Ramsay…please…don’t do this! Haven’t you hurt me enough?!
The shrillness of Sansa’s voice echoed through the dark abyss, growing increasingly louder as it swept towards him like a fiendish bat in the night. He tried to cover his ears to protect himself from the piercing noise threatening to cut his brain in half, but couldn’t; whether his arms were restrained or missing he could not tell. Having been reduced to a blind being, floating through dark space, numb to everything except sound, he had lost control of his body. There seemed to be no escaping the raging intensity of his wife’s pleas, and just when he thought his skull was about to burst wide open from the pain the now near feverish pitch provoked, the baleful voice suddenly fell silent. Then,
Stop it! Sansa screeched with all her might. STOP!!!
A flash appeared before his eyes, then faded slowly and Ramsay found himself back in Eddard Stark and Lady Stark’s fur-covered bed with his nose buried in soft, thick hair the colour of angry fire, inhaling the mixed fragrance of mint-scented soap and fear exuding from Sansa’s scalp. She writhed beneath him, trying to kick him off her; he laughed scornfully at her weak attempts to save what little dignity she had left as he undid his breeches, and did what he had done to her every single night since their wedlock.
Even though she outweighed him by quite a few pounds, a match in bodily strength the wolf's daughter was not. Raised a pampered Lady within the safe confinement Winterfell provided, shielded from the brutality of the real world and men like Ramsay Bolton, Sansa was as inexperienced a fighter as she was at performing her marital duties, and all he really had to mind during their little “love-tussles” were her knee to his balls and nails in his face, desperately searching for an eye to poke out.
Although Sansa's resistance was at best mediocre and he usually liked it a bit rougher than what she had to offer, Ramsay still found immense pleasure in taking her against her will. All those awful memories of humiliation and frustrated fury accumulated throughout a lifetime as Ramsay Snow; a bastard outcast in the midst of pure-blooded Lords and Ladies, relentlessly seeking high-born recognition but earning nothing but condescending stares and comments, welled up in him and channelized through merciless thrusts into the noblewoman beneath him.
And not just any highborn bitch either, but the very blood of Eddard Stark now his by long overdue right. When Ramsay finally allowed himself to climax, he came longer and harder than he had ever done with Myranda or any other girl he had bedded, willingly or not, for with Sansa, fucking was something beyond mere release: it was a purge; a purge of the venomous leach that had been feasting on his soul from birth. You liked it, didn’t you Sansa? Me inside you. He would rasp in her ear, then savor the small whimpers of disgust caused by his warm breath on her skin, your wet cunt testifies that you di…
Ramsay issued a startled grunt as someone slapped him hard on the cheek. He opened his eyes, staring into the grinning face of Euron Greyjoy mere inches from his own but appearing upside-down from his perspective. “Are you still in there, Lord Bolton?” the Kraken asked cheerfully then reached down sweeping back an unruly lock of dark hair that had fallen across Ramsay's forehead. Regretfully, I still am. Ramsay met the man's lopsided grin with a tired glare. The wine that had worked so well to keep his fear restrained when Greyjoy had questioned him about his marriage earlier, had now neutralized and settled as a pounding headache instead. “Good! I was beginning to worry I might have pressed a little too hard. Can’t have you running around, slobbering all over my floors when our guests arrive.”
Though still dizzy from being so abruptly ripped back into consciousness, Ramsay tried to regain his bearings. An familiar smell of ammonia filled his nostrils, and he realized he was back in the trophy room where the unspeakable nightmare had taken place a day before. It was evident that his father’s corpse was no longer there in the room with them, for had it been the air would have felt gagging and not just putrid as it now did. Although faded slightly, the sick, rooting stench still tarnished the air. It seemed as though, in all his obduracy, Roose had refused to take his leave and seeped into the walls and floorboards just to remind Ramsay of the humiliation he had suffered in that room, as if the pulsing throb in his gut caused by Euron ferocious thrusts wasn't enough of a reminder.
Ignoring Greyjoy’s looming presence above, Ramsay lifted his head a little in order to glance around the room, and found he was laying splayed out horizontally with wrists and ankles fastened to each of the four corners of a Bolton Cross. The contraption itself was resting on top of the same table Roose’s brains had been spilled onto and upon which Ramsay had been violated the night before. In his exhausted mind the memory of rotting eyes staring him down had now settled, haunting him mercilessly, and even though Ramsay was not a strong believer in gods of any kind he still found himself praying to both the old and the new, begging that the previous night’s horrors would not be repeated.
