#boltons

Targaryens

Boltons

Reeds

Starks - But hidden well

Hightowers in their necromancy era

Greyjoys

Umber - TBH Most Northern houses should have a little bit of cannabalism, as a treat

Any house that resides in Harrenhal due to ✨The Vibes✨

Beesbury - less cannibalism more they use the corpses as hives and drink honey made from blood.

ramsay snow x northern! male reader

Part 2: Heart Flutters

synopsis: ramsay has always had a difficult time controlling his urges; you've known this since you were boys.

cw: desc. of making out, implied pervious sexual relations, desc. of scars, nudity (barely), undertones of possessiveness

other pairings: robb stark x male! reader

⋆˚꩜｡

*author notes

background info for the story:

reader is from (non-canon) noble family in the north

said family has been familiar with the boltons and starks for years

set before the war between the kingdoms begin

✰ this one isn't my favorite

✰ reader is lowkey freaked out by ramsay ngl

updated! jun. 15. 2026 - 7:43 p.m.

⋆˚꩜｡ happy pride :).

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"You smell like horse shit."

Those were the first words Ramsay had uttered to you since your return to his home.

Your mouth stood tight as you stared blankly back at the man, strewn, slightly puzzled. The child standing before you was indeed Ramsay Snow. Very little did he resemble the fourteen year old, wild boy that so many had often seen chasing the hounds through the hills. Nor did he have any hint of the spark in his eyes that you recall having been there the last time the two of you spoke face to face. And though the air around him was not something you would desrcibe as maturity, there was an indescribable perception of change. He was taller, that was certain. Not as tall as you but definitely taller.

His height though, was not what made you stare so intensely, nor was it his coal black eyes of death boring back at you. —However those were undeniably an additional marker of his growth— It was more of how confident he was back then, but now, he appeared flatter, exhausted, as if holding his shoulders a bit lower than their natural position and then straightening all over again when Roose appeared near. You suppose Ramsay's father had taken a liking in making him into a sad, listless-sort of character. In part, you knew that is why your father has kept you from the place for so long. You heard the stories. Knew the truths. But you are man now, and like any man, you are prone to what ever vices men enjoy.

Alcohol is one, Ramsay surely noticed it on your breath when he had first spoken to you.

The other, though, was your own lust.

The young lady that your mother found for you was perfect, a true beauty among beauties. To some men, she might be the object of their fantasies. Easy on the eyes, softer to the touch, caressed by the Old Gods, and possessing more grace in her pinky toe than you did in your entire body. But you weren't totally sure you could come to find much enjoyment out of being with her.

Ramsay was the first to notice your family was not accompanied by her, he saw your carriage long before the guards, rolling down the icy moors of the mott as if one of the wheels may fall off any second. His eyes lit upon spotting your presence. For even behind his impassivity, you smiled, you noticed him. Just as you had that night so many years ago.

"Father says you'll be staying the night with us." Ramsay's voice was somewhat gruffer than you last remembered it.

"Perhaps a bath would be wise then?" The left corner of your lip raises.

Ramsay only stared off behind your shoulder, almost unsmiling, or was it merely half smiling? Surely, he hadn't completely forgotten what that quirk of your lip meant. The respite it offered in the face of your stone cold features. The two of you had promised to be friends forever, after all.

Ramsay held onto that promise with the same intensity at which you tried to discard it. At least you guessed he did, judging by how his father told your father that he asked about your whereabouts far too often to be comfortable and to 'have your boy send a damn raven' to 'shut him up'. You had not sent a raven. You had no intention of sending a raven.

Ramsay's eyes were back on you. Searching. As he neared closer to you, a half smile came to his face. A slight puff of visible breath ghosting between the two of you, you returned it. "Perhaps."

Without anymore words, Ramsay led you through the snow, his arm finding linkage around yours. Odd, considering you were not a woman. But you didn't blink, nor did your family's. A nod from Roose was all the reasoning Ramsay needed.

