Commander Gendry wore a black studded vest, black breeches, and black riding boots. A sharp sword hung at his waist, while his arakh was carried by the Captain of the Guard, Grey Wolf.
Gendry stood tall and upright. His short black hair was like polished obsidian, and his blue eyes carried a deep, ocean-like calm. His handsome features held the energy of a rising young warrior — bright, confident, storm-like.
Ramsay recognized Gendry instantly. So young. So handsome. Even in ordinary traveling clothes, Gendry still carried the heroic charisma of a man destined for greatness.
"He really is Baratheon stock," Ramsay thought bitterly. He'd never met King Robert — Roose had hidden Ramsay like a shameful joke for years, never allowing him to leave the Dreadfort or meet anyone important. But Ramsay knew the traits of House Baratheon: tall, black-haired, blue-eyed.
And Ramsay hated it.
He hated the radiant confidence, the youthful glow, the sun-like presence people like Gendry possessed. Ramsay had never had anything like that. He had only Reek's wretched companionship and Roose's cold disdain.
He especially hated handsome young men and women — the kind of people who reminded him of everything he wasn't. Why, when both he and Gendry were bastards, was Gendry so much… more?
He wanted to ruin people like that. Just as he had ruined his older brother, Domeric.
Not now, Ramsay reminded himself. Hold it back. The performance of "real and fake Reek" was still ahead.
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"Yes, my lord. I am Lord Bolton's son, Ramsay Snow. I believe there has been a misunderstanding," the fake Reek said eagerly. "We are merely here to inspect the grain. We have offended no one."
"Get out," Gendry said coldly. "Leave now."
He glanced between the two figures — the well-dressed false Reek, and the filthy, stinking servant hunched in the corner.
"Stench" was the first thing Gendry noticed. The man in fine clothing had a natural, overwhelming odor, as if he truly lived in a pigsty. The servant in the corner smelled worse — urine and filth smeared over him deliberately.
"And who is that?" Gendry asked, pointing at the plump, filthy figure who claimed to be a servant.
"My… servant. Reek," the fake Ramsay replied shamelessly. "Please forgive him, my lord. He lives in filth and never bathes, so the smell is… unavoidable."
"Good man," Ramsay thought, truly grateful that his servant was performing so well.
"Truly lives up to his name," Gendry chuckled. "But you also need a bath, Reek."
"Thank you, my lord," the fake Reek said, preparing to leave.
"Here," Gendry said. "In this room. Where else were you planning to bathe?"
Two Dothraki Unsullied stepped in to block him, freezing him mid-motion.
"Tell me," Gendry asked calmly, "is this how Lord Roose disciplines his son? By sending him here to steal from me?" His voice sharpened. "This castle and these lands belong to me. I do not tolerate thieves. Stealing in Westeros costs a hand — but attempting to steal military factory blueprints? That deserves a beheading."
"My lord! Mercy! We will leave all our gold to you!" the impostor cried desperately, acting as though he were the true lord.
Gendry ignored him. Grey Wolf handed him the arakh — valyrian steel, the sharpest metal known.
Black, wavy ripples decorated the blade. The cold gleam silenced the entire room.
Gendry pointed the blade at the fake Ramsay… then turned it directly toward the filthy servant.
"He is Reek," Gendry said. "You are the real Ramsay Snow, aren't you?"
Ramsay's grin faltered instantly. He froze. His forced smile vanished, replaced by cold, flat emotionlessness.
"It's time for a bath, Ramsay," Gendry said calmly.
They said Ramsay killed anyone who reminded him of his bastard birth — fed them to hounds or starved them. But now, facing Gendry, Ramsay showed restraint.
Because Ramsay wasn't stupid. He feared power.
The Dothraki Unsullied stripped Ramsay and dumped buckets of cold water over him, washing away the stench.
The water splashed from head to toe. The service was rough — painfully so — but Ramsay endured it without a word. He wanted to grab a knife. He wanted to stab someone. But he didn't.
He stood there, still, shivering, humiliated.
He regretted everything. If he hadn't been so eager to perform, none of this would have happened.
But I'm still heir to the second most powerful house in the North, he told himself. Surely they won't humiliate me further… right?
"Put them on," an Unsullied ordered.
They handed Ramsay a change of clothes. Clean. Odorless.
Gendry studied Ramsay's washed-clean face. The ugliness was… breathtaking.
Roose Bolton's disdain suddenly made sense. Ramsay had sloping shoulders, a fleshy frame, a bulbous nose, a small mouth, lips like red sausages, and hair like brittle straw. His pale pink skin was blotchy and uneven.
"The Boltons truly breed tragedy," Gendry thought. Roose was cruel, so it was only fitting he had spawned a wicked son who poisoned his own brother.
"You know my identity now, Commander Gendry," Ramsay said stiffly. "How should I address you? Gendry Waters? Gendry Storm? Perhaps we can speak privately now."
Ramsay's pale Bolton eyes — the same icy dead-fish eyes Roose had — gleamed with forced calm.
"Negotiate? With me?" Gendry burst into laughter. "Guardsman. Sober him up."
The Unsullied moved instantly.
One placed a blade at Ramsay's neck. Another stared at his fat face, then slapped it sharply.
Crack.
Ramsay staggered. His cheek reddened, swelling immediately. His lips began to bleed.
Reek stared, dumbfounded. It had been years since he'd seen Ramsay beaten like this.
"This is not the North," Ramsay realized with sudden clarity. "Not the Dreadfort. Not my home."
His tricks were useless here.
I'm nothing without Roose.
Nothing without the Dreadfort.
My cruelty only works where I am protected.
A second slap landed. A third.
"The first slap," Gendry said coldly, "is for trying to deceive me.
The second: for calling me Waters. Or Storm. I dislike both.
The third: for attempting to negotiate with someone far stronger than you. You are not Roose. You are not the Lord of the Dreadfort. You have no right to negotiate with me."
Ramsay felt as if he were sinking into ice — powerless, helpless, humiliated.
"Don't hit Lord Ramsay! Don't hit Lord Ramsay!" Reek screamed, scrambling forward.
He had never defied Ramsay. He was loyal in the most twisted way possible.
Reek threw himself forward, trying to fight — but the Unsullied struck him in the ribs with sword hilts, sending him collapsing to the floor, coughing and spitting.
Gendry watched the pitiful "fight" and shook his head. Reek's technique was sloppy and wild. Roose clearly cared little for Ramsay — the servant assigned to him was a fool, incapable of teaching Ramsay anything but brute force.
"Go," Gendry ordered.
Ramsay glanced at Reek, half-kneeling, coughing, and knew resistance was pointless. He turned and left with his servant.
Mission half-failed, half-successful, Ramsay thought grimly. Even if exposed… establishing direct contact with the Mercenary King might still raise my status at the Dreadfort.
He stepped out of the room, toward an uncertain tomorrow.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)