Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ramsay Snow is in a great mood. So much so, that as he strides across the Dreadforts central courtyard towards the building that houses the kennels and dungeon, he can’t help but parse his meaty lips together and whistle a jaunty tune. The notes he produces are sharp as a knife's edge, and so draw the attention of those few servants who are working outside at present. Upon seeing his lordship’s bastard son, the majority of the servants scramble to finish their tasks so that they can depart before the screaming starts. They know all too well that when Ramsay makes for the dungeons, the only music that will follow is a symphony of wails and screeches. Furthermore, the young Snow is never one to turn down the opportunity to increase his body count, so any unfortunate who crosses him now is apt to end up down there as well.

Ramsay pays no notice to the flurry of activity he inspires though, as he’s far too busy puffing up his ego by replaying the events of the morning in his mind. Earlier that day, a raven arrived bearing a message for him from his father, who is currently enroute to the Twins where he will attend the wedding of Edmure Tully and Roslin Frey. The letter confirmed that Ramsay will remain castellan of the Dreadfort while Roose is gone—news he’d expected but is nonetheless happy to receive—and further details regarding an arrangement between his father and the Kingshand.

The information Ramsay received about this latter issue is still too vague for his liking. He does not appreciate being kept in the dark about Roose’s schemes, especially because so many of them now revolve around him. Still, he’s grateful to have gotten any information at all, as it signals his father is starting to warm to him again. The death of his half-brother Domeric was also the death of any good will Roose Bolton showed him, which in Ramsay’s opinion, is so unfair! He’d never laid a finger on Domeric, despite there having been plenty of times he’d wanted to. Convincing his father of that though, is a goal that remains stubbornly out of reach.

Best not worry about that now though, Ramsay tells himself. Instead he should focus on the good things in life, like the pleasures awaiting him in the cell of his favorite prisoner. Last time he’d visited had been several days ago, at which point he’d peeled the skin off Reek’s left little finger and fucked him unconscious. He’s excited to pick up where he’d left off, to see if his pet is ready for him to cut off another digit or if he needs more convincing. Either way, Ramsay knows he’s going to enjoy himself.

Having reached the L shaped building that is his destination, Ramsey reaches out an arm and places his hand against the sturdy wooden door that marks its entrance. Then he pushes it open and steps into the foyer. The room he enters is a small rectangular one made of aged stone, lit only by a couple of wall mounted touches. To the left of where he’s standing is an empty doorway that leads into the cell block that houses the dogs. Back during the heyday of the Dreadfort, these cells held the prisoners deemed less dangerous than the ones downstairs. But as time passed and the number of captives the Bolton’s took dwindled, they’d been converted into a home for the family's numerous hounds. Ramsay is glad of it too, as the kennels remain one of the happiest places in all of Westeros for him, despite their admittedly squalid conditions.

Through the open doorway, Ramsay hears Ben Bones—the kennel master—swearing whilst attending to some business in one of the dogs' cells. “Good afternoon Ben!” Ramsay shouts as he walks over to the door at the far end of the foyer.

Upon hearing Ramsay’s voice, Ben immediately stops what he’s doing and goes to greet him. The two men have an unusual relationship in that Ben is one of the few servants that isn’t completely terrified of Ramsay. This is because Ben makes a living taking care of violent temperamental animals, and so has learned a thing or two about not getting bit.

“And you as well, sir!” Ben replies, once he’s standing in the foyer. “Returning to the dungeons, are you? Going to have another chat with, ah what’s his name, Theon was it?”

The question, while not intended to be offensive, sets Ramsay on edge. “It’s Reek, actually.” he corrects, slowly. “Theon Greyjoy's dead.”

What had started as— No, joke isn’t the right word. Ramsay couldn’t remember why he’d started calling Theon Reek. What he does know is that somewhere between hunting the other man for sport and the dozen other torture sessions they’d shared, it had fallen into place. Something about the decision just felt right. After all, he’d met Theon while moonlighting as his murdered caretaker, and every moment he’d spent at Winterfell had been a little slice of Hell because of it. Now he’s returning the favor by refusing to call Theon anything but Reek, and by forcing everyone else—Theon included—to do the same.

Sensing the negative shift in Ramsay’s mood, Ben backpedals. “Ah, pardon my ignorance then, sir.” he says. “Must’ve misheard.”

“I will this once,” Ramsay replies. “But see that you remember in the future.”

“I will.”

“How are my girls?” Ramsay asks after a beat, his tone lightening.

“The girls are well, sir.” says Ben, hurriedly. Ramsay’s bitches are some of the only creatures he truly loves, and so conversations about them are usually safe. “They miss you, they miss the hunt. They want to know when you’ll go riding with Blood again so they can join.”

“Do they?” Ramsay replies with a laugh. “Well, tell them it will be soon. I’ve just received word from my father that I am to remain castellan of the Dreadfort while he is gone, and may feel like celebrating later.”

“That’s excellent news, sir.” says Ben. “I’ll let the ladies know at once, I’m sure they’ll be excited and happy for you.”

“Oh stop!” says Ramsay, chuckling again. “You and I both know it’s the treats they're after!” Ben laughs as well, and for a moment, the two men experience something that could be friendship— if you squint.

“Right, Ben,” says Ramsay, once they’ve finished. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine, sir.” Ben replies. “Give Reek my regards.”

“Ha!” Ramsay cries, tickled by the idea that anyone wants to tell Reek anything. “I will.”

With that, Ramsay steps forward and pushes open the door that conceals the stairway. Like the room he’s just exited, its walls and floor are made of stone, unlike it though it isn’t lit by touches. The room's only light source comes from the opening in the floor that’s set against the back wall, marking the top of the stairs. From this hole emanates a flickering red-orange glow, a light that’s caused by the wall sconces below, that makes the mouth of the stairs look like the gate of the Seven Hells.

Ramsay strides over to this opening and begins his descent. As he does he starts to whistle again, the confined echoing space making the notes all the more piercing. When he reaches the foot of the stairs, he’s met with the sight of Luton, who’s sitting across the room at the beat up wooden table that functions as the dungeons guard station. Spread out on the table before him, is a game of solitaire and a large pile of nuts, one of which he’s currently selling. Ramsay stops whistling long enough to greet him, then resumes while Luton rises from his seat and goes to unlock the door to the cell block. Once this is done, Ramsay moves over to join him, and the two men enter the prison.

Together they walk down the long skinny hallway that runs between the left and right cell blocks. Midway down the hall, they stop in front of one of the wooden doors that lead into a cell. The door is as nondescript as all the others, made of a thick dark wood, set with iron hardware. But this one is specialer than all the rest—Ramsay thinks giddily, while Luton fishes for the key—-because this one belongs to Reek! Key now in hand, Luton reaches out and inserts it into the doors lock. The bolt moves back with an audible clunk that sends shivers running down Ramsay’s spine. Gods he’s missed this!

“Enjoy.” says Luton, as Ramsay reaches out and pulls open the door.

“I always do!” he chirps back, stepping into the cell.

The door swings shut behind him with a heavy thud, followed by the sound of Luton redoing the lock. The only light in the cell comes in from the crack under the door, so the first thing Ramsay does is move around relighting the various candle stubs. When that’s done, he takes a moment to inspect the space, his eyes searching the gloom for any notable changes.

Early on in his captivity, when Reek was still learning manners, his pet tried to attack him a few times with different objects. Nothing had come from these desperate, and frankly pathetic, escape attempts— other than Reek getting whipped of course. Ramsay is a large, sturdy man, well accustomed to taking a hit, and as such rarely worries about being overpowered. This doesn’t prevent him from being cautious though, because if Reek did somehow manage to get out, it would be a hassle to deal with. Once he’s satisfied that the table by the door still has all its legs, and no rocks have been pried out of the walls, Ramsay allows his gaze to settle on the large pile of hay situated in the far left corner. The hay pile, as if sensing its tormentor’s stare, begins to quiver noticeably.

“Good afternoon, Reek!” he exclaims, joyfully.

Instead of responding the way it’d been trained, the hay pile lets out a single pained groan.

“Starting off on a bad foot are we?” Ramsay mutters to himself. Well fine, he could work with that.

Moving with a surprising amount of stealth for a man his size, Ramsey stalks over to the hay pile and squats down next to it, an act which causes his large belly to strain uncomfortably against the fabric of his doublet. I’m going to beat you twice as long for making me do this, he thinks, at the same moment he reaches out a hand and stuffs it into the pile. Underneath the filthy fetid straw that functions as Reeks bed, Ramsay's hand brushes up against an emaciated hip. The physical contact causes Reek to begin to wriggle around more urgently, as if doing so could save him.

After another second or two of groping, Ramsay finds what he’s looking for, an ankle. His fingers close around the boney limb like a manacle, encircling it entirely, then he heaves himself out of his squat, pulling Reek up along with him. Being so violently pulled from bed and flipped upside down causes Reek to let out a frightened squawk. Ramsay ignores this, turns, and moves towards the center of the room, dragging the struggling man after him the way a child might carry a blanket. Once there, he releases the hold he has on Reeks foot, sending him crashing to the ground.

“I said, good afternoon Reek!”

Groaning, Reek slowly sits up from his prone position, and maneuvers himself so that he’s sitting at his master's feet. “Good afternoon, master.” he says then, his eyes downcast, voice empty. “Have you need of me?”

“Seven above,” replies Ramsay, irritably. Although in truth, he’s incredibly pleased to be correcting his pet. It’s a lot less fun when Reek doesn’t fight back. “You make it seem so hard! You're responding to a greeting, Reek, not getting your teeth pulled out!”

