Chapter Seven

What Lurks Beneath

The two soldiers who had found Ramsay were none too gentle in returning him upstairs. The older man rewarded his first attempt to make a break for it with a resounding punch to the gut that let him winded and reeling for quite a spell as the younger man levered his now suddenly much more cooperative body up the stairs.

Ramsay was already trying to analyze what this meant for him now; these men hadn't killed him outright, which was certainly what those who had conspired to have him killed would have done. After all, he was suddenly a loose end in a murder plot, and could finger the two guardsmen who had been watching over him before as conspirators.

These two must have been genuinely uninvolved, but regardless of their level of involvement with those that would have seen him dead, they were surely leading him to that fate now, and it would be in his best interest to stop that in any way he could, "…W-wait!" he finally gasped through the effects of the doubling punch.

They paid him no heed, though, and neither man so much as gave him regard as they continued to haul him towards his certain doom. Would they bring him to Sansa? A thrill of hope plucked at his heartstrings at the thought of the unlikely possibility that he might convince her of the truth, however unlikely.

He took a breath as well as he could through all of the pain inflicted on him by the rough handling, not only from the attack he had just suffered but also the pains inflicted by his injuries from the previous attack on his person by the servant with the club; his shoulder ached terribly and he limped in an awful way. "I'm certain you have every reason to mistrust what I say, but a servant tried to murder me this evening!"

The older man did not give him the time of day, but the younger man at least responded in a fashion that told him he was at least being listened to, even if it was delivered by way of disbelieving scoff, "Oh yeah? Well if you acted in self-defense why did you run?"

"Because the only reason that man was able to attack me with a cudgel right here in the keep is because the guards charged with watching me abandoned me to my fate!"

Their pace had not slowed, as the two continued to drag him wherever it was that he was intended to go. The older guard answered now, "And if they did, perhaps they had the right of it."

Ramsay went quiet now, knowing with that answer that he would find neither allies nor sympathy from these two men. He tried to lurch free again as they neared the entrance of the barracks, and was rewarded for his efforts with a painful punch to the kidneys. He gasped in pain as the young man behind him warned, "Next time I'll hamstring you; make it easier on us that way. Don't tempt me."

Ramsay gave in to his despair then, knowing there was nothing he could do to escape the inevitable result of his wild folly in trying to escape this place. He hung in their arms, letting them carry his weight now as he gave up on it all, his head low as he contemplated how much time he might yet have left to live.

As he had already noted and which had spurred his last desperate attempt to free his newest captors, he was being brought into the castle barracks. Here, the soldiers in the standing army were boarded, as well a number of rooms that were set aside as war council chambers, training rooms and offices for the ranking men.

It was to one such office that he was taken, which left Ramsay a little confused. He had fully expected that these guards were planning on using the few cells that the barracks afforded for unruly soldiers and prisoners of war to house him until they could be debriefed by their superiors, but instead he found himself being forced to sit in front another soldier, who watched as he arrived.

Ramsay's eyes widened with realization; he must have been wrong about these men, they were in cahoots with those that wanted him dead, and perhaps this officer was at the top of that chain! He should have guessed from the way that they had so easily brushed his story aside and their obvious disdain for him…

Deciding that he was going to die anyways and no longer caring if his actions might rile his captors, Ramsay gave the great, brooding officer a look-over as he reverted to old habits and sought a good reason to insult him, "Furs, untrimmed beard, fetish for bone necklaces; you must be one of Jon's wildling dogs."

The wildling captain narrowed his eyes at Ramsay, moving around his wooden desk to sit upon it as he folded his arms over his chest and glared down at Ramsay, "Report."

The older soldier answered, "We found him hiding in the catacombs, in Rickon's casket, because apparently he's rude like that."

Ramsay only smiled, hoping that these men would take some form of insult from it; sure, it was petty, but since he was going to die anyways Ramsay thought to himself that he owed it to himself to give himself over to some gratifying pettiness. The behemoth of a captain didn't respond to his attitude, though, "Why's he here, then?"

Ramsay's smile faltered; why was he asking that? The older soldier he had heard to be named Groves spoke again, "I might have run him through, but Willis here had already taken him down alive, so we figured we'd give the uppers a chance to behead him by the book and all, since it sends a better message."