The silence between the two of you stretches as long as the freshly shoveled pathway does. Ramsay's arm is wrapped tightly around yours, black leather rubbing against black leather. The sky above is blanketed in dark clouds that threaten more than just the the light snowfall currently apparent. There is no noise, no feeling either except the thud of your pulse against your neck.

Saliva. Thick and forced down. Not your swallow. "And where is Hanna?"

"She is with her mother's family." You supply without missing a beat. Your eyes are focused on remembering the stone beneath your feet but you keep Ramsay's increasingly urgent step in line with your soft patter.

"I've been meaning to speak to you about that." Ramsay uttered, almost silently, the breeze beating furiously against his throat. If he was shy, it only ever occurred in the worst of times, like the moment he accidently split your ankle back on the riding trails when you guys were small, before Robb Stark ever had the chance to catch up with you. So much fear had risen in his eyes that you half expected him to bolt. He later told you, in one shape of words or another, that he feared what may become of his bastard flesh at the hands of your father. The sight of your ankle was an awful, agonizing thing that required retribution. You were the son of a Northern Lord, the heir apparent. But your father has never been a violent man, let alone a vengeful one.

"What of it?" You question, half curious.

Ramsay's glance toward you is unsure, almost cowering in your presence like a kitten beneath the large paws of a barn dog. But, after a moment or two, he seems to recover, his strength resuming and his steps taking more firm footing. His throat clears almost too loudly, and for a minute, you felt as if the whole of the sky could hear him, feel him, echo his every breath.

"You seem unhappy."

You pause, your steps halting, your gaze a bit wild and a bit wary. Ramsay stared back, almost as if he expected you to argue the truth of it and was ready for the battle that would ensue. But you didn't argue. Didn't even make a noise for a few seconds. He was aware of something that no one but yourself carried the knowledge of. An ancient secret with nowhere to go but the crevices of your ribcage, right behind your heart. This man, who you haven't seen in a decade and with who you spoke to seldomly over that decade, looked at you and spoke as though this observation was as clear and tangible as the very snow around you.

"In what sense?" Your lips press into a thin line as the two of you resume, your steps taking you out of the flakes and finally into the estate. The smell was— sweet. Not something you would have thought possible here.

When you look at Ramsay again, his eyes have a sparkle to them that was not there before. The cold has stuck to his cheeks, and his nose, turning his pale skin a rough shade of rose. He almost looks like the boy you once knew. Almost. This version of that boy is deeply unsettling in a way you cannot describe and think it best not to try to.

"In all of it." Ramsay says, voice chirping in a way it had not been when he first greeted you.

"I am fine, Ramsay." You insist, the smile on your face was something he could not see past. You seemed genuine enough, and yet, you knew that it was exactly the sincerity that caused him to not believe a word coming from your mouth.

"The girl they picked, Hanna—," the sound of her name in his mouth is like the slow melt of flesh put to flame. It makes your hair prick but he keeps walking, ignoring the intensity of your eyes. The watching nature in which you regard him. Like two preadators facing each other, unsure which will pounce first. He leaves small rivers of snow behind him that trickle off of his frame, you follow the path. "—not your type?"

"She is quite beautiful." You inform, voice steady. Ramsay throws a look at you, head turning over his shoulder, his hands bound loosely behind his back. He is entirely aware of what your words actually mean, but at least you knew to speak them softly now. Quietly enough so the very air around you did not question your tone of voice.

"I have heard..." Ramsay stops mid–step, causing you to knock against his shoulder in an accidental haste to avoid stepping on the bottom hem of his trousers. His face is alight with understanding and puzzlement alike as his gaze flicks upon yours. "Ah– this way." He doesn't comment on your scurrying but his mouth is twitched into something that tells you his stopping was deliberate.

