#ramsay bolton fanfiction

[aemondsbabe]

A Kindness

summary: you're finally ramsay's most favorite toy, but is that really a good thing?

pairing: ramsay bolton x reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, dark content it's ramsay hello, blood kink but no injury/gore, mentioned major character death (again, no injury/gore), slight au (ramsay wins battle of the bastards), choking, rough sex, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation, slapping, piv sex, unprotected sex don't be silly wrap ur willy, hair pulling, creampie, slight breeding kink, puppy play, boot humping idk how to else to phrase it, slight angst but a happy ending for ramsay lmao, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 6.2k

a/n: my first foray into dark or at least semi-dark writing and my first time writing ramsay! i've had this one in my head for such a long time so it feels really good to actually get it out! hope everyone enjoys and please make sure to heed the warnings with this one!

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

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“Dip the cloth again, you dolt,” you snap, looking up from the scroll of parchment rolled out before you on the table when you hear the coarse woolen cloth begin to scrape dryly across the silver Ramsay’s… thing was supposed to be polishing, “If I have to remind you of that one more time, I’ll tell him you tried to touch me. I wonder which part of you he’d hack off for that, hm?” 

Reek’s eyes go wide at your threat and he nods his head frantically, quickly reaching over and dunking the cloth into the small bowl of vinegar before him. “Yes, m’lady. Apologies, m’lady.” 

A small sigh leaves your lips as you rest an elbow on the table, nose scrunching up slightly at the sour smell that seems to hang like a cloud over the room, the small one by the kitchens.

 Probably where the staff ate, you think, staring blankly at the fire crackling away in the hearth. You’ve tried hard to picture it – Winterfell in its former glory, trussed up with wolf banners and filled with children’s laughter, how it was when the Stark’s called it home. 

Your eyes linger on Reek and for a second, you’re halfway tempted to ask him about it – what it was like living here, being one of them. You don’t, knowing the question would fall on deaf ears at the least, or send him spiraling to the point of being unable to finish his chores, and then it would be your head on the chopping block as well. 

Distantly, you hear the familiar baying of Ramsay’s hounds and your eyes flick up to the narrow slit windows on the wall; you do your best to ignore the way Reek’s head swivels to the sound in the same instance yours does, the way that adrenaline so keenly rushes through you – a burst of panic leading the charge before you have the chance to correct it. 

Anticipation, you remind yourself, jaw clenched, Passion, excitement. 

Your eyes vacantly scan over the parchment you’d nabbed from the library earlier that morning, an account of the birth of Arya, apparently the sister of the one that had actually managed to escape some weeks back, no doubt frozen now in one of the snowy forests that surrounds Winterfell. You don’t really care, your thoughts once again reverting back to Myranda. Bitterly, you remember how he never made her stay behind when he went hunting, never made her watch over his man-servant, never made her second guess.

The last one is a lie, the truth woven deeply into the many nights you’d spent up with her – listening as she fretted about each word she’d uttered to him that day, hoping each one had been right and had been said at the right time, that he wouldn’t find some made-up cause to punish her. Tendrils of jealousy had twisted into you even then, even as she painted a picture of what he truly was. 

Just as men’s voices filter through the windows from the courtyard outside, your lips quirk up into a mean, victorious little smirk. 

It’s her body he fed to the dogs, you think, the voice in your mind a proud hiss, Just like Violet’s and Tansy’s and Kyra’s. You remember the day well enough, remember the shock of seeing your friend's body laying in the courtyard as you’d run out to greet Ramsay, teal eyes staring at nothing. It had been you that had warmed his bed that very night, and all the ones after it. 

“There you are,” a familiar voice sounds from behind you, nearly making you yelp as Reek scrambles to stand up from the table. Before you even have a chance to, a strong hand clasps over your shoulder, stilling your movements, “No, no, don’t get up on my account.” Rusty copper stains color his hand, dried blood outlining each of his nails. You don’t let your mind linger on what the source of it could be.

You whip your head around and swallow nervously as he chuckles lowly, “Ramsay!” You breathe in greeting, the corners of your lips tilting up into a tentative smile, though that’s quickly washed away as you take in the messy splotches of red that stain his coat and tunic, that snake their way up the pale column of his throat and dot the sides of his face. 

He looks every bit the hunter and you wonder, not for the first time, what that makes you. 

“You seem quite comfortable here, pet,” he drawls, leaning down until he’s eye-level with you, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re more at home down here with the help,” he continues, hand tightening to the point of pain on your shoulder, making you grit your teeth, “Than you are in our chambers where you’re meant to be.”

Our chambers. A privilege he never granted her. Stupidly, your heart sings. 

His hand tightens on your shoulder once more, finally drawing a pained whine from your lips.

“Y-You told me to watch him! To make sure he –” You’re cut off as Ramsay unceremoniously hauls you to your feet, clawing at your leather doublet. A cry leaves your lips as the hand on your shoulder tangles into the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging as he forces your head back, blue eyes flicking to your neck as you swallow thickly. 

“I told you to be in our chambers when I return from hunts,” he corrects you, standing to his full height as he holds you tightly, forcing you unsteadily onto your tip-toes, “That I expected you to be at the door, ready and waiting for me.” His lips ghost over your ear as he speaks, his voice a low growl that shouldn’t excite you the way it does. 

“I’m sorry,” you wince internally at the way your voice comes out as a pained little squeak, your hands scrambling to hang onto his forearm, nails digging into the stained quilted fabric of his jacket.

“You know how I get after a hunt,” he suddenly pulls away from you, his hand pulling out of your hair, a gasp leaving you as your heels drop to the floor. You blink as he reaches up, not flinching from years of practice, though instead of striking you or harshly gripping at your jaw like you expect, his hand cups your cheek. Your chest rises and falls as he strokes his thumb over your cheekbone, blood stained fingers now delicate against your soft skin. 

“Today’s was a special one, too. Don’t you remember?” He questions, icy eyes sliding from yours to the red-headed man still standing by the table, glimmering cruelly as he smirks. 

Still, you nod your head, knowing Reek won’t answer. “To celebrate killing Jon Snow,” you breathe, gripping at the leather of his tunic, desperate to win even a scrap of approval.

Surprisingly, he grants it – fixing you with a proud little grin, like how an owner would look at a dog that’s just mastered a new trick. “That’s right,” his hand ruffles the hair on the top of your head, a gesture that should feel demeaning, yet it sends a tingle of pride through you instead, “Seems you can remember something after all.” He pulls away and traipses over to Reek, hands clasped behind his back.

“Surely you remember too, Reek? You were in the kennels that evening when the dogs had their treat, were you not?” He taunts, the playful inflection in his voice entirely for show, “Our little problem’s been dealt with and now we hold not only the Dreadfort but Winterfell as well! What do you think about that, hm?” Ramsay studies the other man carefully, eyes flitting over his face as he takes great pleasure in the subtle twitches of pain that still manage to flicker through the harsh conditioning he’d endured. Your eyes stay fixed firmly on the stone floor. 

“A… A great victory, master!” 

“Yes, a great victory, indeed,” he smiles, watching Reek for another moment before turning back to you. His smile morphs into a cold, callous frown that ties your stomach into knots, each of his steps making your heart hammer faster in your chest. “You know, it’s actually rather amusing,” he starts, bloodied fingers twirling a stray lock of your hair, “How my hounds seem to be continually more well trained than you, pretty little idiot.”

Pretty, pretty, pretty! Your heart thumps dumbly, a rabbit in a snare. 

“I’ll do better!” You whimper, shaking your head frantically as your eyes meet his, “I can do better, really, I was just confu–”

The hand in your hair shoots down suddenly, yanking several strands with it as he clamps it around your neck. “Confused?” Ramsay murmurs, watching with rapt attention at how you struggle in his hold, lips quivering as the words die in your throat, “Really? I give you one task, I ask one thing of you, and you can’t even figure that out? You still disappoint me?” 

He’s not expecting an answer, you know this, and yet you still try to give one as your mouth opens and closes, like a fish out of water, only the faintest little whines managing to escape. You feel faint, both from his grip around your throat and from the myriad of emotions coursing through your veins – your heart twists at the thought of failing him, your stomach is in knots as various punishments flash through your mind, and yet your center still sparks, still sends little glimmers of arousal through you. 

His grip loosens enough to allow you to suck in several shaky lungfuls of air as he snickers, endlessly amused at how eager you still are, how you still yearn so deeply for him. Again, he pats your head condescendingly, muttering little hushes as if you were a crying puppy. “Lucky for you, pet, I have plenty of experience training stubborn bitches,” Ramsay chuckles, blue eyes glimmering with mirth when he feels you swallow apprehensively, “I think we’ll have your behavior corrected in no time, won’t we? Even the stupidest of beasts can still learn a trick or two.”

Before you have time to react, the hand cradling the crown of your head harshly grabs at your hair again, tugging you suddenly toward the door. “Ah!” You yelp, stumbling as he all but drags you behind him, your hands shake as they struggle to grab onto his forearm, “Ramsay, pl–!”

“You should be grateful I am allowing you the kindness of walking!” He growls, sparing you a glance over his shoulder as he leads you through the Great Hall, “Pity I’m so protective of you, really, I’m sure it would be quite entertaining for my men to watch you crawl.” His drawled threat sends a spark of fear down your spine and you pant, chest heaving, as you shuffle behind him; your cheeks burn as several of his soldiers sitting at the long wooden tables catcall as you stagger past them.

Finally, the two of you reach your shared chambers, that fact sending a little torrent of satisfaction through you even now. Unceremoniously, Ramsay all but tosses you inside and you whimper as your hip collides with an edge of the decorative table just inside the door, no doubt hard enough to bruise but at least it breaks your fall. 

“It’s quite unfortunate, normally find your impudence amusing,” he starts lowly, pressing the old wooden door closed with a thud before sliding the lock into place with a self-satisfied grin, “But I know you know better, don’t you, little one?” He asks as he stalks toward you.

Your breath catches in your throat as he stands before you, studying you silently for a second in the same calculated way he studies a deer through the sight of his bow. Not knowing what else to do, you silently nod your head as your eyes slip down to the floor, like a child being scolded. 

“You’ve been with me the longest now,” he murmurs as if you don’t know, one bloodstained hand grabbing at your waist as the other fits around the back of your neck, once again forcing your eyes to his face, “We grew up together, you and I. You know my ways, my rules, isn’t that right?”

Again, you nod your head, bottom lip trembling with the want to explain yourself, although you know that would only make things worse.

“That’s what makes your disobedience so frustrating,” his blue eyes bore into yours as he speaks, his lip sticking out in a mocking pout, “Because you do know better and yet you’re stupid enough to act out anyway, hm?” His tone is sharper now, dangerous like the pointed tip of an arrow.

“I wasn’t acting out!” The words claw themselves out of your throat before you can stop them and instantly you know you’ve made a mistake, but now you’re desperate to remedy it, “I wasn’t, really! I j-just misunderstood you, that’s –” 

Your pleas come to a screeching halt as his hand smacks across your face, the other grips at your jaw tightly, tight enough to make you whine softly in his grasp. Your eyes squeeze shut for a second, cheek stinging, before they open and lock with his again, wild and desperately. 

I wasn’t being insolent! You scream silently, hoping he can somehow hear you, that maybe all of your years with him would’ve granted that ability, I would never! I was doing as you said, like always! 

“I was wrong earlier, wasn’t I?” Ramsay mutters, so close to you that your foreheads nearly touch. Your eyes widen slightly at his words, heart thumping in a hopeful little staccato, though he wrenches that away quickly enough, “You’re not a dog at all, no, a dog would be obedient and docile.”

Your brows knit together with confusion at his words, biting so hard into your lower lip that you’re shocked you don’t taste blood. Although, you can’t help the surprised little gasp that leaves you when his hands begin quickly tugging at the laces of your bodice as your own remain in white-knuckled fists at your sides, the whole of you determined to stay still like a statue, a plaything. 

“No, you my sweet little pet,” he growls sarcastically, low voice morphing into a pleased chuckle as he tugs your bodice off; the shirt below it quickly follows and a small part of you blooms with pride at the happy little sigh he lets out at the sight of your breasts. 

“You’re just a dumb puppy, aren’t you?” He chuckles against your throat, nipping at your skin more so than kissing it, although you relish the feel of his lips on you all the same. “A dumb, defiant little puppy,” he continues, hastily pulling at the ties of your skirts and you whimper despite yourself when they finally fall to the floor, pooling at your feet, “That’s in desperate need of more training.” 

He stops, pausing for a mere second, and pulls back just enough to look at you, no doubt gaining satisfaction from the desperation written so plainly on your face. There’s a hunger in his cold eyes – a predator silently deciding to go for the jugular, nocking an arrow on his bow. 

You whine as he properly kisses at your throat now, his hands rough against your skin as he grabs at your hips. One skims higher to cup your breast, the unexpected gentleness of his touches causes you to shiver and whine in his grasp and into his mouth as he kisses you finally, his full lips moving steadily in time with yours. 

Harsh pants leave your lips as your heart pumps madly in your chest, his touches always work you up so quickly. The thought of him still being fully clothed as he left you bare and vulnerable made you hotter still; the feel of his warm leather tunic against your exposed skin, of his bloodied hands against your supple skin, drives you mad. 

Before you have time to second guess your movements, you begin blindly pulling at the strings on his leather tunic, desperate to feel him against you. Surprisingly, he lets you tug it off of him, granting you a last meal of sorts, and you can’t help but to smile into the kiss, gasping into his mouth as he unbuttons his jacket himself before quickly tossing it aside as well. He’s panting nearly as harshly as you are as the two of you part long enough for him to pull his shirt over his head, your hands immediately go to his chest the second it joins the ever-growing pile of clothes on the floor. 

Your eyes flicker over him as the two of you pause, the knot in your belly growing tighter at the sight of his taut stomach and chest, the low, warm glow of the many candles dotted throughout your chambers accentuating each muscular dip. Your fingers shake as they trail over him and you feel a sick sense of pride twist in your stomach at the fact that, unlike so many men, his skin isn’t mottled with years of scars and bruises. No, his is flawless, a pale, unmarred, ruthless canvas – a flawless killer. 

Of course, he can’t let you have this reprieve for long. A good trainer doesn’t spoil his pet. 

A soft, broken gasp leaves you as one hand wraps around your neck again, slotting perfectly against your throat like a collar, as he walks you a few paces further into the room, closer to the small hearth by the bed. “Kneel,” his command leaves no room for anything but obedience; you swallow thickly, nervously, and do as he says, lips parting ever so slightly when your knees rest on plush bear skin instead of hard stone. 

A kindness, even now. 

Ramsay’s lips twist into a proud grin as you stare up at him, legs folded beneath you with your hands poised perfectly on your thighs, a familiar stance he’d taught you years ago. “Good girl,” he mutters, fingers threading gently through your hair as you moan softly. 

“Thank y – Ah!”

“No,” he chides harshly, tugging your head back by the roots of your hair until your neck is bared to him, your back arched, “Puppies don’t talk, dumb little thing,” he growls, shifting more closely to you in order to gain a better hold on your hair, close enough that you whimper as your front is pressed firmly against the length of his leg, the thick fabric of his trousers rough against your skin as one of his feet slots between your thighs, “A well-trained pet certainly doesn’t.” 

The knot in your belly seizes at his words, aided by the laces of his leather boots brushing oh-so gently against your center, the knotted fabric sticking against the wetness already leaking from your clenching cunt. You whine, high-pitched and frantic when he clutches your hair tighter still, his fist white knuckled against the crown of your head. 

“A well-trained little pet would always obey their master, wouldn’t they?” You can’t miss the breathiness of his voice now, his tone lower and smoother than it normally is, and the sound makes your hips hump against his boot before you can stop yourself, your nipples stiff, nearly aching, as they rub against his trousers. 

A low, rumbled laugh echoes through your chambers when your arms wrap around his leg, fingers digging desperately into the firm muscle of his thigh. “Aww,” he coos mockingly, licking his lips as he watches you, his attention making blood rush to the apples of your cheeks, “Is my pretty little puppy getting off on this? Does your cunt drip when I tell you how stupid and worthless you are?”

The sound of your blood pumping furiously through your veins thuds in your ears, Pretty, pretty pretty!

You whine as you try to eagerly nod your head, his hold on your hair preventing you from moving much, though your hips rut steadily against his boot now – pressing tightly against the worn fabric, the knots from his laces rubbing perfectly over the throbbing little pearl at your center. 

“You look like you’re having fun,” he drawls, cold eyes shining as he studies you closely, chest heaving in time with yours as his cock hardens in his pants, “Are you having fun, little one?”

Again, you try to nod, keening brokenly as your eyes stay fixed on his. You pant harshly against his leg, breath fragmented as they’re punched out of your lungs, the knot in your belly growing tighter and tighter with each pass of your slick center over the laces of his boot. 

He knows, of course. As soon as he ordered you to stay in the kitchens with Reek this morning, he knew – knew you’d follow his orders to the letter, even if they contradicted his previous ones. He knew he’d find you there, knew he’d punish you for it, knew exactly how he wanted to break you down so that it could be him who built you back up. He’s known you the longest, you’d grown up together. He knows, of course he does. He’s nothing if not a thorough hunter. 

A loud, broken whine leaves you when he flexes his foot, pressing his boot harder against you still. You’re helpless to do much else aside from stare up at him, gasping, while your hips buck against him as quickly as your sore muscles will allow, your high barreling toward you at a breakneck pace. 

All of that comes to a sudden, screeching halt though when he moves again, shifting his weight until his boot is just out of reach. The sudden lack of stimulation makes your back arch further still, your muscles taut like a drawn bow. 

“Oh, poor little puppy,” he laughs, watching gleefully as you whine loudly, the peak that had been so close fading away, leaving you aching, “If you thought it was going to be that easy, you haven’t been paying attention.” He taunts, crouching until he’s eye-level with you, smirking as his movements cause his pull on your hair to become tighter, making you wince, though his hand thankfully releases its grasp once he settles.

“Mmm,” you mewl softly as he caresses your breasts again, jumping slightly when he thumbs over your nipple before softly pinching at it, giving the other one the same treatment. Your eyes flutter shut as you arch your back further still, pressing against the palm of his hand as he kneads at your chest, eager for any stimulation you can get.

“Myranda was never like this,” he says suddenly, his voice low, steady, calculated. He smiles cruelly when your eyes snap open at the sound of her name, the back of your throat tight as tears already blur your vision – just like he wanted. “No, Myranda always behaved perfectly, she always did exactly what I said.” 

He leans forward suddenly, the side of his face pressed firmly against yours so that when he speaks, you’re sure to hear every syllable, to feel them punctuated against the skin of your neck. “She was perfect. I never had to punish her for the same thing twice, you know. Not like I do with you.” 

You shudder as his lips press against your skin again, pressing eager kisses against the wet trail of tears running down your cheek. He admires the way your shoulders shake as you sob, the way the subtle movement makes your breasts bounce, the way your cheeks flush so prettily, how your eyes always shine so brightly with fresh tears in them. 

Ramsay loves breaking you – adores the moment when his arrow is finally launched free from his bow, adores the moment he sees it pierce your little heart. He loves you, in his way. 

Not that he’d tell you that.

He lets you sob for a moment longer, all the while pressing hot kisses against your cheeks, relishing the salty taste of your tears as the little droplets of blood still caked to his skin mar your pretty face, staining it with delicate streaks of red. His cock twitches at the sight, black pupils nearly drowning out the blue of his eyes – maybe one day he’d bring you hunting, what a sight you’d be covered in the bright blood of a fresh kill. 

