The sound of sobbing was music to Ramsay Bolton's ears. As he sharpened his flaying knife in front of the warm fire, two men walked up to him, dragging a girl between them. Ramsay chuckled as he looked up and glimpsed the girl's tears. It was a treat to capture a bold girl; a weeping girl…an ordinary catch.

"Well, well," smirked Ramsay, his pale eyes gazing at the girl lustfully. "What a find…who do we have here?"

"Some villager milord," said Damon Dance-for-Me, a fair-haired man sworn to House Bolton who favoured the whip as his weapon of choice. "Found her trying to sneak to the river with a bucket." He kicked a wooden bucket towards Ramsay. "Reckon it's good for the fire milord?"

Ramsay stood up. He licked his lips and caressed the girl's chin. "What a lovely girl…what's your name?"

The girl only wept louder.

"You will die today," Ramsay crooned. "That is a promise, my pretty. How you will die will depend on you…" He leant closer and breathed on her cheek. "It'll all depend on you…" He cackled as the girl shuddered. "You cooperate and I promise it will only be my hands touching you. You rather be a little bitch…" He held up a flaying knife, a grin on his face as the girl cried out in fear. I love the sound of fear, thought Ramsay gleefully, his cock hardening. He hoped the girl would struggle – it was always a treat for him when they did. "Will you be a good little bitch for me, pretty one?" Ramsay murmured, the tip of his flaying knife tracing a circle on the girl's right cheek. The girl nodded tearfully. "Then tell me, what is your name?"

"Jeyne," the girl whimpered. "Please don't hurt me…"

"Looks like a weak one milord," remarked Damon nastily. "Better use to all the men here who haven't had a bitch to warm their beds in days."

"No!" snarled Ramsay, grabbing Jeyne by the throat. "This one is MINE." He did not need Damon Dance-for-Me to tell him the latest bitch was no fun. He was well experienced himself. The bitch might not be a good fuck, but his flaying knife had thirsted for a new victim and she was perfect…

Absolutely perfect.

"There are already two Jeynes in the kennels milord," grunted Ben Bones, the old kennelmaster at the Dreadfort. Like most of the old servants at the Dreadfort, Ben Bones had a somewhat savage streak in him, which Ramsay liked. Once both the other Boltons were dead, Ramsay instructed Ben Bones to train his hounds to kill wolves and develop a taste for human flesh – old Ben Bones complied, with a genuinely happy smile on his wrinkly face. "I like dogs better than men," the man had once declared, "more easy to tame. Break even," he'd added with a smirk. He could sniff out defiance in the hounds as a dog could smell fresh blood.

Ramsay shrugged. "Who said there will be a third Jeyne in the kennels?"

"What about Winterfell?" asked Sour Alyn, his foul breath wafting close to the others around the campfire. "M'lord, you said-"

"I know what I said!" growled Ramsay, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Are you planning to deny me this bitch, hmm?" His jerked Jeyne by the throat. "Is this one what you want, eh? You want a bitch to warm your bed and as you couldn't find a bitch of your own, you want to steal mine?"

"No!" exclaimed Sour Alyn as Ramsay stepped closer to him, still holding Jeyne by her throat. "What I mean-"

"Next time it'll be your skin I wear for warmth," hissed Ramsay. "Winterfell's a short distance away and there is no hurry. Skinner reported two hours ago that a certain Robb Stark is still cleaning up our mess in the Hornwood." He smirked. "A proud achievement, men. For too long we served the fucking Starks; now they're doing us a service in Hornwood." His men snickered and jeered. "Robb Stark will be the Lord Who Lost His Home when he comes back." Ramsay smiled as his men cheered louder. Keeping his fingers wrapped tightly around the bitch's throat, he headed to his old spot by the campfire. Ramsay had oft fucked girls in front of his cronies, sometimes flaying them even.

"I want to hear you scream," Ramsay whispered into Jeyne's ear. "I want all of my men to hear what a fucking whore you are. I want the sons of bitches all over the North to hear you scream…" Uttering a maniacal laugh, Ramsay pushed Jeyne the bitch onto the ground and with a quick, expert move, sliced the bitch's ripped gown from her chest to ankles. Oh, I am going to enjoy this


After watching his hounds devour the bitch Jeyne's corpse, Ramsay wiped the blade of his flaying knife clean and turned to his men. "We'll set out for Winterfell in a few hours," he announced, aware it was the beginning of nightfall. "I hope all of you are well rested." His wide, meaty lips curved into a grin as he caught sight of a few men exchanging concerned looks with each other.

"It is…almost dark milord," said Damon Dance-with-Me hesitantly.

"The best time to give the Starks a gift," said Ramsay, his grin widening. "What a surprise it will be for them when they wake up in the morning!"

