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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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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Two :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 0
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A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter One :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 1 9
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Ramsay in the Dungeon :iconhydra-corona:Hydra-Corona 0 5


Bulb :iconfantasyart0102:FantasyArt0102 609 34 Rest In Peace, William ''Bill'' Paxton. :iconcommanderfa1con:CommanderFa1con 2 0 Severen :icondarkknight81:DarkKnight81 6 2 Make Me Baby :iconinthehhallwaynow:inthehhallwaynow 7 2 Bill Paxton 1955 - 2017 :icongregchapin:gregchapin 15 10 Ramsay Bolton :iconertacaltinoz:ertacaltinoz 354 34




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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, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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, 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, 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, “ 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. “ 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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The Reaper

Ramsay stumbled into the cell, shoved forward by the same two guards who had restrained him during his face-to-face with Euron Greyjoy. They slammed the cell door behind them, leaving the dungeon, and Ramsay found himself alone in his new prison. He looked around the small confinement, dimly lit by torches placed sparingly along the wall. There were no windows down here only bare rocks and metal bars. The air was damp, reminding him of the crypt at Winterfell and apart from a few iron hoops mounted in the ceiling and on the walls, the sole thing that occupied the space was the soiled hay scattered across the floor. At least they had not put him in irons and that was he supposed, something to feel grateful for.

He had held the Ironborn Prince confined in a similar place, though the kennels had been much dirtier, filled with drooling beasts and dogshit. His pet had been free to roam the castle, but in reality it was only a larger cell with hardly more privilege attached than being locked up in the dungeons anyway. There was no escape no matter which confinement it was, or so Ramsay had thought at the time. He halfway expected Reek to suddenly appear on the other side of the bars, staring submissively down at the ground, dirty and ripe as usual...but there was no Reek, and Ramsay made a mental note of never referring to Theon as such in front of the Ironborn men and most definitely not to the Kraken himself. Even though Euron Greyjoy seemed to embrace the fact that he had cut his nephew out of the line of succession, it probably would not go over well with any of the Islanders if it became clear to them what kind of an abomination he had turned their Prince into.

Not five minutes went by before the door opened and a guard entered the dungeon. He walked up to the cell. “Take off your clothes”, he ordered. The request took Ramsay aback. What is this now? The guard eyed him warningly. “No”, Ramsay stated matter-of-factly. He would not be disgraced in such a manner. Stripping him down signified nothing but forthcoming humiliation and torture, and there was no reason to make it any easier on his captors if that was to be his destiny. “Take it off!”, the guard repeated his command, this time with a growl. Ramsay sent him a look of utter resentment and spat on the floor. “No! You swine!”, he sneered. “Have it your way”, the Ironborn said through clenched teeth and called out for his cohorts. “Hobs! Owen! Get in here!” A moment later, two hard faced brutes appeared in the dungeon. The guard opened the cell door and all three of them went inside, making Ramsay back up against the wall as they closed in on him. “I will give you one more chance, bastard. The clothes! Now!”. Ramsay hissed at the impatient guard, “go suck a horse's cock!”.

The men cornered him and while one grabbed Ramsay by the throat pinning him against the wall, the others proceeded to remove the layers of fabric from his body. He writhed, clawing at the hand on his neck but to no avail; the soldier had him in an iron grip and it did not take the others long to strip him down to his bare ass, exposing his flesh to the dank, chill air. As soon as the deed was done, the man holding him let go and all three Ironborn backed away from their heaving prisoner, eyes ablaze with fury. They closed the door to his cell and left the dungeon, taking off with his clothes. One of them called him a cunt on the way out and spat in his direction. Alone once again, Ramsay sat down in the dirty hay, pulled his legs up to the chest and rested his chin on crossed arms.

He knew the dungeon like the back of his own hand and there was no escaping from it unless he could somehow get out of the cell. There was nothing left to do now but await the fate the Ironborn decided should be bestowed upon him. He just hoped it would be quick and painless, although it probably would not be seeing as how he had tortured Theon and disposed of the Ironborn at Winterfell and Moat Cailin. Even though most of the islanders came off as crude simpletons, it was hard for him to imagine that they could have forgotten the atrocities he had committed against their people. The offer the wolves had made him suddenly seemed quite appealing, considering what else might lay in store for him from this point on. He sat for an hour dwelling on his current plight. By which method do the Ironborn dispose of their enemies? hanging? or perhaps..they drowned them? The recent turn of events had rattled his perception of reality, and he was so occupied with speculating about the possible outcome of his predicament that he had not noticed a figure had slipped into the dungeon and now stood in front of his cell.