The bearded officer shook his head and shrugged at them, "So why didn't you bring him to a cell… once again, why is he in my office?"

Groves gave a noncommittal look as he shrugged in return, clearing his throat, "Well, this murdering asshole seems to be under the impression that he's a murder plot victim; says it's why he ran."

Willis spoke under his breath at that, but was close enough that Ramsay could hear him, "As if killing that shit-stain would be murder…"

The big wildling looked confused, "And what, you believed the desperate ravings of this lunatic? Do you need someone to help you see what kind of man he is?" He glanced at Ramsay, "He's a liar, now please take him away."

Not one to be deterred, Groves continued unfazed, "He implicated the guards meant to be keeping tabs on him sir, indicating that they might have enabled that whole fiasco with the corpse we found in the entry room."

The wildling scoffed, "Of course he did; next he'll be telling you how it was a dragon attack that bludgeoned the poor bastard to death."

Groves went further, only nodding, "And I wouldn't normally give a man like him the time of day, but he was under strict guard, and there is no way those guarding him could miss either an attack on his person or him attacking a servant with a weapon as lacking in subtlety as a fucking club, sir. Has anyone reported on how this happened?"

For the first time the officer seemed to be taking the notion that Ramsay might be telling the truth seriously, even if he still looked unconvinced, "Not that I know of. Now that you mention it I had found it odd that none of the guardsmen who were assembled for search seemed to know what transpired, but we had the pressing business of chasing down a fugitive at the time…"

The bearded officer ran a hand through that beard, tugging at it thoughtfully, "I had assumed that was the reason no one was worrying with such details, important as they were, but certainly someone should have said something by now. I will check with the other officers and see if anyone recalls who was watching over him at the time."

Ramsay let out a long sigh of relief at what could only appear to be a generous turn of luck. That these soldiers were giving him not only the time of day but also launching an inquiry into what might have actually happened with the servant who had assaulted him cemented in his mind the possibility that he might actually be saved!

The soldier named Willis spoke up, "What would you have us do with the prisoner in the mean time?"

The grizzled officer glanced Ramsay's way before gesturing away offhandedly, "Throw him in a cell somewhere. Can't say I much care what happens to him but the Lord and Lady should be informed before any sort of harm comes to him."

Ramsay was hoisted from his chair bodily by the arms then, and carried from the room almost before he could even register the command that had been given. He was nervous at the prospect of simply being filed away somewhere where he might still remain vulnerable to further attacks from his hidden and unknown enemies.

Which could be anyone… in fact was probably everyone, but he tried to focus on anyone who might have specifically orchestrated his death in this one instance. Still the list was too long; it could have been almost any of the noble houses, including his own, or any of the numerous soldiers who had suffered from the recent war…

It could have been the servants themselves who had planned the attempted murder and coaxed the guards to step away; it wasn't as if Ramsay hadn't murdered a servant or two in his time at the keep. Also, that particular explanation would better reason out why it had been a servant that had actually gone for the kill…

It could have perhaps been Jon Snow, who had no small reason to see him dead, and perhaps tired of his sister's games with him and so perhaps sought to remove him from sight. That one didn't feel quite right but Ramsay would certainly understand the emotion behind it if Jon did feel that way. Really there was only one person he didn't hold suspect.

Sansa Bolton. Or was she back to calling herself Stark again? Their marriage had of course never been annulled, but considering the way that she had spoken concerning his family and her intent to strike it from record, he doubted she would be holding onto it. The two men had carried him only a short way to the holding cells.

As they thrust him inside Ramsay felt compelled to speak his thoughts, "Wait! If you leave me here those that would see me dead may succeed! After all, my own guards were involved!"

Willis shrugged, "They would be doing the world a favor I'd say."

Groves sighed, shaking his head, "Annoying as it is, the fool might have a point; I'll stay and see that nothing funny happens while the captain does his work."

Willis made a dismissive gesture, "You have fun with that giving yourself work thing, old man; I'm going to go see Anne about some ale and a warm place to stuff my cock tonight." He gave Groves a wide grin, "While I'm enjoying myself in the glow of good drink and fine company this cold night I'll think of you, guarding a man who deserves to die from those who might see justice done."

