RAMSAY

Ramsay awoke to darkness, to the itch of moist, stinking hay and ants gathered to the side of his face. He grunted, eyes refusing to open, and a stinging between them beginning to fester. His nose was stuffed and this growing headache was a bitch. Rolling his body on this cold, hard floor, he spat a muddy straw of hay, and without warning he was in a sudden wreck, kicking about as ice cold water crashed over him.

"Up, boy! Up, up!"

The Blackfish came into view over a murky torchlight. He tossed the wooden bucket and as it tumbled away and chased rats into the crevices, Ramsay snarled but could not manage a curse. He felt the damn water seep beneath the leathers and was now soaking his undershirt. His jaws froze, body shivering, turning his skin blue. What chilled him worse were iron bars lined between him and this damned graying prick. Attempting to curl up, his ears were met with the clank of chains and thus his iron bound wrists loomed before him.

Face still dripping with little bites of frost, Ramsay scowled, teeth chattering— "The fuck are you—"

"Stop whining, ungrateful cunt," Brynden groaned, "T'would have been piss if you favor warmth, aye, fresh from the bladder for a steamy bath. Now get up!"

Ramsay slowly pulled himself to sit, chains rattling as he leaned back against the dank wall.

"You know where we are?" Brynden Tully raised the torch in hand and illuminated more of himself.

Ramsay shrugged, slowly rolling his eyes. The empty dungeon cells around him were a rare sight though. Pity they ran out of people to hang. Brynden basked at his silence— "Do you know where you are?"

Ramsay was nibbling on the wall of his mouth as his eyes scanned around him, beside him, beneath him. And then it struck, having him bite down his tongue at recognizing the chains, the damp stinking blood mapped across the hay. He began to fret in place, growling, and there he saw the Blackfish smirk, "Bet you do now," he moved to the nearest pillar to hang fire on the sconce, "So how did you do it? When you cleaved out Roose Bolton in that very same cell, how did you do it? They say you came back from the dead, carved up his lungs and ate his heart? Drank blood from his spilled guts?"

Ramsay could at least snort, "You think me a grumkin?"

"Grumkins could do better, fool," Brynden crossed his gloved arms above his broad chest. He'd had a change of clothing from the shabby exiled look, but strapped over his borrowed jerkin was still the worn out leathers bearing details of his personal sigil, "Tell me Roose Bolton died screaming and I will let you out there this instant."

Ramsay scoffed and leaned back his head, "You would rather know how a dead man went than how a living grandniece could be found."

"True," the Blackfish frowned, "I'd rather my nephew's neck snapped than raise the gates for a Lannister hoard, if that comforts you."

"And your words are what?" Ramsay chortled, carefully spitting, "Family? Duty? Honor? All that shit now down the river is it… grandpa?"

For a while he saw Brynden's lips twitch in discomfort, as discomforting as soaked up clothing and numb, freezing fingertips. His throat itched with an impending fever closing on him the longer he stayed here.

"I heard much about you, slipping from tavern to tavern," Brynden's hoarse voice eased into his thoughts once more, "A brigand and a raper, all a Bolton could ever be. When I shoved Edmure to his death, I had Riverrun in mind to rid off the Lannister shit piled outside the walls. What of you, bastard? What did you have in mind when you plucked off daddy's last breath? A fool's inheritance? A permanency of your fleeting title? Is that what Stannis promised, so you sold off your pig of a father and opened passage for his sellsword army?"

Ramsay spat, "If you so heard much about me as you claim, what else do you need to hear?"

"That you put that savagery to good use!"

The cobblestones shook as a boot crashed against a couple iron bars, sending the shrill rattle across the cell and the entirety of this dark, wretched place. Ramsay was held back by the gush of fury, seeing spittle shoot from Brynden's mouth whilst he raved like a deranged shark. The Blackfish's leathered fingers wrapped around the iron bars, "You think I've no desire to do to you ten times what Roose and them damned Freys did my family? To strip you off your sorry skin, here and now, if not for them rumors that his bastard had wrenched out his innards? I would outlive that wet shit Walder only to hear how Roose Bolton screamed and spewed blood from his arse."

What sorry, sniveling cunt. Ramsay's lips fell straight as soon as Brynden finished. He cocked his head, "I took you for a hardened warrior, outlaw. Even Roose was unhinged when you escaped the Twins. But here we are, and I can't fathom what makes your enemies piss themselves at the mention of your name when you've done nothing so far but run."

He saw Brynden's jaws tighten as he loosed his fingers from the iron bars.