With a strained sound he gave his bonds a hard yank, but as expected the leather straps which secured his limbs to the cross were tightened to such degree, it allowed him only to writhe his body a little, gyrate his ankles and wriggle his fingers uselessly back and forth. Ramsay sighed and let his head fall back down, hitting the wood beneath it with small clunk!. The sound of his resignation made the King chuckle. “That’s right: don’t waste your breath, lad. It would be a shame, considering how little time you have left in this world”. Euron’s eyes swept over Ramsay’s form, relishing the sight of his prey utterly helpless, strapped to the same kind of rig so many of his people had lost their lives upon and where Balon’s heir had lost his manhood. "Just relax".
Thinking he might go mad if he had to look at it’s ghastliness for one more second, Ramsay closed his eyes, trying to block out the sight of his tormentor’s grin. His mouth had gone dryer than a bucket of sand, and his throat clicked as he swallowed. “What are you planning on doing to me, hmm? Surely you do not think Lady Sansa will be pleased if I am already torn to bits upon her arrival?” There was a brief moment of silence, before a light salt-smelling breeze swept across Ramsay’s face as Euron moved away from the table, positioning himself somewhere to his right. “No-no, I believe you are quite right" Greyjoy said in a chipper voice, "an exquisite company like that of Sansa Stark’s, calls for the finest appearances…even yours, Lord Bolton. I'm not going to cut anything off you that wont grow back".
There was a sound of stirred water close by, then the feel of a finger trailing down his stubbed cheek before Euron's large hand closed around his chin, cupping it. Cold water was slabbed onto his face. Ramsay opened his eyes, mildly startled by the sudden cool exposure to his skin. “Don’t worry, I wish simply to help you look presentable for your wife. It ought to last un till the Lady arrives; I’ve seen bitches with more fur on their faces than you” Euron stood bent over him, inspecting Ramsay’s facial hair as a horse-dealer would a stud’s coat at the town-market. Then, in a low, mocking voice almost as repulsive as the sight of his face was to his captive, he started singing:
“He smelled the scent on the summer air!
He sniffed and roared and smelled it there!
Honey on the summer air!
Oh, I'm a maid, and I'm pure and fair!
I'll never dance with a hairy bear!
A bear! A bear!
I'll never dance with a hairy bear!
The bear, the bear!
Lifted her high into the air!
The bear! The bear!”
Ramsay could only stare at his tormentor as he brutally defiled what had been his favourite song as a child. Then, a memory flooded his mind; the Dreadfort’s hired scholar, Maester Gaevor, punishing him with a single cane-lash for singing it during one of their many tedious lessons in Westerosi history. It happened just short of Roose relieving him of his duties when it was brought to his attention by Locke, his trusted banner-man (or as "trusted" as they came within the Dreadfort, at least), that the old man was teaching Ramsay something other than reading, writing and basic manners, which of course was a clear breach of the agreement between them. The Maester had defied Roose by attempting to install concepts of right and wrong into Ramsay and exposing him to the idea of his transgressions being punished ten-fold in the afterlife. What the Maester had failed to understand was that a son of Roose, bastard or no, had no need for such sentiment; in fact, he didn't have the luxury of containing such emotion.
The brutal notoriety of the Bolton-name was what had kept them in power for a thousand years, not tales of their forbearance or tender ways and should a potential heir suddenly start to grow soft, sprouting tits so to speak, their allies would perhaps either turn allegiant to someone else, or even try to take over their land and titles themselves. If Ramsay's soul should turn out rotten and in need of a cleanse...well, there were leeches for such ailments. Since Roose had convinced himself of their healing powers, the bloodsucking parasites provided the only remedy needed for him or his offspring. It was safer and much easier that way, and besides sentiment was for women not Northern Lords, especially not a Lord who had the ambitions to become a King. The memory of Gaevor was still very vivid in his memory all these years later, perhaps because Roose had shown a rare case of leniency when dismissing the man after his gross offence, flaying only the fingers of one hand before sending him on his way.
