A/N: I want to thank everyone for reading, alerting, and favoring this story.
I also want to extend my appreciation to Red Dead Redeemer, Master of Dragons God, 'birdy', WeylandCorp 4, Mikle Silver, just chillin killin, Queen of Ice and Winter, WaterRK9, Betusta Morla, 'Guest,' doRodigo, thepkrmgc, El Chacal, kjcletus, X59, Ari989, Rc1212, Publicola (2), Axular, jackli10345, and Fejstroll for taking the time to review. It means a lot to me.
Our Blades Are Sharp
By Spectre4hire
16: The Keeper
Strong arms pulled him away from the bloody mess on the floor of the inn.
He tried to fight them, but they're grip was iron. He still would not relent. He kicked and shook trying to break free, and was rewarded with a swift kick to the gut that sent pain up his side and a series of curses to escape his lips. He stopped struggling then. His eyes staring intently at the puddle of blood that had pooled around the corpse, the head bashed in, face unrecognizable, a bloody mess of flesh and bone.
His hands had been bound, but he could feel the warm slick feeling of blood between his fingers. He wanted to laugh at the sight of the gaping women and the horrified men as they dragged him out like some sort of deranged animal.
No, that's not true, he thought.
If they believed him a deranged animal they would've killed him then and there. They hadn't. Even in his primal haze of death with adrenaline coursing through his veins, he could deduce that there had been a reason that they spared him...
The men who had captured him had dragged him outside, the sun shining brightly. The surrounding woods seemed peaceful, and oblivious to the violence that had been inflicted so close at hand.
"This is the man?"
His thoughts came to a sudden halt at the soft, commanding voice. He knew who that voice belonged to. Feeling a coil of fear slither in his stomach, for the first time he wished they had killed him in that inn. Upon recognizing the voice of Lord Roose Bolton, he preferred death to whatever punishment the Lord of the Dreadfort would hand down.
"It is, my lord," Answered one of the guards. They didn't loosen their grip on him as if sensing he may try to run now that he was in the presence of the infamous Lord Bolton.
"Good."
He felt a shadow fall over him. He slowly looked up to see two pale blue eyes looking down at him, the face inscrutable. The infamous sigil of the Boltons was emblazoned on his armor. His eyes which resembled two chips of dirty ice appraised him silently with such intensity he couldn't meet them, ducking his head.
"You killed a man," The voice was quiet, the tone casual.
"Aye," he answered, transfixing his stare stubbornly on the ground at the lord's feet.
"Look at me," the voice barely carried above a whisper, but the strength behind it was unquestioned.
He did. Lord Bolton didn't react when his order was followed. His eyes remained on his face.
"I am the lord of these lands," he stated simply, "by killing this man it is my duty that justice be given in the form of your death."
"I understand," he replied. He didn't dare broach the topic of the Night's Watch. He didn't risk earning this man's ire.
"There are other punishments," Lord Bolton then turned abruptly and walked away.
Confused, he stared at the back of Lord Bolton's head, unsure what to do or say, but his choice was made for him. The guards roughly pulled him up to make him follow their liege lord.
"Some would consider these punishments worse than death."
Flaying, an icy claw squeezed around his heart upon realizing what Lord Bolton was hinting at.
He didn't answer. He wasn't sure he wanted to.
"My son has returned from his fostering in the Vale," Lord Bolton remarked, still the Lord of the Dreadfort continued to walk, never once turning to face him. "He has ridden to Winterfell to foster with the Starks and hopefully secure a more promising alliance between our families."
Marriage, he didn't have to be a nobleman or a maester to understand what Lord Bolton was hinting at.
"He belongs in the north, but there are those who could cause him harm," Lord Bolton then spun to meet him, his face hard and cold as if carved from ice.
Who would be foolish enough to risk the wrath of Lord Bolton? He couldn't understand.
"Those who would challenge his claim," Lord Bolton finished.
A bastard, he then realized. That he could understand. He was sure to have a few throughout the Weeping Water, but unlike Lord Bolton they had nothing to inherit from him.
"My son is," Lord Bolton paused as if trying to find the right way to describe him, "foolish enough to ignore my advice and try to seek his bastard brother out." Lord Bolton's jaw clenched, "That I cannot allow."
