#ramsay snow

You had been on your knees for what felt like hours, the bitter Northern frost seeping into the torn patches of your dirt caked skirts. Your kneecaps felt brittle, like glass on the verge of shattering against the unforgiving rock. Behind your back, the coarse rope was biting tightly, chewing into the flesh of your wrists until they were raw and slick with dried crimson.

You had fought. Gods, how you fought. Every league of the agonizing march from the Twins to this cursed keep had been a battle. You had bitten fingers, kicked shins, spit into the faces of Roose Bolton's men, and screamed until your throat was shredded, burning when you just tried to take an innocent breath. You hadn't survived because you were clever, or because you had hidden beneath the banquet tables while your twin brother Robb was butchered, his young wife slaughtered, and your mother's throat cut to the bone.

You had survived because Roose Bolton looked down at you through his pale, ghostly eyes and seen a prize. A living trophy. A gift for my bastard, the Lord had murmured, his voice horrifyingly calm over the screams of your mother. A Stark to tame. A punishment for the treason of her blood.

Now, you were here. The walls of Dreadfort were dark, smelling of stale ale and a copper tang that haunted you every time you managed to fall asleep, just to wake up and be right back where you had nightmares about.

Heavy, uneven footsteps echoed against the stone.

"Get down on your face, Stark," growled Skinner, the brutish Bolton soldier who had dragged you by your hair through the courtyard. He kicked the back of your thigh, forcing you lower, though you kept your chin up defiantly, your eyes burning with a desperate hatred.

From the shadows near the hearth, a figure emerged. Ramsay Bolton.

You knew the rumors. Every soul in the North knew what the Bastard of Bolton did to women, what he did to his prisoners. You braced yourself, your heart hammering in a frantic panic against your ribs. You expected his flaying knife, or to be dragged to the kennels to be ripped apart by his hounds. You tightened your jaw, vowing not to give him the satisfaction of hearing you cry.

But Ramsay wasn't carrying his knife. He stopped a few paces away from you, tilting his head.

His eyes were the first thing you noticed - the exact same pale eyes as his father, but filled with a manic sort of light that Roose lacked. He was handsome in a deceptive way, maybe if you didn't know any better, you'd probably fall for him like your sweet sister did Joffrey. His hair was dark, looked like he cut it himself, even if you highly doubted this man did anything himself when he had several servants to torture into doing it for him. He stared down at you, his gaze raking over your bruised face, your matted hair, and the furious set of your shoulders.

The silence stretched for a long minute, broken only by the crackle of a dying fire. Ramsay simply watched you, a slow and sick smile creeping onto his face. It wasn't a smile of victory; more like a boy who had just been handed a new toy and was wondering how long it would be until it would break.

"So," Ramsay finally spoke, his voice surprisingly soft, almost playful, "this is the King of the North's sister. The little she-wolf."

He took a step closer, the heels of his boots clicking loudly, making your ears ring. You didn't flinch, even as your instincts screamed at you to recoil. You glared up at him, swallowing the lump in your throat as it burned.

"She's a wild one," Skinner spat, tightening his grip on the rope binding your wrists, "fought the whole way. Bit off half of Walton's thumb. We had to keep her bound tight."

Ramsay didn't look at Skinner. His pale eyes remained lock on yours, charting the defiance that burned in your stare. He knelt down, bringing his face level with yours. The scent of sour wine and sweat wafted from him, making your nose scrunch in disgust. He reached out a hand, his fingers deceptively gentle as he brushed away a stray, blood slicked lock of hair from your forehead.

You bared your teeth and snapped at his hand, your jaw closing on empty air as he pulled his fingers back just in time, letting out a loud bark of laughter.

"Oh, she has teeth. Father didn't lie," Ramsay chuckled, rising back to his full height. He looked at Skinner, his expression immediately shifting from amusement to cold authority, "cut her hands free."

Skinner blinked, startled, "she'll fly at you. She's dangerous-"

"I said," Ramsay repeated, his voice dropping to a quiet, lethal tone, "cut her free."

With a trembling hand, Skinner drew his dagger and sliced through the ropes. The moment the tension in your wrists gave away, a violent spike of pain shot up your arms as blood rushed back into your restricted veins. You gasped, collapsing forward slightly, catching yourself on your hands. Your raw, bleeding wrists scraped against the cold stone, but you welcomed it, it was proof that you were still alive.

You massaged your wrists, glare still fixed on the Bastard standing over you.

"You think I won't try to kill you?" You rasped, your voice cracking from dehydration and days of screaming, "the moment I have a blade, Bastard, I will carve your heart out for what your family did to mine."

Ramsay didn't get angry. He only smiled wider, stepping back and spreading his arms wide, inviting the threat.

