Chapter Five
Situational Grievance
It had taken a long time of doing what she asked, of begging when needed, of prostrating himself upon his knees more than once, but finally Ramsay was again allowed to wear pants and even allowed to walk the courtyard with Sansa in the mornings at first light, as well as allowed to attend dinner, though at the servant's table.
At another time this would have been a crushing blow to Ramsay's ego, and he would likely have had something to say about the mere suggestion that he dine with those he would have once considered his lesser, but after months of being confined to a single room, and within that room being almost entirely confined to the bed by the cold of winter, his view had changed.
As much as it pained him, he was happy for the opportunity to get away from the boredom that had eaten away at his mind like a dull saw for so long, to see other people, even if those people obviously despised him. He noted quickly that the other servants chose not to seat directly aside him, a few choosing to stand while eating once seating was full rather than be so near him.
He supposed he could not blame them given his tendencies past; Ramsay saw one servant who glanced at him nervously whom he distinctly remembered whipping fervently over spilt wine back when his father had the run of the keep. He had not exactly treated any of them well, he supposed, though oddly he didn't find as much joy in their fear as he once would have.
Just one of the many aspects about himself he had noticed changing as of his peculiar relationship with Sansa Stark. Ramsay would just sit there quietly, watching the people milling around him as servants set out plates and food and the nobles who visited with the Starks spoke of various things concerning military and state.
At first Ramsay thought it queer that they did not object to his presence in the room, seeing as some of what they discussed with Jon Snow and Sansa could be regarded as sensitive information, but on reflecting on his role as a slave concubine to the lady of the house, still always under guard as he was, he supposed no one worried.
He had numerous times given thought to continuing his efforts to find a way to escape the keep, to flee Sansa and all of the things she did to him, but if he were to manage such an unlikely mission, where would he go? Certainly word of his humiliations at the hands of the Starks would have reached his homeland.
The only thing more awful in his mind than facing further degradation here in the hands of those who had been his enemies would to be to return home and have to explain his utter defeat to the various uncaring and merciless members of his family, who would almost assuredly flay him on sight as an example of why not to sire bastards.
Then of course there was the other reason, which he would not admit to himself but which never the less niggled at his thoughts, rousing a deep and foreboding dread within him; if he tried to escape and was in the most likely event caught, Sansa would once more have very good reason to punish him openly in some tragic new way.
Ramsay pushed his mind away from such thoughts, trying instead to focus on the cheer of others in the room. He was of course not allowed to sup of the wine or dine on the finer sweetmeats that those at the main table enjoyed, as even those servants who had these things at the servant's table did not so much as consider sharing such treats with him.
But they enjoyed those things, and Ramsay lived vicariously through them as he quietly watched them eat, drink and carouse happily with each other, making rude jokes and bold boasts. Seeing them in such a state as he did was a relief from the gloomy attitude they had when around him and aware of his presence normally.
At first Ramsay had told himself that he enjoyed the melancholy that he imposed on servants that served near him, but even Ramsay could only endure such an atmosphere for so long before it started to make him feel depressed by proxy. Normally he would have commanded the servants to dance and make jolly to lighten the mood.
But the days when Ramsay could make commands to anyone, even the servants, were now well past. Sansa had caught him trying to give a servant an order on the first day that she had allowed him the new privilege of dining in the main hall with her, and not only had she tanned his hide full sore, but he had been unable to attend the hall for a week.
That time away from the option of some form of company other than the one that Sansa gave him against his will nightly showed him how much he wanted to be in the dining hall for his supper, so he did his best not to interact with the servants at all, so as to raise no one's ire. He laughed as a young girl slapped a letch across the face.
The servants at the table all looked his way when he scoffed, even the young girl and her letch, and all of them immediately busied themselves with something else, avoiding looking at Ramsay any further. One servant even groused as he cut at the potato on his plate, "Can't believe they are letting a mad dog wander the hall without a chain…"
Ramsay felt the blood rush to his face as anger coiled in his chest, urging him to stand and berate or perhaps even cuff the foolish servant who dared call him names so directly, but he swallowed his anger, working to keep himself in check. Doing such a thing would not serve him in the longer run of things for several reasons.
