This is a combined effort between myself (who will be playing Ramsay Bolton and Samwell Tarley (alongside other characters we have yet to work into the story) and my lovely co-writer, Blaiser (who will be representing the depictions of Jon Snow, Ser Alliser Thorne, and Jeor Mormont as well as miscellaneous characters yet to be announced.)
This story is an alternate path diverging around the end of S3 of Game of Thrones. The premise will be based off the show, but elements of book history will be sprinkled into the mix. This is a what if story where Roose decides to cast Ramsay out and send him packing to the Wall. What happens there won't be pretty! (WARNINGS! This fic is going to go dark places with themes of rape and other nasty things that the faint of heart may wish to avoid! Karma is a bitch, and it's time Ramsay pays the piper *evil grin*)
Chapter One
Breaking the Ice
The frigid wind pierced through the layers of fur blankets Ramsay wore tightly wrapped about his person. He was swathed from head to toe hiding his slight form from view as his hooded head lulled from side to side following the sway of his horse's labored gait. He felt numb both inside and out where the once white-hot embers of embittered rage had smoldered to the contemplation of his life's misfortunes. Three and a half weeks of plodding towards his ultimate destination, the Wall, had taken much of the seething hatred Ramsay had initially felt to settle into the pit of his stomach lurching about like a flopping fish on dry land.
It was a show of politics his father had chosen as the stage to cut him completely from the Bolton legacy. The chamber had encompassed the judgmental faces of Weserosi lords and ladies awaiting restitution when Ramsay had strutted into the proceedings unaware of the reasoning for the call but recalling it odd that his father had held out a hand to halt him from rounding the table to sit beside him. It hadn't taken long for the dawning realization to creep in though as Roose proclaimed to all those watching that he was a just man who had heard their outcry. Ramsay was a bastard, but he was his kin, and would not be put to death for the charges levied against him. Instead, Roose had deferred that Ramsay be sent to the Wall as an alternative.
Ramsay had been stunned silent momentarily before unleashing a torrent of curses as soldiers moved in to flank and bodily remove him from the hall. Apparently Roose had already anticipated Ramsay's resistance having him manacled and placed upon a horse ready to ride him to his new destination. He had fought, but that only ended with a severe beating that left Ramsay curled in on himself gasping for air before being tossed back atop his steed to begin the long journey northward.
He hadn't resisted them again sensing that these men were itching for a reason to cut him down. No, it was better to quietly stew about the many ways that he would make them suffer when he returned. He wasn't meant for a place like the Wall, and once he was able to seize the opportunity, all those that stood against him he would see scream a symphony of pleas for mercy. Ramsay clung to the vestiges of his anger for some time, but the further north they travelled, the more his hope dwindled that the actuality of revenge was slim to none.
"Another damned bastard!" Ser Alliser almost spat out the words in contempt as he came storming out of his chambers, down the stairs and into the courtyard. He looked around as if searching for someone in particular, then rushed across the yard heading straight for Jon who was kneeling near the castle's southern gate next to a Clydesdale mare cleaning her hooves out with a pick.
"Just what we need; more fodder for the wildlings. When are they going to send us some real men instead of worthless whore's spawn!?" He came to a halt in front of Jon. Unaffected by the fact that the recipient of his insult knelt right before him. The older knight glared down into Jon's face with deep set eyes narrowed almost to slits, "Snow! Get up on that wall and keep a lookout; we're expecting company soon. Move your arse!"
He turned on his heel and started to walk away from Jon, but soon stopped and turned around again as if he had forgotten something important, "Roose Bolton's bastard is here to take the pledge," he stated as a smug smile crept on his face and into his voice, "Wasn't Lord Bolton with Robb Stark at the Twins, heh?"
Jon's eyes grew wide at the mention of his brother's murderer. Granting him no response, he lowered his head and bit his lip trying to hide the depth of his sorrow from the sharp gaze of his superior.
Ser Alliser's eyes sparkled gleefully, his lips curled in a satisfied smile to watch Jon's struggle, "Did you not hear me, boy?" he sneered pointing up at the southern wall as if Jon had forgotten where it was, "I said: Move your arse!"
On top of the wall, the wind blew cold and strong burning his cheeks to scarlet. Jon pulled his cloak tighter around him and breathed into his hands. Off in the distance he could make out the small Bolton delegation; a tiny black dot fighting its way against the headwind along the King's Road, past Moles Town's soiled and ragged outskirts, heading towards Castle Black. As the dot grew larger he was able to distinguish the riders from one another – seven in all, dressed in dark garments, flying high the flapping banner of the flayed man. Six riders rode forward in two columns flanking a smaller, cloaked figure in such an obtrusive manner it almost appeared as if they were escorting him to the gallows, and not to join the Night's Watch.
