Orys leaned back and took a look at the paper before him. It was done. The war had been won. He had been exiled for 7 moons. He wasn't exactly exiled… but that was how he felt. He'd been away from all of them for that long. He had been away from Osmund and Ramsay and Ygritte… and Sansa.
He was sure Ramsay had wanted to give him time away from her, the Queen of the North, but he had done a horrible job. Absence made the heart grow fonder. He had spent many days pondering the time he had spent with Sansa and Ygritte. He still would never act on his thoughts, but that didn't mean that they weren't there.
Orys spent a lot of time reading and Sansa had only recently begun to write to him.
He was amazed that she had given Ramsay not only one heir, but two. She had birthed two sons. Ramsay and Sansa now had three children. If he knew anything about Ramsay, he knew that the man should have been more happy than not. He had been ecstatic to welcome Ygritte. He hoped that Sansa was handling motherhood well. He knew that she had the potential to be a great mother. He also knew that she sometimes got overwhelmed and that Ramsay was not beside her.
Orys took a deep breath and set down the paper in his hand. He rubbed his temples and he closed his eyes. He was ready to return to Winterfell. He enjoyed Dreadfort. He had grown there. He had become the man that he was there, but his head was at Winterfell. His heart was at Winterfell.
X
Ramsay threw water on his face from the bucket that a handmaid was holding. He was standing in a large tub, attempting to get off some of the dirt that had been coated on to his skin. He was glad to be ridding himself of the stuff. His arm was aching, but he was overall fine and he was immensely happy. He would be returning to his wife's side soon enough. He would be reunited with her, with Sansa and all of her red hair and his strong willed little girl and the two sons he had not yet met. He would be back with them, his… family.
"Family," he repeated the word aloud and then scoffed, rolled his eyes and put his head down to throw water on to his face again.
The girl before him looked afraid. She looked young and afraid and like she had been told horrible, horrible stories about him. He genuinely hoped so.
Ramsay washed away at the dirt that was caked on his skin. It had been quite a while since his last appropriate bath. He had no desire to sit in his own dirt and so he would wash himself standing. The amount of dirt on his body was a little extreme even for him. He didn't particularly care. His nails could stay black with dirt, his skin brown and seemingly cracking from the layers of mud that had dried on him. He was bathing because he knew that he was expected to, not that he gave a damn in seven hells what the dragon queen thought of her. He was bathing because he knew Sansa would appreciate the sentiment. He had no want to cut his hair or to do any of the other foolishness he had been offered. He wanted none of the stupid silk that was set out for him. He wanted to throw back on his clothing in the Bolton colors and he wanted to speak to the little queen and then head out with his men in tow. Nothing was that simple.
He washed himself quickly, ignoring the way the dried dirt made a river of mud leading off of his body, knowing that his feet would still be completely filthy. He didn't care enough to take a second bath. When he climbed out of the bath he dismissed the little handmaid soon. He was glad to be rid of the little twit. She was irritating him simply by being in his presence for as long as she was.
He dressed quickly. He yanked on his clothing and when he tore his room door open he found himself face to face with yet another girl.
Missandei.
"Daenerys Targaryen-"
"First of her name," he interrupted, "and so forth and so on, would like me to join her for wine," Ramsay said dryly.
"Yes," she said equally as dry, her hands clasped in front of her body.
"Very well," he side stepped the girl and started down the corridor without needing her guidance.
He was a little annoyed by the thought of someone sending a servant to fetch him of all people, but the fighter in him was attempting to be aware of the Dothraki solders and unsullied that stood around every corner and therefore he had no time to overthink about the situation.
Dothraki. Only the Gods knew what they were doing beyond the castle walls.
The unsullied, however, were a pleather of men that Ramsay could admire… to an extent.
Sure, they were neutered, but they were also lethal killers. He did not think that the Dothraki were particularly not, but the unsullied were different. The Dothraki were people he could, in some way, relate to. They believed in justice and getting even and killing friends and foe alike when they were crossed. That was normal. That was human nature. The Dothraki were like any other person in Ramsay's mind. They did what they wanted, but the unsullied. They were of a different breed. It took a special sort of man to not fall victim to earthly feelings. It took a particular man to not surrender to pain and betrayal and heartache. They were blind followers. They interested him.
