RAMSAY
He opened his eyes among the rubble, coughing. Stone dust choked the frigid predawn air, and everything was a shattered, groaning hinterland, collapsed and broken, the distinctive scent of burned niter still pungent. The gate was in splinters, the windows blown, leaving a glittering trail of glass over the soot-stained snow. Isolated fires still smoldered, and then and odd there was a moan and a crash as another gutted foundation gave out. Twisted beams jutted out of the wreckage like scolding fingers, and the massive curtain wall was slumped and tottering. Columns of smoke glissaded elegantly skyward, the perfect finishing touch to another signature piece.
Ramsay steadied himself on a broken merlon and got to his feet, grinning. Fuck, that had been a good one. When the warhorns had sounded in the night, when his men rushed into his room to inform him that Stannis had Winterfell under attack right bloody now, he had seen the naked panic in their eyes. After all, the blanket on his bed was supposed to have been sewn from the skin of that very king, and they'd watched him blubbing and pissing and spitting and shitting himself in the dungeons as Ramsay expertly applied the flaying knife to places even the red bitch might not have gone. All in all, it was a massively disappointing show, not in the least what Stannis Baratheon's reputation would suggest, and it had quite vexed Ramsay that he was unable to get that iron cuff off the king's wrist, no matter which implement he used. There was a ruby winking on it, doubtless some trinket from the red bitch – or so he had assumed at the time. But after all the reports of sighting another Stannis, Ramsay had come to suspect that it in fact served a much more sinister purpose. Hearing that the unflayed and genuine article was now at large in the woods seemed to confirm it, but no matter. It had bloody better be far more satisfying to kill him again.
Therefore, Ramsay had gotten up, dressed, and belted on his sword without the least appearance of alarm. Then he informed them that they were to leave the south gate unprotected, that they were to allow the Baratheon army to pour in, as many of their number as they could. Then, and only then, were they to set off the barrels of niter, and they knew damned well what would happen to them if they failed. One of the countless benefits of being Ramsay Bolton was that no one ever dared to disobey you.
Shrugging on his cloak, Ramsay had exited his chambers and made haste to the bailey. He had arranged to leave a postern gate just that bit ajar, meant to slip through and lie low in the wolfswood until Stannis and his cunts had literally had a blast. Next he would take his horse, the supplies he'd laid by, and ride home to the Dreadfort, inform them of Lord Roose's tragic death, and raise reinforcements. Then they would march on the Wall, destroy Jon Snow, and take back Ramsay's little wife. Winterfell would never be rebuilt in man's living memory, a stark (so to speak) testament of what became of those who crossed him up. He and his would rule the north from the Dreadfort for all time, and anyone who objected. . . well, it was a draughty castle, and had great need of hangings to keep the cold out.
It was such a simple and delicious plan that Ramsay could practically taste it. But the first wrench had been thrown into it the moment he set foot in the bailey: his fucking father caught sight of him among the crowd, demanded to know why he was not with them at arms, and why the south gate had been left undefended. If he, Ramsay, was under the impression that he, Lord Roose, was going to condone such a shamefully slipshod defense of the castle that he had held whilst Ramsay was off on his misadventures –
No. No, he wasn't. It was Lord Roose who was under any number of stupefying delusions, and suddenly Ramsay couldn't wait any longer. Couldn't trust that a stupid fucking building would properly take care of business; it would be just like the Starks to somehow cock it up. And if he let the chance go by, he'd kick himself for the rest of his life.
Ramsay had gripped the flaying knife under his cloak. Waited until Lord Roose turned to shout orders to a flank of panicking men-at-arms – then lunged.
