#ramsay x reader

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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Taglist: @vigilante24ish , @yuhhh03 , @lovexbunny

The wind bites like a blade against your skin as you urge your horse forward through the frost-covered woods. The North is yours—truly yours—and it will not bend to those who wear the flayed man. For days now, you’ve disrupted their efforts to snuff out resistance. Small raids, ambushes, stolen supplies—enough to keep the Bolton forces on edge and struggling to bring stability to a North that hates them.

And they should hate them. Your father’s face comes to mind: the steady grey eyes, the quiet honor in his voice. You cling to that image. To his memory. You are your father’s daughter, after all. A Stark of Winterfell.

But you miscalculated tonight. You see it now.

The flames of the Bolton camp lick angrily at the sky, their outline growing distant as you flee. You’d struck quick, torching their stores, and your band had been triumphant—until they weren’t. Until the Bastard of Bolton’s men came roaring through the woods, too swift, too many.

You glance over your shoulder. The forest is thick, snow falling heavily, but you hear the sounds of pursuit: pounding hooves, snapping branches.

“They’re close,” your man, Aedric, growls from beside you. He’s always been steady—stalwart like the pines you ride through. He’s your shield and sword in these dark days, sworn to follow you wherever you go. “Ride hard, my lady.”

My lady.

You hate that. You don’t feel like a lady. Not anymore.

Before you can answer, an arrow whistles past your face, close enough to graze your cheek. It cuts a cold line into your skin. Your horse rears in fright, and you nearly lose your hold. Aedric curses and wheels his mount.

“They have archers!” you hiss, your heart hammering like thunder.

And then you see him—emerging from the trees like a shadow—Ramsay Snow. Or Ramsay Bolton now, you suppose. He sits atop a dark horse, a twisted smirk curled on his lips. He is smaller than you expected beneath his furs, but there’s something hungry in his eyes that makes your stomach turn.

“Run, Stark,” he calls mockingly, his voice carrying clear over the din of the chase. “It’ll make this so much more fun.”

Aedric spurs his horse toward Ramsay, blade in hand. “Go!” he shouts back at you.

“No!” you cry, knowing his intent too late.

He charges, but Ramsay’s men surge forward first, surrounding him. You turn your mount, heart sinking. You see Aedric swing, cleaving one of them from the saddle—but there are too many.

Ramsay watches the slaughter with cold amusement as his men pull Aedric from his horse. You scream as you hear the dull thud of a blow landing, followed by Aedric’s yell—one of defiance and agony.

“Aedric!” your voice cracks.

You urge your horse forward, but something whistles again—a rope—snagging tight around your torso. You’re yanked from the saddle, hitting the ground hard. The air rushes from your lungs. You scramble to rise, but rough hands grab you, hauling you to your knees. Your vision swims.

When you lift your head, it’s just in time to see the final blow. Ramsay steps down from his horse, blade in hand, and approaches Aedric’s broken form.

“You tried so hard, didn’t you?” Ramsay muses softly, crouching beside him. “Loyal dog. Just like a good little wolf.”

Aedric spits blood at his boots. “You’ll die,” he rasps. “Your house will fall, bastard.”

Ramsay grins, eyes alight. “You’ve mistaken me for someone who cares.”

And with one quick motion, he plunges his dagger into Aedric’s throat.

You scream, thrashing in the grip of the soldiers holding you. You don’t stop until they’re forced to strike you hard across the face to silence you.

Ramsay stands and turns to you then, his smirk widening. Blood speckles his gloves and drips slowly from the blade in his hand. He walks toward you with deliberate ease, as if savoring the moment.

“Stubborn little wolf,” he purrs, crouching before you. His gloved fingers grasp your chin, forcing your face upward so he can look into your eyes. “I’ve been hunting you for days. Did you think your little games would last forever?”

“Get your hands off me,” you snarl, glaring defiantly.

Ramsay’s grip tightens. His eyes gleam with something dangerous. “Oh, you’ll learn manners soon enough.” He releases your face with a shove, and you almost fall backward.

