A/N: Warning this chapter contains depictions/hints/mentions of torture, rape, and some other nasty and terrible stuff. While this story will remain a Teen rating this chapter is rated M. This content is for mature (age 17 and up) audiences only.
If you do not wish to read this chapter because of the content send me a message and I'll write back to you with some sort of summary of what this chapter covers. I can't promise how soon I can write the message, but it will be sent before chapter 31 is published.
Our Blades are Sharp
By Spectre4hire
30: The Keeper
The Dreadfort loomed over him.
A sinister remnant from a bloodier, brutal time built by the Boltons who had called themselves Red Kings and ruled their dominion with sharp blades and savage technique. That was when flayed skins of slain enemies not banners of cloth hung on the ramparts of the Dreadfort.
He walked along a cliff lip. The Weeping Water ran below him, cold, clear water resembling a sword of light cutting its way through a dark canvas. Above him was the Dreadfort. It had high thick walls, colossal towers crowned with merlons that resembled stone teeth from some massive beast. An ominous sight that still made his stomach clench nervously.
He had come this way upon this hidden, high mountain path more times than he could count, but that cold clasp of fear still clung to him every time he walked it. It had been shown to him by Lord Bolton as a way for him to come to the Lord of the Dreadfort without being seen by servants or guards to deliver his reports of his bastard son, Ramsay.
At the end of the path was a cave. Long ago, the people who lived in the shadow of the Dreadfort believed ghosts lived in these lands because they were able to hear the anguish screams and howls of agony that eerily came out of the cave from the prisoners of House Bolton who were flayed for treason, information, or entertainment. Oblivious to the existence of this cave the people feared it to be lingering ghosts and avoided the area.
There as he crested from the pathway he could see it. Looking like a giant maw with rocks jutting up from its lower and upper lips to resemble teeth. Thankfully, the cave was silent this night. There in its mouth, he saw a flicker of light. Carefully, he moved closer towards it.
"Stop," the soft voice spoke up just as he reached the cave's mouth.
"Lord Bolton," he bowed his head.
"What news from my bastard do you bring?"
"His raids have stopped."
"I know," Lord Bolton's voice gave away nothing. "You may rise."
He did, to see Lord Bolton holding a torch, the fire brought a haunting glow to the Lord of the Dreadfort's face, and made his pale eyes look like two pricks of fire.
"Was that your doing?"
"I'm not certain, m'lord." He had learned long ago to always be honest with Lord Bolton. Since he detested feigned humility and foolish pride. "He has become more," he paused to try to find the right word, "cautious."
"He's learning," the lilt in Lord Bolton's voice sounded amused. "He understands how little he is actually protected." The Lord of the Dreadfort began to retreat deeper into the cave.
Robard followed at a respectful distance. A challenge since Lord Bolton's torch was the only light that illuminated the dark passageway that ran underneath the Dreadfort. Multiple corridors and rooms were built deep into the ancestral seat of House Bolton. It was that connection of stone bowels that they found themselves walking in.
He could remember the first time Lord Bolton had showed him these dungeons and cells. He would plainly inform Robard of the rooms' uses when they passed them. Such as this was where past Bolton Lords and Red Kings liked to cut men before they started the flaying. Or that this room was where they preferred to maim the chests and backs of their victims. Or this was where they put nail to flesh to crucify them to their crosses.
The indifference in his voice or the casualness of his tone when speaking of maiming and flaying was bone chilling. They were reminders for him to show him what happened to those who disobeyed, disappointed or rebelled against the Bolton family.
It had ended when Lord Bolton showed him a room and simply said that this would be his room for the remainder of his days if he betrayed him or reneged on their agreement. In the center of the room was a cross and to Robard's horror, a body was nailed to it. Dry blood had pooled around the cross' base, as bits of skin had been peeled off, to show bone and meat. The head was lulled to the side.
Robard nearly heaved at the smell, but then to his silent horror, the body stirred and a low, gruff groan escaped the man. His head shakily rose and Robard met the man's dead, hopeless eyes.
A cold chill seeped into his bones and Robard had heaved onto the floor before he ran out.
"Do you understand me now?" Lord Bolton had asked him calmly when he had joined him a few minutes later further up the corridor.
