Extinguish my eyes, I'll go on seeing you.
Seal my ears, I'll go on hearing you.
And without feet I can make my way to you,
without a mouth I can swear your name.
~r.m.r.
Agitation struck him like disease. He heaved the burnt wood pieces on the large pile of them.
How could you, Sansa!?
He sighed irritatingly after a thousandth question of the same. They had it carefully laid out, their measly plan. Of course not all measly plans succeed but theirs had almost. He had been careful and sly to enter Sansa's chamber the evening of her wedding, only to have her be hidden by Reek on the crypts. The hounds were afraid of those dungeons. The kennelmasters were still on the verge of training them to get used to the smell of death and ghosts inside. It was perfect. He joined the hunting expedition all night to frustrate and exhaust the men. And at first light, Reek would start fire on the kitchens to bait all the people within, and finally exit the nearest gate.
Now all those: the fire, the sleepless night, and the exhaustion to trail the hunters away, came futile because Sansa Stark was returned!
He aggressively kicked the pile of burnt furniture in front of him like an angry toddler. More men were sweeping out the debris that the fire broke. He looked at the cylindrical tower walls and watched the bricks blackened by smoke. His nose was filled with ash and the pungent smell of conflagration. All this, for naught.
Arym thought she was sure to leave. But she wasn't so sure after all. Argh! Women! His mind screamed relentlessly. Again he kicked the pile. A faint black smoke rose from the breakage.
"Arym,"
He turned to see the long-haired soldier that was one of Ramsay's trustees. His face was cold as his stare, his scraggly beard moved when his lips continued, "Lord Ramsay Bolton calls for you."
The door opened to young Bolton alighted on a thick tarred chair on the edge of a long table. The council room was glum as a graveyard. No torch was lit. Perhaps all have had enough fire last night, thus the Bolton banners seemed to tether with the shadows on the grey walls. His Lord looked staidly but his gaze was mused on a green apple in hand with a knife on the other. He hadn't even flinched at the sound of the hinges or when the door heavily locked behind Arym. Fresh from bath and dressed in black, he looked righteous.
"Milord." Arym's voice morosely recognized his master. Ramsay was silent. He began to carve into the peeling.
When the first small piece of green fell, the reply darkly drifted. "Have you rested, archer?"
"Yes, milord."
Ramsay never looked. "Good."
"You called for me."
"I did," the bastard exhaled, "I am in the mood for a tiny chat."
It was Arym that dropped silent at this matter. He felt nothing. He felt neither tensed, nor angry, nor afraid. He was nothing. But the purple stone on his chest went heavy, and it was like a whisper to his ears that he need not be threatened. But he was indifferent even if there was the lofty chance of not being able to walk out of this room alive.
"Have you ever flayed a man, Arym?"
Arym's jaw tightened. "No, milord."
"What a waste. All my soldiers should know how to flay a man."
He did not say enemy. He did not say traitor, nor foe. He plainly said man. And the knowledge that Ramsay Bolton did not care about whom he flayed sent burning tendrils of ire on Arym's head.
"Don't you worry. I'll give a glimpse of it one day. But let me fill you in." Ramsay let another line of peelings drop on the floor. "You could actually start with anywhere in the body. Though it is best to start at the thickest skin, I favour starting at the limbs. Take Reek, for example. You shove the knife into that littlest finger and slice to the palm. And oh, that screaming would be like music. They'd soon beg you to cut off that finger, and of course I do it. I nick it off as a grant to their wish."
Arym bit his tongue to prevent bile rising on his throat. It wasn't the sinister vividness that tossed his stomach. There were worse sights beyond the wall. But it was how this bastard was able to settle joy in peeling people like the apple tight between his fingers.
"And when you finish the hand, you cut through the arm. Down, down to the shoulder blade, and insert the flat of the blade under the skin to force that flesh off. You can slice if it's tough. And after an inch thick, or two, you peel it off. Like this."
Another line of green fruit skin bounced on the floor. Finally Ramsay looked at him, one side of his lips pulled up in a manic smile. The apple was completely naked and ready to be torn. Ramsay placed it between his lips, bit out a small part, and chewed. Arym could just imagine aiming an arrow on that apple as Ramsay was about to bite again. Suddenly he stopped, and let out a blood-curdling grin.
"You're probably thinking of shooting this apple aye? While I feed?" he was partly chuckling as he bit on. At this point, Arym's eyebrow twitched and he couldn't conceal the frown that marred his face.
"Don't you worry. Death threats aren't strangers to me. I eat them for dinner." Bolton went on.
Arym would have sworn he heard his mind curse in the wildling tongue. "Truly brave, milord."