“You killed him,” you whisper, choking on the words. “Aedric…”

“Was a bore,” Ramsay interjects dismissively, rising to his feet. “But you? You’re far more interesting. A Stark—running about like a common thief, setting fire to my men’s food. Adorable, really.”

“I’ll see you dead for this,” you hiss through clenched teeth.

Ramsay tilts his head, amusement flickering across his face. “How fierce you are. I wonder—” He steps closer, looming over you. “—how long will that fire last once I take you to Dreadfort?”

You freeze. The words hit you harder than a blow.

“You’ll find the North won’t kneel to your kind,” you spit, trying to hide the fear that gnaws at you.

Ramsay chuckles. “Your kind. My dear—your kind belongs to me now. Everything you are will belong to me.”

He snaps his fingers, and the soldiers wrench you to your feet. Your arms are bound behind your back. You struggle as they tie a length of rope to your wrists, securing you to a horse. Ramsay mounts his own steed, looking down at you with mock pity.

“Careful, little wolf,” he calls as the men tug you forward, forcing you to walk as they ride. “If you stumble, I won’t stop to wait.”

You bite your lip until it bleeds. You do not cry. You will not give him that.

Instead, you look ahead to the dark horizon, to Winterfell—your home—now corrupted. You’ll endure. You must. The North remembers, and you will make Ramsay Bolton regret ever crossing paths with you.

For your father.

For Aedric.

For every soul he’s ever harmed.

And for yourself.

The journey to the Dreadfort is long and bitter, the icy winds gnawing through your torn furs as if eager to flay you themselves. Your wrists ache from the ropes, chafed raw beneath the iron grip of the Bolton soldiers. Snow crunches beneath your boots with each forced step, and every mile feels heavier as the Bastard of Bolton rides ahead, watching you like a hawk watches its prey.

Ramsay Bolton.

You don’t look at him. You won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, your thoughts turn inward, to her—your direwolf. Somewhere out in the snow-covered woods, your loyal companion roams free. You picture her as she was the last time you saw her: a blur of grey and white, her eyes bright with feral intelligence. She was your shadow, your fiercest protector.

“Your wolf’s out there, isn’t she?” Ramsay’s voice cuts through the silence like a jagged blade.

You don’t answer, keeping your gaze fixed on the snow-covered road ahead.

Ramsay makes a low sound of mock disappointment. “So stubborn. It’s almost admirable.” He pulls his horse closer to you, the beast’s breath misting in the cold air as he looks down at you with a lazy smirk. “We’ve been hearing stories, you know. Wolves attacking my men. Tents torn apart. Horses spooked and left bleeding in the snow. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

Still, you say nothing.

He tilts his head, his voice softening to a poisonous whisper. “Tell me, little wolf—what’s her name? Hmm? Does she listen when you call her? Or do you keep her like a secret, just for yourself?”

“She’s smarter than you,” you finally bite out, unable to hold your tongue any longer.

Ramsay’s smile widens. He seems delighted by your defiance. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. Smarter than most of my men, too, it seems. But clever beasts can still be caught. And when I catch her…” He pauses for effect, watching your face carefully. “…I think I’ll make her howl for you before I flay her.”

Your blood goes cold. You snap your head up to glare at him, teeth bared. “Touch her and I’ll tear your throat out.”

Ramsay bursts into laughter, the sound sharp and cruel. “There’s the fire! You remind me of a cornered fox. Snapping and snarling, even when the hounds have you.” He leans closer, the reins held loosely in his hands. “But what will you do when the hounds close in, Stark? When they drag her down? Because they will.”

You keep your gaze steady, refusing to flinch. “She won’t be caught.”

“She will.” His tone is confident, mocking. “They always are. They’re predictable that way, animals. And when I catch her, I’ll make a cloak of her pelt. Maybe I’ll wear it when I take you to Winterfell.”

“You’ll wear your own skin before you wear hers.”