To further punctuate his message, Ramsay reaches out and grabs Reek’s chin. He digs his fingers into the gaunt skin of his cheeks, making his lips bulge out in a fishy pout. “Let's have some enthusiasm, yeah!”

“Good afternoon, Master!” Theon cries after Ramsay releases him, his lips pulling back into a pained grimace that perfectly displays the holes in his smile. Beautiful, Ramsay thinks, he loves getting to admire his old work. “Have you need of me?”

“There we go! That’s the spirit!” Ramsay says, clapping with delight. When he’s finished he adds. “No, Reek, I haven’t need of you. But you certainly have need of me. Did you give any more thought to the condition of your finger?”

“I don’t want you to take it!” his pet stammers back. “Not yet!”

Fuck me, Ramsay thinks then. Something about the way Reek sounds has all his blood rushing to his dick. And the little ‘Not yet!’ at the end? The fact that he knows his body is Ramsay’s to use, he just wants some more time— perfect! Ramsay squats down again so that he’s at eye level with Reek, making his stomach bulge. This time however, the feeling of his clothes straining against his gut doesn’t bother him. No, he’s too busy fondling himself through his breeches to care.

The motion of his hand against the outline of his clothed cock doesn’t escape Theon’s notice. The terrified man stares in wide eyed horror at the display taking place before him. He’s seen such things before of course, and has experience worse—knows that by the end of this meeting he’ll likely be raped again. When alone in his cell, he’s spent an untold number of hours, praying, begging, and pleading to every God he knows—old and new—to put a stop to it. To save him!

None have intervened.

“Really? Are you sure?” replies Ramsay, hungrily.

He releases the hold he has on his manhood and reaches out to grab Reeks left arm. Theon, being distracted by fear and despair, is slow to respond. Too late, he tries to pull away, but by that point Ramsay has got a hold of him. Using his superior strength, Ramsay easily wrenches his arm away from his body, repositioning it so that his injured left hand is outstretched between them.

This close, Ramsay sees that the strips of cloth covering Reeks flayed little finger are caked in dried blood. Hm. He’ll have to have words with the Maester later. That idiot coward knows better than to wait too long to attend to Reeks' needs. Especially after he’s explained, more than once, that his training schedule gets disrupted if his pets wounds go untreated.

That’s a problem for later though, right now Ramsay focuses on wrapping his chubby fingers around Reek’s near skeletal ones, and squeezing down, hard. The action causes the delicate finger bones of Reeks hand to be ground against one another in his grip, further irritating the raw muscle Ramsay knows is hidden under the bandages. The scream Reek unleashes then is a beautiful thing, loud and long, that makes Ramsay’s cock twitch. He knows his pet can do better though, has heard for himself the gorgeous variation of wails and sobs that burst from his lips when he’s under the knife, and is eager to reproduce them.

“But it must be hurting you terribly.” he mocks, as the last echoing notes of the other man's pain fade away. “Here, let me take a look!”

“Ramsay!—- Shit! Master! Wai—!” Theon shouts.

Before he’s finished uttering the syllables, Ramsay’s already adjusted his grip, so that he has access to the cloth protecting the wound. After absorbing so much blood, the bandages around Reek’s flayed finger have dried into a stiff brown casing. Ramsay grabs hold of this outer shell and yanks it off his pet with a single fluid motion, destroying the thin clotting membrane Reeks body created around the injury.

Pain hits Theon's nervous system with the impact force of a marble block launched by a trebuchet. One moment he’s sitting upright shouting, the next he’s staring up at Ramsay’s pudgy grinning face from where he landed when he fainted. Then another shockwave of agony rolls through him, whiting out his vision, and causing what little dinner he’d choke down last night to begin climbing back up his throat. It takes all of Reeks strength to turn his head, so that when he vomits a second later, the grey half digested chunks of gruel don’t choke him.

“Please!” he wails in between dry heaves. “Stop!”

“Oh, it looks like it needs to be cleaned.” Ramsay replies gleefully.

He’s managed to hang onto Reek’s injured hand despite all his thrashing, and is now staring at his flayed digit with sick fascination. Removal of the bandages has caused tiny red droplets of blood to well up from the exposed muscle, droplets which are now running down the back and sides of Reeks hand like crimson tears. Enticed by this, Ramsay yanks his appendage closer to his mouth and begins to lap at the blood with the flat of his tongue.

Theon lets out a revolted sob and begins to cry, his welling tears causing his vision to blur. It’s for this reason, he misses the moment Ramsay’s free hand reaches down into the pocket of his breeches, and pulls forth half a lemon from within. The young Snow made sure to stop by the kitchens earlier so he could pick out the fruit himself and watch the cook, who was oblivious to its intended purpose, cut it.

“You know what the perfect thing for cleaning wounds is?” Ramsay asks around a swallow of blood, his head shifting so that he can look Reek in the eye. “Lemon juice!”

As he says this, he raises the fruit up for Reek to see. The sight of the lemon's glistening pulpy center causes something to snap within Theon’s brain. Ramsay might like to degrade him by calling him slow, but already his mind has put two and two together. One squeeze of those meaty fingers, and boom, lemon gone. Obliterated into a rindy pulp mess, while its acidic juices splatter against the exposed muscle of his figure. The pain would be unimaginable, truly, even after all of the things that he’s experienced down here, he thinks that he would just die. His body pushed past limits it was never meant to.

His only option, if he wants to survive, is to fight back. “You fucking monster!” Theon howls then. “Let go! Don’t fucking touch me! Don’t touch me! I’ll kill you!”

As he says this, Theon draws his boney knees up against his chest and shoves out, striking Ramsay in the knees. This change in position, and the surprise he feels at being struck, gives him the leverage he needs to pull his blood slicked hand out of Ramsay’s grasp. The force he’s using to pull himself free causes him to fall backwards onto the stone flood of the dungeon. Quickly, Theon rolls over onto his side, and starts to push himself up again with his good arm. His bad hand held against his chest, smearing blood against his bare chest in bright red blotches.

Ramsay lunges forward before his pet can fully rise to his feet and tackles him, the mass of his belly driving him into the stone ground of the dungeon, knocking the air from his lungs. While Theon struggles to regain his breath, Ramsay pulls himself up off him enough so that he can turn him back onto his front. Then he sits back down, his thighs straddling Theon's hips. Despite being pinned beneath Ramsay’s immovable bulk, Theon continues to trash and curse, spitting the words at Ramsay with the wounded fury of an animal whose legs have been caught in a trap.

“You pig fucking whoreson! Get off of me! Get off! Let me go! I’ll kill you fuck—”

“Alright, that’s enough out of you.” says Ramsay, mildly, leaning forward to cover Reek’s mouth with his hand. Reek then bites into the meat of his palm with a savagery that’s surprising for a creature who’s lost so many teeth.

Ramsay lets out a pained grunt, and fixes Reek with a glare. “Alright, now you're really starting to get on my nerves, Hold still Gods damn it! I’ve gotta find that lemon.”

With the weight of his stomach holding Reek in place, Ramsay searches the dungeon floor around them for the piece of fruit he dropped during their struggle. After a couple seconds he finds it, a little squared and dirty, but ultimately still usable. Beneath him, Reek’s begun to quietly sob, all of the fight exiting his body as quickly as it arrived.

“I fucking hate you!” he spits, when Ramsay removes his palm.

“Yeah, what else is new?” says Ramsay, then he takes the lemon and squashes it directly over Reek’s hand.

The effect is instantaneous: the second the lemon juice reaches his finger muscles, Reek throws his head back against the dungeon floor, opens his mouth wide, and produces a sound of pain yet unnamed by human language. To call it a scream would be to diminish its scope, as the noise comes from the depth of his soul, the very center of his being. Its waves seem to ripple out across time, permeating and transforming his memories, until his entire life becomes this howl of anguish. At the same time, his muscles begin to spasm uncontrollably, his bladder releases, and finally, mercifully, he passes out. Unconsciousness being the only way his body can protect him from the horror.

******

When Theon regains consciousness sometime later, the first thing he becomes aware of is the sensation of Ramsay grinding his erection into the piss soaked fabric of his pants. At first he tries to ignore it, tries to focus instead on the searing pain in his figure, the back of his eyelids, his breathing—anything besides what the other man is doing to him. Eventually though, the grunting sounds of pleasure Ramsay makes prove too much and he breaks, releasing a palliative whimper from his scream raw throat.

Without missing a beat, Ramsay says. “You like that puppy?” in a voice horse with lust.

“No!” he croaks back. “Stop it! Get off!”

“I’m trying too!” Ramsay snarks, punctuating the statement with a particularly harsh thrust.
“Not you!” Theon cries. “My hand— Fuck! It hurts!”

He opens his eyes then, and sees that the other man is still straddling his waist, a position that causes Ramsay’s ample gut to be pressed into Theon's torso, pinning him to the dungeon floor. With great difficulty, Theon frees his right arm from where it’s tapped at his side, and jabs it into the velvet covered flesh mass that is Ramsay’s stomach. His attempt at self defense only spurs Ramsay to lean forward, bringing his face a mere inch away from Theon’s own. Pale blue eyes—the same cruel color as winter stars—peer out at him through a curtain of black hair, considering.

“Does it really?” Ramsay says then, his lips twisting into a parody of a smile. “I’m sorry, I must’ve gotten confused earlier. Lemon juice doesn’t clean cuts, salt does!”