"With what blade? You have nothing," he taunted softly, walking a slow circle that motioned to the room around you, the cold Dreadfort walls, your new home, your new prison, "you won't be running away, my Lady. Where would you go? Your brother is dead. Your mother is dead. Your home is a blackened ruin. There is no one left to save you. You belong to Dreadfort now. You belong to me."

The blood rushing back into your hands felt like a hundred piercing needles into your flesh, but the fire burning of your hatred of him was hotter than the pain. You stared at Ramsay's mocking smile. You saw the arrogance in the way he stood, chest open, arms loosely at his sides, entirely convinced of your submission.

He thought you were broken because your house had fallen. He thought you would cower like a beaten dog because you were alone.

But you were a Stark. You were Robb's twin. The same blood that commanded armies ran through your veins, and if the gods, old and new, decreed that your story was to end in the dark, blood soaked halls of Dreadfort, you would not go quietly. You would not lie down and let this monster peel your skin piece by piece. If you were going to die, you would die with his blood beneath your fingernails.

With a ragged, guttural scream that tore from the depths of your throat, you lunged.

Your frozen knees cracked against the stone as you propelled yourself forward with every ounce of strength left in your battered body. You aimed straight for his throat, your raw, bloodied fingers hooking into claws, aiming to tear out his windpipe, to gouge his pale, watery eyes, to do any amount of damage you could manage before you would be killed.

For a fraction of a second, you thought yourself successful.

But Ramsay was not a slow man. The moment your weight shifted, his eyes widened with a sickening flash of ecstasy. He didn't flinch. With lightning fast movements, he sidestepped your clumsy, desperate trajectory. His hand shot out like a striking viper, wrapping around your forearm with a grip of iron.

Before you could register the miss, Ramsay used your own momentum against you. He twisted your arm violently behind your back and slammed his other hand into the nape of your neck, pinning you firmly against his chest.

Your front was pressed hard against his leather doublet. The breath exploded from your lungs with a sharp gasp. You thrashed desperately, kicking blindly, trying to drive your heels into his shins, but he easily moved his legs out of reach, absorbing the struggles with an eerie calmness. He was deceptively strong, his muscles dense and rigid as stone.

You expected to be punished. You braced for the sharp crack of your arm breaking, or the cold bite of a dagger slipping between your ribs.

But it didn't come.

Ramsay didn't squeeze hard enough to break it. Instead, he held you tightly, trapping your flailing limbs against his own body in a perverse, suffocating embrace. He leaned his head down, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. You could feel his wet, heavy breath hot against your skin, sending a violent shiver of revulsion down your spine. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of your sweat, the dirt, and dried blood.

"Oh, look at you," Ramsay whispered in your ear. He sounded utterly enchanted, panting slightly from the brief exertion, "so fierce. So angry. Like a little wolf trapped in a snare, snapping at the hunter. It's adorable."

"Let go of me, you Bastard!" You choked out, your cheek pressed hard against the leather of his shoulder as you tried to wrench yourself free, "kill me! Just do it, you coward!"

"Kill you?" Ramsay chuckled, the sound making your stomach twist, "why would I kill my beautiful new toy? We're going to have so much fun together."

Skinner stepped forward, his eyes shifting from you to Ramsay, an eager smirk on his ugly face. He rubbed his hands together, clearly anticipating a show.

"Should I drag her down to the kennels?" Skinner asked, his voice dripping with malice, "I could put her in one of the cages for the night? Let the bitches give her a proper Dreadfort welcome? The hounds can keep her up all night with their howling and growling, teach her some manners before morning."

You stiffened in Ramsay's grip, your heart hammering. The kennels. You knew what happened to women in those dark, filthy cages.

Ramsay's grip on you tightened for a brief second, his fingers digging into your hip before he slowly shook his head. "No," Ramsay said, "not the kennels. Take her to Skinner's chambers."

Skinner froze, his smirk instantly vanishing, replaced by a look of sheer shock. He blinked, staring at Ramsay as if he had misheard, "Skinner's...my chambers? But those are my quarters. I've served your father for ten years. I've earned my right to my own room. I'm one of your best men!"

Ramsay didn't answer right away. Slowly he let go of you, but it wasn't gentle. He gave you a sharp, disdainful shove forward. Your weak, exhausted legs failed you entirely, letting you crash to the cold stone floor, scraping your palms and knees once more. You rolled onto your side, panting, clutching your bruised arm, but craned your neck to look up at the two men.

Ramsay turned his full attention to Skinner. The playful, amused boy was gone. In his place stood a monster, pale eyes narrowing into slivers of ice, his face twisting into a cold mask of menacing authority. He walked slowly towards Skinner, his footsteps heavy.

