Warning: Bottom Ramsay is the key-word here. This is dark – really dark. This story has explicit sexual themes and contains rape and violence. Read at own risk.
English is not my mother-tongue so forgive me for any grammatical mistakes and wrongly placed commas that may occur.
As the gates of Winterfell was closed and barred, Ramsay Bolton could taste the bile flavoured acid rising in his throat.
With his face twisted in an angry grimace he made his way through the cluster of Bolton and Karstark men, rushing to strengthen the planks that served as the only barrier between them and what remained of the Stark army. The gate shuddered with the full force of enemy rams, making wood splinter and threatening an imminent breach of the barricade. The thundering blows ceased as large batches of arrows rained down from the castle walls, killing a handful of the charging soldiers and causing the rest to retreat to a safe distance beyond reach of the Bolton archers and their longbows.
The drawbridge was raised to the sound of creaking wood and clattering chains as the windlass hauled it into a vertical position. Over the deafening noise, Jon Snow could be heard shouting from the other side. "Lord Bolton! Be a man! Come out and fight me!". His stentorian voice contained equal amounts of rage and frustration. "You will not escape our justice! I swear it by the gods!". There was a few seconds pause, then
"Don´trun and hide, coward!", someone bellowed harshly. "Yer little cunt!" A third voice had joined in the mockery.
Ramsay bit down on his lower lip until the bitterness in his mouth was replaced by a metallic taste of blood. "My Lord! The gates are secured." The messenger was bloodied and heaving for air. "Fine!", Ramsay sneered back. "you're in charge. Make a head count and report back to me at once." He turned on his heel giving the now sealed entrance one last glare and rushed towards his private chambers. Getting far away from the unconceivable disaster that had just now occurred could not happen fast enough, so he shoved and elbowed his way through the surrounding crowd, clearing a path for his escape while cussing at the dim-witted men that were in his way.
As he neared the tower containing his refuge a soldier sitting up against the wall with intestines hanging out of his gut, reached out a shaking hand and grabbed Ramsay's leg as he passed him by. "Vile creature!" he spat, and kicked the man off him with a boot to his side. Whimpering, the soldier slumped backwards against the wall in a pile of hay and horseshit; the filth clinging to his open wound like dung to a hog.
Inside the tower, Ramsay hastily ascended the stairs taking two steps at a time. On reaching his bedchamber he slammed the door behind him and slid down its coarse surface onto his rear-end, staring at nothing but the empty air. Then the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North shut his eyes, balled up his fists and hit the wood behind him until there was no feeling left in either hand.