madness. madness and stupidity.

“The matriarch and her pup are dealt with. The stronghold is ours for the taking. Win this for us and you shall bear my name and a marriage worthy of it. – R.B.”

Ramsay cast his eye over the missive a second time, the dull grey light of dawn providing just enough light to read by in the gloom of his bedchamber, and he smirked to himself.

So, the plan his father had hatched with the Freys had worked — Robb Stark was dead, and his mother, Catelyn, along with him. It had been two years since the Baratheon host had departed the Dreadfort alongside the Starks for King’s Landing. King Robert had died since then and a war had broken out regarding his succession amid claims that the children he shared with Cersei Lannister were illegitimate. Ramsay cared little for the politics of the south, it didn’t interest him in the least, yet the cryptic promise within Roose’s message was too good to ignore. He would seize the seat of the North — Winterfell — for his father, and alongside it finally be granted the privilege of his house name, to be recognised as the lord he’d always known he was. To gather up the able bodied men that remained here, and rally a host to travel hundreds of miles north was a considerable effort, but for Ramsay it was worth it; not just for the stronghold itself, but rather who resided within its walls — Kyra. He would never be allowed to marry her once her held the title of Lord Bolton, of course, but the paramour of Lord of the North was nothing to be sniffed at, and he’d ensure it was a position she’d be grateful of; every beast will settle for table scraps if you starved it long enough. She would bend to his will, he’d make sure of it.

He had not seen or heard from her since she had betrayed and deserted him two years previous, despite the farewell gift he had sent her; he still remembered how stoic her father had remained right until the end, barely even wincing as Ramsay’s falchion had carved into his chest. It was almost admirable, and in that moment he became aware of where Kyra had inherited her strength of character from. Despite her absence, his sense of ownership over her had never faltered. It had crossed his mind more times than he could count to make the journey to Winterfell and simply seize her back, however, since his father had gone south he had been left in charge of the Dreadfort, and could not simply abandon his post. Now he was being given leave to pursue her, and his blood felt like it burned with the force of the pull he felt towards her. A part of him wanted to wrap his hands around her scrawny neck and make her plead of his forgiveness for her ingratitude and treachery, yet at the same time, buried deep, he knew that if she cast even the softest of glances his way he would call her to his bed without hesitation and make her repent in ways far more primal in their familiarity. He shivered at the thought, curling the parchment in his fist.

Glancing over at the sleeping form of the naked woman next to him, her dark hair spread across the pillows as she slept with her back to him, Ramsay sighed. For a moment he considered simply smothering her so as not to have to deal with the fuss she’d make at being left behind — Myranda’s fits of jealousy and neediness for his attention bored him. Her only saving grace was that she seemed to actively take enjoyment in spectating, and even participating in, his hunts of women through the woods. Her possessiveness of him was often a contributing factor in the choice of women that found themselves fleeing from the hounds. Life would be easier if he was rid of her, but then he was struck by an idea — perhaps Kyra would be easier to coax back to his side if she believed he had easily replaced her, maybe there was some small part of her that cared enough for him still to be stirred by envy. Myranda’s likeness to her had been the reason he had first invited her into his bed; she was slender, pale skinned, with long, dark hair, yet her eyes were hazel where Kyra’s were blue, her features soft and rounded where Kyra’s were chiselled and sharp. That was why he held her face down each time he fucked her — pressed into the pillows, he could imagine she was Kyra as he sank inside of her, though she didn’t really feel the same; she was too eager, too pliant, she didn’t fight back.

“Get up!” he snapped, shoving roughly at her shoulder, “We’ve a journey to prepare for.”

Kyra’s thumb pushed against the flat of the blade, curving the knife carefully, and watching as the skin came away from the potato she peeled. The pile of spuds upon the work bench was smaller than she was accustomed to preparing — there were less people to cook for now; the thought made her throat feel tight. Her gaze lifted as a dark presence filled the doorway to the scullery, and she tutted as she watched Rickon hover hesitantly with his large black direwolf, Shaggydog — almost twice his height — looming at his side.

“You know he’s not allowed in the kitchens,” she sighed, setting both the knife and half peeled potato down, and wiping her hands upon her apron, “not even Dog comes back here.”

