Olly

He'd never seen the sea before. It made him apprehensive when they first got on the ship at Karhold, the seeming emptiness and isolation of it. And when the fog began to close in around them and obscured the land he'd felt his heart constrict. He'd thought he wanted nothing more than to get back to land. But when he rose in the morning to the calls of the men as land came back into view, he realized that he was filled with dread rather than relief. They were at the mouth of the Weeping Waters, only five miles from the Dreadfort, and that meant that this stupid, reckless plan was really about to be put into action.

He'd never been this uncomfortable with anything his Lord Commander had asked him to do. It wasn't that he minded the danger that the mad race back to the ship would entail, he would walk through all seven hells for his Lord if he asked him to, it was the fact that he was being counted on to leave him. To leave Jon Snow, the man who'd given him a home after his parents had died, who'd protected him from lecherous brothers in the Nights Watch, who'd come to be both his leader and his friend. He knew in his soul that the Lord Commander was the Realm's best hope against the Others, the White Walkers whose victims even now assaulted the wall, throwing their undead bodies against the great wall relentlessly, unaffected by anything but fire.

He just didn't like it. The apprehension in his chest built as they drew closer to the shore, and the Lord Commander appeared clad in his familiar black, his sister following him like a shadow. She was clad in lad's clothes again, and he was overcome again with surprise at how genuinely small she was. He couldn't help but like her, in spite of her role in this ridiculous plan and the undeniable complications her appearance had caused. No he liked her very much, and as she turned towards him, surveying the shore behind her, he caught the look in her eyes and was reminded why.

The grey eyes were undeniably similar to those of her brothers. But while the Lord Commander's eyes were often set with determination, Jon's eyes, even at their most alarming, reflected cold, hard justice. Her eyes were different. When he saw them lock onto the trail they would be taking to the Dreadfort, he didn't see the steely but just resignation that the Lord Commander emanated. No, her eyes shone with something wilder, something maybe even more terrifying. If the Lord Commander was justice, she was fury. Righteous fury, honorable rage, but fury nonetheless. It was not a welcoming look, but it gave him comfort to know that her almost-otherworldly anger would be bent on seeing this ridiculous plan succeed.

Had anyone else said that they would sneak into the Dreadfort while the Lord Commander was distracting Bolton and his men, hole up there, and then free Jon Snow with nothing but rope, her throwing knives, a sword, and some Braavosi potions for support he would have laughed in their face. But with Arya… he almost believed she could do it. Gods he was glad she was on their side.

"Right. We'll be here for twenty-four hours, an' not a second longer," the captain said to Jon, trying to give him a stern look but failing utterly to come close to the Lord Commander's innately somber demeanor.

"I appreciate it more than you know. When Vero and the boy return, set sail immediately. Then this-" he said hefting a heavy bag of gold dragons into Olly's hands, "Will be yours."

The captain nodded, eyes locked on the gold. "Right you are sir."

Olly hoped they were right to put their trust in the old captain, but what choice did they have? This whole thing was fraught with one terrible option after another, and he couldn't begrudge the Lord Commander for taking gambles to save his sister from what would most assuredly be a horrible death. For probably the dozenth time Olly wondered what this other sister would be like. He couldn't imagine she could possibly be that similar to Arya, for Arya would surely have killed her way out of the Dreadfort by the fourth night of her marriage at the latest. Still, he was curious.

They disembarked and readied the horses in near complete silence, each person focused on the task ahead.

"Olly, help me with my sword will you?" the Lord Commander called, beckoning him away from the others with the wave of his hand.

"Yessir."

He went over expecting to strap the impressive Valerian blade around the Lord Commander's waist, only to find that it was already there and that the Lord Snow was attempting to take it off, rather than put it on.

"I need you to take this, lad. I cannot have it falling into the hands of the Boltons, I'll not see that dishonor done on House Mormont. Wear it yourself, and if need be I want you to use it to escape. There is a chance that none of us will make it out of this alive, not me, not Vero, not Sansa and not Arya. If things go awry, I need you to promise me that you'll ride as fast as you can with the sword and the gold for the coast, that you'll get on the ship and not look back."

"But Sir the plan—"

"I know what the plan is lad, and if it goes as it should then this vow will be fulfilled either way. But I've no way to know that things will go as we want them to, there's too many variables. So I'll have your word, as your final act as my Steward, Olly, or I've no choice but to leave you here in safety."

"Sir!"

"I may lose the only remaining members of my family today, Olly, I'll not lose you too if I can help it. Now swear."

He swallowed feeling an enormous lump in his throat, and threw all his will into keeping the tears that were threatening to being welling in his eyes at bay. Still when he spoke he was relieved to hear that his voice came out clear.

"Aye. I swear it Lord Commander. If things do fall apart, I'll come back here as you say."