Ramsay's jaw clenched as he was partly smiling, morsel of the apple still being ground on his mouth. "Do you ever play board games, Arym?"
"No milord."
Ramsay swallowed and cleared his throat. "I remember this...board game we used to play, Domeric and I. My brother." Realizing he missed a detail, he rolled his eyes, "He's dead, by the way. We used to play this, all the time, when we were younger. You see, each player takes a side of the chequered board with a set of carved and wooden pieces."
Arym watched the arm of Ramsay rest on the table with the apple still unfinished.
"Each set of pieces has a King, one you need to protect; a queen, the most powerful; a knight, a septon, and a castellan. And there are these...the smallest pieces, usually the most insignificant but vanguards of the game, plain soldiers.
"Rule is simple: protect the king. But to do that you need a master plan, something so unpredictable that with one move can crush that King to pieces." Ramsay pointed a finger at Arym with his free hand, still with the sly smile on his hard face. "The trick, Arym, is to trap the queen."
The archer swallowed. He was beginning to feel queasy as beads of moist began to appear under his hairline. This bastard, he thought, is some kind of a bloody mind reader.
"And to trap the queen, the player uses the soldiers of the game. You see, those wretched shitty pieces can be very cunning too. Put them on the right directions and they snap without notice. Don't you think that's exciting?" he was looking at him plainly with suppressed loathing.
"As you say, milord," Arym nodded. He placed both hands behind him to hide any evidence of trembling. His palms began to chill.
Ramsay smiled sheepishly, "Of course. But!" he turned to his fruit again and bit and chewed as he talked. "Domeric was good at it, yes. But I was better." He swallowed. "He...often makes his ways with his soldiers, and I wasn't a mind reader to wit out what was happening so I keep asking myself..."
Ramsay took the knife he used to peel the fruit. Slowly, glared at Arym, narrowing his eyes, "I keep asking myself..." he tore the blade on the apple, sluggish and measured with every word that came, "What are you doing, little soldier placed there, huh?" His words dripped venomously between gritted teeth, "What in this bloody hell...are...you doing?"
Silence graced them both and Arym knew that glare which aimed an arrow between his eyes. If looks could kill, he would have been swimming in blood. He breathed deeply, and sighed. "It must be quite a game, milord."
Ramsay held the knife up with the fruit stuck on it, still looking at the archer. Suddenly he smiled.
"Ah. Almost forgot. I was about to give back something to you, I thought you might like it."
Arym could feel the familiar nip that plagued him. This conversation was starting to feel uncomfortable as he swallowed.
Small Jon appeared from a narrow door behind the room. Ramsay did not turn to look at him but instead waited until the burly silent partisan approached with a thin and long material wrapped in a rotten sack.
Ramsay took the item and stood, leaving the knife and apple on the table. The other soldier stood aside like a crow waiting for Arym's judgement. Ramsay walked toward the archer and when their gap was close, revealed the material inside. "I believe this is yours."
Arym's heart leapt. His pupils dilated at the object before him. The thin and long material was an arrow. His arrow to be exact: a graceful object with black and white feathers interweaved in unequal stripes. He was only among the archers who graced such antiquity. The tip of the arrow was stained with hardened blood.
"Umber pulled it off a hound's neck," he neared his face with a stern and icy glower, "My. Hound's. neck."
Arym took a small step back, ensuring he had a considerable distance in case Ramsay will pin the arrow on his own jaw too. "Aye I released an arrow, milord, but not at the hound. Eyed a shadow that didn't belong to our men, and loosed at it but it ran. Must have been stuck on a branch and taken by the captors we were pursuing."
Ramsay began to consider, and Arym found himself seeking Divine assistance, if any, to help him make believe the statement. Ramsay Bolton was oft stupid. He sometimes catch the rumors of how Lord Roose Bolton would rebuke his bastard out of a deed that displeased the name. He surmised Ramsay would give a little space for consideration.
The young Bolton gave a last cynical stare, before breaking the ice. "You do not lie."
"No, milord." Arym equalled his look.
"Good." Ramsay handed the arrow. "Because you do know how I hate lying. That would be a very bad way to ruin your lord's trust."
Arym nodded and took hold on the weapon. It felt light on his hand.
"My father considers you greatly, archer. Do not make me change his mind." Ramsay concluded, head inclined in a rough promise.
"Yes milord." It felt bitter on his mouth.
"And so I would give you another task, to be left behind here in Winterfell with Umber. You would need a company, I presume."
Arym's head fell heavy. "Left behind? Where would milord go?"
There was amusement in Ramsay's voice as he walked back to Smalljon Umber.
"Why, get married. This delay has bored me."
