked behind the barrel they'd chosen to hide behind but Robb held his gaze and was rewarded with a grin.

"Robb," His father had called out, "Come."

Robb immediately obeyed, jumping out from behind the barrel and striding over to his brother. At the age of seven, Robb knew his place as heir very well so he made every attempt at showing everyone the manners and way of nobles he'd been taught. Ned placed a comforting hand over his shoulder and smiled down at his son. "Why don't you show (Y/N) around Winterfell, Robb? His father and I have much to discuss."

"Yes, Father." Robb nodded, his auburn curls bouncing off his forehead. Domeric Bolton, eldest son of Roose and heir to the Dreadfort, similarly set his hand over his younger brother's shoulder. (Y/N) peered up at his father and then at his brother, lingering even after Roose gave him an approving nod.

"Go on," Domeric murmured gently and (Y/N) looked back at Robb with a growing smile.

Robb spent the rest of the day showing (Y/N) around Winterfell, his chest puffing out with pride each time (Y/N) seemed impressed about something. Jon and Theon trailed after them, providing input that (Y/N) largely ignored in favor of giving Robb his full attention, something surprisingly made him squirm. He finished the tour by introducing (Y/N) to his mother and his younger sister, Sansa. Catelyn greeted (Y/N) politely, more kindly than she treated Jon at least, and offered to get some sweets for them after dinner while Sansa clung to her skirts and watched them.

It wasn't until a few days later, when the boys were giggling on a stack of haybale after their latest mischief that Robb had a thought that would continue to emerge: 'I wish he were a girl.'

As they grew and reached their fifteenth name days, they both began showcasing the faithful traits of their house. Robb grew gentler, less mischievous, and showed a strong sense of honor. He continued reading his histories and studied faithfully under the septa, training nearly every day with Ser Rodrick Cassel and accompanying his father whenever he ventured out on hunts or to meet with others. (Y/N) seemingly grew a taste for blood, something that emerged during training. He went easier on Robb than the others, incredibly apparent as Theon and Jon would end up bruised and bloody by the end of each session. But despite Theon's complaints and Jon's worries about (Y/N) fatally injuring someone, Robb could never shake the astonished, fluttery feeling whenever he saw (Y/N).

"Come on, boy," Ser Rodrick called to the staggering Jon and Robb couldn't help but wince at the trickle of blood going down his nose. Jon wiped it away, his black hair clinging to his dirt-speckled sweaty face. Nobody had to look at Theon to know the boy likely looked pale as winter snow. (Y/N) pointed the - thankfully - wooden sword at Jon and cocked his head to the side, a wide grin across his face.

"What's wrong, Snow?" (Y/N) taunted, and Jon glared at him, throwing aside his sword and marching right up to (Y/N). The Bolton laughed when Jon grabbed the sides of his chest armor, his teeth digging into his bottom lip before he rammed the end of the sword into Jon's temple. Jon cursed loudly and released him to grab the side of his head, the blow working as intended when (Y/N) slammed his foot into Jon's chest piece and knocked him back.

"I believe that's enough, aye, lad?" Robb straightened up at the sound of his father's voice, craning his neck to watch Ned step out of the nearby building and approach them with a grimace. He gently clapped the back of (Y/N)'s shoulder to congratulate him, his eyes remaining locked on his bastard son's panting form. "Go see Maester Luwin, Jon."

"May I have a word in private, Lord Stark?" Ser Rodrick asked, earning a curt nod in response. (Y/N)'s eyes followed the two older men as they walked further away from them, their voices drowned out by the hustle and bustle of servants working and guests chatting. His lips formed a noticeable pout, one that made Robb chuckle as he helped take the chest piece off him.

"They're going to send me home." (Y/N) muttered bitterly.

"They won't," Robb assured him, handing the piece off to a nearby servant and giving them a thankful smile. (Y/N) huffed, the air coming out in a small cloud, and he tossed the sword aside into the dirt beside them. Robb caught a brief look at the knitted brow, sullen expression on his face before (Y/N) turned on his heel and stormed away. Immediately, Robb followed without a second thought, keeping his eyes focused on the boy until they reached the Godswood.

"Leave me alone, Robb." (Y/N) muttered grumpily, slumping down on the ground beside the water and roughly tugging blades of grass from the ground.

"Not until you tell me what's wrong," Robb responded, taking a seat beside him and gazing out into the water. The Godswood had always been a place to seek peace or advice from the Old Gods, a place Robb could visit to clear his mind or simply escape for a brief moment. (Y/N) pursed his lips and Robb smiled, pressing his fingertip against (Y/N)'s cheek and gigging softly when he swatted at his hand. "Come on, tell me."

"Nobody here likes me. They're scared of me." (Y/N) said quietly, tugging more grass out of the dirt. "Lord Eddard is going to send me home to the Dreadfort, I know he is. Father's going to be mad at me but at least Dom will be there."

Robb stared at him, noticing the way he pressed his lips together to stop them from quivering. "I like you." He revealed softly and (Y/N) tilted his head toward him, eyes flickering between Robb's vibrant blue eyes. Robb's stomach twisted and turned, heat rising up his neck and covering his ears like fire.

"How much?"

"A lot." He admitted, the branches above them gently rustling together with the wind. The sound eased his nerves, eased the dread threatening to bubble up and consume him. "If you were a lady, I would ask Father to let us wed."

(Y/N)'s lips curled up at that. "The Old Gods do not care if we're both men, Robb." He reminded him, that familiar grin working its way onto his face. Robb smiled again, setting his hand over (Y/N)'s and putting an end to his constant grass tearing. "Would you kill for me, Robb?"

"To protect you, yes," Robb answered immediately, no poundering needed. He'd kill to protect any of his loved ones. His parents, Jon, Theon, Sansa, little Arya and Bran. His father spilled blood for his late sister, Lyanna, during the rebellion and Robb doubted his father wouldn't do it all over again for her. "Would you?"

"If you asked." Then, (Y/N) leaned forward and clumsily mushed their lips together, sending a jolt down Robb's spine and a heat throughout his face. He'd kissed a young lady once or twice in secret and out of curiosity but despite his brief experience, he moved nervously and just as clumsily.

Things rapidly changed from then on, behind closed doors at least. To the servants and residents of Winterfell, the two remained the same close friends as always, but away from prying eyes and curious ears, they were inseparable lovers. Robb's lingering stares grew and any ladies his mother asked him about were brushed away for one excuse or another. The sneaking around, the subtle touches, and innocent gestures, it was all exciting for them but Robb grew to prefer how hungry (Y/N) always seemed for him. It felt good to be wanted, felt good when he whispered loving confessions and laughed at (Y/N)'s eye rolls and flustered smiles.

Until, as quickly as their relationship began, they were just as quickly swept away from each other.

Not long after (Y/N) sixteenth name day, news arrived at Winterfell of Domeric Bolton's death. An illness in the stomach, the first letter from Maester Uthor read, but the letter from Roose informed him of a new family member who'd potentially caused the death of his brother: a half-brother by the name of Ramsay Snow—a bastard of the North. With Domeric dead, the title of heir fell on (Y/N)'s shoulders and took him away from Winterfell and back to the Dreadfort. Jon and Theon eased with his absence but Robb's heart broke into pieces. As a secondborn, (Y/N) could do as he pleased and remain by Robb's side forever if he wished, but as an heir?

As much as his absence pained him, Robb ensured to write (Y/N) many letters, most with secret messages only the two of them could understand. He detailed any events that'd gone on, small or big, silly or tragic. He wrote to him about the pups found by Jon and the one he'd claimed, about the royal visit at Winterfell and his father's new position as Hand, Jon joining the Night's Watch, the saddening news of his sister's wolf being killed. The letters stopped when Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell called the bannermen to war.

Robb focused on the war, on avenging his father and bringing his beloved sisters home before they could be harmed by the Lannisters. The Bolton's joined the effort, of course, but Robb hardly saw (Y/N) during the start. They both had their duties, their own men to command, and many more things to worry about. But, the reunion had Robb nearly collapsing.

He'd seen him, caught a brief glance during a battle with Lannister's army. It'd been enough to make him fight even harder, and they'd won in the end, returning back to camp to treat their wounded and count the dead. Robb had been swept away, his new title as King of the North forcing even more responsibilities onto his lap, but he managed to keep his racing mind focused enough to manage the tasks at hand, nearly forgetting about the glimpse until that night.

Dragging the wet rag over his sword, Robb thought about his father. He thought about all the things Ned would say to him, the advice he'd give to him. His father knew of battles and rebellions, he knew of war. Robb only knew what he learned as the war progressed. Sure, there were many older men who'd fought alongside his father, who still had the taste of war in their mouths, but none would compare to the knowledge of Eddard Stark. He sighed quietly, gazing over his reflection and failing to hear the person entering his tent.

"King of the North, aye? Has a pretty ring to it." He tensed immediately, first due to surprise and then because of that familiar voice. His head whirled around, eyes wide and heart pleading. (Y/N) grinned at him, splatters of blood still covering his skin and clothes from a battle the Boltons and few others had ridden out to, but it suited him perfectly. The sword fell with a loud clatter and Robb darted up from his seat, unable to restrain himself from flying into (Y/N)'s embrace. "Missed me, hm?" He laughed.

"Of course, I missed you, you bastard." Robb exhaled, leaning back to grasp the sides of his face, disregarding the blood that smeared onto his palms before he crashed their lips together. An almost animalistic growl-like noise emitted from (Y/N) throat and he kissed him back more roughly, as were most things with (Y/N). The Bolton backed him up until Robb fell back onto the bed, briefly knocking the air out of him. (Y/N) hovered above him, eyes glinting with a familiar look that sent heat rushing to his stomach.

"Sorry 'bout Lord Eddard, Robb." He murmured, dipping down to brush his lips over Robb's cheek and down to his throat where he dug his teeth lightly into him.

"I heard of your half-brother, (Y/N)." Robb sighed again, the familiarity of it all making him lightheaded. His beloved had always been all tongue and teeth. (Y/N) snorted softly into his throat, a short chuckle leaving him at the mention of Ramsay's demise. He'd died in his sleep, or so Lord Bolton had said.

"Never liked him, anyway." (Y/N) told him, rising back up to press their lips tightly together, teeth digging into Robb's bottom lip and tugging lightly. "I have news, Robb."

"Can it wait?" Robb knew the answer but he hoped pulling (Y/N) closer would change his mind. (Y/N) chuckled again and moved his hips, a lazy smirk spreading across his face when Robb cursed softly under his breath and reached down to fumble with their pants.

"No, My King."

"Gods, you're the worst."