Theon swallows down a scream. Gods, now he’s done it! Why can’t he just be good? Why does he always have to push his luck and bring more misery down upon himself? He’s acting like a helpless child, the same way he did when he first arrived at Winterfell— No fuck that, even though he was their hostage, the Starks never raped or mutilated him! They still thought of him as a prince, no, a person, and treated him accordingly.

Not like Ramsay, who thinks he’s lower than a dog, and is hell bent on stripping him of everything he has. His skin, his name, his title, family— If Theon doesn’t stop him, the bastard will peel away every layer of his identity, leaving nothing but the raw red insides. He can’t let that happen! No matter what Ramsay says to him, does to him, he’s still a prince! No an Iornborn! For fuck sake, what would his father say if he saw him beg like this? What would Asha? Would they even care? Would they save him?

Would anybody?

“Bastard!” Theon snarls at Ramsay. It’s not the most creative comeback, but it’s the best thing he can come up with given the circumstances.

He regrets saying it almost immediately though, as his close proximity to Ramsay allows him to feel the way the other man's muscles stiffen with tension at the sound of the word. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! he thinks. Why did I do that? Seven save me! Drowned God protect me! I’m not ready to die, not yet, I—

“What was that mutt?” Ramsay asks, slowly. “I couldn’t hear you?”

“Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!” Theon shouts, spiting the part of himself that wants to cringe away, to cower. “Ramsay Snow’s a fucking Bastard!”

He would have said more and worse, but by the time he’s screamed the last curse, Ramsay’s hands have wrapped around his throat, and are squeezing, squeezing! His fingernails boring into the delicate muscles of his neck that same way they broke through the lemon rind earlier.
“Shut the fuck up!” his attacker bellows, as Theon vision darkens for the third time in so many minutes. “You think you're better than me? Because he picked you? You're nothing to him! Nothing! He doesn’t love you, Domeric! He’s using you! If he couldn’t do that— If you’d slid out of a Millers gash, he would’ve left you to die with that thing just like me! You got lucky! You should be grateful Dom— Thee— Fuck!”

Lost in his fury, Ramsay sees the man before as every man he’s ever been unfairly compared to. Every whinging, pathetic, lordling, cuck that ever dared look down on him, most especially the older half brother he so despised— and loved. Yes, Ramsay had loved Domeric as well.

It was hard not to, he was everything Ramsay wasn’t, or so said their father. Domeric was warm, kind, funny, attractive, legitimate, etc. To make matters worse, after Domeric had learned of Ramsay's existence, he’d immediately embraced him as the little brother he’d always wanted but never had. Insisting that Ramsay come live with him at the Dreadfort in order to make up for lost time, despite the numerous protests of their father. The pair became inseparable, Domeric wanting to show him all the best hunting spots, his favorite swimming hole, the kennels…

It was awful. Ramsay had wanted to hate him, did hate him for everything he had that Ramsay didn’t. It just wasn’t fair! Why should he get a mother who loved him, that didn’t view him as a constant reminder of the worst thing that ever happened to her? Why should he be raised by Roose and not a smelly corpse fucking monster? Why should he get the money, the title, the estate, the power, the tutors, the looks! Why, Why, Why?

And yet, in the face of having a brother who truly loved him—not always perfectly, but still—all of Ramsay’s hatred and envy and hurt had begun to soften. If only it could have lasted, he thinks then, his grip slackening. Oh Dom, why’d you have to go and leave me?

Sitting back on his heels, Ramsay releases his captives neck and watches silently as the other man returns from the brink of unconsciousness. Once he’s fully awake again, his pet props himself up with his left elbow, and begins coughing and rubbing at his throat with his uninjured hand. Even in the low light of the dungeon cell, Ramsay can see the ring of dusky purple bruises that’s starting to take shape around the other man's neck. The sight fills him with a deep satisfaction, even as he remains infuriated by his pets terrible behavior.

“You know,” Ramsay says after a beat. “I'm only trying to help you.”

“The fuck you are!” replies Theon, hoarsely. “May the others take you Ramsay, to all seven hells!”

Sigh. “If you want me to stop, you know what you need to do.” rejoins Ramsay.

“You can’t have it!” Theon snarls back, moving his flayed hand closer to his side. “I won’t let you!”

That makes Ramsay laugh. “You say that now,” he adds when he’s finished. “But you and I both know that by the time an hour’s passed, you’ll beg me to cut it off, just like you did with all the others. Now, if you were a smart dog, you’d have let me do it when I first walked in here and saved yourself the grief. But that dumb bitch brain of yours still hasn’t accepted your place.”

When his pet offers no reply, he continues. “You're not a prince, you’re not even a person. You're my Reek. It rhymes with freak, remember? Don’t tell me you forgot the song…”

“Fuck you and your bloody song!” the other man shouts. “That’s not my name! I’m Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon and Alannys. Brother of Asha. Prince of the Iron Islands. Nothing you do will ever change that!”

“Really?” says Ramsay, amused. “Is that what you tell yourself? Seems you're a little out of the loop.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” asks Theon warily.

“I shouldn’t say…” Ramsay replies, playing coy.

“Ramsay please!”

“You're not going to like it.”

“Tell me!”

“Well since you asked so nicely,” taunts the bastard. “Your father’s dead!”

“What?” says Theon.

Ramsay ignores him. “He took a little tumble off a bridge one night, slipped on a puddle I believe.”

“You're lying!” Theon cries.

“Now one of your uncles sits the Seastone Chair.” Ramsay continues. “I forget which one though, all Iornborn names sound alike to me… ”

A horrible droning noise, similar to the one made by the large black flies that swarm his chamber pot, fills Theon’s head. Ramsay’s lying, he has to be! Theon’s father can’t be dead! Not before he proves— but that would explain why he hasn’t sent for him. And isn’t it better this way? If Lord Baylons dead, that means he didn’t abandon— No, no, he’s not dead! He’s just busy with the war! Someone will come to ransom him, Asha will— No idiot, Asha hates us! But she’d still come wouldn’t she? She’d have to, because—

“But I’m his heir!” Theon protests feebly. “They can’t just replace me!”

“Oh but they can,” says Ramsay, leaning forward again, so he can better see his pet's agony. “Because you're nothing to them. Nothing. How could you be? You're just an old war hostage who should’ve died years ago, so your Lord father could finally slip the Stark’s collar. That’s the only way you’d have been useful to him. But you couldn’t even handle that much, could you? It’s no wonder your sister left you to die at Winterfell. She must’ve already realized what a failure of an Iornborn you are, not to mention a turncloak, childkiller, and faggot!”

He’s right, Theon realizes. How many times has he thought those exact things sitting down here in the dark? Or begged the Gods to end him, to spare him from this pain? He’s not fit to live! He’s weak, an embarrassment! It’s no wonder father let him get taken, Baylon must have known from the start he wasn’t unfit to rule. And the Starks, they knew it too, it’s why he’d always been left out in the cold with John and the other cur’s. All his life he’s been fighting against it, and what has it gotten him? A month sleeping in Ned Stark's bed, pretending to be Lord of Winterfell. HA! He should just let Ramsay take the finger. Why not? In the face of everything he’s already lost, what does it matter if he loses another little piece of his body?

“Fine,” says Theon. “Do it. Take my finger.”

“Good boy.” replies Ramsay cheerfully, before leaning in to plant a moist kiss on his forehead.

Theon grimaces at the sensation of those meaty lips brushing against his forehead, but says nothing. When Ramsay pulls away from him again, he slowly extends his injured left hand out towards his torturer. Ramsay takes the limb gently in his own hand, and positions it so that it’s splayed out flat on the prison floor palm side down. He then reaches at his side to grab the hilt of his blade, which he unsheathes.

The knife in question—which never leaves his person—was bestowed to him by Domeric shortly before his death. A family heirloom, the blade is a part of a set of three other weapons, each of which sports a handle made from human bone. Of these three, Ramsay favors the flaying knife, with its long thin blade made for separating skin from muscle. More than this though, he treasures the knife as a symbol of connection to his family. For by giving him the knife, Domeric had publicly declared his belief that Ramsay was a true Bolten, regardless of his origins.

While Ramsay moves his knife over to rest against the exposed meat of Theon’s finger, the latter man lays down fully and closes his eyes in an attempt to get more comfortable. The sensation of the blade's cool metal edge against his flayed digit is oddly soothing to him, as it promises an end to the constant throbbing pain he feels because of it. Experience has taught him though, that the relief that comes from having his skinned limbs removed is temporary, as it’s immediately replaced with the pain that follows amputation.

“Are you ready?” asks Ramsay excitedly. “I’m going to begin sawing on three. One, Two,---”

The first slashing cut happens before three, as Theon knew it would. Ramsay always pulls that trick, despite the fact that Theon is well used to it by now. The ugly sinking feeling that accompanies the knife as it penetrates deeper and deeper into Theon’s muscle and bone, sends a flash of pain coursing up his arm. Theon does his best to focus his attention on this, and not the renewed hardness between Ramsay’s legs. It’ll be over soon, he tells himself.

It has to be, Right?

Chapter Text

When the blade of Ramsay's flaying knife finishes sawing through his captives finger bone, he quickly sets it down and reaches a hand into the pocket of his trousers for the wad of linen he brought with him. Sadistic as he is, Ramsay also knows he must take certain precautions or his pet will succumb to the dismissal conditions of the dungeon. Amputation wounds in particular are highly susceptible to infection—doubly so when there’s no extra skin left to cover the stump limb—and must be treated with care. When he’s done here today, he’ll also stop by the Masters quarters and see to it that the man actually comes down here and does his job! He won’t have his Reek dying because of the other man’s negligence.