"We don't know how to infiltrate Winterfell-" He stopped as he saw Ramsay's knowing smile. "You know…" said Damon slowly. He frowned. "Milord, you never told us you knew how to infiltrate Winterfell. You always said you would think of a plan as we get there."

"I am the Lord of the Dreadfort! Every lord has his secrets." The men wouldn't be happy to know Ramsay's attack plan was based on useful information Ramsay found reading through his dead half-brother's many long, sappy letters he wrote and received to and from the Stark bitch who was now a princess. Ramsay never had the patience to read long letters, but reading Domeric's…it had been worth it. Not only was Domeric the weakest Bolton to have ever existed, he'd liked to keep his letters in a neat pile tied together by a piece of strong red string. Ramsay had originally planned to use the letters as food for his fires, but something prodded him to read through them first. Even though it took a few days, it was so worth it. My dear, dead brother has helped me more than he'd thought. When Domeric was chained to the prison walls, all he did was curse. A pity. If Domeric had been a lot more obliging with information Ramsay craved, he wouldn't have had to suffer a prolonged, excruciatingly painful death. Being the fool that he was, Domeric had refused to give any helpful information and suffered for it.

Ah well, honourable idiots tended to die violently.

"Milord," said Damon, standing up and putting out the campfire. "Even though the uh, gift, is still intact, I don't believe the Starks will recognise it."

"I'll leave them a note," said Ramsay irritably. He turned to Ben Bones. "I want the bitches rounded up and ready to go. When we arrive, I want them all silent. If we are betrayed by one howl, I will personally flay the bitch that howled."

Ben Bones gave him a toothless grin. "Aye milord."

The bitches would have their fun once the battle truly began. The Starks won't be expecting that, Ramsay thought gleefully. They may have those giant wolves as soldiers, but I have had my bitches trained to bite and consume human flesh. A few days before he and his men set out to raid the Hornwood, Ramsay had instructed old Ben Bones to deny the bitches their regular meals. When Ramsay had his pets set loose, it was blood galore.

It wouldn't be long before Winterfell too was a picture of blood, guts and bone. Ramsay smiled to himself. Most of his men were never lucky to have a noble lady warm their beds; soon they'd be able to fuck as many noblewomen as they desire. A pity the eldest Stark bitch is not at Winterfell. I would have enjoyed fucking her before flaying her alive. Once the Bolton banners fluttered on the Winterfell walls and battlements, there would be no Starks alive in the North. Every Stark lurking on Northern land, whether it be a man, woman or child, would be found, rounded up and brought to Winterfell where Ramsay would personally flay them alive. He smirked. I have never flayed a babe before, he mused. A babe's skin would be soft, very soft indeed. Perhaps it would be better to feed the Stark babes to his hounds. His hounds will be the first to ever taste Stark flesh.

Ramsay chuckled out loud, earning questionable looks from Sour Alyn and old Ben Bones who stood closest to him. His hounds will be the first to devour Starks, but they had already been the first to rip and swallow noble flesh. It was back in the Hornwood, what a memorable moment it was. Ramsay had ordered a quarter of his men to attack in the Hornwood, allowing the rumour that they were a band of brigands and bandits to spread. As expected, the Hornwood heir showed up in an hour with a small squad of men. That was when Ramsay released the bitches – all the Hornwood men, including the heir were ripped to shreds.

"Is something amusing milord?" grunted Ben Bones cautiously.

"Only my future plans," smirked Ramsay, sheathing his flaying knife into a soft leather scabbard made from human skin. "Is everyone ready?" There was a quiet chorus of "ayes" from his men. Just as Ramsay refrained from feeding his hounds from time to time, his late father had refused permission for his men to kill, rape and plunder as much as they wanted. Whilst the hounds became more rabid and hungry, the men became more bloodthirsty and savage.

It was exactly what Ramsay wanted.

I will be the first Lord Bolton of the Dreadfort and Winterfell. The direwolf sigil will disappear like the direwolves and the people will fear the flayed man sigil as it should be. If the other Northern Houses refuse to submit to me as loyal vassals, they will feel my wrath. Their names will be obliterated and they will be flayed. Soon my House will be feared by the southron lords and they will send their women to me as a sort of appeasement gift. Ramsay felt his cock stir again. To be surrounded by a dozen or so beautiful highborn women…Ramsay licked his lips.

