#ramsay fic

The dungeon’s air pressed close, a damp and living thing that crawled over Ramsay’s skin like the memory of a thousand shivers. The stone walls wept in silence, slick with centuries of condensation, their grey faces broken by the glimmer of stagnant water pooling in the seams between flagstones. A torch sputtered in the iron sconce above the door, its thin flame coughing light that warped the walls into grotesque, writhing phantoms. Somewhere far above, beyond layers of rock and misery, the castle slept in warmth and safety, but here, in the deep-bellied darkness beneath the world of men, the boundaries between cruelty and desire blurred to nothing.

You were his newest secret, his newest indulgence, chained and shivering, swallowed whole by a place where no screams could find an ear willing to care. Your body curled small on a patch of mould-streaked straw, seeking a comfort that would not come. Every breath you drew was shallow, a trembling thing, and every muscle in your frame clung to exhaustion’s fragile mercy. For a moment, just a heartbeat, you believed you had slipped from his thoughts. But the sound came: a rap of knuckles against iron, sharp and deliberate. The clang reverberated through the stone, through your bones, a brutal summons that wrenched you back to terror’s edge.

Your eyes fluttered open against the sting of torchlight, lashes heavy, vision swimming. And there he stood beyond the bars: Ramsay Bolton, the predator in human skin. A smile curved across his lips, slow and venomous, a thing that did not reach his pale eyes. He opened the door without hesitation, metal screeching against rusted hinges, and stepped inside as if entering a lover’s bedchamber. The scent of leather, steel, and old blood trailed him, a smell that clung to him like a crown of thorns. He moved with the grace of a wolf circling prey, every step deliberate, his boots whispering against the stone.

“Sleeping already?” His voice was a low, velvety murmur, thick with mockery and the promise of something worse. It slipped through the darkness like smoke, coiling around you, tainting the air you breathed. “I was afraid you might slip away from me. But no…” He paused, letting the silence stretch like a taut wire. “…you’re here. Trapped. Waiting.”

You forced words through a throat scraped raw from last night’s screams. “Leave me.” You tried to summon command, to carve strength into your hoarse tone, but the sound cracked, betraying you. It only deepened the gleam of delight in his eyes. He came closer, the heat of his body brushing against your chilled skin, a cruel reminder of how alive he was and how helpless you felt. His gaze travelled over you with unhurried hunger, tracing bruises like a lover might trace freckles, lingering on the shadowed hollows beneath your eyes.

“You think you know,” he murmured, his voice sinking lower, darker, “what I could do to you. But you don’t. Not yet. Not until you feel it—the delicious ache of wanting something so badly it hurts. And that’s where I’ll take you.”

His hand rose, fingers brushing your jaw with a touch that was soft enough to feel like a lie. You stiffened instinctively, a trapped creature’s last defence, but to your own horror, the tension in your neck eased beneath that feather-light touch. The dungeon was cold, and his skin was warm, wrongly, dangerously warm. Ramsay felt the subtle shift and savoured it, the corners of his smile curling with cruel amusement.

“Broken,” he breathed, the word itself an intimate violation. “That’s what you’ll be. Not just in body… but in mind. I’ll teach you to crave this. To crave me. Even when I hurt you.” His lips lingered on the final words, savouring them as if they were a vintage wine.

The air between you thickened, heavy as smoke, humming with unspoken threat and the sickly sweetness of temptation. He watched the flicker of defiance that still sparked behind your fear, the tiny ember that refused to die. It thrilled him more than any plea for mercy ever could.

“I could never want a man like you,” you whispered, your voice shaking but your words still sharp. “Never. Even if I lost all sense, my body would know. It would recoil.”

He chuckled, a low, rough sound that felt like gravel rolling across your skin. He began to circle you, the slow predatory pacing of a man who believed himself inevitable. The torchlight caught on the edges of his smile, turning it into something feral. His eyes traced your neck, your collarbone, the shallow rise and fall of your chest beneath your tattered shift.

“You’ll learn,” he said finally, voice barely louder than a breath. “You’ll learn to want what you hate. To beg for the touch you despise. Because before long…” He paused behind you, close enough for his breath to stir your hair, close enough that the world outside the dungeon ceased to exist. “…it will be the only touch you know.”

That part, at least, you knew was true. Time had long since stopped meaning anything in the dark, as though the dungeon itself had swallowed every hour whole. It might have been weeks, or months, there was no sun, no moon, no way to measure the passage of your suffering. You only knew that no footsteps had come for you, no voice had whispered your name through the iron bars. No one would risk their life for one forgotten girl, not against the monstrous cruelty of House Bolton. The realisation gnawed at you, quiet and insidious, until despair became as constant as breath.

“Don’t frown, sweetheart, you look so grumpy like that.” His voice came like a serpent’s hiss, silky and mocking, winding through the stagnant air. Ramsay crouched beside you, his shadow spilling long and distorted against the slick stone. The torchlight caught his pale eyes and made them gleam like a predator’s in the wild. He reached out, his thumb ghosting over your furrowed brow with a tenderness that was nothing but a cruel parody. The pad of his finger was warm, the gesture almost intimate, as if he could smooth away your fear with a touch.

“I have something special for you tonight,” he whispered, his tone feather-soft, so gentle it made your stomach twist. The way he said it, as though he were offering some lover’s gift, set every nerve in your body alight with dread. “Isn’t that exciting?” His lips curved into a smile that didn’t belong on any human face. “A treat for my dearest little toy.”

You shivered, the tremor snaking down your spine and settling in your bones. Your breath caught as your eyes flickered over him, searching for clues in the leather of his jerkin, the cruel glint of the blade at his hip, the way his fingers flexed like they longed for violence. You tried to imagine what horror he might call a “treat,” and the imagining itself was almost worse than whatever reality waited for you.

“Oh, such an inquisitive little pup.” Ramsay’s voice had gone low, indulgent, as though your fear delighted him more than any answer you might give. He tilted his head, the gesture eerily boyish, and yet there was something in his smile that promised nothing but ruin. He leaned closer, close enough that you could smell the iron tang of blood lingering on his skin, close enough that his breath brushed your ear. “No, no. I don’t have it with me.”

The dread curdled into something fouler, something dangerous, curiosity. It slithered into your gut, unwanted but undeniable. Against your better judgment, you shifted, your body tensing as you pushed yourself upright on the damp straw. “What do you mean?” you whispered, your voice hoarse but edged with a tremor of interest you hated yourself for.

Ramsay laughed then, a low, gleeful sound, the kind that prickled the air and scraped at your nerves. It was a laugh too full of joy for the nightmare world he inhabited, and that incongruity made it all the more terrible. He revelled in the subtle change in you, the way your posture betrayed you, the spark of reluctant curiosity in your wide eyes.

“Come,” he said at last, the single word a command dressed as an invitation. “It’s in another room. You get to leave your cell tonight.” His grin widened, a flash of teeth that seemed to catch the torchlight like polished ivory. Without giving you time to resist, he unlocked the chin around your ankle, he slid his arms around you with a disarming ease, one large hand braced against the curve of your back, the other hooking firmly beneath your knees.

