The guards had rotated twice since Ramsay had awoken from his sleep that morning, leaving Hobbs, the malevolent hog-like creature, the one holding the watch which by Ramsay's counting meant it had to be nearing early afternoon or thereabouts.
After having spent a good while pacing back and forth from one end of the dungeon to the other, Hobbs had finally pulled up a chair and sat down in front of the bars, staring indifferently into the cell at its occupant who had some time ago grown weary of his self-appointed task of cleaning out every hole and crevice in the dungeon wall and instead laid himself down to rest with his back turned against his captor's uncomfortable gaze.
Rest he did not find though no matter how hard he tried. Despite the headache from that morning had left his already exhausted mind cloudy, the despair of not knowing what terrors the next few hours would bring had Ramsay feeling strangely awake and on edge. The hour of his unknown fate was hastily nearing and he could feel the anxiety spread through his very bones. It was only a matter of time before Grey Lorren or the Kraken King himself would enter the dungeon and lead him away to something much worse than a cold cell and that gooey porridge he had been fed at midday.
It had been an awful meal, burned and bitter, but a meal nonetheless and Ramsay had wolfed it down like a starved dog as soon as the guard who brought it in had left the cell. How long had it been since last he ate? He could no longer remember but it felt like a long time, at the very least a few days judged by the weakened state of his body. In the past couple of days, he had felt his belt and breeches becoming increasingly looser but now the latter hung sacking from his bony hips, threatening to slip and expose his bare arse to the world at any moment.
Every so often he would glance over the water-bucket's edge at his own hollow-cheeked reflection, wondering if he would ever get the chance again to gaze upon the image of himself as he remembered it from before his capture. It would make it more bearable somehow, seem less like a defeat if he was not appearing like a dirty, starved rat when he was reunited with Sansa and executed. If he was to meet the headman's axe looking like he did when he was still bound for glory and back when Sansa were still subservient to him.
Greyjoy had the night before promised him a cleanse of body and mind –a statement that Ramsay had long thought about and concluded meant a bath which at least part of him welcomed;however, the horrid memory of the last time he was part of a grooming ritual involving Euron Greyjoy made him retch loudly enough so that Hobbs called out annoyed "Quiet, you!", and banged repeatedly on the bars with his steel mug until Ramsay was done making noises and had rolled back over in the hay-pile.
And so the hours went by uneventfully with Ramsay's heart heavy with worry, his mind an exhausted mess, until he sometime after Hobbs had been replaced by the sluggish guard, Owen, dared allow himself the thought that the king had either was too caught up with other things or had forgotten about his promise of the bath altogether.
He was slowly starting to doze off when he heard the sound of hinges squeaking and the dungeon door coming open. Ramsay's eyes flew open as Grey Lorren entered the cell, his tall, broad figure, casting a long shadow under the light of the flickering torches.
"Get up!" The order was spoken in that strange tone, slightly less harsh than it was in the beginning of his captivity which made Ramsay's heart hammer away in his chest. Every time Lorren had been even remotely (what could under the circumstances be deemed as) kind to him, something hellish had followed soon after. The man clearly knew something Ramsay didn't and whatever it was, it was just as Ramsay had suspected earlier not good.
Slowly, hesitantly Ramsay rolled onto all fours and got up, swaying as he did.