Ramsay Snow was enraged.
Those who had been acquainted with his company for longer than a passing glance or a greeting could tell anyone who asked that this was nothing new for the self-styled 'true heir' of Roose Bolton.
Ramsay was a bastard in both the literal and figurative sense. He was very much aware of it as well. His mother had hated his noble father for hanging her miller husband and raping her beneath his swinging corpse. She had never hidden her disdain of his father or him. The first time she encountered him cutting the paws off a rat he caught to see what it would do, she had only remarked bitterly that he was truly his father's son before banishing him from the house for the day.
As he had gotten older, his temper had worsened. He would act out and his mother would try to discipline him with warnings then later resorted to striking him when warnings and banishment were no longer sufficient. But he knew better than to fear her hand. It soon reached the point where she had swallowed her hatred of his father and gone to him seeking help in keeping Ramsay under control.
That was when he met Reek.
Reek had been sent by his father to look after him and to help him grow. His mother had always told Ramsay how ugly he was as a boy: due to how he possessed his father's pale skin, lank black hair and lips that looked like "a couple of writhing worms stuck to your face" as well as slightly narrow dirty blue eyes.
Reek however was in a class of his own.
Balding with only greasy stringy bits of ropy hair hanging down the back of his skull, stubby wart infested fingers, a paunchy stomach that drooped no matter what sort of pants he wore, stick thin arms attached to fingers that looked more like spider's legs than human appendages and squat tree trunk like legs; Reek was a sight to behold in all the wrong ways.
And that was without adding his stench that smelled of something that had died and been trapped in muck for several weeks no matter how often he bathed. Ramsay had remarked more than once when he found out about the man's predilections that perhaps that was why Reek enjoyed fucking corpses; they were the only ones who wouldn't complain about his rank smell.
When Ramsay had at last taken care of that soft spoken pretender that dared call itself his father's trueborn son (who cared if he was recognized as his father's heir, he didn't have the stomach or the ruthlessness necessary to be a Bolton as his death by Ramsay's hand proved), he had grown even closer to Reek as it had been the smelly man's idea that if Lord Bolton had only Ramsay as a son he wouldn't be able to resist proclaiming him heir.
When his mother had tried to physically reprimand him for that, it had led to him slamming her head into the table in a fit of rage. He had seen the look on Reek's face when she fell unconscious. How he was tempted to take her body and slake his lust with it. But he was hesitant to do so while she still drew breath even if she was unconscious.
So Ramsay took the simplest route to fulfill both of their desires. He had calmly drawn the hunting knife from Reek's belt and knelt beside his mother's body. With barely a blink of his dirty blue orbs or a single waver in his toothy grin, he drew the blade across her throat.
She never opened her eyes.
He had given Reek time alone with her cooling body as a courtesy. From then on, the manservant had thrown himself headlong into teaching Ramsay everything he could. How to hunt, how to fight, how to handle a blade. Everything he needed for when his father gave him a task to fulfill to prove he was worthy of being named his heir.
It turned out that his task was a seemingly simple thing to do but proved more complicated in execution: his lord father had instructed him to find a way of bringing additional funds into the Bolton family name.
Ramsay had succeeded beyond his expectations if he had been allowed to say so himself. He had managed to turn his and Reek's hobby of hunting smallfolk into a lucrative slaving operation. They found able bodied smallfolk man and woman alike, to be taken to and be imprisoned by the Last Lake. Only a short ride from the Dreadfort so he could send some disposable Grimwell marauder to his father to give him a message and simultaneously allow his father to claim he was cracking down on the bandit problem in the North. He could use any that might provide a challenge to help himself and Reek keep up their hunting skills while shipping the rest across the sea to make money from the slaver cities.
He had heard from his father's warning about what had happened when Lord Stark had called for Jorah Mormont's head for selling to slavers, but Ramsay was personally sure that if Lord Stark ever tried to prove it he could always claim these were criminals that were being punished in accordance with the Old Ways: by giving them a chance to defend themselves in a trial by combat.
