II-22: Blood on Snow II
The chill of the North bit deep into Ramsay's bones as he guided Blood through the decaying hamlet. His destrier's breath emerged in great steaming clouds, mingling with the mist that rose from the thawing ground like spirits of the dead. The massive beast beneath him moved with calculated menace, each thunderous hoofbeat promising violence. Ramsay could feel the tension in Blood's muscles, the way the horse yearned to crush any peasant foolish enough to stumble into their path.
Might let him, if any prove stupid enough, he thought, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he surveyed the pathetic collection of hovels they called Frostfall. The village sprawled before him like a corpse left to rot, all broken angles and sagging roofs.
"Old Gods take me, what a pisspot of a place," Yellow Dick muttered from somewhere behind him, followed by the wet sound of him spitting into the mud. "Ain't worth the horse shit we're leavin'."
Damon Dance-for-Me's whip cracked through the air, sharp as a blade. "Quiet," he hissed, though Ramsay could hear the smile in his voice. "Ye'll frighten our hosts."
The thought made Ramsay's lips curl into a wet smile. Let them be frightened.
Fear made the hunt sweeter, made the prey do stupid things. And there was prey here worth hunting – a boy with a sword that gleamed like freshly fallen snow, according to the whispers, white as starmetal and twice again as pretty.
Sharp as Valyrian steel, too, if the tales were true.
His men had heard tell of it in three different villages, Thornwell being the last, and Ramsay's blood sang at the thought of such a prize.
When I find that blade, he thought, savoring each word, might be I'll test how sharp it truly is on the boy's own skin. His fingers twitched at the thought, imagining the delicate work he could do with such an edge.
"Place looks worse than Yellow Dick stinks on a good day," Sour Alyn called from the rear, his voice carrying the perpetual sourness that had earned him his name.
"Fuck yerself with a rusty blade," Yellow Dick shot back, but there was no real heat in it. His boys knew better than to start any real trouble unless he told them to.
Ramsay watched as his men spread through the village like a creeping plague, each one moving with the grace of practiced killers. Skinner took to watching the villagers one by one, tracking any that seemed to near them, his cold eyes never still. Grunt's silence was its own kind of threat as he positioned himself near the furthest edge of the road, watching the tree line with predatory focus. Even Ben Bones had left his precious hounds behind tied to the trees for now, though he kept well away from Runt still.
The massive black dog padded beside Blood, its red eyes glowing like hot coals in the mist, brighter and deeper than the red sap on any weirwood tree. Ramsay had seen grown men soil themselves at the sight of those eyes, had watched children cry and women make signs to ward off evil. The beast was nearly as large as his horse, with teeth that could crack bone like kindling. Its presence alone sent the villagers scurrying like rats before a cat.
More demon than dog, Ramsay thought with pride, watching as another peasant ducked quickly behind a closed door. Just like his master.
Especially these days.
Ramsay didn't know how to describe it but he was different now.
Maybe it was Runt, maybe it was his craft… who knew?
All he could tell was that he had first felt the shift nearly a moon past now, not long after he killed those few demons on the road, and bound Runt to him.
The smell of woodsmoke hung thick in the air, mingled with the sharp bite of iron that might have been tools. Over a moon past, he might have thought it was blood, but he knew better. He could feel blood now, throbbing under flesh, and pulsing in hearts.
Even his own blood sang stronger, his heart pounding deeper and louder than it ever had.
A gift from the gods if there ever was one, and he was ever so thankful.
Ramsay breathed deeply with newly alive senses, tasting the fear that rolled off the villagers in waves. He could see them peering out from behind their poorly-hung doors, quick as rats but twice as stupid. Each fearful glance, each hurried retreat, was like sweet wine on his tongue.
"M'lord," Luton called out, his voice tight with the childish excitement that made him both useful and dangerous. "Look there – by the well."
