Chapter Two
Getting Cozy
Clink-Clank! Clink-Clank!
The continuous sound of metal rubbing against metal pierced Jon's ears like the point end of an ice-pick as they made their way across the courtyard in strained silence. Clink-Clink-Clank!
Jon hadn't noticed the shackles around Ramsay's wrists until Ser Alliser had pulled him off of his steed, but now that he had, he could not help but wonder what had been the reasoning behind Lord Bolton's decision to take such drastic measures against his own blood as to chain him up like a rabid dog, then send him off to the Wall guarded by no less than six armed soldiers.
Was Ramsay dangerous or perhaps a man burdened by insanity? Obviously, he had not come to Castle Black by his own free will, that much was certain, but what sort of harsh crime had the son of Roose Bolton committed to deserve such a humiliating treatment by the hands of his father?
Halfway through his stream of thought, he stopped. Did it even matter what the bastard son of Roose Bolton had done? Who was Jon to judge him? Didn't this new brother deserve a fresh start just like everybody else at the Wall got? True, Ra8msay had not left him with the best impression; ignoring his welcoming hand and sending him demeaning stares, (which Jon had felt glide over his form several times already during the few moments it had been since the Bolton delegation's arrival) but Jon also had to remind himself that all this was new and strange to Ramsay; from the very ground beneath his feet, the many faces surrounding him, and his freshly adopted role as a man of the Night's watch (which was probably as different from his previous life at the Dreadfort as night was to day.)
Jon remembered his first day at Castle Black; how his brain had been almost dazed by the overwhelming flood of new impressions, how insecure and secretly scared he had felt and how ashamed he had been of those very same feelings. Luckily for him he had not been alone at his time of need, so Jon had never been burdened by complete solitude. Grenn, Pyp, and Sam had faced the same struggles as himself, and it hadn't taken the four men long to forge friendships and find allies in one another. Perhaps Ramsay just needed some time to come to terms with his new station and find his feet in the world of the crows before he was able to lay down his guard and become approachable to Jon and the others.
But will he be able to stand his ground against Ser Alliser? Jon wondered and turned his head slightly to glance at Ramsay, who seemed not to notice his companion staring at him. Ser Alliser despised bastards; he hated Sam Tarley also, but it seemed to be a different kind of hatred than the resentment he harboured towards Jon – and now clearly towards Ramsay as well. At least there is two of us… Perhaps he will be easier on him than he was with me. One could always hope, even if it was for something as highly unlikely as Ser Alliser showing leniency towards his subordinates.
The smell of burning coal and the sound of metal singing filled the air as they stepped into the smithy; a large, open room with a dozen forge fires located around its sides. Embers danced through the air and around the sooty blacksmiths, busy forging swords and arrowheads for the endless reserves the Night's Watch needed in their preparations against a Wildling attack.
Jon eyed an unmanned anvil in the corner and motioned for Ramsay to follow him down the row of working men. On his way he grabbed a hammer and chisel, then turned to face Ramsay. Detecting a slight glimpse of unease in the other man's eyes, Jon smiled reassuringly "Do not worry, Ramsay. I have a steady hand" He pointed towards the anvil. "shall we begin?"
The walk from the courtyard to the smithy was a short jaunt, but Ramsay hardly noticed lost to the revelations of what it was having been deposited in the middle of nowhere so far from his home. Home... that was a fallacy that spurred all new resentment to course through him knowing that such a term was now loosely based to a region rather than a hearth that would welcome him. Not that he ever had a familial sentiment with Roose to begin with, but to have been wholly cast out after years of working to impress his worth upon his father left Ramsay feeling carved out and hallowed. The knot that seemed ever-present in his gut twisted further; he should have known better.
Realizing Jon was speaking to him, Ramsay brought his attention to focus on the task at hand lowering himself cautiously to one knee and placing his manacled wrists on top of the anvil. Ramsay grimaced up at Jon searching for any hidden malice in the other man's composure. Ramsay was almost certain that Jon would do him no harm, but his eyes traversed over the other man's movements warily just the same. Jon was waiting for his affirmation to start, so Ramsay nodded curtly, "Go on then; get it over with."
Jon positioned the chisel on top of the padlock as far from Ramsay's wrists as he possibly could. Then, he swung the hammer once, striking the chisel perfectly and driving it into the metal with such force, a piece of the shackle came off. Jon looked at Ramsay. There was no sign of objection towards his technique in the other man's face, so he drove the hammer down once more removing yet another piece of the shackle. After six more strikes, the padlock on Ramsay's right wrist came off with a clank!
As the second padlock, which took a mere three strikes to remove, fell to the ground, the sound of the dinner bell rung through the air, "Time for dinner," Jon stated placing the hammer and chisel back on the anvil. "Follow me. I'll take you to the mess-hall."