"You ran from the wedding. You ran from your castle. What makes that fearsome about you?" Ramsay smirked, though briefly, "If you so wished to avenge your family you would have come yourself to make Roose Bolton scream in death than hear it from another. Just what would you do to me? Send my head to the Lannisters?" He felt his skin crawl at the sound of his own laughter— "Roose Bolton has declared me dead, you fucking fishbone! So is his fat bitch and his whelp so what makes you think King's Landing would bat you an eyelid except to put you in chains and publicly execute?"

It was flattering, truth be told. How they thought about using him for hostage like some highborn lord, the way he did Theon who delivered Moat Cailin like warm fresh pie— human pie to be exact, steaming with blood, eyeballs on top. Stannis had once thought of threatening Roose with his life on the line and look where king cunt ended. Oh but what joy to feel important. To be written in a parchment in demand for a handsome price. But even that felt too good a dream. Roose had none a scrap of affection for him. Ramsay was his pet, he said, not withholding even in the brink of death. Even now he could hear his father's voice as last heard in this cell, cold breath creeping through his bones— my little Reek.

"Edmure."

Ramsay's attention was pulled back to the Blackfish. Right. He was still in chains and shivering profusely.

"He lifted the portcullis," Brynden said, "I've made my peace to go that night, sword in hand and screaming war, thinking of a few lions to take to the grave. My nephew had other plans though. Hm." The faint chuckle came off rather proud. Ramsay saw the smile that flitted the aged man's lips.

"Said he'd rolled the gates enough for me to swim under, an' made me promise to save his wife before retaking the castle. Said he left me some coin in that bloody Mill he'd been so proud to have won from Clegane. Said he'd wait for my return, he and a trusted few within the walls. The fool, too trusting. That trait I hate with Tully blood. Look where it got Catelyn. Trusted the one-handed goldshitter with her daughters. Trusted the Freys, trusted your father," he laughed to himself, "Would've knocked him dead with me to be done with. But that night he held me arm before pushing me down the waterway. Never felt him capable of that grip, that goose; never saw in him the same snotty boy who couldn't loose an arrow on his father's boat grave. Impressive, ain't it? How a man could grow his other ball when his wife and child are on the noose."

Ramsay mulled over his words, staring at the Blackfish with the same contempt he was being looked at. Only when heat pressed from behind his eyes did he look away, "And you're trusting me this sob story because?"

"Because you will lend yourself, and yours and Stannis' army to fulfill my word with Edmure," Brynden glared.

The bastard stalled for seconds. Soon his face broke into a grin and a hideous cackling ensued. The Blackfish's expression, however, was unstirred.

"You're good," Ramsay wheezed, "Very good. You forced yourself in, put me in chains and then seek me out to fulfill your interests. My, honorable indeed."

"Mm yes. Creative, ain't it?" Brynden feigned his own amusement.

"Very well," Ramsay smugly raised his manacled wrists, "Set me out so I could claim Riverrun with your head in my pocket."

This time it was the older man who hunched his shoulders in laughter, ramming back the shivers in Ramsay's spine. The Blackfish narrowed his eyes, a smirk still plastered on his lips— "Have you been to King's Landing, boy?" He needed no answer, "Have you ever been introduced at any court? Played in a tourney? Because surely, the only time I've known about you was from Roose Bolton cunting on this bastard of his in reclaiming Winterfell from the Ironborn. Pity he never even said your name. Just look at you, boy. While we're all rebels here, you've better chance at being pig's feed than being Bolton's bastard. Who would stand witness to you but the army of another dead king who waged war against the damn throne? You said it yourself: you are declared dead. Everyone who knows you outside this castle is dead."

Brynden neared his face between the bars, "Even Sansa knows you're dead."

"I've—!" Ramsay lurched but the clink of chains reminded him of his place. Still he mustered what remaining grit he had, baring his fangs, "I've sent ravens to the Vale."

"And you believe the damn birds would swoop straight to her?" Brynden gawked, "Well you're a bigger fool than I thought. Even if Lysa were alive she wouldn't give a shit about you the way she had not given two shits when Robb Stark called for reinforcement, neither when asked passage through the Bloody Gate, and he was her flesh and blood."

Ramsay wished Brynden had not caught the edge of his voice breaking, "Petyr Baelish knows me. We talked the day he brought Sansa—"

"Ah, Littlefinger, who married off Sansa to your family… who butchered her brother, and Cat, the only woman he so claimed to love," the old man rasped in utter disbelief, "If Petyr isn't marrying Sansa himself, he would be marrying her to Lysa's heir, and you would remain dead to them either way.

"NO!" roars and rattles shook the cell— "NO NO NO!" Ramsay leapt, forgetting the chains which harshly bruised his wrists and threatened to rip off his arms. Thrown face down the festering hay, only his knees and elbows allowed enough strength to lift himself as the tears finally spilled and rendered him bitterly quivering in defeat. For a while the dungeon felt like a crypt, and he could hear his father turning in his grave with instant satisfaction.

