Chapter Twenty-Seven: Demon
The man beside him cursed, the oath, although a low mutter, shattering the imposed silence enshrouding them. First Ranger Benjen Stark scowled, his cobalt eyes cutting the man to the quick. A warning. The soldier quickly averted his gaze, a hasty apology upon his lips.
He was a Bolton man, judging by the sigil upon his breast. A boy. Clean shaven, bright-eyed and eager. Too young, Benjen thought grimly. Too young, too green, too damned stupid to know better, to understand the perils that awaited them all beyond the sanctuary and confines of The Wall.
Benjen furrowed his brow, he was angry now. The boy was but a milksop, mayhap only five and ten years of age-too young to know the warmth of a woman, to father sons. He would be dead soon, the reality penetrated something deep within the grizzled ranger, a jolting ache. It was not right. None of it.
Soldiers had no business traversing beyond the realm, North men or no. They were too soft-callow and untried. Benjen had vehemently argued against this folly when the young Bolton voiced his demands, but had been so cavalierly dismissed. The Bolton heir had been emphatic, all warnings and discretion effectively ignored.
Benjen chanced a glance at the Bolton lordling, his lips curling. This was the man who was to take Sansa to wife in less than a moon's time. Benjen shook his head in bewilderment and disbelief. He had only met the lad but a week prior, and already the aversion was immediate in its fervor.
How the fuck did it all come to this?
The boy was a monster, no more a noble than the rapists, murderers and reprobates serving in the Night's Watch. Wild, untamable and cruel. There was a madness and lunacy residing beneath the glacial, distant stare and tremoring hands. Yet, beyond the mania and instability, there was a deep despotism that lurked just at the surface.
"My condolences on the sudden passing of your father, Lord Ramsay." The words were regurgitated and forced, a false courtesy. Although life on The Wall distanced Benjen from the politics of the realm, he remembered the elder Bolton well. Mostly, Benjen remembered the paleness of his eyes-like two pale stones-and the coarse whisper of his voice, although spider-soft, would invoke an unwanted tremor to all who heard it. Benjen shuddered; and he found himself almost glad the man was dead.
He knew it was wrong, barbaric, to wish death on another, yet Benjen did not have it in him to care. Roose Bolton was a treasonous cur, his house alone was responsible for the chaos that splintered the North into two. Thousands of men had forfeited their lives for one man's envy and covetousness. Benjen looked askance at Ramsay, his rage bubbling.
What's worse, his beloved niece was to marry his spawn, all for the sake of securing a lasting armistice. Although tenuous at best, no doubt the marriage would still transpire despite the elder Bolton's recent demise. Sansa Stark was too valuable a prize to relinquish and Ramsay Bolton was not one to lose.
Benjen shuddered again, suddenly wishing his position did not call for such rigid equanimity and objectivity. The young Bolton nodded his thanks, it was an imperceptible gesture, barely a decline of his chin, yet he remained silent, impassive, his winter gaze unblinking as it looked out the horizon. Benjen was nonplussed, surely the passing of one's own father would yield more of a visceral reaction? However, gaging the lordling ahead of him- the devoid of emotion, the complete apathy-Benjen was reminded of that of stone. Even then, he thought, amazed, stone held more sentiment.
Against his better judgement, Benjen pressed on. "I am sure it must be difficult, what with Sansa's abduction and your lord father's sudden passing. Everything seems to be off-kilter."
The dark-haired man made a non-committal grunt of concession, yet remained stoic.
"My father will be greatly missed, yet he was a fool. It was no secret he had his share of enemies; it was only a pity he did not see how close they really were."
Benjen stilled, his breath caught. Was this an admission of guilt? He gripped the hilt of his sword as he eyed the Bolton heir. Bastard. The word came suddenly, unbidden. You are nothing but a bastard and there is no honor in you. A lowly, scurrilous dog. Kinslayer.
"We all have our enemies," Benjen conceded tightly. It would be too easy, Benjen thought darkly. Too easy to kill this man and be done with it. He would surely not be missed.
"Aye," Ramsay answered, loftily, a hint of a smirk gracing his lips. "But what is it that they say? Oh yes: One should always keep his enemies close at all times, lest he will have a dozen knife wounds at his back."
The ravens came roughly a sennight ago, heralding the news. Roose Bolton had been found dead on his banquet hall, his skin pallid and ashen, vomit and spittle congealing about his purpling lips. His eyes, once a pale blue, now lifeless and still, staring up something just beyond. A goblet of wine had later been discovered near the corpse, yet all remains of its contents gone.