You gasped softly as he hoisted you up, the sudden shift dizzying after so many nights chained to cold stone. Your body pressed against his, unwilling yet unavoidably drawn into his heat. He cradled you against his chest like something precious, like a lover might hold their bride, and the gesture was as sickening as it was strangely comforting. The solid weight of him, the steady thud of his heart beneath your cheek, it was the warmth of the wolf that stalks before it bites. The torchlight flickered, catching the cruel tilt of his grin as he turned toward the open corridor.

Your cheek, despite yourself, rested against the leather stretched over his chest, the faint smell of sweat and steel and earth filling your lungs. Gods, he was warm, terribly, treacherously warm, and in that moment, with the dungeon’s darkness fading behind you and the unknown ahead, you hated how your body leaned, even slightly, into that forbidden heat. The stones of the corridor seemed to hold their breath as Ramsay carried you away, his steps slow and deliberate, each one echoing like a heartbeat in the suffocating dark.

The chamber he carried you into seemed cut from the bowels of the earth itself, a place where light came only to die. Its darkness was almost alive, thick, choking, a velvet shroud that clung to your lungs. A single torch hissed in the wall sconce, its guttering flame fighting to hold back the black. The light was dim and mean, forcing you to squint, your eyes aching as shapes began to separate themselves from the gloom.

At first, the room seemed empty save for the hollow echo of your own heartbeat. But as your vision adjusted, the shadows took form and what they revealed turned your stomach.

In the very centre stood the cross. It was enormous, a grotesque shape carved from ancient timber, its surface scarred by use and stained by sins older than you could guess. The wood gleamed in places where blood had darkened and dried, leaving a patina like old varnish. It stood proud and tall, bolted into the stones beneath it, and though it did not move, you could almost feel it waiting. Leather cuffs hung from its arms and base, worn, cracked, but still strong enough to hold a thrashing body. They dangled with a patient gravity, their edges smoothed by the friction of struggling wrists and ankles.

Beside this monument to pain was a narrow table draped in shadow. The torchlight licked across its surface, catching on shapes that gleamed with wet menace. There was no mistaking some of them: the long, curved flaying knife, a companion to the cross as faithful as shadow to flame, its edge honed to a cruel brilliance. Around it were smaller blades of unfamiliar design, delicate and dreadful, their purposes a mystery you did not want solved.

Scattered between them were pointed needles, too thick to be meant for thread. Their tips glimmered as the torch sputtered, like the watchful eyes of some predatory insect. A copper bowl sat farther down, its surface dulled by age and use, and within it something shifted, black, glistening shapes that writhed and folded over one another like liquid shadows. Leeches, you realised, recalling whispers of Ramsay’s father and his abhorrent remedies. The sight made bile rise in your throat.

At the table’s far edge rested a butcher’s bone saw, its teeth ragged and its blade dulled by rust and dried gore. It was a brutal, inelegant thing, made for tearing, not cutting, and its very presence carried the promise of screams.

The stench in this room was different, heavier, crueller. The dungeons had always stunk of old blood, sweat, and stale piss, but this place, this room, reeked of something worse. Death lingered here, yes, but so did shame. The air was thick with it, the walls seemed to sweat it. You could taste it on your tongue: the metallic tang of lives unmade and dignity crushed beneath boot and blade.

You didn’t know which of those Ramsay had brought you here for. Death or humiliation. Perhaps both. Perhaps he didn’t know himself, and perhaps that made it worse. The torch sputtered again, and for a fleeting instant, the shadows on the cross seemed to twitch, as though eager to embrace new flesh. And in that silence, as Ramsay’s presence loomed around you like a wolf’s shadow, you felt the world narrow to the sound of your own breath and the sick certainty that whatever came next would leave a mark that no time could wash away.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” Ramsay’s voice slid against your ear like silk over steel, low and intimate, the kind of whisper that coiled itself into your spine and stayed there. His arms tightened around you, an embrace that felt almost tender until you remembered who held you. “Do you like your treat?” The words brushed your skin as though the torchlight itself had spoken, warm and venomous all at once.

Your response was a desperate shake of your head, quick and decisive, as if denying him could undo the room around you. You buried your face against his chest, pressing yourself into the heat of him as though hiding could make the monstrous shape of the cross vanish. The hard leather of his jerkin bit into your cheek, and his scent, a sharp mixture of sweat, steel, and the faint copper tang of blood, seared itself into your senses.

Ramsay laughed quietly, a dark and delighted sound that rolled through his chest and vibrated against your skin. He dipped his head until his nose was tangled in your hair, inhaling deeply, greedily, as though your terror were perfume meant for him alone. “Mm,” he murmured, his breath stirring the strands near your temple. “You smell perfect when you’re frightened. So sweet. So honest.”

“Be a brave girl for me, sweetness. You can do it.” The words came with a grim chuckle, a mockery of comfort that only made the dread settle deeper in your gut. He adjusted his grip, lifting you effortlessly, carrying you toward the cross as though the act required no thought. The wooden beams loomed larger with every step, its arms outstretched like a waiting executioner.

You squirmed against him, your body twisting weakly in his grasp. You kicked once, twice, but the movement was feeble, an echo of what real resistance might have been. Weeks, months, maybe, of Ramsay’s games had hollowed you out, your muscles sore and starved of strength, your spirit ground to exhaustion. Each movement sent little flares of pain through your limbs, reminding you how broken down you had become. And in the aching weight of your own weakness, a terrible temptation whispered to you: to stop, to let him win, to let the struggle end.

He felt the shift, felt the last tremors of fight seep from your body, and he smiled, a small, satisfied curl of his lips against your hairline. When he reached the cross, the torchlight bathed its wooden arms in a dull, malignant glow. He set you down and began to fasten the leather cuffs one by one. The sound of the buckles clicking shut echoed in the stone room, sharp and final. First one wrist, then the other, your arms were stretched wide, pulled farther than comfort would allow. The leather was cold against your skin, biting cruelly at your wrists. He moved to your ankles next, forcing your legs apart until the tendons protested, spreading you wide against the cross until you were a trembling, unwilling offering.

It hurt, Gods, it hurt. The stretch of your muscles, the pull of your shoulders, the raw edge of restraint, it was as though the cross itself had claws and was digging them into your flesh.

“Please.” The word slipped past your lips before you could stop it, a fragile, broken thing that shivered in the cold air. A sob followed, jagged and unbidden, escaping your chest like a bird from a broken cage. “Ramsay… don’t. Please don’t.”

He made a soft, approving sound, a hum of pleasure at the crack in your voice. Slowly, almost lovingly, Ramsay reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing your skin with deceptive care. “Shhh…” he breathed, a quiet hush that might have been tender in another world. His lips, warm, damp, deliberate, brushed against your cheek once, twice, then again, pressing slow kisses that were too gentle to be anything but cruel.

“Quiet, love,” he whispered, his tone smooth as oil, yet edged with danger. “Or else my other toys might get jealous of how much time I spend with you.” His words lingered in the dimness like smoke, their sweetness soured by the promise coiled within them. The torch sputtered in the silence that followed, and the room seemed to lean closer, as if the stones themselves wanted to witness your undoing.

