Be my friend

Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small and needy
Warm me up
And breathe me

His face fell twisted to the side and numb.

He heard his sullen exhale and the throbbing of his chest. His father fuming and his fist still curled after the thundered blow. His sight was beginning to blur...with tears? And it hurt. Not his face. Not the tiny electric shocks trickling on his cheekbone. Not the pounding on his eye. But his throat hallowing and the caving of his chest does. Yes, gods. It hurts. No rage nor any other emotion showered him. Only hurt. Hurt that emanated through the walls of the great Winterfell hall. Hurt that laughed at his birth and cursed his being. Bastard.

And then he raised his watery eyes to tiny footsteps that halted.

Sansa Stark was white as snow. Her hair was sunset, her eyes were frozen lakes, her lips a bounty of pale velvet. She almost resembled a corpse now staring bewildered at him. At them. A beautiful corpse in a glass casket.

"Take him to my chamber..."

His lips quivered at her voice which almost shrilled, and he wanted to hold her like she was the mother he had been missing all his life, before the maids began to lead him away and he couldn't do anything but consent. Everything faded into whispers and he wanted to disappear in the abyss of dreams. I want Sansa...

I want...Sansa...

He awoke dreaming of her fingers on his jaw and his lips on her forehead. And it was too good a dream, too bad a reality. They have never been that gentle, have they? They were abstracts of insanity and unhealthy, dysfunctional sexual urges. He thought of her every second since that morning until his breeches tighten. He thought of her writhing under his spell when he tasted her fully. Every twist of her neck and every drop of her sweat sent him in a whirl of paradise. And oh gods. The sounds she made was enough to bury him in blistering pleasure. She was shy...but sexy. He still recalled glimpses of her gaping lips, the sheen perspiration on her collar bone, the long marvellous legs wrapped around his waist. The smell of wine would lead him back to the folds of her rose. He'd bite his lips and try to save every salty-sweet taste that might have left there. Because she'd made him promise not to touch her again if she'd be willing. And yes he always wanted her willing. He wanted her to embrace his twisted ways. He wanted her hating him but he'd always thought of releasing when she'd love him instead. The thought made him sigh whilst teeth chattering.

The castle was glum as mud leaked underneath his horse's hooves. He looked around the grey and black hoods that surrounded them as they parted to make a way for him. His brows were creased, eyes stiffly moving from one face to another. Some stared at him with daggers as others looked away. The air was a pungent smell of decay and hate...and execution. He wasn't there to do the deed. He was there to represent his father, and it was a thing that he would so love to do: to stand and be recognized as the heir despite the full knowledge that behind the smug gait he wore, everyone still knows he is a bastard.

And there he was, in the middle of the courtyard, a burly man who Ramsay himself has first set eyes on. A decade older, perhaps, with thin and almost greying hair, eyes squinting and glaring at the same time. Robett Glover stood without raising his head to Ramsay but eyes boring an inflexible raft. The black furs around his shoulder were unwashed, ragged and greasy, giving Ramsay the impression he hasn't even bathed overnight. For a man who's about to die, what use would bathing be anyway. Unless he would bend the knee and offer transport of his loyalty from the Starks to the Boltons then probably he can bathe this night.

A row of Bolton men charged in after he halted. Their boots splattered the mud and hay that stacked the ground and surrounded their perimeter. Lord Glover looked swiftly on each side, a hint of surprise crumpled his once proud face.

Harald Karstark has been standing there edgily, his patience dwindling every minute wasted. Too eager, Ramsay looked down on him from his great horse, too eager to please Father more than I. He remembered Sansa's grimace at the first sight of the man. Another traitor to her house. He wondered if Karstark was willing to execute him instead of Glover, since every right hand man of his Father itches to place the bastard aside.

Karstark's face struggled with showing compassion. He looked on the guilty and Ramsay watched on imagining himself massacring all these people instead to finish the crumple on the Northern map.

"By power vested in me, for the last dire time, the Warden of the North demands your allegiance. Kneel."

Glover spat. "Tell your Warden to come break my knees himself. The North belongs to the Starks."

"The Young Wolf is gone. The Crown has given the North to Roose Bolton."

"Aye the Young Wolf is gone: butchered by that Traitor you call your Warden."

Ramsay stirred. "The Young Wolf is gone because of breaking his word and made ties to a...yes. A foreign whore. A man not respecting the tradition of pact does not deserve honor."

"And neither does a bastard married to a Stark does."

Ramsay frowned, and after which gave a conceited grin shaking his head. "My wife wants me to forgive you."

"Aye. She reflects her father's mercy. If it were today I lose my head, it would be for my house and for her."

And it was the signal that lit Karstark to excitement. "Aye if it's so you wish." Behind him two other soldiers came forth: one who carried a great sword that sent the crowd tittering, and another who placed with a thud the ironwood stump. Even Ramsay's horse tried to whisk away at the sound of steel kissing away its scabbard. Karstark was beaming with glee as a soldier forced Glover's head down the stump, red and glaring and mouth filling with spit. He watched the face of a man whose life is about to end. There was courage, indeed, and every bit of pride, but he fed on the fear that radiated.

And so he waited for the last words with boredom. But it wasn't happening. Something stirred among the crowd which send Karstark grinning maniacally. Ramsay's eyes fixed on a boy that was led in the middle of the square, about seven or eight, black-haired, scrawny and seemingly innocent of what was happening.

