Content Warning: discussion of past rape and attempted rape in this chapter
In the Seventeenth Year of the Reign of King Robert
Ramsay knew she was supposed to feel some sort of comfort at the thought of going home. But like so many other feelings she was supposed to have, this one simply wouldn't come.
It wasn't because the Dreadfort was so imposing. It was imposing, to be sure. The walls were made of enormous granite stones, the smallest of which were more than the height of two men. They were unmortared, but the stones were fitted together so smoothly, and the joinings so far apart, that the sheer granite faces were completely unclimbable.
It was a strange fortification. Clearly it had been built in a different age, using means lost to time. The stones were too large to be moved with block and tackle, or any other means that the masons knew of. And to lift them into the air, and fit them all together so that not even the wind could find a chink—it was simply impossible.
And yet it stood, perched above the Weeping Water, the impossible become mundane for the hundred hundred people who lived there.
Winterfell had its stories: Bran the Builder or Edrick Snowbeard or Bael the Bard; giants lending their strength or the children of the forest their magic; glorious battles against wildlings or Boltons or Andals. Nobody spoke of how the Dreadfort was built, nor when. Nobody spoke much of the Dreadfort at all, at least nobody who lived beneath its walls. In other parts of the North, Ramsay would hear songs of the Red Kings and their eternal struggle with the Kings of Winter, but here—nothing. No past, no songs, nothing except the terrifying hints one could gleam from impossible walls and preserved skins. For all Ramsay knew the Dreadfort had always existed, and the first men to turn their oars up the Weeping Water had found it here, waiting for them.
So the Dreadfort was certainly mysterious, and imposing, and perhaps even frightening.
But that wasn't the reason that Ramsay felt ill at ease coming home.
It also wasn't because of the way the Boltons worshiped the gods, though many found it appalling.
As Ramsay entered the land gate—the arched entrance in the low wooden wall surrounding the Dreadfort winter town—such worship was going on in the first public square. The square was centered around a rough stone platform, half the height of a man. On it stood several men-at-arms, and an elderly goði. And, of course, the sacrifice.
"Lord hear our prayers," intoned the goði. He was holding his athame above him, pointed to the sky. It was already stained red.
"Grant us vision to see your will." The goði plunged the knife down, deftly scooping out one eye, and then the other, of a man bound to a cross of rough wood. The man hardly stirred; Ramsay could see from where she walked along the edge of the square that the goði had already taken the condemned's manhood and hands, and there was very little life left in him. He was nobody in particular, and without either notoriety or a good show any crowd that might have gathered for the sacrifice had already mostly dispersed.
The Boltons took what they believed was the more traditional approach to worship. No stag nor boar here; man was the proper sacrifice for a god. In a sop to the other Lords of the North, Lord Bolton assured them that it was only condemned criminals that died under the sharp blades of his house.
Ramsay watched as the goði began pulling the skin down the man's scalp and face. The criminal was clearly dead at this point, blood lazily pooling out of his open wounds but lacking the regular pulses that would have given evidence of a still-beating heart.
She thought it was wrong.
Not, to be certain, the execution itself, nor even the torture used to accomplish it. Weakness in the community was something to be culled, else the entire community suffered. The gods all agreed on this. Sometimes weakness was a sickness of the body. Other times it was a sickness of the mind, an inability to get along, to live by the rules of the community. In either case, to have the strength to survive winter, weakness must be excised.
But removing weakness wasn't a sacrifice. It made the community stronger. So how then could they ask the gods for gifts, when the goði had done no more than what was best for the tribe?
Ramsay didn't think of herself as particularly reverent, certainly not by the standards of the preosthad. She didn't have a fervor to declaim about the gods to the people, like Ossian did. And throughout her time as an acolyte Osha would scold her for the way she added dirty jokes and a lot of farting to the stories she taught the younger ones—never mind that they loved her for it.
But despite her irreverence, Ramsay believed in the gods—because they held power. Ramsay could, if she wished, slip into the skin of the crows that were already gathering for their turn with the condemned prisoner, or the hounds stabled outside the castle, or even the larger fish that swam past in the Weeping Water. Jocelyn was off on her wandering accompanied by a bear that stood taller than she did at the shoulder. Ramsay had seen Elina rear up on her hind legs, once, and she was certain the bear would tower over the tallest knight on horseback. And there were whispers of powers still more frightful…
Ramsay sometimes wondered, if they could perform an actual sacrifice, like in the days of old, what new gifts might the gods give them?
