Author's Note

I do not own Game of Thrones.


The Stark children, Ramsay thought, had hunter's eyes. And they were watching him. It was amusing really, the younger girl was barely half his size, but she looked at him like she might rip his throat out with her teeth.

The acting lord of Winterfell really had tried, until his brother caught him and hauled him away, their wolf pups snarling at their feet.

"I might have believed a man such as Lord Stark would raise his children better," said his lord father as they examined their quarters. All but two of their men had been told they'd need to stay in the Wintertown, not enough room in the castle with the Kingx's party arriving, but they had been given rooms at the top of some drafty tower. Meant as a slight, no doubt. Half the men in the North wanted to sought Roose Bolton.

"Gives 'em some spirit," Ramsay countered. They'd be fun to break and train. Mayhaps he'd take those wolves of theirs too, they'd make for fine hunting beasts.

"It makes them unpredictable."

And his lord father hated unpredictable things.


They dined in the great hall, though not alongside the Starks. The heir stood when he saw them, fear and fury flashing in his eyes. The wolf at his side, an already large thing with burning green eyes, raised its hackles. As did the dainty little thing sat beside the only Stark girl.

"It would appear we're unwelcome," said his lord father, though that didn't deter either of them from eating. They were unwelcome in many keeps and castles.

Ramsay speared a chunk of meat. "Is there a reason we should be so disliked?"

"We shall see."


His father had forbidden him bringing his hounds, or Reek, which rather limited his entertainment for the night. Ramsay went down to the brothel instead. The girl he chose there wasn't what he wanted, nor into what he was into, but Ramsay could still laugh at her sobs.

Two pairs of eyes greeted him as he returned to the castle, yellow and green, accompanied with low, dangerous snarls. Ramsay drew his sword. They might be bigger, but all hounds bowed to strength. "Going to challenge me, is that it?"

"They're not hungry," said a voice from the dark. "They just don't like you."

One of the Stark brats, the girl with her flint grey eyes. They looked as cold as her father's were rumored to be.

"Do you know what you do with a crazed dog?" she asked.

"Put it down before it savages the rest of the pack."

The girl smiled. "I learned what crazed dogs look like."

Something slammed into his neck. Ramsay whirled, drawing his dagger, as liquid spilled down his chest. The older Stark boy grinned up at him. "Don't need arrows."

"Arrows?" he muttered, raising his free hand to his throat. He found it sticky with blood. "You fucker!"

The boy only laughed, skittering back out the way as Ramsay lunged for him. Stars flashed behind his eyes.

"You think I won't take you with me?" he rasped.

Twin snarls rang through the night. Sharp teeth pierced his legs.

"No Lady," said the girl as the wolves dragged him back. "No Shaggy. This one is ours."

The wolves let go, but the pain remained as a blade pierced his back.

"We'd have flayed you and put you on display for your father," said the girl. "But we don't have the time before the next guard patrol comes round." She flipped him over. "I suppose you'd have known how to do it quicker, but oh well. We're Starks, not Boltons." She grinned down at him. "But I did promise Rickon the heart. And he tells me that can be done quickly."

The boy returned to her side, knife in hand. Nothing but a steak knife – the boy had killed him with a steak knife?

He passed his blade to his sister and took Ramsay's own dagger. "Eat enemy's heart is good for warrior's spirit."