"Come here, boy," Karstark demanded. Soldiers led the child and to Ramsay's disclosure, the great sword was given for the boy to hold. The boy held the hilt and jerked down as the sword was left in his hand. Some of the men sniggered, and Ramsay would have been, too, if it weren't for the memory lane he was being sucked into.

Glover struggled between two soldiers, his eyes now crammed with rage and tears. All Ramsay could comprehend now was the indecipherable stutters of him not wanting the boy to be present on his own execution. His own jaw fell, though, when Karstark held both the boy's hands with the sword hilt between and poised to help the blade fall on his father's neck.

"Your father has been a bad man, boy," Karstark whispered in the boy's ears and it sent the chills down Ramsay's spine instead. He can't...Karstark now faced Glover tearing on the stump. "Be a man and help me take off his head, will you?"

The boy began to cry, irritating Karstark as he tightened the grip on the boy's hands. "Shut it!"

"Gawen..." Robett Glover whispered loud enough, his cheeks reddening but all can see his struggle to keep calm. "Son...do it. Be brave...do it."

When the boy shook his head wildly, Glover tried to raise his voice, "Do it or they will kill you too, and your mother and sister," he exhaled coldly, "Do it, boy!"

And at that Ramsay Bolton cowered. His depleted haughtiness even crumpled further and his soul fell for that boy. All he could see now was himself and the flaying knife in his trembling fingers, his father watching from a corner, and the weak, skeletal woman lying feebly affront him. None among these people knew the devastation that crashed his core and turned his heart into ashes. To hold the weapon and mutilate a person of your flesh and blood. To hear them scream and have it be trapped and replayed during sober nights. To see the look in their eyes, a look that still spoke of love and forgiveness despite your blade stuck between layers of their flesh. Oh gods they never know...how it can wreck your psyche and mold you into an even viler monster which manifests every single second without even the slightest hint of arousal.

And then there was the ringing on his ears and in his head was a dissonance of tolling death bells. He began to shiver and his chest tightened whilst his breathing trembled. Horror was the only spirit in his eyes. All the while he watched in slow motion and muffled sounds the son about to behead his father. The blade swooshed up, the boy snivelled, and Glover howled with shut eyes. The crowd began to wail.

He remembered her. He remembered killing her and his heart violently tore to pieces.

"STOP!"

The great sword hung up the air.

The turmoil among the witnesses died down at the dense order. Only the horses' breathing was left audible and so was the start of soft rapping of the rain. Glover was breathing violently and tried to peek unto Ramsay Bolton to make sure the voice he heard was truly commanded by the Warden's heir.

Karstark's face hardened and Ramsay saw the revolt that screamed in his pores. Every inch of the executioner bellowed with begrudging obedience. He lowered the great sword uncomfortably. "My Lord?"

Even Ramsay himself couldn't identify where the strength to rebel against his father's orders came from. He himself was resolute on the said execution. He wanted to see this beheading, his stomach once twisted in glee he even wanted to do it himself if not for the damn henchman. He was made for this. He was built and raised for this.

But what in seven hells just happened?

"You're making a mistake, my Lord." Karstark's whiskers almost stood in contained anger, "This man is to be executed today in defia—"

"I know what I said. Let the boy go." Ramsay's teeth chattered. He could feel his heartbeats break his throat, and electric spasms filled his fingertips which he tried to hide beneath leather gloves. He turned to the soldiers. If they huddled surprise beneath their hard faces, they were good at hiding it. A Bolton never turns away from an execution. "Ready your horses. We leave for Winterfell now."

Karstark stirred and filled his Lord with a poisonous glare. Ramsay could feel it despite detouring his horse to leave and fly off the mockery. Leave. Leave now. These slithering shits think you a coward. His leathers tightened around his stiff body as he made way among the people and near the gate.

"Lord Bolton will hear of this!"

Ramsay halted as if the reigns on his palms pulled back on its own. Immediately he wanted to pluck out this man's eyes and feed them to the crows. He twisted his head to the side, enough so half of him could see what was behind.

"I am a Lord Bolton." It felt like nettles in his tongue, but honeydew too. He ensued on his way. "We leave now. If you let me say it again, I will cut out that tongue of yours and nail it on your father's tomb, you understand?"

He had no time to see the acrid face that he threatened. He'd be wasting efforts to argue further and so he rode out sanctimoniously like a bird in the clouds. But deep within him there swelled a want to know if what he did was right. He wanted someone to tell him it wasn't stupid at all...

That it wasn't stupid to save a boy from the nightmares that would haunt him after he killed his parent, guiltily chewing bits of his sanity and sending him into bursts of inhumane thoughts along the years. It would be ugly...as ugly as his years growing up with the thought.

At the whiff of air and the rain beginning to moisten his face, he felt free at last. The camp he was left with started to dampen, and men began to roll their tents at the urgency of leaving.

Ramsay looked around for something he wanted to see but does not know.

And he found it. He knew he found it when, at the sight of the window on a small carriage, he saw the blurry but noble face of his wife. Her hair glowed even in the gray. For once they locked in a brief stare before she barricaded herself behind the curtain.

And Ramsay swore he saw Sansa smile.

A/N: Thank you for the patience. I'll try my best to update within the week. Keep reviewing. Disclaimed on the true book events between House Glover and Bolton. Please bear with me. :) Thank you once again.