Groves gave him his own hard grin and made a shooing gesture at the younger man, "If only the world were as simple as imbeciles like you see it, boy, I'd join you. Now get the fuck out of sight if you've nothing pleasant to say you little shit-bird, and leave the responsible choices to the adults while you go squander your money on getting the crabs."

Willis made an offensive gesture with his hands but both men continued to smile, giving Ramsay the impression that they often spoke to each other in such a crass and forgiving fashion. Groves seemed to settle in and Ramsay realized that was all of the excitement he would likely be seeing for some time. Now all that remained was imprisonment…

As the time started to creep slowly by with no companion to its silent wait for Ramsay beyond the motionless, quiet guard, Ramsay was finally able to truly relax into the painful aches he had accumulated in the fast-paced excitement of his numerous near-death experiences of the past few hours.

His shoulder hurt badly along with an assortment of other deep bruises that he had sustained throwing himself around so recklessly, some of which he could not recall attaining, but it was his leg that hurt the most, icy shards of pain slicing constantly throughout the area of his lower leg and making it all but impossible to stand, so he sat on the meager cot the cell afforded.

He wanted to pace as he thought, but walking unnecessarily with his bum leg didn't seem wise, so he tried to funnel his nervous energy instead into productive reasoning on how best to escape the predicament he currently found himself in. Mostly, this just meant he fidgeted a lot in his seat as his hands worried themselves ceaselessly.

Even if they decided that someone was out to murder Ramsay for his crimes against… well, almost everyone, those that ruled over his detainment; Jon, Sansa perhaps, maybe some others… they might decide that it would be best to just save themselves any further political intrigue and behead Ramsay before he could be assassinated.

After all, if he met his fate at the hands of some form of vigilante justice and proof of this was displayed in court it could seriously undermine Jon's position in court. Even Ramsay had heard the half-crazed cries of 'King of the North!' from his holdings within Sansa's quarters. If Jon was going to solidify his position in these lands a loose end like Ramsay would certainly be a mistake.

He fidgeted further at these thoughts, his worry intensifying; the thought that Jon might actually be behind all of this made more sense in light of that revelation too… if Jon truly did want to see Sansa's plaything discarded he would have little option for survival in the coming days. With the clout he carried, Jon would eventually get his way.

His brow furrowed at the thought; Jon Snow undermining his sister with cloak and dagger tactics might have been something Ramsay himself would have done, but somehow, and he wasn't sure why, he wasn't entirely convinced that this would be the ploy of the man that had always challenged Ramsay so very directly… it didn't seem like his character.

His lips pursed; if not Jon, then who? His thoughts were interrupted suddenly by his keeper, whose gravelly voice caused him to jump in surprise due to the complete silence they had so long shared now, "You don't look a lot like the cocky shit I saw sitting on his high horse during the meeting before the battle with his big threats. You look scared."

Ramsay bristled at the insult at first, but then deflated, hanging his arms limply at his sides as he sat upon the simple stone bench within the cell. He could rail at the man who was perhaps his only ally in the world, at least in some manner of speaking in that he did not wish Ramsay dead, at least not immediately…

Or… he could accept that what Groves was saying was true in both senses; he was no longer the same man who had once haughtily spat vehemence at his enemies, tall and proud. Also, he was very much indeed as scared as perceived; only a fool railed against something that stood out as being so painfully obvious.

Ramsay let out a long sigh, releasing the tension that had coiled within him at the astute observation in a gesture of surrender rather than the venomous words he had already summoned to the tip of his tongue, "Yes well my horse is gone from my person, and I sit covered in blood and caked in mud within this tiny cell…"

He turned his gaze to regard Groves, his expression most bitter, "…waiting to be murdered by my assassins once they have bested the solitary aged guard who stands between them and my death. I might have a little reason to feel fear, but let's ask a more puzzling question; why do you really care one way or the other if I die?"

Groves shrugged, "Do you really want an honest answer to that?"

Ramsay squinted his eyes at the older man, "…yes?"

The old veteran moved closer, leaning against the stone of the wall just outside of Ramsay's cell and folding his arms over his chest. He made a noncommittal gesture, "I really don't give a shit whether you live or die."

Ramsay's brow knotted up, looking perplexed, "But then why have you so many times spoken in my defense?"