A sadistic little bastard but Robb loved him anyway. (Y/N)'s amusement faded away and he inhaled heavily, planting his hands on the sides of Robb's head and staring down at him. The seriousness made Robb straighten up, despite their rather compromising position, and he nodded for (Y/N) to continue. "My father plans on betraying you, Robb. Your rejection of Walder Frey's girls gave way for Father. He plans on marrying one of his daughters for an alliance. He wants to kill you." Robb's blood ran icy cold. War always had its fair share of traitors and cowardly, slimy men.

"Are you certain?" Robb sat up in the bed, forcing (Y/N) to lean back and stand again. A traitor in their midst and Walder Frey's ego. Two problems Robb hardly had time to deal with. (Y/N) reached out, fingers dipping under Robb's chin and tilting his head up.

"Give me your command and I'll bring his head to you by early morrow."

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soup-in-my-fly · 2 months

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Ah yes, Theon, the king of priorities.

(Little prequel to this modern AU thramsay comic)

#game of thrones #asoiaf #ramsay bolton #thramsay #theon x ramsay #theon greyjoy #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf modern au #game of thrones modern au #got fanart #asoiaf fanart #theon fanart #thramsay au #my art #Can you tell I spent all day on this? 😀😀#I sorta got lost in the sauce #the comic script was actually much shorter than this #but I felt it necessary to add the last few panels… 😼😼

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yandere-toons · 6 months

Note

The relationship between thee sorcerer!reader and Ramsay is giving me kind of Mary on a Cross by Ghost-vibes I love it!! Can't wait for more!!

Oh my, this song is perfect for that dumpster fire! I'd heard the name, but now I have more sketches in front of me than my poor hand-eye coordination can handle.

Sorcerer!Reader: I could kill you easily.

Ramsay Bolton:

#Also Ramsay: Joke's on you I'm into that shit #yandere #yandere concept #yandere x reader #yandere game of thrones #yandere ramsay bolton #yandere memes #game of thrones #ramsay bolton #game of thrones x reader #ramsay bolton x reader #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #asoiaf meme

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roomormill · 2 years

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#dear asoiafellas tday i offer you a meme redraw #tomorrow? who knows #thramsay #theon greyjoy #ramsay bolton #asoiaf #got/asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #theon x ramsay #he wants to order #.

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francis-writes · 2 months

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I have nothing against this scenario, but why almost every fic is like "you are forced to marry Ramsay/you are a servant who hates him/for any reason you sleep with despite the fact that you deeply hate and fear him"?

Where are my headcanons and scenarios for Ramsay with s/o who is unhinged as well. Who loves to go apeshit with him and indulge in every whim. Where is my Bonnie and Clyde couple? That s/o doesn't even have to be as violent as him, it's enough that they actually love him and enjoy his presence.

#he has a lot to offer to his partner #you can count on fast life of indulgence #you can feast dance and fuck everyday as if it was the last day of your life #he is a passionate man and great if you like physical affection #not only sex but hugs kisses sitting on his lap etc #but it's topic for other post #ramsay bolton imagine #ramsay bolton #ramsay snow #ramsay bolton x reader #house bolton #got imagine

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ourrootsgodeep · 1 year

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demon on a leash (prologue)

prologue for my new ramsay x reader oneshot (possibly a series? don’t expect anything from me my parents already tried that

warnings: ramsay.

______

his father had banned him from being there, but ramsay had hidden himself in the upper balcony overlooking the rest of the hall.

he could see lord oakheart standing there, proud, tall, hair streaked with white. he was speaking to his father in a booming, deep voice, something about lumber and leather and furs. ramsay wasn’t listening. he was fixed on someone else.

lord oakheart’s daughter was standing behind him, proud and tall, just like her father. she looked to be about thirteen, same as he was. she was regarding ramsay’s half-brother, domeric, with an impassive face. ramsay, though, could see the slight hint of disdain in her downturned mouth. he couldn’t blame her. domeric was an idiot.

his father’s voice broke his study of her. “in the meanwhile, lord arron, my halls are open to you. lady y/n and yourself are welcome in the dreadfort for as long as you will stay.”

lord arron bowed in acknowledgment of roose’s courtesy. “i thank you, my lord,” he responded. “my daughter and i are honored to receive your courtesy.”

y/n spoke next, and though her voice was soft, ramsay could tell that even at this age, people listened to her. “you indeed honor us, lord bolton. i have often wished to see the dreadfort. it has such an interesting place in our country’s history.”

roose bolton let out a soft chuckle. “does it now? i would think a young lady would be less interested in the more… morbid aspects of my family line.” he leaned forward in his seat, his cold pale eyes so like ramsay’s gauging her face for a reaction.

if lady y/n felt sheepish or intimidated at his words, she did not show it. “we all die in the end. king or bastard, flayed man or whole, everything dies, and how or when we die is irrelevant. it’s nothing to be afraid of.”

her father nudged her quietly and hushed her, but ramsay… ramsay was enraptured. he decided then and there that he had to have her. he would do almost anything for her, he thought absently, as he stared down at domeric’s arm in hers and imagined what it would look like with no skin.

#got x reader #got x you #ramsay bolton #ramsay bolton x reader #ramsay bolton x you #game of thrones x reader

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ozsyn · 1 year

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Those Who Were Seen Dancing

Ramsay Bolton x Reader; Harley Quinn x Joker

Chapter 1 of 8-ish?

Summary:

Gotham City is a kingdom ruled by The Joker and Harley Quinn. When (Y/N) is taken from her home and placed under the wing of the Clown Princess of Crime, she is shown a world she never knew.

Ramsay Bolton has clawed his way through the ranks to become The Joker’s apprentice, but even Gotham can get a little mundane. When someone new comes to town, he’s finally got something to do. What could be more fun than dragging an outsider into the deep end and watching her drown?

———————————————————-

As the elevator doors screech open with a discordant hiss, (Y/N) gets her first glimpse of Gotham’s grand penthouse.

Her towering heels click along the marble flooring as she continues towards the makeshift throne room.

Gilt and opulence are on full garish display here as ancient vases from dynasties long past stand sentinel on chipped pedestals, forgotten sculptures of Greek gods are sporadically arranged throughout the room, and stolen Monets, Manets, and Rembrandts adorn the walls.

Such finery could hold its place in any museum in the world, but instead these beautiful works of art have been ripped from their rightful homes and left here to rot in faux splendor.

She can’t help but feel a connection towards these lost creations, their kinship forged in their kidnappings.

She pushes that feeling of intense bitterness aside, however, remembering what she must do.

Her mother was far from a loving homemaker, but she did leave her daughter with one crucial piece of advice:

Survive.

After all, everyone in Gotham is just trying to survive in their own fucked up way.

And none hold truer to that belief than the people represented on the towering doors before her.

The right is unmistakable.

The Clown Prince of Crime is certifiable royalty in Gotham. The once pristine white backdrop has been graffitied with chaotic black lettering amongst spurts of purple and green.

She can make out the word “smile” and other crude references to the villain’s penchant for laughter.

But her gaze soon transfers to the left door.

The white has been coupled with black to form a triangular checkered pattern. Atop that in vibrant shades of red are various card suits and similar splashes of paint all bearing their symbolism to Gotham’s mysterious queen, Harley Quinn.

Without warning, the doors suddenly swing open and (Y/N) is ushered inside.

There, sitting atop a set of thrones are the true King and Queen of Gotham City.

Her eyes fall on the woman. Blonde hair cascades down her shoulders, their opposing tips colored in red and black.

A tiara of jeweled clubs, spades, diamonds, and hearts adorns her head as she sits poised in a striking red gown, one side slashed in front as if by a blade.

Seated next to her on the dais is the one and only Joker.

His purple coat-tailed jacket, matching satin gloves, and garish green hair do nothing to detract from the power this sadistically grinning man holds.

However, the woman suddenly rises, any formalities of a true court being quickly tossed aside.

(Y/N) bows her head graciously as is proper, but finds it unceremoniously lifted upwards.

A finger is swiped haphazardly across her lips, smearing her pristine shade.

She looks up as the woman wipes the remaining stain onto her dress and grins.

“Do we look organized around here to you?”

“Come on, kid. I’ll introduce ya to the boss.”

Other Links:

Reluctant Chosen One

Demon!Ramsay x Demon!Reader

Ramsay x Reader Angels and Demons

#Ramsay Bolton #Harley Quinn #Joker #Ramsay x reader #Ramsay x you #game of thrones #asoiaf #dc #dcu #Batman #Gotham #comics #fanfiction #fic #Ramsay snow

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dedicatednotobsessed · 2 years

Note

I hope the series has a happy end. Cannot bear to see either of them sad.

👀👀👀

Imma just leave this here and say that only one other person knows how it’s gonna end but I’m not gonna reveal their identity 🤭

Gif does not belong to me 💚

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aemondsbabe · 4 months

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A Kindness

summary: you're finally ramsay's most favorite toy, but is that really a good thing?

pairing: ramsay bolton x reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, dark content it's ramsay hello, blood kink but no injury/gore, mentioned major character death (again, no injury/gore), slight au (ramsay wins battle of the bastards), choking, rough sex, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation, slapping, piv sex, unprotected sex don't be silly wrap ur willy, hair pulling, creampie, slight breeding kink, puppy play, boot humping idk how to else to phrase it, slight angst but a happy ending for ramsay lmao, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 6.2k

a/n: my first foray into dark or at least semi-dark writing and my first time writing ramsay! i've had this one in my head for such a long time so it feels really good to actually get it out! hope everyone enjoys and please make sure to heed the warnings with this one!

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

🖤 my masterlist

🌟add yourself to my taglist to be notified when i post new fics!

“Dip the cloth again, you dolt,” you snap, looking up from the scroll of parchment rolled out before you on the table when you hear the coarse woolen cloth begin to scrape dryly across the silver Ramsay’s… thing was supposed to be polishing, “If I have to remind you of that one more time, I’ll tell him you tried to touch me. I wonder which part of you he’d hack off for that, hm?”

Reek’s eyes go wide at your threat and he nods his head frantically, quickly reaching over and dunking the cloth into the small bowl of vinegar before him. “Yes, m’lady. Apologies, m’lady.”

A small sigh leaves your lips as you rest an elbow on the table, nose scrunching up slightly at the sour smell that seems to hang like a cloud over the room, the small one by the kitchens.

Probably where the staff ate, you think, staring blankly at the fire crackling away in the hearth. You’ve tried hard to picture it – Winterfell in its former glory, trussed up with wolf banners and filled with children’s laughter, how it was when the Stark’s called it home.

Your eyes linger on Reek and for a second, you’re halfway tempted to ask him about it – what it was like living here, being one of them. You don’t, knowing the question would fall on deaf ears at the least, or send him spiraling to the point of being unable to finish his chores, and then it would be your head on the chopping block as well.

Distantly, you hear the familiar baying of Ramsay’s hounds and your eyes flick up to the narrow slit windows on the wall; you do your best to ignore the way Reek’s head swivels to the sound in the same instance yours does, the way that adrenaline so keenly rushes through you – a burst of panic leading the charge before you have the chance to correct it.