Above him, Brynden fell quiet. Ramsay need not lift his eyes to see the disgust that burned in the outlaw's face before turning towards the torch he earlier hanged. The only light began waning even further that Ramsay could no longer tell if his eyes were shut or no. But then it went brighter. He heard the rusted hinges pull away and iron pieces thrown on the floor before him.

Ramsay blinked at the bunch of keys that lay in arm's length. He raised his face, all swollen eyes and broken nose, to be greeted by the cell's door swung open and Brynden sullenly gazing over him with the torch in hand. A part of him did not mind if the fire was thrown and got it over with.

"Do what you want," the Blackfish ordered coarsely, "Kill me, if that suits you. By then you'd be alone with nothing but a raven away from being besieged by the throne. They've come for the Riverlands, six thousand strong, and now they will come for Winterfell. If you're lucky and the snow continues to deepen, they will be here at moon's turn. But you have less than half that force who will begin to starve behind these walls in a week, while the enemy pillages two-years worth of food back in Riverrun. Kill me, and then find another kin of Sansa's who would vouch for you when she is swamped with marriage proposals from houses that did not betray her family."

Brynden withdrew from the iron bars, and Ramsay watched the darkness slither back as the other strode away. Before Brynden reached the stairs up the open, Ramsay heard himself—

"Roose Bolton didn't scream."

The footsteps halted and the torchlight burned brighter. Ramsay reached out for the keys with fingers he could no longer feel attached to his hand. As they wrapped around the thin length of the iron, he heard the Blackfish faintly chortle before continuing his way, while the air echoed his own words, "I think no one can, with a gaping throat and a crater in the chest."

BRIENNE

When the sack cloth was lifted off the oaken platform, Brienne felt nothing but the sting of cold slink beneath the three layers of her garments. Even she could not hear Podrick exhale beside her. The Black brother who rolled the sack and earlier led them in this lichyard, stared in both ire and grief at the corpse that lay before them.

And yet again, I failed. Brienne finally closed her eyes after feeling frost gather in her lashes. While the North was already known for its hostile winds, Castle Black might as well be the worst place she had ever been. If hell was made of ice it would be here, where frost would gnaw the cheeks and wouldn't leave her wondering if their own breaths could form an icicle. There were warm days, the Black brother said, it had only become unusually cold since Lord Commander Jon Snow was stabbed to death. Well, colder.

Jon was laid in a nest of twigs and straw above a newly carved platform. He was clad in thick woolen cloak, black jerkin, black trousers and black boots, hardly his size, probably scavenged among his own things and the Lord Commander he succeeded. The greatsword Longclaw rested over his chest and he held it like treasure. In the hardened curls of his hair formed grains of ice, over his closed and sunken eyes, nostrils, and lips. His skin had grayed. They could not burn him in this bitter cold. Somehow, they say, the flames turned to smoke before it kissed the pyre. It had been a week.

Beneath the nest was a massive ball of white albino fur which stirred and Brienne saw again the rarest pair of eyes. While hers were bright blue, this Direwolf's were ruby red. Burning and full of life surrounding black slits. The beast was a freak. So large it often makes her wrap her fingers on the hilt of her sword momentarily. When he yawned, he flaunted a maw lined with the sharpest teeth she'd ever seen. Pod stepped back as the beast stretched, only to curl again. For a moment he looked harmless.

A week. His master had been dead for a week but the frost had preserved most of him. On the outside, at least. Good thing it prevented the smell of decay, as Podrick could not afford to hurl back his food. They broke their fast earlier with boiled capon and cheese and a bit of pickled radish, the best meal they've had since arrival a week ago, since the castle housed Stannis Baratheon despite the Night's Watch's supposed political neutrality. And before that it had already offered haven for a wildling horde. They arrived just the morning after Jon Snow was murdered in a mutiny; they put a knife into his heart and left him to bleed beneath a traitor's banner. His killers immediately rode off with the raiders and had not yet returned. She demanded to see his corpse to prove what the Black brothers claimed but they refused and kept refusing, until today.

"Seven days since, an' we still could not elect a new Lord Commander. It doesn't feel right," the Black brother's mouth twitched. Brienne could sense a newfound anger.

"We should've sent a search party, Edd," said another. She remembered his name— Grenn. Grenn shook his head, "I could have gone out there. I could've—"

"You would bring Aliser Thorne to justice? Marsh and Yarwich? You?" Edd faced him, equally angered. The reddening in his face did not come from the frost, Brienne was sure, and other than that she was certain that Jon's killers were influential men. They said this Thorne was master-at-arms, cold and cruel. They said there was another; they were eyeing his steward, a mere boy, much younger than Pod. Killers know no age now, Brienne inhaled the air, so crisp it hurt. They can be children as they are dark shadows bearing the face of a king, a brother.

