#ramsay snow fanfiction

[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

[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.”

[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

[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.

[decomposingfungi]

guys i watched saltburn and i liked it a lot. but all the time watching it i was thinking that barry keoghan would be an incredible ramsay. and then i thought. wait. jacob elordi COULD be theon. and suddenly the movie was a thramsay modern au to me and i was screaming into my pillow

[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

[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

SERIES MASTERLIST / FULL MASTERLIST

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[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.

Comments really appreciated ❤️

[puppyxaegon]

Yours, pt. 1 Captor!Ramsay Bolton x GN reader

Okay, realizing I teased this fic like A MONTH ago and just left yall hanging so I do apologize for that,,,anyways this was another of those situations where I start writing HCs but I get overly invested and filled with ideas so I want to make it a fic but then I get overwhelmed and overthink and excessively scrutinize and end up just putting it off. The neverending cycle as it were. But I've decided to take some pressure of myself and just make this a short part one/teaser! So here you go, please enjoy and leave feedback if you like!

Tags/warnings: SFW, Captivity, memory loss, mention of drug use

As you awake, the first thing you feel is discomfort. You’re groggy and vaguely stiff and sore all over. Your mouth feels dry and stuck together, and crust around your eyes begins to sting as you come into awareness. Everything is oddly fuzzy, muffled or blunted somehow and your whole body hums with a kind of numbness you can only associate with a limb that’s fallen asleep and lost most of its sensation. ‘A dream’, you think. Every breath feels like a concerted effort.

It doesn’t take long after you open your eyes though to take in your surroundings in the fairly well lit room. You use all the strength you can muster to lift your head enough to look around. You feel your stomach cramping with the effort as you shake slightly, but the pain is far away. The room seems empty, barren of furniture or any semblance of décor. The grimy concrete floor combines perfectly with the stone walls, weakly buzzing lightbulb that hangs from the ceiling, and the rickety wooding staircase ascending into nowhere to create the stereotypical image of a ‘creepy kidnapper basement’. It was something straight out of a trashy torture porn exploitation film. The thought made you chuckle, but you were faintly aware that the sound was more of a dry grunt.

 As you move to sit up further, you feel your right arm weighed down by what you turn and see is a cuff and heavy chain, no longer than a foot and attached to a disused radiator. As you trace the links with your gaze, you notice what you’re sitting on, a lumpy and yellowed mattress which had certainly seen better days. ‘This is too fucking good’, you think to yourself. You’re well used to strange and foreboding dreams, but this one feels a bit on the nose. You want to laugh again, but recognize the feeling of your mind becoming more and more withdrawn from your body and lacking control of its functions.

You feel yourself lay back, suddenly uninterested in the previous line of thinking. Your head was beginning to spin, and the pain in your stomach threatens to break through the delirium. All you want to do is sleep, but aren’t you already asleep? The quietly growing pain is what makes you question your state of consciousness because as far as you can remember, dreams were not supposed to feel this sharp.

As you recede into exhaustion, your vision dims and your mind attempts to reach out past the island of your thoughts in the moment.

Where was I before this?

What had I told Alys before I left her?

Who was the man with the dog?

You can’t answer any of these questions for yourself or make out exactly what they mean. You fall back into what should be sleep, but are assailed by images, vignettes, fragments of some story or memory that nags at you.

Alys’ copper hair catching the glow of the streetlight and her radiant smile that evaded the appreciation of the man who’d wrapped himself around her.

“GO, have fun! I’ll be fine, its beautiful out anyway, I could use a walk.”

The night which got so dark and so quiet more quickly than you expected when it’d felt like you just left the concert. As if the world had simply fallen away from you.

The park bench where you lay, staring up at the stars and ignoring the cavernous pain in your chest and the urge to cough as you inhaled again from the device Alys had left you with.

“She’s friendly, help yourself.” The voice of the man shrouded in darkness which carried an odd tone as you found yourself kneeling and reaching out to pet a huge back dog, with floppy ears and some of the biggest eyes you’d ever seen.

“You know, It’s not a good night to be out here all alone.”

A cruel stare.

Rough hands.

A sharp pain at the back of your head.

And then nothing.

No more memories, no more thoughts, no more images.

Nothing but the bitter, coppery taste in your mouth as the last of your consciousness winked out of existence.

[grey-joys]

They meet again in Winterfell, but there is much to be explained.

Sansa is married to Ramsay Bolton, but this time, she does not forget the lessons she learned on her journey there.

Pomegranates is now available on Ao3

[harumunyari]

loveit?

Pain, pain go away, till you're dead and apologize

Stupid, stupid, stupid face

You're such a bad boy

※ tress

[ozsyn]

Those Who Were Seen Dancing

Ramsay Bolton x Reader; Harley Quinn x Joker

Chapter 1 of 8-ish?