Ahem”, the man cleared his throat. Euron Greyjoy was grinning sinisterly down at him as ragged and insane looking as earlier, though this time without the ridiculous crown. He grabbed the bars with both hands and squatted down to Ramsay’s eye level, ogling him as if he was studying a newly acquired pet in a cage. “Aww. You look right at home here, little Lord.” His taunting words were as pointed sticks jabbed into Ramsay’s pride, and he contemplated for a second retaliating but thought better of it. Provoking someone you weren’t familiar with and who held your destiny in their hands seemed ill-advised at the moment, even to Ramsay. Besides, this was a Greyjoy, not a Stark; members of the former House were not exactly known for neither their clemency nor forbearance towards their enemies, so Ramsay had to thread as carefully as he could under the circumstances and get a feel of the man before making his move. He shifted uncomfortably on his rear end, but remained quiet. Greyjoy sucked his teeth. “Sorry about the clothes...we can ́t have you ending yourself before we have had our fun with you, now can we?”. Euron stood up and opened the cell door; his frame nearly filling the entrance as he did so, then came strolling inside in that same confident manner he had displayed in the courtyard earlier that day.

Our fun. Ramsay had heard stories about the Crow's Eye from Reek, though at that time the former prince of Pyke had only met his uncle once as a boy. Ramsay knew about the Kraken’s conquests, lust for power and last but not least his apparent madness. He had scourged the oceans around Westeros and Essos on the “Silence”, a ship crewed entirely by mutes whose tongues Greyjoy himself had removed for no other reason than, as Reek had put it: “he needed the silence, Master.” He was presumed dead before he suddenly reappeared on Pyke shortly before Balon Greyjoy mysteriously fell to his death. Days after he managed to snatch the throne and title right from under Yara Greyjoy.

Ramsay wanted to know all about House Greyjoy's past history for at some point down the line when every rebellion in the North had been destroyed, he would turn to the Iron Islands conquering them also and thereby strengthening his position against the Lannisters. Every bit of information on an enemy could at one point deem crucial, so he listened with keen interest as Reek disclosed his uncle’s savagery; Killing, raping and reaving his way through costal towns and villages all over the world. When hearing the stories he had been amused, thinking that Greyjoy was a man after his own heart. At this moment, however, when actually being face-to- face with the Reaper, the anecdotes no longer seemed as entertaining as they once had been.

The King came to a halt in front of Ramsay who was watching him cautiously from his place on the floor. Looking around the cell, he inspected the ceiling and walls. The shark's grin on his face seemed to have frozen in place, white teeth glimmering in the light of the flame. “Get up”, he ordered, and with reluctance Ramsay stood up slowly, cursing under his breath. Even though he resented doing the man's bidding, the instinctive fear Greyjoy put in him made him comply nevertheless. Should it come to a physical altercation between the two, Ramsay knew that he would undoubtedly loose without a weapon of some sort. As tempting as it was to throw himself at his captor, trying his luck at bashing his skull in, an attack would have to wait for a more at his captor, trying his luck at bashing his skull in, an attack would have to wait for a more opportune moment than this one. “Good boy”. Euron laid his hands on Ramsay ́s shoulders, rough fingertips slithering over his collarbone and up along his neck. He stood taller than him by more than a foot and Ramsay could not help but cower a bit, naked and exposed as he were in front of the intimidating presence.