He cut away your shift first. The blade whispered through the worn fabric, and the sound was shockingly soft, almost reverent, as if the ruined garment were a thing of value. The shift had been your last barrier, the only pitiful scrap that had hidden you from his hungry gaze. He tore it aside as though it were already nothing, a tattered veil between predator and prey. The fabric, stained and heavy with filth and sweat, slumped to the stones like a discarded skin. Humiliation burned through your cheeks, a fierce, helpless heat that left you dizzy.

You couldn’t even recall the last time he had allowed you to bathe. Not that it would have mattered. Your cell was a midden of damp straw and vermin, where maggots writhed in the corners and rats skittered through the darkness, their tiny claws scraping against stone. Even if you had been washed clean, the dungeon’s breath would have sullied you anew within minutes.

Ramsay stepped closer, the leather of his boots creaking against the floor. His hands, those clever, calloused instruments of cruelty, hovered just above your skin before settling against you. His fingertips dragged deliberately, rough enough to raise a shiver as they traced every mark, every bruise, every shallow, half-healed wound that told the story of your captivity. There was no tenderness in the touch, only a terrible precision, as though he were cataloguing his work.

A small, broken sound slipped from your throat, half whine, half plea. You shook your head, your hair falling like a dark curtain over your face. “Ramsay… no…” The words were quiet, thin, almost lost to the damp air, but they trembled with the weight of your despair.

He watched you with an expression that was neither pity nor anger but something worse, amusement. His lips curved, sharp and wolfish. He saw the way your body recoiled even as tension rippled through you, the way your spread thighs clenched, and he smiled as though he had uncovered some secret you had tried to bury. “Oh, is that what you think we’re doing?” he murmured, his tone mocking yet deceptively soft.

The torchlight glinted in his pale eyes as his hand wandered with theatrical slowness, skimming down to your tender cunt that still ached from his past violations, testing your resolve. You flinched, uncertain, your breath coming shallow and quick. “Here?” he said, voice a whisper against the crackling torch. “This is what you think I want?”

Your brow furrowed in confusion, but the heat of shame flushed deeper. You gave a small, hesitant nod, unable to meet his gaze.

His laugh was quiet but cruel, echoing like a serpent’s hiss against the stone walls. “You’re so certain you understand me,” he said, each word drawn out like a blade over skin. He pushed a rough finger into your cunt with shallow thrusts, the touch was a threat that coaxed broken moans and whimpers from your lips. “But I don’t give you what you think you’re bracing for. Not now.”

“You’re wet. Such a little whore.” He withdrew the thick finger, and the absence of it was somehow worse, and then struck a horrible, cracking slap against the heated and spread hole. It was more painful than you could have thought. You trembled, your breath hitching in a choked sob that filled the space between you. Ramsay only watched, his grin widening, his delight unmistakable in the torchlight. The dungeon seemed to lean closer around you both, shadows stretching like talons across the stone, and in that dreadful silence, you felt the weight of his cruelty settle over you, patient, deliberate, and far from finished.

The torchlight trembled in the damp air, throwing restless shadows across the dungeon walls, making the tools on the table gleam like the teeth of some waiting beast. Ramsay’s voice came soft and silken, an intimate murmur that slithered into your ear and coiled around your fear. “Do you know what I want most of all?” His lips brushed the words like a secret against your skin. “Shall we make it a game? You guess. If you’re wrong…” His smile curved, a flash of pale cruelty in the flickering dark. “…I’ll press one of these pretty needles into your skin. If you’re right, you’ll choose which knife we use next. Fair, isn’t it? How does that sound?”

He dragged the table closer, the screech of its legs against stone setting your teeth on edge. The array of rusted blades, gleaming needles, and cruel, unfamiliar tools caught the torchlight in flashes of cold fire. Ramsay positioned himself on a stool before you, his head level with your stomach, so near you could feel his breath ghost across your skin. The heat of him was unbearable in the chill of the room, a contrast that made you shiver.

“I don’t want to play.” The words scraped your throat, hoarse and raw.

Ramsay tilted his head, and for a heartbeat his smile softened, becoming almost gentle. Almost. “If you don’t play,” he said lightly, “I’ll push every needle I have into you. Every. Single. One.” The threat was delivered in a tone so tender it made your stomach twist.

You sniffled, the sound small and helpless in the vast silence of the room. Your vision swam, the edges of the world blurring as the torch’s glow wavered. You looked toward the table but couldn’t bring yourself to count the gleaming horrors lined up before you. “I can’t… how many…?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Ramsay’s chuckle was low, warm, almost affectionate, a sound that felt wrong in this place. He leaned in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your navel, a touch deceptively soothing in the midst of his threat. “Can’t count?” he murmured against your skin. “There are thirty needles on the table.” His fingers traced lazy circles over your hip as he added softly, “And I can always fetch more.”

A broken whine escaped you, followed by a small, shuddering sigh. “I’ll play,” you breathed, the words reluctant but certain.

“Good girl.” His approval was a caress all its own, a soft whisper that made your skin crawl even as a part of you ached for the sound. His hand squeezed your hip, firm and possessive. “Now—make your first guess. What do I want most of all?”

You swallowed, the taste of copper and dread thick on your tongue. “Pain,” you said finally, the word brittle as glass.

Ramsay rose with fluid grace, plucking a clamp and one of the thick needles from the table. The torchlight slid across the metal, turning it into a line of cold fire. Without a word, he pinched a tender patch of skin high on your arm, the sudden bite of the clamp making you flinch. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pushed the needle through. The sting was sharp, bright, and immediate, a small, intimate violation that stole your breath.

You whimpered, a sound you couldn’t contain, though you bit back the sob that clawed its way up your throat.

“Not pain,” Ramsay whispered, his voice suddenly warm, almost soothing. “I’m fond of it, especially yours, but there’s more to life.” He released the clamp and leaned in, his tongue tracing the tiny wound, licking away the fresh blood. The wet heat of it, the sheer audacity of the gesture, sent a shiver through you that was equal parts revulsion and something you dared not name. The torch flickered again, and the room seemed to close in, the walls pressing closer, as Ramsay’s quiet breath ghosted over your skin like a secret you wished you’d never learned.

The weight of the needle embedded in your arm burned like a brand, a steady, throbbing ache that made thought slippery and distant. It was as if your very pulse had wrapped itself around that shard of metal, making every heartbeat a fresh reminder of your helplessness.

“Guess again,” Ramsay murmured, his voice low and velvet-dark. It coiled around you, threading through the stagnant air, seductive and cruel all at once.

A bead of sweat formed at your brow, followed by another. Soon a thin trail traced the line of your temple, sliding down your cheek before disappearing into the hollow of your collarbone. The dampness gathered at the base of your neck, then continued its slow descent, pooling at the small of your back. The dungeon’s cold air made it feel icy, a contrast that deepened your discomfort, making your skin prickle.

“Power,” you whispered, the single word escaping like a prayer or a curse.

Ramsay’s laugh was soft, amused, and chilling in its gentleness. He shook his head, dark hair falling forward to frame a face far too handsome for the horror he carried in him. “You make some good guesses, my darling,” he said, the endearment a twisted blade disguised as a caress. “But craving… craving is different from wanting, from needing.”

