IN the dark of the godswoods, Ramsay Bolton navigated the all-too-familiar path not by sight, yet by what meager faith the bastard of Lord Roose Bolton did possess in his own capabilities and memory. His legs moved of their own accord, no longer taking directions from his own mind.
His feet followed the narrow strip of naked earth among the giants of dead root and winding boughs that groaned underneath the weight of all the ice.
Ramsay peeled off a leather hide glove with his teeth and allowed his bare hand now exposed to the dangerously frigid cold elements to touch their rough, cracked bark as he passed by lazily, strangely feeling the gentle spirit of the godswood soothe his own, which was odd for him.
The bastard was unable to explain away the eerie sense of calm that now wallowed in his soul as he caught sight of Winterfell in the distance, even more so the tightening in his chest at the notion of paying a visit to his wolf, his prized possession. Sansa Stark.
No. That was not quite right, was it? She was a Bolton by name following their marriage.
His neck stung with heat at the notion. Ramsay clamped an ungloved hand over the back of his neck and swallowed hard. He felt a budding sense of annoyance at being gone so long on a hunt.
However, good meat was scarce these days and game hard to fell in these storms that never seemed to let up as winter raged its wars on the North, though he was successful in his endeavors and had managed to return with two horses laden with game. Two deer, several white hares and foxes, and dead squirrels would see Winterfell through the rest of this fucking cold winter.
Ramsay's lips twitched as he fought back the beginnings of a wane half-smile as visions of his she-wolf's pretty features flitted through the man's mind. He was still fantasizing about Sansa Bolton and wondering what his wife thought of him, truly thought, as he approached Winterfell.
The huge gate with great wooden doors, regular bridge, and strong defenses offered a welcome and warm respite within the cold and isolated North, but this gate was not the only way in, which, fortunately, only a select few knew, and he was one of the very few. Winterfell's walls were the strongest thing for miles, yet as Ramsay approached and looked more carefully, he noticed the stones. The intimidating structure was built of stones of varying shapes and sizes, each one of them unique.
From a distance, the castle was a uniform grey, but from up close, it was almost a mosaic of humble rocks, each one nobody would think anything of if they were loose by the roadside. But together, they were a castle, together, the stones were Winterfell, the crown of the entire Northern kingdom and the protector of ancient peoples, and he was the Warden of it now. Not Roose. He was.
Ramsay's lips curved upwards into a devilish smirk at the thought of seeing the fear well to life within Sansa Stark's bright and vivacious Tully blue eyes, how satisfied he was that he had put that fear there, that she would not-could not leave him. Not if she valued keeping her face pretty. How he would ravage himself inside of her and pour all that he was within her, and he would have her unbound. Normally, he would use sharp ropes or chains, but his prized possession was a beauty best kept unmarked.
Preserve the rare ones, he could remember his lord father telling him once, as a child.
The thought was enough to cause his growing hardness to become almost painful as his mind's eye worked to ideate Sansa Bolton's curvy but petite body in front of him. Like a phantasm, she appeared before him. He wanted to rush to her immediately, but he knew he had time to enjoy himself.
As he walked through the gates as the portcullis was lowered and the two horses of the hunt passed off to a stable boy who could not even summon the courage to look his lord squarely in the eye, he envisioned watching Sansa's eyes fill with fear the moment he would walk through the door of her cell.
Ramsay thought he would like nothing more than to watch her bottom lip begin to tremble in earnest. He wondered what she was thinking of him even at this moment.
Was she thinking of him in disgust or awe, perhaps even admiration?
To Sansa, was he her hero or her bully? A foul disgusting bully, no doubt, he would be kidding himself to believe otherwise, though it was easy for Ramsay to pretend just for a moment, that Sansa would regard him with awe and respect in those wintry pale blue eyes that threatened to ensnare him.
He inhaled sharply as he thought about the way she had of looking at him.
If only Sansa could know that she was his shelter from the storms in his life. The place he wanted to come to when everyone else in the entire bloody fucking North was against him.
The scheming lords were all vying for power, ogling his wife when the roguish vicious cunts thought the mad dog wasn't paying any attention to them at all. The lords were mistaken, however. Ramsay was always alert and watchful to any man who eyed his prize.
Father's memory is forever entrenched in his brain—he left all of it behind when he visited Sansa.
He curled his ungloved hands into fists as he thought of the unfamiliar sensation that had begun to burgeon within himself whenever he visited his wolf.
When Sansa looked at him or spoke to him, even with venom dripping from her tone and malice in her eyes, even to see the torment which vented in her eyes, knowing that he had put it there and there was little she could do as his wife, there was a pressure that caused his chest to constrict until it was almost painful and seeped a warmth throughout his body that was not altogether unpleasant.