Anticipation, you remind yourself, jaw clenched, Passion, excitement.

Your eyes vacantly scan over the parchment you’d nabbed from the library earlier that morning, an account of the birth of Arya, apparently the sister of the one that had actually managed to escape some weeks back, no doubt frozen now in one of the snowy forests that surrounds Winterfell. You don’t really care, your thoughts once again reverting back to Myranda. Bitterly, you remember how he never made her stay behind when he went hunting, never made her watch over his man-servant, never made her second guess.

The last one is a lie, the truth woven deeply into the many nights you’d spent up with her – listening as she fretted about each word she’d uttered to him that day, hoping each one had been right and had been said at the right time, that he wouldn’t find some made-up cause to punish her. Tendrils of jealousy had twisted into you even then, even as she painted a picture of what he truly was.

Just as men’s voices filter through the windows from the courtyard outside, your lips quirk up into a mean, victorious little smirk.

It’s her body he fed to the dogs, you think, the voice in your mind a proud hiss, Just like Violet’s and Tansy’s and Kyra’s. You remember the day well enough, remember the shock of seeing your friend's body laying in the courtyard as you’d run out to greet Ramsay, teal eyes staring at nothing. It had been you that had warmed his bed that very night, and all the ones after it.

“There you are,” a familiar voice sounds from behind you, nearly making you yelp as Reek scrambles to stand up from the table. Before you even have a chance to, a strong hand clasps over your shoulder, stilling your movements, “No, no, don’t get up on my account.” Rusty copper stains color his hand, dried blood outlining each of his nails. You don’t let your mind linger on what the source of it could be.

You whip your head around and swallow nervously as he chuckles lowly, “Ramsay!” You breathe in greeting, the corners of your lips tilting up into a tentative smile, though that’s quickly washed away as you take in the messy splotches of red that stain his coat and tunic, that snake their way up the pale column of his throat and dot the sides of his face.

He looks every bit the hunter and you wonder, not for the first time, what that makes you.

“You seem quite comfortable here, pet,” he drawls, leaning down until he’s eye-level with you, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re more at home down here with the help,” he continues, hand tightening to the point of pain on your shoulder, making you grit your teeth, “Than you are in our chambers where you’re meant to be.”

Our chambers. A privilege he never granted her. Stupidly, your heart sings.

His hand tightens on your shoulder once more, finally drawing a pained whine from your lips.

“Y-You told me to watch him! To make sure he –” You’re cut off as Ramsay unceremoniously hauls you to your feet, clawing at your leather doublet. A cry leaves your lips as the hand on your shoulder tangles into the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging as he forces your head back, blue eyes flicking to your neck as you swallow thickly.

“I told you to be in our chambers when I return from hunts,” he corrects you, standing to his full height as he holds you tightly, forcing you unsteadily onto your tip-toes, “That I expected you to be at the door, ready and waiting for me.” His lips ghost over your ear as he speaks, his voice a low growl that shouldn’t excite you the way it does.

“I’m sorry,” you wince internally at the way your voice comes out as a pained little squeak, your hands scrambling to hang onto his forearm, nails digging into the stained quilted fabric of his jacket.

“You know how I get after a hunt,” he suddenly pulls away from you, his hand pulling out of your hair, a gasp leaving you as your heels drop to the floor. You blink as he reaches up, not flinching from years of practice, though instead of striking you or harshly gripping at your jaw like you expect, his hand cups your cheek. Your chest rises and falls as he strokes his thumb over your cheekbone, blood stained fingers now delicate against your soft skin.

“Today’s was a special one, too. Don’t you remember?” He questions, icy eyes sliding from yours to the red-headed man still standing by the table, glimmering cruelly as he smirks.

Still, you nod your head, knowing Reek won’t answer. “To celebrate killing Jon Snow,” you breathe, gripping at the leather of his tunic, desperate to win even a scrap of approval.

Surprisingly, he grants it – fixing you with a proud little grin, like how an owner would look at a dog that’s just mastered a new trick. “That’s right,” his hand ruffles the hair on the top of your head, a gesture that should feel demeaning, yet it sends a tingle of pride through you instead, “Seems you can remember something after all.” He pulls away and traipses over to Reek, hands clasped behind his back.

“Surely you remember too, Reek? You were in the kennels that evening when the dogs had their treat, were you not?” He taunts, the playful inflection in his voice entirely for show, “Our little problem’s been dealt with and now we hold not only the Dreadfort but Winterfell as well! What do you think about that, hm?” Ramsay studies the other man carefully, eyes flitting over his face as he takes great pleasure in the subtle twitches of pain that still manage to flicker through the harsh conditioning he’d endured. Your eyes stay fixed firmly on the stone floor.

“A… A great victory, master!”

“Yes, a great victory, indeed,” he smiles, watching Reek for another moment before turning back to you. His smile morphs into a cold, callous frown that ties your stomach into knots, each of his steps making your heart hammer faster in your chest. “You know, it’s actually rather amusing,” he starts, bloodied fingers twirling a stray lock of your hair, “How my hounds seem to be continually more well trained than you, pretty little idiot.”

Pretty, pretty, pretty! Your heart thumps dumbly, a rabbit in a snare.

“I’ll do better!” You whimper, shaking your head frantically as your eyes meet his, “I can do better, really, I was just confu–”

The hand in your hair shoots down suddenly, yanking several strands with it as he clamps it around your neck. “Confused?” Ramsay murmurs, watching with rapt attention at how you struggle in his hold, lips quivering as the words die in your throat, “Really? I give you one task, I ask one thing of you, and you can’t even figure that out? You still disappoint me?”

He’s not expecting an answer, you know this, and yet you still try to give one as your mouth opens and closes, like a fish out of water, only the faintest little whines managing to escape. You feel faint, both from his grip around your throat and from the myriad of emotions coursing through your veins – your heart twists at the thought of failing him, your stomach is in knots as various punishments flash through your mind, and yet your center still sparks, still sends little glimmers of arousal through you.

His grip loosens enough to allow you to suck in several shaky lungfuls of air as he snickers, endlessly amused at how eager you still are, how you still yearn so deeply for him. Again, he pats your head condescendingly, muttering little hushes as if you were a crying puppy. “Lucky for you, pet, I have plenty of experience training stubborn bitches,” Ramsay chuckles, blue eyes glimmering with mirth when he feels you swallow apprehensively, “I think we’ll have your behavior corrected in no time, won’t we? Even the stupidest of beasts can still learn a trick or two.”

Before you have time to react, the hand cradling the crown of your head harshly grabs at your hair again, tugging you suddenly toward the door. “Ah!” You yelp, stumbling as he all but drags you behind him, your hands shake as they struggle to grab onto his forearm, “Ramsay, pl–!”

“You should be grateful I am allowing you the kindness of walking!” He growls, sparing you a glance over his shoulder as he leads you through the Great Hall, “Pity I’m so protective of you, really, I’m sure it would be quite entertaining for my men to watch you crawl.” His drawled threat sends a spark of fear down your spine and you pant, chest heaving, as you shuffle behind him; your cheeks burn as several of his soldiers sitting at the long wooden tables catcall as you stagger past them.

Finally, the two of you reach your shared chambers, that fact sending a little torrent of satisfaction through you even now. Unceremoniously, Ramsay all but tosses you inside and you whimper as your hip collides with an edge of the decorative table just inside the door, no doubt hard enough to bruise but at least it breaks your fall.

“It’s quite unfortunate, normally find your impudence amusing,” he starts lowly, pressing the old wooden door closed with a thud before sliding the lock into place with a self-satisfied grin, “But I know you know better, don’t you, little one?” He asks as he stalks toward you.

Your breath catches in your throat as he stands before you, studying you silently for a second in the same calculated way he studies a deer through the sight of his bow. Not knowing what else to do, you silently nod your head as your eyes slip down to the floor, like a child being scolded.

“You’ve been with me the longest now,” he murmurs as if you don’t know, one bloodstained hand grabbing at your waist as the other fits around the back of your neck, once again forcing your eyes to his face, “We grew up together, you and I. You know my ways, my rules, isn’t that right?”

Again, you nod your head, bottom lip trembling with the want to explain yourself, although you know that would only make things worse.

“That’s what makes your disobedience so frustrating,” his blue eyes bore into yours as he speaks, his lip sticking out in a mocking pout, “Because you do know better and yet you’re stupid enough to act out anyway, hm?” His tone is sharper now, dangerous like the pointed tip of an arrow.

“I wasn’t acting out!” The words claw themselves out of your throat before you can stop them and instantly you know you’ve made a mistake, but now you’re desperate to remedy it, “I wasn’t, really! I j-just misunderstood you, that’s –”

Your pleas come to a screeching halt as his hand smacks across your face, the other grips at your jaw tightly, tight enough to make you whine softly in his grasp. Your eyes squeeze shut for a second, cheek stinging, before they open and lock with his again, wild and desperately.

I wasn’t being insolent! You scream silently, hoping he can somehow hear you, that maybe all of your years with him would’ve granted that ability, I would never! I was doing as you said, like always!

“I was wrong earlier, wasn’t I?” Ramsay mutters, so close to you that your foreheads nearly touch. Your eyes widen slightly at his words, heart thumping in a hopeful little staccato, though he wrenches that away quickly enough, “You’re not a dog at all, no, a dog would be obedient and docile.”

Your brows knit together with confusion at his words, biting so hard into your lower lip that you’re shocked you don’t taste blood. Although, you can’t help the surprised little gasp that leaves you when his hands begin quickly tugging at the laces of your bodice as your own remain in white-knuckled fists at your sides, the whole of you determined to stay still like a statue, a plaything.

“No, you my sweet little pet,” he growls sarcastically, low voice morphing into a pleased chuckle as he tugs your bodice off; the shirt below it quickly follows and a small part of you blooms with pride at the happy little sigh he lets out at the sight of your breasts.

“You’re just a dumb puppy, aren’t you?” He chuckles against your throat, nipping at your skin more so than kissing it, although you relish the feel of his lips on you all the same. “A dumb, defiant little puppy,” he continues, hastily pulling at the ties of your skirts and you whimper despite yourself when they finally fall to the floor, pooling at your feet, “That’s in desperate need of more training.”

He stops, pausing for a mere second, and pulls back just enough to look at you, no doubt gaining satisfaction from the desperation written so plainly on your face. There’s a hunger in his cold eyes – a predator silently deciding to go for the jugular, nocking an arrow on his bow.

You whine as he properly kisses at your throat now, his hands rough against your skin as he grabs at your hips. One skims higher to cup your breast, the unexpected gentleness of his touches causes you to shiver and whine in his grasp and into his mouth as he kisses you finally, his full lips moving steadily in time with yours.