“That was a rule that Mother made. She’s gone now,” Rickon said quietly.

Kyra felt a tight squeeze in her chest, and her expression softened instantly at the sad listlessness in the boy’s tone. He looked so much like Catelyn — all wide, blue eyes and fiery curls — his presence made it hard to believe that she had really died, for here was living proof of her. “That doesn’t mean we don’t respect her rules,” she reminded gently.

Rickon looked thoughtful for a moment, and he reached up, absentmindedly ruffling the wolf’s ear, as if the gentle gesture helped him to gather his thoughts. “Bran says Mother was killed,” he finally said, “what will happen to us?”

Kyra pressed her lips into a tight line. She would have to speak to Old Nan, let her know that Bran was to be reminded that there were certain things that Rickon was still too young to understand, and so they shouldn’t be spoken of to him until he was. But that was too late for this particular topic. She rounded the table, stepping towards the little Stark lord and his wolf, and crouched before them both.

“Nothing will happen to you so long as I’m around,” she reassured him, reaching out to take his tiny hand in hers, “and you’ve got Maester Llewyn, Hodor, and Osha, and Theon is keeping us all safe too. Okay?”

Rickon gave a small nod and Kyra found herself smiling at the sweetness of it. “There’s a good lad,” she told him, “it’s mutton stew tonight. Keep that wolf of yours out of the scullery and he can share the bones with Dog. Alright?”

Smiling back at her, Rickon patted his thigh, “come, Shaggydog!” he called as he scurried away, the direwolf at his heels.

“You spoil the lad, you’ll make him soft.”

Kyra peered over her shoulder, standing as she watched Theon enter through the back entrance to the scullery. She sighed, resuming her peeling of the potatoes for supper. “He’s just lost his mother. A firm hand won’t make that loss easier for him.”

Theon’s arms encircled her waist from behind, pulling her back flush against his chest. Kyra stiffened. They had first fallen into bed together three months into her arrival at Winterfell, but it was no more than that; they didn’t love one another — Theon laid with her because he had already had every woman who would welcome him into their bed, and Kyra was convenient. Kyra bedded Theon because he served as a distraction to how lost she felt having moved to Winterfell amidst the grief of losing her father. Over time, they just became a habit to one another. Though Kyra felt sickened to her stomach whenever Ramsay entered her thoughts — she had sobbed in the back of the cart for three days when he had sent her her father’s heart — it was impossible not to compare Theon to him, especially as Ramsay was the only other man she had ever been with. Theon was wiry and cocksure, where Ramsay was solid and intense. Theon bedded her for the pure hedonistic joy of it, showing enthusiasm in a way that was not unlike Dog chasing deer through the Wolfswood; she never felt owned, consumed, utterly possessed in the way she had when Ramsay was between her thighs. There was a part of her that hated herself for looking back at that time in her life with any semblance of fondness, but also a part of her that hated Theon for not fulfilling the raw primal need that roared to life within her whenever she was aroused.

“You know, none of this would ever have happened if Robb had just taken me south with him,” Theon complained, the stubble of his jaw grazed against Kyra’s neck as he spoke. “The Freys would have been long dead before they even thought to lay a finger upon him or Lady Catelyn. Fancies himself king in the north, but then leaves a skilled fighter of the Iron Islands behind to play nursemaid to his baby brothers.”

Kyra rolled her eyes. “And what would you have had him do instead?”

Theon nipped at Kyra’s earlobe, groping her breast through the wool of her dress. “He could have sent me home, let me return with an army of Ironborn to fight for his cause.”

“And leave Winterfell defenceless?” She challenged him.

He scoffed, pulling abruptly away from her. “What would you know? You’re just a scullery maid.”

Kyra’s jaw clenched, not turning to look as she listened to Theon stomp away from her, then returned her attention to the potatoes once more.