Ramsay pulled himself out of his reminiscence and found that Euron had stopped singing. Instead he had grabbed a small bar of soap from a bowl on the table, and started rubbing it on the lower half of Ramsay’s face, preparing it for the shave. When done, Euron dropped the soap back in the bowl and produced a straight razor from the inner pocket of his frock. He caught Ramsay staring at the steel with longing and grabbed a hold of his chin, this time digging his fingers deep into the hollow of his cheeks to make sure there would be no sudden movements. Euron rested the razor against Ramsay’s skin just below the left eye; the sharp steel playing in the light from the torches.
“I can do that myself, you know” Ramsay scoffed, and let out a bitter snort. “Sure you can, but…” The moist, rasping sound of metal being slowly trailed against the grain filled his ears. Shk, shk, shk “…I better…help you…out….” Lost in deep concentration, the King shaved Ramsay's cheek, careful not to break the skin as he let the blade glide across its pale, soapy surface, leaving a slight burn where it removed the stubble. “…just in case…you get…any….silly ideas” Euron hit the razor against the edge of the bowl twice, removing the soap and hairs along the blade, then continued on with the other cheek. When he got to the throat and chin, his grip tightened around Ramsay’s jaw to such degree, Ramsay could have sworn he heard the bones in his skull crunch from the strain.
The thought of being so close to his salvation without actually being able to embrace it was almost enough to make Ramsay break down weeping from disappointment. He had to fight hard to keep the tears that flooded his eyes from spilling down his cheeks, to stop himself from capitulating to Greyjoy's torture once again. For what purposes the King was so awkwardly grooming him, he dared not perceive; all he knew was that crying would not help him one way or the other so instead he bit the inside of his cheek till blood filled his mouth, hoping to keep his mind of the blade, its merciful sharpness and the sweet release of death it could bring him. With a skillful, steady hand, Euron kept on shaving his face, seemingly unaware of the fight going on inside Ramsay. When he was finished, he wiped off the razor on his sleeve and put it back in his pocket, then produced a small cloth and dried off the remaining soap still covering Ramsay’s face. Satisfied with the result, Euron let a hand swipe down his cheeks and chin, feeling the smoothness of the skin there. “Nice and soft…like a kitten’s ear.” Ramsay wiped his head to the side in silent defiance, nostrils flaring, eyes staring at the hides on the wall.
Snickering like a child breaking curfew the Kraken withdrew his hand. “Don’t go anywhere - I’ll be right back”. He pivoted, heel-toe and sauntered towards the door, leaving it wide open as he exited the room. Cool air from the hallway hit Ramsay’s face making him shiver. He lay for a while without moving, listening to the heavy footsteps disappearing up the stairs before giving the leather straps around his wrists a few rough tugs. As expected they didn’t budge an inch; tightened to the extent of almost cutting off the blood circulation, the restraints around his wrists were simply too strong, the buckles too well forged to gain leverage and slip a hand out from under them. Escaping the cross as it were was simply impossible, and he should know having strapped his fair share of doomed men onto its beams throughout the years himself. Instead of wasting any more of his already dwindling strength by struggling further, Ramsay shut his eyes and waited for Euron to return.
After a few minutes of agonizing silence, the squeaking hinges pierced the room again. His captor was back, now whistling the song he had so horribly slaughtered moments before and carrying a large bucket with water sloshing over its sides. Ramsay watched as Euron placed the bucket on the table just a few inches away from him, then leaned over looking down into his face, examining it. “Just remember…everything I do to you is brought on by your own actions. If you hadn’t played that trick on me the other night I might have left you alone for the rest of your stay, but now...well, let's just say you’ve awoken in me the need to explore new things”. A small, involuntary whimper escaped Ramsay’s lips as the King flashed him the familiar predatory smile. “Ready?” Euron asked with a grin while soaking the piece of cloth he had used earlier to wipe Ramsay's face with, in the bucket. "Here it comes" The dripping cloth was placed over his face, covering it entirely. Water trickled down Ramsay’s nose and into his mouth, causing him to expel loud spluttering noises as he fought to breathe through the cold wetness. He bucked and shook his head furiously trying to remove the cloth, but to no avail.