Harsh pants leave your lips as your heart pumps madly in your chest, his touches always work you up so quickly. The thought of him still being fully clothed as he left you bare and vulnerable made you hotter still; the feel of his warm leather tunic against your exposed skin, of his bloodied hands against your supple skin, drives you mad.

Before you have time to second guess your movements, you begin blindly pulling at the strings on his leather tunic, desperate to feel him against you. Surprisingly, he lets you tug it off of him, granting you a last meal of sorts, and you can’t help but to smile into the kiss, gasping into his mouth as he unbuttons his jacket himself before quickly tossing it aside as well. He’s panting nearly as harshly as you are as the two of you part long enough for him to pull his shirt over his head, your hands immediately go to his chest the second it joins the ever-growing pile of clothes on the floor.

Your eyes flicker over him as the two of you pause, the knot in your belly growing tighter at the sight of his taut stomach and chest, the low, warm glow of the many candles dotted throughout your chambers accentuating each muscular dip. Your fingers shake as they trail over him and you feel a sick sense of pride twist in your stomach at the fact that, unlike so many men, his skin isn’t mottled with years of scars and bruises. No, his is flawless, a pale, unmarred, ruthless canvas – a flawless killer.

Of course, he can’t let you have this reprieve for long. A good trainer doesn’t spoil his pet.

A soft, broken gasp leaves you as one hand wraps around your neck again, slotting perfectly against your throat like a collar, as he walks you a few paces further into the room, closer to the small hearth by the bed. “Kneel,” his command leaves no room for anything but obedience; you swallow thickly, nervously, and do as he says, lips parting ever so slightly when your knees rest on plush bear skin instead of hard stone.

A kindness, even now.

Ramsay’s lips twist into a proud grin as you stare up at him, legs folded beneath you with your hands poised perfectly on your thighs, a familiar stance he’d taught you years ago. “Good girl,” he mutters, fingers threading gently through your hair as you moan softly.

“Thank y – Ah!”

“No,” he chides harshly, tugging your head back by the roots of your hair until your neck is bared to him, your back arched, “Puppies don’t talk, dumb little thing,” he growls, shifting more closely to you in order to gain a better hold on your hair, close enough that you whimper as your front is pressed firmly against the length of his leg, the thick fabric of his trousers rough against your skin as one of his feet slots between your thighs, “A well-trained pet certainly doesn’t.”

The knot in your belly seizes at his words, aided by the laces of his leather boots brushing oh-so gently against your center, the knotted fabric sticking against the wetness already leaking from your clenching cunt. You whine, high-pitched and frantic when he clutches your hair tighter still, his fist white knuckled against the crown of your head.

“A well-trained little pet would always obey their master, wouldn’t they?” You can’t miss the breathiness of his voice now, his tone lower and smoother than it normally is, and the sound makes your hips hump against his boot before you can stop yourself, your nipples stiff, nearly aching, as they rub against his trousers.

A low, rumbled laugh echoes through your chambers when your arms wrap around his leg, fingers digging desperately into the firm muscle of his thigh. “Aww,” he coos mockingly, licking his lips as he watches you, his attention making blood rush to the apples of your cheeks, “Is my pretty little puppy getting off on this? Does your cunt drip when I tell you how stupid and worthless you are?”

The sound of your blood pumping furiously through your veins thuds in your ears, Pretty, pretty pretty!

You whine as you try to eagerly nod your head, his hold on your hair preventing you from moving much, though your hips rut steadily against his boot now – pressing tightly against the worn fabric, the knots from his laces rubbing perfectly over the throbbing little pearl at your center.

“You look like you’re having fun,” he drawls, cold eyes shining as he studies you closely, chest heaving in time with yours as his cock hardens in his pants, “Are you having fun, little one?”

Again, you try to nod, keening brokenly as your eyes stay fixed on his. You pant harshly against his leg, breath fragmented as they’re punched out of your lungs, the knot in your belly growing tighter and tighter with each pass of your slick center over the laces of his boot.

He knows, of course. As soon as he ordered you to stay in the kitchens with Reek this morning, he knew – knew you’d follow his orders to the letter, even if they contradicted his previous ones. He knew he’d find you there, knew he’d punish you for it, knew exactly how he wanted to break you down so that it could be him who built you back up. He’s known you the longest, you’d grown up together. He knows, of course he does. He’s nothing if not a thorough hunter.

A loud, broken whine leaves you when he flexes his foot, pressing his boot harder against you still. You’re helpless to do much else aside from stare up at him, gasping, while your hips buck against him as quickly as your sore muscles will allow, your high barreling toward you at a breakneck pace.

All of that comes to a sudden, screeching halt though when he moves again, shifting his weight until his boot is just out of reach. The sudden lack of stimulation makes your back arch further still, your muscles taut like a drawn bow.

“Oh, poor little puppy,” he laughs, watching gleefully as you whine loudly, the peak that had been so close fading away, leaving you aching, “If you thought it was going to be that easy, you haven’t been paying attention.” He taunts, crouching until he’s eye-level with you, smirking as his movements cause his pull on your hair to become tighter, making you wince, though his hand thankfully releases its grasp once he settles.

“Mmm,” you mewl softly as he caresses your breasts again, jumping slightly when he thumbs over your nipple before softly pinching at it, giving the other one the same treatment. Your eyes flutter shut as you arch your back further still, pressing against the palm of his hand as he kneads at your chest, eager for any stimulation you can get.

“Myranda was never like this,” he says suddenly, his voice low, steady, calculated. He smiles cruelly when your eyes snap open at the sound of her name, the back of your throat tight as tears already blur your vision – just like he wanted. “No, Myranda always behaved perfectly, she always did exactly what I said.”

He leans forward suddenly, the side of his face pressed firmly against yours so that when he speaks, you’re sure to hear every syllable, to feel them punctuated against the skin of your neck. “She was perfect. I never had to punish her for the same thing twice, you know. Not like I do with you.”

You shudder as his lips press against your skin again, pressing eager kisses against the wet trail of tears running down your cheek. He admires the way your shoulders shake as you sob, the way the subtle movement makes your breasts bounce, the way your cheeks flush so prettily, how your eyes always shine so brightly with fresh tears in them.

Ramsay loves breaking you – adores the moment when his arrow is finally launched free from his bow, adores the moment he sees it pierce your little heart. He loves you, in his way.

Not that he’d tell you that.

He lets you sob for a moment longer, all the while pressing hot kisses against your cheeks, relishing the salty taste of your tears as the little droplets of blood still caked to his skin mar your pretty face, staining it with delicate streaks of red. His cock twitches at the sight, black pupils nearly drowning out the blue of his eyes – maybe one day he’d bring you hunting, what a sight you’d be covered in the bright blood of a fresh kill.

“Myranda never needed training, puppy, not in the way you do,” he nearly whispers, the corners of his lips twitching up into a small smile as he leans back enough to grab at your chin, tilting your face up to his, “That’s what made her so boring.”

“Huh?” You breathe, sobs stalling for a second as you process what he’d just said, your obvious surprise making him laugh lowly again.

“What? Does that shock you? That I found her boring?” He questions, eyebrow raised, “Why would perfection be interesting?”

Your eyes search his face as he shifts, kneeling rather than crouching. A little glimmer of pride sparks to life within you as he kisses you again, your lips moving against his frantically, mewling when he pushes his tongue into your mouth and nips at your bottom lip.

“I never got to train her,” he breathes against your lips, grunting at the way your hands skim over his chest and stomach, grabbing at him so frantically, “I hardly got to punish her; if I gave her an order, she would follow it blindly – it made her predictable, it made her boring.”

“N-Not like me?” You whisper hopefully, meeting his gaze through half-lidded eyes as you pant, your chest pressed tightly to his.

“No, sweet pet, not like you,” Ramsay smiles, making your heart sing as it leaps beneath your ribs, “I get to train you, don’t I? And punish you when that little puppy brain can’t follow the simplest of orders.”

You should be offended, should feel mocked and belittled, but you don’t. Instead, you nod your head eagerly, preening like a proud little bird at his praise, because that’s what is, really. Ramsay will never be one to sing your praises softly like other men, but he admires you all the same.

Before you have time to reply, he grabs at your waist and abruptly maneuvers you, manhandling you until you’re poised on your hands and knees, cheek pressed firmly against the fur rug beneath you.

“I get to play with you, pet,” he drawls lowly, pressing a hand into the small of your back and grunting appreciatively when you arch down like he wants, licking his lips as your cunt finally comes into view, shining already in the low candlelight. He smirks at the way you moan when he presses his hard length against you, grinding against your slit, chest heaving at how warm you are even through his trousers, “Don’t I?”

“Yes!” You nod eagerly, pressing back against him like a wanton whore, nearly dizzy with need when his fingers bump against you as he quickly undoes the laces on his pants, “Yes, yes, yes, please!”

“Ohh, so you can be good, hm?” He teases, groaning in relief when he pushes his trousers down just enough to free his cock, too impatient to remove them entirely, “Seems my training’s working nicely.”

Mindlessly, you nod, willing to agree with whatever he says so long as he gets inside you.

Mercifully, you don’t have to wait long. A loud cry fills your chambers as he presses into you, the slight sting of his thick cock stretching you open making you shiver, a familiar sensation since he was rarely ever patient enough to work you open on his fingers.

Immediately, he sets a brutal pace, his hips pressing against yours tightly each time he pushes forward, the head of his cock nearly kissing your cervix with each harsh thrust. Your cunt clenches at him greedily and your hands scramble against the rug beneath you, fingers tangling into the furs, desperate for something to anchor yourself.

“Fuck, tight little cunt,” Ramsay grunts harshly above you, his hands gripping meanly at your hips, hard enough to leave bruises.

“R-Ramsay, fuck… fuck,” you whimper beneath him, your eyes squeezed shut tightly as the knot in your belly threatens to unravel, your walls pulsing rhythmically around his length each time it spears into you.

He chuckles breathlessly at your little murmurs and runs a hand up the length of your back before grabbing at the hair at the nape of your neck, relishing the little cry you give as he pulls you up until your back is pressed firmly against his chest. “Are you close already?” He mocks smugly, his fingers untangling from your hair to wrap once more around your throat as his other paws at your breasts, his fingers pinching and pulling at your nipples.

You swallow thickly, throat bobbing under his grip, and nod your head the best you can, grabbing at his thick forearm.

“Do you think I’m going to let you?” He teases, biting harshly at your shoulder as his hips keep up a punishing rhythm.

You nearly sob at the question, so desperate, but still you shake your head, cunt pulsing around his length. “No, n-no…” You moan mournfully, voice hoarse from his hold.

