AN: I'm not really familiar with the characters and all but. Battle of the Bastards with an OC, sister Bolton. Implied incest? Idk.

Sharpened Blades

Surely enough, when Ramsay returned to Winterfell, he looked a bit mad. The battle was inevitable, as the Bastard Jon Snow had not surrendered when he asked him to. The sound of the door opening reached his ears, but he paid no heed.

"Ah, I heard Jon Snow threatened you in the battlefield."

"His words mean nothing to me," he answered, eyes flicking to his sister. She was wearing a dull blue dress and he would have scolded her for dressing in such plain old rags when she was his sister and his sister should be seen above all others. But Ramsay knew her well, so well that the dress was worn intentionally, to not attract the attention she didn't need. As he had affinity to torture and killing the innocents, she was a part of the wall. A Mistress of Disguise, he had whispered in her ear. The most brilliant of the Actresses. She loved being able to change into different people, as now her disguise was a prisoner of Lord Bolton. Their late father Roose, well, he had noticed her decline to flay and battle, as any woman would be. But he had seen the same crazed look on her face when she had manipulated people into believing she was a prisoner, when Sansa discovered her to be Roose's legitimate daughter, apparently captured, imprisoned and raped by the horrible Ramsay. Ramsay doesn't know what the entire picture his sister was trying to create, but he knew that somehow, all of her disguises are interconnected-weaved into a large painting that would bring pride to their House.

"Your words will disappear."

Ramsay was drowning in his own blood, but the words she had spoken made him open his mouth in laughter.

"Your house will disappear. Your name will disappear."
He eyed the hounds, surely, they were hungry, and he will die feeling their teeth dig into his skin. But he smiled at Sansa, tilting his head a little. "Will it?"

"That Stark bitch would have sent the Littlefinger a letter for help."

Ramsay eyed her, amused by how irritated she was at him not paying close attention to her words. "I'm sure no help will come."
She laughed at him, "I'm sure a young simpleton like her would be desperate to add the Arryn numbers to their flanks. She knows they will lose even with their Lord Commander." She spat out the Bastard's title in distaste. "I know how she works, Ramsay. A young woman like her knows nothing of battle and diplomacy, and will wish nothing more than to win. As she is afraid of you, she will do whatever it takes to not come back here alive."

"So what do we do?"

She shrugged. "We lose. You will die, Ramsay."

And as usual, she had been right. He eyed the charging cavalry, decimating their own. He felt her hands dig around his hips, she had been unmoving the entire time, pretending to look frail and sickly. If the Stark bitch had seen her, she would have seen a sister prisoner of Lord Bolton, who was forced to watch as the Stark cavalry be reduced to nothing. He turned his head to the side, "You must leave."

"The Walls of Winterfell will not save you," she gritted her teeth. "We will die there. Be fed to your hungry hounds."

"No," he shook his head, and they turned around, back to Winterfell. "You will be spared."

She nodded and forced her brother to chain her somewhere so that she could be seen, but not wounded by the arrows and the forthcoming battle.

Ramsay placed a kiss to her lips, remembering all the time she had been there to help. Always for their House. Always the brother and sister.

Sansa had tended to her after she had left Ramsay for dead in the dungeons. She, still, honestly believed the sister prisoner to have been hurt and raped and starved. The Bolton sister however, forcefully inflicted scrapes and wounds all over her body as she cried in apparent relief to the news of Ramsay's death. She had begged for Jon Snow and Sansa for her life, promising to serve them for the remaining of her days. Sansa refused, as she had not been responsible for anything her horrid brother has done, she said. She was invited to stay in Winterfell as Sansa's ward, and friend.

Later that night, she had ventured to the dungeons. She had ignored the growling of the hounds and smiled. No, the House Bolton will not disappear. She will strike the Starks to the ground. Would she use poison? Never. She never found poison a eloquent means of death. The Hounds, maybe? Or, in honor of her beloved brother, an arrow to everyone's heads. Then flayed and burned outside Winterfell as she stands there proudly. But no, she thought, grinning widely. She will use Ramsay's knife. And she will feel their mouths gasp for breath and their blood soak their chests. After all, their blades are sharp.