It was one of the strangest sensations Ramsay had ever encountered. The first time it had happened to him had been their wedding night as he had claimed her.
He had looked into the hope welling within her eyes at the notion that Sansa Stark had believed he could be kind to her, only to watch her delusion shatter when he revealed that he could not.
That the notion of love was for stupid women who believed in the tales.
Love was a phantasm and not real, at least, not for him. It existed for others, more fortunate sorry stupid sods, but try as hard as he could, he simply could not muster up the emotion. This was why when the pressure in his chest would well, Ramsay did not know what to make of it at first. He had become skeptical of the feeling at first, but he had quickly concluded that it was a good feeling. Something that he wanted again and something that he could only experience within the company of his wife.
And even now, as he made his way to the cell where she was kept, his first urge when he realized he was about to lay eyes on his she-wolf after weeks away was that he wanted to touch her.
It was again a new desire for the mad dog. A powerful wave of possessiveness flooded through his body and settled in the center of his chest, causing the damned feeble quivering muscle that was his heart to pound loudly against his ribcage. The sound was loud drumming that he could hear in his ears as he stood outside their chamber door, letting himself have a moment. His body was teeming with anticipation and excitement, even as every single fiber of his body was pulled taut and on alert.
The thought of ravaging himself inside of his wife took hold of Ramsay without warning, the urge was so primal and instinctive and powerful. The yearning that seized his black wretched heart was so powerful that the mad dog nearly yelped in surprise but managed to refrain from doing so. Maester Wolkan before he had left the hunt had come to him with the news that Sansa Bolton was pregnant with his heir.
A son, the timid maester was sure of that much. He would have someone who would watch from him, and learn his ways. There was perhaps even the chance that he would have someone to love as he himself had never been loved. He'd had no mother, Father had only needed him for his own purposes but had never truly loved him as his. Ramsay exhaled a shaking breath and gave a firm twist and a shove of the doorknob and let himself into the darkened tomb-like chamber. No candles were lit, and the room was swathed in shadow. He grimaced as his boot came down on the one stone that was loose, and it shifted, giving out an audible scraping sound and alerting his she-wolf to his presence. He nearly growled in frustration but exhaled loudly through his nose and forced himself to remain calm.
"Sansa?" he barked in a hoarse voice that was a mere rasp. He was greeted with nothing but silence.
The furrow of confusion between his brows deepened. Perhaps his wife was sleeping already. Women in her fragile condition supposedly slept a lot, Maester Wolkan had said so.
But…the wolf pelt fur and vair sheets were neatly made up and showed no signs of having been slept in and held no Sansa. A wave of icy cold dread washed over him at that moment, though by a bloody miracle of the fucking gods, he kept control, despite every inch of him wanting to thrash the wardrobe and upend the chamber and thrash the room's contents in search of Sansa.
Ramsay forced his mind to remain calculating and methodical as his eyes narrowed as they made a quick scan of the darkened chamber. Nothing was missing that he could see. The wardrobe remained untouched, most of her gowns were still within, and no hidden weapons of any kind were out of place.
Not that he would have been stupid enough to leave her with one. The only thing that was missing from this very room was the only thing that mattered to Ramsay now. His pregnant wife.
He squeezed his eyes shut and felt the urge to kill pump through his veins as he turned his heel and stalked outside of their chambers and down towards the dungeons. There was perhaps one still in the castle who could inform him as to the whereabouts of his wife.
Reek.
MASTER was coming. He said to himself over and over again, until it was almost his mantra. The sound of audible footsteps that could only belong to Lord Bolton and him alone coming down the wormway all but confirmed it. A cold wave of debilitating fear sent a rather violent tremor went down Reek's wretched spine and he yanked hard at the iron-wrought manacles that kept his wrists bound in chains, but he only succeeded in cutting his wrists further. It did not take long for him to soak through the cloth that covered his eyes with his tears. Reek was entirely too terrified to be disgusted with his conduct.
After he had helped Lady Sansa and the lady knight, Brienne of Tarth, reach the ship waiting at the harbor that was bound to take Lady Sansa to the Island of the Three Sisters, he felt victorious. He had succeeded in helping the lady and perhaps in some small way, he could begin to atone for his past mistakes. Though his moment of victory was not to last as Master's guards, Smalljon in particular had caught up to him shortly after. Yet now, he found himself blindfolded, cowering in the corner of his cell, and struck to the bone with a wave of cold that had nothing to do with the freezing cold winds of winter that drifted their way through the bars of the cell's window. No. Instead, Reek was stricken to the bone with debilitating cold and humiliating fear. The terror he felt at what Master would do to him was raw.