Groves smirked, "You haven't been paying attention; I haven't once defended you. I might not give a rat's ass for you, but I like to believe I'm good at what I do; the only thing you saw me do was good soldiering. If the lady asks me to sever your head from your shoulders tomorrow I'll comply happily enough."

Ramsay frowned, folding his own arms as he leaned back against the cold stone of the cell wall behind him, "Well, I suppose I'll be content with that, then. Better than your halfwit partner…"

It was Groves' turn to frown, as he commanded with a voice clearly accustomed to authority, "You'll not speak such of Willis; he's a fair shot smarter than you, dumbass. He would as soon kill you as look at you, sure, but that impulse just might make him wiser than the both of us, for all the things I've heard you capable of."

The older man leaned forward then to take Ramsay's measure, his hands taking hold of the bars to the cell as he did so, "Is it true that you murdered your father's wife and your newly born brother by setting your hounds on them?"

Ramsay tensed. He had to assume that such a bloody tale would be common knowledge in this keep. He remained quiet, not replying, but his silence seemed to speak volumes in and of itself. Groves gave him a look of utter contempt, "Baby murdering filth." He spat at the ground and Ramsay found himself flinching as if the old soldier had hurled a spear or fired a bolt at him rather than simply expectorated a bit of spittle.

It was almost odd, feeling guilt for what he had done at that time. In killing his defenseless baby brother and his father's harmless wife he had justified his actions by telling himself he had no other real options, despite her pleas to allow her to leave forever with the infant. Then he had told himself that his bid for power afforded no compromise.

But now, now he had no power, and all who shared meaningful blood ties to him within this realm lie dead by his own hands. He was a kin-killer, and as Groves had so pointedly mentioned, a child-killer even, but none of his reasons for doing such abominable things stood against the failure his life now represented.

He had murdered for power and now he had none. Fate would allow him no reward, and for the very first time Ramsay allowed himself to wonder if perhaps his own actions had led to his failure in his vie for the tile of 'Warden of the North'. Had the gods, whether those old or new, turned against him for patricide?

Ramsay had never been the type to dabble in religion or superstition, but losing everything had a tendency of making a person begin to reevaluate all of their most rooted convictions and beliefs. Not that he saw himself turning into a true convert, but Ramsay very much believed in action and consequence, and lately he felt much of the later.

Regardless of how stalwart he had once felt in his resolution that killing that child was in his best interest, in protecting everything he had worked so hard to make his, right now he could not do so much as bring his eyes up to meet the judgmental glare of the lowly soldier who deigned to condescend him for those actions.

Instead, he kept his gaze to the floor as he continued to frown dejectedly, wallowing in his own self-pity over how he felt in the present moment, both physical pains and otherwise. Groves seemed to tire of waiting for Ramsay to rise to his less than subtle challenge, and returned to his spot, leaning once again on the stone just outside of the bars.

Some time passed before Groves finally spoke again, "Maybe I am doing the right thing though; maybe Lady Sansa's choice to make you live with all you've done will be everything you deserve, assuming some part of you remains capable of normal human feeling. I certainly hope it haunts you for a long fucking time."

Ramsay didn't have any reply to that, choosing instead to continue his vigil of silence, which had become his best way to combat Groves' aptly deserved taunts. They remained for some time that way, neither saying anything to the other as they waited for whatever fate still might have in store for the late Ramsay Bolton.

What was he now, he wondered? Technically or at least in the eyes of others… was he Ramsay Snow, or perhaps by merit of his marriage perhaps some might think of him as Ramsay Stark… did Sansa feel that way? His thoughts were broken by a sound outside his cell and Ramsay's eyes widened when he saw a shadowy figure had somehow slipped inside unheard.

Not only that, the unknown figure had an arm clasped around Groves' throat, and had backed the soldier against the wall, the former bracing the choking arm with his other hand as the latter desperately grasped at the other's arm, able only to emit the barest of noises as he struggled in vain to breathe.

A thrill of panic shot through Ramsay, as he knew that once this guard was dead there would be little to bar the assassin from murdering him like a rat in a cage. He raised his voice quickly, crying out desperately, "H-help! Someone help, this man is murdering a guard!"

It was then that Ramsay noted only barely in time that the person assaulting Groves was not alone. He jumped back as a short sword filled the air where his chest had been.