He reached for another needle, the torchlight catching on the metal and setting it aglow like a sliver of fire. This one seemed heavier, crueller somehow, though you knew it was the anticipation that made it so. He clamped another tender stretch of your skin, this time on your other arm, and pressed the point through, slow and deliberate. The sensation was sharper, deeper, a hot sting that radiated outward in a bloom of pain. You clenched your teeth, your entire body taut with the effort to hold back the sound clawing at your throat.

Ramsay’s fingers lingered at the puncture, squeezing just enough to coax more crimson to the surface. He bent forward, eyes half-lidded, and brought his mouth to the wound. His tongue traced the line of blood with unhurried precision, as though savouring something exquisite. You felt his breath warm against your skin, felt the wet drag of him as he drank in what you hadn’t meant to give.

Then, unexpectedly, unbidden, a soft sound broke from your lips. A low moan, fragile but unmistakable, slipped free before you could choke it back. The shock of it burned hotter than the pain. Ramsay’s eyes flicked up to yours, gleaming with delight and something darker, and his smile curved slowly and knowing. The torch’s flame sputtered as if stirred by unseen breath, and the room itself seemed to lean closer, as though the shadows were listening for your next sound.

“Keep going, sweetness… more guesses.” Ramsay’s words were a velvet murmur, a coaxing purr that slid through the cold air and settled against your skin like an unwelcome caress. His mouth was warm where it pressed against you, and you felt him linger over each wound, his tongue dragging slow and deliberate as he licked and suckled at the blood he’d drawn. Each touch was calculated, part cruelty, part something far more intimate, and the sensation made your breath catch in your throat.

“Your… House,” you whispered hoarsely, clinging to the first answer that came to mind.

Ramsay’s laugh was soft and scornful, a sound that carried more derision than amusement. “My House?” He scoffed, his voice sharp enough to cut. There was no gentleness in the way his hand moved next, no pretence of tenderness as he pressed the third needle against your flesh. He chose a cruel place this time, low and vulnerable, just beside your navel. The metal broke your skin with a sharp, searing sting that stole the breath from your lungs.

A cry tore itself from your lips, raw and high, and your body twisted instinctively against the pain. But Ramsay was ready for you. His hands clamped down on your hips with an iron grip, holding you fast as though you were nothing more than a restless thing to be steadied. “Hush now,” he murmured, his tone a mockery of comfort. He pressed a few slow kisses around the fresh wound, each one gentle enough to make you tremble in confusion. Then his tongue traced the new blood, savouring it with a languid, deliberate hunger that made your stomach twist.

“Your… hounds,” you managed next, your voice barely a breath.

Ramsay’s grin widened, his eyes flashing with a dark amusement that felt almost playful, if not for the malice simmering beneath. “Wrong again.” He didn’t even pause before choosing the next place to test you. The clamp closed around the soft flesh of your inner thigh, biting cruelly into the delicate skin. You flinched hard at the sudden pressure, knowing what would follow. The next needle sank in with a burning sting that made your muscles seize and your breath hitch.

The pain was immediate, bright, but beneath it, treacherously, you felt something else: a warmth that spread low through your body, a tingling heat that was as humiliating as it was undeniable. Your lips trembled as you fought to hold back the sound rising in your throat. You bit down on your own lip hard enough to taste copper, trying desperately to silence yourself.

Ramsay’s chuckle was low and satisfied, vibrating against your skin where his breath still hovered close. The sound was a predator’s laugh, full of cruel delight. He pressed his lips briefly to your thigh near the wound, not quite a kiss, not quite a threat.

The next word trembled on your lips, and you already knew it was wrong. Perhaps that was why you chose it, some quiet, reckless part of you wanted to prolong the game, to see how far the darkness would stretch. Perhaps you wanted to feel him lose that smooth composure, just once.

“Reek,” you whispered. The sound was barely more than a breath, yet in the silence of the dungeon it seemed to echo, small and sharp, like a pebble tossed into a deep well.

Ramsay’s expression shifted in an instant. The sly amusement drained from his eyes, leaving only something cold and dangerous glinting in its place. He straightened to his full height, the movement abrupt and unnerving, and the sudden weight of his presence loomed over you like a gathering storm. Then, without a single word, his hand lashed out. The crack of skin against skin echoed off the stone walls, sharp and startling. Your cheek burned hot, the sting spreading outward as tears pricked your eyes.

He didn’t speak, not yet. Silence can wound as deeply as any blade, and Ramsay wielded it like a master. His hands moved instead, deliberate and unhurried, as he reached for you. The clamp bit into the tender flesh of your aching and peaking nipple, a cruel precision in the way he placed it. This punishment was different, sharper, more vicious than any he had given before. The large and thick needle followed, sliding through with a cold inevitability that made your breath catch. Pain flared bright and merciless, ripping a cry from your throat before you could swallow it down. Your body bucked against the restraints, muscles spasming as black spots danced at the edges of your vision.

Then, like a serpent changing its strike to a caress, Ramsay’s mouth descended. His lips found the fresh wound, his teeth grazing the abused flesh as he bit down just enough to remind you who held the power. His tongue followed, hot and slow, tracing the pain he’d inflicted as though savouring every heartbeat of it. He suckled blood from your teat like a babe would for milk. The sensation twisted inside you, wrong and shattering, sending a flush of heat that battled with the ache. For a heartbeat, the cruel tenderness of it almost eclipsed everything else, every humiliation, every terror. For that terrible, treacherous moment, the world narrowed to the wet heat of his mouth and the dizzying, shameful rush it stirred, and you hated how close forgiveness felt on your tongue.

And then it struck you, a clarity so sudden and sharp it felt like a blade sliding between your ribs. The revelation tore a wild, shocking laugh from your throat, a sound too ragged and unhinged to belong to relief or joy. It startled even you, echoing off the dungeon walls like something broken set free.

Ramsay lifted his head, his cheeks flushed from his recent indulgence, lips wet and crimson-stained. His frown deepened, and he mumbled against your chest, the vibration of his voice a dark tremor against your skin. “What is it?” he demanded, the question edged with suspicion, as if your laughter might be the one weapon he could not disarm.

“Blood,” you gasped between ragged breaths, the word spilling out like a confession. “It’s blood. Everything you do is blood.” The words tumbled faster, a torrent that you couldn’t stop, even as some part of you warned you were going too far. “You are obsessed with it—bleeding, watching the life run out. You do what you do because you need to see it, because you know your own blood is rotten. You carry your father’s blood, but not enough of it to ever be whole. You broke Reek because his blood was better than yours, and you flay and kill girls because the warmth of their blood reminds you of everything you want but will never have.” Your laughter bubbled up again, fractured and breathless. “Your horse is called Blood, you feed your hounds on blood, and all you want from me—” your voice cracked, bitter and exultant “—is submission and blood.”

The laughter grew wild, almost delirious, shaking your exhausted frame. It tasted of hysteria, of despair slipping into madness, and it left tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. The dungeon spun faintly around you, your head swimming, your trembling body shaking with something perilously close to release. “Blood,” you whispered again, over and over, like a prayer or a curse. “Blood. Blood. Blood.”

