It did not take Ramsay long to decide on the outfit that would serve best as a commoner disguise. Rummaging through his wardrobe, he picked out the same set of clothing he had worn the day Theon Greyjoy had been tricked back into the Dreadfort's torture chamber. It had already proven worthy of the task considering that the Turncloak had regarded him as nothing more than a servant boy eager to aid him in his escape. What a game it had been. The look on Theon's face had been so precious the moment he realized the extent of the illusion his captor had created. As it turned out Ramsay was no wide-eyed little helper but a fiend embodying his worst nightmare.
Hastily, he bundled up the clothes and put it in the sack then grabbed the other sack filled with food and jewellery from behind the door and left his chambers, waving off the two guards who were about to follow after him. "I am going into the tombs and I wish not to be disturbed, no matter the cause."
The crypt was cold and damp, droplets of condensed water plopping down from the ceiling. Ramsay lit a torch at the entrance and descended down the stairs. He could feel the scrutinizing stares of dead Starks follow him down the isle as if they were passing their self-righteous judgement from the afterlife. Easing himself down onto his rear amongst the statues he inspected their faces in the flickering light of the torch. They were all tall and slim with noble features that emitted honour and strength. The sight of their undeniable glory, even in death, and the harrowing memory their bloodline represented made a strong acid fill his mouth. It was a taste so sour Ramsay could not stand to swallow, so he spat out the bitterness instead; the mist of saliva landing at the foot of one of the disdainful females.
Ramsay snorted at her. The dead never did scare him nor did the living, though his father had been the only exception to the rule. Roose was gone and it was Ramsay who had stuck the dagger in his gut, killing him. Fortunately for him it was not the other way around even though that easily could have been his fate. The constant mind game between father and son may have seemed tireless, but there was never any guaranty Roose would not one day decide to put an end to it, and to Ramsay as well. Lord Bolton would rarely skip a chance to humiliate his bastard son, reminding him of his untrue lineage and thereby implying that he would never be the heir to the Dreadfort. Every time he uttered the word bastard or Snow, a flush of heat coursed through Ramsay's being. It was apparent his father regarded him as little more than a vexing failure, stripped of discipline and unable to control his urges.
In return Ramsay would seek out boundaries inside and outside the castle walls. Even though the Boltons were notorious amongst the local villagers for being merciless rulers, a highborn was not officially above the law nor was their bastard offspring. There were still certain regulations and standards Ramsay had to abide by being the illegitimate son of Roose. He may have held the title of Lord of the Land, but father still answered to the Starks. There was always the risk of word travelling to Winterfell about unauthorized killings and torture of innocents. Roose was a ruthless man but unlike Ramsay, he did not kill for his own amusement. He understood it was ill-advised - or dangerous even - to attract Eddard Stark´s attention on account of abusing his authority.
Every time Ramsay killed or maimed a local peasant, Roose would enhance his level of degradation towards his son in an attempt to make him submit to his ways. Usually Ramsay would keep a low profile for a week or two making his Sire think that he had succeeded in breaking him, then when an appropriate amount of time had passed and Roose had begun to feel like a victor, he would initiate the savage behaviour all over again.
The constant insubordination was Ramsay´s way of spiting his father. It was apparent that he was kept around for a reason, and that the reason was not affection for neither men ever did anything considered good or decent unless it was in their own best interest to do so. In that regard father and son were very much alike.
When Roose legitimized and invited him to participate in the battle planning against Stannis Baratheon, Ramsay knew that he only did so out of necessity. He needed a trueborn son to strengthen his ties with the other northern houses still loyal to the wolves. It was the moment Ramsay had been longing for his entire life and he felt his eyes tear up, his bottom lip quivering as Roose announced the royal decree issued by Tommen Baratheon that finally declared him a trueborn son and future ruler of the Bolton dynasty.
Sadly, the joy he felt of his newly attained status had been short-lived. With a mere push of his stepmother's twat his little brother had arrived in the world, rendering Ramsay instantly expendable. It was only a matter of time before Roose would find him too much of a nuisance or liability to keep around, and he couldn´t very well make him a Snow again. There was only one way to remove a problem like so, and that was to make it go away for good. Ramsay did not doubt, even for a second, his father would dispose of him if he was deemed a threat to either his own rule or to the life of his newborn son. He decided to strike first before Roose had a chance to do so. Eat or be eaten. It was his most important lesson learned in life and the deal handed down from father to son. The snake pit was overcrowded, and Ramsay needed room to grow so he murdered them all.
Still, it would have been comforting if Roose had been there during the siege. His father would have known what to do to prevent such a predicament Ramsay currently found himself in. He was as clever as he was predictive, always three steps ahead of everybody else and he had a very good handle on the men also, better than Ramsay ever had. Roose even had the ability to convince other Lords he had goodness and honour in him which was no small deception. What a jest. Ramsay snorted. Roose was as much a monster as himself only wearing a better disguise.
Regardless of his deep-rooted resentment of the man, Ramsay did envy his father's ability to hide his true self. While Ramsay was good at keeping a straight face in most hair-raising situations, hiding his nature for longer periods of time was a different matter. At some point, the madness in his eyes would inevitably shine through and he would be driven by his impulses once again. Roose often said that it would be his downfall if he didn´t learn to control himself, but Ramsay knew he had fooled his fair share of people and that he, at least to some extent, could keep a lid on his urges. I was the one to take you down old man...let us not forget that. The victory had been his in the end, and he felt a stab of pride at the thought of having outplayed the master of deceit at his own game.
The sound of muffled voices somewhere above him put a halt to his reminiscence. Men were going about their daily affairs in the courtyard, but hopefully they would soon cease work and start drinking instead. The Starks were looking on in silence as Ramsay changed into his new garments, tying a cloak around his shoulders. He did not recognize neither Lord Eddard nor Rob Stark amongst the statues, and he guessed that their remains had not made it back to Winterfell before the Ironborn had claimed the castle. There were still a few hours till darkness would allow him to venture out of the crypt hopefully undetected. Ramsay sat down in the midst of the judgemental wolves carved in stone and waited for nightfall.