The Stark bitch continued staring at him as if he was some sort of oddity. Reek the Freak. Reek's wide, meaty lips curved into an amused smile. The old Reek had a fondness for rhymes. It was natural the new Reek should also like rhymes – to a certain extent of course. Reek licked his lips.
Her eyes were purple…
Very rare indeed.
Giving the Stark bitch one last long stare, Reek turned and sauntered away, in the direction of the dungeons. The first Reek never sauntered; he didn't have one drop of noble blood in his veins after all. The current Reek sauntered; he did have noble blood – Bolton blood in fact. His eyes darkened. He was the true heir of the Dreadfort, not that solemn idiot. He smirked though as he remembered the game. It is a game I will win. Oh, it started off fun…and it would be the most thrilling and exciting game he would've ever played.
Running from that horrid mill he'd once called home to the Dreadfort with the first Reek at his side had been amusing – hunting animals and peasant women on the way, what could be more entertaining? His bitch of a mother tried to keep his heritage a secret. She succeeded for a few years, but blabbed everything after she had a couple of her fingers cut and fed to her. I should have fed her to the hounds, Reek thought regretfully. Plenty of good meat wasted. Being the merciful son, he had given his bitch mother a quick death – he strangled her with his bare hands. A much swifter death than feeding her to his dogs.
The stench of rotting flesh and blood rose as Reek approached the dungeons. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an ancient skeletal key tinged with bits of rust that he had stolen from the Lord of the Dreadfort's solar a few months ago. Pride soared in Reek as he stuck the key into the keyhole and twisted it savagely. Stealing the key from right under Lord Bolton's nose! Victory. It was not difficult though as the castle was virtually empty all the time.
Lord Bolton is a fool too, Reek thought, pushing the dungeon door open. An old fool. He smirked as he imagined Lord Bolton's insipid face grow whiter when he at last discovers who he, Reek, truly was. Oh, the old man would die of fright! On the spot too! Reek cackled with laughter. He breathed deeply. Ah, the ripe stench of rotten meat and fresh blood…a glorious smell. Reek closed the iron door shut behind him and slipped the key back into his pocket. When he was Ramsay Snow, the bastard of the mill, he'd heard tales about the infamous Dreadfort dungeons – it had thrilled him to the bone when the first Reek confirmed it. "Aye," he'd said with a grunt. "It's all true, flayed skin and all. I saw it with my own eyes. Indeed a pretty sight. It seems Lord Roose Bolton is as much a Bolton as his ancestors. He might be more."
A pity that the old Reek was mauled to death by the dogs. He was an excellent companion. Ah well, Ramsay Snow needed to disappear for a couple of months to know the Dreadfort well, and who better to pretend to be than Reek, a servant no one remembered?
I am Reek now. One day I'll be Ramsay again. Ramsay Bolton, the true heir to the Dreadfort. For now, Reek played the part of a servant; later he will ascend to play the role he was born to play – that of heir. In a particularly good mood, Reek felt ready to…go on a hunt. No, he told himself. You are Reek, not Ramsay. He felt the tiniest flicker of irritation. How was he to be entertained with hunting out of the question? Plotting to kill Domeric? No. Too easy. He could poison his ale without the dull-witted Lord Bolton knowing.
"Please…"
Reek's eyes glittered like diamonds as the whispered plea caught his ear. It'd been two days since he last visited this particular dungeon. It seemed that he had underestimated the bitch Kyra. Not only had she put up a decent fight (in normal circumstances it would have earnt her a swift death), but she was still alive! Reek crouched down. "Did you say something?" he said softly, tracing the bitch's tear-stained face with a thick finger.
"Please…" the bitch whimpered again, her dark brown eyes staring up at him in a pleading sort of way. "Please let me go…"
"Let you go?" Reek leant even closer. He licked her forehead. "Why would I do such a thing?" he crooned, moving along and biting her ear hard. Like a little pig, the bitch squealed in pain. Oooh. So thrilling to hear her scream. Snickering, Reek reached for one of his favourite toys: a flaying knife.
Reek had a whole collection of weapons, some he inherited from the first Reek and others he stole from both the dead and the living. In his immense assortment, he possessed falchions, hunting knives, dirks, swords and his personal favourite: flaying knives. To be precise, his absolute favourite flaying knife was one with a hilt of yellow bone.
Seeing the flaying knife, the bitch's eyes widened and she tried to squirm away. Reek laughed and watched. There was no hurry. Kyra would not go far with both of her feet already chopped off. He glanced around the dungeon. Like many of the other dungeons he was privileged to have glimpsed, this one was windowless. It was rumoured that this particular cell had once housed a Stark prince prisoner; now it served as a chamber of bloody spoils.