Reason one; if he was to strike the servant now or perhaps even if he merely shouted some form of chastisement at the fellow, his outburst would most certainly draw the attention of the nobles seated at the main dining table, and Ramsay had spent each evening in attendance doing everything he could to avoid their attention.
It was bad enough that he was sitting at the servant's table at all, he most certainly did not want those at the table he thought he should be sitting in to be made aware of his presence at the servant's table. Likely they had all seen him seated there already, but on the chance that some had not noticed him he wished a low profile.
Reason two; if he started any sort of altercation at all at the dining room, it was entirely possible that the action would provoke Sansa into deciding to punish him publicly again, and for Ramsay Bolton, few things held more disgust than the idea of having to endure something so humiliating before his former peers again.
So he bit back any venomous words that he might have otherwise allowed to surface to his lips, his hands balling into tight fists around his eating utensils as he strained to avoid allowing himself to stand or otherwise physically act on his outrage. After a moment he smiled tightly as he glared at the servant, "You know, you remind me of someone I once knew."
The balding, gangly servant looked startled when Ramsay addressed him, then scooped up his dinner plate despite the fact that he had only just sat down to eat it and hurried from the room with all haste. Ramsay frowned in great annoyance; the least the man could have done would have been to ask who he reminded him of.
Now Ramsay was without a proper window to finish his statement, which was going to be a clever analogy about some servant he had once gutted just to see what his intestines looked like, but now he couldn't even finish delivering his threat. What a coward, Ramsay thought, relaxing himself so that he might finish his meal in peace.
He noted quickly that the offensive peasant wasn't the only one leaving early; others at the table also collected their food before finishing and exited. Before long, Ramsay found himself alone at the table. He frowned as he quietly and contemplatively chewed at his food. After a while he set down his napkin and silverware and rose.
He wasn't finished with his food either, and though he had been hungry still only a few moments before, he found he no longer had anymore appetite for his food or the hall itself for that matter. The two guards that escorted him everywhere watched him as he moved to return to Sansa's quarters, moving to follow as always.
As he strode back to the room he tried to tell himself that he had merely lost his appetite due to the irritation and annoyance that the cowardly servant had foisted upon him with his insolent comment, but no matter how well Ramsay might lie to others, lying to himself was always harder; he was truly upset because they had all absconded rather than speak to him.
It wasn't as if he needed to speak to peasants at all in the first place, right? After all, didn't association with lessers bring a man down? Ramsay tried to tell himself that he didn't want interaction with the servants, but he as a torturer was aware of the effects and depredations of simple loneliness. He had no one to speak to but Sansa, after all.
After so much isolation, it was impossible for him not to want to seek social stimulus in some fashion or the other. He sighed, thinking that this whole affair was just one more way that Sansa continued to torment him. He had been genuinely surprised when she actually allowed him privileges, but he should have known there would be a catch.
The catch was that now Ramsay was a socially awkward creature who had to start all over again from the very bottom with servants… but, he thought to himself, I will find my feet again, and perhaps one day I will even manage to find allies in her own keep. That thought cheered him considerably, even though the notion was a long shot at best.
Then something unexpected happened; Ramsay stopped, suddenly aware that he was completely alone in the hall. Where had his guards gone? He looked down the hall one way and then the other, turning around in confusion. A few doors down a man stepped out of the pantry room with a club in his hand. It was the gangly, balding man from the dining room.
In a flash Ramsay knew what was transpiring here; his guards had conveniently stepped away so that this vagabond might step in and rough the bastard up without any witnesses, perhaps intending to return his beaten corpse to Sansa afterward. Ramsay stood tall, glaring at his attacker as the latter advanced down the hall.
"I shouldn't have to be the one that does this, isn't right that a mad dog gets pampered like a pet when it's bit so many times…"
He stepped in, swinging the wooden club at Ramsay's head in a vicious arc, but Ramsay ducked under the slightly taller man's arm, charging forward to tackle him to the ground.