Euron’s finger reached his face, trailing down his cheek before finally cupping Ramsay’s chin in his large hand. Flinching at the odd caress, Ramsay had to fight the urge not to retract his face. He calmed himself and remained in place, staring hatefully into the man’s eyes instead. Greyjoy’s smile widened, “by the drowned God, it ́s been so long since I have had the pleasure of a woman...I should have brought a salt wife“, he sighed, gently brushing his thumb over Ramsay’s lips, “usually we never stay out of the sea for too long for it to be a problem, you see, the land turns us soft and weak like my nephew”. A wave of anxiety hit him and he sneered into Euron’s face, trying to cloak his dismay of the King's vile words. Was he really making that kind of a threat? or was it just drivel meant to startle him? He ́s playing a game with me, he would never dare such...such deviancy. Though tolerated some places in the South (at least to some extent), men laying down with other men was in general frowned upon or even made illegal by law in all of the Seven Kingdoms. It would be considered an outrageous perversion and completely unacceptable by their own people, if a northern Lord had such tendencies and acted upon them. Ramsay figured the same code of conduct applied even to the uncivilized Ironborn scum. A flash of the encounter with the Stark men rushed through his mind, making him want to curl up inside himself.

He had to remain proud and defiant even in the face of such a horrendous threat. If Greyjoy wanted anything from him it would be information most likely concerning the Starks and Winterfell. The Ironborn were notoriously know as a greedy bunch of self-assured cunts, starting wars left and right they had no chance of winning. Perhaps, in their delusions of grandeur and now that the wolves were weakened in numbers, they had decided to make a move against the main seat of the North itself. If it was not information Euron was seeking he could only be in it for the revenge, Ramsay figured. Or maybe he just wants to break a piece off me for the sheer fun of it. If any of the latter possibilities turned out to be relevant, he would have to irk the Salt King into killing him; in a fit of rage preferably so that it would be swift. The best tools for riling someone up into a state of frenzy were fierce insults and intensive mind games, and it should not take much of an effort to provoke such condition; infuriating someone enough to act rashly were after all a specialty of his.

Winterfell was forfeit and now so was the Dreadfort. There was no longer any realistic probability of him remaining alive for much longer or maintaining a dignified existence. His men were most likely either dead or had fled, and the remaining loyal Lords would be forced to submit to House Stark once again. He was surrounded by enemies all wanting a piece of him to hang off their walls as a trophy; the last of the flaying men, Roose Bolton ́s murdering bastard displayed as a morbid sign of their victory. He had lost the great game he realized, but his own end was still his to fight for. First though, he would have to feel the Kraken out in order to discover where exactly he stood and what weakness he could use to his benefit. Everybody had shortcomings and the King would be no exception. Ramsay just had to figure out where to dig and how deep.

Although Greyjoy’s less than subtle implication of a potential assault had startled Ramsay, he retorted without any visible discomfort of the looming threat. “If it is a wench you seek, there is a brothel just over the Weeping Water”, Ramsay curled his lip in disdain, “I recommend the one called Mary. She looks like a dark haired Cersei Lannister or so I ́ve been told...never laid eyes on the golden bitch”. Euron smiled at the proposal, “it is very kind of you to share your experiences from the local brothel, Ramsay”. His raspy voice had turned honeyed all of a sudden, but he made no further indication of revealing his intentions towards him. Euron, still cupping his chin, stared intensely into Ramsay’s face. The feeling of unease was drilling itself deeper and deeper into his marrow, and finally when he could not stand the unpleasant gaze any longer, he snapped, “what is it you want from me, Lord Greyjoy?!”.

“What do you think I want, Lord Bolton?” Euron asked with visible interest. “I think you desire knowledge of Winterfell in order to claim it” The Ironborn tilted his head implying slight curiosity, and Ramsay started to feel a little gutsy. “Go on” He removed his hand from Ramsay’s chin, resting it on his shoulder instead. “and that I can give you that insight, and you are right you know...I can help you take Winterfell”, a confidence had crept into his voice “I hate the Starks as much as you do, Lord Greyjoy, the bastards held your own nephew, your own blood, captive for yea...”.

 WHAP! The backhand made his head whip to the side. He looked up into Greyjoy’s stern face with eyes ablaze. “So did you, boy, don ́t think I have forgotten that. I may despise my family but they are mine to maim and kill, not yours”. The Reaper narrowed his eyes at him. “Try again”. Then there can only be one outcome left, but I still get to choose the ending. Ramsay swallowed bitterly, fighting the urge to kick the man in the balls. “Gold, then...I don ́t blame you, gold is a fine thing and one your people enjoy above all else so I ́ve heard.” The Kraken shrugged his shoulders, not minding the subtle insult, “true, but still not correct though”. It must be for revenge then, for Theon and the others. 

