A/N: Hello, remember this story? Thanks for your patience and support.

Our Blades Are Sharp

By Spectre4hire

39: The Keeper

Let this be the end, he thought quietly with a reverence that was more reserved for prayer than idle thought.

Robard was waiting in a secluded spot near a creek. This was a place he was familiar with as it had been used countless times in the past to meet with others who served Lord Bolton. It was close enough to their camp without it being too much of a trek to reach, but far enough as to not have any of the Bastard Boys accidentally stumbling upon them.

At the mention of Ramsay's base, he instinctively found his attention drift in the direction of where the windmill should be seen poking out from the canopy of trees, but there was nothing. The last remnants of Ramsay's old life was nothing more but smoldering ruins which he had decided would serve as his foundation for his plan at making a claim for the Dreadfort.

"Burn it down!" He had demanded, "Burn it all!" His pale eyes gleaming in ecstasy when the windmill was consumed by the flames.

Robard shuttered at the memory as it came back to him, cold and unrelenting. He wrapped his cloak tighter around him trying to combat the chill while the event of what transpired days ago was played back in his mind.

"Mother," Ramsay moved towards her.

"Ramsay," she greeted him, "My boy, my lord," at the second part, she lowered her head. An act that made Ramsay smile.

"Soon, mother," he promised he. "Everything you told me, you promised me. Soon I'll have it all."

"Good," Her eyes glinted. She was hungry for power and wealth, but Robard believed it was revenge she craved most directed towards Lord Bolton for refusing her and her son the comforts of the Dreadfort.

She envisioned a life as a spoiled noblewoman with Ramsay being the key to that life, but instead she got a windmill, a bag of gold, and a servant-Reek. It was clear she thought little of Lord Bolton's generous terms and wanted more for her and her son-bastard or not.

That is why I'm here, he watched the exchange between mother and son in silence with his contempt for them hidden behind a stoic façade and a servant's mentality.

"You deserve it, my boy," She moved her hands to his face. "You will be a great man, a great lord," her fingers cupping his cheeks. "Now tell me, how will it be done?" She was eager for the details.

"With blood," Ramsay promised her.

"Ram-" Her eyes widened, a cry of pain followed.

"Hush, mother," he soothed her, pulling out the bloodied dagger. "Your death is not in vain."

"W-why?" She half choked, half gasped. Her hands were trying to stem the blood from the abdominal wound, rivulets of red ran down her clothes.

His eyes were two pricks of pale ice taking in his wounded and bleeding mother without reaction. "It had to be done." He assured her, "You're part of my old life," he raised the bloodied dagger, pointing it at the windmill, "All of this must be destroyed if I'm to rise up to where I belong."

"T-together," she collapsed onto her knees, "s-suppose to t-together."

Ramsay laughed, a cold, merciless sound. "Stupid woman," he scoffed, "You have no place in the presence of a Lord." He stepped towards her. "But do not worry, mother, I will reclaim the birthright you promised me."

"R-Ramsay, please," she begged, hands drenched red, "m-my boy."

Her pleas fell on deaf ears as Ramsay looked at her with mild disgust, his lip curling, "Put her inside," he ordered, "Goodbye, mother."

Grunt and Reek followed the order without hesitation, grabbing her by the arms and dragging her towards the windmill. The home she shared with her son all his life was now going to serve as her tomb.

She shouted and cried, struggling to break her captor's grip but it was to no avail. When Grunt and Reek exited the house, the latter closed the door, while the former barred it to prevent her from escaping.

Robard watched unmoving, aware and against of the great depravity in Ramsay's plan, but he did nothing to protest or to prevent it. That wasn't his duty. This wasn't his concern.

"Are the other bodies placed?" Ramsay asked.

"Yes, my lord," Reek answered readily, his head bobbing up and down, "Locke got the bodies you requested, just like I promised."

"Good Reek," Ramsay said in a tone one would give to an obedient dog. "This will bring my father's men and get his attention." He sounded pleased and proud of the plan he had formed.

"My lord," Yellow Dick stepped forward with a torch, presenting it to him, Damon and Alyn stood with torches at the ready.

Ramsay took the torch, his fat lips curving upwards, pale eyes glowing from the bright flames. He moved towards the windmill where his dying mother and the corpses were placed. He raised the torch to where it could catch with the hay roof, the embers hungrily took to the hay and wood, and began to spread.

"Burn it down!" He demanded, "Burn it all!"

