Roose
Lord Roose watched with no small level of amusement as his bastard son restlessly paced the cold stone floor of the mess hall, his footfalls sounding more and more agitated the longer Ramsay kept up this infuriating behavior. The Warden huffed in frustration and threw down his spoon back into the bowl of porridge that Hilda dared to call a meal.
It tasted grainy and settled horribly on his tongue, that no amount of sugar could sweeten, and the taste lingered long after he'd washed his bite down with a swig of water. "You brought this upon yourself, you know. Parading the Greyjoy boy, your little pet," he sneered, crinkling his nose in disgust, "in front of Lady Stark like that during your wedding feast, not to mention in front of the other house's lords and their wives. What in the seven hells were you thinking? Oh. That's right," he snapped, pursing his lips into a thin rigid line. "You weren't. You deserved every bit of what she gave you, and more. You are lucky I do not raise my hand against you myself and flay you until there's no skin left on your bones for the horrible disgrace and shame you have brought upon House Bolton. It is no wonder she fled from you in disgust, Ramsay. You shamed her, yourself, and my name in the act and therefore you've just stepped across a nonnegotiable line for which you must pay the consequences."
The low warning growl escaped from Roose's throat before he could so much as stop it, and there was a large part of the Warden that felt a grim satisfaction in watching his bastard son's face drain of color and beads of sweat begin to form on his brow. "I gave you this one chance, boy, this one chance that there might be an inkling of hope for you, yet. But if you continue to play your fucking mind games with her, then we will no longer have Sansa Stark, for I would not be surprised at all if your lady wife becomes so sick of you that she flees. Again," he added darkly for emphasis, and the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a twisted grimace. "If that happens, we lose control of our strongholds and our grasp on the entire North will fail, and we cannot let that happen, boy. That is why I give you this advice freely of my own volition, which I will say to you only once," Roose snarled, baring his teeth and gripping his son's arm hard enough to break as he violently shoved Ramsay up against a pillar. He did not flinch, even as Ramsay heard the cracking in his back. No doubt a muscle had been strained.
Roose sneered. His bastard son deserved worse than what he would give him, and as far as the Warden was concerned, he would go light on Ramsay.
"You must take better care to treat your wife with even an inkling of respect. Our lives will be much the better for it if your wife learns to even like you. She does not have to love you, but you must keep her close, for she is our key to maintaining the North. Without her, we will fall and no longer have the North's support. We cannot succeed without it. You and I both know this, Ramsay. That is what will keep her by your side. Not passion, not fucking lust. The whole bloody household knows of the despicable way you treated the girl a fortnight ago on your wedding night. We all know what you get up to behind the closed doors of your chamber with that kennel bitch and the other whores and strumpets of the castle. Why should your wedding night be any different? My entire staff knows what kind of monster you are. That you would force yourself on the Stark girl like a dog in heat. What in the seven hells would you have me do about it, for then the entire fucking North would know just how you treat the last Wolf of Winterfell like the fucking beast that you are," Roose growled, and he was surprised to see the sudden moistening of Ramsay's bright blue eyes. "I could tolerate your behavior had you impregnanted the girl already, but you seem even incapable of doing that simple task. You truly are a failure."
He knew as the words flew out of his mouth that they'd hit their mark, by the way Ramsay's face paled in shock, anger, and even hurt.
"She—she will no longer be a concern," Ramsay spoke up, his voice going unusually soft and quiet, his blue eyes glistening as he looked at Roose. Roose snorted and repressed the urge to roll his eyes in disgust.