“You could sell me to the Starks. They would pay you a pretty coin to cut off my head themselves, or you could gain favour with them by trading and all could benefit...
well, except for myself of course”. He looked meekly down at the ground and drew in a deep breath. Even though the Starks would most surely execute him, it was still a preferable end to the one the Ironborn would grant him. He had to convince Greyjoy of the benefits he could gain by returning him to Winterfell and Jon Snow ́s merciful sword. “Oh, is that so? Gaining favour, you say?”. Lifting his gaze from the floor Ramsay pulled a dejected face. "Indeed, my Lord. You could become a very rich ma..."

SMACK! Once again the hand connected with Ramsay’s face, making his cheek burn and eyes water. “The drowned God needs neither favour nor gold. I pay the Iron price for everything I own”. Greyjoy seized his face with one hand, his fingers tightening around the jaw bone. No longer able to control his rage, Ramsay roared into the Kraken’s face. “Then I have nothing left to give you but my head! Take it and be done with it, you CUNT!”, he started laughing hysterically, “you fuckin ́ vile squid! You seem as big a bitch as your degenerate nephew, only more hideous!”.

Ramsay’s laughter had faded into a triumphant snicker when he noticed that one of the Kraken’s fingers had travelled too close to his mouth. Rapidly he caught the digit between his teeth, biting down as hard as he could. The taste of blood filled his mouth making him gag, but he kept tearing into the bone trying to bite through it. Without uttering a sound, Greyjoy calmly pried himself loose from Ramsay ́s bite by grapping a hold of his jaw with his free hand, pressing down on the joints and forcing it open. Stepping back a pace to get better lighting he inspected his finger then looked over at the bastard who now beamed, grey eyes glittering with amusement. Euron ́s blood was colouring his teeth and running down his chin in thin red streaks. Ramsay spat out the blood and shredded tissue left in his mouth and sent the Reaper a challenging stare. Greyjoy stood for a moment studying Ramsay’s overt display of defiance, then a look of sincere delight replaced his stern expression. “...and here I feared today was going to be just another boring waste”.

The Ironborn closed the distance between them in a flash. For such a large man, he moved with a frightening speed and agility. His hand shot out, clasping around Ramsay’s testicles and tightened the grip making the smaller man gasp and bend forward in a futile attempt to protect himself. The hold was firm, but Greyjoy had stopped squeezing short of causing any real pain or damage. Ramsay trembled at the notion that at any moment Euron could either crush his privates or tear them straight off. Expecting the worst he looked up at him with startled eyes. “Now, now, Lord Bolton, is that really how you want to treat your host? With insults and aggravations?”. He gave the balls a tight squeeze and Ramsay let out a yelp. “No, no! Forgive me! I..ahhh..spoke harshly when you have been nothing but kind to me, Lord Greyjoy”. He was panting, heart pounding away in his chest. “Please,...would you please remove your hand? I...I will be on my best behaviour from now on” Euron’s wicked smile had returned. He loosened his grip and stepped back a pace. Ramsay let out a relieved gasp, then cupped himself trying to prevent another attack. He had not seen that one coming. All the defiance and contempt he had planned to parade in front of the Kraken had left him the second the strong hand closed around his genitals.

From beneath his robes, the Reaper pulled out a piece of cordage a few feet in length. “Hold out your hands”, he ordered. Frozen in place, Ramsay studied the rope tensely, making no indication of complying with his command. Greyjoy grabbed his wrists and fastened them together tightly using a fisherman's knot all the while looking his prisoner straight in the eye. “Now, lift them over you head”, Euron instructed. Ramsay swallowed and hesitantly raised the bound hands above his head. “Very good”. The King inserted the loose end of the rope through one of the iron hoops, hanging above on the wall. With a hard yank, Ramsay was pulled upwards, stretching his body out to the point of almost having to tip-toe in order not to hang by his wrists alone. The twisted cords of hemp gnawed at his skin, cutting into it, but he was so anxious at this point that he hardly heeded it. “Lord Greyjoy...what is happening? he asked nervously, shifting on his feet. Silent, Euron tied the remaining rope to another hoop on the wall and inspected his handiwork, making sure that the restraints were durable.

