What made Jorah even more desperate was that ahead of the cavalry, several hounds were crouching low, charging fiercely toward his hiding spot.
"Damn it!"
Jorah cursed, mustering his last ounce of strength to urge his already exhausted mount forward. But the Bolton's hounds were incredibly swift, and the cavalry quickly closed in. Jorah's horse was utterly spent, unable to gather any speed.
An arrow whistled through the air with a piercing shriek, striking the horse's flank with deadly precision.
"Neigh!"
The warhorse let out a wretched cry. Caught off guard, Jorah was thrown from the saddle, crashing heavily onto the ground.
Before he could struggle to his feet, heavy boots crushed down on his arms. Rough ropes swiftly bound his wrists and ankles, digging into his flesh. He lay immobilized, like captured prey.
"Young Master Ramsay, we've got him!"
A Bolton soldier reported excitedly.
A figure pushed through the soldiers, pacing slowly toward Jorah before crouching down. Jorah struggled to lift his head, meeting a young yet profoundly unsettling face. Oily black hair clung to his temples, his lips unnaturally thick and slightly upturned, as if perpetually holding a cruel smile. Most unsettling were those eyes—shadowed and hollow, yet glinting with a predatory, cat-like cruelty.
"Welcome home, Ser Jorah. House Bolton extends a warm welcome to your return!"
Ramsay's voice was soft as a lover's whisper, yet it sent a chill racing up Jorah's spine.
Jorah gasped, "Who are you? Roose Bolton's bastard? Release me! I have vital intelligence! About that Easterner! Your father would be interested!"
The word "bastard" struck Ramsay's most sensitive nerve. His mask of false laughter shattered instantly, his eyes turning from sinister to savage.
He had just seized Moat Cailin using Theon Greyjoy. A royal decree from King Tommen had cleansed him of the bastard's stigma, making him Roose Bolton's legitimate heir. He had even married "Arya Stark." At the height of his triumph, he dreaded anyone mentioning his lowly origins.
Yet Jorah's words struck his deepest wound.
Not long ago, just as Ramsay basked in triumph, a secret letter arrived on pale pink parchment. Its message was terse, yet each word cut like a dagger. It declared that his father's original heir, Domeric Bolton, was still alive.
If Ramsay captured Jorah Mormont upon his landing in the North, Domeric would never return to the North.
Domeric!
The legitimate son of his father, Roose Bolton—the heir who had been captured at the Battle of the Bloodstone and later declared "dead of illness in the Narrow Sea" by Eddard Stark.
When Ramsay saw this letter, he felt as though he'd been plunged into an ice cellar. If Domeric was alive and returned to the North, Ramsay would instantly lose his hard-won legitimacy, never to rise again.
He immediately realized this letter likely came from that enigmatic Easterner. The man had pierced his deepest fear.
Why did he want him to capture Jorah? Ramsay couldn't fathom the connection. But he didn't need to.
Jorah now served the Easterner, who was soon to marry Sansa Stark—a potential threat to the Bolton house's rule over The North.
More importantly, he dared not gamble!
What if Domeric was truly alive? What if this letter was genuine...
Then Ramsay would revert to being that despised bastard.
When the letter detailed Jorah's landing time and approximate location, Ramsay acted without hesitation. He must capture Jorah, severing any possibility of Domeric's return. This was his only bargaining chip to preserve his position.
Ramsay stared down at the battered Jorah on the floor, his thick lips curling again to reveal stark white teeth.
"Ser Jorah... intelligence? I don't need intelligence. I need you!"
Jorah's heart plummeted into an abyss. He saw the twisted gleam in Ramsay's eyes and instantly understood.
It was him!
That man from the East!
He deliberately sent me here!
He used me as a pawn!
A wave of profound humiliation and icy hatred surged through Jorah.
…
The Weeping Water murmured as it wound through the steep gorge, its chill mist hanging heavy in the air. The towering, grim stone walls of the Dreadfort loomed beside the river.
Ramsay personally escorted the tightly bound Jorah through the gloomy inner yard. Jorah was dragged roughly into the depths of the castle, up a spiraling stone staircase, and finally shoved into a dark stone chamber.
Inside, torches flickered along the walls, casting wavering shadows. At the center stood a heavy wooden torture rack, stained dark brown with old blood.
Stripped of his armor and shirt, Jorah wore only thin trousers. His limbs were clamped into cold iron rings on the cross-shaped rack, spread wide. The icy metal bit into his skin, and the crushing humiliation made him tremble.
"Boy! Take me to your father, Roose Bolton!"
Jorah thrashed against his restraints, glaring at Ramsay standing in the shadows.
"He knows what's at stake! My information concerns the survival of the entire North! You have no right to treat a knight this way!"
Ramsay didn't answer. He simply watched Jorah's futile struggling with idle amusement.
He wandered over to a stained wooden table by the wall, where several dishes had been laid out—greasy roasted pork sausages, hard black bread, and a jug of deep red wine.
Just then, the heavy wooden door of the torture chamber creaked open.
A figure slipped inside. It was a slender youth, his once-handsome features still faintly visible beneath a mask of terror. His eyes were hollow with fear.
Ramsay's gaze lit with savage delight.
"Reek! Perfect timing. Pour me a cup of wine."
The youth called "Reek"—Theon Greyjoy—shuddered violently.