“Myranda never needed training, puppy, not in the way you do,” he nearly whispers, the corners of his lips twitching up into a small smile as he leans back enough to grab at your chin, tilting your face up to his, “That’s what made her so boring.”

“Huh?” You breathe, sobs stalling for a second as you process what he’d just said, your obvious surprise making him laugh lowly again. 

“What? Does that shock you? That I found her boring?” He questions, eyebrow raised, “Why would perfection be interesting?” 

Your eyes search his face as he shifts, kneeling rather than crouching. A little glimmer of pride sparks to life within you as he kisses you again, your lips moving against his frantically, mewling when he pushes his tongue into your mouth and nips at your bottom lip. 

“I never got to train her,” he breathes against your lips, grunting at the way your hands skim over his chest and stomach, grabbing at him so frantically, “I hardly got to punish her; if I gave her an order, she would follow it blindly – it made her predictable, it made her boring.”

“N-Not like me?” You whisper hopefully, meeting his gaze through half-lidded eyes as you pant, your chest pressed tightly to his. 

“No, sweet pet, not like you,” Ramsay smiles, making your heart sing as it leaps beneath your ribs, “I get to train you, don’t I? And punish you when that little puppy brain can’t follow the simplest of orders.”

You should be offended, should feel mocked and belittled, but you don’t. Instead, you nod your head eagerly, preening like a proud little bird at his praise, because that’s what is, really. Ramsay will never be one to sing your praises softly like other men, but he admires you all the same. 

Before you have time to reply, he grabs at your waist and abruptly maneuvers you, manhandling you until you’re poised on your hands and knees, cheek pressed firmly against the fur rug beneath you. 

“I get to play with you, pet,” he drawls lowly, pressing a hand into the small of your back and grunting appreciatively when you arch down like he wants, licking his lips as your cunt finally comes into view, shining already in the low candlelight. He smirks at the way you moan when he presses his hard length against you, grinding against your slit, chest heaving at how warm you are even through his trousers, “Don’t I?”

“Yes!” You nod eagerly, pressing back against him like a wanton whore, nearly dizzy with need when his fingers bump against you as he quickly undoes the laces on his pants, “Yes, yes, yes, please!”

“Ohh, so you can be good, hm?” He teases, groaning in relief when he pushes his trousers down just enough to free his cock, too impatient to remove them entirely, “Seems my training’s working nicely.”

Mindlessly, you nod, willing to agree with whatever he says so long as he gets inside you.

Mercifully, you don’t have to wait long. A loud cry fills your chambers as he presses into you, the slight sting of his thick cock stretching you open making you shiver, a familiar sensation since he was rarely ever patient enough to work you open on his fingers. 

Immediately, he sets a brutal pace, his hips pressing against yours tightly each time he pushes forward, the head of his cock nearly kissing your cervix with each harsh thrust. Your cunt clenches at him greedily and your hands scramble against the rug beneath you, fingers tangling into the furs, desperate for something to anchor yourself. 

“Fuck, tight little cunt,” Ramsay grunts harshly above you, his hands gripping meanly at your hips, hard enough to leave bruises. 

“R-Ramsay, fuck… fuck,” you whimper beneath him, your eyes squeezed shut tightly as the knot in your belly threatens to unravel, your walls pulsing rhythmically around his length each time it spears into you.

He chuckles breathlessly at your little murmurs and runs a hand up the length of your back before grabbing at the hair at the nape of your neck, relishing the little cry you give as he pulls you up until your back is pressed firmly against his chest. “Are you close already?” He mocks smugly, his fingers untangling from your hair to wrap once more around your throat as his other paws at your breasts, his fingers pinching and pulling at your nipples. 

You swallow thickly, throat bobbing under his grip, and nod your head the best you can, grabbing at his thick forearm. 

“Do you think I’m going to let you?” He teases, biting harshly at your shoulder as his hips keep up a punishing rhythm.

You nearly sob at the question, so desperate, but still you shake your head, cunt pulsing around his length. “No, n-no…” You moan mournfully, voice hoarse from his hold. 

He chuckles behind you, his chest rumbling against your back as he kisses and bites at your earlobe, your shoulder, any part of your neck not covered by his hand, each touch driving you mad. “Finally, that little brain seems to be working,” he grunts, laughing lowly as he abandons your breasts long enough to slap your cheek, blessedly soft this time, “I’m having too much fun playing with you to let you go that easily,” He drawls, chuckling once more when you whine. 

“In fact,” he continues, reaching down and rubbing his fingers roughly against your aching bud, just enough to make you cry out before he suddenly pulls away again, tugging his length from you as he lets you flop to the floor with a little grunt, “I want to see you do a trick,” he whispers, rubbing over your ass before smack it roughly, making you jump, “Roll over.”

“Wha –” You start to question, only to be cut off with a loud cry as his hand spanks you once more.

“Be a good fucking puppy and roll over.”

His order leaves no room for questioning and obediently, you listen and roll over onto your back with a little whimper. You keep your legs bent up when you settle, keeping yourself on display for him, clenching around nothing as you eye his hard cock bobbing against his stomach, the tip red and leaking. 

“Good little pet,” he praises, his words going straight to your pearl as you shudder. Hastily, he pushes your legs up further, one hand holding you open as he presses his cock back into you, savoring your loud whine, the way your eyes roll to the back of your head.

He resumes his harsh pace, slamming into you as he chases his high now, blue eyes trailing appreciatively over your trembling body, watching as your breasts bounce with each unforgiving thrust he gives. 

“Please, please, Gods, please!” You whine frantically as he presses his hips against yours, grinding into you, the thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your bud perfectly, “Ramsay, p-please! I – fuck!”

He laughs breathlessly at your cries and leans down when you arch your back toward him, mouthing savagely at your chest, teeth nipping at the fat of your breasts before he licks over your nipples. He knows each touch is only driving you closer and closer to your release, yet he still doesn’t give you permission, a part of him meanly hopes you’ll slip over anyway and give him another reason to punish you, like he actually needs a reason. 

Still, you have been good today and he does love how willing and docile you become when you peak, so malleable – entirely submissive, entirely his. 

He bites and kisses his way up along your chest and neck before licking into your mouth for a moment, eagerly swallowing each desperate little cry before grabbing at your neck once more. Greedy, he turns your head to him, needing to see that empty-headed, hazy look in your eyes when he lets you finish.

His cock jerks at the sight of you, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as you try desperately to hold off, cheeks flushed, reddened lips parted. He grunts, feeling his balls tighten, his thrusts beginning to lose their rhythm. 

“Cum, puppy,” he growls, forehead pressed against yours.

Your lips part in a silent curse as your high slams into you, each muscle in your body contracting at once. Your eyes bore into his wildly as your cunt spasms tightly around his cock, eyes rolling back as he fucks you through it.

“Fuck!” He grunts, growling lowly as his cock spasms within you, your walls all but milking his own high from him as well. His hips slam into you a few more times before he stills, gasping as he fills you with his spend. 

The two of you lay together for a moment, panting loudly against one another. Ramsay is the first to move, shushing you as he pulls his softening length from you, making you whine. 

Distantly, a part of you twists gleefully when you feel his seed drip from you, another thing he never dared do with her. 

“Here,” he says softly, offering you a hand, which you gladly take, letting him help you stand since you doubt you’d be able to on your own. Finally, you stand on your feet, albeit unsteadily, and grab onto the foot of the carved wooden bedframe to steady yourself. Strangely, he stays with you, neither of you saying anything as he holds you, blue eyes studying you as they gleam with some unknown emotion. 

After a moment, you try to pull away, meaning to leave as you always do, not one to wait around for his order anymore. 

“Stop,” he murmurs, only pulling away once you still, “Stay.” He orders, an unfamiliar softness to his voice. Your head reels, eyes staring unfocused as you try to make sense of… whatever this is, whatever his game may be now. 

He returns quickly enough, a damp cloth in his and from the small wash basin he keeps on the vanity. You reach out to grab it, to clean yourself off like you assume he wants, and yet he stops you, holding the cloth out of your grasp until you lower your hand again. 

“Obedient puppies get rewards,” he says softly, all of the harshness from before absent from his tone as he answers your silent questions. You nearly freeze when he presses one small, gentle kiss against your forehead. Finally, he makes quick work of wiping between your legs, taking care to wipe away any of his spend that leaked from you. 

“Thank you…” You nearly whisper, voice scratchy from his earlier treatment. That doesn’t feel like the right thing to say but if it isn’t, he doesn't say. 

Silently, he cups your chin, lifting it enough to give him room to check your neck, trailing his hand over it lightly until he must be satisfied that you’re okay, that he hadn’t treated you too badly. 

Kind, even still.

A few moments later, you recline in the plush bed, watching as he kicks off his boots before joining you, lying with you under the soft blankets. This part, at least, you’re used to – lying together like this but not touching, not cuddling, that’s too intimate, too close. 

He hadn’t said that, wouldn’t say that, but you knew. 

A surprised little gasp leaves you when he pulls you close, hands, clean now that he’d taken a moment to wash them, resting on you gently. One smoothes up and down your arm as he lets you lay against his chest, cheek pressed against his collarbone, his chin resting on your head; the other grabs at your thigh, pulling you to him until you’re tucked into his side, one leg propped over his hips. 

“You did well,” he says softly, chest vibrating under your cheek as he speaks, “With your training, I mean. You did well. I’m… proud of you.”

“Thank you.” 

The two of you are silent after that, neither of you knowing how to handle this new territory that you seem to be spilling into, but you don’t care, not with your heart pounding quickly in your chest. You’d think you were dying if it weren’t for the savage sense of victory threading through every inch of you. 

Proud, proud, proud! The word echoes in your head with each pump of blood through your heart. It was so small, the barest of compliments, but from Ramsay it meant the world. It was something he’d said to you, only you, never to her, not once. Never to anyone else. 

His chest rises and falls under your cheek, breath steady and even. He always falls asleep quickly, normally you do too. But not this time, not tonight, not wanting to let this moment fade just yet. 

He loves you, in his way.

tagged lovelies: @helloworldiamnotarobot @drakonflames @marysucks-blog @watercolorskyy @valeskafics @iamaegontargaryenwife0 @aemshaircare @1997babyyyy @lovellies @little-moonbeam-666 @blackswxnn @wickedfrsgrl @echos-muses @iamawhorecrux @avidreader73 @marvelescape @rae-11 @ms-morningstaarr @chaotic-fangirl-blog @grsveeth0m @twglitching @hb8301 @delulumhaggy @burntliquorlips @simp-hub-bro @badxbabyyy @venchi-cremino @targaryenbarbie @fan-goddess

(tags are based on your answers to my google form; if you were mistakenly tagged, please contact me & update your answers on the form! thank you!)

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Mine First, Mine Last, Mine Even in the Grave

Pairing: Ramsay Bolton x Reader

Warnings: NSFW, minors keep away!, innocent MC

Words: 2797

Summary: Even at such a young age, Ramsay was proving a difficult and willful child. He was somewhat twisted in nature that sometimes disturbed his mother. However once he laid eyes on the little baby, he immediately grew attached to her.

"You mean she’s all mine?” A little Ramsay peers over the crib at the little bundle that fussed around in her blankets. He was standing on his tippy toes just so that he was barely able to peer over the side.

“Not exactly. . .” His mother informs him a bit hesitantly. How was she to tell him that the baby was left on their doorstep? That she had debated on letting it freeze to death had Ramsay not opened the door and found her. Even at such a young age, Ramsay was proving a difficult and willful child. He was somewhat twisted in nature that sometimes disturbed his mother. However once he laid eyes on the little baby, he immediately grew attached to her.

Now she was stuck raising two children. It was the last thing she wanted. At least Roose Bolton was kind enough to give her money and ways to make a living for her and their child. She now had to split that money three ways now since Ramsay just refused to let the little babe go.

With a gentleness that his mother had never seen before, Ramsay brushes a little finger along the curve of the baby’s chubby cheek. “You’re mine, (y/n). You belong to me.”

*Several Years Later*

He had insisted that you come along with him to the Dreadfort. That there was no other place better for you than by his side. At least that’s what he always told you. You were his constant companion since the day you could remember. Ramsay had always been in your life. Hovering over you and sometimes smothering you, but it was the only thing you had known.

Ramsay was happy to be at the Dreadfort, his rightful home as he had always told you. It had taken his father this long to request his presence. You knew how much this meant to him. How much being part of the Bolton family meant. Yet he still held the surname of Snow. His father hadn’t quite accepted him that much yet. So he would work hard to earn the name Bolton. And he would make sure you would be by his side.

You hadn’t seen Ramsay in days. You were excited that he was finally to return home from his hunting excursion with his father and brother. Peeking from your window, you try and go further on your tippy toes but it’s no good. All you could see are the Bolton banners being abused by the northern winds. With an impatient huff you turn on your heels and throw open the door of your room. Rushing down the hall, the excitement in you bubbled out of control as you grinned. Oh how you had been so bored without Ramsay. Maybe he would take you riding!

Taking the stairs two at a time you practically fly up to the balcony that faced the gates to the Dreadfort. The loud groaning and rumbling of the gate alerts everyone to their arrival. Containing your giddiness was nearly impossible. You had to wait until he was in eyesight though. You lean forward over the edge a bit.

“Excited?”

Freezing you turn to see Myranda standing right next to you. For the life of you, you couldn’t think of what you did for her to dislike you so much. Her face held a sneer as she looked at you.

“O-Of course. Ramsay’s home. Why wouldn’t I be excited?” You ask hesitantly. She was always mean to you so of course you were standoffish with even speaking to her. Myranda always made fun of you, commenting on how you were way too innocent for Ramsay to keep an interest in you. What did she mean by that?

The clopping of multiple hooves made you turn away from her. You didn’t want to hear what she had to say anyway. Your smile returns. Cupping your hands to your mouth you scream out “RAMSAY!!”

You had only been able to see the crown of his dark hair, but once your voice rang out he immediately lifts his head to the balcony. His grin was unmistakable.

Carefully moving around Myranda you hastily pick up your skirts and run to meet Ramsay at the bottom.

You didn’t give him much time to settle down onto the ground before you threw yourself at him. Ramsay was always ready for you though. He swoops you up in his arms and spins the two of you around.

“Did you miss me (y/n)?” His cold nose nuzzles against your neck making you squirm.

“Of course! That’s such a silly question to ask!” Burying your face in the pelts of his coat you take a deep breath in. You missed the smell of him. Something caught your eye though behind him. You lift your face to get a better look. “Ramsay. . . Who are those people?” They were bounded by chains, bloody and beaten.

Ramsay quickly puts you down, blocking your view. “Oh, no need to worry about them. They’re bad people.” His hands go to caress your face and bring your gaze back to him but you’re still trying to get a look at them.

“Why have you brought them here then?” A kiss to the crown of your head brings you away from the question though and you smile up at him.

“I missed you too (y/n).” Ramsay’s voice was always sweet like honey when he spoke to you. Sweet and full of adoration. You knew there would never be a man who loved you as much as Ramsay did. He even told you so and you felt it to be true. “Let’s get out of the cold. Tell me what you did while I was gone.”

He leads you back inside of the castle, listening patiently as you told him how bored you were and that you really hadn’t done much. But one of the stable boys had helped you get onto your horse and even walked around the courtyard with you with the reigns in his hand as he made sure your horse didn’t get out of hand.

His hand froze on your shoulder. “Is that so?”

“Yes, he was very nice to me.” Nodding, you notice nothing out of the ordinary and continue on. “He even told me why horses need shoes on just like people! Did you know that the nails don’t actually hurt the horse? It would hurt me if someone put nails on my feet.”

“(y/n), do you remember the name of the stable boy?” asks Ramsay nonchalantly.

You think for a moment, index finger on your chin. “I believe his name is Joenn.” That’s when he stops you mid-step. You look back at him. “What’s wrong Ramsay?”

There’s dark foreboding on his face, even his pale eyes speak of a warning. “(y/n) you must be more careful next time.”

Scrunching your brows into a furrow, you tilt your head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You can’t be talking to men so freely like that. You can’t trust them. They’re all evil. Except for me, of course. I would never hurt you (y/n). They will though. Once they see that you’re guard is down they’ll try to hurt you. All of them.”

“W. . . Why would they want to hurt me?”

Seeing the clear fear on your face, he returns to being more softly and pulls you closer to him. “Because you’re sweet. All men want a taste of the sweetest fruits. Promise me you won’t talk to any other man unless I’m with you. I can protect you.”

“O-Okay.”

*

Ramsay wiped his hands clean of Joenn’s blood. It wouldn’t do for his precious (y/n) to see any speck of blood on him. Bad enough that she saw the prisoners that they had brought in. He wouldn’t dare expose her to that side of him. She was far too sweet for that world. Always smiling so easily at him. Yes, she was the one thing that solely belonged to him. That much Ramsay can confidently say; (y/n) was his.

“Are you done then?” Ramsay hears Myranda’s purr from the doorway of the dungeon.

Myranda had been fun to play with, but she could never truly replace (y/n). As much as he wanted (y/n) to remain sweet and pure there was a hunger in Ramsay for her. It was hard enough for himself as it was to control such urges. Everything she did made him want her even more.

The rag still in his hands he looks up at her. “Yes. Just had to take care of a pest problem.”

Myranda eyes the boy still hanging on the large wooden X. “A pest problem?”

“Yes. He got to near (y/n) for my liking.”

Immediately her dark eyes narrow at the mention of her. “You were jealous. You never get jealous when it comes to me.”

Ramsay offers her a carefree laugh. “I don’t have to worry about you. (y/n) however is too innocent. She doesn’t know how much she attracts men with her sweetness. She’s mine. I have to make that a point to the other vermin that skulk around her when I’m gone.”

“She’s a sweet idiot. Why waste your time on her if you don’t plan to fuck her?” She asks haughtily. The green venom of jealousy eating away at her. She couldn’t stand how much Ramsay adored the girl. Whenever she thought she had the upper hand (y/n) would always do something to take Ramsay’s attention away from her. What did that idiot have to offer? Surely not sex. That girl seemed like one who didn’t even know what her cunt was truly for. Ramsay had kept her sheltered. So why? Why was he so. . . in love with her?

“I’ll not have you speak about her in such a manner.” warns Ramsay, the glint in his eyes making Myranda press her lips together. Normally she would’ve gotten excited. When he used that tone it usually always led to rough sex. Not when it concerned (y/n) though. “Unlike you she’s precious and delicate. She requires nurturing before I take a bite of her.”

Yes, eventually he would taste her. Eventually he would make (y/n) his in every way possible. No man would ever be able to lay a claim on her once her marked her. Eventually. . . Eventually he would make her a Lady. It wasn’t just conquest of her that Ramsay aimed for. He would truly make her is. Ramsay would give her his name, a title, and eventually, his child. (y/n) would make an outstanding wife and mother. In due time. He just had to wait until his father truly claimed him as a Bolton.

She was the only one to ever make him breathless.

There he stood in her doorway as she stood nude in her room, appraising the massive fur pelt that Ramsay had given her. Fresh from the animal he had taken it from. The light of the candles highlighted her curves ever so perfectly as she swayed her hips unconsciously, smiling and running her hands in the fur before turning her attention to Ramsay. Her eyes widen a bit in surprise before she goes back to smiling. (y/n) reaches for her robe. “Hello Ramsay! I was just about to go take a bath. Would you like to join me? It’s been forever since we’ve bathed together!”

And there was a reason for that. Every time he caught sight of her naked body his cock would spring to life. It was against his nature to refuse his carnal desires. For (y/n) though he would.

Ramsay could feel his hand twitch, urging him to touch her. He wanted that damn robe off of her. Already he could feel his cock swelling from the peek he had received.