Gauze in hand, he gently maneuvers Reek's mangled limb so he can press the fluffy white material to the gory spot where his left little finger used to be. His pet makes a soft moaning noise in response to the shifting motion, and he shushes him. It’s the first sound Ramsay’s heard him make in a while, as sometimes during the surgery, Reek fell into one of his glassy eyed trances. With any luck, it’ll take the other man a while yet to come back to himself, and Ramsay will be able to fuck him without too much hassle. His cock is aching for release after all of the earlier excitement, and he’s feeling impatient.

Once he’s satisfied that the bleeding has stopped, Ramsay wraps the least used portion of the gauze around Reek's hand, securing it with a tight knot. Then he scoops up the severed finger and his flaying knife from the floor and carefully heaves himself to his feet. He walks over to the table that’s next to the door and inspects his new prize more closely in the dim light of the candle there. He’s not sure what he’ll do with it yet, maybe mail it to that barbarian cunt of a sister Theon has, or better still, have it cleaned and turned into jewelry. He’d love it if next time Reek bent to kiss Ramsay’s ring, the ring in question was made of his pet's old finger bone. For now though, he puts the limb in his pocket, where it’ll be safe from the gnawing teeth of rats, and sets to work maintaining his knife on an old leather strap he keeps down here for such occasions.

When Ramsay next turns around, he finds his pet has shifted so that he’s sitting up with his knees pulled against his chest. Reek eyes his captor warily from across the room, and hunches down smaller, trying to disappear. “Well, look who’s up again.” says Ramsay, while sheathing his now clean knife. “Did you have a good rest?”

“No, I wasn’t sleeping…” Theon mumbles, hiding his face behind his knobby knees. After a beat he looks up again and asks in a sullen voice. “Are we done yet? Is it over?”

“Over?” repeats Ramsay mockingly. “Why Reek, are you saying you don’t like my company?”

“No, I— I didn’t mean— Of course not master!” Theon cries.

Ramsay laughs, amused by the other man's panic. “Very good,” he says. “I almost believed you that time.”

“I'll let you in on a little secret puppy,” he continues, walking to where his pet is sitting. “The two of us will never be over. Oh, a specific interview might come to an end, sure, but I'll always come back for more. I intend to keep you down here, being attacked by rats, screaming in the dark, taking my cum, until there's no more parts of you to cut off or stars go out. Whatever comes first.”

“Why?” says Theon, horrified.

“Why what?” repeats Ramsay.

“Why are you doing this to me?” says Theon, his voice growing more shrill as his terror mounts. “What did I do to you to make you hate me so much? I don’t understand!”

It’s an innocuous question, and on another day when thoughts of Domeric weren’t dogging him, Ramsay would’ve easily brushed it aside with a ugly quip. Today though, after already enduring his pets' earlier comments about his origins, the question has him seeing red. Suddenly the jail cell seems too crowded, to warm— Ramsay feels himself break out into a cold sweat. Feels his muscles tense, his body preparing for a fight, but with whom? He can’t tell where the threat’s coming from. Enemies seem to surround him, shapes shifting in the dark, whispering. An image flashes in his mind, an old memory of him and his brother fighting, not long after he came to the Dreadfort.

“What did I do to you to make you hate me so much?” Domeric shouts. His voice is not his own though, but that of Reek, no Theon? His father?

“You exist!” his younger self sobs back, the sound echoing through time. You exist. You exist. How many times growing up did his mother spit those words at him? How many times did she look at him with hatred in her eyes and say “I begged the Gods to have you die inside me. But here you are, Ramsay, you exist. Just be grateful you were born a boy and can get pregnant from him touching you.”

How could she, Ramsay thinks then, his furry bubbling up like pus in an infected wound. How could any of them, how could they have treated him like that? And now? To still deny it, to still pretend like it's my fault, like I asked for any of it? It’s not fair!

Theon, fool that he is, is oblivious to the effect his words have had on his tormentor. “Don’t tell me it’s for the Starks!” he continues, digging his own grave. “You have no love for them— You wanted to murder those miller boys! When you came to me with the idea, you were already prepared to! You have no sense of justice, of honor! For fucks sake, you hunt people for sport! Don’t insult me by pretending you feel guilty about what we did!”
“I know you like hurting people,” Theon says after a beat. “But you can torture anyone. So why me? Why not kill me? I’m nothing, you said it yourself. Is it because you think I can help you win over the Ironborn? Because I can’t! They don’t want me back! Nobody wants me—”

Theon’s desperate rambling is interrupted by the sound of Ramsay's chuckling, a noise which makes the hair on the back of Theon’s neck rise. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you!” he says once he’s finished. “You know exactly what you did to me!”

“I don’t!” Theon pleads, confusion and anxiety twisting in his gut. “Ramsay—-”

“Shut up!” the other man screams, making Theon jump. “Gods above! For once in your miserable life I wish that you would admit what you did! At the Mill, you— what my father did to mother, you—” In a sudden rush of movement, Ramsay lashes out an arm and grabs a fist full of hair near the crown of the other man's head. He then forces the smaller man up onto his knees with a violent yank.

“Ow fuck! Ramsay!” Theon sobs, his one good hand reaching up to claw at his attacker. “I’m sorry! Please don’t rape me again! Not now! I’ll be good, I promise!”

Rather than respond, Ramsay yanks Theon to the right by his hair and releases him, sending him toppling onto his side. “Get on your hands and knees! Now!” He barks. When Reek doesn’t comply, Ramsay squats down next to him and roughly manhandles his body into position before pulling down the soiled pair of trousers, which are his pets only covering.

“Shut up!” Ramsay shouts. “You think I like touching you freak? The only thing you’re fit to fuck is my dead whores, and even their too good for you! You should be thankful I'm doing this! You should be begging for it!”

While he’s speaking, Ramsay reaches a hand down beneath the curve of his gut, to where the laces of his breeches are. After a couple seconds of blindly tugging at them, he’s able to open his fly, freeing his cock. Quickly, Ramsay brings his hand to his mouth and spits into it, before grabbing hold of his member and stroking. He hopes his Reek will enjoy the courtesy, because it’s the only lubricant he’ll be getting other than his own blood.

Once he’s sufficiently coated himself, Ramsay lines himself up with Reeks hole. The overhang of his stomach along with the flaps of fabric at the bottom of his doublet prevent him from seeing clearly though, so it takes him a couple of tries to properly seat himself. When the head of his dick finally does breach the tight ring of muscle though, Ramsay swears he sees the Gods. No matter how many times he fucks his pet, he’s never prepared for the tight, warm, feeling of his insides giving way.

His revelry is impeded upon though by the ugly sobbing coming from the man beneath him. “It hurts!” screams Theon. “Take it out! You're killing me!”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it!” Ramsay snarls back at him, pushing in deeper. There’s some discomfort caused by that lack of lube, yes even he can feel that, but it’s better this way. He wants it to hurt, because maybe now Reek will finally understand what he put him through when he—wait, that's not right—at Winterfell he… No, the Mill! It was at the Mill, but which one?

Pain flares at Ramsay’s temple and he winces, his body suddenly trembling. Everything is so complicated now, it’s like time keeps doubling back on itself, getting folded and pressed together like liquid steel being forged into a sword. He can’t figure out where he starts and Reek ends. No that isn’t right either! He isn’t Reek, Reek was his father. But then Roose—- he, what happened to mother? Who’s son am I?

Don’t think about that now, Ramsay tells himself. Got to stay focused, got to remember why we're here… why are we here? To fuck Theon a voice inside him cries. Who in the Seven Hells is Theon? he thinks. This is Reek we're with, we're gonna fucking kill him! The way we should’ve done back in the Hornwood.

His purpose once again clear, Ramsay reaches out with right hand to grab at the long strands of filthy hair covering the nape of the other man's neck. Though subtle, this sudden change in pressure is jarring enough that it shakes Theon out of the dissociative haze he’d fallen into. Acting out of pure animalistic desperation, Theon lurches forward on his forearms, attempting to yank his lower half away from his assailant. His struggling only serves to further enrage Ramsay, who thrusts his hips forward, forcing his cock even deeper into Theon's' unlubricated hole. Theon let loose a wordless shriek of despair, as the sensitive muscles in his anus rip around the intuition.

At the same time, Ramsay pitches forward again to grab at Theon's hair—his movement causing the soft pink velvet of his doublet to press against the protruding knobs of Theon’s spine—almost crushing him. The figures of his outstretched hand tangle in Theon's matted locks, and begin to pull— pull— Forcing Theon's head back at such an extreme angle, he can now see Ramsay's fat face looming over him. See his pudgy worm lips stretch back in a ugly grin, his ice blue eyes burning like the cold fires of hell. The strain this act puts upon his neck and spine is so great, Theon thinks his head will pop off while the rest of his body goes flying forward, twanging like a plucked bow string. Instead his upper half is heaved backwards via his hair, until he’s kneeling upright in front of Ramsay, his back and shoulders pressed against his attackers front.

Before he can try and escape again, Ramsay wraps his meaty arms around Theon’s middle, locking him in place. Ramsay then begins to rock his hips, thrusting up and into him in short quick bursts. The change in position has shifted the angle of Ramsay's cock within him, and Theon can now feel its blunt head jabbing against the small bundle of nerves near his entrance. The rhythmic bursts of pleasure brought on by Ramsay’s movements, coupled with the sharp urgent pain emanating from his tearing muscles has Theon seeing stars— bright white bursts of light, whose glare he has to close his eyes against.