Head bowed, he shuffled unsteadily to the table. His hands shook as he filled Ramsay's cup to the brim.
Ramsay accepted the cup with satisfaction, downed it in a single gulp, and sighed contentedly. Then he took up his knife and fork, carving off a sizzling piece of sausage and popping it into his mouth. His thick lips gleamed with oil as he chewed with relish.
Seeing Ramsay lost in his meal, Jorah spoke again.
"Let me see Lord Bolton. Now."
Ramsay finally tore his attention from the food and turned toward Jorah on the rack, a cruel smile spreading across his face.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk… Ser Jorah, it seems you still haven't quite understood your situation."
He dabbed his lips delicately with a handkerchief, then rose and sauntered over. With greasy fingers, he pinched Jorah's chin, forcing him to lift his head.
Ramsay studied the fury burning in Jorah's eyes.
"Reek!"
He suddenly snapped at Theon.
"Don't just stand there! Attend to our esteemed guest—Ser Jorah Mormont!"
Theon jerked as if struck. He lifted his gaze toward Ramsay, trembling.
"My lord… I…"
Ramsay narrowed his eyes, his voice soft and dangerous.
"Reek, do you need me to help you remember? Remember how you became what you are now?"
Theon's face went corpse-white.
He bowed sharply, his voice breaking into a whimper.
"A… at your command, my lord…"
Stumbling, he turned and crept toward Jorah step by step.
Jorah glared at him, eyes blazing with rage.
Theon faltered mid-step, hesitation flickering across his face. But when the corner of his eye caught Ramsay leisurely taking another bite of sausage, a memory—horrifying and buried deep—flashed through him like lightning.
He squeezed his eyes shut in pain. When he opened them again, only a twisted, hopeless resolve remained.
"I'm... I'm sorry..."
Theon mumbled, then suddenly raised his arm and slammed a fist hard into Jorah's face.
"Ugh!"
Caught off guard, Jorah felt a sharp pain explode across his cheek. He stared at Theon in disbelief, rage nearly breaking free.
Theon didn't dare meet his eyes. Tears rimmed his own as, under Ramsay's silent gaze, he struck again and again—Jorah's face, his chest, his stomach. Dull, heavy blows echoed through the stone chamber.
No one knew how long it went on. Only when Jorah's cheeks were swollen grotesquely, blood dripping from his mouth and nostrils, his breath ragged and strained, did Theon finally stop. Panting, empty-eyed, he turned toward Ramsay as though awaiting further instructions.
Ramsay leisurely swallowed the last bite of sausage. He wiped his hands and lips with a grease-stained napkin, as calmly as if finishing a pleasant meal. He strolled to the rack, taking in Jorah's broken state with relish, then leaned close to Theon's ear and whispered,
"I said serve him the way I served you… You got that, Reek?"
Theon's entire body shuddered violently as the meaning struck him. Shaking, he walked to the tool rack in the corner and picked up a long, thin steel needle.
The moment Jorah saw it, terror surfaced in his eyes for the first time. He understood exactly what was coming.
Theon did not look at him. Head bowed, he stepped to Jorah's shackled hand. He took one thick finger, holding it firmly, and slowly pressed the cold needle beneath the nail.
Aaaaaaargh—!!!
A scream so raw and inhuman tore through the chamber, rending the silence like cloth. Jorah's body convulsed violently, veins bulging on his forehead, his eyes nearly bursting from their sockets.
Expressionless, Theon kept working—one finger, then the next. The soft, dreadful sound of steel piercing nail beds mixed with Jorah's ragged, ripping screams, forming the chamber's most horrifying symphony.
Ramsay settled back at the table, poured himself another cup of wine, and drank contentedly as he admired the bloody spectacle. The firelight danced across his shadowed face, illuminating a satisfaction devoid of anything human.
The torture went on.
When the last sliver of daylight faded from the narrow windows high in the Dreadfort's walls, and the cold moonlight spilled down in its place, Jorah's screams had withered into hoarse whimpers. Only broken moans and spasms remained.
His ten fingers were mangled beyond recognition, his face bruised and bloodied. Worst of all, a dark, wet patch of black-red blood soaked his trousers, filling the room with a pungent metallic stench.
Theon stood nearby, gripping a small dagger slick with blood. His head drooped, shoulders trembling—whether from sobbing or pure exhaustion, it was impossible to tell. His hands and clothes were splattered with Jorah's blood.
Ramsay finished the last sausage on his plate and let out a satisfied belch. He wiped his hands on the oily cloth, then rose and walked to the rack.
Jorah hovered on the edge of unconsciousness, twitching on instinct alone.
"Tsk tsk. You've done well, you Reek."
Ramsay clapped Theon's stiff shoulder, and Theon jolted as if shocked.
"Clean up the… mess on the floor."
He pointed to the object beneath the rack.
"Throw that to my dogs. And… find someone to bandage him. Don't let him die."
With that, Ramsay dusted off his hands and turned toward the exit. A bride waited for him at Winterfell.
At Roose Bolton's urging, he had used Beth Cassel—the daughter of Winterfell's master-at-arms, Rodrik Cassel—to impersonate Arya Stark. His father needed the marriage to varnish House Bolton's claim to Winterfell, countering the Easterner's betrothal to Sansa Stark.
...
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