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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Eighteen :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 2 0
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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Seventeen :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 0
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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Sixteen :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 0
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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Fifteen :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 0
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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Fourteen :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 0
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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Thirteen :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 0
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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Twelve :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 0
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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Eleven :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 0
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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Ten :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 0
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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Nine :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 0
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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Eight :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 0
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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Seven :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 0
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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Six :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 0
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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Five :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 0
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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Four :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 0
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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Three :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 0

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No Rest for the Wicked

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…

“WAKE UP!!!”

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”.

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Ramsay lay on his back, listening to the wind that swept through the Dreadfort like a horde of tortured ghosts, howling and whistling as it heralded the coming of a new day. Within a few hours it had died down to a sigh and was replaced by a brief moment of silence, before the distant sound of Ironborn men going about their daily affairs in the courtyard, leaked through the cell’s stonewalls and settled in his ears instead. Sleep had embraced him at one point during the night, but unfortunately it wasn't for very long, and once he had awoken from the brief respite there was no slipping back into her merciful arms. It seemed as though his body refused him an escape from the present moment, forcing his mind to take a share in the pain it had suffered from being brutalized times over in the past few weeks or...or had it been mere days since his capture?. In the grisly nightmare he was living in, time itself seemed to have frozen. He had lost track of it he realized, but what did it really matter what day or week or even year it was? Every day spend counting the crevices in the cell-wall felt like just another grain from a endless pile of sand were being dropped into a gargantuan hourglass anyway.

His father’s rotting corpse, glaring at him as he was bend over the trophy room's table and violated had made Ramsay’s very soul cringe in horror, but when the rough hand closed around his member and his eyes fell to the erection provoked by Euron's firm strokes, a ground pillar of his fundament had shattered into a thousand pieces, leaving him with nothing but a desperate wish to cease breathing. Had Roose been right? Had he really found pleasure in the perverted things the Salt King had done to him? The thought made warm spittle fill his mouth and Ramsay dry heaved un till his throat was sore from the exertion, as if he could somehow purge his mind of the memory by regurgitating it. Although his traitorous body had reacted to his enemy's touch, he had felt no release when he spilled his seed into Greyjoy’s warm palm, only pain and horror…and shame. The shame had been the worst of it all.

Ramsay had not thought it possible to be subjected to more humiliation and pain than he had already been, before Lorren had led him into the trophy room last night and where he found, to his great dismay, that it was. There seemed to be no end to the Kraken's ingenuity when it came to torturing his prisoner, and at this point Ramsay had tried everything he could think of to put an end to the abuse: from pathetically begging him, to fighting Greyjoy with what little strength he had left; even complying with some of the bastard's orders, hoping to archive a swift death rather than a cock up the arse. None of his strategies had proved effective and had left him filled to the brim with despair from the dawning comprehension that there might not be a way out of the pit of torment he was in at all. Recognizing the King's sadistic tendencies as a near reflection of his own nature, Ramsay knew that he had good cause to be afraid and feel despair of the future. Men with their common inclinations usually had an insatiable appetite when it came to inflicting pain onto others and therefor also strived to draw out the suffering of their victims for as long as they could (or until they had grown weary of their screams). Expecting any kind of leniency from his captor was beyond naive unless it somehow played out in Greyjoy's own favor to grant it, of course. 

He recalled the previous night's interrogation and the answers the King had demanded of him. How many tunnels, Lord Bolton? What are the Stark's numbers? Which Houses remain defiant? It all added up to him planning an attack on Winterfell. Perhaps Euron merely wanted to plunder its riches, but most likely he was seeking to claim the castle in order to become King in the North and thereby securing a legacy for himself that no other member of his House had ever achieved. The information concerning the Stark status post-battle had seemingly disappointed the King and perhaps even dissolved whatever plans he had towards Winterfell. In retrospect, Ramsay wished that he had fed him some lies instead, such as understating the Starks' numbers or pointing out weaknesses in the castle's defenses in order to manipulate the greedy bastard into pursuing his ambitions, but at the time of the questioning he had been too distracted by Roose's rotting eyes, too fearful of Euron's retribution to even contemplate a simpel lie. Hopefully, his words hadn't entirely discouraged Greyjoy from proceeding with his plans, for if the Ironborn turned out to be foolish enough to try and overthrow the wolves in their own lair, all of Ramsay's problems would be resolved before long and without him having to lift a finger himself for it to happen. 

House Greyjoy had on several historic occasions proved their ineffectiveness on land. Their inability to hold the castles and forts they conquered were laughable, and on top of all that embarrassing, strategic incompetence they never seemed to learn anything from their past mistakes either. The Starks on the other hand, had proven to be not half as thick as Ramsay had initially thought they were, and should Euron attempt an attack on Winterfell, the most strongly fortified castle in the North, it would without a shred of doubt end in the Ironborne's defeat. Oh, yes. Please do that. Scuttle towards your fucking demise, you pimple on a goat's arse. The Kraken would be put to the sword and so would Ramsay himself inevitably, but at this point in time death by beheading was a mercy and something he craved. His only hope was that Greyjoy would go first; that Ramsay would get to witness the fear so wonderfully carved into that hideous face as his head is forced upon the block, then hear the swish of Jon Snow's Valyrian steel carving through muscles, tendons and depraved bone, and the subsequent dull smack! of Euron's severed head hitting the ground. After relishing the smell of his enemy's blood in the surrounding air, Ramsay would probably skip like a happy ram to the block himself. 

He heard the cell-door open with a squeak, followed by the sound of trudging feet. By now, Ramsay had learned to distinguish each guard from their footsteps alone, so it came as no surprise when Grey Lorren’s bronze-colored mug appeared above him; his dark, weary eyes examining Ramsay's face. The guard's foot nudged him in the left kidney. “Get up!”, the man ordered in tone less harsh than usual. Ramsay complied with his request, rising slowly to his hands and knees and bracing himself for the boot that would undoubtedly connect with his rear-end soon. To his great surprise, the attack he had anticipated never came. Lorren, an otherwise agitated and resentful creature, seemed to have grown patient overnight and instead of a well-aimed arse-kick, Ramsay was granted the time it took for him to get to his feet by himself; a gesture which he actually felt a small amount of gratitude towards the guard for. How eerie it was that his circumstances had changed to such a degree that not being kicked was something to feel thankful for.

As he rose from the floor, pain shot through his gut like a lightening bolt making him bend forward and clutch his stomach with a hiss. For a prolonged moment, he remained crouched over waiting for his strength to return before standing up straight, clenching his teeth as he did. Lorren's hand closed around his upper arm, and in an atmosphere of strained silence, Ramsay was led out of the dungeon and out into the hallway. On their way through the passage, they passed the hog-like (and impressively flatulent) guard, Owen, who sat leaned back in his chair, readying a pibe for his afternoon delight. The large man shot Ramsay a terse glance, shook his head once and exchanged a look with his cohort before returning his attention to stuffing the pibe with a sweet-scented tobacco. They know. The humiliation burned his cheeks. Ramsay quickly bowed his head, hoping that the two guards would not become privy to the unbearable shame their awareness of his defilement had caused him. In a purposeful, yet strangely considerate tempo, Lorren led him up the stairs and into the courtyard like he had done the night before.

The dusk had settled over the Dreadfort like a thick reddish-orange blanket. Limping his way across the yard, the frozen hardness of the ground made a sharp stab of pain race from the balls of Ramsay’s feet and burn through his gut like soaring hot nails were being driven into him from multiple directions all at once. Some snow might have eased his suffering a little, but the wind had removed any trace of the padded layer the night before, leaving only the barren ground for him to hopple on. At least this time he was not blindfolded, which made him hopeful that there would not be a surprise of the same magnitude as the one he had been given the night before, awaiting him at whatever destination Lorren was leading him to. It all felt a bit gullible though, to contemplate such a thing as leniency from his tormentor; Greyjoy seemed to have something new and horrid up his sleeve every time they met, and deep down Ramsay knew that tonight would be no different even though he couldn't stop himself from hoping that it would. With his grip clamped tight on his prisoner’s arm, Lorren ushered him towards the tower on the opposite side of the dungeon that housed the family dining hall. 


 

At the far end of the great hall a fire burned low in the hearth, its warmth thawing Ramsay's frozen flesh as he and Lorren neared the thirty-foot long dining table situated in the middle of the room. At the end furthest from the entrance, the King of Salt and Rock sat leaned back in a chair with his legs resting on the table's surface and lips curled in his usual shudder-some smile. The King's head was bedecked with the wooden crown he had worn the first day they met, giving him the appearance of a mad beggar rather than the monarch he supposedly was. At the sight of his prisoner, Euron's eyes glistened brightly in the dim light and his grin grew so wide that Ramsay thought his face might split in two before him. Lorren led him to the opposite end of the table from the King, where an abundance of food arranged on large silver trays and several jugs of wine had been placed covering much of the surface. Although there seemed to be enough food and drink for ten men, only two sets of tableware had been put out: one at Ramsay's end and one at the King's.

With a small nod, Greyjoy dismissed his subordinate who immediately turned on his heel and left the room, abandoning his prisoner who now stood alone next to the table, awaiting nervously to be told what to do next. As he passed him on the way out, Lorren shot Ramsay a quick glance. It was so fleeting and seemingly neutral, that most people would not speculate further about its meaning, however; the son of Roose Bolton was not most people and although Lorren probably never meant for his cloaked emotions to become unveiled, Ramsay still caught on as easily as if the man had confided himself to him. It was a look of pity, and it made Ramsay's cheeks flame red with shame.

Greyjoy waited for the door to shut behind Lorren before he spoke. “Afternoon, Lord Bolton. How have you fared since last we spoke? Well enough, I hope. Apologies if my passionate conduct last night left you a little…tender”, his white teeth flashed in a sadistic smile. Ramsay stood in silence, trying not to wince too much from the discomfort of having to stand with a gut that felt like it had been filled with burning rocks. Even though Euron knew very well that his prisoner was suffering immensely, he let him remain standing next to his seat for a couple more minutes, all the while drinking wine, watching with an amused expression as Ramsay shifted uncomfortably back and forth on his feet, before he finally decided to end the torture. “Don’t just stand there like a stuffed owl! Sit!” Greyjoy gestured towards the chair next to Ramsay. With great strain, he limped over to the seat and eased his battered behind carefully down, giving off a small grunt as it connected with the wood.

A spoon and a goblet had been put out for him, but no knife unfortunately. At this point he would have rammed a blade into his own throat without a moments hesitation, bleeding out before the dumb-struck King who would then have lost his only leverage in dealing with the Starks, along with his favourite toy. A mere second of pain, a few squirts of blood and death would claim him within half a minute, if he was able to hit the main artery straight on like he had done with the wildling wench, the one who had abetted Rickon Stark in his escape from Winterfell, when he had killed her. There would be no more shame, no more suffering and most importantly: no more Euron Greyjoy. Yet as enticing as death was at this point, killing oneself with a spoon seemed too difficult a task even to a desperately suicidal man like Ramsay.

“I hope you brought an appetite”. The Kraken let out a small groan of effort as he swung his feet off the table, then rose to his full, intimidating height and came strolling down the table's side towards Ramsay, now shifting nervously in his seat, increasingly alarmed by the whole setting that seemed more and more like another nightmarish attack in the works. On his way, the King grabbed a large plate with a silver cover from the table's surface, then carried it over to Ramsay, placing it in front of him. Taking great pleasure in the watery eyes his looming presence provoked in him, Euron leaned down further in order to relish his prisoner's discomfort up close.

By the gods...NO! He is going to serve meit....The King was making good on the threat he had stated the night before; a precaution made to prevent himself from getting bit when Ramsay fell to his knees and offered to pleasure him with his mouth. Of course, their intimacy had never reached the point where sinking his teeth into the bastard's member had been relevant - a well-placed punch to Greyjoy's balls had made sure of that - yet Ramsay still suspected that the retribution for his actions were nowhere near over even though he had already suffered greatly for his little trick. The foul image of a man's shrivelled up, boiled member surrounded by steamed vegetables on a silver platter entered his mind, making him quasy and brought his stomach dangerously close to turning.

Ramsay's sat paralyzed neither blinking nor breathing, fearing that if he did inhale the air, the steam escaping from underneath the cover would fill his nose with the smell of his father's rotting flesh. For a second he contemplated throwing the plate at Euron, but knowing the King's twisted mind that sort of conduct would only lead to him having to eat the contents off of the floor instead. “I thought the two of us should have a little heart to heart before it's too late”, Greyjoy had an evil twinkle in his eyes, “but you really should eat something first. You might need your strength in the next couple of hours or days...depending on how well you behave, of course” With a swift motion Euron lifted the cover, revealing the contents of the plate underneath it. 

Ta-daaaahhh!!!

With teary eyes, Ramsay looked down at the plate expecting the worst sight imaginable, then let out an audible sigh of relief as he realized that it was merely a mushroom stew Euron had presented him with, a dish seemingly free of any disgusting human remains. The meal itself actually looked pretty good and probably would have smelled like it also, if it hadn’t been for the Kraken’s sharp body odor, offending his nose with its seaweed-smelling unpleasantness. 

Witnessing his captive's sudden relief made Euron smile cruelly. "Oh, NO! You didn't actually think...!?" He put a finger under Ramsay's chin, lifting up his face to look him in the eye, "I told you that I wouldn't do such a thing unless you misbehave again...where is the trust? Do you consider me a man of no honour?" Ramsay shot him a sour glare but said nothing, his eyes were visibly conveying his thoughts instead. Burn in Hell. Chuckling loud, pleased with the terror he had inflicted, Euron turned on his heel and returned to his seat. "Eat up, boy!" he ordered and lifted his goblet of spiced wine in a toast.

Even though Ramsay had not had a meal since the day before last (and that stew had been wasted on the trophy room's floor), his appetite was still non-existent. If the sight of Greyjoy's face hadn't been enough to make him nauseous, the thought of being force fed his father’s member had done the trick. Still, Ramsay knew that refusing to eat wasn't an option he had, so without any protest he picked up the spoon and started digging slowly into the stew, carefully inspecting and sniffing each spoon-full before he brought it to his lips and subsequently swallowed with great strain. Despite his so-called promise, the Kraken could very well have slipped some chunks of Roose into the stew, and for no other reason than his own perverted amusement.

Euron, a goblet in his hand, sat leaned back in his chair, watching in silence as his prisoner worked his way through the meal. With great difficulty, Ramsay swallowed the last few bites from the plate, then slumped backwards with eyes closed, clutching his midsection hard in the hope that the food would stay down his unruly stomach and not come spraying out of his nose and mouth like a mushroom spouting geyser. He didn't want to be forced to consume his own upchuck, and that could very well be Euron's next bright idea to torture him with if he failed to hold it down.

