Now that the time has come

Soon gone is the day
There upon some distant shore; You'll hear me say
Long as the day in the summer time
Deep as the wine dark sea
I'll keep your heart with mine.
Till you come to me

~P.S.

Ramsay cursed under his breath, red-cheeked, staring at the blood that mucked his leather glove. His mouth twisted and coughed some more, harder, hand grasping for the nearest trunk to steady. At last he calmed wiping the rest of crimson from his lips.

There was an edge to these coughs that unhinged him. He knew; he had been feeling the small nudges of pain on his lungs since the fiasco with his father back in Winterfell. A slight corruption within him – he recalled the Maester's words. He silently hoped it remained as slight as it was.

The woods grew darker. The scant daylight only slowed them down and weakened the chances for good hunt. He regretted not bringing his hounds, his loyal girls, to chase prey but along the line of disappointment he reckoned it would be difficult to hush them when they infiltrate the Baratheon camp. He could not hear the two other men he bid to join him hunt and could not as well call their name for he did not know them. The cold was too hostile it crept through the layers of boiled leather and black wool that coated his body. When the wind blew it was too crisp his skin hurt. Gods this is worse than hell.

Ramsay calmed himself the snarling, clamping his jaws tight and shut his eyes to feel the environ whilst raising his bow. He could not trust his aural sense absorbing the confusion of sounds – the cold rage of the icy river a good thirty yards away, the scraping of twigs, the frosty whisper of wind. But the beast was so near he could almost taste it.

In a few breaths he heard a snort and quickly shot at its direction.

The pained shriek of the boar finally felt like music to his ears. It had been a long time since he haunted… animals to be exact. A smirk swept across his pale face, again pulling off another arrow from the quiver in his back as he approached the violently squirming pig; its blood painting the snow red. A descent hunter would have to end the beast's life by a knife on the throat but Ramsay had always been thrilled to watch its life ebb slowly with a rain of arrows.

In the middle of his steps his senses halted in upsurge, discerning a quieter movement sloth from deeper into the forest. He listened on, highly alert and too excited that made his pupils dilate quickly. He raised his weapon, watching a pair of round golden eyes emerge from the grey shadow. Its mud brown fur was studded with snow, muzzle caked in dry blood, ears pricked high but none of its fangs bared.

It must have fed. Ramsay thought. The bloody dog had but taken what was supposed to be his to chase. But this – not a dog. It's a freak. It was huge, by far the largest wolf he had seen. But no. He was told wild Direwolves had been gone a long time. He kept glaring on, urging his fingers to let the arrow loose but there he could not move. The beast held an air of mystery it enamored him too much that all he could see in the backdrop was Sansa.

Rapid flaps swept overhead, and he swiftly sniped at the black figure which squawked loudly before falling. He looked back at the wolf but it gone, deeper into the great ghostly pines.

The prey from above fell close, and he moved collect the arrow punctured through its body. As he bent to pick the edge, his brows creased and a peculiar chill arced through his spine. This was no ordinary fowl in the woods. He was looking at a raven, black and well-fed and trained. He knew too well forest ravens would appear sullied at the feathers from the ruthlessness of its home, and skinny too. He pulled its leg but only found a string and nothing more.

Its message had been delivered.

As night fell, Ramsay Bolton swept across the few men he was acquainted with on account of the plan they were to pull of with the charging enemy. A few torches were lit, few enough not to be sighted by spies. Blood on his gloves left a smudge on the bearskin curtain of the tent he entered through.

Inside, Locke had but turned to him without as much a recognition. They were to share this tent for the last night before progressing through the Baratheon camp early in the morn.

"Ah," Ramsay began, grinning as he pulled off his gloves, "There you are."

Locke tipped his head and Ramsay's eyes darted at him once in every second careful not to be noticed too quick. He took the man in, waiting for an announcement concerning a raven from Winterfell. He was his father's man-at-arms and honored best hunter; in his absence during the hunt, Locke would be the next trusted man to receive the message.

"You should have gone with me. Prey is scarce and the cold is a bitch it would remind you of days at the Dreadfort hunting…" he unlatched his hunting vest, "…people." He threw the vest on the laid down piles of wolfskin and vair which served a temporary mat, noting every inch of Locke and the indifference the man strangely held. Locke's face was taut as it was, eyes sharp as the tip of his dark beard and beneath the layers of boiled leather and chainmail, there seemed nothing wrong except the silence he was too long giving… and the hand that was behind him.

"I believe you've enjoyed yourself," Locke offered a small laugh before turning his back again and proceeded to wear his weaponry, knife, scabbard and others. Amid it Ramsay watched the swift move of Locke's hands beneath his spare change of cloaks.

"I did. Except getting through the frost. Makes my shackles rise." Ramsay spoke, careful to keep his tone unsuspicious as he plastered a grin across his face. "Took us down a boar. Would be tough meat but can do. I hoped you could do the honor of flaying it off. No other could do it better than you, given that good reputation of yours."

