Chapter Fourteen

Game Plan

Ramsay threw the pliers onto the metal tray on the table next to his victim with a sigh of bored discontent. This assassin that Sansa had handed him was as dull as they came; he had been working the man over for hours now with an array of painful tools and all he had really accomplished was to cause him to pass out a few times from the pain.

The gaunt individual in the chair was covered in his own blood and breathing raggedly; Ramsay noted almost absently that he might just expire before any real information was gleaned from him. Eroc leaned against the wall nearest the door, and had been quietly observing everything that Ramsay had done with his usual look of disinterest.

When Sansa had first left Ramsay to his work hours past and the thin man tied to the chair had at last looked him over and taken his measure, he had dared to laugh at Ramsay. He never did say why it was that he laughed; he never said anything in fact, and Ramsay might have thought him to be a mute if it wasn't for that laughter.

He hadn't mentioned why he laughed, but Ramsay could guess that it was likely the fact that his lower body was draped with what was obviously a sheet of bedding in a manner that strongly resembled wearing a skirt or dress. Ramsay had taken offense, of course, and extracted bloody vengeance on the helpless prisoner.

The bound man had not dared laugh since, merely enduring the pain inflicted in silence for the most part, occasionally crying out when Ramsay maimed him in a particularly cruel fashion, but still not a word of speech. Ramsay set his hands upon his hips, looking the would-be assassin over once again, as if trying to find a weak spot.

He was an older man, in his late forties or early fifties, with a graying pate that was swept back, likely to accommodate his rapidly receding hairline. His eyes were as brown as the hair upon his head that had not yet grayed, and a wispy white beard covered his chin and the sides of his face. That face was pocked and weathered in a manner that suggested much time spent outdoors.

His clothes were a simple fare; not ragged enough to be considered peasant wear but not tailored well enough to seem like the attire of the wealthy, either. In all his features were rather plain and nondescript, which Ramsay supposed would aid this man in being an efficient infiltrator. He had managed to get to Sansa's trap unnoticed, which certainly said something.

From what Sansa said of his capture though it didn't seem that the man was much of a fighter, though, and had only entered the room armed with a poisoned blade, which had been taken from him. Whenever Ramsay gave him breaks in the torture to reflect on the next round of pains he would simply stare at the former with an unreadable expression.

Ramsay reared back and slapped him this time, allowing his irritation to color his temperament. When he had first been tasked to torture this man for information he had approached the job with gusto, but as time had gone on he had rapidly realized what he was dealing with and now that his victim hung to life by a thin cord he found himself exasperated.

A scoff behind him caused Ramsay to turn and regard Eroc as the big wildling spoke; "That doesn't even look like interrogation anymore. You haven't asked this blighter a question in over an hour; he's clearly getting under your skin."

Ramsay's annoyance only grew at Eroc's statement of the obvious, "The man is obviously a fanatic! I've used nearly every tool here and he still dares to mock me with his glare."

Eroc unfolded his arms from over his chest and stepped over to where Ramsay stood, looking the frail prisoner over, "He's at death's door. I don't think he's mocking you at all; he seems to me a man resigned to his fate."

Ramsay waved his hand dismissively at Eroc, "What would you actually know of such matters?" Despite his words though Ramsay rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

The big warrior grunted at him, "You think you're the only one here who's had to do this before? You would be surprised how hard it can be to suss secrets from a Crow."

He replied to Eroc's statement with a frown, glaring at the prisoner, "Well, if he is resigned, then I suppose we need to realize why he is resigned if we are to have any hope of making him value his life again."

Eroc smiled, "There you go." He turned his blue-eyed gaze to the gaunt man in the chair, stepping forward, "Why are you so ready to die, prisoner?"

Ramsay's eyebrows shot up in surprise when the man finally answered, his voice strained and course due to the pain that wracked his body, "You will never make me talk."

He had been so focused on making the prisoner tell them why he was trying to kill him and who he worked for that Ramsay hadn't considered trying a subtler approach; but then Ramsay had always been unworried as to whether his victims died from the trials he subjected them to in the past, so he had never had need.

There was Theon, of course; Ramsay had worked especially hard to cause that man to trust him just so that he could shatter his confidence, and deployed a large array of manipulations to demean and destroy the man before he had even asked a single question, but that had been because he had always intended on turning the man into Reek, and knew such a transformation would take effort.

Ramsay straightened, a bit chagrined that the oafish warrior beside him had been the one to point out that he had been applying a hammer when he needed a scalpel. He had grown too confident in his own ability to inflict pain both physical and emotional and had failed to bother with the intricacies of the whys and hows.

He took a deep breath before starting, "You still fear death; every man does… but there's something that you believe in enough that you're willing to die for it, isn't there? Maybe honor drives you… are you afraid to disappoint some lord?"

