Ramsey Bolton had held Winterfell for the best part of two long, cruel years. Many faces had come and gone - many lives had been bought, broken and bent under his hand. The Stark's had reclaimed their lovely sister through a battle hardwon and left the menace of Winterfell to lick his wounds and curse the lives of the misfortunate left amongst the fall out. Guard's and loyal servants manned the walls and doors day and night. No path safe to turn to - never an escape from his temper as it seared across the castle grounds in search of a target.
The trick that no man or woman seemed to learn was Ramsey was much like a predator in every sense of the word, and to be treated as one at all times. Fear to Ramsey was what blood was to a shark, I had seen him first hand sniff out the most fragile in the room; engage the same prey drive as the hounds that ran for miles after a single hare under his command and I had been pinned beneath his burning body as he became as feral as the Dothraki tribes that only hardened soldiers spun stories about. I had stared into the eyes of a man that no longer resembled a man. There was no humanity left in that steel stare; no voice to reason with; no whisper of hope or forgiveness - only the remains of what he could of been and never will be.
Perhaps this understanding and acceptance of what my Lord is was the reason I had survived these past two years. Perhaps that is why he had not taken me in chains to the woods and set the hounds on me, perhaps he had grown fond of my spirit, or perhaps he was saving me for something far worse than the whores he grew bored of so easily. It would do me no good to fret over such things, if I thought about all the ways Ramsey might eventually kill me I would be a wreck. Which as specified above, is a sure fire way to get yourself slaughtered. The weak are always first to die.
I am not Ramsey's whore, pet or plaything - I am all these things and more. I knew that being subjected to all of these things instead of just the one meant for a longer lifespan on his shelf of toys, and yet somehow I still felt the outrage of injustice creep up my spine when others got so little of his time and attention. Dead or not. The fact I had not begged for my own death after a beating or submitted to this life with the same attitude as those soulless, grey eyed slaves in the cellars meant I did not end up with the rest of them. I were allowed to stay at Ramsey's bedside even when the likes of a new whore arrived for a week or so. I were always allowed to eat next to his table at meal times, not forced into the kennels with some other unfortunates to become dinner. And I was always guest of honour when an execution were to take place; when the expiry date ran out on an old plaything, or a former slave was too bloody and broken to scream loud enough anymore.
Ghost is what he had named me. For that was all that would remain of me when he grew tired of my body, voice and mind. I often felt that the new name was quite fitting, I was silent for many days sometimes, only ever watching him play his games with the innocent lives of others. I had learnt to hide in his shadow when he were busy under council of his Father and the Maesters. At first, it escaped no ones notice that I still had my head after what they called Ramsey's honeymoon period, but when they had asked him why he kept my heart beating - the Lord had forced me to my knees, cupped my cheeks, and ordered them to look at me for longer than anyone deemed necessary. When the room fell silent and my cheeks began to bruise, Ramsey began to speak. "She fears me, and yet she does not cry or beg for my mercy. She could kill me, and yet she does not plot to end my life to spare her own torturous existence. She could love me, and yet she does not choose to see my hatred for a twisted romance. Why?" The weight of that question seemed to ring out into the great halls of Winterfell as the men before him exchanged curious expressions.
After a heavy silence stretched out across the table, Ramsey dragged my uncooperative body between his legs and let go of my face. "Because she is truly mine, my Lords." I remember looking up to him in that moment and thinking that he would snap my neck. Instead he simply stared at me, his expression shifting every so often into something I couldn't quite place. It was no look of endearment. It was a look that I still believe will accompany my death. If death ever does come for me.
It were past midnight when the raven arrived at his window - the poor thing had barely made the journey it seemed. It's feathers were so bent and brittle I'm surprised it managed to take flight again after it's obvious attack. I padded over to the window and offered the tired bird an arm to rest on. It took it gratefully and I took the chance to remove the parchment from beneath it's breast. I would not dare read it. It were not my place to open my Lord's letters and I had never been foolish enough to believe otherwise. Ramsey snored softly from the pile of blankets and goose feather pillows that he had claimed as his bed, tucked away amidst it all like a thorn wrapped in a rose petal. He slept soundly, never fearing that I would unsheathe his nearby sword and drive it through him. I wouldn't. He knew it. I knew it. I just didn't know why I couldn't kill him. He deserved it more than any man or woman I had ever met, yet I could not be the one to do it myself - even if I did wish it upon him sometimes. However, I truly did not want to wake him - if I had my way I would of sat with the injured bird until the early hours and feigned ignorance to it's arrival. However, the bird did not look like it would make it to the morning, and if the letter were important enough to distract him for long enough, I could even find it some milk of the poppy to ease it's final few hours. So I swallowed my nerves.
"My lord, a raven has arrived for you."
A small stir at first, and then a whoosh of air as the covers began to be thrown this way and that as Ramsey found his way to the surface of the bed. Eventually sleep tousled hair found it's way into the light and the Lord was facing me, as unamused as ever. "And you decided this were important enough to wake me?" His voice was as tight as the string of a bow, dripping with venom and begging me to give him a reason to release the arrow.
"The seal is from the Night's Watch, my Lord."