"...Do you not have someone either, Ramsay?" You ask, turning down a new hall with him. "Still without a betrothed is a strange occurrence, even in this cold place."

A sly smile crosses his face, winding up slowly. "I'm working on it."

His coyness is a sign of you getting closer to a joke or story, something silly with not many repercussions except maybe a sore throat from laughing too hard. But after a moment when no story comes, you know he means more than the words let on. Something about the exchange makes you feel as if you are dancing towards a mirror, stepping mindlessly towards an impending realization.

"Have you been shagged recently?" Your face breaks out into a grin. The tease causes Ramsay's eyes to leap over your face like some prey, darting across the structure of your jaw, and even grazing lower. Watching the candle light cast upon the jut of your adam's apple, and then his gaze latches back to your own, with an expression that drains the jest of life. As if he had no time to play around with little boys anymore, he was a man.

You ignore his serious edge readily. "Before we arrived?" You try not to waggle your eyebrows, lest he misunderstood, but the giddiness of potentially cornering the boy had settled on your mood like spring air upon a young child.

"Is that really something you wish to know?" Ramsay pushes forward more quickly now, leaving you behind.

You don't mind. You let your eyes survey the halls you haven't seen since childhood. So many rooms look the same, dead–like, untouched by time itself. You knew that life was still very much alive. People lived in this estate, but each hall offered aching silence. No laughter. No conversation without the sulky undertones of grief and rage. Ramsay himself is apart of this tragedy. A bastard carrying on the name of his father.

Your room was kept. You learned that quickly as Ramsay led you down the hall before pausing at the threshold where your child height was still carved into the wall. You wonder faintly if Roose ever saw the flaw in the stone. If he had, he certainly would have had it fixed.

"We added a bath to the private quarters." Ramsay announces.

This wasn't something unheard of for Northern lords, but rare enough you knew some never had such a luxury. Your family certainly did not.

You nod, glancing around. "Where has your room gone?"

Ramsay's face opens up slightly. "It's right next to yours still, do not fret."

Such a casual manner for him. You ponder his true reason for this setup. If it took him any effort at all to remind the builders to keep his chambers nearby as they carved out a space for the bath. But you hardly find a reason to question his intentions, so you simply roll your eyes at his comment instead.

"Shall I have the servants fetch the soap and- "

You cut him off just before he could begin to send people to take your belongings away, wash your garments, and possibly steal your jewels from that little compartment in your boot. "I can handle the bath."

Ramsay gives you a once over. His look did not gone unnoticed by your watchful eyes. The idea you had been spotted, again, by him and his quiet glances sent pangs of heat into your abdomen. It had always felt good having his eyes upon you, even in judgment.

"You still do not use them?"

"I need air. Some of my own." You reply.

He stares.

"That is all I require." You supply further.

Ramsay is silent for a moment, studying the plains of your face with mild entertainment. He hadn't moved an inch.

"If that is your wish." A half smile curled across his lips. A silent dismissal.

You turn then, feeling the weight of his eyes on your back as you enter the chambers, shutting the door behind you. Your gaze sweeps over the space, the utter blankness of it. The same sheets on the same bed you slept in as a child. Tapestries you left behind still situated in place without ruin. Your old desk dusted clean. Everything kept in tne places of your liking as though you had never left.

You spot the additional area of the apratments on the left handside. The room is smaller than any other area of the chambers but it carries a sort of refined polish thar the rest of castle does not. Inside here, you do encounter a tub, thankfully. It was big enough, and apparently, to your own design tastes. Porcelain, with golden legs. Flagons of what you assume to be heated water sit around it already.

Yes, this would do.

Your clothes fell off you in a torrent. The dark colored fabric of your tunic starting the pile at your feet.

You situate yourself flat against the porcelain. A sound almost like a muffled prayer spilling from your mouth.

Warmth closes around your body.

Time must have passed.

An amount of time that was long because you awoke to a hot ache in the back of your legs and behind your knees. You struggled not to move much, and thus worsen the already, less than ideal, pinch of the muscles within your legs.