"Let's march, men!" Ramsay shouted, mounting his horse. To march during the night under the guide of the moon was nothing special as wildlings had done it in the past, but as they masqueraded as brigands, the Starks probably would not be expecting them to be at their doorstep at dawn the next day. Waiting another few seconds for his men to saddle up and collect their belongings, Ramsay kicked his horse into a swift trot at the head of his army with old Ben Bones and the bitches behind him and in front of the other men. Starving the men from a good fuck is the good decision, Ramsay thought. They'll be more eager to fuck and kill when we are at Winterfell. He needed savage, rough men in his army, not organised and dutiful soldiers who obey only the honourable orders. An honourable knight wouldn't at all think about raping innocent women whereas another one of Ramsay's men, a fellow called Yellow Dick, would not hesitate to fuck a pretty girl of six. Little girls are Yellow Dick's specialty. He would fuck them until they are unconscious and then he will wake them up…only to kill them. Very efficient, especially in winter. In time where starvation ruled supreme, Ramsay doubted that many people would look for a missing daughter or two. They should be pleased that they have one child or two less to feed!

Usually marching into unknown land at night was madness, but the path up to Winterfell wasn't unfamiliar to Ramsay. Before the Hornwood attack occurred, it was Ramsay himself and a few trusted men who snuck out to Winterfell wearing peasant garments. They never had the chance to enter Winterfell but that's when dear Domeric's letters came in handy.

"It's awfully quiet m'lord," commented Sour Alyn as they rode a little closer to the outskirts of winter town, a village that rested in the shadows of the vast walls of Winterfell. He squinted. "I see sentries m'lord."

"We all can," muttered Ramsay. He halted. One of his bitches yelped as old Ben Bones yanked her chain roughly to a stop. A new plan slowly formed in his head. All he needed was to somehow gain access to the courtyard with half his men at the least. The more the merrier of course. He scratched his chin and smiled. Sour Alyn caught sight of his grin. "You have a plan, m'lord?" he inquired.

"A new one," smirked Ramsay, rubbing his hands together. "A better one too." He glanced over at his men and then at the moon. "We will rest an hour here," he announced, relishing at their astonished looks. "And then we will attack."


"Are you sure this is a wise idea milord?" said Damon Dance-with-Me with an uncertain expression on his face. "Perhaps your first-"

"No!" barked Ramsay. "This one is…more fitting." And an insurance plan if the first somehow failed, which was quite unlikely. He thrusted a carefully wrapped bundle into Damon's arms. Damon wrinkled his nose. "You'll ride back and give it to Robb Stark," Ramsay ordered. He could not resist a cackle. "Tell him it is a gift from the new Lord of the Dreadfort. Tell him it used to belong to a young man he once called his brother. Tell him the next gift he will receive will be the skin of his true brothers. Tell him you are just the messenger."

"Aye milord."

As Damon Dance-with-Me placed the special gift in a saddlebag and rode off to find Robb Stark and his small number of men, Ramsay turned to Yellow Dick. The man was squat with a squashed face that made his lips twist into a cross between a scowl and a grimace. Not much to look at, but a terrifying sight to peasants. "I'll be putting you in charge of a band of men," Ramsay decided. "You will be raiding and ravaging winter town. Rape all the women you like." He smiled wickedly. "Do a good job, I promise you will have first choice on highborn women in Winterfell. First choice after me of course."

Yellow Dick's squinty eyes glinted. "Aye milord. Any survivors?"

"You and your men will be the distraction. Kill some men, spare some…I'm not too particular about them. When you see smoke from Winterfell, you will know I am the Lord of Winterfell."

To avoid any unnecessary suspicion that might ruin his plan, Ramsay selected the ugliest, most malicious-looking men to join Yellow Dick. A few months ago, it would have been a direct assault that Ramsay favoured, but thanks to a pompous letter sent by Robb Stark warning the Lord of the Dreadfort that if there was one more violent attack, "House Bolton would face the wrath of House Stark." There was nothing likable about patience, but Ramsay was grudgingly willing to refuse a direct assault on Winterfell in favour of more…subtle means of entrance.

"We look like peasants," grumbled Skinner.

"You were a peasant," Ramsay retorted. "I believe my late father took a shining to your flaying skills hence why you are in my service. Now, come. I will flay each and every one of you if even one of you ruin my plans." Letting the threat to sink in, Ramsay gestured for his men to quietly line up near the trees and some of the walls of winter town. The sentries Sour Alyn had seen earlier have gone. Ramsay wouldn't be surprised to hear that the sentries went drinking. It seemed even the Stark sentries like a good drink once in a while. Ramsay snickered.

He carefully watched Yellow Dick and his band of men enter winter town with their weapons drawn. It was almost too easy. Once the last man disappeared into winter town, that was when the screaming began. There were triumphant shouts, the sound of singing steel, grunts of surprise and sobbing. Always sobbing. Giving the signal, Ramsay and his band of men raced to the main gates.

"Help!" Ramsay shouted alongside his yelling men. "Bandits! Bandits! There're bandits in the town! HELP!" Those words felt foreign on his tongue. When did he ever beg for help? It was beneath a trueborn Bolton to beg. Then again, he wasn't begging in truth. I will never beg for anything in truth.