Ramsay rose to his full height, his shadow falling over you like the wings of some great, dark thing. He grasped your jaw, fingers digging just enough to remind you of their strength. His expression was taut, jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek twitching with restrained fury. You had answered correctly, but you had stripped him bare with your words, and for a heartbeat, the danger of it hung between you like a suspended blade.

“Clever girl,” he murmured at last, his tone low and dangerous. “It’s blood.” The words were an admission and a warning in equal measure.

Then he leaned in and kissed you, hard, deliberate, and unyielding. You could taste yourself on him: the copper tang of blood, the salt of tears, the bitter edge of survival. The kiss was deep and consuming, and when the needles slid free one by one, you sighed against his mouth, shuddering as the warmth of your own blood ran freely, slick and hot against your skin.

The cold came in quicker than anyone had anticipated, seeping through stone and skin alike, a creeping, invisible tide that left no corner untouched. The air itself seemed to harden, every breath drawn sharp and clean as a blade. Reek, already bent out of shape and broken down in spirit, lay awake through the endless nights, listening to the world still itself. He watched the frost gather first as a delicate shimmer, then thicken into white crusts that claimed every surface. The windowpanes bloomed with crystals, fragile veins that spidered outward in silence. Outside, icicles grew heavy and long, hanging like silver-blue sabres that caught what little light the moon gave, ringing softly when the wind pushed through them, a ghostly choir for the dying warmth of the world.

The snow came next, slow at first, then relentless. It blanketed everything in white, smoothing the scars of the land, muting the colours until all that remained was the soft pulse of cold and quiet. The purity of it unsettled him, how beautiful it was, how clean. The world seemed forgiven beneath it, untouched, as though cruelty could be buried deep enough to vanish. Reek stared until his eyes stung, until he lost all sense of where he ended and the whiteness began. He could almost forget himself in it, and that forgetting was its own small mercy.

Ramsay did not always lock the door to his cell. Some nights, Reek woke to find the latch unfastened, the way left open, the invitation heavy as a threat. It was never kindness, only a test, another way to measure the limits of his obedience. Reek understood. He always understood. He would creep out quietly, barefoot, the cold biting his feet until he could no longer tell the difference between flesh and frost. The godswood awaited him, its trees skeletal and black against the white, their branches whispering secrets through the wind. He wandered beneath them without purpose, drawn forward by memory or instinct, he could not say which.

Sometimes he thought he remembered the feel of boots, the sound of his own name spoken with warmth. But those were faint things now, half-remembered fragments that drifted through him like smoke. The snow muffled all else, the crunch of his steps, the soft trembling of his breath, even the thoughts that tried to rise from the hollow he had become. The world was white and endless, and Reek, small and shivering, walked through it as though searching for something he no longer believed was his to find.

He had wandered through the night, moving like a shadow among shadows, his breath a thin mist that vanished before his eyes. The world was hushed beneath its quilt of snow, the only sound the soft, deliberate crunch of his bare feet pressing into the frozen crust. When dawn came, shy and fleeting, it spilt across the horizon in delicate hues of rose and gold, painting the snow in blush tones that shimmered with quiet promise. For that fragile heartbeat of time, he let himself believe he was free. The light touched his face, warm only in memory, and something inside him stirred, something almost human.

Then the clouds rolled back in, thick and heavy, swallowing the colours whole. The North returned to its sullen grey, its endless cold. The illusion broke like glass. That was when he felt it, the deep, gnawing pain in his feet, a slow burn that turned to numbness. He looked down and saw the skin raw and mottled, the red ache of frostbite creeping up his toes like a cruel vine. It was as though the cold had claimed him, piece by piece, marking him as its own.

Still, he did not cry out. He would not. With trembling hands, he stumbled back toward the keep, the snow whispering at his heels. Each step was agony, yet he moved faster, driven by the quiet panic that someone might see. The door to his cell stood open like a mouth waiting to swallow him whole, and he slipped inside with the silence of a thief. There, in the dimness, he found the old wool socks, coarse and heavy with damp, and pulled them on over his wounded skin. The warmth stung, almost unbearably, but he endured it, jaw tight, breath shallow.

He could not let them see. He would not give Ramsay another weakness to name, another cruelty to wield. The frost had bitten deep, but he would hide it. He had learned well that pain was safest when it was secret, when it was his alone, tucked away beneath wool and silence.

Reek hid the aches well enough. Pain had long ago become his shadow, a familiar weight that clung to him no matter how he moved. His legs and feet, twisted and scarred from Ramsay’s attentions, had learned to suffer in silence. But the frostbite was something new, cruel in a quieter way. His toes blackened with time, skin splitting like overripe fruit, the pain dulling into a constant throb that pulsed with every faltering step. He hobbled through the days as though nothing were wrong, his breath tight, his body trembling with the effort of pretending. But pretence could only last so long under Ramsay’s watchful gaze.

It was evening when the summons came. A servant, eyes down, voice barely a whisper, told him Ramsay awaited him in one of the tower chambers. The climb was torture. The stone steps wound upward endlessly, each one stealing a little more of his breath, each one pressing the truth of his brokenness deeper into his bones. By the time he reached the door, the air around him felt thin, biting, and the cold inside him had settled into something darker than frost.

The chamber was dimly lit by firelight, though the flames seemed to flicker only for Ramsay’s pleasure. Shadows danced across the walls, catching the gleam of metal laid out neatly upon a table, small, shining instruments whose purpose Reek knew too well. Ramsay sat waiting, lounging like a cat with a bird between its paws, his smile sharp and bright and terrible. It was the kind of smile that cut deeper than any knife.

Reek swallowed hard, the motion visible in the hollow of his throat, and bowed low until his trembling hands brushed against the cold stone floor. “Milord,” he mumbled, the word barely more than a breath.

Ramsay’s voice came smooth and lazy, every syllable drenched in mockery. “Did you enjoy your walk up the tower, pet?”

Reek flinched, his shoulders curling inward as though the sound alone could wound him. “Yes, milord,” he managed, the words dry and fragile. “Thank you.”

Ramsay’s laughter came low and rich, the kind that coiled around the air and lingered. “Nothing hurts?” he asked, his tone feigning concern. “You got up the steps with as much ease as a young knight, I trust?”

Reek nodded quickly, eyes fixed on the floor, his fingers worrying at the loose thread on his pale pink dress. The motion was small, desperate, a gesture of someone clinging to the only thing he could still control. The air between them seemed to tighten, thick with silence and the slow, inevitable approach of pain.

Ramsay sat back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with that peculiar mix of amusement and hunger, and then, with a slow, deliberate gesture, he patted his lap. The sound was soft, but it carried the weight of command. Reek hesitated only a breath before shuffling forward, his movements stiff and uncertain. When at last he obeyed, Ramsay’s hands were there, firm and possessive, guiding him down.

“Come now,” Ramsay murmured, drawing him close until Reek’s thin frame was pressed against his chest. His arms closed around him in a mockery of tenderness, a parody of comfort. “There… nice and warm. This is good, isn’t it?” His voice was almost kind, low, coaxing, threaded through with something that made the skin crawl even as it beckoned trust.