Needless to say, it was Reek's favourite room.
As Reek played with his flaying knife, his thoughts lingered. A few months ago, he dragged his first victim here, Domeric Bolton's old manservant. Catching him was easy; killing him was just as easy. Though the first Reek enjoyed playing and fiddling with dead bodies, the current Reek preferred playing with the living. The screams of pain and agony…Reek smiled. It was music to his ears. Oh, that young man had yowled and wept when Reek broke all his fingers and toes one at a time. He was such a girl. He had cried rivers of tears when his manhood was ripped off, an act committed by Reek himself. Yes, there it was. Donnel's insipid, limp, small cock nailed to a wooden rack. Also nailed to the rack were a couple of other cocks, more older and wrinkled and shrunk like raisins. It seemed castrating prisoners was an activity enjoyed by many former Lords of the Dreadfort.
Besides rotting cocks, there was also a long shelf of skulls and boxes of bones, some small enough to be fingers. This room is full of fun toys. Bones, skulls, other remaining appendages…
Reek glanced down at the bitch's few remaining fingers. Unsurprisingly there were traces of blood on her nails. He chuckled. Little fool tried to claw at the door – many before her had attempted that too. "You are quite a small thing aren't you my dear?" Reek murmured, smirking at her. "I am afraid you do not have enough skin to be made into a cloak for me; you hardly have enough meat on your bones to be fed to my dogs either! What should I do with you…" He bent down prodded the bitch with his knife. "What should I do with you?" he said again.
"Please…" the bitch moaned. "Let me go…"
"Let you go?" Reek stood up and placed his foot on her forehead, forcing her to stare up at him. "Why would I let you go? You will go running to Lord Bolton and I will lose my head. Or skin if Lord Bolton likes to flay people. No, no, no, no…you will not leave this room…alive." He looked thoughtfully at his flaying knife before glancing at the rack. Pity there is only the one rack here. Removing the cocks was a task he did not particularly look forward to.
"It seems you will not lose skin today," said Reek, pocketing the knife. "You do look hungry though. Are you hungry?" The bitch would be. She had not been fed for at least three days. Or was it four? A sly smile spread on Reek's face. He leant towards the blood-stained table and grabbed the yellow bone hilted falchion (the matching set to the flaying knife) which was conveniently close to him. His smile broadening, he held down the bitch's left hand. He slowly pressed the falchion to her second finger and began to cut, blood seeping out. The bitch's sobs and cries grew shriller and louder as the blade removed the finger. Reek dropped the knife and forced the bitch's mouth wide open. I hope you are hungry, bitch. He dropped the bitch's finger into her mouth and clamped her lips shut. The bitch's eyes were as wide as dishes; her arms and legs were splayed all over the place as she tried to squirm and wriggle. Reek kept her mouth closed and a few minutes later, her entire body stilled.
Reek stood up and savagely kicked the body. The bitch was finally dead – she was of no use to him now…or was she?
For a place with a roaring fire blazing, the kitchen was still cold. Reek did not care. In fact, he liked the cold, chilly atmosphere in the Dreadfort. As Reek went into the kitchen, he spotted the cook – a very thin man with a few whiskers and a rather long nose – gloomily stirring broth in a huge black iron pot. "What's it you want?" he snapped grouchily.
Reek smiled. "Lord Domeric is feeling a tad bit peckish, Cook."
"Rubbish! He just ate supper with Lord Bolton and the Lady Lyarra! Thought a man of good health, he cannot possibly be hungry already!"
"Oh, but he is, Cook. He is, as is the Lady Lyarra. Lord Domeric requests some of your best tarts in the library."
The cook stared at him incredulously. "What! The library? Why in the name of the gods do Lord Domeric and Lady Lyarra want tarts in the library? What if they leave crumbs on the floor or jam in one of the ancient scrolls? Lord Bolton will be furious! He will have my head! Can Lord Domeric not wait until the lemon cakes are ready? Lord Domeric already requested lemon cakes!"
"Would it not be more a crime if we ignore Lord Domeric's orders?"
The cook thought for a moment. "Aye," he grunted in agreement. "Shall I bring cold tarts to Lord Domeric then?"
"Yes Cook. Lord Domeric specifically asked for you to bring him and the lady a plate of tarts. Perhaps he wishes to compliment you on your stew?"
The cook grumbled to himself and turned to pile a stack of cold tarts onto one of the plates he had left on the table. Reek smiled to himself. "I will be right back," the cook said warningly. "Don't go eating my tarts." He lumbered out, carrying a plate of his precious, putrid tarts.