A firm hand grabbed him by the hair holding him in place, then came the sound of water sloshing. Oh…fuc... A slow cascade of water hit his face, making him cough violently and clamp his mouth shut, preventing the fluid from seeping inside. For a while he held his breath trying to delay the inevitable, and when he finally exhaled and subsequently inhaled again, it brought the damp cloth into his nose and mouth like someone had clamped a giant, wet paw over his face. He bucked and jittered in his restraints, but the water kept coming, flowing steadily into his gullet, hitting his uvula. He coughed and spluttered in blind panic, unable to determine whether he was breathing in or out, flooded more with anxiety than actual fluid. Ramsay felt his throat muscles spasm and his consciousness ebb out, when suddenly the water flow stopped and the cloth was ripped from his face.
Water gushed from his mouth and nose as oxygen was finally permitted back into his lungs causing the fluid that had filled them to be forcefully expelled. With his heart hammering away in his chest, threatening to burst through his ribcage, Ramsay heaved in the air in long, painful breaths then slumped back on the cross like a heap of wet ashes. A fleeting thought passed through his mind then; it was one filled with despair yet also containing a strange sense of admiration for his captor’s skills in a torture discipline he himself was inexperienced. He knows just when to stop short of killing me...Exhausted beyond comprehension, he opened his eyes slowly only to see the Kraken grinning back at him with a smile so wide it made Ramsay's toes curl. “Breathe, boy, breathe…”. The King wiped the regurgitated water and saliva from Ramsay’s chin with his hand, then traced two fingers up along the side of his neck, settling them on the pulse point a few inches below the ear. “breathe…very good….shhh…” he soothed and chuckled lightly as he felt the rate of the throbbing vein beneath his touch decreasing, turning into a less irregular rhythm instead.
Ramsay felt the wet cloth covering his face again and his body jerked. No! The water started flowing down onto his face, but this time he did not have the strength to hold his breath for long. Choking and spluttering more from instinct than will to survive, he felt himself slip from consciousness. Though his senses hardly registered it, the cloth was suddenly ripped off his face. The world stayed slow and spinning. He heard Euron calling from far away “Ramsay! Ramsay!” a hand slapped his cheek hard “Are you with me, you little shit?”. The voice was closer now, and a little flickering light had entered his world. His eyes fluttered weakly open as he struggled to pull himself out of the haze clouding his brain. He looked up at the ceiling, trying to regain his focus, but it was spinning wildly out of control and made the nausea rise in his gullet anew, earning him nothing but a mouthful of warm spittle for his trouble. “Good…I want you to feel this”.
Out of nowhere, a sudden rush went through his stomach making him feel in a state of weightlessness. It was followed by a painful stretch of the spine and blood-rush to his head as Euron pulled the cross over the table’s edge and eased the beam's ends onto the floor so it stood in a vertical position, leaving Ramsay hanging upside down stretched out to each of its four corners. More water sprayed from Ramsay’s mouth this time mixed with wine and mushroom stew, running down into his eyes and hair, but he hardly registered it. Fingers slit between his lips, forcing his mouth wide open. Euron’s malevolent voice sounded from somewhere above him. “Open up…yes, that’s right…” Ramsay groaned, his eyes rolling back and forth in their sockets as he felt his jaw being pried open by Euron's insisting digits.
Something large and wide forced itself into his mouth, stretching his lips painfully around its girth. It hit the back of his throat causing him to choke again. No! no! no! He wanted to fight back, but there was no more of that left in him. The almost drowning had drained whatever strength he had, and all he could do was choke around the King’s member as it slit down his throat, making it spasm wildly. Euron grabbed a handful of hair on the back of Ramsay’s head and held him in place as he pushed his cock deeper down his throat. He felt the Bolton bastard gasp and choke around his length, the vibrations it provoked made his balls tighten. The warm, wet embrace of Ramsay’s mouth and throat and the contracting muscles surrounding him felt so good, he felt ready to shoot off his load then and there, but in the very last second, managed to delay his ejaculation by grabbing ahold of his member and squeezing it at the base. Satisfied with his accomplishment and no longer fearing the premature ejaculation, Euron then forced himself the rest of the way into Ramsay's mouth untill he could feel his chin resting against the groin, his nostrils flaring angrily against Euron's growth.