She hadn't voiced that thought aloud, of course. Ramsay knew that Jocelyn would be appalled by the idea. She suspected that Osha would be less so—from what she'd told them about life beyond the Great Wall, it was a harsh place that required harsh choices. The tellings of the ancient songs that Osha had learned as a child even hinted at it.
So watching the goði finish skinning the condemned man troubled Ramsay—though not for the reason it might trouble others. But it was not why Ramsay felt ill at ease coming home.
"Sacredness," said a firm voice behind her.
Ramsay turned and took in the group of men-at-arms who had entered the land gate shortly after she had. They were all dressed in the same style, with a mail hauberk under a woolen surcoat dyed Bolton red, each carrying a steel poleaxe on an ash shaft. The man in the center of the group looked no different than the rest, but the way the others stood protectively around him gave away his status.
"Brother," Ramsay nodded.
Domeric's mouth thinned. "I have asked you to use the proper titles when we are in the presence of the public." He gestured to the soldiers around him.
"My apologies, your Lordship," said Ramsay, though the smirk did not leave her face, even as she curtsied. "May I assume that our dear Lord Father, the man whose seed gave us life in our mother's wombs—different mothers though, you know," Ramsay said as an aside to the men-at-arms, "sent you to fetch me?"
Domeric ground his teeth. "The Chosen of the Horned Lord did not send me to 'fetch' you, no. But as we are both required to present ourselves…" Domeric held out his arm to escort her.
"Excellent!" cried Ramsay, as she took Domeric's arm. "Then lead on, brother. Er, my Lord. Lord Brother sir." Ramsay stopped as Domeric began marching briskly forward, dragging her with him.
Ramsay looked down at her brother's attire as she came near to jogging to keep up with his long strides. "You have been traveling, Lord Brother sir?"
Domeric barely moved his lips as he spoke through gritted teeth. "Yes." Ramsay looked at him expectantly. After a brief moment Domeric relented and offered more. "Our Lord Father wanted a more accurate report of the doings at the Great Wall. What we had heard from messengers was… confused."
Of that Ramsay had no doubt; what she had heard was confused as well. Winterfell likely had better information, but then Winterfell hosted maesters and their ravens. No Bolton would debase himself with the written word, nor allow the southron servants of the Citadel to take up residence in the Dreadfort. At times like these, they paid for their commitment to the old ways.
Not for much longer, Ramsay thought. Soon there would be enough skinchangers that the preosthad would be able to send messages through the birds themselves, not on scraps of parchment they carried. Then the holds of the North could keep in touch as they did in the days before the dragons came.
Ramsay marched with Domeric, still arm in arm, through the castle town. The streets here were so unlike the Winterfell Wintertown: all straight lines running between a series of identical low buildings that might have been carved out of slabs of granite. The effect was that one could look down the long main street and see tenements lined up like soldiers for inspection.
They marched in a bubble of quiet, the sound of boots on brick echoing off of the stone walls. Lord Bolton preferred his vassals to be silent in his presence; Ramsay suspected that Domeric did not care, but from the wary eyes of the townspeople they passed she gathered that they weren't willing to risk the heir's displeasure without clearer instruction. They knew too well what the cost of a Bolton's displeasure could be.
Ramsay could have told them otherwise. For all that Domeric was an accomplished warrior and more than willing to dispense justice himself as the occasion called for it, he was someone who took his duties very seriously. And his duty, as he saw it, was to nurture the smallfolk of the lands around the Dreadfort—the Horned Lord's Gift.
They crossed the short drawbridge and entered the castle yard, where they were greeted by the steward, ancient Lord Blackbourne.
"Refreshments, my Lord? And your sacredness?" Lord Blackbourne slowly genuflected as he asked, in hoarse tones of a voice that had seen too many winters.
"Not yet, sir. My Lord Father will want the news straightaway." Domeric helped Lord Blackbourne to his feet.
"I'll go with him then, get this over with," added Ramsay.
More men-at-arms guarded the giant oak doors, and more still lined the high-arched passageway that led into the Great Hall.
They entered the hall under the gaze of the Lord of the Dreadfort.
Lord Bolton was not a tall man—Ramsay suspected that Jocelyn would now overtop him—and in face, build, and demeanor the only thing of note was just how unremarkable he was. With his dark hair and short beard, Lord Bolton could be introduced as a man-at-arms in any hold in the North without raising suspicion.