The Direwolf stirred again and touched something which caught Brienne's gaze. "The chain," her brows met, looking at the iron links binding Jon's left ankle, "What is the chain for?"

Edd and Grenn eyed each other, and the former cleared his throat— "Dark times, milady. The dead they… they come back somehow. Around here."

"We seen 'em, milady. Ser Mormont was yet commander," Grenn was immediately in defense, "Othor and Jafer. We seen em dead. They weren't breathin'. Eyes frozen. Their skins, 'twas black and blue. But that night they… they came back. Bluest eyes I've ever seen, much brighter than yours I dare say. Wights. Jon here, he burned Othor. We needed to burn 'em again the morning after."

"The touch of a White Walker, them books say," added Edd, "It animates the corpse. But we had to make sure. We'd break the chain once the body burns. But the winds, they grow harsher each day."

Myths. Fables and oldwives' tales. Brienne thought. Sure she had heard the chatters and passed them off as children's stories to keep them from loitering before dark. But there weren't children around here, and men were needed in the night more than in daylight. Though she maintained an impassive look, she could not help but think of the archer left outside the wall. He'd died fending off assassins and they could not even honor him with a proper burial. She wondered if they could still find Arym in the snow; gods forbid he'd come back blue eyed, forbid these creatures walk south to Winterfell. But what would she tell Sansa? Her half-brother's dead, her only chance at escaping.

"Darker times, milady," Edd made a repeat as he covered back the dead man before them, "I must insist you leave while ya still can. Take the Stark boy with ya, and the… the other one, before Thorne arrives with the rest."

But where shall we go from here? Brienne asked. When told of Jon's death, Rickon could barely blink. He had not said a word since they traveled. They would not be expecting him to speak anytime soon. And Reek— Theon Greyjoy— still shivering and refusing a bath. The corpse here smelt better. It is unthinkable to return him to the Iron Islands in this state. She thought of leaving him with the brotherhood, but with men like Thorne, the cripple may only be as miserable as he was back in the Bolton household. She thought of the Vale or Riverrun, the last, less dangerous places for the boys, but Petyr Baelish stands Lord Protector and she had not an inch of trust with the man.

"Very well," she agreed despite her thoughts, "Give us another night tonight and we leave at dawn's break. I will write to my father to send you a more proper gratitude."

"Ya need not bother," Edd's smile was tight and his eyes sad. Still grieving, mayhaps. This Jon must have truly been respectable to gain such loyal friends. She has a night to think hard and think fast as to go next. She was thinking of the docks just recently, a passage to home—

"Edd! Grenn!"

Brienne and Podrick turned to the source, a wobbling thing and almost out of breath with just an arm's distance from the castle gates. Sam, they called him. He clutched his knees, heaving and face distorted.

"What is it?" Edd and Grenn urged, and Sam could barely speak it almost hurt to watch him. He pointed to the direction he appeared from, and in the distance they can hear the men's shouting echo. "Is it Thorne? Have the rangers come back?" Edd was impatient. Brienne felt relieved to see the fat boy shake his head.

"The… the red…"

"Oh say it, Sam! We don't have all day!" Edd must keep himself from beating the words out of the other. Sam finally stood, red-faced and reeling—

"The red woman, she's at the gates."

A/N: Hello. This is really embarrassing. I'm sorry for another one of my writer's blocks causing this hiatus. It had really been difficult months/years since the last and I was only able to focus on one project. First off, thank you to those who have reached out to me regarding the story. Hats off to QuilAteara, ParallelDragonfly, Aldiggity, and FranQuel. To the reviewers too, for keeping tabs on this... whatever you call this. You (and House of the Dragon lmao) have really been an inspiration. We have miraculously reached 202k views and it may not be much but it's the highest stat I've witnessed with my fics despite the three years (added up) break periods. Thank you.

I have to admit as to this chapter, I have unconsciously neglected Brienne's part. May I take this chance to rectify hers as somewhere that falls a bit earlier in the timeline, as "a week" seems too soon compared to the events within Winterfell and the Vale. My bad.

I am currently writing my Dissertation for PhD, and could not promise to give updates as easily as before as I am aiming to graduate summer term next year. But I will try to keep writing whenever time permits. You can also reach me through Tumblr, athenares | fiction, where I can say, am more active as regards sharing blogs and such (about the general fandoms I am in and not solely for Mad Dog fic).

I wish you're all safe and healthy. Again, thank you. Thank you.