The sensation also causes unbidden memories of his boyhood at Winterfell to appear against the backs of his eyelids. He remembers then, his own awkward fumbling's beneath his bedclothes. How sometimes when he was alone with one hand on his dick, he’d push two fingers inside himself to play with those same nerves. Or worse still, the private swordplay lessons he’d have with Robb Stark, that would always end with the loser pinned to the hard packed dirt of the training circle, the victor straddling his hips, the both of them desperately rutting their clothed erections together in a final struggle for dominance.

An unwilling moan, not quite of pleasure not quite of pain, escapes Theon’s mouth. Why now? Why remember those things? In the wake of his return to the Iron Islands he’d done his best to forget them, to bury the memories down deep along with all other feelings of love he’d had for the Starks. It hadn’t been enough. His father had still sensed his weakness— Nevertheless he tries to do the same thing now, to force away the memories and their confusing shameful pleasure.

It’s not enough, as his cock still twitches lustily after a particularly hard thrust from Ramsay. The rape is starting to feel good— Inside him now, he can feel the slick dampness of his blood and Ramsay's precum easing the friction between there two bodies —a realization that makes his stomach heave violently. If he hadn’t emptied it earlier, the torrent of conflicting emotions he feels now would have caused him to do so.

As if somehow aware of his victim's unwanted pleasure, Ramsay pauses his assault for a moment to say, “Feeling good yet, puppy?” in a mocking voice— the noise startling Theon from his reverie.

“No! Never!” Theon fires back, wiggling his shoulders in a half hearted attempt to break free. Just now he feels the way a prize buck must when being run down by a hunting party. He’s flagging badly, his body covered in bite marks and pierced by arrows, but still refusing to drop. “Never with you!”

“That’s a shame” replies Ramsay coolly. “Because this is the last chance you'll get to use that ugly red cock of yours. If I were you, I’d take advantage.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Theon cries, aghast.

“Never you mind,” says Ramsay quickly. “Go on and touch yourself Sweetling. I wanna see you get nice and hard for me.”

“No! Let go of me! I hate you!” Theon shouts, redoubling his efforts to squirm free. He doesn’t know what the bastard’s planning to do to him next— doesn’t want to know! Right now the only thing he cares about is getting away! With a great deal of effort, Theon manages to shimmy his uninjured arm underneath Ramsay’s forearm. He then begins to claw violently at the hands clasped around his middle, hoping to force Ramsay to break his hold.

“Oh you fucking bitch!” Ramsay howls.

Rather than release him though, Ramsay tightens his grip around Theon’s middle, crushing the other man's emaciated frame between his forearms and the mound of his gut. This squeezes the air from Theon’s lungs in an audible woosh of breath and causes him to slump forward, gasping. His prisoner once again subdued, Ramsay is able to manhandle Theon into a position that allows him to maintain his hold with a single arm, so he can reach for the flaying knife sheathed at his hip. In a single fluid motion, Ramsay pulls the knife from its scabbard and moves the blade up to rest against the curve of Theon’s throat.

“I wasn’t asking!” he growls. “Grab your dick right fucking now Reek, or by the Gods above, I’ll end you!”

A knife to his throat and all his escape attempts foiled, Theon has no choice but to comply. Still, he issues a wretched, broken sob as he shifts himself in Ramsay’s grasp, giving his good hand access to his cock. Slowly then, he reaches down between his legs and wraps the healed remains of his fingers around the shaft of his member. It’s still half-hard and sensitive thanks to Ramsay’s earlier abuse for his prostate, and Theon can’t help the little quivering shudder that runs through him when he finally closes his fist and begins to stroke. Up and down, he sets a nice slow rhythm that's only interrupted by quick swipes of his thumb over the head to collect the precum. His skin is dry, and he needs the moisture so as to not chafe himself.

“That’s it, good boy.” Ramsay murmurs. “Just like that. You tell me when you're close now, and don’t you dare finish or there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Why?” Theon whimpers, while craning his neck back to try and catch a glimpse of the other man's expression.

“You’ll see.” says Ramsay, before planting a chaste kiss on the side of his head.

Another disgusted shudder runs down Theon’s spine. More than any other method of torture that's used against him, he hates the tenderness which Ramsay sometimes shows him. The beatings, mutilation, verbal abuse—hell even the sadistic lust— all of these traits he’s encountered before in others, has grown up around. He knows how to avoid provoking them, how to use them to his advantage when necessary. What he can’t account for are the feelings of genuine desire Ramsay seemingly holds of him. The bastard truly does want him, body and soul, and that is something Theon Greyjoy’s never experienced before.

Moving in time with the pace set by Theon’s pumping fist, Ramsay begins to rock his hips again. The arm that’s holding Theon around the middle also shifts, coming to rest up between his side and bicep. A position that lets Ramsay swipe the thumb of his free hand over the bud of his nipple, not unlike the way Theon’s own fingers keep rubbing at his piss slit, in an effort to milk more cum out. The combined sensation makes tears well in Theon’s eyes. He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t— But oh, it’s been a while since he’s touched himself!

The other times he’s been raped, Ramsay has either ignored his member entirely or worse, punished him for his bodies involuntary reactions. On one occasion, whipping Theon’s cock with his belt until it became swollen, and red, and he passed out from the pain. Today though, his torturer is nuzzling his face into Theon’s neck so he can kiss along his jawline, and whisper muffled praise to him for participating in his own denigration. All while holding that Gods damned knife to his throat!

The heady mixture of violence and sex makes Theon’s head spin, and it isn’t long before he’s moaning. “Ramsay—ah! Stop! I’ll cum!”
“Yeah?” asks Ramsay, who’s also become lost in the moment. “Alright puppy, that’s enough now.” he then adds, before reaching the hand he’d been foundling Theon’s peck with down to wrap around his cock. “I’ll take it from here.”

He gives Theon’s member a few experimental tugs, and for a second Theon’s sure that the other man merely intends to finish him off as another way of humiliating him. Then Ramsay's other hand, the one that’s been pressing his knife to Theon’s neck, begins to move down the length of his body. The blades perfectly maintained edge ghosts over the hollowed divot of Theon’s stomach, then over the hairy mound of his sex, and down his length, until finally it’s brought to a stop right below the head of his penis.

The sight of the knife that has peeled off his flesh and cut through his bones so close to his most sensitive organ is too much for Theon’s mind to handle. In response to the obvious threat, the higher functioning part of Theon’s consciousness starts to back away, receding into the inky black recesses of his mind where it can be safe. Leaving behind a creature of pure trembling fear—- Reek! It rhymes with meek!

Not that fucking song, Theon thinks then. I’m not Reek! My name is Theon Greyjoy! Son of Balon and Alannys. Brother of Asha— His protests feel sluggish though, like a body wading through waist high water, he has to use more force than he normally would to make them— Reek! It rhymes with weak!

Outside himself now, he hears voices shouting. No, not voices, it's his own voice that’s crying. “Master stop! What are you doing?” It sounds wrong though, all high pitched and whining like a kicked dog— Reek! It rhymes with shriek!

“This sweetling,” Ramsay replies. “Is what I should’ve done instead of letting that Gods damned knight put an arrow in your back! See, I made a mistake then. I thought watching you die, watching you get run down like the corpse fucking faggot you are would be good enough to settle things between us. I thought once you were dead I’d be free of you! Even if it wasn’t by my own hand!”

As he’s speaking, Ramsay presses down on Theon’s cock with the blade of his knife, hard enough to make a small but deep cut. Immediately, beads of blood begin to well up from the wound and run down the length of Theon’s erection, coating his member and the hand Ramsay’s using to hold it—- Reek! It rhymes with leak!

“Master, don’t! Please!” Reek—No, Theon. My name is Theon!—wails. “I’ll be a good dog! I swear! Just stop! Stop!”

“Lies!” Ramsay snarls back at him. “Lies, lies, lies!”

“I know who you are Reek!” he continues, his voice full of manic fury. “I’ve always known! I became you, remember? At Winterfell— You're not gonna get away from me this time, I won’t make the same mistake twice! Not after what you did, father— you— he— I—”

Ramsay’s voice gutters out like a candle flame that’s been hit by a sudden gust of wind. The silence that follows is even more terrifying to Reek, no wait, Theon, who shifts unhappily in Ramsay’s grasp. The flaying has stopped, at least for now, but the miserable creature knows he's far from safe. Oh why won’t he leave me alone, he thinks then. I just want to sleep, I’m so tired!

“Remember how you used to hurt me?” Ramsay asks, startling him. “At the mill… and mother, you knew she hated me, that I had no one, that I was alone.”

“What are you talking about?” he moans. “What mill? The one where we killed the boys? I don’t under—”

“You thought I was just another corpse for you to fuck!” Ramsay cries, oblivious. “That I was dead! How could you rape me, Dad? Did Roose put you up to it, or were you just that much of a monster?”

Even through the haze of his suffering, Reek—Fuck! It’s Theon! I’m Theon!--- is shocked by the admission. “Ramsay,” he says, again shifting his body to try and look at the other man's face. “I—”

“It doesn't matter. It doesn’t matter!” Ramsay says quickly. “You still sent that thing to live with us! And then you— he— er, hurts! He hurt me!”

He’s lost his fucking mind, Theon—Yes, that’s correct right? Right? Why can’t I remember?---realizes. Who in the seven hells does he think he’s talking to right now? His old serving man? Roose? Does he even know where we are? Drowned God save me! I knew he was mad, but not this fucking mad!

“And I know you don’t believe me,” Ramsay continues, sounding close to tears now. “I know you never fucking believe me when I tell you this shit, but he killed Domeric! Okay? Domeric knew what Reek was, and he killed him for it! I swear on my honor as a Bolton, it’s true! I couldn’t stop it! I still needed him, still loved—”

It’s too much. “Master stop!” the prisoner shouts. “I’m not your father! I’m not Reek! You have to believe me!”