"Y/N?" It was a voice beyond the confines of the door that came after the rapping on wood that woke you in the first place.

Ramsay.

His voice was husky, perhaps a tad worried. You managed a response, but only barely, nearly voiceless as the water swished beneath you like currents at sea.

It was but a simple and short movement from Ramsay that sent you scrambling for something to hide your naked state. You felt blinded even as your palms pressed over the area of your flaccid member. You had never been worried about being naked in the same room as another man, but in all those scenarios, Ramsay wasn't the one in question.

The door had been peeled from its frame in haste when Ramsay finally entered. For a split second his eyes darted across the bathroom until they came upon you— or the side of you he could see. Your hair was wet with sweat and water. Your back turned to him, one hand holding the porcelain with a bruising grip. Almost afraid to be seen. The alarm in your expression causing Ramsay to take a moment, or two, of stillness.

"Is everything well?" He finally breathes out.

Your own heart felt like a drum beating so loudly you wondered if he was able to hear it.

"You've been in here for three hours." Ramsay's eyes raked across the side of your body, the coldness that stained his gaze was gone as he returned them to meet yours, noting how physically recluse your body posed. You are as diffident as he was when he meant to ask you your intentions of not marrying your wife-to-be.

You thought about not responding, telling him to leave, to close the door on his way out. You did not wish for such embarrassment to beset the both of you so early in the evening, but instead you simply replied with something that must have been music to Ramsay's ears. A confirmation that was not truly confirmation. Assistance, not a direct ask, but he heard it. Clear as Southern skies. An opening in your voice.

"I must've fallen asleep."

And yes, he could see it. The memories. Ramsay remembered all of those occasions when you slept so silently, and so still, almost lifeless. Only the soft breaths of air could be heard rumbling from your chest. Sometimes, not even that. When you woke your eyes were always drooped at the corners, as they were now, and your cheek was, more often than not, dented from the pressure of your own hand.

"You startled me..." Ramsay caught himself speaking ir out loud. Words meant to be tucked away, with all of the vile secrets he kept. He saw the hesitation come back upon your face, as if you suddenly remembered. Of course you did.

He noticed the way you shifted uncomfortably, turning your body and placing your back as flat against the cool tub as you could. Your length disappears into the water which causes the ripples around you to lap at the edges of the tub. He can see the slight tremble along the veins of your feet. That part of you slips beneath the water line too, and its there he eyes the bottoms of your calves.

"Are you well?" He asks, taking a few sure steps into the room.

A chill runs down your spine as the smell of musky soil and pine stirs your senses alive. Maybe it was the heat, or perhaps Ramsay had found a new scent that he enjoyed.

"Yes. I am–" You feel your throat tighten unexpectedly and you choke for a moment on your own words. "–Must've tired myself more than I assumed."

You manage to get the tail end of your sentence out through grit teeth. With each minute, the porcelain pushed against you colder and colder and the urge to curl into a ball tightened even more. The light waves of water starting to settle, from near your hip and extending down your leg, begin to swish again. Rippling in small crashing tides against your sides and the curves of your muscles. Ramsay's footsteps brought him further and further into the room, moving around the bend of the tub in your partial blind spot, leaving him standing on the other side.

"Here." He offers, a towel outstretched.

Perhaps it was simply your initial reaction to having his eyes on you, unable to perceive his full expression, that had terrified you and left your muscles sore with tightness. Perhaps it was the weight of your exhaustion, settling bone deep, making you see things on his face that were not actually there. Perhaps it was the water's tempature, cold now, that made your body clench unforgivingly.

Perhaps it is your inclination towards tracking docile animals in the woods back home that makes you ignorant to the fact that you are now the prey.