Except for his eyes. Ramsay was a keen observer of eyes. Lord Stark's, the few times she'd seen him in person, were warm and friendly. Jocelyn got her eyes from him, Ramsay thought, except that Jocelyn's had far more passion in them. Osha's eyes were black and unreadable, like the surface of a lake at night.
Lord Bolton's eyes were as cold as the ice they resembled. And those eyes, more than anything else, were the reason that Ramsay felt no comfort on returning to her childhood home. The promises in those eyes haunted her.
He sat at the head of the hall, in a tall wooden chair, finely made but unadorned. No private solar for the Lord of the Dreadfort; he preferred to hold court where he could monitor the many servants coming and going.
"The gods have blessed me," said Lord Bolton, "to have returned both my children to me." He spoke barely above a whisper, but Ramsay heard him clearly. Lord Bolton did not trust tapestries, woodwork, or anything else that could provide cover for unseen listeners. The halls of the Dreadfort were bare stone, straight and with clear lines of sight. The stone surfaces seemed to reflect and amplify Lord Bolton's whispers, until they filled the hall and seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. For a moment the voice seemed to hold everyone enthralled.
"We have come, Father," said Domeric in his strong voice, striding forwards. Ramsay was secretly relieved that he had broken the quiet. "Though it truly must be the will of the gods that we came together; I had not known her sacredness would be here 'till by chance we met in town."
"Indeed…" said Lord Bolton. He turned his icy stare onto Ramsay for a moment before turning back to Domeric. "You bring news." It was a statement, spoken by someone who was used to stating things and having a large number of servants jump to ensure such statements were the truth.
"Some," said Domeric with a grimace. "Even after visiting Castle Black myself, things are not as clear as we might hope."
"A pity," said Lord Bolton. "I suppose I must do my best with what you've been able to gather, then." He gestured with a hand for Domeric to continue.
Servants strode forwards to seat Domeric and Ramsay at the high table opposite Lord Bolton. More servants came with food and ale. Ramsay was grateful; nibbling on the loaf of bread gave her something to focus on other than Lord Bolton.
"Everything seems to pivot around this rogue ranger, Mance Rayder," said Domeric. "He was part of the delegation the Night's Watch sent to Winterfell."
"Did you meet him there?" Lord Bolton interrupted to address Ramsay.
"No," Ramsay responded through a mouthful of bread, before swallowing quickly. "Jocelyn did, though. She mentioned that he was discontented with the Night's Watch."
"So it would seem," said Lord Bolton.
"Rayder had barely returned from Winterfell when he deserted," Domeric continued. "The rumor among the black brothers was that he left with a woman. Lord Commander Thorne confessed that he didn't think much of it at the time. The Night's Watch loses a steady stream of brothers to desertion, and tracks each down to execute them, or doesn't.
"A dozen moons passed with no sign of Rayder," Domeric continued, "until he appeared one day in the mess hall at Castle Black. He called his brothers to revolt, and some answered. The numbers are uncertain. The Lord Commander simply noted that it was much fewer than it seemed from the destruction they caused; he estimated less than half a hundred men joined Rayder, but that they slew many of the others caught unawares by their treachery."
Domeric took a sip of the ale in front of him.
"What all agree on is that Rayder led his host of deserters into the lands beyond the wall."
"And the Night's Watch?" asked Lord Bolton. He did not stop directing servants as he listened to his son, but gestured to each one as they entered the Great Hall, with what was clearly a set of signals they were used to receiving. He barely looked at them as he did so, his gaze focussed on his children in front of him.
"In shambles," answered Domeric. "It was a good thing we brought our own provisions; the Lord Commander offered us his table, but it was clear that they were struggling to get meat and mead to everyone. The stewards were hit particularly hard. The only good news for the Lord Commander is that the rangers and their officers came through mostly unscathed."
"And the men—did they have anything to add to Sir Thorne's account?" asked Lord Bolton.
"No. Bowen Marsh and Thoren Smallwood accompanied the Lord Commander as he spoke to me. They had nothing to add. Benjen Stark was away, ensuring the loyalty of the Shadow Tower."
"And the men?" whispered Lord Bolton again. He hadn't raised his voice, but it had gotten colder, sharper, each word a hammer stroke. "The rangers themselves, the remaining stewards, the cooks and smiths? Did they have anything to add?"
Domeric flushed. Several of the men-at-arms around him looked at each other uneasily. "The Lord Commander did not give me leave to speak with the rank and file. And I would not so insult him as to go behind his back."