“But it’s done now! I can stop it!” Ramsay screams back, moving the knife again, beginning to peel— “You're not gonna hurt anyone else ever again! Not me, not mother, the bodies— I'm going to end you dad! The way I should’ve!”

“I’m not Reek! I’m not Reek!”

But he is, isn’t he?

Chapter Text

The edge of the practice sword Big Walder’s wielding slams against the identical blade held by his cousin, producing a loud wooden clack. The force of the blow reverberates down the length of Little Walder’s weapon and into his arms, causing him to grunt in pain. For a brief moment time seems to stop, and the boys resemble a couple of young bucks whose antlers have gotten stuck together. Their faces inches apart, close enough to feel each other's ragged breath, only their blades separating them. Then they whirl apart, temporarily disengaging so they can each gain perspective from further back and plan their next attack. They begin to circle one another, slowly, their footsteps kicking up dirt clouds.

“For fucks sake Walder!” shouts Skinner from the sidelines. “Put your guard up! No, not you! The other Walder! ”

He’s been out in the courtyard all morning, putting the boys through their paces so Ramsay can observe their progress. At present though, Ramsay is finding it difficult to pay attention to the fight taking place before him. His eyes keep wandering across the Dreadfort’s courtyard, to the entrance of the L shaped building that houses the dungeon and kennels.

Three days have passed since garrison captain Damon Dance with Me hauled him out of Reek’s cell, half naked and covered in blood and cum. According to Damon, at the time Ramsay had been shouting incoherently and wildly brandishing his flaying knife like a mad giant from a fairytale. And it had taken Damon plus other two guards to subdue him, after which a sleeping drought had been administered. Ramsay, for his part, remembers only some of this. Much more vivid is the memory of what he had done before Damon had arrived.

“I told you that’s Little Walder Sir!” Big Walder calls back. He’s stopped circling his cousin so as to give Skinner his full attention, bringing the fight to a stand still. His sparring partner now otherwise occupied, Little Walder drops his practice sword, and goes to get a drink from a nearby horse trough.

“And I told you I'm not calling him that!” Skinner replies, exasperated.

“But why not, Sir? It’s his name.” says Big Walder.

“Because it makes no Seven damned sense to call a fat boy little!” snaps Skinner.

“But we call him that because he’s younger, Sir. Not on account of his size!” says Big Walder, with total sincerity.

“Then why not call him young Walder!” Skinner demands.

Big Walder's brow furrows as he considers this. Then he says, “You know I never thought about it that way sir. Do you think our family was taking a piss at us?

“Gods above! I can’t do this anymore!” groans Skinner. He glances heavenward beseechingly, but finding no aid there, turns to Ramsay. The castellan of the Dreadfort is too lost in his own thoughts to notice though.

It’s not that he regrets skinning Reek's cock, Ramsay just wishes he'd've waited longer to execute the idea. He should have planned more, done it slowly, better. Such a delicate operation requires consideration and greater attention to detail not… whatever the fuck that was. Thinking about it now makes Ramsay flush with embarrassment. His Lord father is always telling him he’s too impulsive, and here Ramsay is proving the ass right! Gah! It’s like the Hornwood all over again, and that had been a bloody fucking disaster!

“Ramsay.” says Skinner, trying and failing to gain his attention.

What’s worse is Reek had gotten under his skin again, even though Ramsay had been the one with the flaying knife. What was wrong with him, babbling about the past like that? What’s done is done, dwelling on it won’t change anything! And what should happen if Reek ever got free somehow? Why hadn’t he considered that, demands a voice in his head, one that sounds suspiciously like his father. What would happen if he told somebody! Ramsay’s reputation as a leader would be ruined before it even fully formed! He couldn’t let that happen, wouldn’t let that happen! Reek belonged to him, they were the same— He’d slit the bitches throat before he’d let him go. Or better yet, cut out his tongue! Or, or, sew his mouth shut!

“Ramsay!” Skinner says, louder this time.

Ramsay continues to ignore him, his mind swimming with new ways to torment his pet. He decides he’ll pay Reek a visit this afternoon once he’s finished with the rest of his duties. It’d be good to remind his pet who his is master is and to respect—

“Lord Snow! May I speak to you please!” shouts Skinner, directly in Ramsay's ear.

Ramsay startles out of his reverie, saying. “Gah! What? What is it?”

Skinner steps back from him, shaking his head. “Why’d you agree to watch the boys train if you weren’t going to pay attention? At least pretend to care!” he demands.

Ramsay scowls at him, though his full lips make it appear more like a childish pout. “Watch it!” he says, his voice low and menacing. “Just because you were also my teacher once doesn’t mean you can speak to me that way. Don’t forget who runs this fort!”

Skinner visibly tenses. “Apologizes Lordship.” he grunts.

“Better,” says Ramsay. He could say more, but he lets slide the resentment he sees in his former mentor's eyes, out of deference to the skill Ramsay knows Skinner possesses. Everything Ramsay knows about how to wield a blade—including the old practice of flaying one's enemies—comes from him. When Domeric brought Ramsay home to the Dreadfort, Skinner had been the man tasked with transforming Ramsay from a miller's son into the warrior he is now. Which is why when he’d returned triumphant from sacking Winterfell, Frey boys in tow, Ramsay entrusted their training to him. He knows Skinner will make them into something far worse than a knight.

“What did you want?” prompts Ramsay.

“I thought you might care to take over, Sir.” Skinner replies. “Perhaps you can get through to them better than I can.”

“Right,” says Ramsay after a beat. “What were they working on again?”

Skinner sighs. “If I might make a suggestion Lordship, perhaps we ought to end today's lesson here. The boys have put in their practice, and I believe there are several petitions you must listen to.”

“Yes,” says Ramsay slowly. He doesn’t want to give Skinner too much credit, especially not after such insolence, but the faster he gets his other work done the faster he’ll be down in the dungeons again with his Reek. “We’ll pick up with this another time. I trust you’ll see that the boys put their swords away?”

“Of course Lordship.”

“I will return to the great hall then,” says Ramsay, turning to go. “Gooday to you Skinner. Tell the boys they did well for me.”

******

After he’s finished listening to the complaints of the peasantry and penned a brief missive to his father summarizing the disputes he resolved, Ramsay returns to the main courtyard of the Dreadfort. When winter does at last come, days as lovely as the one he steps out into will only exist in songs. But Ramsay is too focused on reaching the dungeon quickly to notice the weather, or to say more than hello to Ben Bone as he walks through the kennels. Reek is waiting for him down in the dark and he must get to him. After their last session together, Ramsay’s worried his pet might start misbehaving again. And it’s better to squash any rebellious instincts now, before Reek has a chance to act on them. As he’s descending the stone stairs that lead into the dungeon though, he hears something that makes him pause. 

“When you let him into the cell, how did he seem?” asks Damon Dance-with-Me, his voice echoing slightly off the stone walls. 

“I don’t know, happy I guess.” replies Luton. “As happy as he ever is, which isn’t saying much. He wasn’t screaming his head off if that’s what you're wondering.” 

Damon grunts warningly, and Luton quickly adds. “I don’t mean to speak ill of his Lordships son of course, it’s just well— “

“I understand,” says Damon. “And how long would you say it was, before you realized something was wrong?” 

They're talking about me, Ramsay realizes. He quickly pulls back the leg he’d extended to take another step down, so that he can remain hidden in the shadows created by the first floor landing. From his vantage point, he can make out the dark elongated figures Damon Dance-with-Me and Luton cast across the floor. The room's torches make them twitch and flicker, so that they resemble two imps dancing through the Seven Hells fire. Ramsay holds his breath, hoping the other men are too distracted by their conversation to have noticed him. 

This isn’t the first time Ramsay has caught Damon snooping. He’s known for many years now his father employs Damon not only as a man at arms, but also as a spy who keeps tabs on his children. In fact, Ramsay suspects the reason Roose kept Damon’s drunkard father employed for so long was because he wanted Domeric to grow up alongside a boy his own age. A boy who could be counted on to funnel confidential information about Domeric to Roose, lest his family be kicked out of the Dreadfort. No doubt Roose intends for Damon to fulfill a similar role in Ramsay’s life now that Ramsay has taken his elder brother's place as heir. But Ramsay isn’t going to allow his Roose to get his hooks into him that easily. Not if he can help it. 

Ramsay decides he’s had enough eavesdropping, and so continues down the stairs. As he descends he purposely stomps his feet, alerting Damon and Luton to his presence, and causing them to abruptly stop talking. Then once he’s cleared the overhang of the first floor landing, he spreads his arms wide and shouts. “Damon! Isn’t this a surprise, I didn’t expect to find you here.” 

Across the room, Damon folds his arms over his chest, and fixes Ramsay with a stern look. He’s seen through him right away and is evidently unimpressed. Luton on the other hand, visibly shrinks in on himself, deflating like a stuck lung. He knows he’s been caught disrespecting his better, and unlike the Captain of the garrison, has no status to protect him from punishment. 

“Lord Snow.” replies Damon gruffly. “To what do we own the pleasure?” 

“Well, I thought I’d stop in and see how things were running down here.” Ramsay drawls. “I caused quite the upset the other night, didn’t I?” This last statement he directs towards Luton, just to see him flinch. 

“Yes, you gave us quite the fright Sir.” says Damon, who’s apparently taken it upon himself to answer for the both of them. “We're glad to see you up on your feet again. And as you can see, Luton and I have the guard detail covered, so there’s no need to trouble yourself further.” 