Ramsay had always favored the bow, telling himself that it was because it was a weapon of true finesse and skill, so therefore the only real choice for a lord, but the truth of the matter was that Ramsay was a small man and lacked the raw physical power needed to kill another man in a toe-to-toe match of melee combat.
Nevertheless, Ramsay was younger than his attacker by a sizable number of years, and the balding man was not that much bigger than he, so he applied his advantages of vigor and unexpected viciousness into a rapid assault of punches to the other man's skull while doing his best to keep the club pinned down with his other arm.
Ironically, Ramsay thought of the way that Jon had struck him when that man had bested him in a brawl, and tried to position himself over the man as Jon had done to him, striking as directly as he could, as Jon had done. Suddenly though the other man shifted as he caught hold of Ramsay's arm, throwing himself to the side as he hurled Ramsay off to roll beside him.
Ramsay wheeled around as fast as he could, throwing his legs up and over so as to launch himself into a roll away from his attacker, hearing the crunch of the heavy oaken club slamming into the stone floor so hard it sent tiny stone chips flying from the point of impact, which was where his head had been only a scant moment before.
The other man was enraged, Ramsay could see unbridled hatred burning in the one eye that remained visible; the man's other eye was swollen shut already from Ramsay's desperate pummeling. Both of his lips had been fattened by that rain of blows and a veritable stream of blood oozed over and down his face from his broken nose.
The gangly aggressor cursed at him as both men scrambled to rise, Ramsay scrambling away from his armed assailant and the latter scrabbling to close ground. As he snarled at Ramsay the blood on his teeth made his large, crooked, and yellow teeth look particularly menacing. Ramsay gasped for breath as he threw himself into a run down the hall.
The older man was still quicker than he looked, and he managed to hook a hand around the escaping Ramsay's leg for just a moment before Ramsay's sprint tore him clear of that hand, but not before the motion of it had tripped him up in an unrecoverable fashion. Ramsay only made it a few more steps as he stumbled before what balance he retained ran out.
A hop, step, and a desperate lunge later Ramsay landed hard on his stomach, feeling the rough stone bite into his elbows, knees, and the palms of his hands. The only favorable outcome of the trip was in that it had also sent his attacker reeling off balance, and the larger man landed with even less grace just behind Ramsay and a bit to the side.
Ramsay began to quickly crawl forward, seeing that he was nearing a set of stairs that descended to the lowest level of the keep that wasn't the crypt; the floor that housed the main entrance that guests and servants alike would use to enter and exit as well as the greeting room, the main hall, and several variations of utility rooms used primarily for storage.
His aim was to roll himself back into his desperate run upon the stairs so as not to lose momentum in putting distance between himself and the armed man, but his crawl proved to be too slow, and the other man leapt upon him with great rancor, bringing his club up with full and obvious intention of using it to brain Ramsay to death.
Ramsay reached both hands up, tying the other man's weapon arm up enough so that he could not swing with any real leverage or force. His attacker repaid this action by bringing his other fist down brutally on Ramsay's face, but other than to squirm in the best way he could to avoid the brunt of those punches, Ramsay could not afford to redirect an arm in defense, lest his attacker swing the club with momentum.
His eyes searched frantically as he felt the other man gradually shift his weight over Ramsay to solidify his position, and he knew that if he didn't do something fast he was going to eventually lose this struggle. As his aggressor moved again to sit upon his hips Ramsay rolled himself with every last ounce of strength he had left.
That roll sent both of them tumbling down the stairs, and as they were still both possessed with fighting the other the fall was hard and quickly escalated to break-neck speeds. Ramsay cried out as a shoulder slammed down hard on the corner of one step, and again when the other man fell across his leg while it was coming down on another step at odd angle.
He heard the other man cry out numerous times in pain as well, and he could only hope as they tumbled that he would come out the worse for it, or perhaps even manage to break his neck in the fall. As they both fell to the floor of the main hall, Ramsay heard a few servants cry out in startled shock, and he glanced up to see a woman staring down at him in fear.