Unlike his clumsy attempt at the deed in the Great Hall, this one was perfect. In an instant he had his father by the cloak, and in the next he'd driven the flaying knife into his neck, so deep that it burst out the other side. Gave it a twist, was dimly aware of screams and curses and someone bellowing at him that he was mad, they'd needed Lord Roose to command the defense against Stannis, but cared about none of it. Savaged the knife back and forth, grating against bone and the cord of the spine – as Lord Roose collapsed, Ramsay ripped the blade up far enough to scatter bits of pulped brain into the snow. Who's fucked who now, Father? Then he leaned forward and licked up the hot blood pulsing from the wound, wanting to know how it tasted. You always loved being leeched, bloodsucker that you were. Fair's fair.
At that moment, some idiot with a death wish had intervened and dragged Ramsay off the body; otherwise, he'd have followed it up by eating the brain, see what good his father's vaunted cleverness had done him in the end. He was deeply tempted to remedy the lack on the idiot instead, but the continuing howl of warhorns reminded him that he still had an escape to make good. To judge by how close the shouting and screaming and clashing of steel was, the Baratheon host had made quick work of the unguarded gate, were swarming in like maggots on rotten meat. And that meant the place was going to blow any moment.
Electing to keep it simple, Ramsay bull-rushed the onlookers. The presence of that gory blade in his hand and Lord Roose's still-twitching corpse had immediately decided all of them against trying anything unwise, and he belted through them at a sprint, weaving past the armory and under the covered bridge, up toward his exit. Who knew, what with that little delay, someone might have had time to find the postern and shut it. Then he'd be angry. Very angry. And now he was going to –
Just as Ramsay reached the gate, the castle went up.
The sound of the explosion was deafening. Fire erupted into the pitch-black sky from every side, the great towers of Winterfell turned into wounded beasts that heaved and roared in pain. Rocks thundered down, cutting him off, and Ramsay mouthed a few choice curses – before deciding that it was not so bad after all. The wall of rubble would handily prevent anyone from spotting him here, and he'd just climb over it when the tumult was over. So he took what shelter could be had, watched the place come apart at the seams as it should have the first time, thought of Lord Roose dead in the bailey, and congratulated himself on a job flawlessly done. He was just furtherly lauding himself for being so flexible and resourceful when the falling gargoyle hit him in the head.
That accounted for the ache currently present behind his eyeballs, stabbing him in the temples, but Ramsay paid no attention. He looked around, grinned again, spat on the pieces of the gargoyle, and set off at a lope. Before he left for good, he had to be sure that everything was attended to.
Ramsay clambered up one of the debris piles, careful of his footing on the unsteady, sliding pieces, and dropped down like a cat on the far side. Winterfell was almost unrecognizable – wracked and gutted, a giants' graveyard, a great carcass of stone. And Ramsay Bolton was quite fond of the sight of carcasses, particularly ones as flayed as this. Those of a more human provenance were heaped to every side: Boltons, Freys, wildlings, and Baratheons. As much pride as Ramsay took in his achievement – it gave him nearly as intense a thrill as it had to watch the dogs fucking his little wife – there were only three of them that he cared about right now.
He found Lord Roose first. The body was missing an arm, torn off by the ferocity of the blast, and splashes of gelid blood crusted red and black in the snow. The hideous wound in its neck was gaping like a second mouth, and the wind whistled forlornly through it, a high eerie sound that when combined with Lord Roose's still-open eyes was pleasantly diabolical. Ramsay stood above it, licking his lips, then undid his laces, got out his cock, and enjoyed a well-earned piss on his father's corpse. He would have taken much longer, in fact, but it was cold enough that he had a proprietary interest in not freezing it off. He finished, stashed himself away, and was just turning to hunt down the second of the bodies when a fluttering squeak from the remnants of the dooryard informed him that she was, in fact, not one yet. How in hell? Must have been all the blubber.
"Ramsay. . ." Fat Walda Frey was stained in soot and ash, bleeding from a long ugly gash above her eye, shivering under the pale pink cloak she'd thought to throw on over her bedrobe. As if that alone will make her a true Bolton. "Ramsay, please. . . help me. . ." Her eyes flickered to the dismembered remains of her husband, and she shuddered. "Anything you want. . . I'll name you heir to the Dreadfort, I'll take the babe and go back to the Twins, I won't challenge you ever again, I'll encourage Edwyn or – or Black Walder or any of them to be friends with you, I promise, I swear it, please, help me, help me. . ."