Ramsay had conveniently vanished when the ghastly discovery had been made. None were so foolish as to interrogate the Mad Dog, no, for that was sheer madness. Yet the servants' tongues wagged. A few who had been present during Roose Bolton's final moments witnessed the row the two men had earlier that morn. Roose had been incensed, lamenting on the death of Domeric, his true born heir and denouncing his bastard on his house's travails and ill-fortune.
Ramsay had been contrite, reduced once again to that of the dirtied, gaunt orphan boy unwanted by the world. He tried to apologize, yet all words of atonement were lost on his lips when the elder lord, drunk on anger and inconsolable grief, backhanded him, the blow ricocheting off the cold, stone walls and knocking Ramsay to the ground. Roose had then ordered the bastard out of his sight, but not before Ramsay, silent seething and glacial, the blow a scarlet blemish against his pale cheek, vowed retribution. The words were muted and indecipherable, none could hear the exchange, yet Roose blanched at them, his eyes widening and mouth agape. It had been the first time anyone could remember the Dreadfort lord trembling at his son, for it had always been the opposite; Roose was the one with the leash, able to control and tether his corybantic son.
Later that evening, Roose had been ensconced within his solar, reviewing various scrolls and maps when a servant entered, gifting him with a flagon of wine, confirming it was from the Dustin House. The Dustin's had at one time been kin to the Boltons by way of marriage, so there was no cause for concern. Roose had all but partaken in his first sip when the convulsions came, sudden and swift, and he was reduced to that of an animal cloying at his throat.
If only he had known, the servants would whisper. If only he had known Ramsay had been seen conferring with the apothecary, secreting small vials of The Strangler, then mayhaps Roose would have never accepted the accursed wine. If only he had known that rabid dogs could never be docile, but could only be restrained for so long before they succumbed to their inner demons and turned on their masters. They could never be loyal, not for long durations of time, anyway. Such conscientiousness was false, as foreign and unfamiliar as love. Mayhap if he had known, Roose would be alive still...
Benjen glanced at Ramsay, measuring him. The grip of the hilt tightening, his knuckles white and taut. He had made vows before the weirwood tree, swearing to safeguard the lives of those within the realm-noble and baseborn alike. Yet how it would be so easy...Gods, but if only. Benjen's fingers thrummed and itched in wanting.
The elder Bolton may have been a hard man, callous and unfeeling, yet Ramsay was a lunatic. A virulent, frothing beast. And Sansa was the sacrificial lamb. The bells rang riot in Benjen's head, a loud, dissentious cacophony of discord.
"You have questions for me, First Ranger. I see it in your eyes. Think you I killed my beloved father, eh? That I silenced the fearsome and odious Leech Lord."
A cruel smile graced Ramsay's lips, dark and twisted. A hint of mania slowly beginning to emerge from its murky depths.
"I love to hunt, you see. While many may think it cruel, it's all but a game to me. A fortnight ago, my hounds and I cornered a lone doe in the woods. After I loosed my arrow and felled her, I watched her in her final moments. Have you ever seen an animal as it lay dying-look deep into their eyes? It is the sweetest thing next to killing. It is in that moment, you are the closest thing to divinity, having the power of life and death. I oft wondered if that was how my father looked that night, knowing that he was to die and that at that moment, someone else was God."
There were only a handful of times in First Ranger Benjen Stark's recollection in where he felt terror-true, abject terror. The kind of terror and hysteria that both seeped into one's bones and held him within its cloying, talon grasp and refused to yield. He had felt fear before, yes. There had been that one time in his first year of rangering in where he and a small patrol of fellow upstarts-eager, wide-eyed, and foolish, so damned foolish-encountered a clan of wildlings at the Fist of the First Man.
They had been out resourced, outwitted and outnumbered, five wildlings to their one patrolman. Only he and another lad, Rodger, survived the ambush, and only because their newly elected King and turncloak, Mance Rayder, had ordered his men to cease their butchery. Yet not before leaving Benjen with a parting gift-a bolt to the leg that rendered him nearly incapacitated and with a permanent limp.
Mance had almost destroyed Benjen's life that day and had nearly taken away the one thing that he had cared about. He had felt hatred that night-raw, blistering, pulsing hatred for Mance Rayder, the wildlings, and those of his ilk-but not fear. He did not fear death; rangers embraced such grim fatalism with stalwart defiance. Death was all but a means to an end. Besides, all men died sooner or later, yet very few ever truly lived.
There had been other times in where Benjen Stark encountered similar fear during escapades beyond The Wall, yet this...This was the first time in his two score years of life where he encountered terror in the embodiment of Ramsay Bolton. No doubt, he truly was The Stranger's Son. The man was a pestilence, a walking plague that spread hysteria and trepidation to all who were unfortunate enough to stand in his wake.