Thankfully, the meal decided to settle in his stomach and Ramsay could feel a little of his strength returning from the nutritiant-rich stew. He looked up, meeting the Kraken’s eyes. “Good?” Greyjoy asked. His smile was bright and could even come across as friendly if one didn't know any better “Yes, my Lord”, Ramsay let out a small cough "thank you, my Lord" His sudden meek conduct made the King chuckle "Such nice manners, you've developed, Lord Bolton. It pleases me that your lessons in humility have not been in vain" He gestured towards the pitcher next to Ramsay "why don't you have some wine?". After having filled his cup to the brim, Ramsay picked it up with trembling hands and drank the sweet liquid in large gulps. Wine, you beautiful whore; dull my senses, help me forget. Make me not care what happens tonight, please...

Euron sat studying Ramsay while slowly rotating the stem of his goblet between his fingers. It was not until the other man had emptied his cup and lowered it again, that he finally spoke. “Now, Ramsay…I would like to know what exactly you did to my dear nephew” Euron’s smile was gone, his eyes now dark and glowering “and don’t lie to me...that would disappoint me very much. Need I remind you what happens if you do that?” The deep, raspy voice had turned low and threatening, reminiscent of a large predator’s growl just before it attacked.

The question made Ramsay’s throat go dry and he went for the pitcher again, filling his goblet. His mind was racing as he brought the cup to his lips and drank slowly, buying himself some time to think up an answer less likely to result in him being mauled than the horrid truth would. Given the fact that the Kraken seemed to be pretty well-informed when it came to Ramsay's transgressions, he had expected to be confronted with his past treatment of Reek at one point or another...Theon! Remember? It's Theon, not Reek! Still, the inquiry had taken him by surprise and sent a warning prickle down his spine. His heartbeat accelerated into a full gallop at the thought of the unbearable amount of pain he would be subjected to this time around, if he didn't provide his tormentor with the right answer. After all the Kraken had already put him through, and for no other reason than the sheer pleasure he got from administrating pain upon his victim, what would the man not do to him, if it became clear that Ramsay had turned his nephew into a anxious, neutered dog?

But then...there was also a very good chance that Greyjoy knew of Theon's fate already, and that this whole scene was merely him setting up another game of cat and mouse for his depraved enjoyment. Gossip travelled fast and far in the North, and in the off-chance that the tale of Ramsay Bolton's smelly pet had not reached the King's ears yet, the soldiers holding the Dreadfort had most likely been subjected to torture when the Ironborn invaded, spilling all kinds of Bolton secrets before they were mercifully put to death. Given what Ramsay had already learned about his captor, the whole dinner-setting and subsequent questioning was just a kind of sick, twisted foreplay of his; one that would most likely lead to the same endgame no matter what Ramsay said or did to try and prevent it from happening.

Memories from the previous, grisly night popped into his mind, making him almost choke on a mouthful of wine. His father's condemning eye staring at him while Greyjoy fucked him savagely; the large hand that closed around his member, stroking him to release and left him with a sense of insufferable shame and confusion that never would nor could fade away again. The horrors, escalating steadily throughout the afternoon, had been brought on by Ramsay's defiance (or so Greyjoy had claimed it was); the fist to his balls and the many insults he had spewed at him. After the rape, Euron had whispered in his ear that things would get worse if he didn't start giving in to his commands, and even though being rebellious was very much a part of his nature, Ramsay did not care to find out what the Ironborn's definition of "worse" meant.

Cooperating might not save him from an assault but perhaps it could make it less brutal this time. Sadly enough, that was the only thing left for him to hope for, tonight or any other night, he remained alive in the Kraken's custody. Ramsay felt the muscles in his throat constrict, but fought it off and managed to swallow the wine he had in his mouth. “I…I…tortured him” the words came out in a stutter. Anxiously, Ramsay looked across the table at his captor. Did he just make a horrible, horrible mistake? The King's face seemed to be frozen in a serious, unyielding expression causing Ramsay's foot to start tapping rapidly against the floorboards.

The Kraken leaned forward in his seat selecting a grape from the bunch on his plate. “Yes, yes...and what else?” he asked with casual indifference, seemingly unimpressed by Ramsay’s arduous confession. He threw the grape in the air and caught it between his teeth. Ramsay squeezed his eyes shut, trying to build up the courage to speak the truth for once; a concept seldom-used when something was at stake for him. “I removed certain parts” he admitted, bowing his head and looking down at the table’s surface avoiding the King’s stare. “Like what, boy?” Greyjoy hissed, annoyed by his hesitation “what?”. Ramsay inhaled deeply, but the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room, leaving his brain without the means to conjure up any helpful lies. “His fingers and toes….”, pause, “and…and...his…" he sank hard, "...his cock”.

A deep, rumbling sound filled the dining hall. Ramsay looked up confused and saw that the King had laid his head back and was laughing so hard, the chair was rattling underneath his weight. With eyes shut, he was pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers, like he had just heard the hilarity of a lifetime and it had caused his brain to hurt. The unnerving sound of Greyjoy’s wheezing laughter seemed to go on for several minutes, before it finally died down into a giggle. Ramsay held his breath as Euron met his gaze, teary eyed from the apparent jest that were his gelded nephew. “It’s no surprise, really…but it is still so fuckin’ hilarious to hear you say it!!!”

With a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, the King put the goblet to his lips and took a swig of wine “Poor little Theon” he muttered to himself, then snorted scornfully. Unnerved by the man's outburst, Ramsay was eyeing him with caution, holding his breath and bracing himself for an attack. If there was one thing he had learned during his incarceration, it was that a smile could turn into a vicious bite in the blink of an eye, and even though Greyjoy seemed sincerely amused by Ramsay’s actions at the moment it did not mean that an assault was not in the offing. Euron had put the goblet down and leaned back in his seat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when suddenly his eyes widened in remembrance of the one thing he was most curious about. “So what did you do with his cock then? Feed it to your hounds?” With his mind racing to come up with a better answer than the one he had to give, Ramsay was staring at Euron, wide-eyed, frozen. A drop of sweat trailed from his hairline and down his temple. “What did you do, little Lord?!!” The Kraken insisted in a low, threatening sneer. There was no choice but to confess. “Sent it to his father…”. he paused “…and sister”.

This time the King’s raucous outburst of laughter made Ramsay wince. He sat in silent terror as Euron banged one fist on the table repeatedly, generating a loud, clattering noise as plates and silver clinked and rattled. The discomfort he had felt moments before when he confessed to gelding Theon had now paled in comparison. He shifted nervously in his seat, growing more and more anxious by the second as he watched his tormentor nearly keel over in his chair from the unintentional jest Ramsay had just made. Once the thought of Theon's cock in a box had been as amusing to himself as it clearly was to Euron, but those times were over; joy was no longer a part of his life.

“Oh, seven hells…that was good” Snickering, the Salt King wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “Well...the little shit probably had it coming. Ramsay Snow! Join me in a toast: To Theon Turncloak!” He leaned forward, his face forming a broad, fixed grin as he raised his goblet in a mock-salute, motioning for Ramsay to lift his also. “Former Prince, present cunt! HAZAR!”. Ramsay put the cup to his lips and emptied its contents in a few big gulps. Euron drank heartedly also, and when he had taken his fill, he belched then sighed contentedly. A finger settled on his nose, stroking the neatly-curved bridge there.

He sat for some time, studying his prisoner as Ramsay refilled his cup for the third time and downed it with a determination that suggested he was in a rush to become drunk. “Very good, Ramsay...very good..." The King chuckled as Ramsay put down his cup with an audible clonk! then gave him a long, sour glare. The wine seemed to have worked its magic and evoked a small amount of defiance in him. Euron licked his lips. How amusing it would be to stomp that tiny fire out again. "Now, I need you to tell me about Sansa Stark…what did you do to her? I’ve heard so many curious things about your marriage but I don’t know what is true and what is false. Please, do enlighten me”

Ramsay felt light-headed, a dazed state brought on by a combination of hasty intake of wine and the gut-wrenching fear the Kraken induced in him just by being in the same room. “Sansa-ah…" His wife's name came out as a croak, so he tried again. "Sansa...was my father's bright idea. He arranged the marriage between us to make the claim on Winterfell legit and to rally the Houses still loyal to the Stark name against the Lannisters...but as well you know, that didn’t exactly work out as planned”. Surprised by his own bitter admission of father and son's shared defeat, Ramsay closed his eyes for a moment to consider whether or not he should be confessing anything to the King at all. The wine seemed to be doing the talking for him, dulling his senses and the pain jabbing away at his gut, but most importantly it made him care less about what Euron Greyjoy could do to him. Ramsay decided that he longer cared what he confessed to, as long as the wine kept flowing his way and granted him the escape he so desperately craved.

“It is a well-known fact that you were defeated at Winterfell by Sansa Stark...that must have been so embarrassing for you! Tell me, Lord Snow: how does one lose the most well-supplied castle in all the North to a handful of wildlings led by a little girl AND during the fuckin' winter?!” Euron's acidy words made Ramsay grind his teeth, but he remained tranquil and emptied his goblet for the fourth time instead of spewing back the many accumulated insults he itched for. A wicked smile formed on the King's face as he shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps you are just not cut out for war...perhaps your place was meant to be elsewhere", To top off the insult he sucked his teeth sarcastically.

“Perhaps you are right, my Lord” Ramsay snarled, filled his cup again and drank hard. “But why did she marry you, I wonder? Word has it she is a great beauty, a tall wench with fine teats. Such an odd coupling, you and her...like a weasel rutting away at a pure-bred horse, it just seems so bloody unnatural. I would have thought she could have done better than you" Euron paused to ponder over his own words, "so tell me why she didn’t”

Ramsay's face flushed bright red, evidence that the King's words had hit their mark. With a sour grimace, he swallowed the remaining wine in his goblet. And you dare speak of unnatural things, you despicable creature. “Sansa had no choice but to marry me, really. The Lannister’s wanted her head. Her aunt, Lysa Aryn of the Vale had died some time before, leaving Sansa with no protection. Meanwhile, Winterfell had been claimed by my father, making him the most powerful Lord in the North and her best hope of staying alive. So that is why she married me, Greyjoy...she was being pragmatic, that is all”

“A-ha. Pragmatic, you say?” Greyjoy contemplated the word for a moment, “and how did your love thrive? Was she good to you? Did your wife fulfil your needs by her own free will, or did you have to take her by force to get your little cock wet? I cannot imagine that a fine, noble bitch like that would touch you by her own accord". Ramsay felt the anger boil up inside, begging him to let it roam freely. His fingers closed around the goblet's stem, turning his knuckles white as he tightened his grip and pulled back his arm to throw it at the Kraken's smug face.

The sound of Euron's threatening voice halted his intended throw in mid-air. "If you fling that cup, Ramsay...that will conclude the evening for you, and not in a good way, trust me". For a few tense seconds, the two men shot daggers at each other before Ramsay finally gave in and slammed the goblet down on the table, hard. "What's it to you!? She was my wife and I had the right to take her wherever, whenever I so pleased!" Snarling at his captor, Ramsay lifted the pitcher to fill his cup, but this time his depth perception failed him terribly, resulting in most of the wine intended for his cup was splattered over the table's surface instead. "Arghhh!" Ramsay let out an annoyed groan, then proceeded to drink directly from the pitcher's spout.

"You had the right?" Euron, now staring him down sternly put the words in his mouth, tasting them. "How does that work? I've never had a wife, in the legal sense at least...", he paused, then tapped two fingers against his temple twice "Oh, I know! just like I can have my way with you wherever, whenever I wish...right?" His teeth bared in a grimace that made Ramsay's blood run cold. He put down the pitcher and averted his eyes. A long moment of silence passed between them before Euron spoke again. “Do you think she enjoyed it? Being with you, I mean” Ramsay shook his head reluctantly, keeping his eyes fixed on the woodgrain. “I don’t think so either.... well, in truth...I know she didn't”. The King ran a finger across the beard on his upper-lip, thoughtfully caressing it “...and yet, even after all that you have done to her, to her family, Sansa still longs to be reunited with her dear husband...isn't that the sweetest thing? A raven arrived this morning bearing the Stark sigil and her greetings"

Stunned, Ramsay looked up with eyes darting back and forth, trying to comprehend the words that Euron had spoken. Had the King reached out to her? Or she to him? Ramsay swallowed the lump in his throat while struggling to regain a small amount of composure. “As I would love to see her again. I do miss her…so very much” he lied. “Oh, worry not. You will get the chance to tell her yourself before long. The Starks will ride from Winterfell tomorrow; that makes for their arrival here in about three to four day’s time”. Euron leaned forward in his seat. His smile had returned and it was as sly as it was cruel. ”so you and I, still have a little time left to get to know one another better”.

Ramsay’s heart sank. Even though he knew that being handed over to the Starks was a better fate by far than remaining the madman's captive, the thought of Sansa seeing him in his broken state made him shudder. Perhaps she would even become privy to the full extent of his shame and bask in his humiliation before she killed him, like a fat, content cat enjoying the writhing of the doomed mouse beneath its paw. And yet...I'd rather see her face than yours when I die, Lord of Shit and Piss. At least with the Starks, death was a certain thing. He just prayed that Sansa would never find out what had happened to him in the dungeon of the dreadful place he had once called his home, for the notion of that soul-shattering humiliation seemed far worse to him than anything else, even death.

The King rose from his seat and walked over to Ramsay, who now sat staring in to thin air trying to make sense of the latest shift in his circumstances. Resting his rear on the table next to Ramsay's dinner plate, Euron leaned forward and gave his prisoner a small smack across the face. "Here, Ramsay! Here!" He snapped his fingers also, pulling him the rest of the way out from whatever place he had disappeared to and regained his attention. “So! I plan to ask for Lady Stark's hand in marriage, and I'm offering you up as my dowry. That ought to sweeten the deal quite a bit, don't you think?" Ramsay, in loss of words, blinked up at him a few times.

“My niece and cock-less nephew have already made it across the narrow sea to the Queen beyond and plead their fealty to her. That was my fuckin' plan but they beat me to it, the cunts, so that leaves me…”. Euron reached out his hand and let his index finger trail down Ramsay’s cheek, feeling the stubble that had begun to dominate the lower half of his face. The rasping sound of fingernails on the coarse hairs filled Ramsay's ears and he flinched a little from the discomfort of Euron's caress “...with a second option: allying with the Starks". The finger was now brushing past his lips, toying with them and feeling their fullness. Ramsay wiped his face to the side, his nostrils flaring in disgust. He wanted to bite Greyjoy’s finger off badly, but he also quite clearly recalled how he had tried to do that once already, and how it hadn't exactly worked out well for him that time.