Lord Bolton closed his eyes for a moment. "Very well," he said at last. "And what was the mood at Last Hearth?"
Domeric paused. "The Smalljon… when he was in his cups, he gave voice to suspicions that the preosthad is behind this. Though nobody could say what they hoped to gain; the Wall is locked down even tighter than before, and when I left the Lord Commander was considering sealing up the gates permanently."
Eyes fell on Ramsay. She shrugged. "It's not like the Elders tell me anything. Why would they?"
Lord Bolton nodded to his daughter, before turning back to Domeric. "And how do the Umbers feel about the Starks?"
Domeric's eyes went wide. "My Lord," he stammered, "that's— he wasn't— "
He swallowed another mouthful of ale to steady himself. "A man may say things in his cups that he does not truly mean. The Smalljon is a friend to House Bolton and I would not wish to see him harmed for some ill-spoken jests over mead."
Lord Bolton gave his heir a long, measuring look.
"The Starks are the weakest today that they have been for generations. Our Lord Stark's father gambled everything on strengthening ties to the South. And what did he get for it? A son trying to rule without a single close family tie in the North."
"He has the friendship of the King," Domeric pointed out.
"A friendship that will not survive the King himself. By all accounts the King leaves the job of raising his children to the Queen. And now the young prince is fostering at Casterly Rock. I doubt the Lannisters are teaching him to think well of House Stark."
"Lord Stark has time, and five children to marry into Northern houses," Domeric argued back.
"Yeah, Sansa's all young and nubile," added Ramsay. "One of you two should get on that now that you're both available."
The silence in the Great Hall somehow deepened. Lord Bolton stood up, and stepped to Ramsay. His movements were so measured, so inevitable, that Ramsay failed to realize the trajectory of his mailed fist until it crashed into the side of her head. The world spun around her until she came to rest against the cold stone of the floor.
Ramsay remembered enough from the brief period of her childhood between being claimed by Lord Bolton and being sent off to apprentice in the preosthad to know that lying still and quiet was the best option, at least until her head settled enough that she could stand without swaying.
She tried to focus on the conversation that was still going on above her. Lord Bolton continued discussing the Starks with Domeric, his voice unchanged, as if his fist was nothing more than another gesture to a servant. Ramsay couldn't make out what they were saying, though. The words came to her as if she were underwater, and the only things that pierced through the pain in her head were the pains in her face and hip from landing on the ground.
As Ramsay's vision steadied, however, she began to regret not moving sooner. Her Lord Father was staring down at her body laid out on the ground, and she did not like the look in his ice-chip eyes.
"Why do you disrespect him so?" asked Domeric as he helped her to her room, after dinner had ended and the Great Hall emptied out. "You cannot have been surprised by his reaction."
Ramsay shrugged, as much as she was able to. The hours of feast and discussion, which Lords Blackbourne and Rime had joined along with the senior goði of the castle, had not fully restored her balance from the blow to her head, and she hobbled along next to Domeric, leaning on him far more than she would have liked to.
"Do you think the Starks are in a weak position?" she asked Domeric.
Domeric frowned. "If they are, then it is the duty of their sworn lords to hold them up. As the leader of the pack goes, so goes the pack."
"But the Horned Lord tells us that rot must be purged," Ramsay reminded him. They continued to make their way slowly down the corridor. Ramsay had always thought the Dreadfort to be a compact fortress, but right now it felt as if her room was leagues away.
"No," Domeric said at last. "I'll not believe the Starks are rot. Lord Stark is a just man, and Robb will make a worthy heir."
"And does our Lord Father see things this way?"
Ramsay could have laughed at the conflict in her half-brother's face. He wanted to insist that Lord Bolton would support his liege lord and honor his oaths, but Domeric was also honest to a fault.
"Our Lord Father," Domeric said slowly, "will support Lord Stark. For all his talk of the Stark's weaknesses, the other Houses would never back the Boltons over them, and Lord Bolton would never betray his oaths without surety of success."
Now Ramsay did laugh, in spite of the pain it caused her head. "You've got it all figured out, brother."
That night, Ramsay couldn't sleep. Two servants were in the room with her, but they were girls she didn't know at all. They had the same blank faces as the rest of the Dreadfort servants.
The throbbing in her head and the pain from the scrapes where she had landed on the floor made it impossible to find a comfortable position.
Giving up on sleep for the moment, Ramsay focused on her breathing and offered prayers to the gods.