Benjen gripped the pommel of his sword, envisioning plunging the cold steel in the Bolton's back, burying it to the hilt. Aye, it was cravenly and odious to think on. No doubt such a deed would call for his immediate execution. Benjen could already feel the noose constricting about his throat, his neck snapping upon impact, his eyes, two bulging, slate-blue discs, staring out at a vast sea of nothingness. And yet, he had not in him to care
Such insouciance was dangerous, Benjen knew, and yet he felt nothing. It would all be worth it, that dark, homunculus would whisper. What's one more Bolton compared to the life of your niece? It would be a mercy.
Benjen's fingers itched, anxious and impatient. Soon. It would all be over soon…
The soft, almost imperceptible sound of leather meeting steel caused Ramsay to turn his head slightly. The Mad Dog's senses were heightened, Benjen mused. The two locked eyes and held-pale ice against slate. There was nothing, save the impregnable silence that saturated the ground, as if all the world was suspended, holding its breath in anticipation, waiting.
If the Bolton was aware that these moments were possibly his last, he gave nothing away to convey his unease. He only continue to stare, holding Benjen captive with his lifeless, blue gaze. Paler than ice and equally as cold, they reminded Benjen of those of a White Walker. And yet, therein lie the irony: the White Walkers were all gone, now reduced to that of a fanaticism and myth, the last documented sighting well over two millennia ago. Yet, despite being a walking corpse of ice and crystal, there was an intelligence and humanity within their frozen depths. Ramsay was real, tangible and present, and yet, when staring into his azure eyes, there was nothing-nothing save depravity and mania.
The seconds elapsed, melting away into minutes, and time seemed to pause. Then, Ramsay smiled, a cold, cruel and mirthless twist of his lips. "Do you want to be a god, Benjen Stark? To seize divinity within your hands? It would only take but a moment and fortune favors the bold."
As Benjen drew his sword, there was a loud disturbance just ahead, shattering the tension between the two men.
"Lord Bolton! First Ranger!" Benjen snapped his head at the calling of his name, sheathing his sword. Harrold and Edwyn were approaching, an urgency spurring their movements. Something was amiss.
Oh gods.
Hastening his horse forward, Benjen raced towards the commotion, his heart in his throat. He had to be ready, prepared. Come what may. He had to be ready. Cat and Ned deserved some respite.
It was a woman, Benjen observed, taking in her gaunt frame and shredded garb. Her skin, though pale, was dirtied, caked in both grime and blood. Yet, it was the color of her hair that gave Benjen Stark pause. Red.
Sansa.
While Sansa's hair was more auburn, a rich, molten copper, this woman's hair was russet. It did not hold the luster and shine of his niece's hair nor its length. Instead, this stranger's hair was matted, dirtied and dull. A sigh of relief Benjen had not been aware he had been holding, escaped him. It was not Sansa. Thank the gods.
"Tis a woman, a wildling." Harrold's eyes perused the strange captive, watchful. He had seen wildlings aplenty, as had all of Benjen's men. Benjen noted his man's restlessness and knew it for what it was-unease. It was rare that a wildling would be alone about the moors, even rarer for a woman. No doubt, she was sent as a decoy. She was bait for the enemy, a trap sent to lure them all to their unsuspecting deaths.
If it had been another time, Benjen would have relished at the prospect of extirpating wildlings, picking them off one by one. Yet, there were more urgent matters to attend. Sansa was missing and answers were scarce. She-whoever she was-was their best hope.
Ramsay dismounted and circled the wildling slowly, almost curiously. Immediately, Benjen was reminded again of a wild dog-an ebullient, frothing mongrel high off bloodlust. And she was the prey.
The Bolton kneeled slowly before her, gripping handfuls of her dirtied hair in his fist, forcing her to meet his glacial stare.
"What is your name, wildling?" The girl-a woman, for she looked to be of late teenage years-remained silent, her eyes watchful and defiant. Ramsay smiled, tightening his grip about her hair, eliciting a sharp, pained hiss.
"Ygritte." The woman continued to watch the Bolton, silent and perusing. Yet, there was no fear, no hysteria. Only open curiosity, and daresay, queer fascination. It was akin to the long-awaited meeting of two shared souls parted only by distance and time.
"Tell me, Ygritte. Do you like to play games? If you tell me what I want to know, you will live another day. If you lie to me, I will skin you, piece by fucking piece."
Ygritte remained silent, continuing to watch Ramsay, assessing for any falsity or artifice. The minutes passed and Benjen was reminded of a pendulum swinging back and forth. Truth or dare. Truth or dare. Truth or dare.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the wildling-Ygritte-smiled. "What do you want to know?"