“So you understand, Lord Bolton...you are in my way now. Lady Sansa needs a divorce, and as much as I´m going to miss your company, my appetite calls for something that the Dreadfort can not provide me” Roughly, Euron grabbed Ramsay's chin between his large fingers and thumb, forcing him to look straight into his narrowed eyes. “Besides...I am a very jealous man and I hate sharing". His voice had turned more chilling than the air outside "Since you´ve been so well-behaved and not lied to me once tonight, I am going to give you a choice: I can either bend you over this table and ram my cock up your ass again!..." With quivering lips, Ramsay blinked away a tear. “...or you can pleasure me with that sweet little mouth of yours, just like you offered to do last night”.

Choking out a sob, the former Lord of the Dreadfort closed his eyes and deliberated what to do with the choice he had been given. His gut hurt so bad, he suspected his insides had gone from solid to liquefied by now and would soon come sliding out his ass if he wasn't granted a break from the King's brutal poundings. He couldn't live through one more of those assaults nor did he care to. There wasn't really a choice to be considered; somehow the disgusting notion of Euron's member in his mouth seemed like the lesser of two depraved evils. “I don´t know how to do that, my Lord. Please!” Euron brushed his thumb across Ramsay’s soft lips again, then forced them apart a little by pressing against his front-teeth with his index-finger. “Open up! Come on!” he growled, but Ramsay kept his mouth clamped shut and was staring up at him teary-eyed and defiant instead. "I said: Open up, Ramsay...or I'll feed you my prick and split you in half afterwards!"

With reluctance he opened his mouth and Euron slipped his digit inside, making Ramsay gag at the salty taste and the thought of another man’s body part in his mouth. “Now, close your lips around it and suck...and no teeth, boy, or you'll get to feel mine again", he hissed in pleasure "but do make some sounds...choke all you want; I like that”. Stiffly, Ramsay began to suck on the finger, trying his best not to gag too much while doing it to avoid adding to the Kraken's perverted pleasure, but unfortunately that proved to be a near impossible task. "More" The King ordered and licked his lips, then went silent, watching as Ramsay's cheeks hollowed, attempting to create a small vacuum around the finger. The bastard’s mouth was warm and moist, and when he put in the suction Euron could feel his cock begin to stir. “Use your tongue to swirl around it...and look at me...yes, very good...Mmmm”. The request made Ramsay's skin crawl but he complied nevertheless, looking awkwardly up into his tormentor's eyes as he sucked and licked his digit. Tears started flowing from his eyes from the humiliation, but his evident discomfort only made Greyjoy enjoy it all the more. The King's eyes started to glaze over, his breathing turning rapid.

Ramsay looked down at the man's crotch and saw his erection straining against his breeches, threatening to break through the seams. No....Any second now, the King would grab him by the back of the neck and force him to his knees in front of him, then Ramsay would taste the salty, awful tinge of the King's member as it slid down the lenght of his tounge, invading his throat. Choking on his enemy's manhood, with its entire length raping his esophagus, he would try to pull his head back and push against his tormentor's strong thighs with all his might, desperately struggling to breathe, to get away...but of course, he wouldn't be allowed to do that. Euron would snake a hand in his hair, holding him in place as he fucked his throat mercilessly and pulling Ramsay so close to him, his nose would be embedded in his pubic hair. His nostrils would flare angrily against the brown growth until his vision blurred, his face turn an angry red, and the last sound Ramsay would hear before loosing consciousness would be the Kraken's roar of pleasure...

Euron pulled his finger from Ramsay's mouth and gave him a smack on the cheek, snapping him out of his catatonic state. Pausing for a few moments to regain his breath, he took off his wooden crown placing it carefully on the table next to him, then got to his feet and placed himself behind Ramsay, leaning his stomach against the backrest of the chair. Ramsay felt his exhalation make the fine strands of hair on his head flutter like long grass in the wind. Euron's hand trailed down Ramsay's neck and pulled his doublet a little to the side to inspect the bite-marks he had so brutally inflicted on his back the night before. The soreness provoked a small hiss of pain as the King let his fingers glide over the landscape of his back, locating and groping the swollen wounds. “Hmm” Greyjoy muttered thoughtfully, then reached under his robes producing a small vial with a thick, reddish brown ointment inside. With a few careful strokes, Euron applied the salve on the wounds and put the jar away again. “There! Good as new!” He slapped Ramsay’s shoulders and let his hands remain resting on top of them, tapping his fingers rapidly against the collarbone. “As much as I want to see you on your knees again, I do have something a little different in mind for you tonight”.

As swift as a striking adder, Euron coiled his arm around his throat and began to slowly squeeze his windpipe shut. Ramsay let out a surprised gasp before his air supply was cut off by the pressure on his gorge. Shiny, little swirly specs of light danced before his eyes, and the dining hall seemed to be narrowing. By pure instinct, his fingers searched for the for arm, leaving long, bloody trails from his nails down its length as he fought desperately for his life. Greyjoy was speaking while choking him, but the words reached his ears slurred, devoid of meaning. Ramsay's vision began to fade, and a few moments later his world had turned completely dark.


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Grey Man

A blizzard howled and moaned through the courtyard making the world appear white with swirling snow. Struggling against the headwind, Grey Lorren staggered through the snow banks carrying the prisoner over his shoulder. During the hours the Captain had been occupied inside what the men had dubbed “The chamber of atrocities”, the weather had taken a turn for the worse, forcing him to take shelter inside the cellar he had led the Bolton Bastard into earlier that evening.

Even though Lorren had placed himself at the top of the stairs furthest away from the trophy room, he had still been able too pick up the grunts and anguished screams that emanated from behind the door. The sounds had made his skin prickle; the worst of it all was the rhythmic rattling of the dining table which created foul images inside his head he couldn't seem to shake off again. It had come as a true relief when Greyjoy had called for him to come collect what remained of his toy, and Lorren had been down the stairs and through the door in a flash, eager to get the job done so that he could get the fuck out of the cellar and away from whatever had transpired down there.

The two men had made it to the bottom of the stairs before the whelp’s weak legs had finally caved in under him and he collapsed on the ground next to Lorren, smacking the back of his head against the stones. “Arhhh”, Ramsay whimpered, blinking up at him a few times but making no indication of getting to his feet by himself. With reluctance, Lorren had picked him up and slung him over a shoulder. His back wasn't what it used to be; time and a hard life upon the seas had made sure of that, and although he could still perform certain tasks as effective as the younger lads, carrying around large amounts of deadweight wasn’t one of them. Luckily, the man turned out to be as light as he was short and Lorren found that he could lift the body with relative ease, and without the fear of his back giving in halfway through the lift. 

He fought his way across the courtyard, cussing the weather and his semi-conscious freight equally. As he pushed down the door-handle, the wind pulled it out of his hand and the door swung open with full force. Struggling to close it behind him, he almost dropped Ramsay down the stairs but managed in the last moment to tighten the grip around the man’s torso, preventing him from slipping from his shoulders. The Captain would have given him hell if his prize had taken a fall like that, and had his cursed neck also been broken in the process there was no telling how Greyjoy might react to the news. Lorren managed to force the door closed then began descending down the stairs, small whimpers escaping the prisoner's lips with each step he took.

In the cell he carefully placed Ramsay on a fresh pile of hay. There was no need to handle the boy with further brutality, at least not for the remainder of the day. Lorren knew, he ought to revel in the fact that the Bolton bastard was finally getting his comeuppance, but the joyous feeling of seeing him suffer had long since passed. The revenge Euron Greyjoy had promised them all had turned into something depraved soon after the capture and at this point it felt more disturbing than satisfactory to bare witness to the King’s retribution on his men's behalf. Lorren wished they could just cut the bastard's head off and be done with it, erasing him from the Ironborn's long list of scores in need to be settled which had grown longer and longer in the last couple of years, but unfortunately the delay in execution suggested that Greyjoy had other plans with his catch. At this time there was no telling how much longer their King intended to torture him before they could put him him out of his misery and move on, hopefully returning to the sea soon after Ramsay Bolton had been sent to whatever hell he belonged in. 

Looking down, he saw Ramsay had curled himself up in a fetal position, his glossy eyes staring into the wall ahead. The blanket lay curled up in the corner where it had been left earlier that night. Lorren picked it up and spread it over the trembling body then left the cell, closing the door behind him. Pulling up a chair in front of the bars, he sat down watching as his prisoner struggled to sob quietly under the cover. Lorren closed his eyes, hoping the remainder of his shift would pass quickly.


The crew of the "Sea Bitch" had dubbed him Grey, his twin brother Black. For the first eight years of his life he went by a different name, but he could no longer recall what it was. His mother had given him it to him when he was born fifty-six winters ago, and though he had tried to remember it many a time throughout the years, the name remained lost in a fog of the past clouded by a lifetime of drinking, fighting, fucking and pillaging. In the end he had given up and stopped trying even though he felt like he was betraying her by burying one of the few things she had given him in the large pile of things forgotten. It was simply too long ago he had answered to that name and perhaps he had even cleared it from his memory for a reason. There were after all, a lot of things from those days best left in the past.

Their mother had originated from the Summer Isles where the people were dark of skin and had woolly hair like sheep. Though Lorren had inherited his father's straight, thick hair and sturdy build, everything else about his bearing he took after his mother, his dark eyes and broad features that contrasted to the Ironborn's pale skins and thin noses. He remembered that much about her looks, but her face itself had blurred in the fog along with all the rest. She had been brought to Pyke from Braavos by Black and Grey's father, the Captain of a major barque in the Ironborn fleet, though unlike most of the other women who were taken as salt wives by the Reavers she had gone to the Iron Isles by her own free will.

Like a black diamond in the midst of salt flakes she was. A rare curiosity from a far away land with strange looks and even stranger customs, and although it had been hard for her at first, growing accustomed to the new land and its people she ended up earning her place amongst them, accepted as one of their own due to her knowledge of medicine and seafaring skills, the latter she bested every Ironborn man in, even the sailors who had spent their entire lives at sea. She followed their father from one expedition to the next until the drowned God claimed them both in a storm just south of the Fingers.

Within three months of her death Lorren's black hair had turned completely grey, causing the darkness of his skin to stand out even more. The Maesters of Pyke had summoned him when they heard about the new silver-haired orphan curiosity that roamed the streets stealing scraps of food, but not one of them could explain the change in his appearance with true conviction. One Maester told him it could be due to the grief of losing both his parents, the other that it might be caused by his heritage and that a defect in his people simply generated such a phenomenon every once in a while. Though being of opposite minds about the origin of his ailment, the Maesters did both agree on that whatever had caused the shift in his appearance wasn't deadly to anyone, and after their interest in him had worn off they made sure Grey and his brother found hiring on the "Sea Bitch". Their shipmates had been fond of nicknames, but they were not exactly a sophisticated lot so Grey and Black became their new callings, and eventually throughout the passing of time their old names faded in the background and became lost for good.

In the cell, Ramsay made another muffled sob, the sound causing Lorren to sigh and shake his head unconsciously. It wasn’t exactly sympathy he held for the little twat, but witnessing Greyjoy's abuse of him was becoming unbearable, and even though Lorren did have a very good reason to hate Ramsay Bolton and wanted to see him suffer immensely at the beginning of his captivity, witnessing the bloodied shit-bucket and trembling body curled up in the corner every day now made him wish for the man's swift release from his misery.

At Moat Cailin his brother had lost his life when Theon Greyjoy under the white banner of truce had convinced the Ironborn to surrender to the Boltons. Balon's son had promised them free passage to the Stony Shores, and exhausted from the sickness that had already claimed half of their shipmates, the remaining men had agreed to the terms and opened the gates, letting the serpent inside the walls. It had all been a trick conjured up by Roose Bolton's bastard, and instead of the amnesty they had been promised, every Ironborn man including Black had been flayed alive.

What a way to die, Brother... he thought and felt a stab of sadness from the horridness of Black's demise. Up until his death, the bond between Black and himself had remained unbroken no matter the amount of time passing between their reconciliations. They could read each others thoughts and despite great distances between them, Grey would get a strange throbbing sensation in his gut when Black was in peril. The same went for his brother if their roles were reversed. Neither of them could explain it; there was just something there, like a infinitely long rope running across land and sea through mountains and valleys, connecting their heart strings to one another. Then one day out of nowhere, an overwhelming feeling of hollowness had filled Lorren's being and he knew then that Black's heart had stopped beating and whatever thing had held them together was cut for good. 

A hand tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Grey?”, Owen’s deep voice hummed from somewhere above him, disturbing his reminiscence. Lorren looked up at the man meeting his small, deep-set eyes. “Captain wants to see ya’”. Standing up, he cast a glance inside the cell. Bolton lay on his side up against the wall, unmoving except the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest as he breathed. It appeared as if he had finally fallen asleep. “Did he do it...again?” Owen’s question came off as more than a little bothered. Resignedly, Lorren nodded his head and sighed. “Aye”. The large man absorbed the answer with a contorted face, then moved over to the chair Lorren had occupied moments before and dropped down into it like a heavy sack of flour, the wood creaking dangerously from the strain of bearing his weight.

“Well, I bloody hope he’ll end him soon enough! This place makes me balls retract and I itch for the sea an’ a piece of cunny…haven’t developed the taste for splitting boys in half like he has! Aye, the little shit deserves it an’ all, but it’s getting out of hand and we’re all so fuckin’ bore…” Lorren cut him off before he could finish the sentence. “Shut your trap, Owen! Or you’ll find yourself keel-hauled all the way back to Pyke!” The man fell silent at once. Lorren rubbed his eyes. The watch and his worries had taken its toll on him and what he needed badly was sleep, not more of his men’s bitching. “For fuck’s sake! I’ll speak with him…where is he?”. He grabbed the keys hanging from around his neck and handed them to his replacement. “The grand dining hall” The large man said in the middle of a yawn, then gave a strained sigh at the prospect of the long watch ahead of him. Lorren had made it halfway to the dungeon door when Owen in a slightly worried tone of voice added “and Grey…leave out the bit about splitting tail, right? Me wife needs me”


In the great dining hall where the bastard and his predecessors had undoubtedly spent countless meals trying to best each other in cunt-ish behaviour, torches along the walls had been lit engulfing the room in a dim, flickering light. Lorren walked directly inside the room without knocking. The Ironborn did not believe in such formalities and their new King didn’t either. They were a seafaring people after all, not a bunch of landlubbers with a trail of perfume following their powdered arses, giving off a reek strong enough to make even a Braavosi whore gag. The Ironborn lived each day as if it could be their last because it very well could be. The sea was a harsh mistress indeed but so was the life of a Reaver. Paying the iron price wasn’t without its costs and dangers, mainly because poor villagers had a tendency to fight back when their livelihoods were threatened. 