Ramsay’s amusement falters just slightly, his lips twitching as if he wants to sneer. He doesn’t. Instead, his expression smooths over into something calmer. Colder. More dangerous.

“You know,” he says softly, “my hounds don’t eat wolves. Too much fight in them.” His pale blue eyes lock with yours, unblinking. “But I wonder… would she eat you?”

You want to lunge for him, to strike him, to wipe that smug smile from his face. But the ropes dig into your wrists, and the soldiers pull you roughly forward again, forcing you to stumble.

Hours pass before the distant silhouette of the Dreadfort rises from the gloom. Its tall walls loom like dark shadows against the bleak sky. The sigil of House Bolton—the flayed man—flutters high above the gates, crimson against white. You force yourself not to look at it. The dread creeps into your chest anyway.

Ramsay dismounts as the gates creak open, his furs and leathers immaculate despite the journey. He moves with unsettling energy, gesturing for his men to drag you forward. You stumble as they push you through the muddy courtyard. The smell here is sharp and rancid—blood, rot, and smoke. You hear the muffled cries of prisoners carried on the wind, punctuated by the howling of hounds.

Lord Roose Bolton awaits you on the steps.

His face is pale and expressionless, as though carved from stone. The Lord of the Dreadfort regards you with his colorless eyes, unreadable in their scrutiny.

“Father,” Ramsay calls as he strides forward, gesturing toward you as if presenting a gift. “The last of the Starks. And quite a troublesome one at that.”

Roose’s gaze shifts to you, slow and deliberate. He says nothing at first, his face betraying no emotion. “You’ve been causing my men problems,” he finally states, his voice quiet, even.

“You’re not my lord,” you say defiantly, meeting his gaze. “And you took land that is not yours to have.”

Roose’s lips twitch faintly—a ghost of a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “That much is clear.” He turns to Ramsay. “Where did you find her?”

“Burning supplies,” Ramsay answers with a grin. “Her and a loyal little knight. He was less amusing. I dealt with him.”

Roose gives his son a sharp glance. “Careless. You should have taken him alive. The North won’t be won with Stark blood alone.”

Ramsay’s smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes flicker with something… dark. He doesn’t answer, instead turning back to you. “The direwolf is still out there,” he offers. “Her pet. Roaming free, tearing at our men.”

Roose raises an eyebrow, his gaze sharpening on you. “Is this true?”

You press your lips together, saying nothing.

Roose studies you for a long moment before looking at his son. “You will keep her alive. For now.”

Ramsay’s face falls just slightly. “And what of her wolf?”

Roose steps closer to you, his expression cold and calculating. “The wolf will be hunted. And when it is found, it will die.”

You don’t let your face betray you. You keep your chin high, though your stomach twists into knots.

She’ll escape. She must.

Ramsay watches your silence with growing amusement. As the soldiers drag you toward the keep, he calls after you, his voice laced with dark delight.

“She’ll howl for you soon, Stark. I can’t wait to see if you howl back.”

The hall of the Dreadfort is as cold as the stone that forms its walls. Candles flicker weakly against the oppressive dark, their flames struggling to push back the shadows clinging to every corner. There’s no warmth here, no comfort. Only the sharp smell of roasted meat and the heavy silence that hangs between the occupants of the long dining table.

You sit at one end, your wrists finally free of bindings, but the freedom means little. You’re surrounded. Ramsay sits directly across from you, his sharp grin flashing whenever your eyes happen to meet his. Beside him is Reek—Theon Greyjoy as you once knew him, though this version of him is no more than a shell of the boy who grew up with you in Winterfell.

You don’t know what’s worse: the way he refuses to meet your gaze or the way part of you still hates him for his betrayal.

At the head of the table sits Lord Roose Bolton, stoic and calm, his eyes pale and unreadable. To his right, Lady Walda picks at her food. She is rotund and pink-cheeked, her smile small but earnest, as if she doesn’t understand the wolves that surround her. Or perhaps she simply doesn’t care.