A second man clad in black stood on the other side of the bars, having tried to use Ramsay's distracted state to murder him with a blade through the ribs. From what little Ramsay could see of his face from behind a tightly bound cloth he registered annoyance.

Now he would have to unlock the cell to kill Ramsay. He turned, seeing that Groves had wedged a hand under his assailant's arm, preventing him from being choked completely. The second assassin grunted in irritation and approached Groves with sword raised, clearly planning on placing a careful thrust into the soldier to forever end his struggles.

Ramsay glanced around, unsure what he was looking for, exactly; after all, there wouldn't be anything that could be used as a weapon that would be kept in a cell, right? Desperate, though, he looked anyways, and when his eyes came upon the chamber pot in the corner he snatched it up without thinking and hurled its contents through the bars onto the second assassin.

The pot had been rather full, so the awful splash and resulting smell caught all three men by surprise.

The second black-clad killer cursed and thrashed about as he took the brunt of the odd assault, "You mother fucking whore-mongerer! I'll fucking kill you for that!"

The first assassin sputtered and shouted at his partner, "You're already to kill him… just kill this asshole guard already!"

The second thug lifted his blade again as the first wrapped his legs around Groves, forcing the old guard to fall back against the wall in a way that left him vulnerable to the incoming killing blow. Just then the door swung open and Willis walked in, a smile on his face and a bottle in his hand, "Despite myself I couldn't make too much merry without…"

His smile dropped away and Willis grabbed for his sword when he realized what he was walking into, but his draw proved too slow as the second assassin whipped his sword around, slashing Willis across the throat. There was a wet crunching sound then, and Ramsay looked to see Groves had slammed his attacker's head against the stone wall behind them to great effect.

The first assassin went limp, a gory trail of blood and brain matter on the wall tracing his path to the ground. The second assassin whirled about to face Groves as the soldier drew his blade and took a quick step towards his partner's killer. He brought his heavier sword down in a brutal swing even as the assassin lunged to stab him with his own sword.

The assassin's sword caught against the leather of Groves' armor, though, shunted to the side, and even though it did cut through the protection to slice into the veteran's side, the blow was redirected enough to render it non-fatal. The assassin was not so fortunate, as Groves' blade tore into his shoulder and through, severing his arm and much of his chest entirely from his body.

There was a spray of blood from the grievous wound so close to the heart and the assassin fell to the ground with wide eyes and open mouth, as the shock of his injury left this expression permanently affixed, since blood loss would take him in mere moments, giving him no chance to regain his wits before his imminent death.

Groves clasped a hand to his wounded side and walked over to kneel next to Willis' fallen body. He turned his partner over, taking note of his injury, "…Dead."

Ramsay stood motionless in his cell, the entire incident a dance of death over his own fate over which he had little power to affect.

The soldier pulled a cloth from his pocket and wiped his blade clean before sheathing it once more with practiced ease despite his awkward position on the floor. He grabbed the bottle Willis had been holding, which had rolled onto the floor nearby. He popped the cork off, putting it to his nose for a moment, "Garbage swill… you always had such poor taste, Willis…"

Despite his words he took a long draught from the bottle, gulping it down like a man desperately thirsty. He sat there quietly looking down at Willis' corpse for a while before glancing over at Ramsay, who still stood where he had been, unsure what to do with himself. Willis had wanted him dead… would this soldier honor that wish now?

"Here…" Groves said as he extended the bottle towards the cell bars. Ramsay was nonplussed why he was being offered a drink, but still he moved over to reach through the bars and took the bottle that had been proffered.

Ramsay took a drink from the bottle, making a face as exceedingly strong alcohol burned its way down his throat.

He had no idea how Groves had managed to drink the vile liquid as if it had been water, and handed it back, already beginning to feel tipsy, "Why… why give me a drink? I thought you might blame me for his death…"

Groves shrugged, "Maybe it's your fault…" he took another long pull from the bottle, coughing a bit before continuing, "…but you tried to help, even if you did throw shit all over me."

They sat quietly for a moment before Groves spoke up again, "I'm certain you only tried to assist me out of nothing but self-interest. I get it; you were trying to save your own hide, but regardless of why you did it, if you hadn't that fucker would've skewered me, and Willis would have still died, except there would've been no one to avenge him."