"When did you get these?" There was no longer space between you and Ramsay as he stays crouched behind you with a low voice. But instead of asking him to provide you with a slight bit of breathing space, your mind instead focuses on the way his finger traces over the scars on your shoulder. Two, star-shaped, dense and protruding.

Your body feels heavy, noodle-like as you lift yourself abruptly from the tub. The water below you sloshes violently and you drip large puddles onto the floor the moment your feet meet the solid ground. The air hitting your bare form felt unnatural, but you try hard to pay little attention to the sensations coursing through your body all at once. Your hand reaches for the towel, Ramsay gives it up freely.

"Long ago." Your voice is deep with sleep as you wrap the towel tightly around your waist, tucking your body away from prying eyes.

Ramsay watched in quiet anticipation, he hadn't known you capable of this response to him, and it set a sharp thrill through his body. Such curiosity from that little part of him, wondered, from the moment he heard your family would be visiting, how you would act when brought face to face with him once more. It was clear now that you did not forget the secret shared between your souls. He wanted to know if you would ever talk of it again. If you would ever act on it again. This was the sort of distraction he would appreciate, so long as it was yours and yours alone. Maybe, if he pushed hard enough, you would realize how quickly his interest lay with you, and not his girls.

Your feet move swiftly, taking you to the front end of the tub. The movement brings you farther from Ramsay but the man is hardly dissuaded by your effort as he moves subtly, blocking the exit. His eyes remain fixated on your wet form, observing the way you retrieve your fresh clothes with shaking fingers.

"Ramsay, tell me—"

You intend to fill the air with your voice. Command the room with something as simple as casual conversation. But Ramsay's patience dies so suddenly, he had neither time nor reason to think as his name slipped from your lips. A sentence or more, an unfinished thought, or possibly an intriguing question. He didn't care what you had to say.

His hanss are rough when they fall upon your arms, yanking and shoving you until your clothes fall from your hands and your pressed against the cool porcelain of the tub. There was a rush of cold, and warmth, more warmth, from Ramsay's person, from his hands, from his breath, from his unyielding focus. He traps your face in a grasp, both sides of your jaw pinned between fingers and palms.

His lips are tight against yours for a moment. An experiment. As if testing the waters of your lips. Whether or not your desire flared as much as his had from the moment he saw you. The idea caused a heated tremble, a watered stare, and your breath to hitch before Ramsay then took further action, pushing his tongue and teeth past the barrier of skin between your lips and him. Ramsay's jaw clenched, moving sloppily in an emotion without names, not yet, or still too young, too raw to quite comprehend, all the while you could do nothing except allow his tongue to tease your own, and push against your own movements and try not to topple over the edge of the tub beneath you.

Your skin felt hot, Ramsay's skin equally so, a slight twinge of pain from his teeth against your skin made your hands wander up his tunic, sliding over bare skin. For a moment you are simply lost, your groin twitching below Ramsay's weight but between stolen breaths and vicious, tearing claws— you pull off with a heavy breath.

"Ramsay, wait." A mere whisper against his lips, which were now stained with your own saliva. Ramsay pauses in utter attention.

You barely heard it past the blood rushing through your body. Footsteps. Fast and certain.

"Someone's coming." You say, voice hushed in the quiet air that was filled with grunts and low moans only moments ago. It takes two seconds longer than need be for Ramsay to jolt backwards, away from you.

A knock, lighter than Ramsay's had been, and your mother appears in the frame.

"Everything alright, boys?" She coos.

Ramsay tries speaking but words fail him when all he can focus on is your saliva drying into the cracks of his lips.

"Yes, Mother." You say, steadying yourself and your voice. "I fell asleep but all is well. Why were you looking for us?" Too rushed. You sound too rushed.

Ramsay clears his throat. "My father is expecting the two of us for dinner." He says it slower, as if to cover up your mistake.

But Mother always had a suspicious glare to which no one was safe from it's gawking and intruding glances.

Not even bastard Ramsay Snow.

Especially not you.

