But you are unfixable
I can't break through your world
'Cause you live in shades of cool
Your heart is unbreakable
LDR (Shades of Cool)
Chaos ensued when the Kingsroad gates west of the castle were torn down and riders thundered in hacking heads and spilling guts in the name of Stannis Baratheon. Half of over a hundred riders pursued every direction, causing the loud clatter of iron to iron, the ripping of tents and flesh, and bloodshed whilst half rioted their way towards the portcullis. As white snow turned muddy red and Winterfell drowned in screams of the sick and hungry, the giant gates were forced to welcome plunder.
Stannis' bannermen and sellswords raved their path without giving a chance for Bolton's men to recuperate, much less dress up for battle. The ambush was a glorious slaughter.
By the end of the massacre Ramsay's swords were bathed in blood. He spent his fury well vented in a sea of men all masked in his father's face – severing flesh to bone the way a deranged dog would have torn through lambs.
Amidst the havoc he warred his way towards the halls and staircases, slashing left and right ungracefully. His skin was flushing with both terror and excitement as his boot crashed the door open with the strength of ten warriors, roaring her name. "SANSA! Sansa!"
The chamber was empty and his rapid breaths died down. Ramsay thrashed the wardrobes, overturned the tables, and pulled the sheets and wolfpelt from bed but found none. Repressing the taunt of worry, he sat on the bed contemplating where Sansa could probably be hidden or what could have happened to her days after news of his fraud death. He watched the wreck he made of her chamber, the last space he filled before they departed, the last night he touched her. His fingers ran across the sheets slowly painting the surface with blood that lingered in his hands. He remembered the dawn he kissed her in sleep. He wanted to imagine her agony at his supposed passing, and revel in the shock her electric blue eyes could have once he sees him alive and well.
His fingers wound with a string under the pillow. Ramsay pulled only to face a strange stone hung as pendant of a necklace and his skin shivered, perceiving a ghostly presence somewhere and making his hackles rise.
Ramsay took the stone and fled, whispers filling his ears and sending him in temporary haze. Back in the open halls the sounds of butchery and resistance greeted him. Two soldiers clambered in his way and instantly halted. Ramsay basked in the fear they held, faces turning white as if they'd seen a ghost.
Oh but they were seeing one.
Ramsay glared. "Find Lady Sansa."
The deep engraved sunburst on their leather straps gave away those belonging to Karstarks. From the stoned gaze they held for him it well acquaints they recognize the son of Roose Bolton. And they knew he was dead, burned or buried somewhere. They began stammering at each other and blood rose to Ramsay's head. He tossed his sword and caught it deftly as light as feather, words dripping from gritted teeth, "The longer you stand there, the shorter I'll make of your bloody fingers… Now. Find. Lady. Sansa!"
Ramsay pushed the men cruelly, sending them in a tangle of arms and legs quickly disappearing at the end of the hallway.
By late afternoon the standards of Stannis Baratheon fluttered proudly on the walls. The King began rounding up the spoils of his conquest on the Great Hall – laborers, wenches, farmers and stable boys, and Bolton soldiers who threw down their swords.
When the doors threw open and Ramsay strode in carelessly donning the face of a bloodthirsty savage, he felt all eyes drawn to him, making his blood curdle further than it already went. He loathed the sudden celebrity treatment, making count of the faces and the way their eyes quickly dropped unwanting to match his glare. Half his hair was caked with drying blood, a crimson line made way between tensed jaw and distressed eye.
Stannis frowned at the stench of guts Ramsay emitted.
"I see you've rather enjoyed this better than I did," Stannis scowled.
"Where is he?"
"What are dungeons built for, Ramsay Snow?"
Ramsay clenched his jaws, tightening the grip on the hilt of his sword. No sooner than he intended to storm the crypts in search of his wife then Ser Davos Seaworth appeared.
"Your Grace," the Onion Knight nodded, "Roose Bolton is secured in a cell, along with some other loyalists. I…" Darting a look at Ramsay he began to hesitate, "I spoke of your being alive, Ramsay, and asked whether he would like to see you. He… refused."
Ramsay was sure the sudden crippled emotion alighted his face too quickly, seeing how Davos lowered his eyes. He ingested the words like glass ground by teeth and before tears could give him away he dropped his sword and walked out wanting to believe his bravery was still intact.
The mess of ambush lay below him standing by the bailey. He listened to the corpses scraping against snow being dragged in a rising pile, to the men bickering over armor and steel stripped off the dead. He saw the red priestess they call Melissandre, looking up at him with the same all knowing eyes and the glinting of deep crimson on her neck.