He chuckles behind you, his chest rumbling against your back as he kisses and bites at your earlobe, your shoulder, any part of your neck not covered by his hand, each touch driving you mad. “Finally, that little brain seems to be working,” he grunts, laughing lowly as he abandons your breasts long enough to slap your cheek, blessedly soft this time, “I’m having too much fun playing with you to let you go that easily,” He drawls, chuckling once more when you whine.

“In fact,” he continues, reaching down and rubbing his fingers roughly against your aching bud, just enough to make you cry out before he suddenly pulls away again, tugging his length from you as he lets you flop to the floor with a little grunt, “I want to see you do a trick,” he whispers, rubbing over your ass before smack it roughly, making you jump, “Roll over.”

“Wha –” You start to question, only to be cut off with a loud cry as his hand spanks you once more.

“Be a good fucking puppy and roll over.”

His order leaves no room for questioning and obediently, you listen and roll over onto your back with a little whimper. You keep your legs bent up when you settle, keeping yourself on display for him, clenching around nothing as you eye his hard cock bobbing against his stomach, the tip red and leaking.

“Good little pet,” he praises, his words going straight to your pearl as you shudder. Hastily, he pushes your legs up further, one hand holding you open as he presses his cock back into you, savoring your loud whine, the way your eyes roll to the back of your head.

He resumes his harsh pace, slamming into you as he chases his high now, blue eyes trailing appreciatively over your trembling body, watching as your breasts bounce with each unforgiving thrust he gives.

“Please, please, Gods, please!” You whine frantically as he presses his hips against yours, grinding into you, the thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your bud perfectly, “Ramsay, p-please! I – fuck!”

He laughs breathlessly at your cries and leans down when you arch your back toward him, mouthing savagely at your chest, teeth nipping at the fat of your breasts before he licks over your nipples. He knows each touch is only driving you closer and closer to your release, yet he still doesn’t give you permission, a part of him meanly hopes you’ll slip over anyway and give him another reason to punish you, like he actually needs a reason.

Still, you have been good today and he does love how willing and docile you become when you peak, so malleable – entirely submissive, entirely his.

He bites and kisses his way up along your chest and neck before licking into your mouth for a moment, eagerly swallowing each desperate little cry before grabbing at your neck once more. Greedy, he turns your head to him, needing to see that empty-headed, hazy look in your eyes when he lets you finish.

His cock jerks at the sight of you, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as you try desperately to hold off, cheeks flushed, reddened lips parted. He grunts, feeling his balls tighten, his thrusts beginning to lose their rhythm.

“Cum, puppy,” he growls, forehead pressed against yours.

Your lips part in a silent curse as your high slams into you, each muscle in your body contracting at once. Your eyes bore into his wildly as your cunt spasms tightly around his cock, eyes rolling back as he fucks you through it.

“Fuck!” He grunts, growling lowly as his cock spasms within you, your walls all but milking his own high from him as well. His hips slam into you a few more times before he stills, gasping as he fills you with his spend.

The two of you lay together for a moment, panting loudly against one another. Ramsay is the first to move, shushing you as he pulls his softening length from you, making you whine.

Distantly, a part of you twists gleefully when you feel his seed drip from you, another thing he never dared do with her.

“Here,” he says softly, offering you a hand, which you gladly take, letting him help you stand since you doubt you’d be able to on your own. Finally, you stand on your feet, albeit unsteadily, and grab onto the foot of the carved wooden bedframe to steady yourself. Strangely, he stays with you, neither of you saying anything as he holds you, blue eyes studying you as they gleam with some unknown emotion.

After a moment, you try to pull away, meaning to leave as you always do, not one to wait around for his order anymore.

“Stop,” he murmurs, only pulling away once you still, “Stay.” He orders, an unfamiliar softness to his voice. Your head reels, eyes staring unfocused as you try to make sense of… whatever this is, whatever his game may be now.

He returns quickly enough, a damp cloth in his and from the small wash basin he keeps on the vanity. You reach out to grab it, to clean yourself off like you assume he wants, and yet he stops you, holding the cloth out of your grasp until you lower your hand again.

“Obedient puppies get rewards,” he says softly, all of the harshness from before absent from his tone as he answers your silent questions. You nearly freeze when he presses one small, gentle kiss against your forehead. Finally, he makes quick work of wiping between your legs, taking care to wipe away any of his spend that leaked from you.

“Thank you…” You nearly whisper, voice scratchy from his earlier treatment. That doesn’t feel like the right thing to say but if it isn’t, he doesn't say.

Silently, he cups your chin, lifting it enough to give him room to check your neck, trailing his hand over it lightly until he must be satisfied that you’re okay, that he hadn’t treated you too badly.

Kind, even still.

A few moments later, you recline in the plush bed, watching as he kicks off his boots before joining you, lying with you under the soft blankets. This part, at least, you’re used to – lying together like this but not touching, not cuddling, that’s too intimate, too close.

He hadn’t said that, wouldn’t say that, but you knew.

A surprised little gasp leaves you when he pulls you close, hands, clean now that he’d taken a moment to wash them, resting on you gently. One smoothes up and down your arm as he lets you lay against his chest, cheek pressed against his collarbone, his chin resting on your head; the other grabs at your thigh, pulling you to him until you’re tucked into his side, one leg propped over his hips.

“You did well,” he says softly, chest vibrating under your cheek as he speaks, “With your training, I mean. You did well. I’m… proud of you.”

“Thank you.”

The two of you are silent after that, neither of you knowing how to handle this new territory that you seem to be spilling into, but you don’t care, not with your heart pounding quickly in your chest. You’d think you were dying if it weren’t for the savage sense of victory threading through every inch of you.

Proud, proud, proud! The word echoes in your head with each pump of blood through your heart. It was so small, the barest of compliments, but from Ramsay it meant the world. It was something he’d said to you, only you, never to her, not once. Never to anyone else.

His chest rises and falls under your cheek, breath steady and even. He always falls asleep quickly, normally you do too. But not this time, not tonight, not wanting to let this moment fade just yet.

He loves you, in his way.

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yandere-toons · 2 years

Text

A Fool's Mistake 3: Taking the Black | Platonic Scenario

Yandere!Cersei Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Tyrion Lannister, Joffrey Baratheon, Ramsay Bolton

WARNING: abuse of power, morally ambiguous reader, reality warping, strong and bloody violence, mentions of physical torture.

WORD COUNT: 7.825

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (You are here)

The silhouettes of free folk dashed between trees and rocks in the silverish light of the full moon. They were clothed in the skins of woodland animals, and they wielded with much dexterity a combination of bows, axes and spears crafted from the forest.

Droves of the free folk had begun to scale the Wall at yesterday's sunset and, from midnight to daybreak, had reached the point where falling meant certain death. Despite enough time passing for the sun to peek over the mountaintop, the space that surrounded the free folk remained dark as night.

The sky was black but held no stars as if drapes had been thrown over the earth. The top of the Wall, a summit that appeared taller than the clouds, was covered in impenetrable darkness. Glimmers of sunlight skirted the darkness, and the scarce light traced the shape of a bubble around the free folk who dared to rise.

The ground was no longer visible to those who looked down in the hope of descending the Wall and testing the climb another day. The ice wall in front of them and the makeshift tools used to hook it was all that met their eyes beyond the shadows.

Whispers seeped into the ears of the free folk, whispers that resembled the faint voices of the people climbing with them. The voices asked for the location of the other free folk, asked after their health and encouraged them to resume the climb.

Once the first ragged antler and stake impaled the ice at the top of the Wall, the free folk realised that their vision had been dulling. In the final moments of heaving oneself onto the Wall, each member of the expedition noted themselves to be the only living thing there.

The sight that greeted them flashed back and forth between the bodies of their fellow free folk and an empty stretch of ice. The shadows warped their eye and seemed to drill into their heads before the darkness took them to the ground far below.

When no birds sang and the air became colder than the depths of a northern pond, you watched for creatures with blue eyes and ghostly skin.

Except for the occasional lash of shadows at the base of snowy trees, the woods lay motionless and free of dark magic on this hour. The current flowing from the distant Bay of Seals was tumultuous and churned as if locked in a storm, but it carried nothing more than the rare howl and rush of icy breath.

* * *

With his wrists bound to the back of a chair and his ankles tied to the wood legs, the sole mercenary to survive the recent battle at the Dreadfort sat in his own sweat. A mob of Bolton soldiers encircled him with their swords raised and their eyes locked on whichever part of him they were most inclined to cut.

The large door to the dining hall creaked open in an outward swing of metal and bending joints. Ramsay Bolton stormed into the room, his fingers playing with a gore-drenched knife.

After a moment of examining the mercenary, the immediate wrath flaring on his face waned and evolved into morbid curiosity. “I remember you.” Ramsay tilted his head and scanned the man's visible wounds and foul odour to confirm his suspicion.

It was then that the mercenary's stomach dropped to bottomless depths, and he began to whisper prayers for the mercy of the Mother.

Unlike the frantic turns and agitated stomps of earlier, Ramsay's next movements were slower and dominated by quiet steps that struck a greater panic in the heart of the mercenary each time. “You took a long look at them.”

From his pocket came the glint of a knife, prompting the mercenary to squirm against the ropes and expel a whimper. Ramsay twirled the weapon in his right hand and conveyed a taste of future pain with unrepentant eye contact. “Just before you tried to kill them.”

Before the tip of the steel could blind the mercenary, the harsh voice of Roose Bolton echoed in the dining hall and overpowered any wails spilling out of the mercenary. “Ramsay!”

The sound was little more than a growl, and Ramsay paused with his knife hovering just in front of the mercenary's eyeball.

The violent shake gripping his arm did not cease, spreading to his lips and upper body as he stared into the mercenary's terror with bubbling insanity that flailed against the bridle he was compelled to put on it. Ramsay vented slivers of his untapped rage through the tremulous breaths whipping past his bared teeth.

While the soldiers beside him kept a tight hold on their swords, Roose did not allow his voice to waver: “We need this one alive.”

The blade was so close that the mercenary's eyelashes brushed it every time he blinked. It quivered with the threat of twitching too far and impaling his skull before he could release a full scream, but Ramsay seemed to find enough delight in his father's command that he turned his head away.

“Oh, he'll live.”

Just as the knife reeled back and then plunged forward, a booming announcement sounded from Roose. “We're going on a diplomatic mission to White Harbor.”

Ramsay listened to his father with a distracted mind plagued by runaway thoughts and bits of emotion he could not manage, his eyes flitting between Roose and the nearest objects while his fingers twitched with ideas of what pain to inflict on the captured mercenary. “When will you return?”

Roose looked upon his struggle with amusement and indifference. “You should know. You're coming with me.”

As if Roose had revoked his legitimacy as the heir, Ramsay raised his head and widened his eyes. The tension clenching his shoulders and jaw shifted to confused glances, and his lips moved to search for the appropriate response that changed with each surge of dissatisfaction and the sense of a goal stepping out of his reach.