She stares at the two of you, her expression appearing as if she was seeing a small child having taken a larger bite than they could chew. Her face shifts as her eyes grow smaller and more beady than they previously were, fixating on Ramsay. She is studying him, wondering, surely, just what the next coming Lord of the Dreadfort was doing inspecting his guests instead of preparing for dinner.

She supposes she could pass it off as concern on the boys part. Concern because the two of you had been childhood friends, friends who were meant to be family, if her plans with the Boltons, and your sister go alright.

But she noticed then, and she notices now, that Ramsay and her daughter in an embrace did not make complete sense to her.

This however, this sight right before her, gave only cause for that special little emotion she likes to call curiosity.

And by the way Ramsay's eyes were still tilted in your direction, showed that he had yet to realize how transparent his expression was to a watchful eye like hers. An outside party who was accustomed to his habits since he was young. She watched as Ramsay's gaze danced over the tops of your eyelashes and then it followed the slope of your nose and landed upon your lips, half parted, much as they had been in his dream only a few hours prior.

You, she noted, you were harder to read, more composed than the dark haired boy next to you and that is the oddity between the two of you. One man that hid far deeper than the others' mind ever could manage.

For you, your eyes and silence seem to work together. That particular talent of yours, never voiced, marches when you direct it, especially more noticeable with people's whose temperaments seemed to be set off by nothing more than silence. Your thoughts were never quite said aloud, but those quiet stares could reach further than where she stood now, even if the minds of men did not agree with it. She believes you gained this deceptive, observational, silence from herself because your father, in all his boasting and bravado, was lacking in this particular region.

Ramsay looked like a heap of clothes hanging limply as your mother cast her attention over his eyes, down his dress, and landed on his boots. The implications of this she could hear clearly now after examining the tiny folds along the leather around the heel.

A mess beside you he was –and you weren't even wearing proper clothes yet.

She took glance upon the trail of water over the stone floor that dipped down towards the tub and which spilled from where you had gotten out. Then to the water that trailed along as you walked before scattering a bit and halting altogether to form a puddle in the same place you stood now.

Ramsay caught his breath as he witnessed her eyes darting, scanning, between the two of you and the floor and he held it in as they found him once again.

Ramsay's eyes were slightly more watery than usual, she proposed. Perhaps the steam? Or did he cry before, when he felt, those old emotions between the two of you take rise when you'd stepped foot in the dreadfort again.

Her mind mulled the thought around for a bit before moving on to the next deatil, namely, what spell did you weave to have the Bolton's bastard acting like a whipped dog?

Because in the next second, the second she'd looked back to you, Ramsay was not paying attention to her, his gaze seemed to make patterns on the cloth wrapped around your naked form. His jaw had tensed at the slivers of exposed flesh. And before her was no boy, still not really a man, but the kind of animalistic nature that went beyond titles and respect given to the sons, daughters, and grand children of any man's household.

His eyes were half lidded when he looked at you and his mouth was open with lips partly curved and parted on each end. The expression was dreamlike. Almost peaceful, from a boy, who was neither of those things.

"Well, we mustn't keep him waiting." Your mother chirps, not hiding the amusement in her voice. The expression of her face and the twinkle in her eye was easily found, so you kept your gaze half way cast towards Ramsay as you began to move. Walking past the edge of the tub.

"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die." (G.R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones)

Davos: Rickon Stark, it is I, Davos Seaworth, loyal hand to the true king Stannis Baratheon. I have been sent by Wymann Manderley, your late fathers deceptive but still loyal liege who seeks to use your surperior claim to Winterfell to wrench your ancestral home away from the dastardly Boltons, the vampire coded almost comically evil Lannister supported Lords who betrayed your brother at the Red Wedding and now brutalize your helpless subjects. Rise Rickon Stark! Come with me and we can make everything right!