He wants me to kill him? He guessed, but remained quiet. He knew better then to speak unless directly instructed to.
"I would have you go to my bastard son," Lord Bolton informed him, "Befriend him, serve him, ingratiate yourself in his inner circle and have him see you as an ally." The Lord of the Dreadfort's eyes never left his face.
"From that position you are to ensure that my trueborn son never comes across his bastard brother. If he is foolish enough not to listen to my warnings then you must intercept him before he ever reaches the bastard." Lord Bolton took a step towards him.
"It would lead to his death, and that is an inconvenience I cannot allow," Lord Bolton's impassiveness at the suggestion of his son being killed and the emotional detachment he had at the scenario was unnerving. "My son has a purpose to play and an integral role in the north and in shaping our family's influence I will not risk it out of misplaced brotherly longing."
This hadn't been what he expected at all. Not when he was seized in the inn. Not when he was brought to Lord Bolton. He had been expecting death. That was to be his punishment. In his brief horror he allowed his thoughts to drift to being flayed, but this punishment… He wasn't sure what to make of it.
"Understand, this is not to be taken lightly," Lord Bolton warned. "This is a punishment that will be carried out through years. You will serve me. You will report to me. If you think of fleeing," There was a dangerous glint in those pale eyes, and the corner of Lord Bolton's lips tugged ever so slightly, "You will be found and your punishment will be most severe."
He gulped at the implication of what Lord Bolton's threat was referring to. "I don't understand," he found his courage, his words stumbling out of his mouth with little coherence as he remained the center of Lord Bolton's attention.
"Your role?" Lord Bolton guessed, "why I ask you to spy on my bastard instead of simply killing him?"
He looked away, startled at how easily the Lord of the Dreadfort could read him.
"The title of kin slayer is not something that the people forget," Lord Bolton said simply, "It is a deed most foul and a curse to any who perform it." His face remained impassive making it difficult to gauge if he truly believed those words or if he was simply parroting what others thought.
He nodded, not wanting to question Lord Bolton any further. He thought about his words, weighed his warning, he was thankful for the silence and the time that Lord Bolton gave him.
In the end, he decided. Death was something no one knew or could understand. He preferred to live. This was the world he knew.
"I accept, Lord Bolton," he bowed his head.
"Good," Lord Bolton's voice conveyed no feeling or thought of what he held on the matter. "Your punishment begins now…"
He blinked, pushing away memories that never left him. The warmth of the sunlight sheathed him from the cold wintery wind as he found himself outside of a quiet little inn on the Weeping Water. It was just a few days ride from the Dreadfort, the seat of House Bolton.
The area around the Weeping Water and Lonely Hills were dealing with some tumultuous times. A group that had been given the name, The Bastard Boys were raiding and terrorizing the people. It was rumored they were led by a vicious bastard, Ramsay Snow, the supposed baseborn son of Lord Roose Bolton, of the Dreadfort.
It was an inn like this one where he met with Lord Bolton two years ago to pledge his service and to begin his punishment. In that time, he had become the bastard's keeper. In the service of Ramsay Snow, he committed deeds more foul than any he had made before he agreed to Lord Bolton's punishment.
He pushed aside that dreadful revelation that plagued him, and clamped down on Lord Bolton's warning that always wormed its way into his thoughts. He moved inside to be greeted by the innkeeper, an old woman with white, fraying hair, and a few wisps that were positioned on her upper lip. She gave him a suspicious stare.
"I'm looking for someone," he ignored her stare. "I think he's already here." He then moved to the coin purse tied at his hip and took out a few silvers and presented them to her. "Do you mind if I go up and check?"
Her eyes transfixed on the silver stags, quickly nodded her consent. He dropped the stags in her waiting hands and passed through the near deserted hall and moved up the stairs that led to the handful of rooms that were rented out.
He climbed up the steps and made his way towards the nearest door. He kept a hand on the pommel of his axe while the other went to the doorknob. He opened it and carefully stepped in. Looking around to the small room, to see a fireplace on one side, two narrow windows, and a tiny bed that looked like it could barely hold a grown man.
It was in the corner where he found the man waiting for him.
Sitting in one of two chairs at a small round table, was a young man who had boyish looks and probably would've been considered handsome if not for the scowl that was ever present on his face. He had light hair that was slicked back. His eyes were brown and alert and when they saw him, he simply pointed to the empty chair across from him.