Ramsay's eyes narrowed as he saw them. His smirk grew wider, more predatory, as he guided Blood toward the village well. The open space around it held people, but the way they stilled, the place almost felt deserted like a soon-to-be grave.
"I hear a boy knows this town as home," Ramsay called out, his voice cutting through the village's silence. He studied the gathered faces with the practiced eye of a hunter, noting every twitch and sidelong glance that might betray a lie. A thin smile played across his wormy lips as he watched them squirm. "Hair like wheat, sword white as snow? Pretty face, protects you all from wildlings and beasties, the stories say." The words hung in the air, soft as a freshly sharpened flaying knife sliding between tender ribs.
Behind him, his men spread out in familiar and practiced positions, boots squelching in the half-frozen mud. Damon idly flicked his whip against the ground, leaving thin lines in the muck with each sharp crack. The first flick and crack made a child flinch and duck behind his mother's skirts, drawing a low chuckle from Yellow Dick.
"Careful of the little ones," Yellow Dick called out, scratching at his neck until red welts appeared on his sallow skin. "They bruise so easy, t'ain't no fun at all."
"Might be they know somethin' though," Luton added with a giggle that made even Sour Alyn grimace. "Children always seem to see what their parents don't."
A woman wrapped in a threadbare shawl finally stepped forward, though her eyes remained fixed on the ground. The fabric hung from her bony shoulders like moss from a dead tree. "No boys here," she mumbled, the words barely audible above the wind. "Not like that. Not for months past."
Runt's growl rolled through the clearing like distant thunder. The beast's presence alone was enough to make the woman stumble back, her face draining of what little color it had left. Even some of Ramsay's own men shifted uneasily at the sound. The massive black dog had that effect on people, and Ramsay savored it like fine wine.
"Others take me," Luton muttered, his hands fidgeting with his sword belt. "Think the beast smells somethin', m'lord?"
Sour Alyn spat into the mud, his rotten teeth bared in a perpetual snarl. "Smells fear, more like. Place reeks of it."
"Shut yer mouth," Skinner hissed, his cold eyes never leaving the villagers. His fingers drummed against the flaying knife at his belt. "Let m'lord work."
Ramsay dismounted, taking his time as his boots splashed in a murky puddle. The water rippled, catching the gray light of the winter sky. Blood's massive form loomed behind him, the destrier's breath steaming in the cold air. "No matter," he murmured, more to himself than the trembling villagers. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he considered his next move, reins firmly in hand. "We'll speak to your headman, then. Runt, find me the fattest man in this village."
The black beast moved forward, its massive head swinging from side to side as it scanned the collection of hovels. Each step was deliberate, powerful, its red eyes reflecting the weak sunlight. The villagers pressed themselves against their homes, mothers clutching children close, men gripping pitchforks with white-knuckled hands.
"Look at 'em scatter," Damon said, his boyish face split by a grin. "Like rats from a burning barn."
"Aye," Yellow Dick agreed, hawking and spitting again. "Might need to smoke a few out, see what they're hidin'."
Ben Bones hung back near the horses, his weathered face creased with concern as he watched Runt work. The old kennelmaster had been extremely wary of the beast since Ramsay had caught it, treating it with a mixture of respect and fear that amused Ramsay to no end. His hands kept straying to the knife at his belt, as if that would do any good against something like Runt.
"Keep that whip ready," Ramsay called to Damon, enjoying the way the villagers flinched at his voice. "Might need to make someone dance before the day's done."
They moved through the village like a creeping shadow, boots squelching in the mud as summer snow dusted their shoulders. The great hall stood at the far end of the settlement, its timber walls dark with age and weather. Larger than the other buildings, though that wasn't saying much in a pisspot like Frostfall. The thatched roof sagged in places, heavy with melting snow and neglect.
Grunt took up position near the hall's entrance without being told, his silence more threatening than any word could be. The rest of Ramsay's men formed a loose circle, hands resting casually on weapons as they watched the growing crowd of village guards. Their breath frosted in the air, adding to the morning mist that clung to the ground like a burial shroud.