Damon and Alyn heeded the instructions, using their torches to start the fires at select places where they had collected the materials needed to not only catch the flames but to prolong it. When they did that, they broke the windows and tossed their torches inside.

Cold, piercing screams could be heard from within, Robard flinched at the shrill sound that cut sharper and deeper than any blade. He crossed his arms over his chest as if to stem the icy feeling that swelled in his gut. The screams loud and agonizing made him want to heave, but he bit back any bile that threatened to climb up his throat. He needed to maintain his indifference. He needed to maintain the illusion.

So there he stood, still and silent as the windmill went up in flames and Ramsay's mother was burned alive by her own son.

"We will start anew, boys," Ramsay promised them, unmoved by his mother's screams, "power and wealth will soon be within my grasp." Behind him, his home was engulfed by flames casting him in a fiery glow that was hauntingly terrifying.

Robard shielded his eyes with his hand and turned his head, but the screams could still be heard. Even as they grew fainter. Bile burned his throat, but he pushed it down.

I follow the father not the son, he reminded himself. It is him I cannot fail, he continued. This is his plan and I cannot falter from it.

The sound of footfalls over crumpled leaves pulled Robard out of his memory and back to the present. He moved to block himself from view by standing behind a tree, gazing around it to see if it was whom he was waiting for or an uninvited intruder.

"Bitter," a voice whispered from the darkness.

"Damon," he acknowledged, moving to show himself to his ally. "Did you bring the men?"

"Aye," Damon answered, "Lord Bolton was generous gave us nearly a dozen men," he rolled his eyes. "Probably won't even need half that to get him."

Robard knew he made a good point, most of the men within the Bastard Boys weren't really skilled fighters. They relied on the elements of surprise and savagery to overwhelm those they came across not ability. "Lord Bolton is being cautious." He reminded him.

Damon nodded, "They're in position and awaiting our move."

"Good," He recognized the relief in his tone.

This was it, the end he had dreamed of these past few years as he served the depraved bastard known as Ramsay have it be so close at hand made him both excited and anxious.

"Who's on watch?"

"Grunt," Robard ignored Damon's chuckle at that, "And Yellow Dick."

"How did you slip away?"

"Told Grunt I was taking a shit."

Damon smirked, "That's one way to not get followed."

"Come on," Robard's fingers were resting on the hilt of his dagger, "It's time to end this."

It's over.

A laugh threatened to burst from his lips, but he restrained himself, remembering where he was-the dungeons of the Dreadfort. Even still the dour atmosphere couldn't chase away the happiness he felt course through him at finally being rid of Ramsay Snow.

No more did he have to serve as Ramsay's keeper. No more did he have to witness the atrocities that Ramsay committed or worse take part of them. He was free.

I'm free, he repeated, feeling a smile on his lips. He was quick to look both ways in the corridor to make sure he was alone in his silent revelry.

Robard still couldn't believe it was over. He had been sur

prised when he had been given his new orders by Lord Bolton in the aftermath of Ramsay's murder of his mother and the burning of the windmill. It seemed after all the killing and the raping, the flaying and the pillaging, it was the kinslaying that stirred Lord Bolton into taking action.

The very deed that Ramsay had wanted to invoke a response from his father this just hadn't been the one he was expecting.

Stupid bastard, Robard wanted to chuckle at that, but he restrained himself.

He had thought himself a skilled and smart man, believing his plan would win him the Dreadfort, by fooling his father and killing his brother. In the end, he had forgotten a simple truth: He was never in control. He had no power only illusions given to him by his father, and once he grew tired of his bastard's schemes, he would end it, which he did, swiftly and brutally.

"Was there any trouble?"

"No, m'lord," The quiet voice of Lord Bolton made Robard bow his head instantly, wiping away his smile in the movement. "Your men were a boon."

"The casualties?"

"None on our side, m'lord, while every one of the Bastard Boys has been accounted for and is dead including this Locke, " Robard informed him. "It was brief," he continued, flashes of the skirmish playing in his head, Grunt and Yellow Dick being the first to be killed, a dagger in the dark one by him the other by Damon.

The others were roused by a dying shout from Dick, Damon had been careless, but even alerted they proved no real threat. Ramsay had challenged him shirtless and with only a dagger, seeing himself as some sort of great warrior. It was more amusing than intimidating, and the duel that followed didn't last long as he defeated the bastard with relative ease.