He took a step back and gave Ramsay a look over, his expression told of slight disappointment. “You really are a little shit, aren ́t you?”, he shrugged his shoulders, “oh, well...I hope I won ́t break you too soon”. Greyjoy started disrobing, dropping his garments in a pile on the floor. “What the fuck is this?”, Ramsay asked writhing in his restraints, eyes darting back and forth between the King and the growing pile of clothing on the ground. “I ́ve heard some interesting things about you from my men. They all seem to think that you are some kind of monster; one who enjoys flaying and burning people alive like you did with my people at Winterfell, and... ehh”, he paused and snapped his fingers twice, “the other one...what ́s it called again?”. “Moat Cailin”, Ramsay whispered, his voice trembling. “Moat Cailin. Yes! that’s it!”, Greyjoy laughed as if he had recalled something amusing. The sound made Ramsay flinch. “Yet, I do have a hard time believing that you could put fear into anyone, 'cause to me, you just look like a whimpering little bitch, who makes my cock hard.” Now bare and fully erect, Euron stood in front of Ramsay, staring him down. A darkness had crept over his face. “So tell me, little monster...have you ever been fucked by a God?”.

Fear and dreed hit Ramsay like a hammer to the face and he was no longer able to hide his terror. “Don ́t do this! Just kill me and get it over with!”. Euron stepped up close to him and Ramsay shuttered, letting out a whimper. “No, no, no! shh...shh”. The King put a hand on the top of his head, stroking the soft, dark hair. “You should be honoured. Ordinarily, I don ́t grant my guests such attention as I have shown you, but you are special to me, Ramsay...I ́ve never met anyone accused of being more grotesque than myself”, the Kraken tapped Ramsay’s forehead with a finger, “we can ́t have that rumour floating around if I am to rule all of the Seven Kingdoms, now can we? It makes me look bad”, grapping the back of his head, Euron drew Ramsay’s face in close to his own, “and between you and me...I quite enjoy being the leading savage out there”.

Placing his hands on Ramsay's waist, he spun him around facing the stone wall, the moist rocks scraping against his stomach and chest. Greyjoy nestled his face into the curve of his neck. The hot breath on his skin made Ramsay’s muscles retract and goose-bumps break out all over his body. Euron’s hands stroked down his flanks before placing them firmly on the narrow waist, grabbing a hold of tender flesh. The King looked down taking in the lean body before him. The bastard’s skin was soft and smooth, appearing ghostly pale in the flickering light, while his ass was full and generous, curving out from beneath a beautifully sculptured back. Euron could feel the blood fill his cock and a wave of lust washing over him. Placing his member along the cleft of Ramsay’s ass he rubbed himself against his helpless victim. The body in front of him went rigid. Ramsay started sobbing. It was a pitiful sound but only resulted in Euron's cock throbbing wildly, his blood burning with a hunger he had seldom felt. “I wonder, if I will be your first”, he placed his thumb against Ramsay’s opening and forced it inside by pushing against the tight muscle safekeeping his virtue. Ramsay gasped from the pain. “!”, he cried out and jerked forward against the wall, trying to escape. “Apparently so”, the Reaver purred and withdrew the finger from his insides, leaving behind a burning sensation.

His hands grabbed a hold of the asscheeks and pulled them apart, allowing him to position himself against the hole. Ramsay buckled ferociously in his restraints. He could feel the head of Euron’s cock pushing against his entrance. His wrists were bruised and swollen from pulling on the rope but he thrashed and squirmed desperately still, trying to fight of the invasion. With hands firmly placed on the bastard's hips, Euron began pushing into him slowly, making small advances with every thrust. He could feel Ramsay clenching around his member trying to keep him out. It was velvety and very tight in there almost painful for himself, but he was not going to make anything more comfortable for the little shit by using spittle or any other sort of easement. The only mercy Bolton could hope to obtain was if he bled on his cock which would in all likeliness happen soon. This was not the first man Greyjoy had impaled on his sword, but it was the one who had squirmed the most. And he sure liked it when they squirmed.