He couldn't really be blamed if none of them were allowed weapons seeing as how he was usually generous enough to give them a head start in exchange. It was better than anything a deserter of the Night's Watch could expect. Besides, when the dogs tore them apart and Reek had his fun with the remains, Ramsay would name one of the hunting hounds after them if they had given him a particularly good run. It was a high honor to have a Lordling remember a smallfolk's name, let alone name a beloved pet after them. Most servants of a noble house could only dream of being recognized in such a way; especially since most of them would have to do something extraordinary to earn such accolades!
Funnily enough, it seemed to be mostly women who were willing to indulge his sport and run as soon as he gave them leave. The men were usually the ones foolish enough to try either fighting or groveling their way out of having to be his quarry.
But in any case, this had all gone on for some time now. He had just returned from the drop off of another shipment at the mouth of the Weeping Water that ran past the Dreadfort to choose his next prey. He'd had his eye on a pretty young brunette called Caralyn, couldn't have been more than a nameday or two older than his own age of eighteen. But oh she had been defiant when his Grimwell dogs had taken her and the innkeep wench who she worked under to their camp. He'd initially only though to bring the younger fitter one, but Reek had seemed very interested in the older woman of the two. Beth was it? No, Bess? Well, it was some simplistic name barely worth remembering: he knew that much.
So he'd obliged his most faithful man and brought the both of them from the now abandoned inn to have fun with them. They'd set the older, more buxom innkeep loose in the nearby Lonely Hills and given her a head start. She was a distinctly unsatisfying chase. Didn't even try to do anything aside from run. No seeking out the woods, doubling back, or token attempts at subterfuge: just a straight shot toward the Lonely Hills. He'd been so incensed at the lack of challenge, he'd allowed the hounds use of her before he let Reek indulge himself in the feel of her body. Oh, how she'd cried and begged. It was pathetic really, especially since she begged for her young lover Caralyn's life instead of her own.
Oh, he was delighted she had at least given him some information to use on the younger woman. He had decided he just had to release her that same night. But he'd first let her stew in that knowledge, knowing that when the sun disappeared: she would be next. And even if he allowed the beasts and men use of her before finishing her off, it would be more than such an abomination in the eyes of the world deserved.
The sun had rapidly disappeared beyond the horizon, as if the gods themselves were encouraging his impending trial and judgment by hunt of her soul. The camp was ramshackle to be certain, but many of the smallfolk they had penned in were too frightened of him and the Grimwells to attempt escape anymore. And even if any of the men possessed any second thoughts about following him, he'd swiftly put an end to that trend by allowing them to try proving themselves against his dogs. Both the two and four legged variety.
He'd approached the pen they were being kept in, unable to contain his excitement about the evening's entertainment as her red rimmed green eyes widened with his approach. She had tried glaring and shouting at him earlier. He had only ever grinned wider in response, visibly unnerving her. When she'd tried to call him a bastard, he'd simply used his dagger to stab older man standing next to her in the thigh. As the pitiful peasant had screamed, he'd then very reasonably explained to her that he was no bastard, but a trueborn heir. And that if she ever attempted to call him that again, the rest of them would suffer for it since she was going to be prey for his dogs anyway and he wanted her to be in peak condition when she was let loose.
She'd quieted herself after that.
But now something had come to interrupt his fun! Out of the darkness surrounding their reasonably lit camp, a flaming arrow impacted one of his men. That wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't struck his chest with such force he flew into the tent he'd been standing beside and caused it to collapse on him.
Ramsay barely had time to look at it before the man and the tent suddenly and forcefully ignited, causing him to scream so loudly the smallfolk had cringed away instinctively.
The men immediately picked up their weapons: two handed axes, swords and shields, bows and arrows alike. Another shaft flew out of the dark and struck one of the archers standing nearby the water. This time, Ramsay and the Grimwells watched as the fire seemed to spread of its' own accord from the shaft stuck in the man's abdomen to encompass his entire form. In less time than it took to blink, he was a burning man's form: screaming and running for the waters of the Last Lake to put out the fire.
Another shaft impacted the weapon rack, creating a conflagration as the wood holding the spare weapons, the tent itself as well as the surrounding structures began to catch flame, the smoke and heat starting to choke the air.
"Find the dead man who's doing this you pathetic cretins!" Ramsay screamed furiously, drawing his blade and gesturing in the vague direction the arrows had thus far come from. Even as they started to run toward it, another shaft struck a man through the throat, causing him to fall boneless to the ground. The fire engulfed his form as well.