Reek nodded weakly, barely breathing, and tucked his head against Ramsay’s chest as though the act could make him disappear. The scent of him was overwhelming, cloves, leather, and the faint metallic tang that lingered after blood. Beneath the fabric, Ramsay’s heart beat slow and steady, a rhythm that filled Reek’s ears and left no room for thought.

“Now, pet,” Ramsay whispered, his tone shifting to that feigned, dangerous softness that came before cruelty, “you’ve been walking strangely. I haven’t done anything to your sweet little toes in far too long, and Damon and the others say they’ve had their fun, but none of them have touched those darling feet of yours.” As he spoke, he leaned down and brushed a kiss against Reek’s forehead, gentle, almost tender, and the touch burned worse than fire.

Reek’s stomach turned. He wanted to recoil, to flee, to claw his way out of that suffocating embrace and collapse in the snow until the cold swallowed him whole. His throat tightened, bile rising, but he stayed still, frozen, trembling, caught between the warmth of Ramsay’s chest and the ice of his own terror. His breath came shallow, uneven, and he could feel Ramsay’s smile curve against his skin.

“So,” Ramsay continued softly, his words like a blade pressed lightly against flesh, “what happened to your feet, pet?”

Reek swallowed hard, the lie already breaking on his tongue. “N–nothing, milord. Nothing at all,” he stammered, his voice cracked and small. Tears welled unbidden in his eyes, hot and helpless, and he blinked them away before they could fall. Fear had its own heartbeat now, a sharp, merciless rhythm that gripped his chest and squeezed until he could scarcely draw breath.

Ramsay chuckled low in his throat, the sound a quiet, knowing purr. He held Reek tighter, as though comforting him, though both knew it was a cage, a prison built of arms and breath and false warmth. Outside, the wind moaned against the stone walls, and the tower seemed to shiver with them.

Ramsay’s touch was slow, almost reverent, as he reached down and began to peel away the soiled socks clinging to Reek’s feet. The fabric, damp and stiff with filth, made a faint tearing sound as it came free from the raw, swollen skin beneath. The air in the chamber was cold, and yet the moment the ruined flesh met it, it burned. Ramsay’s brow furrowed, not in pity, but in something like fascination. He had suspected, of course, that something was wrong. But even he gave a low hiss between his teeth at the sight before him: blackened toes, the skin cracked and mottled, the faint reek of rot just beginning to stir beneath the surface.

“Oh, my silly pet,” he murmured, his voice soft as silk. “Silly, silly pet.” The words were a lullaby and a taunt all at once, each syllable heavy with amusement. Reek shivered at the sound, a tremor running through him that had nothing to do with the cold.

“You let your little toes freeze, didn’t you?” Ramsay continued, his tone turning sing-song, mock-affectionate. “Stupid little thing.”

Reek’s head remained pressed against Ramsay’s chest, his body rigid, his breath shallow. He whimpered faintly, a sound born of shame rather than pain, and clutched weakly at the edge of Ramsay’s tunic as if to steady himself. He wanted to vanish, to dissolve into the air between them, to be anywhere but here.

Ramsay’s hands, though, were deceptively gentle. He took one foot between them and began to rub, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over the tender, discoloured flesh. His touch was careful, almost loving, as though this act were one of care rather than cruelty. “You are a silly thing,” he murmured, his voice low, the warmth of it seeping into the cold that clung to Reek’s bones. “Pets have their little cells and cages for a reason, don’t they? To keep them safe. To keep them warm. You wouldn’t be hurting like this if you’d stayed where you belonged, if you hadn’t gone wandering out into the snow.”

“I’m sorry, milord,” Reek whispered, his voice breaking under the weight of fear and humiliation. “I won’t do it again.” The words were automatic, learned long ago, and they tumbled out in a trembling rush.

Ramsay smiled then, that quiet, terrible smile that never reached his eyes. “No,” he said softly, “no, you won’t.” His thumb stroked once more over Reek’s frozen skin, almost soothing. “But, my dearest pet…”

He shifted his grip, and in one swift motion pinched one of the blackened toes between his fingers.

Reek yelped, a strangled, desperate sound that echoed off the stone walls. The pain shot up his leg like fire through ice. Ramsay only sighed, as though burdened by the necessity of it all. “We can’t have this spreading, can we?” he whispered, his tone tender as a lover’s. “No… we must take care of it properly.”

Reek’s sobs came raw and broken, shaking through him in great, helpless tremors as he struggled in Ramsay’s arms. He twisted, tried to pull away, but the hands that held him were unyielding, iron beneath the silk of skin, a strength that felt both intimate and merciless. Ramsay’s hold only tightened the more Reek fought, drawing him in until his ribs ached beneath the pressure. There was no escaping it, no slipping free; every motion only drew him deeper into his captor’s grasp.

“No, please… don’t, milord — don’t!” he gasped, the words half-choked on tears and terror. His voice broke against the stone walls, small and desperate, but Ramsay only hushed him softly, almost affectionately, as one might quiet a trembling child. The sound was low, tender, and cruel all at once.

“Shh,” Ramsay murmured, his breath brushing Reek’s ear, warm and patient. “Hold still, or I’ll take off more than I need to.” The words were spoken gently, like a warning, but beneath them coiled the promise of something sharp and irrevocable. His hand reached past Reek’s shoulder, steady, unhurried, and returned with the clamp and the small blade, their metallic edges catching the flicker of firelight.

Reek’s breath hitched sharply. He knew those tools; he had known them too many times before. Fingers had gone to them, one by one, until only stubs and scars remained. He could still remember the smell of his own flesh burning against the iron, the way Ramsay had smiled through it all. But his toes, gods, his toes, Ramsay had never taken one before, and they felt so terribly alive, so exposed beneath his thin skin. Even the brush of air against them was enough to make him flinch.

Fear rolled through him in great, suffocating waves. He howled, a sound pulled from the very marrow of him, not only in terror but in the deep, animal knowledge of what was coming. Even as his voice cracked and his body writhed, he went still. He knew the rules. He knew that movement only made it worse. His heart thundered, his breath came in quick, shallow bursts, but his limbs locked in obedience.

There was no mercy to beg for. Ramsay would do it whether he pleaded or not, whether he screamed or stayed silent. The only choice left to him was how still he could remain, how much of himself he could keep from shattering before the first cut fell.

Ramsay did not bother to clean the rot from Reek’s feet first. The smell of decay already filled the room, a sour, fetid sweetness that hung in the air like something alive. He preferred it that way. To him, suffering was a process, not a moment, and infection only prolonged the pleasure. Reek’s recovery, if it came at all, would be a slow and festering thing. That was Ramsay’s design.

He cradled his trembling servant, studying the ruined feet with an almost clinical fascination. The flesh had turned black and waxy in places, pale and swollen in others. Each toe was a grotesque relic of frost and fear. Ramsay’s fingers, steady and cruelly gentle, traced along the edges of decay, pressing just enough to make Reek jolt and gasp.

“Mm,” he murmured, as if in contemplation. “Still some feeling left. How lucky.”