(y/n) cocks her head expectantly at him with a hopeful smile. “Come on Ramsay! We used to take baths all the time when we lived with your mother!”

Damn

Damn

Damn

Ramsay couldn’t take it anymore. He closed the distance between them, the heat in his groin becoming unbearable. He wanted what was his. Such sweet lips she possessed. Ramsay cupped her face roughly and smashed his lips against them. (y/n) jerks a little bit from the surprise. Wordlessly he pulls away to gaze down at her flushed face. (e/c) eyes dewey and half lidded, her lips parted from the loss of Ramsay’s. Hand snaking down her neck at past her robe to feel up her breast. With the slightest tug he slides her robe off of her to expose her once more. Grinning he he cranes his neck so that he could take soft nips against her slender neck. Shuddering, (y/n) bites down on her bottom lip and tilts her head back as she releases a shallow moan. Good. She was incredibly receptive to his touches.

With a shove, she lands on her pelt with stunned eyes staring at Ramsay. Utterly divine. Ramsay runs his tongue against his lips and starts to crawl on top of her. Brushing his lips along the length of her torso. “You’re mine (y/n). You understand? You’ll be my wife someday. Mother of my children. Lady of the Dreadfort.” Front teeth bite down on to her pert nipple making her wince a bit. To make up for it Ramsay rolled his tongue over the abused bud and gentle sucked at it. The sound of her breath growing shallow made his cock strain against his pants. It begged to be let out. To be between her legs and pulsate inside of her. As a substitute Ramsay slides his fingers inside of her making her back arch and her mouth gape wide. She’s barely able to groan out his name before he starts pumping them in and out, curling them inside of her and making her start to whimper.

“Does that feel good (y/n)?” Concentrated on her contorting facial expressions, Ramsay moves his fingers slower giving her enough time to answer him.

“Y. . . Y-Yes. . .” (y/n)’s eyes are closed, eyebrows furrowed as she instinctively thrusts her pelvis to the rhythm of Ramsay’s ministrations. She wanted more. She wanted more of him. “Please. . .”

“Please what?”

“More. . .”

He feels his own heart racing at the fact that she didn’t know what she wanted more of. “Say that you want my cock. That you want my cock inside of your sweet cunt.”

As if her cheeks weren’t red already they were now beaming brightly as she turns her face away with embarrassment.

“I’ll give you what you want. You just have to say it (y/n).”

Her lips part several times, trying to form the words. She struggles even more when Ramsay stops his movements all together. “I-I want your cock. . .”

Immense pleasure fills him as he lets his thumb graze her clit. As if electricity jolted through her, her body clenches at the foreign feeling. “And where do you want my cock?”

“In my. . . I-I-In my s. . . sweet c-cunt.”

Who was he to deny his beloved (y/n) anything?

Within seconds his britches were off and his cock was finally free and prodding at (y/n)’s soaking cunt. Rubbing the head along her slit made (y/n) squirm incessantly, her thighs twitching with anticipation. Ramsay lifts up her thighs, fingers digging into them as he props her legs against his shoulders. One thrust of his hips and Ramsay was balls deep inside. She yelps at the intrusion, her maiden’s head having been penetrated. There’s no letting up now that Ramsay was finally inside of her. The one place he had longed to be since they had both come of age. Incredibly warm and tight, Ramsay continues to drive into her mercilessly. Her moans are torn and scattered as she can barely catch her breath. Every carnal instinct and desire spilled forth. He wanted to consume her entirely. Teeth bit down harshly on her fragile skin, enough to draw blood. Tongue lapped at the sweat that beaded on her temple. Fingers digging desperately just to get her closer despite them already being as close as two bodies could get.

More.

More.

In that lustful haze Ramsay hardly registered (y/n) coming to her climax until the walls of her cunt tightened in revenge around his cock. That was the last thing he needed to come undone himself. The very breath was stolen from him as his body locked up, spilling his seed inside of her that would guarantee him an heir.

Exhausted, his face drops to the crook of her neck. Gingerly her hand goes to his shoulder to press him closer to her panting form.

“Mine. . .” He pants. “You’re all mine.”

[fallatyourfeet]

Conflicted - Part 2 of 2 (Ramsay Bolton x Reader)

Summary: Ramsay is conflicted by his feelings for the Reader.

Find part one in my masterlist. I used to link previous parts, but I've had so much trouble with posts and links that I gave up on the idea a long time ago.

Warnings: Usual Ramsay warnings, he's hardly a poster child of purity.

Word Count: 1177

A/N: This has been a long time coming. It's been requested quite a few times since Part 1 got posted, so I thought it was time to deliver. It's based off a request I got at the start of the year (but I haven't followed it completely). I've been in a writing slump the last couple of weeks, not because of a lack of inspiration, but rather a lack of time. So I'm hoping this doesn't feel too disjointed, being written in patches here and there, whenever I could steal the time.

I would love to know what you think, please feel free to send an ask, message or leave a comment, feedback is always appreciated

If you like this, please feel free to visit my blog and take a look around!

Ramsay followed the young lord down the dark passages of Winterfell, heading towards the long-forgotten places below the castle, places that had been rather useful since the Bolton’s were proclaimed the Wardens of the North. There were a lot of Bolton enemies that needed to be taken care of, and their screams were much harder to hear in the dark musty cells beneath the castle’s great stone walls. The young ward who had come to live with them a little over a year ago slotted right into their less than orthodox family. Becoming more of a sadistic apprentice, of sorts, rather than ward, to the now trueborn son of Roose Bolton, their similar and ungodly natures giving them much in common. But as Ramsay followed him further down the darkening passage, he grew uneasy, the stupid and fevered look lighting the young lord’s eyes ripped at his chest like claws, his thoughts lost on the very idea of what the stupid boy had gone and done. 

Peering over his shoulder, the boy smiled with anticipation, “I’ve got a little present for you, Lord Ramsay, I think you’ll be pleased.” Coming to a stop outside an old beaten-up door that led to probably the worst of the damp and decrepit rooms, he rested his hand on the latch, “I’ve seen the way you’ve been watching this one... no one saw me take her.” Ramsay felt his face stiffen, his upper lip curling and tensing as he took in the boy’s excited features, his gut already telling him what he would find on the other side.  

The door creaked loudly when the young lord slowly opened it, but Ramsay did not hear the sound. The only noise reaching him came from the distressed muffles of the beautiful peasant girl he had fought so hard to leave alone and untouched. Clenching his jaw tight, Ramsay held his breath, losing his grip on his usually impeccable self-control. Having always prided himself on his sadistic patience, especially when faced with his insatiable desire for cruel and torturous revenge, it was unsettling to feel himself losing grip. And for what? A worthless little peasant girl? She embodied everything he wanted to enjoy and destroy in the most ungodly ways. Why did this one matter? Why was she different from the rest? And why did the very thought of her being hurt make his jaw tense up and chest burn?  

A mere thread of self-control kept Ramsay from reacting to the distressed sounds on the other side of the opening door. A thread that soon snapped, burning all his sadistic patience to ash the moment he caught a glimpse of her restrained form thrashing around in panic, her futile attempt to free herself twisting his stomach into knots of pure torture. Bringing with it an overbearing thirst for the boy’s last breath. How dare he lay a single finger upon her... and oh, how quickly he would come to regret it. 

With his self-control lost beyond reach, Ramsay’s rage was the only instinct left. Grabbing the boy by his collar, he pushed him through the door, slamming it shut. Throwing him against the stone wall, the impact knocked all the air from the young lord’s chest. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the girl, (YN), her arms and legs fighting to free themselves, and when he turned his head towards her the look of absolute terror in her eyes consumed him. Because he knew that it was not only the boy that put it there... it was him, his presence in that dark and dingy room put it there too. And that knowledge ate at his insides in a very unpleasant way... feeling none of the joy he was accustomed to. Why? Why did she have this power over him... And what was he going to do about it?  

Turning back to the boy, he gripped him around the neck, squeezing until the flesh of his cheeks turned red and his eyes grew wide. Leaning down to his ear, Ramsay whispered, his voice low and menacing. “You’ve made a very stupid mistake, my young lord... You have completely misread my intentions.” Squeezing tighter and tighter, he watched the boy fight for air, but released his grip just enough to stop him from losing consciousness, wanting to say one last thing before sending him to sleep, “I’ll deal with you later... you will not enjoy it, but I’ll make sure that I do... sweet dreams.” One final squeeze sent the boy limp, his body sliding down the wall to the floor, a short reprieve before Ramsay sent him on his final journey into permanent darkness. A journey that would be long and filled with unimaginable pain. He would beg for mercy, beg for his life, before finally begging for death. But Ramsay would not grant his wish, would not bring death a moment sooner than necessary, he would die only when his body finally gave up. 

Turning his attention to (YN), he felt the air skip roughly through his lungs, her body was no longer thrashing about, but the monopolising fear in her features stung every nerve around his body. Moving towards her with his palms outstretched, Ramsay reached around to loosen the gag that was secured so roughly around her beautiful mouth, detesting the way her body recoiled from his close proximity. When the gag fell to the ground her distressed muffles were no longer contained, moving and bouncing around the damp stone walls as desperate cries and pleas, but he hushed her raising a finger to his lips.  

To her credit, she somehow managed to regain her composure, showing that same quiet defiance he first saw in the great hall of Winterfell... and it lit the edges of his heart. With a shaky breath she tried to hide her fear, bravely holding his piercing gaze and spoke. “...Lord Bolton, I... I don’t know what I’ve done... but... but you don’t have to hurt me... Just tell me what I did and I... I won't do it again.” 

Normally he would find such a request, pathetic and weak, he knew that... but he couldn’t ignore the way he wanted to soothe her, to take away her fear, keep her safe from the people that wanted to hurt her. To shield her from evil... from his evil.  

Crouching down beside her, he reached for her wrists, ignoring the way she flinched as he untied her restraints, “Hurt you?” Shaking his head, he took his dagger from his tunic and cut the tie around her ankles, “Sweet girl... much to my surprise, the thought of hurting you does not appeal to me.” Then lifting her to her feet, he ran a gentle thumb across her cheek, his skin tingling under the contact, both his eyes and voice far too intense to bring her any kind of reassurance. “No one is ever going to hurt you... I’m going to make sure of it... Never, will anyone [else] ever touch you again.”  

[hazywrites]

As My Witness (Ch. 5)

Good Girls and Going to the Dogs

Summary: You’re crazy, toxic, and above all, dramatic. So what else can you do when your long-term boyfriend cheats on you but run away across state lines in the middle of the night? A chance encounter with a certain bastard might be everything you need to escape your old life- or it might be your worst nightmare. You’re running with the big dogs now. Hope you can handle it.

Warnings: This is an explicit fic! Please do not read if you aren’t prepared for mature content.

Words: 11414

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22813183

Dedication: So, this is my first published fic! I have so many wonderful influences to thank for that, seriously y'all are all sorts of talented and amazing. But this particular fic I would like to dedicate to my darling @neoncrowpen​, who gave me the confidence to put my work out there back when I was just a shy lil anon who needed the advice from one of my most admired authors. Thank you for your faith, I hope I can do it some justice <3

Chapter 4

Domeric’s car was sleek, black, and shiny like Ramsay’s, but it looked more classic than sporty, with rounded fenders and a detailed grill clearly meant to mimic an older style. Regardless, you soon found out it could drive just as fast as Ramsay’s, as the Bolton brothers seemed to have a shared affinity for speeding. Your heart thrummed and the scent of Domeric’s cologne mixed with the leathery interior gave you a headache. Your mind was spinning a million miles a minute at the implication that Robb was even remotely aware of this strange, foreign world, let alone a member of one of its great houses. You knew the only way to find out more was to ask, but you felt too nauseous to open your mouth.

Domeric looked calm in comparison to how you felt. Where Ramsay would have seemed angry and tense, his brother was contemplative. You shyly looked over his handsome side profile, and when he caught your gaze he offered you a small smile.

“Apologies,” he offered, “for scaring you earlier.”

“You didn’t scare me,” you said, tucking your knees to your chest. No one said anything for another minute, until you finally asked, “What was Miranda for?”

“Hm?”

“You said to get Miranda up there. Does she have some sort of ability…?”

“Oh,” Domeric laughed, his eyes still trained on the road ahead of him. “My brother and I thought it would be a good idea to keep our little discovery a secret. She’s going to go up there and pretend to be the girl we found. Throw the Starks off our scent, so to speak. She’s quite a good actress,” he mused. “We hadn’t given them too much information, anyway, so it shouldn’t be too hard to convince them that Ramsay needed to question her for a crime, or that some crazed fan showed up wanting attention. Whatever excuse he comes up with, it’s in his hands now.” “But you were going to have the Starks question me,” you pressed, confused. “What changed?”

“That you know him,” Domeric answered simply. “You don’t know anything about our world. Even people who have heard of the dragonmarked houses don’t know a lot about the inner politics. Your ex-boyfriend obviously kept secrets from you, but the Starks are ridiculously territorial. If they found out about your abilities, they’d insist you were theirs and take you back.” You shuddered at the thought.

You remembered Robb’s family. His father was always away on business, but his mom, Cat, was always sweet to you, and his siblings seemed so nice and… normal. You had felt normal when you were with him. The fence you had envied him suddenly flashed in your mind, and you realized a different sort of fence would be awaiting you if you were forced to go back with him.

“Thanks for saving me, then,” you mumbled. It was genuine, but Domeric quirked an eyebrow.

“You know, most people wouldn’t thank their kidnappers.”

“You didn’t kidnap me. Ramsay did. And I ran away from Robb for a reason. I don’t want anything to do with him or his family.” Your arms were crossed and your lips settled into a pout as you said it. You felt Domeric’s gaze on you for a moment longer before he finally spoke.

“Let’s hope you feel differently about us, then.”

Domeric drove you back to the safe house, where you hung back at the doorway as he made himself at home. You were wondering who to talk to, what to do next. You’d always been pretty social, and even if Ramsay was a dick, Domeric and Ben were friendly. You settled on going to the kitchen and filling a kettle with water for tea. As it brewed, you leaned on the counter and daydreamed about what would happen next. Maybe Ramsay would kill Robb. You knew he didn’t actually deserve it, but a small part in the back of your mind told you still…

You readied three mugs of tea, carrying one out to the living room where Domeric sat, ankle across his knee, foot bouncing impatiently, one arm across the back of the seat and the fingers of his other hand pressed to his lips as he stared at his phone on the coffee table. When you set the tea down, he looked up, surprised.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he said gratefully. You gingerly leaned on one of the other seat’s armrests. “You’re being very gracious about all this. I appreciate it.” You smiled at him.

“Well, it’s not like my life in New York was that exciting,” you conceded.

“Is that what you want?” He asked, an eyebrow quirking as he took another sip of tea. “Excitement?” You thought for a minute.

“Maybe not if I were you,” you confessed. “But I don’t have any stakes in all this. There’s no pressure on me to make my daddy proud or to be a steward of a dragonmarked house. I just get to follow you guys around and eat pancakes and touch your weird tattoos. It’s kind of fun.” Domeric chuckled into his mug a little, making steam rise up, mist covering his face.

“It’s good tea.”

“You’re British?” You asked.

“Kind of. Our family is originally from here, but Father insisted we go to private school across the pond,” he said the last words with a funny lilt that made you giggle.

“You seem calmer than Ramsay, and even your dad. He’s calm, too, but like in an intense kind of way,” you observed. Domeric shrugged.

“I just got back into all this. I took a couple of years off. I wanted to travel the world, study a little more. Father understood. Ramsay’s entire life has been this, though. He wants to inherit the company more than anything. To be the new heir of Bolton. He feels threatened by me, I think. Because Father prefers my mild temper and because I’m older. But I truthfully couldn’t be arsed about any of it. Sometimes I think my brother will slit my throat in my sleep.” He grimaced at the last words and you thought about them for a minute.

“Well, have you told him that?”

“Ah, of course. But Ramsay is suspicious by nature. It’s a wonder my father doesn’t like him more, for all that he resembles him.” You hummed in response.

“How come you came back, then?” You asked curiously.

“I felt a sense of duty, a little bit. Responsibility. Or maybe I’m being self-aggrandizing and I just got bored.”

“That, I understand,” you said. You sat in silence for a minute longer when Ben entered the living room. You hopped up and brought him his own mug, which had cooled enough to hold without burning your fingertips. He smiled at you and sat across from Domeric on the other long sofa, pulling one knee up and leaning an arm on it.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he said and you lifted your mug to him. You each raised your mugs in the air and took a sip before you spoke again.

“How did you meet the Boltons, Ben?” You asked.

“Weirdly enough, I trained Ramsay’s dogs,” he said. You raised an eyebrow.

“Ramsay is a dog person?”

“Oh, yeah! He loves them. He has a Cane Corso—“

“Princess Lilah?” Domeric chimed in. Ben nodded.

“A Blue Bay Shepherd, that’s—“

“Duchess!” Domeric cried. Ben smiled.

“Yes! A Pomeranian called Jack Daniels, a mini Aussie named Maverick, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel called Apollo Creed and a Blue Nose Pitbull called Teacup.” You were doubling over in laughter as Ben finished, and Domeric smirked alongside you. Ben looked utterly confused. “What’s so funny?”

“Why—“ you managed through fits of giggles, “why did he name his dogs like that?”

“Oh! Because he thinks it’s funny that his tiny dogs have menacing names and his big dogs have delicate names,” he explained as if it were obvious. There were tears in your eyes at this point, and Ben began laughing alongside you. He finally gave in and began flipping through videos on his phone.

There were videos of Maverick at the park running a few feet, then staring back at the camera with a dopey smile on her face every five seconds, Ramsay firmly yelling for Princess Lilah to sit only for her to jump on him and give him kisses, effectively knocking him on his ass, Apollo Creed being too lazy for a walk and being literally dragged on her leash, Jack Daniels shredding an entire roll of toilet paper on the bed and spinning in circles barking angrily when they laughed at her, Teacup sitting with her butt directly on Roose as he looked less than amused, and Duchess howling at the treats cabinet like she was singing an opera. By the time you watched them all, even Domeric cracked at your reactions and you were all falling off the couches laughing. That’s how Ramsay found you— cracking up with tears in your eyes on the floor of the safe house living room. He was too shocked to even speak as he stood above you all, staring especially at Ben and Domeric. You vaguely noticed a little black book tucked in his crossed arms.

“Would anyone care to fill me in?” He finally asked. You looked at him, clutching your stomach as you willed your abs to stop contracting so you could have a break.

“Rams… Ramsay you,” you breathed out through giggles. “You have to let me meet your dogs.” He raised an eyebrow at Ben, who was curled in the fetal position laughing. He finally cracked a smirk as he sat down at the seat across from you, crossing an ankle over his knee, twirling the little notebook in his hands as he waited for you all to settle down.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, sweetheart,” he said. Your head was tossed back on the seat behind you, your disheveled hair in front of your face, the column of your neck exposed, and droplets of sweat decorating your collarbones, but you peaked down at him. You weren’t expecting that. You’d thought maybe he would yell at you, or scoff his disapproval.

“Really?” You asked.

“Mm,” he hummed in agreement. “In fact, we can leave now.”

“You’re joking,” you said. He shrugged.

“I don’t see why not. I’d prefer to have you right under my nose and the safe house is such a drive.”

“Thank you!” You squealed, sitting up suddenly. “Can Domeric and Ben come, too?”

“I would expect nothing less,” Ramsay sighed, standing back up and facing the door. He turned around for a split second, his blue eyes sparkling as he tossed the little black book at you. Your sketchpad. You opened it to find the sketch you'd drawn of him in the car. He'd autographed it in obnoxious black pen, which would've made you roll your eyes, had you not been caught up on another detail.