Ramsey rose from the bed, naked as a babe and hung like a man as he stood before me. I held his gaze and offered him the letter with a false courage that always arrived when he leered over me. "Thank you for deciding that a letter from the bastard that shamed me in front of my own people was a fairly just cause to wake me after a full days ride, you selfish whore." A hand struck out and knocked me three steps back. Meanwhile his face remained taut - Ramsey was not truly angry with me. This was child's play. I swallowed back the bile in my throat and gently touched my cheek, choosing to look at the rather startled raven that had returned to the window ledge. Jump. I thought bitterly. Save yourself.
"You know, you always have been the perfect outlet for my failures." The young lord took two steps forward. I matched him with two steps back, bumping against the slated brickwork behind me. The chill that ran up my spine sobered my thoughts and chased away some of the fear that had lodged itself there. "Don't struggle." He whispered, so gently his voice could have lulled me into a false sense of security had I not known better. A single hand wrapped around my neck, lifting me with no more struggle than he would raising a glass to toast. I would not panic. Another step closer, his body pressing flat against my own, forcing the last of the air from my lungs as he took a deep breath in the crook of my neck. I would not panic. White spots and flashes seared across my vision as he held me there, the blood seeming to rush to my head in hopes of saving my brain with the oxygen it lacked. I would not panic. Black crept in from all sides, tunneling my vision until all that was left was him. Lips parted in awe as he watched the life drain from my body; eyes alight with a fire that only this kind of power could spark. I would not panic."If you are unconscious for this, I promise you'll wake up with more than a bruise on that pretty face of yours." With that I felt my body launch from the wall to the bed, the impact of the landing jarring me into consciousness once more. I savored every lungful of air I could suck in and waited for the onslaught. I did not cry, or beg or plead with him. It would only excite him further. Two strong hands jostled me into position and I let the terror wash over me in cold, calming waves - my body and mind going utterly numb as he took me in his bed. I believe he hit me then, because the world went dark and the cold rolled over me until I was lost in a dreamless slumber that I did not wish to wake from.
"You really should start to aim for a part of her body that is covered by the rags you keep her in, my Lord." The maester tutted, wearily inspecting my beaten body - dubious eyes roaming the skin from head to toe. I could feel a split over my lip and another, deeper gash slicing across my eyebrow. Grazes covered my elbows and knees; bruises marred the already discolored skin - each one turning shades of purple, black and blue. All telling a story of the horror that was the night before. No different from the horrors before them. No different from the horrors to come.
"Is this why she does not fall with a babe, Maester? Or is she as broken on the inside as she appears on the out." Ramsey sneered at his own commentary, eyes still fixated on the blade that he sharpened in his hand.
"No, my lord. I believe she could fall with a babe. In fact I believe she already has - several times. It's the..." the maester seemed to pause, struggling for the right words to not upset the king of the castle, "stress that her body undergoes. She is not strong enough to bear a child." As I listened carefully to the Maester's words I seemed to forget myself - as a fine needle poked between the open wound on my face and a soft whimper escaped my lips.
I think that was the first time the Maester had ever heard a noise come from the tiny figure that he bandaged up so frequently throughout the years. It stopped him mid motion, his hands steadying, becoming gentler than they had before.
Ramsey rolled his eyes and pointed the blade at me in an unspoken warning, eyes straying lower and lower as he let the blade twirl between his fingertips. Hunger stirred in his gaze and I wrapped an arm around my frame, fingertips brushing broken ribs and tender skin as they rested around my waist. Silence swallowed me whole once more and I allowed the maester to continue the tedious job of fixing an already broken thing.
After the quick fix with the Maester before breakfast, Ramsey's day was overrun with duty and business alike - all due to a particular letter sent personally from Jon Snow, the bastard himself. He demanded a meeting with my Lord and his people. He did not wish to reclaim Winterfell - only to make peace with the house closest to the Wall before the wars that promised to come. He did not want another battle, even going as far to give his personal condolences to the men lost on the battlefield that day. Both Ramsey's and his own. He asked for an allegiance between the two of them. He knew he could not take Winterfell through brute force and explained that he would rather talk, trade and swear oaths before the gods to honour the Bolton's as new bannermen to the cause he was fighting. That cause being the Queen and all of the Lannister army. Oh, and the army of Whitewalkers.
As the day progressed and Ramsey attended meeting after meeting with his council, I began to paint a picture of the demands and heavy risks that came with such a letter from the current King in the North. Many advisor warned Ramsey of a trap - an ambush from this alleged King and his newfound army of wildlings and bandits. Others, (mainly the remains of the Stark servants,) protested that Jon was honest and true; a good man that would make a good ally. All of these speakers were dead now. And others said the young man must have been taken by a fever and spewed more dribble than the sick and dying at the Citadel Cellars. Whitewalkers were talk of old dears caught up in mythology and folklore, after all.
