With shaking hands, he searched the wall for crevices wide enough to put a finger through. The husks of dead woodlice, dirt and small pieces of shattered rocks came pouring out of the holes as he cleaned them out thoroughly one by one. With the Dreadfort's old and worn dungeon walls it was an endless undertaking - one he regretted not having thought of sooner - with no aim to it other than passing the time and keeping his mind off what the coming evening and possibly night had in store for him.
The Kraken had told him that something was to happen then, something he would probably not care for and that was enough for Ramsay to dread the guards' rotation which in his windowless confinement was his only way of telling what time of day it was. It wasn't that he trusted Euron Greyjoy - one would have to be a fool to do so for the man was clearly a boasting, lying son of a whore occupying a madness that matched any Targaryen; however, when it came to threats involving his brutality and sick tendencies the newly anointed King seemed not only to be a master of the arts but a man of his word also.
As Ramsay had long past recognized his own inclinations were a near reflection of Greyjoy's with the vital exception that he did not personally violate the men that were in his custody. Through his short lifespan he had raped more women than he could count sure, but men? Never. It was a thought too foul to even consider so he left it to others to perform those kinds of acts when he saw it fit.
Although it was almost like looking in a mirror, recognizing the familiar traits between himself and the King, the thought of being at the mercy of a creature who was that much like himself and capable of that extreme level of perversion made Ramsay's very gut wrench with concern of the upcoming terror which had been promised.
He was trapped like a rodent boxed by a malevolent child, getting ready to throw it into the flames of a blazing fern. There was no way out he could think of except death which his captor had in the past and no doubt would deny him in the future. Ramsay Bolton, the former Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, the murderer of Rickon Stark and son of the traitor Rooose Bolton was a prize after all; a way for Euron Greyjoy to please the remaining Starks and the key to winning the North and subsequently Westeros in its entirety, and for that Ramsay was to remain alive at least until he was gifted away to Sansa who would no doubt have him executed at once.
Ramsay did not dread the execution itself; that part of his destiny seemed more like an ointment for a deep, festering wound than anything else - it was the things that would happen in between now and then that frightened and concerned him; the loss of control, the humiliations, the molestations...
Trying hard not to think about the grim future further, Ramsay's nails now bloodied, dug deep into an unexplored hole in the wall.