Soon Euron's face began to flush and his pace sped up as he kept pushing insistently against the hole. Ramsay was begging incoherently now, crying out every time the Reaper thrust himself against his entrance. Finally, Euron felt the head of his cock slip inside and the bastard squealed out loud. He paused for a few moments, enjoying the flesh quivering and muscles twitching around him. Pulled in close against his rapist's chest, Ramsay was heaving for breath in between his tormented cries. Without warning, Greyjoy thrust himself violently into the bastard's guts to the very hilt. As he impaled his enemy, he could feel the flesh resisting him at first only to submit to the brutality of the invasion moments later and the blood vessels erupting like small volcanoes against his rock hard cock.

Ramsay’s eyes bulged from his head, his mouth flew open and he let out a breathless gasp. Never in his life had he felt such savage, insufferable pain. He took one hiccupped, strangled breath and then he screamed. He screamed like he was dying; No words, just anguished, tortured sounds came out of his gaping mouth. There was no longer a thinking, scheming trickster present inside him only an animal fighting off death using pure instincts. Ramsay felt like his insides were being pulled from within and he jerked his body and cried out, but to no avail. The Salt king was holding him firmly in place and slamming into his ass with such brutality, his body was lifted in the air with each violent thrust from his hips.

Relishing the feeling of the bastard’s quivering body speared against the wall, a warm, velvety embrace of muscles and soft flesh tremoring around his cock sending waves of arousal through him, Euron was nearing his climax. A flush of heat rolled from his balls to his brain, his lower regions retracted rapidly, making his cock spasm. He sensed the smaller man becoming exhausted going limb against him, the hiccupped breath slowing down and sobs lessening as he had no more left of himself to give. Euron felt himself grow thicker, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. As the orgasm began to course through his body, he slammed Ramsay’s ass down on his cock with full force and spilled his seed inside him with a roar.

He exhaled and opened his eyes, looking at the back of the prisoner's head. Ramsay hung sniffling still impaled on Euron's cock, hair dripping wet and his trembling body covered in sweat. As Euron pulled out, savoring the feel of warm tightness being replaced by the cool dungeon air, his victim let out a weak gasp. Knees giving in, Ramsay hung from the bound wrists with his head lolled back, breathing shallow and rapidly, seemingly drifting into unconsciousness. Euron looked down at himself. Blood covered his prick, and he smiled wickedly at the sight then took a step back inspecting his toy and the damage done to it. Holding on to his hips, Euron had bruised the flesh there, discoloration and swelling now tarnished the milky skin. He noticed the trickle of blood that ran down the man's legs mixing with urine and semen and felt his cock stirring again.

Greyjoy trailed a finger down Ramsay's spinal chord but stopped himself halfway. No. Grant him some respite..don ́t want to break him too soon.There are many hours of fun left in this one still. Then he picked up his clothing from the cold stone floor and paddled naked towards his chambers, whistling a cheerful tune. 

A Bastard's Odyssey: Chapter Thirteen
Ramsay's life is taking a turn for the worse from now on. If this is too much for u, don't read on. 

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A few crows took flight as Ramsay neared the drawbridge. The sound of hooves clopping against the wooden planks made him nostalgic and he smiled as he rode up to the entrance, brimming with sweet memories from his past. His cocky, confident self was finally returning after a long, bitter timeout spent within the walls of the besieged hellhole that was Winterfell.

He found the gates closed. A flayed man banner hung from the castle wall, waving lazily at him in the gentle breeze. Everything seemed so peaceful and quiet that he for a fleeting moment suspected the castle had been abandoned. He looked around and spotted a guard standing on top of the wall watching him. “Your Lord has returned! open the gate!”, he shouted at the top of his voice. On the rampart the man remained motionless. “Open the gate and hurry it up! I don ́t have all day!”. Despite his increasing irritation with the delay in obedience, Ramsay managed to remain tranquil, and instead of spewing threats at the sluggish subordinate, he merely rolled his eyes. “Off we go, man! please and thank you!”. He bowed sarcastically foreward, a hand on his chest.

The guard turned from the wall and disappeared. Ramsay shifted in the saddle. His rear and thighs hurt from riding so extensively the last couple of days, but he hadn ́t noticed to what an extent until now. He has looking forward to a nice, warm bath, a delicious meal and maybe a shag with one of the maids to wash away any unpleasant memories of what had taken place during the brawl with the Stark soldier. There had to be someone left inside the Dreadfort worth fucking still.

