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Ramsay fookin' Snow had not the faintest idea that he was being hunted.
Paranoia and cruel, careful lessons had trained the young teen to remain alert while indulging in his vices. He had learned early to listen, to watch, to feel the area around him.
But paranoia would not save him today , not from those who searched with intent.
——— —— ——— ———
Dusk was nearing, and the forest grew quiet in the way it always did when he enjoyed himself, a bit too quiet, like a crypt.
The crunch of branches beneath his boots pleased him. It reminded him of old bones.He wiped his blade clean on the hem of the dead man's cloak, tugging it free with a sharp jerk. The old traveler had stopped screaming some time ago, which had soured the moment .
But he preferred them loud. Fear tasted better when it fought back , when it was desperate and resisted.
"You're getting dull," he heard, glancing over his shoulder.
Reek stood a few paces away, hunched as ever, clutching the reins of their horses. His hair was matted with flowers gone brown and limp, and the stench rolled off him in waves. Ramsay barely noticed it anymore. While others gagged, he had grown accustomed to it. It smelled no different than death.
"He died quick," Reek rasped. "Too quick."
Ramsay snorted. "That's because you pulled him the wrong way."
The accused cackled weakly, a wet, broken sound, before scratching at his neck until blood welled. Ramsay sheathed his knife and scanned the trees.Something felt wrong.
His instincts whispered it, the same instincts that had never failed him before. The woods did not feel empty at all. They felt watchful.
He tried to ignore it, but the feeling gnawed at him for a few minutes until he heard it.
At first, it was faint. Then clearer.
Dogs.
The distant howl of hunting hounds.
That could only mean one thing.
No lord hunted this deep in the cold, not without reason. And now it no longer mattered. They needed to leave. Quickly.
"Reek, let's go!" Ramsay urged.
The slouching man stiffened, ears catching the sound as well. He understood quickly enough.They rode hard, crashing through the trees, but the dogs had already caught their scent. The faster they fled, the closer the hounds seemed to come.
Then he heard horses, hooves pounding, riders closing fast.
They were being hunted.
Light broke ahead, the forest thinning into a muddy path…an exit, an entrance, it didn't matter. Beyond it lay open fields where they could ride harder, faster, maybe lose pursuit.
He was nearly through when it happened.
A rope snapped upward just seconds before his horse could pass.
Ramsay yanked the reins, coming to a sudden halt, nearly thrown from the saddle. Reek, riding behind him, was not so lucky. He flew forward, crashing into the mud.
Before Ramsay could react, a hand seized him from his horse and flung him down hard. He saw the heel of a boot descending—
—and then everythingching went black.
——— —— ——— ———
The Dreadfort's dungeon was vast, larger, it seemed, than the castle above it.
It was a maze within a labyrinth, buried deep beneath the earth. Numerous cells. Numerous rooms, no doubt fashioned for torture.
Yet it never smelled of rot.
Instead, it carried the scent of old stone, iron, and blood. It was clean in a way that made suffering last longer. It was dreadful place that souls still seemed to wander around in.
In the largest of these dreary chambers, Ramsay Snow hung from iron cuffs bolted into the wall. His wrists were stretched above his head, boots barely brushing the floor. His face was swollen, one eye half-shut, blood dried dark along his jaw.
He was still unconscious.
His mother sat chained to a chair six feet before him, calling out desperately, her voice breaking. He did not stir—until a bucket of water was suddenly thrown across his face.
The bolton bastard gasped and cried out.
"Wake up, filth," one of the dungeon guards grumbled, setting the empty bucket aside.
Ramsay stared at the man in rage, flailing against his chains, shouting profanities and promises of torture, never once noticing his mother before him.
"Ramsay," she cried weakly, her voice hollow, as though she had already condemned him to death.
"Mother," he said, shock cutting through his fury.
"I wanted to be sure you both had your last reunion in this life." The connection was cut short .
The voice came from the shadows.
Domeric stepped forward.
His movements were as silent as a mouse, unhurried, without fear or unease. Ramsay saw it in his eyes, those same pale eyes his mother had always said he shared with his father.
His brother.
He had never seen him before, but the resemblance was unmistakable.
Domeric's face was sharp, his nose straight, his eyes pale as frost. By all accounts, he was handsome, a claim Ramsay could never make. He was dressed in fine black garments, like a man of the Night's Watch, with a sword at his hip and a long dagger resting beside it. His boots were of the finest leather, polished to rough sheen.
"You know," Domeric said calmly, "I always wanted to meet you. But knowing what I know now, it couldn't be under better circumstances."
"They say a man is cursed if he kills his kin," he continued, "yet I fear you are cursed far more , by the weight of your own sins, Ramsay Snow."
The reminder of his bastard name burned.
And he visibly hissed at his brother in anger and hate.
Yet nonetheless Domeric ignored him.
"A farmer's daughter went missing a month ago. Before her, a blacksmith's daughter . Both vanished in the same woods you frequent."
"This is injustice !" his mother screamed. "My son has nothing to do with this!"
"Silence her," Domeric said, gesturing with his hand lightly.
A guard stepped forward and forced a filthy cloth into her mouth.
"Their bodies were later found of course far downriver," Domeric continued, unbothered. "Yet their families never even knew or heard back since their disappearances. So now I wonder, how many more there are."
He gestured to a short, bald man standing to the right, clad in a butcher's leather apron. A table of tools lay neatly arranged before him.
"You will tell him everything," Domeric said. "Every vile act. Every crime. And when all is done, perhaps you will be granted death."
Ramsay spat at him, though it fell short. He hurled curses at his brother, but Domeric had already turned his attention elsewhere.
To his mother.
"A mother should not see her son die slowly," Domeric said softly as if easing her fears. "As a small mercy—for what my father did to you—you shall have peace."
He nodded.
The guard behind her drew his blade across her throat. Blood spilled down upon her garments and she gasped for air even as he neck was left open.
"No!" Ramsay screamed.
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