Accept your fate. A voice like thin ice breaking echoed through his mind. It seemed as though a thousand years had passed since his father's ghost appeared in his dreams, bestowing its dark predictions for the grim future upon him. The Crow's eye had been an insignificant speck in a vast sea of enemies then, an amusing anecdote roaming the southern seas and nothing more. Of no threat to Ramsay's existence or dominion, he had been unworthy of note. But that was then and this was now. Everything had changed the moment Euron Greyjoy had entered his life, bringing with him a world where only misery thrived, madness prevailed and men did things to other men they shouldn't. Roose had not appeared before him since that day in the woods and Ramsay felt grateful for it. In his current condition nothing seemed more unbearable than the thought of his late father bearing witness to his humiliation.
He lay huddled in a corner staring blankly into the stonewall ahead. The guards had given him a blanket to wrap himself in, presumably to keep him from catching disease exposed as he was to the cold, moist air of the dungeon. At first he had refused to wear it, tossing it to the side and hoping to fall ill so that death would spare him from any further perversions Greyjoy might bestow upon him. At least by denying his captors the pleasure of ending his life themselves he could regain some control over his destiny; besides giving the bastards a small dose of defiance was really all there was left for him to hope for now. When the Ironborn had found the blanket tossed aside they had chained Ramsay to the wall with his arms above his head. Wrapped up in the woollen cocoon he sat for half a day, a defenceless fly trapped in an itchy spider-web before he finally gave in to their demands. In exchange for being released from his bonds he embraced the unwanted salvage without further resistance. A little freedom was in the end better than no freedom at all.
After that incident, a guard was stationed in the dungeon at all times probably in order to prevent Ramsay from hanging himself with the blanket. Usually they kept out of sight, though every now and then one of the men would randomly appear before the cell, checking to see if he had done anything that could be deemed as rebellious. The Ironborn seemed intent on keeping him alive, but for what purpose other than satisfying the King's sickening needs he did not know. They kept a close watch on his intake of food and water as well, making sure he didn't starve himself or dehydrate. Thrice a day they brought him meals and stood watch until he had consumed every single bite. Ramsay overturned the first couple of bowls he was given, spilling the grub on the dirty floor. Despite his intention to remain defiant the hunger strike had come to an abrupt end when the silver haired man, who went by the name of Grey Lorren, came storming into the cell with an expression of pure, unbridled fury on his dark hued face. "Little shit! What did I bloody tell ya!?"
Seizing Ramsay around the jaw with one hand, Lorren began stuffing stew into his mouth with the other, then proceeded to pinch his nose shut until he was forced to swallow the thick, spoiled mash. He coughed and spluttered through the fingers covering his mouth, tears coursing down his cheeks as the man relentlessly crammed food into his face. The involuntary feeding continued on one wretched mouthful at a time until the bowl was empty. When it was done, Grey Lorren grabbed him by the hair and dragged him over to the water-bucket, forcing his face over the rim of it. "Look at you now, flayer," the guard hissed, "do you like what you see?". As Ramsay caught sight of his reflection in the water, a sense of discouragement filled his being. The change in his appearance was so overwhelming he hardly recognized the man staring back at him from the bucket. Defeat shone from his hollow eyes, grey lifeless orbits in a ghostly pale face. The hair was tousled and dirty, while a shadow of stubble covered his jaw adding to an overall tattered image. His old tidy self was gone now, replaced by some creature that resembled a scruffy, drowned rat. Grey Lorren held him in place for a good long while, making sure that Ramsay had time to take in every single aspect of his own face before dunking his head underwater and pulling it back up. "Murdering bastard, you deserve everything that's coming to you!" he sneered into his soaked face then pushed him onto the floor. Ramsay crawled back into his corner and faced the wall once again.