Still groggy from the waterboarding, Euron could tell his disoriented victim hadn't fully grasped yet what was being done to him. Using his body as a contra-weight he stood leaned up against the cross, that way preventing it from tipping forward and sending Ramsay falling flat on his face with the contraption on top of him. The weight of it alone would probably break some bones and shatter teeth, which Euron had no interest in seeing happen. You couldn't very well hand over a broken gift so no matter how much he deserved to have his teeth knocked from his skull, Ramsay still had to look presentable when the Stark’s arrived. What they chose to do to him afterwards was their own business, but for now, the face and other visible parts of him was to be spared. Whatever lay beneath the bastard’s skin however; now, that was a different matter...
Euron put his hands around the back of Ramsay’s head, pulled out a few inches and rammed back into his throat, enjoying the spluttering, gagging sound that escaped him as his cock hit the uvula. He moaned to the sound of Ramsay choking on his cock, enjoying his struggle for a few moments before he started to move his hips back and forth in an increasingly fast and furious rhythm, fucking his captive savagely in the mouth. Ramsay was choking violently now, heaving and gargling as he inched closer and closer to suffocation. Euron felt something wet and warm slide along the length of his cock before a small burst of vomit hit his intimates, and he pulled out, letting the still semi-conscious Ramsay throw up whatever water was left in his stomach; the thin, clear vomit running down the side of his cheeks and into his hair.
Coughing and choking, Ramsay hang with eyes fluttering, a mixture of upchuck and tears running down his face. Euron grabbed a handful of Ramsay’s hair and got ready to force feed him his prick once again, when he heard a weak, almost inaudible plea coming from his upside-down hanging victim: “…no *cough*…please…no…” The King chuckled, then grabbed his member covered in vomit and slapped it against Ramsay’s cheek once, extracting a strained umph! from his victim. With his other hand, he massaged Ramsay’s scalp, running his fingers through the greasy, tussled hair at the back of his head. “Sorry, little Lord. Your warm mouth seems to fit around my cock so perfectly, and I think it belongs in there for good”. With those words, he tightened his grip, holding Ramsay in place by the hair.
A sound of half protest, half surprise escaped Ramsay, as the prick pressed past his lips and slit down his throat. Seconds later it changed into muffled squeals interrupted by coughs and gagging as Euron started to fuck his mouth savagely, thrusting into his face till Ramsay was sure he was about to choke on the cock. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t bite him either and his face was turning a dangerous red from the strain and lack of oxygen. Tears flowed from his cheeks like rivers and he gasped for the air, which only seemed to make it worse as it made more room for Euron to force himself into. He felt death inch closer with each thrust of his rapist's hips. Ramsay wanted to cry out in pain but couldn’t even do that. Hot, salty tears stained his cheek as he begged the gods to strike him down.
Finally, Euron felt ready to shoot off his load. The combination of friction and warm wetness was making him lightheaded, and after two more savage thrusts he shoved the full length of his hardness down Ramsay’s throat and felt his balls retracting and empty themselves, sending a gush of seed through his throbbing cock. After having ejaculated down his throat, Euron held Ramsay in place for a few more moments until he felt the body had started to jitter, before he pulled away and let Ramsay throw up all over himself once again; the pearly white semen dripping from the corners of his mouth and down his cheek. Ramsay spit and coughed repeatedly for more than a minute, crying pitifully in between the violent hurls.
A hand slapped his face hard, and Ramsay opened his eyes and let out a small whimper as he once again looked up into the face of his tormentor, Greyjoy’s eyes now filled with the malevolent pleasure he had gained from his suffering, his soul-shattering humiliation. The large man crouched, so that he could be face-to-face with Ramsay. “That was really quite pleasurable - thank you for that” his grin made Ramsay’s whole body quiver. Even though he already knew the answer, the question slipped from his lips non the less. “Why….why…” he choked again, as the awful salty fishy tinge of Greyjoy’s fluids rose again in his throat “...are you doing this to me?” he whispered, trying to understand, trying to make sense of what was happening to him, why this fiend had chosen him to the the object of his perversion. Hearing his words, Euron’s face changed into one of wonderment “Why Ramsay…what a silly little question coming from you.” The King petted his cheek “It is so simple: because I can”.