He reached for the clamp and seized the first of the three blackened toes with rough precision. The metal bit into the soft tissue, and Reek cried out, his body convulsing in helpless protest. Ramsay smiled faintly, unhurried, taking his time. There would be no mercy here, no draught to dull the pain, no wine to cloud the mind, not even a strip of leather to bite down upon. He wanted the sound, the raw, unguarded wailing that tore through flesh and pride alike. He wanted Reek to feel every inch of it, to live in it.

The blade he chose was heavy, old steel with a broad edge honed to a merciless gleam. When it came down, it did so without warning. The cut was swift at first, slicing through skin and nerve with wet ease, but then it struck bone. The motion caught, halted, then resumed with a sickening rhythm as Ramsay sawed through the obstruction. The sound filled the chamber, a rasping, meaty scrape that drowned even Reek’s shrieks.

The toe fell away at last with a soft, obscene thud against the stone floor. Blood followed in sluggish, dark rivulets, spreading in uneven circles beneath what remained of the foot. Ramsay regarded the detached piece of flesh for a moment, almost admiringly, before reaching for the cauterising iron that had been waiting, glowing orange at the tip.

He pressed it to the open wound without pause. The hiss that followed was sharp and bright, and for an instant, the scent of burning meat overtook everything else. Reek’s body arched violently, every muscle straining as if trying to escape his own skin. But no sound came. His throat had given out; there was no voice left to scream with. His mouth hung open, eyes wide and glassy, lips trembling around the ghosts of cries that no longer reached the air.

When the iron lifted, the silence that followed was heavier than any noise. Reek’s chest heaved in short, broken bursts, his entire body slick with cold sweat. The pain was too large for words, too complete for thought. Ramsay watched him with satisfaction, his expression one of quiet delight, a painter admiring the first stroke of a masterpiece not yet finished.

“Good,” he whispered, stroking the damp hair from Reek’s face with mock tenderness. “You’re still with me.”

Outside, the wind howled against the tower walls, and the fire crackled on, patient and hungry. Inside, Reek trembled, a hollow, quivering thing, and Ramsay’s smile deepened. There were still two blackened toes left.

Reek stayed limp in Ramsay’s arms as the second and third toes were claimed, his body slack and unresisting, a doll of trembling flesh and shallow breath. He had long passed the threshold of struggling, of pleading, of even wanting to move. The pain had hollowed him out from the inside, until all that remained was a dim awareness of touch and heat and sound. His cheek rested against Ramsay’s sleeve, damp with sweat and tears, and the smell of iron and blood rose thick between them.

Each cut came like a wave breaking against the shore of his numbness, sharp at first, then dissolving into that deep, consuming ache that lived everywhere at once. The sting of the blade, the wet slick of blood as it spilt over Ramsay’s gloved fingers, the blistering kiss of the cauterising iron, they all blended into one continuous pulse of torment, seamless and eternal. Time dissolved with it; the moments stretched, blurred, and became meaningless.

When Ramsay pressed the final glowing iron down, Reek’s lips parted in a soundless cry, his body arching instinctively before collapsing once more into stillness. The scent of scorched flesh mingled with the sweetness of sweat, and the air itself seemed to thicken around them. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, the only witness to the ritual of pain, casting shifting bands of orange light over the stone floor, where three small shapes lay scattered like fallen petals.

Ramsay’s hands did not release him right away. They lingered, firm, almost tender, smoothing back the tangled hair from Reek’s damp forehead, tracing the tremors still running through him. Reek could feel the steady beat of Ramsay’s heart beneath his ear, calm and unhurried, so close to his own ragged gasps. The contrast was unbearable.

He did not cry anymore. The tears had run dry, and his mind floated somewhere distant, adrift in a haze of pain too vast to name. All that was left of him was the faint sound of breath, the twitch of a muscle, the smallest flicker of life clinging to what remained. The world beyond Ramsay’s touch had faded; there was only the warmth of his captor’s arms and the dull, all-encompassing throb of what had been taken.

“No more walks, pet, especially not in the snow,” Ramsay murmured, his voice low and velvety as he leaned close, his breath ghosting hot against Reek’s temple. “Your body is mine to break and toy with, not the winter’s.” His tone was almost tender, almost protective, though the words themselves cut sharper than any blade. He pressed a kiss to Reek’s brow, slow and deliberate, letting his lips linger there a moment too long. “Ungrateful little brat,” he whispered, the insult rolling from his tongue like a term of endearment.

Reek drew a trembling breath, his chest hitching with a sound halfway between a sigh and a sob. His gaze lifted, unfocused, to meet Ramsay’s pale eyes, those cold, curious eyes that seemed to see straight through him. He wanted to speak, to beg, to say something that might make it stop, but his voice had fled. His throat burned from screams already spent. His body, slick with sweat and blood, sagged in Ramsay’s hold, weak as water, but his mind would not slip mercifully into darkness. He was still so dreadfully aware of the ache in his limbs, the pulse of open wounds, the sharp scent of cauterised flesh, and the steady heartbeat against him that was not his own.

Ramsay hummed softly, a sound of satisfaction rather than comfort. “Come on, pet,” he said at last, his hand gliding along Reek’s back in a parody of gentleness. “Let’s get you settled back in your cell.” His tone was almost soothing, a lullaby layered in cruelty.

He stood with an easy strength, gathering Reek’s limp form as though he weighed nothing at all. The movement jostled Reek’s mangled feet, sending new threads of pain unfurling through his body like fire. A faint, broken whimper escaped him, though he tried to bite it back. Ramsay smiled at the sound. He always smiled at the sound.

Over his shoulder, Reek hung in silence, head lolling, vision blurred by tears that no longer fell. The chamber smelled of iron and ash, the floor marked with the quiet evidence of his suffering. The fire crackled behind them, still burning bright and cruel, as Ramsay carried him down the winding stair, a master cradling his creation, a god bearing the weight of his own handiwork.

Reek did not struggle. He could not. He simply lay there, breathing in the scent of Ramsay’s skin and letting himself be borne away, too hollow even to hope for sleep. The cold stone walls of the keep loomed around them, close and endless, and in that heavy silence, only the sound of Ramsay’s measured footsteps remained, steady, unhurried, echoing softly like a heartbeat that would never cease.

Ramsay dropped Reek unceremoniously onto the damp straw, the soft rustle of it breaking the stillness of the cell. The impact jarred through him, making what was left of his strength scatter like dust. The air was heavy with the stench of rot, blood, and wet stone, a scent that clung to everything within these walls. He lay there for a moment, half-curled and gasping, his cheek pressed to the cold ground where moisture pooled beneath the straw. The faint, sour scent of decay mingled with the animal musk of his own sweat, thick enough to taste.

Ramsay moved beside him in silence, his boots crunching against the straw. He knelt, the movement graceful, almost tender, and reached for the faded red laces of Reek’s dress. His fingers worked slowly, deliberately, as though undoing a gift. The knot gave way, the garment slipping loose from Reek’s shoulders. The fabric, once soft and perhaps even lovely, slid down his body in a whisper of threadbare silk and filth before Ramsay pulled it aside entirely.