And he felt the cold, a bitter one, settle in his heart, inspired by the torment of Sansa's disappearance and the iron in his father's heart. It was undeniable, the hurt that burgeoned. Until the brink of his father's death there was a fire of hope that twisted the disingenuous hatred he cradled for him. This time he need not confirm whether Roose Bolton felt a shard of genuine love all along.
"You surely loved your father,"
Ramsay flinched at Stannis' rough tones. He saw the King stand by him as snow began to fall, once again to blanket the bloodied grounds.
"What difference does it make?" The bastard's words were sour.
Stannis nodded. "I ought to execute him tomorrow. You've no protests? No words to s – "
"You've heard it! He doesn't even want to see me!" Ramsay snarled. The King's mouth settled into a straight line, eyes fixed on the wheelbarrow filled with desecrated men. "The gods are cruel eh. They give daughters to fathers who want sons and sons to ruthless fathers."
Ramsay turned his head to the King and without the bid to explain further, Stannis went on. "All my life I wanted a son, a boy I'd overwhelm with stories of kings and knights, would train with a greatsword and teach loyalty and duty from sunset to sundown while we ride horses and spar in the snow. And yet what I had was a daughter. Daughters have their uses, yes, you've seen her. And tell me what lord in the right mind would bid for my Shireen? To take her as a wife for loving and not for her name?"
She won't even live long to be bidden. Ramsay thought acridly.
"I meant to continue the ride south as soon as Roose Bolton's head is mounted on the gates of Winterfell. The Starks say Winter is Coming and the longer we stay, the snows could get worse. I want you to come along, help me take the throne and I promise you land and titles."
Ramsay gripped on the wooden rails. His gloves were stiff. "I – I can't. My wife is still missing, I need to see her before anything else."
A scoff escaped Stannis' lips. "Of course. The last Stark, such a worthy prize. The Lady Melissandre insists to take you along. She said you'd stir trouble if I leave you be."
"Why would she say that?"
"Not that I bother to know. Prophecies are vague and I don't have the time nor grace to keep convincing you. As long as I'm promised for the throne then all is well."
"I want to stay," Ramsay exhaled sharply. They can devour each other for a chair for all he cared.
Stannis chuckled, shaking his head. "What is it with you bastards? Being offered with more than you deserve and you keep refusing. That Lord Commander Jon Snow, promised him the rule of Winterfell and be a naturalized Stark but his loyalty stays with the Watch. The night we left Castle Black he was stabbed to death by his own brothers. I admired him. Admired him and now he's gone. What of you, Ramsay Snow? What will you be if I leave you?"
"Just another bastard, your Grace."
"Mm," Stannis clicked his tongue. "You're a boredom for ambition. But would you keep Winterfell for me? It won't take weeks before I take King's Landing and be declared for the seven kingdoms. Surely it won't be too much to ask. I will leave a quarter of foodstock in your barns. Ration them well. Keep hunting for more. You won't be left with over a thousand men."
"I swore I heard you promise to hang me." Ramsay asked grimly, earning Stannis' sarcastic laughter.
"You could join the Bolton loyalists tonight and I won't mind. Just make your decision quick elsewise do me a favor and look after the bloody castle in my absence."
Ramsay considered before a light nod and a revolt broke within him. He used to be as manipulative and ambitious as his father. He used to be willing to take all means, to flay his way in exchange for prestige without considerations of fairness in game. Right now there was only this black hole in his heart that kept growing and growing, sucking the life off him like a vortex.
When the winds began to whip harder and the snows rolled thick, they withdrew from the open and back to the Great Hall. More of the captives were pushed in, trembling like pruned sheep. Stannis and Ramsay had to squeeze between bodies and upon the dais Davos raised his eyes from a parchment on hand, eyes bewildered looking at Ramsay.
"What is it?" the King demanded, stretching his hand. Davos reluctantly handed the parchment over. "Your Grace, we… found this on Roose Bolton's study. My reading is yet unpolished; I hope it doesn't tether to my understanding."
As Stannis read the words his face hardened like wrought iron. "Who was he supposed to send this to?"
"I don't know, Your Grace,"
The King handed the parchment to Ramsay, much to Davos' surprise.
"You know anything of this...?"