Near the hearth at the far end of the hall, Euron Greyjoy stood leaning over the battle planning table with his eyes fixed on the game pieces. Lorren cleared his throat “Captain”. The King looked up at him, sending him a sly smile. “Lorren! Me ole’ friend! How fares our guest?”. “He’s resting, worn out from the day’s trials”, he looked down at the table, covered with miniature Westerosi castles and armies carved from wood and rock. “You wanted to see me?”. Greyjoy, still smiling, picked up his goblet and took a sniff of the wine. “Aye. I seek your council. You know the northern waters better than I...can our ships pass through White Knife or not?” His finger pointed to a piece of red cord on the table representing the river that carved through the landscape from White Harbour to the Lonely Mountains just north of the Dreadfort. “It depends on how far up river you want to go; the barques and crayers can make it to the bifurcation. Beyond that, the waters are too shallow and only the cogs and the other flat-bottoms can pass through, but even with those vesselsCaptain, you’d have to wait for the tide”. Greyjoy pinched the bridge of his nose like a headache was coming on. Apparently it was not the answer he had been hoping for. “I want Winterfell, Grey, and I want it before the Starks get a chance to regain their strength”

Although he had known Euron Greyjoy's plans of expanding the Ironborn’s dominion in Westeros, realizing the man's overly enthusiastic strategy to do so almost made Lorren drop his jaw. During his forty-some years in the Iron Fleet he had seen hoards of men die from bad decisions made by Balon Greyjoy, and he remembered all to well how his similarly ill-conceived plan of an uprising against the Iron Throne had ended. It was a fight they had been destined to lose from the very beginning, but the Lord Reaper refused to listen to any advice that spoke against his disastrous idea. As a result the Iron Fleet had been near decimated, Balon’s own sons had been killed and the last of his whelps was sent to the Starks as a hostage leaving only the girl-child, Yara, as a potential heir to the Salt Throne.

He liked Yara. She was a strong, fierce and capable captain but nevertheless he had not voted for her at the council met when the Crow’s eye had been anointed the new King. She was unfortunately for her just a woman and even though she was fit to be a leader per se, the fact of her sex was enough to make her vulnerable to the scrutiny of the patriarchy that ruled their nation. There were those who couldn’t stand the idea of being lead by a pair of teats, and the very moment she would have made her first mistake those same men would have jumped at the chance and stabbed her in the back. All they needed was an excuse to usurp her throne, and perhaps they would even have made their own excuse up to achieve their goal. Either way, a woman could not be an Ironborn ruler no matter the level of her intellect or battle-experience. Lorren liked Yara too much to see her getting herself killed so he had stood behind Euron instead. Of course that decision (which had seemed so right at the time) was one he had questioned many times over in the last couple of weeks.

“Winterfell cannot be overrun like so. Sailing up the White Knife, we would be too exposed. A fleet of such size would draw a lot of unwanted attention, and the news of our presence would travel to Winterfell ruling out a surprise attack. The Starks would be waiting for us with swords drawn...we wouldn’t stand a chance against them”. Greyjoy took a big gulp of his wine, his face contorting into a sour grimace like the wine itself was pure vinegar. “What about climbing the walls? Theon succeeded in doing so, didn’t he? That little cunt took Winterfell as easy as scratching his own balls…well, back when he had any balls to scratch”. The King gave a loud snort at his own jest, then recoiled back into his bitter condition once again.

“A child was the Lord of Winterfell back then. Sansa Stark may be an inexperienced ruler of the seat, but her bastard brother who sits beside her was the Lord Commander of the Nightwatch once, and he must have some experience with night-time climbing from his years on the Wall. Even if he hasn't, it is not a mistake the Starks can be expected to make again. They are too smart for that, always have been” The King had fallen silent, weighing Lorren's words while staring at the strategy table and biting his bottom lip. “Has the Bastard’s information proved true?”, he asked finally. “More or less. The ravens have all returned and bore the same message. Most of the Bolton allies have already bend the knee to House Stark, the remaining Houses do not have the men to matter to us”

Euron swept the goblet from the table in one swift, violent motion of his hand. It bounced along the floor with hollow clunking noises before coming to a halt several feet away from the table. “FUCK!” The King yelled, his nostrils flaring as he slammed his fists down making every item on the table rattle and the pieces carved as wolves heads tip over. Lorren stood silently by, watching Greyjoy's fit of rage and keeping a stiff upper-lip while arguing with himself whether or not he should present the idea that had occupied his thoughts for several days now, or the one that had only just popped into his mind a moment ago.

His original plan had been to appeal to the Captain to dispose of the prisoner, so that they might return to the sea instead of rotting away at the Dreadfort, but after he had learned what the King's intentions were towards Winterfell, Lorren assessed that the situation now demanded a more refined approach to keep Greyjoy from throwing his people into yet another war they had no chance of winning. Even though he hated the idea of handing their enemy over and letting someone else give Ramsay Bolton the punishment he deserved, the bastard might prove too essential a part in securing thousands of Ironborn lives for Lorren to justify doing the killing of the man himself. Besides, dead was dead. The Starks would without a doubt execute Bolton, so in reality it was only a question of who would get to swing the axe. Lorren decided the wolves could have the honour of doing so, if it meant preventing Greyjoy from sending them all to their deaths for nothing. Also, with his new diplomatic proposition Lorren didn't have to confront the King with his alarming proclivities and that in itself was almost as big a relief as stopping a pointless war.

Lorren inhaled deeply, carefully selecting his words before he spoke. “There is one more option available to you, Captain”. Greyjoy looked up, his face had a sceptical mien like Lorren had just announced that Theon Greyjoy had grown his balls back. “And what is that, Lorren? Should we dig ourselves inside the walls like fuckin’ moles, hmm?” Greyjoy snorted, burying his hands in his hair, his face flushed and contorted with angry perplexity. 

“You could marry”, Lorren said, and paused for a second, “we need an alliance, if we are to conquer anything except fishing villages along the shores of Ironman’s Bay”. Silence filled the hall, as Euron looked up from the table trying to make sense of Lorren’s words, the expression on his face now puzzled. When he finally spoke his voice had turned a little less skeptical. “To whom? The dragon bitch has already taken in my niece and cock-less nephew. Cersei Lannister hates my House and fucks only her brother!”, he pondered the situation deeply, “that leaves only the Stark girl, but little Theon, the twat, has ruined any good standing I could have hoped to obtain with the wolves” Taking a risk, Lorren interrupted him. “The girl might be interested if you give her something in return...a gift, like the one you have locked up in the dungeon. The Starks want him back. They even have a fair reward out on him or so the rumor in the nearby village says. Perhaps, Sansa Stark’s yearning to see her husband part ways with his head is stronger than her need to remain a widow after it is all over”. 

Greyjoy’s blue eyes widened with sudden realization of the value of his newly discovered negotiating asset. He stood swaying for a prolonged minute, staring at the table, trying to find an answer in the now ruined miniature landscape of Westeros, before raising both hands in the air in celebration. "Excellent!" he exclaimed, then picked up one of the carved wolf pieces from the table and kissed it, long and passionate like he was making a wish on a holy medallion. “By the drowned God” Greyjoy inhaled deeply its wooden scent, curling his lips in the widest smile Lorren had ever seen “I swear, I can smell the sweet nectar of a she-wolf's cunt already”, he hugged the piece to his chest. “Lorren, my trusted friend! Ready the Messenger hawk. Make sure she is rested and fed properly, and bring me quill and paper…I have a proposal to make”

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Hall of Memory

Accept your fate
. A voice like thin ice breaking echoed through his mind. It seemed as though a thousand years had passed since his father's ghost appeared in his dreams, bestowing its dark predictions for the grim future upon him. The Crow’s eye had been an insignificant speck in a vast sea of enemies then; an amusing anecdote roaming the southern seas and nothing more. Of no threat to Ramsay’s existence or dominion he had been unworthy of note, but that was then and this was now. Everything had changed the moment Euron Greyjoy had entered his life, bringing with him a world where only misery thrived, madness prevailed and men did things to other men they shouldn’t. Roose had not appeared before him since that day in the woods and Ramsay felt grateful for it for in his current condition nothing seemed more unbearable than the thought of his late father being a witness to his humiliation.

He lay huddled in a corner staring blankly into the stonewall ahead. The guards had given him a blanket to wrap himself in, presumably to keep him from catching disease, exposed as he was to the cold, moist air of the dungeon. At first he had refused to wear it, tossing it to the side and hoping to fall ill so that death would spare him from any further perversions Greyjoy might bestow upon him. At least by denying his captors the pleasure of ending his life themselves he could regain some control over his destiny, and besides: giving the bastards a small dose of defiance was really all there was left for him to hope for now. When the Ironborn had found the blanket tossed aside they had chained him to the wall with his arms above his head. Wrapped up in the woollen cocoon he sat for half a day, like a defenseless fly trapped in an itchy spiderweb before he finally gave in to their demands. In exchange for being released from his bonds he embraced the unwanted salvage without further resistance. A little freedom was in the end better than no freedom at all. 

After the short-lived rebellion, a guard was present in the dungeon at all times to prevent Ramsay from hanging himself with the blanket. Usually they kept out of sight, though every now and then one of the men would randomly appear before the cell, checking to see if he had done anything that could be deemed as a disobedient act. The Ironborn seemed intent on keeping him alive, but for what purpose other than satisfying the King's sickening needs he did not know. They kept a close watch on his intake of food and water as well, making sure he didn't starve himself or dehydrate. Thrice a day they brought him meals and stood watch until he had consumed every single bite of the horrid fodder. Ramsay overturned the first couple of bowls he was given, spilling the grub on the dirty floor. Despite his intention to remain defiant, the hunger strike had come to an abrupt end as the silver haired man, who went by the name of Grey Lorren, came storming into the cell with an expression of pure, unbridled fury on his dark hued face. "Little shit! What did I bloody tell ya!?!"

Seizing Ramsay around the jaw with one hand, Lorren began stuffing stew into his mouth with the other, then proceeded to pinch his nose shut until he was forced to swallow the thick, spoiled mash. He coughed and spluttered through the fingers covering his mouth, tears coursing down his cheeks as the man relentlessly crammed food into his face. The involuntary feeding continued on one wretched mouthful at a time until the bowl was empty. When the deed was over and done, Grey Lorren grabbed him by the hair and dragged him over to the water-bucket, forcing his face over the rim of it. “Look at you now, flayer", the guard hissed, "do you like what you see?".

As Ramsay caught sight of his reflection in the water, a sense of discouragement filled his being. The change in his appearance was so overwhelming he hardly recognized the man staring back at him from the bucket. Defeat shone from his hollow eyes, grey lifeless orbits in a ghostly pale face. The hair was tousled and dirty, while a shadow of stubble covered his jaw adding to an overall tattered image. His old tidy self was gone now, replaced by some creature that resembled a scruffy, drowned rat. Grey Lorren held him in place for a good long while, making sure that Ramsay had time to take in every single aspect of his face before dunking his head underwater and pulling it back up. “Murdering bastard, you deserve everything that's coming to you!”, he sneered into his soaked face, then pushed him onto the floor. Ramsay crawled back into his corner and faced the wall once again.

There were three men taking turns guarding him. None of them made an effort to hide their resentment towards Ramsay, though Grey Lorren seemed to harbour more hatred than the other two combined. He was clearly the one in charge and also the brightest of the lot which wasn't saying much. Besides him there were Hobbs, a large toad-like creature and an equally sized brute named Owen. Both men had been born without the burden of intellect, and was hardly able to speak and take a piss at the same time. They rarely spoke to him except to give orders or uttering the occasional taunt, yet Ramsay did not mind their reticence at all. In fact, silence was the one thing he came close to appreciate in the hell that now made up his life. Hobbs would stay out of sight most of the time, breathing heavily from his place somewhere in the dungeon. Every half hour or so, he would shuffle over to the cell to see if Ramsay was still alive then return to his post, wheezing and grunting like an overfed boar. The other guard, Owen, stayed in the shadows as well, silent and concealed. Were it not for the odd fart that rung out every now and then Ramsay might have thought he occupied the space by himself.

It had been two days since Greyjoy had been to the dungeons, and although it was a relief not to see his ghastly face or be the subject of his lust, Ramsay could not let go of the anxiety the man had put in him. Every few hours when the guards rotated he woke with a jolt, as the clanging of metal hinges announced someone was either entering or leaving the room. His heart pounded in his chest like a drum and the cell began spinning before his eyes when he imagined the footsteps descending down the stairs belonged to the Reaper, back to take one more greedy bite out of his shredded soul. His body had healed a little, but he still felt a throb in his gut every time he shifted himself into a new position on the ground. There were traces of blood in the bucket when he relieved himself, an atrocious reminder of the rapes and the likely irreparable damage done to his insides. He doubted that neither his body nor spirit could endure another attack. His colon would surely burst, killing him in the most disgraced manner imaginable or he would go mad from the torment itself. Even though he had accepted days ago that he was going to die, Ramsay could not think of a more horrible fate than being molested to death, except of course to remain alive and then being molested ad infinitum.

He had almost drifted off to sleep when Lorren kicked a boot hard against the bars, making Ramsay jerk in surprise. He opened the cell door and stepped inside, carrying a fresh bucket of water and the old set of clothing they had so brutally stripped him off a few days earlier. When life had been worth living. “Get yourself cleaned and put that on”, he ordered, dropping the clothes next to Ramsay. The Ironborn stood back scowling at him as he picked up a soaked cloth from the bucket. Turning his back on the man's uncomfortable stare he began scrubbing his body and face free from dirt, then proceeded to put on the garments. "Faster boy!", Loren said impatiently and kicked him hard in the ass, making Ramsay give of a loud yelp of pain.

A few moments later he was fully clothed, feeling slightly less vulnerable than in his naked state. Ramsay adjusted his doublet and turned towards the guard. Suddenly, his brain fired off a warning signal and a drop of angsty sweat trickled down his temple. Was this it? Am I going to die today? Why else would the Ironborn clean him up and put him back in his clothes if not to lead him to trial and ultimately his death. Although he longed for release, he still felt a growing sense of unease, contemplating the horrendous method of execution Greyjoy had come up with. If only it were the chopping block or the rope he would welcome death like a long lost friend, with arms wide open and a bittersweet smile on his face. It would be a good end, quick and painless, but deep down he knew that neither of those options were avaliable to him. Most likely his departure from the world would involve lots of screams and tears and begging. So much begging.