The hammer's swing had resonated the strength Jon possessed with a vibrating force that ricocheted through Ramsay's arm. It pinched at the small delicate bones of his wrists, but Ramsay only stiffened slightly at the application knowing there was nothing to do for it other than be patient while the other man worked to free him. It was an instant relief to see the metal bend and break, and once his wrists were free, Ramsay's hands took turns rubbing at the soreness long weeks locked within the manacles had caused.
The rigidness in Ramsay's posture finally relaxed slightly for the first time since he'd entered Castle Black. He felt gratitude to Jon but didn't have time to voice it directly before his attention was turned to the resonating chime meant to call the men to sup. Ramsay rose to his feet dusting himself off and gave Jon a nod of approval as Jon turned away to briskly stride through and out of the smithy with Ramsay now close at his heels.
Traversing through the slush of the courtyard to the mess hall, Ramsay's eyes shifted up and down the length of his companion. Several bastards were sent to the Wall every year to join the ranks of the Night's Watch, and Ramsay had found it an amusing bit of knowledge to keep up with (at least prior to his own send off to the Wall.) The old crow had referred to this man as a 'Snow' meaning that they shared something of interest to Ramsay, and as this recollection came to mind, Ramsay lifted his chin squaring Jon with an intense stare as his curiosity overrode his bad mood, "The buzzard called you Snow, a bastard of the North, but I see no vestige of your house upon you. Who is your father?"
The seemingly innocent inquiry evoked in Jon an overwhelming sense of sorrow, and he went still for a moment trying to keep his emotions in check. When he finally spoke, his voice was empty and controlled. "My father was Eddard Stark of Winterfell" he turned his head and met Ramsay's grey gaze "I wear no mark of my father's house because I am not a Stark, nor will I ever be. The second I took the black I lay all that behind me"
Ramsay took in Jon's shifting countenance with a spreading smile, "Eddard Stark you say? I heard what happened to him," there was a hint of amusement that played through Ramsay's eyes as he paused to let his statement sink in before continuing almost nonchalantly, "I suppose you're not a Stark are you? Such a shame about your family, but at least you've still got your head attached to your shoulders."
As though Ramsay's words had struck him a physical blow, Jon stopped dead in his tracks. In a swift move his hand shot out and grabbed Ramsay by the collar of his doublet, dragging him forward a step. With dark eyes shooting fire he stared into Ramsay's, full of that unbearable smugness, masquerading as sympathy. "I may not bear their mark or their name, but the Starks are my kin still. Never speak of them like that to me again!"
Ramsay's eyes widened in surprise at the ferocity that Jon yanked him forward; the man was stronger than he looked. Losing the grin he wore, Ramsay took in Jon's visage carefully gauging how upset he'd truly made the man. Deciding that Jon's open-ended threat was as far as this was going to go, Ramsay regained his composure quickly holding up his hands in supplication before stating in a placating tone, "Of course not. Forgive my ill manners. I never meant any harm by my words." His statement was meant to be mollifying, but the way in which it was conveyed was hardly sincere and in fact tinged with a mocking bravado. Ramsay didn't really care how Jon took his comment knowing from Ser Alliser's earlier warning that Jon was just as likely to earn himself a knock around the ears as he was, and misery always did love company.
The door to the mess hall opened, and Sam Tarley glanced about nervously eyeing Jon and Ramsay. Seemingly unsure if he should intercede in their conversation noting that it had become physical, Sam paused before finally deciding to continue addressing Jon timidly, "I uh... I was about to come fetch you. The slop is running low, and you know once it's gone..." Sam trailed off leaving the consequence unsaid but well known for the recruits that had spent any time at the Wall.
Jon's eyes flickered, and he looked away releasing his hold on Ramsay's collar, "Let's just eat," he said flatly gesturing for Ramsay to follow after Sam and him into the mess hall. Was I too harsh on him, Jon thought as he pushed open the door. His gut feeling told him he wasn't; Ramsay had provoked him on purpose he was sure of it, yet something inside him also objected to his initial judgement of the man arguing that the reason behind the outrageous comment about his father's brutal fate stemmed from ignorance of what was deemed appropriate and not from the bottom of a soul rotten to the core. Perhaps Ramsay was just acting offensive due to the humiliation he had suffered when Ser Alliser had pulled him off his steed? Either way, Jon would have to correct Ramsay if he acted that way again; it was after all his job to do so now.
Inside the hall, the loud din of hundreds of men's voices were overwhelming. Jon led Ramsay down along the long row of tables coming to a halt at the first with free seats. As the three men sat down, Jon suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to introduce his two companions to each other, "Sam, meet Ramsay Snow, son of Roose Bolton."