After the silence permeated the small room for a while longer Ramsay ventured conversation once more, "Shouldn't you be telling someone about all of this by chance?"

Groves glanced his way, shaking his head, "No. Can't leave my post; could be more of them. Someone should be here soon enough with news from the captain."

Ramsay nodded, "Well then perhaps you shouldn't be getting sauced? If we were to be attacked in force again it might be best if you were sober…"

The veteran only glared at him, "Go fuck yourself."

Ramsay nodded again, putting his hands up in a gesture of surrender, "Right. Duly noted." Ramsay moved over to his simple cot, laying himself down and trying to assimilate everything that had just happened and what it might mean. He found himself exceedingly fortunate when all things were taken into consideration; assassins like those two were rare, highly trained and highly effective he was certain.

Also, they would be exceedingly expensive. After all, it would take a great deal of incentive to convince two men, even highly skilled ones, to infiltrate a fortress like this one just to kill a man. The fact that they were hired killers made Jon less of a suspect now; with all of the keep's soldiers at his command, he hardly needed to hire out, and once again, Ramsay being killed by another agency would've cast a shadow on his ability to manage his prisoner. Once again secrecy wasn't his best option.

Ramsay's thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of two men who barged into the room, both of them with the look of warriors about them. Groves stood as they entered and Ramsay relaxed as the former did not seem perturbed by their appearance; they must be wildling members of Jon's allied forces.

The first to enter, a burly man with a head full of unkempt, wispy orange-colored hair glanced at the bodies of the three men on the floor, taking in Groves and Ramsay before speaking, "What just happened here?"

Groves responded simply, "Assassins. They admitted being here to kill the prisoner when they still had the upper hand."

The second wildling, a man with greasy, raven-colored hair that was pulled back tightly into a ponytail scoffed, "Not very professional of them…" he gave the body of the second assassin a kick to roll him over, "…but they're too well equipped to give me the impression that they were amateurs…"

Groves nodded, "Quite astute of you…" he pointed to the body of the first assassin, "…this one only blurted it out when Ramsay threw shit on us."

The fiery-headed warrior laughed, looking at Ramsay, "You threw shit on them…?" He took in a long inhale and made a face, "…you sure did. What the fuck was that about? Couldn't win the war so decided to hurl feces?"

Ramsay frowned as he stood to glower at the soldier, but he did not offer reply. Instead Groves did so, "He was making a much-needed distraction when I sorely needed it."

The black-haired soldier scoffed again, his green eyes filled with merriment, "Likely to save his own ass, since he was next on the chopping block, but I wouldn't be too surprised if it turned out he's just an opportunistic little shit-flinger."

Once again Ramsay fought the urge to respond, knowing that nothing he said to this man would aid him. When it became apparent that he wasn't going to rise to the bait for this soldier's amusement the first warrior pressed on, "My fellow here will aid you in disposing of these bodies and seeing our man properly interred; I'll remain here for now so that I can see if our prisoner here has anything useful to tell us."

Groves simply nodded and handed over the key to the cell from his pocket by way of response, then he and the raven-haired warrior began the process of dragging the corpses of the recently slain from the room. The remaining warrior then stepped close to the bars, removing his heavy furred gloves to reveal the calloused, course hands beneath.

He unlocked the door to the cell and flung it wide open, tossing the key onto a nearby table. He fixed Ramsay with a hard stare as the former gave him an inquisitive look, "You are free to attempt escape any time during this talk; I could use a bit of fun since I seem to have missed all the action that took place in this room."

Ramsay sat down in way of response, making it clear that he was uninterested in such an obvious ploy that could only end with him receiving a swift and sound beating. The big man nodded, smiling, "Good; I am glad in knowing that you understand how this is going to go. I will make the rest even simpler for you; I'll ask you questions and you will answer them honestly. Right?"

Ramsay nodded, tensing at the dangerous look that permeated this man as the latter walked into the cell to stand very near to where he sat. He had a sloping forehead and a wide, flat nose. His eyes were set somewhat close together and overall his features made him somewhat unattractive, but did not at all detract from the menace his cold blue eyes projected.

"First question; what happened earlier in the keep? Take your time and tell me everything you remember."