"You have to wear this", Lorren pulled a piece of black cloth from his back pocket, “hold still”. With the blindfold stretched out between his hands, he approached Ramsay slowly and deeply focused as if cornering a rabbit trying to evade capture. "Why?", the prospect of being blindfolded made Ramsay even more nervous and he took a step backwards. "I don ́t understand, wh...", his sentence was cut off, as a hand smacked him hard across the face. "You don ́t need to understand, bastard!", the Ironborn sneered in a low voice, "just do as you are told, and hold fucking still!". Spinning him around, Lorren tied the cloth tightly over his eyes, blocking out all light. "Let ́s go", he growled. Grabbing his prisoner by the upper arm he dragged him forth, out of the dungeon and into the hallway. 

-------------------

Their footsteps echoed through the hollow corridor like un-rhythmic drumbeats. Ramsay limped hurriedly along striving to keep up with Lorren, the rough-mannered guard seemingly indifferent to the fact that his prisoner was injured and blind as a bat. The air became cooler and less stale as they neared the staircase, making goose bumps spread across his already cold sweating skin. He had no idea where they were going and could not stop himself from fearing the worst. A gruesome death or another soul-shattering rape...maybe it would be both, but in which order? He shuddered at the thought and tried to clear his mind of the nasty images now taking form in it.

With a firm grip on his arm, the older man dragged him up the stairs. He stumbled on the first step and hit his knee against the stone, hard enough to make him wince. "Get up!", the Ironborn ordered, dragging Ramsay along without slowing down his pace. At the top of the stairs they stopped. Then came the sound of rustling keys. As the door to the outside world opened with a slight squeak Ramsay felt a cool breeze caressing his skin. Locked up in the cell for days he had inhaled nothing but foul, moist air making him feel as if he were slowly drowning with each strained breath. He haltered and breathed in deeply, savoring the moment. A few soft flakes of snow landed gently on his face, soaking into the skin as it absorbed his warmth. Tears filled his eyes behind the blindfold. No matter how it all ends...let it happen swiftly. Fingers dug into his flesh, and with a hard yank he was pulled forward. "Move it, bastard! Your Lord awaits”

The powdered snow beneath his boots creaked with each tottering step. He could sense they were moving across the courtyard in an eastern direction away from the gates. "Where are you taking me?", he asked, voice slightly trembling. Lorren, unresponsive to the question cleared his throat and picked up the pace. A few minutes later they came to a halt again and another door opened. The guard led him through and shut the door behind them. A hollow echo resonated downwards, disclosing they were about to descend into a cellar. He caught a whiff of something rancid arising from the depths, a faint but unmistakable smell of rot and ammonia. No, not...not that.

The steps were moist and slippery. At one point Ramsay almost lost his footing and would surely have stumbled down the staircase were it not for the guard's firm grip on his arm. At the bottom of the stairs they took a left down a narrow corridor leaving any further speculations of their final destination pointless. The prospect of what awaited him in the room the guard was leading him to, caused Ramsay's legs to feel gelatinized and made it even harder for him to move with a shred of dignity. The crouched over, faltering walk he was reduced to reminded him of a wounded dog or... or Reek. He straightened his back a little and put on the bravest face he could muster. They reached the end of the hallway where a door swung open before them with a loud groan; to Ramsay it sounded as if the song of the rusty hinges foretold of his impending doom.

A hostile shove in the back made him tumble headfirst into the room, issuing a startled grunt. Before landing flat on his stomach, Ramsay managed to get his hands up in front of his face, saving nose and teeth from being shattered against the floorboards. "You damned cunt", he mumbled under his breath as Lorren's hand closed around his upper arm, pulling him back on his feet. Ramsay was led across the room where he was then pushed hard onto a chair. As his sore ass connected with the wood he grimaced, letting out a hiss of pain. “Thank you, Lorren", Greyjoy's coarse voice sounded far to close to his ear. "Captain". The guard turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door behind him with a dull thunk! Footsteps faded away up the staircase, an eerie silence settling over the chamber instead.

The trophy room had been his family's sanctuary for hundreds of years, a free space where the Lords could bask in memories of past feats and conquered enemies. It was the pride of his kin and a sight unlike any other hall within the castle to behold. In each of the four corners stood a Bolton cross from where countless screams of anguish and despair had been extracted through generations by Ramsay and his forbearers. A collection of hides from more than a hundred men and a few women adorned the walls like macabre ornaments. Only the most prestigious of their kills had earned a spot in the hall, Lords, rebellion leaders or the like, yet the crown of the collection were three former northern Kings; Starks who had been handed over to his kin for either their treason or disloyalty towards the Targaryen regime.

Though rumors of the room's existence and its gruesome contents still thrived in the North, only a handful of living men knew of its exact location within the Dreadfort. Before Eddard Stark became Warden of the North, the Boltons had benefitted quite well from tales of their brutality. It kept their tenant farmers humble and their rivals from moving in on their turf. As it had not surprisingly proved true, the fear alone of feeling the knife was a highly effective weapon against men contemplating a rebellion. Unfortunately, Lord Stark had not approved of the rumors being whispered far and wide about halls filled with human skins and Roose had felt it necessary to put a pin in as much of the gossip concerning their collection of horrors as he possibly could.

Ramsay inhaled deeply but regretted it instantly as a heavy, revolting odour hit his nose, making him retch. What in the seven hells is that stench? Something had surely died and begun to rot not far away from him. He lifted his hand to remove the blindfold. “No, no, leave it on. We don ́t want to spoil the surprise, do we?”, the King chortled, "It will be glorious, I promise you". Shink! Shink! Shink! Behind Ramsay, the unmistakeable sound of a knife blade grinded against butcher's steel rang out. By the Gods, not that. Anything but that. His fingers tightened around the arm rest making the wood creak.

Shink! Shink! Shink! The noise finally ceased. Ramsay held his breath, calming himself as best he could. A gasp escaped his lips as cold steel was pressed against the back of his neck. "I've missed you terribly", a jaunty voice above him purred, "all those lonely nights spent apart has proved such a trial for me”. He felt the blade trailing down his spine, grazing each vertebra with its tip. “I wonder...did you miss me as well?" Ramsay remained silent, struggling to keep the panic that had crept into his very marrow from taking control. The King removed the blade from Ramsay’s back. "Well, that just hurts my feelings! And after all I have done for you; clothed you, fed you...kept you alive, even though I ought not have done so".

He leaned forward, bringing his face close to his captive's neck. With one deep intake of breath he inhaled his scent, making Ramsay shiver in disgust. "My men want you dead, you know", Greyjoy's whisper tickled his ear, "sooner rather than later and in a way that is, ehh...how should I put this without unsettling you?", he sighed, then clicked his tongue in false compassion, "Excruciatingly. Fuckin'. Painful". A chill ran down Ramsay's spine and he squirmed in his seat. The tip of the knife scraped lightly against his cheek, circling the skin without breaking it. "Unfortunately, I'm no good with a blade; skinned a couple of deer in my life, but it turned out messy every time. Maybe you can give me some advice, huh? Let me in on the family secret?", Ramsay winched as the knife grazed the skin behind his ear, drawing a little blood. "Oh no, would you look at that? How clumsy of me"

A wave of dizziness swept over him, clouding his mind. The unoriginality of the Islanders revenge could almost have been deemed an insult if it were not so damned horrifying. Though Ramsay had expected them to come up with something gruesome he had not contemplated it would involve using his own methods against him. The prospect of being skinned alive made his heart pound in his chest, and his throat felt tight allowing him only short, shallow breaths. This is all wrong! This is not the way it is supposed to end! NO, you damned bastard! Abruptly, his thoughts were swept away and the tremors subsided.

A primitive mechanism in his brain sparked to life, eliciting a defensive response to the threat against his life. Through his veins coursed a flush of heat, making muscles tense up and his teeth grind against each other. The savage, furious beast he knew all to well came crawling out its cave from deep within, teeth sharp and bared, ready to kill. If my life is to end, I will die fighting this cursed cunt till my last drawn breath. The fear he had felt but a moment ago seemed to have receded concurrent with his rage rising. Greyjoy might kill him for it, but he was going to die anyhow no matter the amount of begging he did or how many of the man’s depraved demands he agreed to. At the moment he was free from restraints but might not remain so for much longer. No matter what move he ended up making had to be made soon. It might be his last chance to kick Greyjoy's perfect teeth through the back of his skull, and he wasn’t about to let an opportunity like that pass him by. Having nothing left to loose, Ramsay prepared himself for a fight to the death. Lifting a hand to his face, he snatched off the blindfold, “You fuckin’ deviant bastard!”, he snarled, “Suck cock in hel...”

"Aaaahhh!!", Ramsay cried out in surprise and drew himself rearwards, hitting his head against the backrest with great force. The rage that had nearly driven him to a suicidal attack dissolved as quickly as it had arisen. His eyes became wide with terror and his jaw slacked open as he fought to comprehend the scene unfolding before him. On the opposite side of a small dining table his father had been placed in a chair, slumped against the backrest. Blackish-green splotches painted with red streaks like veins in morbid marble covered the visible parts of the corpse. The decay had been decelerated from him being buried in frozen ground for the past few months, but Roose was evidently still far along in the putrefaction process. Thankfully, he was half-way frozen which meant that he had been dug up recently, and that the stench exuding from his rotting flesh was not as foul as it potentially could have been.

He felt the Kraken's breath hot on his ear. "Surprise!", he whispered teasingly, "say hello to your father, Ramsay". Fingers caressed the back of his neck, another hand stroked the tussled strands of his hair. All coherent thought had left Ramsay's mind and he starred dumbfounded at his dead Sire, hardly taking heed of Euron's awkward touch. Although his father's ghost had rattled him quite a bit when appearing uninvited in his dream, seeing his actual corpse seated before him made former feelings of dismay fade away in comparison. “Come on! don ́t be rude, sweetheart! Say hello”, Greyjoy chuckled, “he won ́t bite...will you, Lord Bolton?”. The corpse remained slouched in its seat, jaw hanging slack, the cloudy eyes staring at nothing. Wrapping his arms around his captive's neck, the King let out a sigh. "What a reunion, huh? Such joy it brings me to see you two together again. Sure, ol' Roose here is not much of a talker, but we got along fine regardless...in the end silence suits most men", he gave Ramsay’s shoulders a tight squeeze then slapped them hard making him jump in his seat, “Now! I do have a few questions for you and you really should consider answering them truthfully. If you do not...I might just take offence”

Euron strolled around the dining table and sat down in a chair next to the cadaver, seemingly not to mind neither its presence nor stench. Leaning back in the seat, his teeth flashed bright in a sly smile. He looked from Ramsay to the dead man by his side, then back again. "You know? I don ́t really see the resemblance...are you sure that, err...", Ramsay swallowed and blinked a few times. "...I mean do you even know if you are his son? Your mother could have been a whore, willing to jump on top any cock in Westeros for a loaf of bread...”, a touch of malice had crept into Greyjoy's otherwise chipper voice as he searched his captive’s face intently to find out whether or not there were any truth to his vile words. Bowing his head, Ramsay averted his inquiring gaze, "you didn’t know your mother, did you Ramsay?" The King said, relishing his discomfort. Sitting for a long while in silence watching Ramsay staring into the floorboards he finally ceased his cruel endeavour. “Alright, fine fine...no more of that”

He motioned towards the hides that hung from the wall covering every stone of the wide surface. "This is magnificent by the way...you flayers sure do know how to make a room cosy", he looked around, admiring the trophies. “Rumour has it a few Starks hangs from these walls, is that true?". Ramsay nodded his head reluctantly, which made the Lord Reaper burst into laughter. "By the old gods themselves, Lord Bolton! What a fine collection indeed! It ́s good there are still some cunts around worth the piss of conserving!". Do something, boy! Protect your damn honour! Hesitantly, he looked up at the cadaver. Its dead eyes was glaring at him from across the table, sending his heartbeat into a frenzy. Ramsay quickly lowered his gaze again. Go away Father. Just...go away.

After his premature demise, Roose had been brought back to the Dreadfort for burial. It had not mattered to Ramsay where the body was laid to rest or even if it was buried at all, but being the new Lord Bolton called for certain appearances to be kept so he decided to give his predecessor a traditional deposit despite of. Had the northern nobles known he was the one who had disposed of his father it would be harder, if not impossible to convince them to join his ranks. He had to honor the tradition of burying dead Lords within the homestead so as to not raise suspicion toward his sudden rise to power and the methods that got him there. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but now that Roose sat before him staring him down with his cloudy, condemning eyes, Ramsay wished strongly he had just burned the body instead.

"Perhaps I should start a collection of my own now that I am Lord of this heap of dung. It seems only fitting, does it not?" The King sought eye contact, but Ramsay kept staring at the floor avoiding him. "Ramsay, look at me!", he ordered, receiving no response. Reaching within his ropes, Greyjoy produced the long, thin-bladed knife he had scraped against Ramsay’s spine earlier and slammed it down on the table, making his prisoner jump in his seat and regain his attention. “This conversation is started to get a little one sided but that is fine, I understand; you are baffled by my generosity". His facial expression had turned deadpan. "Since you do seem a little distracted today, I ́ll get straight to it. A thought has been nagging at me lately and I can no longer stand the suspense...how did you escape Winterfell?”

Was there any reason to lie at this point? Anything to gain by it? The rotting corpse proved a major distraction, making it near impossible for him to conjure up any clever schemes or tricks even if he wanted to. Perhaps it was a better strategy to simply tell the truth rather than get caught lying and having to face the consequences for it. He decided to play along at least for a while. "Through an underground tunnel leading to the forest beyond. After that I travelled by foot" One of the monster's eyes gave a discrete twitch. "Aha. And how many of these tunnels are there?" They do want to take Winterfell after all the greedy bastards. How splendid! It will surely end in your demise, Squid, and the world will be rid off its vilest piece of filth. Who could have known telling the truth had its advantages? Greyjoy seemed so bent on dismantling his own rule, that Ramsay almost laughed out loud from the absurdness of his overconfident plan. Yet, as imbecilic as it were it had opened the door for him to negotiate some terms of his own; the King wanted information from him and he sure as hell wasn’t giving it up for free.