The thin man didn't respond, merely continuing to affix Ramsay with that vacant look which he now knew to be resignation.

Ramsay put his arms behind his back and interlocked his fingers as he paced back and forth, trying to tackle the tough situation of dealing with a fanatic; in the past he had always simply let the buggers bleed out, but in this case he couldn't afford to let such stonewalled logic get between himself and what he needed to learn.

"No that would be boring, and I have tortured honorable men before; desire to live and survival instinct usually prevails over some simple code of ethics. So perhaps you aren't doing this for yourself, maybe you have a family who would suffer a great deal of shame if you were to speak now, or perhaps they would even be in real danger?"

The prisoner shifted ever so slightly in his seat at Ramsay's last words, and a smile bloomed across Ramsay's face at the indication of his discovery, "Yes. Someone will hurt those you care about if you betray them here…" Ramsay frowned, then, lost in thought. After some moments, he cast an irate look at Eroc. This information still felt like a dead end.

Unless… Ramsay spread his hands wide, smiling down at the helpless prisoner, "I would like to propose a counter offer to the one that your employer offered; tell me who hired you to kill me, or we shall find your family and make them suffer so horribly that they will very much wish they had died. Do you wish to know why my family's banner is a flayed man?"

The haggard man glared at Ramsay a moment before replying, "Empty threats; you don't know who I am nor whom my family might be. You might have been a Bolton once but I know well that Sansa Stark has neutered you. Even if you posed a threat to my kin, why in the world would I tell you anything seeing as your offer is no better than the other?"

Eroc scoffed, "He's got a point. It might have done you better to offer protection, though he'll never believe you would do so now. Wasn't your father a lord; how did you become so bad at politics?"

Ramsay's jaw worked in irritation, at first at the prisoner's claims that he was a Bolton no longer and then even more so at the fact that Eroc was actively bungling his attempts.

He turned to glare at the red-headed warrior, "Are you with me or against me?"

The big man only watched him shrewdly a moment before replying, "Good question."

Ramsay made an annoyed, dismissive gesture and scratched at his chin and the stubble thereupon, trying hard to determine what he could possibly do from here.

Eroc moved closer, speaking in a lower voice, "Should I inform Sansa that you are done here?"

The smaller man's brow furrowed in agitation, "No! I can do this I'm certain; now that I've got him talking there has to be a way to make him crack. Perhaps if I can figure out who he is?"

The warrior folded his arms over his chest, giving Ramsay an exasperated look, "As if he'll tell you now."

"Maybe I can question the guards that caught him here, or ask around if anyone recognizes him; perhaps there is some evidence of his house to be gleaned…"

Eroc shook his head, "The man obviously isn't daft; he wouldn't just leave his coat of arms lying about, and if he was easily recognized he wouldn't have been chosen to kill you. Besides, you really need to reconsider this whole 'I'll torture your family' bullshit, because you know as well as I that Sansa isn't going to back it."

Ramsay blinked; in his excitement of discovery and the trill of success he had for a moment forgotten that the man strapped to a chair in the center of the room wasn't the only prisoner there. He had no real power, and Eroc was right that Sansa would likely be inclined to refuse him on any and all matters concerning other houses.

His shoulders sagged as he had to consider failure as an option once more. No matter what he did, knowing this man's motivation got him no closer to getting him to talk; it only made clear to Ramsay that he was going to be unmovable until such a time as he died. If blood loss didn't end him then… Ramsay's eyes lit up, and he smiled at Eroc.

"I've got it. We'll get nothing from this man, but that doesn't mean he won't be useful."

Eroc shook his head, clearly not following why this fact would make Ramsay smile, so Ramsay continued, "We shall set him free in good health with a purse of coin and wish him safe travels home."

The warrior was getting it now, but his mouth turned down in skepticism, "He won't go home."

Ramsay nodded, "No, but that isn't the plan anymore. Whomever sent him has a mole in the keep I'm certain of it; when they learn of his release his employer will know."

The big man appeared angry at this, "What, you couldn't get him to talk, so you're out to murder his family as some sort of petty revenge?"

Ramsay shrugged, "I could care less what happens to the murderous fuck's kin, but no, I mean to learn from Sansa's maneuver and apply it in my own way."

***...***

From the view of the window of Sansa's chambers Ramsay observed the guards escorting the attempted assassin out of the keep. As instructed they gave the man a hefty purse filled with coin and instructed him to march away. The haggard prisoner looked confused at first, and then decried the instruction, trying to hand the money back to the soldiers.

"N-no, wait… you can't let me go! You can't! They'll kill my family… they will kill my kin. Please I wish to die for my crimes!"

Ramsay raised an eyebrow at the display; he hadn't expected the man to react quite so passionately, but this particular event had been accounted for.