Shock dropped like wildfire in Arym's face. The confusion delved deeper, and Ramsay seemed to notice no matter how hard Arym tried to mask it with indifference.
"Take a look." Ramsay pointed to the window nearest to Arym. Without delay, the archer moved to it even if he noticed the frown that pulled the bastard's face.
Two floors down was the courtyard specked in snow. A black carriage was being groomed for use. Two great horses stirred as the stable keepers latched the leathers on their jaws. They were all in black capes that he couldn't recognize who anyone was, but there was that unease that everything was awry. Another caped figure emerged with two maidservants behind her. He glimpsed her white face, and portions of red appeared on her forehead. His blood turned cold. She was looking around and he almost wanted to scream; Sansa Stark was looking around for signs of him, or Brienne, or Reek. A maidservant opened the door to the carriage and there was the hesitation that marked her gait.
"Where are you taking her?"
"Dreadfort."
The color drained from Arym's face. Even his eyes beckoned shock, it almost turned his indigo to gray.
Ramsay was getting the reaction he needed, "You seem...surprised?"
Arym looked out again, Sansa was no longer there. She was already concealed behind the doors of the carriage. He could imagine her confusion and shock, asking battalions of queries if this was part of the plan, and if not, where the monopoly would pick up its pace.
"No milord, I...why? This is Winterfell. The Northern Capital. Her h—"
"Home." Ramsay finished. "I am the Warden's heir, am I not? It is justifiable for the bride to be wed on her husband's home. Besides," he moved to the window as well and looked down with hands behind him. "A wolf on her breeding grounds knows the place better than anyone else. Put her in an Eagle's nest, or a lion's cave, and she would tuck her limping tail."
"You can't do this, milord...she—"
"She will what, Arym! What do you know of what she will do!?"
Ramsay Bolton's voice still flared against the walls even when the words have already left his mouth. Smalljon took a step forward with his hand on the hilt.
Arym has given away his stance. Realizing his own fault, he merely conceded. There was no way he could stop the mad dog now. "Nothing, milord."
Everything shushed. And yet Arym was itching to run down and pull Sansa off that carriage and off her fate. He thought to ambush them along the way, him and that lady knight Brienne. But he doesn't have the numbers. Ramsay Bolton was cunning. This is the boardgame he was yapping about. He indeed could not fathom the plans laid secret under his nose, but he knows its existence, and he knows how to shun them. He's taking Sansa Stark to his own labyrinth, where he knew would be insipid of an escape.
Ramsay turned to Smalljon. His boot heels making heavy and irritated taps. "Find Reek and have him ready my horse, we leave immediately."
"And the boy, milord?" Smalljon queried. His voice almost a low gurgle.
"Boy?" Ramsay confirmed.
"The Stark boy,"
Arym's face lighted.
"Keep him still. No word about him to Sansa, not until the wedding night." Ramsay commanded. He was every inch the heartless and cautious commander now.
"And that wilding girl?"
"She has a name?"
"She says Osha."
Bloody gods, Osha! You evil wise cunt, you.
"Bitch knows?"
"Aye, says she travelled to sell the boy to be taken to the queen."
"Fucking liar. First man she tells would have bought Rickon Stark in a jiff."
Rickon Stak. Arym did not stir whilst keeping his ears awake as possible. Rickon Stark must be a brother, or a cousin, but nevertheless he was kin to Sansa. Given the secret they want to keep from her. And Osha too. Why on the bloody wall has she been with the boy?
"Keep Arym under your watch, Umber, he is quite dear to my father,"
Arym turned to them who was returning the stare as well.
Ramsay continued before leaving the door that Umber went into. "He makes a suspicious move, you show him to the torture chambers."
Smalljon gave him a look that almost promised excitement before following his master's heels. No fret antagonized Arym with the fading words, nor the promising look. It was pure elation that throbbed in his senses as he took one last look at the carriage that held Sansa and fled toward the door to take a different direction, but was immediately halted.
Wintry air greeted him when he pulled the latch and Arym congealed. On the staircase where he would run through stood the woman that always stalked his visions. She stood like a materialized person, but only he knew he could easily walk through her. Nothing changed on how she looked as she was still the skeletal body with the thinning hair and upset eyes. Arym led towards her, and when the space between them vanished, he found himself alone again. But swore he smelt Death lurking by.
Quickening his pace, he ran off with the reminder in store. But he needed to act out something else, something urgent. He must have failed to rip Sansa Stark off the clutches of the Boltons.
But he will not fail her little kin.
A/N: I have just read your reviews and will not fail to respond to them. Thank you so. They mean so much to me. Valar Morghulis. Valar Dohaeris. xx