“My place is here. I have rallied the men.”

Roose began to approach the main entrance to the fortress and did not slow his stride. “Your place is where I say it is.”

Ramsay stopped walking, but Roose ignored the vicious stare drilling into the back of his head. “Father,” murmured Ramsay, and his next words were spoken through gritted teeth. “I need to find them.”

Roose took a final, definitive step forward and turned, the bottom of his cloak gliding across the floor. “There will be a time for that. Right now, what you need to do is mount a horse and ride with me to White Harbor.”

* * *

The chambers of Tyrion Lannister stank of wine on most nights, but the scent was especially potent on this night. An empty flagon sat at the foot of a luxurious chair, which Tyrion used to rest his legs while he put his mouth to the work of downing every glass he could fill.

With his knuckles pressed underneath his chin, Tyrion observed the half-full goblet with a curious glint in his eye. He laid his hand over the top of it and waited in silence for many a second.

When he retracted his hand and peeked into the cup, a foolish part of him hoped that it would be full again. A layer of wine at the bottom was all that greeted him. Tyrion hurled the goblet at the wall, and a thick wave of blackberry wine exploded onto the stone.

The glass clattered to the floor and rolled into the leg of a chair, streaks of reddish-purple cascading down the rock and draining into the crevices. Droplets continued to seep from the rim of the cup as trails of the dark liquor mixed with the red of a Lannister banner and fell behind a dresser.

As the door slammed behind him, Tyrion stamped past the duo of guards protecting his chambers and snapped his fingers. “With me.”

The guards lifted their shields from the floor and hurried to follow.

Tyrion marched down the corridor with a palace guard on his left and his right. Flanked by the men, he rounded a corner and leaned forward to place his hands upon an ornate set of double doors.

He pushed open the door to Cersei's chambers and found her sitting at the table beside the balcony, a glass in her hand and red wine on her lips. The rattles of the guards' swords and armour must have been loud in the silent halls, for she was facing the entrance without a lick of surprise.

She lowered the glass and eyed him as if he were an insect that had crawled into her bedroom from a hole in the wall. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Tyrion widened his eyes and removed his hands from the door, allowing it to shut at his back. “I was concerned,” he lied, feigning fear in an exaggerated, deliberately obvious manner. “Just the other day, a man had his throat slit for sleeping.”

Cersei kept her voice low as though others were in danger of listening. “I believe that to be the work of our mutual friend.” She placed distinct acrimony on the word “friend,” her lip curling.

As her gaze drifted off to the cityscape outside her balcony, Tyrion wondered if the bitterness came from her belief that the word was untrue or the implication that the two of them could ever share a companion. “Don't tell that to the king. He was quite upset at having his prized day interrupted.”

The hand that held onto the wine glass began to shake, and Cersei refrained from looking at her brother. “Joffrey won't see me.” A heaviness existed in her words, a quiet misery that she was attempting to drown in wine.

Tyrion kept his frown level. “Oh, yes. Not since you promised the sorcerer would find their own way back to him, a promise that has yet to be fulfilled.” He tilted his head upon saying the second bit.

Cersei shut her eyes and clenched her teeth slightly, refusing to let the posh smile on her lips fall. She opened her eyes and glanced in his direction when the soft thuds of footsteps came near the table.

A chair squealed as it was pulled from under the table, and Tyrion plopped on it with his hands resting close to Cersei's. “If I say it, I would be branded an enemy of the crown and lose my head within the hour. Perhaps Jaime?”

She turned farther away and fixed her eye on the open doors to the balcony. “Joffrey's working him like a dog.”

A slight sigh rolled out of him, and Tyrion closed his eyes for a pensive instant before opening them with a degree of sympathy. “If Jaime could be here with you, he would be.” He unfurled his arms, turned his palms to the ceiling, and gestured to the bedroom.

Lifting the glass, Cersei took another sip. “I'm not so sure.”

* * *

The courtyard of the Red Keep smelt of pollen as a medley of berry bushes and wildflowers bloomed in the light of day. The leafy grass was green as the coat of arms from House Tyrell of Highgarden, and it swayed in a cool breeze that was welcomed by the lords and ladies dilly-dallying in the sun.

From the generous lengths of the surrounding corridors, Varys and Petyr Baelish strolled into the small garden. Each one moved in tandem with the other just enough to keep up the illusion of leisure and signify that the interaction would not end until one of them deviated from the path.

“The Boltons are a minute settlement thousands of miles away in the North with one fiefdom no larger than my biggest brothel,” said Petyr.

A slight nod of the head came from Varys. “Yes, but some of my little birds have flown north for the summer.”

“And what songs do they sing?” asked Petyr, his lips casting the shadow of a smile as he walked past a servant girl consorting with a visiting lord.

Varys spotted similar goings-on in a corner of the garden ahead, and he cast his gaze in the direction of the man beside him. “They sing that the Bolton's youngest is unbalanced yet terribly ambitious. Certainly one to watch.”

Petyr slowed to a stop and turned on the heels of his boots. He blinked slowly and released a modest sigh, his eyes flickering to his surroundings while his voice quieted. “He's one man with neither the stomach nor the mind for the South.”

Varys looked askance, tilted his head, and raised his shoulders a bit as if considering Petyr's words. “One man nearly toppled the realm not so long ago,” he replied.

The subtlest chuckle—no more than an audible exhale—slipped out of Petyr. His neck bent towards the ground slightly, and his attention remained on the cobblestone patterns flowing beneath him for a contemplative instant. “Indeed,” he conceded. “I have to go.”

Varys bowed his head. “Ah, very well.” He lifted his eyes to catch sight of Petyr slinking to the edge of the garden. “Perhaps we can speak again soon, Lord Baelish.”

As the shadow cast by the arch of the Red Keep fell over him, Petyr turned and offered a glib smile. “Perhaps we can, Lord Varys.”

* * *

Every man atop the Wall was struck by an unearthly coldness that night.

No matter how thick the coats around their shoulders were, the wind sliced their face and nipped any exposed skin with its frosty claws. The cold dove into their bones and seemed to chill them from the inside out.

Despite being rekindled every other minute, the light of the torches was dimmer here. The fog of the night was murkier than the bottom of a bog. The fires were short-lived, swept away into simmering embers by sudden and isolated gusts.

The same light that would have illuminated your body was extinguished by the wind. The brother in charge of relighting it swore under his breath. When he peered at you in wonderment of your apparent resistance to the frigid weather, a shiver ran through him as if he had been stuck with a frost-tipped spear.

It killed the words on his tongue.

The dark around you seemed deeper and more foreboding than any cave, unaffected by light even as the moon beamed down upon it. The brother saw the outline of you hidden in the darkness, and it was all he needed to see to decide that the remainder of his watch was someone else's responsibility for the night.

In the ensuing calm, your head surveyed one end of the forest below to the other.

No figures had crept out of the woods yet.

The clanks and grinds of the lift rising to the top of the Wall sounded from behind, and Samwell Tarly stepped off it into the snow. The soft, pearly white material was crushed under his heavy boots. After a brief pause, his footsteps approached you and stopped at your side.

Your head slowly turned, which allowed you to catch Sam peeking in your direction. He glanced downwards and released a bashful chuckle upon being caught, but a look of childish excitement soon washed over his full face. “Jon says you're a wizard!”

The snow crunched as Sam shuffled his feet, his gaze darting from his shoes to you. “I've never seen a real wizard before!” He shifted again and failed to restrain the huge grin breaking out across his lips. “Only read about them in books,” he added, somewhat lowering his voice.

Sam leaned forward and looked up and down at your iron mask and dark robes. “Do you all dress like that?” He outstretched his arms to push his cloak back and looked at his own black coat and armour. “Maybe we're more alike than I thought!” What escaped him next was a quick, “Ha!”

He turned his head back to you and kept his mouth open slightly as if expecting you to agree, but your continued silence prompted his smile to falter.

As his eyes searched the snowy darkness that lay in front of him, Sam shook his head. “My father detests wizards. Thinks magic's for nellies who don't want to fight.” There was a layer of distaste and pain to his words as though repeating his father's opinion had poisoned his tongue and caused a bad memory to churn within his mind.

“Not me,” he blurted, his head bouncing towards you before moving back again. Sam leaned over and patted his chest with both hands once. “Big fan.”

As Sam marvelled at his proximity to a real magic user, the lift descended into the bowels of Castle Black and then rose to the top of the Wall after a few minutes of rasping. The dark-haired Jon Snow emerged from the fiery light of the lift with a torch in hand.

“Sam,” was all he said, and Sam fell silent.

Jon nodded at him with a tiny smile when Sam turned and offered a happy, “Hello, Jon!” Sam stepped back to allow Jon room to walk forward and stand diagonal to him.

Although he was addressing more than one person, Jon kept his eyes focused on your mask. “If it's all right with you, I'd like to speak with Brother Black alone.”

Sam lost his smile for a moment, but it returned with a shrug of his shoulders and another shift of his feet. “Of course! Of course!” He distanced himself from where he had been standing and motioned for you to go with Jon. “I'll just be here.”

Jon bid him farewell before marching farther down the Wall, the light of the torch undulating in the icy wind.

As the orange glow started to vanish from sight, Sam looked away and faced the edge of the Wall. “I ought to be checking on Gilly.” Fond memories of the woman softened his voice and provided some warmth against the cold. “Sweet Gilly.”

No one answered but the howl of the wind.

Sam inhaled through his nose and allowed the silence to live for a couple of seconds before he sighed: “Boy, it's cold up here.”

The journey ended after roughly ten minutes of walking, and Jon turned to give you a cursory scan. In his eyes were suspicion, curiosity and more than a token of discomfort. His breath was visible in the cold, flowing upward as he turned to overlook the cliff.

“The other brothers don't feel safe around you. They need to know they can trust the man standing next to them.” A flash of uncertainty overtook him in a sweep of cold wind, and Jon turned his head to look at you as if for the first time. “You are a man, right?”

There was a carefulness to his words as though you might shed your veil of humanity and lunge at him before he took another breath, his legs shifting with a rattle of his heavy armour and his hand confirming its place on the pommel of his sword.

A gust of air wafted from the lower slit in your mask and floated into the night sky.

Holding the silence as the grey cloud dispersed into the darkness looming above the castle, Jon chose not to pursue such thoughts and gave a single nod. “Right.”

* * *

The flaps of wings preceded the caws of a raven, and the bird landed its coat of snow-dappled feathers on the stone frame of the window. It raised its left leg as if it were limp and turned its black eyes to Jon, revealing a scroll tied to its lean body.

Jon approached the raven as it continued to caw and move its head in sudden, jerky motions.

“I haven't sent for any wandering crows,” mumbled Alliser Thorne, who waved at Jon to receive the letter when he paused at his comment.