The Grimwells, hardened as they had been by service under the Bastard of the Dreadfort, were beginning to get scared. The smallfolk were getting restless and Ramsay was beginning to feel that familiar feeling of rage welling up in his gut. When he found the man doing this…
Another flaming shaft impacted one of the guards near the pen, pushing him back into the wood and managing to set it alight. The smallfolk screamed as the fire seemed to spread of its own accord once again. In all his life, Ramsay had never seen anything like this. He could only equate it to tales of sorcery he had heard tell of from across the Narrow Sea.
Another shaft flew into yet another tent, making the whole camp begin to feel like one gigantic bonfire. Ramsay charged toward where he had seen the arrow come from. As he picked up speed, two more arrows followed in short succession, once again managing to impact the archers nearby. As the men nearby Ramsay moved forward as well, one sprouted a feathered shaft from his leg and another managed to take the next shaft up in the eye.
Reek was running beside him now, wheezing as he tried to keep up with his lord's heir ostensibly so that he could protect him. If Ramsay had to hazard a guess as to what Reek's actual motives were, he would say it was more along the lines of not wanting to be roasted in the blaze the camp was becoming.
Only about half their men were actually following him to attack this intruder, but that should be more than enough. They knew better than to give less than their all in service to Ramsay. Though it seemed those who were staying behind would soon need to learn that particular lesson a second time.
As Ramsay squinted into the dark, he thought he saw the form of a young man. The flaming arrow in the bow he held told him it was only him attacking his operation. But impossibly, the bow itself seemed to be aflame as well the closer Ramsay got to seeing it. The last arrow loosed. Ramsay rolled to the left as the shaft sailed by him before burying itself in Reek who had been behind him and to his right.
Reek's tortuous cries and disgusting stench competed to see which sense around them could be deadened first. Ramsay shut out his agonized voice and tried as hard as he could to ignore the scent of Reek's burning flesh which was (impossibly) worse than his normal smell. The man dropped the bow to the ground, drawing a short dagger from his waist and holding it reverse grip in his right hand. As the ten maybe fifteen men who had followed Ramsay charged, the man flew forward.
The first man who attacked held a sword and shield in his hands, charging him down with the simple wooden buckler held in front of him to absorb any attempt by the black haired stranger to stop him via projectile.
The boy waited until the brown haired bandit was within range and swinging the short sword at him in a downward cleave to take a single step to the left before dashing forward. As he did, the shorter knife flashed up and through the right side of his opponent's exposed throat, the blood spattering part of black hair's face.
Even as the dead man fell forward, the boy switched the knife to a thrusting grip before bringing his arm back and throwing it at the right most of three spearmen who were charging him. It struck the third man on the far left side of the formation in the face handle first, causing him to instinctively bring his left hand up to grab the injured part of his face while he continued to hold the spear in his right hand.
The black haired boy (he was a boy now for Ramsay judged he couldn't have possibly been older than himself and so didn't deserve the title of man) quickly closed in on the trio of spears. Instead of going for the distracted third man on his right who was wielding the spear in one hand, he instead went for the man in the center, moving just inside the attacking thrust of the man directly facing him before his hands grabbed the spear and kicked the man wielding it just below the ribcage.
Black Hair's victim wheezed in surprise, his feet leaving the ground a few inches with the kick's impact even as he held onto his weapon. Somehow, black hair had managed to duck under the spear into the outside of it in the meantime. Hands holding onto the spear near the top of the head, Ramsay saw the left elbow flash back to strike his still surprised man in the cranium even as the other two spearmen brought their weapons to bear. It proved useless for the fighter on the right however. For the elbow had proven stronger than his fellow marauder's desire to hold onto his weapon. Before the spearman could react, its point was already emerging through the other side of his neck: ending his life instantly.
Black hair quickly withdrew the spear, spinning in place to avoid the only still armed spearman's thrust at him while the one whose weapon he'd recently acquired seemed to be hanging back trying to find a moment he could rush him. Ramsay shouted at two more men who were hanging back in front of himself: one to get in there and stop this interloper, the other to go and release his hounds. Even as they started to move, Black Hair threw the spear at one of them men who'd been trying to enter the fray wielding a long handled battle axe.