Ramsay was not particularly reverent, but praying soothed something inside her. It was something Osha had helped her with. As Ramsay had grown, and her moonblood came, she had realized there was a part of her that disturbed her. It was a part that had a strange, sick fascination with injury, with the animals they sacrificed, a part that wanted to see just how far she could push. A part of her that wondered, is man not just another type of animal? And if I can shape the thoughts of a crow…
It had been Osha who had helped her. Osha, who noticed far more than she said, who realized what was bothering Ramsay while Jocelyn was too hurt at the rejection of her family to wonder whether her friend was going through something of her own, who took her aside on a trip to hunt, just the two of them.
"The gods do not judge us on our thoughts," Osha had explained. "It is how we differ from the animals around us. For the wolf, thought is action. But a woman can consider her thoughts, and decide which ones to put into action—and which ones are better left as thoughts."
And then Osha helped her find the worship that soothed something in her. Ramsay sank into herself, knowing her surroundings and her own feelings, running through the ancient poems in her mind: it all made her feel less abnormal, more at home in her own skin. It helped. At times like this it was the only way the got through the night.
She was grateful for the insomnia, later, because it meant she was awake to hear the soft opening of the door to her chambers.
Lord Bolton stood in the doorframe, silently regarding his bastard daughter. Ramsay was caught—she hated the feeling of vulnerability that came with lying in bed while Lord Bolton, in mail armor and surcoat, stood over her, but she felt like awkwardly scrambling to stand would not be any better. In any case, he soon moved, almost silently, to her bedside, crowding her and leaving no space except to press against the hard stone wall.
"Have I ever told you about your mother?" Lord Bolton asked.
"I don't believe I ever wanted to know," said Ramsay.
"She was a beauty," Lord Bolton continued, ignoring her. "I saw her while I was touring the freeholders lands, shortly after my father had died and I took the mantle of Lord Bolton."
As Lord Bolton spoke, he removed his surcoat and began unstrapping the armor around his chest.
"And I thought to myself, what a waste, such a beautiful woman toiling away on a hide of land, warming her peasant husband's bed at night."
Ramsay's eyes widened fractionally; she had always suspected that she was happier not knowing anything about her mother, and the more Lord Bolton spoke the more it was confirmed for her.
"So I put him to death," Lord Bolton whispered, "for the crime of—do you know, I don't quite remember what I charged him with? It doesn't matter, his real crime was keeping such a beauty from his Lord."
Lord Bolton leaned in farther over Ramsay's bed. Ramsay had already backed up all the way to the hard stone behind her, leaving her with no choice but to let her Lord Father bring his face closer to her.
"I sacrificed the unworthy man to the gods, and then took your mother with his blood still on my hands. She didn't know her place, either, but I taught her."
Lord Bolton's hand shot out and grabbed Ramsay's wrist.
"And I will teach you your place as well."
Ramsay didn't even try to pull away. Lord Bolton was not a large man, but he was stronger than his daughter of ten and seven name days. And in any case, what good would it do to overpower him here? They were surrounded by Bolton servants, none of whom would cross their Lord in a matter such as this.
Ramsay forced herself into stillness and reached out. The revulsion, the feeling of her father's hands on her, she ignored it all, and centered herself, and reached.
Ramsay had never had the natural skill with this gift that Jocelyn had. Jocelyn saw through the eyes of the raven and bear as easily as breathing. Ramsay always had to work at it. But what Ramsay had was sheer determination.
With a push inside her mind, Ramsay felt something break. She staggered, barely catching herself against a wall, then realized that she couldn't have possibly staggered from her position sitting up on the bed.
Then Ramsay realized that she was in fact looking at a girl sitting up on the bed, and that the girl she was looking at was herself.
Determination flooded her. Ramsay knew that if she let go there would not be another opportunity to take control back. Walking awkwardly in Lord Bolton's body, she left her own room, ignoring the confused looks of the servants and the men-at-arms who had been posted outside the door.
Men-at-arms… that would do. "Your sword," Ramsay whispered with Lord Bolton's voice. She could feel her control slipping as the moments passed, could feel Lord Bolton's mind somewhere inside of her banging to be released. Ramsay's head hurt, and nausea threatened to overwhelm her.
The unquestioning obedience Lord Bolton inculcated in his armsmen was her salvation. Had they delayed at all she might have been lost, but without a word the man-at-arms drew his sword from his scabbard and handed it to his Lord.
With the last of her strength, Ramsay lifted Lord Bolton's arms to grasp the handle, and with his own hand she drew the freshly sharpened blade across her father's throat.