A black as night centipede the size of a grown man's middle finger swept across the cell's wall, looking for a crevice in the mortar to slip into. From his place on the floor, Ramsay watched as the long-bodied form travelled up the stones, slipped and fell to the ground with a soft plonk, then coiled up a foot length away from his face. The creature - now on its back - twisted desperately; its many legs paddling the air trying go gain the leverage to turn over.
Ignoring the centipede's struggle, Ramsay rolled onto his back, exhaled slowly and watched his breath dissolve in the cold dungeon air. The headache he had awoken with that morning; one so severe he felt as though an axe has logged itself in his skull and caused him to empty the content of his stomach (bile and water mostly) into the waste bucket, had somewhat faded in the few hours he had been awake and settled as a throbbing pain behind the eyes instead.
A fog had crept in over his thoughts transforming the previous night's events into a blur. He remembered Euron's attack only too vividly, but everything that took place after he was released from the Bolton cross seemed like a distant memory now, like a smeared painting filled with obscure yet somehow familiar faces.
Someone or something had been in the dungeon with him - of that he was somewhat sure; a presence that had made him feel as a game animal being hunted. Perhaps he had fallen asleep after the attack and that…whatever it was…was just part of a dreadful nightmare? Or perhaps his own mind had finally given in and deceived him, creating an illusion meant to drive him mad?
It was another one of his tricks. A little voice inside his head suggested. Yes, Ramsay answered the voice back. Another one of the beast's tricks indeed. Perhaps it was better to not think about it further. For what good could come of remembering anything that involved Euron Greyjoy and his sick little mind games? And what did it really matter whether his visions were real or not; he was still going to be tortured and after that he was still going to die. Driven mad by a Greyjoy and executed by a Stark. And in his own home nonetheless. How wonderfully ironic.
He sighed and let his head loll to the side. The centipede was still there on the floor, fighting to regain its natural stance. Ramsay lay for a moment and watched it twist its body in near impossible shapes, then reached out his hand and with a shaking finger tipped the animal over so that its legs were connected to the ground once again. For a little while the centipede remained still as if to regain its bearings, then proceeded to crawl back towards the wall and up the stones.
Run little creature.
Ramsay followed the centipede with his eyes as it finally located a fitting crack in the mortar and slipped through. He coughed once and closed his eyes, hoping for any relief from the searing pain in his head.
Run.