The drawing had changed. Where before it had been a side profile of him staring fixedly at the road, now its lips were etched into a smirk, eyes staring hypnotizingly back at you. You looked up from the book long enough to see the exact same expression mirrored on Ramsay's face.

-

If you’d like to be added to the taglist for this fic, please let me know! <3

Taglist: hnslchw

[screamverse-shawty]

was laying in bed last night and inspiration struck so I think I am about to write the most shameful immoral Ramsay Bolton fic to ever grace the earth with a self insert protag🥰🥰🥰

[dragons-and-handcuffs]

Imagine...

Ramsay truly loving Stark!reader and that is why she captured winterfell. He is just beyond obsessed with you. He is convinced that he can make you love him and what better way to do it than to make you realize how good he can make you feel. He claims you and fucks you in every corner and tower of the winterfell castle, telling you how much you mean to him. Leaving one of his hounds in your room to "protect" you but actually it's to make sure you don't try to escape. Tying you up on the Bolton cross and teasing you or punishing you till you beg him to fuck you. He just loves to see you give yourself to him. Developing Stockholm Syndrome is inevitable and he just makes you addicted to his touch. And now instead of worrying about your family you just worry if you will be able to satisfy Ramsey. Imagine lying on the bed naked with your legs spread, waiting for him to come and claim you

[direwolfrules]

The Weirwood Queen Memes Part 5: Because I was a passenger on a five hour drive and brought the wrong book

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Master Post

As always, spoilers for The Weirwood Queen by @redwolf17. 10/10 fic, go check it out.

[ramsayxme]

The Servant and Her Dreams.

Ramsay slams his wine cup on the table. "MORE WINE, PLEASE!" He barks. His voice booming in the quiet room. You grudgingly bring the wine jug over to him. He is sitting in the large dining hall near the kitchen. You've been serving the Boltons for months and hated Ramsay the most. He sat proudly at the table, his wine cup empty in front of him. His clothes were all shades of dark, his knives concealed within them. Ramsay flayed people in front of you. You would never get their screams out of your head. As you pour from the jug, you feel his eyes studying your face. You don't even want to give him a glance.

"What a good and obedient girl. Keeping her mouth shut as she pours me my wine." He says quietly. Your eyes shift to his grin. You hear the wine fill the cup, and you stop pouring. "You can leave now." Ramsay motions towards the door. You nod and start walking towards the door. Before you've even taken 2 steps, your dress is caught. You turn around to see Ramsay reaching out, holding onto your clothes. "Leave the jug. I will want another cup later." You've mistakenly looked him in the eyes. Ramsay was like one of his hounds. A direct look in the eye was like a challenge to him.

You try to ignore his glare. "There you go, My Lord." You set the jug down on the table and start towards the door once again. He reaches out and smacks you on the ass. You try your best to ignore it. He can sometimes be touchy, but you are forced to deal with it. The room is so quiet that all you can hear is Ramsay slurping on the wine and the fire crackling in the corner. "Oh, and girl?" You turn around at his beckoning. He raises his glass in the air and smiles. "Thank you."

You always felt so weird when Ramsay was polite. It was almost scarier than when he was angry. Regardless, you curtsey. "Of course, My Lord." You were finally able to make it out of the room. As soon as your shoes hit the stones in the hall, Ramsay yells out. "And shut the door tight! I don't want anyone bothering me."

His voice. His face. His body. His hair. His expressions. You hated it all. Nothing about this man escaped the hatred you had. He was the human embodiment of nails on a chalkboard. Every time he spoke, a little piece of you died. You walk back to your chambers for the evening. It is dark, cold, and lonely. You crawl into bed and you can see your breath above your terrible excuse for a blanket. You somehow manage to fall asleep nestled between the mattress and the chill of the night.

***************************************

The sun rises early the next morning. You must rise early too, as you know Lord Bolton will be waiting for his morning bath. You bundle yourself with cloaks and make your way down to Ramsay's chambers. You knock gently on the door. "Lord Bolton, I am here to draw you a bath."

The door opens slightly. Ramsay is standing there, looking very sleepy. He stays in the doorway, blocking your way into his room. His voice is quiet and hoarse with the morning air, "Good morning. You've come to draw my bath?" You nod. His eyes look kind. You wait for him to step aside, allowing you access to his room. "And I can change your linens, My Lord." You smile.

"Good. Come in then. I don't bite." He grins and steps to the side, opening the door wider for you to enter. You step into his chambers and you hear him shut the door behind you. Then you hear him pull the wooden lever down, locking the door. You feel your eyes widen. He shouldn't lock the door. You were now in a locked room alone with Ramsay Bolton. You felt yourself get warm with anxiety, the lump forming in your throat.

You reach the wooden tub and begin filling it with water. You can feel his eyes on you, watching your every move. Usually, Ramsay is gathering breakfast or wine while you do this. He has never stayed in the room with you before. You nervously continue with your duties. You turn your back on him, unable to stand his gaze any longer. Unfortunately, you hear footsteps as soon as you turn around.

His hands make you jump as he lays his palms on your shoulders. He grips your shoulder bones and starts massaging. He rubs slow and sensually, his hands are very strong. You stop filling the bath, unsure of what to do. "You look nervous," Ramsay whispers, still behind you. His hands snake down to your elbows and back up to your shoulder blades. "What are you nervous about?"

You cower underneath his arms and free yourself from his massage, stepping to the side of the tub. "Nothing, My Lord. Sorry. I can't do my duties when you are touching me." He frowns at your escape. He reaches out, grabs your arms, and yanks you back to your position in front of him. He pushes you forward, your knees hitting the tin line across the bathtub. You grab the edge of the bath in order to keep yourself from falling in at the force of his push. You are bent over in front of him, and his hands leave your arms and grab your waist, sending a chill up your body.

He bends over with you, his chest pressing into your back. You feel him nuzzle into the hair on your back and feel him smell your hair. "Leave the bath alone. I have other things I need you to tend to." He growls in your ear. You close your eyes tightly as you feel him hike up your dress, pushing it over your hips. "Ramsay, please! I have t-" You can't complete your sentence before his hand clamps over your mouth. "Shh!" He hisses between his clenched teeth. His other hand fumbles on the laces of his trousers. He nudges your feet apart with his, and you feel his hand on your bare ass. You try to pull away but your fighting just makes Ramsay's grip on you tighter.

You feel his naked cock pressing on your inner thighs. Ramsay is kissing your shoulders and the back of your neck, pushing the hair out of the way with his nose. "You know you want this." He groans as he presses his cock inside you. You moan, surprised at how good it feels when he stretches you out. He starts pumping in and out of you immediately, you are easy for him. You are wet and slick already, even though you are ashamed of it. He growls as he fucks you. "I know you want me to do this to you."

Suddenly, your eyes spring open as you gasp. You're in your bed. The room is lit up with fresh sunlight. Oh, Gods, you were having a dream. You pull the blanket over your head, humiliated at what you were just thinking about. Unfortunately, this was not the first time. Even though you refused to admit it to yourself, you dreamt of Ramsay quite often. You had never had a dream as vivid as this one, though.

You lie in your bed for a few minutes, humiliated and feeling filthy. Did you really want Ramsay to touch you like that? Did you really want him to fuck you? It couldn't be true. You spread your legs under the covers and to your disappointment in yourself, your body was showing you that it did indeed crave Lord Bolton. You felt the wetness pooling between your thighs and you sighed.

You did, however, have a duty to do. You climbed out of bed and walked to Ramsay's chambers to fill his bath. You make your way down the hallway, feeling intense deja vu. You were so fed up with these dreams. You always felt so nervous around Ramsay after having one. He couldn't read your mind, obviously, but you always wondered if he could tell. You knock on his door.

"Who is it?" He calls out. You can hear him set down his ale. "It's me, My Lord. I am here to draw you a bath." You swallow your words, feeling all too familiar. Ramsay whips open his door, allowing you to enter. "Ah, the bath girl!" He exclaims. You don't even acknowledge him as you start prepping his tub. He disappeared into the hallway to fetch himself breakfast. You hit your knee on the metal band on the wood, and you gasp. You remember hitting your knee in the dream. You drop the water and the pail clangs on the floor. You stare at the tub, remembering how it felt to be bent over it.

'Gods, what am I thinking?!' You shake your head and pick up the pail. You feel your heartbeat through your body as you finish your chore. Ramsay walks back into the room, noticing the soaking floor and your soaked feet. He is still smacking his lips from the breakfast he just finished. "What is that?" He points to the floor, sucking his teeth of excess food. He raises his eyebrows at you when you don't answer right away. "Sorry, My Lord, I was just tired and it must have slipped out of my hands. I will get a rag."

"Did you sleep poorly?" Ramsay asked, causing you to freeze. Your eyes tracked him across the room as he took his shirt off and walked over to the tub in his trousers. You couldn't help but stare at his chest, pale and muscular. Did he know? There was no way.

"I asked you a question," Ramsay says a little louder than before, his eyebrows raised in concern as he walks towards his bath. You are on the opposite side of the tub as he approaches. You nod your head. "I'm fine, I just... had some weird dreams." You blush, turning away from him. He puts his hand in the water, checking the temperature. "This is cold." He stares at you as you touch the water. It feels like the winter air. "Oh, I am sorry..." You are wildly embarrassed.

Ramsay leans against the wall with his arms crossed across his bare chest as you empty the water with your pail and put some water over the fire blazing in the fireplace. "I wasn't thinking, My Lord. Forgive me." You mutter. Ramsay cocks his head to the side. You realize you hadn't made eye contact with him the entire morning. You peered up, meeting his eyes. He was staring deeply at you, which made you quickly look away.

You heard him chuckle. "Girl, what were these dreams about that made you so... clumsy this morning? I need the entertainment. Tell me while we wait for my proper bath." You immediately snap at him, "I don't want to talk about it, My Lord." Ramsay was not happy with this answer, but you tried to ignore it. You felt irritated, almost as if he was taunting you. There was no way he knew, but it still felt like teasing.

Ramsay walks forward and away from the wall. He stands behind you as you empty the tub. You are extremely paranoid when you feel his presence behind your body. With a swift motion, you walk away from him just as he goes to reach out to you. He is quicker than you. He grabs your shoulder, and you jump. "Don't touch me, Ramsay!" The sheer volume of your yell startles you and you look at him for your punishment for talking back.

He is chuckling as he watches you cower. He reaches back out and pinches your arms as he grabs you. "Have you forgotten who you belong to? You will not raise your voice at me!" His voice is low and demanding, his lips curling around his teeth as his eyes dart from your lips to your eyes. You drop the bucket on the floor, sending cold water dumping on Ramsay's legs. "I said I don't want to talk about it!" You yell, and before Ramsay can do anything, you are out the door. You sprint down the hall, hearing him shouting from his chambers.

You are chased down by three men who serve the Dreadfort. You are locked in your servant chambers until further notice. You hear Ramsay tell one of the men, "Lock her there until I decide what to do with her. She needs to speak to me when she can, and then I will decide her fate." You feel guilty, almost apologetic for what you did to Ramsay.

2 days pass. You have been sleeping and pacing around in your chambers. Every time you sleep, you dream of Ramsay fucking you. You feel restless. You feel beat down. You feel tired. You can't take it any longer. You haven't had anything warm in 2 days and you could feel your bones chilling. To sit by the fire would feel like heaven.

You decide that you are giving in. You are allowing Ramsay to win. As much as you don't want to do this, you know that it is possibly the only way you can survive. You knock on your own chamber door and one of the guards who was in charge of making sure you didn't escape barked at you. "What!"

"I am ready to speak to Lord Ramsay." You reply, your voice shaking. He opens the door and doesn't look at you. "Follow me." You realize that all the torches are lit, it must be late at night. Time wasn't really a thing when you were locked away for so many hours. You follow the guard in silence for what felt like an eternity. You reached Ramsay's door, and the guard knocked. "Come in!" Ramsay barked.

The guard pushed open the door and threw you inside, and you fell down immediately. Your body hit the cold stone floor on your hands and knees, and you quickly stood up and brushed yourself off. Ramsay grinned seeing you and motioned with his hand for the guard to leave. The guard left into the night, shutting the door. You looked around the room. The fire was crackling and Ramsay had a pelt over him on the bed. He had an ale on his table and candles lit all over the room.

"You caught me before I went to sleep. I see you're ready to talk to me, perhaps explain your behavior." He said as he sat up in bed. You looked at him from across the room. The room was definitely warmer than yours, and you breathed in the warmth. Your body thawed and your bones remembered how to move without creaking. The fire was roaring. Ramsay was shirtless in bed, his shoulders and biceps being illuminated by all the flickering fire.

You stare at your feet. "My Lord. I am so sorry. I've not been feeling myself recently. I have to tell you th-" "Speak up." Ramsay interrupts. You sigh and step closer to the bedside. You look at him. He is patiently waiting to hear your explanation. Gods, he looks so good right now. So handsome and toned. His hair was so dark and the way it flopped over his forehead was-

"So! Explain yourself." He blurted into your thoughts. You cautiously reach out to the bed and begin to climb on the pelt. Ramsay just watches as you crawl up by his feet. "Girl, what are you doing?"

You exhale loudly as you muster up the courage to finally tell Ramsay the truth. "My Lord...Ramsay...I will be honest with you. I hate being your servant. I hate it! I hate catering to your every need, I hate waiting on you. I never liked you," You pause. He looks furious, his teeth grinding together and his lips tightly closed. "The reason I haven't been feeling myself... It is because of those dreams I told you about the other day. Some of them...All of them... Are about you."

Ramsay's jaw has softened as he registers what you are saying. He listens attentively. "Go on. Tell me about these dreams." You shrug and shift your weight on the bed. "I don't know, My Lord. I don't know where they come from. They keep me up at night and they keep me from being awake during the day. They're very vivid, My Lord. I don't mean to be disrespectful... but I do have to ask you something."

You are clearly uncomfortable and nervous, Ramsay's unwavering gaze isn't helping. "I feel there is only one way to possibly get rid of these dreams." You say, scooching closer to him on the bed. Ramsay leans forward with a grin on his face. "What would that be?" Your eyes fill with tears from humiliation. "I'm just wondering if perhaps you would consider... allowing me to experience these things in real life, that way my mind can slow down at night?"

Ramsay tilts his head to the side, making an exaggerated-looking thinking face. "Let me think. Are you asking if I, the Lord of the Dreadfort and Warden of the North, would sleep with you, my lowly servant girl?" You hang your head in shame. "I suppose I am."

Ramsay chuckles and leans forward, grabbing your arms. "I don't know... Let's say I do fuck you, right here!" He points to himself on the bed. You feel yourself get a wave of butterflies. "You really think that would cure you of these dreams? What if they get worse?" You shake your head. "I don't know, but I have to try."

Ramsay smiled as he pulled you into his lap, you fell forward and were laying on top of him. He grabbed your face in his hands and grinned. He pulled your face close to his and your heart flew into your throat as he pressed his lips onto yours. "I guess we will have to see what happens."

Part 2

[chic-beyond-the-wall-oc-acct]

House Bolton wears pink and i love it!

So i whipped (ha pun...) up a little Bolton character, her name is Rose, and she's our model for some relatively simple Bolton dresses. Lmk if i should do other houses!💘

[yandere-toons]

A Fool's Mistake 3: Taking the Black | Platonic Scenario

Yandere!Cersei Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Tyrion Lannister, Joffrey Baratheon, Ramsay Bolton

WARNING: abuse of power, morally ambiguous reader, reality warping, strong and bloody violence, mentions of physical torture.

WORD COUNT: 7.825

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (You are here)

The silhouettes of free folk dashed between trees and rocks in the silverish light of the full moon. They were clothed in the skins of woodland animals, and they wielded with much dexterity a combination of bows, axes and spears crafted from the forest.

Droves of the free folk had begun to scale the Wall at yesterday's sunset and, from midnight to daybreak, had reached the point where falling meant certain death. Despite enough time passing for the sun to peek over the mountaintop, the space that surrounded the free folk remained dark as night.

The sky was black but held no stars as if drapes had been thrown over the earth. The top of the Wall, a summit that appeared taller than the clouds, was covered in impenetrable darkness. Glimmers of sunlight skirted the darkness, and the scarce light traced the shape of a bubble around the free folk who dared to rise.

The ground was no longer visible to those who looked down in the hope of descending the Wall and testing the climb another day. The ice wall in front of them and the makeshift tools used to hook it was all that met their eyes beyond the shadows.

Whispers seeped into the ears of the free folk, whispers that resembled the faint voices of the people climbing with them. The voices asked for the location of the other free folk, asked after their health and encouraged them to resume the climb.

Once the first ragged antler and stake impaled the ice at the top of the Wall, the free folk realised that their vision had been dulling. In the final moments of heaving oneself onto the Wall, each member of the expedition noted themselves to be the only living thing there.

The sight that greeted them flashed back and forth between the bodies of their fellow free folk and an empty stretch of ice. The shadows warped their eye and seemed to drill into their heads before the darkness took them to the ground far below.

When no birds sang and the air became colder than the depths of a northern pond, you watched for creatures with blue eyes and ghostly skin.

Except for the occasional lash of shadows at the base of snowy trees, the woods lay motionless and free of dark magic on this hour. The current flowing from the distant Bay of Seals was tumultuous and churned as if locked in a storm, but it carried nothing more than the rare howl and rush of icy breath.

* * *

With his wrists bound to the back of a chair and his ankles tied to the wood legs, the sole mercenary to survive the recent battle at the Dreadfort sat in his own sweat. A mob of Bolton soldiers encircled him with their swords raised and their eyes locked on whichever part of him they were most inclined to cut.

The large door to the dining hall creaked open in an outward swing of metal and bending joints. Ramsay Bolton stormed into the room, his fingers playing with a gore-drenched knife.

After a moment of examining the mercenary, the immediate wrath flaring on his face waned and evolved into morbid curiosity. “I remember you.” Ramsay tilted his head and scanned the man's visible wounds and foul odour to confirm his suspicion.

It was then that the mercenary's stomach dropped to bottomless depths, and he began to whisper prayers for the mercy of the Mother.

Unlike the frantic turns and agitated stomps of earlier, Ramsay's next movements were slower and dominated by quiet steps that struck a greater panic in the heart of the mercenary each time. “You took a long look at them.”

From his pocket came the glint of a knife, prompting the mercenary to squirm against the ropes and expel a whimper. Ramsay twirled the weapon in his right hand and conveyed a taste of future pain with unrepentant eye contact. “Just before you tried to kill them.”

Before the tip of the steel could blind the mercenary, the harsh voice of Roose Bolton echoed in the dining hall and overpowered any wails spilling out of the mercenary. “Ramsay!”

The sound was little more than a growl, and Ramsay paused with his knife hovering just in front of the mercenary's eyeball.

The violent shake gripping his arm did not cease, spreading to his lips and upper body as he stared into the mercenary's terror with bubbling insanity that flailed against the bridle he was compelled to put on it. Ramsay vented slivers of his untapped rage through the tremulous breaths whipping past his bared teeth.

While the soldiers beside him kept a tight hold on their swords, Roose did not allow his voice to waver: “We need this one alive.”

The blade was so close that the mercenary's eyelashes brushed it every time he blinked. It quivered with the threat of twitching too far and impaling his skull before he could release a full scream, but Ramsay seemed to find enough delight in his father's command that he turned his head away.

“Oh, he'll live.”

Just as the knife reeled back and then plunged forward, a booming announcement sounded from Roose. “We're going on a diplomatic mission to White Harbor.”

