The broken man limped across the lifted velvet curtains, cobalt eyes searching the tent from corner to corner. Dusk had made its settlement across the large army, darkening the vast horizons and putting the men at unease. In the middle of the enclosure he found the "King" crouched over a small table, reading parchments amid dank and measly light coming from two lanterns hung side by side.

Ramsay slowly made way to the empty stool across the King. He took in the device in a yellow banner draped behind them, of red heart surrounded by a blaze of orange fire. The crowned stag filled as image within the heart.

Gotten used by the flayed man on the Bolton sigil, Ramsay found this new mark too quirky and less inspiration to fear. He once fed on the fear splayed with disgust on their enemies' eyes upon sight of the Flayed man. But that would have to be history. Now more than ever he willed in his dying heart he belonged to no house, no words, no one.

The greying man had followed him from behind. Eyes straight to the King still delved deep into words in crisp paper. "Your Grace, as asked."

Stannis Baratheon inched his face towards Ramsay's cold, misshapen self. They say this man was devoid of warmth, his words drawn from iron, and no one loved him – not even his brothers, one dead and the other taking up arms of rivalry. The King twisted the edge of his lips into a frown and stretched his back to lean on the chair.

"Oh look," he had the most pallid welcome. "Another bastard."

Ramsay flinched.

"Your Grace, I believe this young man has been so-called naturalized by decree of the… present King… he is by right, a Bolto-"

"A naturalized bastard is a bastard all the same, Ser Davos," Stannis flipped the parchment at the table now putting a start to new business. "He still came from the cunt of a woman other than Bolton's wife and there is nothing to naturalize about that. It's what Lord Commander Snow taught me resentfully. I offered him the Stark name and Winterfell yet he refused… apparently too dutiful, I liked that part, and still feeling unworthy of the name."

Davos Seaworth withdrew with a nod, "If you say so, your Grace."

"You might want to know how you ended up in chains in my camp?" Stannis pointed a finger at Ramsay, "I knew there was something strange of you. Who would have thought. The very own son of Roose Bolton… there… lying by the river bank, taken for dead. If not for the sign I would have left you there myself."

The sign?

Ramsay remained still. His neck and shoulders unable to control the shivering of his chest. His wound had began to eject virtual waves of pain no matter how thick the bandages had been. He must have had the unruliest hair in all seven kingdoms, dark rings below hollow eyes – one which even had a blotch of red around the blue iris.

"Now I want to know," Stannis leaned forward, his thin cropped beard casting light shadows across his face, "What Bolton's heir was doing, strolling over six feet of ice instead of gorging meat and ale behind the high walls of Winterfell?"

At this Ramsay managed to pull a smug grin, "Trying to burn down your food and horses… your Grace." The two last words went off a sneer than recognition.

"And here we are," Stannis smirked back, unfazed. "My food stocks untouched. My horses alive and well. Why?"

"You could see why."

The King sighed, "Pity you failed. Ser Davos, if you had your son bound and chained by an enemy, how handsome would you name a price for –"

The laughter of what sounded like a dying horse steered clear silence. Ramsay was embracing his belly, his face full of twisted glee in both laughter and coughing.

"You would bring me hostage to scare my father?" Ramsay snorted, "You'd… what… 'Bend the knee and lose your claim on the North in exchange of your son' for fuck's sake!"

And so he spat on the ground, slaver thick with blood, unmindful if it would be his head rolling after. If Stannis had been disgusted, he knew how to hide his cringing well.

"You –"

"Bastard!? Yes I AM!" Ramsay banged his palms flat on the table, immediately making Ser Davos freeze, "I AM THE BASTARD who lived up to that reputation! I flayed Theon Greyjoy and made a pet out of him… cut off his dick and sent to his father! I massacred the garrison at Moat Cailin! I feed my hounds with human flesh – these, these and there are fucking more than you could imagine!"

Ramsay had never been seen as ravenous for a long time – teeth bared, breath fuming. Davos could have hacked off an arm should Stannis not raised a hand to stop him from pulling his sword.

The King was ever more silent despite a tensing body. It sickened Ramsay the way Stannis could only look him square in the eye.

"Aye, I've heard those stories… horrible ones. Though they left out a detail, not that it matters too much," Stannis Baratheon half-smiled, "you have sad eyes for a killer."

At this the bastard's throat dried, giving too much of himself suddenly shrinking like the scared little boy he had been. He managed a small laugh, "You don't know that."

"Your grace, I would gladly take off his tongue," Davos Seaworth's own shortened fingers itched.

"And what would that serve as favor to me, smuggler?" Stannis glowered, himself wanting to burn Ramsay alive but reason had been keeping his cool. "Did you know, this… this young man here captured Winterfell without a drop of blood? How? The Usurper Theon Greyjoy, ward of Ned Stark, had taken the castle with an iron price… and was easily overthrown by Ramsay after bribing Greyjoy's men with whatever the gods know, and willfully handed the traitor. Now he had intended to weaken our forces with a few torches and a few men."