Of course you’d say that, you lying rat, Ramsay thinks. I won’t let you get away that easily though. “What are you really doing down here, Damon?” he demands, leering. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” replies Damon. “Don’t you have petitions to be listening to, Sir?” 

“I already finished with them!” Ramsay snaps, his control over his temper weakening. 

“Well, bully for you.” says Damon mockingly. “What else then? Surely there must be some other task that requires your attention. A castellan shouldn’t lower himself to the task of running a prison, not when he has a garrison of fully capable men to do it for him!”

“You know why I’m here.” says Ramsay through gritted teeth. At his side, his hands are twitching, eager to curl into firsts. “I’m here to visit my Reek!” 

“That isn’t Reek, Ramsay.” says Damon, heatedly. “Reek is dead, you saw him die in the Hornwood! This game of yours has got to stop! Look at what it’s doing to you!” 

Ramsay feels his cheeks flush with rage. Game? Game? How dare he! This isn’t a game, he’s the one that’s playing! The spying son of a bitch— “Oh spare me the caring friend routine!” he snarls back. “I’m not Domeric, it isn’t going to work! I know you're only here so you can gather information for your next letter to Roose.” 

“Don’t change the subject!” Damon shouts. “You know as well as I, it’s my duty to defend this household. Updating his Lordship on your activities is merely an extension of that.” 

After a beat he adds. “Ramsay, please, walk away. I know you don’t trust me, but really I  am trying to help you. Let that retch in the cell die, or better yet, let me in there to put him out of his misery. You’ve suffered much and worked hard to get where you are, don’t ruin it by chasing ghosts. Domeric wouldn’t want you to.” 

“Or you’ll do what, exactly?” Ramsay scoffs. “Open the cell block Damon. I want to see Reek!” 

“No.” Damon replies. 

“Fine!” Ramsay shouts. “Luton, open the door, now!”

“Stay where you are Luton!” Damon barks. “That’s an order!” 

“An order!” cries Ramsay. “You son of a bitch, I out rank you! I’m Castilan, not you!”

“Then fucking act like it! People might finally take you seriously if you weren’t always down in the dark molesting that Ironborn slut!” screams Damon. 

Luton glances fearfully between his two superiors, unsure of who to listen to. “I– I’m gonna go.” he stammers finally, taking the ring of keys attached to his belt and tossing it onto the guard station table. 

He takes off running towards the stairs, the same moment Ramsay and Damon both lunge for the keys. Damon, who’s standing closer to the table, is able to stanch them up. But his victory is short lived, as seconds later Ramsay barrels into him, knocking him to the ground. The keys go flying, hitting the floor several paces away with a metallic rattle. Once again both men scramble over to grab them, and again Damon with his lithe build and deft reflexes is able to beat Ramsay to the prize. But Ramsay has at least a foot in height on Damon and is double his size, and it’s a small matter for him to grab Damon's arm and start trying to pry the keys from his grasp. Damon lifts his knee, and jabs it up into Ramsay’s gut, making him cry out. “Oh Fuck you Damon!” 

“No Fuck you Ramsay!” Damon howls back “I’m tired of you shit!” 

They continue to struggle, but there’s little Damon can do against such a large opponent in such tight quarters, and both men know it. Soon enough, Ramsay has shoved him to the ground again, which gives him the opportunity to run over to the mettle grate separating the cell block from the rest of the floor. As he struggles to find the right key, Damon rises to his feet, shouting “Ramsay stop!”

Ramsay looks over his shoulder at him, sticks his tough out between his fat lips, and jams another key into the lock. Unlike the rest, this one slides home, and Ramsay quickly opens the metal great and takes off running down the hall. The heels of Damon’s boots knock against the stone floor, as he runs after him, creating a pounding echo. Ramsay doesn’t look back to see how close the other man is though, not even when he skids to a stop outside Reeks cell door and starts fishing for the next key. He gets lucky, and is able to duck inside a few seconds before Damon catches up. Giving him just enough time to stand the table in Reeks cell up in front of the doorway, barricading himself inside. 

“You idiot, the cells don’t lock from the inside!” crows Damon from out in the hall, only to open the door and find his way blocked by the table. “Bastard!” he shouts then. “Ramsay, move this now before I get an axe!” 

Ramsay ignores him though, he’s too busy searching the darkness for his precious Reek. With no candles lit, it’s harder than usual to make out anything inside the cell, and so he calls out “Reek! Get up now! Reek!” 

His pet, wherever he’s hiding, remains quiet and Ramsay has to wait until his eyes have adjusted to do anything more. After some time, he’s able to discern the mound of hay that functions as Reeks bed over in the back left corner. He walks over to it, moving slowly to keep from stumbling over anything unseen. The closer he draws to it though, the more he becomes aware of the horrific smell filling the chamber. Reek has never smelt good, he is afterall, a prisoner in a filthy dungeon that never gets to bath. But the odor that typically accompanies him is that of an unwashed human body, a heady musk that Ramsay associates with pleasure. The scent filling his nose now though, is the putrid stench of a rotting corpse. It makes him gag, so much so he worries he’ll lose his lunch all over the pale figure he sees laying prone atop the hay. 

“Reek?” says Ramsay anxiously, as he crouches down beside the figure. His pet doesn't move. That’s when he notices the dark, sticky substance that cacked between his legs, and soaked into the hay beneath him. Sees the flies, clawing over the hollow dip of his stomach. Ramsay remembers something he forgot in all of the commotion of the last few days. When he left Reek's cell last, he hadn’t demanded Maester Tybald attend to Reek injuries as he’d intended. Between his own near insanity, and the sleeping drought, he’d forgotten. And then, when he’d woken up, nobody had reminded him. Why would they? Reek was nothing but a prisoner to them. And a lowly turncloak child killer at that. Why should they care if he saw a Maester, or if he— if he— 

Ramsay reaches out and grabs Reek's shoulder, shaking him hard. “Reek!” he shouts. “This isn’t funny! Wake up, wake up right now! Reek!” 

Chapter Text

As he crouches next to Reek’s body, a terrible ringing sound fills Ramsay’s ears. No, no, no, it’s happening again! He thinks, his stomach expanding and contracting in quick succession, revolting against what he’s seeing. Not again, please not again! He can’t die, I already lost him once, I can’t do it again! As his panic mounts, his treatment of Reek's body becomes rougher. He shakes Reek hard, and harder still, desperate to get a response. Nothing changes. So he pulls back his arm and slaps Reek across the face, shouting. “Wake up, damn it!”

The force of the blow causes Reeks head to jerk to the side, but otherwise he remains still. Terrified, Ramsay falls back on his haunches, his own body now trembling. Around him, the stone walls of the dungeon have begun to change, taking on the appearance of trees in a forest. The floor beneath him is being covered with leaves and dirt, and Ramsay is sinking down into it. Distantly, he hears the sound of Damon’s voice, shouting. But he can’t make out the words. He’s almost completely covered now, can feel the dirt all around him, pressing against his skin, crushing him. He flounders, tries to reach out and grab hold of something, anything to stop his descent. But he’s sinking fast, down through the muck and shit, the twigs and beetles, down into the Hornwood.

******

The day Reek died, Ramsay rose with the sun. All night long he’d tossed and turned, and what little sleep he’d gotten was made sallow by worry, grief and rage. The man in bed beside him had slumbered peacefully though, oblivious to the direction of his adopted son’s thoughts and the central place he held among them. His open mouth emitting a nasally whistle of a snore.

Moving slowly so as not to wake him, Ramsay sat up and pulled the bed clothes off his legs, before swinging them over the side. The wooden floor boards were cool against the bottoms of his feet, the fire lit in the hearth last night having burned out hours ago. For once Ramsay didn’t mind the chill, as the cold helps break through the tumult of emotions that kept him up, and focus on what needs doing. The deeper reason he’d agreed to Reek’s plan to invade Hornwood.

It’s time I finished this, he thought as he padded over to the window set into the wall nearest the bed. Once there, he’d taken hold of the heavy velvet currents that were covering it and pulled them open. The bedroom he and Reek had taken for themselves was on a lower floor of Castle Hornwood, and overlooked the extensive garden that grew within its walls. Reeks had wanted to be closer to the flowers. Whenever possible he liked to seek out scents of a delicate sweet nature. Why this was Ramsay wasn’t certain, as his adopted father had accepted long ago that no amount of perfume could rid him of his stench. But whatever his reasons were, Ramsay liked to humor him. Especially now.

Castle Hornwood is surrounded on all sides by the forest from which it gets its name, and even from his relatively low vantage point, Ramsay could see the tops of the ancient pines looming outside the castle walls. It was still dark, but the first light of dawn was peaking between the top most branches, the way a child might hide behind the legs of their parents. Ramsay sucked in a breath of crisp morning air, and released it slowly. It’s a good day for a hunt, he thought.

******

The woman’s eyes were wide and shiny, and Ramsay thought he could see tree branches reflected in them. Her panic blown irises were a light brown color, hazel with flecks of golden yellow. Her head lulled on her neck like a rag doll, exposing the slim red cut Ramsay carved into her, from which her life's blood flowed. Reek fucked her languidly, his thrusts slow and deep. He’d crawled on top of her with his spindly arms wrapped around her middle, holding her down even though she couldn’t struggle. His lips clamped onto one of her exposed blood covered teats, suckling like a babe, moaning obscenely.