"Oh, really?" It was amusing to picture Fat Walda galloping back to the riverlands on her equally fat little mare, even more amusing to picture the outlaws getting her on the way and stringing her up until her butterface turned black and her shit ran down her leg. "You swear it?"
"I swear it," she whimpered. "The Dreadfort's yours. On my life."
Oh, good. He held out a hand. "Well, come on then."
"You will?" Her watery blue eyes lit up with desperate hope. "Oh, Ramsay. . . I knew you weren't all what. . . what everyone says about you. . . you. . . your father would be proud. . . thank you, thank you so much. . ."
My father will lie here until the crows get him. Or the wolves. Ramsay preferred the latter; it was more poetic. He smiled as Fat Walda rushed to clutch his arm, then turned away, escorted her across the courtyard, and listened to her babble on about what a good man he was, how strong, how she'd always known he was better than any trueborn son that was or could be. It was obliquely flattering, even if it did come from her empty little head, and he made no attempt to stop her. Then they ducked into a broken rats-nest of stone, and he said, "Wait here, I'll fetch the horses. Sit, you look exhausted."
Fat Walda obligingly perched on the nearest chunk. "Aye. I'll never forget this. As it was when I and your dear lord father were wed, Bolton and Frey will be fast friends and staunch allies until the end of – "
The rest of her touching speech was cut off in a gurgle as Ramsay swung a jagged, fist-sized rock into her head. She screamed and kept screaming, threw her arms up in a desperate attempt to turn the blows. But he got on top of her, a knee on her chest and the other on her shoulder as he kept on battering her. It took longer than he expected; even after what must have been twenty or thirty hits, she was still convulsing and jerking, her sausage fingers beating at him like the wings of a broken butterfly. So he slid the knee over to her throat, until her breath choked into a thin, asphyxiating whine. Blood bubbled and broke on her lips. She seemed to be trying to say, Why.
When she had finally stopped moving, Ramsay slid off her and got to his feet. "Think of it this way," he told her. "If I was feeling cruel, I'd have walled you up in the rubble. Let you starve to death – from the looks of you, that's always been your worst nightmare. But as it is, I don't have time. I find it rather pitiful that you thought you could give the Dreadfort to me, as if it mattered what came crawling down your cunt. It was always mine. Everything was mine. You and the old man just learned that."
She gave one more twitch. Words sputtered bloodily in her throat. Then her head fell back, and her eyes stared at nothing. A tear trickled down her dead cheek.
Ramsay considered taking her skin as a trophy, but then remembered that he was, after all, on a schedule. So, leaving her where she lay, he made swift tracks through the bailey, past the ruins of the Library Tower; there was so much old paper and dried leather crammed into it that it had burned the hottest, leaving the Starks' ancient collection of books and manuscripts as so much dust and ash. He must remember to check on the godswood, as only when that was burned down would the subjugation of Winterfell be complete. But here, between the smithy and the stables, was where the blast had been centered, and accordingly almost all the bodies were wearing Stannis' flaming heart on what remained of their tabards. How did you like that fire, you whoresons?
Ramsay turned one of the incinerated corpses over with a foot. It stared up at him with a vaguely accusing expression – an old vaguely accusing expression. Making rounds on the others confirmed the same thing. All the dead men were of a particularly decrepit variety, whether old or rickety or knock-kneed or sickly or half-dead of cold and terror already. What was more, there were not nearly as many as he'd hoped. It was almost as if Stannis had purposefully chosen to send in his weakest men first, in anticipation of sussing out a trap. The king himself was nowhere to be found, not even a copy of him.
A black scowl began to grow on Ramsay's face. He hadn't thought it was possible for Stannis Baratheon to get on anyone's nerves to a greater degree than he already did, but it seemed the bugger had managed. What was he, fucking immortal? This must be at least the third death he'd dodged, and he might be camped outside the walls right now, waiting for Ramsay to emerge.
