Chapter Nine
The screams penetrated the darkened chamber, and Ramsay closed his eyes in ecstasy, relishing the sound. The bellows began to quieten in sound, its inhabitant slowly losing consciousness. Only an occasional whimper breaking the silence.
That would be remedied, he vowed, his pale, lifeless eyes glinting avidly. Soon, the oubliette would be a cacophony of terror, agony and hysteria. Soon, the smell of blood, gore, and decomposition would permeate every orifice, and Ramsay relished at the promise.
It was like sex, the taking of a life. It gave him a euphoria and bliss that left everything else wanting. Here, beneath the Dreadfort, within the shadows and quiet stillness of obscurity, he was The Stranger. The God of Death.
He smirked at that, the corner of his lips lifting ever so slightly. His joy was fleeting, though. His eyes soon returned to their resting stoicism. He was becoming bored, now. There was no sport in an unconscious victim. The hunt was no longer exciting.
The forrester 's (Merric, that was his name. Ramsay remembered all of his victims' names.) head lulled to the side, revealing a missing eye and lacerated face, a bloody labyrinth of red, puckered skin and tissue. He was tied to the crucifix, a crudely fashioned "X," the binds tearing into his flesh. The stump that was once his left hand unbound, exposed, and raw.
Perfect...the fun was about to commence.
The thin flaying knife twitched within his hand and he gripped the serrated blade tightly to control its tremor. A sharp pain lit through his body, jarring his consciousness. Ramsay glanced down briefly, acknowledging the crimson liquid that wet his palm. It was no consequence or matter, really. All men were made of meat, sinew and bone.
Merric had sworn that he had not been aware of the wildlings hiding within the Wolfswood, and the damned fool of a Warden and his cunt son believed him. Ramsay's lips curled at that, mercy was reserved only for the weak and gullible. And Ramsay was neither.
"Now, let's start again. The sooner you tell the truth, the sooner I will let you go. I swear it, by the Old Gods and New." This was his favorite part, the interrogation. Here, he could pretend, bestow a false mien of friendship and congeniality, along with the sweet promise of freedom, only to then rip it all away. Crushing all hope in its wake and watching the condemned crumble into pieces of nothingness and ash.
Oh! how he loved that part.
To be able to give life and then take it away-he was truly a god. The only answer the forrester was able to give were small whimpers and incoherent blubbering.
"P-p-please, milord! I know nothing, I s-s-swear." Another dead end. Another false lead.
Walking over to an open barrel of salt, Ramsay took a handful of it and began grinding it into the bloodied stump of Merric's hand. The howls that followed soon after were deafening. Ragged, torn, and broken. Soon...it would all be over soon.
Once, when Ramsay was five, he flayed a small kitten that had belonged to the chamberlain's daughter, Madylin. Small, midnight black in color with jade eyes, the kitten was a beauty, a gift from Domeric for her eighth nameday. The only gift she received ever. Bolton servants were inconsequential, a rule Roose had made certain and frequently executed.
Although the kitten was innocent, so trusting and gentle in nature and air, it was the fact that Madylin loved it that spurred Ramsay's ire. The look of pure joy and infinite elation that made his jaw tic and his finger thrum in anticipation. No one was allowed such bliss, especially not in a world laden knee-deep in shit and mire. Someone had to teach her, show her that such a luxury was fleeting and a phantasm. And Ramsay was ever-willing to be her instructor and jumped at the prospect.
The howls were high and keening, every time a layer of fur and skin was lifted and peeled, they would intensify; become sharper in its pleas for mercy and respite. It was a sweet melody to his ears. Soon (all too soon for Ramsay's liking), the kitten's wails quieted, and in its place was a formless, shapeless, quivering mass of tissue. Ramsay stared at the spectacle-now a grotesque lump of tendons, veins, and thew-in queer fascination and intrigue. The trembling then ceased and the lump soon cooled and stiffened.
Father was right, Ramsay mused, all the while staring transfixed and awed. A naked man has few secret; a flayed man has none.