The scrape of a knife against a plate grates at your ears. Ramsay smirks as he slices into his meat, holding the bite aloft on his fork.

“You’re eating so little, my lady,” he drawls, his voice sweet and taunting. “Surely you must be hungry after a week in our fine hospitality.”

You don’t answer, your gaze fixed on your untouched plate. The food smells fine enough—roasted venison, bread, and boiled greens—but you can’t bring yourself to lift a finger. The air itself seems poisoned, and each bite feels like it might choke you.

Ramsay laughs under his breath. “Such manners. Would you rather I feed you myself?”

“Enough,” Roose says softly. The word is barely louder than the crackle of the hearth, but Ramsay straightens immediately, though the grin doesn’t leave his face.

Roose sets his fork down with deliberate care, turning his pale gaze toward you. “You’ve caused much disruption since the war, Lady Stark,” he begins, his voice smooth and low, betraying nothing. “But you are a daughter of Winterfell. That gives you… value.”

You stiffen at his words, fingers curling tightly in your lap. “I’m of no value to you.”

Roose ignores your defiance. “My bannermen require stability. With the North in chaos, alliances must be secured. My initial plan was for Ramsay to wed Sansa Stark, but I see now that would not be wise.”

Your breath stills. You feel Ramsay’s eyes burning into you even before Roose says the words that steal the air from your lungs.

“You will marry Ramsay.”

The words echo in your ears like a death knell. You stare at Roose, disbelief and fury flooding your chest. For a long, painful moment, all you can hear is the low hum of the fire and the clink of Lady Walda’s fork as she awkwardly sets it down.

“No,” you say, your voice shaking. “I’ll never—”

“You will,” Roose interrupts coolly, his gaze sharpening. “A Stark under this roof lends legitimacy to my rule. Your presence will quell some resistance. For the good of the North, this is how it must be.”

You lurch to your feet, the chair scraping against the stone floor, but Ramsay is quicker. He stands, slamming his palm against the table, his laughter sharp and grating.

“Did you hear that, Father?” he mocks. “She refuses me. How rude.”

“I will never marry him,” you say again, louder this time. Your voice shakes, but you force steel into it. “You can kill me first.”

Ramsay’s grin widens as he rounds the table, approaching you. “Oh, come now, little wolf. You’d be such a pretty bride. Don’t you want to wear white? Isn’t that the Stark way?” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ll even let you choose the color of the cloak for the bedding ceremony.”

Before you can answer—or strike him—Roose speaks again, cutting through the moment like a blade.

“Sit down.”

His voice is cold and calm, but it carries an unspoken threat. Slowly, you sink back into your seat, though your heart hammers violently in your chest. Ramsay lingers by your side for a moment longer, letting the weight of his presence suffocate you, before retreating with a smirk.

“This is for the good of the North,” Roose says again, his tone measured. “You may not see it now, but in time—”

“You think the North will accept this?” you cut in, glaring at him. “You think they’ll kneel to the flayed man because I’m paraded as your son’s bride? You don’t understand the North at all.”

Roose raises a pale brow, his expression unreadable. “The North remembers, yes. But memory fades when bellies go empty and fields are burned. Stability is survival. You are a means to that end.”

You feel the weight of Ramsay’s gaze on you again, watching your every breath, every flinch. You refuse to look at him. Instead, your eyes land on Reek, slouched in his seat at Ramsay’s side. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He stares at the table, thin and ragged, as if his very presence is an apology.

Your chest burns as you look at him—Theon Greyjoy. The boy you trusted, the boy who betrayed your family, who took your home and destroyed everything you loved. Hatred bubbles up like bile in your throat, but beneath it is something else: pity.

He feels your gaze, because he shifts slightly, his hands trembling where they rest on his lap. He doesn’t meet your eyes. He won’t.

“You can’t even look at me, can you?” you say softly, the words escaping before you can stop them.

Ramsay’s head snaps toward Reek, his grin widening as though your words have given him fresh amusement. “Look at her,” he orders, his tone mocking and sharp.