Summary:

Gotham City is a kingdom ruled by The Joker and Harley Quinn. When (Y/N) is taken from her home and placed under the wing of the Clown Princess of Crime, she is shown a world she never knew.

Ramsay Bolton has clawed his way through the ranks to become The Joker’s apprentice, but even Gotham can get a little mundane. When someone new comes to town, he’s finally got something to do. What could be more fun than dragging an outsider into the deep end and watching her drown?

———————————————————-

As the elevator doors screech open with a discordant hiss, (Y/N) gets her first glimpse of Gotham’s grand penthouse.

Her towering heels click along the marble flooring as she continues towards the makeshift throne room.

Gilt and opulence are on full garish display here as ancient vases from dynasties long past stand sentinel on chipped pedestals, forgotten sculptures of Greek gods are sporadically arranged throughout the room, and stolen Monets, Manets, and Rembrandts adorn the walls.

Such finery could hold its place in any museum in the world, but instead these beautiful works of art have been ripped from their rightful homes and left here to rot in faux splendor.

She can’t help but feel a connection towards these lost creations, their kinship forged in their kidnappings.

She pushes that feeling of intense bitterness aside, however, remembering what she must do.

Her mother was far from a loving homemaker, but she did leave her daughter with one crucial piece of advice:

Survive.

After all, everyone in Gotham is just trying to survive in their own fucked up way.

And none hold truer to that belief than the people represented on the towering doors before her.

The right is unmistakable.

The Clown Prince of Crime is certifiable royalty in Gotham. The once pristine white backdrop has been graffitied with chaotic black lettering amongst spurts of purple and green.

She can make out the word “smile” and other crude references to the villain’s penchant for laughter.

But her gaze soon transfers to the left door.

The white has been coupled with black to form a triangular checkered pattern. Atop that in vibrant shades of red are various card suits and similar splashes of paint all bearing their symbolism to Gotham’s mysterious queen, Harley Quinn.

Without warning, the doors suddenly swing open and (Y/N) is ushered inside.

There, sitting atop a set of thrones are the true King and Queen of Gotham City.

Her eyes fall on the woman. Blonde hair cascades down her shoulders, their opposing tips colored in red and black.

A tiara of jeweled clubs, spades, diamonds, and hearts adorns her head as she sits poised in a striking red gown, one side slashed in front as if by a blade.

Seated next to her on the dais is the one and only Joker.

His purple coat-tailed jacket, matching satin gloves, and garish green hair do nothing to detract from the power this sadistically grinning man holds.

However, the woman suddenly rises, any formalities of a true court being quickly tossed aside.

(Y/N) bows her head graciously as is proper, but finds it unceremoniously lifted upwards.

A finger is swiped haphazardly across her lips, smearing her pristine shade.

She looks up as the woman wipes the remaining stain onto her dress and grins.

“Do we look organized around here to you?”

“Come on, kid. I’ll introduce ya to the boss.”

Other Links:

Reluctant Chosen One

Demon!Ramsay x Demon!Reader

Ramsay x Reader Angels and Demons

[dragons-and-handcuffs]

Imagine you belong to a house who has always supported house Bolton. An undying loyalty and trust. Your house also believes that it's an honor when a Bolton claims someone from your house. For years you have seen Roose Bolton come to your house and claim any woman he wants and they would happily spread their legs for him. Sometimes he would bring Derek, his psychotic son with twisted mind and heart, some years older than you.

No one in your family can or would say "no" to house Bolton, even to a bastard. Imagine Derek boldly requesting your presence, not because he wants to claim you but because he wants your company. You are beautiful and seductive, something Derek enjoys a lot. Imagine Derek taking you far away just so he can enjoy your company without anyone interrupting.

Imagine Derek addicted to you. He goes crazy when you touch his scars and kiss them. He loves it how you put his hands on your body. You love his scary side. You tame his crazy side.

But Derek has no idea that it's Roose Bolton, your future husband, who has ordered you to tame his bastard. A task to prove that you can be a Bolton.

Imagine Derek's confusion and anger when Roose announced his engagement to you. He is still a bastard after all but still dreaming of marrying a lady from a noble house. Derek went crazy but it was too late. You had already tamed him. A little touch and a few words are enough to control him.

Roose Bolton couldn't have chosen a better wife

[mawofmeraxes]

while Ramsay’s death is very very satisfying, it also grossed me out sooooooooooo much. I have to look away the second the dog bites him RIGHT IN THE FACE because it literally makes me so upset it’s so unnerving to see

[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🥰🥰🥰