The hall's door groaned open, wood scraping against wood. The headman who emerged filled the doorway like a bear in winter, his broad shoulders tensed beneath layers of wool and fur. His guards spread out behind him, gripping spears with the desperate determination of men who knew they were outmatched but had nowhere else to go. Their weapons looked as worn as they did, iron heads pitted with rust.
Ramsay's pale eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the chief's stance, noting the way the man's meaty fingers kept straying to the knife at his belt. Hmmm.
They were a ragged lot gathered before the hall, their cloaks more patches than whole cloth, yet they stood with the desperate loyalty of cornered animals. The village guards shifted their grips on rust-spotted spearheads, weapons passed down through generations of neglect.
The chief stepped forward through their ranks, each deliberate step marking him as a man used to carrying the weight of others' lives. His boots left deep impressions in the half-frozen mud, and despite his bulk, there was a certain grace to his movements – the careful precision of a man who knew his own strength. Ramsay could almost respect it, if he didn't simply pity the man more than anything for his pathetic path as a smallfolk.
"Lord Bolton," the man's voice boomed across the courtyard even as he kept it respectfully low, like thunder trying not to startle sheep. "We welcome you to Frostfall." His breath frosted in the air between them, a veil of white that dissolved into nothing.
The title had slipped from Harl's lips with an ease that prickled Ramsay's interest. He studied the man's broad face, noting the intelligence in those deep-set eyes, the way they cataloged every detail of Ramsay's appearance. The headman knew more than he should, and that made him dangerous – or useful. Ramsay didn't know him, yet he clearly could not say the same.
"And you are?" Ramsay prompted, his voice smooth as summer silk as he dismounted. Blood's reins hung loosely in his grasp, the massive destrier's breath steaming in the cold air. The horse's hooves had churned the earth beneath them, turning snow-dusted ground to black mud.
"I am Harl," the man introduced himself, his gaze drawn inevitably to Runt's massive form. The beast's red eyes seemed to glow in the weak morning light, and Harl's face paled before he dropped his gaze to the ground. "Chief of this village." A droplet of sweat traced down his temple despite the cold.
Runt's low growl made even the spearmen step back, though they kept their weapons raised. The sound seemed to vibrate through the earth itself, promising violence. Several of the guards exchanged worried glances, their resolve visibly wavering.
"The boy with the sword," Ramsay cut through the pleasantries like a knife through flesh, his pale eyes fixed on Harl's face. He could smell the man's fear, sweet as summer wine. "I was told he called this village home. A boy with a strange blade, they say. Full of magics. White as morning frost."
Harl's throat worked as he swallowed. "My lord, I—"
"Do not waste my time with denials," Ramsay interrupted, taking a step closer. "I've followed his trail through three villages. Each time, the same story – a boy with a sword that glows like starlight. His path winding and turning but all stories lead back in this direction, tales of wildlings sliced in twain and a boy resting his head in this here village." His lips curved into something that might have been a smile. "So… you understand my interest."
Harl's eyes tightened at the corners, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them before he spoke. His meaty hands kept clenching and unclenching at his sides, leaving half-moon marks in his palms. "The boy you speak of… he left three moon's turns back with my brother, Merek, toward the Dreadfort, you see. He joined his merchant caravan heading east, my lord."
Ramsay's lips twitched into a semblance of a smile, not out of amusement but as a prelude to the strike of a snake. The guards behind Harl shifted uneasily, spears trembling slightly in their grips. "I heard tell of that. Boy never reached the Dreadfort, you know? He ran off after slaughtering half the caravan," he said, his voice low and deliberate. He watched the color drain from Harl's already pale face with the satisfaction of a craftsman admiring his work.
"My brother... was he..." Harl's voice cracked, laden with a mixture of dread and hope. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold, catching the weak sunlight like tiny jewels. His shoulders hunched forward as if preparing for a physical blow.