Cold air curled around the damp hair at the nape of Ramsay’s neck, freezing it in tendrils that clung to his skin uncomfortably. He had sweated in the thick furs he had cloaked himself in when he had mounted his stallion, Blood, but had been glad of them as he and the fifty men he had gathered from the Dreadfort had journeyed north with all of the horses and hounds that remained — he had driven them hard, only allowing the briefest of rests at the roadside when both men and horses were too tired to continue. They stopped only in daylight, travelling by night, and now the walls of Winterfell were in sight. His breath puffed out in a thick cloud in front of him as his gloved hands tightened on the reins, taking in the fortress before him. Inky blackness blanketed the sky above, a sliver of silver moon visible through wisps of murky clouds. The army he had gathered would not be enough to seize the castle ordinarily, however, that was before the Starks had taken every able bodied fighter south. Robb had foolishly believed the loyalty of Northerners would keep Winterfell safe, but that same naivety was the reason he no longer drew breath. Only feeble men, women and children resided here now, he would simply march his men through the gates and claim it as his own — the entire castle would be abed, it would be effortless. Theon was Ramsay’s only true opposition, and though he knew little of the Stark’s Greyjoy ward, he knew most men were not foolish enough to not yield when half a score of swords were drawn upon them. The lack of a challenge was enough to almost bore Ramsay, but he would find ways to entertain himself, he was sure of that.

“Tonight you shall fuck me in Lord and Lady Stark’s bed,” came the soft lilt of Myranda’s voice, as she drew her mare alongside him, a smug smile upon her face.

A muscle in Ramsay’s jaw ticked in annoyance as he glanced sideways at her, ignoring her remark as he urged Blood forward, and commanded his men, “break open the gates!’

There was no one manning the watchtowers — they either believed themselves safe enough to leave them empty, or those that were stationed there had spotted Ramsay’s advance and gone to warn those inside. When the gates were broken from their hinges, he rode through, the remainder of his men at his back, and pulled to a stop in the centre of the courtyard. The air was thick with anticipation, his army awaiting their next command, but Ramsay remained silent, surveying the stronghold around him — the high towers and peaked roofs of the sprawling expanse of the castle. Yes, this would suit him just fine — he would gladly be Lord of Winterfell.

“I take Winterfell in the name of House Bolton,” he called out, loud enough — he hoped — to wake those that remained asleep, “bring me the remaining Stark boys and Theon Greyjoy!”

Swinging down from his horse, he ordered twenty of his men to enter the castle and drag out all who were inside. “It is time they met their new lord and master,” he uttered. 

Ramsay prowled like a caged beast as he waited, his fingers flexing with impatience around the hilt of the falchion at his hip as men and women, still disheveled from sleep, were marched outside. He paused as a tall, slender figure was hauled between two men before him, and dropped unceremoniously to his knees. 

Ramsay drew his blade, placing the tip of it beneath the man’s chin and lifted until his gaze met his own. He was chiseled, handsome by conventional standards, yet the fear in his large, dark eyes was unmistakable. “Theon Greyjoy, I presume?” he drawled.

Theon swallowed thickly, nodding as much as the blade pressed against his flesh would allow. “Y–yes. Winterfell is yours, we offer no resistance.”

Looking around at the varying degrees of horror, disgust and betrayal dawning upon the faces of those who had been hauled from their beds, Ramsay grinned, teeth glinting sharply in the moonlight. He had not expected the Greyjoy whelp to cede so easily to him, and apparently neither had the people left in his charge. It was a pity, he thought, he would have enjoyed breaking him down into submission, and had been robbed of the chance. He would need to find other ways to entertain himself at Theon’s expense. For now, the sense of fear and unease that hung viscous in the air was far more satisfying than any fanfare or half-hearted resistance. 

“Very good,” he smiled, sheathing his falchion as he stared down at Theon, watching him visibly sag with relief, “now, I believe you have Starklings in your care.”

“Their beds are empty,” said one of the Bolton men, “and their direwolves are gone.”

Ramsay’s head snapped up, eyes suddenly wide with sudden fury. “What?! Isn’t one of them a cripple? How far could the boy have crawled?”

His gaze swept over the inhabitants of Winterfell, freezing as it settled upon the last person to be dragged outside — Kyra. Her eyes went wide as she looked upon him, and Ramsay held her stare, mouth twitching with the ghost of a smile. 

There she was. 

His attention was pulled away at the sound of a click beside him, and he turned to watch Myranda shouldering her crossbow and taking aim — straight at Kyra’s head.

“Don’t,” he commanded, grasping the tiler and tugging it from her hands.