"I will not dream of eating them," Reek muttered. Horrible tarts. He walked to the black pot and sniffed at it. More stew. It seemed the cook was only competent at baking tarts and cooking stews. No matter. He wouldn't be consuming another spoonful of that disgusting stew. Domeric will be. Reek carefully unwrapped the package of meat he had clutched in his cloak. He stared at it proudly. He had cut it himself, right from the animal. Person more like it. He snickered. With his own knife, he sliced the chunk of meat into smaller pieces. Some still leaked blood. He dropped the pieces of meat into the pot and mixed it slowly, his smile growing as the small bits of meat disappeared in the mix of thick brown broth and hunks of what looked like beef and venison.
"Enjoy," Reek whispered maliciously, quietly climbing up the stairs. What luck it was that the stew was still bubbling over the fire. Hopefully the Bolton lord, his son and Lady Lyarra would enjoy it. After all, they already tasted that stew with his rather special meat in it at dinner.
With no desire to attend to other servant work, Reek snuck back to the library, as silent as a mouse. The door creaked as Reek pushed it open. Domeric and Lady Lyarra had not moved much.
Reek quietly closed the door behind him and he hid himself among the dozen towering shelves stuffed with books. Though he had learnt his letters, he had not much interest in reading. Maesters read; men like him had no need to read when they could hunt and kill at their fancy.
"I do not remember asking for tarts," the Stark bitch was saying as she picked up a tart. "Did you ask the cook to bring some?"
Domeric shook his head. "I was not aware the cook had some left. I did ask him to bring us some lemon cakes when they are warm. Apparently lemon cakes are a delicacy these days. It is said the queen and Princess Lyanna both love them. It would be interesting to taste one."
"You did not taste one at Highgarden?"
"Oh I did, but it was too sweet." He made a face. "Much too sweet. It was as if a lemon was dunked into a bowl of sugar." He shuddered. "Do you like lemon cakes, Lyarra? Did you try them at least?"
"I thought they were too sweet as well. I shared half with Arya."
Reek watched as the Stark bitch bit into a tart. With a handkerchief, she wiped away the fruit juice that dripped escaped onto her luscious pink lips. Oooh. Those beautiful lips. Reek felt his cock stir as he imagined himself biting down on that Stark bitch's lips and then licking up the blood that appeared…
What a vision!
His cock twitched as he pictured him and the Stark bitch in the dungeons, her strapped down and him looming above her...
Reek's fingers curled into a fist. She is Domeric's, not yours. Oh, but what if he is to die? Reek's eyes glittered at the mere thought of it. Oh, he would eventually kill Domeric one day, but the idea of having the Stark bitch to fuck at his every whim and desire…the thought was too thrilling. He would fuck her in the dungeons, on the bed, on the forest floor after a good hunt…even the underground crypts next to Domeric's body. He would fuck her in the mouth, her cunt…everywhere. It was quite the vision. I will have you, Lyarra Stark, Reek thought darkly. Oh, I will have you. If not you, I will have your bitch sister. Either one of them. I will be the first of House Bolton to fuck a Stark. I will be the first to fuck a Stark as if she is one of my bitches. Stark or no, she will be my bitch.
It might take weeks of plotting and planning, but Reek was patient. He would be Reek for a couple more weeks, but when he would fuck the Stark bitch for the first time on their wedding night, he would be Ramsay again. Not Ramsay Snow – Ramsay Bolton, heir apparent of the Dreadfort. All noble-blooded bastards could be legitimised so why not him? Reek cared little for politics, but through listening at doors, learnt that the Bolton-Stark marriage was essential. Reek stifled a nasty giggle. Surely the oh-so-honourable Lord Stark would prefer one of his bitches to marry a young man like him rather than an old man like Lord Bolton!
"What tart is this?"
Reek's eyes sparkled. "How do you like it Lady Lyarra?" he wanted to ask. "Is it not sweet with Kyra's blood?" Only yesterday he'd sprinkled some of Kyra's blood into the tart mixture. He had thought the bitch Kyra was dead, but it seemed she had been only unconscious.
"Strawberry I think," Domeric answered. "It isn't very sweet is it?"
The Stark bitch shook her head. "An odd taste do you not think?"
"Very odd for a strawberry tart."
With a tiny snigger, Reek slipped back out of the library and came face to face with the Stark bitch's maidservant. Ah, a sly vixen Mydea was. Mostly in bed, but still the most reliable source of information in the whole damned castle.
"Must I still call you Reek, milord?" the vixen cooed as they moved away. "It is an awful name for a man like you."
"I am still Reek," Reek said with a coy grin. "As long as Domeric Bolton is alive – for now – I will remain as Reek."