Rickon:

So I received a super nice ask of an anon saying that my post of Theon’s costumes from Michele’s book had been super helpful to them (and omg guys, I’m so happy that you liked it and have found it helpful/informative 😭💕)

Anon asked if there was something on Ramsay (specifically his wedding outfit) and there is! And it’s literally about his wedding outfit 🤣🤣 So, hoping I’m not committing a crime or copyright infringement by making another post [please don’t sue me, I only want to contribute to the fandom], here is the section for the Boltons! Fair warning: it’s super short and mostly focused on the Black Wedding.

Ps. Excuse the shitty photos, I took them with my phone cause this book is not scanner material haha 

RAMSAY BOLTON

1. Father and son—Roose Bolton (Michael McElhatton) and Ramsay Bolton (Iwan Rheon)—at Ramsay’s wedding.

House Bolton is a Northeastern family whose identity is founded on brutality. Known for skinning their enemies, their house sigil shows a flayed man hanging upside down. But in designing costumes for the Boltons, I wanted to create looks that would partially conceal their viciousness. They are the sort of people who would want to lull their victims into a false sense of security, only revealing their true natures just before the killing blow. Ramsay Bolton (Iwan Rheon) is the illegitimate son of Roose Bolton (Michael McElhatton) and one of the most vicious characters ever to appear in the series. Born Ramsay Snow, he is desperate to attain legitimacy and will go to any lengths to prove his worthiness as the heir to the house. Still, I always chose to underplay Ramsay’s sadism when it came to his costumes. I felt it would be too obvious to dress him in leather. Instead, he chooses to use his clothing to disarm those around him. There’s a softness to his wardrobe that is deceptive and stands in sharp contrast to his nearly unfathomable cruelty.

I think that comes through most clearly in the costume I designed for Ramsay’s wedding to Sansa. We dyed the fabric a rich chocolate brown, a color that is very much within the Northern palette. The ensemble is not unlike something Robb Stark might have worn except for the subtle organic pattern on Ramsay’s silk brocade doublet, which is more ornate than anything we would have created for Robb. Ramsay is dressing as a nobleman, a wealthy lord; he wants to convey his status to all those around him. By marrying Sansa, he becomes the Lord of Winterfell and gains the elevated position he’s long sought, though he holds his title for only a short while. Outmaneuvered in the Battle of the Bastards by Jon Snow and his armies, Ramsay suffers a crushing defeat—and later an ugly death.

2. Ramsay’s wedding costume includes the silk doublet, which has a high collar and is paired with traditional men’s skirts and trousers, all in shades of brown.

3. Lil close-up

ROOSE BOLTON

4. Roose Bolton (Michael McElhatton) in his wedding costume.

The head of House Bolton, Roose (Michael McElhatton) initially fights for Robb Stark in his battle to preserve the North from the influence of the Lannisters. But Bolton later joins forces with the powerful house and becomes a key conspirator in the Red Wedding—delivering the dagger through the heart that kills Robb.

In designing costumes for the Boltons, I dressed Roose and Ramsay in a very similar way, like a father-and-son double act. Roose wears the traditional Northern nobleman’s garb, a doublet and skirts in earthy browns with a fur-lined cloak held in place by leather straps. But I always felt that he should look rather dapper somehow. The color of his costumes is slightly warmer than his son’s. Even though he’s a murderer, he’s not quite as cold as Ramsay. I don’t think he ever understands the depths of his son’s brutality—that is, until Ramsay stabs him to death.

5. Roose Bolton’s wedding costume includes a long-line doublet made from brown fabric with gold accents.

6. TOP Brown leather was used for the trim on the costume Roose Bolton wears to his son’s wedding ceremony, including the collar.

7. BOTTOM The trim extends to the shoulder and features a tie detail.

8. An alternate view of the shoulder detail of the wedding costume.

9. A narrow leather belt was worn at the waist as part of the wedding costume.

10. Detail of the print on the fabric of Roose’s wedding costume.