"Nay, your brother made it to the Dreadfort," Ramsay replied, his smile widening just enough to strip any warmth from the gesture. He knew of the merchant this man spoke of, though he never knew the man had any family. The revelation was... interesting. "My father has need of him for a task most important."
A wave of relief washed over Harl, visibly loosening the tense set of his shoulders.
Yet the relief was clearly tainted, shadowed by the knowledge of Roose Bolton's ruthless reputation. Any man of lesser status with half as much wits as they had hair in the North knew what it meant to be of "use" to the High Lord of the Dread Lands. "That is... good to hear," Harl managed, though the hesitation in his voice spoke volumes to his underlying dread.
Ramsay savored the moment, the easy manipulation of emotions as satisfying as the draw of a bow. He doubted this task would leave this man in any state to return to his family, but it was of the utmost importance to his father, regardless. Blood and tears.
The Bolton heir's smile broadened ever so slightly, a dark amusement flickering across his features like shadow on snow. Behind him, Runt's massive form shifted, the chains rattling against frozen ground. "Indeed, it is rare that my father takes such a direct interest in a man's talents. One can only hope your brother proves... useful." His pale eyes caught the weak winter light, chips of dirty ice studying the man's reaction.
Harl swallowed, his throat bobbing sharply beneath his thick beard. The sound carried in the tense silence. "Aye, that is my hope as well," he said, his usually booming voice reduced to a mere whisper against the howling wind. His weathered hands, calloused from years of labor, hung uselessly at his sides.
Ramsay's gaze lingered on Harl, sharp as the edge of a blade, noting the tension that knotted the man's shoulders beneath his patched wool cloak. The village guards behind him shifted uneasily, their rusty spearheads catching what little sunlight broke through the heavy clouds of the late afternoon.
"And what do you know of the boy's movements?" he asked, his tone laced with a dangerous curiosity. Blood stamped a heavy hoof behind him, sending half-frozen mud splattering across the ground.
Harl shifted his considerable weight uneasily, his eyes briefly flickering toward the ground before meeting Ramsay's stare. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the biting cold. "Nothing, m'lord. He was just a lost boy who I sent on his way. He worked as a guard for some time and he passed through with Merek; that's all I know."
"And have you told anyone else of this boy?" Ramsay's voice was sharp, each word a barbed hook seeking purchase in flesh. The winter wind carried the acrid scent of woodsmoke and fear, a heady combination that made his mouth water.
The chief's brow furrowed, deep lines carved by worry and age growing deeper still. His denial came firm, though his fingers twitched at his sides. "No, m'lord."
Ramsay's lips twisted into a semblance of a smile, though it carried no more warmth than a corpse. The expression never reached his eyes, which remained cold and calculating. "So the Umbers know nothing?" He knew well enough that Frostfall lay on Umber lands, a detail as insignificant as it was irritating. Fools good for nothing but their brawn, he thought disdainfully.
Harl's response came with a resigned heaviness, his broad shoulders sagging beneath an invisible weight. "The Umbers barely pay us any mind, m'lord. We are on the border of the Umber March and the Karhold both and more than that, Frostfall is... small." The last word hung in the air like an apology.
The morning mist clung to the ground, wreathing the assembled villagers in a pale shroud. More than that, Ramsay's irritation simmered beneath the surface, his desire to incite fear growing as he found no fault in Harl's too-eager compliance. The man's answers came too smooth, too practiced, like a lesson well-learned.
It was then that movement caught his eye – two faces, half-hidden behind the hall's heavy wooden doors. Young girls, their eyes wide with a curiosity that hadn't yet learned to fear. "And who is that?" Ramsay called out, his voice cutting through the chill like a freshly-whetted blade, drawing all eyes to the source of his attention.
Harl turned, his face paling further until it matched the patches of snow at his feet. The fear that crossed his features was exquisite – raw and pure in a way that mere threats could never achieve. Ramsay savored it like a fine ale, letting the moment stretch until it nearly broke.