Robard had nodded, hands shaking, and stomach churning. "I'm your man," he had vowed, "To my last day."
Returning to the present, by banishing those memories away. He then remembered something Lord Bolton had said earlier about Ramsay's protection. "Lord Bolton?"
"I had made certain that word reached Ramsay's mother of what would happen to her and her boy if he continued with these games."
Ramsay won't like that, Robard knew the bastard well enough to know that Ramsay didn't like being chided. He didn't like being told no. He would be sullen for a time but that would turn to spite.
No more threats. Ramsay was not worthy of the protection that Lord Bolton insisted on giving him. He was a menace to the land, a monster in human skin. He didn't need to be disciplined. He needed to be put down.
"Tell me," Lord Bolton's soft voice broke through his thoughts. "What is it that he's doing?"
"He's planning something," Robard scratched the dark stubble along his cheeks. "He no longer raids, but he sends out riders."
"Riders?" Lord Bolton looked curious, "Where?"
"I do not know, m'lord." It had been frustrating to see them ride off. When they returned days later they would tell him nothing. They only spoke to Ramsay, and Robard couldn't get any information subtly out of him either. He dared not press knowing how volatile and suspicious the bastard is.
"He's up to something, m'lord," Robard could feel it in his gut.
Despite the bastard's cruelty, he possessed some low cunning. Ramsay wasn't alone in these schemes either. Reek was with him too. He stunk with secrets and plots that bothered Robard more than the awful smell that gave Reek his name.
"Probably another girl for him to hunt and rape," Lord Bolton suggested, who didn't sound bothered by these reports.
No, it isn't. Their hunts weren't this well planned. This was something else. The bastard was being too secretive.
"You disagree."
He looked up to see Lord Bolton's pale eyes on him. It was as if they could see through the darkness to notice the frown that had come to Robard's lips. "You are the Master and I'm the servant, m'lord."
"You think he should be killed?" Lord Bolton asked him, "that I should end this farce?"
"I do, m'lord," Robard had made his argument before. Why watch him when it was better to put a dagger in his heart and be done with it.
"You don't understand why I keep him alive."
"I do not, m'lord."
"Tell me how many true born sons does Lord Stark have?"
Robard frowned at the sudden question. It took him a few moments to remember, "Three."
Lord Bolton nodded, "To most that would appease any parent. How could a father not be proud when he's given three sons? But only a fool is content. You look closer and you see that the Stark line isn't as secure as you'd believe at first glimpse." A gleam was in his pale eyes, "They have three sons: a cripple, a boy, and a young man."
"The cripple cannot extend the family line. The boy can easily die from a cough or sickness when winter truly is upon us."
"What about the heir?" Robard could concede Lord Bolton's other points, but the heir to Winterfell was a young man who was betrothed to a Princess and was expected to be wed within the next year or so. Surely, that marriage would breed heirs soon after.
They turned a corner and into a corridor that was already lit with torches. The sudden brightness caused Robard to shield his eyes with his hand since he had grown use to the dark. He blinked a few times to adjust, before seeing how the torches were grasped by skeletal hands that poked out of the wall. He had grown use to the pale, bone hands. Knowing that they belonged to past servants of House Bolton even in death they continued to serve their master.
He wondered if Lord Bolton would have his hands put to the walls when his time passed. Will my bones hold the light for future lords of the Dreadfort?
"History is filled with young, foolish men who were heirs to great houses with delusions of grandeur and the sense of immortality," Lord Bolton said disdainfully, "They perished never to extend their family line or achieve the glory they longed for, dying in battles and tournaments to belly aches and other sicknesses."
"So that's what protects Ramsay?" Robard bit back the frustration that threatened to slip into his tone. He didn't like the idea that monster was protected because Lord Bolton saw the bastard as his spare in keeping the Bolton line going.
The bastard was dangerous and no amount of Bolton blood should shield him from the death that he deserves.
"Yes," Lord Bolton said simply. "I will not become the bane of my bloodline. To be cursed as the last Bolton before our name leaves the living only to linger on the pages of some dusty, old history tome."
"To just think of some Stark supporter to be given to the Dreadfort," Lord Bolton's tone was calm, but there was no denying his distaste at the idea. "I will not have it. The Boltons are the oldest and most dangerous rival to House Stark's dominance of the north."