"Are you going to kill me?", he gave the Kraken a somber look, "’cause if you are, just get on with it! Your little games are becoming such a bore". Euron ran a finger across his upper lip, stroking his beard. "How many tunnels, Lord Bolton?", he repeated, unaffected by the impudent remarks, "mind you, it is in your best interest to provide me with an answer" Ramsay looked from the King to his father, the sight made the bile rise in his throat. “What is the point of me telling you anything, if I am to end up like him?” he nodded towards the corpse, “you need to give me something in return" Calmly, Greyjoy picked up the knife from the table, testing the blade's sharpness against his thumb. “And why have you even bothered digging him up? His stench is worse than your own!”. Although Ramsay knew he was taking a highly dangerous risk provoking the monster, he simply could not endure the tension he felt from his uncertain fate for much longer. If he was successful in riling his enemy up into a murder frenzy the blade might find its way to his jugular and the nightmare would be over.

With Ramsay eyeing his every move, the Salt King rose slowly from the table. Clutching the knife in his hand, he walked over to the corpse and positioned himself behind it, resting his arms nonchalantly on the top rail of the chair. “Did you know, you talk in your sleep?”, Euron gave him a mischievous smile, “oh yes, quite the chatterer you are. After the stories my men told me of your nightly confessions, I just had to hear them for myself and you didn ́t disappoint! Such interesting things you revealed about yourself, your family..." The thought of the monster watching him while he slept made Ramsay’s stomach turn, "...I almost shed a tear when you cried about missing your father", Euron tapped the flat side of the knife twice against Roose's scalp giving off dull clunking noises, "so I merely wanted to bring you two back together again. It was a gift, you see? You should say thank you, Ramsay"
 
Oh, I want to thank you alright...by shoving that blade down your wretched throat sideways, you diseased cunt! Ramsay put on his best face of calm indifference. "Whatever your plan is, with all this...it is futile. He died by my hand and I feel no guilt about it. You can parade his corpse in front of me all you’d like, it's not going to change anything" Greyjoy gave a loud snort, "Oh, I know you killed him. Your men confessed all, right before they met the drowned God. Besides, poison rarely stabs holes in your gut...and that was the fable you spun, wasn't it? that he was poisoned?". He chuckled, letting the tip of the blade circle the cadaver’s scalp. “Tsk, tsk, Lord Bolton. You sneaky traitor...”

His soldiers were all dead then. Not that it mattered. He would never be able to shake off the memories of the rapes, and even if his men had been able to rescue him from the King’s clutch his life would still be over. The shame of what had occurred in the dungeon would be too much for him to bear. "Just so you know, I don ́t blame you. Family can be like a shit infested wound begging to be cleansed. No one knows that better than I", Euron flashed his unsettling smile again, the grin of a prehistoric creature, nothing but sharp teeth and foul intent. “But I digress...answer me, please; how many tunnels are there at Winterfell?”

"I'll answer your questions if you let me go" The large man threw his head back and a great bellow of laughter filled the room. "Aaah, that ́s rich!!! Would you like to make any other demands while you’re at it, hmh?" Standing behind the chair Greyjoy leaned forward over the corpse awaiting a reply with keen interest, his laughter had faded into a small chuckle. "Then at least grant me a quick death." Ramsay swallowed the lump in his throat, "all that I know about Winterfell, the Starks and the other northern Houses I will share with you, if you slit my throat afterwards...that way we both get what we want" Euron rolled his eyes. "Not getting through to you, am I? Either you tell me everything...or I will make you regret, you didn ́t". He clenched the knife handle tightly, the metal glimmering in the torchlight. Pulling forth the last shred of courage left within him, Ramsay turned his face away. "Got nothing for you then. So go ahead...make me regret it!"

“As the Lord commands!”. Promptly, Euron stabbed the knife into the dead man ́s eye, pulling it from its socket with a wet, squishyPLOP! Thick, green goo came pouring out of the hole spilling down over Roose’s cheek. Bending forward Ramsay threw up his supper, undigested chunks of stew landing on the floor and his boots. Greyjoy came strolling towards him with the eye skewered on the knife, holding it as casually as if it were a candied apple on a stick. He rested his rear on the table in front of Ramsay looking down at him with a serious mien. "Let ́s try this again, shall we? How many tunnels are there? And don ́t waste any more of my time or I ́ll feed you this!". He waved the knife in front of his face. The punctured glob oozed a fluid that ran down the blade, thick and sticky like foul-smelling resin. "Aaahh!!!" Covering his mouth with his palm, Ramsay retched. "No, don ́t! There is only the one!" His words came out muffled between the fingers.

"Good boy. I knew you’d come around! And so onto my next question! How many men remain loyal to the Starks?” Ramsay sat paralyzed, staring at the pierced eyeball, convinced that a grey iris beneath the layer of white cornea were glaring back at him, conveying its disapproval of his cowardice. "I...I dunno!" he stammered. "Guess!", Greyjoy sneered and drew the knife so close to his face, the rotting glob touched his cheek. Ramsay gave off a howl of disgust. Staring at Euron with huge, wet eyes he began babbling. "Around a thousand...but...but...maybe more...maybe double that...I dunno...if my men have joined them...please! Get it away! GET THAT THING AWAY!"

Retracting the knife, Greyjoy considered the numbers. “Hmmm...that is a lot” he muttered and bit down on his lower lip while studying his prisoner. “Are there any nobles unwilling to bend the knee to House Stark?" Ramsay felt a globule of decomposing fluid run down his cheek. He wiped frantically at it with his sleeve, gagging at the same time. "Karstark, Manderlay, perhaps ". The Kraken sighed deeply, clearly disappointed by the news. "And what are their numbers?" Zero, most likely...but I'm not telling you that. "A few hundred if I am to guess" Euron gave him a long hard stare then dragged the blade along his sleeve, causing the punctured eye to drop to the ground“ If you are lying to me, I’ll find out soon enough and then his crumbling cock”, he waved the knife at the one-eyed cadaver, “will be your last meal, understand? So last chance little Lord...do you have anything to confess?”

Shaking his head, Ramsay swallowed bitterly. “I told you everything, I swear it. There is nothing more” Greyjoy's hand settled on top of his head, tussling the hair. "Good, you have done so good! See? If you just bow to my wishes I won ́t have to hurt you. Do not want to cause you more pain than necessary”. Lying swine. If only their roles had been reversed. In his mind's eye, Ramsay pictured the Reaper's hide hanging from the walls of the chamber, a sea creature curiosity added to the collection of mainland nobles. He would have made him a masterpiece, perfecting the peeling and conservation of the skin, then suspending it from a place where he could enjoy the sight of it every single day. How he would have made him scream. Oh yes. The monster would have screamed.

Standing up straight, Euron nearly blocked out the light from the torches behind his imposing frame. Ramsay glared up at him with hatred burning in his eyes, his nose flaring with each strained breath. Greyjoy's crotch was uncomfortably close to his face and he wanted nothing more than to drive his fist into the man ́s balls, crushing them like snake eggs under a boot heel. Won't make it far but maybe it will be worth it. The King's hand trailed down and gave his cock a squeeze through his breeches. "Let ́s play a little game", he smiled, locking eyes with Ramsay, "you like games, do you not?".

Sauntering around the table Euron placed himself behind Roose. With a quick brutal thrust downwards he stabbed the knife into the dead man’s skull, piercing the bone. “The rules are very simple: seize it and it’s yours.” he motioned towards the knife, handle sticking out from on top off the head like a candle from a candlestick. “Of course, you have to get past me first”. Euron licked his lips in anticipation, his face now lit with impish glee. He folded his hands on his stomach patiently awaiting his opponents move. With his mind racing, Ramsay remained seated for a prolonged moment in silence, trying desperately to figure out how to approach this new and very dangerous challenge he had been faced with. Acquiring the knife and stabbing it into Greyjoy's diseased brain was preferable, but he would settle with slicing his own throat if the main objective should fail. He shot his dead father a fleeting glance and swallowed hard.

Arising slowly from his seat, Ramsay felt the King's sly, predatory eyes follow his every move. Ramsay limped over to the table’s end, approaching the man submissively with his gaze fixed on the floor. "What’s the point? I wouldn't stand a chance against you...and I don ́t want to take a beating for an already lost cause", his voice sounded uneven, faltering, "so I have a proposition instead...one that will prove beneficial for us both under the circumstances". Lifting his head, Ramsay met a pair of blue eyes, brimming with annoyance. “Negotiating again are we?", Euron scoffed, "tell me: what could you possibly have to offer that I could not simply take from you by force?”, He drew his face in close and growled, “nothing is what. You have nothing!”. A hard shove in his chest made Ramsay take a step backwards and almost loose his footing in the process. Euron spread his arms wide, urging him to charge. "Com’on! let's play!".

Ramsay closed his eyes, then sank to his knees in front of the King. Looking back up again, he saw Greyjoy's expression had turned into one of slight intrigue at the sight of his capitulation. “All I have to give is this. You could force it upon me, sure...Still, some things are better without coercion, wouldn’t you agree, my Lord?” The Kraken sucked his teeth, “Well, well, Snow. Aren't you a dirty little whore? I would not have expected such lewd behavior from such a prestigious man”. Inhaling deeply, he made an inward hissing sound, then reached down brushing a thumb over Ramsay’s lips. “As tempting as your offer is, how could I possibly trust you not to bite me, hmh? You seem to be quite fond of it as I recall. Perhaps, I should remove all your teeth first just to make sure no accidents are to happen”. A single tear escaped Ramsay's eye and trailed down his cheek. "Nothing as drastic is needed. I only beg, that my father...", he nodded slightly towards the mangled corpse, "...he should not suffer such desecration any longer. I will do anything you say if you will but promise to bury him". His impossibly wide eyes locked with Euron's and he whispered in a frail voice, "and please don ́t violate me again...please don ́t. I will be good to you". 

Flashing a row of pearly white teeth, Greyjoy weighed his words. A familiar tingle travelled from his balls, up the spine and to the back of his head making the blood rush to his loins. His cock twitched at the sight of his enemy submissively kneeling before him. He rested his hand on top of the younger man’s head and gave him a hard threatening stare. “If I feel teeth...even for a second, I will peel your hide like a grape then fuck whatever is left of you. After that my men will have a go...now, do you doubt my words?” Ramsay bowed his head. “No, Sire. I do not doubt you”. Greyjoy trailed his fingers down Ramsay’s cheek before retracting the hand to untie his leather belt and pulling out his already hard prick “Show me how sincere you are, Lord Bolton...we might have a deal if you please me just right”

In a flash, Ramsay had balled up his fist, and with all the strength he could muster, smashed it directly into Greyjoy's exposed testicles. The large man doubled over letting out a furious roar of pain. His hand shot out, grasping for Ramsay who dodged him easily then sprang swiftly to his feet, lunging for the knife wedged in his father's skull. Gripping the handle with both hands, he pulled and twisted desperately, trying to wrench the blade free but it wouldn’t budge. No! For fuck ́s sake!Finally, the knife came free in his hand, giving off a wet squishy sound like a soaked sponge dropped on the floor as it detached itself from bone and mushy brains.

The body fell forward; head and torso hitting the table top with a dull clonk, its rotting tissue seeping from the gaping hole and into the wood grain. Ramsay barely had time to register that something was moving towards him with great speed before he felt a body slamming into his, sending the knife flying out of his hand and landing several feet away. As he was thrust violently backwards, his hip hit the edge of the table making him twirl in the air then plummet to the ground. The very instant his body connected with the floor he was up again, scrambling onto his hands and knees and scurried under the table, instinctively searching for a cover from his captor's wrath that no doubt would be upon him soon.

His heart was pounding against his ribcage, as he looked out from between chair and table legs at the King's boots less than ten feet away from him. “That was a devious little trick, Lord Bolton... very devious indeed", a small amount of perplexity had crept into Euron's enraged tone, "you're going to pay for that, you little shit" Ramsay watched in wariness as the boots travelled over to first pick up the knife, then began circling the table like a predator searching for the right angle to pounce on its prey. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, ignoring the gagging smell coming from just above his head. There were nowhere for him to run. No other choice than to remain waiting for whatever would happen next.

Strong fingers closed around the scruff of his neck, yanking him out from beneath his cover and onto his feet. He looked up into a pair of narrowed eyes, blazing with fury. Placing his hands on Ramsay's shoulders, Greyjoy breathed heavily through his nose a few times, calming himself down so that he would not throttle his prisoner to death in a fit of rage. He was seldom tricked by anyone, man or woman, and most surely had never been done over by a bastard whelp who had barely entered manhood. The Bolton bastard had turned out to be less timid and willing to submit than Euron had expected him to be at this point, and now he had even flashed his teeth at him. As much as he liked a good struggle, he did not care for such surprises and that was exactly what Ramsay had given him: a big fucking surprise, right in the balls.

"You disappoint me, Ramsay. What an insolent little tease you are", he hissed through clenched teeth, "is that any way to thank me for reuniting you with your Sire?". The hands on Ramsay’s shoulders felt as though they each weighed a thousand pounds and he began trembling beneath their pressure. He had failed his chance of ending the nightmare whether it be by killing Greyjoy or himself. Another opportunity to do so would most likely not arise again.

The prospect of his impending punishment was tearing his mind apart as it searched desperately for a way to lessen the blow. Should he fight, risking more damage to himself? Or should he comply and gain some favor, thereby making the King less likely to brutalize him? If there was no way out of the predicament and not even death was an option, what was there to do? Which ever path he chose to go down could turn out to be the wrong one, causing him to face some deeply regretful consequences. Then again, there might not exist such a thing as a right choice. The King was obviously a lunatic, a neither predictive nor logical man, so there was really no way of telling how he would react either way.

"I don ́t want to hurt you, but it is as if you want me to", Greyjoy made a disappointed exhalation, "why do you make me do such things?" Ramsay's face twisted in a grimace, trying to choke back a sob stuck in his throat. The last ounce of his defiance was stated in a weak whisper "you are boring me again, you dim-witted oaf. Do what you must and spare me your tedious threats" Greyjoy let out a sigh, then settled his hand on the leather strap around Ramsay’s waist. Slowly, he started untying it with a series of rough tugs. Ramsay looked away in disgust, breathing rapidly through his nose as he felt his breeches loosen. The monster revelled in his discomfort, a wicked smile forming on his broad face. “Just remember you brought this on yourself”.