Change of plan. Ramsay made an about-face and walked briskly back toward the Hunter's Gate. Stannis' little cretins were likely infesting the wolfswood as well, which lay just beyond it, but he needed a peek on the godswood. Then he'd leave to the east, toward Winter's Town. He could make it on foot a few hours if he had to, but he expected to find a horse to steal before that.
The wall around the godswood was caved in and buckling. Ramsay took a running start and bouldered up it, vaulting down on the far side in a thump of snow. He was still spattered in blood from improving Fat Walda's looks, and it dripped down crimson around him. He knew there were wolves nearby; he'd heard them howling outside the walls before the blast, and his men wittering on about one they thought was a direwolf, a massive grey bitch, mayhaps the very bitch they all heard whispers of. Ramsay considered their eyesight to be as poor as their intelligence. That bitch was shitting out crofter's whelps in the riverlands, every damned fool knew that.
The godswood was dim and ashy, piled with splinters, more debris floating in the hot pools and bare roots exposed like writhing snakes. And Ramsay was just approving it when he became aware, by a faint tingle on the back of his neck, that something was watching him.
Not something. Someone. Peering through the branches, he saw the great white weirwood that stood at the godswood's heart – and the face that was staring from its trunk. He couldn't put a name to it, but it had a definite Stark look to it. A boy, no more than ten or eleven years. Ravens were roosting above it, black inky smudges against the paleness, and they all seemed to be staring at Ramsay as well.
No matter. He wasn't scared of a bunch of buggering birds. Nor the face either, whoever it belonged to. He'd married Arya Stark before this very tree, and if the so-called gods objected, they'd had the perfect opportunity to smite him down then. Of course the girl wasn't actually Arya, but still. The gods had thus far had had no impact on anything he cared to do, so he wasn't about to fuss over them now. Hence Ramsay grinned, made a succinct and obscene gesture at the tree, and started to leave. There were sounds outside the castle walls, distant but not distant, that meant it would definitely behoove him to do so now. Aye, he would, everything was –
"You."
Ramsay halted dead in his tracks. For a brief ludicrous moment he thought it was the tree, before reminding himself that trees didn't talk. And he knew that voice. He was more familiar with its screams, but still.
He turned. "Rayder."
"Bastard." The wildling king had no shortage of balls, one had to give him that. He was standing not a dozen yards away, so silently that Ramsay had not seen him until he spoke. He was still as tatty, skeletal, tortured, and mad-looking as ever, but something seemed a bit more. . . substantial about him, somehow. And he had –
A sword. Where in damnation had he gotten a sword? Still, as unexpected as the sight was, Ramsay wasn't terribly concerned. Rayder had no thumb on his left hand and lacked two fingers on his right; his grip wasn't liable to be all that good. He'd do for him as he'd done for his father, take the sword and get out of here. In fact, it was fortunate that Mance had turned up.
"Who rescued you?" Ramsay asked, glancing around for an accomplice. "One of the filthy little wildlings? I've killed them all."
Mance grinned. "It was the ghost in Winterfell. Your ghost. That was a brilliant thing you just did, Bastard. Destroy the castle, destroy your own army, but only take out the ones Stannis didn't need anyway. And now, I'll finish the favor off by killing you. Do you think he'll make me a lord? If you can be one, there's hope for every steaming kettle of shit in the privy, but the shit is more a man than you."
"Talk all you want." Ramsay reached for the flaying knife. "I'm not scared of a man who can't stand up. Did you like your cloak of slut skin, Rayder? This time I'll give you your own."
Mance held out his hands to either side. "You're welcome to come take it."