Although Jon had never met the man, he knew who he was just like he knew the name of almost every other son or daughter of Ned Stark's former allied Lords. Ramsay Snow, the only known bastard child of Roose Bolton, the turncloak, who had betrayed Robb at the Red Wedding to gain favor with the Lannisters. Jon had heard the rumors about Robb's death; that the Frey's had sewn the head of his dire wolf, Grey Wind, onto his corpse and paraded it around the keep. Like a jest. The thought made a lump form in Jon's throat but he swallowed it away.
Ramsay was a bastard like himself, and not responsible for the crimes of his father. Roose was a traitor and a murderer, but his son had, as far as Jon knew, not participated in the wedding and was therefore without blame (in that regard at least). Why Ramsay had been sent to the wall, Jon did not know nor did he care. What a man's crimes had been before he joined the brotherhood, mattered none once he had taken the pledge. Murderers, Thieves, Rapists. Bastards. They all wore the same colour, black. They all swore the same oath.
A series of neighs and strained whinnies filled the air as the Bolton delegation neared the southern gate. Jon bent over the railing and eyed two of his brothers, Grenn and Pyp, busy shoeing horses below him. "You two!" Help me open the gates!" he yelled and hurried down the staircase to greet the new arrivals.
Ramsay was born to a peasant miller's widow making him no stranger to dealing with the cold of Westeros winters. But here, in this forsaken tundra, the bite of it clung to his limbs and face like a savage starving beast. Having endured weeks of increasing cold on their journey north, Ramsay was almost relieved to see the dreary fort's outline against the harsh backdrop of snow and freezing winds.
His gaze found itself drawn to the high rising wall of ice spreading out as far as the eye could see taking in its wonder despite the malice that roiled inside him to remain dour. Ramsay had heard stories about the Wall and had observed art depictions of its grandeur; who hadn't? But to actually see it... well, that was something else to take in entirely. The awe of such a spectacle though had faded in the several hours' ride it took to reach the castle, and by the time the Bolton ensemble was trotting up to the opening gates, Ramsay's face had once more resumed the sour scowl that he'd worn for the majority of his forced trip across the countryside.
He hadn't seen Jon shouting atop the bullwark, but his voice had resonated through the blast of wind that threatened to knock Ramsay from his horse. Ramsay had shot a disdainful glare skyward, but there had been no one there to receive it. This only festered a new wave of frustration to crop within Ramsay as the thick wooden doors spread open to accept its new visitors. Ramsay straightened uncomfortably. He may be a bastard, but he was still of noble lineage and those that perceived him now would know his station in the stance he presented himself in. After all, first appearances were everything were they not?
The heavy iron gates opened with a loud groan to receive the exhausted, windblown horsemen who came trotting in like sheep into a pen. Having barely made it inside the gates, the front soldier, a tall man with coal black eyes that matched his hair, jumped off his horse and walked up to Jon. "The bastard, Ramsay Snow, is here to join your ranks," he surveyed the courtyard before glancing back at Jon, "Where is Lord Commander Mormont? I bear a message from Lord Bolton."
"The Lord Commander is currently held up at The Shadow Tower, west of here," Jon explained, "We expect him back within the end of week. Ser Alliser Thorne is first Ranger and acting Lord Commander in his absence." He looked over the soldier's shoulder at the new arrival. Roose Bolton's offspring was a slender, pale-skinned youth around Jon's own age, square faced, with large, observant grey eyes made smaller by his angry squint and rich dark-brown hair that fell over his forehead in thick tousled locks.
How little he resembles his father, Jon thought and gave Ramsay a small smile, which he returned by straightening his back and thrusting his chin upward like an arrogant rooster taking stock of its coop. Jon held his gaze for a few seconds before shifting his eyes back to the soldier in front of him.
Jon was just about to propose that he fetch Ser Alliser himself when the knight suddenly appeared at the opposite end of the courtyard. Noticing the small cluster of men, he began walking towards them wearing his usual expression of irritation and impatience. "So... House Bolton finally decides to send us its men instead of flaying them." He came to a halt next to Jon, "How very generous of you! It's about time you provided your share."
The dark-haired soldier ignored the provocation holding out his hand, in it was a small scroll, "A message from Lord Bolton." With one quick move Ser Alliser snatched the scroll from his hand and unfolded it. After having read the message in perturbed silence, he folded the paper back up and handed it to the soldier, "Tell Lord Bolton he has no say here. There will be no special treatment for bastards at Castle Black," he sneered whipping his head around to face Jon, "Any bastard." The soldier was just about to open his mouth to speak when Ser Alliser turned away with a loud snort, "Snow! Get your new friend situated, and report for sword practice in the morning."
Throughout the exchange shared between the men of the watch and his father's emissary, Ramsay's mood darkened considerably. Who was this man to question a missive sent not only by a lord, but the now highest-ranking lord in the North? He was in no way feeling amiable to the man that had thrown him away, but obviously his father had at least intended he get some accommodations from the remarks the crotchety miser advised to send back as a dismissal. That simply wasn't going to do.