Theon flinches, his sunken eyes darting up to you briefly, hollow and ashamed. Then his gaze drops again, staring at the empty plate in front of him like a whipped dog.

“Good boy,” Ramsay croons, clapping him hard on the shoulder. Theon shudders at the touch but doesn’t react otherwise.

You turn away, disgust curling in your stomach as Ramsay resumes his seat.

“This is your choice, Lady Stark,” Roose says evenly. “You can resist all you like, but it will change nothing. The wedding will happen.”

You look at Roose Bolton—Lord of the Dreadfort, murderer of your brother, betrayer of the North—and feel a hatred so deep it makes your blood run cold. Then you look at Ramsay, his smirk carved into his pale face, as though he’s already won.

But they haven’t.

Not yet.

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.

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Westeros. The Seven Kingdoms. Place of your birth, as the first child of an important Lord. But these lands were decaying.

Since the battle of the bastards, these lands reeked of blood, corpses and decay. The banner of the flayed man hangs on the walls of Winterfell and in these walls, screams could be heard that could deafen any hope, any happiness any thought that these lands once were safe. The bastard had won not the bastard in name but the bastard in behaviour and now Westeros was in chaos.

Dorne is ruled over by some unimportant Martell, the Reach is under the Tarlys, the Stormlands are ruled over by the Meryns, the Westerlands are controlled by some low life Lannisters and the Iron islands by Euron Greyjoy. The Riverlands were under House Frey and the Vale under the frail boy Robin Arryn. But the Riverlands and the Vale weren't controlled by them they were control by a dark man a man with a name that they barely dared to speak it out loud, a kin slayer, the warden of the north the one who was the winner of the battle of the bastards, the one who ordered to slay all wildlings, Ramsay Bolton. The worst, while Daenerys had come for Westeros and had actually slain the Night King, he had tricked her and when she went crazy he had killed her not out of love or fear for others but to have the Iron Throne for himself so he was now King had everyone to torment and the whole land was flayed. He was the RED KING.

But how had he won that battle? He had heard of the favour of Little Finger of Tully women and his betrothed, so he had him tortured until he told the truth and sent word to the Eyrie who then mistrusted Little Finger and Sansa and never showed up for the battle. Jon Snow and his wildling friends had been slaughtered, Sansa killed herself at the sight of it rather being dead than going back to this monster.

And now he controlled everything the North, the Vale, the Reach, Dorne, the Iron Islands, the Westerlands, the Stormlands, the Crownlands and the Riverlands even if he pretended not to. The North, no Westeros was now a dangerous place to live, and you had to lick the new king’s boots both figuratively and literally to survive.

So, your family had to do the same. Ramsay never cared for the Red Keep and couldn't stand the south, so he reigned bloody from Winterfell. And now that he had finally everything, he craved for a new wife a new toy, because old Reek got boring and the stupid maids were plain. He had ordered portraits of every suitable marriageable lady in the land and chose the one he liked best, you, oh sweet you, you were the lucky one...

When your family had sent you north you didn't understand why your mother, your younger siblings, the servants had cried. You were accompanied by your favourite maid, your best friend since childhood, you both were thick as thieves, but even she seemed to be sad. But no one told you, so when the carriage was on the road you finally mustered up the courage to ask where you two were going.

She looked you finally in the eyes, hers being red rimmed... "To the King..." Then you finally understood this was why your everyone seemed so sad... Your father had sold you like cattle to the worst man alive. You let out a scream of frustration. "Hush, we can still escape we will have to ride through the forest if we say we need a break and are clever enough to get our horses we have a chance we will take a ship to Essos or the west wherever it is safe, but you have to be silent until then." You calmed down, she was right... of course Dora was right, she was always right. So, you wait...