That was all the provocation Ramsay needed. He let out a gleeful roar and charged, swinging his knife like a cleaver, chortling that the halfwit thought he'd ever stood a chance. He was just going to –
Ramsay realized it an instant before Mance struck. Clumsily but with great precision, the wildling king drew his blade and swung it like a viper, with the same sort of animal brawling instinct that had kept him alive so long among the savages. And as a dazzling red-gold spray of light burned the air, a blow which Ramsay just barely arrested his momentum in time to duck, the truth hit him broadside:
That is no ordinary sword.
As much as he hated thinking about anything to do with his father, Ramsay remembered just then that Lord Roose had been certain that Mance had hidden in the crypts. But he'd even sent some men to sweep the place, and they'd turned up nothing. Meaning either that Mance had gone somewhere else entirely, or he'd gone down into the very deepest levels, hundreds of feet below, where the Kings of Winter from the dawn of time lay entombed. And down there he'd found – what?
No matter. All that mattered to Ramsay now was that he got his hands on it. He was right, Rayder was having trouble holding the sword, but he was not to be approached lightly. Ramsay backed off a few paces, cocked his elbow back, and threw his knife. Rayder tried to twist away, but the snow made his footing treacherous, and it took him deep in the meat of the calf. With what was presumably a blistering curse in the Old Tongue, he fell hard.
Ramsay leapt on him like one of his bitches taking a kill on the hunt. With one hard punch, he knocked the sword from Rayder's broken fingers. They grappled in the bloody snow, slamming and grunting and swearing, the sword lying just out of reach a few feet away. Then Mance reached down, pulled the knife out of his leg with a meaty slurp, and stabbed Ramsay in the throat. Or tried, at any rate. With all the fur and leather he was wearing, it didn't do much more than break the skin. Then Ramsay crushed an elbow into Mance's nose, threw a handful of snow into his eyes, and in the ensuing melee, regained possession of the blade. He grabbed hold of Rayder's hair, stretched his neck out, and drew a scarlet smile on it from ear to ear.
Rayder kicked and jerked, drowning in his own blood. Ramsay watched him with grim satisfaction, then rolled off and got to his feet, gazing gloatingly down into the wildling king's eyes as they glazed over. You really thought you were going to kill me? So much for that. If you'd never spoken, I'd never have known you were there. This is all your own fault.
Ramsay waited until Mance Rayder had stopped moving, just to be sure he wasn't getting up again. Then he bent down, and picked up the sword.
Ramsay Bolton prized himself on pain. He knew all the nuances of it, inflicted it, used it, relished it, grew strong from it, ruled by it. But nothing in his experience had ever prepared him for the lightning bolt that ripped through him now, from head to heel. It was shriveling, searing him away, tearing him to pieces – almost as he imagined it felt to be flayed, in fact. He was shaking all over, he couldn't let go of the burning hilt, the light that pervaded into him, unstrung him. But nor would he.
At last it abruptly cut out, and Ramsay went to his knees beside Mance Rayder's body, gasping, choking – and grinning, grinning wildly, euphoric and demented with his victory. His hand was black and blistered where it closed around the hilt, but he refused to relinquish it. Anyone less accustomed to pain would have, but not him. He was master of the north and everything that came with it.
After a few more wheezing breaths, Ramsay got up. He went to Rayder's corpse and took the scabbard, shoved the sword back into it, and belted it around his own waist. The reverberations of power were still coruscating through him, an agony almost too exquisite to bear. He loved it, he loved it, he felt almost drunk off the glow and glory. No standing against me now.
Once more he looked around. Someone had rescued Rayder, after all, and might still be on the loose. He, in fact, had briefly had the impression that Mance was trying to move him away, which meant they could even yet be alive nearby. But he did have to leave here. Now.
Ramsay sauntered away across the godswood, climbed the wall again, and dropped down. This time he looked neither right nor left, ducked through the shattered mouth of the gate, and under the ruins of the portcullis. Out across the moat, through the curtain wall, and finally into the snow beyond.
The she-wolf was waiting for him there.