Ramsay turned his back on the scene, walking over to where his mount was standing, and pretended to adjust the saddle straps. In reality though he was waiting, waiting for the right moment to turn his knife on Reek. It’d been a long time coming, and Ramsay knew it’s the right thing to do, but that didn’t make it any easier. After all, Reek was the man who raised him, and the only father he’d known until Domeric came and took him to the Dreadfort. And despite everything Reek had put him through, Ramsay still loved him.

It's why he was waiting to act until after the other man finished enjoying himself. When you put down an old dog, it’s customary to make his last day the best he’d ever had. Give him a warm place by the fire to sleep, and feed him succulent meat from your own plate. That’s what Ramsay was doing, nothing more. He was not hesitating, he wasn’t ! He knew better than anyone that this needed to happen. That he had to be the one to do it! That it was his only way out—

Behind him, Ramsay heard the familiar grunt that indicated Reek was close to finishing. It’s a sound he’d recognize anywhere, back when they lived at the mill house with his mother, he used to lie awake at night dreading the moment Reek would climb on him and make that sound. The hunts were a mercy by comparison, at least when he and Reek were stalking women through the woods, Ramsay got to be the one to take something. Even if it was only from stupid lowborn bitches.

Well no matter, today Ramsay would set things right! As if to prove it to himself, he reached for the knife sheathed at his side and grabbed its hilt, pulling it free from its scabbard. It’s not his preferred bone-handled blade, that one he’d left safely back at the Dreadfort, along with all else that was precious to him. He’d known he’d need something to come back to, something good, when he was done here.

Knife in hand, Ramsay turned back towards Reek. Before he could take another step though, a stranger's voice screamed, “Gods above! What the fuck are you doing!”

A man, dressed in the livery of house Stark, had stepped through the trees and was now standing several paces away from where Reek and the woman's body were. He had no helm, and even at a distance Ramsay could see his expression is one of absolute revulsion. Reek uttered a guttural moan, and with one last violent thrust of his hips, came inside the dead maid. The guardsmen— for indeed he had a sword hanging from a scabbard around his waist— stumbled backwards several steps, disgusted.

“Pardon me,” said Reek, giggling in that strange high pitched way of his. “Didn’t see you there.”

Rather than reply, the man turned his head and yelled into the woods behind him. “Hey! Over here! I found—“

Ramsay didn't stop to think, he just rushed forward, screaming. Before his opponent could draw his sword, he’d slammed into him, knocking them both to the ground. Then he’d started stabbing him, over and over again— hot fresh blood squirting up into his face when he’d severed an artery, the spray blinding him. He only stopped when he felt an arm grab his shoulder. He’d looked up snarling, ready to attack, but it was only Reek, his Reek, his beautiful Reek— standing next to him, still half naked. His figure and trees behind him tinged pink by the film of blood in Ramsay’s eyes.

Shit! Shit! Shit! Ramsay thought. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go! He needs more time! They have to give him more time! It’s not fair!

“Hey, hey, what's wrong?” asked Reek, cupping Ramsay's cheek with his hand. That’s when Ramsay realized he’d started crying, big fat useless tears that rolled down his face, gathering around his pudgy lips.

“There’s no time!” he gasped miserably. “No time! We— I—“

“Of course there’s time,” said Reek, chuckling. “Come on, up you get. You're not afraid of a lone man, are you? Not after everything we’ve done.”

Numbly, Ramsay clambered to his feet and followed Reek back over to where the horses were. He climbed into the saddle, and waited anxiously for Reek to dress, rubbing at his eyes to clear the blood and tears from them. It’d all gone wrong! Everything's wrong! He needed to fix it somehow, but how could he when people kept getting in his way? Roose was right, his blood was bad! He can’t even do the one thing he has to do more than any other. He needs to let Reek go before it’s too late, before holding on damn’s him! Right as he was thinking this though, Reek had mounted his horse and snapped his reins, spurring it to a run. Operating on instinct Ramsay did the same and the two of them were off, dashing through the trees, back to Hornwood castle.

They'd only been riding for a couple of minutes though when the unthinkable happened, Reek's horse got one of its front legs stuck in a rabbit hole and went pitching forward, throwing its passenger at least a foot. When Ramsay saw him go down, he pulled hard on the reins, bringing his own mount to a stop. Here’s your chance, a voice in his head shouted, don’t fuck it up again! He climbed down, and rushed over to where his surrogate father lay. But Reek was already struggling to sit up when Ramsay reached him, revealing a nasty gash on his forehead that’s welling with blood and deep cuts on his cheeks and nose. And when Reek smiled to see him, Ramsay knew he couldn't kill him. Not like this, with a knife in the back!

Ramsay reached out an arm and Reek readily accepted it, which seems to indicate he’s otherwise unscathed. His horse however, wasn’t so lucky. Ramsay didn’t attempt to help the creature, he could tell from its screams alone that was a lost cause. He had no sword to dispatch it with though, and anyways there wasn’t time! He could hear the excited shouts of their pursuers, who'd been alerted to their location by the shrieking of the horse. They had a few minutes at most before they're surrounded, running was useless now, their only option was to stand and fight.

How fitting that it ends like this, he thought drawing his knife. Cornered in the woods by armed men— Ha! Perhaps the Gods were just after all. The hunters might even have dogs with them! Wouldn’t that be rich?

That’s when he got an idea. A craven stupid awful idea, bubbled up from the depths of the seven hells, but one which he could not deny was the solution he was searching for.

“Switch clothes with me!” he shouted.

“What?” said Reek.

“Switch clothes with me,” he repeated, while moving to undo the buttons of his doublet. “Hurry, they're almost here! Think about it, if they see you in my clothes, they’ll let you go because they’ll want my fathers ransom! Plus I’ll stay here and distract them, give you time to get away.”

“Ramsay, boy, that’s—” replied Reek, incredulous.

“Just do it!” Ramsay cried, hysterically. “Trust me, they won’t kill me, not if I surrender. And you’ll be safe!" He was aware the plan sounded desperate, but Ramsay didn’t need Reek to think it was perfect. He just needed Reek to believe Ramsay was willing to take the fall for him. All Ramsay had to do was get Reek to prioritize saving his own skin over staying together. Then when he’s gone, Ramsay would turn on him, tell the truth, get their pursuers to do his dirty work. Come on you old whore son, take the bait! He’d pleaded internally, as he watched Reek think it over. I know you want to! I know you’ve always loved yourself more than anything else, even me!

“Fine.” Reek said, moving to strip off his plain spun linen shirt. Once removed, he balled up the fabric and tossed it at Ramsay, saying. “Sorry about the smell… and the blood and shit! I know you understand. Wenches are filthy animals.”

Ramsay didn’t reply, as he was too busy focusing on undoing the laches of his trousers and shimming out of them, the action making his hairy gut jiggle. The heart pounding seconds he spent completely disrobing, and then pulling on Reeks smaller filthy garments were some of the worst of his life. He heard the Stark men shouting all around them, their feet stomping through the underbrush, snapping twigs. Their harsh movements disturbed the birds, causing them to depart their nests, squawking madly. And still that god's damned hours wouldn’t shut up!

When they’d both finished redressing, Ramsay had strode over to where Reek was standing and embraced him in a beast of a hug. “I love you!” he whispered into his ear.

“I love you too son,” Reek replied, laughing.

Ramsay had released him then, and shoved him back towards his horse saying, “Run, get out of here, while you still can!”

Reek nodded and took off running towards the waiting mount. He never looked back, but Ramsay continued watching him as he mounted up and snapped the reins, spurring the horse to a gallop. Watched as the first of Sir Rodrick’s arrows burrowed into his back—

******

“Ramsay!” shouts Damon. “Wake Up!”

Gasping, Ramsay startles back into the present. He turns his head wildly this way and that, checking his surroundings. Sees that he’s no longer surrounded by the trees of the Hornwood, but is sitting in the dark on the filthy stone floor of the Dreadfort dungeon. Damon Dance-with-me is crouched in front of him, a weary expression on his face, like he isn’t sure whether Ramsay is going to attack him. Through the gloom, Ramsay can just make out dried blood smeared beneath his nose, that’s when he remembered their fight earlier. He wonders briefly how Damon managed to get in here, whether he did break through the cell door with an axe. But those thoughts are quickly eclipsed, when he recalls the thing that sent him spiraling to begin with. “He’s gone—” he moans. “He's gone, he’s dead!”

“Who’s dead?” demands Damon. “Ramsay, what happened?”

“Reek!” cries Ramsay.

Damon's expression shifts, becoming bewildered, and it takes him a beat to realize who Ramsay’s referring to. When he finally does figure it out, he moves over Reek's body, and reaches out to touch his neck. It takes Ramsay a bit to understand what Damon’s doing, due to his emotional haze, but slowly it dawns on him that the Garrison Captain is checking Reeks pulse.

“Anything?” Ramsay asks, anxiously.

After a beat, Damon says. “Yes, it’s faint but it’s there. Don’t know how much longer he’s got left but he’s not dead yet.”

“Thank the gods!” Ramsay shouts. Quickly, he crawls over to where Damon’s kneeling and shoves him out of the way. Then he minivers his arms underneath Reek’s emaciated body, and scoops him up like he’s a maid on her wedding night. The action must hurt, because Reek's eyelids spasm, and he makes a weak whining sound.

“I know it hurts,” Ramsay tells him, while slowly rising to his feet. “But I'm here now to take you to the master. He’ll get it sorted, I promise.”

“Ramsay!” Damon shouts at him. “What are you doing? Stop, put him down!”

Ramsay ignores him, he’s too busy rushing over to the now open cell door and out into the hall. He can fix this. There’s still time.