Jon nodded, his eyes simultaneously stern and full of an affection that made Olly's heart break even more than it already was. The Lord Commander then clapped him on the shoulder, and nodded back towards his horse.

"Off with you then."

And with that, they mounted and began their way down the road to the Dreadfort.

Ramsay

Ramsay Bolton did not think he'd ever been this angry. He'd been furious since his father had taken his wife from dinner. That fury had doubled when he found out his father had had her hair sheared off below the chin to be sent out to every miserable township in the North with a proclamation accusing her of adultery. That had been the worst, just thinking about it sent a fresh wave of rage through him. The whole country was laughing at him, mocking him for being a cuckold as well as a bastard, incapable of holding the attentions of his noble wife. Now, even as she hung above the keep in a cage for all the world to see (as much to provide her siblings with further verification as to punish her for the fabricated crimes she was accused of) he fumed.

He'd flay her live, just to silence their laughs, even if it did cost him what should be his firstborn, but even that small comfort was denied him until the day after tomorrow. They needed time, his father insisted, time to draw her bastard brother back in. Jon fucking Snow. The bastard his father was bending over backwards to court. The thought of it made Ramsay sick. So what if he was the byblow of some Targaryen prince? He was still a bastard, and Ramsay would see Jon Snow brought low for what this ruse had cost him, his father's will be damned. As long as they got the Head Crow, the Targaryen's couldn't be too upset.

The only real solace he got was that their snare might catch her grey-eyed sister as well. Gods that minx. He'd never spent so much time thinking about a woman in his entire life. The way she'd left him, half naked on his chamber floors… just the thought that she'd gotten a look at his manhood after she bested him was enough to make him hard. He'd have the little voyeur slut, and breaking her would be the most fun game he'd ever played. More fun even, than training Reek…

His hand dipped into his trousers, stroking his cock lazily at the thought, when suddenly there was a sharp rap on the door.

"Milord!"

"What!" he spat out, furious at the interruption.

"Riders approaching milord. Two of them. Clothed all in black sir. Your father's already at the castle wall."

At last.

When Ramsay got to the castle wall the first thing that struck him was a profound sense of disappointment that the girl was not with Snow. The first approaching black brother looked like the description that the traitor crow had given for their prized bastard, and Ramsay was furious to find that he did strike as imposing a figure as had been described. Clothed all in black, with his dark lochs framing a pale, angular face, he looked like a proper Lord Commander, like a true prince of the North. The thought made Ramsay's blood boil as he approached his father who was looking down at the man with his familiar look of shrewd appraisal.

"Ramsay, how nice of you to join us," his father said, his eyes still locked on the approaching man. "I'm going to go down and treat with him. Will you come down and behave yourself? Or would you rather stay up here and sulk like a child?"

"After you, father," he ground out, somehow keeping his voice from being as full of venom as he felt.

"Mmm, good. And just so you know, I've sent Winters up to fetch your lady wife down."

"Have you?"

"Yes. I know diplomacy is a bit above your breeding Ramsay, but do try to see that it can be necessary to do things civilly in order to get what you want."

"I'm always happy to learn new ways to get what I want, Father." He said, keeping his voice calm over his rage.

By the time they got down to the gate, Snow was no more than twenty yards from the gate, with nothing separating them but the iron grate of the portcullis.

"Lord Commander! How good of you to join us, we expected you a week ago!" His father called out; the welcoming tone not quite masking the cold steel in his voice.

Instead of answering right away, the man dismounted, getting off his powerful beast of a stallion and handing the reins to the other crow with him. In a flash he drew his dagger, but instead of hurling it through the gate at his father or himself, as Ramsay had thought he might, he brought it up to rest against his own throat.

"I know what you want Bolton. I'll see my sister safely delivered from this hellhole you call a keep, and then you can have me to deliver up to Daenerys. But anything less, any resistance on your part, and you can explain to the Queen of Dragons why the Targaryen Prince she wanted is actually just her house's most recent martyr."

Clever crow. And so noble. Gods Ramsay had never hated anyone so much in his entire life. He saw his father's jaw set in anger at the site. It seemed the crow had as much use for diplomacy at Ramsay did himself.

"Winters, bring forward Lady Bolton. Show her brother that we've treated her justly given the gravity of the crimes with which she is accused."

Behind him, the guard moved; and Ramsay got an up close glance at his wife for the first time since they took her away at dinner. Since then she'd been housed in the cage, one of Ramsay's least favorite torture devices in the Dreadfort. Sure, it was embarrassing to be housed completely publicly, and uncomfortable to be exposed to the elements at all hours of the day, but what was the fun of torturing someone if you couldn't see them suffer up close?