Tension sparked further as Stannis stood glaring at Ramsay. In his bitter tone was a touch of admiration, "Did you know how lucky we are to have been saved from that scheme…? That… awfully… brilliant scheme…"

Davos was more than confused. "I don't understand, your grace,"

"Oh Ser Onion Knight, you fool," there was gravel in Stannis' voice, "This bastard has better wit in battle than the small council of King's Landing gathered. It would have taken you years to offer that idea to me, would you not?"

Ramsay's own brows were creased. Listening to the squabbles of the old men had only made him much sicker. He noticed, though, how Davos' face hardened at the King's question. The Knight took a step to meet his liege, a brave act.

"No, your grace I would not, even if it had occurred to me as quick as how he plans of it. But I believe you would have other plans as equally fair – such as blood magic, is it?" Davos' eyes were cold as his words, leaving King Stannis in both shock and fury. The King's teeth grinded as he commanded. "Leave."

As Davos' heavy boot steps faded, so did Stannis' anger slowly ceased. He walked around sighing, contemplating how badly these talks had become.

"I could never be like him…" Stannis' jaws tightened, "He was always a righteous man, the light at the end of long tunnels. I love him and yet more than often his goodness annoys me… And I could never be like him…"

Ramsay sniffed after a short laugh, "Some men are born righteous… while others are as doomed." He stretched his arms, gladly welcoming the credit of being the worst shit in Westeros.

"No one is born good or evil, Ramsay Snow. Destiny is the excuse of cowards."

Stannis took to sit half his weight on the edge of the table, looming over Ramsay practically still glaring at him.

"If looks could carve out lungs," the King sighed, "You are at my mercy and yet why do I get the feeling you have plans to kill me with dagger eyes. Is that why you ended by that river bank, eh? Kept glaring at some fool who meant to scoop your liver"

"Your bluntness won't seduce Roose Bolton to submission. He will not ransom for me."

"Why?"

"You have your answer why I ended up at that river bank."

Stannis' jaw tensed. "Why…?"

The way Ramsay shrugged his shoulders with an expression of mocking had said it. "Well what do you do with a bone after the meat was licked clean of it?"

"And you mean to watch him die?"

"I would flay him if it please you. And then I'd die with another title – kinslayer."

As if a cold chill had swept across the tent, Stannis took a sharp breath and was quick on his feet. Ramsay noticed the momentary queasiness that took over the King. There was something in the word he said that made the other's skin show gooseprickles. He stood staring at the dwindling fire within the lantern. Had he been murderer to his kin? Ramsay bit the wall of his mouth. Perhaps they have some things done in common… with it the only difference was one complied in secrecy while the other was a spectacle.

"I would hate to admit I wish I had men with your wits. You aren't stupid. Bloodthirsty, but not stupid – far from what I have… sellswords, and pyromancy and leeching…" Stannis scoffed, "Whatever reason Roose Bolton had to discard you he must have to do it later. Stupid man… do you think he's believed you're dead?"

"He sees what he believes. And I am here…"

Soon the King asked what made Ramsay lift his eyes up.

"How much do you know of Winterfell?"

"What…?"

"If you mean to see Roose Bolton die, then you may tread down that path by telling me what you know – how to breach its walls, how many men at each gate, the length of its dungeons…" Stannis turned to Ramsay now in full attention. "Help me sack the castle and I could give you your wish. That is, if you would want to continue your device against me but turn it against your father. If not I would not take it against you. Either way I could hang you for treason."

Ramsay eased himself in his chair. "What promise can I give…? These stab wounds can't even allow me to lift a torch."

"I had you saved, didn't I?"

As soon as Stannis crossed arms over his chest then a faint wind blew as a woman went in, garbed all in red, face shadowed within the hood of her deep scarlet cloak and a blood jewel shimmering on her neck. She was smiling behind what seemed to be a million secrets. Ramsay had to squint his eyes. The fire in this woman's hair had his heart racing at the memory of Sansa.

"Pledge to me your will, and I assure your wounds would be hardened scars by the morrow."

Ramsay felt the familiar chill that had been plaguing him. He could not understand whether it were excitement or fear that had burgeoned from the pit of his stomach but he knew for sure he wanted this – the beauty of vengeance. Once more the King asked for his cooperation, even temporary, with which Ramsay nodded his head with a sparkle in his tired eyes.

Stannis was on his feet as he nodded at the woman, who had but touched Ramsay in the shoulder to advise him they can now leave. Ramsay slowly stood , grunting as he did, and followed the lady out. Before he passed by the curtains to the bitter cold, Stannis had him on hold.

"They say Love is the death of duty."

He felt his heart as drums against his chest. The red woman beside him was throwing an all-knowing smile. Ramsay answered between locked teeth. "I have no love left for my father."

"Good." The King hadn't smiled, unimpressed. He gladly watched as Ramsay's face fell. "And what about your wife?"

A/N : My love and prayers. Please take care as always. Keep in touch!