(So this is the conclusion to Jason's gift fic for me, to warn, it's a bitter and brutal end... no death, but definitely not a happy one for Ramsay to be warned!)
Ramsay spent his hour in a perpetual state of sweat and regret. He didn't have to mull over what Sansa had told him last for long before the sheer anticipation of the choice he would have to make started to feel as if it was literally killing him.
His chest hurt from the strain all of this put on his heart. His stomach was sick as it twisted this way and that in gut-wrenching spasms of worry. His throat was raw from screaming out as Sansa had taken him so savagely.
Raw and dry, also a result of so much yelling, his heart sinking to think how many pleas for mercy or humiliating displays had filled those cries with words best forgotten but which could never be forgotten. His muscles shook from the constant exertion and strain inflicted on them.
Sure, he hadn't gotten up from the cross once, but what had been done to him had caused him to spasm and twist and clench and become taut so many times that he was exhausted from it. If nothing else, his hour of time to decide which important body part he could do without gave him some much-needed rest.
When he heard the footfalls of someone approaching all he could think was 'It hasn't been an hour already has it?' He found himself despairing at the hopelessness of that thought and all it conveyed to him. But as the footsteps drew very close he saw with some false modicum of relief that it was not yet Sansa Stark.
The servant girl had returned, along with some wildling men, the former beginning the process of cleaning him again as the latter took positions around the room as if to become guards. Why would he need guards tied up like this? The way the servant paid such special attention to his genitals made him frown deeply… this process had the feeling of preparation for surgery…
When Sansa's voice did pipe up again he had been lost in thought on his miserable circumstances and all the unfortunate luck that had brought him to this, so that he jumped at the sound of her, "So, Ramsay… have you decided?"
He looked up fearfully to see her standing there, a well-sharpened knife in her hand. She twirled the blade almost playfully, as if she might be about to whittle on something innocuous as opposed to removing body parts with it…
He opened his mouth and then shut it again. Could he really choose? His eyes, and be forever blinded? His feet, and be forever maim? Or his balls, and have his humiliation by those that had bested him be completed in every way…
Seeing that he was unable to decide, Sansa simply nodded, "His balls, then. Hold him still, I've gelded a few animals in my time; I'm sure I'll have no trouble doing this personally."
"Wait… no!" Ramsay's eyes were wide as he bucked against his restraints, soon feeling the strong vice-like hands of several men take hold of his limbs so as to keep him from rocking the cross even slightly, "No, please! Please don't do this!"
He heard Sansa behind him now, and his heart hammered in his chest, feeling almost light-headed with fear, "I made a promise, Bitch. I need to feed what's left of Ramsay to his hounds before we are done here tonight."
He felt the cold hard sensation of a blade touching his thigh and froze, his face locked in an expression of utter horror, and then she started cutting him. He screamed, but the big Wildling men didn't let him move so much as a fraction of an inch.
The process was actually fairly quick; it was the pain that would follow that he knew from experience would be the cruelest part. He almost didn't feel it under the thrall of so much adrenaline… almost. That sensation, where she had cut him to remove the items that made him a man; that would likely haunt him forever.
The servant girl moved in next to bandage his new wounds, did so in a quick and skilled manner that left him with no doubts as to who had dressed the wound on his leg. Sansa walked around and he could see that she had placed his manhood on a plate; he looked away, his eyes tearing up as he did his best not to see it.
"Once she has you ready, we'll go to the kennel once more, and you'll be coming with; I wouldn't want you to miss this next part. Ramsay looked at her back as she walked away with a shocked expression on his face. True to her word, as soon as his bandages were tightly secured, the large Wildlings stepped forward, taking hold of the cross and lifting it with Ramsay still on it, one man to each corner.
They carried him out to the courtyard then, to the kennel gate where he had been taunted so recently by Tormund, who stood there waiting for him. In fact, everyone was waiting there for him. John Snow and all the others he had seen at the parlay were there, along with many faces he did not know but who stared at him with the same expectant look.
The look of men and women who came to see him suffer. There was no ceremony to the affair, no pomp or words said; once she saw the Wildlings carrying his cross had turned so that he could view the hounds through the gate, Sansa tossed his parts inside as one would toss away a bit of refuse.
Ramsay flinched at the ravenous display as the blood-thirsty beasts tore into the flesh offered. A cheer went up from many of those present, a raucous cry of delight and satisfaction. Sansa approached him once they had eaten every scrap of what she took from him, "I'll let you watch my men put these poor creatures out of their misery and then you will be returned to heal in your new room."
Ramsay felt tears streaming down his face and realized belatedly that he was crying again and quite publicly for that matter. He didn't care anymore, he realized, he wasn't the same now. He could never be again. With a voice warbling from strain, he begged, "Please don't kill my dogs…"
Sansa shook her head, "You've bred them into killers, each of them trained to eat human flesh. We can't suffer these creatures any more than we could suffer you; the only difference is that they will have quick, merciful deaths."
Ramsay woke with a start, realizing quickly that he was still bound. He blinked, orienting himself to his surroundings; something was different. Quite a few somethings, in fact. For one, he was now on his back, and his feet seemed to be free of constraint, though his wrists were still tied.
The last thing he had remembered was passing out to the display of watching his prized animals put down one at a time, the stress and pain on his mind and body finally overcoming the disasters that kept him awake, so that he allowed himself to fall into the sweet embrace of nothingness.
Now he could see as he looked up that he was bound by wrapped silk to the back posts of a bed, which he now rested on. This was not the best way to keep a prisoner restrained, but as he looked around to see the big men guarding him, he realized that the restraints weren't what was really going to keep him in place.
As he moved to peer around, a servant girl took note of him and quickly departed. Several minutes later, Sansa stood in the door way to what he now knew to be one of the castle's bedrooms, "You had been asleep for some time, and my Maester had joked that perhaps you would be the first man in recorded history to die of angry butt-sex."
Ramsay's face flushed, and he looked down to see that Sansa had not left him a shred of clothing. The only thing he wore were bandages now. He looked away, not wanting to share with her the look on his face as he remembered in a rush clearly everything that had recently been done to him.
He felt a slender hand caressing him and he shuddered, remembering what had followed the last time she had caressed him in such a fashion. "I just wanted to drop by now that you are awake, to let you know that in a few days' time, when you are properly healed from your castration, I will be returning to play with you some more."
He couldn't help but look up at the cold, merciless light in her eyes, which made him shake to his core, "In fact, I enjoy fucking you so much, I'll probably be visiting you nightly…"
She smiled as he began to sob, "…don't go looking so sad, husband; you don't want to deny your wife her marriage due, do you? You said something like that to me often enough, didn't you?"
She patted him and ran a hand through his hair as his weeping got louder, getting up to leave after one last cold smile.
Then he was alone with what she had just given him; more reason to regret still being alive.
The reasons kept coming two days hence, as she visited him nightly to make good on her promise, fucking him with her wooden cock, which had been artfully worked onto a harness so that she could give him the full experience of being raped personally by her.
Many were the nights in the early days when he had begged for death as a release, as so many of his own victims had, but of course she never granted it, instead only granting him another round of invasion and shame. In time he turned into a man broken, not at all unlike what he had done to Theon, following her around like a pet, bending over when she told him to and no longer complaining of what she did.
After all, Ramsay Bolton was long since gone. There was only someone's Bitch, now.