"Guards I need a break." A big, weathered man answers clearly seen worse "You will need to wait until we arrive at Winterfell. Orders from Lord Bolton." "I really need a break." "He sighs. "Five minutes." He grunts. Five minutes, enough time to flee... You went with your best friend a bit in the forest then you split... A few seconds later she screamed drawing attention from the guards while you slipped back, freed all horses and got onto your snow white horse and galloped away, what made the guards ran back you got Dora onto you horse as well and you escaped...

You had ridden for hours the sky was getting darker, but you couldn’t stop not now. "We really should rest..." mumbled Dora. “AND WHAT IF THEY FIND US; IF HE FINDS US!!!” You screamed back angerly. HE WILL KILL YOU FOR THAT, THAT YOU HELPED ME TO ESCAPE!” “We have to rest.” Dora dismounts and makes a small fire to warm themselves, finally you slide down and you start cuddling for heat, falling asleep.

“Shh be silent now…” Dora seems to listen to something far away. “What is it?” you asked but you cannot keep the fear out of your voice. But then you heard it too, hounds, at the start very quiet but then their barks seem to come from every direction. “We have to go.” urges Dora. And at once you both are not tired anymore. Your horse runs faster and faster, maybe even faster than the wind. You find yourself in a situation which you never thought possible, being the prey for someone and this someone is your betrothed.

The wind whips in your face, you urge your horse faster than ever before. But then something cracks. Your horse. It neighs loud and collapses and everything goes black…

When you finally wake up you are in a big warm bed covered in furs and blankets. You cuddle back in thinking it was all a bad dream, but then a quiet chuckle can be heard. One that does not belong to your one of your sisters or brothers, to your father or mother, a servant or any living soul you know at home. That sound makes you blood freeze to ice in your veins and your heart runs like your horse did. How much time had passed? Where are you? And most importantly who was there?

You look at him a handsome man dressed like a lord, no, like a king and then you know it this is him, your betrothed, King Ramsay Bolton First of His Name, the Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell and the Dreadfort, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm or rather the very threat to it. Dark ebony coloured untidy curls contrasting perfectly with pale skin, nearly as pale as snow. His whole colour scheme was the palette of winter contrasting perfectly with the sharp features looking at you, like a wolf ready to pounce at anything he would like. But most mesmerizing were his eyes, oh these eyes, eyes in the colour of the grey-white-blue winter sky mixed with the ice and snow of the north. Should this really be a monster, the monster everyone talked about? He seemed like a god the god of winter himself, winter personified, the king of north.

“My poor intended, I hope you are not to shaken my lady? Do not worry I took care of it. All I wanted is you.” His voice is so gentle like warm honey on an aching throat, but the thread was louder than anything in the sentence. He feeds you some soup and you mindlessly eat it “Took care of what?” you asked. “Of the traitors of course, my sweet little puppy.” He says it with a sweet smiles as if it was a declaration of love, maybe it was in his mind. “What traitors?” you ask shaken. “That insolent little maid of yours and those incompetent guards who let you flee. Come with me I can show you.” When you decline, he sighs and simply lifts you up. You are now pressed against his torso, so you can feel his heart beat and muscles against you, “Look outside.” He walks to the window and points to five fleshy bodies displayed at the wall. All flayed like on the banner. You would collapse if he would not carry you. You sobbed “I know puppy, their betray made me sad as well but we have each other now. You will be my good puppy who I do not have to punish, mmm?” He lifts your chin. “You know what I think is the most interesting when I start flaying them, they are all the same, screaming, begging even the most feared warriors scream for their mothers.” He chuckles “But your maid, she screamed for you.” He stares at you with those big blue eyes fixating you like a snake its prey. “I wonder why that is? Do you know?” “She is… was my best friend…” You start crying. “Shh, little puppy, do not mourn the wicked.” “But I wanted to flee…” You mumble.