Despite her exposure and the other unpleasantries she'd experienced since their last encounter together, Sansa looked well enough. The cropped hair was a shock, but somehow she still managed to wear it elegantly. If anything the chin-length lochs accentuated the sharp angles of her face, making her look more bloody regal than she seemed regularly. He felt his temper rise at the thought. Even after these long years, she still thought herself better than him. Gods how he hated her, his smug and beautiful lade wife.

Winters shoved her forward and he got a glimpse of what she was clothed in. If his father's intention had been to present the perfect damsel in distress, then he'd succeeded masterfully. She was clad in nothing more than a long sleeved white shift, the heavy blankets and cloaks they'd given her during her confinement in the cage all stripped away from her. The linen clung to her body, highlighting the bulge of her pregnant stomach and the swell of her newly full breasts for all to see. She laid a hand on her womb as she walked, looking like the mother herself as she futilely tried to protect the child within.

When she saw her bastard kinsman, her face broke, first into a look of utter hope and longing, then into a look of complete distress.

"Jon!" she cried out, the word escaping her as a half sob. That made him even angrier. She hadn't sobbed for him in months, maybe even years, and here she was sobbing just at the sight of this Crow Bastard?

"Sansa." He said, his eyes flying over her, burning with fury at her state but clearly glad to see that the woman from the cage was in fact her. The Lord Commander pressed the knife harder against his own throat, and refocused his gaze on Roose, "let her go, and you can have me."

Ramsay grinned smugly in anticipation of his father's smug rejection of Snow's terms.

"Done!" his father said, calmly, "raise the portcullis."

"What?!" Ramsay spat before he could catch himself. "That's it, you're just going to give her to him?"

"Ramsay, once the Targaryens come—" but Ramsay didn't wait to hear it.

"Where is your other sister?" He called out to the Crow, speaking over his father.

The bastard narrowed his eyes, and Ramsay knew he'd found a weak spot.

"I liked her," Ramsay said, falling into his stride and adopting his favorite sing-song voice. "How about this, we'll let you keep Sansa, even forgive her for her egregious crimes against me, if you throw Arya into the bargain. I'll even marry her when your auntie comes to pick you up. Then everyone leaves happy!"

"If you think I'd let the likes of you touch her—" Snow growled, taking a step towards Ramsay menacing even while he still had the dagger pressed to his own throat. Quite the soft spot then. His father was having none of this though and intervened, giving Ramsay a hard look that told him not to try him.

"Forgive my son Lord Commander, he is upset about losing his wife. Given the charges she really should face trial, but if that is your price for full cooperation—"

"It is."

"Well then as I said. Raise the portcullis!" His father said, and then turning to him in a low voice murmured, "you may set your dogs after her the moment I have him in my grasp with that knife away from his throat but for now you will be silent."

He was too enraged to trust himself to speak but he stayed quiet all the same and watched as the metal grate drew up and his wife took a few tentative steps towards the Lord Commander. Silent tears were running down her face as she her pace quickened and she came right up to the Lord Commander and reached for the knife pressing to his throat.

"Jon no! Don't trust them, they'll never let me go, they'll never let you win."

"It's alright. You'll be alright," he cooed softly to her and Ramsay felt as if his rage was going to boil over where he stood. This black bastard was in no position to offer her safety, the idiot! But still he beckoned to his companion to help Sansa onto his stallion, and managed to shed his great cloak one handed without moving the knife an inch. This he flung over her inexpertly and she clung it to about herself and inhaled deeply through the tears as if nothing in the world had ever given her such comfort.

It was more than Ramsay could stand.

"You think she'll get far like that? Once you lower that knife I'll be after her faster than you can have time to think about how stupid you've been."

The bastard glared at him, eyes full of icy rage.

"I'll take my chances," he said in a low voice, and with a quick smack sent his stallion galloping at alarming speed down the path that followed the Weeping Waters, with Sansa on his back. In less than a second his crow companion was galloping after her, leaving the Lord Commander standing alone and cloakless, with nothing but his dagger pressed to his own throat.

"Now Lord Commander, if you would be so kind as to join us…" his father said, triumph lighting up his face. It was too much for Ramsay to take, his father's total indifference to his humiliation at the hand of this crow, and the older man's delight with taking the man as if he was some kind of a prize worth having. It made Ramsay sick with rage and jealously.

After a minute, watching the rapidly shrinking shapes of Sansa and his man, Jon Snow sighed, lowering his hand and throwing down his dagger in disgust.

"Guards please take the Lord Commander to a chamber befitting his status, and make sure that he is kept safe from any sharp objects should the urge take him again to be so flippant with his own life," Roose instructed, and the Bolton men poured out to the keep to take hold of the fallen crow.

But Ramsay wasn't listening, the moment Jon Snow had dropped his dagger he'd turned on his heel and made his way back into the keep. He would have his shot at Jon Fucking Snow later, but first his pride demanded that this be dealt with.

"Mryanda! Get the dogs!"