Ramsay licked his lips and spoke evenly, "The guards assigned to watch me simply left, I'm not sure exactly when, but when I noticed was just before a servant attacked with a club on the stairs. He made it clear that he was there to assassinate me."

The warrior nodded, clasping his hands behind his back, "And then what?"

Ramsay continued, "We fought… everything is somewhat of a blur now, but at some point we fell down the stairs as I wrestled to get the club from him, and then I… then I killed him with it. He was trying to murder me I didn't have any choice…"

The big man held up a hand, signaling Ramsay to stop, "I'm not interested in the morals of this story; just give me the facts. After this you decided to run, yes?"

Ramsay nodded, looking down, "Well, I knew that if I stayed in the hall with the weapon and the body, someone was going to come in and assume that I had simply murdered a servant, and since my guards had disappeared…"

Suddenly the big man's hand came across Ramsay's face so hard his head jerked to the side. He brought his hand up to a bleeding lip as he stared up at the warrior with a startled expression.

The red-headed warrior let out an exasperated sigh, "If I wanted to know your thoughts on what happened I would have asked for them. I don't care why you did it; let's just cut to the part where you ran, yes? A servant claimed they saw you on the ledge outside of a window, was this true?"

Ramsay nodded, feeling sobered from his reflection by the soldier's insistence on simplicity, "…I, uh, I climbed onto the outer wall, attempting to find a way to skirt those pursuing me."

The warrior nodded, "The snow outside showed that you fell and then ran for the stables, where you released horses. Did you go to the crypt from there?"

Ramsay nodded again, "Yes… I tried to hide in one of the caskets, but Groves and Willis found me and brought me to the captain once I told them of the plot to kill me."

The big man scratched at his bearded chin, "So you knew of a plot to kill you?"

Ramsay shook his head, "Well, not at first; I only assumed that I was the target of some plot with the disappearance of my guards and the servant trying to kill me. Also…" he pointed to the fresh blood stains on the ground, "…with more recent events."

"Has anyone specifically threatened to murder you in the last few…" the big man seemed to reconsider his words before shaking his head, "…never mind that won't help."

Ramsay tentatively posed another option, "I understand you are in a great hurry to find the person responsible; perhaps I could assist in speculation as to whom it might be?"

The big warrior frowned down at him a moment before shaking his head at Ramsay, "No; you've got the respect of no one in the entirety of the North, never mind this keep. Even if you came across something useful, there's not a person that is going to give scum like you the time of day."

Ramsay gulped, blinking at the harsh appraisal of his current political standing, mostly because he knew in his heart that it was true.

The big man sighed again and turned, stepping out of the cell and closing the door before locking it again, all the while keeping Ramsay within his peripheral. He pulled his thick gloves back on after slipping the key into his pocket, "I'm going to stand here until they get back; do me a favor and don't bother me with your speech."

Ramsay drew back, avoiding the harsh glare of his newest caretaker as he laid himself back down upon the simple cot within the cell. He couldn't help but think on what had been said to him concerning his current reputation. He knew that he had made an ill name for himself, but as dedicated as he had been to raising his rank, he had failed to give it much thought.

As much as Ramsay would love to say that he didn't have a single care concerning the thoughts of others towards him, only a fool would convince himself of such folly. Everyone cared what others thought of them; if Ramsay had not been so worried about how he appeared in the eyes of other men then he would never have bothered striving for prestige in the first place.

He had been entitled, told himself that the things Reek told him were true, that he was special above all others, but from the beginning a part of him had always doubted that and he had striven so hard to prove to them all and to himself that he was right. That Ramsay Bolton could and would rise to the greatness he so deserved.

Except now everyone had a very different opinion of what it was exactly that Ramsay deserved, though most of them seemed to agree on a violent and gruesome death. He pulled his knees to his chest, feeling more than a little cold in the isolated cell. They didn't exactly hand out blankets of fox fur to prisoners so he would just have to tough out the night.

He tried to move his mind to other matters but he kept returning to thoughts on where he was in life and why. He had done so many awful things, both in company of his black-hearted guardian Reek and afterwards of his own free will. He had acted as if he were some sort of god, like nothing could go wrong and he would never be held accountable.