Hateful eyes glared daggers at Sam through narrowed slits as Ramsay visibly tightened at the introduction adjusting himself in his seat as his fists audibly tightened in the worn leather gloves he wore. It was not just from the indication of his impure lineage as a snow that had upset Ramsay but the mention of his traitorous father and the immediate sentiments that roused internally that caused this level of surliness in the small man. Either way, the display was enough to stun Sam into inaction as he calculated how best to respond to Ramsay's powerfully negative aura. Smiling nervously, Sam shifted uncomfortably away as far as he could with having been seated next to Bolton's bastard.
This response was enough to elicit a cruel grin from Ramsay enjoying the other man's distress, "A pleasure to meet you," garnering a worried glance from Sam, Ramsay's smile widened as he stated the man's name like a honeyed word from a lover, "Sam."
Clearing his throat, Sam nodded, "Likewise, Ramsay," he mumbled, but his gaze averted to Jon with raised brows signifying that he wasn't very enthused to meet his new friend.
Jon gave Sam a look of compassion. Ramsay's ill manner was hard to handle even to himself; how would a gentle soul like Sam take to the continuous hostility of the new arrival? The man was like an angry porcupine, balled up and ready to shoot its quills at whoever dared approach him. "Sam here is a steward in the service of our Maester, Maester Aemon," he said trying his best to break the ice. "If you have any questions about…well, anything really: he's the man to go to. A lot of knowledge is…"
A plate hit the table in front of him with a dull thud, making some of its contents spill off the edges, "Today's grub is deer's stew!" Grenn's deep voice behind him grunted, "Or at least I think it is… You know what? Just close your eyes and pretend it is." With skilled hand, he quickly sent plates across the table to both Ramsay and Sam. "Enjoy!" he stated flatly not sounding fully convinced but continuing to roll the food-cart further down the row of starving men.
Having been a ready distraction to disengage conversation with Ramsay, Sam took up his flatware and awkwardly afforded both Jon and Ramsay a nod of acknowledgement to remain cordial before turning his attention to the steaming slop placed in front of him.
Ramsay's lip curled disdainfully as his own eyes drifted to the lumpy drab dish that looked as if it were more water than food, "How is one fit to survive off of accommodations like this?" Ramsay growled mostly to himself than his companions, but he'd been manacled for the better half of a month, and truth be told what he'd eaten on the journey up had been even less obliging for survival or flavor. Begrudgingly, Ramsay scooped up his spoon and shoveled a bite down before scowling in disgust, "This tastes like shit."
"Aye, but you'll get used to it – trust me" Jon said in a rough, but not unfriendly voice and tried his best to suppress a grimace as the jelly-like chunk of undefined meat slid down his throat. "Like Grenn said: Just close your eyes and pretend it's something else."
The next few minutes passed quietly as they consumed the meal, the silence broken only by the occasional cough or comment about the food. When they'd finished, Jon collected the plates and placed them at the end of the table in a stack. "Ramsay, it is getting late. Let me show you to your quarters."
The rest of the meal, Ramsay had said nothing as his eyes traversed about the room taking in his surroundings and the faces that populated the room. There were no friends here, and the ramifications of this epiphany had begun to sink in as Ramsay downed the disgusting gruel that would become his daily fare.
Ramsay decided rather swiftly that he wasn't fit for this kind of life. Taking the oath to swear to a life of abstinence and service under the black was not at all what Ramsay intended to be his destiny. It wasn't that he couldn't survive the Watch, he just in no way wished to. He considered sneaking out of the camp in the dead of night to strike out on his own, Ramsay was a seasoned hunter, but there wasn't much in the way of game in these parts due to the harshness of the landscape. Regrettably, it wasn't conducive for a lone hunter to make it long on their own, so if he wanted to escape this particular fate, Ramsay would need allies. He was going to need to find some kind of common ground with others here that also weren't interested in this sort of end.
Jon's voice broke through Ramsay's ruminations, and he blinked dully registering the statement as Jon swept his empty plate from in front of him and Sam. The rotund man also stood when Jon had risen shifting nervously as he stuttered, "I'm... I'm going to get some reading in by the fire before lights out." Sam's eyes cut to Ramsay when the dark tousled head shifted to look at Jon giving the back of his head a disapproving frown before his sights moved up to Jon with a note of sympathy as if to apologize for abandoning him. With a regretful nod, Sam turned and vacated the party leaving Jon once more alone with Ramsay.
Tilting his head with a sly smirk, Ramsay rose replying smugly, "Yes, do take me to my quarters. I'm sure it will be just as lovely as the food."