Ramsay listened to his father with a distracted mind plagued by runaway thoughts and bits of emotion he could not manage, his eyes flitting between Roose and the nearest objects while his fingers twitched with ideas of what pain to inflict on the captured mercenary. “When will you return?”

Roose looked upon his struggle with amusement and indifference. “You should know. You're coming with me.”

As if Roose had revoked his legitimacy as the heir, Ramsay raised his head and widened his eyes. The tension clenching his shoulders and jaw shifted to confused glances, and his lips moved to search for the appropriate response that changed with each surge of dissatisfaction and the sense of a goal stepping out of his reach.

“My place is here. I have rallied the men.”

Roose began to approach the main entrance to the fortress and did not slow his stride. “Your place is where I say it is.”

Ramsay stopped walking, but Roose ignored the vicious stare drilling into the back of his head. “Father,” murmured Ramsay, and his next words were spoken through gritted teeth. “I need to find them.”

Roose took a final, definitive step forward and turned, the bottom of his cloak gliding across the floor. “There will be a time for that. Right now, what you need to do is mount a horse and ride with me to White Harbor.”

* * *

The chambers of Tyrion Lannister stank of wine on most nights, but the scent was especially potent on this night. An empty flagon sat at the foot of a luxurious chair, which Tyrion used to rest his legs while he put his mouth to the work of downing every glass he could fill.

With his knuckles pressed underneath his chin, Tyrion observed the half-full goblet with a curious glint in his eye. He laid his hand over the top of it and waited in silence for many a second.

When he retracted his hand and peeked into the cup, a foolish part of him hoped that it would be full again. A layer of wine at the bottom was all that greeted him. Tyrion hurled the goblet at the wall, and a thick wave of blackberry wine exploded onto the stone.

The glass clattered to the floor and rolled into the leg of a chair, streaks of reddish-purple cascading down the rock and draining into the crevices. Droplets continued to seep from the rim of the cup as trails of the dark liquor mixed with the red of a Lannister banner and fell behind a dresser.

As the door slammed behind him, Tyrion stamped past the duo of guards protecting his chambers and snapped his fingers. “With me.”

The guards lifted their shields from the floor and hurried to follow.

Tyrion marched down the corridor with a palace guard on his left and his right. Flanked by the men, he rounded a corner and leaned forward to place his hands upon an ornate set of double doors.

He pushed open the door to Cersei's chambers and found her sitting at the table beside the balcony, a glass in her hand and red wine on her lips. The rattles of the guards' swords and armour must have been loud in the silent halls, for she was facing the entrance without a lick of surprise.

She lowered the glass and eyed him as if he were an insect that had crawled into her bedroom from a hole in the wall. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Tyrion widened his eyes and removed his hands from the door, allowing it to shut at his back. “I was concerned,” he lied, feigning fear in an exaggerated, deliberately obvious manner. “Just the other day, a man had his throat slit for sleeping.”

Cersei kept her voice low as though others were in danger of listening. “I believe that to be the work of our mutual friend.” She placed distinct acrimony on the word “friend,” her lip curling.

As her gaze drifted off to the cityscape outside her balcony, Tyrion wondered if the bitterness came from her belief that the word was untrue or the implication that the two of them could ever share a companion. “Don't tell that to the king. He was quite upset at having his prized day interrupted.”

The hand that held onto the wine glass began to shake, and Cersei refrained from looking at her brother. “Joffrey won't see me.” A heaviness existed in her words, a quiet misery that she was attempting to drown in wine.

Tyrion kept his frown level. “Oh, yes. Not since you promised the sorcerer would find their own way back to him, a promise that has yet to be fulfilled.” He tilted his head upon saying the second bit.

Cersei shut her eyes and clenched her teeth slightly, refusing to let the posh smile on her lips fall. She opened her eyes and glanced in his direction when the soft thuds of footsteps came near the table.

A chair squealed as it was pulled from under the table, and Tyrion plopped on it with his hands resting close to Cersei's. “If I say it, I would be branded an enemy of the crown and lose my head within the hour. Perhaps Jaime?”

She turned farther away and fixed her eye on the open doors to the balcony. “Joffrey's working him like a dog.”

A slight sigh rolled out of him, and Tyrion closed his eyes for a pensive instant before opening them with a degree of sympathy. “If Jaime could be here with you, he would be.” He unfurled his arms, turned his palms to the ceiling, and gestured to the bedroom.

Lifting the glass, Cersei took another sip. “I'm not so sure.”

* * *

The courtyard of the Red Keep smelt of pollen as a medley of berry bushes and wildflowers bloomed in the light of day. The leafy grass was green as the coat of arms from House Tyrell of Highgarden, and it swayed in a cool breeze that was welcomed by the lords and ladies dilly-dallying in the sun.

From the generous lengths of the surrounding corridors, Varys and Petyr Baelish strolled into the small garden. Each one moved in tandem with the other just enough to keep up the illusion of leisure and signify that the interaction would not end until one of them deviated from the path.

“The Boltons are a minute settlement thousands of miles away in the North with one fiefdom no larger than my biggest brothel,” said Petyr.

A slight nod of the head came from Varys. “Yes, but some of my little birds have flown north for the summer.”

“And what songs do they sing?” asked Petyr, his lips casting the shadow of a smile as he walked past a servant girl consorting with a visiting lord.

Varys spotted similar goings-on in a corner of the garden ahead, and he cast his gaze in the direction of the man beside him. “They sing that the Bolton's youngest is unbalanced yet terribly ambitious. Certainly one to watch.”

Petyr slowed to a stop and turned on the heels of his boots. He blinked slowly and released a modest sigh, his eyes flickering to his surroundings while his voice quieted. “He's one man with neither the stomach nor the mind for the South.”

Varys looked askance, tilted his head, and raised his shoulders a bit as if considering Petyr's words. “One man nearly toppled the realm not so long ago,” he replied.

The subtlest chuckle—no more than an audible exhale—slipped out of Petyr. His neck bent towards the ground slightly, and his attention remained on the cobblestone patterns flowing beneath him for a contemplative instant. “Indeed,” he conceded. “I have to go.”

Varys bowed his head. “Ah, very well.” He lifted his eyes to catch sight of Petyr slinking to the edge of the garden. “Perhaps we can speak again soon, Lord Baelish.”

As the shadow cast by the arch of the Red Keep fell over him, Petyr turned and offered a glib smile. “Perhaps we can, Lord Varys.”

* * *

Every man atop the Wall was struck by an unearthly coldness that night.

No matter how thick the coats around their shoulders were, the wind sliced their face and nipped any exposed skin with its frosty claws. The cold dove into their bones and seemed to chill them from the inside out.

Despite being rekindled every other minute, the light of the torches was dimmer here. The fog of the night was murkier than the bottom of a bog. The fires were short-lived, swept away into simmering embers by sudden and isolated gusts.

The same light that would have illuminated your body was extinguished by the wind. The brother in charge of relighting it swore under his breath. When he peered at you in wonderment of your apparent resistance to the frigid weather, a shiver ran through him as if he had been stuck with a frost-tipped spear.

It killed the words on his tongue.

The dark around you seemed deeper and more foreboding than any cave, unaffected by light even as the moon beamed down upon it. The brother saw the outline of you hidden in the darkness, and it was all he needed to see to decide that the remainder of his watch was someone else's responsibility for the night.

In the ensuing calm, your head surveyed one end of the forest below to the other.

No figures had crept out of the woods yet.

The clanks and grinds of the lift rising to the top of the Wall sounded from behind, and Samwell Tarly stepped off it into the snow. The soft, pearly white material was crushed under his heavy boots. After a brief pause, his footsteps approached you and stopped at your side.

Your head slowly turned, which allowed you to catch Sam peeking in your direction. He glanced downwards and released a bashful chuckle upon being caught, but a look of childish excitement soon washed over his full face. “Jon says you're a wizard!”

The snow crunched as Sam shuffled his feet, his gaze darting from his shoes to you. “I've never seen a real wizard before!” He shifted again and failed to restrain the huge grin breaking out across his lips. “Only read about them in books,” he added, somewhat lowering his voice.

Sam leaned forward and looked up and down at your iron mask and dark robes. “Do you all dress like that?” He outstretched his arms to push his cloak back and looked at his own black coat and armour. “Maybe we're more alike than I thought!” What escaped him next was a quick, “Ha!”

He turned his head back to you and kept his mouth open slightly as if expecting you to agree, but your continued silence prompted his smile to falter.

As his eyes searched the snowy darkness that lay in front of him, Sam shook his head. “My father detests wizards. Thinks magic's for nellies who don't want to fight.” There was a layer of distaste and pain to his words as though repeating his father's opinion had poisoned his tongue and caused a bad memory to churn within his mind.

“Not me,” he blurted, his head bouncing towards you before moving back again. Sam leaned over and patted his chest with both hands once. “Big fan.”

As Sam marvelled at his proximity to a real magic user, the lift descended into the bowels of Castle Black and then rose to the top of the Wall after a few minutes of rasping. The dark-haired Jon Snow emerged from the fiery light of the lift with a torch in hand.

“Sam,” was all he said, and Sam fell silent.

Jon nodded at him with a tiny smile when Sam turned and offered a happy, “Hello, Jon!” Sam stepped back to allow Jon room to walk forward and stand diagonal to him.

Although he was addressing more than one person, Jon kept his eyes focused on your mask. “If it's all right with you, I'd like to speak with Brother Black alone.”

Sam lost his smile for a moment, but it returned with a shrug of his shoulders and another shift of his feet. “Of course! Of course!” He distanced himself from where he had been standing and motioned for you to go with Jon. “I'll just be here.”

Jon bid him farewell before marching farther down the Wall, the light of the torch undulating in the icy wind.

As the orange glow started to vanish from sight, Sam looked away and faced the edge of the Wall. “I ought to be checking on Gilly.” Fond memories of the woman softened his voice and provided some warmth against the cold. “Sweet Gilly.”

No one answered but the howl of the wind.

Sam inhaled through his nose and allowed the silence to live for a couple of seconds before he sighed: “Boy, it's cold up here.”

The journey ended after roughly ten minutes of walking, and Jon turned to give you a cursory scan. In his eyes were suspicion, curiosity and more than a token of discomfort. His breath was visible in the cold, flowing upward as he turned to overlook the cliff.

“The other brothers don't feel safe around you. They need to know they can trust the man standing next to them.” A flash of uncertainty overtook him in a sweep of cold wind, and Jon turned his head to look at you as if for the first time. “You are a man, right?”

There was a carefulness to his words as though you might shed your veil of humanity and lunge at him before he took another breath, his legs shifting with a rattle of his heavy armour and his hand confirming its place on the pommel of his sword.

A gust of air wafted from the lower slit in your mask and floated into the night sky.

Holding the silence as the grey cloud dispersed into the darkness looming above the castle, Jon chose not to pursue such thoughts and gave a single nod. “Right.”

* * *

The flaps of wings preceded the caws of a raven, and the bird landed its coat of snow-dappled feathers on the stone frame of the window. It raised its left leg as if it were limp and turned its black eyes to Jon, revealing a scroll tied to its lean body.

Jon approached the raven as it continued to caw and move its head in sudden, jerky motions.

“I haven't sent for any wandering crows,” mumbled Alliser Thorne, who waved at Jon to receive the letter when he paused at his comment.

The bird twitched and hopped whilst the scroll was taken from its leg, and once the gloved hand released it, the raven flew into the white skies with a string of caws.

As Jon brushed his thumb across the reddish-pink seal, the emblem of an upside-down flayed man sent a wave of apprehension over his body. The impulsive part of him said to toss the letter into the fire and never wonder about its contents, but the impatient gaze of Alliser demanded that he push his misgivings aside.

“Well?” came the older man's disgruntled voice.

“It's the sigil of House Bolton, ser.” Jon glanced between the Lord Commander and the scroll, struggling to void all of his concerns but stepping forward with dutiful haste.

Alliser nodded his head and quirked his eyebrows as if coaching a child. “I can see that. Would you care to read it?”

Inspecting the seal one last time, Jon broke it with a snap and unfolded the parchment. “Dear the men of the Night's Watch, it has come to my attention that you recently brought a sorcerer into your ranks.”

His volume tapered after every few words as if seeking to lessen the blow of an expected threat, but as the inky texture of the crooked and misplaced lines stretched and fell before his eyes, he realised it was a continuous promise of danger:

“Their allegiance belongs to House Bolton. If you do not return them to me, I shall flay you living and make you watch as I tear your brother's still-beating heart from his chest and feed it to my hounds.”

Jon lost much of his interest in reading the message and looked askance at Alliser for the sake of averting his eyes from the letter. When the Lord Commander returned his gaze with stunned silence and a minor shift in his position, Jon proceeded to the end.

“Two fortnights it will take for me to march on your pathetic excuse for a castle, so two fortnights you shall have to act.”

Despite the reluctance plaguing his hold on the scroll as if touching it would transmit a disease, Jon took only a second to recuperate and finished with a weary drop in his tone. “Signed Ramsay Bolton, Acting Lord of the Dreadfort.”

He tucked the parchment and lowered his arms to his side, casting a pensive look over the glow of the fire before turning his eyes to the Lord Commander.

“Inane ramblings from a madman,” spat Alliser with a sharp turn of his head. The man tugged a quill out of the inkpot on his desk and slammed a piece of blank paper onto its surface.

Jon watched the quivers of his hand and the words they wrote becoming clearer as the ink dried, but the scratches of the quill marking the parchment were overshadowed by a quick step forward. “Ser, the Boltons are a ruthless people. We shouldn't take anything they say to be idle threats.”

The Lord Commander refused to look away from his writing or slow the motions of his hand. “Roose Bolton is a few steps short of a wildling in lord's clothing. As for his son, I've never met him.” He finished the letter with a flourish. “And I'd like to keep it that way.”

The thud of a seal echoed in the room before it was replaced by the creak of a chair sliding across the floor, and Jon clutched the letter that was pushed into his hand.

“Give this to Maester Aemon. Tell him to send it immediately. When it's done, have a brother ride to Mole's Town.”

As Alliser marched out the door to his chambers, Jon followed and overheard his yells to the congregation of Night's Watchmen standing below. “Increase the patrols! I want a fresh man at those gates for every hour!”

The group lifted their swords and scattered throughout the courtyard, while Jon hastened his walk to the library. Orders were shouted into the wind, and the collective rattle of armour and thump of boots faded into the background.

Jon entered the library a bit louder than he intended. The door slammed behind him when a strong wind pulled it forward, causing both he and Maester Aemon to jump.

A mumble slipped out of Maester Aemon as he ran his fingers across the Braille in the book of dragons he had been delighting in reading. The table at which he was seated was strewn with a variety of books. It stood in the centre of the room, and it was bordered by tall bookcases full of centuries of knowledge.

Stepping forward, Jon extended the scroll and approached the table. “Maester Aemon, I have an urgent scroll from the Lord Commander.”

Maester Aemon took the sealed scroll from him, running his fingertips along the seal and parchment. “Oh,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. He turned back to the books in front of him and heaved himself from the rickety chair.

As soon as he had started to drag himself forward, a chill washed down his spine as if dunked in ice water. He slowly turned his head and fixed his blind eyes on the farthest corner of the library.

There existed a deep shadow, swirling and spreading like tar. It seemed to emanate from the wall itself, and Maester Aemon took notice of whispers filling the back of his mind. They spoke in ancient tongues with otherworldly inflections that echoed in every part of the library.

His chapped lips struggled to find his brittle voice. “Who are you?”

Jon stilled and followed his gaze, but he saw nothing more than ordinary darkness. “Maester Aemon?”

A few mumbles crept out of Maester Aemon, each one disjointed and confused. He turned his head back and forth between the stone floor, the nearest bookshelf and Jon. His eyes were lost and searching for something unknown to Jon.

“Oh, never mind,” he said softly, for the whispers had ceased.

Tucked away behind a wood column, on the corner of a table set against the wall, was a rectangular coop. Tufts of hay and wheat laid on the bottom and provided the footing for the assortment of ravens scuttling inside.

Maester Aemon shambled to the coop and peeled open its small door. With both hands, he lifted a raven from the enclosure. The bird went limp in his hold, its head facing downward and its legs sticking out.

He equipped the raven with a leather cylinder on its left leg into which he inserted the scroll. Once the latch on the cylinder was pinched shut, Maester Aemon retreated to allow for the raven to take flight with a flutter of wings.

Jon watched as it glided through the short window at the base of the ceiling, and he wondered why a raven was necessary if a brother was riding to the town. His first thought was the scroll contained additional information that the brother was not privy to learn.

The answer came when he caught sight of the raven flying southeast instead of towards Mole's Town.

Before he could question the destination, Samwell Tarly burst into the library. Sam doubled over and placed a hand over his palpitating heart, breathing as a runner would after a race. “Jon!” he panted, “We're needed at the King's Tower!”

Two pairs of footsteps rushed to the walkway outside the library.

Jon collided with the guardrail and grasped the top of it, leaning forward to get a closer look at the discord unfolding in the courtyard.

Night's Watchmen streamed into the corridors overlooking the main entrance, a group of five rangers rode astride on horses, and the brassy call of a horn sounded over the din of brothers hauling weapons and scaling sentry towers.

As the rangers poured into the stables, Jon looked farther and noticed a circle of brothers marching in tandem with you to the opening doors.

* * *

The chairs of Merman's Court were cushioned with the finest silk. They complemented the long table stretching from the foyer to the throne, which lay decorated with a nautical tablecloth and various plates of pork pies, roasted eels and fried lampreys.

The food, warmed still by the steam of the fires, smelt of spice and gravy. The dead and cooked fish swam in the sauce and drank mouthfuls in a vile parody of life, a life that the oceanic paintings lining the walls and ceiling illustrated in vivid colour.

The guards who watched over the feast resembled the type of warriors one expected to see in a submarine kingdom, for the weapons clutched in their hands were tridents.

Lord Manderly sat in a velvet chair similar to his throne, which he had joked about bringing to the table more than once. The Boltons were seated opposite him, and sitting beside them were Lord Cerwyn and his son Cley.

While Roose met the eyes of each lord, Ramsay turned his gaze downwards and divvied his attention between the various items of food covering his plate. Roose glanced in his direction when Ramsay's hand found its way to the knife.

“Forgive my son's lethargy. He is weary from our travels.”

Lord Manderly drew his eyebrows to his receding hairline and stretched his lips in a royal imitation of surprise. “Is he an old man?” Lord Cerwyn joined his chuckles with bountiful enthusiasm, neither lord acknowledging how Ramsay slowly lifted his head.

Malice radiated from the young Bolton like foul breath from a dog's jaws, but, sensing the gaze of his father, he mustered a polite smile.

Roose waited for the laughter to fade into a pregnant silence before he seized control of the discussion. “Our merchants are reporting that they've been turned away from the gates of White Harbor, some at swordpoint.”

Lord Manderly tore a chunk of bread from the strudel and ate it at a comfortable speed, peering across the feast rather than at Roose. “Aye, you'll have to find somewhere else to dump your subpar goods.”

A screech resounded in the dining hall as Ramsay yanked the blade of his knife a short distance across the wood, and he looked at Lord Manderly without raising his head. “Watch your tongue.”

Lord Manderly stopped chewing and faced the young Bolton's desire to maim him with a combination of surprise and umbrage.

At the stern look of Roose, Ramsay lowered his gaze and resumed carving a furrow into the table.

Lord Cerwyn shared an unsettled glance with his son, turning his eye to Roose when Roose looked away from Ramsay and spoke with far more elegance. “The Boltons have traded with the other Northern houses for years, and I haven't had complaints from House Cerwyn or House Umber.”