"Help!" he cried, "This mongrel is attempting to assassinate me!" But the servant woman and the young girl at her side proved unhelpful to Ramsay's plight, as both turned abruptly around to exit the room with all haste. Ramsay cursed as he glanced back to see that his attacker was starting to crawl back to his feet.
The two were once more alone, and Ramsay could tell from the way the other man was rising to stand that his legs were undamaged, unlike Ramsay's own leg, which felt pained without even attempting to put weight on it. His one advantage seemed to be that his attacker was moving slowly, as if dazed, perhaps addled from the fall from a blow to the head.
Also, he noted, the club lay on the floor a scant few inches away from himself. With a surge of adrenaline, Ramsay launched himself forward, both snatching the club in one hand and crying out in pain as his other hand clasped his hurt leg. Realizing he would be unable to stand, Ramsay clenched his teeth and fought through the terrible, sharp pain in his leg.
Using the momentum of his movement in grabbing the club, Ramsay dove for the other man, swinging the club with all of the force he could muster, knowing that his life depended on it. The head of the club smashed neatly into the front of the unfortunate fellow's knee, and he wailed in pain and surprise as he crashed to the floor.
Not wasting any time and not wanting the other man to have a chance to regain his wits, Ramsay hauled himself over the other felled man and drove the club down onto his head. There was a dull thud at the first impact as Ramsay caught him perfectly between the club and the stone floor and the man jerked underneath Ramsay.
He brought the club down again, gritting himself against the pain that the strain of exertion caused both his shoulder and leg, and this time there was a harsh crunching sound as the improvised mace collided with the other man's face. On his third swing the crunching sound occurred again but was matched by a telling wet squelch.
Only then did Ramsay let himself a moment to really see what his desperate assault had yielded, grimacing at the mess that had once been his attacker's face. The other man's head was completely caved in now and there was no doubt whatsoever that he was irretrievably dead. Ramsay let go of the club and it rolled away, leaving an arcing trail on blood on the floor.
He glanced around, seeing that he was still miraculously alone with his attacker turned victim, and he was for a long few moments paralyzed with indecision on what he should do next. If he waited here he could be killed on sight by any guard that passed through, as given his notoriety he was unlikely to be given the benefit of the doubt.
On the other hand, if he waited and his own guards returned, they would almost certainly weave a tale for Sansa with Ramsay as a blood-thirsty villain, and likely after killing him to be sure of his continued silence in the matter. After all, it was obvious that this whole set up involved those guards, and likely was meant to be his end.
His gaze darted left and right, trying to discern whether anyone might be approaching, but since the two female servants had fled, he was alone in the large room. What if he went to Sansa? Well, even if he somehow managed to find Sansa before being located by a guardsman or some other antagonist that wouldn't help…
After all, it would be his word versus theirs, and Ramsay couldn't think of a reason why Sansa would be inclined to take his word over anyone's. And if he came across Jon or some other ranking member of the House he would have even less chance of convincing them that he had just killed the bleeding man before him in self-defense.
As long a shot as it would be, Ramsay realized that he would have to run for it; he had no choice. His heart thudded violently in his chest as he came to this desperate conclusion, and he worked to steady his frayed nerves, which were still subject to the adrenaline rush of his very recent life or death fight against a servant whose name he still did not know.
Ramsay raced limping for the hallway opposite the one that the two women had passed through; it would be best to put as much distance between himself and whatever guard those two were certain to arouse after witnessing the conflict in this room. He felt fortunate to have spent a fair amount of time living within the keep, or he might have had to worry about turning the wrong way and being unable to find the exit.
As it was, though, when Ramsay approached the main doorway, which was a set of oaken doors set into the stone of the keep, he had to start rethinking his mad rush for the closest exit. For one thing, there was a set of guards milling around the main entrance, which was probably something he should have counted on; standard security for a keep.
For another thing, even if he was able to sneak past those men and slip through the door unseen the main doors had no obstruction near them whatsoever, and anyone in the surrounding courtyard would be able to see him the moment he passed through the threshold. His mind raced for an alternative but he could only come up with one bad one.