He saw Locke smirk back before moving out of the tent, "I would have rather enjoyed it if it were Stannis."

"Oh no, no. He would be mine to work on," Ramsay held back a snigger following Locke as he threw open the bloodstained curtains out to the snow.

Sensing his secured aloneness, Ramsay strode towards the crumpled sheets of cloak and shoved his fingers where Locke had fumbled earlier. He quelled a breath upon feeling the crisp fringe of paper, pulled it without hesitation and thundered off, down by the river where he quickly unfolded the parchment.

Ramsay had never felt as bitterly cold as he did with every word that pounced from the paper. His fingers trembled with his lips, every breath escaping as frost from his mouth. How such small a parchment had made his bones brittle and blood freeze. No. No, no. I am misreading this. He tweaked his eyes forcing them to open and shut. The ride from Winterfell had never offered a satisfying sleep. It must have started to sport on his vision. And yet convincing himself only felt being imprisoned in a grisly box which began to crumble as it narrows in on him, its walls filled with spikes provoked to rip him to pieces. His throat dried as fast as the racing of his heart; he could smell the stench of his own fear.

A small sound snatched him from his senses as he spun lightning fast pulling the dagger from his belt but all was late.

He heard the ripping of leather, the splitting of flesh and rupture of ribs – all his own. The dagger from his hand fell and his eyes travelled from Locke's face daubed in apathy, down to his hand that gripped the thick hunting knife which was now buried below his heart.

It won't be long until the pain would scatter once his shock subsides. Ramsay coughed between breaths. A warm fluid started to rise to his throat, choking back the only word he wanted to ask. Why? Why…

He felt Locke's other hand embrace his shoulder as he thrusted the blade deeper, urging Ramsay to scream but the fierce raging of river drowned it. Summoning force, he willed a cold fist to smash his attacker's cheek finally freeing him. Locke fell with a grunt and Ramsay gasped for air against the gargle of blood streaming from his throat. As darkness engulfed them, Ramsay shook his head to clear his vision desperately limping away. He could hear Locke rising from the snow-studded ground to chase.

At once he felt a throb of pain hit then he collapsed. Locke had finally caught after him.

"You had quick eyes to find that," Locke's voice taunted. He spat a tooth and slaver of blood before wiping his mouth. "Yer father was right. Yev become far from stupid. A'least you ought to know." He began to chuckle unpleasantly.

"Why…" Ramsay finally managed, almost a whisper between bloody clenched teeth.

Locke clicked his tongue before stamping Ramsay's shoulder with a heavy boot, pleased at the way the bastard flinched. "I liked you, no doubt bout that… back when you were a Snow. We had so much in common you and I, the plundering… the raping… ah the lovely screams of creatures under the flaying knife," he gave a small laugh, "And then you've become a – Lord Ramsay Bolton," putting emphasis on the three names.

"Remember how a'v always told you scorn of Lords and Ladies shitting gold and hiding behind walls. Well leave out your father who's had so much to offer me. I guess you've read it… what your life is worth – 'acres of land and a castle of mine own'. Think of that!" He pressed his boot further as Ramsay struggled below him.

Locke bent over to wrap his fingers around Ramsay's neck, "Give it up and die already! Have to bring yer bloody head back to – ARGH!"

Ramsay scrambled to his feet successfully smashing a rock against Locke's temple, earning him a resounding curse. At the verge of fury, Locke threw himself at the wounded, clutching the hilt of the blade still thrusted on his body and twisted it until the cracking of ribs united with Ramsay's screams.

At this he felt his feet slip beneath the ice, creating a fracture at the weight and quickly snapping between them. Locke swiftly withdrew, jumping at safe distance as the slab of ice that carried Ramsay began to plummet down and crashed at the welcoming embrace of the blackened sriver.

Ramsay felt the water swallow him whole, deeper into the echoing darkness. He had the sense of the vast space around him which will then serve his grave. But what had he done? The image of his father loomed over him, writing the words on the parchment. They had made agreements over dinner and mulled wine, plotting against Stannis, planning on bringing the North together. There had been nothing wrong, until Walda died. But he had no part in it. So what had he done besides remaining a rueful bastard in his father's eyes? What…

The undercurrent pressed on him as he sank and his eyes never closed at the frame of the white moon blurred by water. The pain no longer lingered. His heart no longer thumped against his chest. The gods were good.

And before black completely blinded him and his last breath left he saw for the last time the face he only longed to see – bright blue eyes and sunset hair, Sansa. His Sansa.

A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful responses! Really kept me going. And yes, I am fine and getting along with our new baby well. How is everyone?

As review, Locke (in the show) was the one who took Jaime's hand off. I should be honest I could have mentioned him in the earlier chapters but then ah... writer's shortcomings. Hope to read your thoughts through reviews or PMs still.

Have a wonderful day!