The headman turned back, struggling to maintain his composure though his voice wavered slightly. "Simple curious children, m'lord." Each word seemed to pain him, as if dragged from unwilling lips.
The heir of Bolton felt his interest rise, sharp and sudden as a hunter spotting prey. "Bring them over." The command hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken threats.
Harl's face fell further, if such a thing were possible. His mouth opened, closed, opened again as he sought some way to refuse without giving offense. Finding none, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "...Girls, come down here," he finally commanded, his voice rough with reluctant authority as he sighed.
The girls approached with halting steps through the churned mud, their movements hesitant yet drawn by the peculiar curiosity of youth. Their curtsies were awkward and unpracticed, more suitable for a hedge knight than a noble lord. "M'lord," they echoed in unison, their voices tinged with nervousness that hadn't yet deepened into proper fear.
Ramsay's smile widened, a predator baring teeth at the scent of vulnerability. He glanced at Harl, enjoying the visible tension in the man's frame, the way his hands clenched and unclenched helplessly. "Introduce us, Harl."
With a heavy hand that trembled just slightly enough that Ramsay barely noticed it, Harl rested his fingers on the shoulder of the brown-haired girl to his left, pressing just firmly enough to keep her from fidgeting.
"This one here, this is Britte," he said, his voice struggling to maintain its earlier authority. The girl's features were drawn tight with anxiety, her round nose and pinched face making her appear younger than her years and not less pretty, but certainly less noticeable, even despite her dark straw-colored hair. Her rough-spun dress hung loose on her thin frame, patched at the elbows and hem.
"M'lord," she repeated, eyes fixed on the frozen ground as if studying the patterns of frost.
Ramsay observed the scene with the patience of a hunter, noting how Harl's body angled ever so slightly to shield the other girl from view. His pale eyes narrowed at this telling detail, this instinctive display of protection. "And this one?" he prompted, an edge of impatience slicing through his measured tone.
Harl's jaw worked silently, a muscle twitching beneath his beard as if each word caused him physical pain. The silence stretched thin as ice over a deep pool. "...this one is... Gwenna," he finally managed, his voice strained as a bowstring drawn too tight. His hand moved to guide her slightly toward him, a gesture that spoke volumes in its desperation.
Gwenna curtsied with unpracticed grace, her eyes downcast but her movements carrying a natural fluidity that caught Ramsay's attention. He took his time appraising her, noting every detail with predatory focus. She was barely a year older than Britte, yet there was something more refined in her bearing, a promise of beauty waiting to bloom like winter roses. Her dark red hair had been carefully braided, speaking of attention and care that set her apart from the other village girls huddling in doorways.
Blood shifted restlessly behind him, the massive destrier's hooves churning the half-frozen mud. The movement seemed to draw Gwenna's attention, her eyes flickering briefly upward before dropping again, showing a flash of grey-green that reminded Ramsay of the wolfswood in summer. She'll grow into those features, he mused internally.
Runt, catching the subtle shift in Ramsay's mood, growled softly, a sound like distant thunder rolling over the frozen ground. The guards around him shrank back, their eyes darting between the massive beast and their chieftain, caught in the grip of a fear they could not act on.
Ramsay regarded Gwenna, his gaze unflinching as he turned back to her father. "Is she your daughter?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm.
Harl's response came with a hesitancy that tinged the air with tension. "Yes," he admitted, his eyes darting between Ramsay and his daughter.
Ramsay's lips curled into a semblance of a smile. "You are a lucky man," he commented, allowing the words to hang heavy between them.
He leaned slightly forward, lowering his voice as if to share a confidence. "Perhaps she could keep me company while I remain at Frostfall. My maidservants are back at the Dreadfort, you see."
Gwenna's eyes widened in alarm, her body tensing as if to recoil. Her father mirrored her reaction, a clear sign of their shared dread. "That would be... improper, m'lord," Harl stammered, his voice betraying his fear.