The weathered face of Lord Manderly acquired a sombre quality. “Ah, Umber. I heard what happened to Gareth's fifth-born. A right tragedy, that.”

A stillness came over Ramsay, his hand pausing and his eyes refusing to look anywhere but at the plate.

There was no visible change in Roose's demeanour, but he offered no words of sympathy.

Lord Cerwyn picked his tankard off the table and turned to Lord Manderly. “One less Umber. That's a start.” The two men descended into a hearty roar of joy and bumped their cups together, while the Boltons watched in quiet amusement.

When the lords joked and drank without a care for the original discussion, Roose spoke with enough strength to regain their attention but not appear demanding. “As Warden of the North, our trade is essential to Northern commerce.”

Lord Cerwyn, who had been gulping alcohol like a direwolf gorging itself on meat, lowered his cup to the table. With an eye roll, he muttered, “Oh, great. More Bolton furs and flayed skin. Just what this city needs.”

The hiss of a blade rang in the ears of every lord when Ramsay jumped from his seat and slammed the knife through Lord Cerwyn's finger. The bone was just barely visible, peeking out of the skin's edge as blood gushed from the exposed tendon in spurts.

A howl of agony bellowed from Lord Cerwyn, and he clutched his injured hand while reeling in his chair. His legs began to kick the stone floor, distress growing louder and more wild with each surge of pain that lashed his mind and dragged shrieks from him as if his finger were aflame.

As Cley started to shiver and seemed on the verge of tears, he stood with a sharp creak of wood on rock and rushed to help his father.

The corners of Ramsay's mouth twitched in a small release of tension, his pupils dilating at the screams and his hand squeezing the utensil. He did not blink once to sever his view of the desperate eyes and paling skin of Lord Cerwyn.

It was not until he turned to his father with a jerk of his head that he allowed his enthusiasm to wither, for Roose was looking at him with the unforgiving coldness of someone who regretted his son's birth.

Smile dropping, Ramsay attempted to win back his favour. “Father—”

Roose interrupted him with a frigid scowl. “Leave.”

Ramsay faced his father's tranquil rage in momentary shock, as though the man had ordered him to leave the realm instead of the room, his fingers tapping the knife before curling about it. He glanced at various spots on the walls and the table without focusing on any.

Hatred of the glare Roose was sending him and his own failure to meet the man's wishes quickened his breaths, and the young Bolton tore the blade out of the wooden surface.

A thin crater became visible on the table next to the disembodied finger, with jagged chips of wood rising to decorate there.

Ramsay took fervent and aggressive strides to the door and shoved it open. Gales of Northern wind swept into the hall like ice water, lifting his cloak as he stormed outside.

The slam of the door behind him cut the chilling breeze like a sword to the head of a great beast, and the return of the torches' warmth redirected the spotlight to the weakening cries of Lord Cerwyn.

“My wedding finger,” groaned Lord Cerwyn, his neck drooping and his eyes fluttering. “He took my wedding finger!”

The limb sitting on the table was adorned with a gold ring that glittered under the candlelight of the chandelier. Only droplets of blood still leaked from his knuckle, dripping onto the plate and tablecloth.

Cley guided him to his feet and positioned himself under his father's left arm, while Lord Cerwyn scrambled to retrieve his finger and cradled it in his other hand.

Lord Manderly tossed his napkin onto the fresh bloodstain infecting his tablecloth and peered at the man with an irritated side-eye. “Pipe down, Medger. It's not like you were using it for much.”

Lord Cerwyn squirmed in his son's grasp, continuing to whimper and holler as he was hurried to the door. Another gust of wind followed their exit, and Roose shifted to a more comfortable position on his chair and clasped his hands together. “So, the trade routes are to be reopened?”

Lord Manderly cocked his head and seemed to repress a scoff. “The chopped-off finger of a twat won't buy our obedience. Do you expect House Manderly to cower in fear?”

Roose presented a look of callous certainty. “I know you're going to lose more than fingers if another Bolton caravan returns empty-handed.”

This sparked a burst of resentment to twist the mouth of Lord Manderly. “You'd threaten a man in his own home? Need I remind you whose wine you're drinking?”

Crumbs from a pork pie tumbled down his fat chin as he took a greedy bite of one, and Roose eyed the meat pie sitting on Lord Manderly's plate. “Need I remind you who hunted the pigs you're eating, Wyman?”

Lord Manderly stopped his chewing. There was a threatening sort of emphasis placed on his first name, like someone dangling a steak over a hungry dog. The remaining chunk of pork pie hovered in front of his mouth, untouched.

A battle of eye contact came and went between the two lords before Lord Manderly dropped the chunk on his plate.

With a subdued sigh, he looked down and pushed his fork away from his dish. “Aye, you're a tough old codger, Roose.” Roose offered a slight smile at this, and Lord Manderly reclined on his chair. “I'm only doing it 'cause of pressure from the Lannisters.”

The mask of composure slipped from Roose's face for just a moment. “I see.” His eyes widened a bit before narrowing in discontent, looking over the feast once more. “It's a shame that the crown feels such a powerful need to meddle in our friendship.”

A laugh bellowed from Lord Manderly as if he had just been informed that the Dothraki had laid down their arms and become a peace-seeking civilisation.

Roose swung his cloak over his shoulder and left his chair with his mind far away in the depths of planning, but he remembered enough pleasantries to nod at the lord. “Be seeing you.”

When the senior Bolton pushed the door open, the sight of an agitated Ramsay fiddling with the bloody silverware eliminated any satisfaction he had gained from learning a piece of the truth.

The soldiers were all standing at a considerable distance from Ramsay, their eyes darting between him and the snowy land to avoid being noticed.

At the sound of boots crunching snow, Ramsay whirled about with a shudder. “Father, I—”

He was struggling to meet Roose's gaze, but his father walked past him. “Be quiet, Ramsay. Mount your horse.”

Hoofprints littered the snow from where Lord Cerwyn and his son had fled to obtain the services of a maester, their tracks disappearing into the blizzard in the northwestern direction of Castle Cerwyn.

Roose lifted himself onto his steed with minimal difficulty and turned his attention to the frosty water of the White Knife babbling nearby rather than grant his son a second of acknowledgement. “We're going home.”

Ramsay was slow to heed this command, his eyes drifting across the snow and clenching the knife so that it would have snapped if made of anything weaker than metal.

When he curled his lips in a question of whether to speak and squinted to deflect the rays of sunshine peeking over the rolling hills, the clop of hooves leaving the entrance to New Castle broke his concentration.

Roose had spurred his horse to trot in the opposite direction, and Ramsay clambered onto a horse of his own to follow.

The journey back to the Dreadfort was far longer and more tedious than last. The path meandered over hills and winded round rivers like a serpent slithering in the grass, with the overcast sky looking bleakly at the snow-covered ground below.

When Roose dismounted and allowed his horse to be spirited away to the stables, he said nothing. He did not grant Ramsay the briefest glance or quietest mutter, nor did he wait to see him return safely and dismount his own horse.

Listening to the footsteps tailing him grow louder and more erratic, Roose relented and turned with a dreary, if not vaguely sarcastic, frown. “The fault is mine. I thought you could better control yourself.”

Ramsay stopped to look at his father in an inability to process the discomfort preventing his mind from resting, his breaths slowing to allow for clearer thinking.

“You've embarrassed our house and disgraced our family name.” Roose watched as the last shard of restraint broke within his son, and he gave no chance for an apology or protest to grace his ears. Instead, he walked down the hall until his footsteps had quieted into nothing.

Abandoned to brood, Ramsay was no longer comfortable in his skin and found himself overtaken by a restless and inflamed energy.

The guard who stood at the door to the kitchens nearly yelped when a gloved hand clutched his throat and yanked him downwards. The noise was silenced by the pressure constricting his windpipe, and it took all of his training and discipline not to attack or look away from the wild eyes glaring into his own.

“Gather the men.” The order slipped through Ramsay's clenched teeth as a whisper. “Tell them we march tonight.”

He released the guard, only to shove him a moment after the man failed to sprint out of arm's length. “Go!” Ramsay turned in the direction his father had gone as the rapid thuds of steel boots echoed against the stone floors.

* * *

A rush of cold wind burst into the Lord Commander's chambers as the door swung open. The thud of leather boots on wood marked the entry of a panting Night's Watchman, his forehead slick with a layer of snow and a hand resting on his abdomen.

“News from Mole's Town, ser.”

The focus of Alliser's squinting eyes crumpled with dismay, and the Night's Watchman stepped further into the chamber. “Three armed strangers arrived last night—” he took a breath “—together.”

Alliser let his gaze fall upon the scrolls littering his desk, searching for a reason not to assume the worst. “Were they bearing any sigils?”

Despite his limited understanding of the situation, the brother saw his commander's desperate hope and shook his head as if fearing the implications of his answer. “No, ser.”

Alliser was unsure of whether to be relieved or troubled by that fact. The possibility that the strangers were merely bandits or deserters with impeccable timing was one he clung to like a monkey to the last branch, but the paranoia creeping up his spine drove him to rise from his seat. “'Two fortnights', he said. Not forty-eight hours!”

The Night's Watchman looked between Alliser and the door, his feet shifting to the exit and his hand twitching closer to his sword.

A tense silence of unspoken orders and obscenities reigned as Alliser swerved his head back and forth across his desk. “The Boltons have shat on their promise,” he finally declared. “Not that I expected anything less.”

After a moment of deliberation, Alliser waved the brother away. “Ride to the Shadow Tower. Request an audience with Denys Mallister, and tell him we need as many men as he can spare.”

A brisk “yes, ser” flew out the Night's Watchman's mouth. A gust as cold as ice blew his cloak into the air when he opened the door once again, his boots thumping away from the chambers and then descending the stairs.

Another pair of footsteps replaced his and thundered to the door with haste. Alliser jerked his head up in preparation for scolding what he assumed to be the same brother returning in confusion.

The man who greeted him was Jon Snow, and Jon hurried to the desk while looking upon him in a frenzy of bewilderment. “You're having Brother Black escorted from the castle?”

Alliser narrowed his eyes at the name, his lips pressing together and parting into a straight line. “I am.” He gave a swift nod. “They're a fugitive from justice.” The chair squeaked as he rose and collected a scroll lying on the desk, unfolded with a broken red seal.

“Ser,” said Jon, his tone disbelieving. He looked behind himself for a brief moment and then put forward his hand. “Brother Black—”

Alliser spun towards him and yelled, “They're not a brother, Jon! They never trained! They never took the oath.” A moment of silence passed before he began again at a slightly more controlled volume, “They're a runaway scratching at our door.”

Jon took a few seconds to collect his thoughts, and when he pointed a gloved finger at the Wall, Alliser knew his words before Jon uttered them: “They've killed more wildlings in a week than most of these men have in years.”

With a heavy sigh, Alliser shook his head. “The crown issued a royal decree for their return. Would you have me branded a traitor?” He turned back to the desk with an upward swing of his hand, and his voice lowered to a frustrated mutter. “Now we have Bolton spies skittering about in the dark like rats.”

At this, Jon opened his mouth and glanced round the room. “The Bolton army can't march on Castle Black.” He stretched an arm towards the open window as if the army were marching forth at that very moment. “The lords have no jurisdiction here. It's neutral territory!”

Alliser looked over his shoulder to bob his head at Jon. “Tell that to them when they're peeling the skin off your bones.”

* * *

Far outside the Lord Commander's Tower walked a group of four Night's Watchmen, each of whom exchanged a cautious glance with the man beside him. All carried a sheathed blade on their hip as well as a torch to chase the shadows of tall trees away.

The shadow that dragged across the ground at your feet, however, did not fade, no matter how many sources of light were waved over it.

The forest ahead was devoid of singing birds and howling wolves, and the giant trees partially blocked the golden and pinkish rays of midday. Every man slowed his pace and watched the tree line, some expecting to see a Bolton sigil flying and others fearing that a bear was likely to hurl itself at the nearest man.

From behind a thicket hopped a rabbit. The appearance of the small animal elicited a hushed chuckle from the brother on your right. “That'd make a nice feed,” he whispered, nodding his head and waving his torch at it.

The brother on your left turned to him and talked without a care for his volume. “Don't bet your supper on it.”

Long ears twitching and flattening at the noise, the rabbit scurried away into the bushes.

The man who had spoken first cocked his eye at him, and the brother on your left continued: “I caught me one of them hares down in Dorne. Ate the whole thing before the guards came and said it was some lord's pet.” The brother put his hands together, then spread them apart to visualise his meal.

He shrugged as if he could still taste the hare and knew it to be worth the punishment, a slight smile forming on his lips. “Now here I am.” This sliver of a smile fell to a frown, and he shook his head. “It's too bad. I hear Dorne's nice this time of year.”

You peered beyond your shoulder to spy the wooden doors of Castle Black, which were comprised of hefty logs that reached thrice above your line of sight. Somewhere warm, you thought, was an apt place to hide from those who lived in the cold.

Do anything you want with my work, but never make me boring!

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Just For You

Pairing(s): Ramsay Bolton x Reader, referenced Ramsay Bolton x Myranda

Warnings: NSFW!!, minors do not interact, smut, slight OOC

Words: 3316

Summary: The cruel Ramsay Bolton has an unknown side to him. Not just for anyone though. Only for the maid whom he loves to taunt.

Requested by @darkrose33

Everything about him made you recoil. 

Those cruel, piercing blue eyes that drilled into the very soul and provoked fear from anyone.

His twisted smile that lit up the rest of his face as he reveled in his own malice. 

Worst of all were those hands of his. Large and rough as he dealt harsh punishments on those who refused his authority.

He used to be a bastard. Nothing more than a lowly birthed Snow. All thanks to his father, Lord Roose Bolton, did Ramsay get what he perceived as his birth right. The moment he came to the Dreadfort to make his mark, you hated him and kept quite a birth of distance whenever you were forced to serve him. 

Ramsay could smell your aversion to him and it seemed to thrill him even more that he achieved such a goal in a short amount of time. And thus began his pursuit of you. Not in a romantic way, more in attempting to make you cry from his mind games that he so loved to play. 

Sometimes he made you cry when you were finally back in your quarters, alone and safe.

More often than not though, after a row with him, it left you confused for how he made you feel. While you dreaded every encounter with him, there was a sensation that he sent through you that you couldn’t describe. It made the area between your legs throb until it was filled by your fingers and even then they weren’t enough. You hated that he made you do things like that to your body and even worse was the dreams that plagued you. Dreams which had you wet and moaning until another servant who shared your room shook you awake, worried that you were experiencing a nightmare. 

A nightmare indeed for once you were awake and realized what had happened, you were mortified with yourself. You’d lost absolute control of your body and emotions. 

How he invoked such a reaction from you was a mystery. 

Most days you were able to avoid him. Both of you had your own respective duties (even if he was still the bastard of Roose Bolton) and kept busy with that. You missed how the Dreadfort was before Ramsay came along. Not perfect by a long shot, at least you weren’t looking over your shoulder and constantly worried that Ramsay may pop up out of nowhere to terrorize you. 

On peaceful days like these, you tend to lose yourself in the peacefulness and relish the quiet around you. No screams coming from the dungeons, no taunting trill of Ramsay’s voice, you were absolutely at ease in the kitchens. 

Others bustle around you, tending to their own chores. Occasionally they’ll stop by to ask you for help or a question as many viewed you as the head of the female serving staff despite your young age. 

Absentmindedly while your chopping vegetables for the night’s meal, you’re talking to another maid when you feel the brief sting of the blade slicing into your forefinger. Immediately you reel back, dropping your knife and making the maid jump next to you. 

There’s no blood, not right away when you examine your index finger with squinted eyes. That’s when the blood started blooming from the pink slice. From small little beads to becoming a streaming river, you grab a rag and wrap it around your finger for the meantime. 

“Shall I get the maester in here?” Another servant peeks from over your shoulder, worry making their voice wobble. 

“That’s not necessary.” You brusquely tell him and inform someone else to take over your duties while you head upstairs to tend to your finger. Nothing that proper washing and bandaging can’t cure. 

You grow a little concerned when you notice the amount of blood staining the already mottled piece of cloth. What had been a small circle of red was growing into a large pool.

Picking up the pace, you bump into the last person you wanted to see in that moment as you were distracted by all the blood that was dropping to the tiled floor. You were making quite the mess.

“Well, hello little dove.” Ramsay crooned out and you swear you saw a twinkle in his pale gray eyes. The twinkle diminished once he caught sight of the red drenched fabric in your hand. His eyes actually grew wide at the sight. “What in the Seven Hells happened to you?”

You’re wary by his unusual caring behavior and take a step back from him. “I’m fine. Just nicked myself a little.”

His dark brows furrow with discontent. “That’s more than a nick, dove.”

You grimace more so to the fact that your whole body flutters whenever he called you ‘dove’. The hold it possessed on you was something awful. “I’ll live.”

Ramsay blocks your way though when you try and make a dash for it. Somehow it lacks it’s usual threatening air. His face, for the first time ever, is soft. The rigid edges of his jawline become less harsh and there’s an actual sign of mortal life on his features. “(Y/n), let me help you. That’s quite an alarming amount of blood for a mere nick.”

“Why do you care?” You snap, starting to once more feel that shooting sting resonating from your sliced finger. You just wanted to get away from him and tend to your finger.

“Don’t make me beg.”

You can’t help the rounding of your eyes when you gawk at him. Who. . . Who was this person wearing Ramsay’s face? This was not the Ramsay you saw regularly. Certainly not the same one who enjoyed the tears that would gather at the rim of your eyes.

He took the opportunity to lead you back to his chambers. Ramsay sat you down at the foot of his bed as he went into an antechamber to retrieve maester-level medical supplies. As if having done so numerous times, Ramsay retrieves a brown tinged bottle, a small wooden container, and some needle and thread.

You blanch at the thread as he goes to grab one more item which was a roll of gauze.

Ramsay follows your petrified eyes and presses his lips together. “Hopefully I won’t have to use those. Now, let me see the injury.”

This was a new side of Ramsay never before seen. Numbly, you hold out your bloodied hand; staring at him with newfound intrigue.

You didn’t hear him explaining the items he was using. Didn’t feel the sting of what was a type of antiseptic.

He didn’t look at you as he was zoned in on his work.

Unfortunately you did require the wound to be sewn up. The way Ramsay was acting, you weren’t scared of the needle being threaded. So calm and in control. No sign of becoming unhinged anytime soon. At least not until he finished up with your finger.

A numbing solution was smoothed across the gaping wound that helped you not to feel the stabbing pinch of the needlepoint.

You watch his face. Even you would admit he wasn’t the most attractive man in all of Westeros. Ramsay wasn’t even conventionally handsome by most standards.

But. . .

Gods he made your heart dance erratically. 

Finishing up, he uses a clean strip of bandage and wraps it securely around your finger. “There. Much better.”

The state of awe hadn’t left you as you take in your perfectly wrapped finger. “Th. . . Thank you. I didn’t know you were a maester in disguise.”

Ramsay chuckles and puts away his supplies. “I’m a man of many talents.”

Still, you couldn’t wash away the oddity of this new Ramsay that stood in front of you. The callous air around him was gone, hadn’t been around since he spotted all of your blood. Your eyes follow his broad back as he goes to put back his equipment.

When he turns back around, he cocks up an eyebrow. “What?”

“I’m just. . . trying to understand why you helped me.” Bringing the hand that possessed the injured finger up to your chest, you hold it there. The rumors you’d heard from your fellow servants was that Ramsay was quite bloodthirsty and torture was his favorite pastime. Everyone knew what he did down in the cellars. Whoever walked by ultimately heard the screams and cries of pain and terror.

