The Flayed Man Sings
Roose Bolton
The babe's cries were as sharp as steel, piercing through the cold of the Dreadfort.
Roose Bolton was nothing if not calculative. He knew the chances of the boy he held in his hands being of his blood were very slim, and his 'cousin' Ameria Bolton most likely didn't exist at all.
But his eyes. The grey, almost colorless eyes were what made him hesitate to throw the babe over the ramparts or feed him to the hounds. It was true that many northern men had eyes of grey, but this attraction he felt, he was sure that the infant had the eyes of a Bolton. And the child was his to do with as he pleased.
Mine.
"Mine." He would raise this child, along with his two sons Domeric and Ramsay, and they would bring Westeros to its knees.
Ramsay Snow
"Father..." The words felt weird, almost alien to him.
"If you feel that you are unable to follow your brothers, then you may quit. But no son of mine will live long without knowledge of our history."
"Domeric has been groomed for lordship since birth, Ceran is a prodigy. How am I to compete with them?"
"The Lannisters of Casterly Rock are as rich as their mines can yield, the Tyrells of Highgarden have coffers filled to the brim for all their fields reap. Nothing in life is fair, boy. If we are to gain anything in this world, we need to be able to take it. You must be ruthless. You must always be seven steps ahead. Weakness cannot be tolerated, but stupidity even less so. Yes, Domeric will someday take my place as Lord of the Dreadfort, and Ceran is brilliant in his own way. But does that mean that you can't even try?" Roose Bolton said. in his quiet yet dominating voice.
The Lord's Decree. Ramsay thought, bitterly.
It had been 14 years since Ramsay's mother, a miller, gave him to Roose Bolton. Since then, he had been raised alongside his older brothers Domeric Bolton, and Ceran Snow. He couldn't recall much of his mother, a trait that he shared with his brothers. Domeric was the son of Lady Bethany Ryswell, and could hear of her from the few servants that remembered her. He could play the harp quite well, which was something that Lady Ryswell was known for.
The reason why Lord Bolton loved her.
Ramsay himself was born, not from any form of love but from the lust of the Lord of Dreadfort.
Lust. No no, it would be better to call it spite. Or even rage. Roose Bolton never feels lust, or even love.
Well, except for that Lady Ryswell. He loved her. It was well known that Lord Bolton loved his wife very much. Before she died, of course.
"Are you listening to me?" said Roose.
"Yes, my lord. I apologize for my insolence."
Bolton looked unimpressed, but nodded. A signal that he no longer required his presence. With a bow, Ramsay left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.
"I see that the Bastard of Bolton has been beaten by his own daddy?" A voice from behind said.
Ramsay turned around, and was met with a sudden kiss from his love and 'betrothed', Myranda. The kennelmaster's daughter, a servant girl and Ramsay's favorite bedwarmer. With him being a bastard, he had often contemplated on what it would be like to marry her, something of which she herself was quite looking forward to.
"Shut up, you know I could have you flayed for that."
"Oh but you'd never flay me. We both know that you're too in love with me to do so." She laughed, pressing his head against her chest.
"Don't tempt me. I'm sure that... I'd have quite an interesting time cutting you, especially here." He bit down on her right breast, hard but not enough to draw blood.
She squealed, swatting his shoulder and pushing him away. Ramsay laughed, a cold cackle echoing throughout the hall.
It was another minute of playful wrestling between them before she spoke again. "What is he planning for your future?"
"I'll likely be forced to either join the Night's Watch or perhaps marry some minor lord's bastard daughter. Bah, I'll fuck her bloody and give her to the hounds." he said.
"You can't solve everything with feeding people to your hounds. My father is having trouble sleeping thanks to the snacks you give the beasts."
"Your father can go feed himself to the dogs before I let him hurt them." he growled.
"I'm tempted to do so myself." she whispered into his ear.
"Oh, and that's why I love you." They kissed, tongues wrestling for domination. But Ramsay would win, as he always had.
Myranda may be his lover, but it was never wise to make him angry. And Ramsay was always angry, unless he won.
Ceran Snow
"Oh, and that's why I love you." the voice of his half-brother Ramsay and a woman just outside the door of Lord Bolton's solar didn't surprise Ceran in the slightest. Though Ramsay knew the risks he was taking, bringing the kennelmaster's daughter into his bed, he would never stop. Frankly, it irritated Ceran, for he had the displeasure of being in the next room whenever Ramsay and Myranda were having their sessions.
Ceran took in a deep breathe, and turned the corner. The sight of the two lovers in each other's arms, fiercely having at each other's mouths caused him to swear.
Not that Myranda wasn't a comely woman. More than once, Ceran caught himself thinking about her.
But she's half mad. More so when she's with Ramsay.
"Oi, you mind?", Ceran barked.
He sent them off with a few choice words, and stopped in front of the door. After checking to see that nobody was behind him, he knocked 3 times in a way Lord Bolton would recognize.
"Come in."
Ceran opened the door, and bowed before the Lord of the Dreadfort. "My lord."
Roose sighed, and motioned for Ceran to sit in one of the ash wood chairs. "Domeric and Ramsay were both absent for Maester Tybald's lesson on poisons. Domeric was found with his harp, playing for the wenches in town. Ramsay was in the kennels, playing with his dogs.", he said sourly.
"My apologies, my lord. I shall make sure that my brothers attend their lessons faithfully."
"I'd be more like to believe you if you told me you'd raise Rhaegar Targaryen from the dead. No, I can't ask that of you.", Roose grumbled.
Ceran bit his lip. "What is your bidding, my lord?"
Roose stared at his bastard son, before bending slowly to retrieve a jumble of documents from a lower drawer. "For this."
He tossed on to the desk, what looked to be... legitimization papers?
"Yes, these are what you think them to be. I had them signed by King Robert- or rather his Hand, Jon Arryn."
It was then Ceran noticed a crucial detail. There was only one set of papers. Only one of the Bolton bastards was to be legitimized. "Which one of us is it?"
Roose almost looked amused at Ceran's question, his face seemingly goading him to make a presumption.
"Is it me?"
For a minute, Ceran could see a look of hesitation on Roose's face before he slowly shook his head. "No, they are not."
Ceran's heart sank.
For years, he had done everything to make sure that he never displeased his father, always with a heart filled with the hope that he would one day be legitimized as a true son of Roose Bolton, to one day stand as tall as Domeric stood in the castle. And here he was, being denied an opportunity that would be given to his rather unworthy brother.
"I- I see. My lord, I respect your decision and hope that Ramsay makes you a proud father." Ceran bowed.
Just then, an unexpected, almost unfamiliar sound rang throughout the solar, the sound of Roose Bolton's laughter. At the look of confusion on Ceran's face, Roose quickly bent down to retrieve another set of documents, this one bigger in size and with the Kings Seal on more than one page.
"And you would think that there was nothing else I would have for you." Roose unwrapped the think cord before passing the documents over to Ceran. "Read it, boy."
Ceran picked up the topmost page, and began to read it aloud.
In the name of King Robert, First of His Name. King of the Andals and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.
I, Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, announce the birth of another House of nobility, vassal of Bolton and sworn to service of the crown.
Ceran, natural son of Lord Roose Bolton, shall take up the sigil of his choosing, shall have the abandoned castle of Necem's Hold as his seat.
May the Seven give him wisdom and justice for his people.
-Jon Arryn of the Vale, Hand of the King
A/N: I'd appreciate any feedback anyone would have for me through a review. This story will (hopefully) be updated more frequently than "House Dihorn" with longer chapters. Thanks!
~SteelAndSnow