"You disappoint me, Merric," Ramsay whispered, bending low to his ear. "I thought you wanted to go home. Return to that beautiful wife of yours who warms your bed and that son you are so proud of. Perhaps, I could bring them here. Bring them to the Dreadfort as a favor to you. Would you like that?"
Merric let out a sound then, not quite human in tone and sound and leaning towards that of an animal. A wounded and dying animal whose time was coming to an end…
"Please. Please, milord. Mercy, I beg of you. M-my family, they are innocent. Please."
Ramsay backhanded him, then. The force of it causing the forester' head to snap back and ricochet off the wooden cross. He was losing patience now. The Mad Dog was becoming untethered.
"WHERE IS SHE, MERRIC?! WHERE IS SANSA?!" There it was now. The frothing, rabid beast that was Ramsay Bolton. He had Merric's face in a vise, his hands on opposite sides of his neck, effectively stifling any further sounds of protest.
It did not matter, anyway. Merric was served his death warrant the moment he set foot in the Dreadfort chambers. There was no way Ramsay could let him go. Not that he would ever concede to do so, anyway. Promises be damned.
Sansa was his. He had chosen her the moment the engagement had been announced and the introduction given. He had bed warmers aplenty; whores that he fucked and fucked constantly, yet with very little satisfaction.
There had been Violett, with her beautiful blonde hair and lovely complexion. There had been fun times, Ramsay acknowledged, but then she had to ruin it and become pregnant. She was killed soon after. It would not do, sullying the Bolton name with another fatherless bastard.
Then, there was Tansy, or "Tansy Fly," she was called, with her dimpled smiles and saccharin laughter. She had been a good girl-willing and dutiful-but too sweet. Too good. Such unassuming kindness was more liability than virtue. Better he the one to put her down than someone else. Ramsay had done her a kindness, truly.
Finally, there was Myranda. His favorite bitch. He enjoyed her, enjoyed her enthusiasm, her vigor and willingness to watch and partake. Once, there had been a time where Ramsay had weighed the prospect of taking her to wife. Of course, she had been riding him to oblivion when the promise had been struck, her hands wrapped tightly around his neck, her screams of ecstasy and pleasure piercing the sky. She was a good fuck, that Myranda.
For awhile, marriage to Myranda had its possibilities. Yet, all of that faded into obscurity and nothingness the moment the engagement had been announced and Ramsay caught a glimpse of his betrothed. Gods…
She had been a vision, all polite smiles and demure pleasantries. She had hair of fire; a stark contrast to the creamy cast of her skin. Her eyes were caerulean and Ramsay felt as though he had been doused with ice water. Everything before her ceased to exist, and nothing after her was of any consequence or mattered.
Myranda had been incensed. A jealous, raving fit of curses and paroxysms. "You said you would marry me!" she accused, her cold, green eyes etched in betrayal and humiliation.
She had quickly gotten over her jealousy, though. She had no other recourse. Besides, the hard slap to the face and grab at her throat had effectively put an end to the matter. She was lucky that night; Ramsay had allowed her to walk away relatively unscathed. He was feeling generous. Any other time, she would have been fed to his hounds.
Sansa was his, now and forever more. And nothing was to take that from him. Not the gods. Not the Starks. And most certainly not the wildling savages or their damned White Wolf.
Ramsay's jaw clenched again. A tic starting to form. A foaming and salivating Mad Dog was again emerging from the shadows.
They were all obstacles-to be knocked down and demolished. Ramsay looked back at Merric, now a half-dead, whimpering heap. Another obstacle to be immediately dealt with.
One quick slash and the man was dead, his throat an opened, bubbling gash. Ramsay smiled at that, his pale, lifeless eyes feral and animated. So much blood…
His britches actually tightened at the sight. Once, his lord father deemed him a lunatic, a demon spawned from the deepest pit of the seven hells. And Ramsay wholeheartedly agreed. Only a fool would try to restrain and tether a Mad Dog, as the White Wolf would soon learn.
He could not wait.
Picking up the thin flaying knife once more, inserted the tip of the blade into Merric's smallest finger and lifted. The skin neatly giving way. Just like peeling an apple, he thought briefly.
Now, the fun began...