Myranda pouted, scowling at him sulkily, but he ignored her. Instead, he took aim at an elderly, grey haired man clad in robes — his chain indicated he was the castle’s maester. He collapsed to the ground with a clipped groan as Ramsay fired a bolt into his back — straight through his heart.

Screams and cries of terror broke out among those gathered, and Ramsay raised his voice to be heard above them. “I shall flay this man and hang him from the castle walls — a warning for those of you who think to flee or disobey,” he then turned his attention back to Theon, who still knelt before him, head bowed, “and the same fate will await you if you do not track those Stark pups down and return them to me.”

Kyra had never seen the tower cells of Winterfell before, she’d never had a reason to. When she had arrived almost two years ago, she had been welcomed into the household staff and put to work in the kitchens — she’d worked hard, and always had a warm bed to sleep in. She had never imagined her first sighting of one of these cramped spaces would be when she was locked into one, but now she was, and she had lost all sense of how much time had passed.

She had been startled awake by shouts of “Bolton men at the gates!” and her heart had lurched, her blood freezing in her veins, before she recovered her senses and scrambled from her bed. She had gathered Hodor and Osha, urging them to take Bran, Rickon and their direwolves, and flee through the tunnels beneath the keep. She knew what — who — would be coming for them, and the safest place for them was as far from Winterfell as they could be taken. She had had half a mind to go with them, but she knew Ramsay’s ire would be twice as vicious if she was absent too, and so she had stayed; her running away had cost one life already, she did not want anyone else to suffer on her account. She allowed herself to be discovered once she had pushed a cabinet in front of the door through which the boys and their guardians had left, and she had been dragged outside, barefoot and shivering.

Kyra had swallowed down bile, hot and acidic, as she had locked eyes with Ramsay across the courtyard. The moonlight glinted off of the blooddrop shaped ruby that hung from his earlobe — the one she had pierced for him all those years ago. His eyes were filled with malice as he stared her down, suppressing a smile. She wanted to hate Theon for how easily he had surrendered, but in her heart she knew he had done the only sensible thing he could have — to resist would have meant certain death. The trouble was that there was no sense when it came to Ramsay Snow, Theon hadn’t saved his or anyone else’s life, he had simply delayed the inevitable, and that had been proven when Ramsay had slain Maester Llewyn without hesitation. Kyra’s knees had felt like they would buckle beneath her as she swallowed down a scream.

Theon had been sent from Winterfell with two of Ramsay’s men to seek out Bran and Rickon. Kyra prayed silently that he wouldn’t return, or if he did that it would be empty handed.

“Will you bow to your new lord?” Ramsay had murmured later, once he had her alone, twisting a lock of her dark hair around his fingers in a sickening mock gesture of affection.

“I’d rather die,” she had spat.

He’d laughed. “That can certainly be arranged.”

The cell was clean — the Starks did not make a habit of locking up prisoners, and those that were incarcerated were not made to live in filth, she was grateful for that much. She had half expected to be forgotten about, that she would be left to starve, and that the high, grey stone walls of this place would become her tomb, but she was wrong. Though it was cold and uncomfortable — she had not been allowed to change out of her nightgown since the Bolton army had invaded, and had only a scratchy wool blanket to protect herself against the icy winds that blew through the barred window, and a hard wooden bench to sleep upon — she was brought a meal each day, that Ramsay delivered personally.

He would unlock the cell door, hand her a plate, and sit with her until she was finished. These daily visits were tense and uncomfortable. Kyra longed to lunge at her captor, to tear his throat out, and she knew he suspected as much — she was never given any cutlery to eat with, having to make do with her fingers. She noticed a pattern as food was brought each day — goose, grouse, rabbit — all things that Ramsay had given her or that she had eaten with him during their time together at the Dreadfort. It was a twisted play upon nostalgia, intended to warm her feelings towards him. She would have thrown it back in his face if her stomach wasn’t growling with hunger by the time he attended to her each day, so instead she tore into the meat with enthusiasm which bordered upon feral, turning away so she did not have to watch the pleased look upon Ramsay’s face as he observed her.

“You know, I will set you free,” Ramsay said softly as she gnawed upon the greasy flesh of a rabbit leg, the meat gamey upon her tongue, barely enough to sate her hunger, “all you have to do is say you’re sorry, that you’re mine.”