Grabbing a hold of Ramsay’s shoulders, the King bent him roughly over the table and held him in place with a hand on his neck. Less than three feet away, Roose lay slumped over facing them. The thick, rotting substance spilling out of the eye-socket and out from the hole in his skull. Ramsay could make out the pupil of the remaining eye, and he tried turning his head away but couldn’t. Euron tightened his grip, pressing the side of his face against the wood. “What do you think your Sire would say if he could still speak?”, his breeches were pulled down over his ass, a gust of cold air brushed over his exposed skin “do you think he would be proud?” He closed his eyes, trying to escape. A heavy pressure was on his ribcage as Greyjoy leaned over, resting his weight on his back. A wisp of warm breath on his neck, made him squirm and give off a weak whimper. Utterly helpless he lay pinned beneath Euron's body, making him lightheaded from the lack of air his crushed lungs could no longer provide his brain. A large hand closed around his skull as fingers pulled his eyelids upwards, forcing him to look straight ahead at the corpse. He tried shutting them again but couldn't. You can ́t see this, father. Don ́t look at me, I beg you.

Something hard pushed against his ass. He struggled not to cry, yet a muffled squeal escaped him as Greyjoy rammed his full length mercilessly inside him, making the table rattle from the shear ferocity of his thrust. Without the slightest concern for his victim’s still healing body, the King began pounding away at his ass. Ramsay’s face was scraping against the wooden surface and his groin hit the edge of the table with each forward push of Euron’s hips. “Do you see, Lord Bolton?”, his violator sneered between short, rapid pants, “do you see your heir take my cock like a bitch in heat?” The dead man’s head shook to the beat of the rattling table. “Stop! Stop!” Ramsay gasped, but the monster kept stabbing into his shredded bowels unaffected by his pleas. Instead his mouth closed around the smooth skin on Ramsay’s shoulder and he bit down hard, drawing an agonized shriek from the man as he broke the surface of his hide. “Since you enjoy biting so much, I thought I'd return the favour”. Euron's mouth curled into a bloodied smile. He bit down once more this time on the back of Ramsay's neck, evoking yet another scream. Then again, again and again, making his prisoner cry out miserably with each savage attack of his teeth.

Ramsay felt his soul come apart, ripped to pieces by humiliation and the trauma forced upon his body and mind. You are not my son you weak, disgusting mongrel, Roose whispered with contempt, no real man would allow himself to be corrupted so. Perhaps, it is because you like it...deep down you must like it. The devastating words made a numbness spread through Ramsay's being and suddenly he felt nothing at all. The Krakens heavy breathing faded in his ears as he stepped out of his body, and floated to the ceiling of the chamber, lifted there gently by invisible hands. Looking down he saw Greyjoy abusing his shell left behind, with sweat running down his face, his teeth clenched from the strain of fucking the tight ass with such complete ferocity it made his own cock sore.

Euron saw the bastard staring off into space and realized he was trying to shut him out. He pulled his cock out from the swollen hole, then grabbed the semi-conscious man around the torso and lifted him of the table. Dragging the limp body a few steps backwards, he sat down in a chair and drew his victim onto his lap so that his back was against his chest. Greyjoy positioned himself against the sphincter, and with a firm grip on the narrow waist he pulled Ramsay down on his rock-hard member in a slow, but steady pace until he could feel warm flesh against his stomach and thighs. The man snapped out of his catatonic state with a jolt and a squeal as he was skewered onto the prick, feeling the full length and girth burying itself deep in his guts. While holding his plaything firmly by the hips, Euron began bouncing his ass up and down, moaning out loud from the pleasure he attained by Ramsay wiggling wildly in his lap. In his mind, a wicked thought sprung to life.

A hand crept around Ramsay’s waist and closed around his cock, stroking it once. Instantly, the bastard’s body went rigid. “No, no, no, no”, he whimpered, “what are you doing!?!”. The despair in his voice made Euron feel on the verge of exploding. Holding the smaller man restrained with an arm around his chest, he began jerking off his cock, applying long, slow strokes to the shaft. “I know, you want this...admit it”, he whispered as his hand began to stroke faster.

A tingle in his lower region made Ramsay look down. His prick had gone hard in Greyjoy’s palm. “NO!” he screamed in terror and fought wildly to lift himself off the King, but the grip around his torso only tightened further, making it impossible for him to escape the monster skewering him. Euron picked up his pace, the thrusts of his hips turned short and savage. His hand jerked Ramsay’s cock at an equally ferocious speed, every now and then giving it a quick squeeze. Ramsay felt his body betray him as his cock grew larger and his back arched against the man behind him. Having no strength left to endure it any longer he surrendered to his shameful climax, letting out a muffled whimper as his seed poured out of his cock in short, angry bursts, landing on his rapist's hand, running down and in between his fingers like a thick, spilled cream.

The muscles in his gut twitched and his ass clenched down on Euron’s prick, making him gasp and his eyes roll back in his head from shear ecstasy. With a loud roar echoing through the hall, the King exploded inside Ramsay sending a gush of semen into his bowels. Exhausted, Ramsay slumped back against Greyjoy’s chest trembling and sobbing. The Reaper lifted his hand sticky with semen, and gestured towards the corpse on the other side of the table. “Would you look at that, Lord Bolton! I told you he ́d like it”. The monster chuckled, a diabolic joyous sound that made the last of Ramsay’s defences crumble to dust. He began sobbing pitifully into his hands, his body protesting wildly with each flexing of his muscles.

With his last strength he tried to lift himself off Greyjoy’s lap. Strong hands closed around his waist and held him in place, denying him the freedom to move. “You made a mistake today...defying me”, a voice sounded close to his ear “maybe you don ́t think that things can get worse, but I promise you they can and they will, if you don’t start behaving”. Ramsay chocked back a sob. “so will you start doing as instructed?” When Ramsay did not answer he thrust his hips violently upwards, reminding his victim of what remained inside him and could easily stir back to life, hurting him all over again.

A gasp escaped Ramsay’s lips as a jolt of pain shot up through his sore body. “please no more... I’ll behave” his voice had turned frail and weak, the sound of defeat, “could you please...remove it now”. Greyjoy placed his hands on Ramsay's hips and lifted him upwards, the bloodied prick sliding out of his ass. He collapsed on Euron's lap, too exhausted to stand let alone put up a fight. “See? When you obey you get a reward and when you don ́t...well, you get this”, a hand reached around his waist and gave his cock a hard squeeze. "I..I..unde...stand...I understand", he stammered, his voice and body trembling from the trauma. "Good boy!". Greyjoy slapped his ass and lifted Ramsay off him, sending him into a near forward fall as his knees buckled from the sudden pressure of his own weight.

Putting away his member, Euron pulled up his breeches and tightened his belt, then turned to Ramsay and began fixing his clothing as well. Looking down, he discovered the semen coating his hand. "Hmm", he growled lightly and wiped his fingers off on Ramsay's shoulder. Ramsay stood paralyzed, eyes blinking away a steam of tears, allowing the man to readjust his garb as if he was a mere child without the ability to do so himself.

As he had near finished the task, Euron tugged gently on his doublet then looked into Ramsay's eyes with a serious mien. "Don't worry about him", he nodded towards the mangled body slumped over the dining table, "he's going into the ground soon enough, starting to stink up the place anyway. But if..." Euron placed a finger on the bridge of Ramsay's nose, tapping it once and making him blink in surprise, "...IF you try that little trick one more time...all three of us will meet up again and I'll make good on my promise of feeding you his rotting prick". Ramsay nodded his head slightly and looked down at the ground. Euron stared at the top of his head for a long while making sure he understood the threat fully, then turned on his heel and strolled towards the door. Flinging it open he yelled up the staircase, a playful tone coating his voice "Lorren! yer black bastard! Get down here and fetch his Lordship. We’re done for today!" 



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Hope, and what it leads to

After the assault, the merciful darkness had embraced him, but for how long he did not know. A distant sound of rustling metal awoke him making his eyes flutter weakly open. Someone had released him from his restraints, placing his broken body on the ground amongst the scattered hay. He was disoriented, and at first his mind could not recall where he was or what had taken place. With a small jerk of his leg it all came back as a wave of agony crashed through his being, making every nerve tremble from pain and the trauma he had suffered. Something horrible had happened and the evidence was there clearly enough; his wrists were red and swollen from having borne his weight, hanging from the rope Greyjoy had secured him with. Inside his bowels twisted and burned as if someone had punched him in the gut several times with a sledgehammer, ripping muscles apart and turning organs into a throbbing pulp.

He was alone in the dungeon. A sharp smell of iron lingered and Ramsay realised it stemmed from blood seeping from inside him. He looked down seeing crusted redness streaking his inner thighs, disclosing to the world what horrors the Kraken had put him through. At the sight of the gore his eyes filled with tears and a strangled cry escaped his lips, making him immediately clutch his stomach from the shattering pain it provoked. Every breath caused him strain, every slight shift of a limb sent bolts of agony through his bowels. Small sobs turned into weak whimpers as Ramsay fought to remain as motionless as possible to lessen the pain, jabbing mercilessly away at his sore insides.

In this moment he yearned for the sweet release of death. Ramsay looked over at the wall from where he had hung earlier when Greyjoy had...abused him. The rope was gone now, which meant that the Ironborn had been foresighted enough to predict his current state of mind and the intent that now emerged from deep within it. No matter what agonized endeavor it would have taken him to drag his mangled body over to the rope and put the noose around his neck, he would not have let himself be vanquished in the attempt. He had to escape the pain and humiliation he felt somehow. To keep on living after what had been done to him seemed impossible. Gradually, the quivering dwindled as his exhausted mind drifted back into the darkness where he was safe from beastly men who smelled of the sea.

A foot on his chest nudged him awake. The guard who had forced him to undress earlier stood leaning over him, holding a bowl of food. Ramsay felt his stomach turn at the sweet smell so he ignored the man's gesture by turning his face against the wall and close his eyes, hoping that sleep would grant him an escape from the world. A hard kick to his side made him give off a startled yelp. Ramsay looked up meeting the guard’s impatient stare. The man had a thick head of grey hair and was very dark skinned, which was a rare sight in the North; someone had apparently fucked a summer islander, spawning yet another piece of Ironborn filth, this one slightly more dusky than the rest, but otherwise embracing the same raggedy bearings as the rest of their people. He sent the man a vindictive scowl back but said nothing. What could he really threaten someone with at this point? He would only succeed in infuriating the guard more, making his life an even greater hell than it already was.

The guard, stripped of sympathy for Ramsay, held the bowl crookedly over his head and spilled some drops of the mushy content into his hair. “You better eat or I am to feed you myself and trust me, boy...you wouldn ́t like that one bit”. Ramsay reached for the bowl with trembling hands. The guard slammed it down in his palm making chunks of stew fly all over, some of it hitting Ramsay in the face. He looked at the bowl, then at the man who now stood with arms crossed, scowling at him. Apparently he was not going to take his leave until his prisoner had ingested some sustenance. “Eat! Or I will shove it down your damned throat!”. Reluctantly, Ramsay dipped two fingers in the stew and brought them to his lips, which caused his mouth to fill with warm spittle, and he threw up next to the guard's feet. Wiping his mouth with the back of the hand he looked with disgust into the bowl then up again at the man. “Try again!”, the Ironborn sneered through clenched teeth on the verge of kicking him once more. Ramsay forced the food into his mouth and tasted the sickening sweetened mishmash of whatever it was. He gaged, though this time he managed to swallow without vomiting. “And again”, the guard said, this time in a slightly milder tone and his prisoner obeyed.

When he had finished the content of the bowl, the guard left him. Ramsay felt a deep revulsion at the fact that he had been forced to submit to the Ironborn's command in order to avoid more pain than he had already suffered. He knew, they only fed him in order to keep him alive longer, to prolong the torture, and had he not ingested the grub by himself, the guards would have force fed him; the result being the same. He would get food in his stomach one way or another, only one of those ways involved a lot more pain and humiliation than the other, and Ramsay did not think he could bare any more indignity in his lifetime. When he was sure that the silver haired guard had exited the dungeon, a few tears leaked from his eyes.

Two buckets had been brought in while he had been asleep: one filled with water and a piece of cloth, the other empty meant for him to relieve himself in. Although the agony was persistent in his mind, the level of soreness in his body had diminished a little bit. Very slowly, Ramsay crawled on his hands and knees over to the water bucket. Pain shot through him with every movement his body made but he had to be clean no matter the amount of suffering endured in the process. He had to wash off Greyjoy’s fluids and smell to keep himself from going insane. He grabbed the soaked cloth and scrubbed away at his skin until he was red and numb all over. Still, he did not feel clean, but the exhaustion from both crawling to the bucket and from the attack itself, kept him from rubbing himself to shreds. After the insufficient cleanse, Ramsay heaped some hay together and rested his head on the pile.

-------

There were a clanking of metal, followed by creaking wood as the dungeon door came open. At first, he suspected that the silver-haired man had returned to cram more disgusting stew down his throat, but the sound of bare feet paddling on stone suggesting it was someone more entitled, someone more haughty than a simple guard, made him abandon the thought. Alerted by the unusual footsteps he hurried, despite great discomfort, up into a sitting position. Greyjoy appeared in front of the cell, leaning slightly back and forth with a wine goblet in his hand. Beneath Ramsay’s skin something started to quiver. A long white tunic covered the King’s body and he wore a grave look on his face. He stood for a while swaying, staring Ramsay down with bloodshot eyes before dropping the goblet on the ground with a clonk!; red wine spraying in all directions.

Greyjoy lifted the tunic up over his stomach. Naked underneath, he grabbed a hold of his cock and started pissing into the cell, an arched stream of urine hitting the ground a few feet from its baffled occupant. Ramsay let out a gasp and huddled up against the wall as far from the splattering fluid as he could possibly get. After what seemed like several minutes, the piss stream retracted and Euron let the tunic fall back down covering his prick. He used a key hanging from around his neck to unlock the door and staggered inside the cell. Standing in front of him, the King ́s presence made Ramsay vomit again. He looked up and saw the monster smiling down at him. “If there is one thing, we men of the sea enjoy above all else...its mead and the touch of a hefty woman...”. Ramsay remained quiet in the corner, eyeing him warily. Greyjoy’s voice turned soft and teasing, “...and sometimes the touch of another man”. Panic hit Ramsay like a splash of icy water in the face, making him babble a few unintelligible words at his captor, who returned them with a smirk. He could not grasp that the horrendous misdeed, still poking daggers into his guts, was about to happen all over again. Unconsciously, his fingernails started scraping against the stones behind him as if he could escape by digging through the wall. Surely I will die from the pain! He can not do this to me again! He can not, he ca...