"So do not think me hesitant. I am merely patient," his fingers went to the flayed man clasped on his collar. "I wait until my line is secured and furthered before I make my move. I have planned this for years to finally secure this claim."
This was the first time Robard had heard of any of this. Fool, a voice whispered. Why would a great lord deign himself to consult with someone like you.
"A claim?" Robard didn't understand, "A claim for what?"
"Winterfell," Lord Bolton's lips curved upwards to form a sharp smile. "When my heir, Domeric marries the Lady Sansa and does his duty and produces children. They will have a claim to the ancestral seat of the Starks. That is my legacy. "
Robard stood stiffly. He forced his eyes not to look across to see the bustling bushes that were concealing Ramsay and his conquest.
He looked to see Damon was leaning against a tree and looking bored. Reek was closest to the bushes, a look of longing on his face. His hands were clasped in front of him, but his fingers were fidgeting while his eyes were transfixed on the bushes.
It was fear that kept him from doing anything, but not of Ramsay's wrath but of his father's. Robard knew what would happen if he disobeyed Lord Bolton. He often dreamed of that room. Of waking up to find himself, nailed to that cross. In the dark pit of the Dreadfort as Lord Bolton would be his only visitor. And with each visit came a piece of skin.
The bushes eventually stilled.
Now his mercy, Robard wanted to spit the words, as he heard the dagger withdraw from its sheath and the quick slash of blade cutting flesh and then nothing. He looked over his shoulder to see Ramsay emerging from the bushes.
A smile played on his lips, there was a sheen of sweat on them as well as the rest of his face. "She's all yours, Reek," Ramsay gave him a pat on the back when he passed. "Still warm, just how you like 'em." Ramsay was tying up the laces of his breeches.
Reek scurried off. Disappearing behind the bushes, grunts soon followed.
He turned away from the bushes, not wanting to think about what Reek was doing to that poor girl's corpse.
She was frightened, bruised, and bloodied when they came upon her. She hadn't been alone either. Grunt was holding her forcefully, his strong grip on her arm at an angle which Robard feared would snap bone with one tug. Yellow Dick was with them too, a pleased look on his face. He had said that she was unspoiled and a gift from Locke.
Who's Locke? Robard wanted to ask, but he didn't. He couldn't even frown at the name. He had kept his face blank, but his ears and eyes were attentive and alert in case anything new let slip that he could report back to Lord Bolton, but he got nothing and instead had to witness the sick games the bastard liked to play with his victims.
She's not the first girl, he thought sadly. He couldn't count how many boys and girls he had seen Ramsay and the others rape and kill during his service of the bastard. They died because of the bastard's blood. It protected him.
Robard clenched his fists in frustration at that bitter truth. Lord Bolton's words stayed with him. As was the indifference in which the Lord of the Dreadfort used to speak them. What's the concern of a few low born girls in comparison to insuring the Bolton line?
So Ramsay got to play his games and they all suffered for it.
Now he plots and schemes with Reek, Yellow Dick, and Grunt. Robard knew Lord Bolton disregarded what he had to say. Mayhaps, he was right. After all, the corpse behind the bushes proved the lord right that the only plans his bastard had made was for another one of his hunts.
No, there's more, Robard stubbornly thought, this Locke was a part of it too.
Ramsay was smoothing out his tunic. He was a bastard, but that didn't stop him from wearing his father's colors. A pale red tunic, crude stitching of a flayed man at its center, dark breeches, a red cape with fox fur trimming, and on his finger he wore a ring, the only evidence of his blood ties to House Bolton and the Dreadfort.
Bold, Robard had thought when he saw Ramsay's choice of clothes. He wore his father's colors, but even he hadn't been brave enough to wear the flayed man. A sigil he had no right to bear.
This was his mother's doing. Robard knew it. She was a deranged woman who had filled Ramsay's head with dangerous notions that the Dreadfort was his, that he was a Bolton in both blood and name. And when she wasn't with him, Reek was there. The creature once a gift from Lord Bolton spoke the words to Ramsay's ears whenever he could. Telling him how he deserved the holdings of the Dreadfort and the title of Lord Bolton not this absent brother who spent his life in Barrowton, the Vale, Winterfell, and now the capital.