Kyra ignored him, hunched over, shoulders pulled up toward her ears, and he sighed, clearly growing impatient.

“I am being very forgiving, considering your betrayal,” he continued, voice tight with restraint, “I will allow you the warmth of my bed, after you have bathed, of course — you stink. Wouldn’t you like a nice, warm bath?”

“You killed my father,” Kyra replied flatly, letting the bone clatter to the plate.

“Are you really still upset about that?” he scoffed, “He was dying anyway, it was a kindness.”

Tears of rage pricked at the corners of Kyra’s eyes and she sniffed, finally turning enough to meet Ramsay’s gaze. “Then kill me too”

Ramsay drew back slightly, brow furrowing. “And where is the fun in that? I’ve been good to you — kept you fed, kept a roof over your head, that’s all I’ve ever done for you, and you repay me with such ingratitude. You ought to consider yourself lucky.”

Lucky. 

Kyra hiccuped around a sob. She could almost have laughed at the preposterousness of his words. “Is Dog still alive?” she whispered.

“Of course he is. I gifted him to you, did I not? He is safe in the kennels with the other hounds. I would not snuff out such precious memories between you and I. Surely that alone would tempt you back to my side?”

Kyra sagged back against the wall, hair hanging limp and oily in front of her eyes, feeling a weight of hopelessness settle over her. When she said nothing, Ramsay stood, taking her plate.

“It seems you need more time to consider my generous offer. Don’t take too long, even the depths of my kindness has its limits”

Kyra closed her eyes, inhaling shakily as she listened to the key turn in the lock. She wondered when Ramsay would tire of this game, and for how much longer she would draw breath once he did.

She awoke a few hours later, the sky outside the bars of the window was pitch black. The only light cast into the cell came from the brazier burning on the wall outside. She turned her head, blinking in surprise when she noticed the woman stood on the other side, hands wrapped around the bars as she watched her intently. She recognised her — she was the woman who had stood beside Ramsay, wielding a crossbow, when he had seized Winterfell.

“What’s so special about you?” she asked, her voice soft and quiet, yet laced with bitterness.

“What?” Kyra asked, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

“You left him, you didn’t want him, and yet still he keeps you alive. Why?!”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and it was then that Kyra realised — she was jealous. This foolish woman was in love with Ramsay, and viewed Kyra as a threat.

“He can’t love you back,” Kyra said as kindly as she could, “but that doesn’t mean he loves me either. You’d be safer if—”

“I should kill you myself!” the woman raged, cutting her off, knuckles whitening as her grip tightened around the bars.

“Then why don’t you?” Kyra challenged, holding her gaze.

She watched her pretty features twist petulantly, jaw clenched in anger. She didn’t have a key to the cell, couldn’t get at Kyra. Ramsay knew exactly what she intended if he allowed her access, and so he kept it from her. Kyra would have pitied her if she had space within her own despair for it — foolish girl, attempting to earn the affection of a wild animal and deflecting blame elsewhere each time she’s bitten. Kyra turned away from her, curling up on her side and closing her eyes once more.

When Ramsay came to her cell the following day, he was empty handed — no plate of food to offer her. He unlocked the cell and extended a hand to her, a silent invitation for her to take it. He was smiling wildly, it opened a pit in the depths of Kyra’s stomach.

“Lord Greyjoy has returned. Come and see.”

Ramsay hauled Kyra by her arm from the cell and down the winding staircase into the courtyard. Theon turned as she was dragged forth, then averted his gaze abruptly as he caught sight of her. The fleshless corpse of Maester Llewyn hung by its feet from the walls, already pecked at by crows. She’d have vomited if she had anything in her stomach to bring up. But it was not that that Ramsay wanted her to look upon.

“Behold what remains of the Stark pups!” Ramsay declared.

The two small figures being hauled up by ropes against the wall were charred and blackened beyond recognition, what little remained that wasn’t burned glistened pinkly in the dull grey afternoon light. Kyra’s breath caught, her chest feeling suddenly tight, the ground unsteady beneath her feet. She wrenched away from Ramsay’s grasp, rounding on Theon, her voice a hoarse shriek.

“What did you do?! What did you do?!”