He could hear Sansa behind him, where she watched surrounded by several servants that were acting as runners, "He didn't simply leave. Tell the group assigned to follow him to hold; I don't believe he will be assaulted personally now and following him in this weather could throw our plan."

Ramsay turned to address Sansa, "And if they do decide to accost him directly we could fail here."

Sansa shook her head, "Whoever is behind this has gone to great lengths to remain invisible; with that outburst I'm fairly certain they might even be aware that this is a trap. We'll send a group out under the pretense of a hunting party later to make sure our enemy doesn't go for the assassin for information."

The former Bolton glanced back out of the window; the haggard man was being pushed out of the gate and beaten by the guards. Eventually his resolve wavered and he began to run, though Ramsay couldn't fathom where the man might think he can go that would be safe.

Ramsay pursed his lips, "I still think it possible that he might abandon reason and run straight back to his family in his blind state of panic."

"Even were he to do so at best we could only follow him. In his agitated state he could well spot the tail we put to him, especially if he were to do something so risky. I couldn't blame the man if he ran to save his family, though." Sansa approached and cast a sideways glance at Ramsay, "Some of us give a damn if our relatives are murdered."

That jab struck perhaps closer to home than Sansa realized. Killing his own father had not brought Ramsay any particular joy that such an action usually implied, despite what Sansa might think of him. He had always wanted Roose to accept him, and murdering the Bolton lord had been a reaction to being replaced in a permanent fashion.

Even as he had driven the knife home Ramsay had felt a pang in his heart; he had after all personally seen to it that Roose would never shower the accolades upon him that he had always dreamed of receiving as a child. With that one action he had destroyed an entire lifetime of childish hopes and wishes for acceptance.

She continued, "All of that being beside the point; trailing him would likely prove too late, as he is on foot and news can travel so much faster…"

Ramsay glanced over at her, then looked to the door. The keep was being watched carefully by persons that Sansa trusted dearly; if a rider departed a servant would arrive telling them who the rider was and what direction they were headed, so that they might ascertain if such a rider was or wasn't working for their hidden enemy.

No such servant appeared, though, and Ramsay started to worry that his plan might not work. Perhaps giving the assassin money had been too much; had he overplayed his hand? Surely if the mole in the keep was to act they would have done so by now; perhaps they would play to a cool head and have reasoned that the assassin gave Sansa nothing.

If they were confidant in this there would be no need to act, as they could always carry out their threats against the man's family at a later date. This entire thing hinged on worrying whoever it was enough to have them either seek the failed assassin for questioning or to apprehend his family, so that he could be convinced to confess what he had given up later.

More time passed and Ramsay let out a nervous sigh; they seemed to have been outmaneuvered by a person who trusted in their ability to inspire loyalty through fear. He opened his mouth at last to air this grim news and at that moment a young man entered the room, speaking quickly, "Lady Sansa we have intercepted a message!"

***…***

Petyr Baelish halted as several soldiers moved to block his advance through the courtyard of Winterfell keep. Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and recently dubbed 'King of the North' Jon Snow moved to approach him. Petyr glanced from one armed man to the next, "I'll assume that you aren't interesting in simply talking."

Jon quietly stepped up to be closer to Petyr than the others, and Petyr gave him his best disarming smile, "I understand that you might have heard of my intentions for your sister, but I assure you that they are good intentions, and I remind you that bringing force to bear on the guardian of the Prince of the Vale could prove a poor judgement call…"

The black-clad Crow only shook his head at this guess before replying, "Lord Petyr Baelish, I place you under arrest for attempted murder on our prisoner and seeking to sow discord and unrest among my subjects."

The smile faded from Petyr's face and he steepled his hands in front of himself before answering, "Even if you had proof of such a thing…"

He glanced around at the men surrounding him, giving Jon a smile that affected only one side of his mouth, "…you're talking about the Bolton bastard that murdered your kin; why do you care if he finally dies for his crimes?"

Jon could tell that between Petyr's comment on his status within the Vale and his reasoning concerning Ramsay that his soldiers were becoming restless, so he moved to the point, which he likely would have done anyways, "We intercepted a message that you attempted to send in secret by raven to a group of men under your employ."

Petyr had stiffened now and was moving to reply but Jon held up his hand, motioning for him to save his words, "The words in the message were damning, but obviously you didn't sign it. Fortunately, the boy you sent to deliver the message to the raven was under no such duress as your assassin, and he has not only turned on you but offered up the names of others who will."

Realizing that the charade was over Petyr spoke plainly, "So what. As I said I only moved to see to the task that you have avoided. I know not why you let Sansa keep him on as you do but someone had to do something."

Jon was studying the avid expression on Petyr's usually calm face, "I don't know why you care so much, but my brother Rob was clear on this matter I think; we don't execute prisoners without permission from the lord holding them here in the north. Take him away."