It was hindering his ability to think straight. He yanked hard at his chains, and he flinched as the loud rattling sound they emanated flooded the cramped cell with sound, but they only succeeded in cutting into the skin of his wrists. More tears came to his eyes. He felt another warm trickle of blood run down his left wrist as he sliced into the tender skin already rubbed raw. The cuts on his palms had thankfully stopped bleeding but now fresh blood dripped over the crusty dried blood from before.
Reek stiffened and tensed when he heard the door open, and he whiplashed his head sharply to the left just in time to see the door fly wide open. He attempted to blubber, but no sound came out, and yanked harder and harder, sure at any moment that he was about to be killed, finally.
Master thudded towards him, his footsteps heavy and Reek recoiled as Ramsay Bolton knelt into a crouch and rested a surprisingly tender hand close around his wrists.
His hands held his own firmly and Reek stopped struggling, too stricken with a wave of cold fear to continue trying to free himself. Still, his body trembled violently, tears poured relentlessly down his cheeks, and his bottom lip quivered in earnest fear. "Shh," Master whispered in a rough, coarse voice calloused with gravel and ire, and one of his hands left his wrists so he could place a finger to his lips.
Reek tensed as a man clad in black leathers shuffled through the doorway behind Master, his lips pursed into a thin line as Smalljon looked at him with disgust and crinkled his nose at Reek's foul stench.
"If you hope to get him to talk, milord, he can't, lord. Rat cut off his tongue within a day of us bringing him back here. The little bastard whelp had a knife. We didn't see it hidden up his sleeve, milord. We intended to send out a search party to inform you to return home immediately once we discovered Lady Bolton was missing, but the damned blizzards kept us here. We could not take the risk, Lord."
Ramsay halted, his breaths catching in his throat. He clucked his tongue in mock disappointment to further torment the rat, though he could not help but feel a faint swell of admiration.
The rat still had his balls, after all. He heaved a frustrated sigh through his nose, a noise of dissent, and his hand jutted out of its own accord and cupped Reek's chin. He tilted the rat's face upwards, leaving the traitor with nowhere to look but straight into the eyes of the hells itself.
"How noble of you, Reek. I confess myself…impressed with your feat." Ramsay chuckled with mocking. It was a trait that came so easily to him and now was no exception. He relished the fear in his pet's eyes. A derisive snort escaped him as he glowered at Reek. "You must have thought that I would, what, kill you if you could not speak and confess your sins? That you would leave this realm and take your last breath in thinking yourself a hero?" he sneered, a flicker of rage flaring to life behind Ramsay's icy eyes.
Ramsay nearly growled lowly with the effort to restrain himself from taking his hunting knife tucked securely into his belt and plunging it into the witless rat's chest here and now.
But he exhaled a shaky breath and forced himself to remain calm. He was a patient man, and though rage and an urge to kill pumped through his body now, he need not give himself away so soon.
"Didn't I tell you once before, Reek, that this…that you…you don't have a happy ending, hmm?" he crooned, his mocking tone laced with judgment and the faintest twinges of amusement. Reek cowered and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. "No, no, no, you will open your eyes and look at me, Reek. Look."
He growled his last word and did not continue until Reek relented and looked, though the rat hesitated for a moment that sent another wave of rage spiraling through Ramsay's body. His hands began to tremble, something he had not anticipated. He wanted nothing more than to bash the rat's skull to the floor, to stomp on his face as he had done the guard's upstairs in the corridor until both his eyes were gouged out of his sockets and shove them down Reek's throat and force him to eat them.
He wanted to watch the rat's brain matter paint the ground and stain the stones beneath his boots crimson with his blood. Reek had helped his most prized possession escape Winterfell.
Such an act was punishable by death. A part of Ramsay wanted nothing more than to kill Reek, though even as the rat cowered and simpered as he maintained his vice grip on him, he knew that he could not do it. Not yet, at least. Not when he felt like this. Though Reek no longer possessed the use of his tongue, there were still other ways that he would 'talk.' Like it or not, he needed the rat with him now.
"You've gifted me with a hunt, Reek. I'm more than happy to sniff out the prey you've willingly let loose. You will help me, Reek, as part of your...atonement, hmm? In some other way as you no longer can speak. Help me smoke out my pretty little she-wolf from whatever den she's burrowed herself into. If she thinks she can hide from me, she's sorely mistaken. You've opened me to an adventure upon my return home, Reek. I would make it more than memorable for you, to see lovely Sansa back in my bed after all the torment and pains you have now put me through. Will you help me, Reek?" he growled, using his Power voice. He watched, momentarily stricken awestruck as the fear in Reek's eyes dimmed.