"You think you have rights here, Skinner?" Ramsay asked, his voice dangerously soft.

Skinner swallowed hard, taking half a step back, his bravado entirely gone now under Ramsay's gaze, "I- no, I only meant-"

"You dare question my orders?" Ramsay interrupted, stepping directly into Skinner's personal space. He was shorter than the brutish soldier, but he loomed over him with a terrifying presence. Ramsay tapped a finger sharply against Skinner's chest, right over his heart, "I told you to take her to Skinner's chambers because those chambers are no longer yours. They are hers now. She now belongs to me and I take care of what belongs to me, she will not sleep in the dirt like a peasant, and she certainly won't sleep with the hounds until I decide she belongs there."

Ramsay leaned in close, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.

"You lost your right to that room the moment you opened your mouth to argue with me. You will pack your pathetic belongings and you will sleep in the barracks with the rest of your kind. If I hear another word of complaint from you Skinner, I will take your title, your family and then I will take the skin right off your back. Do you understand me?"

Skinner's face went entirely pale, all colour draining from his lips. He nodded frantically, his hands trembling slightly, "yes. Forgive me, Lord Ramsay, I understand."

"Good," Ramsay said, his terrifying smile returning to his face as if the threat never happened. He turned back to where you laid on the floor, his eyes scanning over your battered form with a tilt of his head.

He looked down at where you laid in the grime, his nose wrinkling in a display of exaggerated distaste. He let out a mocking scoff.

"Look at you," Ramsay said, clicking his tongue against the roof of his tongue as if he were looking at a prized hound that had rolled in the muck, "the floor is filthy, and now you're covered in soot and grease. It simply won't do. A lady of your high birth shouldn't look like a common sewer rat. You need a bath."

The sheer normalcy of his words, contrasted against the brutality his father had shown your family, made a violent wave of nausea roll through your stomach. It was a sick game to him, everything was.

You pushed yourself up onto one elbow, your raw wrists burning, and sneered up at him.

"You will not touch me," you spat, your voice still raspy but fierce, dripping with all the venom you could muster, "I am a Stark of Winterfell. I will not let you bathe me like some common whore you dragged in from the brothels. If you want me clean, you'll have to hold me down and drown me in the water yourself, you bastard."

For a split second, Skinner stiffened, likely expecting Ramsay to strike you across the face. Instead, Ramsay's head rolled back in a loud, boisterous laugh that erupted from his chest. He found your defiance utterly hilarious.

"Now you're being just dramatic," Ramsay laughed, wiping a mock tear from the corner of his pale eye as he shook his head. He looked down at you with a wide grin, "do you truly think so highly of yourself, or so poorly of me? I have no desire to scrub the dirt from between your toes, little wolf. We have servants for that. Miserable, quiet little things who know exactly what happens to them if they disappoint me."

His laughter died away, replaced by a chilling stillness as he leaned down just an inch closer to you.

"You will be washed, you will be dressed, and you will look like a lady of a former Great House," he murmured, his voice dropping to a soft purr that carried venom in it, "because when I look at you, I want to see exactly what my father took from House Stark. I want to see the nobility you think protects you, so I can watch it disappear piece by piece."

Ramsay straightened back up, his casual demeanor returning effortlessly. He didn't offer you a hand, nor did he look back down at you as you remained on the floor. Instead, he turned his gaze towards Skinner, who still stood there as rigid as a corpse, his face pale and anxious.

The warmth completely vanished from Ramsay's face as he looked at the soldier.

"What are you still standing there for, Skinner?" Ramsay asked, his voice flat, devoid of any humor he had just shared with you, "did the frost freeze your ears shut? I told you that your room belongs to the Stark girl now."

Skinner swallowed hard, his large Adam's apple bobbing nervously as he took a step backwards, "Ramsay, I-"

"Go," Ramsay interrupted, his tone sharp and slicing through the air like a razor, "go to your room and pack your pathetic bags. Gather every rag, every boot, and every scrap of food you've hidden away. If I find so much as a single stray hair of yours left in that room when she enters it, I will have my hounds feast on each of your fingers. Move."

Skinner didn't need to be told a third time. With a frantic, clumsy bow, the large soldier turned on his heel and ran, his heavy boots clattering desperately against the stone until the sound died in the dark, long corridor.

Left alone in the cavernous room with the monster who now owned your life, you forced yourself to stand. Your knees trembled violently, nearly giving out beneath your weight, but you forced your spine to straighten. You would face whatever came next on your feet.

Ramsay watched you struggle with an appreciative glint in his eyes, a sick smile on his face.

"See," he whispered softly, stepping closer but not touching you, "we are going to get along just fine."

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