Even after he had tossed Reek to that rabble of peasants to be lynched he had failed to allow his near miss with paying for his crimes to teach him anything at all. He had been acting like a madman, without the wisdom to understand that the only reason he had made it so far was because he had been fortunate and nothing more.

What was it his father had called him? A mad dog, he had said. His father had warned him rather straight-forwardly that if he continued on his reckless path that someone was going to come along that would be the end of him, but instead of realizing that his father was trying to help him with perhaps the most important thing he could hear, he had murdered him.

Ramsay lowered his head as he allowed himself to try to wrap his mind around exactly how many people might want him dead at the moment. Any one of the other houses of the North, of course, both for his own crimes and those of his father for their betrayal of Rob Stark. Perhaps the entirety of the Iron Isles for his mutilation of Theon Greyjoy.

Those houses of the north whom his father had managed to sway for his failure to defend Winterfell despite the size of his armies and the strong stone walls of the keep, due to his arrogance allowing his enemies an unprecedented win on the field of war. He had heard that his ploy there had gotten Smalljon Umber killed, which wouldn't sit well with that family…

Even the Lannisters might want him dead for his failure to hold such a strategically important position in the north, and because his loss here could easily be seen as the entire reason Jon had been named 'King in the North'. The blame for any rebellion that fomented here could easily be laid to rest on his head, and the Lannisters might be capable of the subtlety that he suspected to be in play.

And the Vale… he hadn't really given it much thought by why exactly had the Vale ridden to Jon's aid? True, the Starks were related to the rulers of that faraway land, but why would they march all the way out here to assist a bastard? Sansa's doing, likely, but wasn't the current ruler of the Vale a paranoid shut-in since her husband's death by poisoning?

A topic he would have to breach with Sansa later no doubt, but the list continued well past the Vale so he couldn't let himself puzzle over it overly long. Could it be his own people that were trying to have him silently executed? It would certainly make sense for the Bolton clan to seek his death, especially since his father's death followed by his father's wife and newborn child's disappearances likely raised many questions.

In fact, the Bolton's having a part in undermining Jon could help to repair the family's shaky political standing after the events that Ramsay had started, sort of an 'We're terribly sorry for what that bastard did, but here, we've cleaned up the mess for you' kind of way. If his family didn't somehow save face after this they would be doomed to obscurity at the very least.

No, that didn't fit very well; he was far removed here from his family's estates in the south and the attacks on him had been entirely too coordinated, suggesting that there were agents of his demise close to home. So the northern houses then, perhaps someone trying to oust Jon from his newly acquired fame so they can lead the north?

Ramsay knew most of the men who led the various houses that laid claim to the territories of the north, or had at least at some point met with them all. He liked to believe he was a pretty good judge of character and able to ferret out the sort of person that might be capable of turning his back on his fellows.

He had found such a kinship with the Umbers and the Karstarks, especially given the latter's history with Rob Stark, who had beheaded one of their own. But of the remaining houses' leaders, he could think of no one that would stoop so low as to use assassins to murder Ramsay just to make Jon seem weak. As a group they proved to be aggravatingly righteous, which was why his father had been unable to sway them.

Ramsay scratched at his scalp, feeling lousy and unable to figure out who was left that might still be both close by, have motive to kill him and defame Jon, and the resources to hire multiple professionals to see the deed done. He was missing something he knew, but he just couldn't seem to put his finger on it.

The door opened then, startling him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see if the captain had finally arrived, or if there might be more assassins come to claim his head. The big man guarding him also raised himself to a ready position, apparently considering this a possible option as well, his meaty hand clenched over his sword hilt.

To his surprise though it was neither of those two things but instead Sansa Stark, who cast a worried look over his way before moving to address the big man, "I shall take the prisoner; please release him from his cell."

The soldier shook his head, "Nay, ma'am; he's in custody because folk are trying to kill him; I give him to you and that'll just put you in danger."

She nodded, "I understand but I've already spoken both to your captain and Jon Snow and they have agreed to release him under guard to my private chambers as he was before."

The guardsman raised a red eyebrow as he glanced over Sansa's shoulder and then back to her, "I don't see any guard's ma'am…"

Sansa gave him a slight smile, "That's because my guard is you…" she turned to address Ramsay, "Come along my dear it is time I brought you back where you belong."