The Warden gave a curt nod. "See to it that she won't. Perhaps I would send the girl to work elsewhere. She is…a distraction for you, I am afraid. Perhaps I could tolerate your unnatural behavior if Lady Sansa was pregnant with an heir by this time, but over a fortnight has passed since the joining of our two houses in matrimony, and yet, I hear…troubling rumors, of how you force yourself on her night after night in your chambers, and yet, for all your troubles, nothing comes of it," he growled, relinquishing his grip on Ramsay's jerkin and shoving him backward. "I have not seen Lady Sansa take meals with us in the mess hall in quite some time. The rumors concerning your wife are most troubling, Ramsay. That you are keeping her locked up in your chambers like she is naught but a prisoner," he commented, clasping his hands behind his back and striding over to look out the window out at the estate's snow-covered grounds, though he could feel Ramsay's glacier stare practically piercing the back of his skull like a fallen icicle were to hit him from above. "I give you this one chance to make amends, to bring honor to your name and you squander it. I should have knowing you are nothing but a useless wretched little worm. I should have taken you into the sea and let the waves carry you away and rid me of your boorish stupidity when you emerged from your mother's womb, and yet, something within me compelled me to keep you. Do not make me regret my decision, Ramsay," he growled, letting out a low warning growl from the back of his throat as his hand hovered over the hilt of his dagger he carried on his person. "Perhaps you think it funny?"
Ramsay's gaze drifted towards his father's hand and Lord Roose could have sworn he heard the catch in his son's breath. "No, Father."
Lord Bolton smiled, though there was no warmth in the gesture, nor in his eyes. "Good." He felt his fingers give one final twitch and he relaxed his hand and let it fall to his side. He coughed once to clear his throat and reached up the other to smooth his hair. "Inform the Lady Sansa that I should like to see her present tonight in the mess hall. Lady Walda and I need to see that your wife is alive and well. She will dine with us, as Lady Walda and I have some good news we'd like to share with our…family tonight, since we would all be together. She will show up tonight, Ramsay. Make sure of it, and should I see one hair on her pretty little head harmed, there will be consequences. If you should fail to procure your wife…well, do I really need to say it?" he drawled. "She will show. Or else. Do not make me say it again a second time, Ramsay."
He swiveled his head back around to regard Ramsay with bemusement in his eyes and was pleased to see his son's ashen face.
The boy was fucking terrified of him, of what he would do to him. Ramsay did not need to ask what 'or else' meant in this case. He knew.
"Yes, Father." He murmured it in such a quiet voice that was unlike him, for a moment, Lord Roose was uncertain if his bastard son had spoken at all. "I will make you proud of me, Father. By the gods, I swear it." Roose gave a curt nod and turned his back on his son, silently signaling the end of their conversation.
There's that look, he thought stoically, without so much as sparing Ramsay a second glance as he exited the mess hall. I've seen that look on his face since he was but five. He hates me, and I should think that my bastard son will die with all the hate for me in his veins.
He did not look up from his mindless staring out the window as he heard Maester Wolkan's soft footfall as he entered the room. Lord Roose snorted, rolling his eyes as he watched, turning around slowly, and pouring himself a fresh flagon of Dornish wine, as his old colleague and quite perhaps the closest thing to a friend the Warden had.
The maester and something of an advisor to the Lord of Winterfell began to pace irritably back and forth, constantly wringing his withered hands together in agitation, his knuckles white. Tersely, every few minutes or so, the old man's eyes would flicker back and forth between Lord Roose and the door from which Ramsay had just vacated, as though he were looking for any sign or signal that at any given point in time, Roose's bastard son would burst right through doors in a wild rage.
Maester Wolkan was a godforsaken mess. A muscle twitched involuntarily at the corner of his right eye; his mouth formed a rigid grimace. With his arms folded tightly across his chest across his broad chest, he tapped his foot furiously and all the while stared out the window of his office. Cold sweat glistened on his furrowed brow. With his hands clasped tightly in front of his stomach, he constantly fiddled with his knuckles, weaving his fingers in and out of each other and began unnecessarily picking at a sleeve on his brown robes. "Lord Bolton."
"Speak," commanded Roose in somewhat of a lazy drawl as he gestured for the maester to take the seat across from him. "Sit before you suffer a complaint of the heart, Wolkan," he chuckled darkly. "What ails you on this fine winter's morning, Maester Wolkan? Speak your mind."
Maester Wolkan continued that incessant fidgeting of his fingers, but at last he relented, seeing Roose Bolton would not take no for an answer. "It is Lady Stark, milord Bolton. I fear that the girl remains in danger as long as she remains married to Lord Ramsay and under his watchful eye. I fear for her life," the old healing maester practically wailed in distraught.