"Damon," he greeted the man who was sitting.
"Bitter," Damon acknowledged him.
Bitter, that was the name he was anointed with when he was initiated with the others. A reference to where he hailed from, the Bite. It could've been worse. He could've been called Yellow Dick.
When he wasn't in the presence of their leader, he preferred his true name, Robard. It served as a reminder of who he once was. It wasn't Robard that had done those terrible deeds, but Bitter.
Damon like him had been recruited by Lord Bolton to help spy on Ramsay. Unlike him, it wasn't a punishment for Damon, but a job. He was being paid for his service. He and him were the only ones who knew they were reporting to Lord Bolton.
The others in their little group had no idea who their true allegiance was to. They were all sworn to Ramsay.
He and Damon made the same oaths of loyalty to Ramsay like the others, but neither was loyal to the bastard. They served the Lord of the Dreadfort. The two of them would meet every so often to exchange their observations and reports that Lord Bolton had given them as well as their own thoughts on Ramsay and the others.
It was a welcome reprieve for Robard. A chance for him to slink back to the man he was before he had killed that man in the inn; before he had accepted Lord Bolton's punishment.
Damon gestured to the pitcher of ale that was resting on the table.
"Aye," Robard took his seat and took a mug of the northern ale that Damon poured with a curt nod.
"You hear the name the people have given us?"
"It seems fitting." Robard thought they deserved a worse name. The Bastard Boys was what all any of the people seemed to be talking about in this area.
"Ramsay doesn't like it," Damon observed. "It reminds him of his baseborn status."
Robard had greedily drunk up the swill that this inn called ale. It tasted terrible, but it was warm and strong. He put the empty tankard down.
"He is a bastard," he pointed out, realizing it was the ale that was making him bold. He knew what Ramsay's reaction would be if that was said in his presence. Robard had seen Ramsay kill a man for a lesser offense.
Damon's lips curved upwards. "You don't like our leader."
"I don't like his ways," Robard said delicately. Even in the company of Damon he chose his words carefully. He may be an ally to him against Ramsay, but he was still not someone Robard fully trusted.
I should've let Lord Bolton take my head, he thought glumly as he refilled his tankard. He had seen and done terrible things under the guise of a faithful friend to Ramsay Snow. He was now the bastard's keeper for Lord Bolton. Death would have been better, he thought.
It had been the only way to earn the bastard's trust. That had been his punishment after all. Lord Bolton had passed the sentence after he accepted the terms. He knew if he failed the Lord of the Dreadfort now, his punishment would be worse then it would've been if he had simply accepted his fate that day outside that inn. That would've been a swift death. Now, he wasn't sure what sort of death he'd be given if he failed Lord Bolton.
He took a smaller sip this time from his tankard. "Lord Bolton doesn't like these raids." He had met with the Lord of the Dreadfort a few nights ago to give him his report.
Lord Bolton spoke plainly of his dissatisfaction of them letting Ramsay carry out these raids in the Lonely Hills and along the Weeping Water. How it went against his creed: a peaceful land, a quiet people.
The land was anything but peaceful.
Ramsay had grown bold. He no longer liked being hidden away in some remote mill. He had been told of his heritage by his mother and servant, Reek. He believed himself entitled to certain forms of entertainment since he was the son of Lord Bolton. The laws applied to the people, he would say, not to me.
It was hard for the people to be quiet when Ramsay had them raped and flayed. He was amassing quite the collection of skins. He hung them as trophies back at their base.
Proof of my heritage, Ramsay would declare happily. Our family has flayed our enemies for centuries, he'd continue on his little history lesson.
You're no Bolton, Robard had always wanted to say, but he wasn't brave or stupid enough. You're just a Snow.
Robard didn't know what was worse: the sight of all those flayed skins or the fact that they no longer turned his stomach. He was use to them.
"His baseborn blood has a certain thirst that needs to be quenched," Damon pointed out.
He's not the only one with thirsts, Robard was referring to the others who had flocked to Ramsay's side. They enjoyed the games as much as Ramsay. Skinner liked to flay the victims as much as Ramsay. Yellow Dick preferred the raping; while Grunt liked the raping and the killing in equal measures.
They were all monsters. They now just served the worse of them in the form of Ramsay Snow.
