Fear clung to Ramsay day and night. He could hear Reek's wails from the nearby room, echoing endlessly like a nightmare that wouldn't fade. After capturing them, Gendry and the soldiers had brought everyone to a secluded mansion. The Bolton men were kept in separate rooms and treated decently. Only Reek was tortured—round after round, without mercy.
For the first time, Ramsay felt that being hidden away in the Dreadfort by Roose had been a blessing. At least there, he would never have suffered humiliation Across the Narrow Sea.
"I will repay this a hundredfold," Ramsay vowed, thinking of Gendry's handsome, youthful face. Ramsay desired nothing more than to crush such beauty beneath his heel. House Stark, House Greyjoy—he longed to destroy them all. But first, he needed to survive this nightmare, return to the Dreadfort, and regain his power.
Then another fear crept in: Reek.
Ramsay regretted not killing him earlier. Reek knew everything—every crime, every cruelty. They had always been together.
In a room where sunlight streamed in through the window, the air reeked of blood, herbal ointments, and filth—so thick it made one's eyes sting. Reek sat tied to a chair, bound so tightly he could barely breathe.
The small, blood-stained room was filled with torture tools: pliers, axes, iron hammers, wooden rods, serrated blades, whips, and even a small stove. Four interrogators stood around him, each holding a different instrument.
"Now then," Maester Qyburn said calmly from behind a small table, "shall we begin discussing your… affairs?"
Tall, slightly hunched, with wrinkles crowding his pale blue eyes, Qyburn seemed like a kind old man at first glance. A faint smile always curled his lips. But to Reek, he was a demon wearing human skin.
"Reek… Reek doesn't know anything," Reek stammered, spitting bloody foam. He had already lost several teeth, yet he still refused to talk. "Reek is Lord Ramsay's servant."
"Look at yourself, Reek," Qyburn said gently. "Your master is protected. You are not."
"Lord Ramsay! Lord Roose! Save me!" Reek screamed. "I am your poor servant!"
He saw the interrogators' indifference and realized they did not fear House Bolton. Even invoking Roose's name failed.
"I am from House Bolton… Lord Roose will not let you go…" Reek gasped weakly.
"Good child," Qyburn said softly. "Speak, and I will grant you a quick death."
A burly interrogator stepped forward. Reek's arms were fixed to the chair; the man used pliers to pull out one fingernail after another. Blood dripped down. When the pain became unbearable, the interrogators rubbed Myr gunpowder ointment into the wounds, burning and stinging.
"AAAAH! AHHHH!" Reek shrieked. "Kill me—kill me!"
"If you don't speak, we will move on to the third finger," Qyburn said, as the pliers gleamed coldly.
He leaned forward, voice low and chilling:
"And if you still stay silent… we will torture your Lord Ramsay. And you will still talk."
"No—no! Don't hurt Lord Ramsay! Don't hurt him!" Reek broke instantly. "I'll talk… I'll talk…"
The interrogators poured a warm potion down his throat, allowing him to speak clearly.
Reek began confessing everything—how he met Ramsay, and the cruel deeds they committed together.
"Young Master Ramsay is Lord Roose's son," Reek said. "His mother was the miller's wife on the Weeping Willow River. Lord Roose raped her… then killed the miller when he failed to report that he'd married. Lord Roose said the miller had trampled on his right of the first night."
Qyburn nodded slowly, absorbing every detail.
Reek avoided using "bastard." Even though Ramsay wasn't present, he didn't dare utter the word.
"Continue," Qyburn instructed.
"Yes, sir… Lord Roose didn't care about Young Master Ramsay at first. He only gave the miller's wife some silver when she came to the Dreadfort. After that, he sent me to serve them."
"Explain in detail," Qyburn said. "Why did the boy return to the Dreadfort?"
Reek swallowed. "It was Young Master Domeric. He served as an attendant in the Vale. He envied others for having brothers. He searched along the Weeping Willow River until he found Ramsay. Even though Lord Roose scolded him and forbade it, Domeric still brought Ramsay back. Shortly after… Young Master Domeric became sick and died."
"Kinslayer," Qyburn murmured. "Such cruelty. Such a waste."
He leaned closer. "Now tell me everything. What does Young Master Ramsay enjoy most?"
Reek hesitated, but the interrogators raised their tools again.
"Young Master Ramsay…" he said shakily, "likes to strip girls naked and release them into Bolton forests. Then he hunts them with hounds. If the girls please him—if they entertain him—he lets them die quickly before skinning their bodies. To 'honor' them, he names his dogs after them…"
Even Qyburn stiffened slightly at the description. He had performed human experiments before—but at least on condemned criminals. Ramsay's cruelty was different. Leisurely. Joyful.
"And those who do not cooperate?" Qyburn asked.
"For those who cry… beg… or refuse to run…" Reek's voice trembled. "…he still rapes them. Sometimes he orders the hounds to do it. Sometimes he does it himself. Sometimes… both. Then he skins them alive. Their skins are displayed at the Dreadfort as trophies."
Qyburn's eyes narrowed, unsettled.
He spoke softly but dangerously:
"You are speaking very well, child. Now tell me—what is your role in Ramsay's games?"
Reek's face twitched. "Young Master Ramsay and I are always together. I always serve him. Sometimes… he lets me enjoy the girls too. Sometimes the living ones… sometimes the dead ones… before they were skinned."
Even the interrogators' expressions soured.
"Now," Qyburn said, stepping forward and gripping Reek's chin, "you will clearly describe every girl who suffered under your perversions."
He tightened his grip.
"But not yet," he whispered coldly. "I need you alive."
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