Ramsay's gloved fists tightened pulling the manacle chains binding his wrists taught with his building rage. He imagined wrapping those steel ringlets around the geriatric knight's throat and cinching the life out of him. The thought of the man asphyxiating with a fearful bug-eyed stare brought about a smug smile to cross Ramsay's countenance. He guffawed out a humorless laugh and a sidelong snarl at Jon as the recruit moved forward to follow the old bird's direction. Ignoring Jon completely, Ramsay directed his narrowed sights back at Ser Alliser's retreating back growling condescendingly, "I know that word doesn't travel well around this desolate waste land, but surely you realize that you are not just insulting a lord's wishes but the newly appointed warden of the North? Do you really think he'll take your refusal well?"
Ser Alliser stopped dead in his tracks and turned around slowly, his face stiff with disbelief. For a moment he stood completely still as if Ramsay's words left him frozen to the spot. Then he walked up to the younger man's horse and grabbed its halter, "You forget your place, boy." Ser Alliser's voice was heavy with venom, his eyes narrowing into two angry slits, "You think I care about who your father is… you've got another thing coming!" With those words he grabbed Ramsay's ankle and pulled, dragging him to the ground with bone-slamming force.
Seeing the halt in the older man's gait had brought the haughty grin displayed on Ramsay's face to widen. His eyes were glistening with the glee of knowing his comment had ruffled the crow, but as Ser Alliser tore down what he saw to be a perfectly logical assessment of power structures and the respect he was due, Ramsay's smile had faded into an all-out grimace.
He had opened his mouth to argue further, but his voice left him in a grunt of surprise as he was yanked roughly from his mount. Ramsay gasped as the air was painfully knocked from his lungs and swiftly rolled to his side to avoid the now spooked horse's stomping feet. His mouth hung open staring up in wide-eyed astonishment to the affront this man afforded him before scrambling in a huff to his feet.
Gritting his teeth, Ramsay seethed his fury out with a lacerating glare that aimed daggers at Ser Alliser before he composed himself with a mercurial shift of attitude. The smile crept back on his face and his expression depicted amusement as Ramsay offered a mock bow that oozed contempt, "Do forgive my assumptions. It's become rather clear that you don't pay homage to the decrees of kings and lords alike. I will do well to keep this in mind for the duration of my stay." As he uttered these words, Ramsay had decided that before he left this frozen abyss, this man would learn why the Bolton motto was: Our blades are sharp.
"You'd better," Ser Alliser's voice had dropped to a low throaty growl; a stormy glint was in his narrowed eyes as he stared down into Ramsay's face, "Or I'll wring your bastard neck myself and save the hangman the trouble of a noose." Ser Alliser's sneer turned into a vicious smile, 'Bastard.' Judging by a discrete twitch in the corner of Ramsay's eyes, the word had hit its mark.
He stood for a moment, savoring the sight of the younger man struggling to hold back his anger before turning and walking away. As he passed Jon, he stopped to face him. "You're responsible for this boy's training and teaching him some bloody manners. I suggest you try hard, Jon Snow, 'cause if he is to be punished, so will you," Leaning in close, he added in a whisper, "Just give me an excuse…please."
Meeting the knight's smug gaze with a stern one, Jon nodded his head in understanding, "Aye." Seemingly pleased with himself, Ser Alliser then turned and walked away disappearing somewhere in the vicinity of his quarters. Jon watched him go before turning his gaze back to Ramsay, "That was Ser Alliser Thorne, first Ranger." With lips twisted in a small smile, he held out his hand in friendly greeting, "Hello Ramsay… my name is Jon Snow."
Ramsay's lip curled disdainfully regarding the other man's hand in disgust as if it were covered in feces. He didn't like being reminded of his status, and putting another bastard over him nettled Ramsay. He pointedly ignored Jon's friendly gesture turning to the departing Bolton escorts who were mounting their horses to leave. Ramsay shouted at them, "Aren't you forgetting something?" He thrust his manacled wrists out to them irritably.
The majority of the men acted as though they'd not even heard Ramsay address them as they continued trotting towards the opening gate while the last three men in the troupe paused exchanging glances with one another. A burly bearded soldier chuckled down from atop his horse relishing Ramsay's plight while another spat at him dismissively, "I think he'd want you to have them... you know, as a parting gift... bastard."
The other two men laughed at the immediate fury that flashed across Ramsay's face and his lack of verbal response to their continued jabs at his expense. Ramsay's jaw clenched and his nostrils flared with the impotency to react to the insults he was being made to endure at every turn since being stripped of his entitlements. Saying no more, the men turned their horses away spurring them out of Castle Black's gate without a second glance back. It was apparent that none of them felt any sort of pity for the discarded son of Roose Bolton.
Taking in a ragged breath to control the surging frustration that threatened to boil out of him like an overflowing cauldron, Ramsay turned steely eyes back to Jon. He was going to have to garner this man's help which meant he was going to have to be at least somewhat cordial no matter how upset this whole situation was making him. Ramsay swallowed lifting his chin as regally as a man could while dressed in prisoner chains. He forced a smile at Jon, "Well then. That went rather poorly. I don't suppose you can take me somewhere to get these removed, can you?"