He'd need to tell Lord Bolton the next time he saw him. He'd want to know. And maybe then that would be enough proof for the Lord of the Dreadfort to understand that his bastard was too dangerous to be allowed to live.
More reason to remove Ramsay now, but Lord Bolton clearly did not see it. He would not be hasty in his decision. He saw his trueborn son was protected and kept away from his bastard brother. It'd be a further distance between one brothers if Ramsay was put into the ground.
Legacy be damned, Robard cursed. Only nobles would care so much about their name and its preservation to allow men like Ramsay Snow to walk amongst us.
"They're back," Damon announced, pointing off at a pair of riders who were approaching their clearing in the woods.
"Hurry up, Reek." Ramsay called over his shoulder, annoyed. "The girl isn't going anywhere." He chuckled at that. "You can even bring her with us. She won't complain."
Robard spotted them. Grunt and Yellow Dick had both left soon after Ramsay claimed the girl from this Locke. Where they went was information that he hadn't been privy to.
"Reek, now!" Ramsay called out to him.
Robard smelled him before he saw him. Reek moved over to stand to Ramsay's right. The smell was so bad; it made him want to gag. He noticed the front of Reek's clothes were stained in blood from the girl. He was licking his lips hungrily. Reek was holding a few strands of the girl's hair in between his fingers bringing it to his nose to smell.
Yellow Dick dismounted from his horse while Grunt remained on his. A brutal man with a round face, a plain look, with muddy brown hair, but there was a meanness in him that flowed in his blood. He went by the name Grunt because that was the only sound he could make. He had lost his tongue when he had spoken carelessly about Lord Bolton's heir within earshot of the Lord of the Dreadfort. It was for that reason why he sought out Ramsay.
Yellow Dick offered Ramsay a quick bow. A display of respect and a farce that they all must play since Ramsay styled himself a lord when he was nothing but a bastard and a monster. Yellow Dick was squat and ill tempered with a bulbous nose and sharp eyes, stringy blond hair fell over his forehead.
"It's done," Yellow Dick told them.
"Very good," Ramsay clapped his hands once. He turned to Reek. The two seemed to share a silent conversation that left both men smirking.
Robard felt a sinking feeling settling in his gut. This wasn't good, he was trying not to panic. He snuck a glance over at Damon, but his confidant within this group of Bastard Boys looked indifferent at the conversation between Ramsay and Yellow Dick.
We're performers, Robard reminded himself, me and him, we can give nothing away.
"This opportunity won't come again," Reek pointed out.
"No," Ramsay pulled a dagger out from its sheath on his hip. "It will not."
"Do we proceed?" Yellow Dick asked. His tone was cautious, but his eyes betrayed his eagerness.
"Yes," Ramsay pressed the dagger's point to each of his fingers on his left hand.
Yellow Dick looked pleased. He flashed Ramsay a smile before he turned back to Grunt. "What are you waiting for?" He asked his silent riding companion. "Your tongue to grow back? Let's go." He then kicked his horse who neighed and wheeled around before spurring it back in the direction from which they had ridden from.
Grunt's eyes narrowed at the fleeting back of Yellow Dick before he turned back to Ramsay. He nodded to him and without sparing them another look rode off after him.
"Reek," Ramsay turned to his faithful servant, "Tell Sour Alyn to have my horse ready for our return to the mill."
"At once," Reek was grinning, as he shuffled off to where Sour Alyn had taken their horses to a nearby stream.
"Will that be all?" There was nothing he wanted more then to take his horse and ride back to the Dreadfort to inform Lord Bolton of what was happening.
"Tend to the girl, Bitter," Ramsay gestured to the bushes that concealed the corpse. "And then you'll ride back with the rest of us."
Robard smothered the frown at his directions. He could let nothing show. "Do you require protection?" He meant the question to be a jape.
"No," Ramsay's pale eyes regarded him coolly.
It took all of his control not to shudder at the colorless eyes as he imagined the wroth of Lord Bolton if he could not seek him out and to warn him of whatever it is, his bastard was planning.
"But I will require your services," he told him. "At dawn we all ride out from the mill."
"Where?"
"You'll find out," Ramsay told him with a thin lipped smile.