X
Robb and Domeric were two months of the world. Ygritte was a mess of activity that kept Brienne on the move, not that she was upset by the situation. Sansa was beginning to see little signs of her sons personalities. Robb was the elder, but he was very much the follower. When Domeric fussed, so did he. When Domeric cried, Robb was sure to follow. When Domeric was sound asleep, Robb laid quietly. It was funny to Sansa in a way, amusing even.
Margaery was still in mourning. She wore black as she walked the halls, but she was once again walking the halls. She smiled dotingly at the little ruler of the Vale, a smile that Sansa noticed didn't particularly touch her eyes. She knew that Margaery would be okay. She was strong and a fighter and Sansa knew that the last thing Margaery would do was emotionally check out on her grandmother and on their people. Sansa was also sure that now that the war had been won, they didn't need the Vale. She was almost sure that Margaery would want to rid herself of the marriage. They had never consummated their marriage and Margaery was the rightful heir of Highgarden now. She would surely need to return. How could she govern from kingdoms and kingdoms away? Sansa adored Lady Olenna, but the lady was only to live so long.
Sansa was simply waiting on Margaery to voice to her what she already knew.
X
Theon owed all of the peace in Winterfell to Bran. The boy was a natural at getting things done. He was great at governing his people. He was good at reeling Rickon back in without seemingly doing so and causing the boy to rebel more.
Theon was glad that Rickon seemingly didn't hate him anymore. He let the boy read all of the letters he received from Sansa, Bronn, Willard and Rickon's personal favorite, Ramsay. It had lessened the blow of having to deal with Theon. Rickon had begun to tolerate him more. He referred to him as Theon instead of a traitor or any of the many words he had picked up from The Hound.
Rickon had begun to wield his sword and shield far better than expected and Theon was slightly surprised and slightly proud of the progress that they boy had made. Rickon was excited about the news of their win and the fact that he would soon be able to show everyone what he had learned in their absence. He was still worried about Yara and that was obvious, but overall Rickon had gotten better in his behavior.
Bran spent less time in solitary now that he and Meera were… whatever it was that they were. They spent time in the library, of course, but they also took meals in the dining hall with Theon and Rickon. Bran occasionally took his letters outside. He visited the Godswood when time permitted. He sent demands. He typically sent them to Theon so that Theon could seem as if he was doing work. He was the person that made sure Winterfell was still running. Theon knew nothing about taking care of a home of such a size… or a home at all. Bran took care of ordering what needed to be ordered. He was the eldest Stark in Winterfell and he stepped up to do what was needed of him. He settled disputes and he signed on things that he knew Sansa would approve of. He did what he thought was best for the north. He proved to everyone that he was not worthless, but even more importantly, he proved to himself that crippled or not, he very well could run a kingdom.
X
Ramsay found himself seated across from the Dragon Queen as she wrote a letter to some person or another. He was two glasses of wine in before she finished her first letter.
"Ramsay Bolton," she set her names on the surface before her as she looked up at him, "Welcome."
"My queen," Ramsay nodded his head stiffly.
"You don't take well to bowing," she observed aloud.
"I've never had to do it," he scoffed as he picked up a second glass on wine.
Daenerys scoffed at that.
"Tyrion tells me that your wife has alliances with several of the seven kingdoms."
"Aye," Ramsay looked the queen up and down.
"The seven kingdoms are actually divided in to nine," she stated flatly, "I hold the iron throne and therefore the Crownlands and Westerlands. The North and The Iron Islands want their independence" she sat up tall in her chair, "but the rest-"
"Will not be an issue," Ramsay interrupted her, "Casterly Rock is awaiting you to appoint someone to the land," he assured her, "We have the Vale and The Reach ready to bend the knee and I can bow for the Riverlands myself."
"And what of Dorne and The Stormlands?"
"You have the two ladies of Dorne under your roof," Ramsay reminded, "And I doubt the Stormlands will be an issue, my lady."
"And if they are?" Dany looked at Ramsay and he shrugged before drowning down his entire glass of wine.
"If it becomes an issue, I'll take care of it personally," he leaned forward and began to refill his glass, "The Stormlands," he clarified, "The people of Dorne have never had to bow to the ruler of the iron throne," Ramsay shrugged, "but they've never had much of a ruler to bow to," he admitted.
Dany raised an eyebrow at that.
"And you think that I am worthy enough to bow to?"
Ramsay shrugged.
"I don't care one way or another in all honesty," he took a quick drink from his third glass of wine, "The north has their independence. I could give a sevens hell about the rest of the lot."