For a moment, he thought the rat was going to say no, and that he would, for the first time, not be an easy one to convince. The rat's eyes went flat, much like an animal who was little more than cornered prey did when deciding how best to deal with its fear. Then, after an interminable pause, Reek gave out the smallest of nods and Ramsay's lips twitched upwards as he heard the rat sniffle and more tears dripped from the edges of his eyes, clearing a path from the dirt and dried crusty blood on his face.
"Good." He squeezed Reek's arm, and rose to his feet, wincing at the stiffness in his joints as he rolled his neck to crack it.
Ramsay turned just as another guard entered dragging a second, his face bloodied and beaten to a pulp. Smalljon stepped aside just as his comrade through the battered and broken man to the stones by his feet.
The guard managed to get to his knees, albeit with difficulty, as his entire body was trembling and it looked as though it pained him greatly just to kneel in front of his lord whom he had wronged.
"Leofric, you've allowed something I hold…most dear, to me, to escape from Winterfell. Something that I fear I shall now never enjoy returned to me," Ramsay charged, feigning wounded feelings, watching intently as what little color was left in Leofric's face paled.
The guard turned his battered and swollen face to Ramsay and dropped his hands to the floor. He understood why he'd been brought here. He knew what Lord Bolton had in store. He would beg the man and grovel at his feet if he had to.
"Please, milord, I beg you for mercy," he implored frantically in a small voice. "F-Forgive me, milord, but the lady Sansa, she-she was gone, Lord, I swear that I did not know it. I-I had stepped out to relieve m'self and when I came back, the lady was nowhere to be found. We sent out a search party. The…one of the maids, Myranda, she attempted to stop her, but your—your pet, Lord, h-he threw her over the balustrade. Was told they made their escape with some tall woman, a woman as tall as you or I. The men say it was the Tarth bitch, Brienne of Tarth, Lord Selwyn Tarth's daughter, Lord Bolton, please!"
The guard nearly choked on his words as he gasped out a pitiful apology. Before the guard could splutter out another word in apology, Ramsay let out a furious blood yell that sent the fine hairs on both Smalljon's and Reek's necks standing upright on end, and curled his hand into a fist and smashed it against the man's nose. Blood splattered from his now-broken nose and gushed out of his nostrils.
Ramsay began to beat the simpering guard brutally, sending the foot soldier to the floor with a well-aimed kick to his groin that had his shoulders immediately hunching inward and he dropped to his knees, groaning in pain. He brought his boot down repeatedly on the man's face until the man's left eye popped out of his socket.
Once the man's last breath had been plucked from his lips and his life force drained from him, Ramsay cocked his head to the side and looked at the dead man for a moment. He exhaled a sigh and felt some of the tension that had been gathering in his shoulders leave him. He peered over his shoulder at Reek.
"Reek. Come, and do not make me say it a second time," he barked hoarsely, and within seconds, the rat was on his feet and trailing closely behind him. Ramsay was halfway to the door when Smalljon's voice beckoned to him, urging him to step back into the cell to attend to the man's words. He turned his head and waited, cocking his head to the side as Smalljon spoke, all the while evading his eye contact.
"Lord. What would you have us do with Myranda? It is no secret the two of you were...close, once."
He stiffened and paused, turning back towards the now-deceased guard's lifeless corpse. He thought for a moment. "She's good meat. Feed her to the girls. Though she alone could not fill their bellies, aye? They would need more meat than that if they are to accompany Reek and I here on our little hunt. I need my girls fed more so than I need a useless fucking foot soldier who cannot even manage the simple task of guarding my wife's door." He turned away and motioned with a curt wave of his arm for Reek to follow. He did not turn around to see, though heard his assertion that it would be taken care of.
If only he had more time, he would flay this man inch by inch and feed what was left of him to his girls in the dungeons below the castle. Satisfied that he had killed one of the few guards responsible for watching Sansa Bolton's chambers, he turned away coldly from the dungeons as Smalljon gave the command to his girls as they were let loose from their cages to feed, the sound of the hounds' ripping into the flesh and bone of the guard he had killed rang in his eardrums and was as sweet as any music.
This time, as he ventured further and further into the darkness of the corridor, the smile that flitted across Ramsay Bolton's face was real, as the worst of his anger dissipated, and in its place, excitement.
He had his wife to find.