A few minutes passed. Were his men becoming daft? They all knew what he could do to them and would do, if they made him stand there for too long, waiting to be let inside his own gates. Ramsay looked up at the wall. Nobody was there. He was about to call out again when he heard someone on the other side of the gate removing the bar, followed by the clanking of heavy hinges as the entrance came open before him. He kicked the mare's sides and rode through, the gates closing behind him with a loud, deafening thump!.

The courtyard was empty. He whipped his head around to ask the guard where in the seven hells everybody was at, when suddenly his joyous smile faded and his body tensed up. Up close it became apparent to Ramsay that the guards who had opened the gate a mere moment ago were not his own men. By the looks of them they were Ironborn. With their characteristic unkempt, scruffy looks, dressed in dark leather rags it seemed like they for some imbecilic reason strived to give of the appearance of vagrants rather than soldiers. He had on more than one occasion become acquainted with the islanders, one time at Winterfell and the other at Moat Cailin when he had claimed them. Neither times, of course, spoke to his benefit in the current predicament. Ramsay sank down into the saddle, his jaw slacked open with disbelief at the inconceivable change in circumstance. A raspy, deep voice with a playful tone rang out from one of the balconies. “Welcome home, Lord Bolton”.

He did not have time to think let alone look at the man who had spoken, before the horse disappeared under him with an arrow piercing its heart. The steed landed on its side sending Ramsay tumbling along the ground and barely avoiding getting his leg caught under its weight. Before he could regain control of his body he was grabbed by both arms and dragged to his feet, where two men promptly stripped him of his weapons and other belongings. For once he had nothing to say, derisively or otherwise. Ramsay struggled in the men's firm grips but only half- heartedly, he knew he wasn't going anywhere.

The owner of the rough voice came strolling down the stairs from the balcony very slowly and confident, as if he had all the time in the world at his disposal. He was tall, with a strong, sturdy build and looked to be decade or maybe two older than Ramsay. It was hard to tell with the Ironborn; the salt and wind of the sea made their faces appear weather-beaten and older than they were. On his head covered by thick, light-brown hair he bore a crown-like headpiece pieced together from driftwood. The man, a big smile on his bearded face and cheerfulness shining from his eyes, ambled towards him with open arms in a sarcastic gesture of greeting.

Ramsay felt a knot form in his stomach and his mouth went dry as if he had just swallowed a handful of salt. It was not the face of someone bidding him welcome home or granting him any kind of hospitality whatsoever. No, the face belonged to someone who was part mad, part something else. The leather rags and crown of twigs combined with the man's overly euphoric expression gave him the appearance of a raving lunatic, yet the sly glint in his eyes revealed that a cunning nature was present inside the mad chaos also. Ramsay recognized it very well...too well in fact. It reminded him of himself and that could not be a good thing at all.

The Reaver halted in front of him and smiled down into his face revealing a set of perfect white teeth. A shark’s grin, Ramsay thought, suddenly becoming conscious of the feeling of unease the man put in him. The Ironborn stood so close he could smell the salt and seaweed coming from his garments. “So you are the infamous bastard, huh? The one who gelded my nephew?”. Sincere amusement shone from the depths of his dark-blue eyes. Ramsay gave him a fidgety stare but said nothing. Apparently not minding the lack of a reply the man continued on. “Well, I guess that I should thank you...making him a eunuch only made my claim to the Salt Throne that much stronger”.

Promptly, he grabbed a handful of Ramsay’s hair and pulled his head painfully backwards, forcing him to look up into his broad face. The smile was gone now, replaced by an angry sneer. “So thank you, Ramsay. That was very kind of you. I am Euron Greyjoy, Ruler of the Iron Islands” He stared into his captive's wide, bewildered eyes for a prolonged moment. “Poor boy.”, the King sighed and petted Ramsay’s cheek with the back of his hand, “you really have no idea what you are in for”. 

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Long Road Home

He steered the horse northwards along a narrow dirt road until the dimming light made it too difficult for him to navigate. The only people he had encountered on the way were a couple of peasants, pulling along their handcart loaded with winter crops. Forewarned by the creaking of wheels, he pulled the horse of the road and hid in the bushes. He watched from his cover as the unheeded men travelled past and disappeared further down the path.