His arms tighten around you. “Oh, you do not want to marry me? Well, that is too bad because you will. You think you have a choice oh no.” He throws you on the bed and is immediately over you. You scream and squirm and try to fight him off. “You think you can scream for help that anyone will come and help you, safe you?” he chuckles again. “I am the king I can do as I like and you will be my queen and if you deny me I will not have a problem with that, than I will keep you in my chambers as my breeding bitch.” He starts kissing you, it is a wet, drooly kiss, like a dog drooling over his prey, marking it up as his. His ice cold hands are everywhere, on your waist, your hips, your thighs, your ass, your tits squeezing, marking, scratching, ripping. You cry begging him to stop but your pleas fall on deaf ears numbed by years of begs who did not meet mercy. He sheds his flaying knife, starting to cut your clothes off, ripping at them like a wolf on the skin of his prey to get to the delicious flesh.

As you finally lay bare in front of him, squeezed your breasts again, revering in your pained cries, cries for help and mercy, grinning like the mad man that he is. He sheds his breeches and frees his member, standing up right and proud. “What now, little puppy, are you scared?” “Please do not, please I will be a good wife, I will behave please!” He stops “you know it is in really bad taste to take the wife before the wedding, and you will be my queen… maybe you are right.” He gets off you and you relax a bit more covering up with a fur blanket.

“On the other hand,” he closes back in, what makes you tense back up, “you ran before, so maybe you need a lesson. Did you see my family banner your future banner?” He shows you the embroidery on his cloak, the banner on the wall, a blood red flayed man on a bone white Bolton cross on black like the darkest winter night. “We Boltons are not famous for mercy, and I think its time for you to learn.” He sheds now even his reddish-brown leather tunic, his padded shirt and chemise. If he would not be the stranger impersonated, he would be a maiden’s dream with his built and looks.

He mounts you again, rips the blankets away and enters you hard and fast, which makes you scream in pain, you try to push him off but he only takes your hands and presses them down into the mattress fucking you deep and hard. He moans loud clearly enjoying himself, before he attacks your breasts with wet kisses again marking you up as HIS, his betrothed, his future bride, his future wife, his prey, HIS. In a small amount of time your chest is covered in his slobber, love bites and are even bleeding from them. You try to push him off again, but he will not budge. He kisses up your collarbone biting it so hard you have t fear he snaps it in half, sucking up your neck to your jawline pressing his wet lips to yours while you try to turn your face away.

“Like it you bitch you are now mine do you really think anyone will want you after I had you, you are MINE, my to torment, to play with, to do with however I please. You will marry me and be my good wife, if not you will join me in the dungeons and see how it is to be my, no, our sigil.” He fucks you even harder you are screaming what fills him with joy. When he finally was finished, he grins and pulls you to his chest. “I guess you have to marry me now, I took your virginity I took you as mine you are therefore mine in the faces of the old gods the only true ones, you are my wife in the faces of the gods I cannot wait to marry you and claim you in our bed every night after. And if you disobey you have enough family members to pressure you with them. I hope my seed is already rooting inside you I would love the thought that you already carry my heir, my prince, the future of house Bolton. Shh do not cry little wife come have more soup.” You try to squirm out, but he has you deep in his arms, he feeds you the soup. “Mhm does my little puppy like it’s soup? I hope you do it has a special ingredient.” He chuckles again which makes your blood freeze. “Do not worry I will gift you a new horse.” He kisses your cheek and you freeze. Your horse, Lily, a gift of your father, the last you received before you were sold to this monster. Hot tears stream down your cheeks, and you throw up. “Do not worry, I will gift you a new one, one more fitting of a Bolton bride, one that will be obedient to me, trained by me, which knows where to bring you which will not let you escape and always bring you to your husband, mm? Does this not sound wonderful, my little puppy? Imagine it, us riding out together, later even with our children in the future, maybe we can show them how I hunted you down and, on our anniversary, we can have horse meat every year.” He licks your tears away beaming in your distress. “Do not worry little bride I will always give you what you want, the finest things, I will even give you one of my hounds even the one that brought me to you, as long as you give me what I want. See what a good husband I am. Now sleep little wife the maids can clean this mess you made. Sleep in my arms.”

He falls asleep soon while you stare at the ceiling and the white fur blanket which once belonged to your horse. Is this now how your life will be…