I was 15 years old.
I loved Ramsay Bolton so much.
I flew the flayed man proudly from my front lawn, owned all 5 books and the first 6 seasons (Let's not sugarcoat it, the 7th was the drizzling shits).
I pray to our Blessed Lord and Saviour Ramsay Bolton every night before bed, thanking Him for safeguarding the sanctity of the North.
"Ramsay is Love," I say, "Ramsay is Life."
My Starkfag brother hears me and calls me a turncloak.
I knew he was blinded by love for the hypocritical, self - righteous do-gooders.
I call him a wildling loving commie craven who should bugger off to the r/freefolk circlejerk.
Triggered, he freaks out and goes to jack off to awful Robb/Jon fanfics, the spineless degenerate.
I decide to punch the clock and hit the sack after saying my prayers.
Sometime later in the night, I feel a soft caressing on my arm.
I wake up and gaze into those beautiful blue-grey eyes, glinting in the light of the full moon.
It's Ramsay!
I am so happy.
He whispers to me, "Do you love me, Reek?"
I respond with enthusiasm, "Yes, of course, m' lord!"
"Good, because I need you to do something for me, something very important."
I spread myself across the bed like a cross, so He may uncover the secrets to my soul, for as we all know, A Naked Man Has Few Secrets, A Flayed Man None.
He pulls out His knife and begins to peel my layers, one by one.
It hurts so much, but I do it for Ramsay.
I can feel my heart bursting, and as my eyes fill with tears of joy I spill out all my secrets, and try to put my hidden jealousy of sweet Lady Sansa to one side.
I want to please Ramsay.
He laughs, a devilish, mischievous laugh, as His knife penetrates to my core.
My brother walks in.
Ramsay looks him straight in the eye and says: "Don't hate the Flayer, Hate the Game."
Ramsay leaves through my window and rides into the night with noble Ser Twenty.
Ramsay is Love, Ramsay is Life.