There were three men guarding him. None of them made an effort to hide their resentment towards Ramsay though Grey Lorren seemed to harbour more hatred than the other two combined. The dark-skinned man was clearly the one in charge and also the brightest of the lot, but that wasn't saying much. There were also Hobbs, a large toad-like creature and an equally sized brute named Owen. Both men had been born without the burden of intellect, and was hardly able to speak and take a piss at the same time. They rarely spoke to him, except to give orders or uttering the occasional taunt, yet Ramsay didn´t mind their reticence at all. In fact, he found that silence was the one thing he came close to appreciating in the hell that now made up his life. Hobbs would stay out of sight most of the time, breathing heavily from his place somewhere in the dungeon. Every half hour or so, he would shuffle over to the cell to see if his prisoner was still alive then return to his post, wheezing and grunting like an overfed boar. The other guard, Owen, stayed in the shadows as well, silent and concealed. Were it not for the odd fart that rung out every now and then, Ramsay might have thought he occupied the space by himself.
It had been two days, since Greyjoy had been to the dungeons. Although it was a relief not to see his ghastly face or be the subject of his lust, Ramsay could not let go of the anxiety the man had put in him. Every few hours when the guards rotated he woke with a jolt, as the clanging of metal hinges announced someone was either entering or leaving the room. His heart pounded in his chest like a drum and the cell began spinning before his eyes when he imagined the footsteps descending down the stairs belonged to the Reaper, back to take one more greedy bite out of his shredded soul. His body had healed a little, but he still felt a throb in his gut every time he shifted himself into a new position on the ground. There were traces of blood in the bucket when he relieved himself, an atrocious reminder of the rapes and the likely irreparable damage done to his insides. He doubted that neither his body nor spirit could endure another attack. His colon would surely burst, killing him in the most disgraced manner imaginable or he would go mad from the torment itself. Even though he had accepted days ago that he was going to meet his end by the hands of one enemy or the other, Ramsay could not think of a more horrible fate than being violated to death, except of course to remain alive and being violated endlessly.
He had almost drifted off to sleep when someone kicked a boot hard against the bars, making him jerk in surprise. Grey Lorren opened the cell door and stepped inside, carrying a fresh bucket of water and the old set of clothing the three guards had so brutally stripped him off a few days earlier. "Get yourself cleaned and put that on," he ordered, dropping the clothes next to Ramsay. The Ironborn stood back scowling at him as he picked up a soaked cloth from the bucket. Turning his back on the man's uncomfortable stare Ramsay began scrubbing his body and face free from dirt, then proceeded to put on the garments. "Faster boy!" Lorren sneered impatiently and kicked him hard in the ass, making Ramsay give of a loud, agonized yelp. "Bastard!" he muttered under his breath but picked up the pace as instructed. With grey eyes shooting daggers at the wall in front of him, Ramsay dressed himself as quickly as his shredded gut allowed.
Fully clothed he felt slightly less vulnerable than before which was a welcome adjustment although he of course knew that all the garments provided him with was a false sense of comfort and nothing more; no layer of wool or leather would be able to stop neither an axe nor the Salt King's groping hands. Ramsay adjusted his doublet and turned towards Lorren. Suddenly, his brain fired off a warning signal and a drop of cold sweat trickled down his temple. Is it...today? My execution? Why else would the Ironborn clean him up and put him back in his clothes if not to lead him to trial and ultimately his death? Although he longed for release, Ramsay still felt a growing sense of unease, contemplating the horrendous method of execution Greyjoy had come up with. If only it were the chopping block or the rope he would welcome death like a long lost friend, with arms wide open and a bittersweet smile on his face. It would be a good end, quick and painless, but deep down he knew that neither of those options were available to him. Most likely his departure from the world would involve lots of screams and tears and begging. So much begging.
"You have to wear this", Lorren pulled a piece of black cloth from his back pocket, "hold still." With the blindfold stretched out between his hands, he approached Ramsay slowly and deeply focused as if cornering a rabbit trying to evade capture. "Why?", the prospect of being blindfolded made Ramsay even more nervous and he took a step backwards. "I don´t understand, wh...", his sentence was cut off, as a hand smacked him hard across the face. "You don´t need to understand, bastard!" the Ironborn sneered in a low voice, "just do as you are told and hold fucking still!". Spinning him around, Lorren tied the cloth tightly over his eyes, blocking out all light. "Let´s go", he growled. Grabbing his prisoner by the upper arm he dragged him forth, out of the dungeon and into the hallway.