It might have broken the Stark boy's back, but he would have to find a window and manage his way along the outer wall of the keep if he was to have any chance of navigating his escape unseen. And he would need to be unseen, he realized; even if he managed to get completely off of the keep grounds, they would be sending riders after him if they spotted him.
Ramsay scolded himself constantly as he hurried back the way he had come, headed for the stairs. For one thing, this business was a fool's errand, and his chances of success were so low that he might as well pick up that club and fight the guard to the bitter end; at least that way he wouldn't die a coward's death with an arrow in his back, running away.
Also, if he was going to actually enact such a daring escape, he would have been served to have thought of it well before now, when his chances of doing so had not further diminished. His eyes widened as he approached the entry room again and heard footsteps coming from the opposite hallway. He leaped aside, hiding behind the stone stairwell.
Voices rang out loudly from an uncomfortably close distance, "Did you see which way he went?"
A feminine voice answered, "No, sir, me and my daughter fled when we saw that savage Bolton attacking this poor man."
There was a moment of silence and the guard could be heard again, "Well he didn't come our way. You check the entrance in case he was stupid enough to try the main door. You and you, come with me upstairs."
Ramsay heard the sound of armored feet slamming against the stonework directly above his head, holding his breath against the thought that the guard who had been ordered to go to the entrance might think to check behind the staircase, but as he watched that guard instead went down the opposite hall, towards the entrance.
Ramsay let out a slow, steady breath that he had been holding, as if trying not to even breath too loudly, lest those pursuing him so closely hear. His mind raced; what now? He couldn't just remain behind the stairs; one of the guards would have to eventually think to look in so obvious a hiding spot, so close to the dead servant.
After a moment's thought he decided to go up the stairs, after peeking around the stairwell to see that the servant women were slowly returning down the corridor the guards had come from. Sure, he would be chasing the guard's tail going this way, but he had already ascertained that he needed a window to escape and that time was not on his side.
Things would go horribly awry if even one of them turned around to return the way they had come for any reason, but Ramsay was a man without real options, so he rolled the dice and crept up the stairs on all fours so as to lighten the sound of his footfalls. It wouldn't do for the men ahead of him to realize that there was another set of feet on the steps.
The stairs felt far, far higher than he had ever remembered them being, but he had to suppose that fear was an excellent heightener of stairs. The pain in both his shoulder and leg only made the gap from the bottom to the top of the stairs more exasperating to traverse. His only consolation as he ascended was that the men ahead of him were not trying in any way to mask their own steps, which served both to let him know that they were still walking away and to further hide his own noise.
The sound of their movement became muted and he hoped against all hope that it was because they had exited the stairwell and not that they had stopped and were about to turn around. He found himself holding his breath again as he came to the final steps leading to the second floor, letting it out again as he heard and saw them moving a distance down the hall away from the stairs.
Taking a moment to build up courage and praying that none of them would see him dart by in the corner of their peripheral vision, Ramsay threw himself as low as he could into the nearest open door, also praying that the room was unoccupied. It would be highly unfortunate to escape the guard's notice only to bumble into a servant or guest.
To his great relief the room was in fact unoccupied, and Ramsay looked around, quickly recognizing the adornments of an empty guest room. He froze a moment, listening intently for someone to cry out about a man they had seen dive from the stairwell into this room, but as far as he could tell, the guards had not made him.
Standing quietly he shut the door over most of the way, glad that the hinges did not squeak. He wanted to block view into the room from anyone that might ascend the nearby stairs but he didn't dare close the door entirely both because it might make too much noise on shutting and because one of the guards might be suspicious of an empty guest room with a closed door.
That last bit might be a little paranoid, but Ramsay was certainly feeling justified in feeling a little paranoid now. As fast as he could reasonably move while still retaining what stealth he could muster he searched the nearby dressers for bed linens, which he began to knot together into a sort of makeshift rope.
He had been doing this for a minute or two before it occurred to him that his haste was making him irrational; he should check the window first. The foreboding he had started to feel proved justified as he cautiously glanced out of the window; this particular window overlooked an area of the square that would be far too conspicuous to climb down by rope.