The bird twitched and hopped whilst the scroll was taken from its leg, and once the gloved hand released it, the raven flew into the white skies with a string of caws.

As Jon brushed his thumb across the reddish-pink seal, the emblem of an upside-down flayed man sent a wave of apprehension over his body. The impulsive part of him said to toss the letter into the fire and never wonder about its contents, but the impatient gaze of Alliser demanded that he push his misgivings aside.

“Well?” came the older man's disgruntled voice.

“It's the sigil of House Bolton, ser.” Jon glanced between the Lord Commander and the scroll, struggling to void all of his concerns but stepping forward with dutiful haste.

Alliser nodded his head and quirked his eyebrows as if coaching a child. “I can see that. Would you care to read it?”

Inspecting the seal one last time, Jon broke it with a snap and unfolded the parchment. “Dear the men of the Night's Watch, it has come to my attention that you recently brought a sorcerer into your ranks.”

His volume tapered after every few words as if seeking to lessen the blow of an expected threat, but as the inky texture of the crooked and misplaced lines stretched and fell before his eyes, he realised it was a continuous promise of danger:

“Their allegiance belongs to House Bolton. If you do not return them to me, I shall flay you living and make you watch as I tear your brother's still-beating heart from his chest and feed it to my hounds.”

Jon lost much of his interest in reading the message and looked askance at Alliser for the sake of averting his eyes from the letter. When the Lord Commander returned his gaze with stunned silence and a minor shift in his position, Jon proceeded to the end.

“Two fortnights it will take for me to march on your pathetic excuse for a castle, so two fortnights you shall have to act.”

Despite the reluctance plaguing his hold on the scroll as if touching it would transmit a disease, Jon took only a second to recuperate and finished with a weary drop in his tone. “Signed Ramsay Bolton, Acting Lord of the Dreadfort.”

He tucked the parchment and lowered his arms to his side, casting a pensive look over the glow of the fire before turning his eyes to the Lord Commander.

“Inane ramblings from a madman,” spat Alliser with a sharp turn of his head. The man tugged a quill out of the inkpot on his desk and slammed a piece of blank paper onto its surface.

Jon watched the quivers of his hand and the words they wrote becoming clearer as the ink dried, but the scratches of the quill marking the parchment were overshadowed by a quick step forward. “Ser, the Boltons are a ruthless people. We shouldn't take anything they say to be idle threats.”

The Lord Commander refused to look away from his writing or slow the motions of his hand. “Roose Bolton is a few steps short of a wildling in lord's clothing. As for his son, I've never met him.” He finished the letter with a flourish. “And I'd like to keep it that way.”

The thud of a seal echoed in the room before it was replaced by the creak of a chair sliding across the floor, and Jon clutched the letter that was pushed into his hand.

“Give this to Maester Aemon. Tell him to send it immediately. When it's done, have a brother ride to Mole's Town.”

As Alliser marched out the door to his chambers, Jon followed and overheard his yells to the congregation of Night's Watchmen standing below. “Increase the patrols! I want a fresh man at those gates for every hour!”

The group lifted their swords and scattered throughout the courtyard, while Jon hastened his walk to the library. Orders were shouted into the wind, and the collective rattle of armour and thump of boots faded into the background.

Jon entered the library a bit louder than he intended. The door slammed behind him when a strong wind pulled it forward, causing both he and Maester Aemon to jump.

A mumble slipped out of Maester Aemon as he ran his fingers across the Braille in the book of dragons he had been delighting in reading. The table at which he was seated was strewn with a variety of books. It stood in the centre of the room, and it was bordered by tall bookcases full of centuries of knowledge.

Stepping forward, Jon extended the scroll and approached the table. “Maester Aemon, I have an urgent scroll from the Lord Commander.”

Maester Aemon took the sealed scroll from him, running his fingertips along the seal and parchment. “Oh,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. He turned back to the books in front of him and heaved himself from the rickety chair.

As soon as he had started to drag himself forward, a chill washed down his spine as if dunked in ice water. He slowly turned his head and fixed his blind eyes on the farthest corner of the library.

There existed a deep shadow, swirling and spreading like tar. It seemed to emanate from the wall itself, and Maester Aemon took notice of whispers filling the back of his mind. They spoke in ancient tongues with otherworldly inflections that echoed in every part of the library.

His chapped lips struggled to find his brittle voice. “Who are you?”

Jon stilled and followed his gaze, but he saw nothing more than ordinary darkness. “Maester Aemon?”

A few mumbles crept out of Maester Aemon, each one disjointed and confused. He turned his head back and forth between the stone floor, the nearest bookshelf and Jon. His eyes were lost and searching for something unknown to Jon.

“Oh, never mind,” he said softly, for the whispers had ceased.

Tucked away behind a wood column, on the corner of a table set against the wall, was a rectangular coop. Tufts of hay and wheat laid on the bottom and provided the footing for the assortment of ravens scuttling inside.

Maester Aemon shambled to the coop and peeled open its small door. With both hands, he lifted a raven from the enclosure. The bird went limp in his hold, its head facing downward and its legs sticking out.

He equipped the raven with a leather cylinder on its left leg into which he inserted the scroll. Once the latch on the cylinder was pinched shut, Maester Aemon retreated to allow for the raven to take flight with a flutter of wings.

Jon watched as it glided through the short window at the base of the ceiling, and he wondered why a raven was necessary if a brother was riding to the town. His first thought was the scroll contained additional information that the brother was not privy to learn.

The answer came when he caught sight of the raven flying southeast instead of towards Mole's Town.

Before he could question the destination, Samwell Tarly burst into the library. Sam doubled over and placed a hand over his palpitating heart, breathing as a runner would after a race. “Jon!” he panted, “We're needed at the King's Tower!”

Two pairs of footsteps rushed to the walkway outside the library.

Jon collided with the guardrail and grasped the top of it, leaning forward to get a closer look at the discord unfolding in the courtyard.

Night's Watchmen streamed into the corridors overlooking the main entrance, a group of five rangers rode astride on horses, and the brassy call of a horn sounded over the din of brothers hauling weapons and scaling sentry towers.

As the rangers poured into the stables, Jon looked farther and noticed a circle of brothers marching in tandem with you to the opening doors.

* * *

The chairs of Merman's Court were cushioned with the finest silk. They complemented the long table stretching from the foyer to the throne, which lay decorated with a nautical tablecloth and various plates of pork pies, roasted eels and fried lampreys.

The food, warmed still by the steam of the fires, smelt of spice and gravy. The dead and cooked fish swam in the sauce and drank mouthfuls in a vile parody of life, a life that the oceanic paintings lining the walls and ceiling illustrated in vivid colour.

The guards who watched over the feast resembled the type of warriors one expected to see in a submarine kingdom, for the weapons clutched in their hands were tridents.

Lord Manderly sat in a velvet chair similar to his throne, which he had joked about bringing to the table more than once. The Boltons were seated opposite him, and sitting beside them were Lord Cerwyn and his son Cley.

While Roose met the eyes of each lord, Ramsay turned his gaze downwards and divvied his attention between the various items of food covering his plate. Roose glanced in his direction when Ramsay's hand found its way to the knife.

“Forgive my son's lethargy. He is weary from our travels.”

Lord Manderly drew his eyebrows to his receding hairline and stretched his lips in a royal imitation of surprise. “Is he an old man?” Lord Cerwyn joined his chuckles with bountiful enthusiasm, neither lord acknowledging how Ramsay slowly lifted his head.

Malice radiated from the young Bolton like foul breath from a dog's jaws, but, sensing the gaze of his father, he mustered a polite smile.

Roose waited for the laughter to fade into a pregnant silence before he seized control of the discussion. “Our merchants are reporting that they've been turned away from the gates of White Harbor, some at swordpoint.”

Lord Manderly tore a chunk of bread from the strudel and ate it at a comfortable speed, peering across the feast rather than at Roose. “Aye, you'll have to find somewhere else to dump your subpar goods.”

A screech resounded in the dining hall as Ramsay yanked the blade of his knife a short distance across the wood, and he looked at Lord Manderly without raising his head. “Watch your tongue.”

Lord Manderly stopped chewing and faced the young Bolton's desire to maim him with a combination of surprise and umbrage.

At the stern look of Roose, Ramsay lowered his gaze and resumed carving a furrow into the table.

Lord Cerwyn shared an unsettled glance with his son, turning his eye to Roose when Roose looked away from Ramsay and spoke with far more elegance. “The Boltons have traded with the other Northern houses for years, and I haven't had complaints from House Cerwyn or House Umber.”

The weathered face of Lord Manderly acquired a sombre quality. “Ah, Umber. I heard what happened to Gareth's fifth-born. A right tragedy, that.”

A stillness came over Ramsay, his hand pausing and his eyes refusing to look anywhere but at the plate.

There was no visible change in Roose's demeanour, but he offered no words of sympathy.

Lord Cerwyn picked his tankard off the table and turned to Lord Manderly. “One less Umber. That's a start.” The two men descended into a hearty roar of joy and bumped their cups together, while the Boltons watched in quiet amusement.

When the lords joked and drank without a care for the original discussion, Roose spoke with enough strength to regain their attention but not appear demanding. “As Warden of the North, our trade is essential to Northern commerce.”

Lord Cerwyn, who had been gulping alcohol like a direwolf gorging itself on meat, lowered his cup to the table. With an eye roll, he muttered, “Oh, great. More Bolton furs and flayed skin. Just what this city needs.”

The hiss of a blade rang in the ears of every lord when Ramsay jumped from his seat and slammed the knife through Lord Cerwyn's finger. The bone was just barely visible, peeking out of the skin's edge as blood gushed from the exposed tendon in spurts.

A howl of agony bellowed from Lord Cerwyn, and he clutched his injured hand while reeling in his chair. His legs began to kick the stone floor, distress growing louder and more wild with each surge of pain that lashed his mind and dragged shrieks from him as if his finger were aflame.

As Cley started to shiver and seemed on the verge of tears, he stood with a sharp creak of wood on rock and rushed to help his father.

The corners of Ramsay's mouth twitched in a small release of tension, his pupils dilating at the screams and his hand squeezing the utensil. He did not blink once to sever his view of the desperate eyes and paling skin of Lord Cerwyn.

It was not until he turned to his father with a jerk of his head that he allowed his enthusiasm to wither, for Roose was looking at him with the unforgiving coldness of someone who regretted his son's birth.

Smile dropping, Ramsay attempted to win back his favour. “Father��”

Roose interrupted him with a frigid scowl. “Leave.”

Ramsay faced his father's tranquil rage in momentary shock, as though the man had ordered him to leave the realm instead of the room, his fingers tapping the knife before curling about it. He glanced at various spots on the walls and the table without focusing on any.