Ramsay slowly took it between fingers. The last time he read a parchment his world came crashing down. This could be nothing worse, he thought, might just be a command for provision of meat and men. Nothing more, nothing more. And yet as he unfolded the paper he felt the sentence wrap around his heart like barbed wire, pulling slowly until every ridge and pulsing vein exploded.
With glassy eyes and hollowed throat, Ramsay fought the will to pick up his sword and rip someone to pieces smooth as silk. "No… he couldn't… he gave her to me… she couldn't possibly…"
"Of course she would."
They turned to a small girl sitting on the floor just less than a couple of yards. Ramsay's eyes widened at the familiar smooth and mocking voice, the swerves of muddy brown hair and petite frame. She remained still among the other wenches huddled together, her arms around knees. She never raised her eyes at them. "A man can be killed in a minute. What could happen within a week of your disappearance, my Lord?"
"Myranda…" there was gravel in Ramsay's voice, "You lie…"
This time she looked up at him with a taunting smile which easily disappeared. "Well of course. I am but the Kennelmaster's daughter. You think I would make a lie to have you back, isn't it? I could provide more but who would possibly believe me?" She then turned her look away, to the rest of the women staring fearfully at her.
Before the moon struggled to dawn between grey clouds, men loyal to Bolton hung beneath the walls. A great fire coaled by corpses danced side by side. Ramsay witnessed it all – hearing the snaps of neck or the wheezing breaths as they ceased, the eyes popping off their sockets, tongues and foul dribble slithering off their mouths. He watched the look in their faces while gulping in generous swigs of ale, his drunkenness making a wreck of his own features.
He recognized most of them, Cerwyns and Freys, save for Locke who would join the beheading tomorrow.
Soon their kin would unite assaulting the gates demanding for justice. Of course it weren't justice they want, just the thrill of spilling blood and severing heads, just the excuse for sadism masked by supposed gallantry only to fit into the songs. Beasts we all are under different skins.
But his father was a strange kind. Thinking about it plucked Ramsay off his standing ground despite the spinning vision. He made way towards the entrance to the dungeons with a dangerous mood, snarling and sobbing altogether.
Stag guards clamped around a fire dispersed as he moved recklessly, the biggest of them clutched Ramsay's shoulder. The drunk squirmed and pushed amid resistance. When at once the big man crossed his fist hard as rock against Ramsay's jaw and another in the gut.
The soldiers laughed incredulously, jeering like asses. Until after Ramsay retched the stinking mead did he pull the big man's dagger and drove it on his neck. Blood splayed across his face and he watched his prey crash like a bull on the mud and hay, violently writhing like dug up worm. The men who were once laughing at him had suddenly disappeared. Ramsay extracted the dagger from the neck and dragged his feet into the deep darkness.
His ragged breaths echoed against the dank cobblestones. If men could breathe fire he could definitely master it without practice. Ramsay limped with sick desire, checking each cell until he reached the end of the wormway.
Finally he saw his father across the rusting wall plaid iron, measly sitting on the pile of rocks with hands chained and already glaring at him with anticipation.
"Come in. The gate's unlocked," Roose Bolton's voice was devoid of fear. Not even the blood that adorned Ramsay's face evoked a cringe. Of course, Ramsay laughed to himself, if Roose feared something, it'd be droll if the bastard was part of the list.
"When the barns burned down I had the feeling it was you. I see you've sided with Stannis Baratheon after all. What, you're his dog now?"
Ramsay wound his bloodied fingers around the crisscross of iron, forcing a voice throttled with repelled fury. "Where is Sansa…?"
He could feel his tears make way, clearing a path through the blood in his face as Roose half-smiled.
"She fled. She knew you'd come."
"Why would she…? If she knew I was alive."
Roose chuckled. "You place far too much trust in her. It's either that, or Sansa was a better politician after all. She knows how to play, for sure. Would you really have thought between you and Winterfell, she'd choose a bastard?"
"If she chose Winterfell why would she leave…?" Ramsay's teeth chattered, his voice barely above whisper.
His father though, remained unscathed. Roose gave a cold stare. "Of course she fled; her conscience bid her to. You'd know she… came to understand it were us who should be steering the North."
No. There's one bit he's not spilling. Something Ramsay cannot bear to hear. "What did you do…?"
Roose sneered. "You guess."
Finally Ramsay bared his teeth, swinging the hinges of the gate and finally no wall hung between them. Roose Bolton looked up at him still successfully sending shrills of mockery down his spine. Ramsay pulled the folded parchment from his belt and threw it in his father's face. As the paper fell to the cobblestone floor its writing went bare. Ramsay is dead. His widow is agreed. We are to marry in a fortnight. Send your witnesses if you must. Roose Bolton.