Ramsay silently cursed, his eyes seeking another recourse and finding only one before he made what had to be a quick decision based on the limited amount of time available to him. He tossed the partially finished rope of sheets under the bed and peered out, seeing if anyone might be milling about overly close to his window.
Seeing that this was not the case, Ramsay took a deep breath and climbed out onto the outer window ledge as carefully as his haste could allow. As dangerous as it was to tread on the narrow surface so far up, especially in such a fast manner, Ramsay would be just as doomed to be spotted by someone in the courtyard as he would if he fell.
Thankfully, Ramsay had never suffered any special fear of heights, but still he did his best not to look down, telling himself that if someone was to spot him now, looking at them wouldn't help his predicament one iota, so instead he focused all of his concentration on the tiny ledge that his boots just barely grasped.
He thought to himself then that perhaps he should have taken his boots off beforehand, as he felt the soles of his feet slip yet again treacherously close to causing him to fall as he gingerly made his way east along the length of the keep wall. Barefoot he would have found better purchase, sure, but even after only a moment outside he could feel the bitter chill of winter.
Had he divested himself of his shoes he would be at risk of frostbite; losing toes would certainly not help in his escape, and even if he thought he could tough it out for the climb, he had no real way to carry his boots with him. Obviously, leaving them behind wasn't really an option, so he supposed he was doing the only thing he could, hazardous as it was.
He kept inching his way along in tiny steps, knowing that it would be easy for someone to spot him at this juncture if a single person wandered near or looked this way, but also unable to go any faster, as falling became more of a threat as his boots became slick with contact with the ice on the stone beneath him.
Finally he reached the corner, and with no small amount of effort that left his fingers raw and his muscles strained and aching with effort he rounded it, scrabbling for purchase as he nearly slipped and fell to a certain death on the other side. He let out a long breath, resting his head against the keep wall for a moment; at least now he should be relatively out of sight.
Knowing that he couldn't afford to remain clinging to the wall any longer, he began to work himself along the new wall until he reached one of the windows on this side of the keep. Peering into the window as carefully as his new perch allowed, Ramsay looked around, praying that the room was empty.
It was not.
The same servant woman that had seen him downstairs was tidying up what looked to be another guest room, and Ramsay let out a sigh of annoyance at his awful luck, looking down the wall and seeing that the next window was quite some distance further along. His fingers ached and his legs grew weary exemplifying the pain felt from his injuries, but it became apparent quickly that the servant wasn't done and might not be leaving anytime soon.
He couldn't remain, so he started to carefully move past the window, minding the treacherous ice of the ledge as always. He glanced up as he was doing so and saw that the servant woman was standing in front of the window gawking at him. Apparently she had been moving over to clean something nearby, the rag she had intended to clean with still in her hand.
"Help… help!" she cried, her voice echoing loudly in Ramsay's ears as she ran back towards the hall, waving her arms frantically. Ramsay's heart raced again as he started to work harder to make the next window; he certainly couldn't use that one now. But in his haste he moved too clumsily, and his booted foot slipped in a way that he couldn't recover from.
With a cry Ramsay felt the wall pull away from him as his grip was completely compromised, and then all he could feel for a horrifying few moments was the frigid air rushing around him as he plummeted to the ground, spinning as he fell in a dizzying way that left him disoriented as the ground and sky spiraled around his head.
His path straightened after a moment, and he saw the ground rushing up beneath him, so he put his hands in front of himself, knowing that from the height that he had fallen that the gesture was futile. The air rushed from his lungs as he collided with the earth, but instead of hard dirt and breaking bones he found cold snow that bent to his descent.
Ramsay sputtered, spitting snow out of his mouth and snorting it out of his nose. He was still alive. The landing had still hurt considerably, and he lay stunned for a moment by the stinging pain of falling into the snowdrift, but nothing was broken; the freshly fallen snow from the previous night must have been sufficient to break his fall, though the hard-packed snow underneath let itself be felt.
He knew he should run despite the pain, and after a few moments of coaxing himself into action his body responded. He lifted himself on shaking arms and legs and crawled through the snow until he could stand. He heard shouting from the windows behind him, "There he is! He's in the courtyard!" and then he had to run.