Ramsay secured the mare to a tree and trekked a few hundred yards into the undergrowth, settling himself on the forest floor. He was still sore, his head throbbing from the attack. Remembering how the two soldiers had sneaked up on him earlier in the day made him jittery, and he hardly dared to close his eyes and drift off even though he needed sleep badly. The mare was not in the best condition, starved and overworked as she was, but if he avoided putting the beast under too much strain the next day or two, he figured she could still carry him all the way to the Dreadfort. At last his body gave in to exhaustion, and he fell asleep on top a bed of spongy, soft moss. Thankfully, his downtime was without interruption; no uninvited ghosts or perverted soldiers turned up to torment him.

The following day passed uneventfully. In the afternoon he decided to halt near a small creek. He made sure the horse had water and gave her most of the dried fruit left in the sack. Building a small fire he allowed himself half an hour of blissful warmth before stomping out the flames again. The heat thawed his frozen body which made him drowsy and relaxed. Ramsay laid his head down staring into the dying fire, savouring the glow from the last embers on his face and soon he had dozed off.

When the dawn came they rode on again. The scenery changed from woodland to open fields as they neared The Great Lake, and after a few hours ride the mass of water appeared over the horizon. Halfway there. Ramsay sighed with relief and snapped the reins, making the mare trot faster. The lake and its surrounding area was a hive of activity for fishermen, merchants and travellers alike. It provided not only fertile soil to the many farmsteads placed around its shores, but also large amounts of freshwater fish to most town markets in the North. By the lake’s southern end, a river emanated leading water to the seas down south. A bridge had been build there and served as passage for travellers heading in either the east- or westward direction.

Save for crossing by boat or travelling around the lake, the bridge was the only way to cross from one side to the other. The river itself was a roaring terror of swift water and deadly current and Ramsay dared not cross it by foot, even though using the bridge could risk him exposing himself to other wayfarers; if there was one place he was in real danger of being discovered for who he was it would be on that narrow crossing. There was no reason to pull up the hood of his cloak or try to otherwise hide his face, acting evasive would only make people more suspicious and attentive of him. Instead he washed himself in the river, appearing less scruffy and exhausted than he felt. The trick to hide in plain sight was to come off as colorless and ordinary as possible.

He was surprised to find that the only travellers on the bridge were some old fisherwomen and the bridge tax collector. Ramsay threw a gold coin in the collector's basket and the man, busy peeling a corn cob for lunch, nodded his head giving Ramsay the clear to pass the bridge, no questions asked. He trotted across the cobblestones past a group of women, moving sluggishly along carrying baskets full of fish. One of the old birds gave him a dull stare as he rode by, the rest never even looked up from the ground. When he reached the other side of the bridge, Ramsay let out the second relived exhalation of the day.

I might just make it, a smile played on his lips, by this time tomorrow I will be soaking in a bath, getting ready to take on the world again. He switched direction heading east towards the Dreadfort. The mare was close to exhaustion as he finally halted around noon. He fed the leftover fruit to the horse and petted her mane. “Don’t give up on me, old girl!” A cheerfulness had entered his voice, and for the first time since the dreadful siege had begun, Ramsay felt enormous gratitude at the prospect of soon being within his own walls, safe from harm and with a grand new chance at reconnecting with his allies and conquering the North once again. 

At the break of dawn they set off for the last time. The mare seemed to have regained some strength over night, as if she knew they were close to their journey ́s end. Ramsay picked up speed, ignoring the soreness he felt from not having ridden a horse in months and the bruises he had earned from the encounter with the Stark soldiers. The woods east of the lake were dense and made a great cover from prying eyes. He met no travellers on the road which left him a bit puzzled, but then the area surrounding the Dreadfort was not the most well travelled piece of land in Westeros and it was nearing winter time. Commoners seemed to go to great lengths avoiding going anyway near the Dreadfort, especially in the colder months when the occupants within the castle were bored out of their minds. As well they should, Ramsay smiled wickedly at the thought of his kin's gruesome notoriety.

When the castle appeared above the treeline covered in morning fog, a feeling of great joy swept through Ramsay’s heart. He put his heels to the steed's sides and galloped full throttle down the narrow road, leaving behind him a trail of dust and whirling leaves. The Dreadfort in all its enormity, towered dim and silent above the bleak landscape. On the road beneath it, its long lost Lord was finally returning home. 


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