The pink fabric landed in a heap, a dull, lifeless colour under the torchlight, and Reek was left in what Ramsay preferred: the thin, clinging underthings that were as much humiliation as clothing. The shift, once white, had become a map of stains — a mottled patchwork of sweat, dirt, and rot, clinging to his body in all the wrong places. The air was cold against his skin, against the bruises that had yet to fade and the fresh wounds that still wept. Beneath the shift, the delicate smallclothes were a paler ruin still, their lace edges yellowed and stiff, ruined and piss-stained. Once, they might have been fine, soft things meant for a lady’s drawer. Now they were a cruel adornment, the final mockery.

Ramsay’s hand descended then, slow and steady, tracing up the back of Reek’s bare thigh. His touch was warm, deceptively so, the kind of warmth that made the skin flinch and the breath hitch. His thumb moved idly, pressing just enough to leave a mark, then sliding upward again. “Has the pain made you dizzy, pet?” he murmured, his tone almost curious, like a man studying the effects of his handiwork.

Reek tried to answer, his voice a broken rasp in his throat. His head swam; the edges of the room tilted and spun. He could feel his pulse in every wound, a dull, rhythmic throb that blurred the line between heartbeat and agony. He managed a small nod, though even that was trembling and uncertain, his body too weak to obey.

A soft, pitiful sound escaped him, half a whimper, half a sigh, as he sank further into the straw. The dampness seeped into his shift, clinging to his skin, and the cold seemed to settle into his bones. Ramsay’s hand didn’t move away. It lingered, tracing slow, meaningless shapes against his skin as if to remind him who he belonged to, as if to claim what the pain hadn’t already taken.

The faint clink of Ramsay’s belt and the soft rustle of his breeches unbuckling rang sharply through the quiet of the cell, like a shard of ice slicing through Reek’s ears. His body tensed instinctively, every nerve screaming, bracing for the inevitable. The straw beneath him felt coarse and damp against his skin, grounding him in the present, though the ache of pain and exhaustion blurred all sense of time and space.

Ramsay’s hands were there before he could even lift his head, pushing the thin, soiled shift upward until it bunched around his torso. His delicate, ruined small clothes were swept aside with a force that left Reek shivering, his well-used arsehole exposed. The cold air of the cell kissed his skin, and he shivered again, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Ramsay hastily pushed his cock into Reek, without care for comfort. Ramsay’s thrusts were rough and practised, each one deliberate, driven by a rhythm that left no room for escape or hesitation. Reek’s hoarse moans tumbled from him, guttural, ragged, a mixture of fear, pain, and something more complex, twisted, and confusing.

His mangled hands scraped at the straw, claws of desperation seeking anything to anchor himself to, but the rough fibres gave nothing. Each movement only left him more aware of the cold, hard truth of his helplessness. The scent of sweat and iron was thick in the air, mingling with the faint tang of blood from his fresh wounds, and it pressed into him like a second skin.

“Shh… pet, shh…” Ramsay grunted, his own breath uneven and heavy, lips brushing against Reek’s ear. His voice was a mixture of command and satisfaction, coaxing and demanding, making every nerve in Reek’s body ignite. “Use your words. Say you love me.”

Reek’s back arched instinctively, the motion sharp and trembling, pressing himself toward the force of Ramsay’s raping thrusts. His throat tightened, voice ragged and small, as he whispered and then cried out, words spilling from him like water forced from a cracked vessel. “Love you, milord… Love you…” His voice was weak, fractured by exhaustion and lingering agony, but it carried the obedience Ramsay demanded, the confession of ownership that his master craved.

Ramsay’s movements became frantic, every thrust sharp and urgent, driven by the pitiful, breathy declarations spilling from Reek’s lips. Each whispered, broken phrase — “yes… yes… You love me…” — fanned the cruel rhythm of Ramsay’s pleasure. His grunts and low moans filled the cell, mingling with Reek’s ragged gasps and tremulous whimpers, creating a soundscape of possession and submission that pressed against the stone walls. Reek’s body quivered beneath him, wracked with exhaustion, pain, and the raw, dizzying intensity of being utterly claimed.

And then came the next, horrifyingly intimate movement, one that stole what little comprehension Reek had left. Ramsay’s fingers curled tightly into the brittle, damp strands of his hair, jerking his head upward. His nails scraped lightly along the scalp, tugging with deliberate force, and Reek’s skull snapped back against his will. Ramsay pressed forward without hesitation, shoving the three frostbitten, severed toes, blackened, brittle remnants of flesh and bone, into Reek’s trembling mouth. The smell of rot and iron was thick and immediate, and it mingled with the coppery tang of his own blood. His body quivered, hips twitching uselessly beneath the weight of Ramsay, and a choked, involuntary moan escaped as he gagged and coughed, unable to comprehend the depth of what he was being made to do.

“Chew, pet… swallow,” Ramsay grunted, his voice low and rough, vibrating against the hollow of Reek’s skull. The grip on his hip was bruising, unrelenting, anchoring him in place, leaving no room for defiance or retreat. Reek’s mangled hands scrabbled against the straw beneath him, but the movement did nothing to free him. The taste was sickly, vile, the flesh soft in places and brittle in others, nails grinding harshly against his teeth. He tried to spit, to reject it, but Ramsay’s hand clamped over his jaw with precision, a predator ensuring compliance.

Trembling, gagging, and nauseated, Reek chewed as best he could, tears streaking down his dirt- and blood-stained face. Every swallow was a torment, a moment suspended between instinct and obedience, and yet there was no escape. The sensation burned into him, foul, intimate, and inescapable.

Ramsay exhaled deeply, a low sigh of satisfaction, and pressed even harder against him, forcing him to take it all. “Oh, you’re such a good dog,” he murmured, his voice a mix of praise and possession, and fucked him more roughly, with increased fervour, raping the small, broken body beneath him in perfect, cruel rhythm. Reek’s moans, choked and raw, mingled with Ramsay’s grunts. Each thrust left him more hollow, more dependent, more painfully, unbearably alive to every brutal touch.

Ramsay’s brutal pace drove a relentless churn through Reek’s stomach, each movement a hammer against his fragile, battered body. The taste of iron, rot, and bile still clung to his tongue, mingling with the fresh, sickly sweetness of vomit that had already threatened his throat. He struggled to keep the severed toes down, to push back the nausea clawing its way up, but the effort was futile. His chest heaved, and a jagged, hollow gag tore through him, the bile rising and spilling hot and acidic over his tongue, over his mangled teeth, over the trembling small clothes that still clung to his ruined body.

Ramsay groaned, deep and triumphant, as his own release poured into him, a final, possessive claim. The moment he withdrew, Reek could no longer hold the tension coiled inside him. He retched violently, the contents of his stomach splattering across the damp straw, soaking the shift and clinging to his skin in slimy, bitter layers. His back arched convulsively, limbs quivering, as waves of nausea and exhaustion washed over him, leaving him limp and gasping.

Ramsay laughed then, low, cruel, and mocking, the sound echoing in the cold stone cell. The amusement in his voice cut deeper than any blow. “Get dressed, pet. You wouldn’t want to get cold again,” he said, his tone playful, almost tender, as he adjusted his breeches and straightened himself. The grin on his face was sharp, predatory, and he left Reek where he was, gasping and choking on the remnants of his own torment, shivering in the puddle of his disgrace and bile.