It impacted with enough force to drive through the chest in a brief spray of red. The dead man spun in place briefly before collapsing like a deboned fish.
Even as he finished throwing, the previously disoriented spearman attempted to charge him with a battle cry. It was turned to surprise as he leapt forward and the black haired boy spun in place, allowing him to drive himself into the ground. But the third spearman had been waiting for him to move into range. He instantly thrust with the point of his weapon, at last managing to draw blood as the boy miscalculated his hurried dodge and had the spearpoint graze his right side enough to open a hole in his clothing and a serious cut on his side.
Ramsay grinned widely as he anticipated his hounds tearing this irritant to shreds. Black hair's wounding by his men proved he'd be no match for animals with no sense of mercy or restraint. And no matter how hard he had tried to train them, his two legged mutts just didn't have that obediently ruthless mindset yet. The boy was still fighting his men, moving inside one of his men's attempts to stab him from behind with a dagger. Hands grabbing the rough dagger in his attacker's hand while his arm was over the boy's shoulder, Black Hair pulled downward. Ramsay saw his mutt's elbow bend in the entirely wrong direction even as the crack of it blended with the crackling of the fires on the air. The boy's left leg came up and then drove down on the left knee behind it, visibly shattering it as well even as the spearman and his re-armed friend attempted to skewer him.
The boy was now armed once again, his left hand holding the dagger in a reverse grip as he hurriedly deflected an attack from his left with a small hand axe. A jab to his adversary's throat with his right fist had the man dropping the axe even as the dagger followed into the right side of his throat through his enemy's grasping hand. Black Hair spun in place, in one move leaning down to pick up the small axe and pulling the dead man standing forward with the dagger in his throat, causing him to emit a surprised gurgling yelp as he was pulled with such force as to slam him face first into the ground.
The two spearmen attempted to pincer him between them, simultaneous thrusts shooting toward him like crossbow bolts. Impossibly, he ducked the one to his left by leaning back and then coiling down and out like a striking animal, the axe coming down to sever the spearhead from the shaft before he flew forward, burying the axe in the mouth of the still shocked Grimwell. The other again attempted to thrust at him. Pulling the axe messily from the mouth of his gargling enemy, he flowed around his body before pushing it into the spear. The spear struck true, the blood quickly staining the leather armor as Black Hair proceeded to push hard on the gargling man who tried to get a hold of the shaft to pull it out as he instead slid down it toward his fellow Grimwell.
Black Hair moved around the convulsing body quick as a flash and the next thing Ramsay knew, the knife in his left hand had been driven through the bottom of the last Grimwell's jaw and into his brain before it was pulled out messily, the bodies collapsing like puppets with cut strings.
The other men were visibly starting to get worried now. The ashes from the burning camp were falling on the ground now, but they were sticking more and more to the Black Haired blood stained boy as he turned toward the rest as if assessing their threat level. At that moment, he heard screams and snarls echoing from the camp behind him. Three of his dogs came rushing out of the burning camp toward him. He pointed at Black Hair, instructing: "Get him!"
It was a command meant to be obeyed by all of his dogs.
The men and the dogs tried charging forward, blocking the black haired boy from Ramsay's view for a moment. But apparently that was all it took. A bright flash of light and fire erupted from the scene of battle, temporarily blinding Ramsay even as he drew his sword.
By the time the spots were clearing from his eyes, most of his men were dead or running, his dogs slaughtered and Black Hair taking care of the last by deflecting a sword with the dagger in his left hand before the axe head was buried in the last man's throat. Instead of pulling it straight back out, he pulled it out to the side: leaving a jagged exit for the wide open cut in the Grimwell throat that emptied it's blood over his now crimson face and reddened leather armor.
The ashes of the camp and the blood of Ramsay's dogs now stained most visible parts of the black haired boy, his hair now matted with red and sprinkled liberally with fallen ashes.
Ramsay charged forward, two hands gripping his sword as he brought it toward his enemy. Instead of deflecting, he rolled forward and to Ramsay's left, taking off toward the camp. Even as Ramsay attempted to swing at him again as he was retreating, the boy simply kept running toward the camp.
Ramsay was getting very angry now. He had killed his dogs, he had ruined his fun and he was now having the utter gall to ignore the trueborn heir of Roose Bolton as though he didn't matter!