Robard relished the victory he had over Ramsay, disarming the bastard before watching him be put in irons by Lord Bolton's men. After all this time, after everything he's seen or worse done to have the man responsible and to be the one to beat him, and to stop him. That was a feeling that he would greedily hold onto for as long as he lived.

"Good," Lord Bolton's tone betrayed nothing at being told of his bastard's defeat and capture. "Come," he moved towards the door to the chambers that was holding Ramsay Snow, "I'm curious to see how he's fared."

"Of course, m'lord," Robard made sure not to show his surprise at being included as he followed Lord Bolton into the cell. It was dimly lit, the torches like all of the torches in the Dreadfort were held by skeleton hands, from the bones of previous servants and enemies alike of House Bolton.

Will Ramsay's hands someday be added? He quietly wondered.

A cross was set in the middle of the room, but there was no body attached to it, two guards had been standing just inside the cell at the door, and both had bowed at Lord Bolton's presence. A gaoler was there as well, off to the side, practically out of sight, but he seemed ready and willing to be addressed, but for now he waited in silence.

The room had no furniture, instead of a bed there was a pile of dirty, tangled rags, the smell of excrement hung in the air, and Robard covered his nose to try to fight the pungent odor. Blood stains could be seen splattered on the floor and walls, some dry and faded, but others looked fresh and some so fresh it still looked wet.

It was in the corner where Ramsay was being kept, chains from the wall were latched to his wrists, giving him some movement and ability to walk, but judging by the length of the chain, Robard doubted he could move more than three feet in any direction. He also noted how Lord Bolton had him chained on the opposite side of the room to where the rags on the floor had been. It seemed he wanted no sort of comfort for his bastard son.

"A visitor!" Ramsay's voice was hoarse. He had screamed and shouted for much of the trip back to the Dreadfort filled with anger and indignation at what had transpired to him and his men. He had blustered and cursed, and threatened, but it all had fallen on silence. That had only made him madder and louder.

Lord Bolton ignored his son's greeting. Stopping well away from him, while making no indication to speak, instead settling on studying him silently.

Robard made sure to stay in the shadows so as to not provoke the bastard. He wanted to witness this after everything, and he feared his presence would rouse a reaction from the prisoner so he tried to keep himself hidden from Ramsay

"Do you know where you are?" Lord Bolton finally spoke.

"Father, you've come to check up on me at last," Ramsay answered. "Of course I know where I am," He moved to stand up, the guards shifted as if expecting for the bastard to strike, but Lord Bolton stopped them with a raised hand. A notion that didn't go unnoticed by Ramsay who seemed to take it as a good thing as his smile only widened.

Confinement had only worsened his already ugly appearance. He was dressed in dirty clothes, ripped trousers and a shirt that was torn in a few places. His hair was long, dark and in a tangled mess. Fat and short, he couldn't hide his unenviable traits in his new position as prisoner.

"We stand inside a flaying chamber," he pointed to the cross, "I dreamed of this place," his fingers gently ran down the stoned wall, "I imagined I was here many times when I was with my victims." He licked his lips. "If only you could've seen them, father," his tone filled with longing, "You would've been so pleased," his meaty lips curved upwards, "And so proud." He stood straighter as if trying to look more regal and less hideous. "I followed the tradition of our ancestors. We Boltons have flayed our enemies for a thousand years. It's on our banners."

"My banners not yours," Lord Bolton's soft voice cut in sharply. "You're not a Bolton. You're a Snow."

Ramsay winced at his father's rebuke. He shrunk back, his confidence punctured. His smile disappeared in an instant at the chastisement. He faltered only for a moment, before he regained his poise, "I'm your heir!"

"My heir?" A hint of amusement seeped into his otherwise mild tone. "I have an heir." Lord Bolton stepped towards his prisoner. "A better man than you in every way." His arms behind his back, examining the bastard before him like a farmer would when looking over his livestock.

"A son born of two noble houses." Lord Bolton continued, "Betrothed to Lord Stark's eldest daughter. He will provide me a key to Winterfell," His face remained impassive, "While you have provided me with nothing but headaches."

"I can be that for you!" Ramsay argued. "I know these lands better than he ever will," He boasted, "Lord Stark wants to strengthen ties with our family above all, he would agree to the betrothal with me instead."

A chuckle escaped Lord Bolton's stoic countenance, "You?" He shook his head, "A bastard betrothed to Lord Stark's eldest daughter. What folly is this?" He looked towards Robard, "You were right, his delusions are impressive."