Roose scoffed. "Oh?" he asked in a bored sounding voice as he studied the maester over the rim of his goblet as he lifted it to his lips and took a long drawn out sip, relishing as the burning alcohol went down his throat.
"The master becomes more volatile every day the longer he remains a beast, and the girl, oh, the girl, she has quite the mouth on her!"
"Aye, Maester Wolkan, will you calm down?" spoke up Roose at last, sounding exasperated. "This stressing of yours will no doubt give you an aneurism or a complaint of the heart, and you are needed to ensure my son is born safe and sound. Lady Walda needs you, Wolkan. Calm down."
"But the girl..." Maester Wolkan's voice cracked and trailed off. "She has your son's full attentions these days, milord."
Roose shot Measter Wolkan a withering look. "That is not necessarily a bad thing, maester. Why should my son not take an interest in his wife? She's a rather interesting girl, is she not? She is outspoken, opinionated, and quite kind, perhaps even loyal to a fault. A fault that is apt to get her killed one of these days when she puts her faith in the wrong person. I do believe deep down that Sansa Stark could do my bastard son a world of good, but first they both have to give each other a chance, no more avoiding each other like we've seen them doing the past few days."
"But there is no telling what the master will do to the poor child!" protested Maester Wolkan wildly, almost looking unhinged as his dark thoughts crept into his consciousness. "I would not put it past the master to force himself upon her again like some kind of—of wild beast—"
"The boy is not that kind of man, deep down, I think," offered Roose Bolton, his voice surprisingly calm and light, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the wall for support. "Think what you want of my son. I have seen it in his eyes since his wedding night. Already, he is much changed, and in no part thanks to his lovely little blossom of a bride."
"I do not trust the master to be able to control his urges! If she suffers any more abuse at his hand, I fear the girl will try something rash, and..." retorted Maester Wolkan hotly. "I've seen him the last few days, there's no telling what he would do, and he..." his voice trailed off, lost in thought. After a moment of silence, Wolkan opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by the sound of a loud, ferocious roar echoing throughout the castle, originating from his chambers upstairs, followed by the sound of Lady Sansa's muffled screaming. "Oh, no," he groaned darkly. "What now?"
"Whatever it is, he sounds quite upset," muttered Lord Bolton, his eyes widening in shock as he dared to peek out the mess hall door. He suppressed a snort as the girl's shouts mingled with his son's threats.
Clearly, this girl was not one to be tested and his bastard son had underestimated her, as he did not intimidate her., and he knew that because of that fact, Ramsay was lost.
"I do believe this girl could very well be the one to break my son out of this vicious fucking cycle of disgusting violence and bloodshed if all goes well for the two of them," he chuckled, motioning for Maester Wolkan to follow him to investigate the matter further to see what was going on.
Maester Wolkan lingered for a moment, his lips pursed into a thin line and looking thoughtful.
"Perhaps," the old withered healer said softly, daring to hold onto that last shred of hope. The maester, as a general rule, hid his emotions. It was the way the old man had learned at an early age to survive in the servitude of the Bolton family. He figured his emotions were information he would rather not divulge, lest the master find him weak and dismiss him for being too soft, so his face often remained impassive, indifferent. But in the moment, it was different.
For the first time in perhaps his life, Ramsay Bolton had met a woman who was not intimidated and afraid by him, and dared to speak her mind and even put the wretched young man in his place, more than a few times, as he rightfully deserved from time to time. Judging by the shouting echoing in the corridor, Wolkan stifled a smile as now appeared to be one of those times.
Before the man could stop himself, a smile cracked on his face that hadn't been seen in a few months that made Maester Wolkan look years younger than his age, and he walked a little faster to catch up to Roose. He could not quite explain it, even if his life depended on it, but the healer just had a good feeling about this girl and having her here with them couldn't possibly bode ill for the master.
Nothing would go wrong with Lady Sansa here. It just couldn't.
"Lady Sansa," he whispered admirably, careful to keep his voice low so that Lord Roose would not overhear him as they headed for the stairwell to see what in seven hells was causing such a ruckus, "you may survive us yet."