He didn't fear this mystery fighter. He wasn't recognizable to Ramsay. After all his talks with his lord father, he felt confident he would've recognized any famous warrior or supposedly noble name worthy of being put to a face. He sprinted after his quarry, panting in anticipation as a toothy grin split his face. He came upon this maggot attempting to get the last few smallfolk who hadn't managed to escape away from their holding pen.
Well that just wouldn't do at all.
He yelled jubilantly as he swung the sword for his enemy's head. Apparently caught off guard, he barely brought the knife and axe up to try and block as he stepped into the swing. But Ramsay had put too much force behind it. The swing pushed his opponent back in the dirt. Ramsay swung again: this time managing to feel the blade sink through the armor and into his enemy's side and hit bone, most likely from the ribs, as it pushed him back again.
The third swing proved to be his undoing however.
As he swung again, Black Hair leapt back toward the burning tents and landed so close that Ramsay could see the flames licking him from behind like one of his bitch's overeager pups. But that didn't make him hesitate for a moment as he took advantage of Ramsay's over-extended swing to throw the axe at him. The weapon sang true and sank into his shoulder despite his layers of boiled leather and chainmail standing in the way. It burned as it sank into his flesh, causing Ramsay to scream.
His cries grew louder when a spearhead emerged from the back of his left leg, causing him to fall to one knee before he knew what had happened. He had dropped his sword out of shock, his right arm now limp and his underused left arm unaccustomed to the weight of wielding it by itself. As he looked up and blinked once, Black Hair was standing before him and sinking the knife into his left shoulder. He could feel the blade entering the small hollow of space between his upper arm bone and the socket it was meant to stay in.
He had never known pain like this before.
Even as he made his displeasure known, Black Hair's hands clasped his head so that he couldn't rise or move without being at his enemy's mercy and whim of snapping his neck like a chicken bone. In that moment, Ramsay Snow knew he would never hate another human being as much as he hated the black haired boy standing before him.
He was barely aware of the black haired boy asking a question to someone behind him before his eyes focused on Ramsay's with the intensity of a raging forest fire. Ramsay was startled to see grey Stark Eyes peering from beneath the blood and ash smeared upon the face of his disruptor.
"Stark!" He hissed angrily.
"Ramsay Snow." The Stark answered. His eyes formed a glare, his pupils widening even as his iris's shrank. Perhaps it was Ramsay's imagination, but it felt like the burning heat in the air surrounding them was focusing on the Stark's hands gripping his head.
As the Stark's eyes changed Ramsay's world narrowed down to just him and his enemy. He could sense something growing within the Stark's frame, something that made the hair on his skin rise and him want curl up in a corner out of terror. He so hated feeling fear and powerlessness. He had sworn to become a true Bolton so he would never have to feel this way again. He would never forgive the Starks for this insult! Never!
"For too long you have been allowed to shed innocent blood to slake your perverse thirsts." Stark said, his voice growing deeper and distorted, as though he were speaking to Ramsay from within a rumbling mountain.
"For too long you have been allowed to make pretense at being human." He continued, voice gaining a heat that made Ramsay sweat in ways even the now dying fires of his camp hadn't managed to provoke.
"But no more!" Stark pronounced, his voice now an animalistic snarl, his hands feeling like they were crushing Ramsay's head even as his skin felt like a branding iron being pressed into his flesh his mind his very soul.
"I name you for what you are: Creature! Beast! Monster! Burn in the light of the flames and darken the thoughts of men no more!" He shouted, head turning toward the heavens for a moment before his eyes locked on Ramsay's again.
And in that moment there was nothing in his world but pain.
Fire sprang up all over Ramsay's body, it was burning him from the insides out, his organs were cooking inside his skin, he could feel his muscles bubbling and his veins bursting inside of him.
He couldn't stop screaming even as his Stark tormenter's hands let go of his burning head. As he burned, he felt his eyes burst inside his skull. But somehow he could still see. He saw claws of shadow, hands that spoke only of death reaching from the fires of his rapidly disintegrating body reach out. As he was dragged into the shadows even in the haze of animal fear and blind panicked torment, he vowed that one day he would have his vengeance.
Every last Stark would pay for what had been done to him. One way. Or another.