"More of your fucking lies!" Ramsay snarled before crushing his father's face with a fist, "Whom will you bring that!?"
Roose Bolton managed a small laugh before spitting a tooth and slaver of blood. His chains rattled and finally Ramsay broke, pouncing around the small cell and running his hands painfully on his face and hair, sweat and tears and blood painting his cheeks –
"I did EVERYTHING you asked of me! Everything! I did not kill your fucking son! Not your fat bitch either! Sansa is MY wife you son of a whore! MINE! Even after taking my life, you'd fucking steal her! WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO?" Ramsay went on repeat of the whys before kicking the iron wall, its thundering clashes echoed out to the open.
Albeit a crushed and bleeding nose, Roose pulled himself up to lean his back against the moist wall. His face revealed no remorse as it broke in a bloody grin. "Oh Ramsay. They say the apple does not fall far from the tree. You may or may not have killed Domeric or my wife and unborn son but you know how it feels when you torture… isn't it?"
Ramsay's lips trembled.
"Yes… it's never about bringing justice or settling scores. It's about the fun of it, about your personal entertainment… the exhilarating pleasure of causing pain and hearing screams, no matter how innocent or guilty the prey could be. To the seven kingdoms, Ramsay, you may be the most terrifying scourge. But in my world, you are my version of the broken, kinless… tiny pet…"
Roose Bolton enjoyed the emphasis on his own three last words, "My little REEK."
The pressure in Ramsay's head finally exploded along with a blood curdling scream and a gash on his father's neck. He dived at Roose, tackled him to the floor and again and again plunged the dagger deep onto his chest with such raging passion that made his pupils shrink.
A series of memoirs rolled within his mind and with it equaling a hard rip through flesh and bone – the raffish children that ganged up on him when he was little, his sweet kind mother, sunsets spent atop pine branches, his violent sexual exploits, Myranda and the bitches…
And cobalt eyed Sansa, the most beautiful thing that happened to him… Sansa descending from her horse beneath Winterfell gates, Sansa in a sparkling white gown, Sansa terribly sick in his arms, Sansa crying, Sansa glaring, Sansa blushing, Sansa taking the flowers he handed over, Sansa smiling underneath the wolfpelt sheets, her deep red hair like halo, her skin ticklish on the nape…
Now death beating on Roose's chest into a mush sounded like her name as if the knife was screaming it about… Sansa… Sansa… Sansa…!
When at once his strength drained away and made the last push of blade into his father's lungs, his blood-slimy fingers remained still. Ramsay hung his head, bathed in crimson and shred skin. His shoulders began to heave in release of his life's worth of anguish and pain, screaming the already aching throat and hot rapid tears marring his eyes.
Up ahead between the convulsive catching of breath unrecognized between sobbing and laughter, Ramsay looked to the entrance of the cell.
Stannis Baratheon and Davos Seaworth stood by, faces spoiled by intense psychological disturbance staring at the devil Ramsay has made of himself. His wide eyes peered between bangs doused in sweat and blood, his father's blood. Roose Bolton laid on the muddied floor, dead irises staring numbly at the ceiling, a massive cavity adorned his chest.
The fire from torches flicked as Stannis clenched his jaws and began traversing the murky hallway, calling Davos' name angrily for the men to be roused so they could leave before dawn.
A/N : Hi. Hoping all is well with you. Before all else again thank you for the reviews and private messages. They really mean a lot of offers of inspiration.
I have, though, an important info regarding the upcoming chapters. As climax draws near so do darker scenes and utmost Bolton hell. It had been my course of story from the very beginning and despite understanding the want for quick reconciliation of our characters, the flow of my plot is fixed. This rollercoaster ride is based on literary flaws of heroes and protagonists - lust, cruelty, murder, abandonment - the certain proof they are indeed, humans "fashioned for love, their greatest glory and tragedy" (GRRM). For it is in these evil moments we can draw their hidden strengths - courage, loyalty, forgiveness.
If you decide to join me still, I am most grateful. We would be needing quite a strong stomach in this tunnel. Otherwise, I would also understand. Thank you still.
Again, I hope you're safe. If you're currently a frontliner in this pandemic war, you're a hero.
Ps. How many Sansas did you count? (No scrolling back to the story!) Haha. Kidding. K bye. :)