"For how long, milord? You promised you will marry me one day. You said that I will be the next Lady of the Dreadfort, not that Stark bitch!" She pouted in quite an unflattering manner. Reek gripped her throat, his cock growing hard again as the vixen spluttered for air, desperately clawing at the back of his right hand in a hopeless attempt to loosen his hold.
"You will be the next Lady of the Dreadfort," Reek hissed, not battering an eye through the lie. "I am a man of my word…if you keep to your end of the bargain. I hope you are, are you not?" He released the vixen, who nodded violently.
Reek smiled. "Very good…pet. Very good indeed."
"What do you want me to do milord? Boil her to death?"
"Oh no. Scalding and drowning are too good for the Stark bitch. She deserves a more…painful death. Eventually. For now, terrify her. Tell her the tales about the horror and violence that occurred here." He paused. "Frighten her with the story of one of the Red Kings, one of the King Rogars I think. Tell her the tale of how he celebrated his victory one night." He chuckled darkly. "There is also the tale that regards her chambers. Enlighten her on that tale."
"The tale about Lady Rylla Bolton, milord? I heard she had a fancy for bathing daily in virgins' blood."
Reek nodded. "That is the one, my pet. Rylla Bolton tortured her victims – she was as ruthless as any Red King. She mutilated and burnt her victims' hands and feet, she stabbed them with her needles, ripped off their fingernails…and always she would then bathe in their blood."
The vixen smirked. "It will surely frighten the Stark bitch."
"Oh indeed. If that does not frighten her, I'm certain when she discovers that it had been Kyra's flesh she had been consuming, she would go mad. Wouldn't that be a sight? A Stark bitch gone mad!"
"Are you sure you do not wish to hunt her down?"
Reek stared at the smiling vixen. Fucking a Stark was one matter…hunting her down…now that would be memorable. He had hunted peasant girls before, most of them during his journey from the rotten mill to the Dreadfort. He and the first Reek had such jolly good fun. First they would be in the guise of peasants looking for work. Once accepted and seated at the table, they would kill their hosts: slow deaths for the men and raping all the women before strangling the old. For those young women…they would be prey. As most farms and mills were miles apart (it was too risky to enter the villages) and separated by dozens of trees, it made the perfect hunting ground. The girls would be released into the woods and a couple of hours later, they'd be hunted down. None had ever escaped death as of yet. If the hunt was enjoyable, the girl would be strangled too. If the girl was caught two hours into the hunt, she would be flayed. Afterwards, the bodies would be left to the first Reek to do with as he pleased.
"I will hunt her down," Reek said slowly, noting delight glowing on the vixen's expression. "I'll hunt her down…after I force her to kiss her dead betrothed's lips. Oh we will have so much fun…" His eyes glistened with excitement. "We will have so much fun," he repeated.
The library door creaked open. Quick as a flash, Reek grabbed the vixen by the arm and hid the both of them in the first open room…which happened to be one of the dustiest guest chambers he had ever stepped into. Reek sniffed sharply. It had a rather…bloody scent. Animal blood if he was not mistaken.
"What is it?" breathed the vixen Mydea.
Reek sniffed again. Fresh blood. I haven't killed any animals recently. Frowning, he released the vixen and stalked to the unused bed. He hissed in rage as he saw the source of the bloody scent.
It was Briony, one of his favourite dogs.
Mydea 's hand flew to her mouth as she came up to him and noticed the dead dog. Reek – no, Ramsay – growled in anger. Briony was his first bitch; he'd raised her for years…ever since he ripped her from her bitch mother's tits the day of his first hunt. The girl, Briony was such good sport that he named his first bitch pup after her. Ramsay named all his dogs after his favourite hunted girls.
"I will hunt them all," Ramsay muttered under his breath. "I will hunt them all. Lord Bolton, Domeric, the Stark bitch...one of them killed my dog." He looked up and stared at Mydea in the eye. This time she did not meet his gaze. "I will be the Lord of the Dreadfort," Ramsay vowed. "No more Reek. When I become lord, I'll be the most remembered Bolton Lord of the Dreadfort." His cold eyes blazed as if they were on fire. "Not for peace, oh no. I will make everyone fear the Boltons as they were once feared. Through great bloodshed."
It was a pretty difficult chapter to write. At first it was alright and I enjoyed writing it, but then as it happens, I didn't save it properly and had to rewrite it -_- As some of you probably know, rewriting a chapter you lost can be irritating and less fun as writing the chapter the first time. I know that the first Reek and second Reek can be confusing, but the next Reek/Ramsay POV will definitely be Ramsay.