"The mother isn't helping," Robard couldn't stand her. She was unstable. Not that he was surprised if the stories of how Ramsay was conceived were true. That would unhinged anyone.
She ranted about how her son, her Ramsay had the right to the Dreadfort and no one else. The words had taken root in Ramsay's head and he viewed himself a truer Bolton then Lord Bolton's true son. That he had certain rights that were being denied to him.
"No, she isn't," Damon agreed. "And Reek," he made a face to convey what he thought of Ramsay's twisted, little pet, "Is only making it worse."
"Aye," Robard sighed.
"If she continues in her lessons about his birthright it will prompt him to act."
"He's a bastard," Robard shook his head. "He has no birthright."
"That doesn't make him any less dangerous," Damon reminded him.
Robard couldn't deny that. Ramsay had delusions of grandeur seeing himself as the rightful heir to the Dreadfort. It was him not Domeric who was Lord Bolton's true son. The conviction coupled with the madness and the willingness to see it through formed a very real threat.
"Did you tell Lord Bolton?" Damon leaned back in his seat.
"Aye," Robard had informed Lord Bolton of Ramsay's mother and Reek's involvement of putting forth the notion that Ramsay not Domeric was the true heir to the Dreadfort. He had not been pleased.
"Is it time to end this farce?"
"No," Robard resisted the frown that came to his face at the disappointing news that Lord Bolton still did not see the need to put his bastard down. The taboo of kinslaying stayed his hand.
"Then we continue," Damon spoke in a flat tone. "In our service to Ramsay," He held up his cup in mock toast, "To the Bastard Boys."
"Its yours," proclaimed the servant known as Reek. A young man who always seem to have a malicious gleam in his dark eyes. "All you have to do is take it!"
Even from where he stood, several feet away, Robard could still smell the man. The name was most fitting.
Reek had been given to Ramsay's mother by Lord Bolton when she asked for help in raising her son. It seemed more a cruel jape on Lord Bolton's part then anything else. There wasn't just a foul odor that seemed to radiate off of him, but a sick cruelty that could only be matched by Ramsay.
They were all gathered. Ramsay had wanted them all together. He had plans. That was what he told them.
Ramsay Snow did not seem to have inherited any of the finer traits of either of his parents. He was ugly. He was fat and slope shouldered. He had a broad nose and small mouth. His hair was long, dark and unkempt. His eyes looked like two dirty chips of ice. He had his father's eyes. They were the reason he had not been killed when his mother presented him to Lord Bolton.
"You are right," he agreed. He looked to them and his pale eyes glistened with a hunger that never could be satisfied. "The people of this area need a Lord who knows the Weeping Water, who's traveled through the Lonely Hills." His lips were wide and meaty and when he smiled it made his lips sheen in wetness.
"I am the true heir to the Bolton legacy," he declared. "I will be the next Lord of the Dreadfort!"
No one dared challenge him. No one dared speak about Lord Bolton's son. It was never wise to mention him.
Robard could still remember the rage Ramsay displayed when it was announced of the betrothal between Domeric Bolton and Sansa Stark. It had taken him a week and a handful of victims to work the fury out of him. Ramsay believed himself fitting of these honors that were being given to Lord Bolton's son.
"A pretender stands to inherit the Dreadfort," Ramsay shook his head in disgust. "He is no true Bolton!"
"Impostor," Reek hissed at Ramsay's side.
"That's right, Reek," Ramsay's tone was almost affectionate. He withdrew a dagger from his sheath and turned towards them.
"We will cleanse the bad blood," Ramsay promised. "The time is nearing when the people will rally behind their true lord."
A/N: So Bitter Robard is an OC I created who is one of Ramsay's confidants in the Bastard Boys. However, I didn't want him to be as depraved as Ramsay and the others hence the OC.
This is AU so I've taken liberties with Ramsay and the Bastard Boys. This is a different handling of them then what we get in the book. Since circumstances have changed in this story.
Even when Domeric is alive and at the age of maturity in the books, Roose made no move to kill his bastard when he seemed aware of his bastard's tendencies. So I don't think it's a stretch to have Ramsay still alive in this story either.
I thought it would be interesting to get some glimpses of what Ramsay is up to. Hopefully, I wasn't wrong.
Until next time,
Spectre4hire