Ramsay raised an eyebrow, his expression turning coldly amused. "Are you suggesting, then, that a Lord's request is dishonorable? Improper, you said?"
Harl's reaction was immediate, his heavy voice rushed and anxious. "No, m'lord, of course not, but—" He swallowed hard, struggling to find a safe passage through Ramsay's traps. "Gwenna is… she has a husband."
Ramsay's interest only grew. "Husband? Who might that be?" he pressed, his tone purposely light.
"A young village guard, also a smith's apprentice," Harl answered quickly, his eyes flicking towards a young lad among the assembled guards.
Gwenna shifted uncomfortably, her discomfort palpable and her face falling further as her father spoke.
"I'd like to meet this lad who has married such a beautiful girl," Ramsay declared.
Harl exhaled a slow, thin veil of breath, the frost mingling with his relief at this temporary diversion. "...Lorn," he said softly.
A young lad stepped out from the line of guards, spear in hand. His face was youthful, if boringly forgettable, barely marked by the rigors of manhood. "M'lord," he greeted, his seemingly calm voice breaking with tension.
Ramsay's examination of the boy was thorough, his eyes tracing the contours of nervous bravery that clung to the young guard. Then, with a casualness that belied the violence to come, he simply uttered, "Runt."
The dog launched forward, a streak of black fury that blurred across everyone's vision. The impact was brutal, a grotesque din of crunching bones and wet, tearing flesh that filled the air, lasting all but a heartbeat.
The girls screamed, their voices piercing the sudden chaos as Runt retreated, the beast's jaws slick with blood. The square fell silent, save for the whimpering of the villagers and the heavy breaths of the monstrous dog.
Ramsay turned back to Harl, his smile now wide and devoid of any humor. "It seems your daughter is no longer married. Good, because I have use for her."
The woods loomed dark and deep, the branches like twisted arms reaching out to snatch the dim light of dusk. Ramsay reveled in the shiver that coursed through the air, the chill of fear mingling with the cold of the coming night. He had dropped her loose at the forest's edge, the girl's terror palpable as she stumbled up onto her feet, her breaths short and sharp, her body on the brink of collapse from sheer dread.
Back in the village, the headman had harbored a fool's hope, a flicker of defiance in his eyes as he watched the horror unfold. As if he could change anything, Ramsay thought with a sneer. He hadn't needed to raise his own hand; Runt had unleashed havoc, his ferocity a spectacle that Ramsay found profoundly beautiful. The dog, massive and merciless, was a perfect instrument of terror, rending flesh and bone with the ease of a child tearing through paper.
The chaos at the village had been a mere diversion, a light prelude to the main event. With the headman and his feeble guards decimated, Ramsay had conserved his strength for the sport he truly craved. He arrived at the designated hunting grounds with time to spare, the forest waiting, an eager accomplice to the night's dark deeds.
Ben and the rest of the dogs were already there, their bodies tense with anticipation, their eyes gleaming with a hunger that mirrored his own. Ramsay swung down from Blood, his movements fluid and assured, his boots sinking slightly into the soft earth. The girl stood a few paces away, her body quivering like a leaf in a storm, her eyes wide and wild with the primal urge to survive.
With a twisted grin, Ramsay leaned close, his voice a menacing purr that slithered through the cool air. "Run, little sweetling," he cooed, his tone mockingly tender. This would be no hunt on horseback.
No, he'd take his time with this one.
On foot.
He watched her hesitate, pitiful hope flickering in her gaze as she wrung her hands in desperation, perhaps a silent prayer that this was all some cruel jest. But as the reality of her situation sunk in, as the shadows of the trees beckoned with dark promise, she turned and ran into the undergrowth. Her steps were clumsy, hindered by the rough terrain and her overwhelming terror.
Ramsay straightened, his smile broadening as he savored the moment. "Give us a good game."