"He isn't worthy of the Dreadfort!" Ramsay all but shouted, moving towards Lord Bolton, chains stopping him well before he could reach him. The irons shook and rattled as Ramsay fought against them.

Lord Bolton didn't reacted at all to his bastard's outburst taking it in quietly and coolly, even as his guards had rushed to put themselves between him and Ramsay. "There is some fight in you." He scratched his chin, "I could've been wrong about you." He admitted. "Release him."

Ramsay's eyes widened in disbelief, before recovering quickly, his meaty lips formed a triumphant smile, a smug look settled over his face.

Robard couldn't believe what he was hearing. This couldn't be, shaking his head in dismay. He stepped forward, "M'lord?" He finally made his presence known ignoring the glare that Ramsay was sending him while the guards moved to unlock the chains.

"Be quiet," he warned him, "Or you shall find yourself in your own cell."

The cold threat by Lord Bolton stymied Robard's protest. Forcing him to watch in quiet disbelief and disgust as Ramsay was unchained.

He's free, Robard couldn't believe it, Lord Bolton is freeing him. His hand twitched at his side, longing to reach for his sword, but only his fear in Lord Bolton halted his movement.

"Where am I going, Father?" Ramsay asked excitedly, "A room fit for your heir?"

"Not to worry, son. You're going where you belong."

That was when the guards grabbed Ramsay by the shoulders. "What's going on?" He demanded. "Unhand me!"

The guards weren't escorting him out of the cell. They were leading him to the cross.

He's playing with him, Robard realized, like a cat with a wounded mouse. It was a game to him, feeling that cold, eerie sensation settle in his stomach whenever he reflected on the sort of man Lord Bolton was.

We're all just pieces to him, to be used, to be discarded. He noticed a flicker of amusement play over Lord Bolton's expression as he watched his son struggle against the guards.

"No!" Ramsay shouted desperately trying to break free. "You can't do this!" He raged, spittle flying, face reddening.

That was when one of the guards punched Ramsay in the gut causing the bastard to bend over in pain. The other guard seized the advantage to put the bastard's arm to the cross.

"I'm your son!"

"Sadly that is something I cannot amend," Lord Bolton admitted wryly just as the guard put a nail to Ramsay's hand before hammering into the wooden cross. "That means it falls on me to impart some important lessons for you to learn."

Ramsay screamed in agony, a high pitched wail that reverberated off the walls. He was half pinned to the cross, hanging limply, trembling. It was easier for the guards to hammer the nail into his other hand. This time the bastard's shouting was more hoarse, but just as chilling. Tears came down his cheeks while the wounds in his hands wept blood, red streaks dripping down his arms.

"Did you truly believe you were in control?" Lord Bolton's quiet voice could be heard over Ramsay's cries of pains as the guards hammered his feet to the cross.

"That you could fool me?" Lord Bolton asked, "That you could kill my son," his usual mild and controlled voice, unexpectedly changed at those last words. "To steal his birthright and claim it as your own. Did you think I'd allow it? Allow you?" He scoffed, "Pathetic."

Ramsay moaned. His chest rising and falling, his breathing grew heavier, his pale eyes were unfocused, his fingers twitching, while a spasm of pain flittered over his face.

"The moment your mother revealed yourself to me," He seized Ramsay's face, twisting it so that he could meet his bastard's eyes. "You've lived only by my mercy." He explained, "And you foolishly threw that away with delusions beyond your blood or your worth."

Seeing him upon the cross, Robard felt no pity stir in his chest, no remorse at seeing the blood or the tears or hearing the cries of pain that Ramsay made. No, he felt a dark sense of satisfaction at seeing the bastard crucified, unable to forget all of the victims he had over the years and the torment he inflicted on so many.

Justice, he thought, hearing Ramsay's groans and watching him struggle against the nails that pinned his flesh into the wood. This is what you deserve, bastard.

He released his son's face, and took a step back, but his eyes remained on Ramsay. "What is the punishment in these lands for besmirching a member of the lord's family, Robard?"

The question caught him off-guard, but he knew the answer readily enough, having served with Grunt these past few years.

"They have their tongue removed, m'lord."

"Indeed they do," Lord Bolton agreed.

The gaoler stepped forward, he had been quiet and out of the way since Ramsay had been brought in, but quickly heeded his master's call. He was a thin man with an unassuming face, and plain features. He was holding the pincers in reverence, a look of yearning in his eyes as he moved the pincers over to the fire to prepare them.