Some called that room Ramsay’s Butcher Shop. He used it to also train his hounds. Those were the worst noises anyone could ever drag pout of their being. A hymn of immense pain, one that cast a large shadow over your merely sliced finger.

All at the hands of the very man who was so concerned about your gash. Instead of maiming you, Ramsay healed your hurt.

Perhaps you had spoken too soon as that familiar curling of his lips brightened his face. “Not to worry. I assure you I am the same, charming Ramsay that you love so much.”

You roll your eyes and dryly laugh. “What a fool I am for thinking differently.”

Despite talking back to him and laying your sarcasm on heavy, Ramsay laughs with actual delight.

After a quiet moment, you mention “Honestly this isn’t the worst injury I’ve gotten before.”

Ramsay incredulously looks at you and unconsciously he takes a seat next to you on your bed. “Well that seems impossible.”

You pat at your skirted thigh and reply “A horse kicked me in my leg when I was small. That required several stitches.”

He winces, already aware of how gnarly a wound from a horse hoof could be. “Can’t say I’ve been kicked by a horse before. But I have had a man stab me with a knife and twist it in my wound.” Casually he points to his shoulder. “Right here.”

Just like that, conversation flowed easily between the two of you. From exchanging tales of gruesome wounds to other horror stories, you found it as a common ground. While you would never harm someone the way Ramsay did, that didn’t discourage you from finding the realm of medical work fascinating.

A shame that a woman had no place in such studies. Ramsay thought that was utter rubbish. He fancied your interest, as macabre as it was.

“Now I’m the one who is surprised.” Ramsay murmurs. “All this time I thought you such a meek little target.I didn’t know a little monster lived inside of you.”

You press your lips into a strict and firm line, shooting him a glare. “I’m not a little monster. And I’m not meek. You’re just cruel!” Against your own will, your cheeks spark to life and make a red rush spread to your ears. And you’d been having such a good time with him too. A reminder that he was still the same Ramsay. Nothing had changed.

He feigns hurt. “Oh dove, you wound me.”

“I’m serious.” You grind out. “You’re so hateful. Do you think it’s funny what you do to me? Harassing me at every opportunity and toying around with my mind-“ The stream of your words couldn’t be contained now. You unleash a tongue lashing that would making anyone hang their head with shame. “It’s maddening Ramsay! I don’t understand why you do it. Worse of all has got to be the fact that by all odds-“

Abruptly you snap your mouth shut. No, you wouldn’t allow that to get out. Never would you admit your attraction for this cretin. You would sooner damn yourself to the Stranger.

Ramsay wasn’t a stupid man.

Lightening fast he picks up on what you would have said. Maybe it was the scarlet of your face or the expression of horror in your eyes that tipped him off, but Ramsay knew.

“Oh. I see. You’re attracted to me.” You desire to smack that smug grin that showed off his pointed canine tooth.

“Don’t make me laugh.” You avert your eyeline and dig your nails into your palms. You were fucked. You could already see Ramsay using this information for evil. “I have no reason to be attracted to you.”

Ramsay had Lord Roose’s eyes, so pale blue that it almost looked white. It made those pinprick of pupils even more terrifying. He leans into you, so close you could smell him: musk from hunting, the hint of rust from your blood that still coated his hands, and surprisingly pine. 

To erect any sort of barrier between your bodies, you scoot away from him and add “I don’t think the kennel master’s daughter will be too thrilled if she finds out you were even entertaining such thoughts.” While Ramsay may fuck around as he pleased, word always got back to Myranda and she was a possessive one. You’d known other maids who Ramsay had taken to bed, Myranda always made sure they were never heard from again for she was just as cruel as her lover. 

One of his red stained hands viciously grabs at your face, turning it so that your nose bumped against his. “Myranda doesn’t tell me what to do. As you said, she is just a kennel master’s daughter. I am the son of the Lord of the Dreadfort. She will not so much as look at you if I tell her so. And if she disobeys me, well, I’ll pluck one of her pretty little eyeballs out and gift it to you as a present.”

You struggle against him but his fingers dig into your cheek and you gasp when you feel his other hand sneaking under your dress skirts and to-

Now your heart leaps into your throat as you feel his hand brush against your upper thighs before pulling back the flimsy bit of fabric that protects your womanhood.

Both of you simultaneously groan when his fingers become coated with your arousal. 

You hate everything about this situation but most of all you hate yourself for wanting him to plunge his fingers into your needy core. You want to ride his hand mercilessly like you desperately did at night when you were alone. 

Ramsay presses the side of his face against your’s so his mouth caresses the shell of your ear “You say you’re not attracted to me. But your sweet cunt tells me otherwise.” You can feel his lips form a smirk before he bites your ear the same time he easily slides two fingers inside of you.

All thoughts of protest fled your mouth as it now just gapes at the sensation of him stretching you out. How delicious the walls of your cunt encase him. 

Every inch of you shivers once he starts to pump them in and out. His fingers slid with ease.

To secure you and make sure you didn’t try to run away again, Ramsay circles an arm around you and grabs onto your breast; forbidding any escape.

You moan helplessly as his fingers begin to pick up pace and move in rapid succession. His hand that had been clutching your tit travels past your collarbone and wrap his strong fingers around your neck.

There’s a brief moment of panic, too aware of how many lives he’d ended in strangulation. The fear passes when he adds another finger to your weeping cunt. With that you lose the rest of your strength to sit up and fall backwards, taking Ramsay with you. He doesn’t complain. This was a better position for what he had in store for you. 

Your head swims when his thumb begins to rub lazy circles around the tight bud of nerves that could send you to the heavens. 

The tightening of his hand around your neck goes unobserved from the other sensations you’re experiencing. Your own need for air becomes secondary. Maybe it’s the lack of air that makes everything he’s doing to you even more exhilarating. 

He stretches his fingers inside of you, hitting your sensitive, gummy walls. It actually makes you drool at the thought of how his cock will stretch you out even more. 

When you think he’s going to be gracious and make you come, he flips the switch in himself and removes his hand from under your skirts so that you practically scream at him in frustration. 

Ramsay grins, sucking on his fingers before releasing your neck (you hadn’t realized how lightheaded you had become) and crashing his lips against your’s. He takes what he wants from your lips, holding you close to him; so close that when he grinds his pelvis against you, you could easily feel his hardened cock. 

Breathy pants and moans bounce around the room as does the sound of Ramsay stripping himself of his trousers and the sound of your skirts being hiked up until your lower half is completely revealed to him. With ravenous gray eyes, he drinks up the sight of you exposed and ready. 

He palms at the mess that has become your cunt. “Had I known all this time that you would get so wet for me, I would have fucked you ages ago.” Ramsay delivers a smack to your pussy making you yelp a bit. 

The part of you that still had cognitive thinking wanted to snap at him and deny the obvious arousal you felt toward him. There was no lying, not when you were splayed in front of him, your cheeks a burning inferno when you spy Ramsay stroking a mouthwatering, pink cock. 

Full of himself and the way your eyes, trained on his erection, boosts his ego and makes him smirk with satisfaction. 

You doubt he’ll fuck you right away. The dark swirl of his eyes tells you he is in the mood for playing. Even worse, you expect he’ll make you beg for his cock. Which, at this point, you were ready to get on your hands and knees and plead with him to fill you up. You’d say whatever was necessary as long as he followed through.

Taking his time to line up his cock with your slit, Ramsay grins at the anticipation gleaming in your eyes. He’s savoring your every reaction. There’s a pause in the lustful heat of his expression as he gazes down at you. “You asked me earlier why I cared that you were bleeding.”

You want to growl out in frustration. Talking was the last thing you wanted him to be doing. But you let him say what he needed to get out. 

“Had it been anyone else, I wouldn’t have bothered.” Ramsay murmurs, his hand that isn’t guiding his shaft runs their fingers lovingly along the inside of your thigh. “You’ve always been an exception. I will never allow anyone to see that side of me. It’s just for you, (y/n). What I said about Myranda was a promise. If she so much as bothers you, I will gladly butcher her for your delight.”

His words should have curdled your stomach. Instead your heart flutters at such morbid devotion. 

Ramsay didn’t bother to let you reply, instead choosing to slam into you in that very moment. The head of his shaft pierces past your barriers. Your fingers curl  into the bed sheets under you as you arch your back.

The rest of the events were a blur in your mind.

Tangled legs.

Biting teeth.

The sound of Ramsay pounding into you.

You don’t recall how long the two of you are intertwined in your passions. When you finally regain your senses, the sky outside is pitch black. Slowly the aching in your finger reminds you of what had happened and where you were.

Ramsay has you pulled close to his chest, still sticky with sweat. His face is burrowed in your (h/c) hair. At first you think he’s asleep but when you move to get up, his grip on you tightens and he refuses your departure. 

“You’re not going anywhere, dove.”

[fallatyourfeet]

Conflicted (Ramsay Bolton x Reader) Masterlist - 2 Parts

GIF by marked-by-destiny

Summary: Ramsay is conflicted by his feelings for the Reader.

Warnings: Usual Ramsay warnings, he has terrible and evil thoughts about the reader (Violence, sexual assault etc)

I would love to know what you think, please feel free to send a message or leave a comment, feedback is always appreciated

If you like this, please feel free to visit my blog and take a look around!

Part 1 | Part 2

[aemondsbabe]

ramsay bolton smut tomorrow!!!

everyone clap!!! everyone cheer!!!!!!! i’m so excited!!!!!

big thank you to the loml @arcielee for bbygirl pic of ramsay 🩷

[red-riding-wood]

Chapter 1

OC: Aleera

Fandom: Game of Thrones / ASOIAF

Summary: Former protector of the last Targaryens and bastard daughter of the Mad King Aerys, Aleera ventures to Westeros in search of the family she's never known, and finds herself swallowed by a world of cruelty, ambition and lies... She must leave behind her heart to survive, and, like her ancestors, forge her path through fire and blood. Madness and greatness, they say, are two sides of the same coin, and may the world hold its breath to witness how this coin lands.

Warnings: (for entire story) angst, graphic violence, gore, cursing, sexual assault, graphic sexual content, incest, torture... standard GoT stuff. I'm not holding back with this story so if you're not a fan of dark or disturbing content this is not for you. Also future Ramsay x OC and Petyr x OC and those two are their own warnings.

~ Combines content from Game of Thrones TV series and the ASOIAF books. Some canon changes are made to suit the story. ~

“Here, allow me,” my sister spoke, her voice a murmur and her fingers like silk as they wove themselves through my long, tangled hair. She had always been soft-spoken, unless the fire awoke in her. Her voice was soothing, in these rare moments when I did not allow my envy to pervade my mind.

And while I initially relaxed under her touch, watching as she undid the snares in my locks, I could not help but allow my gaze to linger on the pale silver of hers, the arcane violet of her gentle eyes. Mine stared back a dull, cold grey that I could only imagine must have belonged to my mother, much like the red hair that came from being born of a Tully. Though only a half-sibling to Daenerys, I was twice the Targaryen she was. But it was hidden beneath the markings of a mutt.

“Do you know when your wedding is?” Daenerys asked me softly. “I wish to see you before I am pledged to Khal Drogo.”

My mouth pinched into a bitter line.

“Viserys hasn’t said.” As much as I tried, I could not hold the spite from my tongue, though I believed she would perceive its aim to be at our brother, who had made the arrangements.

“You haven’t asked?” Daenerys seemed genuinely surprised; out of the two of us, I had always been the more headstrong, even with the brother who proclaimed himself the last dragon.

“I have,” I said. “I believe he is still negotiating for a higher price.”

The only time my brother had ever called me a Targaryen was when he was selling me to amass wealth and soldiers for the army he planned to march on Westeros, the origin of each of our births. The land of the Seven Kingdoms, and the fabled Iron Throne he claimed awaited him.

Dany’s expression turned rather grave at that. Neither of us wanted to be sold like cattle, nor did we want to part from each other. Despite living in her winged shadow, we shared a bond that would never break, no matter how wretched my disdain grew.

“Viserys thinks Khal Drogo’s army will carry out his wishes when I am wed. At least with the gold, he can hire mercenaries loyal to his purse. Let us hope that he settles for less than you are worth.”

While Dany was being sold to the great horse lord of the Dothraki, I was offered to a wealthy magister in Pentos, a man whose name I had never heard uttered before my brother had told me the news. And while my sister would become a khaleesi, a queen of a warrior tribe, I would be nothing more than a housewife to one of Illyrio’s lazy aristocratic friends. Of what use would my swordsmanship be, my years of protecting my family from the many vile creatures and men in Essos? And of what would become of my sister’s soft skin and feather-like hair? When would the Dothraki break her gentle heart?

“And what am I worth?” I dared to ask, stiffening.

Her fingers didn’t cease their rhythm, not even now that she was making intricate braids from the outer layers of my hair. Her violet eyes didn’t even meet the biting steel of mine in the mirror. And she said,

“Sister, there is no sum of gold that could ever be worth your company.”

The thorns around my heart softened a bit at that, but guilt gnawed at my chest. I wondered, sometimes, if she was completely unaware of my envy of her.

“What of an army?” I asked.

The line of her mouth quirked into a smile, and she said, “There is no sum of men, either.”

---

The Dothraki had come for my sister when the sun was highest in the sky, the hooves of their mounts thundering through the snaking paths of the hills to announce themselves before they spilled into the courtyard, bare-chested warriors butting shoulders as their steeds snorted and bayed. Reins pulled taught and black, wild eyes flashed as their riders brought them to heel.

The entire ceremony had lasted less than a quarter of an hour, and not a word was spoken other than those I’d heard Viserys whisper into Dany’s ear, pointing out the long braids down Khal Drogo’s back. Each braid signified a battle won; the Dothraki cut their hair after every defeat. If it was fear or awe that had stricken my sister’s face, I was certain not, but I would never forget it. Nor would I ever forget the sinking feeling when she had strode towards her new king, could never forget how emptiness weighed so heavy in my gut.

Viserys had sent me away shortly after the meeting, wishing to seek council with Magister Illyrio, the man who had opened his doors to the three of us nearly a year ago. He had aided my brother in finding suitors for us both, was a believer in Viserys’ claim to the Iron Throne and wanted to bleed him dry of a king’s generosity.

All I knew was that Dany had come sobbing to me afterward, that she had tried to speak against her union to Khal Drogo, that our brother had uttered words so vile to her that they still echoed in my own ears. And while I dreaded my own dinner tonight with my suitor, while I found myself grimacing at the thought of having to cook for him and watch him grow fatter over the years, of having to clean his bed sheets each night after he used myself or one of his whores, of never again feeling the weight of a sword in my hand or my sister’s fingers through my hair, my heart could not help but fracture from her own miserable fate as her tears dampened the fabric of my gown. And though I would have traded places with her in a heartbeat, though I had always wished to be her, I had put aside my resentment and told her to be stoic, to let her tears fall quietly when Khal Drogo would take her purity. She was so fragile, yet she needed to be strong. I needed her to be strong. 

Now, sun swept the bathhouse in a blanket of gold; dusk was within the hour, snaking its talons beneath the awning of the balcony overlooking the sandy hills of the Pentos outskirts and glittering off the colourful masonry of the bath’s walls. Tousled curtains of ridiculous proportion billowed from the great gusts of wind that poured into the every crevasse of the building and threatened to chill me past the dampened fabric of my gown. One of Illyrio’s servants scurried from my sight with the last urn of soiled water from my sister’s earlier bath, sandals landing heavily against the stone as I descended the steps. I could still picture Viserys handing her the fine silk she had worn for Khal Drogo, could still taste the bile on my tongue when I watched his hands wander across her naked form. As the servants slipped dragon pins that I would never wear through the shoulders of the light garment.

My wrath burned like fire beneath my skin, drummed against my chest like the hooves of the Dothraki stallions, and split the quiet of the building as I practically roared my brother’s name,

“Viserys!”

One of the curtains whipped and curled around itself as the wind changed direction, before blowing back with another gust of wind that stirred the curls from my shoulders and revealed the bright red robes of Illyrio, surprise flashing across a pudge face as a bearded mouth parted to speak.

But, ushering him aside, was my half-brother, tall yet thin in frame and leaning to bark something in the man’s ear. Whatever he said, it was disagreeable to our host, who seemed all the more shocked by his words, but pinched his mouth shut and disappeared along the balcony.

Pain flared where my nails had dug into the palms of my hands, only noticeable when I peeled my fingers from my fists. Viserys knew better than to hit me; it was not a physical battle I would need to win today but one of words, and I could never twist and morph them into such sweet yet false promises as he did, could only spit them like hellfire as its flames licked at my throat and boiled my blood so hot it threatened to consume me. 

And while I should have been silent, should have kept my protest and my sister’s admittances to myself, I could bear the echoes no longer.

“You are calling it off,” I ordered him, tone dark as the stallions’ eyes that had flashed at me in the courtyard. “You are calling it off – the wedding, Khal Drogo, the khaleesi and khalasar, so help me, by the gods, I will – “

My words were extinguished in a shattered breath as my brother’s finger rose to my lips, and he said to me, “Hush, dear sister. Do you wish to wake the dragon?”

My lip curled around my teeth as I glared up at him, meeting the lilac of his glittering eyes and taking note of the subtle yet gloating line of his smirk. As the sole surviving male Targaryen of the Rebellion, he had proclaimed himself the “last dragon”, though he had all the strength of a child still pink in its skin, and his foolishness was only at times mistaken for courage by imbeciles like Illyrio and the servant girls who frequented his quarters.     

“If I must,” I growled.

“Khal Drogo is already expecting his bride come their wedding. I cannot withdraw my end of the bargain now. He would have all our heads.”

It was to be expected that my brother had chosen to weasel his way into a situation that could only benefit him but had mortal repercussions for his family. And it was only natural that he was attempting to use fear as a means to quell my fury.

“Then call off my marriage, and let me go with her, to protect her. As I have always done,” I suggested, trying not to let the desperation creep into my tone.

Viserys’ finger reached to brush a lock of hair from my face; I had undone Dany’s braids earlier and it must have made me unpresentable. I witnessed his smirk twist into a displeased line when pale eyes examined my face, felt my heart quicken in my chest, my blood boiling yet my stomach fluttering.

Though he looked about to comment on my unkempt appearance, his eyes wandering from my wild hair to my tear-stained gown, he said,

“She does not need the protection of a girl who thinks herself a warrior when she will have an army of the most vicious fighters at her side.”

I could not bring myself to draw from the touch that I craved, but his words stirred the hellfire in my chest and I practically spat in his face, “You said you would let every one of those ‘viciousfighters’ fuck her – and their horses, too, if it meant reclaiming your throne. And tales of the Dothraki and their brutality do not go unsung in any corner of Essos.”

Of all the dangers in this cruel world, it was not the rapers nor the thieves nor even the assassins sent by the usuper, but our brother she needed protection from the most.

Not a trace of doubt shadowed Viserys’ glittering eyes as he told me, as if speaking to a child, “She needed to understand how important my conquest is.” His deft fingers fell from my cheekbone and settled on my shoulder, thumbing at the fabric of my gown.

“Your conquest?” I spat, and his flinch came as a simple yet earned satisfaction. “Your army and your gold is bought by selling your family. Is this really how you want the great song of your reign to begin? How can you even expect to continue your dynasty, that you insist to be so pure? You cannot expect to wed Daenerys, not when she is pledged to Khal Drogo, and – ”

“Daenerys will mother my heir.” These words, spoken so calmly amidst the storm of my fury, brought mine to a slamming halt in my chest, my lungs screaming for air and my lips parted in a silent plea as a knife twisted between my ribs.