Ramsay barely had time to catch a glimpse of the great grey hulk, hear the thunder of paws, before she was top of him. Even that look had confirmed beyond the shadow of a doubt that his men weren't quite idiots after all – at least, in that. It was a direwolf beyond any doubt, a huge one, a bitch. Whether it was the one who had led the pack on the Trident he could not say, but it damned sure could have been. No matter. He drew his new sword and swung with everything in him.
He felt the blade bite deep into flesh and fur and muscle, felt the jolt of power as it flared like a burning star. Heard the wolf fall back with a choked whine, though he himself had been ripped up badly; blood was trickling in one eye, and he could feel a flap of skin on his cheek hanging loose. But she was wheeling around for a new attack, and he was game so long as she was.
Her leap this time was not nearly as hard or brutal, but still succeeded in knocking him off his feet. She almost succeeded in prizing loose the sword, too, which would have been the death of him, but he wouldn't let it go. She was a savage bloody wench, and he slashed at her again. The only way to stop her would be to kill her, and her heavy pelt would keep him warm on the ride back to the Dreadfort. Truly, everything had been provided for him, almost as if the world wanted him to succeed. That should have the rest of Westeros shitting in their smallclothes.
Ramsay took a better grip on the burning hilt. He and the bitch eyed each other evilly, but this time neither of them appeared to be in a hurry to make the first move. He'd gouged her front leg and shoulder almost to the bone, and she didn't seem able to put weight on it. Her muzzle was torn off as well, exposing her teeth all the way to the back of her skull, and her jaws were dripping with bloody slaver.
Panting, Ramsay leveled the blade at her, its blazing colors scattered like living fire across the endless white world. She snarled at him, and he snarled back. This was it, it was going to start snowing again before long, and if he hadn't found a horse by then. . . it didn't make it impossible, nothing was impossible for him, but it might be somewhat more inconvenient than he liked. He thought the bitch was tensing to spring, and he crouched in response. But then she froze, pricked up her ears, and took a deep sniff of the cold, silent air. She whined. Then she turned, more blood spattering the ground, and ran off, limping. In moments she had vanished among the tangled trees.
Ramsay's first reaction was jubilance, followed by annoyance that he would not get hold of her pelt. Only after that did it occur to him that if the wolf had gotten wind of something that was enough to daunt even her, it would also be useful for him to be aware of it. He snuffled the air as she had, but didn't smell anything aside from the snow and the remnants of the explosion, niter and soot and. . .
. . . rot.
Ramsay sniffed again, hard. No, he was not mistaken; it was another scent he had intimate acquaintance with. But the dead men inside Winterfell hadn't been that way long enough to stink, and in weather this cold, it would be a while yet. The smell was faint but distinct, and he thought something was moving among those trees. Something coming closer step by inexorable step. . . but at a strange lumbering pace, much too clumsy for warriors. Especially Stannis' bloody clansmen, who'd lived in this wretched fastness all their lives, been born and bred for snow and rock and forest. Which meant that –
Fucking hellfire. He wasn't imagining it. There were dozens of them, maybe hundreds. And Ramsay suddenly found himself thinking of something unexpected. Previously, the only time the Night's Watch had crossed his mind was for him to curse it, for him to send that letter to Jon fucking Snow warning him what he'd dared to trifle with. But now Ramsay recalled instead the fact that of the fifteen or twenty castles along the Wall, only three or four were actually manned. Thus leaving all sorts of blind spots for things like these to climb and cross. But Winterfell is not that near the Wall. If they're here, there must be hundreds of them. . . thousands. . .
For a moment, Ramsay felt even his incomparable brain locking up. He did have a nicely flaming sword, which would take care of most of them to start, but if more and more turned up. . .
And then he thought of something else he'd heard about wights, and the countless freshly dead bodies that lay within the castle –
Yes. It was imperative that he get back to the Dreadfort immediately.
From all sides, the wights swarmed up the broken walls of Winterfell. The ravens took flight from the ruins of the godswood, screaming.
Ramsay Bolton put his head down and ran.