"N-no," Ramsay shook his head. Emerging from his stupor of pain and exhaustion. "Y-you cannot do this!" He thrashed against the nails that pinned him in place, wincing and cursing. "I'm your proper heir!"

"Quiet child," Roose chided him. "I have a proper heir, my son, Domeric. He will rule after me and his children with Lady Sansa will rule after him." He turned to the pincers to see if they were ready. They weren't so he turned back to Ramsay.

"This is what you always wanted," Lord Bolton observed, "A place in the Dreadfort, and now you shall have one for as long as you live." He smiled, "Welcome home, my son."

"F-father, I can serve you," Ramsay insisted, sweat and tears mingled on his cheeks. "I-I-"

"Enough, your voice grows irksome," Lord Bolton interrupted his son's pleas, "But that will be remedied shortly," he chuckled.

"N-no!" Ramsay's strength was draining from him, his protests grew weaker, his tone softer, as his struggle lessened. "You cannot do this!" He hissed, "This wasn't how it was meant to be."

Lord Bolton ignored his son's protests. "Kinslaying is abhorrent to the gods," he observed, "But thankfully, I have found ways around committing said sin."

"It's ready, m'lord."

Lord Bolton nodded and gestured for the gaoler to step forward.

Despite his condition, Ramsay did not make it easy. He struggled against the nails, gasping in pain as they dug deeper into flesh, he writhed and cried out to delay the inevitable punishment that awaited him.

His struggle was all in vain, as the guards properly subdued him.

"Though, this may be our last conversation," Lord Bolton drawled, "Not to worry son, I shall visit you regularly." He revealed, "After all, I have more lessons to teach you and I think for your next one I shall remove your other offending part." He mentioned casually.

Robard looked away at the last possible second just before the guard ripped Ramsay's tongue out of his mouth. The muted shouts of pain that followed were some of the worse that Robard had heard, but for once he realized it was deserved. He looked to see blood pooling out of Ramsay's mouth down onto his chest, trickling rivers of red.

For a second, he thought the action had killed Ramsay, but he saw the bastard stir and realized he must have passed out from the ordeal.

Lord Bolton examined the removed tongue which was still being grasped by the pincers for a few heartbeats, before he turned away. "What happens here shall not leave this room. Am I understood?"

"It won't, m'lord," the gaoler swore, still holding the pincers, blood dripping down from it and pooling onto the floor.

"I will not have his death be premature."

"Not to worry, m'lord," The gaoler assured him, "I can treat him so that he needs no maester." Ramsay's tongue swayed and twitched in the pincers grip, "Just like the others."

"See to it that you do," Lord Bolton dismissed him and the guards with that.

"Robard?"

"You have my word, m'lord," Robard said quickly, his eyes lingering on the bastard's body upon the cross. "Nothing shall be said of this."

"Good," Lord Bolton moved towards the door, "Do you have his ring?"

"Aye, my lord," Robard went into his pocket to get the scorched ring that had the Bolton flayed man emblazoned on it. He stepped forward to present it, bowing his head as he did.

Lord Bolton took it without a word, raising it to the light to examine the ring, before putting it away. "Come, Robard," he ordered, "We have much to discuss including your new role."

"My new role?" Robard repeated before he could stop himself. After all this time with the bastard, he hadn't thought much of a life without serving as Ramsay's keeper. Probably because he had believed that his service would eventually end with his death when it came to putting an end to Ramsay.

"Yes," Lord Bolton's voice didn't convey any annoyance at Robard's question. "You served as a keeper to my bastard son," his pale eyes on Ramsay's form which was nailed to the cross, "I think it is time you attend my son and heir. Allow you to see and serve the future of my family."

A/N: I'm back, got a new computer, and found the time and inspiration to start writing again.

Just to clarify in case the end of this chapter wasn't clear enough, but this chapter takes place before Chapter 36 "The Maester,"

To those who guessed that Ramsay hadn't died and was hiding, well you're correct, but this probably wasn't the way you meant.

Your reviews served as a great motivation to get me to start writing again after my laptop crashed. Hearing your feedback and knowing you were out there and were interested and wanted to know what happened next really helped me fight through the discouragement that came with having lost all my outlines and partially written chapters. So please don't hesitate to review. It really does help.

Thanks for the time,

-Spectre4hire

P.S: In case anyone is interested I hope to have 'A Dragon's Roar,' updated next week.