Euron's face split into a grin. “Ahh ha ha haaaah!!!", he roared and pointed his finger in Ramsay’s face, “do not worry, little Lord! You are not going to get fucked tonight”, he lifted his hand and held it to his chest, “I promise”, his smile was crooked, “now, make room”. He threw himself down in the hay next to Ramsay who was trying his best to avoid any form of bodily contact with his captor by pressing his backside up against the wall behind. A few distressing moments of silence passed between them, during which Ramsay expected an attack at any second. He felt more hatred towards the King, than he had ever accumulated against any other person in his life, including his father. His mind was a mess of anger and fear, wanting to both kill and cower at the same time. “Tell me...are you happy here with us, Ramsay?” Greyjoy asked in a mocking tone. Obviously, the question was as absurd as it was rhetorical, and Ramsay did not give a reply neither. He wanted nothing more than to die at this point; to escape from the clutches of the monster beside him, and the memory of what he had done. Even if his physical scars healed, there would always be that feeling of heavy, rapid breaths on his neck and rough hands grabbing his waist. There was no forgetting that, he knew. Not Ever. 

The monster brought a hand to his cheek petting it, and Ramsay flinched. Grabbing a hold of his wrist, Euron pulled him into a spooning embrace. No longer possessing the strength to protest, Ramsay went rigid, staring at the wall instead. Maybe the monster would loose interest or pass out from the drink. Either way he did not have a choice besides remaining passive. He was too weak to fight him off. A shiver ran down his spine as he felt Euron ́s tunic touching him, and his expression turned into one of pure disgust, feeling the other man drawing him closer from behind. He wanted to scream, kick and drive an axe through the man ́s skull, but he knew killing Greyjoy was nothing more than wishful thinking. Resisting him would only result in more pain coming his way, so instead he lay still, biting his lower lip and clenching his eyes shut, bracing himself for whatever the sadist would come up with next. He almost fully panicked when the feel of what could only be Euron’s hard cock, separated from his own skin by a mere layer of cloth, straining against his ass. Thankfully, the King seemed not to make any further advances towards him and after a few horrendous minutes the poking feeling on his rear subsided. A light snore revealed that Euron had fallen asleep.

They lay together for what seemed like hours, spooned in an awkward embrace. Ramsay was about to drift off himself when his eyes glanced over at the cell door, and a rush of adrenaline flooded through his body, making him twitch. It was not much, but the gap was there. Euron had forgotten to close the door behind him when he entered the cell, pissed out of his skull. The large man's snoring continued on; the vibrating, rattling noise was constant and uninterrupted by Ramsay's stir. Had he been any other, Ramsay would have tried to strangle him in his sleep, but the King was simply too strong to overpower even when intoxicated. An attack would achieve nothing except to bring the man's wrath down on him again, so he had to come up with another way to take advantage of the unexpected opportunity that had arisen.

Greyjoy and his cluster of stinking filth could not have overrun the castle many days or weeks ago, otherwise Ramsay would most surely have heard about it at Winterfell. The Dreadfort was a major fortress with lots of rooms and hallways, and it also contained several hidden crawlspaces leading to other places within the walls and to locations outside. The Ironborn, in the limited amount of time they had occupied the castle, most likely had not located all (or any) of the hidden exits. Ramsay knew the Dreadfort's secrets intimately, having spent countless hours as a child hiding in its narrow tunnels, spying on or ambushing people; using the crawlspaces as convenient tools in the little games he liked to play with his blissfully unaware prey. Any respectable noble family had one or two hidden exits, but the Bolton family had several. Ramsay's ancestors had known from the time the Dreadfort was constructed, that their brutal rule was not well received by all, and they had therefor - very wisely - made preparations for the day, when their sinful past would finally catch up with them and force them to flee for their lives. Greyjoy snored louder and tightened his bear grip around Ramsay's torso. Though trying his best to remain calm, the discomfort and rage he felt from having his rapist wheezing behind him was making stomach acid rise in his throat and Ramsay had to struggle not to throw up again. He squirmed a little. Euron shifted in his sleep, releasing the grip on Ramsay and rolled over on his back instead. The snoring stopped. Shit.

Drip. A condensed drop of water fell from the ceiling. Ramsay held his breath. The King coughed once, then started snoring again this time louder and more nasal. Ramsay turned his head carefully, sneaking a peek at Greyjoy. The large man had folded his hands on his chest and looked to be sound asleep. Please, let him be a heavy sleeper. An opportunity like it might not arise again and he had to move quickly. There was no time to think it through in details. In the hallway behind the door, a crawl space had been built into the wall. He was weakened, unarmed, and if the guards were close by on the other side, he wouldn ́t stand a chance against them. No matter the outcome he wasn't going back in the cell with Greyjoy, and he only hoped that if it came down to it, he would at least be able to provoke one of the soldiers into killing him before being re-captured.

The door leading to the hallway and potential freedom seemed miles away. Ramsay raised himself on his elbows keeping eyes fixed on the Reaper’s face, searching for any indication that the man was about to stir. Careful not to make a sound, he raised his knees up to his chest. It hurt his abdomen horribly and he clenched his teeth from the strain. His guts still felt liquefied after what must have been more than a day’s time since the unspeakable assault. Grabbing the key from around Greyjoy's neck posed too large a risk; he had to sneak out of the cell and simply hope that Euron would not wake up before he had made it into the crawl space. Very slowly Ramsay got into a sitting position. Putting one foot under his rear, he had the leverage to lift himself up from the ground. The effort caused every nerve ending in his body from the chest down to protest. He froze, sending a nervous glance in the Kraken’s direction. The large man remained motionless, except for the rhythmic raising and lowering of his chest. Ramsay stood up straight, hoping that his quivering legs wouldn ́t betray him by either collapsing under him or his knees popping a sound. As it turned out, it was an advantage being naked. There was no leather or wool to rub against itself, giving away any disastrous noise.

With faint and prudent steps, Ramsay tip-toed across the stone floor. Just a few more steps. He had never before felt such desperate need to cling onto hope. It was not more than twenty paces or so, but every last one of those steps seemed like a mile travelled in enemy territory, dodging arrows and spears being chucked at him. When he was halfway across the cell, Ramsay turned his head and looked back at Greyjoy who made no indication of being woken from his slumber. He counted the steps, Eight, seven and six, five, four...He could almost touch the bars. The possibility of freedom and a chance at life awaited him on the other side. Three and two more. His hand reached out for the door. Warily, he gripped the iron bars and slowly advanced the gap. The door creaked a little, but he had anticipated that. He had to fight the urge to not just fling it open, slam it and run. If the Kraken woke now, Ramsay would be right back in the cell within seconds, facing the consequences for the attempted escape, and he had come too far now to let panic ruin it all. After a few more seconds, his patience paid off and he could slip through the door. Ramsay turned and slid across the dungeon towards the door leading to the hallway. It was crafted from wood and had solid iron hinges nailed into it, but fortunately it turned out to make less noise than the cell door when opened. He shot the snoring Reaper one last glance, before sticking his head through the opening and peaking out into the hallway.

It was empty. Ramsay let out an inaudible sigh. He was surprised and relieved to find no guards were stationed outside the dungeon, but he figured the reason for it was very simple. Either Greyjoy did not want his men to know the details of his perverted nature or he thought escape from the dungeon was impossible. Maybe it was both. Men's laughter could be heard somewhere up above and he did ́t have time to linger on the thought. No longer moving with the same amount of precaution, he hurried towards the crawl space at the end of the hallway. He quickly located the fissures in the wall, holding in place the loose rocks which worked as a cover for the tunnel. Ramsay started dragging out the hand-sized stones one by one, and placing them gently on the ground, careful not to pile them together. There was no reason to make it obvious to the Ironborn where he had exited, and if he had any chance of an escape it was crucial that he got a good head start.

Finally, from behind the fake wall, a wooden plank emerged. It was painted dark and could in passing resemble the stone wall well enough. The plank was meant to serve as camouflage for the exit once he had slipped through it. This particular crawl space led to the southern castle wall. From there, a net of escape routes led into the forest beyond and to other locations within the castle. The tunnels were all build solid and durable, better than the one at Winterfell had been. His father had made sure that they were prepared for even the most unlikely occurrences. Just as murder, theft and betrayal had not been beneath Roose Bolton, so had running for his life been neither. Ramsay was naked and freezing, but he hoped that there might still be some clothing left at the end of the tunnel; his life depended on it. The garments were meant for disguising the Lords of the Dreadfort as commoners to better pass through the area without drawing attention to themselves in case the need for escape ever arose, and Roose really had been prepared for anything (except of course, his own son).

Despite the trauma he had suffered, Ramsay no longer thought of death as the only way out of his imprisonment. Now, that the opportunity had arisen, survival seemed deeply embedded within him, so he would have to deal with his inner hurt later. The unlocked door had provided hope, and Ramsay felt like laughing out loud from the exhilaration of the moment; either freedom or death was waiting for him on the other side of the Dreadfort's walls, but no matter which one he ended up meeting, it was still a better fate than awaited him in the dungeon. He was so caught up in the digging, lost his own thoughts that he had not noticed a figure had slipped up behind him.

A strong arm curled itself around his neck, pulling him backwards. Ramsay gave a startled yelp and writhed against the man holding him firmly in place. It was the Lord Reaper, suddenly appearing quite sober. A raspy voice whispered teasingly in his ear, making Ramsay's blood freeze in his veins. “I never grow tired of this game. Now! let ́s find out how much of my cock you can take, before I split you in two”. With his arm wrapped around Ramsay's throat in a chokehold, Euron dragged him back towards the dungeon. Ramsay fought and screamed desperately like a man being forced towards certain death. He bit down hard on the King's forearm, which earned him a punch to the stomach. Spinning him around, Euron grabbed Ramsay by the hair, then hauled him across the floor with his feet kicking and slipping on the stones and his body twisting frantically to pry himself loose from the hold.

In the cell, Ramsay was thrown to the floor. Immediately, he scurried into the corner and cowered there, staring at Euron with wild eyes. “Please don ́t do this, my Lord, I ́m sorry, I ́m sorry! Please!”, he made small hiccupped breaths in between whimpers, “I could give you important information if you would only spare me from this!” The Kraken grinning wickedly and pulled the tunic over his head, revealing that his cock had grown hard from the display of desperation his prisoner was putting on. “NO!”, Ramsay screamed. Greyjoy caught a hold of his ankle and dragged him to the middle of the cell. Even though he was fighting like a wild animal, Euron handled his prisoner with such ease as if he was nothing more than a toddler throwing a tantrum. “I like it when you fight me; it makes it all the more sweet”. His fingers closed around Ramsay's throat, squeezing tightly and making the smaller man gasp and claw at the hand cutting off his air supply. Euron used his other arm to wrap himself around Ramsay's left leg, pulling the thigh up along his side and placing himself between his quivering legs.

While studying his victim's face intently, Euron thrust into the tight, swollen hole with merciless force. A half choked shriek escaped Ramsay's throat, still being throttled by Euron's hand. His body buckled and writhed wildly from the invasion. It was without comparison the most horrendous pain he had ever experienced, and he was certain that he was about to be fucked to death. His enemy was pounding away at his shredded, abused insides without care or concern, his balls smacking painfully against his own. The King’s hips launched with such ferocity his only purpose seemed to be inflicting as much pain as possible. Euron loosened his grip on Ramsay's throat a little so he would not accidentally choke him to death in his ecstasy. The bastard's eyes were huge and wet with tears and stared back at him with such delicious fear in them. He had to slow down not to cum; it was too soon,and he wanted to play some more before letting the bastard have recess. Gasping and dizzy from the shortness of oxygen to his lungs and brain, Ramsay closed his eyes and begged for death to take him. Just as he thought his stomach would burst open from the pounding, the King stopped moving inside him.

“Look at me” Euron commanded. Ramsay opened his eyes too scared out of his mind to disobey him. “Please, no more...”, his voice weak and quivering, “I..ca... can ́t...can ́t...take anymore...”. Greyjoy removed the cock from his insides and Ramsay broke down crying. The hand on his throat slid to his face, stroking it and gently wiping the tears from his cheeks. A look of pity settled on Euron's face. “Shh, shh, it ́s alright”, his voice soft and soothing. He swept the back of his victim's head into his hand, then pushed his face gently against his chest. He could feel the hiccuped breaths against his skin, the body trembling from exhaustion and terror. “Shh...sh. I won ́t hurt you anymore, you ́ve had enough I see”, he stroked Ramsay’s hair with a lover’s appeasing comfort, “don ́t cry” The sudden show of affection made all the emotions caused by trauma Ramsay had suffered, both in the past and present, break through what little defence he had left and flow to the surface. He went limp in his enemy's arms and wept into his chest, soaking the King’s skin with his tears. Unconsciously, he clung his arms around the larger man's torso, like a frightened child would its mother. They lay for several minutes embraced without speaking until Ramsay's breath had calmed down and his crying was reduced to small whimpers. A hand swept under his chin, and he looked up into dark-blue eyes emitting sadness and regret. “Ramsay”, Euron said softly, “You really are quite...”, pause, "...gullible, aren ́t you?”. His heart stopped as Euron ́s face morphed back into the dreaded shark ́s grin.
 
Seizing Ramsay by the waist, Euron flipped him onto his stomach and pulled his ass in the air. Granting his victim no time to prepare, he forced himself inside the smaller man with a roar. Ramsay let out a howl of pain and tried desperately to scramble forward and away from the cock skewering him, but was prevented from doing so by Euron's firm grip on his hips. Inside, his guts felt as if they were being ripped apart by the enemy's cock; its length covered in thorns, shredding off layers of tissue with each brutal thrust. With one hand snaked in his hair, the King was slapping Ramsay's ass with the other making the humiliation total. At one point he seemed to get bored of it, and started hitting him in the kidneys instead; not hard enough to cause permanent damage, but just enough to make Ramsay squirm and causing his pelvic muscles to clench reflexively around his cock. Euron felt himself nearing his climax; that sweet little tingle in the balls telling him that he was ready to shoot off his load. His fingers settled around Ramsay's throat instead, squeezing hard. The smaller man gasped, scratching at his hands. It sent jolts of pleasure through the King’s body, feeling the bastard impaled on his cock with his back arched, fighting for dear life. To the sweet sound of Ramsay gasping for air caused by the near crushing of his windpipe, Euron came long and hard, pulsating cascades of seed deep inside him. Releasing the now unconscious Ramsay from his chokehold, the Kraken watched as the broken body slumped forward into the hay. He put two fingers to Ramsay's neck, feeling his pulse. Still alive, good. I'm not done with you yet...not by a long shot.

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:icondarkknight81:
DarkKnight81 Featured By Owner Mar 3, 2017
Thanks for the fav ;)
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:iconhydra-corona:
Hydra-Corona Featured By Owner Mar 3, 2017
ur welcome. It's a really nice piece of art you've created :) Love Bill Paxton. 
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