A man wearing the Stark badge appeared, bleary-eyed. "Eh?"

"Bandits!" Ramsay repeated, pretending to be afraid. "Bandits in the town! No sentries, we were taken unaware!"

The man eyed him. "Is it not cowardly of you men to come here?"

Ramsay swore he would flay that man as painfully as possible. "They took our weapons!" he lied. "Some used our own weapons against us! Can't you hear them from the town? Lord Stark will be furious if the town's set on fire!" His last words seemed to shake the man awake.

The portcullis was lifted and a couple more Stark men ran out, led by an alert-eyed stout old man with large white whiskers. "You men stay here," the old man ordered. "Do not move!" Ramsay cursed under his breath. That old dog still knew a trick or two – Ramsay knew a few more too. He waited until the men were well out of sight and turned to his band of men. "Watch out for smoke," he murmured. Without waiting for their nods of assent, Ramsay slipped through the open gates and into a courtyard. Remembering his dear dead brother's long description of a good many parts of Winterfell, Ramsay silently and blindly made his way to what he hoped was the broken tower. According to Domeric's boring letters, the most abandoned building in Winterfell was the broken tower. It would serve well as a fire bringer. Carefully grabbing a torch that flickered on the wall, Ramsay tossed it into the broken tower and watched the flames greedily lick the old, abandoned, neglected walls. Smoke slowly rose, darkening the very pale blush of dawn like a hunter advancing upon his prey.

Laughing maniacally, Ramsay hurried back to the main gate. Winking at one of his men who had caught sight of him, he pulled out one of his knives and threw it straight at the back of a guard's head. The man fell face first to the ground. If he'd not been dead from the knife, he was most certainly dead now as Ramsay's squad of men trampled on him to gain entry into Winterfell.

"COME ON MEN!" Ramsay bellowed, brandishing another knife. He turned and threw it at another guard running towards him. This time Ramsay bent over and pulled the guard's sword from the scabbard. This will come in handy. In weapons, Ramsay preferred the bow or even a crossbow, but a sword would have to do for now. When he manage to acquire a bow, he would be shooting Stark men left and right dead. Perhaps he would be fortunate enough to shoot Robb Stark.

Ramsay ran through courtyards and gates, slashing everyone in his path. Body after body fell like chopped down trees in a forest. It was like hunting down the peasant women in the Bolton forests again. Running with his men and dogs with their swords, knives and bows and arrows ready and hearing the sweetest sound of screaming. A thrill of excitement ran up Ramsay's spine.

Licking his lips eagerly, Ramsay went straight towards the Great Keep. He had never seen it before, but dear Domeric described it so well. The Great Keep is the innermost castle with walls made of granite. It is connected to the armoury by a covered bridge, his dear brother Domeric had written.

There were six Stark guards on duty with their swords drawn. As Ramsay and his men approached, one yelled, "Who goes there?"

Ramsay rolled his eyes. Uttering a wild shout, he attacked the first guard, their swords singing as they clashed. Ramsay ducked as the guard swung his sword in the direction of Ramsay's neck. As he dodged, he kicked the guard savagely in the leg. The guard only stumbled a little, but it was all Ramsay needed. With a single swing, Ramsay brought down his sword and pushed it into the guard's chest. He yanked his sword back out and turned, just in time to stab another guard right in the back, Sour Alyn finishing him off with a savage blow to the head.

Much more refreshed than before, Ramsay left his men to deal with the two or three Stark guards remaining. There would be more guards coming, but Ramsay was confident they could be dealt with easily. All northmen were trained alike – fight honourably with no dirty tactics. Ripping off the peasant guise in one swift motion, Ramsay strode into the Great Keep, his heart pounding with exhilaration. No Lord of the Dreadfort or Red King had ever set foot in Winterfell's Great Keep as the victorious conqueror before. Two Red Kings did burn Winterfell, but what was the fun in that?

"Come out!" Ramsay called, his voice echoing eerily in the corridors. "Oh come out, Starks! You can't hide from me forever. Come out now, and you will live." He smirked. "I can promise you that." His smirk slowly dissipated as he kicked open a door only to find it was empty. By the time he kicked down most of the doors in the Great Keep, his lips had twisted into a furious snarl.

There was no Stark in sight.


I found this chapter difficult to write as invasions, battles and fighting scenes are not my strength and I haven't actually had much practice writing them before. I know Ramsay's plan isn't the best, but believe me, what I planned to write for his first plan was more stupid. I promise I'll try and write better infiltration, battle and fighting scenes in the future :)

Spectre4hire - when you left your first review about poisoning being predictable and too easy, I was like, uh oh, just you wait until Robert and Renly's death...I promise you there won't be another poisoning incident in this story (well, I did plan one more poisoning, but I'll change it) :D