My brother’s hand slid to my other shoulder as his body pressed against mine, and his soft lips brushed the tingling flesh of my neck. I was paralysed, captive to his venomous touch and his cold words. “Khal Drogo will not be able to refuse a king,” he whispered in my ear, and I shut my eyes to find a tear suspended on my lash, now streaking down my cheek. Viserys worked the fabric of my gown from my shoulders, the winds outside now sweeping a chill across burning flesh, the garment tumbling slowly down to my breasts.  “And neither will you, dear sister. When my army marches on the Red Keep, we will pay that usurper back with fire and blood, and I will ascend to my throne, and the people will cheer, and you will hear great songs about me from the bards in Essos.” I could almost feel the heat from his body and the fire of his touch melting my fury away into yearning. I leaned into him, if only slightly, a soft moan catching on my tongue as he groped at my breasts through the fabric that would only fall at his whim. “And tonight, you bed not a prince, but a king. The one, true king.”

And just as he released the fabric, I stole myself from my trance and I tore my body from his, tugging the sleeves of my gown back over my shoulders. His visage was blurry past my unshed tears, the silver of his fine hair undulating beneath the dusk’s blanket of rich gold so befitting of a king.

“Take me with you,” I pleaded, nearly breathless.

A grin so wide it came sickening to my stomach stretched across his features, and I blinked, his high cheekbones and his furrowed brow and his scornful eyes sharpening. “How absurd. Of what use would you be to me when I am king? Is it my throne you desire?”

I swallowed lead. And when my lips formed the confession, my voice was quiet, so quiet it mimicked the gentle whisper of a lover,

“It is not a throne I desire.” I looked him deep in his eyes, forcing back the new hail of tears that threatened me, and from his look I could tell that he knew what I meant to say, that mayhaps, in all our years of growing together as siblings, he finally understood me.

“You foolish girl,” he chuckled, the baritones of his voice loveless. “You want to be my queen.”

My fury surged again in my chest, stirred by the pain that had burrowed itself deep in my soul, and I suddenly found my voice as my tears streamed freely down my face,

“All I’ve ever wanted was to be worthy enough for this family, to be by your side.”

For you to look at me the way you do Daenerys. To speak of me not as a bastard but a Targaryen.

But I once more bit my tongue, a slave to my desires.

“Aleera, you are not a queen. You are a bastard – a whore, like your mother. Your blood is tainted, your flesh sullied by scars. You throw yourself at any man willing to offer a copper for your bedside.” If my words were fire, his were poison, sinking deep into the marrow of my bones, chilling my boiling blood.

Past his soured expression, I studied the beauty of his face – the fairness of skin that I had once known to be filthier, stretched gaunter over pointed cheekbones, before Illyrio had come along. The face of the Beggar King. Even then, I had found him handsome.

But each scar that had not tarnished his flawless skin nor my sister’s had scored cruel through mine, and I wore the stench of blood and steel to his bed, blood as red as the hair and steel as sharp as the eyes that marked me as half-bred.

And when I told my sister stories of my skirmishes and thievery and whoring, I looked upon her ethereal face that mimicked my brother’s so, and I would have given anything for her silver hair and her pale lashes, and the light rose of her cheeks, and the soft skin I knew my brother favoured.

And each time I bid her goodnight, I cursed the gods others prayed to for these differences that made me an outsider.

Years of this torment frothed at my tongue as I rose my voice, shaking, in more fury or fear I could tell not,

“You would be dead if not for my scars, brother. Each was earned protecting this family. Each meant another week that you could live. And each man I bed meant another meal to fill your aching belly.”

Each another step from the acceptance I craved.

“And I would do it all again, for you and my sister,” I told him, my tears still falling unbidden to my breathless lips. “I may not be your family, Viserys, but you were mine.”

 And there it was. That awful, simple word. Were.

Now that mud no longer caked his clothing and hunger no longer gnawed at his gut and he slept in a bedchamber rather than a gutter, now that he was to be a true king rather than a beggar, I was no longer necessary. I would be gone, in a day, or two. Mayhaps sooner if he could be rid of me. And I would forget that beautiful face, slowly, as I spent the rest of my life serving someone who never made my stomach flutter as he once had.

And I needed to let go.

My gown swept across the floor as I turned to stalk across the bathhouse, towards the winds of Pentos that howled into the deathly silence of Illyrio’s seaside domain.

“Aleera!” Long fingers curled around my wrist, tightening so firm the flesh would surely bruise, and my head snapped around, my cold eyes surely shooting sparks as I let my gaze fall so tragically on the face that I would remember, for a time, not as my brother, but as the man who’d sold me.

“Do not ever touch me again,” I hissed, and shook him off as virulently as his own touch had landed upon me. And though uttering such words split my heart in two, twisted the knife deeper past my screaming ribs, I knew that it was always meant to be this way, that I was never anything to him but a means to an end and another body to warm his bed.

---     

Each tide that drew back into the sea seemed to steal a piece of my heart with it, and each wave that crashed against the rocks below echoed my fury. I clenched and unclenched my fists where they rested on the sandstone railing, nails stinging my palms. Dark clouds crowned the bright of the sunset, and the winds swept sand into the frantic air and commanded the sea with an iron trident.

My sight rested where the sea gave the illusion of stretching forever into the light fog that crept along the water, and each time the chill of the western winds buffeted my face I could almost feel the beyond calling to me.

But it was not the Narrow Sea that called, but rather, the continent known as Westeros, the land of my birth and the home of my alleged mother, who in her late years came to be known as Catelyn Stark, wed to Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell and Warden of the North. A powerful title, and a powerful name; the Starks were one of the longest standing houses in Westeros, and commanded a vast, near barren stretch of land until the Wall of the Night’s Watch barricaded them from northern savages known as wildlings. Snow was said to fall from the sky, shadowcats and mountain lions and wolves said to prowl the lands, and great, white trees with leaves red as blood stretched into the heavens of the oldest gods.

My adopted mother had died giving birth to Dany when I was barely out of the womb, but a knight named Ser Willem Darry had smuggled us three children across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities of Essos, in which he purchased a beautiful manor to raise us until I was the age of nine and Viserys the age of thirteen, when King Robert Baratheon’s assassins burnt it to its foundations. In his rebellion, he had usurped my father, The Mad King Aerys, the second of his name, and had commanded that every Targaryen be executed to ensure his claim to the throne and his dynasty.

As one of the last Targaryens, my mother Catelyn had given me to Dany and Viserys’ mother, Rhaella Targaryen, for my own safety. It was because of Ser Willem and Viserys that I knew these things about the mothers I’d never had, about the father who’d burned cities, about the houses that waged wars across the sea.

And while I had always yearned to seek the mother who had been forced to give me up as an infant, who probably still cried for me as I did for her still, I had always been needed here in Essos, to take care of this family that was never truly my own.

I would bring Dany there, to the North, where my birth mother would welcome me back as her eldest child, where my sweet, innocent sister could be free of Khal Drogo and our cruel brother.

Where he can never touch her again, a venomous part of my mind added as lead formed once more on my tongue. Where she cannot bear his children.

“Sister?”

I flinched at the soft lull of her voice, and when I turned to behold her, I found myself snapping with a still-virulent tone, “What do you want from me?”

Though evidently taken aback, fear dashing through bright, arcane eyes, she was calm when she spoke, “I overheard some of your words with Viserys.”

My stomach churned, and my heart seemed to clench in my chest. “How much?”

“Enough,” she said, and took a step forward, but no more. “I don’t mean to cause you pain, sister… I only wish to help ease it as you did mine.”

When I looked at her face, I saw the silver-haired beauty who had always overshadowed me, had always been more wanted. And when I looked at the silks that were draped across a now womanly figure, I thought of Viserys shedding them, thought of his hands entwining themselves into those silver locks as they once had mine. I foresaw her belly, swelling with his child, and it was all I could do to muzzle my rage.

“I’d rather be alone,” I said bitterly, turning my gaze back to the writhing sea and hunching over the railing with an almost petulance.

“I don’t want Viserys. Not in the way he…” Dany trailed off, her words nearly swept away by the winds.

I whirled on her, my heart clenching tight in my still-aching chest as I hissed, “Not in the way he wants you. Did you come here to remind me of that? Are you here to tell me that you don’t want Khal Drogo as well, that you don’t want to be a queen?”

While I would never wish to be pawned off by my own brother, in any circumstance, I wasn’t certain my sister realised how greater an honour it was to be sold to such a dangerous, prominent man than a nobody who happened to carry a large purse. And unlike my sister, I knew the Dothraki would not break me. If anything, I could learn to turn them against Viserys. Break free.

Dany’s eyes were more sad than fearful now, and something about them made my heart splinter. I closed my eyes, exhaling, realising that I was mayhaps unjust with my words.

Turning once more to the railing, I said, voice lowering, “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.” My fingers curled into another fist to quell my rage as I forced the image of her from my mind. “None of this is your fault.”

After a pregnant pause, and a few mournful cries of the gulls, Daenerys stepped beside me, her footfalls silent but her presence indicated by the sweet perfume Illyrio had gifted her. And she told me, plainly,

“I had a dream.”

I sighed. My sister had always thought her dreams had meant something; when she dreamt of the three of us prospering with mountains of gold and an army at our heels as we marched back to Dragonstone, the isle of Dany’s birth, she’d told me it would someday come true. When she dreamt of horrible monsters emerging from the darkness – likely a result of overhearing the priestesses who pledged themselves to the Lord of Light – she asked me to watch over her the next night closely with my sword.

“Please, spare me,” I said, imagining that she was about to try cheering me up with some pointless illusion. “Nothing but cruel tricks from the gods, no doubt.”

But she spoke anyway, her fingers landing across the railing adjacent to mine and her silver curls whipping back from her face as she stared into the blackening sunset,

“I dreamt of two dragons, one of ice and the other fire; one of silver scales and the other a crimson as blood red as your hair. The red dragon seemed to claw itself from the other, rising above it in a black sky.” Her head tipped back to regard the first stars emerging in the hollowness above. “And then both were swallowed by each other’s flame. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now I wonder if it has come true. If the dragons are meant to be you and Viserys.”

I scoffed. Dragons had not existed for nearly a century, though tales of the great beasts tamed by my Targaryen ancestors were always favoured by mummers and bards. But it was her interpretation of the dream that baffled me most.

“Viserys is no dragon,” I said, my lip curling with more than a slight disdain.

“No,” she said, her voice soft but assured. “But you are.”

Something winked in the last, fading rays of the sun, and I looked to what she held out to me in shock.

The pendant was of the three-headed dragon, the sigil of the Targaryen house. The intricacy of the craftsmanship detailed even the ridges along the slender necks that reared above the body of the beast, its maws gaping and tongues as sharp as its teeth. I could not help but run my fingers across the silver-hued jewelry in awe, thumbing at the tightly woven chain that bound the circular pendant.

“Valyrian steel.” Though I had suspected it mainly from the ripples that ran through the metal like markings along the dragon, I could confirm it now that I held its unusually light weight in the palm of my hand. Few remnants of Old Valyria remained, but there were some blacksmiths and jewelers who still knew how to reforge the rare metal of our ancestors.

My heart swelled, warm and whelming, in my chest, mending the fracture the sight of her had carved moments ago. When I looked up at her again, everything about my demeanor must have softened, for my eyes were swathed again in unshed tears, and she bore a small yet loving smile, violet eyes glittering in the quickening dark. I glimpsed the silver dragons that Viserys had pinned to her silks, and I no longer looked upon them with envy, but rather, a strength that emerged deep from my soul and bound me to the one person who had always been there for me, who may, in fact, still have been my family.

Rendered speechless, another silence passed between us before she spoke, “No matter where our paths take us, promise me, Aleera…” Her fingers gently folded mine over the pendant. “… that we will always be sisters.”

The tear was warm against my cheek as it shed, and the smile that quirked my lip was genuine. I held the necklace to my chest, tightly as if in fear of it being swept away by the winds. And I realised that not all of my heart was torn empty.

“I promise.”

NEXT CHAPTER

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[dragons-and-handcuffs]

Imagine. You are the lady of a powerful and noble house. Moreover, you are married to the lord of a powerful house. You even have a few children. Somehow you cross paths with Roose. Maybe Roose is taking over you, willingly or by force. You become pregnant as a result of passionate and wild nights. Roose is taking precautions to make sure you don't get rid of the baby. Birth is painful. Moreover, having Roose in the room and humiliating you is even worse. You finally deliver the baby. The baby is just like a mini copy of Roose. Despite your objections, he puts the baby on her breast. He name the baby Derek. Baby Derek acts as if he's demanding that you pet him. It hurts when he sucks your breasts. He's pulling her hair out. You finally break down and accept your fate with tears in your eyes. Then you get pregnant two more times. You give birth to two more boys named Domeric and Ramsay. Among the three children, Domeric is the one who resembles you in character. However, all three children were hurting you when they were babies and children, demanding your love. Roose finds it very enjoyable to turn you into a submissive wife.

Imagine you are begging Roose to let you go after giving birth. You don't even want the baby. But he just dismisses your pleas and forces you to feed his son. If necessary he will tie you up.

Imagine immediately he is having the maester check how soon he can breed you again. If Roose wants you to feel more pain or something he will regularly make you drink some that makes you extra sensitive. Your son is a Bolton and very demanding. Every time he feeds he leaves you in tears

[countrymusiclover]

32 - Regaining the North

Part 33

Fire Of A Stark

@dragonixfrye

“Arrangement, like what kind?” I asked knitting my brows together trying to figure out what he meant.

Little Finger stepped closer to me noticing that I wasn’t pregnant anymore. He heard the rumor but now it was true that there was a new Lannister heir. “Perhaps a marriage between Robin Lord of the Vale and whatever child you and the kingslayer have created. Say a girl.”

“I didn’t come here to sell off my infant daughter's life, Baelish. I am here to ask for help from the Vale. Now I know that Robin doesn’t know how to rule his own house being that he probably isn’t even the age of ten.” I spat resting one hand on my hip glaringly.

He stepped closer reaching up and messing with some loose strands of my hair making me meet his gaze. “I have learned that knowledge is power, my dear. For example I know that you are the last living dragon in the realm. That makes you valuable and your children even more so.”

“My child isn’t something to gain. She is only a baby. It would be years before she would be of age. Plus I have already made up my mind that I would never betrothe her off.” I stomped away from him, crossing my arms over my chest.

Baelish tapped his chin, stepping closer to me. Sansa warned me before I left that he had a way of words like Tyrion. And if he wanted someone to think he was their friend but then behind their backs he was the enemy then he would do just that. Most people were never that clever enough to figure him out before something happened. "You are right Robin is too young to make his own decisions. Which is why I am the one mostly in charge here. You see I could convince the boy to help his dear cousin or I could convince him to do nothing and let Ramsay Bolton keep the North."

Throwing my head back I scoffed knowing there wasn't much of a choice. Sticking my hand out to him I just sent him a glare. "Fine, I'll consider talking this over with my husband. But first we have to defeat Ramsay."

"Then I will help you." He responded by shaking my hand and walking away to find Robin.

Before he could leave the room I called out needing to know where he stood with my secret. We weren't allies. The only person that used to be an enemy that I now trusted was Jaime. "Are you going to tell the rest of the Seven kingdoms about who I really am or will you keep it a secret?”

“Knowledge is power, Cadence. If it is in my best interest then I might. But you have bigger things to worry about than whether or not I will do something.” He turned around to face me nodding his head in my direction. “Head home, little dragon.”

Doing as he said I climbed back on Joanna flying home. It was a much longer flight than I cared for. Finally returning to the stables I knew that Sansa was waiting for an answer but I didn’t have the energy to talk with her. Opening the door to our chambers I kicked off my boots seeing Jaime was passed out in the bed with Rhaenyra sleeping in his arms. Sitting down on the bed he stirred awake blinking his eyes seeing relief wash over his face. “Lynesse, seven hells. You have made me worried sick.”

“I missed you too, Jaime…I missed our little dragon too.” I whispered down to our still sleeping daughter before he tilted my chin up, capturing my lips with his gently. Leaning into the kiss I climbed into the bed on the other side of him so as to not wake our daughter.

Jaime wrapped his arms around my waist, finally breaking the kiss with me burying my face in the crook of his neck. His green eyes focused on mine where I could see that he hadn’t been sleeping. “So what they say. Are they going to help us?”

“They will…at least that is my hope. Littfinger is tricky with his words where he reminds me of his brother.” I replied, moving one hand up his chest until he intertwined his hand with mine. Jaime wouldn’t tell me until the morning that he had a hard time raising our daughter by himself. Closing my eyes I let myself fall asleep in his arms until the morning sun broke through the windows of our chambers.

Climbing out of the bed I changed into some different clothes entering the hall with Sansa sitting at the dinner table. Carrying little Rhaenyra in my arms she sent me a look. Jaime came in a few seconds later but Jon was nowhere to be found meaning that he had rode to prepare the men for battle. “I talked with Baelish. I think that I convinced him to help but there was a deal we had to make..”

“What kind of deal did he make?” Jaime asked seeing that my gaze had dropped down to our infant daughter and hadn’t left her once.

Shifting around in my seat I locked my eyes with him figuring that he wouldn’t take me seriously. I had told him multiple times that I didn’t want her to be forced into a marriage. Even though it is my life now that doesn’t mean that she should be forced into it like I was. “He wants to marry her to Robin Arryn.” Jaime was a good husband yet I still want her to have more freedom and a choice of what she does with her life.

“You wed her off to help our brother. I thought you said you didn’t want her to be forced into marriage like we have been. Marrying someone like Joffrey or Ramsay.” Sansa sat her fork down, eyeing me with confusion. She was completely right that I was the girl against marriage from the day I met Jaime.

Jaime reached forward resting a hand on my shoulder staring down at our child. He wanted to make sure that no one ever hurt her. “I am the Lord of Casterly Rock. If he isn’t suitable for her then I will put a stop to it when she becomes of age. I promise you, Lynesse.”

The doors opened with a guard informing us with a bow. “My Lord. My Ladies. Jon Snow and his army are ready to fight. Horses have been prepared for you all.” Sansa was on a white horse leaving me and Jaime to ride on brown horses. Holding Rhaenyra in my arms the battle wasn’t going well. Ramsay had a lot more men than we did. Jon and his men we’re getting their asses kicked.

“Cadence, you have to ride back and get Joanna. Ramsay will kill them all.” Sansa begged me looking at me with such a terrified look. She was grabbing her horses reigns tightly telling me she was really nervous.

Whipping my head around I gasped seeing Jon get punched into the mud basically getting stomped on into the ground. “Sansa, I’m not doing it. Dragon fire will mark me as being just like every Targaryen. We have to wait for them to show up.” Moving my gaze back onto the battlefield I gulped feeling nervous about this. Our men we’re getting their assses kicked and killed harshly where I really needed the Knights of the Vale to show up.

“Cadence, please!” Sansa begged me where I started feeling really bad that this would be my fault.

Jaime broke me from my trance calling out to me where Sansa and I both turned our heads seeing a whole army of soldiers riding towards us on horseback. “Lynesse. Sansa!” Slumping my shoulders in relief I released some happy tears seeing Baelish riding up to meet us on his own horse.

“Our deal is still strong, little dragon.” He responded by sending me a half smile on his face watching our army finally manage to beat out Ramsay. Guards had captured him, placing him inside the cells of the castle. Dismounting my horse Jaime walked behind me holding our daughter. I watched his gaze moving around the yard seeing that he hadn’t been back here since King Robert rode here. Moving my gaze up I grinned like a child again feeling so relieved that I was finally home. The Stark banner fell down on the walls of the castle meaning that the Starks were once again the protectors of the North.

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