So Jon Snow's line of defense was gone and Winterfell's council were only left with self doubt and paranoia as Ramsey swallowed back any and all pride that he had salvaged after the battle lost to the bastard in the previous months. From what I could tell - allowing Jon Snow to return to Winterfell with a handful of his guards was no great risk. However, allowing themselves to become comfortable in the bastards company would be foolish. Ramsey had beat and raped the bastards sister; overthrew the last of his people; took his home and sent a flaming arrow through the heart of the youngest Stark all for the sake of bloodsport. Jon Snow had gained some powerful allies, which was all the more reason to make peace with him while they had the chance - but it was the age old question of whether the undecided enemy truly wanted to make peace? How could he? Why would he? It were these questions that had the council up in arms. That and the talk of Whitewalkers. A greater threat than Jon Snow or any powerful enemy could ever pose; even behind the towering walls of Winterfell.
It took hours to come to a decision about what to do about Jon Snow's proposition. The great hall grew colder by the second; the hard, cold floor that I knelt on seemed to crack and become more jagged underneath me and small cuts and sores had begun etching themselves into my knees. Still I sat quietly beside Ramsey at his table while he argued, cursed and killed alike - all the while coming to a decision on what to do about the King in the North. He knew the bastard wouldn't kill him behind these four walls - he knew the bastard would kill him if he left them. So a meeting over supper to discuss a peace treaty - what was there to lose?
It was done. All the uproar and stress Ramsey ended the meeting as suddenly as it had begun, telling the Maester to send a fresh raven back to the Wall inviting Jon Snow and no more than 10 of his men to Winterfell. If the bastard could not meet that single demand, they would ready themselves for battle once more. The maester suggested some talk of peace and forgiveness, but Ramsey was already throwing a gown over his shoulders and preparing to leave. A sharp word cut any more conversation about the matter short, the room falling silent for the first time in what felt like forever.
That night I watched Ramsey fuck and kill a whore in the bed we shared. I thanked the God's he had not chosen to take out all that rage on me. I think she had been a scullery maid - not that she had the body of a whore, anyway. Too plump for those that demanded money for their sex. I did not pity the girl. I didn't have it in me to pity his victims any more. I saved my strength for my own self loathing after a hard night.
Ramsey's body was sleek with sweat and as warm as the coals on a fire as he pressed himself against my back. I did not arch away from him as I used to - it was easier to lie here and steal his bodyheat than it was to fight him away from me.
"Do you think Jon Snow will kill me, Ghost?" A murmur in my ear, soft enough to know that the Lord was already near slumber.
"I think Jon Snow would like to kill you, my Lord." I answered honestly and was rewarded with a soft grumble into the crook of my neck. Ramsey may be insufferable, but he did not need to be mollycoddled into thinking the world and it's inhabitants loved him. In fact, I think the only thing he had ever craved from people was fear. Fear and something one step further than respect. Loyalty. Worship. Deference.
"Would you like Jon Snow to kill me?"
The question was a trap. I knew that. I also didn't know the answer to it. Yes. No. It was pointless fretting over which I wanted. It wouldn't happen and if it did I had more to worry about than whether I was glad it did. "I don't know what I'd do if someone killed you, my Lord." It was not a lie.
"That's not an answer." An irritated huff puffed out against the hairs on my neck and I felt his grip tighten. "But I suppose it rings true. What would you be if not for me? A starving whore on the edge of the Kingsroad, just as beaten and broken as when I found you." He mused.
"You were not loved. You were not owned. You belonged to nobody and yet you still remained a slave to the men of this world. If not for me, you would of been torn apart by a pack of wolves or a pack of men. Raped and murdered in the cess pit you called a home. You are lucky to be mine. I am nothing if not your savior, little Ghost."
The cruel words danced across my neck and seeped deep under skin, biting in to the flesh there and repeating themselves in the back of my mind even after he grew silent in the darkness behind me. I knew what he said was true. Gods, I had lived under his hand for so long I think I would be too frightened to step out from his shadow even if I could. I was nothing but a shell of a person. A ghost. That was all that would be left of me after he grew tired of my body, soul and mind.
I don't remember the last time I cried. I thought my tears had dried up long ago. I should imagine it was most likely on a night much like this one - beaten and finally broken by words whispered in an ear and cutting the last of my resolve. Yet, somehow, the words wrung out what had to be the last of my sadness. I didn't make a sound. Ramsey did not move to wipe my eyes, though I knew he could feel the silent, shallow sobs that rocked my body, a body that felt all the smaller cradled in his own. Had I been a fool I would of told myself he was holding me in an attempt to console my sadness. Perhaps I would of found comfort in the faux embrace - but I did not need a candle to know that Ramsey only smiled down at me. I don't know how long he left me there in his arms, weeping into the pillows and cursing myself silently for breaking down like some gutter whore for him. It did not last though. Eventually a hand gripped the back of my neck and I was forced into the bed beneath us. I couldn't let the cold wash over me in time. I couldn't black out and pretend to be numb. I felt every second of Ramsey's assault and he knew. I would only ever know this life. I would live and die with this man as my God - and as he climbed off of me and rolled into the comforts of the blankets; as the tears dried on my skin and stains streaked my cheeks; and as he let out the most content of sighs into the cold night air; I knew. I had been waiting in fear for so long for Death to come for me, yet it never would - for death was not the worst thing to happen to you.