Hatred of the glare Roose was sending him and his own failure to meet the man's wishes quickened his breaths, and the young Bolton tore the blade out of the wooden surface.

A thin crater became visible on the table next to the disembodied finger, with jagged chips of wood rising to decorate there.

Ramsay took fervent and aggressive strides to the door and shoved it open. Gales of Northern wind swept into the hall like ice water, lifting his cloak as he stormed outside.

The slam of the door behind him cut the chilling breeze like a sword to the head of a great beast, and the return of the torches' warmth redirected the spotlight to the weakening cries of Lord Cerwyn.

“My wedding finger,” groaned Lord Cerwyn, his neck drooping and his eyes fluttering. “He took my wedding finger!”

The limb sitting on the table was adorned with a gold ring that glittered under the candlelight of the chandelier. Only droplets of blood still leaked from his knuckle, dripping onto the plate and tablecloth.

Cley guided him to his feet and positioned himself under his father's left arm, while Lord Cerwyn scrambled to retrieve his finger and cradled it in his other hand.

Lord Manderly tossed his napkin onto the fresh bloodstain infecting his tablecloth and peered at the man with an irritated side-eye. “Pipe down, Medger. It's not like you were using it for much.”

Lord Cerwyn squirmed in his son's grasp, continuing to whimper and holler as he was hurried to the door. Another gust of wind followed their exit, and Roose shifted to a more comfortable position on his chair and clasped his hands together. “So, the trade routes are to be reopened?”

Lord Manderly cocked his head and seemed to repress a scoff. “The chopped-off finger of a twat won't buy our obedience. Do you expect House Manderly to cower in fear?”

Roose presented a look of callous certainty. “I know you're going to lose more than fingers if another Bolton caravan returns empty-handed.”

This sparked a burst of resentment to twist the mouth of Lord Manderly. “You'd threaten a man in his own home? Need I remind you whose wine you're drinking?”

Crumbs from a pork pie tumbled down his fat chin as he took a greedy bite of one, and Roose eyed the meat pie sitting on Lord Manderly's plate. “Need I remind you who hunted the pigs you're eating, Wyman?”

Lord Manderly stopped his chewing. There was a threatening sort of emphasis placed on his first name, like someone dangling a steak over a hungry dog. The remaining chunk of pork pie hovered in front of his mouth, untouched.

A battle of eye contact came and went between the two lords before Lord Manderly dropped the chunk on his plate.

With a subdued sigh, he looked down and pushed his fork away from his dish. “Aye, you're a tough old codger, Roose.” Roose offered a slight smile at this, and Lord Manderly reclined on his chair. “I'm only doing it 'cause of pressure from the Lannisters.”

The mask of composure slipped from Roose's face for just a moment. “I see.” His eyes widened a bit before narrowing in discontent, looking over the feast once more. “It's a shame that the crown feels such a powerful need to meddle in our friendship.”

A laugh bellowed from Lord Manderly as if he had just been informed that the Dothraki had laid down their arms and become a peace-seeking civilisation.

Roose swung his cloak over his shoulder and left his chair with his mind far away in the depths of planning, but he remembered enough pleasantries to nod at the lord. “Be seeing you.”

When the senior Bolton pushed the door open, the sight of an agitated Ramsay fiddling with the bloody silverware eliminated any satisfaction he had gained from learning a piece of the truth.

The soldiers were all standing at a considerable distance from Ramsay, their eyes darting between him and the snowy land to avoid being noticed.

At the sound of boots crunching snow, Ramsay whirled about with a shudder. “Father, I—”

He was struggling to meet Roose's gaze, but his father walked past him. “Be quiet, Ramsay. Mount your horse.”

Hoofprints littered the snow from where Lord Cerwyn and his son had fled to obtain the services of a maester, their tracks disappearing into the blizzard in the northwestern direction of Castle Cerwyn.

Roose lifted himself onto his steed with minimal difficulty and turned his attention to the frosty water of the White Knife babbling nearby rather than grant his son a second of acknowledgement. “We're going home.”

Ramsay was slow to heed this command, his eyes drifting across the snow and clenching the knife so that it would have snapped if made of anything weaker than metal.

When he curled his lips in a question of whether to speak and squinted to deflect the rays of sunshine peeking over the rolling hills, the clop of hooves leaving the entrance to New Castle broke his concentration.

Roose had spurred his horse to trot in the opposite direction, and Ramsay clambered onto a horse of his own to follow.

The journey back to the Dreadfort was far longer and more tedious than last. The path meandered over hills and winded round rivers like a serpent slithering in the grass, with the overcast sky looking bleakly at the snow-covered ground below.

When Roose dismounted and allowed his horse to be spirited away to the stables, he said nothing. He did not grant Ramsay the briefest glance or quietest mutter, nor did he wait to see him return safely and dismount his own horse.

Listening to the footsteps tailing him grow louder and more erratic, Roose relented and turned with a dreary, if not vaguely sarcastic, frown. “The fault is mine. I thought you could better control yourself.”

Ramsay stopped to look at his father in an inability to process the discomfort preventing his mind from resting, his breaths slowing to allow for clearer thinking.

“You've embarrassed our house and disgraced our family name.” Roose watched as the last shard of restraint broke within his son, and he gave no chance for an apology or protest to grace his ears. Instead, he walked down the hall until his footsteps had quieted into nothing.

Abandoned to brood, Ramsay was no longer comfortable in his skin and found himself overtaken by a restless and inflamed energy.

The guard who stood at the door to the kitchens nearly yelped when a gloved hand clutched his throat and yanked him downwards. The noise was silenced by the pressure constricting his windpipe, and it took all of his training and discipline not to attack or look away from the wild eyes glaring into his own.

“Gather the men.” The order slipped through Ramsay's clenched teeth as a whisper. “Tell them we march tonight.”

He released the guard, only to shove him a moment after the man failed to sprint out of arm's length. “Go!” Ramsay turned in the direction his father had gone as the rapid thuds of steel boots echoed against the stone floors.

* * *

A rush of cold wind burst into the Lord Commander's chambers as the door swung open. The thud of leather boots on wood marked the entry of a panting Night's Watchman, his forehead slick with a layer of snow and a hand resting on his abdomen.

“News from Mole's Town, ser.”

The focus of Alliser's squinting eyes crumpled with dismay, and the Night's Watchman stepped further into the chamber. “Three armed strangers arrived last night—” he took a breath “—together.”

Alliser let his gaze fall upon the scrolls littering his desk, searching for a reason not to assume the worst. “Were they bearing any sigils?”

Despite his limited understanding of the situation, the brother saw his commander's desperate hope and shook his head as if fearing the implications of his answer. “No, ser.”

Alliser was unsure of whether to be relieved or troubled by that fact. The possibility that the strangers were merely bandits or deserters with impeccable timing was one he clung to like a monkey to the last branch, but the paranoia creeping up his spine drove him to rise from his seat. “'Two fortnights', he said. Not forty-eight hours!”

The Night's Watchman looked between Alliser and the door, his feet shifting to the exit and his hand twitching closer to his sword.

A tense silence of unspoken orders and obscenities reigned as Alliser swerved his head back and forth across his desk. “The Boltons have shat on their promise,” he finally declared. “Not that I expected anything less.”

After a moment of deliberation, Alliser waved the brother away. “Ride to the Shadow Tower. Request an audience with Denys Mallister, and tell him we need as many men as he can spare.”

A brisk “yes, ser” flew out the Night's Watchman's mouth. A gust as cold as ice blew his cloak into the air when he opened the door once again, his boots thumping away from the chambers and then descending the stairs.

Another pair of footsteps replaced his and thundered to the door with haste. Alliser jerked his head up in preparation for scolding what he assumed to be the same brother returning in confusion.

The man who greeted him was Jon Snow, and Jon hurried to the desk while looking upon him in a frenzy of bewilderment. “You're having Brother Black escorted from the castle?”

Alliser narrowed his eyes at the name, his lips pressing together and parting into a straight line. “I am.” He gave a swift nod. “They're a fugitive from justice.” The chair squeaked as he rose and collected a scroll lying on the desk, unfolded with a broken red seal.

“Ser,” said Jon, his tone disbelieving. He looked behind himself for a brief moment and then put forward his hand. “Brother Black—”

Alliser spun towards him and yelled, “They're not a brother, Jon! They never trained! They never took the oath.” A moment of silence passed before he began again at a slightly more controlled volume, “They're a runaway scratching at our door.”

Jon took a few seconds to collect his thoughts, and when he pointed a gloved finger at the Wall, Alliser knew his words before Jon uttered them: “They've killed more wildlings in a week than most of these men have in years.”

With a heavy sigh, Alliser shook his head. “The crown issued a royal decree for their return. Would you have me branded a traitor?” He turned back to the desk with an upward swing of his hand, and his voice lowered to a frustrated mutter. “Now we have Bolton spies skittering about in the dark like rats.”

At this, Jon opened his mouth and glanced round the room. “The Bolton army can't march on Castle Black.” He stretched an arm towards the open window as if the army were marching forth at that very moment. “The lords have no jurisdiction here. It's neutral territory!”

Alliser looked over his shoulder to bob his head at Jon. “Tell that to them when they're peeling the skin off your bones.”

* * *

Far outside the Lord Commander's Tower walked a group of four Night's Watchmen, each of whom exchanged a cautious glance with the man beside him. All carried a sheathed blade on their hip as well as a torch to chase the shadows of tall trees away.

The shadow that dragged across the ground at your feet, however, did not fade, no matter how many sources of light were waved over it.

The forest ahead was devoid of singing birds and howling wolves, and the giant trees partially blocked the golden and pinkish rays of midday. Every man slowed his pace and watched the tree line, some expecting to see a Bolton sigil flying and others fearing that a bear was likely to hurl itself at the nearest man.

From behind a thicket hopped a rabbit. The appearance of the small animal elicited a hushed chuckle from the brother on your right. “That'd make a nice feed,” he whispered, nodding his head and waving his torch at it.

The brother on your left turned to him and talked without a care for his volume. “Don't bet your supper on it.”

Long ears twitching and flattening at the noise, the rabbit scurried away into the bushes.

The man who had spoken first cocked his eye at him, and the brother on your left continued: “I caught me one of them hares down in Dorne. Ate the whole thing before the guards came and said it was some lord's pet.” The brother put his hands together, then spread them apart to visualise his meal.

He shrugged as if he could still taste the hare and knew it to be worth the punishment, a slight smile forming on his lips. “Now here I am.” This sliver of a smile fell to a frown, and he shook his head. “It's too bad. I hear Dorne's nice this time of year.”

You peered beyond your shoulder to spy the wooden doors of Castle Black, which were comprised of hefty logs that reached thrice above your line of sight. Somewhere warm, you thought, was an apt place to hide from those who lived in the cold.

Do anything you want with my work, but never make me boring!

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